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diff --git a/38871-h/38871-h.htm b/38871-h/38871-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..321e23f --- /dev/null +++ b/38871-h/38871-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,21630 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chippinge Borough, by Stanley J. Weyman</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.center {margin: auto; text-align:center; margin-top:24pt; margin-bottom:24pt} + +p.right {text-align:right; margin-right:20%;} + +p.continue {text-indent: 0in; margin-top:9pt;} + +.poem0 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 0%; + margin-right: 0%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +.poem1 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 2em; + margin-right: 10%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +.poem2 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +figcenter {margin:auto; text-align:center; margin-top:9pt;} + +.t0 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:0em; margin-right:0px;} +.t2 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:2em; margin-right:0px;} +.t4 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:4em; margin-right:0px;} +.t5 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:5em; margin-right:0px;} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5 {text-align: center;} + +span.sc {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:110%;} + +p.hang1 {margin-left:3em; text-indent:-3em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chippinge Borough, by Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Chippinge Borough</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 13, 2012 [eBook #38871]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 13, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bowen</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHIPPINGE BOROUGH ***</div> + +<h1>Chippinge Borough</h1> + +<h5>BY</h5> + +<h2>STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h2> + +<h5>Author of “<span class="sc">The Long Night</span>,” <span +class="sc">Etc</span>.</h5> + +<h3>NEW YORK<br/> +McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.<br/> +MCMVI</h3> + +<p class="center"> +<b><i>Copyright</i>, 1906, <i>by</i><br/> +McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.</b> +</p> + +<p class="center" style="font-size:smaller"> +<b>Copyright, 1905, 1905, by Stanley J. Weyman.</b> +</p> + +<hr /> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. <span class="sc">The Dissolution.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. <span class="sc">The Spirit of the Storm.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. <span class="sc">Two Letters.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. <span class="sc">Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy!</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. <span class="sc">Rosy-fingered Dawn.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. <span class="sc">The Patron of Chippinge.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. <span class="sc">The Winds of Autumn.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. <span class="sc">A Sad Misadventure.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. <span class="sc">The Bill for Giving Everybody Everything.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. <span class="sc">The Queen's Square Academy for Young Ladies.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. <span class="sc">Don Giovanni Flixton.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. <span class="sc">A Rotten Borough.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. <span class="sc">The Vermuyden Dinner.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. <span class="sc">Miss Sibson's Mistake.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. <span class="sc">Mr. Pybus's Offer.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. <span class="sc">Less than a Hero.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. <span class="sc">The Chippinge Election.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. <span class="sc">The Chippinge Election (<i>Continued</i>).</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. <span class="sc">The Fruits of Victory.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. <span class="sc">A Plot Unmasked.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. <span class="sc">A Meeting of Old Friends.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. <span class="sc">Women's Hearts.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. <span class="sc">In the House.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. <span class="sc">A Right and Left.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. <span class="sc">At Stapylton.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. <span class="sc">The Scene in the Hall.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. <span class="sc">Wicked Shifts.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. <span class="sc">Once More, Tantivy!</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. <span class="sc">Autumn Leaves.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. <span class="sc">The Mayor's Reception in Queen's Square.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. <span class="sc">Sunday in Bristol.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. <span class="sc">The Affray at the Palace.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. <span class="sc">Fire.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. <span class="sc">Hours of Darkness.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. <span class="sc">The Morning of Monday.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. <span class="sc">Forgiveness.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. <span class="sc">In the Mourning Coach.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. <span class="sc">Threads and Patches.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CHIPPINGE BOROUGH</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>I<br/> +THE DISSOLUTION</h2> + +<p> +Boom! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>petit-maître</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +Boom! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Hurrah for Mr. Brougham!</i><br/> +<i>Hurrah for Gaffer Grey!</i><br/> +<i>Hurrah for Lord John!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +At this moment a ragamuffin in an old jockey-cap attached himself to him, and, +running beside him, urged him to hasten. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan glanced down and shook his head. He waved the man away. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And long live the Bill!” cried a man of more respectable +appearance as he hurried by. “And long live the King, God bless +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, let ’em! Mr. Brougham’ll see to that!” shouted the +other. “Hurrah for Mr. Brougham!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He thought of the lines, so old and so applicable: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Omnes eodem cogimur, omnium</i><br/> +<i>Versatur urna, serius, ocius</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Sors exitura, et nos in æternum</i> +</p> + +<p class="t4"><i>Exilium impositura cymbæ</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will follow him,” Vaughan answered. And he hastened after the +stout man, who had by this time reached the corner of the street. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” the stricken man answered without lifting his eyes or giving +the least sign of animation. “Is it too late?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I hope,” a second struck in, in a tone of solicitude, +“that as you are here, Lady Wetherell has rallied.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan laughed. “I fear not,” he said. “There are +appointments and appointments, Sergeant Wathen. Mine is not of a professional +nature.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Wathen went back to his companion. “Talk of the Old One!” he said. +“Do you know who that is?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” the other answered. They had been discussing the coming +election. “Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“One of my constituents.” +</p> + +<p> +His friend laughed. “Oh, come,” he said. “I thought you had +but one, sergeant—old Vermuyden.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” +</p> + +<p> +“An appointment with old Wicked Shifts.” +</p> + +<p> +“With the Chancellor? Pheugh!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“In the meantime—there’ll be dead cats and bad eggs flying, +you think?” +</p> + +<p> +Wathen groaned. “If that were the end of it,” he said, +“I’d not mind.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, with it all, you are pretty safe, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“With that fellow closeted with the Chancellor? No, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is the young spark!” the other asked carelessly. “He +looked a decentish kind of fellow. A little of the prig, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>II<br/> +THE SPIRIT OF THE STORM</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Your pardon, Mr. Vaughan!” he said. “One moment, if you +please!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The Chancellor seated himself opposite his visitor, and placed a hand on each +of his wide-spread knees. He smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” he said, “I envy you.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan coloured shyly. “Your lordship has little cause,” he +answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think I understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“In your article on the possibility of the permanence of +reflection—to which I referred in my letter, I think?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord, you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan stared. His colour rose slowly. “Indeed?” he said, in a +tone from which he vainly strove to banish incredulity. +</p> + +<p> +“You have perhaps read the paper?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I have.” +</p> + +<p> +The Chancellor chuckled. “And found nothing of the kind in it?” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan coloured still more deeply. He felt that the position was unpleasant. +“Frankly, my lord, if you ask me, no.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think yourself,” with a grin, “the first +discoverer?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan was dumbfounded, and perhaps a little chagrined. “It is most +singular!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you wonder now that I could not refrain from sending for you?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not, indeed.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan coloured with pleasure. “Alas!” he said, smiling, +“one swallow, my lord, does not made a summer.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. <i>Cedant +arma togæ</i>, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” Mr. Cornelius answered gruffly. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan shook his head. “I have none,” he said, “except my +cousin, Sir Robert Vermuyden.” +</p> + +<p> +“Vermuyden of Chippinge?” the Chancellor exclaimed, in a voice of +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“The same, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are you the Mr. Vaughan who inherits?” he asked gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“The greater part of the estates—yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan shook his head with decision. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were separated many years ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is alive, is she not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“<i>He’s pledged himself, +though sore bereft</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Of ways and means of ruling ill</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>To make the most of what are left</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>And stick to all that’s rotten still!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“<i>Who spurns the expedient for +the right</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Scorns money’s all-attractive charms,</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>And through mean crowds that clogged his flight</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Has nobly cleared his conquering arms</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +That’s the Attorney-General’s. He turns old Horace well, +doesn’t he?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“How would it bear hardly on you?” Brougham asked, with interest. +</p> + +<p> +“I have a vote.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are one of the twelve burgesses?” in a tone of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, by favour of Sir Robert.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“A vote against your conscience—to oblige someone?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know to what you refer,” Mr. Cornelius grunted. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt">“<i>Est et fideli tuta +silentio<br/> +Merces!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +And still talking, he saw Vaughan, who was murmuring his acknowledgments, to +the door. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” Cornelius muttered curtly, “do you trouble about the +borough? Why don’t you leave those things to the managers?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But in picking up a pin,” the other grunted, “it picks up a +deal of something else.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of what?” +</p> + +<p> +“Dirt!” +</p> + +<p> +“Old Pharisee!” the Chancellor cried. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>you</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not dare!” Brougham cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not dare!” Brougham reiterated. +</p> + +<p> +“You will see. They will throw you aside.” +</p> + +<p> +Brougham walked up and down the room, his eyes glittering, his quaint, +misshapen features working passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>lusus naturæ</i>, 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!” +</p> + +<p> +Brougham stopped in his pacing to and fro. “You are right,” he said +sombrely. +</p> + +<p> +“You acknowledge it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why did you go into the Lords?” Cornelius asked. “Why +be lured into the gilded cage, where you are helpless?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And so you went into the prison-house shorn of your strength?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>III<br/> +TWO LETTERS</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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: +</p> + +<p class="right" style="font-size:smaller"> +“Stapylton, Chippinge. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="sc">Dear Sir</span>—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:40%">“I have the honour to be +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:45%">“Your sincere kinsman, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:50%">“<span class="sc">Robert Vermuyden.</span> +</p> + +<p class="hang1"> +“To Arthur Vermuyden Vaughan, Esquire,<br/> +“17 Bury Street, St. James’s.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:50%">“High Street, Chippinge, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“April 25, 1831. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“<i>Chippinge Parliamentary Election</i>. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="sc">Sir</span>.—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Any change in the order of the arrangements will be punctually +communicated to you. +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:40%">“I have the honour to be, Sir, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:45%">“Your humble obedient servant, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:65%">“<span class="sc">Isaac White.</span> +</p> + +<div style="font-size:smaller"> +<p style="margin-left:6pt; text-indent:-6pt; margin-bottom:0pt"> +“Arthur V. Vaughan, Esq.,<br/> +(late H.M.’s 14th Dragoons), +</p> + +<p class="t2">“17 Bury Street, London.” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>For ’twas from eyes of liquid blue</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>A host of quivered Cupids flew</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>And now his heart all bleeding lies</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Beneath the army of the eyes</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The doubt was intolerable. “It’s for the laundress,” he said. +“See, there she is!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>canaille!</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>IV<br/> +TANTIVY! TANTIVY! TANTIVY!</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a beautiful morning,” he ventured, and cursed his +vapidity. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not on a coach?” he cried in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“No. Except on the Clapham Stage. And that is not a coach like +this!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I enjoy it the more,” she said, “because I—I am not +usually free in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:40%"><span class="sc">Mary Smith</span> +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:45%">Miss Sibson’s +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:50%">Queen’s Square, Bristol. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t touch it,” growled the driver, without deigning to +turn his head. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He grew purple. “I shall have it taken down!” he said. +“Guard, remove it!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know,” the insulted passenger cried, “that I am a +Member of Parliament?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m hanged if you are!” coachee retorted. “Nor +won’t be again!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And the horses!” grumbled the driver. “Where’s the +gent’s sense?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The little Frenchman turned round. “You vill have a refolution,” he +said solemnly. “And the gentleman inside he vill lose his head.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The driver squinted at him anew. “D’you mean to say,” he +asked, “that you’ve seen heads cut off?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps here,” he said, “those who have will give, and give +enough, and all will go well.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nefer! Nefer!” the Frenchman answered positively. “By +example, the Duke whose château we pass—what you call it—Jerusalem +House?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sion House,” Vaughan answered, smiling. “The Duke of +Northumberland.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>maître d’hôtel!</i> And it is he +and the others like him who rule the country! Gives he up all that? To the +<i>bourgeoisie?</i> 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 <i>bourgeoisie</i> is frightened of the +<i>canaille</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, King Billy for me!” said the driver. “But if +he’s willing, Mounseer, why shouldn’t the people manage their own +affairs?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Eizer way! Eizer way!” the Frenchman answered <i>con amore</i>. +“It is fate! You are on the edge of the what you call +it—<i>chute!</i> And you must go over! We have gone over. We have bumped +once, twice! We shall bump once, twice more, <i>et voilà</i>—Anarchy! Now +it is your turn, sir. The government has to be—shifted—from the one +class to the other!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it may be peacefully shifted?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Reform</i> +rolled down the wind! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must not let them alarm you,” he said. “We are still a +long way, I fancy, from guillotines or barricades.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” she answered. “In any case I am not +afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if I may ask?” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced at him with a gleam of humour in her eyes. “Little shrubs +feel little wind,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“But also little sun, I fear,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The morning is a delightful time,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried, as if she now knew that he felt with her. +“That is it! The afternoon is different.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, fortunately, you and I have—much of the morning left.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“You are going to Bristol?” he said. “To stay there?” +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps he threw too much feeling into his voice. At any rate the tone of her +answer was colder. “Yes,” she said, “I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am going as far as Chippenham,” he volunteered. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Would you please to tell me,” she said, in a low voice, “how +much I ought to give the coachman?” +</p> + +<p> +Oh. bless her! She did not think him a horrid libertine. “You?” he +said audaciously. “Why nothing, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but I thought it was usual?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must not say that,” he returned. “Remember the Clapham +Stage!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“All right! All right!” replied Sammy, controlling his horses as +well as he could. “We’re all for the Bill here! Hurrah!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah! Palmer for ever, Tories in the river!” cried the mob. +“Hurrah!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah! Hurrah!” +</p> + +<p> +“And down with Orange Peel!” squeaked a small tailor in a high +falsetto. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>V<br/> +ROSY-FINGERED DAWN</h2> + +<p> +“<i>Beaucoup de bruit, pas de mal!</i>” Vaughan muttered in his +neighbour’s ear; and saw with as much surprise as pleasure that she +understood. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a cry of “Heads! Heads!” and then, more imperatively, +“Heads! Stoop! Stoop!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But a score of eyes had seen the act; and however much he might wish to spare +her feelings, concealment was impossible. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, sir!” she said, “your hand is torn dreadful! +You’ve grazed every bit of skin off it!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +The girl, a shade whiter than before, did not answer. And he thought her, for +so pretty a wench, “a right unfeelin’ un!” +</p> + +<p> +Not so the Frenchman. “I count him a very locky man!” he said +obscurely. “A very locky man.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” the coachman answered with a grunt, “if you call that +lucky——” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Vraiment! Vraiment!</i> But I—alas!” the Frenchman +answered with an eloquent gesture, “I have lost my all, and the good +fortunes are no longer for me!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +If he was not quite so wise as the Frenchman, having had no <i>bonnes +fortunes</i> 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +In a strangled voice, “But your hand,” she faltered. “I +fear—I——” She shuddered, unable to go on. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing!” he protested. “Nothing! In three days it +will be well!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I spoke it as a child,” she answered. “I was born abroad. I +did not come to England until I was nine.” +</p> + +<p> +“To Clapham?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. I have been employed in a school there.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not intend to do so,” she replied. “I suppose,” +she continued timidly, “that I may stay here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly. You have something with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you didn’t expect me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, no; I came to meet Mr. Cooke, who was to arrive by this coach. +But I do not see him.” +</p> + +<p> +A light broke in upon Vaughan. “Gad! he must be the man we left behind at +Reading,” he said. “Is he a peppery chap?” +</p> + +<p> +“He might be so called, sir,” the agent answered with a smile. +“I fancied that you knew him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Sergeant Wathen I know; not Mr. Cooke. Any way, he’s not come, +White.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean,” Vaughan said, “that there will be no +contest?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +At this moment he returned. “I shall go on to Bristol for the night, +White,” he said. “Sir Robert is quite well?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, sir, and I shall be happy to tell him of your promptness in +coming.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, sir,” White answered. “But I am sure Sir Robert +would be pleased to know that you had come down so promptly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, you can let him know later. Good-bye, White.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But <i>varium et mutabile femina</i>. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I am going on to Bristol instead of staying at Chippenham.” +</p> + +<p> +No answer. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a great relief to me,” he continued cheerfully. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” She spoke in the most distant of voices. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. “I am rather tired. If you please I +would prefer not to talk.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>VI<br/> +THE PATRON OF CHIPPINGE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Cornelius Robert was something after the pattern of the famous Mr. +Onslow— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>What can Tommy Onslow do?<br/> +He can drive a chaise and two.<br/> +What can Tommy Onslow more?<br/> +He can drive a chaise and four.</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Saltash was a borough town<br/> +When Plymouth was a breezy down</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Naught’s permanent among the human race<br/> +Except the Whigs not getting into place</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Hinc illæ lacrimæ!</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +And Calne, Lord Lansdowne’s pocket borough, was spared! +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>Arcades ambo</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What it is?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“If you please, Sir Robert, Lady Lansdowne’s carriage is at the +door.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In the hall, Sir Robert.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. I will come.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He removed his hat. “It is Lady Louisa, is it not?” he said, +looking gravely at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said; and she smiled prettily at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you not go into the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she replied, with a faint blush; “I think my +mother wishes to see you alone, Sir Robert.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is long,” she said gently, “much longer than I like to +remember, Sir Robert, since we met.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a long time,” he answered gravely; and when she had reseated +herself he sat down opposite her. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear,” he replied, in a tone as cold as courtesy permitted, +“that they are about to be greater dividers.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him quickly, with appeal in her eyes. “And yet,” she +said, “we saw more of you once.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>VII<br/> +THE WINDS OF AUTUMN</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“With some,” Sir Robert answered. “With others,” he +bowed, “it stands still.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +He stayed her by a peremptory gesture. “Are you here—from +her?” he asked huskily. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not.” +</p> + +<p> +“She knows?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Sir Robert, she does not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why,”—there was pain, real pain mingled with the +indignation in his tone—“why, in God’s name, Madam, have you +come?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her fixedly. “You have another reason,” he said. +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw her yesterday. I was in Chippenham when the Bristol coach passed, +and I saw her face for an instant at the window.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And because”—his voice was harsh—“you saw her +for a few minutes at a window, you come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but because her face called up the old times. And because we are all +growing older. And because she was—not guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she replied firmly. “She was not guilty.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Think,” she said gently, “how young she was!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“So young!” +</p> + +<p> +“She had been three years a mother!” +</p> + +<p> +“For the dead child’s sake, then,” she pleaded with him, +“if not for hers.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Lansdowne raised her hands. “Hush! Hush!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” she murmured in a voice which acknowledged defeat. +“I am very sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I,” she said slowly, “can do nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” he replied. “Time will cure this, and all +things.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are sure that there is no mistake?” she pleaded. “That +you are not judging her harshly?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no mistake.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she saw the hopelessness of argument and held out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Was he very angry?” she asked, eager to be instructed in the +mysteries of that life which she was entering. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Lansdowne essayed to snub her. “My dear,” she said, “it +is not a fit subject for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear, don’t say ‘pat,’ say +‘apposite.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Then apposite, mother,” Lady Louisa answered. “Do you read +it. There it is.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>But never either found another<br/> +To free the hollow heart from paining.<br/> +They stood aloof, the scars remaining,<br/> +Like cliffs which had been rent asunder.<br/> +A dreary sea now flows between,<br/> +But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,<br/> +Shall wholly do away, I ween,<br/> +The marks of that which once hath been</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Cedes coemptis saltibus, el domo<br/> +Villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Cedes, et exstructis in altum</i> +</p> + +<p class="t4"><i>Divitiis potietur heres</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +But no heir of his blood. No son of his. No man of the Vermuyden name. And for +that he had to thank her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>régime</i>, begun in the sunshine, the twilight of his +own latter days would be forgotten in a month. +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>We die and are forgotten, ’tis Heaven’s +decree,<br/> +And thus the lot of others will be the lot of me!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>VIII<br/> +A SAD MISADVENTURE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Vaughan?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Yes, tempted him. +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“So I’ve caught you, my lad,” said he. “This is mighty +fine. Veiled ladies, eh? Oh, fie! fie!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan, innocent as he was, was a little put out. But he answered +good-humouredly, “What brought you here, Flixton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, just so! Very unlucky, ain’t it?” grinning. “Fear +I’ll cut you out, eh? You’re a neat artist, I must say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know the good lady from Eve!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hang the consequences!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, by the Lord,” the Honourable Bob cried. “The revolution +in France bred the whole of this trouble!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hang your conciliation! Shoot, I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“What do you think, Mr. Vaughan?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” from Flixton. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly, sir, if it could not be put down with the cold steel.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yet there must be a point,” Vaughan replied, “at which such +an order becomes necessary; becomes mercy!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“You’re very good,” he said at last. “I’ll +stay.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>’Tis woman’s whole existence; man may range</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>The Court, camp, Church, the vessel and the mart</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>Pride, fame, ambition to fill up his heart</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You left this in the coach.” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not!” in incredulous astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I do,” he answered. And again he held it out to her. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was not an heroic frame of mind; but neither was the position heroic. And +something may be forgiven him in the circumstances. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” she asked, in an intimidating voice. “Miss +Smith, what is this, if you please?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson folded her arms upon her ample person. The position was not +altogether new to her. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir,” she said, eying the offender majestically, “have you +any explanation to offer—of this extraordinary conduct?” +</p> + +<p> +He had, indeed. As clearly as his temper permitted he told his tale, his tone +half ironical, half furious. +</p> + +<p> +When he paused, “Who do you say gave it to you?” Miss Sibson asked +in a deep voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know her name. A lady who travelled in the coach.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Madam——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>petits +soins</i>, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>IX<br/> +THE BILL FOR GIVING EVERYBODY EVERYTHING!</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>impurity</i> of his +intentions! +</p> + +<p> +An anomalous system; yet its defenders had something to say for it. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>stare super antiquas vias</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“If you do not pass the Bill,” said the Whigs, “there will be +a revolution.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +<i>they</i> threaten <i>you</i> with the terrors of the mob, what will you +say?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert looked her over as she was led away. “The grey looks well, +White,” he said. She was of his breeding. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir Robert. Give me a good horse and they may have the new-fangled +railroads that like them. But I am afraid, sir——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot see at this distance, sir,” he answered prudently, +“who it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go and ask her her business,” Sir Robert said, as +indifferently as he could. “She has been there a long time.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The woman looked at him. “You don’t know me, Mr. White?” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +He looked hard in return. “No,” he answered bluntly, “I +don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, I know you,” she replied. “More by +token——” +</p> + +<p> +He cut her short. “Have you any message?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway,” impatiently, “you can’t stay here!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert drew a deep breath. “You’re sure she was a +stranger?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s no one I know, sir. After one of the men, perhaps.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve bad news, sir, I’m afraid,” the agent said, in an +altered tone. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s that d——d Pybus, sir! I’m afraid that, +after all——” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re going to fight?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid, Sir Robert, they are.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +The agent, standing on the step below him, coughed dubiously. “Well, +sir,” he said, “what you say is reasonable. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But! But what?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is so much excitement in the country at this +time——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid, sir, there is bad news from Devon, where it is said our +candidate is retiring.” +</p> + +<p> +“A good man, but weak; neither one side nor the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“And from Dorset, sir, where they say Mr. Bankes will be beaten.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +White coughed. “Dyas, the butcher——” +</p> + +<p> +“What of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir Robert, I am afraid he has been getting some queer +notions.” +</p> + +<p> +“Notions?” the baronet echoed in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“He has been listening to someone, and—and thinks he has views on +the Bill.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know anything about that, sir,” White mumbled. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid,” the agent admitted reluctantly, “that that is +what he’s saying, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s behaving very ill, sir,” White said, severely, +“very ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +The agent coughed. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert, who was no fool, looked sharply at him. “What!” he said +grimly. “Not another renegade?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He was gaoled yesterday by Mr. Forward, of Steynsham, for +assault.” +</p> + +<p> +“For how long?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a fortnight, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>X<br/> +THE QUEEN’S SQUARE ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES</h2> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Miss Hilhouse maintained a stolid silence. Her shoulders ached, but she was +proud. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” said Miss Sibson placidly; “very good! With time +comes reflection.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Wise Miss Sibson paid no heed. “A gentleman?” she said to the maid +who had entered. “Will I see him? Procure his name.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson looked grave. “Are you sincerely sorry for your fault?” +she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And will you apologise to Miss Smith for your—your gross +rudeness?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ye-es.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then go and do so,” Miss Sibson replied; “and close the +doors after you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Yet her manner said almost as much as that. “Pray be seated, sir,” +she said; and she indicated a chair. +</p> + +<p> +He sat down stiffly, and glowered at her. “I received your note,” +he said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have yet,” he said curtly, “to hear the +explanation.” Confound the woman’s impudence! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” he said drily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes; and a letter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I fail to see——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I maintained what I was told.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it was not the fact. However, let that pass.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was performing no more than an office of civility, you would +say?” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan almost jumped in his chair. “I, Madam?” he cried. +“Certainly not!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at Mr. Bengough’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not!” he repeated, with indignation. Was the woman mad? +An usher? Good heavens! +</p> + +<p> +“I know your name,” she said slowly. +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“I came from London the day before yesterday. I am staying at the White +Lion, and I am late of the 14th Dragoons.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan stared. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not understand you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do me an injustice!” he said, reddening to the roots of his +hair. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +She shook with fresh laughter. “It is just of that I complain, +sir,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You can trust me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan laughed out frankly. Her humour had conquered him. “Well,” +he said audaciously, “and am I not to see her?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped. Vaughan said nothing, but a little out of countenance looked at +the floor. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at the carpet. “I have seen so little of her,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I daresay you are a man of property?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am independent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, there it is.” Miss Sibson smoothed out the lap of her +silk dress. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think,” he said, in some embarrassment, “that five +minutes’ talk would hurt her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph!” +</p> + +<p> +He laughed—an awkward laugh. “Come, Miss Sibson,” he said. +“Let us have the five minutes, and let us both have the chance.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of me?” he cried in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“From Miss Smith?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Mary Smith, from her fairy godmother. The bearer may be trusted.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan stared. “And,” he said, “you draw the inference +that—that——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan looked thoughtfully at the carpet. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson waited awhile. At last: “The point is,” she said +shrewdly, “do you still wish to have the five minutes?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>in custodiam puellæ</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +He stopped; he could not go on. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yesterday? Yesterday?” he cried, almost angrily. “Bah, it is +an age since yesterday!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield,<br/> +Thy lord at length is forced to yield.<br/> +Vain, vain is every outward care,<br/> +The foe’s within and triumphs there!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Not a word that was <i>convenant</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I must go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Run to earth, my lad!” he cried boisterously. “Run to earth! +Run——” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“See here, won’t you introduce me?” cried the irrepressible +Bob. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing of the kind!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan scowled. “Not in the way you mean,” he said sternly. +“You make a mistake. She’s a good girl.” +</p> + +<p> +Flixton winked. “Heard that before, my lad,” he said, “more +than once. From my grandmother. I’ll take my chance of that.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not related to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’m not going to see her made a fool of, that’s +all!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan’s cheeks burned. “May be, and may be not,” he said +curtly. “But either way, it is my business!” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely you’re not! Man alive!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is my business, I say!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my business too!” Vaughan answered haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>XI<br/> +DON GIOVANNI FLIXTON</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Of course he was not going to marry her. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t4"><i>is not to be reasoned down or lost</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>In high ambition or a thirst for greatness!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come, Colonel, it is not as bad as that!” Flixton +remonstrated. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let’s have a minute!” pleaded the gentleman assailed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a minute,” boisterously. “See, the table’s waiting +for you! Captain Codrington’s sentiment!” +</p> + +<p> +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, “<i>Maids and +Missuses!</i>” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan caught his name and awoke from a reverie. “Very good,” he +said, raising his glass. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence,” they cried. “Silence! Silence for Bob’s +speech.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! Hear! Bob! Go on, Bob; what is it?” from the company. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0">“<i>There first for thee my passion grew</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen;</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>Thou wast the daughter of my tu</i>- +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>tor, law professor at the U</i>- +</p> + +<p class="t4"><i>niversity of Göttingen!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +’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——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not true?” Codrington struck in. “You are not +going to be married, old chap?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, man,” Flixton hiccoughed, “you told me so—or +something like it—-only this morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, if you put it—that way, old chap?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do put it that way!” +</p> + +<p> +“And any way,” Brereton said, interposing hurriedly, “this is +no time for marrying! I’ve told you boys before, and I tell you +again——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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>I +would</i> against <i>I will not</i>; 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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:15%"><i>Glorious was his course</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>And long the track of light he left behind him!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here, Flixton,” Vaughan replied—he was fast losing his +composure—“I’m not going to have it. That’s +plain.” +</p> + +<p> +The Honourable Bob stared. “Oh!” he answered. “Let’s +understand one another. Are you going to marry the girl after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve told you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, you’ve told me, yes, and you’ve told me, no. The +question is, which is it?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you claim the girl——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not claim her, Flixton. I have told you that. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But you mean to play the dog in the manger?” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean to see,” Vaughan replied sternly, “that you +don’t do her any harm.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>aplomb</i>, “I—you remember me, I am sure?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“To see——” said Flixton, with a lower bow. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Sibson!” Vaughan exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan snubbed him savagely. “Be good enough to leave me out!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What right—what right,” he snarled, “had you to say +what I would do! And what I would not do? I consider your +conduct——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I expected at least——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>XII<br/> +A ROTTEN BOROUGH</h2> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Nothing they but dust can show,<br/> +Or bones that hasten to be so.</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +And of its greatness he might have said the same. The one and the other +belonged to the past. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who’s that?” asked old Squire Rowley, one of the country +gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose,” the Squire continued, lowering his voice, “you +can depend on your men, White?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven to five.” +</p> + +<p> +“Seven to four, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Dyas, I hear, the d——d rogue, will vote against +you?” +</p> + +<p> +White winked. +</p> + +<p> +“Bad,” he said cryptically, “but not as bad as that, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, no, sir,” White answered; “you know what election rows +are, all bark and no bite!” +</p> + +<p> +“Still I hear that at Bath, where I’m told Lord Brecknock stands a +poor chance, they are afraid of a riot.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay, sir,” White answered indifferently, “this +isn’t Bath.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 “<i>Pars magna fui</i>,” struck up “See, the Conquering +Hero Comes!” and White stood back for a last look. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“Order!” he cried, “Order! Do you hear me!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +For to this simple person it seemed impossible that people should behave badly +in that presence. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“D——d barefaced intimidation!” Squire Rowley growled. +</p> + +<p> +“Or if it is to give votes to such persons as these——” +</p> + +<p> +“D——d Jacobins! Republicans every one!” interposed the +Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Greatly obliged, sir,” Mr. Cooke muttered. “Certainly, +certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan bowed coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Is not Sir Robert here?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +He was still looking beyond those to whom he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Mr. Vaughan.” +</p> + +<p> +And then, “This way to dinner,” White cried loudly. “Come, +gentlemen! Dinner, gentlemen, dinner!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Certainly he was in a very bad temper. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>XIII<br/> +THE VERMUYDEN DINNER</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Sir Robert?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must have been important as well as unexpected,” Wathen said, +with a smile, “to take Sir Robert away today, Mr. White.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, ah, well!” the Sergeant replied—pleasantness was +his cue to-day. “Things are worse in Bath I’ll be sworn, Mr. +White.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt, sir, no doubt! I think,” White added, forgetting his +study of Cobbett, “the nation has gone mad.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” he thought, “I can escape with a good grace. And I +will!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hallo, Vaughan!” someone muttered in his ear. “You’re +the last person I expected to see here!” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>bête noir</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan hesitated. “So I am!” he said curtly. +</p> + +<p> +“But—but I thought——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Our Ancient Constitution, +our Chartered Rights, our Vested Interests!</i> [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——” +</p> + +<p> +“In this world!” the Rector murmured in a deep bass voice. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused amid such a roar of applause as shook the room. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless him!” from Annibal, now somewhat drunk. “God bless +him! Here’s his health!” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! Hear! Hear!” from Vaughan’s neighbour, the Squire. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No! No! No!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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—— +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +But “Impossible, sir!” White, surprised by his evident nervousness, +answered. He had thought Vaughan anything but a shy person. “Impossible, +sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Get up! Get up!” cried the Squire, his neighbour, laying a jocund +hand on him and trying to lift him to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, you must get up,” said White, who had no suspicion that +his hesitation arose from any cause but shyness. “Anything will +do.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! Hear!” cried the Rector in a tone of unmistakable relief. +“Hear, hear!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan sat down, pale but composed. But he found all eyes on him, and he rose +again. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” Vaughan answered. The storm steadied him. +</p> + +<p> +“You are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fool or rogue, then! which are you?” shrieked a voice from the +lower end of the table. “Fool or rogue? Which are you?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t5"><i>Daring pilots in extremity</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>Scorning the danger when the waves ran high</i>; +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>vox +faucibus hæsit</i>—he was dumb. It was Sir Robert who broke the silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” Vaughan replied a little huskily. +“I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan coloured painfully. “Sir Robert,” he said, “I owe +you, I know——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would like at least to say this! That I came here——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>XIV<br/> +MISS SIBSON’S MISTAKE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The weather-cock? Ah! +</p> + +<p> +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—” +</p> + +<p> +Mary paused. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” she asked. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Miss Smith, did the weather-cock speak?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary reddened violently. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak? The weather-cock? What do you mean, child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Please, Miss Smith, you said that the weather-cock told Lucy the truth, +the truth, and all the truth.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the right use of the elbow, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the right use of the elbow?” +</p> + +<p> +“To efface it, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary said in a low voice. She spoke with perfect composure. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not wish to see him,” Mary said with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. Then that is understood.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson frowned. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is he?” she asked, with majesty; as if she already scented +the fray. +</p> + +<p> +“In the parlour, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good girl,” said Miss Sibson, feeling, good, honest creature, more +than she showed. “I will do so.” And she swam forth. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The door opened and Miss Sibson came in, met her look—and started. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary tried to gain command of herself. “I had rather not,” she said +faintly. “I don’t think I can.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>XV<br/> +MR. PYBUS’S OFFER</h2> + +<p> +“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 +<i>cons</i> in the strongest light and reduces the <i>pros</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t know, sir,” Sam replied glibly, beginning to collect +the breakfast dishes. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you enquire?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“For whom are you?” asked someone who kept himself out of sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Buff and Blue,” Vaughan answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope it may turn out so,” Vaughan replied drily. “You +wrote me a very mysterious note.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say,” Vaughan replied. +</p> + +<p> +“And the responsibility is great, very great. May I——” +he continued, pulling out his box, “but I dare say you don’t take +snuff?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You can let that pass,” Vaughan replied coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, indeed. Yes. And he wrote to me this morning—in his dressing +gown, I don’t doubt. He commanded me to tell you——” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall say, Mr. Pybus——” +</p> + +<p> +“I beg you to hear me out!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“Go on!” he said. “I have said my say, and I suppose you +understand me.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’ll be downright, sir. To the point, sir. Will you be our +candidate?” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” Vaughan cried. He turned very red. “What do you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” Vaughan replied. And indeed he did see more than he liked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +Then how could he not only take an active part against him, but raise his +fortunes on his fall? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am. +</p> + +<p> +“And—and of Reform generally, I understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then—I don’t understand? Why do you refuse?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall keep them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” Vaughan replied with dignity, “you can consider that +it has not been made. I shall not name it for certain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well! Well!” +</p> + +<p> +“I can say no more,” Vaughan continued coldly. “Indeed, there +is nothing more to be said, Mr. Pybus?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” piteously, “I suppose not. If you really won’t +change your mind, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>XVI<br/> +LESS THAN A HERO</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +While he thought of this the carriage stopped at the door. He alighted and +ascended the steps. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bienséance</i> pervaded all. What did it mean? +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite well, Mapp, thank you.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan murmured that he had come at no inconvenience to himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>sotto voce</i>, as he threw himself back. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan hesitated a moment. Then, “Very good,” he said, “if +you will hear me afterwards. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But and If are two wenches always raising trouble!” Wetherell +cried coarsely. “Do you listen, Mr. Vaughan. Do you listen. Now, +Vermuyden, go on.” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it,” Wetherell answered bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“Then——” +</p> + +<p> +“He has a daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>à propos</i>, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert, too, had risen to his feet. But it was Wetherell who spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so!” he said. “Perhaps so. Indeed I admit it, young +sir! It will have to be proved. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still it must be proved,” said Vaughan sullenly, though in his +heart he acknowledged the truth of the reproach. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was news to him yesterday.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan coughed. “This is strange news,” he said, “after all +these years; and somewhat sudden, is it not?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that it did not die,” Vaughan murmured, “as Lady +Vermuyden said?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The maid’s name?” Vaughan asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will have to be proved,” Vaughan said stubbornly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You do not wish me,” he said slowly, “to express an opinion +now, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I thoroughly understand them,” Vaughan answered drily. No one was +more conscious than he that he was behaving ill. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert will prove his case,” Wetherell answered gruffly, +“if that is what you mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean——” +</p> + +<p> +“He does not ask you to surrender anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am bound to say, then, that the offer is very generous,” Vaughan +replied, melting, and speaking with some warmth. “Most generous. +But——” +</p> + +<p> +“He asks you to surrender nothing,” Wetherell repeated stolidly, +his face between his knees. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe,” Wetherell said, his face still hidden. “I +don’t deny that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +But the belated congratulation which was on his lips and which might have +altered many things, was not to be uttered. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think you understand——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I have made myself quite clear,” Sir Robert cried, his manner +betraying his agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But do you put it so?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean——” +</p> + +<p> +“I mean,” Vaughan said, “does the offer depend on the use I +make of my vote to-morrow? That is the point, Sir Robert!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Wetherell muttered indistinctly. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Bribed, sir?” cried Sir Robert, red with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert took a step towards the bell and stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“A peerage?” Sir Robert’s eyes seemed to be starting from his +head. “A peerage! Conditional on my——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan smiled, “Very good, sir,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. +“Your fortune is your own. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Begone, sir! Not another word, but go!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>XVII<br/> +THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know what’s come to the people!” the Rector +bawled, turning about to make himself heard by his neighbour. “Eh, +what?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Fortunate a show of hands don’t carry it!” the Sergeant +cried, shrugging his shoulders with an assumption of easiness. +</p> + +<p> +“Carry it? Of course we’ll carry it!” the Squire replied +wrathfully. “I suppose two and two still make four!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>’Twas the Jacobins brought every mischief about</i>, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +that Dewell’s vote was Dewell’s, or Annibal’s +Annibal’s. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile, “I wish we were safe at the hustings!” young Mowatt +shouted in the ear of the man who stood in front of him. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid we must,” Mowatt answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite agree with you,” cried the Rector. “Quite! I +protest, Mr. White, against anything of the kind.” +</p> + +<p> +But White was unmoved. “We’ve got to get our voters there,” +he said. “Sir Robert will be displeased, I know, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Never was such a thing heard of!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir, but never was such an election,” White answered with +spirit. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Sir Robert?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“The doctor’s not there?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +White cast a despairing eye on the confusion about him. “How can I +come?” he muttered. “I must get these to the poll first.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +The man was right; and White knew it, yet he hesitated. If he had had an +<i>aide</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>That this passion for roaring had come in of late<br/> +Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State</i>, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>XVIII<br/> +THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION (<span class="sc">Continued</span>)</h2> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Out of Egypt, and out of the House of Bondage!” shrieked a +Methodist above the hub-bub. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay!” +</p> + +<p> +“Slaves no longer!” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No! No!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear that, ye hoary tyrant!” in a woman’s shrill tones. +“Who jailed my man for a hare?” +</p> + +<p> +A roar of laughter which somewhat cleared the air followed this. Sir Robert +smiled grimly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +And “D——n the Bill!” the old Squire ejaculated. +“The people are off their heads! Jack as good as his master, and better +too!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yah! Down with him!” roared the crowd, “Down with the +Borough-monger!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan was furious. “Back, you cowards!” he cried fiercely. +“Would you murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you bullies!” cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very +neatly—and completely disposing of that one for the day. “Back with +you!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I want to speak to Pybus,” said White, glaring at the man, who on +ordinary days would have touched his hat to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you don’t——” +</p> + +<p> +“If you put your nose in here, we’ll pitch you over the +rail!” the other declared. +</p> + +<p> +White almost had a fit. Fortunately White-Hat Williams himself appeared at this +moment: and White appealed to him. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Williams,” he said, “is this your safe conduct?” +</p> + +<p> +“I gave none,” with a grin. +</p> + +<p> +“Pybus did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<div class="poem0"> + +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt"> + +“<i>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!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +But that’s over! That’s at an end to-day! But—what’s +this?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The old Squire seconded him in dumb show. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and +then to the other. “Gentlemen——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Wrench and—one moment, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh? Who do you say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t hear! One moment, sir! Oh, yes! Wrench and +Vaughan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Vaughan?” old Rowley cried with a profane oath. +“Impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +And from that time until the poll was declared open—in dumb +show—not a word was audible. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +They put to him the bribery oath. “I can take it,” he answered. +“Swallow it yourselves, if you can!” +</p> + +<p> +“You should know the taste, Jack,” cried a sly friend: and for a +moment the laugh was against him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well? Well?” Sir Robert struck in, eyeing him sternly. “What +more do we want? The Returning Officer——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some d——d mistake!” shrieked the Squire, +as the words reached his ears. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>XIX<br/> +THE FRUITS OF VICTORY</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Born with an ancient name of little worth,<br/> +And disinherited before his birth</i>, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>To fall as Walpole and to fail as Pitt!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +this, all this might be his, if he were worthy! If the dust of that arena knew +no better man! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p class="continue"> +“<span class="sc">Dear Madame</span>, +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me to remain, Madame, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:40%">“Truly yours, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:50%">“<span class="sc">Arthur V. +Vaughan</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +And all his life, he told himself, he would remember the use to which he had +put his first frank! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Did not Miss Sibson get my letter?” he asked gently. +</p> + +<p> +“I think not,” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she looked as if she would flee instead. Then she let him lead her +to a seat. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope,” he said, hesitating, “that you are glad that it +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“You do not understand,” he said unsteadily, “what is the +return I want?” +</p> + +<p> +“No-o,” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Change my mind?” he ejaculated, not for the moment understanding +her. So much had happened since his collision with Flixton in the Square. +</p> + +<p> +“As that gentleman—said you were in the habit of doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was not true?” +</p> + +<p> +“True?” he exclaimed hotly. “True that I—that +I——” +</p> + +<p> +“Changed your mind?” she said with her face averted. “And +not—not only that, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“What else?” he asked bitterly. +</p> + +<p> +“Talked of me—among your friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that what you mean to-day?” she asked faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you did not mean it then?” she answered—though very +gently. “It was to shield me you said it?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“And so—you denied it?” she said gently. +</p> + +<p> +He hung his head. “Yes,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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>I +would</i> against <i>I dare not?</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you are sure that you will not change your mind again?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She did not speak, she could not speak. But she bowed her head. +</p> + +<p> +“You will?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will not change?” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Never! Never!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>XX<br/> +A PLOT UNMASKED</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You viper!” he said. “You viper! You would sting +me—here also.” +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“How come I here?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes! How come you here, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You lie!” the baronet cried, the words leaping from his lips. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert!” +</p> + +<p> +“My daughter—promised to be your wife! +My—my——” +</p> + +<p> +“Your daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hypocrite!” Sir Robert retorted, flinging the word at him. +“You knew it! You knew it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that she was my daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Make good my case!” Sir Robert ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do as you please, Mary,” Vaughan said. +</p> + +<p> +“Go!” cried the baronet, stung by the use of her name. +“Stay!” said Vaughan. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, forgive him, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert,” Vaughan said, “you have stooped very low. But +it will not avail you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It has availed me so far,” the baronet retorted. With confidence +he was regaining also command of himself. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan winced. In proportion as the other recovered his temper, he lost his. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a lie!” Vaughan cried, stung beyond endurance. He was pale +with anger. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is absurd! It—it needs no refutation!” Vaughan cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” Sir Robert retorted. “I state it. I am prepared to +prove it! I have three witnesses to the fact!” +</p> + +<p> +“To the fact that I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you deny then,” the baronet replied with contemptuous force, +“do you dare to deny—to my face, that you knew?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Suspicions? Suspicions?” Vaughan cried bitterly. “And on +suspicion, the base issue of prejudice and dislike——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“What?” The astonishment in Sir Robert’s voice was so real, +so unfeigned, that it must have carried conviction to any listener. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And yet she listened. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“That you took no interest in the written details!” Sir Robert +cried in a tone of bitter irony. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +“You did not read a word, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped forward impulsively. He was white with pain, his face rigid. For +what pain is stronger than the pang of innocence accused? +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +He cast one look at Sir Robert, and then, “Mary,” he asked, +“am I to go?” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“Mary!” Vaughan repeated. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye,” she muttered, with averted eyes and pallid lips. +“I—I forgive you. Good-bye.” +</p> + +<p> +And she opened the door with groping fingers; and still, still looking away +from him lest she should break down, she went out. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I wonder which you love the better!” Vaughan snarled. And with the +vicious gibe he took his hat and went. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>XXI<br/> +A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS</h2> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>The streets be paved with mutton pies</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Potatoes eat like pine!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +And, in fine, everyone would live happily ever afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are the Bowood liveries,” said his friend, who had longer +sight. “I thought they had gone to town for the Coronation.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was gracious of your ladyship to come at all,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“I thank your ladyship and Lord Lansdowne,” he said formally. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that I should have ventured,” she continued with +another glint of laughter, “did I not bear also an olive branch.” +</p> + +<p> +He bowed, but waited in silence for her explanation. +</p> + +<p> +“One of a—a rather delicate nature,” she said. “Am I +permitted, Sir Robert, to—to speak in confidence?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +He frowned, disliking the subject. “I don’t think,” he said, +“that any good can come of discussing it, Lady Lansdowne.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei<br/> +Vitabit Libitinam!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +So, after frowning a moment, he tried to smooth his brow. “And your +mission, Lady Lansdowne,” he said politely, “is to tell me +this?” +</p> + +<p> +“In part,” she said, with hesitation, for the course, of his +feelings had been visible in his countenance. “But +also——” +</p> + +<p> +“But also—and in the main,” he answered with a smile, +“to make a proposition, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He coughed drily. “Possibly,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“In Committee,” Sir Robert corrected with a grave bow. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>our</i> assistance, I think you mean, Lady +Lansdowne?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert shook his head gravely. He would fight. +</p> + +<p> +“Allowing to you, Sir Robert, as the owner of the influence hitherto +dominant in the borough, the first return.” +</p> + +<p> +“The first return—after the Bill passes?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You shall certainly hear,” he said, with something more than +courtesy. “In the meantime——” +</p> + +<p> +“I am dying to see your daughter,” she answered. “I am told +that she is very lovely. Where is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“A few minutes ago she was in the Elm Walk,” Sir Robert answered, a +slight flush betraying his gratification. “I will send for her.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you will not know her,” Sir Robert answered. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Nor mill nor mart had mocked the guinea’s stamp</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Louisa,” said the stranger. And she raised her veil. +“Don’t you know me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sybil!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no! But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“You are changed,” the other answered kindly. “I fear you +have been ill?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am ill. I am more, I am dying. Not here, nor to-day, nor +to-morrow——” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sybil!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Sybil! Sybil!” Lady Lansdowne cried, thoroughly alarmed by her +friend’s violence. “For Heaven’s sake be calm!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +Someone was coming—really coming this time. She looked round. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll give you five minutes!” Lady Sybil whispered. +“Five minutes, Louisa! Remember!” +</p> + +<p> +And when Lady Lansdowne turned again to her, she had vanished among the +laurels. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>XXII<br/> +WOMEN’S HEARTS</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +But now at that word, twice pronounced by Lady Lansdowne, the girl stood +ashamed and conscience-stricken. “You knew my mother?” she +faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my dear,” the elder woman answered gravely. “I knew her +very well.” +</p> + +<p> +The gravity of the speaker’s tone presented a new idea to Mary’s +mind. “She is not happy?” she said slowly. +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“She is unhappy?” Mary asked, looking most unhappy herself. +</p> + +<p> +“She is unhappy, and she is ill.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to go to her? You think so? Please—your ladyship, will you +advise me?” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Lansdowne hesitated. “I cannot,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But—there is no reason,” Mary asked faintly, “why I +should not go to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Ma’am, no!” she stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are afraid of me?” Lady Sybil rejoined. And again she +twitched the girl’s face to the light. +</p> + +<p> +Mary was amazed rather than afraid: but she could not say that. And she kept +silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” the girl cried in distress. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, indeed——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, I do!” Mary cried, inexpressibly pained by the other’s +vehemence. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He knew?” Mary murmured, with an effort. “You told him who I +was, Ma’am?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr.—Mr. Vaughan,” Mary stammered, “had no +knowledge—who I was?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you dismissed him at papa’s command, eh? That was it, was +it?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope she may always remain so,” Lady Lansdowne answered slily. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>XXIII<br/> +IN THE HOUSE</h2> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Away, away—your smile’s a curse<br/> +Oh, blot me from the race of men,<br/> +Kind pitying Heaven! by death or worse</i> +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Before I love such things again!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Genius Loci</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I certainly cannot,” Vaughan said, smiling frankly, the better to +hide his mortification. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How do you do, Mr. Vaughan?” he said, in his deep bass voice. +“Your maiden essay yesterday, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan winced. “Yes,” he said stiffly, fancying that he read +amusement in the other’s moist eye. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But little, I am afraid,” Vaughan said. None the less was his +heart full of gratitude to the fat, ungainly man. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>vraisemblance</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No! Leave us out.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I say, sir,” he proceeded, looking about him courageously, +“that it is only with pain, only under the <i>force majeure</i> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“No! No! Leave us out!” in a roar of sound. And “Divide! +Divide!” +</p> + +<p> +“Or on that,” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Divide! Divide!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“It never will be to you!” shrieked a voice from the darker corner +under the opposite gallery. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +He spoke to the Member who chanced to sit next him. “What was it?” +he asked humbly. “Did I do something wrong?” +</p> + +<p> +The man glanced at him coldly. “Oh, no,” he said. And he shrugged +his shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove!” Vaughan exclaimed. “You don’t say so!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>XXIV<br/> +A RIGHT AND LEFT</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>persona grata</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said. “That’s it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some say so, but I hope not.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what will the country say to that?” Vaughan rejoined +good-humouredly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know,” Vaughan answered, “that you would be so +confident if you were once face to face with it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come! Don’t talk nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But I was there the evening you had the row!” +</p> + +<p> +“At Stapylton?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“And, lord, man, why didn’t you sing a bit small? And the old +gentleman would have come round in no time!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan halted, with anger in his face. “I won’t discuss it!” +he said with something of violence in his tone. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be out, if it’s Chippinge you are looking to!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if you please, my friend? Why so sure?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan reddened deeply. “I don’t believe it,” he said +bluntly. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you know that Chippinge was going to be spared?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“They didn’t tell you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am told,” Vaughan said haughtily, “that an agreement has +been made to avoid a contest at Chippinge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean,” the Sergeant asked blandly, “at the next +election, Mr. Vaughan?” +</p> + +<p> +“At future elections!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Flixton.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>XXV<br/> +AT STAPYLTON</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes? Yes? You think so?” Flixton answered with manifest delight. +“You really think so, Sir Robert, do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +But Sir Robert had not divined the end of the sentence. He was a trifle deaf. +“Yes?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all!” Flixton answered with heartiness. “Gad, I could +listen to you all day, Sir Robert.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By all means, by all means,” Sir Robert answered indulgently. +“You need not stand on ceremony.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Really!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes. Really.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary laughed. “Some are more quick to notice than others,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“And to notice some than others!” he rejoined, gallantly. +“That is what I mean. Now that old girl who is with +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Sibson?” Mary said, setting him right with some stiffness. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” she replied, smiling, “she is not, perhaps, an angel +to look at. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Mary,” he cried, pathetically, “you don’t +understand me! I want to assure you—I want to make you +understand——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>équivoque</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +And—in a moment it was done. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +“How—-how dare you?” she continued, trembling with rage and +indignation. +</p> + +<p> +“But your father——” +</p> + +<p> +“How dare you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father sent me,” he pleaded, quite crestfallen. “He +gave me leave——” +</p> + +<p> +She stared at him, as at a madman. “To insult me?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“He did!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he did not,” she replied with dignity, “understand my +feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but you must marry someone,” he complained. “You +know—you’re making a great fuss about nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing!” she cried, her eyes sparkling. “You insult me, Mr. +Flixton, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“If a man may not kiss the girl he wants to marry——” +</p> + +<p> +“If she does not want to marry him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her with a mixture of supplication, resentment, chagrin. +</p> + +<p> +But she showed no sign of relenting. “You really—you really do mean +it?” he muttered, with a sickly smile. “Come, Miss Mary!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried, as if his words pained her. +And that was all. “Please go! Or I shall go.” +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bonnes fortunes</i>, to be refused! He had laid +his all, and <i>pour le bon motif</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I wish to speak to you, Mary,” he continued. “Will you come +with me to the library?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He took up his own position on the hearth rug; whence he looked at her gravely +before he spoke. At length: +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She closed her eyes for an instant, to collect her thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +“But—but, sir,” she said, “you cannot wish me to have +no will—no choice—in a matter which affects me so nearly.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I could never—never,” she answered, with a deep blush, +“marry a man without—liking him, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Marry?” Sir Robert repeated. He stared at her. +</p> + +<p> +She returned the look. “I thought, sir,” she faltered, with a still +deeper blush, “that you were talking of that.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” he said, gravely, “I am referring to the subject +on which I understood that you requested Miss Sibson to speak to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“My mother?” she whispered, the colour fading quickly from her +face. +</p> + +<p> +He paused a moment. Then, “You would oblige me,” he said, slowly +and formally, “by calling her Lady Sybil Vermuyden. And +not—that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But she is—my mother,” she persisted. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Yet he merely continued, as he stood on the hearth rug, to look at her askance. +“That is for me,” he said, “to decide.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But I will tell you,” he said, stiffly. “Because she has +already ruined part of your life!” +</p> + +<p> +“I forgive her, from my heart!” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mary waited until his step trod the carpet less hurriedly. Then, as he paused +to turn, she stepped forward. +</p> + +<p> +“Yet, sir—forgive her!” she cried. And there were warm tears +in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and looked at her. Possibly he was astonished at her persistence. +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” he said in a tone of finality. “Never! Let that be +the end.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“When?” +</p> + +<p> +“A fortnight ago?” She trembled under the growing darkness of his +look. +</p> + +<p> +“Here?” +</p> + +<p> +“In the grounds, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +And he threw up his hands in despair. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! no!” Mary cried, infinitely distressed. +</p> + +<p> +“But you have!” he rejoined. “You have kept this from +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only, believe me, sir,” she cried, eagerly, “until I could +find a fitting time.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He began again to pace up and down the room. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no! no!” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +At length, “But if she be dying, sir,” she murmured. “Will +you not then let me see her?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And then,” she said, pleading softly, “you will let me +go!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I will go, if you wish it,” she said, submissively. She would show +herself obedient in all things lawful. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>XXVI<br/> +THE SCENE IN THE HALL</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“And isn’t going to keep it?” cried another. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who are you?” he replied, confronting our friend with a sneer. +“I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Explanation?” a Member in the background cried, in a jeering tone. +“Is there need of one?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan was no longer red, he was white with anger. “Who spoke?” he +asked, his voice ringing. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Your pleasure, however,” Vaughan replied, haughtily, “is not +my law. Some one of you used words a moment ago which seemed to +imply——” +</p> + +<p> +“What, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Statement?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Must, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of that,” Wathen answered, sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing? You know nothing of that?” Vaughan cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +The Irish Member laughed. “Well, sir,” he said, derisively, +“is the explanation, now you’ve got it, to your mind?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a friend, Sir Charles,” Vaughan said, in a voice which +quivered with anxiety, “you are a friend of Sir Robert +Vermuyden’s?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I won’t deny him until I know more!” Wetherell +answered quaintly. “What of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“You know what occurred at Chippinge before the election?” +</p> + +<p> +“None better. I was there.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what passed between Sir Robert Vermuyden and me?” Vaughan +continued, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do,” Wetherell answered. “In the main I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed? Indeed? That is serious.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I ask you, sir, is there a word of truth in that charge?” +</p> + +<p> +Wetherell had his eyes fixed gloomily on the pavement. He appeared to weigh the +matter a moment or two. Then he shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word,” he said, ponderously. +</p> + +<p> +“You—you bear me out, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan understood only too well the generous motive which underlay the +invitation. But for a moment he hung back. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, perfectly,” the Sergeant cried, hurriedly. +“Perfectly!” And he muttered something about being glad—hear +explanation—satisfactory. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to you for your candour,” Vaughan said, gratefully. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am told that it is pre-empted,” Vaughan answered, in a tone +between jest and earnest. +</p> + +<p> +“It is. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Sir Charles?” +</p> + +<p> +“You should see your own side about it,” Wetherell answered +gruffly. “I can’t say more than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to you for that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<div class="poem1"> + +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt"> +“<i>Hostis habet muros; ruit alta a culmine Troja.<br/> +Sat patriæ Priamoque datum; si Pergama linquâ.<br/> +Defendi possent, etiam, hoc defensa fuissent!</i>” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>XXVII<br/> +WICKED SHIFTS</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>What, though new opposed I be</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Twenty peers shall carry me!</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"><i>If twenty won’t, thirty will</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>For I am his Majesty’s bouncing Bill</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>I consider Dissolution<br/> +Tantamount to Revolution</i>, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +found admirers for its truth, if not for its beauty. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Disgusting!” Cornelius muttered audibly, wrinkling his nose as he +eyed them over his high collar. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Disgusting!” Cornelius repeated, wheeling about. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Those days are far back, my lord,” Vaughan said politely. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Cry ‘Hosanna’ to-day,” Cornelius said gruffly, with +his eyes fixed steadily before him, “and ‘Crucify him’ +tomorrow!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Amen!” said Mr. Cornelius. And sniffed in a very peculiar manner. +</p> + +<p> +“But to discern that camomile,” the Chancellor continued gaily, +“though bitter to-day makes us better tomorrow, is a different thing +from——” +</p> + +<p> +“Administering a dose!” Vaughan laughed, falling into the great +man’s humour. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” Brougham said, taking him up with a quick, laughing glance, +“you are not yet on the Treasury Bench? That’s it?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, not yet,” Vaughan answered, good-humouredly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, time and patience and Bellamy’s chops, Mr. Vaughan, will +carry you far, I am sure.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is on that subject—the subject of time—I venture to +trouble your lordship.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Cast aside? Tut, tut! What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed! Indeed!” Brougham answered, “Is it so? I am sorry to +hear that.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“Very sorry, Mr. Vaughan.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who,” Brougham asked with a quick look, “gave you that +advice, Mr. Vaughan?” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Charles Wetherell.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I repeat, my lord,” Vaughan continued, “is it unreasonable +if I apply to you in these circumstances, rather——” +</p> + +<p> +“Rather than to one of the whips?” Brougham said drily. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I know nothing of the matter, Mr. Vaughan.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can wait,” said Mr. Cornelius. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been a friend to me,” Vaughan answered sullenly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“The spark!” Mr. Cornelius muttered grimly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was thinking,” Mr. Cornelius answered slowly, “of +purity.” He sniffed. “And the Whigs!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>XXVIII<br/> +ONCE MORE, TANTIVY!</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a meek voice. “Are you +going to Bristol, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve seen me in the Lobby, sir,” the other answered, +fidgeting in his humility. “I’m Sir Charles Wetherell’s +clerk, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! To be sure!” Vaughan replied. “I thought I knew your +face. Sir Charles opens the Assizes to-morrow, I understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, if they will let him. Do you think that there is much danger, +sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Danger?” Vaughan answered with a smile. “No serious +danger.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Government did not wish him to go, sir,” the other rejoined +with an air of mystery. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t believe that,” Vaughan said. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I’ve heard,” Vaughan said. “But you may be sure +that the authorities will see that Sir Charles is well guarded!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—— +</p> + +<p> +“Let go!” growled the coachman, losing patience a last. “The +gentleman’s not coming!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>gêne</i> of the situation rested on him and +weighed him down. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied; “no, I”—his attention +wandered—“I am not.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope we may have the honour of keeping you tonight, sir?” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You came with Flixton?” Vaughan said, speaking, on his side also, +rather dully. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“They are to be married, I hear?” Vaughan said in the same dull +tone and with his face averted. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I saw his clerk on my way here.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’ll be trouble, Vaughan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Really?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, really! And bad trouble! I wish it was over.” He passed his +hand across his brow. +</p> + +<p> +“I heard something of it in London,” Vaughan answered. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope nothing will come of it,” Vaughan answered, interested in +spite of himself. “You’re in command, sir, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I was going to Chippinge.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s another!” Brereton said, rising with an oath and +looking after it. “I was told that two had gone through!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it? Who are they?” Vaughan asked, leaning out on his side +to see. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He believed that Brereton exaggerated the peril. But if his fears were +well-based, then he agreed that the soldiers sent were too few. +</p> + +<p> +“Still a bold front will do much!” he argued. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but that’s absurd!” Vaughan answered; though he recalled +what Brougham had said. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t think it’s as bad as that,” Vaughan said. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>XXIX<br/> +AUTUMN LEAVES</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!’” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, Ma’am.” +</p> + +<p> +“And well filled?” Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Smell fiddlesticks!” Miss Sibson retorted. Then “That will +do,” she continued. “I will open the door myself.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good gracious!” Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary answered, almost crying. “They would come! I said +I wished to come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!” +</p> + +<p> +“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? +</p> + +<p> +“And Baxter is as bad,” Mary said plaintively. “As for +Thomas——” +</p> + +<p> +“Beg pardon, Ma’am,” the man said, touching his hat, +“but it is as much as my place is worth.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” Mary said, not a whit placated by the compliment. And +she slipped past Miss Sibson into the passage. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“We can take care of ourselves, sir,” Miss Sibson replied curtly. +“Good-night, sir!” And she shut the door in his face. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Go?” cried he, staring. “Go? Eh? What? What do you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Where are we to go, sir, for the night? If you’ll please to show +us, sir. I’m a stranger here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“She is not here,” Miss Sibson said, plump and plain. +</p> + +<p> +“Not here!” Mary cried, springing from the chair into which Miss +Sibson had compelled her. “Not here!” +</p> + +<p> +“No. Not in this house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why—why did she tell me to come here?” Mary cried +dumbfounded. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary gave way at that. She sat down and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot eat anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did she not remain in Bath?” Mary asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the servants?” Mary said in dismay. “They will tell my +father. And indeed——” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed what, my dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not wish to hide from him.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at her hostess. “Oh, Miss Sibson!” she exclaimed, +conscience-stricken. “You cannot have sent them away for my sake?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at her with grateful eyes. “I am glad now,” she said, +“I am glad that she came here.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am!” the other answered warmly. “Always Mary Smith to +you!” And the old woman took the young one to her arms. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary beat back her tears and obeyed with a quivering lip. “I hope you are +better,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>sœur de Charité!</i>” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that I could nurse you better in this,” Mary faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“Nurse me!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know her,” Lady Sybil said shortly. +</p> + +<p> +“She was very kind to me,” Mary answered. +</p> + +<p> +“I dare say,” in the same tone. +</p> + +<p> +“But she would not let me go until I gave her my address.” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Sybil sat up sharply. “And you did that?” she shrieked. +“You gave it her?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was obliged to give it,” Mary stammered, “or I could not +have left London.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary moved it. “Is that better, mother?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>XXX<br/> +THE MAYOR’S RECEPTION IN QUEEN’S SQUARE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Boo! Boo!” yelled the mob below. “Throw him out! Reform! +Reform!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no, no!” the little Mayor remonstrated. “Not applauding, +Mr. Cooke!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir, applauding!” Cooke retorted with vigour. +</p> + +<p> +“And teach Wetherell a lesson!” someone in the background muttered. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“By G—d, I’d teach it a lesson then!” Cooke retorted. +“It seems to me it is time someone did!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen worse!” another answered. “And after +all,” the speaker added with a wink, “it is good for the +glaziers.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sauve qui peut</i> 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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but really this is growing serious,” a third said timidly. +“It’s too bad, this.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, nonsense!” +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s not nonsense, sir,” the man answered angrily. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think with Mr. Hare that you had better read the Riot Act, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Burges. Where is he?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that we should take Sir Charles Wetherell’s +opinion,” the tall, thin man answered, deftly shifting the burden from +his own shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Jonah!” someone muttered with a sneering laugh. +</p> + +<p> +The Mayor turned about. “That’s very improper!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s very improper to send a Judge who is a politician!” the +voice answered. +</p> + +<p> +“And against the Bill!” a second jeered. +</p> + +<p> +“For shame! For shame!” the Mayor cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Sir Charles——” +</p> + +<p> +“They seem,” with a touch of sternness, “to be carrying the +jest rather too far.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Cooke,” the Mayor said, “wishes me to call out the +military.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +The Under-Sheriff put himself forward. “I can say, sir,” he +answered firmly, “that yours is in danger. And in serious danger!” +</p> + +<p> +Wetherell planted his feet further apart, and thrust his hands lower into his +pockets. “Oh, no, no,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“It is yes, yes, sir,” the Under-Sheriff replied bluntly. +“Unless you leave the house I cannot be responsible! I cannot, indeed, +Sir Charles.” +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“For God’s sake, Mr. Mayor,” cried a quavering voice, +“send for the military.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay! the soldiers. Send for the soldiers, sir!” echoed two or +three. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I will,” said the Mayor, who was cooler than most. +“Who will go?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is that?” he asked a man who met him as he descended the +stairs from the second floor. +</p> + +<p> +“They are cheering the soldiers,” the man replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad to hear it!” Vaughan exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +The Mayor looked at Vaughan as he entered. “Is this the gentleman?” +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“In support of the military,” the tall, thin Town-clerk interposed, +in a decided tone. “That must be understood. Eh, Mr. Burges?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly,” the City Solicitor answered. And they both looked at +Colonel Brereton, who, somewhat to Vaughan’s surprise, had not +acknowledged his presence. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The Mayor’s face was a picture. “I?” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should consider it unwise,” Brereton replied formally. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good! Then—then you must use your discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Brereton looked a little discomposed. “They must have brought it on +themselves,” he said, “by some rashness. Your constables have no +discretion.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you should at least clear the Square and the neighbouring +streets,” the Town-clerk persisted. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Brereton looked at him sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +No one spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but we shall see you again, Colonel Brereton,” the Mayor +cried in some agitation. +</p> + +<p> +“See me, sir?” Brereton answered contemptuously. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes, you can see me, if you wish to! But——” He +shrugged his shoulders, and turned away without finishing the sentence. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Flixton,” he whispered, throwing what friendliness he could into +his voice. “Do you think Brereton’s right?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“After all, this is what I am good for,” he told himself as he +stood to take breath after a <i>mêlée</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“It is gratifying, Mr. Vaughan,” he added, “to find that +Colonel Brereton was right.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Vaughan agreed. And he took his leave, carrying off his +staff for a memento. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Vaughan, I think?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Arthur Vaughan?” the man, who was a complete stranger to +Vaughan, repeated. “Member of Parliament for Chippinge, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Reform Member?” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan eyed him narrowly. “If you are one of my constituents,” he +said drily, “I will answer that question.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>XXXI<br/> +SUNDAY IN BRISTOL</h2> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>Non civium ardor prava jubentium</i>, +</p> + +<p class="t2"><i>Non vultus instantis tyranni</i> +</p> + +<p class="t4"><i>Mente quatit solida!</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But what is it?” Vaughan asked impatiently. “What has +happened, my man? Who’re gone?” +</p> + +<p> +The man turned for the first time, and saw who it was. “You have not +heard, sir?” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not a word.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Impossible!” Vaughan exclaimed, turning red with anger. “You +cannot have heard aright.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Flixton shrugged his shoulders, but did not answer. He was flushed and has +manner was surly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan walked a few paces beside the horse. “But, Flixton, press +him,” he said urgently; “press him, man, to act! To do +something!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Flixton looked askance at him. “Ten to one, only what happened last +night,” he answered. “You all croaked then; but Brereton was +right.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>posse comitatus</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>non possumus</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why not clear the wider streets, sir?” Vaughan persisted, +“and keep a grip on those?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! I say, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Flixton is an ass!” Vaughan cried incautiously. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>XXXII<br/> +THE AFFRAY AT THE PALACE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certain sure, Sir Robert,” Thomas answered earnestly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And you know Bristol well. You can help me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I wish I could help myself!” Cooke cried, forgetting himself in +his excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“My daughter is in Bristol.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” the angry merchant replied. “Then she could not be +in a worse place. That is all I can say.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am inclined to agree with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is your Reform!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert stared. “Not my Reform, Mr. Cooke,” he said in a tone of +displeasure. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert struck his stick on the pavement. “Mr. Vaughan?” he +exclaimed. “He is here, then? I feared so!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert frowned. “I am surprised. He behaved well? Indeed!” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“D——d well! D——d well! If there had been half a +dozen like him, we’d be out of the wood!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert reflected with a gloomy face. “Where are Mr. Flixton’s +quarters?” he asked at last. He might possibly learn something from him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” Sir Robert retorted, “you travelled with her, from +London!” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know that I did?” +</p> + +<p> +“The servants, sir, have told me that you did.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you come to me for news of her?” Vaughan asked in the tone he +had used throughout. He was very sore. +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do not think that I am the last person of whom you should ask +tidings of your daughter?” +</p> + +<p> +“She came here,” Sir Robert answered sternly, “to see Lady +Sybil.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then I do not know what you mean!” Vaughan retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that you can tell me something, if you will.” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan looked at him. “I have nothing to tell you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean, sir, that you will tell me nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“That, if you like.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert,” he said, “this is no place for a man of your +years.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I doubt if he would be more pleased than you or I!” Vaughan +answered. “In the meantime——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan lost his temper at that. “You blackguard!” he cried. +“Stand back. The man is my prisoner!” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You feel better, sir, now?” the servant asked, addressing Vaughan. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I owe you sincere thanks,” he said at last, but awkwardly and with +constraint. +</p> + +<p> +“The blackguard!” Sir Robert cried. +</p> + +<p> +“You saved me, sir, from a very serious injury.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was as much threat as blow!” Sir Robert rejoined. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am obliged to you,” Sir Robert said. +</p> + +<p> +“If you believe me,” Vaughan said. “Not otherwise!” +</p> + +<p> +“I do believe you, Mr. Vaughan.” And Sir Robert said it as if he +meant it. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert removed his hat, and stood in perplexity. “But where can she +be then?” he asked. “If you know nothing of her.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will go with me?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>XXXIII<br/> +FIRE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +Lady Sybil, with her face turned away, muttered something about Paris. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor misguided people!” Mary murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to knock their heads together!” Miss Sibson cried +sternly. “What are the soldiers doing? What is anyone doing?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dogs?” Miss Sibson echoed. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but it is frightful!” Mary repeated, unable to remove her eyes +from the flames. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“They are afraid of their own shadows,” Miss Sibson cried +contemptuously. “It is the reflection they have seen.” +</p> + +<p> +But she went. And as it was but a step to a window overlooking the rear, Mary +went with her. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Horror-struck, Mary grasped her companion’s arm. And “Good +Heavens!” Miss Sibson muttered. “The whole city will be +burned!” +</p> + +<p> +“And we are between the two fires,” Mary faltered. An involuntary +shudder might be pardoned her. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but far enough from them,” the schoolmistress answered, +recovering herself. “On this side, the water makes us safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“And on the other?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“The poor dear gentleman has lost his house,” she concluded +piously. “But we should be thankful he has another.” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson saw them at the same moment, and “The villains!” she +exclaimed. “God grant it be an accident!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. +</p> + +<p> +Lady Sybil laughed her shrill laugh. “The curs are biting bravely!” +she said. “What will Bristol say to this?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>XXXIV<br/> +HOURS OF DARKNESS</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mary clung to her desperately. “Oh!” she cried, +“don’t leave me!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Sibson, however, remained undaunted. “Put up the chain the moment I +am outside,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But are you not afraid?” Mary cried, holding her back. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I don’t, Missis,” the man grumbled sheepishly. +“But I’m none here for that! I’m none here for that, +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you let us pass out?” she said. “My mother is ill. You +do not wish to harm her?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord love you, Miss!” one cried heartily. “Take her out! And +God bless you!” while the others grinned fatuously. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +A sob of relief and joy broke from her, as she recognised him and flung herself +into his arms and clung to him. +</p> + +<p> +“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! +</p> + +<p> +And still he could not grasp the position. “My God!” he repeated in +wonder. “What, child, what are you doing here?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You have been here all day?” he asked, passing his hand over his +brow. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“All day? All day?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>XXXV<br/> +THE MORNING OF MONDAY</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good Heavens!” Vaughan cried, staring at him. “What are you +doing here? Where’s the Chief?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then I’d make it mine!” Vaughan retorted. “Where is +he?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Vaughan!” he cried. “What, if you please, does this +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then what do you do here?” Vaughan answered, in astonishment. And +looked round the room as if he might find his answer there. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Know——” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“The consequences?” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot think that a city such as this can be destroyed, and no one +be called to account?” +</p> + +<p> +“But the civil power——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything!” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +His cunning look shocked Vaughan. +</p> + +<p> +“But even so, sir,” he answered, “you can do your +duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +Brereton clapped his hand to his brow, and, holding it there, paced the room in +his shirt and breeches. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“It is as bad, and worse!” +</p> + +<p> +“I might try once more,” looking at Vaughan with a troubled, +undecided eye, “what showing my men might do? What do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I think you may. Yes, certainly. Tell the officer commanding to +march his men to the Square and I’ll meet him there.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Better come all the way,” Flixton replied, with covert insolence. +“We’ve half a dozen spare horses.” +</p> + +<p> +The next moment he was sorry he had spoken. For, “Done with you!” +Vaughan cried. “There’s nothing I’d like better!” +</p> + +<p> +Flixton grunted. He had overreached himself, but he could not withdraw the +offer. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan was by his side, and plainly meant to accompany him. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Who is in command, my man?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never mind me,” the Baronet replied. “Are you in +command?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Apparently Bristol is no better for you!” Sir Robert replied with +tremulous passion. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“How come you here?” he cried. “How come you here, +Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“She is insensible,” she said quietly. “She does not know +anything.” +</p> + +<p> +“We must remove her!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then we must remove them!” he answered sternly. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” Brereton answered hoarsely. “Wait! Let +me——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Steady! Steady!” Vaughan cried. “Halt! Halt! Right +about!” and then, “Charge!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan, panting with his exertions, took in the position, and looked round for +Brereton. +</p> + +<p> +“We must send for the Fourteenth, sir!” he said. “We are not +enough to do more than hold them in check.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +Brereton nodded without a word, and Vaughan wheeled his horse to start. As he +pushed it clear of the troop he passed Flixton. +</p> + +<p> +“That was capital!” the Honourable Bob cried heartily. +“Capital! We’ll handle ’em easily now, till you come +back!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Imprimis</i>, 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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>XXXVI<br/> +FORGIVENESS</h2> + +<p> +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 “<i>Non nobis!</i> Not to +us only be the benefit!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert has not seen her, then?” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think that I could see her?” +</p> + +<p> +The schoolmistress hesitated. “Well, my lady,” she said, “I +am afraid that she will hardly live through the day.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Poor thing!” Lady Lansdowne murmured. “Poor woman!” +Her lips moved without sound. Presently, “Her daughter is with +her?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do so, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I grieve,” she continued, “to find the truth more sad than +the report.” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know that you can help us,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because,” she rejoined, looking at him softly, “you will not +let me help you. Sir Robert——” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is that?” he asked, frowning. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer him at once, and when she did it was in a tone so low as to +be barely audible. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +Her voice died away into silence. She left the appeal unfinished. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke at last. “I will see her,” he said huskily. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>But more than wisdom sees, love knows.<br/> +What eye has scanned the perfume of the rose?<br/> +Has any grasped the low grey mist which stands<br/> +Ghost-like at eve above the sheeted lands?</i> +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Meanwhile Sir Robert paused on the threshold of the room—<i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary leant over her. +</p> + +<p> +“Mother!” she cried, unable to bear the scene in silence. +“Mother! Don’t you know me?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Mary laid gentle hands on her, and restrained her. “Mother,” she +said. “Mother! Don’t you know me? I am Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“My father. It is my father. Don’t you know him?” +</p> + +<p> +But still, “Who is it? Who is it?” Lady Sybil continued to ask. +“Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +“What does he want? What does he want? What does he want?” the +dying woman asked in endless, unreasoning repetition. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +She shrank from him, terrified. “What does he want?” she repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Sybil,” he repeated in a quavering voice. “Do you not know +me? Don’t you remember me? I am your husband.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I know,” she muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“This is your daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. +</p> + +<p> +“Our daughter,” he repeated. “Our daughter!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mary?” she murmured. “Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>XXXVII<br/> +IN THE MOURNING COACH</h2> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"><i>It shall be thine in danger’s hour<br/> +To guide the helm of Britain’s power<br/> +And midst thy country’s laurelled crown<br/> +To twine a garland all thy own</i>. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +Yet he had done something. He had played the man when some others had not +played the man. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentleman will wait your pleasure, sir,” the man said. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="sc">Dear Sir</span>,—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. +</p> + +<p> +“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, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:40%"> +“Your obedient servant, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:55%"> +“<span class="sc">Robert Vermuyden.</span>” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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——” +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan stopped him, and said something of Lady Sybil’s death; adding +that he had never seen her but once. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I think his honour wishes much——” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no possible reason,” Vaughan said doggedly. +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s enough, White,” Vaughan said coldly. “It is not +so much what Sir Robert thinks now, too, as what he thought formerly.” +</p> + +<p> +“But indeed, sir, his honour’s opinion of that matter, +too——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +And White did not venture to say more. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +Sir Robert winced. “Dyas?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“He says he’s anxious to show his respect for the family, in every +way consistent with his opinions.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +White waited, but as the other said no more, “You won’t forbid him, +sir?” he said, a note of appeal in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“From—oh, from Mr. Vaughan, sir? No, sir. But Mr. Flixton is +coming.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Vaughan turned a reluctant, almost a stern face to him. Not that he disliked +the agent, but he thought that he had got clear. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he asked, without removing his foot from the step. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Sir Robert cannot wish to see me at such a time,” Vaughan +answered, between wonder and impatience. “He will write, +doubtless.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary!” he cried. The name broke from him in his astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +He was as deeply agitated as she was quiet on the surface. “I told you +nothing but the truth,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But yes! A hundred times, yes!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you are altered? That is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” he cried. “Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“He said——” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“He said,” Vaughan answered in a low voice, “what I think it +became him to say.” +</p> + +<p> +“You understood that his feelings were changed towards you?” +</p> + +<p> +“To some extent.” +</p> + +<p> +She drew a deep breath and sat back. “Then it is for you to speak,” +she said. +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” he cried violently. “No! No! It is not that!” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless you!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +She drew a deep breath and sat back. “Then,” she said, with a sigh +as of relief, “it is for you to speak.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What am I to say?” he asked hoarsely. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, if you love me, if you forgive me,” she answered softly, +“do you leave me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Can you not understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know of what Sir Robert accused me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“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——” +</p> + +<p> +“Of my father!” she said gravely. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +She looked from the window of the carriage, and in a voice which shook a +little, “No,” she said, “I suppose not.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, I think,” she said gently, yet with dignity, “you +have not thought of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But your father—Sir Robert——” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>XXXVIII<br/> +THREADS AND PATCHES</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>coup de grâce</i> 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. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy,” he said presently, “that we shall learn the fate +of the Bill to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“To do?” +</p> + +<p> +“As to the seat at Chippinge.” +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have kept your word, sir. But as Lord Lansdowne cedes the seat +to you for this time, I assume——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know why you assume anything!” Sir Robert retorted +irritably. +</p> + +<p> +“I assume only that you will wish me to seek another seat.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are your two things?” +</p> + +<p> +“Despotism, or anarchy,” Vaughan replied modestly. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Boom!</i> +</p> + +<h3>THE END.</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HIPPINGE BOROUGH ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +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™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. 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