Chapter VIII: Part 8

Their reception did not clear their brains. Such a roar of execration as greeted them had never been heard in Chippinge: the hair on Dewell, the barber’s, head stood up, the Alderman’s checks grew pale, Cooke dropped his cane, the stoutest flinched. Changed indeed were the times from those a year or two past when their exit had been greeted by sycophantic cheers, or, at worst, by a little good-humoured jesting! Now the whole multitude in the open, not in one part, but in every part, knew as by instinct of their setting forth, brandished on the instant a thousand arms at them, deafened them with a thousand voices, demanded monotonously “The Bill! The Bill!” Nor had the demonstration stopped there, but for the intervention of a body of a hundred Whig stalwarts who, posting themselves on the flanks of the derided procession, conferred on its slow march an ignoble safety.

No wonder that many a one who found himself thus guarded rubbed his eyes. The times were changed indeed! No more despotism of Squire and Parson, no more monopoly of places, no more nominated members, no more elections that did but mock men who had no share in them, no more “Cripples,” no more snug jobs! The Tories might agree with Mr. Fudge

_That this passion for roaring had come in of late Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State_,

and foretell the ruinous outcome of it. But the thing was, the many-headed, the many-handed had them in its grip. They must go meekly, or not at all; with visions of French fish-fags and guillotines before their eyes, and wondering, most of them—as they tried to show a bold front, tried to wave their banners and give some answering shout to the sea that beat upon them—how they would get home again with whole skins!

Perhaps there was only one of them who never had that thought; though he, alone of them all, was unaware of the precautions taken for his safety. That was Sir Robert Vermuyden, the master of all, the patron, the Borough-monger! Attended by Bob Flixton, who had come with him from Bristol to see the fun—and whose voice it will be remembered Vaughan had overheard at Stapylton the evening before—and by two or three other guests, he had entered the White Lion from the rear; arriving in time to fall in—somewhat surprised at his supporters’ precipitation—at the tail of the procession. The moment he was recognised by the crowd he was greeted with a roar of “Down with the Borough-monger!” that fairly appalled his companions. But he faced it calmly, imperturbably, quietly; a little paler, a little prouder, and a little sterner perhaps than usual, but with a gleam in his eyes that had not been seen in them for years. For answer to all he smiled with a curling lip: and it is probable that as much as any hour in his life he enjoyed this hour, which put him to the test before those over whom he had ruled so long. His caste might be passing, the days of his power might be numbered, the waves of democracy might be rising about the system in which he believed the safety of England to lie; but no man should see him falter. No veteran of the old noblesse in days which Sir Robert could remember had gone to his fate more proudly than the English patrician was prepared to go to his, ay, and though worse than the guillotine awaited him.

His contemptuous attitude, his fearless bearing, impressed the crowd, appreciative at bottom, of courage. And presently, where he turned his cold, smiling eyes they gaped instead of hissing: and one here and there under the magic of his look doffed hat or carried hand to forehead, and henceforth was mute. And so great is the sympathy of all parts of a mob that this silence spread quickly, mysteriously, at last, wholly. So that when he, last of his party, stepped on the hustings, there was for a moment a complete stillness; a stillness of expectation, while he looked round; such a stillness as startled the leaders of the opposition. It could not be—it could not be, that after all, the old lion would prove too much for them!

White-Hat Williams roared aloud in his rage. “Up hats and shout, lads,” he yelled, “or by G—d the d——d Tories will do us after all! Are you afraid of them, you lubbers! Shout, lads, shout!”

XVIII THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION (Continued)

The beast that was in the crowd answered to the spur. “Ye’ve robbed us long enough, ye old rascal!” a harsh Midland voice shrieked over the heads of the throng. “We’ll have our rights now, you blood-sucker!” And “Boo! Boo!” the lower elements of the mob broke forth. And then in stern cadence, “The Bill! The Bill! The Bill!”

“Out of Egypt, and out of the House of Bondage!” shrieked a Methodist above the hub-bub.

“Ay, ay!”

“Slaves no longer!”

“No! No! No!”

“Hear that, ye hoary tyrant!” in a woman’s shrill tones. “Who jailed my man for a hare?”

A roar of laughter which somewhat cleared the air followed this. Sir Robert smiled grimly.

The hustings, a mere wooden platform, raised four feet above the ground, rested against the Abbey gateway. It was closed at the rear and at each end; but in front it was guarded only by a stout railing. And so public was it, and so exposed its dangerous eminence, that the more timid of the unpopular party were no sooner upon it than they yearned for the safe obscurity of the common level. Of the three booths into which the interior was divided, the midmost was reserved for the returning officer and his staff.

Bob Flixton, who kept close to Sir Robert’s elbow, looked down on the sea of jeering faces. “I tell you what it is,” he said. “We’re going to have a confounded row!”

Mowatt, at some distance from him, was of the same opinion, but regarded the outlook differently. “It’s my belief,” he muttered, “that we shall all be murdered.”

And “D——n the Bill!” the old Squire ejaculated. “The people are off their heads! Jack as good as his master, and better too!”

These four, with the candidates, were in the front row. The Rector, the Alderman, and one or two of the neighbouring gentry shared the honour; and faced as well as they could the hooting and yelling, and the occasional missile. In the front of the other booth were White-Hat Williams and Blackford, the minister, Mr. Wrench, the candidate, wreathed in smiles, a pair of Whig Squires from the Bowood side, a curate of the same colour, Pybus—and Arthur Vaughan!

A thrill ran through Sir Robert’s supporters when they saw his young kinsman on the other side; actually on the other side and arrayed against them. Their hearts, already low, sank a peg lower. Of evil omens this seemed the worst; sunk is the cause the young desert! And many were the curious eyes that searched the renegade’s features and strove to read his thoughts.

But in vain. His head high, his face firmly composed, Vaughan looked stonily before him. Nor was it possible to say whether he was really unmoved, was stolidly indifferent, or merely masked agitation. Sir Robert on his side never looked at him, nor betrayed any sense of his presence. But he knew. He knew! And with the first bitter presage of defeat—for he was not a man to be intimidated by noise—he repeated his vow: “Not a pound, nor a penny! Never! Never!” This public renunciation, this wanton defiance—he would never forgive it! Henceforth, it must be war to the knife between them. No thousands, no compensation, no compromise! As the young man was sowing, so he should reap. He who, in its darkest hour not only insulted but abandoned his family, what punishment was too severe for him?

Vaughan could make a good guess at the proud autocrat’s feelings: and he averted his eyes with care. The proceedings here opened, and he listened laughingly; until midway in the reading of some document which no one heeded—the crowd jeering and flouting merrily—he caught a new note in the turmoil. The next moment he was conscious of a swirling movement among those below him, there was a rush of the throng to his right, and he looked quickly to see what it meant.

A man—one of a group of three or four who appeared to be trying to push their way through the crowd—was being hustled and flung to and fro amid jeers and taunts. He was striving to gain the hustings, but was still some way from it; and his chance of reaching it with his clothes on his back seemed small. Vaughan saw so much; then the man lost his temper, and struck a blow. It was returned—and then, not till then, Vaughan saw that the man was Isaac White. He cried “Shame!”—and had passed one leg over the barriers to go to the rescue, when he saw that another was before him. Sir Robert’s tall, spare figure was down among the crowd—which opened instinctively before his sharp command. His eyes, his masterful air still had power; the press opened instinctively before his sharp command. He had reached White, had extricated him, and turned to make good his retreat, when it seemed to strike the more brutal element in the crowd—mostly strangers to him—that here was the prime enemy of the cause, on foot amongst them, at their mercy! A rush was made at his back. He turned undaunted, White and two more at his side; the rabble recoiled. But when he wheeled again, a second rush was made, and they were upon him, and hustled him before he could turn. A man with a long stick struck off his hat, another—a lout with a cockade of amber and blue, the Whig colours—tried to trip him up. He stumbled, at the same moment a third man knocked White down.

“Yah! Down with him!” roared the crowd, “Down with the Borough-monger!”

But Vaughan, who had anticipated rather than seen the stumble, was over the rail, and cleaving the crowd, was at his side. He reached him a little in front of Bob Flixton, who had descended to the rescue from the other end of the booth. Vaughan hurled back the man who had tripped Sir Robert and who was still trying to throw him down; and the sight of the amber and blue which the new champion wore checked the assailants, and gave White time to rise.

Vaughan was furious. “Back, you cowards!” he cried fiercely. “Would you murder an old man? Shame on you! Shame!”

“Ay, you bullies!” cried Flixton, hitting one on the jaw very neatly—and completely disposing of that one for the day. “Back with you!”

As Vaughan spoke, half-a-dozen of his Tory supporters surrounded the baronet and bore him back out of danger. Though Sir Robert was undaunted, he was shaken; and breathing quickly, he let his hand rest for support on the nearest shoulder. It was Vaughan’s, and the next instant he saw that it was; and he withdrew the hand as if he had let it rest on a hot iron.

“Mr. Flixton,” he said—and the words reached a dozen ears at least, “your arm, if you please? I would rather be without this gentleman’s assistance.”

Vaughan’s face flamed. But neither the words nor the action took him unawares. He stepped back with dignity, slightly touched his hat, and so returned to his side of the hustings.

But he was wounded and very angry. Alone of his party he had intervened—and this was his reward. When Pybus pushed his way to his side and stooped to his ear, talking quickly and earnestly, he did not repel him.

Episode as it was, the affray startled Sir Robert’s friends: and White in particular took it very seriously. If violence of this sort was to rule, if even Sir Robert’s person was not respected, he saw that he would not be able to bring his voters to the poll. They would run some risk of losing their lives, and one or two for certain would not dare to vote. The thing must be stopped, and at once. With this in view he made his way to the passage at the back of the hustings, which was common to all three booths, and heated and angry—his lip was cut by the blow he had received—he called for Pybus. But the press at the back of the hustings was great, and one of White-Hat Williams’s foremen, who blocked the gangway, laughed in his face.

“I want to speak to Pybus,” said White, glaring at the man, who on ordinary days would have touched his hat to him.

“Then want’ll be your master,” the other retorted, with a wink. And when White tried to push by him, the man gave him the shoulder.

“Let me pass,” White foamed. No thought of Cobbett now, had the agent! These miserable upstarts, their insolence, their certainty of triumph fired his blood. “Let me pass!” he repeated.

“See you d——d first!” the other answered bluntly. “Your game’s up, old cock! Your master has held the pit long enough, but his time’s come.”

“If you don’t——”

“If you put your nose in here, we’ll pitch you over the rail!” the other declared.

White almost had a fit. Fortunately White-Hat Williams himself appeared at this moment: and White appealed to him.

“Mr. Williams,” he said, “is this your safe conduct?”

“I gave none,” with a grin.

“Pybus did.”

“Ay, for your party! But if you choose to straggle in one by one, we can’t be answerable for every single voter,” with a wink. “Nor for any of you getting back again! No, no, White.

“_Beneath the ways of Ministers, and it’s the truth I tell, You’ve bought us very cheap, good White, and you’ve sold us very well!_

But that’s over! That’s at an end to-day! But—what’s this?”

This, was Sir Robert stepping forward to propose his candidates: or rather, it was the roar, mocking and defiant, which greeted his attempt to do so. It was a roar that made speech impossible. No doubt, among the crowd which filled the space through which he had driven so often with his four horses, the great man, the patron, the master of all, there were some who still respected, and more who feared him; and many who would not have insulted him. For if he had used his power stiffly, he had not used it ill. But there were also in the crowd men whose hearts were hot against the exclusiveness which had long effaced them; who believed that freedom or slavery hung on the issue of this day; who saw the prize of a long and bitter effort at stake, and were set on using every intimidation, ay, and every violence, if victory could not be had without them. And, were the others many or few, these swept them away, infected them with recklessness, gave that stern and mocking ring to the roar which continued and thwarted Sir Robert’s every effort to make himself heard.

He stood long facing them, waiting, and never blenching. But after a while his lip curled and his eyes looked disdain on the mob below him: such disdain as the old Duke in after days hurled at the London rabble, when for answer to their fulsome cheers he pointed to the iron shutters of Apsley House. Sir Robert Vermuyden had done something, and thought that he had done more, for the men who yelped and snarled and snapped at him. According to his lights, acting on his maxim, all for the people and nothing by the people, he had treated them generously, granted all he thought good for them, planned for them, wrought for them. He had been master, but no task-master. He had indeed illustrated the better side of that government of the many by the few, of the unfit by the fit, with which he honestly believed the safety and the greatness of his country to be bound up.

And this was their return! No wonder that, seeing things as he saw them, he felt a bitter contempt for them. Freedom? Such freedom as was good for them, such freedom as was permanently possible—they had. And slavery? Was it slavery to be ruled, wisely and firmly, by a class into which they might themselves rise, a class which education and habit had qualified to rule. In his mind’s eye, as he looked down on this fretting, seething mass, he saw that which they craved granted, and he saw, too, the outcome; that most cruel of all tyrannies, the tyranny of the many over the few, of the many who have neither a heart to feel nor a body to harm!

Once, twice, thrice one of his supporters thrust himself forward, and leaning on the rail, appealed with frantic gestures for silence, for a hearing, for respect. But each in turn retired baffled. Not a word in that tempest of sound was audible. And no one on the other side intervened. For they were pitiless. They in the old days had suffered the same thing: and it was their turn now. Even Vaughan stood with folded arms and a stern face: feeling the last contempt for the howling rabble before him, but firmly determined to expose himself to no second slight. At length Sir Robert saw that it was hopeless, shrugged his shoulders with quiet scorn, and shouting the names of his candidates in a clerk’s ear, put on his hat, and stood back.

The old Squire seconded him in dumb show.

Then the Sergeant stood forward to state his views. He grasped the rail with both hands and waited, smiling blandly. But he might have waited an hour, he might have waited until night. The leaders for the Bill were determined to make their power felt. They were resolved that not a word on the Tory side should be heard. The Sergeant waited, and after a time, still smiling blandly, bowed and stood back.

It was Mr. Cooke’s turn. He advanced. “Shout, and be hanged to you!” he cried, apoplectic in the face. An egg flew within a yard of him, and openly shaking his fist at the crowd he retired amid laughter.

Then White-Hat Williams, who had looked forward to this as to the golden moment of his life and had conned his oration until he knew its thunderous periods by heart, stepped forward to nominate the Whig candidates. He took off his hat; and as if that had been the signal for silence, such a stillness fell on all that his voice rang above the multitude like a trumpet.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and smiling looked first to the one side and then to the other. “Gentlemen——”

Alas, he smiled too soon. The Tories grasped the situation, and, furious at the reception which had fallen to the lot of their leaders, determined that if they were not heard, no one should be heard. Before he could utter another word they broke into rabid bellowings, and what their shouts lacked in volume they made up in ill-will. In a twinkling they drowned White-Hat Williams’s voice; and now who so indignant as the Whigs? In thirty seconds half-a-dozen single combats were proceeding in front of the Tory booth, blood flowed from as many noses, and amid a terrific turmoil respectable men and justices of the peace leant across the barriers and shook their fists and flung frenzied challenges broadcast.

All to no purpose. The Tories, though so much the weaker party, though but one to eight, could not be silenced. After making three or four attempts to gain a hearing White-Hat Williams saw that he must reserve his oration: and with a scowl he shouted his names into the ear of the clerk.

“Who? Who did he say?” growled the Squire, panting with rage and hoarse with shouting. His face was crimson, his cravat awry, he had lost his hat. “Who? Who?”

“Wrench and—one moment, sir!”

“Eh? Who do you say?”

“I couldn’t hear! One moment, sir! Oh, yes! Wrench and Vaughan!”

“Vaughan?” old Rowley cried with a profane oath. “Impossible!”

But it was not impossible! Though so great was the surprise, so striking the effect upon Sir Robert’s supporters that for a few seconds something like silence supervened. The serpent! The serpent! Here was a blow indeed—in the back!

Then as Blackford, the Methodist, rose to second the nomination, the storm broke out anew and more furiously than before. “What?” foamed the Squire, “be ruled by a rabble of grinning, yelling monkeys? By gad, I’ll leave the country first! I—I hope someone will shoot that young man! I wish I’d never shaken his hand! By G—d, I’m glad my father is in his grave! He’d never ha’ believed this! Never! Never!”

And from that time until the poll was declared open—in dumb show—not a word was audible.

Then at last the shouting of the rival bands sank to a confused babel of jeers, abuse, and laughter. Exhausted men mopped their faces, voiceless men loosened their neck-cloths, the farthest from the hustings went off to drink, and there was a lull until the sound of a drum and fife announced a new event, and forth from the Heart and Hand advanced a procession of five led by the accursed Dyas.

They were the Whig voters and they marched proudly to the front of the polling-booth, the mob falling back on either side to give them place.

Dyas flung his hat into the booth. “Wrench and Vaughan!” he cried in a voice which could be heard in the White Lion. “And I care not who knows it!”

They put to him the bribery oath. “I can take it,” he answered. “Swallow it yourselves, if you can!”

“You should know the taste, Jack,” cried a sly friend: and for a moment the laugh was against him.

One by one—the process was slow in those days—they voted. “Five for Wrench and Vaughan.” Wrench rose and bowed to each as he retired. Arthur Vaughan took no notice.

Sir Robert’s voters looked at one another uneasily. They had the day before them, but—and then he saw the look, and, putting White and his remonstrances on one side, he joined them, bade them follow him, and descended before them. He would ask no man to do what he would not do himself.

But the moment his action was understood, the moment the men were seen behind him, there was a yell so fierce and a movement so threatening, that on the lowest step of the hustings he stood bareheaded, raised his hand for silence and for a wonder was obeyed. In a clear, loud voice:

“Do you expect to terrify me,” he cried, “either by threats or violence? Let any man look in my face and see if it change colour? Let him come and lay his hand on my heart and feel if it beats the quicker. Keep my voters from the poll and you stultify your own, for there will be no election. Make way then, and let them pass to their duty!”

And the crowd made way; and Arthur Vaughan felt a reluctant pang of admiration. The five were polled; the result so far, five for each of the candidates.

There remained to poll only Arthur Vaughan and Pillinger of the Blue Duck, if he could be brought up by the Tories. If neither of these voted the Returning Officer would certainly give the casting vote for Sir Robert’s candidates—if he dared.

Isaac White believed that he would not dare, and for some time past the agent had been in covert talk with Pybus at the back of the hustings, two or three of the friends of each masking the conference. Now he drew aside his employer who had returned in safety to his place; and he conferred with him. But for a time it was clear that Sir Robert would not listen to what he had to say. He looked pale and angry, and returned but curt answers. But White persisted, holding him by the sleeve.

“Mr. Vaughan—bah, what a noise they make—does not wish to vote,” he explained. “But in the end he will, sir, it is my opinion, and that will give it to them unless we can bring up Pillinger—which I doubt, sir. Even if we do, it is a tie——”

“Well? Well?” Sir Robert struck in, eyeing him sternly. “What more do we want? The Returning Officer——”

“He will not dare,” White whispered, “and if he does, sir, it is my belief he will be murdered. More, if we win they will rush the booth and destroy the books. They have as good as told me they will stick at nothing. Believe me, sir,” he continued earnestly, “better than one and one we can’t look for now. And better one than none!”

But it was long before Sir Robert would be persuaded. No, defeat or victory, he would fight to the last! He would be beholden to the other side for nothing! White, however, was an honest man and less afraid of his master than usual: and he held to it. And at length the reflection that the bargain would at least shut out his kinsman prevailed with Sir Robert, and he consented.

He was too chivalrous to return on his own side the man whose success would fill his pockets. He elected for Wathen and never doubted that the Bowood interest would return their first love, Wrench. But when the landlord of the Blue Duck was brought up by agreement to vote for a candidate on either side, Pillinger voted by order for Wathen and Vaughan.

“There’s some d——d mistake!” shrieked the Squire, as the words reached his ears.

But there was no mistake, and to the silent disgust of the Tories and amid the frantic cheering of the Whigs, the return was made in favour of Sergeant John Wathen, and Arthur Vermuyden Vaughan, esquire. Loud and long was the cheering: the air was black with caps. But when the crowd sought for the two to chair them according to immemorial custom, only the Sergeant could be found, and he with great prudence declined the honour.

XIX THE FRUITS OF VICTORY

Arthur Vaughan could write himself Member of Parliament. The plaudits of the Academic and the mimic contests of the Debating Club were no longer for him. Fortune had placed within his grasp the prize of which he had often dreamt; and henceforth all lay open to him. But, as a contemporary in a letter written on a like occasion says, he had gone through innumerable horrors to reach the goal. And the moment the result was known and certain he slipped away from his place, and from the oppressive good-wishes of his new and uncongenial friends—the Williamses and the Blackfords; and shutting himself up in his rooms at the White Lion, where his entrance was regarded askance, he set himself to look the future in the face.

He could not blame himself for the past, for he had done nothing of which he was ashamed. He had been put by circumstances in a false position, but he had freed himself frankly and boldly; and every candid man must acknowledge that he could not have done otherwise than he had. Yet he was aware that his conduct was open to misconstruction. Some, even on his own side, would say that he had gone to Chippinge prepared to support his kinsman; and that then, tempted by the opportunity of gaining the seat for himself, he had faced about. Few would believe the truth—that twenty-four hours before the election he had declined to stand. Still fewer would believe that in withdrawing his “No,” he had been wholly moved by the offer which Sir Robert had made to him and the unworthy manner in which he had treated him.

Yet that was the truth; and so entirely the truth, that but for that offer he would have resigned the seat even now. For he had no mind to enter the House under a cloud. He knew that to do so was to endanger the boat in which his fortunes were embarked. But in face of that offer he could not withdraw. Sir Robert, Wetherell, White, all would believe that he had resigned, not on the point of honour, but for a bribe, and because the bribe, refused at first, grew larger the longer he eyed it.

So, for good or evil, his mind was made up. And for a few minutes, while the roar of the mob applauding him rose to his windows, he was happy. He was a member of the Commons’ House. He stood on that threshold on which Harley and St. John, Walpole the wise, and the inspired Cornet, Pitt and Fox, spoiled children of fortune, Castlereagh the illogical, and Canning

_Born with an ancient name of little worth, And disinherited before his birth_,

and many another had stood; knowing no more than he knew what fortune had in womb for them, what of hushed silence would one day mark their rising, what homage of loyal hearts and thundering feet would hang upon their words. As their fortunes his might be; to sway to tears or laughter, to a nation’s weal or woe, the men who ruled; to know his words were fateful, and yet to speak with no uncertain voice; to give the thing he did not deign to wear, and make the man whom he must follow after, ay,

_To fall as Walpole and to fail as Pitt!_

this, all this might be his, if he were worthy! If the dust of that arena knew no better man!

His heart rose on the wave of thought and he felt himself fit for all, equipped for all. He owned no task too hard, no enterprise too high. Nor did he fall from the clouds until he remembered the change in his fortunes, and bethought him that henceforth he must depend upon himself. The story would be sifted, of course, and its truth or falsehood be made clear. But whatever use Sir Robert might have deigned to make of it, Vaughan did not believe that he would have stooped to invent it. And if it were true, then all the importance which had attached to himself as the heir to a great property, all the privileges, all the sanctity of coming wealth, were gone.

But with them the responsibilities of that position were gone also. The change might well depress his head and cloud his heart. He had lost much which he could hardly hope to win for himself. Yet—yet there were compensations.

He had passed through much in the last twenty-four hours; and, perhaps for that reason, he was peculiarly open to emotion. In the thought that henceforth he might seek a companion where he pleased, in the remembrance that he had no longer any tastes to consult but his own, any prejudices to respect save those which he chose to adopt, he found a comfort at which he clutched eagerly and thankfully. The world which shook him off—he would no longer be guided by its dictates! The race, strenuous and to the swift, ay, to the draining of heart and brain, he would not run it alone, uncheered, unsolaced—merely because while things were different he had walked by a certain standard of conduct! If he was now a poor man he was at least free! Free to take the one he loved into the boat in which his fortunes floated, nor ask too closely who were her forbears. Free to pursue his ambition hand in hand with one who would sweeten failure and share success, and who in that life of scant enjoyment and high emprise to which he must give himself, would be a guardian angel, saving him from the spells of folly and pleasure!

He might please himself now, and he would. Flixton might laugh, the men of the 14th might laugh. And in Bury Street he might have winced. But in Mecklenburgh Square, where he and she would set up their modest tent, he would not care.

He could not go to Bristol until the morrow, for he had to see Pybus, but he would write and tell her of his fortunes and ask her to share them. The step was no sooner conceived than attempted. He sat down and took pen and paper, and with a glow at his heart, in a state of generous agitation, he prepared to write.

But he had never written to her, he had never called her by her name. And the difficulty of addressing her overwhelmed him. In the end, after sitting appalled by the bold and shameless look of “Dear Mary,” “Dearest Mary,” and of addresses warmer than these, he solved the difficulty, after a tame and proper fashion by writing to Miss Sibson. And this is what he wrote:

“Dear Madame,

“At the interview which I had with you on Saturday last, you were good enough to intimate that if I were prepared to give an affirmative answer to a question which you did not put into words, you would permit me to see Miss Smith. I am now in a position to give the assurance as to my intentions which you desired, and trust that I may see Miss Smith on my arrival in Bristol to-morrow.

“Believe me to remain, Madame,

“Truly yours,

“Arthur V. Vaughan.”

And all his life, he told himself, he would remember the use to which he had put his first frank!

That night the toasting and singing, drunkenness and revelry of which the borough was the scene, kept him long waking. But eleven o’clock on the following morning saw him alighting from a chaise at Bristol, and before noon he was in Queen’s Square.

For the time at least he had put the world behind him. And it was in pure exultation and the joyous anticipation of what was to come that he approached the house. He came, a victor from the fight; nor, he reflected, was it every suitor who had it in his power to lay such offerings at the feet of his mistress. In the eye of the world, indeed, he was no longer what he had been; for the matchmaking mother he had lost his value. But he had still so much to give which Mary had not, he could still so alter the tenor of her life, he could still so lift her in the social scale, those hopes which she was to share still flew on pinions so ambitious—ay, to the very scattering of garters and red-ribbons—that his heart was full of the joy of giving. He must not be blamed if he felt as King Cophetua when he stooped to the beggar-maiden, or as the Lord of Burleigh when he woo’d the farmer’s daughter. After all, he did but rejoice that she had so little and he had so much; that he could give and she could grace.

When he came to the house he paused a moment in wonder that when all things were altered, his prospects, views, plans, its face rose unchanged. Then he knocked boldly; the time for hesitation was past. He asked for Miss Smith—thinking it likely that he would have to wait until the school rose at noon. The maid, however, received him as if she expected him, and ushered him at once into a room on the left of the entrance. He stood, holding his hat, waiting, listening; but not for long. The door had scarcely closed on the girl before it opened again, and Mary Smith came in. She met his eyes, and started, blushed a divine rosy-red and stood wide-eyed and uncertain, with her hand on the door.

“Did you not expect me?” he said, taken aback on his side. For this was not the Mary Smith with whom he travelled on the coach; nor the Mary Smith with whom he had talked in the Square. This was a Mary Smith, no less beautiful, but gay and fresh as the morning, in dainty white with a broad blue sash, with something new, something of a franker bearing in her air. “Did you not expect me?” he repeated gently, advancing a step towards her.

“No,” she murmured, and she stood blushing before him, blushing more deeply with every second. For his eyes were beginning to talk, and to tell the old tale.

“Did not Miss Sibson get my letter?” he asked gently.

“I think not,” she murmured.

“Then I have all—to do,” he said nervously. It was—it was certainly a harder thing to do than he had expected. “Will you not sit down, please,” he pleaded. “I want you to listen to me.”

For a moment she looked as if she would flee instead. Then she let him lead her to a seat.

He sat down within reach of her. “And you did not know that it was I?” he said, feeling the difficulty increase with every second.

“No.”

“I hope,” he said, hesitating, “that you are glad that it is?”

“I am glad to see you again—to thank you,” she murmured. But while her blushes and her downcast eyes seemed propitious to his suit, there was something—was it, could it be a covert smile hiding at the corners of her little mouth?—some change in her which oppressed him, and which he did not understand. One thing he did understand, however: that she was more beautiful, more desirable, more intoxicating than he had pictured her. And his apprehensions grew upon him, as he paused tongue-tied, worshipping her with his eyes. If, after all, she would not? What if she said, “No”? For what, now he came to measure them beside her, were those things he brought her, those things he came to offer, that career which he was going to ask her to share? What were they beside her adorable beauty and her modesty, the candour of her maiden eyes, the perfection of her form? He saw their worthlessness; and the bold phrase with which he had meant to open his suit, the confident, “Mary, I am come for you,” which he had repeated so often to the rhythm of the chaise-wheels, that he was sure he would never forget it, died on his lips.

At last, “You speak of thanks—it is to gain your thanks I am come,” he said nervously. “But I don’t ask for words. I want you to think as—as highly as you can of what I did for you—if you please! I want you to believe that I saved your life on the coach. I want you to think that I did it at great risk to myself. I want you,” he continued hurriedly, “to exaggerate a hundredfold—everything I did for you. And then I want you to think that you owe all to a miser, who will be content with nothing short of—of immense interest, of an extortionate return.”

“I don’t think that I understand,” she answered in a low tone, her cheeks glowing. But beyond that, he could not tell aught of her feelings; she kept her eyes lowered so that he could not read them, and there were, even in the midst of her shyness, an ease and an aloofness in her bearing, which were new to him and which frightened him. He remembered how quickly she had on other occasions put him in his place; how coldly she had asserted herself. Perhaps, she had no feeling for him. Perhaps, apart from the incident in the coach, she even disliked him!

“You do not understand,” he said unsteadily, “what is the return I want?”

“No-o,” she faltered.

He stood up abruptly, and took a pace or two from her. “And I hardly dare tell you,” he said. “I hardly dare tell you. I came to you, I came here as brave as a lion. And now, I don’t know why, I am frightened.”

She—astonishing thing!—leapt the gulf for him. Possibly the greater distance at which he stood gave her courage. “Are you afraid,” she murmured, moving her fingers restlessly, and watching them, “that you may change your mind again?”

“Change my mind?” he ejaculated, not for the moment understanding her. So much had happened since his collision with Flixton in the Square.

“As that gentleman—said you were in the habit of doing.”

“Ah!”

“It was not true?”

“True?” he exclaimed hotly. “True that I—that I——”

“Changed your mind?” she said with her face averted. “And not—not only that, sir?”

“What else?” he asked bitterly.

“Talked of me—among your friends?”

“A lie! A miserable lie!” he cried on impulse, finding his tongue again. “But I will tell you all. He saw you—that first morning, you remember, and never having seen anyone so lovely, he intended to make you the object of—of attentions that were unworthy of you. And to protect you I told him that I was going—to make you my wife.”

“Is that what you mean to-day?” she asked faintly.

“Yes.”

“But you did not mean it then?” she answered—though very gently. “It was to shield me you said it?”

He looked at her, astonished at her insight and her boldness. How different, how very different was this from that to which he had looked forward! At last, “I think I meant it,” he said gloomily. “God knows I mean it now! But that evening,” he continued, seeing that she still waited with averted face for the rest of his explanation, “he challenged me at dinner before them all, and I,” he added jerkily, “I was not quite sure what I meant—I had no mind that you should be made the talk of the—of my friends——”

“And so—you denied it?” she said gently.

He hung his head. “Yes,” he said.

“I think I—I understand,” she answered unsteadily. “What I do not understand is why you are here to-day. Why you have changed your mind again. Why you are now willing that I should be—the talk of your friends, sir.”

He stood, the picture of abasement. Must he acknowledge his doubts and his hesitation, allow that he had been ashamed of her, admit that he had deemed the marriage he now sought, a mésalliance? Must he open to her eyes those hours of cowardly vacillation during which he had walked the Clifton Woods weighing _I would_ against _I dare not?_ And do it in face of that new dignity, that new aloofness which he recognised in her and which made him doubt if he had an ally in her heart.

More, if he told her, would she understand? How should she, bred so differently, understand how heavily the old name with its burden of responsibilities, how heavily the past with its obligations to duty and sacrifice, had weighed upon him! And if he told her and she did not understand, what mercy had he to expect from her?

Still, for a moment he was on the point of telling her: and of telling her also why he was now free to please himself, why, rid of the burden with the inheritance, he could follow his heart. But the tale was long and roundabout, she knew nothing of the Vermuydens, of their importance, or his expectations, or what he had lost or what he had gained. And it seemed simpler to throw himself on her mercy. “Because I love you!” he said humbly. “I have nothing else to say.”

“And you are sure that you will not change your mind again?”

There was that in her voice, though he could not see her face, which brought him across two squares of the carpet as if she had jerked him with a string. In a second he was on his knees beside her, and had laid a feverish hand on hers. “Mary,” he cried, “Mary!” seeking to look up into her face, “you will! You will! You will let me take you? You will let me take you from here! I cannot offer you what I once thought I could, but I have enough, and, you will?” There was a desperate supplication in his voice; for close to her, so close that his breath was on her cheek, she seemed, with her half-averted face and her slender figure, so dainty a thing, so delicate and rare, that he could hardly believe that she could ever be his, that he could be so lucky as to possess her, that he could ever take her in his arms. “You will? You will?” he repeated, empty of all other words.

She did not speak, she could not speak. But she bowed her head.

“You will?”

She turned her eyes on him then; eyes so tender and passionate that they seemed to draw his heart, his being, his strength out of him. “Yes,” she whispered shyly. “If I am allowed.”

“Allowed? Allowed?” he cried. How in a moment was all changed for him! “I would like to see——” And then breaking off—perhaps it was her fault for leaning a little towards him—he did that which he had thought a moment before that he would never dare to do. He put his arm round her and drew her gently and reverently to him until—for she did not resist—her head lay on his shoulder. “Mine!” he murmured, “Mine! Mine! Mary, I can hardly believe it. I can hardly think I am so blest.”

“And you will not change?” she whispered.

“Never! Never!”

They were silent. Was she thinking of the dark night, when she had walked lonely and despondent to her new and unknown home? Or of many another hour of solitary depression, spent in dull and dreary schoolrooms, while others made holiday? Was he thinking of his doubts and fears, his cowardly hesitation? Or only of his present monstrous happiness? No matter. At any rate, they had forgotten the existence of anything outside the room, they had forgotten the world and Miss Sibson, they were in a Paradise of their own, such as is given to no man and to no woman more than once, they were a million miles from Bristol City, when the sound made by the opening door surprised them in that posture. Vaughan turned fiercely to see who it was, to see who dared to trespass on their Eden. He looked, only looked, and he sprang to his feet, amazed. He thought for a moment that he was dreaming, or that he was mad.

For on the threshold, gazing at them with a face of indescribable astonishment, rage and incredulity, was Sir Robert Vermuyden. Sir Robert Vermuyden, the one last man in the world whom Arthur Vaughan would have expected to see there!

XX A PLOT UNMASKED

For a few moments the old man and the young man gazed at one another, alike in this only that neither found words equal to his feelings. While Mary, covered with confusion, blushing for the situation in which she had been found, could not hold up her head. It was Sir Robert who at last broke the silence in a voice which trembled with passion.

“You viper!” he said. “You viper! You would sting me—here also.”

Vaughan stared at him, aghast. The intrusion was outrageous, but astonishment rather than anger was the young man’s first feeling. “Here also?” he repeated, as if he thought that he must have heard amiss. “_I_ sting you? What do you mean? Why have you followed me?” And then more warmly, “How dare you, sir, spy on me?” And he threw back his head in wrath.

The old man, every nerve and vein in his lean, high forehead swollen and leaping, raised his cane and shook it at him. “Dare? Dare?” he cried, and then for very rage his voice failed him.

Vaughan closed his eyes and opened them again. “I am dreaming,” he said. “I must be dreaming. Are you Sir Robert Vermuyden? Is this house Miss Sibson’s school? Are we in Bristol? Or is it all—but first, sir,” recalling abruptly and with indignation the situation in which he had been surprised, and raising his tone, “how come you here? I have a right to know that!”

“How come I here?”

“Yes! How come you here, sir?”

“You ask me! You ask me!” Sir Robert repeated, as if he could not believe his ears. “How I come here! You scoundrel! You scoundrel!”

Vaughan started under the lash of the word. The insult was gratuitous, intolerable! No relationship, no family tie could excuse it. No wonder that the astonishment and irritation which had been his first feelings, gave way to pure anger. Sir Robert might be this or that. He might have, or rather, he might have had certain rights. But now all that was over, the relationship was a thing of the past. And to suppose that he was still to suffer the old gentleman’s interference, to put up with his insults, to permit him in the presence of a young girl, his promised wife, to use such language as he was using, was out of the question. Vaughan’s face grew dark.

“Sir Robert,” he said, “you are too old to be called to account. You may say, therefore, what you please. But not—not if you are a gentleman—until this young lady has left the room.”

“This—young—lady!” Sir Robert gasped in an indescribable tone: and with the cane quivering in his grasp he looked from Vaughan to the girl.

“Yes,” Vaughan answered sternly. “That young lady! And do not let me hear you call her anything else, sir, for she has promised to be my wife.”

“You lie!” the baronet cried, the words leaping from his lips.

“Sir Robert!”

“My daughter—promised to be your wife! My—my——”

“Your daughter!”

“Hypocrite!” Sir Robert retorted, flinging the word at him. “You knew it! You knew it!”

“Your daughter?”

“Ay, that she was my daughter!”

“Your daughter!”

This time the words fell from Arthur Vaughan in a whisper. And he stood, turned to stone. His daughter? Sir Robert’s daughter? The girl—he tried desperately to clear his mind—of whom Wetherell had told the story, the girl whom her mother had hidden away, while in Italy, the girl whose reappearance in life had ousted him or was to oust him from his inheritance? Mary Smith—was that girl! His daughter!

But no! The blood leapt back to his heart. It was impossible, it was incredible! The coincidence was too great, too amazing. His reason revolted against it. And “Impossible!” he cried in a louder, a bolder tone—though fear underlay its confidence. “You are playing with me! You must be jesting!” he repeated angrily.

But the elder man, though his hand still trembled on his cane and his face was sallow with rage, had regained some control of himself. Instead of retorting on Vaughan—except by a single glance of withering contempt—he turned to Mary. “You had better go to your room,” he said, coldly but not ungently. For how could he blame her, bred amid such surroundings, for conduct that in other circumstances had irritated him indeed? For conduct that had been unseemly, unmaidenly, improper. “You had better go to your room,” he repeated. “This is no fit place for you and no fit discussion for your ears. I am not—the fault is not with you, but it will be better if you leave us.”

She was rising, too completely overwhelmed to dream of refusing, when Vaughan interposed. “No,” he said with a gleam of defiance in his eyes. “By your leave, sir, no! This young lady is my affianced wife. If it be her own wish to retire, be it so. But if not, there is no one who has the right to bid her go or stay. You”—checking Sir Robert’s wrathful rejoinder by a gesture—“you may be her father, but before you can exercise a father’s rights you must make good your case.”

“Make good my case!” Sir Robert ejaculated.

“And when you have made it good, it will still be for her to choose between us,” Vaughan continued with determination. “You, who have never played a father’s part, who have never guided or guarded, fostered or cherished her—do not think, sir, that you can in a moment arrogate to yourself a father’s authority.”

Sir Robert gasped. But the next moment he took up the glove so boldly flung down. He pointed to the door, and with less courtesy than the occasion demanded—but he was sore pressed by his anger, “Leave the room, girl,” he said.

“Do as you please, Mary,” Vaughan said.

“Go!” cried the baronet, stung by the use of her name. “Stay!” said Vaughan.

Infinitely distressed, infinitely distracted by this appeal from the one, from the other, from this side, from that, she turned her swimming eyes on her lover. “Oh, what,” she cried, “what am I to do?”

He did not speak, but he looked at her, not doubting what she would do, nor conceiving it possible that she could prefer to him, her lover, whose sweet professions were still honey in her ears, whose arm was still warm from the pressure of her form—that she could prefer to him, a father who was no more than the shadow of a name.