XIX
THE FRUITS OF VICTORY
Arthur Vaughan could write himself Member of Parliament. The plauditsof the Academic and the mimic contests of the Debating Club were nolonger for him. Fortune had placed within his grasp the prize of whichhe had often dreamt; and henceforth all lay open to him. But, as acontemporary in a letter written on a like occasion says, he had gonethrough innumerable horrors to reach the goal. And the moment theresult was known and certain he slipped away from his place, and fromthe oppressive good-wishes of his new and uncongenial friends--theWilliamses and the Blackfords; and shutting himself up in his rooms atthe White Lion, where his entrance was regarded askance, he sethimself to look the future in the face.
He could not blame himself for the past, for he had done nothing ofwhich he was ashamed. He had been put by circumstances in a falseposition, but he had freed himself frankly and boldly; and everycandid man must acknowledge that he could not have done otherwise thanhe 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 Chippingeprepared to support his kinsman; and that then, tempted by theopportunity of gaining the seat for himself, he had faced about. Fewwould believe the truth--that twenty-four hours before the election hehad declined to stand. Still fewer would believe that in withdrawinghis "No," he had been wholly moved by the offer which Sir Robert hadmade 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 thatoffer he would have resigned the seat even now. For he had no mind toenter the House under a cloud. He knew that to do so was to endangerthe boat in which his fortunes were embarked. But in face of thatoffer he could not withdraw. Sir Robert, Wetherell, White, all wouldbelieve that he had resigned, not on the point of honour, but for abribe, and because the bribe, refused at first, grew larger the longerhe 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 washappy. He was a member of the Commons' House. He stood on thatthreshold on which Harley and St. John, Walpole the wise, and theinspired Cornet, Pitt and Fox, spoiled children of fortune,Castlereagh the illogical, and Canning
_Born with an ancient name of little worth, And disinherited before hit birth_,
and many another had stood; knowing no more than he knew what fortunehad in womb for them, what of hushed silence would one day mark theirrising, what homage of loyal hearts and thundering feet would hangupon their words. As their fortunes his might be; to sway to tears orlaughter, to a nation's weal or woe, the men who ruled; to know hiswords were fateful, and yet to speak with no uncertain voice; to givethe thing he did not deign to wear, and make the man whom he mustfollow after, ay,
_To fall as Walpole and to fail at Pitt!_
this, all this might be his, if he were worthy! If the dust of thatarena 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 hisfortunes, and bethought him that henceforth he must depend uponhimself. The story would be sifted, of course, and its truth orfalsehood be made clear. But whatever use Sir Robert might havedeigned to make of it, Vaughan did not believe that he would havestooped to invent it. And if it were true, then all the importancewhich had attached to himself as the heir to a great property, all theprivileges, 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 hadlost much which he could hardly hope to win for himself. Yet--yetthere were compensations.
He had passed through much in the last twenty-four hours; and, perhapsfor that reason, he was peculiarly open to emotion. In the thoughtthat henceforth he might seek a companion where he pleased, in theremembrance that he had no longer any tastes to consult but his own,any prejudices to respect save those which he chose to adopt, he founda comfort at which he clutched eagerly and thankfully. The world whichshook 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, hewould not run it alone, uncheered, unsolaced--merely because whilethings 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 heloved into the boat in which his fortunes floated, nor ask too closelywho were her forbears. Free to pursue his ambition hand in hand withone who would sweeten failure and share success, and who in that lifeof scant enjoyment and high emprise to which he must give himself,would be a guardian angel, saving him from the spells of folly andpleasure!
He might please himself now, and he would. Flixton might laugh, themen 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 modesttent, 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 sharethem. The step was no sooner conceived than attempted. He sat down andtook pen and paper, and with a glow at his heart, in a state ofgenerous 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 thedifficulty, 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 goodenough to intimate that if I were prepared to give an affirmativeanswer to a question which you did not put into words, you wouldpermit me to see Miss Smith. I am now in a position to give theassurance as to my intentions which you desired, and trust that I maysee 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 whichhe had put his first frank!
That night the toasting and singing, drunkenness and revelry of whichthe borough was the scene, kept him long waking. But eleven o'clock onthe following morning saw him alighting from a chaise at Bristol, andbefore noon he was in Queen's Square.
For the time at least he had put the world behind him. And it was inpure exultation and the joyous anticipation of what was to come thathe approached the house. He came, a victor from the fight; nor, hereflected, was it every suitor who had it in his power to lay suchofferings at the feet of his mistress. In the eye of the world,indeed, he was no longer what he had been; for the matchmaking motherhe had lost his value. But he had still so much to give which Mary hadnot, he could still so alter the tenor of her life, he could still solift her in the social scale, those hopes which she was to share stillflew on pinions so ambitious--ay, to the very scattering of gartersand red-ribbons--that his heart was full of the joy of giving. He mustnot be blamed if he felt as King Cophetua when he stooped to thebeggar-maiden, or as the Lord of Burleigh when he woo'd the farmer'sdaughter. After all, he did but rejoice that she had so little and hehad so much; that he could give and she could grace.
When he came to the house he paused a moment in wonder that when allthings were altered, his prospects, views, plans, its face roseunchanged. Then he knocked boldly; the time for hesitation was past.He asked for Miss Smith--thinking it likely that he would have to waituntil the school rose at noon. The maid, however, received him as ifshe expected him, and ushered him at once into a room on the left ofthe entrance. He stood, holding his hat, waiting, listening; but notfor long. The door had scarcely closed on the girl before it openedagain, and Mary Smith came in. She met his eyes, and started,
blusheda divine rosy-red and stood wide-eyed and uncertain, with her hand onthe door.
"Did you not expect me?" he said, taken aback on his side. For thiswas not the Mary Smith with whom he travelled on the coach; nor theMary Smith with whom he had talked in the Square. This was a MarySmith, no less beautiful, but gay and fresh as the morning, in daintywhite with a broad blue sash, with something new, something of afranker bearing in her air. "Did you not expect me?" he repeatedgently, advancing a step towards her.
"No," she murmured, and she stood blushing before him, blushing moredeeply with every second. For his eyes were beginning to talk, and totell 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 certainlya 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 himlead 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 whileher blushes and her downcast eyes seemed propitious to his suit, therewas something--was it, could it be a covert smile hiding at thecorners 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 hehad pictured her. And his apprehensions grew upon him, as he pausedtongue-tied, worshipping her with his eyes. If, after all, she wouldnot? What if she said, "No"? For what, now he came to measure thembeside her, were those things he brought her, those things he came tooffer, that career which he was going to ask her to share? What werethey beside her adorable beauty and her modesty, the candour of hermaiden eyes, the perfection of her form? He saw their worthlessness;and the bold phrase with which he had meant to open his suit, theconfident, "Mary, I am come for you," which he had repeated so oftento the rhythm of the chaise-wheels, that he was sure he would neverforget 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 thinkas--as highly as you can of what I did for you--if you please! I wantyou to believe that I saved your life on the coach. I want you tothink that I did it at great risk to myself. I want you," he continuedhurriedly, "to exaggerate a hundredfold--everything I did for you. Andthen I want you to think that you owe all to a miser, who will becontent with nothing short of--of immense interest, of an extortionatereturn."
"I don't think that I understand," she answered in a low tone, hercheeks glowing. But beyond that, he could not tell aught of herfeelings; 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 analoofness in her bearing, which were new to him and which frightenedhim. He remembered how quickly she had on other occasions put him inhis place; how coldly she had asserted herself. Perhaps, she had nofeeling for him. Perhaps, apart from the incident in the coach, sheeven disliked him!
"You do not understand," he said unsteadily, "what is the return Iwant?"
"No-o," she faltered.
He stood up abruptly, and took a pace or two from her. "And I hardlydare tell you," he said. "I hardly dare tell you. I came to you, Icame here as brave as a lion. And now, I don't know why, I amfrightened."
She--astonishing thing!--leapt the gulf for him. Possibly the greaterdistance at which he stood gave her courage. "Are you afraid," shemurmured, moving her fingers restlessly, and watching them, "that youmay 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--notonly that, sir?"
"What else?" he asked bitterly.
"Talked of me--among your friends?"
"A lie! A miserable lie!" he cried on impulse, finding his tongueagain. "But I will tell you all. He saw you--that first morning, youremember, and never having seen anyone so lovely, he intended to makeyou the object of--of attentions that were unworthy of you. And toprotect 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. "Itwas to shield me you said it?"
He looked at her, astonished at her insight and her boldness. Howdifferent, how very different was this from that to which he hadlooked forward! At last, "I think I meant it," he said gloomily. "Godknows I mean it now! But that evening," he continued, seeing that shestill waited with averted face for the rest of his explanation, "hechallenged me at dinner before them all, and I," he added jerkily, "Iwas not quite sure what I meant--I had no mind that you should be madethe 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 notunderstand is why you are here to-day. Why you have changed your mindagain. Why you are now willing that I should be--the talk of yourfriends, sir."
He stood, the picture of abasement. Must he acknowledge his doubts andhis hesitation, allow that he had been ashamed of her, admit that hehad deemed the marriage he now sought, a mesalliance? Must he open toher eyes those hours of cowardly vacillation during which he hadwalked the Clifton Woods weighing _I would_ against _I dare not?_ Anddo it in face of that new dignity, that new aloofness which herecognised in her and which made him doubt if he had an ally in herheart.
More, if he told her, would she understand? How should she, bred sodifferently, understand how heavily the old name with its burden ofresponsibilities, how heavily the past with its obligations to dutyand sacrifice, had weighed upon him! And if he told her and she didnot understand, what mercy had he to expect from her?
Still, for a moment he was on the point of telling her: and of tellingher also why he was now free to please himself, why, rid of the burdenwith the inheritance, he could follow his heart. But the tale was longand roundabout, she knew nothing of the Vermuydens, of theirimportance, or his expectations, or what he had lost or what he hadgained. And it seemed simpler to throw himself on her mercy. "BecauseI 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, whichbrought him across two squares of the carpet as if she had jerked himwith a string. In a second he was on his knees beside her, and hadlaid a feverish hand on hers. "Mary," he cried, "Mary!" seeking tolook 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 oncethought I could, but I have enough, and, you will?" There was adesperate supplication in his voice; for close to her, so close thathis breath was on her cheek, she seemed, with her half-averted faceand her slender figure, so dainty a thing, so delicate and rare, thathe could hardly believe that she could ever be his, that he could beso 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 thatthey 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 forhim! "I wo
uld like to see----" And then breaking off--perhaps it washer fault for leaning a little towards him--he did that which he hadthought a moment before that he would never dare to do. He put his armround her and drew her gently and reverently to him until--for she didnot resist--her head lay on his shoulder. "Mine!" he murmured, "Mine!Mine! Mary, I can hardly believe it. I can hardly think I am soblest."
"And you will not change?" she whispered.
"Never! Never!"
They were silent. Was she thinking of the dark night, when she hadwalked lonely and despondent to her new and unknown home? Or of manyanother hour of solitary depression, spent in dull and drearyschoolrooms, while others made holiday? Was he thinking of his doubtsand fears, his cowardly hesitation? Or only of his present monstroushappiness? No matter. At any rate, they had forgotten the existence ofanything outside the room, they had forgotten the world and MissSibson, they were in a Paradise of their own, such as is given to noman and to no woman more than once, they were a million miles fromBristol City, when the sound made by the opening door surprised themin that posture. Vaughan turned fiercely to see who it was, to see whodared to trespass on their Eden. He looked, only looked, and he sprangto his feet, amazed. He thought for a moment that he was dreaming, orthat he was mad.
For on the threshold, gazing at them with a face of indescribableastonishment, rage and incredulity, was Sir Robert Vermuyden. SirRobert Vermuyden, the one last man in the world whom Arthur Vaughanwould have expected to see there!
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