XXVIII
ONCE MORE, TANTIVY!
Vaughan had been sore at heart before the meeting in ParliamentStreet. After that meeting he was in a mood to take any step whichpromised to salve his self-esteem. The Chancellor, Lord Lansdowne, SirRobert, and--and Mary, all, he told himself, were against him. Butthey should not crush him. He would prove to them that he was nonegligible quantity. Parliament was prorogued; the Long Vacation wasfar advanced; the world, detained beyond its time, was hurrying out oftown. He, too, would go out of town; and he would go to Chippinge.There, in defiance alike of his cousin and the Bowood interest, hewould throw himself upon the people. He would address himself to thosewhom the Bill enfranchised, he would appeal to the future electors ofChippinge, he would ask them whether the will of their greatneighbours was to prevail, and the claims of service and of gratitudewere to go for nothing. Surely at this time of day the answer couldnot be adverse!
True, the course he proposed matched ill with the party notions whichstill prevailed. It was a complete breach with the family traditionsin which he had been reared. But in his present mood Vaughan liked hisplan the better for this. Henceforth he would be iron, he would beadamant! And only by a little thing did he betray that under the ironand under the adamant he carried an aching heart. When he came to bookhis place, deliberately, wilfully, he chose to travel by the Bath roadand the White Lion coach, though he could have gone at least asconveniently by another coach and another route. Thus have men ever,since they first felt the pangs of love, rejoiced to press the dartmore deeply in the wound.
A dark October morning was brooding over the West End when he crossedPiccadilly to take his place outside the White Horse Cellar. Now, ason that distant day in April, when the car of rosy-fingered love hadawaited him ignorant, the coaches stood one behind the other in a longline before the low-blind windows of the office. But how different wasall else! To-day the lamps were lighted and flickered on wetpavements, the streets were windy and desolate, the day had barelybroken above the wet roofs, and on all a steady rain was falling. Thewatermen went to and fro with sacks about their shoulders, and theguards, bustling from the office with their waybills and the lateparcels, were short of temper and curt of tongue. The shiveringpassengers, cloaked to the eyes in boxcoats and wrap-rascals, climbedsilently and sullenly to the roof, and there sat shrugging theirshoulders to their ears. Vaughan, who had secured a place beside thedriver, cast an eye on all, on the long dark vista of the street, onthe few shivering passers; and he found the change fitting. Let itrain, 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 theguard's horn sounded, nor how the coachman swore at his cattle, norhow the mud splashed up, as two minutes after time they jostled andrattled and bumped down the slope and through the dingy narrows ofKnightsbridge.
Perhaps to please him, the rain fell more heavily as the lightbroadened and the coach passed through Kensington turnpike. Thepassengers, crouching inside their wraps, looked miserably from underdripping umbrellas on a wet Hammersmith, and a wetter Brentford. Nowthe coach ploughed through deep mud, now it rolled silently over a bedof chestnut or sycamore leaves which the first frost of autumn hadbrought down. Swish, swash, it splashed through a rivulet. It was fulldaylight now; it had been daylight an hour. And, at last, joyoussight, pleasant even to the misanthrope on the box-seat, not far infront, through a curtain of mist and rain, loomed Maidenhead--andbreakfast.
The up night-coach, retarded twenty minutes by the weather, rattled upto the door at the same moment. Vaughan foresaw that there would be acontest for seats at the table, and, without waiting for the ladder,he swung himself to the ground, and entered the house. Hastily doffinghis streaming overcoats, he made for the coffee-room, where roaringfires and a plentiful table awaited the travellers. In two minutes hewas served, and isolated by his gloomy thoughts and almost unconsciousof the crowded room and the clatter of plates, he was eating hisbreakfast when his next-door neighbour accosted him.
"Beg your pardon, sir," he said in a meek voice. "Are you going toBristol, sir?"
Vaughan looked at the speaker, a decent, clean-shaven person in ablack high-collared coat, and a limp white neck-cloth. The man's faceseemed familiar to him, and instead of answering the question, Vaughanasked if he knew him.
"You've seen me in the Lobby, sir," the other answered, fidgeting inhis humility. "I'm Sir Charles Wetherell's clerk, sir."
"Ah! To be sure!" Vaughan replied. "I thought I knew your face. SirCharles opens the Assizes to-morrow, I understand?"
"Yes, sir, if they will let him. Do you think that there is muchdanger, sir?"
"Danger?" Vaughan answered with a smile. "No serious danger."
"The Government did not wish him to go, sir," the other rejoined withan air of mystery.
"Oh, I don't believe that," Vaughan said.
"Well, the Corporation didn't, for certain, sir," the man persisted ina low voice. "They wanted him to postpone the Assizes. But he doesn'tknow what fear is, sir. And now the Government's ordered troops toBristol, and I'm afraid that'll make 'em worse. They're so set againsthim for saying that Bristol was no longer for the Bill. And they're adesperate rough lot, sir, down by the Docks!"
"So I've heard," Vaughan said. "But you may be sure that theauthorities will see that Sir Charles is well guarded!"
The clerk said nothing to that, although it was clear that he was farfrom convinced, or easy. And Vaughan returned to his thoughts. But byand by it chanced that as he raised his eyes he met those of a girlwho was passing his table on her way from the room; and he rememberedwith a sharp pang how Mary had passed his table and looked at him, andblushed; and how his heart had jumped at the sight. Why, there was thevery waiting-maid who had gone out with her! And there, where theApril sun had shone on her through the window, she had sat! And there,three places only from his present seat, he had sat himself. Threeseats only--and yet how changed was all! The unmanly tears rose verynear to his eyes as he thought of it.
He sat so long brooding over this, in that mood in which a man reckslittle of time, or of what befalls him, that the guard had to summonhim. And even then, as he donned his coats, with the "boots" fussingabout him, and the coachman grumbling at the delay, his memory wasbusy with that morning. There, in the porch, he had stood and heardthe young waterman praise her looks! And there Cooke had stood anddenounced the Reform placard! And there----
"Let go!" growled the coachman, losing patience a last. "Thegentleman's not coming!"
"I'm coming," he answered curtly. And crossing the pavement in twostrides, he swung himself up hand over hand, as the stableman releasedthe horses. The coach started as his foot left the box of the wheel.And something else started--furiously.
His heart. For in the place behind the coachman, in the very seatwhich Mary Smith had occupied on that far-off April morning, sat MaryVermuyden! For an infinitely small fraction of a second, as he turnedhimself to drop into his seat, his eyes swept her face. The rain hadceased to fall, the umbrellas were furled; for that infinitely shortspace his eyes rested on her features. Then his back was turned toher.
Her eyes had been fixed elsewhere, her face had been cold--she had notseen him. So much, in the confused pounding rush of his thoughts, ashe sat tingling in every inch of his frame, he could remember; butnothing else except that in lieu of the plain Quaker-like dress whichMary Smith had worn--oh, dress to be ever remembered!--she waswearing rich furs, with a great muff and a small hat of sable, and wasMary Smith no longer.
Probably she had been there from the start, seated behind him undercover of the rain and the umbrellas. If so--and he remembered thatthat seat had been occupied when he got to his place--she hadperceived his coming, had seen him mount, had been aware of him fromthe first. She could see him now, watch every movement, read hisself-consciousness in the stiff pose of his head, perceive the rush ofcolour which dyed his ears and neck.
&nb
sp; And he was planted there, he could not escape. And he suffered. Askedbeforehand, he would have said that his uppermost feeling in suchcircumstances would be resentment. But, in fact, he could think ofnothing except that meeting in Parliament Street, and the rudenesswith 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 mighthave been his own master now; he would have been free to speak, orfree to be silent, as he pleased. And she who had treated him so illwould have been the one to suffer. But, as it was, he was hot allover. The intolerable _gene_ of the situation rested on him andweighed him down.
Until the coachman called his attention to a passing waggon, andpointed out a something unusual in its make; which broke the spell andfreed his thoughts. After that he began to feel a little of the wonderwhich the coincidence demanded. How came she in the same seat, on thesame coach on which she had travelled before. He could not bringhimself to look round and meet her eyes. But he remembered that aman-servant, doubtless in attendance on her, shared the hind seat withthe clerk who had spoken to him; and the middle-aged woman who satwith her was doubtless her maid. Still, he knew Sir Robert well enoughto be sure that he would not countenance her journeying, even withthis attendance, on a public vehicle; and therefore, he argued, shemust be doing it without Sir Robert's knowledge, and probably inpursuance of some whim of her own. Could it be that she, too, wishedto revive the bitter-sweet of recollection, the memory of that Aprilday? And, to do so, had gone out of her way to travel on this cold wetmorning on the same coach, which six months before had brought themtogether?
If so, she must love him in spite of all. And in that case, what musther feelings have been when she saw him take his place? What, when sheknew that she would not taste the bitter-sweet alone, but in hiscompany? What, when she foresaw that, through the day she would notpass a single thing of all those well-remembered things, thatmilestone which he had pointed out to her, that baiting-house ofwhich she had asked the name, that stone bridge with the hundredbalustrades which they had crossed in the gloaming--her eyes would notalight on one of these, without another heart answering to every throbof hers, and another breast aching as hers ached.
At that thought a subtle attraction, almost irresistible, drew him toher, and he could have cried to her, under the pain of separation. Forit was all true. Before his eyes those things were passing. There wasthe milestone which he had pointed out to her. And there the ruinedinn. And here were the streets of Reading opening before them, and theMarket Place, and the Bear Inn, where he had saved her from injury,perhaps from death.
* * * * *
They were out of the town, they were clear of the houses, and he hadnot looked, he had not been able to look at her. Her weakness, herinconstancy deserved their punishment: but for all her fortune, torecover all that he had lost and she had gained, he would not havelooked at her there. Yet, while the coach changed horses in the Squarebefore the Bear, he had had a glimpse of her--reflected in the windowof a shop; and he had marked with greedy eyes each line of her figureand 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 ashe was concerned, she had done it in vain. The veil could not hide theagitation, could not hide the strained rigidity of her pose, or theconvulsive force with which one hand gripped the other in her lap.
Well, that was over, thank God! For he had as soon seen a womanbeaten. The town was behind them; Newbury was not far in front. Andnow with shame he began to savour a weak pleasure in her presence, inher nearness to him, in the thought that her eyes were on him and herthoughts full of him, and that if he stretched out his hand he couldtouch her; that there was that between them, that there must always bethat 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 hefilled 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 werecold. But he was far from cold; he knew that she too trembled, she,too, thrilled. And a foolish exultation possessed him. He had hungrythoughts of her nearness, and her beauty; and insane plans ofsnatching her to his breast when she left the coach, and covering herwith kisses though a hundred looked on. He might suffer for it, hewould deserve to suffer for it, it would be an intolerable outrage.But he would have kissed her, he would have held her to his heart.Nothing could undo that.
Yet it was only in fancy that he was reckless, for still he did notdare to look at her. And when they came at last to Marlborough, anddrew up at the door of the Castle Inn, where west-bound travellersdined, he descended hurriedly and went into the coffee-room to securea place in a corner, whence he might see her enter without meeting hereyes.
But she did not enter the house, soon or late. And a vain man mighthave thought that she was not only bent on doing everything which shehad done on the former journey, but that it was not without intentionthat she remained alone on the coach, exposed to his daring--if hechose to dare. Not a few indeed, of his fellow-passengers, wanderedout before the time, and on the pretence of examining the facade ofthe handsome old house, shot sidelong glances at the young lady, who,wrapped in her furs and veiled to the throat, sat motionless in thekeen October air. But Vaughan was not of these; nor was he vain. Whenhe found that she did not come in, he decided that she would not meethim, that she remained on the coach rather than sit in his company;and forgetting the overture in Parliament Street, he remembered onlyher fickleness and weakness. He fell to the depths. She had neverloved him, never, never!
On that he almost made up his mind to stay there; and to go on by thenext 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 tothe weather while others dined; it would be monstrous to go on andcontinue to make her wretched.
But, before the time for leaving came, he changed his mind, and hewent out, feeling cowed and looking hard. He could not mount withoutseeing her out of the corner of his eye; but the veil masked all, andleft him no wiser. The sun had burst through the clouds, and the skyabove the curving line of the downs was blue. But the October air wasstill chilly, and he heard the maid fussing about her, and wrappingher up more warmly. Well, it mattered little. At Chippenham, thecarriage with its pomp of postillions and outriders--Sir Robert wasparticular about such things--would meet her; and he would see her nomore.
His pride weakened at that thought. She could never be anything to himnow; he had no longer the least notion of kissing her. But atChippenham, 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 wouldnot part from her in anger. He would tell her that, and bid hergood-bye. Later, he would be glad to remember that they had parted inthat way, and that he had forgiven!
While he thought of it they fell swiftly from the lip of the downs,and rattling over the narrow bridge and through the stone-builtstreets of Calne, were out again on the Bath road. After that, thoughthey took Black Dog hill at a slow pace, they seemed to be atChippenham in a twinkling. Before he could calm his thoughts the coachwas rattling between houses, and the wide straggling street wasopening before them, and the group assembled in front of the Angel tosee the coach arrive was scattering to right and left.
A glance told him that there was no carriage-and-four in waiting. Andbecause his heart was jumping so foolishly he was glad to put off themoment of speaking to her. She would go into the house to wait for thecarriage, and when the coach, with its bustle and its many eyes, hadgone its way, he would be able to speak to her.
Accordingly, the moment the coach stopped he descended and hastenedinto the house. He sent out the "boots" for his valise and betookhimself to the bar-parlour, where he called for something and jestedcheerily with the smiling landlady, who came herself to attend uponhim. He kept his back to the door which Mary must pass to ascend thestairs, f
or well he knew the parlour of honour to which she would beushered. But though he listened keenly for the rustle of her skirts, acouple of minutes passed and he heard nothing.
"You are not going on, sir?" the landlady asked. She knew too much ofthe family politics to ask point-blank if he were going to Chippinge.
"No," he replied; "no, I"--his attention wandered--"I am not."
"I hope we may have the honour of keeping you tonight, sir?" she said.
"Yes, I"--was that the coach starting?--"I think I shall stay thenight." And then, "Sir Robert's carriage is not here?" he asked,setting down his glass.
"No, sir. But two gentlemen have just driven in from Sir Robert's in achaise. They are posting to Bath. One's Colonel Brereton, sir. Theother's a young gentleman, short and stout. Quite the gentleman, sir,but that positive, the postboy told me, and talkative, you'd think hewas the Emperor of China! That's their chaise coming out of the yardnow, sir."
A thought, keen as a knife-stab, darted through Vaughan's mind. Inthree strides he was out of the bar-parlour, in three more he was atthe door of the Angel.
The coach was in the act of starting, the ostlers were falling back,the guard was swinging himself up; and Mary Vermuyden was where he hadleft her, in the place behind the coachman. And in the box-seat, thevery seat which he had vacated, was Bob Flixton, settling himself inhis wraps and turning to talk to her.
Vaughan let fall a word which we will not chronicle. It was true,then! They were engaged! Doubtless Flixton had come to meet her, andall was over. Fan-fa-ra! Fan-fa-ra! The coach was growing small in thedistance. It veered a little, a block of houses hid it, Vaughan saw itagain. Then in the dusk of the October evening the descent to thebridge swallowed it, and he turned away miserable.
He walked a little distance from the door that his face might not beseen. He did not tell himself that, because the view grew misty beforehis eyes, he was taking the blow contemptibly; he told himself onlythat he was very wretched, and that she was gone. It seemed as if somuch had gone with her; so much of the hope and youth and fortune, andthe homage of men, which had been his when he and she first saw thestreets of Chippenham together and he alighted to talk to Isaac White,and mounted again to ride on by her side.
He was standing with his back to the inn thinking of this--and notbitterly, but in a broken fashion--when he heard his name called, andhe turned and saw Colonel Brereton striding after him.
"I thought it was you," Brereton said. But though he had not metVaughan for some months, and the two had liked one another, he spokewith little cordiality, and there was a vague look in his face. "I wasnot sure," he added.
"You came with Flixton?" Vaughan said, speaking, on his side also,rather dully.
"Yes, and meant to go on with him. But there's no counting on men inlove," Brereton continued with more irritation than the occasionseemed to warrant. "He saw his charmer on the coach, and a vacantseat--and I may find my way to Bath as I can."
"They are to be married, I hear?" Vaughan said in the same dull toneand with his face averted.
"I don't know," Brereton answered sourly. "What I do know is that I'mnot best pleased that he has left me. I heard Sir Charles Wetherellwas sleeping at your cousin's last evening, and I posted there to seehim about the arrangements for his entry. But I missed him. He's goneto Bath for this evening. Well, I took Flixton with me because Ididn't know Sir Robert and he did, and he's supposed to be playingaide-de-camp to me. But a fine aide-de-camp he's like to prove, ifthis is the way he treats me. You know Wetherell opens the Assizes atBristol tomorrow?"
"Yes, I saw his clerk on my way here."
"There'll be trouble, Vaughan!"
"Really?"
"Ay, really! And bad trouble! I wish it was over." He passed his handacross his brow.
"I heard something of it in London," Vaughan answered.
"Not much, I'll wager," Brereton rejoined, with a brusqueness whichbetrayed his irritation. "They don't know much, or they wouldn't besending me eighty sabres to keep order in a city of a hundred thousandpeople! Enough, you see, to anger, and not enough to intimidate! It'sjust plain madness. It's madness. But I've made up my mind! I've madeup my mind!" he repeated, speaking in a tone which betrayed thetenseness of his nerves. "Not a man will I show if I can help it! Nota man! And not a shot will I fire, whatever comes of it! I'll be nobutcherer of innocent folk."
"I hope nothing will come of it," Vaughan answered, interested inspite of himself. "You're in command, sir, of course?"
"Yes, and I wish to heaven I were not! But there, there!" hecontinued, pulling himself up as if he kept a watch on himself andfeared that he had said too much. "Enough of my business. What are youdoing here?"
"Well, I was going to Chippinge."
"Come to Bath with me! I shall see Wetherell, and you know him. Youmay be of use to me. There's half the chaise at your service, and Iwill tell you about it, as we go."
Vaughan at that moment cared little where he went, and after thebriefest hesitation, he consented. A few minutes later they startedtogether. It happened that as they drove in the last of the twilightover the long stone bridge, an open car drawn by four horses andcontaining a dozen rough-looking men overtook them and raced them fora hundred yards.
"There's another!" Brereton said, rising with an oath and lookingafter it. "I was told that two had gone through!"
"What is it? Who are they?" Vaughan asked, leaning out on his side tosee.
"Midland Union men, come to stir up the Bristol lambs!" Breretonanswered. "They may spare themselves the trouble," he continuedbitterly. "The fire will need no poking, I'll be sworn!"
And brought back to the subject, he never ceased from that moment totalk of it. It was plain to anyone who knew him that a nervousexcitability had taken the place of his usual thoughtfulness. Longbefore they reached Bath, Vaughan was sure that, whatever his owntroubles, there was one man in the world more unhappy than himself,more troubled, less at ease; and that that man sat beside him in thechaise.
He believed that Brereton exaggerated the peril. But if his fears werewell-based, then he agreed that the soldiers sent were too few.
"Still a bold front will do much!" he argued.
"A bold front!" Brereton replied feverishly. "No, but management may!Management may. They give me eighty swords to control eighty thousandpeople! Why, it's my belief"--and he dropped his voice and laid hishand 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 thecountry, and Bristol in particular, is firm for the Bill!"
"Oh, but that's absurd!" Vaughan answered; though he recalled whatBrougham had said.
"Absurd or not, nine-tenths of Bristol believe it," Brereton retorted."And I believe it! But I'll be no butcher. Besides, do you see how Iam placed? If in putting down this riot which is in the Governmentinterest, and is believed to be fostered by them, I exceed my duty bya jot, I am a lost man! A lost man! Now do you see?"
"I can't think it's as bad as that," Vaughan said.
Chippinge Borough Page 28