Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He stopped, silenced and taken aback. For some were on their feet, others were rising; the faces of nine out of ten were turned from him. What was it? He turned to see; and he saw.

  A few paces within the door stood Sir Robert himself; his fur collared travelling cloak hanging loose about him and showing his tall spare figure at its best. He stooped, but his high-bred face, cynically smiling, was turned full on the speaker; it was certain that he had heard much, if not all. And Vaughan had been brave indeed, he had been a hero, if taken by surprise and at this disadvantage he had not shown some discomfiture.

  It is easy to smile now! Easy to say that this was but an English gentleman, bound like others by the law! And Vaughan’s own kinsman! But few would have smiled then. He, through whose hands passed a quarter of the patronage of a county, who dammed or turned the stream of promotion, who had made many there and could unmake them, whose mere hint could have consigned, a few years back, the troublesome to the press-gang, who belonged almost as definitely, almost as exclusively, to a caste, as do white men in the India of to-day; who seldom showed himself to the vulgar save in his coach and four, or riding with belted grooms behind him — about such an one in ‘81 there was, if no divinity, at least the ægis of real power, that habit which unquestioned authority confers, that port of Jove to which men bow! Scan the pictured faces of the men who steered this country through the long war — the faces of Liverpool and Castlereagh —

  Daring pilots in extremity,

  Scorning the danger when the waves ran high;

  or of those men, heirs to their traditions, who, for nearly twenty years, confronted the no less formidable forces of discontent and disaffection — of Peel and Wellington, Croker and Canning, and he is blind who does not find there the reflection of that firm rule, the shadow of that power which still survived, though maimed and weakened in the early thirties.

  Certainly it was not easy to smile at such men then; at their pride or their prejudices, their selfishness or their eccentricity. For behind lay solid power. Small blame to Vaughan therefore, if in the face of the servile attitude, the obsequious rising of the company about him, he felt his countenance change, if he could not quite hide his dismay. And though he told himself that his feelings were out of place, that the man did but stand in the shoes which would one day be his, and was but now what he would be, vox faucibus hæsit — he was dumb. It was Sir Robert who broke the silence.

  “I fear, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, the gleam in his eyes alone betraying his passion — for he would as soon have walked the country lanes in his dressing robe as given way to rage in that company— “I fear you are saying in haste words which you will repent at leisure! Did I hear aright that — that you are in favour of the Bill?”

  “I am,” Vaughan replied a little huskily. “I — —”

  “Just so, just so!” Sir Robert replied with a certain lightness. And raising his walking cane he pointed gravely and courteously to the door a pace or two from him. “That is the door, Mr. Vaughan,” he said. “You must be here, I am sure, under an error.”

  Vaughan coloured painfully. “Sir Robert,” he said, “I owe you, I know — —”

  “You will owe me very little by to-morrow evening,” Sir Robert rejoined, interrupting him suavely. “Much less than you now think! But that is not to the point. Will you — kindly withdraw?”

  “I would like at least to say this! That I came here — —”

  “Will you kindly withdraw?” Sir Robert persisted. “That is all.” And he pointed again, and still more blandly, to the door. “Any explanation you may please to offer — and I do not deny that one may be in place — you can give to my agent to-morrow. He, on his part, will have something to say. For the present — Annibal,” turning with kindly condescension, “be good enough to open the door for this gentleman. Good-evening, Mr. Vaughan. You will not, I am sure, compel me to remove with my friends to another room?”

  And as he continued to point to the door, and would listen to nothing — and the room was certainly his — Vaughan walked out. And Annibal closed the door behind him.

  XIV

  MISS SIBSON’S MISTAKE

  It was perhaps fortunate for Miss Hilhouse that she did not hazard any remarks on that second escapade in the Square. Whether this amendment in her manners was due to Miss Sibson’s apothegms, or to the general desire of the school to see the new teacher’s new pelisse — which could only be gratified by favour — or to a threatening rigidity in Mary Smith’s bearing must remain a question. But children are keen observers. Their senses are as sharp as their tongues are cruel. And it is certain that Miss Smith had not read four lines of the fifth chapter of The Fairchild Family before a certain sternness in her tone was noted by those who had not already marked the danger signal in her eyes. For the gentlest eyes can dart lightnings on occasion. The sheep will turn in defence of its lamb. Nor ever walked woman who could not fight for her secret and her pride.

  So Miss Hilhouse bit her tongue and kept silence, the girls behaved beautifully, and Mary read The Fairchild Family to them in a tone of monotony that perfectly reflected the future as she saw it. She had been very foolish, and very weak, but she was not without excuse. He had saved her life, she could plead that. True, brought up as she had been at Clapham, shielded from all dealings with the other sex, taught to regard them as wolves, or at best as a race with which she could have no safe parley, she should have known better. She should have known that handsome, courteous, masterful-eyed, as they were — and with a way with them that made poor girls’ hearts throb at one moment and stand still at another — she should have known that they meant nothing. That they were still men, and that she must not trust them, must not think of them, must not expect to find them more steadfast to a point than the weather-cock on St. Mary’s at Redcliffe.

  The weather-cock? Ah!

  She had no sooner framed the thought in the middle of the reading than she was aware of a sensation; and a child, one of the youngest, raised her hand. “Please—”

  Mary paused.

  “Yes?” she asked. “What is it?”

  “Please, Miss Smith, did the weather-cock speak?”

  Mary reddened violently.

  “Speak? The weather-cock? What do you mean, child?”

  “Please, Miss Smith, you said that the weather-cock told Lucy the truth, the truth, and all the truth.”

  “Impossible!” Mary stammered. “I — I should have said, the coachman.” And Mary resumed the story, but with a hot face; a face that blushed more painfully and more intolerably because she was conscious that every eye was upon it, and that a score of small minds were groping for the cause of her confusion.

  She remembered, oh, how well she remembered, that the schoolmistress at Clapham had told her that she had every good quality except strength of will. And how thoroughly, how rapidly had she proved the truth of the exception! Freed from control for only twenty-four hours, left for that time to her own devices, she had listened to the first voice that addressed her, believed the first flattering look that fell on her, taken the most ordinary attentions — attentions at which any girl with knowledge of the world or strength of will would have smiled — for gold, real red gold! So that a light look without a spoken word had drawn her heart from her. How it behoved her to despise herself, loathe herself, discipline herself! How she ought to guard herself in the future! Above all, how thankful should she be for the dull but safe routine that fenced, and henceforth would fence, her life from such dangers!

  True. Yet how dreary to her young eyes seemed that routine stretched before her! How her courage fainted at the prospect of morning added to morning, formal walk to formal walk, lesson to lesson, one generation of pupils to another! For generation would follow generation, one chubby face would give place to another, and still she would be there, plodding through the stale task, listening with an aching head to the strumming on the harpsichord, saying the same things, finding the same faults, growing slowly into a correcti
ng, scolding, punishing machine. By and by she would know The Fairchild Family by heart, and she would sicken at the “Letters on the Improvement of the Mind.” The children would still be young, but grey hairs would come to her, she would grow stout and dull; and those slender hands, those dainty fingers still white and fine, still meet for love, would be seared by a million needle-pricks and roughened by the wear and tear of ten thousand hours of plain sewing.

  She was ungrateful, oh, she was ungrateful to think such thoughts! For in what was her lot worse than the lot of others? Or worse than it had been a week before when, who more humble-minded or contented, more cheerful or helpful than Mary Smith? When her only fault had been a weakness of character which her old schoolmistress hoped would be cured by time? When, though the shadow of an unknown Miss Sibson loomed formidable before her, she had faced her fate bravely and hopefully, supported not a little by the love and good wishes — won by a thousand kind offices — which went with her into the unknown world.

  What had happened in the meantime? A little thing, oh, a very little thing. But to think of it under the childrens’ eyes made her face burn again. She had lost her heart — to a man. To a man! The very word seemed improper in that company. How much more improper when the man cared nothing for her, but tossing her a smile for guerdon, had taken her peace of mind and gone his way, with a laugh. At the best, if he had ever dreamt seriously of her, ever done more than deem her an innocent, easily flattered and as lightly to be won, he had changed his mind as quickly as a weather-cock shifts in April. And he had talked — that hurt her, that hurt her most! He had talked of her freely, boasted of her silliness, told his companions what he would do, or what he would not do; made her common to them!

  She got away for a few minutes at tea-time. But twenty pairs of eyes followed her from the room and seized on her as she returned. And “Miss Smith, ain’t you well?” piped a tiny treble.

  She was controlling her voice to answer — that she was quite well, when Miss Sibson intervened. “Miss Fripp,” she said sombrely, “write ‘Are you not,’ twenty times on your slate after tea! Miss Hilhouse, if you stare in that fashion you will be goggle-eyed. Young ladies, elbows, elbows! Have I not told you a score of times that the art of deportment consists in the right use of the elbow? Now, Miss Claxton, in what does the art of deportment consist?”

  “In the right use of the elbow, Ma’am.”

  “And what is the right use of the elbow?”

  “To efface it, Ma’am.”

  “That is better,” Miss Sibson replied, somewhat mollified. “Understood is half done. Miss Smith,” looking about her with benevolence, “had you occasion to commend any young lady’s needle this afternoon?”

  Miss Smith looked unhappy: conscious that she had not been as attentive to her duties as became her. “I had no occasion to find fault, Ma’am,” she said timidly.

  “Very good. Then every fourth young lady beginning at my right hand may take a piece of currant cake. I see that Miss Burges is wearing the silver medal for good conduct. She may take a piece, and give a piece to a friend. When you have eaten your cake you may go to the schoolroom and play for half an hour at Blind Man’s Buff. But — elbows! Elbows, young ladies,” gazing austerely at them over her glasses. “In all your frolics let deportment be your first consideration.”

  The girls trooped out and Mary Smith rose to go with them. But Miss Sibson bade her remain. “I wish to speak to you,” she said.

  Poor Mary trembled. For Miss Sibson was still in some measure an unknown quantity, a perplexing mixture of severity and benevolence, sound sense and Mrs. Chapone.

  “I wish to speak to you,” Miss Sibson continued when they were alone. And then after a pause during which she poured herself out a third cup of tea, “My dear,” she said soberly, “the sooner a false step is retraced the better. I took a false step yesterday — I blame myself for it — when I allowed you — in spite of my rule to the contrary — to see a gentleman. I made that exception partly out of respect to the note which the parcel contained; the affair was strange and out of the ordinary. And partly because I liked the gentleman’s face. I thought him a gentleman; he told me that he had an independence: I had no reason to think him more than that. But I have heard to-day, my dear — I thought it right to make some enquiry in view of the possibility of a second visit — that he is a gentleman of large expectations, who will one day be very rich and a man of standing in the country. That alters the position,” Miss Sibson continued gravely. “Had I known it” — she rubbed her nose thoughtfully with the handle of her teaspoon— “I should not have permitted the interview.” And then after a few seconds of silence, “You understand me, I think, my dear?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Mary said in a low voice. She spoke with perfect composure.

  “Just so, just so,” Miss Sibson answered, pleased to see that the girl was too proud to give way before her — though she was sure that she would cry by and by. “I am glad to think that there is no harm done. As I have said, the sooner a false step is retraced, the better; and therefore if he calls again I shall not permit him to see you.”

  “I do not wish to see him,” Mary said with dignity.

  “Very good. Then that is understood.”

  But strangely enough, the words had barely fallen from Miss Sibson’s lips when there came a knock at the house door, and the same thought leapt to the mind of each; and to Mary’s cheek a sudden vivid blush that, fading as quickly as it came, left her paler than before. Miss Sibson saw the girl’s distress, and she was about to suggest, in words equivalent to a command, that she should retire, when the door opened and the neat maidservant announced — with poorly masked excitement — that a gentleman wished to see Miss Smith.

  Miss Sibson frowned.

  “Where is he?” she asked, with majesty; as if she already scented the fray.

  “In the parlour, Ma’am.”

  “Very good. Very good. I will see him.” But not until the maid had retired did the schoolmistress rise to her feet. “You had better stay here,” she said, looking at her companion, “until my return. It is of course your wish that I should dismiss him?”

  Mary shivered. Those dreams of something brighter, something higher, something fuller than the daily round; of a life in the sunshine, of eyes that looked into hers — this was their end! But she said “Yes,” bravely.

  “Good girl,” said Miss Sibson, feeling, good, honest creature, more than she showed. “I will do so.” And she swam forth.

  Poor Mary! The door was barely shut before her heart whispered that she had only to cross the hall and she would see him; that, on the other hand, if she did not cross the hall, she would never, never, never see him again! She would stay here for all time, bound hand and foot to the unchanging round of petty duties, a blind slave in the mill, no longer a woman — though her woman’s heart hungered for love — but a dull, formal, old maid, growing more stiff and angular with every year! No farther away than the other side of the hall were love and freedom. And she dared not, she dared not open the door!

  And then she bethought her, that he was no weathercock, for he had come again! He had come! And it must be for something. For what?

  She heard the door open on the parlour side of the hall, and she knew that he was going. And she stood listening, waiting with blanched cheeks.

  The door opened and Miss Sibson came in, met her look — and started.

  “Oh!” the schoolmistress exclaimed; and for a moment she stood, looking strangely at the girl, as if she did not know what to say to her. Then, “We were mistaken,” she said, with a serious face. “It is not the gentleman you were expecting, my dear. On the contrary, it’s a stranger who wishes to see you on business.”

  Mary tried to gain command of herself. “I had rather not,” she said faintly. “I don’t think I can.”

  “I fear — you must,” Miss Sibson rejoined, with unusual gravity. “Still, there is no hurry. He can wait a few minutes. He can await your lei
sure. Do you sit down and compose yourself. You have no reason to be disturbed. The gentleman” — she continued, with an odd inflection in her voice— “is old enough to be your father.”

  XV

  MR. PYBUS’S OFFER

  “A note for you, sir.” Vaughan turned moodily to take it. It was the morning after the Vermuyden dinner, and he had slept ill, he had risen late, he was still sitting before his breakfast, toying with it rather than eating it. His first feeling on leaving the dining-room had been bitter chagrin at the ease with which Sir Robert had dealt with him. This had given place a little later to amusement; for he had a sense of humour. And he had laughed, though sorely, at the figure he had cut as he beat his retreat. Still later, as he lay, excited and wakeful, he had fallen a prey to doubt; that horrible three o’clock in the morning doubt, which defies reason, which sees all the cons in the strongest light and reduces the pros to shadows. However, one thing was certain. He had crossed the Rubicon. He had divorced himself by public act from the party to which his forbears — for the Vaughans as well as the Vermuydens had been Tories — had belonged. He had joined the Whigs; nay, he had joined the Reformers. But though he had done this deliberately and from conviction, though his reason approved the step, and his brain teemed with arguments in its favour, the chance that he might be wrong haunted him.

  That governing class from which he was separating himself, from which his policy would snatch power, which in future would dub him traitor, what had it not done for England? With how firm a hand had it not guided the country through storm and stress, with what success shielded it not from foreign foes only, but from disruption and revolution? He scanned the last hundred and fifty years and saw the country, always under the steady rule of that class which had the greatest stake in its prosperity, advancing in strength and riches and comfort, ay, and, though slowly in these, in knowledge also and the humanities and decencies. And the question forced itself upon him, would that great middle class into whose hands the sway now fell, use it better? Would they produce statesmen more able than Walpole or Chatham, generals braver than Wolfe or Moore, a higher heart than Nelson’s? Nay, would the matter end there? Would not power slip into the hands of a wider and yet a wider circle? Would Orator Hunt’s dream of Manhood Suffrage, Annual Parliaments and the Ballot become a reality? Would government by the majority, government by tale of heads, as if three chawbacons must perforce be wiser than one squire, government by the ill-taught, untrained mass, with the least to lose and the most to gain — would that in the long run plunge the country in fatal misfortunes?