Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  It was just possible that those who deemed the balance of power, established in 1688, the one perfect mean between despotism and anarchy — it was just possible that they were right. And that he was a fool.

  Then to divert his mind he had allowed himself to think of Mary Smith. And he had tossed and tumbled, ill-satisfied with himself. He was brave, he told himself, in the wrong place. He had the courage to break with old associations, to defy opinion, to disregard Sir Robert — where no more than a point of pride was concerned; for it was absurd to fancy that the fate of England hung on his voice. But in a matter which went to the root of his happiness — for he was sure that he loved Mary Smith and would love no other — he had not the spirit to defy a little gossip, a few smiles, the contempt of the worldly. He flushed from head to foot at the thought of a life which, however modest — and modesty was not incompatible with ambition — was shared by her, and would be pervaded by her. And yet he dared not purchase that life at so trifling a cost! No, he was weak where he should be strong, and strong where he should be weak. And so he had tossed and turned, and now after two or three hours of feverish sleep, he sat glooming over his tea cup.

  Presently he broke open the note which the waiter had handed to him. He read it, and “Who brought this?” he asked, with a perplexed face.

  “Don’t know, sir,” Sam replied glibly, beginning to collect the breakfast dishes.

  “Will you enquire?”

  “Found it on the hall table, sir,” the man answered, in the same tone. “Fancy,” with a grin, “it’s a runaway knock, sir. Known a man find a cabbage at the door and a whole year’s wages under it — at election time, sir! Yes, sir. Find funny things in funny places — election time, sir.”

  Vaughan made no reply, but a few minutes later he took his hat and descending the stairs, strolled with an easy air into the street. He paused as if to contemplate the Abbey Church, beautiful even in its disfigurement. Then, but as if he were careless which way he went, he turned to the right.

  The main street, with its whitened doorsteps and gleaming knockers, lay languid in the sunshine; perhaps, enervated by the dissipation of the previous evening. The candidates who would presently pay formal visits to the voters were not yet afoot: and though taverns where the tap was running already gave forth maudlin laughter, no other sign of the coming event declared itself. A few tradesmen stood at their doors, a few dogs lay stretched in the sun; and only Vaughan’s common sense told him that he was watched.

  From the High Street he presently turned into a narrow alley on the right which descended between garden walls to the lower level of the town. A man who was lounging in the mouth of the alley muttered “second door on the left,” as Vaughan passed, and the latter moved on counting the doors. At the one indicated he paused, and, after making certain that he was not observed, he knocked. The door opened a little way.

  “For whom are you?” asked someone who kept himself out of sight.

  “Buff and Blue,” Vaughan answered.

  “Right; sir,” the voice rejoined briskly. The door opened wide and Vaughan passed in. He found himself in a small walled garden smothered in lilac and laburnum, and shaded by two great chestnut trees already so fully in leaf as to hide the house to which the garden belonged.

  The person who had admitted him, a very small, very neat gentleman in a high-collared blue coat and nankeen trousers, with a redundant soft cravat wound about his thin neck, bowed low. “Happy to see you, Mr. Vaughan,” he chirped. “I am Mr. Pybus, his lordship’s man of business. Happy to be the intermediary in so pleasant a matter.”

  “I hope it may turn out so,” Vaughan replied drily. “You wrote me a very mysterious note.”

  “Can’t be too careful, sir,” the little man, who was said to model himself upon Lord John Russell, answered with an important frown. “Can’t be too careful in these matters. You’re watched and I am watched, sir.”

  “I dare say,” Vaughan replied.

  “And the responsibility is great, very great. May I — —” he continued, pulling out his box, “but I dare say you don’t take snuff?”

  “No.”

  “No? The younger generation! Just so! Many of the young gentry smoke, I am told. Other days, other manners! Well — we know of course what happened last night. And I’m bound to say, I honour you, Mr. Vaughan! I honour you, sir.”

  “You can let that pass,” Vaughan replied coldly.

  “Very good! Very good! Of course,” he continued with importance, “the news was brought to me at once, and his lordship knew it before he slept.”

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, indeed. Yes. And he wrote to me this morning — in his dressing gown, I don’t doubt. He commanded me to tell you — —”

  But here Vaughan stopped him — somewhat rudely. “One minute, Mr. Pybus,” he said, “I don’t wish to know what Lord Lansdowne said or did — because it will not affect my conduct. I am here because you requested me to grant you an interview. But if your purpose be merely to convey to me Lord Lansdowne’s approval — or disapproval,” in a tone a little more contemptuous than was necessary, “be good enough to understand that they are equally indifferent to me. I have done what I have done without regard to my cousin’s — to Sir Robert Vermuyden’s feelings. You may take it for certain,” he added loftily, “that I shall not be led beyond my own judgment by any regard for his lordship’s.”

  “But hear me out!” the little man cried, dancing to and fro in his eagerness; so that, in the shifting lights under the great chestnut tree, he looked like a pert, bright-coloured bird. “Hear me out, and you’ll not say that!”

  “I shall say, Mr. Pybus — —”

  “I beg you to hear me out!”

  Vaughan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Go on!” he said. “I have said my say, and I suppose you understand me.”

  “I shall hold it unsaid,” Mr. Pybus rejoined warmly, “until I have spoken!” And he waved an agitated finger in the air. “Observe, Mr. Vaughan — his lordship bade me take you entirely into confidence, and I do so. We’ve only one candidate — Mr. Wrench. Colonel Petty is sure of his election in Ireland and we’ve no mind to stand a second contest to fill his seat: in fact we are not going to nominate him. Lord Kerry, my lord’s eldest son thought of it, but it is not a certainty, and my lord wishes him to wait a year or two and sit for Calne. I say it’s not a certainty. But it’s next door to a certainty since you have declared yourself. And my lord’s view, Mr. Vaughan, is that he who hits the buck should have the haunch. You take me?”

  “Indeed, I don’t.”

  “Then I’ll be downright, sir. To the point, sir. Will you be our candidate?”

  “What?” Vaughan cried. He turned very red. “What do you mean?”

  “What I said, sir. Will you be our candidate? For the Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill? If so, we shall not say a word until to-morrow and then we shall nominate you with Mr. Wrench, and take ‘em by surprise. Eh? Do you see? They’ve got their speeches ready full of my lord’s interference and my lord’s dictation, and they will point to Colonel Petty, my lord’s cousin, for proof! And then,” Mr. Pybus winked, much after the fashion of a mischievous paroquet, “we’ll knock the stool from under ‘em by nominating you! And, mind you, Mr. Vaughan, we are going to win. We were hopeful before, for we’ve one of their men in gaol, and another, Pillinger of the Blue Duck, is tied by the leg. His wife owes a bit of money and thinks more of fifty guineas in her own pocket than of thirty pounds a year in her husband’s. And she and the doctor have got him in bed and will see that he’s not well enough to vote! Ha! Ha! So there it is, Mr. Vaughan! There it is! My lord’s offer, not mine. I believe he’d word from London what you’d be likely to do. Only he felt a delicacy about moving — until you declared yourself.”

  “I see,” Vaughan replied. And indeed he did see more than he liked.

  “Just so, sir. My lord’s a gentleman if ever there was one!” And Mr. Pybus, pulling down his wa
istcoat, looked as if he suspected that he had imbibed much of his lordship’s gentility.

  Vaughan stood, thinking; his eyes gazing into the shimmering depths of green where the branches of the chestnut tree under which he stood swept the sun-kissed turf. And as he thought he tried to still the turmoil in his brain. Here within reach of his hand, to take or leave, was that which had been his ambition for years! No longer to play at the game, no longer to make believe while he addressed the Forum or the Academic that he was addressing the Commons of England; but verily and really to be one of that august body, and to have all within reach. Had not the offer of cabinet honours fallen to Lord Palmerston at twenty-five? And what Lord Palmerston had done at twenty-five, he might do at thirty-five! And more easily, if he gained a footing before the crowd of new members whom the Bill would bring in, took the floor. The thought set his pulse a-gallop. His chance! His chance at last! But if he let it slip now, it might not be his for long years. It is poor work waiting for dead men’s shoes.

  And yet he hesitated, with a flushed face. For the thing offered without price or preface, by a man who had power to push him, by the man who even now was pushing Mr. Macaulay at Calne, tempted him sorely. Nor less — nor less because he remembered with bitterness that Sir Robert had made him no such offer, and now never would! So that if he refused this offer, he could look for no second from either side!

  And yet he could not forget that Sir Robert was his kinsman, was the head of his family, the donor of his vote. And in the night watches he had decided that, his mind delivered, his independence declared, he would not vote. Neither for Sir Robert — for conscience’s sake; nor against Sir Robert, for his name’s sake!

  Then how could he not only take an active part against him, but raise his fortunes on his fall?

  He drew a deep breath. And he put the temptation from him. “I am much obliged to his lordship,” he said quietly. “But I cannot accept his offer.”

  “Not accept it?” Mr. Pybus cried. “Mr. Vaughan! You don’t mean it, sir! You don’t mean it! It’s a safe seat! It’s in your own hands, I tell you! And after last night! Besides, it is not as if you had not declared yourself.”

  “I cannot accept it,” Vaughan repeated coldly. “I am obliged to Lord Lansdowne for his kind thought of me. I beg you to convey my thanks to him. But I cannot — in the position I occupy — accept the offer.”

  Mr. Pybus stared. Was it possible that the scene at the Vermuyden dinner had been a ruse? A piece of play-acting to gain his secrets? If so — he was undone! “But,” he quavered with an unhappy eye, “you are in favour of the Bill, Mr. Vaughan?”

  “I am.

  “And — and of Reform generally, I understand?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then — I don’t understand? Why do you refuse?”

  Vaughan raised his head and looked at him with a movement which would have reminded Isaac White of Sir Robert. “That is my business,” he said.

  “But you see,” Mr. Pybus remonstrated timidly — he was rather a crestfallen bird by this time— “I confess I was never more surprised in my life! Never! You see I’ve told you all our secrets.”

  “I shall keep them.”

  “Yes, but — oh dear! oh dear!” Pybus was thinking of what he had said about Mrs. Pillinger of the Blue Duck. “I — I don’t know what to say,” he added. “I am afraid I have been too hasty, very hasty! Very precipitate! Of course, Mr. Vaughan,” he continued, “the offer would not have been made if we had not thought you certain to accept it!”

  “Then,” Vaughan replied with dignity, “you can consider that it has not been made. I shall not name it for certain.”

  “Well! Well!”

  “I can say no more,” Vaughan continued coldly. “Indeed, there is nothing more to be said, Mr. Pybus?”

  “No,” piteously, “I suppose not. If you really won’t change your mind, sir?”

  “I shall not do that,” the young man answered. And a minute later with Mr. Pybus’s faint appeals still sounding in his ears he was on the other side of the garden door, and striding down the alley, towards the King’s Wall, whence making a detour he returned to the High Street.

  XVI

  LESS THAN A HERO

  It was the evening of the day on which the meeting between Arthur Vaughan and Mr. Pybus had taken place, and from the thirty-six windows in the front of Stapylton lights shone on the dusky glades of the park; here, twinkling fairy-like over the long slope of sward that shimmered pale-green as with the ghostly reflection of dead daylight, there, shining boldly upon the clump of beeches that topped an eminence with blackness. Vaughan sat beside Isaac White in the carriage which Sir Robert had sent for him; and looking curiously forth on the demesne which would be his if he lived, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was the old squire so sure of victory that he already illuminated his windows? Or was the house, long sparely inhabited, and opened only at rare intervals and to dull and formal parties, full now from attic to hall? Election or no election, it seemed unlikely. Yet every window, yes, every window had its light!

  He was too proud to question the agent who, his errand done, and his message delivered, showed no desire to talk. More than once, indeed, in the course of their short companionship, Vaughan had caught White looking at him strangely; with something like pity in his eyes. And though the young man was far from letting this distress him — probably White, with his inborn reverence for Sir Robert, despaired of all who fell under his displeasure — it closed his lips and hardened his heart. He was no paid servant; but a kinsman and the heir. And he would have Sir Robert remember this. For his own part, he was not going to forget who he was; that a Chancellor had stooped to flatter him and a Cabinet Minister had offered him a seat. He had refused for a point of honour a bait which few would have refused; and he was not going to be browbeaten by an old gentleman whom the world had out-paced, and whose beliefs, whose prejudices, whose views, were of yesterday. Who, in his profound ignorance of present conditions, would plunge England into civil war rather than resign a privilege as obsolete as ship-money, and as illegal as the Dispensing Power.

  While he thought of this the carriage stopped at the door. He alighted and ascended the steps.

  The hall more than made good the outside promise; it was brilliantly lighted, and behind Mapp and the servant who received him Vaughan had a passing glimpse of three or four men in full-dress livery. From the dining-room on his left issued peals of laughter, and voices, so clear that, though he had not the smallest reason to expect to hear them there, he was sure that he caught Bob Flixton’s tones. The discovery was not pleasing; but Mapp, turning the other way and giving him no time to think, went before him to the suite of state-rooms — which he had not seen in use more than thrice within his knowledge of the house. It must be so then — he thought with a slight shock of surprise. The place must be full! For the gilt mirrors in both the large and small drawing-rooms reflected the soft light of many candles, wood fires burned and crackled on the hearths, the “Morning Chronicle,” the “Quarterly,” and other signs of life lay about on the round tables, and an air of cheerful bienséance pervaded all. What did it mean?

  “Sir Robert has finished dinner, sir,” Mapp said — even he seemed to wear an unusual air of solemnity. “He will be with you, sir, immediately. Hope you are well, sir?”

  “Quite well, Mapp, thank you.”

  Then he was left alone — to wonder if a second surprise awaited him. He had had one that day. If a second were in store for him what was its nature? Could Sir Robert on his side be going to offer him one of the seats — if he would recant? He hoped not. But he had not time to give more than a thought to that before he heard footsteps and voices crossing the hall. The next moment there entered the outer room — at such a distance from the hearth of the room in which he stood, that he had a leisurely view of all before they reached him — three persons. The first was a tall burly man in slovenly evening clothes, and with an ungainly rolling walk; after him c
ame Sir Robert himself, and after him again, Isaac White.

  Vaughan advanced a step or two, and Sir Robert passed by the burly man, who had a pendulous under lip, and a face at once flabby and melancholy. The baronet held out his hand. “We have not quarrelled yet, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, with a cordiality which took Vaughan quite by surprise. “I trust and believe that we are not going to quarrel. I bid you welcome therefore. This,” he continued with a gesture of courteous deference, “is Sir Charles Wetherell, whom you know by reputation, and whom, for a reason which you will understand by and by, I have asked to be present at our interview.”

  The stout man eyed Vaughan from under bushy eyebrows. “I think we have met before,” he said in a deep voice. “At Westminster, Mr. Vaughan, on the 22nd of last month.” He had a habit of blinking as he talked. “I was beholden to you on that occasion.”

  Vaughan had already recognised him and recalled the incident in Palace Yard. He bowed with an expression of silent sympathy. But he wondered all the more. The presence of the late attorney-general, a man of mark in the political world, whose defeat at Norwich was in that morning’s paper — what did it mean? Did they think to browbeat him? Or — had Sir Charles Wetherell also an offer to make to him? In any event it seemed that he had made himself a personage by his independence. Sought by the one side, sought by the other! A résumé of the answer he would give flashed before him. However, they were not come to that yet!