Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  He sat so long brooding over this, in that mood in which a man recks little of time, or of what befalls him, that the guard had to summon him. And even then, as he donned his coats, with the “boots” fussing about him, and the coachman grumbling at the delay, his memory was busy with that morning. There, in the porch, he had stood and heard the young waterman praise her looks! And there Cooke had stood and denounced the Reform placard! And there ——

  “Let go!” growled the coachman, losing patience a last. “The gentleman’s not coming!”

  “I’m coming,” he answered curtly. And crossing the pavement in two strides, he swung himself up hand over hand, as the stableman released the 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 seat which Mary Smith had occupied on that far-off April morning, sat Mary Vermuyden! For an infinitely small fraction of a second, as he turned himself to drop into his seat, his eyes swept her face. The rain had ceased to fall, the umbrellas were furled; for that infinitely short space his eyes rested on her features. Then his back was turned to her.

  Her eyes had been fixed elsewhere, her face had been cold — she had not seen him. So much, in the confused pounding rush of his thoughts, as he sat tingling in every inch of his frame, he could remember; but nothing else except that in lieu of the plain Quaker-like dress which Mary Smith had worn — oh, dress to be ever remembered! — she was wearing rich furs, with a great muff and a small hat of sable, and was Mary Smith no longer.

  Probably she had been there from the start, seated behind him under cover of the rain and the umbrellas. If so — and he remembered that that seat had been occupied when he got to his place — she had perceived his coming, had seen him mount, had been aware of him from the first. She could see him now, watch every movement, read his self-consciousness in the stiff pose of his head, perceive the rush of colour which dyed his ears and neck.

  And he was planted there, he could not escape. And he suffered. Asked beforehand, he would have said that his uppermost feeling in such circumstances would be resentment. But, in fact, he could think of nothing except that meeting in Parliament Street, and the rudeness with 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 might have been his own master now; he would have been free to speak, or free to be silent, as he pleased. And she who had treated him so ill would have been the one to suffer. But, as it was, he was hot all over. The intolerable gêne of the situation rested on him and weighed him down.

  Until the coachman called his attention to a passing waggon, and pointed out a something unusual in its make; which broke the spell and freed his thoughts. After that he began to feel a little of the wonder which the coincidence demanded. How came she in the same seat, on the same coach on which she had travelled before. He could not bring himself to look round and meet her eyes. But he remembered that a man-servant, doubtless in attendance on her, shared the hind seat with the clerk who had spoken to him; and the middle-aged woman who sat with her was doubtless her maid. Still, he knew Sir Robert well enough to be sure that he would not countenance her journeying, even with this attendance, on a public vehicle; and therefore, he argued, she must be doing it without Sir Robert’s knowledge, and probably in pursuance of some whim of her own. Could it be that she, too, wished to revive the bitter-sweet of recollection, the memory of that April day? And, to do so, had gone out of her way to travel on this cold wet morning on the same coach, which six months before had brought them together?

  If so, she must love him in spite of all. And in that case, what must her feelings have been when she saw him take his place? What, when she knew that she would not taste the bitter-sweet alone, but in his company? What, when she foresaw that, through the day she would not pass a single thing of all those well-remembered things, that milestone which he had pointed out to her, that baiting-house of which she had asked the name, that stone bridge with the hundred balustrades which they had crossed in the gloaming — her eyes would not alight on one of these, without another heart answering to every throb of hers, and another breast aching as hers ached.

  At that thought a subtle attraction, almost irresistible, drew him to her, and he could have cried to her, under the pain of separation. For it was all true. Before his eyes those things were passing. There was the milestone which he had pointed out to her. And there the ruined inn. And here were the streets of Reading opening before them, and the Market 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 had not looked, he had not been able to look at her. Her weakness, her inconstancy deserved their punishment: but for all her fortune, to recover all that he had lost and she had gained, he would not have looked at her there. Yet, while the coach changed horses in the Square before the Bear, he had had a glimpse of her — reflected in the window of a shop; and he had marked with greedy eyes each line of her figure and 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 as he was concerned, she had done it in vain. The veil could not hide the agitation, could not hide the strained rigidity of her pose, or the convulsive force with which one hand gripped the other in her lap.

  Well, that was over, thank God! For he had as soon seen a woman beaten. The town was behind them; Newbury was not far in front. And now with shame he began to savour a weak pleasure in her presence, in her nearness to him, in the thought that her eyes were on him and her thoughts full of him, and that if he stretched out his hand he could touch her; that there was that between them, that there must always be that 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 he filled 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 were cold. But he was far from cold; he knew that she too trembled, she, too, thrilled. And a foolish exultation possessed him. He had hungry thoughts of her nearness, and her beauty; and insane plans of snatching her to his breast when she left the coach, and covering her with kisses though a hundred looked on. He might suffer for it, he would 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 not dare to look at her. And when they came at last to Marlborough, and drew up at the door of the Castle Inn, where west-bound travellers dined, he descended hurriedly and went into the coffee-room to secure a place in a corner, whence he might see her enter without meeting her eyes.

  But she did not enter the house, soon or late. And a vain man might have thought that she was not only bent on doing everything which she had done on the former journey, but that it was not without intention that she remained alone on the coach, exposed to his daring — if he chose to dare. Not a few indeed, of his fellow-passengers, wandered out before the time, and on the pretence of examining the façade of the handsome old house, shot sidelong glances at the young lady, who, wrapped in her furs and veiled to the throat, sat motionless in the keen October air. But Vaughan was not of these; nor was he vain. When he found that she did not come in, he decided that she would not meet him, that she remained on the coach rather than sit in his company; and forgetting the overture in Parliament Street, he remembered only her fickleness and weakness. He fell to the depths. She had never loved him, never, never!

  On that he almost made up his mind to stay there; and to go on by the next 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 to the weather while others dined; it would be monstrous to go on and continue to make her wretched.

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p; But, before the time for leaving came, he changed his mind, and he went out, feeling cowed and looking hard. He could not mount without seeing her out of the corner of his eye; but the veil masked all, and left him no wiser. The sun had burst through the clouds, and the sky above the curving line of the downs was blue. But the October air was still chilly, and he heard the maid fussing about her, and wrapping her up more warmly. Well, it mattered little. At Chippenham, the carriage with its pomp of postillions and outriders — Sir Robert was particular about such things — would meet her; and he would see her no more.

  His pride weakened at that thought. She could never be anything to him now; he had no longer the least notion of kissing her. But at Chippenham, 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 would not part from her in anger. He would tell her that, and bid her good-bye. Later, he would be glad to remember that they had parted in that 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-built streets of Calne, were out again on the Bath road. After that, though they took Black Dog hill at a slow pace, they seemed to be at Chippenham in a twinkling. Before he could calm his thoughts the coach was rattling between houses, and the wide straggling street was opening before them, and the group assembled in front of the Angel to see the coach arrive was scattering to right and left.

  A glance told him that there was no carriage-and-four in waiting. And because his heart was jumping so foolishly he was glad to put off the moment of speaking to her. She would go into the house to wait for the carriage, and when the coach, with its bustle and its many eyes, had gone its way, he would be able to speak to her.

  Accordingly, the moment the coach stopped he descended and hastened into the house. He sent out the “boots” for his valise and betook himself to the bar-parlour, where he called for something and jested cheerily with the smiling landlady, who came herself to attend upon him. He kept his back to the door which Mary must pass to ascend the stairs, for well he knew the parlour of honour to which she would be ushered. But though he listened keenly for the rustle of her skirts, a couple of minutes passed and he heard nothing.

  “You are not going on, sir?” the landlady asked. She knew too much of the 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 the night.” 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 a chaise. They are posting to Bath. One’s Colonel Brereton, sir. The other’s a young gentleman, short and stout. Quite the gentleman, sir, but that positive, the postboy told me, and talkative, you’d think he was the Emperor of China! That’s their chaise coming out of the yard now, sir.”

  A thought, keen as a knife-stab, darted through Vaughan’s mind. In three strides he was out of the bar-parlour, in three more he was at the 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 had left her, in the place behind the coachman. And in the box-seat, the very seat which he had vacated, was Bob Flixton, settling himself in his 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, and all was over. Fan-fa-ra! Fan-fa-ra! The coach was growing small in the distance. It veered a little, a block of houses hid it, Vaughan saw it again. Then in the dusk of the October evening the descent to the bridge swallowed it, and he turned away miserable.

  He walked a little distance from the door that his face might not be seen. He did not tell himself that, because the view grew misty before his eyes, he was taking the blow contemptibly; he told himself only that he was very wretched, and that she was gone. It seemed as if so much had gone with her; so much of the hope and youth and fortune, and the homage of men, which had been his when he and she first saw the streets 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 not bitterly, but in a broken fashion — when he heard his name called, and he turned and saw Colonel Brereton striding after him.

  “I thought it was you,” Brereton said. But though he had not met Vaughan for some months, and the two had liked one another, he spoke with little cordiality, and there was a vague look in his face. “I was not 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 in love,” Brereton continued with more irritation than the occasion seemed to warrant. “He saw his charmer on the coach, and a vacant seat — and I may find my way to Bath as I can.”

  “They are to be married, I hear?” Vaughan said in the same dull tone and with his face averted.

  “I don’t know,” Brereton answered sourly. “What I do know is that I’m not best pleased that he has left me. I heard Sir Charles Wetherell was sleeping at your cousin’s last evening, and I posted there to see him about the arrangements for his entry. But I missed him. He’s gone to Bath for this evening. Well, I took Flixton with me because I didn’t know Sir Robert and he did, and he’s supposed to be playing aide-de-camp to me. But a fine aide-de-camp he’s like to prove, if this is the way he treats me. You know Wetherell opens the Assizes at Bristol 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 hand across his brow.

  “I heard something of it in London,” Vaughan answered.

  “Not much, I’ll wager,” Brereton rejoined, with a brusqueness which betrayed his irritation. “They don’t know much, or they wouldn’t be sending me eighty sabres to keep order in a city of a hundred thousand people! Enough, you see, to anger, and not enough to intimidate! It’s just plain madness. It’s madness. But I’ve made up my mind! I’ve made up my mind!” he repeated, speaking in a tone which betrayed the tenseness of his nerves. “Not a man will I show if I can help it! Not a man! And not a shot will I fire, whatever comes of it! I’ll be no butcherer of innocent folk.”

  “I hope nothing will come of it,” Vaughan answered, interested in spite of himself. “You’re in command, sir, of course?”

  “Yes, and I wish to heaven I were not! But there, there!” he continued, pulling himself up as if he kept a watch on himself and feared that he had said too much. “Enough of my business. What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I was going to Chippinge.”

  “Come to Bath with me! I shall see Wetherell, and you know him. You may be of use to me. There’s half the chaise at your service, and I will tell you about it, as we go.”

  Vaughan at that moment cared little where he went, and after the briefest hesitation, he consented. A few minutes later they started together. It happened that as they drove in the last of the twilight over the long stone bridge, an open car drawn by four horses and containing a dozen rough-looking men overtook them and raced them for a hundred yards.

  “There’s another!” Brereton said, rising with an oath and looking after it. “I was told that two had gone through!”

  “What is it? Who are they?” Vaughan asked, leaning out on his side to see.

  “Midland Union men, come to stir up the Bristol lambs!” Brereton answered. “They may spare themselves the trouble,” he continued bitterly. “The fire will need no poking, I’ll be sworn!”

  And brought
back to the subject, he never ceased from that moment to talk of it. It was plain to anyone who knew him that a nervous excitability had taken the place of his usual thoughtfulness. Long before they reached Bath, Vaughan was sure that, whatever his own troubles, there was one man in the world more unhappy than himself, more troubled, less at ease; and that that man sat beside him in the chaise.

  He believed that Brereton exaggerated the peril. But if his fears were well-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 thousand people! Why, it’s my belief” — and he dropped his voice and laid his hand 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 the country, and Bristol in particular, is firm for the Bill!”

  “Oh, but that’s absurd!” Vaughan answered; though he recalled what Brougham 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 I am placed? If in putting down this riot which is in the Government interest, and is believed to be fostered by them, I exceed my duty by a jot, I am a lost man! A lost man! Now do you see?”