Chippinge Borough

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 leisure. 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?

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!"