Chippinge Borough

XXI

A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS

It was September. The House elected in those first days of May was four months old, and already it had fulfilled the hopes of the country. Without a division it had decreed the first reading, and by a majority of one hundred and thirty-six, the second reading of the People's Bill; that Bill by which the preceding House slaying, had been slain. New members were beginning to lose the first gloss of their enthusiasm; the youngest no longer ogled the M.P. on their letters, nor franked for the mere joy of franking. But the ministry still rode the flood tide of favour, Lord Grey was still his country's pride, and Brougham a hero. It only remained to frighten the House of Lords, and in particular those plaguy out-of-date fellows, the Bishops, into passing the Bill; and the battle would be won,

The streets be paved with mutton pies,
Potatoes eat like pine!

And, in fine, everyone would live happily ever afterwards.

To old Tories of the stamp of Sir Robert Vermuyden, the outlook was wholly dark. But it is not often that public care clouds private joy; and had Eldon been prime minister, with Wetherell for his Chancellor, the grounds of Stapylton could hardly have worn a more smiling aspect than they presented on the fine day in early September, which Sir Robert had chosen for his daughter's first party. The abrupt addition of a well-grown girl to a family of one is a delicate process. It is apt to open the door to scandal. And a little out of discretion, and more that she, who was now the apple of his eye, might not wear her wealth with a difference, nor lack anything of the mode, he had not hastened the occasion. A word had been dropped here and there-with care; the truth had been told to some, the prepossessions of others had been consulted. But at length the day was come on which she must stand by his side and receive the world of Wiltshire.

And she had so stood for more than an hour of this autumn afternoon; with such pride on his side as was fitting, and such blushes on hers as were fitting also. Now, the prime duty of reception over, and his company dispersed through the gardens, Sir Robert lingered with one or two of his intimates on the lawn before the house. In the hollow of the park hard by, stood the ample marquee in which his poorer neighbours were presently to feed; gossip had it that Sir Robert was already at work rebuilding his political influence. Near the tent, Hunt the Slipper and Kiss in the Ring were in progress, and Moneymusk was being danced to the strains of the Chippinge church band; the shrill voices of the rustic youth proving that their first shyness was wearing off. Within the gardens, a famous band from Bath played the new-fashioned quadrilles turn about with Moore's Irish Melodies; and a score of the fair, gorgeous as the dragon-flies which darted above the water, meandered delicately up and down the sward; or escorted by gentlemen in tightly strapped white trousers and blue coats-or in Wellington frocks, the latest mode-appeared and again disappeared among the elms beside the Garden Pool. In the background, the house, adorned and refurnished, winked with all its windows at the sunshine, gave forth from all its doors the sweet scent of flowers, throbbed to the very recesses of the haunted wing with small talk and light laughter, the tap of sandalled feet and the flirt of fans.

Sir Robert thanked his God as he looked upon it all. And five years younger in face and more like the Duke than ever, he listened, almost purring, to the praises of his new-found darling. The odds had been great that with such a breeding, she had been coarse or sly, common or skittish. And she was none of these things, but fair as a flower, slender as Psyche, sweet-eyed as a loving woman, dainty and virginal as the buds of May! And withal gentle and kind and obedient-above all, obedient. He could not thank God enough, as he read in the eyes of young men and old women, what they thought of her. And he was thanking Him, though in outward seeming he was attentive to an old friend's prattle, when his eyes fell on a carriage and four which, followed by two outriders, was sweeping past the marquee and breasting the gentle ascent to the house. All who were likely to arrive in such state, the Beauforts, Suffolks, Methuens, were come; the old Duke of Beaufort, indeed, and his daughter-in-law were gone again. So Sir Robert stared at the approaching carriage, wondering whom it might contain.

"They are the Bowood liveries," said his friend, who had longer sight. "I thought they had gone to town for the Coronation."

Sir Robert too had thought so. Indeed, though he had invited the Lansdownes upon the principle, which even the heats attending the Reform Bill did not wholly abrogate, that family friendships were above party-he had been glad to think that he would not see the spoliators. The trespass was too recent, the robbery too gross! Ay, and the times too serious.

Here they were, however; Lady Lansdowne, her daughter, and a small gentleman with a merry eye and curling locks. And Sir Robert repressed a sigh, and advanced four or five paces to meet them. But though he sighed, no one knew better what became a host; and his greeting was perfect. One of his bitterest flings at Bowood painted it as the common haunt of fiddlers and poets, actors and the like. But he received her ladyship's escort, who was no other than Mr. Moore of Sloperton, and of the Irish Melodies, with the courtesy which he would have extended to an equal; nor when Lady Lansdowne sent her girl to take tea under the poet's care did he let any sign of his reprobation appear. Those with whom he had been talking had withdrawn to leave him at liberty, and he found himself alone with Lady Lansdowne.

"We leave for Berkeley Square to-morrow, for the Coronation on the 8th," she said, playing with her fan in a way which would have betrayed to her intimates that she was not at ease. "I had many things to do this morning in view of our departure and I could not start early. You must accept our apologies, Sir Robert."

"It was gracious of your ladyship to come at all," he said.

"It was brave," she replied, with a gleam of laughter in her eyes. "In fact, though I bear my lord's warmest felicitations on this happy event, and wreathe them with mine, Sir Robert-"

"I thank your ladyship and Lord Lansdowne," he said formally.

"I do not think that I should have ventured," she continued with another glint of laughter, "did I not bear also an olive branch."

He bowed, but waited in silence for her explanation.

"One of a-a rather delicate nature," she said. "Am I permitted, Sir Robert, to-to speak in confidence?"

He did not understand and he sought refuge in compliments. "Permitted?" he said, with the gallant bow of an old beau. "All things are permitted to so much-"

"Hush!" she said. "But there! I will take you at your word. You know that the Bill-there is but one Bill now-a-days-is in Committee?"

He frowned, disliking the subject. "I don't think," he said, "that any good can come of discussing it, Lady Lansdowne."

"I think it may," she replied, with a confidence which she did not feel, "if you will hear me. It is whispered that there is a question in Committee of one of the doomed boroughs. One, I am told, Sir Robert, hangs between schedule A and schedule B; and that borough is Chippinge. Those who know whisper Lord Lansdowne that ultimately it will be plucked from the burning, and will be found in schedule B. Consequently it will retain one member."

Sir Robert's thin face turned a dull red. So the wicked Whigs, who had drawn the line of disfranchisement at such a point as to spare their pet preserves, their Calne and Bedford and the like, had not been able with all their craft to net every fish. One had evaded the mesh, and by Heavens, it was Chippinge! Chippinge, though shorn of its full glory, would still return one member. He had not hoped, he had not expected this. Now

Non omnis moriar, multaque pars mei
Vitabit Libitinam!

he thought with jubilation. And then another thought darted through his mind and changed his joy to chagrin. A seat had been left to Chippinge. But why? That Arthur Vaughan, that his renegade cousin, might continue to fill it, might continue to hold it, under his nose and to his daily, hourly, his constant mortification. By Heaven, it was too much! They had said well, who said that an enemy's gift was to be dreaded. But he would fight the seat, at the next election and at every election, rather than suffer that miserable person, miserable on so many accounts, to fill it at his will. And after all the seat was saved; and no one could tell the future. The lasting gain might outlive the temporary vexation.

So, after frowning a moment, he tried to smooth his brow. "And your mission, Lady Lansdowne," he said politely, "is to tell me this?"

"In part," she said, with hesitation, for the course, of his feelings had been visible in his countenance. "But also-"

"But also-and in the main," he answered with a smile, "to make a proposition, perhaps?"

"Yes."

He thought of the most obvious proposition, and he spoke in pursuance of his thought. "Then forgive me if I speak plainly," he said. "Whether the borough lose one member or both, whether it figure in schedule B, or in schedule A, cannot affect my opposition to the Bill! If you have it in commission, therefore, to make any proposal, based on a contrary notion, I cannot listen even to your ladyship."

"I have not," she answered with a smile. "Sir Robert Vermuyden's malignancy is too well known. Yet I am the bearer of a proposition. Suppose the Bill to become law, and I am told that it will surely become law, can we not avoid future conflict, and-I will not say future ill-will, for God knows there is none on our side, Sir Robert-but future friction, by an agreement? Of course it will not be possible to nominate members in the future as in the past. But for some time to come whoever is returned for Chippinge must be returned by your influence, or by my lord's."

He coughed drily. "Possibly," he said.

"In view of that," she continued, flirting her fan, as she watched his face-his manner was not encouraging, "and for the sake of peace between families, and a little, perhaps, because I do not wish Kerry to be beggared by contested elections, can we not now, while the future is on the lap of the gods-"

"In Committee," Sir Robert corrected with a grave bow.

She laughed pleasantly. "Well," she allowed, "perhaps it is not quite the same thing. But no matter! Whoever the Fates in charge, can we not," with her head on one side and a charming smile, "make a treaty of peace?"

"And what," Sir Robert asked with urbane sarcasm, "becomes of the rights of the people in that case, Lady Lansdowne? And of the purity of elections? And of the new and independent electors whom my lord has brought into being? Must we not think of these things?"

She looked for an instant rather foolish. Then she rallied, and with a slightly heightened colour, "In good time, we must," she replied. "But for the present it is plain that they will not be able to walk without assistance."

"What?" it was on the tip of his tongue to answer. "The new and independent electors? Not walk without assistance? Oh, what a change is here!" But he forbore. He said instead-but with the faintest shade of irony, "Without our assistance, I think you mean, Lady Lansdowne?"

"Yes. And that being so, why should we not agree, my lord and you-to save Kerry's pocket shall I say-to bring forward a candidate alternately?"

Sir Robert shook his head gravely. He would fight.

"Allowing to you, Sir Robert, as the owner of the influence hitherto dominant in the borough, the first return."

"The first return-after the Bill passes?"

"Yes."

That was a different thing. That was another thing altogether. A gleam of satisfaction shone for an instant under the baronet's bushy eyebrows. The object he had most at heart was to oust his treacherous cousin. And here was a method, sure and safe: more safe by far than any contest under the new Bill?

"Well I-I cannot say anything at this moment," he said, at last, trying to hide his satisfaction. "These heats once over I do not see-your ladyship will pardon me-why my influence should not still predominate."

It was Lady Lansdowne's turn. "And things be as before?" she answered. "No, Sir Robert, no. You forget those rights of the people which you were so kind as to support a moment ago. Things will not be as before. But-but perhaps I shall hear from you? Of course it is not a matter that can be settled, as in the old days, by our people."

"You shall certainly hear," he said, with something more than courtesy. "In the meantime-"

"I am dying to see your daughter," she answered. "I am told that she is very lovely. Where is she?"

"A few minutes ago she was in the Elm Walk," Sir Robert answered, a slight flush betraying his gratification. "I will send for her."