Chippinge Borough

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?"

"I can't think it's as bad as that," Vaughan said.

XXIX

AUTUMN LEAVES

Miss Sibson paused to listen, but heard nothing. And disappointed, and with a sigh, she spread a clean handkerchief over the lap of her gown and helped herself to part of a round of buttered toast.

"She'll not come," she muttered. "I was a fool to think it! An old fool to think it!" And she bit viciously into the toast.

It was long past her usual tea-time, yet she paused a second time to listen, before she raised her first cup of tea to her lips. A covered dish which stood on a brass trivet before the bright coal fire gave forth a savoury smell, and the lamplight which twinkled on sparkling silver and old Nantgarw, discovered more than the tea-equipage. The red moreen curtains were drawn before the windows, a tabby cat purred sleepily on the hearth; in all Bristol was no more cosy or more cheerful scene. Yet Miss Sibson left the savoury dish untouched, and ate the toast with less than her customary appetite.

"I shall set," she murmured, "'The Deceitfulness of Riches' for the first copy when the children return. And for the second 'Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds!' And" – she continued with determination, though there was no one to be intimidated-"for the third, 'There's No Fool Like an Old Fool!'"

She had barely uttered the words when she set down her cup. The roll of distant wheels had fallen on her ears. She listened for a few seconds, then she rose in haste and rang the bell. "Martha," she said when the maid appeared, "are the two warming-pans in the bed?"

"To be sure, Ma'am."

"And well filled?" Miss Sibson spoke suspiciously.

"The sheets are as nigh singeing as you'd like, Ma'am," the maid answered. "You can smell 'em here! I only hope," she continued, with a quaver in her voice, "as we mayn't smell fire before long!"

"Smell fiddlesticks!" Miss Sibson retorted. Then "That will do," she continued. "I will open the door myself."

When she did so the lights of the hackney-coach which had stopped before the house disclosed first Mary Vermuyden in her furs, standing on the step; secondly, Mr. Flixton, who had placed himself as near her as he dared; and thirdly and fourthly, flanking them at a distance of a pace or two, a tall footman and a maid.

"Good gracious!" Miss Sibson exclaimed, dismay in her tone.

"Yes," Mary answered, almost crying. "They would come! I said I wished to come alone. Good-night, Mr. Flixton!"

"Oh, but I-I couldn't think of leaving you like this!" the Honourable Bob answered. He had derived a minimum of satisfaction from his ride on the coach, for Mary had shown herself of the coldest. And if he was to part from her here he might as well have travelled with Brereton. Besides, what the deuce was afoot? What was she doing here?

"And Baxter is as bad," Mary said plaintively. "As for Thomas-"

"Beg pardon, Ma'am," the man said, touching his hat, "but it is as much as my place is worth."

The maid, a woman of mature years, said nothing, but held her ground, the image of stolid disapproval. She knew Miss Sibson. But Bristol was strange to her; and the dark windy square, with its flickering lights, its glimpses of gleaming water and skeleton masts, and its unseen but creaking windlasses, seemed to her, fresh from Lady Worcester's, a most unfitting place for her young lady.

Miss Sibson cut the knot after her own fashion. "Well, I can't take you in," she said bluffly. "This gentleman," pointing to Mr. Flixton, "will find quarters for you at the White Lion or the Bush. And your mistress will see you to-morrow. Thomas, bring in your young lady's trunk. Good-night, sir," she added, addressing the Honourable Bob. "Miss Vermuyden will be quite safe with me."

"Oh, but I say, Miss Sibson!" he remonstrated. "You can't mean to take the moon out of the sky like this, and leave us in the dark? Miss Vermuyden-"

"Good-night," Mary said, not a whit placated by the compliment. And she slipped past Miss Sibson into the passage.

"Oh, but it's not safe, you know!" he cried. "You're not a hundred yards from the Mansion House here. And if those beggars make trouble to-morrow-positively there's no knowing what will happen!"

"We can take care of ourselves, sir," Miss Sibson replied curtly. "Good-night, sir!" And she shut the door in his face.

The Honourable Bob glared at it for a time, but it remained closed and dark. There was nothing to be done save to go. "D-n the woman!" he cried. And he turned about.

It was something of a shock to him to find the two servants still at his elbow, patiently regarding him. "Where are we to go, sir?" the maid asked, as stolid as before.

"Go?" cried he, staring. "Go? Eh? What? What do you mean?"

"Where are we to go, sir, for the night? If you'll please to show us, sir. I'm a stranger here."

"Oh! This is too much!" the Honourable Bob cried, finding himself on a sudden a family man. "Go? I don't care if you go to-" But there he paused. He put the temptation to tell them to go to blazes from him. After all, they were Mary's servants. "Oh, very well! Very well!" he resumed, fuming. "There, get in! Get in!" indicating the hackney-coach. "And do you," he continued, turning to Thomas, "tell him to drive to the White Lion. Was there ever? That old woman's a neat artist, if ever I saw one!"

And a moment later Flixton trundled off, boxed in with the mature maid, and vowing to himself that in all his life he had never been so diddled before.

Meanwhile, within doors-for farce and tragedy are never far apart-Mary, with her furs loosened, but not removed, was resisting all Miss Sibson's efforts to restrain her. "I must go to her!" she said with painful persistence. "I must go to her at once, if you please, Miss Sibson. Where is she?"

"She is not here," Miss Sibson said, plump and plain.

"Not here!" Mary cried, springing from the chair into which Miss Sibson had compelled her. "Not here!"

"No. Not in this house."

"Then why-why did she tell me to come here?" Mary cried dumbfounded.

"Her ladyship is next door. No, my dear!" And Miss Sibson interposed her ample form between Mary and the door. "You cannot go to her until you have eaten and drunk. She does not expect you, and there is no need of such haste. She may live a fortnight, three weeks, a month even! And she must not, my dear, see you with that sad face."

Mary gave way at that. She sat down and burst into tears.

The schoolmistress knew nothing of the encounter in Parliament Street, nothing of the meeting on the coach. But she was a sagacious woman, and she discerned something more than the fatigue of the journey, something more than grief for her mother, in the girl's depression. She said nothing, however, contenting herself with patting her guest on the shoulder and gently removing her wraps and shoes. Then she set a footstool for her in front of the fire and poured out her tea, and placed hot sweetbread before her, and toast, and Sally Lunn. And when Mary, touched by her kindness, flung her arms round her neck and kissed her, she said only, "That's better, my dear, drink your tea, and then I will tell you all I know."

"I cannot eat anything."

"Oh, yes, you can! After that you are going to see your mother, and then you will come back and take a good night's rest. To-morrow you will do as you like. Her ladyship is with an old servant next door, through whom she first heard of me."