Chippinge Borough

She did not answer him at once, and when she did it was in a tone so low as to be barely audible.

"I cannot answer that," she said. "But is it the only question? Is there not another question, Sir Robert-not what she has done, or left undone, but what you-forgive me and bear with me-have left undone, or done amiss? Are you-you clear of all spot or trespass, innocent of all blame or erring? When she came to you a young girl, a young bride-and, oh, I remember her, the sunshine was not brighter, she was a child of air rather than of earth, so fair and heedless, so capricious, and yet so innocent! – did you in the first days never lose patience? Never fail to make allowance? Never preach when wisdom would have smiled, never look grave when she longed for lightness, never scold when it had been better to laugh? Did you never forget that she was a score of years younger than you, and a hundred years more frivolous? Or" – Lady Lansdowne's tone was a mere whisper now-"if you are clear of all offence against her, are you clear of all offence against any, of all trespass? Have you no need to be forgiven, no need, no-"

Her voice died away into silence. She left the appeal unfinished.

Sir Robert paced the room. And other scenes than those on which he had taught himself to brood, other days than those later days of wasted summers and solitary winters, of dulness and decay, rose to his memory. Sombre moods by which it had pleased him-at what a cost! – to make his displeasure known. Sarcastic words, warrant for the facile retort that followed, curt judgments and ill-timed reproofs; and always the sense of outraged dignity to freeze the manner and embitter the tone.

So much, so much which he had forgotten came back to him as he walked the room with averted face! While Lady Lansdowne waited with her hand on the bell. Minutes were passing, minutes; who knew how precious they might be? And with them was passing his opportunity.

He spoke at last. "I will see her," he said huskily.

And on that Lady Lansdowne performed a last act of kindness. She said nothing, bestowed no thanks. But when Mary entered-pale, yet with that composure which love teaches the least experienced-she was gone. Nor as she drove in all the pomp of her liveries and outriders through Bath, through Corsham, through Chippenham, did those who ran out to watch my lady's four greys go by, see her face as the face of an angel. But Lady Louisa, flying down the steps to meet her-four at a time and hoidenishly-was taken to her arms, unscolded; and knew by instinct that this was the time to pet and be petted, to confess and be forgiven, and to learn in the stillness of her mother's room those thrilling lessons of life, which her governess had not imparted, nor Mrs. Fairchild approved.

But more than wisdom sees, love knows.What eye has scanned the perfume of the rose?Has any grasped the low grey mist which standsGhost-like at eve above the sheeted lands?

Meanwhile Sir Robert paused on the threshold of the room-her room, which he had first entered two-and-twenty years before. And as the then and the now, the contrast between the past and the present, forced themselves upon him, what could he do but pause and bow his head? In the room a voice, her voice, yet unlike her voice, high, weak, never ceasing, was talking as from a great distance, from another world; talking, talking, never ceasing. It filled the room. Yet it did not come from a world so distant as he at first fancied, hearing it; a world that was quite aloof. For when, after he had listened for a time in the shadow by the door, his daughter led him forward, Lady Sybil's eyes took note of their approach, though she recognised neither of them. Her mind was still busy amid the scenes of the riot; twisting and weaving them, it seemed, into a piece with old impressions of the French Terror, made on her mind in childhood by talk heard at her nurse's knee.

"They are coming! They are coming now," she muttered, her bright eyes fixed on his. "But they shall not take her. They shall not take her," she repeated. "Hide behind me, Mary. Hide, child! Don't tremble! They shan't take you. One neck's enough and mine is growing thin. It used not to be thin. But that's right. Hide, and they'll not see you, and when I am gone you'll escape. Hush! Here they are!" And then in a louder tone, "I am ready," she said, "I am quite ready."

Mary leant over her.

"Mother!" she cried, unable to bear the scene in silence. "Mother! Don't you know me?"

"Hush!" the dying woman answered, a look of terror crossing her face. "Hush, child! Don't speak! I'm ready, gentlemen; I will go with you. I am not afraid. My neck is small, and it will be but a squeeze." And she tried to raise herself in the bed.

Mary laid gentle hands on her, and restrained her. "Mother," she said. "Mother! Don't you know me? I am Mary."

But Lady Sybil, heedless of her, looked beyond her, with fear and suspicion in her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I know you. I know you. I know you. But who is-that? Who is that?"

"My father. It is my father. Don't you know him?"

But still, "Who is it? Who is it?" Lady Sybil continued to ask. "Who is it?"

Mary burst into tears.

"What does he want? What does he want? What does he want?" the dying woman asked in endless, unreasoning repetition.

Sir Robert had entered the room in the full belief that with the best of wills it would be hard, it would be well-nigh impossible to forgive; to forgive his wife with more than the lips. But when he heard her, weak and helpless as she was, thinking of another; when he understood that she who had done so great a wrong to the child was willing to give up her own life for the child; when he felt the sudden drag at his heart-strings of many an old and sacred recollection, shared only by her, and which that voice, that face, that form brought back, he fell on his knees by the bed.

She shrank from him, terrified. "What does he want?" she repeated.

"Sybil," he said, in a husky voice, "I want your forgiveness, Sybil, wife! Do you hear me? Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me, late as it is?"

Strange to say, his voice pierced the confusion which filled the sick brain. She looked at him steadily and long; and she sighed, but she did not answer.

"Sybil," he repeated in a quavering voice. "Do you not know me? Don't you remember me? I am your husband."

"Yes, I know," she muttered.

"This is your daughter."

She smiled.

"Our daughter," he repeated. "Our daughter!"

"Mary?" she murmured. "Mary?"

"Yes, Mary."

She smiled faintly on him. Mary's head was touching his, but she did not answer. She remained looking at them. They could not tell whether she understood, or was slipping away again. He took her hand and pressed it gently. "Do you hear me?" he said. "If I was harsh to you in the old days, if I made mistakes, if I wronged you, I want you-wife, say that you forgive me."

"I-forgive you," she murmured. A faint gleam of mischief, of laughter, of the old Lady Sybil, shone for an instant in her eyes, as if she knew that she had the upper hand. "I forgive you-everything," she murmured. Yes, for certain now, she was slipping away.

Mary took her other hand. But she did not speak again. And before the watch on the table beside her had ticked many times she had slipped away for good, with that gleam of triumph in her eyes-forgiving.

XXXVII

IN THE MOURNING COACH

It is a platitude that the flood is followed by the ebb. In the heat of action, and while its warmth cheered his spirits, Arthur Vaughan felt that he had done something. True, what he had done brought him no nearer to making his political dream a reality. Not for him the promise,

It shall be thine in danger's hourTo guide the helm of Britain's powerAnd midst thy country's laurelled crownTo twine a garland all thy own.

Yet he had done something. He had played the man when some others had not played the man.

But now that the crisis was over, and he had made his last round, now that he had inspected for the last time the patrols over whom he was set, seen order restored on the Welsh Back, and panic driven from Queen's Square, he owned the reaction. There is a fatigue which one night's rest fails to banish; and low in mind and tired in body, he felt, when he rose late on Tuesday afternoon, that he had done nothing worth doing; nothing that altered his position in essentials.

For a time, indeed, he had fancied that things were changed. Sir Robert had requested his assistance, and allowed him to share his search; and though it was possible that the merest stranger, cast by fortune into the same adventure, had been as welcome, it was also possible that the Baronet viewed him with a more benevolent eye. And Mary-Mary, too, had flown to his arms as to a haven; but in such a position, amid surroundings so hideous, was that wonderful? Was it not certain that she would have behaved in the same way to the merest acquaintance if he brought her aid and protection?

The answer might be yes or no! What was certain was that it could not avail him. For between him and her there stood more than her father's aversion, more than the doubt of her affection, more than the unlucky borough, of which he had despoiled Sir Robert. There were her possessions, there was the suspicion which Sir Robert had founded on them-on Mary's gain and his loss-there was the independence, which he must surrender, and which pride and principle alike forbade him to relinquish.

In the confusion of the night Vaughan had almost forgotten and quite forgiven. Now he saw that the thing, though forgotten, though forgiven, was there. He could not owe all to a man who had so misconstrued him, and who might misconstrue him again. He could not be dependent on one whose views, thoughts, prejudices, were opposed to his own. No, the night and its doing must stand apart. He and she had met, they had parted. He had one memory more, and nothing was changed.

In this mood the fact that the White Lion regarded him as a hero brought him no comfort. Neither the worshipping eyes of the young lady who had tried to dissuade him from going forth on the Sunday, nor the respectful homage which dogged his movements, uplifted him. He had small appetite for his solitary dinner, and was languidly reading the "Bristol Mercury," when a name was brought up to him, and a letter.

"Gentleman will wait your pleasure, sir," the man said.

He broke open the letter, and felt the blood rise to his face as his eyes fell on the signature. The few lines were from his cousin, and ran as follows:

"Dear Sir, – I feel it my duty to inform you, as a connection of the family, that Lady Sybil Vermuyden died at five minutes past three o'clock this afternoon. Her death, which I am led to believe could in no event have been long delayed, was doubtless hastened by the miserable occurrences of the last few days.

"I have directed Isaac White to convey this intimation to your hands, and to inform you from time to time of the arrangements made for her ladyship's funeral, which will take place at Stapylton. I have the honour to be, sir,

"Your obedient servant,"Robert Vermuyden."

Vaughan laid the letter down with a groan. As he did so he became aware that Isaac White was in the room. "Halloa, White," he said. "Is that you?"

White looked at him with unconcealed respect. "Yes, sir," he said. "Sir Robert bade me wait on you in person without delay. If I may venture," he continued, "to compliment you on my own account, sir-a very great honour to the family, Mr. Vaughan-in all the west country, I may say-"

Vaughan stopped him, and said something of Lady Sybil's death; adding that he had never seen her but once.

"Twice, begging your pardon," White answered, smiling. "Do you remember I met you at Chippenham before the election, Mr. Vaughan? Well, sir, she came up to the coach, and as good as touched your sleeve, poor lady, while I was talking to you. Of course, she knew that her daughter was on the coach."

"I learned afterwards that Lady Sybil travelled by it that day," Vaughan replied. Then with a frown he took up the letter. "Of course," he continued, "I have no intention of attending the funeral."

"But I think his honour wishes much-"

"There is no possible reason," Vaughan said doggedly.

"Pardon me, sir," White answered anxiously. "You are not aware, I am sure, how highly Sir Robert appreciates your gallant conduct yesterday. No one in Bristol can view it in a stronger light. It is a happy thing he witnessed it. He thinks, indeed, that but for you her ladyship would have died in the crowd. Moreover-"

"That's enough, White," Vaughan said coldly. "It is not so much what Sir Robert thinks now, too, as what he thought formerly."

"But indeed, sir, his honour's opinion of that matter, too-"

"That's enough, White," the young gentleman repeated, rising from his seat. He was telling himself that he was not a dog to be kicked away and called to heel again. He would forgive, but he would not return. "I don't wish to discuss the matter," he added with an air of finality.

And White did not venture to say more.

He did wisely. For Vaughan, left to himself, had not reflected two minutes before he felt that he had played the churl. To make amends, he called at the house to inquire after the ladies at an hour next morning when they could not be stirring. Having performed that duty, and having learned that no inquiry into the riots would be opened for some days-and also that a proposal to give him a piece of gold plate was under debate at the Commercial Rooms, he fled, pride and love at odds in his breast.

It is possible that in Sir Robert's heart, also, there was a battle going on. On the eve of the funeral he sat alone in the library at Stapylton, that room in which he had passed so many unhappy hours, and with which the later part of his life seemed bound up. Doubtless, as he sat, he gave solemn thought to the past and the future. The room was no longer dusty, the furniture was no longer shabby; there were fresh flowers on his table; and by his great leather chair, a smaller chair, filled within the last few minutes, had its place. Yet he could not forget what he had suffered there; how he had brooded there. And perhaps he thanked God, amid his more solemn thoughts, that he was not glad that she who had plagued him would plague him no more. All that her friend had urged in her behalf, all that was brightest and best in his memories of her, this generous whim, that quixotic act rose, it may be supposed, before him. And the picture of her fair young beauty, of her laughing face in the bridal veil or under the Leghorn, of her first words to him, of her first acts in her new home! And but that the tears of age flow hardly, it is possible that he would have wept.

Presently-perhaps he was not sorry for it-a knock came at the door and Isaac White entered. He came to take the last instructions for the morrow. A few words settled what remained to be settled, and then, after a little hesitation, "I promised to name it to you, sir," White said. "I don't know what you'll say to it. Dyas wishes to walk with the others."

Sir Robert winced. "Dyas?" he muttered.

"He says he's anxious to show his respect for the family, in every way consistent with his opinions."

"Opinions?" Sir Robert echoed. "Opinions? Good Lord! A butcher's opinions! Who knows but some day he'll have a butcher to represent him? Or a baker or a candlestick-maker! If ever they have the ballot, that'll come with it, White."

White waited, but as the other said no more, "You won't forbid him, sir?" he said, a note of appeal in his voice.

"Oh, let him come," Sir Robert answered wearily. "I suppose," he continued, striving to speak in the same tone, "you've heard nothing from his-Member?"

"From-oh, from Mr. Vaughan, sir? No, sir. But Mr. Flixton is coming."

Sir Robert muttered something under his breath, and it was not flattering to the Honourable Bob. Then he turned his chair and held his hands over the blaze. "That will do, White," he said. "That will do." And he did not look round until the agent had left the room.

But White was certain that even on this day of sad memories, with the ordeal of the morrow before him, Arthur Vaughan's attitude troubled his patron. And when, twenty-four hours later, the agent's eyes travelling round the vast assemblage which regard for the family had gathered about the grave, fell upon Arthur Vaughan, and he knew that he had repented and come, he was glad.

The young Member held himself a little apart from the small group of family mourners; a little apart also from the larger company whom respect or social ties had brought thither. Among these last, who were mostly Tories, many were surprised to see Lord Lansdowne and his son. But more, aware of the breach between Mr. Vaughan and his cousin, and of the former's peculiar position in the borough, were surprised to see him. And these, while their thoughts should have been elsewhere, stole furtive glances at the sombre figure; and when Vaughan left, still alone and without speaking to any, followed his departure with interest. In those days of mutes and crape-coloured staves, mourning cloaks and trailing palls, it was not the custom for women to bury their dead. And Vaughan, when he had made up his mind to come, knew that he ran no risk of seeing Mary.

That he might escape with greater case, he had left his post-chaise at a side-gate of the park. The moment the ceremony was over, he made his way to it, now traversing beds of fallen chestnut and sycamore leaves, now striding across the sodden turf. The solemn words which he had heard, emphasised as they were by the scene, the grey autumn day, the lonely park, and the dark groups threading their way across it, could not hold his thoughts from Mary. She would be glad that he had come. Perhaps it was for that reason that he had come.

He had passed through the gate of the park and his foot was on the step of the chaise, when he heard White's voice, calling after him. He turned and saw the agent hurrying desperately after him. White's mourning suit was tight and new and ill made for haste; and he was hot and breathless. For a moment, "Mr. Vaughan! Mr. Vaughan!" was all he could say.

Vaughan turned a reluctant, almost a stern face to him. Not that he disliked the agent, but he thought that he had got clear.

"What is it?" he asked, without removing his foot from the step.

White looked behind him. "Sir Robert, sir," he said, "has something to say to you. The carriage is following. If you'll be good enough," he continued, mopping his face, "to wait a moment!"

"Sir Robert cannot wish to see me at such a time," Vaughan answered, between wonder and impatience. "He will write, doubtless."

"The carriage should be in sight," was White's answer. As he spoke it came into view; rounding the curve of a small coppice of beech trees, it rolled rapidly down a declivity, and ascended towards them as rapidly.

A moment and it would be here. Vaughan looked uncertainly at his post-boy. He wished to catch the York House coach at Chippenham, and he had little time to spare.

It was not the loss of time, however, that he really had in his mind. But he could guess, he fancied, what Sir Robert wished to say; and he did not deny that the old man was generous in saying it at such a moment, if that were his intention. But his own mind was made up; he could only repeat what he had said to White. It was not a question of what Sir Robert had thought, or now thought, but of what he thought. And the upshot of all his thoughts was that he would not be dependent upon any man. He had differed from Sir Robert once, and the elder had treated the younger man with injustice, and contumely; that might occur again. Indeed, taking into account the difference in their political views in an age when politics counted for much, it was sure to occur again. But his mind was made up that it should not occur to him. Unhappy as the resolution made him, he would be free. He would be his own man. He would remember nothing except that that night had changed nothing.

It was with a set face, therefore, that he watched the carriage draw near. Apparently it was a carriage which had conveyed guests to the funeral, for the blinds were drawn.

"It will save time, if it takes you a mile on your way," White said, with some nervousness. "I will tell your chaise to follow." And he opened the door.

Vaughan raised his hat, and stepped in. It was only when the door was closing behind him and the carriage starting anew at a word from White, that he saw that it contained, not Sir Robert Vermuyden, but a lady.

"Mary!" he cried. The name broke from him in his astonishment.

She looked at him with self-possession, and a gentle, unsmiling gravity. She indicated the front seat, and "Will you sit there?" she said. "I can talk to you better, Mr. Vaughan, if you sit there."

He obeyed her, marvelling. The blind on the side on which she sat was raised a few inches, and in the subdued light her graceful head showed like some fair flower rising from the depth of her mourning. For she wore no covering on her head, and he might have guessed, had he had any command of his thoughts, that she had sprung as she was into the nearest carriage. Amazement, however, put him beyond thinking.

Her eyes met his seriously. "Mr. Vaughan," she said, "my presence must seem extraordinary to you. But I am come to ask you a question. Why did you tell me six months ago that you loved me if you did not?"

He was as deeply agitated as she was quiet on the surface. "I told you nothing but the truth," he said.

"No," she said.

"But yes! A hundred times, yes!" he cried.

"Then you are altered? That is it?"

"Never!" he cried. "Never!"

"And yet-things are changed? My father wrote to you, did he not, three days ago? And said as much as you could look to him to say?"

"He said-"

"He withdrew what he had uttered in an unfortunate moment. He withdrew that which, I think, he had never believed in his heart. He said as much as you could expect him to say?" she repeated, her colour mounting a little, her eyes challenging him with courageous firmness.

"He said," Vaughan answered in a low voice, "what I think it became him to say."

"You understood that his feelings were changed towards you?"

"To some extent."

She drew a deep breath and sat back. "Then it is for you to speak," she said.

But before, agitated as he was, he could speak, she leant forward again. "No," she said, "I had forgotten. I had forgotten." And the slight quivering of her lips, a something piteous in her eyes, reminded him once more, once again-and the likeness tugged at his heart-of the Mary Smith who had paused on the threshold of the inn at Maidenhead, alarmed and abashed by the bustle of the coffee-room. "I had forgotten! It is not my father you cannot forgive-it is I, who am unworthy of your forgiveness? You cannot make allowance," she continued, stopping him by a gesture, as he opened his mouth to speak, "for the weakness of one who had always been dependent, who had lived all her life under the dominion of others, who had been taught by experience that, if she would eat, she must first obey. You can make no allowance, Mr. Vaughan, for such an one placed between a father, whom it was her duty to honour, and a lover to whom she had indeed given her heart, she knew not why-but whom she barely knew, with whose life she had no real acquaintance, whose honesty she must take on trust, because she loved him? You cannot forgive her because, taught all her life to bend, she could not, she did not stand upright under the first trial of her faith?"

"No!" he cried violently. "No! No! It is not that!"

"No?" she said. "You do forgive her then? You have forgiven her? The more as to-day she is not weak. The earth is not level over my mother's grave, some may say hard things of me-but I have come to you to-day."

"God bless you!" he cried.

She drew a deep breath and sat back. "Then," she said, with a sigh as of relief, "it is for you to speak."

There was a gravity in her tone, and so complete an absence of all self-consciousness, all littleness, that he owned that he had never known her as she was, had never measured her true worth, had never loved her as she deserved to be loved. Yet-perhaps because it was all that was left to him-he clung desperately to the resolution he had formed, to the position which pride and prudence alike had bidden him to take up.