Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  The House was utterly weary. The leaders on both sides were reserving their strength for the final debate, and Vaughan had some hope that he might find an opening to speak with effect. With this in his mind he was on his way across the Park about three in the afternoon, conning his peroration, when a hand was clapped on his shoulder, and he turned to find himself face to face with Flixton.

  So much had happened since they stood together on the hustings at Chippinge, Vaughan’s fortunes had changed so greatly since they had parted in anger in Queen’s Square, that he, at any rate, had no thought of bearing malice. To Flixton’s “Well, my hearty, you’re a neat artist, ain’t you? Going to the House, I take it?” he gave a cordial answer.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s it.”

  “Bringing ruination on the country, eh?” Flixton continued. And he passed his arm through Vaughan’s, and walked on with him. “That’s the ticket?”

  “Some say so, but I hope not.”

  “Hope’s a cock that won’t fight, my boy!” the Honourable Bob rejoined. “Fact is, you’re doing your best, only the House of Lords is in the way, and won’t let you! They’ll pull you up sweetly by and by, see if they don’t!”

  “And what will the country say to that?” Vaughan rejoined good-humouredly.

  “Country be d —— d! That’s what all your chaps are saying. And I tell you what! That book-in-breeches man — what do you call him — Macaulay? — ought to be pulled up! He ought indeed! I read one of his farragoes the other day and it was full of nothing but ‘Think long, I beg, before you thwart the public will!’ and ‘The might of an angered people!’ and ‘Let us beware of rousing!’ and all that rubbish! Meaning, my boy, only he didn’t dare to say it straight out, that if the Lords did not give way to you chaps, there’d be a revolution; and the deuce to pay! And I say he ought to be in the dock. He’s as bad as old Brereton down in Bristol, predicting fire and flames and all the rest of it.”

  “But you cannot deny, Flixton,” Vaughan answered soberly, “that the country is excited as we have never known it excited before? And that a rising is not impossible!”

  “A rising! I wish we could see one! That’s just what we want,” the Honourable Bob answered, stopping and bringing his companion to a sudden stand also. “Eh? Who was that old Roman — Poppæa, or some name like that, who said he wished the people had all one head that he might cut it off?” suiting the action to the word with his cane. “A rising, begad? The sooner the better! The old Fourteenth would know how to deal with it!”

  “I don’t know,” Vaughan answered, “that you would be so confident if you were once face to face with it!”

  “Oh, come! Don’t talk nonsense!”

  “Well, but — —”

  “Oh, I know all that! But I say, old chap,” he continued, changing his tone, and descending abruptly from the political to the personal situation, “You’ve played your cards badly, haven’t you? Eh?”

  Vaughan fancied that he referred to Mary; or at best to his quarrel with Sir Robert. And he froze visibly, “I won’t discuss that,” he said in a different tone. And he moved on again.

  “But I was there the evening you had the row!”

  “At Stapylton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?” stiffly.

  “And, lord, man, why didn’t you sing a bit small? And the old gentleman would have come round in no time!”

  Vaughan halted, with anger in his face. “I won’t discuss it!” he said with something of violence in his tone.

  “Very well, very well!” Flixton answered with the superabundant patience of the man whose withers are not wrung. “But when you did get your seat — why didn’t you come to terms with someone?” with a wink. “As it is, what’s the good of being in the House three months, or six months — and out again?”

  Vaughan wished most heartily that he had not met the Honourable Bob; who, he remembered, had always possessed, hearty and jovial as he seemed, a most remarkable knack of rubbing him the wrong way. “How do you know?” he asked with a touch of contempt — was he, a rising Member of Parliament to be scolded after this fashion?— “How do you know that I shall be out?”

  “You’ll be out, if it’s Chippinge you are looking to!”

  “Why, if you please, my friend? Why so sure?”

  Flixton winked with deeper meaning than before. “Ah, that’s telling,” he said. “Still — why not? If you don’t hear it from me, old chap, you’ll soon hear it from someone. Why, you ask? Well, because a little bird whispered to me that Chippinge was — arranged! That Sir Robert and the Whigs understood one another, and whichever way it went it would not come your way!”

  Vaughan reddened deeply. “I don’t believe it,” he said bluntly.

  “Did you know that Chippinge was going to be spared?”

  “No.”

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Ah!” shrugging his shoulders, with a world of meaning, and preparing to turn away. “Well, other people did, and there it is. I may be wrong, I hope I am, old chap. Hope I am! But anyway — I must be going. I turn here. See you soon, I hope!”

  And with a wave of the hand the Honourable Bob marched off through Whitehall, his face breaking into a mischievous grin as soon as he was out of Vaughan’s sight. “Return hit for your snub, Miss Mary!” he muttered. “If you prick me, at least I can prick him! And do him good, too! He was always a most confounded prig.”

  Meanwhile, Vaughan, freed from his companion, was striding on past Downing Street; the old street, long swept away, in which Walpole lived, and to which the dying Chatham was carried. And unconsciously, under the spur of his angry thoughts, he quickened his pace. It was incredible, it was inconceivable that so monstrous an injustice had been planned, or could be perpetrated. He, who had stepped into the breach, well-nigh in his own despite, he, who had refused, so scrupulous had he been, to stand on a first invitation, he, who had been elected almost against his will, was, for all thanks, to be set aside, and by his friends! By those whose unsolicited act it had been to return him and to put him into this position! It was impossible, he told himself. It was unthinkable! Were this true, were this a fact, the meanness of political life had reached its apogee! The faithlessness of the Whigs, their incredible treachery to their dependants, could need no other exemplar!

  “I’ll not bear it! By Heaven, I’ll not bear it!” he muttered. And as he spoke, striding along in the hurry of his spirits as if he carried a broom and swept the whole Whig party before him, he overtook no less a person than Sergeant Wathen, who had been lunching at the Athenæum.

  The Sergeant heard his voice and turning, saw who it was. He fancied that Vaughan had addressed him. “I beg your pardon,” he said politely. “I did not catch what you said, Mr. Vaughan.”

  For a moment Vaughan glowered at him, as if he would sweep him from his path, along with the Whigs. Then out of the fullness of the heart the mouth spoke. “Mr. Sergeant,” he said, in a not very friendly tone, “do you know anything of an agreement disposing of the future representation of Chippinge?”

  The Sergeant who knew all under the rose, looked shrewdly at his companion to see, if possible, what he knew. And, to gain time, “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I don’t think I — quite understand you.”

  “I am told,” Vaughan said haughtily, “that an agreement has been made to avoid a contest at Chippinge.”

  “Do you mean,” the Sergeant asked blandly, “at the next election, Mr. Vaughan?”

  “At future elections!”

  The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “As a member,” he said primly, “I take care to know nothing of such agreements. And I would recommend you, Mr. Vaughan, to adopt that rule. For the rest,” he added, with a candid smile, “I give you fair warning that I shall contest the seat. May I ask who was your informant?”

  “Mr. Flixton.”

  “Flixton? Flixton? Ah! The gentleman who is to marry Miss Vermuyden! Well, I can onl
y repeat that I, at any rate, am no party to such an agreement.”

  His sly look which seemed to deride his companion’s inexperience, said as plainly as a look could say, “You find the game of politics less simple than you thought?” And at another time it would have increased Vaughan’s ire. But as one pellet drives out another, the Sergeant’s reference to Miss Vermuyden had in a second driven the prime subject from his mind. He did not speak for a moment. Then with his face averted, “Is Mr. Flixton — going to marry Miss Vermuyden?” he asked, in a muffled tone. “I had not heard of it.”

  “I only heard it yesterday,” the Sergeant answered, not unwilling to shelve the other topic. “But it is rumoured, and I believe it is true. Quite a romance, wasn’t it?” he continued airily. “Quite a nine days’ wonder! But” — he pulled himself up— “I beg your pardon! I was forgetting how nearly it concerned you. Dear me, dear me! It is a fair wind indeed that blows no one any harm!”

  Vaughan made no reply. He could not speak for the hard beating of his heart. Wathen saw that there was something wrong and looked at him inquisitively. But the Sergeant had not the clue, and could only suspect that the marriage touched the other, because issue of it would entirely bar his succession. And no more was said. As they crossed New Palace Yard, a member drew the Sergeant aside, and Vaughan went up alone to the lobby.

  But all thought of speaking was flown from his mind; nor did the thinness of the House when he entered tempt him. There were hardly more than a hundred present; and these were lolling here and there with their hats on, half asleep it seemed, in the dull light of a September afternoon. A dozen others looked sleepily from the galleries, their arms flattened on the rail, their chins on their arms. There were a couple of ministers on the Treasury Bench, and Lord John Russell was moving the third reading. No one seemed to take much interest in the matter; a stranger entering at the moment would have learned with amazement that this was the mother of parliaments, the renowned House of Commons; and with still greater amazement would he have learned that the small, boyish-looking gentleman in the high-collared coat, and with lips moulded on Cupid’s bow, who appeared to be making some perfunctory remarks upon the weather, or the state of the crops, was really advancing by an important stage the famous Bill, which had convulsed three kingdoms and was destined to change the political face of the land.

  Lord John sat down presently, thrusting his head at once into a packet of papers, which the gloom hardly permitted him to read. A clerk at the table mumbled something; and a gentleman on the other side of the House rose and began to speak. He had not uttered many sentences, however, before the members on the Reform benches awoke, not only to life, but to fury. Stentorian shouts of “Divide! Divide!” rendered the speaker inaudible; and after looking towards the door of the House more than once he sat down, and the House went to a division. In a few minutes it was known that the Bill had been read a third time, by 113 to 58.

  But the foreign gentleman would have made a great mistake had he gone away, supposing that Lord John’s few placid words — and not those spiteful shouts — represented the feelings of the House. In truth the fiercest passions were at work under the surface. Among the fifty-eight who shrugged their shoulders and accepted the verdict in gloomy silence were some primed with the fiercest invective; and others, tongue-tied men, who nevertheless honestly believed that Lord John Russell was a republican, and Althorp a fool; who were certain that the Whigs wittingly or unwittingly were working the destruction of the country, were dragging her from the pride of place to which a nicely-balanced Constitution had raised her, and laying her choicest traditions at the feet of the rabble. Men who believed such things, and saw the deed done before their eyes, might accept their doom in silence — even as the King of old went silently to the Banquet Hall hard by — but not with joy or easy hearts!

  Vaughan, therefore, was not the only one who walked into the lobby that evening, brooding darkly on his revenge. Yet, even he behaved himself as men, so bred, so trained do behave themselves. He held his peace. And no one dreamed, not even Orator Hunt, who sat not far from him under the shadow of his White Hat, that this well-conducted young gentleman was revolving thoughts of the Social Order, and of the Party System, and of most things which the Church Catechism commends, beside which that terrible Radical’s own opinions were mere Tory prejudices. The fickleness of women! The treachery of men! Oh, Aetna bury them! Oh, Ocean overwhelm them! Let all cease together and be no more! But give me sweet, oh, sweet, oh, sweet Revenge!

  XXV

  AT STAPYLTON

  It was about a week before his encounter with Vaughan in the park — and on a fine autumn day — that the Honourable Bob, walking with Sir Robert by the Garden Pool, allowed his eyes to travel over the prospect. The smooth-shaven lawns, the stately, lichened house, the far-stretching park, with its beech-knolls and slopes of verdure, he found all fair; and when to these, when to the picture on which his bodily eyes rested, that portrait of Mary — Mary, in white muslin and blue ribbons, bowing her graceful head while Sir Robert read prayers — which he carried in his memory, he told himself that he was an uncommonly happy fellow.

  Beauty he might have had, wealth he might have had, family too. But to alight on all in such perfection, to lose his heart where his head approved the step, was a gift of fortune so rare, that as he strutted and talked by the side of his host, his face beamed with ineffable good-humour.

  Nevertheless for a few moments silence had fallen between the two; and gradually Sir Robert’s face had assumed a grave and melancholy look. He sighed more than once, and when he spoke, it was to repeat in different words what he had already said.

  “Certainly, you may speak,” he said, in a tone of some formality. “And I have little doubt, Mr. Flixton, that your overtures will be received as they deserve.”

  “Yes? Yes? You think so?” Flixton answered with manifest delight. “You really think so, Sir Robert, do you?”

  “I think so,” his host replied. “Not only because your suit is in every way eligible, and one which does us honour.” He bowed courteously as he uttered the compliment. “But because, Mr. Flixton, for docility — and I think a husband may congratulate himself on the fact — —”

  “To be sure! To be sure!” Flixton cried, not permitting him to finish. “Yes, Sir Robert, capital! You mean that if I am not a happy man — —”

  “It will not be the fault of your wife,” Sir Robert said; remembering with a faint twinge of conscience that the Honourable Bob’s past had not been without its histories.

  “No! By gad, Sir Robert, no! You’re quite right! She’s got an ank — —” He stopped abruptly, his mouth open; bethinking himself, when it was almost too late, that her father was not the person to whom to detail her personal charms.

  But Sir Robert had not divined the end of the sentence. He was a trifle deaf. “Yes?” he said.

  “She’s an — an — animated manner, I was going to say,” Flixton answered with more readiness than fervour. And he blessed himself for his presence of mind.

  “Animated? Yes, but gentle also,” Sir Robert replied, well-nigh purring as he did so. “I should say that gentleness, and — and indeed, my dear fellow, goodness, were the — but perhaps I am saying more than I should.”

  “Not at all!” Flixton answered with heartiness. “Gad, I could listen to you all day, Sir Robert.”

  He had listened, indeed, during a large part of the last week; and with so much effect, that those histories to which reference has been made, had almost faded from the elder man’s mind. Flixton seemed to him a hearty, manly young fellow, a little boastful and self-assertive perhaps — but remarkably sound. A soldier, who asked nothing better than to put down the rabble rout which was troubling the country; a Tory, of precisely his, Sir Robert’s opinions; the younger son of a peer, and a West Country peer to boot. In fine, a staunch, open-air patrician, with good old-fashioned instincts, and none of that intellectual conceit, none of those cranks, and fads, and follies
, which had ruined a man who also might have been Sir Robert’s son-in-law.

  Well that man, Sir Robert, perhaps because his conscience pricked him at times by suggesting impossible doubts, was still bitterly angry. So angry that, had the Baronet been candid, he must have acknowledged that the Honourable Bob’s main virtue was his unlikeness to Arthur Vaughan; it was in proportion as he differed from the young fellow who had so meanly intrigued to gain his daughter’s affections, that Flixton appeared desirable to the father. Even those histories proved that at any rate he had blood in him; while his loud good-nature, his positiveness, as long as it marched with Sir Robert’s positiveness, his short views, all gained by contrast. “I am glad he is a younger son,” the Baronet thought. “He shall take the old Vermuyden name!” And he lifted his handsome old chin a little higher as he pictured the honours, that even in a changed and worsened England, might cluster about his house. At the worst, and if the Bill passed, he had a seat alternately with the Lansdownes; and in a future, which would know nothing of Lord Lonsdale’s cat-o’-nine-tails, when pocket boroughs would be rare, and great peers and landowners would be left with scarce a representative, much might be done with half a seat.

  Suddenly, “Damme, Sir Robert,” Flixton cried, “there is the little beauty — hem! — there she is, I think. With your permission I think I’ll join her.”

  “By all means, by all means,” Sir Robert answered indulgently. “You need not stand on ceremony.”