Weyman Stanley John
Chippinge Borough

XIV
MISS SIBSON'S MISTAKE

It was perhaps fortunate for Miss Hilhouse that she did not hazard any remarks on that second escapade in the Square. Whether this amendment in her manners was due to Miss Sibson's apothegms, or to the general desire of the school to see the new teacher's new pelisse-which could only be gratified by favour-or to a threatening rigidity in Mary Smith's bearing must remain a question. But children are keen observers. Their senses are as sharp as their tongues are cruel. And it is certain that Miss Smith had not read four lines of the fifth chapter of The Fairchild Family before a certain sternness in her tone was noted by those who had not already marked the danger signal in her eyes. For the gentlest eyes can dart lightnings on occasion. The sheep will turn in defence of its lamb. Nor ever walked woman who could not fight for her secret and her pride.

So Miss Hilhouse bit her tongue and kept silence, the girls behaved beautifully, and Mary read The Fairchild Family to them in a tone of monotony that perfectly reflected the future as she saw it. She had been very foolish, and very weak, but she was not without excuse. He had saved her life, she could plead that. True, brought up as she had been at Clapham, shielded from all dealings with the other sex, taught to regard them as wolves, or at best as a race with which she could have no safe parley, she should have known better. She should have known that handsome, courteous, masterful-eyed, as they were-and with a way with them that made poor girls' hearts throb at one moment and stand still at another-she should have known that they meant nothing. That they were still men, and that she must not trust them, must not think of them, must not expect to find them more steadfast to a point than the weather-cock on St. Mary's at Redcliffe.

The weather-cock? Ah!

She had no sooner framed the thought in the middle of the reading than she was aware of a sensation; and a child, one of the youngest, raised her hand. "Please-"

Mary paused.

"Yes?" she asked. "What is it?"

"Please, Miss Smith, did the weather-cock speak?"

Mary reddened violently.

"Speak? The weather-cock? What do you mean, child?"

"Please, Miss Smith, you said that the weather-cock told Lucy the truth, the truth, and all the truth."

"Impossible!" Mary stammered. "I-I should have said, the coachman." And Mary resumed the story, but with a hot face; a face that blushed more painfully and more intolerably because she was conscious that every eye was upon it, and that a score of small minds were groping for the cause of her confusion.

She remembered, oh, how well she remembered, that the schoolmistress at Clapham had told her that she had every good quality except strength of will. And how thoroughly, how rapidly had she proved the truth of the exception! Freed from control for only twenty-four hours, left for that time to her own devices, she had listened to the first voice that addressed her, believed the first flattering look that fell on her, taken the most ordinary attentions-attentions at which any girl with knowledge of the world or strength of will would have smiled-for gold, real red gold! So that a light look without a spoken word had drawn her heart from her. How it behoved her to despise herself, loathe herself, discipline herself! How she ought to guard herself in the future! Above all, how thankful should she be for the dull but safe routine that fenced, and henceforth would fence, her life from such dangers!

True. Yet how dreary to her young eyes seemed that routine stretched before her! How her courage fainted at the prospect of morning added to morning, formal walk to formal walk, lesson to lesson, one generation of pupils to another! For generation would follow generation, one chubby face would give place to another, and still she would be there, plodding through the stale task, listening with an aching head to the strumming on the harpsichord, saying the same things, finding the same faults, growing slowly into a correcting, scolding, punishing machine. By and by she would know The Fairchild Family by heart, and she would sicken at the "Letters on the Improvement of the Mind." The children would still be young, but grey hairs would come to her, she would grow stout and dull; and those slender hands, those dainty fingers still white and fine, still meet for love, would be seared by a million needle-pricks and roughened by the wear and tear of ten thousand hours of plain sewing.

She was ungrateful, oh, she was ungrateful to think such thoughts! For in what was her lot worse than the lot of others? Or worse than it had been a week before when, who more humble-minded or contented, more cheerful or helpful than Mary Smith? When her only fault had been a weakness of character which her old schoolmistress hoped would be cured by time? When, though the shadow of an unknown Miss Sibson loomed formidable before her, she had faced her fate bravely and hopefully, supported not a little by the love and good wishes-won by a thousand kind offices-which went with her into the unknown world.

What had happened in the meantime? A little thing, oh, a very little thing. But to think of it under the childrens' eyes made her face burn again. She had lost her heart-to a man. To a man! The very word seemed improper in that company. How much more improper when the man cared nothing for her, but tossing her a smile for guerdon, had taken her peace of mind and gone his way, with a laugh. At the best, if he had ever dreamt seriously of her, ever done more than deem her an innocent, easily flattered and as lightly to be won, he had changed his mind as quickly as a weather-cock shifts in April. And he had talked-that hurt her, that hurt her most! He had talked of her freely, boasted of her silliness, told his companions what he would do, or what he would not do; made her common to them!

She got away for a few minutes at tea-time. But twenty pairs of eyes followed her from the room and seized on her as she returned. And "Miss Smith, ain't you well?" piped a tiny treble.

She was controlling her voice to answer-that she was quite well, when Miss Sibson intervened. "Miss Fripp," she said sombrely, "write 'Are you not,' twenty times on your slate after tea! Miss Hilhouse, if you stare in that fashion you will be goggle-eyed. Young ladies, elbows, elbows! Have I not told you a score of times that the art of deportment consists in the right use of the elbow? Now, Miss Claxton, in what does the art of deportment consist?"

"In the right use of the elbow, Ma'am."

"And what is the right use of the elbow?"

"To efface it, Ma'am."

"That is better," Miss Sibson replied, somewhat mollified. "Understood is half done. Miss Smith," looking about her with benevolence, "had you occasion to commend any young lady's needle this afternoon?"

Miss Smith looked unhappy: conscious that she had not been as attentive to her duties as became her. "I had no occasion to find fault, Ma'am," she said timidly.

"Very good. Then every fourth young lady beginning at my right hand may take a piece of currant cake. I see that Miss Burges is wearing the silver medal for good conduct. She may take a piece, and give a piece to a friend. When you have eaten your cake you may go to the schoolroom and play for half an hour at Blind Man's Buff. But-elbows! Elbows, young ladies," gazing austerely at them over her glasses. "In all your frolics let deportment be your first consideration."

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!"

"I shall say, Mr. Pybus-"

"I beg you to hear me out!"

Vaughan shrugged his shoulders.

"Go on!" he said. "I have said my say, and I suppose you understand me."

"I shall hold it unsaid," Mr. Pybus rejoined warmly, "until I have spoken!" And he waved an agitated finger in the air. "Observe, Mr. Vaughan-his lordship bade me take you entirely into confidence, and I do so. We've only one candidate-Mr. Wrench. Colonel Petty is sure of his election in Ireland and we've no mind to stand a second contest to fill his seat: in fact we are not going to nominate him. Lord Kerry, my lord's eldest son thought of it, but it is not a certainty, and my lord wishes him to wait a year or two and sit for Calne. I say it's not a certainty. But it's next door to a certainty since you have declared yourself. And my lord's view, Mr. Vaughan, is that he who hits the buck should have the haunch. You take me?"

"Indeed, I don't."

"Then I'll be downright, sir. To the point, sir. Will you be our candidate?"

"What?" Vaughan cried. He turned very red. "What do you mean?"

"What I said, sir. Will you be our candidate? For the Bill, the whole Bill, and nothing but the Bill? If so, we shall not say a word until to-morrow and then we shall nominate you with Mr. Wrench, and take 'em by surprise. Eh? Do you see? They've got their speeches ready full of my lord's interference and my lord's dictation, and they will point to Colonel Petty, my lord's cousin, for proof! And then," Mr. Pybus winked, much after the fashion of a mischievous paroquet, "we'll knock the stool from under 'em by nominating you! And, mind you, Mr. Vaughan, we are going to win. We were hopeful before, for we've one of their men in gaol, and another, Pillinger of the Blue Duck, is tied by the leg. His wife owes a bit of money and thinks more of fifty guineas in her own pocket than of thirty pounds a year in her husband's. And she and the doctor have got him in bed and will see that he's not well enough to vote! Ha! Ha! So there it is, Mr. Vaughan! There it is! My lord's offer, not mine. I believe he'd word from London what you'd be likely to do. Only he felt a delicacy about moving-until you declared yourself."

"I see," Vaughan replied. And indeed he did see more than he liked.

"Just so, sir. My lord's a gentleman if ever there was one!" And Mr. Pybus, pulling down his waistcoat, looked as if he suspected that he had imbibed much of his lordship's gentility.

Vaughan stood, thinking; his eyes gazing into the shimmering depths of green where the branches of the chestnut tree under which he stood swept the sun-kissed turf. And as he thought he tried to still the turmoil in his brain. Here within reach of his hand, to take or leave, was that which had been his ambition for years! No longer to play at the game, no longer to make believe while he addressed the Forum or the Academic that he was addressing the Commons of England; but verily and really to be one of that august body, and to have all within reach. Had not the offer of cabinet honours fallen to Lord Palmerston at twenty-five? And what Lord Palmerston had done at twenty-five, he might do at thirty-five! And more easily, if he gained a footing before the crowd of new members whom the Bill would bring in, took the floor. The thought set his pulse a-gallop. His chance! His chance at last! But if he let it slip now, it might not be his for long years. It is poor work waiting for dead men's shoes.

And yet he hesitated, with a flushed face. For the thing offered without price or preface, by a man who had power to push him, by the man who even now was pushing Mr. Macaulay at Calne, tempted him sorely. Nor less-nor less because he remembered with bitterness that Sir Robert had made him no such offer, and now never would! So that if he refused this offer, he could look for no second from either side!

And yet he could not forget that Sir Robert was his kinsman, was the head of his family, the donor of his vote. And in the night watches he had decided that, his mind delivered, his independence declared, he would not vote. Neither for Sir Robert-for conscience's sake; nor against Sir Robert, for his name's sake!

Then how could he not only take an active part against him, but raise his fortunes on his fall?

He drew a deep breath. And he put the temptation from him. "I am much obliged to his lordship," he said quietly. "But I cannot accept his offer."

"Not accept it?" Mr. Pybus cried. "Mr. Vaughan! You don't mean it, sir! You don't mean it! It's a safe seat! It's in your own hands, I tell you! And after last night! Besides, it is not as if you had not declared yourself."

"I cannot accept it," Vaughan repeated coldly. "I am obliged to Lord Lansdowne for his kind thought of me. I beg you to convey my thanks to him. But I cannot-in the position I occupy-accept the offer."

Mr. Pybus stared. Was it possible that the scene at the Vermuyden dinner had been a ruse? A piece of play-acting to gain his secrets? If so-he was undone! "But," he quavered with an unhappy eye, "you are in favour of the Bill, Mr. Vaughan?"

"I am.

"And-and of Reform generally, I understand?"

"Certainly."

"Then-I don't understand? Why do you refuse?"

Vaughan raised his head and looked at him with a movement which would have reminded Isaac White of Sir Robert. "That is my business," he said.

"But you see," Mr. Pybus remonstrated timidly-he was rather a crestfallen bird by this time-"I confess I was never more surprised in my life! Never! You see I've told you all our secrets."

"I shall keep them."

"Yes, but-oh dear! oh dear!" Pybus was thinking of what he had said about Mrs. Pillinger of the Blue Duck. "I-I don't know what to say," he added. "I am afraid I have been too hasty, very hasty! Very precipitate! Of course, Mr. Vaughan," he continued, "the offer would not have been made if we had not thought you certain to accept it!"

"Then," Vaughan replied with dignity, "you can consider that it has not been made. I shall not name it for certain."

"Well! Well!"

"I can say no more," Vaughan continued coldly. "Indeed, there is nothing more to be said, Mr. Pybus?"

"No," piteously, "I suppose not. If you really won't change your mind, sir?"

"I shall not do that," the young man answered. And a minute later with Mr. Pybus's faint appeals still sounding in his ears he was on the other side of the garden door, and striding down the alley, towards the King's Wall, whence making a detour he returned to the High Street.