Chippinge Borough

XVI

LESS THAN A HERO

It was the evening of the day on which the meeting between Arthur Vaughan and Mr. Pybus had taken place, and from the thirty-six windows in the front of Stapylton lights shone on the dusky glades of the park; here, twinkling fairy-like over the long slope of sward that shimmered pale-green as with the ghostly reflection of dead daylight, there, shining boldly upon the clump of beeches that topped an eminence with blackness. Vaughan sat beside Isaac White in the carriage which Sir Robert had sent for him; and looking curiously forth on the demesne which would be his if he lived, he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was the old squire so sure of victory that he already illuminated his windows? Or was the house, long sparely inhabited, and opened only at rare intervals and to dull and formal parties, full now from attic to hall? Election or no election, it seemed unlikely. Yet every window, yes, every window had its light!

He was too proud to question the agent who, his errand done, and his message delivered, showed no desire to talk. More than once, indeed, in the course of their short companionship, Vaughan had caught White looking at him strangely; with something like pity in his eyes. And though the young man was far from letting this distress him-probably White, with his inborn reverence for Sir Robert, despaired of all who fell under his displeasure-it closed his lips and hardened his heart. He was no paid servant; but a kinsman and the heir. And he would have Sir Robert remember this. For his own part, he was not going to forget who he was; that a Chancellor had stooped to flatter him and a Cabinet Minister had offered him a seat. He had refused for a point of honour a bait which few would have refused; and he was not going to be browbeaten by an old gentleman whom the world had out-paced, and whose beliefs, whose prejudices, whose views, were of yesterday. Who, in his profound ignorance of present conditions, would plunge England into civil war rather than resign a privilege as obsolete as ship-money, and as illegal as the Dispensing Power.

While he thought of this the carriage stopped at the door. He alighted and ascended the steps.

The hall more than made good the outside promise; it was brilliantly lighted, and behind Mapp and the servant who received him Vaughan had a passing glimpse of three or four men in full-dress livery. From the dining-room on his left issued peals of laughter, and voices, so clear that, though he had not the smallest reason to expect to hear them there, he was sure that he caught Bob Flixton's tones. The discovery was not pleasing; but Mapp, turning the other way and giving him no time to think, went before him to the suite of state-rooms-which he had not seen in use more than thrice within his knowledge of the house. It must be so then-he thought with a slight shock of surprise. The place must be full! For the gilt mirrors in both the large and small drawing-rooms reflected the soft light of many candles, wood fires burned and crackled on the hearths, the "Morning Chronicle," the "Quarterly," and other signs of life lay about on the round tables, and an air of cheerful bienséance pervaded all. What did it mean?

"Sir Robert has finished dinner, sir," Mapp said-even he seemed to wear an unusual air of solemnity. "He will be with you, sir, immediately. Hope you are well, sir?"

"Quite well, Mapp, thank you."

Then he was left alone-to wonder if a second surprise awaited him. He had had one that day. If a second were in store for him what was its nature? Could Sir Robert on his side be going to offer him one of the seats-if he would recant? He hoped not. But he had not time to give more than a thought to that before he heard footsteps and voices crossing the hall. The next moment there entered the outer room-at such a distance from the hearth of the room in which he stood, that he had a leisurely view of all before they reached him-three persons. The first was a tall burly man in slovenly evening clothes, and with an ungainly rolling walk; after him came Sir Robert himself, and after him again, Isaac White.

Vaughan advanced a step or two, and Sir Robert passed by the burly man, who had a pendulous under lip, and a face at once flabby and melancholy. The baronet held out his hand. "We have not quarrelled yet, Mr. Vaughan," he said, with a cordiality which took Vaughan quite by surprise. "I trust and believe that we are not going to quarrel. I bid you welcome therefore. This," he continued with a gesture of courteous deference, "is Sir Charles Wetherell, whom you know by reputation, and whom, for a reason which you will understand by and by, I have asked to be present at our interview."

The stout man eyed Vaughan from under bushy eyebrows. "I think we have met before," he said in a deep voice. "At Westminster, Mr. Vaughan, on the 22nd of last month." He had a habit of blinking as he talked. "I was beholden to you on that occasion."

Vaughan had already recognised him and recalled the incident in Palace Yard. He bowed with an expression of silent sympathy. But he wondered all the more. The presence of the late attorney-general, a man of mark in the political world, whose defeat at Norwich was in that morning's paper-what did it mean? Did they think to browbeat him? Or-had Sir Charles Wetherell also an offer to make to him? In any event it seemed that he had made himself a personage by his independence. Sought by the one side, sought by the other! A résumé of the answer he would give flashed before him. However, they were not come to that yet!

"Will you sit down," said Sir Robert. The great man's voice and manner-to Vaughan's surprise-were less autocratic and more friendly than he had ever known them. Indeed, in comparison of the lion of last evening he was but a mouse. "In the first place," he continued, "I am obliged to you for your compliance with my wishes."

Vaughan murmured that he had come at no inconvenience to himself.

"I hope not," Sir Robert replied. "In the next place let me say, that we have to speak to you on a matter of the first importance; a matter also on which we have the advantage of knowledge which you have not. It is my desire, therefore, to admit you to a parity with us in that respect, Mr. Vaughan, before you express yourself on any subject on which we are likely to differ."

Vaughan looked keenly, almost suspiciously at him; and an observer would have noticed that there was a closer likeness between the two men than the slender tie of blood warranted. "If it is a question, Sir Robert," he said slowly, "of the subject on which we differed last evening, I would prefer to say at once-"

"Don't!" Wetherell, who was seated within a long reach of him, struck in. "Don't!" And he laid an elephantine and not over-clean hand on Vaughan's knee. "You can spill words as easy as water," he continued, "and they are as hard to pick up again. Hear what Vermuyden has to say, and what I've to say-'tisn't much-and then blow your trumpet-if you've any breath left!" he added sotto voce, as he threw himself back.

Vaughan hesitated a moment. Then, "Very good," he said, "if you will hear me afterwards. But-"

"But and If are two wenches always raising trouble!" Wetherell cried coarsely. "Do you listen, Mr. Vaughan. Do you listen. Now, Vermuyden, go on."

But Sir Robert did not seem to have words at command. He took a pinch of snuff from the gold box with which his fingers trifled: and he opened his mouth to resume; but he hesitated. At length, "What I have to tell you, Mr. Vaughan," he said, in a voice more diffident than usual, "had perhaps been more properly told by my attorney to yours. I fully admit that," dusting the snuff from his frill. "And it would have been so told but for-but for exigencies not immediately connected with it, which are nevertheless so pressing as to-to induce me to take the one step immediately possible. Less regular, but immediately possible! In spite of this, you will believe, I am sure, that I do not wish to take any advantage of you other than," he paused with an embarrassed look at Wetherell, "that which my position gives me. For the rest I" – he looked again at his snuffbox and hesitated-"I think-I-"

"You'd better come to the point!" Wetherell growled impatiently, jerking his ungainly person back in his chair, and lurching forward again. "To the point, man! Shall I tell him?"

Sir Robert straightened himself-with a sigh of relief. "If you please," he said, "I think you had better. It-it may come better from you, as you are not interested."

Vaughan looked from one to the other, and wondered what on earth they meant, and what they would be at. His cordial reception followed by this strange exordium, the preparations, the presence of the three men seated about him and all, it seemed, ill at ease-these things begot instinctive misgivings; and an uneasiness, which it was not in the power of reason to hold futile. What were they meditating? What threat, what inducement? And what meant this strange illumination of the house, this air of festivity? It could be nothing to him. And yet-but Wetherell was speaking.

"Mr. Vaughan," he said gruffly-and he swayed himself as was his habit to and fro in his seat, "my friend here, and your kinsman, has made a discovery of-of the utmost possible importance to him; and, speaking candidly, of scarcely less importance to you. I don't know whether you read the trash they call novels now-a-days-'The Disowned'" with a snort of contempt, "and 'Tremayne' and the rest? I hope not, I don't! But it's something devilish like the stuff they put in them that I've to tell you. You'll believe it or not, as you please. You think yourself heir to the Stapylton estates? Of course you do. Sir Robert has no more than a life-interest, and if he has no children, the reversion in fee, as we lawyers call it, is yours. Just so. But if he has children, son or daughter, you are ousted, Mr. Vaughan."

"Are you going to tell me," Vaughan said, his face grown suddenly rigid, "that he has children?" His heart was beating furiously under his waistcoat, but, taken aback as he was, he maintained outward composure.

"That's it," Wetherell answered bluntly.

"Then-"

"He has a daughter."

"It will have to be proved!" Vaughan said slowly and in the tone of a man who chose his words. And he rose to his feet. He felt, perhaps he was justified in feeling, that they had taken him at a disadvantage. That they had treated him unfairly in trapping him hither, one to three; in order that they might see, perhaps, how he took it! Not-his thoughts travelled rapidly over the facts known to him-that the thing could be true! The punishment for last night's revolt fell too pat, too à propos, he'd not believe it! And besides, it could not be true. For Lady Vermuyden lived, and there could be no question of a concealed marriage, or a low-born family. "It will have to be proved!" he repeated firmly. "And is matter rather for my lawyers than for me."

Sir Robert, too, had risen to his feet. But it was Wetherell who spoke.

"Perhaps so!" he said. "Perhaps so. Indeed I admit it, young sir! It will have to be proved. But-"

"It should have been told to them rather than to me!" Vaughan repeated, with a sparkling eye. And he turned as if he were determined to treat them as hostile and to have nothing farther to say to them.

But Wetherell stopped him. "Stay, young man," he said, "and be ashamed of yourself! You forget yourself!" And before Vaughan, stung and angry, could retort upon him, "You forget," he continued, "that this touches another as closely as it touches you-and more closely! You are a gentleman, sir, and Sir Robert's kinsman. Have you no word then, for him!" pointing, with a gesture roughly eloquent, to his host. "You lose, but have you no word for him who gains! You lose, but is it nothing to him that he finds himself childless no longer, heirless no longer? That his house is no longer lonely, his hearth no longer empty! Man alive," he added, dropping with honest indignation to a low note, "you lose, but what does he not gain? And have you no word, no generous thought for him? Bah!" throwing himself back in his seat. "Poor human nature."

"Still it must be proved," said Vaughan sullenly, though in his heart he acknowledged the truth of the reproach.

"Granted! But will you not hear what it is, that is to be proved?" Wetherell retorted. "If so, sit down, sir, sit down, and hear what we have to tell you like a man. Will you do that," in a tone of extreme exasperation, which did but reflect the slowly hardening expression of Sir Robert's face, "or are you quite a fool?"

Vaughan hesitated, looking with angry eyes on Wetherell. Then he sat down. "Am I to understand," he said coldly, "that this is news to Sir Robert?"

"It was news to him yesterday."

Vaughan bowed and was silent; aware that a more generous demeanour would better become him, but unable to compass it on the spur of the moment. He was ignorant-unfortunately-of the spirit in which he had been summoned: consequently he could not guess that every word he uttered rang churlishly in the ears of more than one of his listeners. He was no churl; but he was taken unfairly-as it seemed to him. And to be called upon in the first moment of chagrin to congratulate Sir Robert on an event which ruined his own prospects and changed his life-was too much. Too much! But again Wetherell was speaking.

"You shall know what we know from the beginning," he said, in his heavy melancholy way. "You are aware, I suppose, that Sir Robert married-in the year '10, was it not? – Yes, in the year '10, and that Lady Vermuyden bore him one child, a daughter, who died in Italy in the year '15. It appears now-we are in a position to prove, I think-that that child did not die in that year, nor in any year; but is now alive, is in this country and can be perfectly identified."

Vaughan coughed. "This is strange news," he said, "after all these years; and somewhat sudden, is it not?"

Sir Robert's face grew harder, but Wetherell only shrugged his shoulders. "If you will listen," he replied, "you will know all that we know. It is no secret, at any rate in this room it is no secret, that in the year '14 Sir Robert fancied that he had grave reason to be displeased with Lady Vermuyden. It was thought by her friends that a better agreement might be produced by a temporary separation, and the child's health afforded a pretext. Accordingly, Sir Robert suffered Lady Vermuyden to take it abroad, her suite consisting of a courier, a maid, and a nurse. The nurse she sent back to England not long afterwards on the plea that an Italian woman from whom the child might learn the language would be better. For my part, I believe that she acted bonâ-fide in this. But in other respects," puffing out his cheeks, "her conduct was such as to alarm her husband; and, in terms perhaps too peremptory, Sir Robert bade her return at once-or cease to consider his house as her home. Her answer was the announcement of the child's death."

"And that it did not die," Vaughan murmured, "as Lady Vermuyden said?"

"We have this evidence. But first let me say, that Sir Robert on the receipt of the news set out for Italy overland. The Hundred Days, however, stopped him; he could not cross France, and he returned without certifying the child's death. He had indeed no suspicion, no reason for suspicion. Well, then, for evidence that it did not die. The courier is dead, and there remains only the maid. She is alive, she is here, she is in this house. And it is from her that we have learned the truth-that the child did not die."

He paused a moment, brooding in his fat, melancholy way on the pattern of the carpet between his feet. Sir Robert, with a face hard and proud, sat upright, listening to the tale of his misfortunes-and doubtless suffered torments as he listened.

"Her story," Wetherell resumed-possibly he had been arranging his thoughts-"is this. Lady Vermuyden was living a life of the wildest gaiety. She had no affection for the child; if the woman is to be believed, she hated it. To part with it was nothing to her one way or the other, and on receipt of Sir Robert's order to return, her ladyship conceived the idea of punishing him by abducting the child and telling him it was dead. She set out from Florence with it; on the way she left it at Orvieto in charge of the Italian nurse, and arriving in Rome she put about the story of its death. Shortly afterwards she had it carried to England and bred up in an establishment near London-always with the aid and connivance of her maid."