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.