Then the elder man looked at the other. “Are you not going?” he said with stern meaning. “You have robbed me of my borough, sir—I give you joy of your cleverness. But you shall not rob me of my daughter!”
“I wonder which you love the better!” Vaughan snarled. And with the vicious gibe he took his hat and went.
XXI
A MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS
It was September. The House elected in those first days of May was four months old, and already it had fulfilled the hopes of the country. Without a division it had decreed the first reading, and by a majority of one hundred and thirty-six, the second reading of the People’s Bill; that Bill by which the preceding House slaying, had been slain. New members were beginning to lose the first gloss of their enthusiasm; the youngest no longer ogled the M.P. on their letters, nor franked for the mere joy of franking. But the ministry still rode the flood tide of favour, Lord Grey was still his country’s pride, and Brougham a hero. It only remained to frighten the House of Lords, and in particular those plaguy out-of-date fellows, the Bishops, into passing the Bill; and the battle would be won,
The streets be paved with mutton pies,
Potatoes eat like pine!
And, in fine, everyone would live happily ever afterwards.
To old Tories of the stamp of Sir Robert Vermuyden, the outlook was wholly dark. But it is not often that public care clouds private joy; and had Eldon been prime minister, with Wetherell for his Chancellor, the grounds of Stapylton could hardly have worn a more smiling aspect than they presented on the fine day in early September, which Sir Robert had chosen for his daughter’s first party. The abrupt addition of a well-grown girl to a family of one is a delicate process. It is apt to open the door to scandal. And a little out of discretion, and more that she, who was now the apple of his eye, might not wear her wealth with a difference, nor lack anything of the mode, he had not hastened the occasion. A word had been dropped here and there—with care; the truth had been told to some, the prepossessions of others had been consulted. But at length the day was come on which she must stand by his side and receive the world of Wiltshire.
And she had so stood for more than an hour of this autumn afternoon; with such pride on his side as was fitting, and such blushes on hers as were fitting also. Now, the prime duty of reception over, and his company dispersed through the gardens, Sir Robert lingered with one or two of his intimates on the lawn before the house. In the hollow of the park hard by, stood the ample marquee in which his poorer neighbours were presently to feed; gossip had it that Sir Robert was already at work rebuilding his political influence. Near the tent, Hunt the Slipper and Kiss in the Ring were in progress, and Moneymusk was being danced to the strains of the Chippinge church band; the shrill voices of the rustic youth proving that their first shyness was wearing off. Within the gardens, a famous band from Bath played the new-fashioned quadrilles turn about with Moore’s Irish Melodies; and a score of the fair, gorgeous as the dragon-flies which darted above the water, meandered delicately up and down the sward; or escorted by gentlemen in tightly strapped white trousers and blue coats—or in Wellington frocks, the latest mode—appeared and again disappeared among the elms beside the Garden Pool. In the background, the house, adorned and refurnished, winked with all its windows at the sunshine, gave forth from all its doors the sweet scent of flowers, throbbed to the very recesses of the haunted wing with small talk and light laughter, the tap of sandalled feet and the flirt of fans.
Sir Robert thanked his God as he looked upon it all. And five years younger in face and more like the Duke than ever, he listened, almost purring, to the praises of his new-found darling. The odds had been great that with such a breeding, she had been coarse or sly, common or skittish. And she was none of these things, but fair as a flower, slender as Psyche, sweet-eyed as a loving woman, dainty and virginal as the buds of May! And withal gentle and kind and obedient—above all, obedient. He could not thank God enough, as he read in the eyes of young men and old women, what they thought of her. And he was thanking Him, though in outward seeming he was attentive to an old friend’s prattle, when his eyes fell on a carriage and four which, followed by two outriders, was sweeping past the marquee and breasting the gentle ascent to the house. All who were likely to arrive in such state, the Beauforts, Suffolks, Methuens, were come; the old Duke of Beaufort, indeed, and his daughter-in-law were gone again. So Sir Robert stared at the approaching carriage, wondering whom it might contain.