Chippinge Borough

by Stanley John Weyman

Lady Lansdowne walked slowly away in a state of perplexity, from which the monotonous lilt of the band which was now playing quadrille music did nothing to free her. Whether Sybil Vermuyden were dying or not, it was certain that she was ill. Disease had laid its hand beyond mistaking on that once beautiful face; the levity and wit which had formerly dazzled beholders now gleamed but fitfully and with such a ghastly light as the corpse candle gives forth. The change was great since Lady Lansdowne had seen her in the coach at Chippenham; and it might well be that if words of forgiveness were to be spoken, no time was to be lost. Old associations, a mother’s feelings for a mother, pity, all urged Lady Lansdowne to compliance with her request; nor did the knowledge that the woman, who had once queened it so brilliantly in this place, was now lurking on the fringe of the gay crowd, athirst for a sight of her child, fail to move a heart which all the jealousies of a Whig coterie had not hardened or embittered.

Unluckily the owner of that heart felt that she was the last person who ought to interfere. It behoved her, more than it behoved anyone, to avoid fresh ground of quarrel with Sir Robert. Courteously as he had borne himself on her arrival, civilly as he had veiled the surprise which her presence caused him, she knew that he was sore hurt by his defeat in the borough. And if those who had thwarted him publicly were to intervene in his private concerns, if those who had suborned his kinsman were now to tamper with his daughter, ay, or were to incur a suspicion of tampering, she knew that his anger would know no bounds. She felt, indeed, that it would be justified.

She had to think, too, of her husband, who had sent her with the olive-branch. He was a politic, long-sighted man; who, content with the solid advantage he had gained, had no mind to push to extremity a struggle which must needs take place at his own door. He would be displeased, seriously displeased, if her mission, in place of closing, widened the breach.

And yet—and yet her heart ached for the woman, who had never wholly lost a place in her affections. And there was this. If Lady Sybil were thwarted no one was more capable of carrying out her threat and of taking some violent step, which would make matters a hundred times worse, alike for Sir Robert and his daughter.

While she weighed the matter, Lady Lansdowne found herself back at the rustic bridge. She was in the act of stepping upon it—still deep in thought—when her eyes encountered those of a young couple who were waiting at the farther end to give her passage. She looked a second time; and she stood. Then, smiling, she beckoned to the girl to come to her. Meanwhile, a side-thought, born of the conjunction of the two young people, took form in her mind. “I hope that may come to nothing,” she reflected.

Possibly it was for this reason, that when the man would have come also, she made it clear that the smile was not for him. “No, Mr. Flixton,” she said, the faintest possible distance in her tone. “I do not want you. I will relieve you of your charge.”

And when Mary, timid and blushing, had advanced to her, “My dear,” she said, holding out both her hands, and looking charmingly at her, “I should have known you anywhere.” And she drew her to her and kissed her. “I am Lady Lansdowne. I knew your mother, and I hope that you and my daughter will be friends.”

The mention of her mother increased Mary’s shyness. “Your ladyship is very kind,” she murmured. She did not know that her embarrassment was so far from hurting her, that the appeal in her eyes went straight to the elder woman’s heart.

“I mean to be kind at any rate,” Lady Lansdowne answered, smiling on the lovely face before her. And then, “My dear,” she said, “have they told you that you are very beautiful? More beautiful, I think, than your mother was: I hope”—and she did not try to hide the depth of her feelings—“that you may be more happy.”

The girl’s colour faded at this second reference to her mother; made, she could not doubt, with intention. Her father, even while he had overwhelmed her with benefits, even while he had opened this new life to her with a hand full of gifts, had taught her—tacitly or by a word at most—that that name was the key to a Bluebeard’s chamber; that it must not be used. She knew that her mother lived; she guessed that she had sinned against her husband; she understood that she had wronged her child. But she knew no more: and with this, since this at the least she must know, Sir Robert would have had her content.