He thought something better of it next day, but not much. Nor could he put off a sneaking, hang-dog air as he entered the lobby. A number of members were gathered inside the double doors, where the stairs from the cloisters came up by a third door; and one or two whom he knew spoke to him—but not of his attempt. He fancied that he read in their looks a knowledge that he had failed, that he was no longer a man to be reckoned with. He imagined that they used a different tone to him. And at last one of them spoke of it.
“Well, Vaughan,” he said pleasantly, “you got through yesterday. But if you’ll take my advice you’ll wait a bit. It’s only one here and there can make much of it to begin.”
“I certainly cannot,” Vaughan said, smiling frankly, the better to hide his mortification.
“Ah, well, you’re not alone,” the other answered, shrugging his shoulders. “You’ll pick it up by and by, I dare say.” And he turned to speak to another member.
Vaughan turned on his side to the paper for the day winch hung against each of the four pillars of the lobby; and he pretended to be absorbed in it. The employment helped him to keep his countenance. But he was sore wounded. He had held his head so high in imagination, he had given so loose a rein to his ambition; he had dreamt of making such an impression on the House as Mr. Macaulay, though new to it, had made in his speech on the second reading of the former Bill, and had deepened by his speech at the like stage of the present Bill. Now he was told that he was no worse than the common run of country members, who twice in three sessions rose and blundered through half a dozen sentences! He was consoled with the reflection that only “one here and there” succeeded! Only one here and there! When to him it was everything to succeed, and to succeed quickly. When it was all he had left.
The stream of members, entering the House, was large; for the motion to commit the Bill was down for that afternoon, and if carried, would virtually put an end to opposition in the Commons. Out of the corner of his eye Vaughan scanned them, as they passed, and envied them. Peel, cold, proud and unapproachable, went by on the arm of Goulburn. Croker, pale and saturnine, casting frowning glances here and there, went in alone. The handsome, portly form of Sir James Graham passed, in talk with the Rupert of Debate. After these a rush of members; and at the tail of all slouched in the unwieldy, slovenly form of Sir Charles Wetherell, followed by a couple of his satellites.
Vaughan, glancing on one side of the paper which he appeared to be studying, caught Sir Charles’s eye, and reddened. Seated on opposite sides of the House—and no man on either side was more bitter, virulent, and pugnacious than the late Attorney-General—the two had not encountered one another since that evening at Stapylton, when the existence of Sir Robert’s daughter had been disclosed to Vaughan. They had not spoken, much less had there been any friendly passage between them. But now Sir Charles paused, and held out his hand.
“How do you do, Mr. Vaughan?” he said, in his deep bass voice. “Your maiden essay yesterday, eh?”
Vaughan winced. “Yes,” he said stiffly, fancying that he read amusement in the other’s moist eye.
To his surprise, “You’ll do,” Sir Charles rejoined, looking at the floor and speaking in a despondent tone. “The House would rather you began in that way, than like some d——d peacock on a lady’s terrace. Take the opportunity of saying three or four sentences some fine day, and repeat it a week later. And I’ll wager you’ll do.”