Non vultus instantis tyranni
Mente quatit solida!
Vaughan thought of him with a new respect, and of himself with a new humility. He was forced to acknowledge that even in that field of action which he had quitted, and to which he was now inclined to return, he was not likely to pick up a marshal’s bâton.
He slept at length, and long and heavily, awaking towards ten o’clock with aching limbs and a cheek so sore that it brought all that had passed to instant recollection. He found his hot water at his door, and he dressed slowly and despondently, feeling the reaction and thinking of Mary, and of that sunny morning, six months back, when he had looked into Broad Street from a window of this very house, and dreamed of a modest bonnet and a sweet blushing face. An hour after that, he remembered, he had happened on the Honourable—oh, d—— Flixton! All his troubles had started from that unlucky meeting with him.
He found his breakfast laid in the next room, the coffee and bacon in a Japan cat by the fire. He ate and drank in an atmosphere of gloomy retrospect. If he had never met Flixton! If he had not gone to that unlucky dinner at Chippinge! If he had spoken to her in Parliament Street! If—if—if! The bells of half a dozen churches were ringing, drumming his regrets into him; and he stood awhile irresolute, looking through the window. The inn-yard, which was all the prospect the window commanded, was empty; an old liver-and-white pointer, scratching itself in a corner, was the only living thing in it. But while he looked, wondering if the dog had been a good dog in its time, two men came running into the yard with every sign of haste and pressure. One, in a yellow jacket, flung himself against a stable door and vanished within, leaving the door open. The other pounced on a chaise, one of half a dozen ranged under a shed, and by main force dragged it into the open.
The men’s actions impressed Vaughan with a vague uneasiness. He listened. Was it fancy, or did he catch the sound of a distant shot? And—there seemed to be an odd murmur in the air. He seized his hat, put on his caped coat—for a cold drizzle was falling—and went downstairs.
The hall was empty, but through the open doorway he could see a knot of people, standing outside, looking up the street. He made for the threshold, and asked the rearmost of the starers what it was.
“Eh, what is it?” the man answered volubly. “Oh, they’re gone! It’s true enough! And such a crowd as was never seen, I’m told—stoning them, and shouting ‘Bloody Blues!’ after them. They’re gone right away to Keynsham, and glad to be there with whole bones!”
“But what is it?” Vaughan asked impatiently. “What has happened, my man? Who’re gone?”
The man turned for the first time, and saw who it was. “You have not heard, sir?” he exclaimed.