“Oh, let him come,” Sir Robert answered wearily. “I suppose,” he continued, striving to speak in the same tone, “you’ve heard nothing from his—Member?”
“From—oh, from Mr. Vaughan, sir? No, sir. But Mr. Flixton is coming.”
Sir Robert muttered something under his breath, and it was not flattering to the Honourable Bob. Then he turned his chair and held his hands over the blaze. “That will do, White,” he said. “That will do.” And he did not look round until the agent had left the room.
But White was certain that even on this day of sad memories, with the ordeal of the morrow before him, Arthur Vaughan’s attitude troubled his patron. And when, twenty-four hours later, the agent’s eyes travelling round the vast assemblage which regard for the family had gathered about the grave, fell upon Arthur Vaughan, and he knew that he had repented and come, he was glad.
The young Member held himself a little apart from the small group of family mourners; a little apart also from the larger company whom respect or social ties had brought thither. Among these last, who were mostly Tories, many were surprised to see Lord Lansdowne and his son. But more, aware of the breach between Mr. Vaughan and his cousin, and of the former’s peculiar position in the borough, were surprised to see him. And these, while their thoughts should have been elsewhere, stole furtive glances at the sombre figure; and when Vaughan left, still alone and without speaking to any, followed his departure with interest. In those days of mutes and crape-coloured staves, mourning cloaks and trailing palls, it was not the custom for women to bury their dead. And Vaughan, when he had made up his mind to come, knew that he ran no risk of seeing Mary.
That he might escape with greater case, he had left his post-chaise at a side-gate of the park. The moment the ceremony was over, he made his way to it, now traversing beds of fallen chestnut and sycamore leaves, now striding across the sodden turf. The solemn words which he had heard, emphasised as they were by the scene, the grey autumn day, the lonely park, and the dark groups threading their way across it, could not hold his thoughts from Mary. She would be glad that he had come. Perhaps it was for that reason that he had come.
He had passed through the gate of the park and his foot was on the step of the chaise, when he heard White’s voice, calling after him. He turned and saw the agent hurrying desperately after him. White’s mourning suit was tight and new and ill made for haste; and he was hot and breathless. For a moment, “Mr. Vaughan! Mr. Vaughan!” was all he could say.
Vaughan turned a reluctant, almost a stern face to him. Not that he disliked the agent, but he thought that he had got clear.
“What is it?” he asked, without removing his foot from the step.
White looked behind him. “Sir Robert, sir,” he said, “has something to say to you. The carriage is following. If you’ll be good enough,” he continued, mopping his face, “to wait a moment!”