It had often fallen to him to alight before the Angel at Chippenhan. From boyhood he had known the wide street, in which the fairs were held, the red Georgian houses, and the stone bridge of many arches over the Avon. But he had never seen these things, he had never alighted there, with less satisfaction than on this day.
Still this was the end. He raised his hat, saluted silently, and turned to speak to the guard. In the act he jostled a person who was approaching to accost him. Vaughan stared. “Hallo, White!” he said. “I was coming to see you.”
White’s hat was in his hand. “Your servant, sir,” he said. “Your servant, sir. I am glad to be here to meet you, Mr. Vaughan.”
“But you didn’t expect me?”
“No, sir, no; I came to meet Mr. Cooke, who was to arrive by this coach. But I do not see him.”
A light broke in upon Vaughan. “Gad! he must be the man we left behind at Reading,” he said. “Is he a peppery chap?”
“He might be so called, sir,” the agent answered with a smile. “I fancied that you knew him.”
“No. Sergeant Wathen I know; not Mr. Cooke. Any way, he’s not come, White.”
“All the better, sir, if I can get a message to him by the up-coach. For he’s not needed. I am glad to say that the trouble is at an end. My Lord Lansdowne has given up the idea of contesting the borough, and I came over to tell Mr. Cooke, thinking that he might prefer to go on to Bristol. He has a house at Bristol.”
“Do you mean,” Vaughan said, “that there will be no contest?”