XXXVII
IN THE MOURNING COACH
It is a platitude that the flood is followed by the ebb. In the heatof action, and while its warmth cheered his spirits, Arthur Vaughanfelt that he had done something. True, what he had done brought him nonearer to making his political dream a reality. Not for him thepromise,
_It shall be thine in danger's hour To guide the helm of Britain's power And midst thy country's laurelled crown To twine a garland all thy own_.
Yet he had done something. He had played the man when some others hadnot played the man.
But now that the crisis was over, and he had made his last round, nowthat he had inspected for the last time the patrols over whom he wasset, seen order restored on the Welsh Back, and panic driven fromQueen's Square, he owned the reaction. There is a fatigue which onenight's rest fails to banish; and low in mind and tired in body, hefelt, when he rose late on Tuesday afternoon, that he had done nothingworth doing; nothing that altered his position in essentials.
For a time, indeed, he had fancied that things were changed. SirRobert had requested his assistance, and allowed him to share hissearch; and though it was possible that the merest stranger, cast byfortune into the same adventure, had been as welcome, it was alsopossible that the Baronet viewed him with a more benevolent eye. AndMary--Mary, too, had flown to his arms as to a haven; but in such aposition, amid surroundings so hideous, was that wonderful? Was it notcertain that she would have behaved in the same way to the merestacquaintance if he brought her aid and protection?
The answer might be yes or no! What was certain was that it could notavail him. For between him and her there stood more than her father'saversion, more than the doubt of her affection, more than the unluckyborough, of which he had despoiled Sir Robert. There were herpossessions, there was the suspicion which Sir Robert had founded onthem--on Mary's gain and his loss--there was the independence, whichhe must surrender, and which pride and principle alike forbade him torelinquish.
In the confusion of the night Vaughan had almost forgotten and quiteforgiven. Now he saw that the thing, though forgotten, thoughforgiven, was there. He could not owe all to a man who had somisconstrued him, and who might misconstrue him again. He could not bedependent on one whose views, thoughts, prejudices, were opposed tohis own. No, the night and its doing must stand apart. He and she hadmet, they had parted. He had one memory more, and nothing was changed.
In this mood the fact that the White Lion regarded him as a herobrought him no comfort. Neither the worshipping eyes of the young ladywho had tried to dissuade him from going forth on the Sunday, nor therespectful homage which dogged his movements, uplifted him. He hadsmall appetite for his solitary dinner, and was languidly reading the"Bristol Mercury," when a name was brought up to him, and a letter.
"Gentleman will wait your pleasure, sir," the man said.
He broke open the letter, and felt the blood rise to his face as hiseyes fell on the signature. The few lines were from his cousin, andran as follows:
"Dear Sir,--I feel it my duty to inform you, as a connection of thefamily, that Lady Sybil Vermuyden died at five minutes past threeo'clock this afternoon. Her death, which I am led to believe could inno event have been long delayed, was doubtless hastened by themiserable occurrences of the last few days.
"I have directed Isaac White to convey this intimation to your hands,and to inform you from time to time of the arrangements made for herladyship's funeral, which will take place at Stapylton. I have thehonour to be, sir,
"Your obedient servant,
"Robert Vermuyden."
Vaughan laid the letter down with a groan. As he did so he becameaware that Isaac White was in the room. "Halloa, White," he said. "Isthat you?"
White looked at him with unconcealed respect. "Yes, sir," he said."Sir Robert bade me wait on you in person without delay. If I mayventure," he continued, "to compliment you on my own account, sir--avery great honour to the family, Mr. Vaughan--in all the west country,I may say----"
Vaughan stopped him, and said something of Lady Sybil's death; addingthat he had never seen her but once.
"Twice, begging your pardon," White answered, smiling. "Do youremember I met you at Chippenham before the election, Mr. Vaughan?Well, sir, she came up to the coach, and as good as touched yoursleeve, poor lady, while I was talking to you. Of course, she knewthat her daughter was on the coach."
"I learned afterwards that Lady Sybil travelled by it that day,"Vaughan replied. Then with a frown he took up the letter. "Of course,"he continued, "I have no intention of attending the funeral."
"But I think his honour wishes much----"
"There is no possible reason," Vaughan said doggedly.
"Pardon me, sir," White answered anxiously. "You are not aware, I amsure, how highly Sir Robert appreciates your gallant conductyesterday. No one in Bristol can view it in a stronger light. It is ahappy thing he witnessed it. He thinks, indeed, that but for you herladyship would have died in the crowd. Moreover----"
"That's enough, White," Vaughan said coldly. "It is not so much whatSir Robert thinks now, too, as what he thought formerly."
"But indeed, sir, his honour's opinion of that matter, too----"
"That's enough, White," the young gentleman repeated, rising from hisseat. He was telling himself that he was not a dog to be kicked awayand called to heel again. He would forgive, but he would not return."I don't wish to discuss the matter," he added with an air offinality.
And White did not venture to say more.
He did wisely. For Vaughan, left to himself, had not reflected twominutes before he felt that he had played the churl. To make amends,he called at the house to inquire after the ladies at an hour nextmorning when they could not be stirring. Having performed that duty,and having learned that no inquiry into the riots would be opened forsome days--and also that a proposal to give him a piece of gold platewas under debate at the Commercial Rooms, he fled, pride and love atodds in his breast.
It is possible that in Sir Robert's heart, also, there was a battlegoing on. On the eve of the funeral he sat alone in the library atStapylton, that room in which he had passed so many unhappy hours, andwith which the later part of his life seemed bound up. Doubtless, ashe sat, he gave solemn thought to the past and the future. The roomwas no longer dusty, the furniture was no longer shabby; there werefresh flowers on his table; and by his great leather chair, a smallerchair, filled within the last few minutes, had its place. Yet he couldnot forget what he had suffered there; how he had brooded there. Andperhaps he thanked God, amid his more solemn thoughts, that he was notglad that she who had plagued him would plague him no more. All thather friend had urged in her behalf, all that was brightest and best inhis memories of her, this generous whim, that quixotic act rose, itmay be supposed, before him. And the picture of her fair young beauty,of her laughing face in the bridal veil or under the Leghorn, of herfirst words to him, of her first acts in her new home! And but thatthe tears of age flow hardly, it is possible that he would have wept.
Presently--perhaps he was not sorry for it--a knock came at the doorand Isaac White entered. He came to take the last instructions for themorrow. A few words settled what remained to be settled, and then,after a little hesitation, "I promised to name it to you, sir," Whitesaid. "I don't know what you'll say to it. Dyas wishes to walk withthe others."
Sir Robert winced. "Dyas?" he muttered.
"He says he's anxious to show his respect for the family, in every wayconsistent with his opinions."
"Opinions?" Sir Robert echoed. "Opinions? Good Lord! A butcher'sopinions! Who knows but some day he'll have a butcher to representhim? Or a baker or a candlestick-maker! If ever they have the ballot,that'll come with it, White."
White waited, but as the other said no more, "You won't forbid him,sir?" he said, a note of appeal in his voice.
<
br /> "Oh, let him come," Sir Robert answered wearily. "I suppose," hecontinued, striving to speak in the same tone, "you've heard nothingfrom 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 notflattering to the Honourable Bob. Then he turned his chair and heldhis hands over the blaze. "That will do, White," he said. "That willdo." 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 theordeal of the morrow before him, Arthur Vaughan's attitude troubledhis patron. And when, twenty-four hours later, the agent's eyestravelling round the vast assemblage which regard for the family hadgathered about the grave, fell upon Arthur Vaughan, and he knew thathe had repented and come, he was glad.
The young Member held himself a little apart from the small group offamily mourners; a little apart also from the larger company whomrespect or social ties had brought thither. Among these last, who weremostly Tories, many were surprised to see Lord Lansdowne and his son.But more, aware of the breach between Mr. Vaughan and his cousin, andof the former's peculiar position in the borough, were surprised tosee 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 withinterest. In those days of mutes and crape-coloured staves, mourningcloaks and trailing palls, it was not the custom for women to burytheir dead. And Vaughan, when he had made up his mind to come, knewthat he ran no risk of seeing Mary.
That he might escape with greater case, he had left his post-chaise ata side-gate of the park. The moment the ceremony was over, he made hisway to it, now traversing beds of fallen chestnut and sycamore leaves,now striding across the sodden turf. The solemn words which he hadheard, emphasised as they were by the scene, the grey autumn day, thelonely park, and the dark groups threading their way across it, couldnot 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 thestep of the chaise, when he heard White's voice, calling after him. Heturned and saw the agent hurrying desperately after him. White'smourning suit was tight and new and ill made for haste; and he was hotand breathless. For a moment, "Mr. Vaughan! Mr. Vaughan!" was all hecould say.
Vaughan turned a reluctant, almost a stern face to him. Not that hedisliked 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 tosay to you. The carriage is following. If you'll be good enough," hecontinued, mopping his face, "to wait a moment!"
"Sir Robert cannot wish to see me at such a time," Vaughan answered,between wonder and impatience. "He will write, doubtless."
"The carriage should be in sight," was White's answer. As he spoke itcame into view; rounding the curve of a small coppice of beech trees,it rolled rapidly down a declivity, and ascended towards them asrapidly.
A moment and it would be here. Vaughan looked uncertainly at hispost-boy. He wished to catch the York House coach at Chippenham, andhe had little time to spare.
It was not the loss of time, however, that he really had in his mind.But he could guess, he fancied, what Sir Robert wished to say; and hedid not deny that the old man was generous in saying it at such amoment, if that were his intention. But his own mind was made up; hecould only repeat what he had said to White. It was not a question ofwhat Sir Robert had thought, or now thought, but of what _he_ thought.And the upshot of all his thoughts was that he would not be dependentupon any man. He had differed from Sir Robert once, and the elder hadtreated the younger man with injustice, and contumely; that mightoccur again. Indeed, taking into account the difference in theirpolitical views in an age when politics counted for much, it was sureto occur again. But his mind was made up that it should not occur tohim. Unhappy as the resolution made him, he would be free. He would behis own man. He would remember nothing except that that night hadchanged nothing.
It was with a set face, therefore, that he watched the carriage drawnear. Apparently it was a carriage which had conveyed guests to thefuneral, for the blinds were drawn.
"It will save time, if it takes you a mile on your way," White said,with some nervousness. "I will tell your chaise to follow." And heopened the door.
Vaughan raised his hat, and stepped in. It was only when the door wasclosing behind him and the carriage starting anew at a word fromWhite, that he saw that it contained, not Sir Robert Vermuyden, but alady.
"Mary!" he cried. The name broke from him in his astonishment.
She looked at him with self-possession, and a gentle, unsmilinggravity. She indicated the front seat, and "Will you sit there?" shesaid. "I can talk to you better, Mr. Vaughan, if you sit there."
He obeyed her, marvelling. The blind on the side on which she sat wasraised a few inches, and in the subdued light her graceful head showedlike some fair flower rising from the depth of her mourning. For shewore no covering on her head, and he might have guessed, had he hadany command of his thoughts, that she had sprung as she was into thenearest carriage. Amazement, however, put him beyond thinking.
Her eyes met his seriously. "Mr. Vaughan," she said, "my presence mustseem extraordinary to you. But I am come to ask you a question. Whydid you tell me six months ago that you loved me if you did not?"
He was as deeply agitated as she was quiet on the surface. "I told younothing but the truth," he said.
"No," she said.
"But yes! A hundred times, yes!" he cried.
"Then you are altered? That is it?"
"Never!" he cried. "Never!"
"And yet--things are changed? My father wrote to you, did he not,three days ago? And said as much as you could look to him to say?"
"He said----"
"He withdrew what he had uttered in an unfortunate moment. He withdrewthat which, I think, he had never believed in his heart. He said asmuch as you could expect him to say?" she repeated, her colourmounting a little, her eyes challenging him with courageous firmness.
"He said," Vaughan answered in a low voice, "what I think it becamehim to say."
"You understood that his feelings were changed towards you?"
"To some extent."
She drew a deep breath and sat back. "Then it is for you to speak,"she said.
But before, agitated as he was, he could speak, she leant forwardagain. "No," she said, "I had forgotten. I had forgotten." And theslight quivering of her lips, a something piteous in her eyes,reminded him once more, once again--and the likeness tugged at hisheart--of the Mary Smith who had paused on the threshold of the inn atMaidenhead, alarmed and abashed by the bustle of the coffee-room. "Ihad forgotten! It is not my father you cannot forgive--it is I, who amunworthy of your forgiveness? You cannot make allowance," shecontinued, stopping him by a gesture, as he opened his mouth to speak,"for the weakness of one who had always been dependent, who had livedall her life under the dominion of others, who had been taught byexperience that, if she would eat, she must first obey. You can makeno allowance, Mr. Vaughan, for such an one placed between a father,whom it was her duty to honour, and a lover to whom she had indeedgiven her heart, she knew not why--but whom she barely knew, withwhose life she had no real acquaintance, whose honesty she must takeon trust, because she loved him? You cannot forgive her because,taught all her life to bend, she could not, she did not stand uprightunder the first trial of her faith?"
"No!" he cried violently. "No! No! It is not that!"
"No?" she said. "You do forgive her then? You have forgiven her? Themore as to-day she is not weak. The earth is not level over mymother's grave, some may say hard things of me--but I have come to youto-day."
"God bless you!" he cried.
She drew a deep breath and sat back. "Then," she said, wit
h a sigh asof relief, "it is for you to speak."
There was a gravity in her tone, and so complete an absence of allself-consciousness, all littleness, that he owned that he had neverknown her as she was, had never measured her true worth, had neverloved her as she deserved to be loved. Yet--perhaps because it was allthat was left to him--he clung desperately to the resolution he hadformed, to the position which pride and prudence alike had bidden himto take up.
"What am I to say?" he asked hoarsely.
"Why, if you love me, if you forgive me," she answered softly, "do youleave me?"
"Can you not understand?"
"In part, I can. But not altogether. Will you explain? I--I think,"she continued with a movement of her flower-like head, that for gentledignity he had never seen excelled, "I have a right to anexplanation."
"You know of what Sir Robert accused me?"
"Yes."
"Am I to justify him? You know what was the difference which camebetween us, which first divided us? And what I thought right then, Istill think right. Am I to abandon it? You know what I bore. Am I tolive on the bounty of one who once thought so ill of me, and may thinkas ill again? Of one who, differing from me, punished me so cruelly?Am I to sink into dependence, to sacrifice my judgment, to surrendermy political liberty into the hands of one who----"
"Of my father!" she said gravely.
He could not, so reminded, say what he had been going to say, but heassented by a movement of the head. And after an interval of silence,"I cannot," he cried passionately, "I cannot, even to secure myhappiness, run that risk!"
She looked from the window of the carriage, and in a voice which shooka little, "No," she said, "I suppose not."
He was silent and he suffered. He dared not meet her eyes. Why had shesought this interview? Why had she chosen to torment him? Ah, if sheknew, if she only knew what pain she was inflicting upon him!
But apparently she did not know. For by and by she spoke again. "No,"she said. "I suppose not. Yet have you thought"--and now there was amore decided tremor in her voice--"that that which you surrender isnot all there is at stake? Your independence is precious to you, andyou have a right, Mr. Vaughan, to purchase it even at the cost of yourhappiness. But have you a right to purchase it at the cost ofanother's? At the cost of mine? Have you thought of my happiness?" shecontinued, "or only of yours--and of yourself? To save yourindependence--shall I say, to save your pride?--you are willing to setyour love aside. But have you asked me whether I am willing to pay myhalf of the price? My heavier half? Whether I am willing to set myhappiness aside? Have you thought of--me at all?"
If he had not, then, when he saw how she looked at him, with whateyes, with what love, as she laid her hand on his arm, he had beenmore than man if he had resisted her long! But he still fought withhimself, and with her; staring with hard, flushed face straight beforehim, telling himself that by all that was left to him he must hold.
"I think, I think," she said gently, yet with dignity, "you have notthought of me."
"But your father--Sir Robert----"
"He is an ogre, of course," she cried in a tone suddenly changed. "Butyou should have thought of that before, sir," she continued, tears andlaughter in her voice. "Before you travelled with me on the coach!Before you saved my life! Before you--looked at me! For you can nevertake it back. You can never give me myself again. I think that youmust take me!"
And then he did not resist her any longer. And the carriage wasstayed; and orders were given. And, empty and hugely overpaid, theyellow post-chaise ambled on to Chippenham; and bearing two inside,and a valise on the roof, the mourning coach drove slowly and solemnlyback to Stapylton. As it wound its way over the green undulations ofthe park, the rabbits that ran, and then stopped, cocking their scuts,to look at it, saw nothing strange in it. Nor the fallow-deer of thetrue Savernake breed, who, before they fled through the dying bracken,eyed it with poised heads. Nay, the heron which watched its approachfrom the edge of the Garden Pool, and did not even deign to drop asecond leg, saw nothing strange in it. Yet it bore for all that thestrangest of all earthly passengers, and the strongest, and thebravest, and the fairest--and withal, thank God, the most familiar.For it carried Love. And love the same yet different, love gaunt andgrey-haired, yet kind and warm of heart, met it at the door and gaveit welcome.
XXXVIII
THREADS AND PATCHES
Though England had not known for fifty years an outbreak so formidableor so destructive as that of which the news was laid on men'sbreakfast-tables on the Tuesday morning, it had less effect on thepolitical situation than might have been expected. It sent, indeed, athrill of horror through the nation. And had it occurred at an earlierstage of the Reform struggle, before the middle class had fullycommitted itself to a trial of strength with the aristocracy, it musthave detached many more of the timid and conservative of theReformers. But it came too late. The die was cast; men's minds weremade up on the one side and the other. Each saw events coloured to hiswish. And though Wetherell and Croker, and the devoted band who stillfought manfully round those chieftains, called heaven and earth towitness the first-fruits of the tree of Reform, the majority of thenation preferred to see in these troubles the alternative to theBill--the abyss into which the whole country would be hurled if thatheaven-sent measure were not passed.
On one thing, however, all were agreed. The outrage was too great tobe overlooked. The law must be vindicated, the lawbreakers must bepunished. To this end the Government, anxious to clear themselves ofthe suspicion of collusion, appointed a special Commission, and sentit to Bristol to try the rioters; and four poor wretches were hanged,a dozen were transported, and many received minor sentences. Havingthus, a little late in the day, taught the ignorant that Reform didnot spell Revolution after the French pattern, the Cabinet turnedtheir minds to the measure again. And in December they brought in theThird Reform Bill, with the fortunes and passage of which this storyis not at pains to deal.
But of necessity the misguided creatures who kindled the fires inQueen's Square on that fatal Sunday, and swore that they would notleave a gaol standing in England, were not the only men who suffered.Sad as their plight was, there was one whose plight--if pain bemeasured by the capacity to feel--was sadder. While they were beingtried in one part of Bristol, there was proceeding in another part aninquiry charged with deeper tragedy. Not those only who had done thedeed, but those who had suffered them to do it, must answer for it.And the fingers of all pointed to one man. The magistrates mightescape--the Mayor indeed had done his duty creditably, if to littlepurpose; for war was not their trade, and the thing at its crisis hadbecome an affair of war. But Colonel Brereton could not shield himselfbehind that plea: so many had behaved poorly that the need to bringone to book was the greater.
He was tried by court-martial, and among the witnesses was ArthurVaughan. By reason of his position, as well as of the creditable parthe had played, the Member for Chippinge was heard by the Court withmore than common attention; and he moved all who listened to him byhis painful anxiety to set the accused's conduct in the best light; toshow that what was possible by daylight on the Monday morning mightnot have been possible on the Sunday night, and that the choicefrom first to last was between two risks. No question of ColonelBrereton's courage--for he had served abroad with credit, nay, withhonour--entered into the inquiry; and it was proved that a soldier'sduty in such a case was not well defined. But afterwards Vaughan muchregretted that he had not laid before the Court the opinion he hadformed at the time--that during the crisis of the riots Brereton,obsessed by one idea, was not responsible for his actions. For, sad tosay, on the fifth day of the inquiry, sinking under a weight of mentalagony which a man of his reserved and melancholy temper was unable tosupport, the unfortunate officer put an end to his life. Few have paidso dearly for an error of judgment and the lack of that coarser fibrewhich has enabled many an inferior man to do his duty. The pagedarkens with his fate, too
tragical for such a theme as this. And ifby chance these words reach the eye of any of his descendants, theirsbe the homage due to the memory of a signal misfortune and anhonourable but hapless man.
Of another and greater personage whose life touched Arthur Vaughan'sonce and twice, and of whom, with all his faults, it was never said byhis worst enemy that he feared responsibility or shunned the post ofdanger, a brief word must suffice. If Lord Brougham did not live tosee that complete downfall of the great Whig houses which he hadpredicted, he lived to see their power ruinously curtailed. He livedto see their influence totter under the blow which the Repeal of theCorn Laws dealt the landed interest, he lived to see the Reform Billof 1867, he lived almost to see the _coup de grace_ given to theirleadership by the Ballot Act. And in another point his prophecy cametrue. As it had been with Burke and Sheridan and Tierney, it was withhim. His faults were great, as his merits were transcendent; andpresently in the time of his need his highborn associates rememberedonly the former. They took advantage of them to push him from power;and he spent nearly forty years, the remnant of his long life, in thecold shade of Opposition. The most brilliant, the most versatile, andthe most remarkable figure of the early days of the century, whosetrumpet voice once roused England as it has never been roused fromthat day to this, and whose services to education and progress areacknowledged but slightly even now, paid for the phenomenal splendourof his youth by long years spent in a changed and changing world,jostled by a generation forgetful or heedless of his fame. To us he isbut the name of a carriage; remembered otherwise, if at all, for hispart in Queen Caroline's trial. While Wetherell, that stout fighter,Tory of the Tories, witty, slovenly, honest man, whose fame was oncein all mouths, whose caricature was once in all portfolios, and whosebreeches made the fortune of many a charade, is but the shadow of aname.
* * * * *
The year had waned and waxed, and it was June again. At Stapylton theoaks were coming to their full green; the bracken was lifting itsmillion heads above the sod, and by the edge of the Garden Pool thewater voles sat on the leaves of the lilies and clean their fur.Arthur Vaughan--strolling up and down with his father-in-law, notwithout an occasional glance at Mary, recumbent on a seat on thelawn--looked grave.
"I fancy," he said presently, "that we shall learn the fate of theBill to-day."
"Very like, very like," Sir Robert answered, in an offhand fashion, asif the subject were not to his taste. And he turned about and by theaid of his stick expounded his plan for enlarging the flower garden.
But Vaughan returned to the subject. "If not to-day, to-morrow," hesaid. "And that being so, I've wanted for some time, sir, to ask youwhat you wish me to do."
"To do?"
"As to the seat at Chippinge."
Sir Robert's face expressed his annoyance. "I told you--I told youlong ago," he replied, "that I should never interfere with yourpolitical movements."
"And you have kept your word, sir. But as Lord Lansdowne cedes theseat to you for this time, I assume----"
"I don't know why you assume anything!" Sir Robert retorted irritably.
"I assume only that you will wish me to seek another seat."
"I certainly don't wish you to lead an idle life," Sir Robertanswered. "When the younger men of our class do that, when they ceaseto take an interest in political life, on the one side or the other,our power will, indeed, be ended. Nothing is more certain than that.But for Chippinge, I don't choose that a stranger should hold a seatclose to my own door. You might have known that! For the party, I havetaken steps to furnish Mr. Cooke, a man whose opinions I thoroughlyapprove, with a seat elsewhere; and I have therefore done my duty inthat direction. For the rest, the mischief is done. I suppose," hecontinued in his driest tones, "you won't want to bring in anotherReform Bill immediately?"
"No, sir," Vaughan answered gratefully. "Nor do I think that we are sofar apart as you assume. The truth is, Sir Robert, that we all fearone of two things, and according as we fear the one or the other weare dubbed Whigs or Tories."
"What are your two things?"
"Despotism, or anarchy," Vaughan replied modestly.
Sir Robert sniffed. "You don't refine enough," he said, pleased withhis triumph. "We all fear despotism; you, the despotism of the one: I,a worse, a more cruel, a more hopeless despotism, the despotism of themany! That's the real difference between us."
Vaughan looked thoughtful. "Perhaps you are right," he said."But--what is that, sir?" He raised his hand. The deep note of adistant gun rolled up the valley from the town.
"The Lords have passed the Bill," Sir Robert replied. "They arecelebrating the news in Chippinge. Well, I am not sorry that my day isdone. I give you the command. See only, my boy," he continued, with aloving glance at Mary, who had risen, and, joined by Miss Sibson, wascoming to the end of the bridge to meet them, "see only that you handit on to others--I do not say as I give it to you, but as littleimpaired as may be."
And again, as Mary called to them to know what it was, the sound ofthe gun rolled up the valley--the knell of the system, good or bad,under which England had been ruled so long. The battle of whichBrougham had fired the first shot in the Castle Yard at York was pastand won.
_Boom!_
THE END
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