Swerving to the right they pulled up bravely, with steaming horses, before the door of the far-famed Castle Inn. Ta-ra-ra! Ta-ra-ra! "Half an hour for dinner, gentlemen!"
"Now," said Vaughan, thinking that all was well, or rather declining to think of anything but her shy glances and the delightful present. "You must cut my meat for me!"
She did not reply, and he saw that her eyes went to the basket at her feet. He guessed that she wished to avoid the expense of dining. "Or, perhaps, you are not coming in?" he said.
"I did not intend to do so," she replied. "I suppose," she continued timidly, "that I may stay here?"
"Certainly. You have something with you?"
"Yes."
He nodded pleasantly and left her; and she remained in her seat. As she ate, the target for many a sly glance of admiration, she was divided between gratitude and self-reproach; now thinking of him with a quickened heart, now taking herself to task for her weakness. The result was that when he strode out, confident and at ease, and looked up at her with laughing eyes, she blushed furiously-to her own unspeakable mortification.
Vaughan was no Lothario, and for a moment the telltale colour took him aback. Then he told himself that at Chippenham, less than twenty miles down the road, he was leaving her. It was absurd to suppose that, in the short space which remained, either could be harmed. And he mounted gaily, and masking his knowledge of her emotion with a skill which surprised himself, he chatted pleasantly, unaware that with every word he was stamping the impression of her face, her long eyelashes, her graceful head, her trick of this and that, more deeply upon his memory. While she, reassured by the same thought that they would part in an hour-and in an hour what harm could happen? – closed her eyes and drank the sweet draught-the sweeter for its novelty, and for the bitter which lurked at the bottom of the cup. Meantime Sammy winked sagely at his horses, and the Frenchman cast envious glances over his shoulders, and Silbury Hill, Fyfield, and the soft folds of the downs swept by, and on warm commons and southern slopes the early bees hummed above the gorse.
Here was Chippenham at last; and the end was come. He must descend. A hasty touch, a murmured word, a pang half-felt; she veiled her eyes. If her colour fluttered and she trembled, why not? She had cause to be grateful to him. And if he felt as his foot touched the ground that the world was cold, and the prospect cheerless, why not, when he had to face Sir Robert, and when his political embarrassments, forgotten for a time, rose nearer and larger?
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?"
"No, sir, no. Not now. And a good thing, too. Upset the town for nothing! My lord has no chance, and Pybus, who is his lordship's man here, he told me himself-"
He paused with his mouth open, and his eyes on a tall lady wearing a veil, who, after standing a couple of minutes on the further side of the street, was approaching the coach. To enter it she had to pass by him, and he stared, as if he saw a ghost. "By Gosh!" he muttered under his breath. And when, with the aid of the guard, she had taken her seat inside, "By Gosh!" he muttered again, "if that's not my lady-though I've not seen her for ten years-I've the horrors!"
He turned to Vaughan to see if he had noticed anything. But Vaughan, without waiting for the end of his sentence, had stepped aside to tell a helper to replace his valise on the coach. In the bustle he had noted neither White's emotion nor the lady.
At this moment he returned. "I shall go on to Bristol for the night, White," he said. "Sir Robert is quite well?"
"Quite well, sir, and I shall be happy to tell him of your promptness in coming."
"Don't tell him anything," the young man said, with a flash of peremptoriness. "I don't want to be kept here. Do you understand, White? I shall probably return to town to-morrow. Anyway, say nothing."
"Very good, sir," White answered. "But I am sure Sir Robert would be pleased to know that you had come down so promptly."
"Ah, well, you can let him know later. Good-bye, White."
The agent, with one eye on the young squire and one on the lady, whose figure was visible through the small coach-window, seemed to be about to refer to her. But he checked himself. "Good-bye, sir," he said. "And a pleasant journey! I'm glad to have been of service, Mr. Vaughan."
"Thank you, White, thank you," the young man answered. And he swung himself up, as the coach moved. A good-natured nod, and-Tantivy! Tantivy! Tantivy! The helpers sprang aside, and away they went down the hill, and over the long stone bridge, and so along the Bristol road; but now with the shades of evening beginning to spread on the pastures about them, and the cawing rooks, that had been abroad all day on the uplands, streaming across the pale sky to the elms beside the river.
But varium et mutabile femina. When he turned, eager to take up the fallen thread, Clotho could not have been more cold than his neighbour, nor Atropos with her shears more decisive. "I've had good news," he said, as he settled his coat about him. "I came down with a very unpleasant task before me. And it is lifted from me."
"Indeed!"
"So I am going on to Bristol instead of staying at Chippenham."
No answer.
"It is a great relief to me," he continued cheerfully.
"Indeed!" She spoke in the most distant of voices.
He raised his brows in perplexity. What had happened to her? She had been so grateful, so much moved, a few minutes before. The colour had fluttered in her cheek, the tear had been visible in her eye, she had left her hand the fifth of a second in his. And now!
Now she was determined that she would blush and smile and be kind no more. She was grateful-God knew she was grateful, let him think what he would. But there were limits. Her weakness, as long as she believed that Chippenham must part them, had been pardonable. But if he had it in his mind to attend her to Bristol, to follow her or haunt her-as she had known foolish young cits at Clapham to haunt the more giddy of her flock-then her mistake was clear; and his conduct, now merely
