“I am told,” Vaughan said haughtily, “that an agreement has been made to avoid a contest at Chippinge.”
“Do you mean,” the Sergeant asked blandly, “at the next election, Mr. Vaughan?”
The Sergeant shrugged his shoulders. “As a member,” he said primly, “I take care to know nothing of such agreements. And I would recommend you, Mr. Vaughan, to adopt that rule. For the rest,” he added, with a candid smile, “I give you fair warning that I shall contest the seat. May I ask who was your informant?”
“Flixton? Flixton? Ah! The gentleman who is to marry Miss Vermuyden! Well, I can only repeat that I, at any rate, am no party to such an agreement.”
His sly look which seemed to deride his companion’s inexperience, said as plainly as a look could say, “You find the game of politics less simple than you thought?” And at another time it would have increased Vaughan’s ire. But as one pellet drives out another, the Sergeant’s reference to Miss Vermuyden had in a second driven the prime subject from his mind. He did not speak for a moment. Then with his face averted, “Is Mr. Flixton—going to marry Miss Vermuyden?” he asked, in a muffled tone. “I had not heard of it.”
“I only heard it yesterday,” the Sergeant answered, not unwilling to shelve the other topic. “But it is rumoured, and I believe it is true. Quite a romance, wasn’t it?” he continued airily. “Quite a nine days’ wonder! But”—he pulled himself up—“I beg your pardon! I was forgetting how nearly it concerned you. Dear me, dear me! It is a fair wind indeed that blows no one any harm!”
Vaughan made no reply. He could not speak for the hard beating of his heart. Wathen saw that there was something wrong and looked at him inquisitively. But the Sergeant had not the clue, and could only suspect that the marriage touched the other, because issue of it would entirely bar his succession. And no more was said. As they crossed New Palace Yard, a member drew the Sergeant aside, and Vaughan went up alone to the lobby.
But all thought of speaking was flown from his mind; nor did the thinness of the House when he entered tempt him. There were hardly more than a hundred present; and these were lolling here and there with their hats on, half asleep it seemed, in the dull light of a September afternoon. A dozen others looked sleepily from the galleries, their arms flattened on the rail, their chins on their arms. There were a couple of ministers on the Treasury Bench, and Lord John Russell was moving the third reading. No one seemed to take much interest in the matter; a stranger entering at the moment would have learned with amazement that this was the mother of parliaments, the renowned House of Commons; and with still greater amazement would he have learned that the small, boyish-looking gentleman in the high-collared coat, and with lips moulded on Cupid’s bow, who appeared to be making some perfunctory remarks upon the weather, or the state of the crops, was really advancing by an important stage the famous Bill, which had convulsed three kingdoms and was destined to change the political face of the land.