_A CRIMEAN EPISODE_
It was eight o'clock in the evening of the 5th of April, 1880, and
the Travellers' Club was full to overflowing. Men who were just
sitting down to dinner got up from their tables, and joined the
excited concourse in the hall. The General Election which terminated
Lord Beaconsfield's reign was nearing its close, and the issue
was scarcely in doubt; but at this moment the decisive event of
the campaign was announced. Members, as they eagerly scanned the
tape, saw that Gladstone was returned for Midlothian; and, as they
passed, the news to the expectant crowd behind them, there arose
a tumult of excited voices.
"I told you how it would be!" "Well, I've lost my money." "I could
not have believed that Scotsmen would be such fools." "I'm awfully
sorry for Dalkeith." "Why couldn't that old windbag have stuck
to Greenwich?" "I blame Rosebery for getting him down." "Well,
I suppose we're in for another Gladstone Premiership." "Oh, no
fear. The Queen won't speak to him." "No, Hartington's the man,
and, as an old Whig, I'm glad of it." "Perhaps Gladstone will take
the Exchequer." "What! serve under Hartington? You don't know the
old gentleman's pride if you expect that;" and so on and so forth,
a chorus of excited and bewildering exclamations. Amid all the
hurly-burly, one figure in the throng seemed quite unmoved, and
its immobility attracted the notice of the throng. "Well, really,
Vaughan, I should have thought that even you would have felt excited
about this. I know you don't care much about politics in a general
way, but this is something out of the common. The Duke of Buccleuch
beaten on his own ground, and Gladstone heading straight for the
Premiership! Isn't that enough to quicken your pulse?"
But the man whom they saluted as Vaughan still looked undisturbed.
"Well, I don't think I ever was quite as much in love with Dizzy
as you were; and as to the Premiership, we are not quite at the
end yet, and _Alors comme alors_."
Philip Vaughan was a man just over fifty: tall, pale,
distinguished-looking, with something in his figure and bearing
that reminded one of the statue of Sidney Herbert, which in 1880
still stood before the War Office in Pall Mall. He looked both
delicate and melancholy. His face was curiously devoid of animation;
but his most marked characteristic was an habitual look of meditative
abstraction from the things which immediately surrounded him. As
he walked down the steps of the club towards a brougham which was
waiting for him, the man who had tried in vain to interest him
in the Midlothian Election turned to his nearest neighbour, and
said: "Vaughan is really the most extraordinary fellow I know.
There is nothing on earth that interests him in the faintest degree.
Politics, books, sport, society, foreign affairs--he I never seems
to care a rap about any of them; and yet he knows something about
them all, and, if only you can get him to talk, he can talk extremely
well. It is particularly curious about politics, for generally, if
a man has once been in political life, he feels the fascination
of it to the end." "But was Vaughan ever in political life?" "Oh
yes I suppose you are too young to remember. He got into Parliament
just after he left Oxford. He was put in by an old uncle for a Family
Borough--Bilton--one of those snug little seats, not exactly 'Pocket
Boroughs,' but very like them, which survived until the Reform Act
of 1867." "How long did he sit?" "Only for one Parliament--from
1852 to 1857. No one ever knew why he gave up. He put it on health,
but I believe it was just freakishness. He always was an odd chap,
and of course he grows odder as he grows older." But just at that
moment another exciting result came, trickling down the tape, and
the hubbub was renewed.
Philip Vaughan was, as he put it in his languid way, "rather fond
of clubs," so long as they were not political, and he spent a good
deal of his time at the Travellers', the Athenæum, and the United
Universities, and was a member of some more modern institutions.
He had plenty of acquaintances, but no friends--at least of his
own age. The Argus-eyed surveyors of club-life noticed that the
only people to whom he seemed to talk freely and cheerfully were
the youngest members; and he was notoriously good-natured in helping
young fellows who wished to join his clubs, and did his utmost to
stay the hand of the blackballer.
He had a very numerous cousinship, but did not much cultivate it.
Sometimes, yielding to pressure, he would dine with cousins in
London; or pay a flying visit to them in the country; but in order,
as it was supposed to avoid these family entanglements, he lived
at Wimbledon, where he enjoyed, in a quiet way, his garden and
his library, and spent most of the day in solitary rides among
the Surrey hills. When winter set in he generally vanished towards
the South of Europe, but by Easter he was back again at Wimbledon,
and was to be found pretty often at one or other of his clubs.
This was Philip Vaughan, as people knew him in 1880. Some liked
him; some pitied him; some rather despised him; but no one took
the trouble to understand him; and indeed, if anyone had thought
it worth while to do so, the attempt would probably have been
unsuccessful; for Vaughan never talked of the past, and to understand
him in 1880 one must have known him as he had been thirty years
before.
In 1850 two of the best known of the young men in society were
Arthur Grey and Philip Vaughan. They were, and had been ever since
their schooldays at Harrow, inseparable friends. The people to
whom friendship is a sealed and hopeless mystery were puzzled by
the alliance. "What have those two fellows in common?" was the
constant question, "and yet you never see them apart." They shared
lodgings in Mount Street, frequented the same clubs, and went,
night after night, to the same diners and balls. They belonged,
in short, to the same set: "went everywhere," as the phrase is,
and both were extremely popular; but their pursuits and careers
were different. Grey was essentially a sportsman and an athlete. He
was one of those men to whom all bodily exercises come naturally,
and who attain perfection in them with no apparent effort. From
his earliest days he had set his heart on being a soldier, and by
1850 had obtained a commission in the Guards. Vaughan had neither
gifts nor inclinations in the way of sport or games. At Harrow he
lived the life of the intellect and the spirit, and was unpopular
accordingly. He was constantly to be found "mooning," as his
schoolfellows said, in the green lanes and meadow-paths which lie
between Harrow and Uxbridge, or gazing, as Byron had loved to gaze,
at the sunset from the Churchyard Terrace. It was even whispered
that he wrote poetry.
Arthur Grey, with his good looks, his frank bearing, and his facile
supremacy on the cricket-ground and in the racquet-court, was a
popular hero; and of all his schoolfellows none paid him a more
whole-hearted worship than the totally dissimilar Philip Vaughan.
Their close and intimate affection was a standing puzzle to hard
and dull and superficial natures; but a poet could interpret it.
"We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart
From churls, who, wondered what our friendship meant;
And in that coy retirement heart to heart
Drew closer, and our natures were content."[*]
[Footnote *: William Cory.]
Vaughan and Grey left Harrow, as they had entered it, on the same
day, and in the following October both went up to Christ Church.
Neither contemplated a long stay at Oxford, for each had his career
cut out. Grey was to join the Guards at the earliest opportunity,
and Vaughan was destined for Parliament. Bilton was a borough which
the "Schedule A" of 1832 had spared. It numbered some 900 voters;
and, even as the electors of Liskeard "were commonly of the same
opinion as Mr. Eliot," so the electors of Bilton were commonly
of the same opinion as Lord Liscombe.
The eighth Lord Liscombe was the last male member of his family.
The peerage must die with him; but his property, including the
"Borough influence," was at his own disposal. His only sister had
married a Mr. Vaughan, and Lord Liscombe, having carefully watched
the character and career of his nephew Philip Vaughan, determined
to make him his heir. This was all very well; no one had a word
to say against it, for no more obvious heir could be suggested.
But when it became known that Lord Liscombe meant to bring Philip
Vaughan into Parliament for Bilton there was great dissatisfaction.
"What a shame," people said, "to disturb old Mr. Cobley, who has
sat so long and voted so steadily! To be sure, he is very tiresome,
and can't make himself heard a yard off, and is very stingy about
subscriptions; and, if there was some rising young man to put into
his seat, as the Duke of Newcastle put Gladstone, it might be all
very well. But, really, Philip Vaughan is such a moody, dreamy
creature, and so wrapped up in books and poetry, that he can never
make a decent Member of Parliament. Politics are quite out of his
line, and I shouldn't wonder if Lord Liscombe contrived to lose
the seat. But he's as obstinate as a mule; and he has persuaded
himself that young Vaughan is a genius. Was there ever such folly?"
Lord Liscombe had his own way--as he commonly had. Mr. Cobley received
a polite intimation that at the next election he would not be able
to rely on the Liscombe interest, and retired with a very bad grace,
but not without his reward; for before long he received the offer
of a baronetcy (which he accepted, as he said, to please his wife),
and died honourably as Sir Thomas Cobley. Meanwhile Lord Liscombe,
who, when he had framed a plan, never let the grass grow under
his feet, induced Philip Vaughan to quit Oxford without waiting
for a degree, made him address "Market Ordinaries" and political
meetings at Bilton, presented him at the Levee, proposed him at
his favourite clubs, gave him an ample allowance, and launched him,
with a vigorous push, into society. In all this Lord Liscombe did
well, and showed his knowledge of human nature. The air of politics
stirred young Vaughan's pulses as they had never been stirred before.
What casual observers had regarded as idle reveries turned out to
have been serious studies. With the theory of English politics, as
it shaped itself in 1852 when Lord Derby and Disraeli were trying
to restore Protection, Vaughan showed himself thoroughly acquainted;
and, as often happens when a contemplative and romantic nature
is first brought into contact with eager humanity, he developed
a faculty of public speaking which astonished his uncle as much
as it astonished anyone, though that astute nobleman concealed
his surprise. Meanwhile, Grey had got his commission. In those
days officers of the Guards lived in lodgings, so it was obvious
for Grey and Vaughan to live together; and every now and then Grey
would slip down to Bilton, and by making himself pleasant to the
shop-keepers, and talking appropriately to the farmers, would act
as his friend's most effective election-agent. The Dissolution
came in July, 1852, and Philip Vaughan was returned unopposed for
the Free and Independent Borough of Bilton.
Then followed a halcyon time. The two friends had long known that
they had only one heart between them; and now, living under the
same roof and going into the same society, they lived practically
one life. There was just enough separation to make reunion more
delightful--a dull debate at the House for Vaughan, or a dusty
field-day at Aldershot for Grey; but for both there was the early
gallop in Rotten Row, the breakfast which no third person ever
shared, the evening of social amusement, and the long, deep, intimate
talk over the last cigar, when the doings of the day were reviewed
and the programme for to-morrow was sketched.
Grey had always been popular and always lighthearted. Vaughan, as
a schoolboy and an undergraduate, had been unpopular and grave.
But now people who knew them both observed that, at any rate as far
as outward characteristics showed, the two natures were becoming
harmonized. Vaughan was a visibly lighter, brighter, and more
companionable fellow; and Grey began to manifest something of that
manly seriousness which was wanted to complete his character. It
is pleasant to contemplate "one entire and perfect chrysolite" of
happiness, and that, during these bright years of opening manhood,
was the rare and fragile possession of Philip Vaughan and Arthur
Grey.
* * * * *
John Bright was once walking with one of his sons, then a schoolboy,
past the Guards' Memorial in Waterloo Place. The boy asked the
meaning of the single word inscribed on the base, CRIMEA. Bright's
answer was as emphatic as the inscription: "A crime." There is no
need to recapitulate in this place the series of blunders through
which this country, in Lord Clarendon's phrase, "drifted towards
war." Month by month things shaped themselves in a way which left
no reasonable doubt about the issue. The two friends said little.
Deep in the heart of each there lay the conviction that an event
was at hand which would "pierce even to the dividing asunder of
soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow." But each held the
conviction with a difference. To Grey it meant the approach of that
to which, from the days of his chivalrous boyhood, he had looked
forward, as the supreme good of life--the chance of a soldier's glory
and a soldier's death. To Vaughan it meant simply the extinction
of all that made life worth living. Each foresaw an agony, but
the one foresaw it with a joy which no affection could subdue;
the other with a despair which even religion seemed powerless to
relieve. Before long silence became impossible. The decision of the
Cabinet was made known. Two strong and ardent natures, which since
boyhood had lived in and on one another, were forced to admit that a
separation, which might be eternal, "was nigh, even at the doors."
But there was this vital difference between the two cases--the
one had to act; the other only to endure.
On the 22nd of February, 1854, the Guards sailed from Southampton,
and on the 27th of March war between England and Russia was formally
declared.
* * * * *
The events of the next two years must be compressed into a few
lines. To the inseparable evils of war--bloodshed and sickness--were
added the horrors of a peculiarly cruel winter. Five-sixths of the
soldiers whom England lost died from preventable diseases, and
the want of proper food, clothing, and shelter. Bullets and cholera
and frost-bite did their deadly work unchecked. The officers had at
least their full share of the hardships and the fatalities. What
the Guards lost can be read on the walls of the Chapel at Wellington
Barracks and in the pedigrees of Burke's Peerage. For all England
it was a time of piercing trial, and of that hope deferred which
maketh the heart sick. No one ever knew what Vaughan endured, for he
as too proud to bare his soul. For two years he never looked at a
gazette, or opened a newspaper, or heard a Ministerial announcement
in the House of Commons, or listened to a conversation at his club,
without the sickening apprehension that the next moment he would
know that Arthur Grey was dead. Letters from Grey reached him from
time to time, but their brave cheerfulness did nothing to soothe
his apprehensions. For they were few and far between; postal
communication was slow and broken, and by the time a letter reached
him the hand which had penned it might be cold in death. Yet, in
spite of an apprehensive dread which had become a second nature
to Philip Vaughan, the fatal news lingered. Weeks lengthened into
months, and months into two years, and yet the blow had not fallen.
It was not in Philip's nature to "cheer up," or "expect the best,"
or "hope against hope," or to adopt any of the cheap remedies which
shallow souls enjoy and prescribe. Nothing but certainty could give
him ease, and certainty was in this case impossible. Nervousness,
restlessness, fidgetiness, increased upon him day by day. The gossip
and bustle of the House of Commons became intolerable to him. Society
he had never entered since Grey sailed for the Crimea. As in boyhood,
so again now, he felt that Nature was the only true consoler, and for
weeks at a time he tried to bury himself in the wilds of Scotland
or Cumberland or Cornwall, spending his whole day in solitary walks,
with Wordsworth or the _Imitatio_ for a companion, and sleeping
only from physical exhaustion.
In the early part of 1856 the newspapers began to talk of peace.
Sebastopol had fallen, and Russia was said to be exhausted. The
Emperor of the French had his own reasons for withdrawing from
the contest, and everything seemed to turn on the decision of Lord
Palmerston. This tantalizing vision of a swift fulfilment of his
prayers seemed to Philip Vaughan even less endurable than his previous
apprehensions. To hear from hour to hour the contradictory chatter
of irresponsible clubmen and M.P.'s was an insupportable affliction;
so, at the beginning of the Session, he "paired" till Easter, and
departed on one of his solitary rambles. Desiring to cut himself
off as completely as possible from his usual environment, he left
no address at his lodgings, but told his servant that when he wanted
his letters he would telegraph for them from the place, whatever
it might be, where he was halting. He kept steadily to his plan,
wandering over hill and dale, by lake and river, and steeping his
soul in "the cheerful silence of the fells." When he lighted on a
spot which particularly took his fancy, he would halt there for
two or three days, and would send what in those day was called
"a telegraphic despatch" from the nearest town. In response to
the despatch he would receive from his servant in Mount Street
a package containing all the letters which had been accumulating
during the fortnight or three weeks since he last telegraphed.
One day in April, when he opened the customary package, he found
in it a letter from Arthur Grey.
"The General has just told us that peace is practically settled.
If this proves true, you will not get another letter from me. I
presume we shall be sent home directly, and I shall make straight
for London and Mount Street, where I expect I shall find you. Dear
old chap, I can guess what you have been going through; but it
looks as if we should meet again in this world after all."
What this letter meant to Philip Vaughan they only know who have
been through a similar experience; and words are powerless to express
it
* * * * *
After the first bewilderment of joy had subsided, Philip began
to study the practical bearings of the letter. By a comparison of
the date within and the post-mark outside, the letter appeared to
have been a long time on the way, and another delay had occurred
since it had arrived at Mount Street. It was possible that peace
might have been actually concluded. News in those days took long
to travel through Scottish glens, and Vaughan had never looked at
a paper since he left England. It was conceivable that the Guards
were already on their homeward voyage--nay, it might even be that
they were just arriving, or had arrived, in London. The one clear
point was that Vaughan must get home. Twenty miles on his landlord's
pony brought him to a telegraph-office, whence he telegraphed to
his servant, "Returning immediately," and then, setting his face
southward, he travelled as fast as steamers and express trains
would take him. As he travelled, he picked up the news. Peace had
been concluded on the 30th of March, and some of our troops were
homeward bound; some had actually arrived. The journey seemed
unnaturally long, and it was dark when the train rattled into Euston
Station.... In a bewildered mood of uncertainty and joy, he rang
the bell in Mount Street. His servant opened the door. "You're
just in time, sir. You will find him in the drawing-room."
The drawing-room of the lodging-house had always been Grey's
sitting-room, and during his absence Vaughan had studiously kept it
in it accustomed order. There were some stags' heads on the walls,
and a fox's brush with a label; a coloured print of Harrow, and
engravings of one or two Generals whom Grey had specially honoured
as masters of the art of war; the book-case, the writing-desk,
the rather stiff furniture, were just as he had left them. Philip
flung open the door with a passionate cry of "Arthur! Arthur! At
last! Thank God----" But the words died on his lips.
In the middle of the room, just under the central chandelier, there
was a coffin supported by trestles, with its foot towards the door.
On the white pillow there lay the still whiter face of a corpse,
and it was the corpse of Arthur Grey.
* * * * *
What happened immediately after no one ever precisely knew. Not
even the waiting servant had heard the street-door shut.
Next morning the park-keepers found a young man lying on the grass
in Hyde Park, drenched to the skin with the night's heavy rain,
unconscious, and apparently dying. The papers in his pockets proved
that he was Philip Vaughan. A long and desperate illness followed,
and for months both life and reason trembled in the balance. Lord
Liscombe hurried up to London, and Vaughan's servant explained
everything. Arthur Grey had been taken ill on the homeward voyage.
The symptoms would now be recognized as typhoid, but the disease
had not then been diagnosed, and the ship's surgeon pronounced it
"low fever." He landed at Southampton, pushed his way to London,
arrived at his lodgings more dead than alive, and almost immediately
sank into the coma from which he never recovered. It was impossible
to communicate with Vaughan, whose address was unknown; and when
his telegram arrived, announcing his instant return, the servant
and the landlady agreed that he must have heard the news from some
other source, and was hurrying back to see his friend before he
became invisible for ever. "You're just in time" meant just in
time to see the body, for the coffin was to be closed that evening.
* * * * *
The struggle was long and desperate, but Vaughan had on his side
youth and a constitution, not strong indeed, but unweakened by
profligacy. By slow degrees his nervous system rallied from the
shock, and after a long period of foreign travel he returned, in
great part, to his former habits. Only he could not and would not
re-enter the House of Commons, but announced his retirement, on the
score of health, at the next Election. Soon afterwards he inherited Lord
Liscombe's fortune, made over Liscombe Abbey and its responsibilities
to a distant cousin, and insensibly glided into the way of living
which I described at the outset. Two years after the Election of
1880 he died at Rome, where he had been spending the winter. The
attack of fever to which he succumbed was not peculiarly severe,
but the doctor said that he made no effort to live, and was in
fact worn out, though not by years.
Nobody missed him. Nobody lamented him. Few even said a kind word
about him. His will expressed only one personal wish--that he might
be buried by the side of Arthur Grey. But his executors thought
that this arrangement would cause them a great deal of trouble,
and he rests in the English cemetery at Rome.