‘Perhaps she may have hardly thought it worth her while to compete,’ said Dr. Rylance, hurt in his own individual pride by the idea that his daughter had missed distinction, just as he would have been hurt if anybody had called one of his pictures a copy, or made light of his blue china. ‘With the Rylances it has always been Caesar or nothing.’
‘I regret to say that my three most important prizes have been won by a young woman whom I cannot esteem,’ said Miss Pew, bristling in her panoply of apple-green, at the thought of Ida Palliser’s insolence. ‘I hope I shall ever be just, at whatever sacrifice of personal feeling. I shall to-day bestow the first prize for modern languages, for music, and for English history and literature, upon a young person of whose moral character I have a very low opinion.’
‘And pray who is this young lady?’ asked Dr. Rylance.
‘Miss Palliser, the daughter of a half-pay officer residing in the neighbourhood of Dieppe — for very good reasons, no doubt.
‘Palliser; yes, I have heard my daughter talk of her. An insolent, ill-bred girl. I have been taught to consider her somewhat a disgrace to your excellent and well-managed school.’
‘Her deportment is certainly deplorable,’ admitted Miss Pew; ‘but the girl has remarkable talents.’
More visitors were arriving from this time forward, until everyone was seated in the ball-room. Miss Pew was engaged in receiving people, and ushering them to their seats, always assisted by Miss Dulcibella — an image of limp gracefulness — and the three governesses — all as stiff as perambulating black-boards. Dr. Rylance strolled by himself for a little while, sniffed at the great ivory cup of a magnolia, gazed dreamily at the river — shining yonder across intervening gardens and meadows — and ultimately found his daughter.
‘I am sorry to find you are not to be honoured with a prize, Ranie,’ he said, smiling at her gently.
In no relation of life had he been so nearly perfect as in his conduct as a father. Were he ever so disappointed in his daughter, he could not bring himself to be angry with her.
‘I have not tried for prizes, papa. Why should I compete with such a girl as Ida Palliser, who is to get her living as a governess, and who knows that success at school is a matter of life and death with her?’
‘Do you not think it might have been worth your while to work as hard as Miss Palliser, for the mere honour and glory of being first in your school?’
‘Did you ever work for mere honour and glory, papa?’ asked Urania, with her unpleasant little air of cynicism.
‘Well, my love, I confess there has been generally a promise of solid pudding in the background. Pray, who is this Miss Palliser, whom I hear of at every turn, and whom nobody seems to like?’
‘There you are mistaken, papa. Miss Palliser has her worshippers, though she is the most disagreeable girl in the school. That silly little Bessie raves about her, and has actually induced Mrs. Wendover to invite her to The Knoll!’
‘That is a pity, if the girl is ill-bred and unpleasant,’ said Dr.
Rylance.
‘She’s a horror,’ exclaimed Urania, vindictively.
Five minutes later Dr. Rylance and his daughter made their entrance into the ball-room, which was full of people, and whence came the opening crash of an eight-handed ‘Zampa.’ Father and daughter went in softly, and with a hushed air, as if they had been going into church; yet the firing of a cannon or two more or less would hardly have disturbed the performers at the two pianos, so tremendous was their own uproar. They were taking the overture in what they called orchestral time; though it is doubtful whether even their playing could have kept pace with the hurrying of excited fiddles in a presto passage, or the roll of the big drum, simulating distant thunder. Be that as it may, the four performers were pounding along at a breathless pace; and if their pianissimo passages failed in delicacy, there was no mistake about their fortissimo.
‘What an abominable row!’ whispered Dr. Rylance. ‘Is this what they call music?’
Urania smiled, and felt meritorious in that, after being chosen as one of the four for this very ‘Zampa,’ she had failed ignominiously as a timist, and had been compelled to cede her place to another pupil.
‘I might have toiled for six weeks at the horrid thing,’ she thought, ‘and papa would have only called it a row.’
‘Zampa’ ended amidst polite applause, the delighted parents of the four players feeling that they had not lived in vain. And now the music mistress took her place at one of the pianos, the top of the instrument was lowered, and Miss Fane, a little fair girl with a round face and frizzy auburn hair, came simpering forward to sing ‘Una voce,’ in a reedy soprano, which had been attenuated by half-guinea lessons from an Italian master, and which frequently threatened a snap.
Happily on this occasion the thin little voice got through its work without disaster; there was a pervading sense of relief when the crisis was over, and Miss Fane had simpered her acknowledgments of the applause which rewarded a severely conscientious performance.
‘Any more singing?’ inquired Dr. Rylance of his daughter, not with the air of a man who pants for vocal melody.
‘No, the next is the “Moonlight Sonata.”’
Dr. Rylance had a dim idea that he had heard of this piece before. He waited dumbly, admiring the fine old room, with its lofty ceiling, and florid cornice, and the sunny garden beyond the five tall windows.
Presently Ida Palliser came slowly towards the piano, carrying herself like an empress. Dr. Rylance could hardly believe the evidence of his eyes. Was this the girl whose deportment had been called abominable, whom Urania had denounced as a horror? Was this the articled pupil, the girl doomed to life-long drudgery as a governess, this superb creature, with her noble form and noble face, looking grave defiance at the world which hitherto had not used her too kindly?
She was dressed in black, a sombre figure amidst the white muslins and rainbow sashes of her comrades. Her cashmere gown was of the simplest fashion, but it became the tall full figure to admiration. Below her linen collar she wore a scarlet ribbon, from which hung a silver locket, the only ornament she possessed. It was Bessie Wendover who had insisted on the scarlet ribbon, as a relief to that funereal gown.
‘I was never so surprised in my life,’ whispered Dr. Rylance to his daughter. ‘She is the handsomest girl I ever saw.’
‘Yes, she is an acknowledged beauty, said Urania, with a contraction of her thin lips; ‘nobody disputes her good looks. It is a pity her manners are so abominable.’
‘She moves like a lady.’
‘She has been thoroughly drilled,’ sneered Urania. ‘The original savage in her has been tamed as much as possible.’
‘I should like to know more of that girl,’ said Dr. Rylance, ‘for she looks as if she has force of character. I’m sorry you and she are not better friends.’
Ida seated herself at the piano and began to play, without honouring the assembly with one glance from her dark eyes. She sat looking straight before her, like one whose thoughts are far away. She played by memory, and at first her hands faltered a little as they touched the keys, as if she hardly knew what she was going to play. Then she recollected herself in a flash, and began the firm, slow, legato movement with the touch of a master hand, the melody rising and falling in solemn waves of sound, like the long, slow roll of a calm sea.
The ‘Moonlight Sonata’ is a composition of some length. Badly, or even indifferently performed, the ‘Moonlight Sonata’ is a trial; but no one grew weary of it to-day, though the strong young hands which gave emphasis to the profound beauties of that wonderful work were only the hands of a girl. Those among the listeners who knew least about music, knew that this was good playing; those who cared not at all for the playing were pleased to sit and watch the mobile face of the player as she wove her web of melody, her expression changing with every change in the music, but unmoved by a thought of the spectators.
Presently, just as the sonata drew to its close, an aubur
n head was thrust between Dr. Rylance and his daughter, and a girl’s voice whispered,
‘Is she not splendid? Is she not the grandest creature you ever saw?’
The doctor turned and recognized Bessie Wendover.
‘She is, Bessie,’ he said, shaking hands with her. ‘I never was so struck by anyone in my life.’
Urania grew white with anger. Was it not enough that Ida Palliser should have outshone her in every accomplishment upon which school-girls pride themselves? Was it not enough that she should have taken complete possession of that foolish little Bessie, and thus ingratiated herself into the Wendover set, and contrived to get invited to Kingthorpe? No. Here was Urania’s own father, her especial property, going over to the enemy.
‘I am glad you admire her so much, papa,’ she said, outwardly calm and sweet, but inwardly consumed with anger; ‘for it will be so pleasant for you to see more of her at Kingthorpe.’
‘Yes,’ he said heartily, ‘I am glad she is coming to Kingthorpe. That was a good idea of yours, Bessie.’
‘Wasn’t it? I am so pleased to find you like her. I wish you could get
Ranie to think better of her.’
Now came the distribution of prizes and accessits. Miss Pew took her seat before the table on which the gaudily-bound books were arranged, and began to read out the names. It was a hard thing for her to have to award the three first prizes to a girl she detested; but Miss Pew knew the little world she ruled well enough to know that palpable injustice would weaken her rule. Ninety-nine girls who had failed to win the prize would have resented her favouritism if she had given the reward to a hundredth girl who had not fairly won it. The eyes of her little world were upon her, and she was obliged to give the palm to the real victor. So, in her dull, hard voice, looking straight before her, with cold, unfriendly eyes, she read out —
‘The prize for modern languages has been obtained by Miss Palliser!’ and Ida came slowly up to the table and received a bulky crimson volume, containing the poetical works of Sir Walter Scott.
‘The prize for proficiency in instrumental music is awarded to Miss
Palliser!’
Another bulky volume was handed to Ida. For variety the binding was green, and the inside of the book was by William Cowper.
‘The greatest number of marks for English history and literature nave been obtained by Miss Palliser.’
Miss Palliser was now the happy possessor of a third volume bound in blue, containing a selection from the works of Robert Southey.
With not one word of praise nor one smile of approval did Miss Pew sweeten the gifts which she bestowed upon the articled pupil. She gave that which justice, or rather policy, compelled her to give. No more. Kindliness was not in the bond.
Ida came slowly away from the table, laden with her prizes, her head held high, but not with pride in the trophies she carried. Her keenest feeling at this moment was a sense of humiliation. The prizes had been given her as a bone might be flung to a strange dog, by one whose heart held no love for the canine species. An indignant flush clouded the creamy whiteness of her forehead, angry tears glittered in her proud eyes. She made her way to the nearest door, and went away without a word to the crowd of younger girls, her own pupils, who had crowded round to congratulate and caress her. She was adored by these small people, and it was her personal influence as much as her talent which made her so successful a teacher.
Dr. Rylance followed her to the door with his eyes. He was not capable of wide sympathies, or of projecting himself into the lives of other people; but he did sympathize with this girl, so lonely in the splendour of her beauty, so joyless in her triumph.
‘God help her, poor child, in the days to come!’ he said to himself.
CHAPTER III.
AT THE KNOLL.
Between Winchester and Romsey there lies a region of gentle hills and grassy slopes shadowed by fine old yew trees, a land of verdure, lonely and exceeding fair; and in a hollow of this undulating district nestles the village of Kingthorpe, with its half-dozen handsome old houses, its richly cultivated gardens, and quaint old square-towered church. It is a prosperous, well-to-do little settlement, where squalor and want are unknown. Its humbler dwellings belong chiefly to the labourers on the Wendover estate, and those are liberally paid and well cared for. An agricultural labourer’s wages at Kingthorpe might seem infinitely small to a London mechanic; but when it is taken into account that the tiller of the fields has a roomy cottage and an acre of garden for sixpence a-week, his daily dole of milk from the home farm, as much wood as he can burn, blankets and coals at Christmas, and wine and brandy, soup and bread from the great house, in all emergencies, he is perhaps not so very much worse off than his metropolitan brother.
There was an air of comfort and repose at Kingthorpe which made the place delightful to the eye of a passing wanderer — a spot where one would gladly have lain down the burden of life and rested for awhile in one of those white cottages that lay a little way back from the high road, shadowed by a screen of tall elms. There was a duck-pond in front of a low red-brick inn which reminded one of Birkett Foster, and made the central feature of the village; a spot of busy life where all else was stillness. There were accommodation roads leading off to distant farms, above which the tree-tops interlaced, and where the hedges were rich in blackberry and sloe, dog-roses and honeysuckle, and the banks in spring-time dappled with violet and primrose, purple orchids and wild crocus, and all the flowers that grow for the delight of village children.
Ida Palliser sat silent in her corner of the large landau which was taking Miss Wendover and her schoolfellows from Winchester station to Kingthorpe. Miss Rylance had accepted a seat in the Wendover landau at her father’s desire; but she would have preferred to have had her own smart little pony-carriage to meet her at the station. To drive her own carriage, were it ever so small, was more agreeable to Urania’s temper than to sit behind the over-fed horses from The Knoll, and to be thus, in some small measure, indebted to Bessie Wendover.
Ida Palliser’s presence made the thing still more odious. Bessie was radiant with delight at taking her friend home with her. She watched Ida’s eyes as they roamed over the landscape. She understood the girl’s silent admiration.
‘They are darling old hills, aren’t they, dear?’ she asked, squeezing Ida’s hand, as the summer shadows and summer lights went dancing over the sward like living things.
‘Yes, dear, they are lovely,’ answered Ida, quietly.
She was devouring the beauty of the scene with her eyes. She had seen nothing like it in her narrow wanderings over the earth — nothing so simple, so beautiful, and so lonely. She was sorry when they left that open hill country and came into a more fertile scene, a high road, which was like an avenue in a gentleman’s park, and then the village duck-pond and red homestead, the old gray church, with its gilded sun-dial, marking the hour of six, the gardens brimming over with roses, and as full of sweet odours as those spicy islands which send their perfumed breath to greet the seaman as he sails to the land of the Sun.
The carriage stopped at the iron gate of an exquisitely kept garden, surrounding a small Gothic cottage of the fanciful order of architecture, — a cottage with plate-glass windows, shaded by Spanish blinds, a glazed verandah sheltering a tesselated walk, sloping banks and terraces, on a very small scale, stone vases full of flowers, a tiny fountain sparkling in the afternoon sun.
This was Dr. Rylance’s country retreat. It had been a yeoman’s cottage, plain, substantial and homely as the yeoman and his household. The doctor had added a Gothic front, increased the number of rooms, but not the general convenience of the dwelling. He had been his own architect, and the result was a variety of levels and a breakneck arrangement of stairs at all manner of odd corners, so ingenious in their peril to life and limb that they might be supposed to have been designed as traps for the ignorant stranger.
‘Don’t say good-bye, Ranie,’ said Bessie, when Miss Rylance had alighted, and was
making her adieux at the carriage door; ‘you’ll come over to dinner, won’t you, dear? Your father won’t be down till Saturday. You’ll be dreadfully dull at home.’
‘Thanks, dear, no; I’d rather spend my first evening at home. I’m never dull,’ answered Urania, with her air of superiority.
‘What a queer girl you are!’ exclaimed Bessie, frankly. ‘I should be wretched if I found myself alone in a house. Do run over in the evening, at any rate. We are going to have lots of fun.’
Miss Rylance shuddered. She knew what was meant by lots of fun at The Knoll; a romping game at croquet, or the newly-established lawn-tennis, with girls in short petticoats and boys in Eton jackets; a raid upon the plum-trees on the crumbling red brick walls of the fine old kitchen-garden; winding up with a boisterous bout at hide-and-seek in the twilight; and finally a banquet of sandwiches, jam tarts, and syllabub in the shabby old dining-room.
‘I’ll come over to see Mrs. Wendover, if I am not too tired,’ she said, with languid politeness, and then she closed the gate, and the carriage drove on to The Knoll.
Colonel Wendover’s house was a substantial dwelling of the Queen Anne period, built of unmixed red brick, with a fine pediment, a stone shell over the entrance, four long narrow windows on each side of the tall door, and nine in each upper story, a house that looked all eyes, and was a blaze of splendour when the western sun shone upon its many windows. The house stood on a bit of rising ground at the end of the village, and dominated all meaner habitations. It was the typical squire’s house, and Colonel Wendover was no bad representative of the typical squire.
A fine old iron gate opened upon a broad gravel drive, which made the circuit of a well-kept parterre, where the flowers grew as they only grow for those who love them dearly. This gate stood hospitably open at all times, and many were the vehicles which drove up to the tall door of The Knoll, and friendly the welcome which greeted all comers.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 791
