Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  With the family at The Knoll conversation had been bounded by Winchester on one side, and Romsey on the other. There was an agreeable freshness in the society of a young man who could talk of all that was newest in European art and literature, and who knew how the world was being governed.

  But this fund of information was hinted at rather than expressed. To-night Mr. Wendover seemed most inclined to mere nonsense talk — the lively nothings that please children. Of himself and his Norwegian adventures he said hardly anything.

  ‘I suppose when a man has travelled so much he gets to look upon strange countries as a matter of course,’ speculated Ida. ‘If I had just come from Norway, I should talk of nothing else.’

  The dumb-charades and hide-and-seek were played, but only by the lower orders, as Bessie called her younger brothers and sisters.

  Ida strolled in the moonlit garden with Mr. Wendover, Bessie Urania, and Mr. Ratcliffe, a very juvenile curate, who was Bessie’s admirer and slave. Urania had no particular admirer. She felt that every one at Kingthorpe must needs behold her with mute worship; but there was no one so audacious as to give expression to the feeling; no one of sufficient importance to be favoured with her smiles. She looked forward to her first season in London next year, and then she would be called upon to make her selection.

  ‘She is worldly to the tips of her fingers,’ said Ida, as she and Bessie talked apart from the others for a few minutes: ‘I wonder she does not try to captivate your cousin.’

  ‘What — Brian? Oh, he is not at all in her line. He would not suit her a bit.’

  ‘But don’t you think it would suit her to be mistress of the Abbey?’

  Bessie gave a little start, as if the idea were new.

  ‘I don’t think she has ever thought of him in that light,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you? If she hasn’t she is not the girl I think her.’

  ‘Oh, I know she is very worldly; but I don’t think she’s so bad as that.’

  ‘Not so bad as to be capable of marrying for money — no, I suppose not,’ said Ida, thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m sure you would not, darling, said Bessie. ‘You talked about it once, when you were feeling bitter; but I know that in your heart of hearts you never meant it. You are much too high-minded.’

  ‘I am not a bit high-minded. All my high-mindedness, if I ever had any, has been squeezed out of me by poverty. My only idea is to escape from subjection and humiliation — a degrading bondage to vulgar-minded people.’

  ‘But would the escape be worth having at the cost of your own degradation?’ urged Bessie, who felt particularly heroic this evening, exalted by the moonlight, the loveliness of the garden, the thought of parting with her dearest friend. ‘Marry for love, dearest. Sacrifice everything in this world rather than be false to yourself.’

  ‘You dear little enthusiast, I may never be asked to make any such sacrifice. I have not much chance of suitors at Mauleverer, as you know — and as for falling in love—’

  ‘Oh, you never know when the fatal moment may come. How do you like

  Brian?’

  ‘He is very gentlemanlike; he seems very well informed.’

  ‘He is immensely clever,’ answered Bessie, almost offended at this languid praise; ‘he is a man who might succeed in any line he chose for himself. Do you think him handsome?’

  ‘He is certainly nice looking.’

  ‘How cool you are! I had set my heart upon your liking him.’

  ‘What could come of my liking?’ asked Ida with a touch of bitterness. ‘Is there a portionless girl in all England who would not like the master of Wendover Abbey?’

  ‘But for his own sake,’ urged Bessie, with a vexed air; ‘surely he is worthy of being liked for his own sake, without a thought of the Abbey.’

  ‘I cannot dissociate him from that lovely old house and gardens. Indeed, to my mind he rather belongs to the Abbey than the Abbey belongs to him. You see I knew the Abbey first.’

  Here they were interrupted by Brian and Urania, and presently Ida found herself walking in the moonlight in a broad avenue of standard roses, at the end of the garden, with Mr. Wendover by her side, and the voices of the other three sounding ever so far away. On the other side of a low quickset hedge stretched a wide expanse of level meadow land, while in the farther distance rose the Wiltshire hills, and nearer the heathy highlands of the New Forest. The lamp-lit windows of Miss Wendover’s cottage glimmered a little way off, across gardens and meadows.

  ‘And so you are really going to leave us to-morrow morning?’ said Brian, regretfully.

  ‘By the eight o’clock train from Winchester. To-morrow evening I shall be sitting on a form in a big bare class-room, listening to the babble of a lot of girls pretending to learn their lessons.’

  ‘Are you fond of teaching?’

  ‘Just imagine to yourself the one occupation which is most odious to you, and then you may know how fond I am of teaching; and of school-girls; and of school-life altogether.’

  ‘It is very hard that you should have to pursue such an uncongenial career.’

  ‘It seems so to me; but, perhaps, that is my selfishness. I suppose half the people in this world have to live by work they hate.’

  ‘Allowing for the number of people to whom all kind of work is hateful, I dare say you are right. But I think, in a general way, congenial work means successful work. No man hates the profession that brings him fame and money; but the doctor without patients, the briefless barrister, can hardly love law or medicine.’

  He beguiled Ida into talking of her own life, with all its bitterness. There was something in his voice and manner which tempted her to confide in him. He seemed thoroughly sympathetic.

  ‘I keep forgetting what strangers we are,’ she said, apologizing for her unreserve.

  ‘We are not strangers. I have heard of you from Bessie so much that I seem to have known you for years. I hope you will never think of me as a stranger.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever can, after this conversation. I am afraid you will think me horribly egotistical.’

  She had been talking of her father and stepmother, the little brother she loved so fondly, dwelling with delight upon his perfections.

  ‘I think you all that is good and noble. How I wish this were not your last evening at the Knoll!’

  ‘Do you think I do not wish it? Hark, there’s Bessie calling us.’

  They went back to the house, and to the drawing-room, which wore quite a festive appearance, in honour of Bessie’s birthday; ever so many extra candles dotted about, and a table laid with fruit and sandwiches, cake and claret-cup, the children evidently considering a superfluity of meals indispensable to a happy birthday. Blanche and her juniors were sitting about the room, in the last stage of exhaustion after hide-and-seek.

  ‘This has been a capital birthday,’ said Horatio, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and then filling for himself a bumper of claret-cup; ‘and now we are going to dance. Blanche, give us the Faust Waltz, and go on playing till we tell you to leave off.’

  Blanche, considerably blown, and with her hair like a mop, sat down and began to touch the piano with resolute fingers and forcible rhythm. ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three. The boys pushed the furniture into the corners. Brian offered himself to Ida; Bessie insisted upon surrendering the curate to Urania, and took one of her brothers for a partner; and the three couples went gliding round the pretty old room, the cool night breezes blowing in upon them from wide-open windows.

  They danced and played, and sang and talked, till midnight chimed from the old eight-day clock in the hall, — a sound which struck almost as much consternation to Bessie’s soul as if she had been Cinderella at the royal ball.

  ‘TWELVE O’CLOCK! and the little ones all up!’ she exclaimed, looking round the circle of towzled heads with remorseful eyes. ‘What would mother say? And she told me she relied on my discretion! Go to bed, every one of you, this instant!’

  ‘Oh, come,
now,’ remonstrated Blanche, ‘there’s no use in hustling us off like that, after letting us sit up hours after our proper time. I’m going to have another sandwich; and there’s not a bit of good in leaving all those raspberry tarts. The servants won’t thank us. They have as many jam tarts as they like.’

  ‘You greedy little wretches; you have been doing nothing but eat all day,’ said Ida. ‘When I am back at Mauleverer I shall remember you only as machines for the consumption of pudding and jam. Obey your grown-up sister, and go to bed directly.’

  ‘Grown up, indeed! How long has she been grown up, I should like to know!’ exclaimed Blanche vindictively. ‘She’s only an inch and a quarter taller than me, and she’s a mere dumpling compared with Horry.’

  The lower orders were got rid of somehow — driven to their quarters, as it were, at the point of the bayonet; and then the grown-ups bade each other good-night; the curate escorting Miss Rylance to her home, and Brian going up to the top floor to a bachelor’s room.

  ‘Who is going to drive Miss Palliser to the station?’ he asked, as they stood, candlestick in hand, at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘I am, of course,’ answered Reginald. ‘Robin will spin us over the hills in no time. I’ve ordered the car for seven sharp.’

  There was very little sleep for either Bessie or her guest that night. Both girls were excited by memories of the day that was past, and by thoughts of the day that was coming. Ida was brooding a little upon her disappointment in Brian Wendover. He had very pleasant manners, he seemed soft-hearted and sympathetic, he was very good-looking — but he was not the Brian of her dreams. That ideal personage had never existed outside her imagination. It was a shock to her girlish fancy. There was a sense of loss in her mind.

  ‘I must be very silly,’ she told herself, ‘to make a fancy picture of a person, and to be vexed with him because he does not resemble my portrait.’

  She was disappointed, and yet she was interested in this new acquaintance. He was the first really interesting young man she had ever met, and he was evidently interested in her. And then she pictured him at the Abbey, in the splendid solitude of those fine old rooms, leading the calm, studious life which Bessie had talked of — an altogether enviable life, Ida thought.

  Mr. Wendover was in the dining-room at half-past six when the two girls went down to breakfast. All the others came trooping down a few minutes afterwards, Reginald got up to the last degree of four-in-handishness which the resources of his wardrobe allowed, and with a flower in his buttonhole. There was a loud cry for eggs and bacon, kippered herrings, marmalade, Yorkshire cakes; but neither Ida nor Bessie could eat.

  ‘Do have a good breakfast,’ pleaded Blanche affectionately; ‘you will be having bread and scrape to-morrow. We have got a nice hamper for you, with a cake and a lot of jam puffs and things; but those will only last a short time.’

  ‘You dear child, I wouldn’t mind the bread and scrape, if there were only a little love to flavour it,’ answered Ida softly.

  The jaunting-car came to the door as the clock struck seven. Ida’s luggage was securely bestowed, then, after a perfect convulsion of kissing, she was banded to her place, Reginald jumped into his seat and took the reins, and Brian seated himself beside Ida.

  ‘You are not going with them?’ exclaimed Bessie.

  ‘Yes I am, to see that Miss Palliser is not spilt on the hills.’

  ‘What rot!’ cried Reginald. ‘I should be rather sorry for myself if I were not able to manage Robin.’

  ‘This is a new development in you, who are generally the laziest of living creatures,’ said Bessie to Brian, and before he could reply, Robin was bounding cheerily through the village, making very little account of the jaunting-car and its occupants. Urania was at her garden gate, fresh and elegant-looking in pale blue cambric. She smiled at Ida, and waved her a most gracious farewell.

  ‘I don’t think I ever saw Miss Rylance look so amiable,’ said Ida. ‘She does not often favour me with her smiles.’

  ‘Are you enemies?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Not open foes; we have always maintained an armed neutrality. I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, and we both know it. But perhaps I ought not to be so candid. She may be a favourite of yours.’

  ‘She might be, but she is not. She is very elegant, very lady-like — according to her own lights — very viperish.’

  It was a lovely drive in the crisp clear air, across the breezy hills. Ida could not help enjoying the freshness of morning, the beauty of earth, albeit she was going from comfort to discomfort, from love to cold indifference or open enmity.

  ‘How I delight in this landscape!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is it not ever so much better than Norway?’ appealing to Brian.

  ‘It is a milder, smaller kind of beauty,’ he answered. ‘Would you not like to see Norway?’

  ‘I would like to see all that is lovely on earth; yet I think I could be content to spend, a life-time here. This must seem strange to you, who grow weary of that beautiful Abbey.’

  ‘It is not of his house, but of himself, that a man grows weary,’ answered Brian.

  Robin was in a vivacious humour, and rattled the car across the hills at a good pace. They had a quarter of an hour to wait at the busy little station. Brian and Ida walked up and down the platform talking, while Reginald looked after the pony and the luggage. They found so much to say to each other, that the train seemed to come too soon.

  They bade each other good-bye with a tender look on Brian’s part, a blush on Ida’s. Reginald had to push his cousin away from the carriage window, in order to get a word with the departing guest.

  ‘We shall all miss you awfully,’ he said; ‘but mind, you must come back at Christmas.’

  ‘I shall be only too glad, if Mrs. Wendover will have me. Good-bye.’

  The train moved slowly forward, and she was gone.

  ‘Isn’t she a stunner?’ asked Reginald of his cousin, as they stood on the platform looking at each other blankly.

  ‘She is the handsomest girl I ever saw, and out and away the nicest,’ answered Brian.

  CHAPTER VII.

  IN THE RIVER-MEADOW.

  The old hackneyed round of daily life at Mauleverer Manor seemed just a little worse to Ida Palliser after that happy break of six weeks’ pure and perfect enjoyment. Miss Pew was no less exacting than of old. Miss Pillby, for whose orphaned and friendless existence there had been no such thing as a holiday, and who had spent the vacation at Mauleverer diligently employed in mending the house-linen, resented Ida’s visit to The Knoll as if it were a personal injury, and vented her envy in sneers and innuendoes of the coarsest character.

  ‘If I were to spoon upon one of the rich pupils, I dare say I could get invited out for the holidays,’ she said, à propos to nothing particular; ‘but I am thankful to say I am above such meanness.’

  ‘I never laid myself under an obligation I didn’t feel myself able to return,’ said Miss Motley, the English governess, who had spent her holidays amidst the rank and fashion of Margate. ‘When I go to the sea-side with my sister and her family, I pay my own expenses, and I feel I’ve a right to be made comfortable.’

  Miss Pillby, who had flattered and toadied every well-to-do pupil, and laboured desperately to wind herself into the affections of Bessie Wendover, that warm-hearted young person seeming particularly accessible to flattery, felt herself absolutely injured by the kindness that had been lavished upon Ida. She drank in with greedy ears Miss Palliser’s description of The Knoll and its occupants — the picnics, carpet-dances, afternoon teas; and the thought that all these enjoyments and festivities, the good things to eat and drink, the pleasant society, ought to have been hers instead of Ida’s, was wormwood.

  ‘When I think of my kindness to Bessie Wendover,’ she said to Miss Motley, in the confidence of that one quiet hour which belonged to the mistresses after the pupils’ curfew-bell had rung youth and hope and gaiety into retirement, ‘when I think of the mustard poulti
ces I have put upon her chest, and the bronchial troches I have given her when she had the slightest touch of cold or cough, I am positively appalled at the ingratitude of the human race.’

  ‘I don’t think she likes bronchial troches,’ said Miss Motley, a very matter-of-fact young person who saved money, wore thick boots, and was never unprovided with an umbrella: ‘I have seen her throw them away directly after you gave them to her.’

  ‘She ought to have liked them,’ exclaimed Miss Pillby, sternly. ‘They are very expensive.’

  ‘No doubt she appreciated your kindness,’ said Miss Motley, absently, being just then absorbed in an abstruse calculation as to how many yards of merino would be required for her winter gown.

  ‘No, she did not,’ said Miss Pillby. ‘If she had been grateful she would have invited me to her home. I should not have gone, but the act would have given me a higher idea of her character.’

  ‘Well, she is gone, and we needn’t trouble ourselves any more about her,’ retorted Miss Motley, who hated to be plagued about abstract questions, being a young woman of an essentially concrete nature, born to consume and digest three meals a day, and having no views that go beyond that function.

  Miss Pillby sighed at finding herself in communion with so coarse a nature.

  ‘I don’t easily get over a blow of that sort,’ she said; ‘I am too tender-hearted.’

  ‘So you are,’ acquiesced Miss Motley. ‘It doesn’t pay in a big boarding-school, however it may answer in private families.’

  Ida, having lost her chief friend and companion, Bessie Wendover, found life at Mauleverer Manor passing lonely. She even missed the excitement of her little skirmishes, her passages-at-arms, with Urania Rylance, in which she had generally got the best of the argument. There had been life and emotion in these touch-and-go speeches, covert sneers, quick retorts, innuendoes met and flung back in the very face of the sneerer. Now there was nothing but dull, dead monotony. Many of the old pupils had departed, and many new pupils had come, daughters of well-to-do parents, prosperous, well-dressed, talking largely of the gaieties enjoyed by their elder sisters, of the wonderful things done by their brothers at Oxford or Cambridge, and of the grand things which were to happen two or three years hence, when they themselves should be ‘out.’ Ida took no interest in their prattle. It was so apt to sting her with the reminder of her own poverty, the life of drudgery and dependence that was to be her portion till the end of her days. She did not, in the Mauleverer phraseology, ‘take to’ the new girls. She left them to be courted by Miss Pillby, and petted by Miss Dulcibella. She felt as lonely as one who has outlived her generation.