‘Well, my love, you might learn something worse,’ replied Miss Wendover, with innocent pride. ‘And now come down to luncheon; I kept it back on purpose for you, and I am sure you must be starving.’
The luncheon was excellent, served with a tranquil perfection only to be attained by careful training; and yet Miss Wendover’s youthful butler three years ago had been a bird boy; while her rosy-cheeked parlour-maid was only eighteen, and had escaped but two years from the primitive habits of cottage life. Aunt Betsy had a genius for training young servants.
‘You had better unpack your boxes directly after luncheon, said Miss Wendover, when Ida had eaten with very good appetite, ‘and arrange your things in your drawers. That will take you an hour or so, I suppose — say till five o’clock, when Bessie is coming over to afternoon tea.’
‘Oh, I am so glad! I am longing to see Bessie. Is she as lovable and pretty as ever?’
‘Well, yes,’ replied Aunt Betsy, with a critical air; ‘I think she has rather improved. She is plump enough still, in all conscience, but not quite so stumpy as she was last summer. Her figure is a little less like a barrel.’
‘I hope she was very much admired at Bournemouth.’
‘Yes, strange to say, she had a good many admirers,’ answered Miss Wendover coolly. ‘She made a point of never being enthusiastic about her relations. She had always partners at the dances, I am told, even when there was a paucity of dancing men; and she was considered rather remarkable at lawn tennis. No doubt she will tell you all about it this afternoon. I have some work to do in the village, and I shall leave you two girls together.’
This was a delicacy which touched Ida. She was very anxious to see Bessie, and to talk to her as they could only talk when they were alone. She wanted to know her faithful friend’s motive for that cruel deception about Brian Walford. That the frank, tender-hearted Bessie could have so deceived her from any unworthy motive was impossible.
Five o’clock struck, and Ida was sitting alone in the drawing-room, waiting to receive her friend, just as if she were the daughter of the house, instead of a salaried dependent. The pretty carved Indian tea-table — a gem in Bombay blackwood — was wheeled in front of the fire-place, which was old, as regarded the high wooden mantel-piece and capacious breadth of the hearth, but essentially new in its glittering tiles and dainty brass fire-irons.
The clock had hardly finished striking when Bessie bounced into the room, rosy and smiling, in sealskin jacket and toque.
‘Oh, you darling! isn’t this lovely?’ she exclaimed, hugging Ida. ‘You are to live here for ever and ever, and never, never, never to leave us again, and never to marry, unless you marry one of the Brians. Don’t shudder like that, pet, they are both nice! And I’m sure you like Brian Walford, though, perhaps, not quite so much as he liked you. You do like him now, don’t you, darling?’ urged Bess.
Ida had withdrawn from her embrace, and was seated before the low Bombay table, occupied with the tea pot. There was no light but the fire and one shaded lamp on a distant table. The curtains were not yet drawn, and white mists were rising in the garden outside, like a sea.
‘Bessie,’ Ida began, gravely, as her old schoolfellow sat on a low stool in front of the fire, ‘how could you deceive me like that? What could put such a thing in your head — you, so frank, so open?’
‘I am sure I hardly know,’ answered Bess, innocently. ‘It was my birthday, don’t you know, and we were all wild. Perhaps the champagne had something to do with it, though I didn’t take any. But that sort of excitement communicates itself; and running up and down hill gets into one’s head. We all thought it would be such fun to pass off penniless B. W. for his wealthy cousin — and just to see how you liked him, with that extra advantage. But there was no harm in it, was there, dear? Of course, he told you afterwards, when you saw him at Mauleverer?
‘Yes, he told me — afterwards.’
‘Naturally; and having begun to like him as the rich Brian, you didn’t leave off liking him because of his poverty — did you, darling? The man himself was the same.’
Ida was silent, remembering how, with the revelation of the fraud that had been practised upon her, the very man himself had seemed to undergo a transformation — as if a disguise, altering his every characteristic, had been suddenly flung aside.
She did not answer Bessie’s question, but, looking down at her with grave, searching eyes, she said,—’Dear Bessie, it was a very foolish jest. I know it is not in your nature to mean unkindly to anyone, least of all to me, to whom you have been an angel of light; but all practical jokes of that kind are liable to inflict pain and humiliation upon the victim — however innocently meant. Whose idea was it, Bess? Not yours, I think?’
‘No; it was Urania who proposed it. She said it would be such fun.’
‘Miss Rylance is not usually so — funny.’
‘No; but she was particularly jolly that day, don’t you remember? in positively boisterous spirits — for her.’
‘And the outcome of her amiability was this suggestion?’
‘Yes, darling. She had noticed that you had a kind of romantic fancy about Brian of the Abbey — that you had idealised his image, as it were — and set him up as a kind of demi-god. Not because of his wealth, darling — don’t suppose that we supposed that — but on account of that dear old Abbey and its romantic associations, which gave a charm to the owner. And so she said what fun it would be to pass off Brian Walford as his cousin, and see if you fell in love with him. ‘I know she is ready to lay her heart at the feet of the owner of the Abbey,’ Urania said; and I thought it would be too delicious if you were to fall in love with Brian Walford, who could not help falling in love with you, for of course it would end in your marrying him, and his getting on splendidly at the Bar; for, with his talents, he must do well. He only wants a motive for industry. And then you would be our very own cousin! I hope it wasn’t a very wicked idea, Ida, and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me,’ pleaded Bess, kneeling by her friend’s chair, with clasped bands upon Ida’s knees, and sweet, half-tearful face looking up, ‘My darling, I have never been angry with you,’ answered Ida, clasping the girl to her heart, with a stifled sob. ‘But I don’t think Miss Rylance meant so kindly. Her idea sprang from a malevolent heart. She wanted to humiliate me — to drag my most sordid characteristics into the light of day — to make me more abject than poverty had made me already. That was the motive of her joke.’
‘Never mind her motive, dear. All I am interested in is your opinion of
Brian. I hope he behaved nicely at Mauleverer.’
‘Very nicely.’
‘Cobb says that Fräulein positively raves about him — declares he is quite the most gentlemanly young man she ever saw — a godly young man she called him, in her funny English. And, she says, that he was madly in love with you. Of course he made you an offer?’
‘How could he do that when I was always with the Fräulein?’
‘Oh, nonsense. Brian is not the kind of young man to be kept at bay by a mild nonentity like the Fräulein. He told me before he left that he was desperately in love with you, and that he meant to win you for his wife. I asked him how he intended to keep a wife, and he said he should write for the magazines, and do theatrical criticisms for the newspapers, till briefs began to drop in. He was determined to win you if you were to be won. So I feel sure that he made you an offer, unless, indeed, that horrid old Pew spoiled all by her venomous conduct.’
‘That is it, dear. Miss Pew brought matters to an abrupt close.’
‘And you are not engaged to Brian?’ said Bess, dolefully.
‘No.’
‘And he didn’t follow you to Dieppe?’
‘No.’
‘Then he is not half so fine a fellow as I thought him.’
‘Suppose, Bessie, that after a little mild flirtation, with Fräulein Wolf for an audience, we both discovered that our liking for each other was of the very coolest order, and that
it was wiser to let the acquaintance end?’
‘You might feel that; but I would never believe it of Brian. Why, he raved about you; he was passionately in love. He told me there was no sacrifice he would not make to call you his wife.’
‘He had so much to sacrifice,’ said Ida, with a cynical air.
‘Don’t be unkind, Ida. Of course I know that he has his fortune to make; but he is so thoroughly nice — so full of fun.’
‘Did you ever know him do anything good or great, anything worth being remembered — anything that proved the depth and nobility of his nature?’ asked Ida, earnestly.
‘Good gracious! no, not that I can remember. He is always nice, and amusing. He doesn’t like carrying a basket, or skates, and things; but of course, where there are younger boys one couldn’t expect him to do that; and he hates plain girls and old women; but I suppose that is natural, for even father does it, in his secret soul, though he is always so utterly sweet to the poor things. But I am sure Brian Walford has a tender heart, because he is so fond of kittens.’
‘I didn’t mean to insinuate that he was a modern Domitian,’ answered Ida, smiling at Bessie’s childish earnestness. ‘What I mean is that there is no depth in his nature, no nobility in his character. He is shallow, and, I fear, selfish. But, Bessie, my pet, I am going to ask you a favour.’
‘Ask away,’ cried Bessie, cheerfully; ‘I can’t give you the moon, but anything which I really do possess is yours this instant.’
‘Don’t let us ever talk of Brian Walford. I can never get over the feeling of humiliation which Miss Rylance’s practical joke caused me; and my only chance of forgetting it is to forget your cousin’s existence.’
‘Oh, but he will come to The Knoll, I hope, at Christmas, and then you will think better of him.’
‘If he should come I — I hope I shall not see him.’
‘Has he offended you so deeply?’
‘Don’t let us talk about him, Bess. Tell me all about your Bournemouth triumphs. I hear you were the belle of the place.’
‘Then you have heard a most egregious fib. There were dozens of girls with nineteen-inch waists, before whom I felt myself a monster of dumpiness. But I got on pretty well. I don’t pretend to be a good dancer, but I can generally adapt myself to the badness of other people’s steps, and that goes for something.’
And now having got away from all painful subjects, Bessie rattled on at a tremendous pace, describing girls and gowns, and partners, and tennis tournaments, and yachting excursions, all in a breath, as she sat in front of the fire sipping her tea, and devouring a particular kind of buttered bun for which Miss Wendover’s cook was famous.
‘Aunt Betsy’s tea is always nicer than any one else’s; and so are her buns and her butter; in fact everything in this house is nicer than it is anywhere else,’ said Bessie, pausing in her reminiscences. ‘You are in clover here, Ida.’
‘Thanks to your goodness, Bess.’
‘To mine? But I have positively nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes, you have. It is from the wish to please her warm-hearted little niece that Miss Wendover has been so good to me.’
‘But if you had been plain or stupid she would have only been kind to you at a distance. Aunt Betsy has her idiosyncrasies, and one of them is a liking for beauty in individuals, as well as in chairs and tables and cups and saucers. You will see that all her servants are pretty. She picks them for their good looks, I believe, and trains them afterwards. She would not have so much as a bad-looking stable boy.’
‘Hard upon ugliness to be shut out of this paradise,’ said Ida.
‘Oh, but she finds places for the ugly boys and girls, with people whose teeth are not so easily set on edge, she says herself. And now I must be off, to change my frock for dinner. You know the back way to The Knoll — across the fields to the little door in the kitchen-garden. You will always come that way, of course. When are you coming to see us? To-morrow?’
‘You forget that my time is not my own. I will come whenever Miss
Wendover can best spare me.’
‘Oh, you will have plenty of spare time, I am sure.’
‘I hope not too much, or I shall be too sharply reminded that Miss
Wendover has taken me out of charity.’
‘Charity fiddlestick! A prize-winner like you! And now good-bye, pet, or
I shall be late for dinner, which offends the Colonel beyond measure.’
Bessie scampered off, Ida following her to the glass door, only in time to see her running across the lawn as fast as her feet could carry her. It was characteristic of Bessie to cut everything very fine in the way of time.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
And now began for Ida a life of exceeding peacefulness, comfort, happiness even; for how could a girl fail to be happy among people who were so friendly and kind, who so thoroughly respected her, and so warmly admired her for gifts altogether independent of fortune — who never, by word or look, reminded her that she was in anywise of less importance than themselves?
Nor had the girl any cause to fear that she was a useless member of Miss Wendover’s household. That lady found plenty of occupation for her young companion — varied and pleasant duties, which made the days seem too short, and the leisure of the long winter evenings an agreeable relief from the busy hours of daylight.
That exquisite neatness which gave such a charm to Wendover’s house was not attained without labour. The polished surface of the old Chippendale bureaus, the inlaid Sheraton chairs and tables, could only be maintained by daily care. A housemaid’s perfunctory dusting was not sufficient here; and Miss Wendover, gloved and aproned, and armed with leathers and brushes, gave at least half an hour every morning to the care of her old furniture. Another half hour was devoted to china; and the floral arrangements indoors, even in this wintry season, occupied half an hour more. This was all active work, about which Aunt Betsy and Ida went merrily, talking tremendously as they polished and dusted, and upon all possible subjects, for Miss Wendover’s lonely evenings had enabled her to read almost as much as Southey, and she delighted in telling Ida the curious out-of-the-way facts that were stored up in her memory.
Sometimes there was an hour or so given to culinary matters — new dishes, new kickshaws, hors d’oeuvres, savouries — to be taught the young, teachable cook-maid; for whenever Miss Wendover went to a great dinner, her eagle eye was on the alert to discover some modern improvement in the dishes or the table arrangements.
Then there was gardening, which absorbed a good deal of time in fine weather; for Aunt Betsy held that no gardener, however honestly inclined, would long feel interested in a garden to which its owner was indifferent. Miss Wendover knew every flower that grew — could bud, and graft, and pot, and prune, and do everything that her youthful gardeners could do, beside being ever so much more learned in the science of gardening.
Then there were inspections of piggery and poultry-yard, medicines and particular foods to be prepared for the poultry, hospitals to be established and looked after in odd corners of the orchard, and the propagation of species to be carried on by mechanical contrivances.
On wet days there was art needlework, for which Miss Wendover had what artists would call a great deal of feeling, without being very skilful as an executant. Under her direction, Ida began a mauresque border for a tawny plush curtain which was to be a triumph of art when completed, and which was full of interest in progress. She worked at this of an evening, while Miss Wendover, who had a fine full voice, and a perfect enunciation, read aloud to her. Then, when Miss Wendover was tired, Ida went to the piano and played for an hour or so, while the elder lady gave herself up to rare idleness and dreamy thought.
These were home duties only. The two ladies had occupations abroad of a more exacting nature. Miss Wendover until now had given two botany lessons, and one physical science lesson, every week in the village school. The botany lessons she now handed over to Ida, wh
om she coached for that purpose. Summer or winter these lessons were always given out of doors, in the course of an hour’s ramble in field, lane, or wood. Then Miss Wendover had a weekly class for domestic economy, a class attended by all the most promising girls, from thirteen years old upwards, within five miles. This class was held in the kitchen or housekeeper’s room at the Homestead; and many were the savoury messes of broth or soup, cheap stews and meat puddings, and the jellies and custards compounded at these lessons, to be sent off next day to the sick poor upon Miss Wendover’s list.
Then there was house to house visiting all over the widely-scattered parish, much talk with gaffers and goodies, in all of which Ida assisted. She would have hated the work had Miss Wendover been a person of the Pardiggle stamp; but as love was the governing principle of all Aunt Betsy’s work, her presence was welcome as sunshine or balmy air; so welcome that her sharpest lectures (and she could lecture when there was need) were received with meekness and even gratitude. In these visits Ida learned to know a great deal about the ways and manners of the agricultural poor, all the weakness and all the nobility of the rural nature.
Every Saturday or half-holiday at the village school — blessed respite which gave the hard-worked mistress time to mend her clothes, and make herself bright and trim for Sunday, and opened for the master brilliant possibilities in the way of a jaunt to Bomsey or Winchester — Miss Wendover gave a dinner to all the school children under twelve. She had taken up Victor Hugo’s theory that a substantial meat dinner, even on one day out of seven, will do much to build up the youthful constitution and to prevent scrofulous diseases. Moved by these considerations, she had fitted up a disused barn as a rustic dining-hall, the walls plastered and whitewashed, or buff-washed, the massive cross timbers painted a dark red, a long deal table and a few forms the only furniture. Here every Saturday, at half-past one o’clock, she provided a savoury meat dinner; and very strong must be that temptation or that necessity which would induce Aunt Betsy to abandon her duties as hostess at this weekly feast. It was she who said grace before and after meat — save when some suckling parson was admitted to the meal; it was she who surveyed and improved the manners of her guests by sarcastic hints or friendly admonitions; and it was she who furnished intellectual entertainment in the shape of anecdote, historical story, or excruciating conundrum.
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 808
