MR. WENDOVER PLANS AN EXCURSION.
The happy summer glided by--the season of roses and butterflies,
strawberries and cream, haymaking, lawn tennis, picnics, gipsy teas--an
idle, joyous life under blue skies. The Knoll family gave themselves up
heart and soul to summer pleasures--simple joys which were at once
innocent and inexpensive--and Ida Palliser found herself a sharer in all
these holiday rambles. Conscience told her that she had no right to be
there, that she was an impostor sailing under false colours. Conscience,
speaking more loudly, told her that she had no right to accept Brian
Wendover's quiet homage, no right to be so happy in his company day after
day; for there were few of their summer joys in which he was not among
them. Bessie was warm in her praises of him, full of wonder at his having
developed into such a companionable being.
'Norway has done him good,' she said. 'He used to be such a reserved
creature, dawdling away day after day in his library, poring over Greek
and Latin, and now he is almost as companionable as Brian Walford.'
'He'll have to live a good many years before he's up to B. W.,' said
Horace, who had walked across the hills for an afternoon at home and the
chance of a tip, 'B. W. knows every music-hall in London, and can sing a
topical song as well as men who get their sixty pounds a week.'
'I wish you wouldn't put on that knowing air. What do you know of men who
get sixty pounds a week?' exclaimed Bessie, contemptuously.
'As much as you do, anyhow,' answered her brother.
Ida made many faint efforts to keep aloof from the summer revelries, but
Miss Wendover insisted upon her enjoying herself with the others. She had
been such a conscientious and devoted coadjutor in all Aunt Betsy's good
works, she had been so thoroughly energetic and industrious, never
relaxing her efforts or growing weary of labour, that it seemed only
right and fair that she should enjoy the summer holiday-time, the blessed
season when every day was full of temptations.
'Enjoy yourself to your heart's content, my dear,' said Aunt Betsy. 'Our
English summers are so short that if we do not make the most of the
bright warm days while they are with us, we have to endure all the pangs
of remorse through a rainy autumn and a cold winter.'
Not only did Miss Wendover give this generous advice, but she herself
joined in many of their expeditions, and her presence was always a source
of pleasure. She was so genial, so hearty, so thoroughly well-informed,
and yet so modest in the use of her knowledge, that the young people
loved to have her with them. Her enjoyment of the free, roving life was
almost as keen as theirs, while her capacity for planning an agreeable
day, and her foresight in the commissariat department, far exceeded that
of youth. And so, and so, June and July drifted by, and it was the
beginning of August, and Ida felt as if she had known Mr. Wendover of the
Abbey all her life.
What did she know of him after two months of almost daily association?
She knew that no unworthy thought ever found utterance upon his lips;
that no vulgar instinct ever showed itself in his conduct; that he was
essentially to the very core of his heart a gentleman; that without any
high-flown affectation of chivalry he was as chivalrous as Bayard; that
without any languid airs and graces of the modern aesthetic school he was
a man of the highest and broadest culture; and that--oh, _rara avis_
among modern scholars and young laymen--he was honestly and unaffectedly
religious, a staunch Anglican of the school of Pusey, and not ashamed to
confess his faith at all times and seasons. In this day, when the
majority of young men affect to regard the services of their church as an
intolerable bore, only endured as a concession to the weaklings of the
inferior sex, it was pleasant to see the master of the Abbey a regular
attendant at his parish church, an earnest and frequent worshipper at the
altar at which his parents and progenitors had knelt before him.
This much and a great deal more had Ida Palliser discovered of the man
whom nearly a year ago her fancy had exalted into an ideal character. It
was strange to find her most romantic visions realised; strange, but a
strangeness not without pain. He was full of kindness and friendliness
for her whenever they met; but she told herself that his manner to her
involved no more than kindly feeling and friendliness. To imagine
anything beyond this was foolhardiness and vanity. And yet there were
times when she felt she had no right to be in his society--that every day
she spent at Kingthorpe was an offence against honour and right feeling.
One August afternoon Ida had, for once in a way, succeeded in making her
domestic occupations an excuse for absenting herself from what Bessie
called a 'barrow-hunt' on the downs. Brian Wendover being a great
authority upon this ancient form of sepulture, and discoursing eloquently
on those widely different races whose funeral chambers are hidden under
the long and the round barrow.
The day, closely as Ida had been occupied, had seemed just a little
dreary, certainly much duller than such days had been wont to seem
before Brian's return to the Abbey: yet she was glad to be alone; it
was a relief even to be a trifle melancholy, rather than to enjoy that
happiness which was always blended with a faint consciousness of
wrong-doing. And now the slow day was nearly over: she had worked at the
village girls'-school in the morning; she had lectured upon domestic
economy to a class of incipient house-maids and scullery maids after
luncheon; and now at five o'clock she was sitting in a basket chair in
the rose-wreathed verandah working at the swallows and bulrushes upon
that elaborate design which she had begun before Christmas for the
adornment of Miss Wendover's piano.
It was a deliciously drowsy afternoon, but Ida's active brain was not
prone to slumber. She sat working diligently and thinking deeply, when a
shadow came between her and the sunshine and on looking up she saw Mr.
Wendover standing before her.
'How do you do? Have they all come home?' she asked, laying aside her
work on the convenient basket table and preparing to welcome Aunt Betsy.
'I have not been with them--at least not since the morning, answered
Brian. 'I left Bessie to hunt out her own barrows; she is so lazy-minded
that as long as I do all the pointing she will never know the true barrow
from the natural lumpiness of the soil. Besides, she has Aunt Betsy, a
tower of strength in all things.'
'And Miss Rylance, I suppose?'
'No, Miss Rylance thought there would be too much walking for her or for
Pinet. I have been at the Abbey all day, getting up my arrears of
correspondence. This fine weather has made me incorrigibly idle. After I
had written about a score of letters I thought myself entitled to a
little rest and refreshment, so I strolled over here to tell you some
news and to ask you for a cup of tea.'
'You shall have some tea directly,' said Ida, going indoors to ring the
bell, an act in which she was naturally anticipated by her guest. 'What
news can you possibly have that concerns me?' she asked, when they had
come back to the verandah. 'I know by your face that it is not bad news.'
'God forbid I should ever have to tell you that. I think it would hurt me
more than you,' said Brian, with an earnestness which brought the crimson
glow into Ida's cheeks, and made her bend a little lower over the
swallows in her crewel-work. 'No, this is pleasant news I hope. I wrote
to Vernon Palliser more than a month ago to propose that I should drive
you and a lot of people over to luncheon. He was in Switzerland, as
usual, and I had no answer to my letter till the second post to-day, when
I received a most hearty invitation to bring my party immediately. But
you shall hear your cousin's own words.'
Mr. Wendover produced the letter and read as follows:--
'I shall be delighted to make my cousin's acquaintance. She was in
England when I last saw her father at his retreat near Dieppe. Bring her
as soon as you can, and with as large a party as you like--the larger the
better, and the sooner the better--as Peter and I will most likely be on
the wing again for Scotland soon after the twelfth. We shall come back
for the partridges, which I hear are abundant. The road is rather
intricate, so you had better bring your ordnance map, but pretty fair in
dry weather like this; and you'll come through some lovely scenery.
Telegraph your time, and Peter and I will be in the way to welcome you!'
'What do you say to our going to-morrow? I waited to know what you would
like before I telegraphed.'
'You are very good: but there are others to be consulted,' replied Ida,
with her head still bent over her work.
Good manners demanded that she should look at him, but at this particular
moment she felt it quite impossible to be mannerly. He had said nothing
of a thrilling nature, yet his whole tone and expression, his air of
deferential regard, stirred a new feeling in her mind--the conviction
that he cared for her more than it was well for either of them that he
should care.
'You are the first person to be consulted,' he said; 'would you like to
go to-morrow?'
'I will go whenever the others like,' answered Ida, still intent upon the
shading of her swallow's wing; 'but I really think you had better leave
me out of your party--I have wasted so much time roaming about--and there
are so many things I want to finish before the summer is over.'
'That elaborate arrangement in swallows and rushes, for instance,' said
Brian, laughingly: 'you are working at it as if for a wager. Perhaps it
is a wager--so many stitches in so many consecutive days--is that it? No,
Miss Palliser, your swallows must wait. The party has been planned on
your account, and to leave you at home would be like leaving Hamlet out
of the play. Besides, I thought you would like to see your cousins and
your ancestral halls.'
'I shall be very glad to see my cousins, for my father likes them very
much; but I do not feel any thrilling interest in the ancestral halls.'
'And yet your father was born there.'
'Yes, that is a reason for being interested in Wimperfield. But my father
has so seldom talked about his birthplace. He speaks a great deal more of
India. That life in a strange far-away land seems to have blotted out the
memory of his childhood. He talks of Addiscomb sometimes but hardly ever
of Wimperfield.'
She laid aside her work as the youthful butler brought out the tea-table.
It was no new thing for her to pour out Mr. Wendover's tea, since it was
his custom to drop in at his aunt's very often at this hour, when the day
had not been given up to excursionising; but it was new for her to be
alone with him at this social meal, and she found herself longing
ardently for Aunt Betsy's return.
She who could have found so much to talk about had her mind been at ease,
was curiously silent as she handed Mr. Wendover his tea, and offered the
cake and fruit, which always accompanied the meal at the Homestead. Her
heart was beating much faster than it should have done, and she was
considering whether it was worth while to place herself in the way of
feeling the pain, the hidden shame, the sense of falsehood which
oppressed her at this moment; whether it would not be better to run any
risk, even the hazard of offending Betsy Wendover, the kindest friend she
had in the world, rather than remain in her present position.
One thing she could have done which would have given her immediate
extrication, and that which seemed the most natural thing to do. She
could have told the truth--told Betsy Wendover all about her unlucky
marriage. But she would rather have killed herself than do this one
righteous thing; for she thought that if her marriage were once known to
Brian's relations she would be compelled to assume her natural position
as his wife. So long as the marriage remained a secret to all the world
except those two whom it most concerned they were free to ignore the tie.
They could live their lives apart; and to the end of time it might be as
if such a marriage had never been. Her husband being consentient to this
life-long separation, her lot might be fairly happy. She had never tried
to penetrate the future. Perhaps to-day for the first time there had
flashed into her mind the thought of what a bright and glorious future
might have been hers had she not so forfeited her freedom.
Voices, at least half a dozen, all talking at once, told her that the
barrow-hunt was winding homewards; gleams of colour athwart the hedges
told her that the hunters were in the lane; and in a minute or two Miss
Wendover and her young kins-folk appeared, all more or less sunburnt and
towzled by their tramp across the downs.
'Found a splendid long barrow,' said Bessie, 'on a lovely point, one of
the finest views in the county. What clever corpses they must have been
to pick such glorious spots! Long barrow, long-headed race,
dolichocephalic skulls, men of the stone age, eh?' she said, looking at
Brian. 'You see I know my lesson; but it was very mean of you not to come
with us, all the same.'
'I wanted you to exercise your own acumen, to cultivate the antiquarian
_flair_. Besides, I had a heap of letters to write.'
'You only found that out after we had started. You never have letters to
write when Ida is with us,' said Bessie; a remark which made two people
blush. 'To think that I had known that spot all my life and never
suspected a barrow,' she continued. 'I thought it was only a convenient
bank which Providence had thrown up ready for picnics.'
Ida had enough to do now in providing for the wants of half a dozen
hungry people. Blanche of the short petticoats was at an age when girls
are ogres, distinguished for nothing but the rapidity of their digestion
and the length of their legs. There was a demand for jam, and the
unsophisticated half-gallon loaf instead of the conventional thin bread
and butter.
'Eat as much as you like, dears,' said Aunt Betsy, 'but remember that
your father will expect you to have some appetite at seven.'
'We won't disappoint him,' said Bessie; 'seven is an hour and half from
now. Blanche can do wonders in an hour and a half.'
Blanche's appetite was one of the stock family jokes, like Urania's tight
boots; so there was a laugh, and the others went on eating.
Brian Wendover told them about to-morrow's excursion. 'I shall put four
horses into the wagonette,' he said. 'I almost wish I had a drag to do
honour to the occasion; but we must resign ourselves to a wagonette. You
will go, of course, Aunt Betsy? and Bessie must come; and I suppose we
ought to invite Miss Rylance. She has joined in most of our excursions,
and it would be invidious to leave her out of this. And I dare-say Bessie
would think the whole thing flat without Mr. Jardine?'
'It's very kind of you to think of him; but I don't believe he'll be able
to spare the day,' said Bessie.
'We'll ask him, at any rate, and then you can't say we've used you badly.
That makes a party of six. I'll go and telegraph to Sir Vernon.'
'Will there be lawn-tennis after lunch?' asked Blanche, with a very long
face.
'I shouldn't wonder if there were,' answered Brian: 'does that mean that
you want to go?'
'I shall not have a creature to speak to at home, and I never go
anywhere,' said Blanche, despairingly.
Both statements were obvious untruths, but no doubt the damsel herself
believed them.
'Have you a gown that covers your knees?' asked Aunt Betsy, severely.
'My new frock is awfully long. It only came from the dress-maker's last
week.'
'Then you have hardly had time to grow out of it,' said Brian.
'Suppose we strain a point, Aunt Betsy, and take her. It will enable us
to say, "we are seven."'
'We shall be a tremendous party,' said Miss Wendover. 'I hope Sir Vernon
is a hospitable, easy-going man, and that your intimacy with him warrants
such an intrusion.'
'I am taking him a cousin,' answered Brian, stealing an admiring glance
at Ida; 'surely that ought to secure our welcome.'
'I hope his housekeeper has large ideas about luncheon,' said Bessie, 'or
Blanche's appetite will throw her out in her calculations. If she is the
sort of person who thinks a pair of ducklings and a dish of rissoles
substantial fare for a large party, I pity her.'
'You're vastly witty,' said Blanche, preparing her final slice of bread
and jam; 'one would think you lived upon roses and lilies, like the
ascetics.'
'The poor child means aesthetes,' explained Bessie.
'Bother the pronunciation! But if people had seen you eating rabbit-pie
on the barrow--why a wolf wouldn't have been in it,' concluded Blanche,
who acquired her flowers of speech from the Wintonians.
'I'll go and despatch my telegram,' said Brian, taking up his hat.