AFTER A STORM COMES A CALM.
While Ida Palliser was thus planning her escape from that earthly
paradise where she was dangerously happy, Brian Wendover was thinking of
her and dreaming of her, and building the whole fabric of his life on a
happy future to be shared with her, cherishing the sweet certainty that
she loved him, and that he had only to say the word which was to unite
them for ever. He had been in no haste to say that fateful word; life was
so sweet to him in its present stage--he was so confident of the future.
He had closely and carefully studied the character of the woman he loved,
in the beginning of their acquaintance, before his judgment had lost its
balance, before affection had got the better of the critical faculty. He
had been in somewise impressed by what Urania had told him about Ida. The
slanderer's malice was obvious; but the slander might have some element
of truth. He watched Ida narrowly during the first month of their
acquaintance, expecting to find the serpent-trail somewhere; but no trace
of the evil one had appeared. She was frank, straightforward, intelligent
to a high degree, and with that eager thirst for knowledge which is
generally accompanied by a profound humility. He could see in her no base
worship of wealth for its own sake, no craving for splendour or
fashionable pleasures. She found delight in all the simplest things, in
rustic scenery, in hill and down and wood, in dogs and horses, and birds
and flowers, music and books. A girl who could be happy in such a life as
Ida Palliser lived at Kingthorpe must be in a manner independent of
fortune; her pleasures were not those that cost money.
'If she is the kind of girl Miss Rylance describes her she will set her
cap at me,' he thought. 'If she wants to be mistress of Wendover Abbey,
one mistake and one failure will not daunt her.'
But there was no such setting of caps. For a long time Ida treated Mr.
Wendover of the Abbey with the perfect frankness of friendship. Then, as
his love grew, showing itself by every delicate and unobtrusive token,
there came a change, and a subtle one, in her conduct; and the lover told
himself with triumphant heart that he was beloved. Her sweet shyness, her
careful avoidance of every possible _tête-à-tête,_ her evident
embarrassment on those rare occasions when she found herself alone with
him--surely these things meant love, and love only! There could be no
other meaning. He was no coxcomb, ready to believe every woman in love
with him. He had gone through the world very quietly, admiring many
women, but never till now having found one who seemed to him worth the
infinite anxieties, and fevers, and agues of love. And now he had found
that pearl above price, the one woman predestinate to be adored by him.
He was happily placed in life for a lover, since a lover should always be
an orphan. Fathers and mothers are sore clogs upon the fiery wheel of
love. He was rich; in every way his own master. His kindred were kindly,
simple-minded people, who would give gracious welcome to any virtuous
woman whom he might choose for his wife. There was no impediment to his
happiness, provided always that Ida Palliser loved him; and he believed
that she did love him. This sense of security had made him less eager to
declare himself. He was content to wait for his opportunity.
And now summer was waning, though it was summer still. The days were no
less lovely; not a leaf had fallen in the woods; red roses flushed the
gardens with bloom, yellow roses hung in luxuriant clusters on arches and
walls; but the days were shortening, the sunsets were earlier, coming
inconveniently before dinner was over at The Knoll; and the Wykehamists
began to be weighed down by a sense of impending doom, in the direful
necessity of going back to school.
Bessie's birthday had come round again--that date so fatal to Ida
Palliser--and there was much cheerfulness at The Knoll in honour of the
occasion. This year the event was not to be signalised by a picnic. They
had been picnicking all the summer, and it was felt that the zest of
novelty would be wanting to that form of entertainment; so it was decided
in family counsel that a friendly dinner at home, with a little impromptu
dancing, and perhaps a charade or two afterwards, would be an agreeable
substitute for the usual outdoor feast. Brian, Mr. Jardine Dr. and Miss
Rylance, Aunt Betsy, and Ida Palliser were to be the only guests; but
these with the family made a good sized party. Blanche undertook to play
as many waltzes as might be required of her, and also took upon herself
the arrangement and decoration of the dessert, which was to be something
gorgeous. More boxes of peaches and grapes had been sent over from
Wimperfield in the absence of Sir Vernon and his brother, who were still
in Scotland.
Bessie's anniversary was heralded somewhat inauspiciously by a tremendous
gale which swept across the Hampshire Downs, after doing no small
mischief in the Channel, and wrecking a good many fine old oaks and
beeches in the New Forest. It was only the tail of a storm which had been
blowing furiously in Scotland and the north of England, and no one as yet
knew the extent of its destructive force.
The morning after that night of howling winds was dull and blustery, with
frequent gusts of rain.
'How lucky we didn't go in for a picnic!' said Horatio, as the slanting
drops lashed the windows at breakfast time. 'It may rain and blow as hard
as it likes between now and six o'clock, for all we need care. A wet day
will give us time to get up our charades, and for Blanche to thump at her
waltzes. Be sure you give us the Blue Danube.'
'The Blue Danube is out,' said Blanche, tossing up her pointed chin.
'Out of what? Out of time?'
'Out of fashion.'
'Hang fashion! What do I care for fashion?' cried the Wykehamist.
'Fashion means other people's whims and fancies. People who are led by
fashion have no ideas of their own. Byron is out of fashion, but he's
_my_ poet,' added Horatio, as who should say, 'and that ought to be a
sufficient set-off against any lessening of his European renown.'
'Think of the poor creatures at sea!' murmured kind-hearted Mrs.
Wendover, as a sharp gust shook the casement nearest to her.
'Very sad for them, poor beggars!' said Reginald; 'but it would have been
sadder for us if we'd been starting for a picnic. Travellers by sea must
expect bad weather; it's an important factor in the sum of their risk,
and their minds are prepared for the contingency; but when one has
planned a picnic party on the downs a wet day throws out all one's
calculations.'
The rain came and went in fitful showers, the wind blustered a little,
and then died away in sobs, while the young Wendovers spent their morning
noisily and excitedly, in laborious industries of the most frivolous
kind, the end and aim of which was to make a gorgeous display in the
evening.
Before luncheon the wind was at rest, and the gardens were smiling in the
sunlight under the hot blue sky of summer, and after luncheon the
Wendover girls and boys were rushing all over the garden cutting flowers.
'I only wish Dr. Rylance were not coming,' said Blanche, stopping to pant
and wipe her crimson countenance, when her two baskets were nearly full.
'He'll impart his own peculiar starchiness to the whole business.'
'Oh, hang it, he'll give the thing a grown-up flavour, anyhow,' replied
Reginald. 'Besides, the man _can_ talk--though he's deuced shallow--and
that is more than anyone else can in these parts.'
'Brian will be the hero of this evening's festivity, just as Brian
Walford was of the last. Don't you remember how nice he looked?' said
Blanche, as they went back to the house loaded with roses, heliotrope,
geranium, and ferns.
'Poor fellow!' sighed Bessie, who was so sentimental that she could but
suppose her favourite cousin a martyr to blighted love.
'If Brian of the Abbey proposes to Ida, as I feel convinced he will, and
if she accepts him, as she is sure to do, it will simply break Brian
Walford's heart.'
'Not a little bit,' said Reginald. 'If he did spoon her last year, is
that any reason, do you think, that he should care for her now? If she be
not fair to me, what the deuce care I how fair she be? And do you suppose
_I_ am going to waste in despair, and all that kind of thing? Not if I
know it.'
'Say what you like, I believe Brian Walford was deeply in love with Ida,
and that he has never been here since that time, because he can't bear to
see her, knowing she doesn't care for him.'
'That's skittles!' exclaimed the youthful sceptic, using a favourite
expression of his father's to express incredulity. 'The reason Brian
doesn't come to Kingthorpe is, that he has other fish to fry elsewhere.
As if anybody would come to Kingthorpe who wasn't obliged!'
'Brian used to come.'
'Yes, when he was young and verdant; and I daresay my father used to tip
him. He knows better now: he is enjoying himself in Paris--under the
pretence of studying law and modern languages--dancing at the _jardin
Bullier_, and going on no end, I daresay. _I_ know what Paris is.'
'How can you?' exclaimed Bessie; 'you were never there!'
'I was never in the moon, but I'm pretty well acquainted with the
geography of that planet. We have fellows in the Upper Sixth who think no
more of going to Paris than you do of going to Winchester; and a nice
life they lead there. Why, a man who thoroughly knows Paris can steep
himself in dissipation for a five-pound note!'
Loud exclamations of horror concluded the conversation.