LADY PALLISER STUDIES THE UPPER TEN.
Ida was not left long in ignorance as to the friendly feelings of those
she had left behind at Kingthorpe. Bessie's first letter reached her
within a few days of her arrival at Wimperfield--a loving little letter,
full of sorrowful expressions about the two good young fellows who were
gone, yet not concealing the writer's pleasure at her friend's elevation.
'When are we to meet again, dearest?' asked Bessie, after she had given
full expression to her feelings; 'are you to come to us, or are we to
go to you? What is the etiquette of the situation? Father and mother
know nothing about outside points of etiquette. Beyond the common
rules of dinners and calls, calls and dinners, I believe they are in
benighted ignorance. Shall we tell John Coachman to put four horses to
the landau--with himself and the under-gardener as postilions--and post
over to Wimperfield--just as they pay visits in Miss Austin's novels?
Perhaps now we have gone back to Chippendale furniture, we shall return
to muslin frocks and the manners of Miss Austin's time. I'm sure I wish
we could. Life seems to have been so much simpler in her day, and so much
cheaper. Darling, I am longing to see you. Remember you are my cousin
now--my very own near relation. It was Fate, you see, that made me so
fond of you, from that first evening when you helped me so kindly with my
German exercise.'
There was also a letter from Aunt Betsy, quite as affectionate, but in
much fewer words, and more to the purpose.
'We shall drive over to see your father and mother as soon as we hear
that they are disposed to receive visitors,' said Miss Wendover in
conclusion.
'I wonder Miss Wendover did not say Sir Reginald and Lady Palliser,'
observed Ida's stepmother, when she had read this letter.
The little woman had been devoting herself very earnestly to the perusal
of books of etiquette--'The Upper Circles,' 'What is What,' 'The Crême de
la Crême,' and works of a corresponding order, and was now much more
learned in the infinitesimals of polite life than was Sir Reginald or his
daughter. She had a profound belief in the mysterious authors of these
interesting volumes.
'The "Crême de la Crême" must be right, you know, Ida,' she said, when
some dictum was disputed, 'for the book was written by a Countess.'
'A Countess who wears a shoddy tourist suit, and smokes shag, and sleeps
in a two pair back in Camden Town, most likely,' said Sir Reginald,
laughing.
The new baronet utterly refused to be governed by the hard and fast rules
of the 'Crême de la Crême.' He daily did things which were absolute and
awful heresies in the sight of that authority, and Lady Palliser was
sorely exercised at her very first dinner-party by seeing the county
people of Wimperfield setting at naught the precepts of the anonymous
Countess at every stage of the evening. They did those things which they
ought not to have done, and they left undone those things which they
ought to have done, and, from the Countess's point of view were utterly
without manners.
But although Lady Palliser thought Miss Wendover's letter deficient in
ceremony, she was not the less ready to welcome Ida's Kingthorpe friends;
so a hearty invitation to dine and stay the night was sent to the Colonel
and his wife, to Aunt Betsy, and as many of the junior members of the
family as the biggest available carriage would hold.
It was the beginning of November when this visit occurred, but the
foliage was still green on the elm tree tops, while many a lovely tint of
yellow and brown still glowed on the woodland. The weather was balmy,
sunshiny, the sky as blue as at midsummer; and Ida, with her face as
radiant as the sunlight, stood in the porch ready to welcome her friends
when the wagonette drove up.
'Oh! but where are Blanche and Eva? and why did not the boys come?' she
inquired, when she had shaken hands with the Colonel, and had been kissed
and embraced by Mrs. Wendover, Aunt Betsy, and Bessie: 'surely they are
coming too?'
'No, dear; I think we are quite a strong enough party as it is,' answered
Mrs. Wendover.
'Not half strong enough! you have no idea what a barrack Wimperfield
is--but Bessie knows, and ought to have told you. There are
two-and-twenty bedrooms. It would have been a charity to have filled some
of them. I am dreadfully disappointed!'
'Never mind, dear, you will see enough of them, depend upon it. But where
is Brian?'
'Oh! it is one of his harrier days. He left all sorts of apologies for
not being at home to receive you. He will be home before dinner. Here is
mamma,' as Lady Palliser came sailing out, in a forty-guinea gown from
Jay, all glitter of bugles, and sheen of satin, putting Mrs. Wendover's
homespun travelling dress to shame. There was a dinner-gown with the
luggage, but a gown which, in comparison with Lady Palliser's satin and
jet, would be like the cloudy countenance of Luna on a November night, as
compared with the glory of Sol on a midsummer morning. But then, happily,
Mrs. Wendover was not the kind of person to suffer at being worse dressed
than her hostess. Lady Palliser sank in a low curtsey when Ida murmured a
rather vague presentation, and again beheld the Countess's eternal laws
violated by her guests, for the Colonel and his wife shook hands with a
vigour which in the 'Crême de la Crême' was stigmatised as a barbarous
vulgarity; while Aunt Betsy was so taken up with Ida that, after a smile
and a nod, she actually turned her back upon the lady of the house.
'My poor child, how horridly ill you are looking,' Miss Wendover
exclaimed, holding Ida by both hands and looking searchingly into her
face. 'Prosperity has not agreed with you. I can see the traces of
sleepless nights under your eyes.'
'It was such a shock,' murmured Ida.
'Yes, it was a terrible shock. Those fine frank young fellows! It was
ever so long before I could get the images of them out of my mind. And I
could not help feeling very sorry for them, in spite of your good
fortune--'
'Don't call it my good fortune,' said Ida; 'I am glad my father is better
off; but I was happier when I was poor.'
'And yet you used to say such bitter things about poverty?'
'Yes, I was a worshipper of Mammon in those days; but now I have got
inside the temple and have found out that he is a false god.'
'He is not a god, but a devil. "The least erected spirit that fell from
heaven." My poor Ida! And so you have found out that there are dust and
ashes inside golden apples! Never mind; you will learn to enjoy the
privileges and comforts of wealth better when you are better used to
being rich. And in the meantime tell me that you are happy in your
married life, that you and Brian are getting on pleasantly together.'
'We never quarrel,' said Ida, looking downward.
'Oh, that is a bad sign. Tell me something better than that.'
'You all told me that it was my duty to live with my husband. I am trying
to do my duty,' Ida answered gravely.
There was no radiance upon her face now. All the happiness--the unselfish
delight of welcoming her friends--had faded, and left her pale and
despondent.
She threw off all gloomy thoughts presently, and was running about the
house, showing her friends their rooms, giving directions to servants,
making a good deal more fuss, and making more use of her own hands, than
the author of 'La Crême de la Crême' would have tolerated.
'A lady's hands,' said that exalted personage, 'are not for use, but for
ornament. Her first object should be to preserve their delicacy of form
and colour; her second to be always _bien gantée_. She should never lift
anything heavier than her teacup; and she should rather endure some
inconvenience from cold while waiting the attendance of her footman than
she should so far derogate from feminine dignity as to put on a shovel of
coals. The rule of her life should be to do nothing which her domestics
or her _dame de compagnie_ can do for her.'
'My dearest Ida,' remonstrated Lady Palliser, remembering this classic
passage, 'what do you mean by carrying that bag?' Are there no servants
in the house?'
'Half-a-dozen too many, mamma; but I like to do something with my own
hands for those I love.'
Lady Palliser sighed, recalling the days when she had cooked her husband's
breakfasts and dinners, and had been happier--so it seemed to her now--in
performing that domestic duty than in giving orders to a housekeeper of
whom she stood in awe. But Fanny Palliser had made up her mind that she
ought to become a fine lady, in order to do credit to her husband's
altered fortunes, and she was working assiduously with that intent.
The guests had arrived in time for luncheon, and after luncheon Lady
Palliser and the three elders went for a long drive in the landau, to
explore the best points in the surrounding scenery, while Ida and Bessie,
with Vernon in their company, started for a long ramble in the Park and
woods. The boy ran about hither and thither, flitting from bank to bank,
in quest of flowers or insects, curious about everything in nature, vivid
as a flash in all his movements. Thus the two girls were left very much
to themselves, and were able to talk as they liked, only occasionally
giving their attention to some newly-discovered wonder of Vernon's, a
tadpole in the act of shedding his horny beak, or some gigantic
development of the genus toadstool, which species was just then in full
season.
At first there was a shadow of constraint upon Bessie's manner; and in
one whose nature was so frank, the faintest touch of reserve was
painfully obvious. For a little while all her talk was of Wimperfield and
its beauties.
'And to think that my dear old pet should be a leading member of our
county families!' she exclaimed; 'it is too delightful.'
'Indeed, Bess, I am nothing of the kind. I am a very insignificant
person--nothing but my father's daughter. Brian and I are only here on
sufferance.'
'Oh, that's nonsense, dear. I heard Sir Reginald tell my father that
Wimperfield was to be your home and Brian's as long as ever you both
like--as long as your father lives, in fact. Brian can have his chambers
in town, and work at his profession, but you are to live at Wimperfield.'
'That can hardly be,' answered Ida, gloomily; 'when Brian goes to London,
I must go with him. It will be my duty, you know,' with a shade of
bitterness.
'Well, then, this will be your country house--and that will be ever so
much better; for after all, you know, however delightful the country may
be, it is rather like being buried alive to live in it all the year
round. I suppose Brian will soon begin to work at his profession--to read
law books, and wait for briefs, don't you know.'
'I hope so,' answered Ida, coldly; 'but I do not think your cousin is
very fond of hard work.'
'Oh, but he must work--manhood demands it. He cannot possibly go on
sponging upon your father for ever.'
'There is no question of sponging. Brian is welcome here, as you have
heard. Lady Palliser likes him very much, and we all get on very well
together.'
'But you would like your husband to work, wouldn't you, Ida?'
'I should like him to be a man,' answered Ida, curtly.
In all this time there had been no mention of that other Brian--the owner
of Wendover Abbey. No word of congratulation had come to Ida from him
upon the change in her fortunes; nor had her husband told her of any
communication from his cousin. She concluded, therefore, that Brian the
elder had made no sign. It might be that he had dismissed her from his
mind as unworthy of further thought or care. He had discovered her
falsehood, her worthlessness, and she was no longer the woman he had once
loved and honoured. She had passed out of his life, like an evil dream
which he had dreamed and forgotten.
His voice had been silent when those other voices--the Colonel's and the
Curate's--had told her that it was her duty to fulfil the vow she had
vowed before God's altar: to share her husband's fate for good or ill.
Brian, her lover of a few minutes before, had held his peace. What had he
thought of her in those bitter moments? Had there been one touch of pity
mingled with his scorn? She could not tell. He had made no sign.
From the moment of her friend's arrival she had tremulously expected some
mention of Mr. Wendover's name; but that name had not been spoken. The
silence was a relief: and yet she yearned to know something more: whether
he had spoken of her with friendly feeling, whether he thought of her
with compassion.
Not for worlds would she have questioned Bessie upon this subject: not
even Bessie, whose childish love so invited confidence, before whose
tender eyes she could never feel ashamed.
After that little talk about Brian Walford there followed a good deal of
talk about Mr. Jardine. He was promised a living, not a big benefice by
any means, but still an actual living and an actual Vicarage, in the
vicinity of Salisbury Plain; and he and Bessie were to be married early
in the following year, as soon as there were enough spring flowers to
decorate Kingthorpe Church, the Colonel had said.
'It is to be in the time of daffodils, just before Lent,' said Bess;
'Easter comes late next year, you know.'
'I don't know; but no doubt you have found out all about it,' Ida
answered, laughing. 'God bless you, dear, and make your wedded life one
long honeymoon!'
'I have seen marriages like that,' said Bess. 'Father and mother, for
instance. They are always spooning. Oh, Ida! doesn't it seem dreadfully
soon to be married?'
'There is plenty of time for reflection,' answered Ida, with a sigh.
Bessie remembered how sudden a thing matrimony had been in her friend's
case.
'Ah, darling, I know what you are thinking about,' she said tenderly.
'You married on the spur of the moment, and were just a little sorry
afterwards; but I have been so fenced and guarded by parental wisdom that
I could not do anything foolish--if I tried ever so. And then John is far
too wise to propose anything wild or romantic--yet I think if he had come
to me and said, "There is a dog-cart at the gate, let us drive over to
Romsey Church and be married," I should hardly have known how to say no.
But, Ida, dear, tell me that your hasty marriage has turned out a happy
one after all. Brian is so very nice. Confess now that you are happy with
him!'
Bessie had intended scrupulously to avoid any such home question; but her
feelings carried her away directly she began to talk of John Jardine.
'I cannot tell you a lie. Bessie; no, my life is not a happy one. All
colour and brightness, all youthfulness and fervour, went out of me when
I left Kingthorpe; but it is an endurable life, and I make the best of
it.'
'Brian is not unkind to you, I hope?' cried Bessie, prepared to be
indignant.
'No, he is not unkind. I have no complaint to make against him.'
'But surely he is nice,' argued Bessie; 'I have always thought him one of
the nicest young men I know. He has very good manners, he knows a good
deal, can talk of almost any subject, and he is full of life and spirits,
when he wants to be amusing.'
'I have no doubt he is a very agreeable person,' answered Ida, gloomily.
'I have never disputed that. And yet our marriage was a mistake, all the
same.'
'But when you married him, surely then you must have cared for him, just
a little?'
'I thought I did. It was the glamour of his imaginary wealth. It was the
worship of the golden calf, exemplified in one of its vilest phases, a
mercenary marriage.'
'Do not lower yourself too much, dearest,' pleaded Bessie hugging her
friend's arm affectionately, as they tramped across the withered
bracken.' You are too good to have been governed by any sordid feeling.
The delusion must have gone deeper?'
'It did. I married in a rhapsody of gratitude, thinking that I had found
a modern Cophetua. Say no more about it, Bess, if you love me!'
'I will never say another word, dear,' sighed Bess; 'but I do wish you
had been single when you met the other Brian, for I know he was more than
half in love with you. And now he is going off to the other end of the
world again, and goodness knows if he will ever come back.'
The upper tracts of heaven were beginning to grow gray, the sun was
sinking in a bed of red and gold behind a clump of oaks on the edge of
the horizon--the dark and delicate outline of leafless branches
distinctly marked against that yellow light. Wimperfield Park was almost
at its best upon such an afternoon as this, the turf soft and springy
after autumnal rains, the atmosphere tranquil and balmy, and all animal
creation--deer, oxen, rabbits, feathered game, and an innumerable army of
rooks--full of life and motion. Ida was slow to reply to Bessie's news
about her cousin. The two girls walked on in silence for a little way,
Vernon running ever so far ahead of them to look for fallen nuts in a
grove of fine old Spanish chestnuts, which stood boldly out on the top of
a hill.
'Don't you feel sorry that he is going away?' asked Bessie at last; 'just
as he had established himself among us, and begun all kinds of
improvement at the Abbey farm, and was even thinking of building new
schools.'
'It is a pity,' said Ida.
'It is simply horrid. He is quite as bad as those Irish Absentees who are
continually getting murdered; or he would be as bad, if he had not
arranged with my father for the carrying on of all his plans while he is
away.'
'That is very good of him.'
'Good, yes; but it will be a dreadful responsibility for poor father, and
I daresay we shall all be worried about it. He will have builders on the
brain till the work is finished. My poor John has promised to look after
the schools; and he is so conscientious that he will wear himself to a
shadow rather than neglect the smallest detail.'
'But are you not pleased that he can be of so much use?'
'I am obliged to be pleased. I am going to be a clergyman's wife; and I
must teach myself to look at everything from the parochial point of view.
John and I will not belong to ourselves, but to our parish. Our own
pleasure, our own health, our own interests, must be as nothing to us. We
must only exist as machines for the maintenance of the proper church
services and for the relief of the sick and poor.'
'If you think it too hard a life, dear, there is time for you to draw
back!'
'Oh, Ida, do you think I am like Lot's wife, regretting the false
frivolous world I am going to renounce? What life could be too hard
shared with _him?_'
'God bless you, dear. I believe your life will be a very happy one,' said
Ida, earnestly, and with a touch of melancholy. There was so much that
was enviable in Bessie's fate. Then, after a pause, she said
hesitatingly, 'Do you know why your cousin is going to leave England?'
'No; I know no reason except his natural restlessness. He is a member of
the Geographical, you know, and attends all their meetings. The other day
he went up to hear some old fellow prose about the regions north of
Afghanistan, and he was so interested that he made arrangements at once
for an exploration on his own account. And I daresay he will get killed
by some savage tribe, or die of fever.'
'He is not going alone, I hope?'
'No, he has a friend almost as mad as himself, and they are going
together. That will mean two for the savages to kill instead of one; and
I suppose they will have an interpreter and two or three servants, which
will be a few more for the savages.'
'Let us hope they will not go into really dangerous places. There must be
so much for a traveller to see in India, without running any great
risks,' said Ida, affecting a cheerful tone.
'But you know English travellers love to run risks. It is their only idea
of enjoyment. A man like Brian is told of some mountain or some
settlement where no Englishman has ever set his foot before, and he says,
"That is the very place for me," and the experiment naturally results in
his getting murdered.' They had finished their ramble, and were in front
of the portico by this time.
'Oh, Bessie!' said Ida, with a stifled sob, 'life is full of sad changes.
Do you remember that summer afternoon, three mouths ago, when Vernon and
Peter stood on those steps bidding us good-bye, as we drove away with
your cousin? and now those two are lying at the bottom of the sea, and he
is going to the other end of the world.'
The Wendover visit was altogether a success. There was something so
conciliating, so sympathetic, so entirely comfortable in Mrs. Wendover's
nature and outward characteristics, that Lady Palliser felt almost
immediately at her ease with her, and forgot her newly-acquired manners,
becoming a good deal more ladylike in consequence; since the strict and
stern system of etiquette, formulated in the 'Crême de la Crême,' did not
lie conformably to the original formation of the little woman's
disposition. To be free and easy, loquacious, fussy, and kind was Fanny
Palliser's nature, and she became odious when she tried to restrain those
simple impulses by the armour of formal manners.
'I never had a lady friend I liked better than Mrs. Wendover,' she told
Ida, in confidence, on the second day of the visit.
Fanny Palliser was not quite so much at ease with Aunt Betsy. She had an
idea that the spinster was satirical, and was inwardly critical of her
shortcomings. She was impressed by the wide extent of Aunt Betsy's
information, most especially when that lady talked politics with Sir
Reginald, and contrived to hem him into corners whence there was no
logical thoroughfare. Aunt Betsy was Liberal to the verge of Radicalism;
Sir Reginald a Tory of the good old pig-headed type, who looked upon all
advance movements as revolutionary, and thought that his own party had
gone mad.
'I don't like strong-minded women,' Lady Palliser told Ida when the
guests had left. 'I have no doubt Miss Wendover is very kind-hearted and
generous--I'm sure her kindness to you was wonderful--but she is not _my_
idea of a lady. That brocade dinner-gown was lovely, and fitted her like
a glove; but the way she put her elbows on the table when she talked to
Sir Reginald at dessert--well, I never did!'
Brian Walford had made himself particularly agreeable during the brief
visit of his kindred--agreeable to both sides of the house. It was his
desire to stand well with both. He wanted his uncle and aunts to see that
he was thought much of at Wimperfield--that he was a valued member of the
household, respected and liked by his wife's family, that he had done
well for himself by his marriage, and that whatever cloud had
overshadowed the opening of his wedded life had vanished altogether from
his horizon. People so soon forgive and forget a little wrong-doing if
the sinner comes comfortably out of his difficulties, and becomes a
prosperous member of society. The Colonel and his wife, who had always
liked Ida, liked her all the better now that they saw her established in
a stately home--the only daughter of a man of fortune and position.
On the morning of her departure, Miss Wendover contrived to have a
_téte-â-téte_ with Sir Reginald; in the course of which she informed
him that she meant to leave half her money to her niece Bessie, and the
other half to her nephew--Brian Walford.
'The land, of course, will go to Brian of the Abbey,' she said. 'We
Wendovers can't afford to divide the soil. Our chances of doing good in
the land depend upon our having a large interest in the neighbourhood.'
'Why, Miss Wendover, I thought you were a Radical!' exclaimed Sir
Reginald.
'So I am in many of my ideas, but not for cutting up the land into little
bits, to pass from hand to hand like a ten-pound note, until there should
not be an estate left in England with a long family history, nor a rich
man left in the rural districts to take care of the poor. England would
be badly off without her squirearchy.'
Sir Reginald and Miss Wendover were thoroughly agreed upon this point. He
thanked her for her generous intentions towards her nephew; and he told
her that he meant to provide fairly for his daughter. 'The entail expires
in my person,' he said; 'I can do what I like for my girl. Of course the
whole of the estate will go to Vernon. He is the last of his race, and I
hope I may live to see him married, and the father of sons to inherit his
name. It is a hard thing to think that a good old name must perish off
the face of the land. However, I am free to make my will as I like, and I
shall leave Ida six or seven hundred a year. She and Brian ought to get
on very well with that, and his profession. I should like to see him a
little more energetic--a little fonder of hard work,' pursued Sir
Reginald, with a sigh, conscious of having never felt a strong
inclination that way on his own part; 'but I suppose all young men are
idle.'
'No, they are not,' retorted Aunt Betsy, sharply. 'There are workers
and idlers in all families--men born to honour or to dishonour--races
apart--like the drones and the working bees. Look at my other nephew, for
example--a man who has seven thousand a year, and not a creature to
gainsay him if he chose to dissipate his days and nights on worldly
pleasures. He is your true type of worker--a fine Greek scholar--a
naturalist, a traveller, a thorough sportsman, where sport means courage,
adventure, intelligence, endurance. Fortune made him a rich man, but he
has made himself a man of mark in every circle in which he has ever
lived, and I am proud to own him for my own flesh and blood. Nature gave
Brian Walford many gifts, and what has he done for himself? Learnt to
dress as foplings dress, and to think as foplings think!'
'He is a very nice young fellow!' said Sir Reginald kindly; 'we are all
fond of him; only we think--for his own sake--it would be better if he
took life more seriously.'
'He must be made to take life seriously,' replied the spinster sternly.
'Yes, he is very nice--that is the worst of it; if he were nasty no one
would tolerate him. I'm afraid his good qualities will be his ruin.' And
thus, promising good things, yet prophesying evil, Miss Wendover left
Wimperfield. Ida was to go and stay with her later on at the Homestead,
when Brian Walford should be reading law in those new Chambers which he
often talked about. There were times when to hear him talk people thought
him a youth gnawed and consumed by ambition, only panting for the
opportunity to work.
Two days after the Wendovers had gone back, Brian showed his wife a
letter from his cousin, Brian of the Abbey.
'I am leaving England for a longer period than usual, and going farther
afield,' wrote the master of Wendover Abbey; 'so before starting I feel
myself bound to do something definite for you.'
'He has helped me with odd sums now and then, I suppose you know?' said
Brian, as Ida read this passage.
'I did not know,' she answered coldly; 'but I am not surprised to hear
that he has been generous to you.'
'No, he is your paragon--your preux chevalier--is he not?' sneered Brian.
'Bessie told me as much.'
'She told you only the truth. No one who lives at Kingthorpe can help
knowing that your cousin is a good man.'
She went on with the letter.
'Now you are married the claims upon you will be larger than they
have been, and I know you will not care to be a pensioner upon your
father-in-law's bounty. I have, therefore, arranged with my bankers that
you should draw on me quarterly for a hundred and fifty pounds while I am
away. This will help you to keep the wolf from the door while you are
reading for the Bar. I hope to find you a successful junior, in the first
stage of a prosperous journey to the Bench, when I come back.'
'Six hundred a year. Not half bad, is it, Ida?'
'It is very good of him. I hope you will do as he suggests.'
'How do you mean?'
'Work hard at your profession.'
'I shall work hard enough,' answered Brian, turning sullen, 'unless you
all badger me. I hate being badgered.'