The Golden Calf

M >> M. E. Braddon >> The Golden Calf

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36

'We know what they are,' snapped Miss Pew; 'I never heard of anything bad
enough to be beyond their reach. Who is it?'

'Your clever pupil teacher, Ida Palliser.'

'Ah,' grunted Miss Pew, setting down her cup; 'I can believe anything of
her. That girl was born to be troublesome. What has she done now?'

Miss Pillby related the circumstances of Miss Palliser's crime setting
forth her own cleverness in the course of her narrative--how her
misgivings had been excited by the unwonted familiarity between Ida and
the Fraeulein--a young person always open to suspicion as a stranger in
the land--how her fears had been confirmed by the conduct of an unknown
man in the church; and how, urged by her keen sense of duty, she had
employed Mrs. Jones's boy to watch the delinquents.

'I'll make an example of her,' said Miss Pew, flinging back the
bed-clothes with a tragic air as she rose from her couch. 'That will do,
Pillby. I want no further details. I'll wring the rest out of that
bold-faced minx in the face of all the school. You can go.'

And without any word of praise or thanks from her principal, Miss Pillby
retired: yet she knew in her heart that for this piece of ill news Miss
Pew was not ungrateful.

Never had Sarah Pew looked more awful than she appeared that morning at
the breakfast table, clad in sombre robes of olive green merino, and a
cap bristling with olive-green berries and brambly twigs--a cap which to
the more advanced of the pupils suggested the head-gear of Medusa.

Miss Dulcibella, gentle, limp, sea-greeny, looked at her stronger-minded
sister, and was so disturbed by the gloom upon that imperial brow as to
be unable to eat her customary rasher. Not a word did Miss Pew speak to
sister or mistresses during that brief but awful meal; but when the delft
breakfast cups were empty, and the stacks of thick bread and butter had
diminished to nothingness, and the girls were about to rise and disperse
for their morning studies, Miss Pew's voice arose suddenly amidst them
like the sound of thunder.

'Keep your seats, if you please, young ladies. I am about to make an
example; and I hope what I have to say and do may be for the general
good. Miss Palliser, stand up.'

Ida rose in her place, at that end of the table where she was supposed to
exercise a corrective influence upon the younger pupils. She stood up
where all the rest were seated, a tall and perfect figure, a beautiful
statuesque head, supported by a neck like a marble column. She stood up
among all those other girls the handsomest of them all, pale, with
flashing eyes, feeling very sure that she was going to be ill-treated.

'Pray, Miss Palliser, who is the person whom it is your daily habit to
meet and converse with in my grounds? Who is the man who has dared to
trespass on my meadow at your invitation?'

'Not at my invitation,' answered Ida, as calm as marble 'The gentleman
came of his own accord. His name is Brian Wendover, and he and I are
engaged to be married.'

Miss Pew laughed a loud ironical laugh, a laugh which froze the blood of
all the seventeen-year-old pupils who were not without fear or reproach
upon the subject of clandestine glances, little notes, or girlish
carryings-on in the flirtation line.

'Engaged?' she exclaimed, in her stentorian voice, 'That is really too
good a joke. Engaged? Pray, which Mr. Brian Wendover is it?

'Mr. Wendover of the Abbey.'

'Mr. Wendover of the Abbey, the head of the Wendover family?' cried Miss
Pew. 'And you would wish us to believe that Mr. Wendover, of Wendover
Abbey--a gentleman with an estate worth something like seven thousand
a year, young ladies--has engaged himself to the youngest of my
pupil-teachers, whose acquaintance he has cultivated while trespassing on
my meadow? Miss Palliser, when a gentleman of Mr. Wendover's means and
social status wishes to marry a young person in your position--a
concatenation which occurs very rarely in the history of the human
race--he comes to the hall door. Mr. Wendover no more means to marry you
than he means to marry the moon. His views are of quite a different kind,
and you know it.'

Ida cast a withering look at her tyrant, and moved quickly from her
place.

'You are a wretch to say such a thing to me,' she cried passionately; 'I
will not stay another hour under your roof to be so insulted.'

'No, you will not stay under my roof, Miss Palliser,' retorted Miss Pew.
'My mind was made up more than an hour ago on that point. You will not be
allowed to stay in this house one minute longer than is needed for the
packing up of your clothes, and that, I take it,' added the
schoolmistress, with an insolent laugh, 'will not be a lengthy operation.
You are expelled, Miss Palliser--expelled from this establishment for
grossly improper conduct; and I am only sorry for your poor father's sake
that you will have to begin your career as a governess with disgrace
attached to your name.'

'There is no disgrace, except in your own foul mind,' said Ida. 'I can
imagine that as nobody ever admired you or made love to you when you
were young, you may have mistaken ideas as to the nature of lovers and
love-making'--despite the universal awe, this provoked a faint,
irrepressible titter--'but it is hard that you should revenge your
ignorance upon me. Mr. Wendover has never said a word to me which a
gentleman should not say. Fraeulein Wolf, who has heard his every word,
knows that this is true.'

'Fraeulein will leave this house to-morrow, if she is not careful,' said
Miss Pew, who had, however, no intention of parting with so useful and
cheap a teacher.

She could afford to revenge herself upon Ida, whose period of tutelage
was nearly over.

'Fraeulein knows that Mr. Wendover speaks of our future as the future of
man and wife.'

'Ja wohl,' murmured the Fraeulein, 'that is true; ganz und gan.'

'I will not hear another word!' cried Miss Pew, swelling with rage, while
every thorn and berry on her autumnal cap quivered. 'Ungrateful, impudent
young woman! Leave my house instantly. I will not have these innocent
girls perverted by your vile example. In speech and in conduct you are
alike detestable.'

'Good-bye, girls,' cried Ida, lightly: 'you all know how much harm my
speech and my example have done you. Good-bye, Fraeulein; don't you be
afraid of dismissal,--you are too well worth your salt.'

Polly Cobb, the brewer's daughter, sat near the door by which Ida had to
make her exit. She was quite the richest, and perhaps the best-natured
girl in the school. She caught hold of Ida's gown and thrust a little
Russia-leather purse into her hand, with a tender squeeze.

'Take it, dear,' she whispered; 'I don't want it, I can get plenty more.
Yes, yes, you must; you shall. I'll make a row, and get myself into
disgrace, if you refuse. You can't go to France without money.'

'God bless you, dear. I'll send it you back,' answered Ida.

'Don't; I shall hate you if you do.'

'Is that young woman gone?' demanded Miss Pew's awful voice.

'Going, going, gone!' cried Miss Cobb, forgetting herself in her
excitement, as the door closed behind Ida.

'Who was that?' roared Miss Pew.

Half a dozen informants pronounced Miss Cobb's name.

Now Miss Cobb's people were wealthy, and Miss Cobb had younger sisters,
all coming on under a homely governess to that critical stage in which
they would require the polishing processes of Mauleverer Manor: so Sarah
Pew bridled her wrath, and said quietly--

'Kindly reserve your jocosity for a more appropriate season, Miss Cobb.
Young ladies, you may proceed with your matutinal duties.'

CHAPTER VIII.

AT THE LOCK-HOUSE.

Miss Pew had argued rightly that the process of packing would not be a
long one with Ida Palliser. The girl had come to Mauleverer with the
smallest number of garments compatible with decency; and her stock had
been but tardily and scantily replenished during her residence in that
manorial abode. It was to her credit that she had contrived still to be
clean, still to be neat, under such adverse conditions; it was Nature's
royal gift that she had looked grandly beautiful in the shabbiest gowns
and mantles ever seen at Mauleverer.

She huddled her poor possessions into her solitary trunk--a battered hair
trunk which had done duty ever since she came as a child from India. She
put a few necessaries into a convenient morocco bag, which the girls in
her class had clubbed their pocket-money to present to her on her last
birthday; and then she washed the traces of angry tears from her face,
put on her hat and jacket, and went downstairs, carrying her bag and
umbrella.

One of the housemaids met her in the hall, a buxom, good-natured country
girl.

'Is it true that you are going to leave us, miss?' she asked.

'What! you all know it already?' exclaimed Ida.

'Everybody is talking about it, miss. The young ladies are all on your
side; but they dare not speak up before Miss Pew.'

'I suppose not. Yes, it is quite true; I am expelled, Eliza; sent out
into the world without a character, because I allowed Mr. Wendover to
walk and talk with the Fraeulein and me for half an hour or so in the
river-meadow! Mr. Wendover, my best, my only friend's first cousin.
Rather hard, isn't it?'

Hard? it's shameful,' cried the girl. 'I should like to see old Pew
turning me off for keeping company with my young man. But she daren't do
it. Good servants are hard to get nowadays; or any servants, indeed, for
the paltry wages she gives.'

'And governesses are a drug in the market,' said Ida, bitterly.
'Good-bye, Eliza.'

'Where are you going, miss? Home?'

'Yes; I suppose so.'

The reckless tone, the careless words alarmed the good-hearted housemaid.

'Oh, miss, pray go home, straight home--wherever your home is. You are
too handsome to be going about alone among strangers. It's a wicked
world, miss--wickeder than you know of, perhaps. Have you got money
enough to get you home comfortable?'

'I'll see,' answered Ida, taking out Miss Cobb's fat little purse and
looking into it.

There were two sovereigns and a good deal of silver--a tremendous fortune
for a schoolgirl; but then it was said that Cobb Brothers coined money by
the useful art of brewing.

'Yes; I have plenty of money for my journey,' said Ida.

'Are you certain sure, now, miss?' pleaded the housemaid; 'for if you
ain't, I've got a pound laid by in my drawer ready to put in the Post
Office Savings Bank, and you're as welcome to it as flowers in May, if
you'll take it off me.'

'God bless you, Eliza. If I were in any want of money, I'd gladly borrow
your sovereign; but Miss Cobb has lent me more than I want. Good-bye.'

Ida held out her hand, which the housemaid, after wiping her own paw upon
her apron, clasped affectionately.

'God bless you, Miss Palliser,' she said fervently; 'I shall miss the
sight of your handsome face when I waits at table.'

A minute more and Ida stood in the broad carriage sweep, with her back to
the stately old mansion which had sheltered her so long, and in which,
despite her dependency and her poverty, she had known some light-hearted
hours. Now, where was she to go? and what was she to do with her life?
She stood with the autumn wind blowing about her--the fallen chestnut
leaves drifting to her feet--pondering that question.

Was she or was she not Brian Wendover's affianced wife? How far was she
to trust in him, to lean upon him, in this crucial hour of her life?
There had been so much playfulness in their love-making, his tone had
been for the most part so light and sportive, that now, when she stood,
as it were, face to face with destiny, she hardly knew how to think of
him, whether as a rock that she might lean upon, or as a reed that would
give way at her touch. Rock or reed, womanly instinct told her that it
was not to this fervent admirer she must apply for aid or counsel yet
awhile. Her duty was to go home at once--to get across the Channel, if
possible, as quickly as Miss Pew's letter to her father.

Intent on doing this, she walked along the dusty high road by the river,
in the direction of the railway station. This station was more than two
miles distant, a long, straight walk by the river, and then a mile or so
across fields and by narrow lanes to an arid spot, where some newly-built
houses were arising round a hopeless-looking little loop-line station in
a desert of agricultural land.

She had walked about three-quarters of a mile, when she heard the rapid
dip of oars, as if in pursuit of her, and a familiar voice calling to
her.

It was Brian, who almost lived in his boat, and who had caught sight of
her in the distance, and followed at racing speed.

'What are you doing?' he asked, coming up close to the bank, and standing
up in his boat. 'Where are you going at such a pace? I don't think I ever
saw a woman walk so fast.'

'Was I walking fast?' she asked, unconscious of the impetus which
excitement had given to her movements.

She knew in her heart of hearts that she did not love him--that love--the
passion which she had read of in prose and poetry was still a stranger to
her soul: but just at this Moment, galled and stung by Miss Pew's
unkindness, heart-sick at her own absolute desolation, the sound of his
voice was sweet in her ears, the look of the tall slim figure, the
friendly face turned towards her, was pleasant to her eyes. No, he was
not a reed, he was a rock. She felt protected and comforted by his
presence.

'Were you walking fast! Galloping like a three-year-old--_quoe velut
latis equa trima campis_,' quoted Brian. 'Are you running away from
Mauleverer Manor?'

'I am going away,' she answered calmly. 'I have been expelled.'

'Ex--what?' roared Brian.

'I have been expelled--sent away at a minute's notice--for the
impropriety of my conduct in allowing you to talk to me in the
river-meadow.'

Brian had been fastening his boat to a pollard willow as he talked. He
leapt on to the bank, and came close to Ida's side.

'My darling, my dearest love, what a burning shame! What a villainous old
hag that Pew woman must be! Bessie told me she was a Tartar, but this
beats everything. Expelled! Your conduct impeached because you let me
talk to you--I, Bessie's cousin, a man who at the worst has some claim to
be considered a gentleman, while you have the highest claim to be
considered a lady. It is beyond all measure infamous.'

'It was rather hard, was it not?' said Ida quietly.

'Abominable, insufferable! I--well. I'll call upon the lady this
afternoon, and make her acquainted with my sentiments upon the subject.
The wicked old harridan.'

'Please don't,' urged Ida, smiling at his wrath; 'it doesn't give me any
consolation to hear you call her horrid names.'

'Did you tell her that I had asked you to be my wife?'

'I said something to that effect--in self-defence--not from any wish to
commit you: and she told me that a man in your position, who intended to
marry a girl in my position, would act in a very different manner from
the way in which you have acted.'

'Did she? She is a wise judge of human nature--and of a lover's nature,
above all. Well, Ida, dearest, we have only one course open to us, and
that is to give her the lie at once--by our conduct. Deeds, not words,
shall be our argument. You do care for me--just a little--don't you, pet?
just well enough to marry me? All the rest will come after?'

'Whom else have I to care for?' faltered Ida, with downcast eyes and
passionately throbbing heart. 'Who else has ever cared for me?'

'I am answered. So long as I am the only one I will confide all the rest
to Fate. We will be married to-morrow.'

'To-morrow! No, no, no.'

'Yes, yes, yes. What is there to hinder our immediate marriage? And what
can be such a crushing answer to that old Jezebel! We will be married at
the little church where I saw you last Sunday night, looking like St.
Cecilia when you joined in the Psalms. We have been both living in the
same parish for the last fortnight. I will run up to Doctors' Commons
this afternoon, bring back the licence, interview the parson, and have
everything arranged for our being married at ten o'clock to-morrow
morning.'

'No, no, not for the world.'

For some time the girl was firm in her refusal of such a hasty union. She
would not marry her lover except in the face of the world, with the full
consent of his friends and her own. Her duty was to go by the first train
and boat that would convey her to Dieppe, and to place herself in her
father's care.

'Do you think your father would object to our marriage?' asked Brian.

'No, I am sure he would not object,' she answered, smiling within herself
at the question.

As if Captain Palliser, living upon his half-pay, and the occasional
benefactions of a rich kinsman, could by any possibility object to a
match that would make his daughter mistress of Wendover Abbey!

'Then why delay our marriage, in order to formally obtain a consent which
you are sure of beforehand! As for my friends, Bessie's people are the
nearest and dearest, and you know what their feelings are on your
behalf.'

'Bessie likes me as her friend. I don't know how she might like me as her
cousin's wife,' said Ida.

'Then I will settle your doubts by telling you a little secret. Bessie
sent me here to try and win you for my wife. It was her desire as well as
mine.'

More arguments followed, and against the lover's ardent pleading there
was only a vague idea of duty in the girl's mind, somewhat weakened by an
instinctive notion that her father would think her an arrant fool for
delaying so grand a triumph as her marriage with a man of fortune and
position. Had he not often spoken to her wistfully of her beauty, and the
dim hope that her handsome face might some day win her a rich husband?

'It's a poor chance at the best,' he told her. 'The days of the Miss
Gunnings have gone by. The world has grown commercial. Nowadays money
marries money.'

And this chance, which her father had speculated upon despondently as a
remote contingency, was now at her feet. Was she to spurn it, and then go
back to the shabby little villa near Dieppe, and expect to be praised for
her filial duty?

While she wavered, Brian urged every argument which a lover could bring
to aid his suit. To-morrow they might be married, and in the meanwhile
Ida could be safely and comfortably housed with the good woman at the
lock-house. Brian would give up his lodgings to her, and would stay at
the hotel at Chertsey. Ida listened, and hesitated: before her lay the
dry, dusty road, the solitary journey by land and sea, the doubtful
welcome at home. And here by her side stood the wealthy lover, the very
embodiment of protecting power--is not every girl's first lover in her
eyes as Olympian Jove?--eager to take upon himself the burden of her
life, to make her footsteps easy.

'Step into the boat, dearest,' he said; 'I know your heart has decided
for me. You are not afraid to trust me, Ida?'

'Afraid? no,' she answered, frankly, looking at him with heavenly
confidence in her large dark eyes; 'I am only afraid of doing wrong.'

'You can do no wrong with me by your side, your husband to-morrow,
responsible for all the rest of your existence.'

'True, after to-morrow I shall be accountable to no one but you,' she
said, thoughtfully. 'How strange it seems!'

'At the worst, I hope you will find me better than old Pew,' answered
Brian, lightly.

'You are too good--too generous,' she said; 'but I am afraid you are
acting too much from impulse. Have you considered what you are going to
do? have you thought what it is to marry a penniless girl, who can give
you none of the things which the world cares for in exchange for your
devotion?'

'I have thought what it is to marry the woman I fondly love, the
loveliest girl these eyes ever looked upon. Step into my boat, Ida; I
must row you up to the lock, and then start for London by the first train
I can catch. I don't know how early the licence-shop closes.'

She obeyed him, and sank into a seat in the stern of the cockle-shell
craft, exhausted, mentally and physically, by the agitation of the last
two hours, She felt an unspeakable relief in sitting quietly in the boat,
the water rippling gently past, like a lullaby, the rushes and willows
waving in the mild western breeze. Henceforth she had little to do in
life but to be cared for and cherished by an all-powerful lord and
master. Wealth to her mind meant power; and this devoted lover was rich.
Fate had been infinitely kind to her.

It was a lovely October morning, warm and bright as August. The river
banks still seemed to wear their summer green, the blue bright water
reflected the cloudless blue above. The bells were ringing for a
saint's-day service as Brian's boat shot past the water-side village,
with its old square-towered church. All the world had a happy look, as if
it smiled at Ida and her choice.

They moved with an easy motion past the pastoral banks, here and there a
villa garden, here and there a rustic inn, and so beneath Chertsey's
wooded heights to the level fields beyond, and to a spot where the Thames
and the Abbey River made a loop round a verdant little marshy island; and
here was the silvery weir, brawling noisily in its ceaseless fall, and
the lockhouse, where Mr. Wendover had lodgings.

The proprietress of that neat abode had just been letting a boat through
the lock, and stood leaning lazily against the woodwork, tasting the
morning air. She was a comfortable, well-to-do person, who rented a
paddock or two by the towing-path, and owned cows. Her little garden was
gay with late geraniums and many-coloured asters.

'Mrs. Topman, I have brought you a young lady to take care of for the
next twenty-four hours,' said Brian, coolly, as he handed Ida out of the
boat. 'Miss Palliser and I are going to be married to-morrow morning;
and, as her friends all live abroad, I want you to take care of her, in a
nice, motherly way, till she and I are one. You can give her my rooms,
and I can put up at the inn.'

Mrs. Topman curtseyed, and gazed admiringly at Ida.

'I shall be proud to wait upon such a sweet young lady,' she said. 'But
isn't it rather sudden? You told me there was a young lady in the case,
but I never knowed you was going to be married off-hand like this.'

'I never knew it myself till an hour ago, Mrs. Topman, answered Brian,
gaily. 'I knew that I was to be one of the happiest of men some day; but
I did not know bliss was so near me. And now I am off to catch the next
train from Chertsey. Be sure you give Miss Palliser some breakfast; I
don't think she has had a very comfortable one.'

He dashed into the cottage, and came out again five minutes afterwards,
having changed his boating clothes for a costume more appropriate to the
streets of London. He clasped Ida's hand, murmured a loving good-bye, and
then ran with light footsteps along the towing-path, while Ida stood
leaning against the lock door looking dreamily down at the water.

How light-hearted he was! and how easily he took life! This marriage,
which was to her an awful thing, signifying fate and the unknown future,
seemed to him as a mere whim of the hour, a caprice, a fancy. And yet
there could be no doubt of his affection for her. Even if his nature was
somewhat shallow, as she feared it must be, he was at least capable of a
warm and generous attachment. To her in her poverty and her disgrace he
had proved himself nobly loyal.

'I ought to be very grateful to him,' she said to herself; and then in
her schoolgirl phrase she added, 'and he is very nice.'

Mrs. Topman was in the house, tidying and smartening that rustic
sitting-room, which had not been kept too neatly during Mr. Wendover's
occupation. Presently came the clinking of cups and saucers, and anon
Mrs. Topman appeared on the doorstep, and announced that breakfast was
ready.

What a luxurious breakfast it seemed to the schoolgirl after a month of
the Mauleverer bread and scrape! Frizzled bacon, new laid eggs, cream,
marmalade, and a dainty little cottage loaf, all served with exquisite
cleanliness. Ida was too highly strung to do justice to the excellent
fare, but she enjoyed a cup of strong tea, and ate one of the eggs, to
oblige Mrs. Topman, who waited upon her assiduously, palpably panting
with friendly curiosity.

'Do take off your hat, miss,' she urged; 'you must be very tired after
your journey--a long journey, I daresay. Perhaps you would like me to
send a boy with a barrow for your luggage directly after breakfast. I
suppose your trunks are at the station?'

'No; Mr. Wendover will arrange about my trunk by-and-by,' faltered Ida;
and then looking down at her well-worn gray cashmere gown, she thought
that it was hardly a costume in which to be married. Yet how was she to
get her box from Mauleverer Manor without provoking dangerous inquiries?
And even if she had the box its contents would hardly solve the question
of a wedding gown. Her one white gown would be too cold for the season;
her best gown was black. Would Brian feel very much ashamed of her, she
wondered, if she must needs be married in that shabby gray cashmere?

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36