The Golden Calf

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

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And then it occurred to her that possibly Brian, while procuring the
licence, might have a happy thought about a wedding gown, and buy her one
ready made at a London draper's. He, to whom money was no object, could
so easily get an appropriate costume. It would be only for him to go into
a shop and say, 'I want a neat, pretty travelling dress for a tall, slim
young lady,' and the thing would be packed in a box and put into his cab
in a trice. Everything in life is made so easy for people with ample
means.

It was some time before Mrs. Topman would consent to leave her new
lodger. She was so anxious to be of use to the sweet young lady, and
threw out as many feelers as an octopus in the way of artfully-devised
conjectures and suppositions calculated to extract information. But Miss
Palliser was not communicative.

'You _must_ be tired after your journey. Those railways are so hot and so
dusty,' said Mrs. Topman, with a despairing effort to discover whence her
unexpected guest had come that morning.

'I am rather tired,' admitted Ida; 'I think, if you don't mind, I'll take
a book and lie down on that comfortable sofa for an hour or two.'

'Do miss. You'll find some books of Mr. Wendover's on the cheffonier. But
perhaps you'll be glad to take a little nap. Shall I draw down the blind
and darken the room for you?'

'No, thanks; I like the sunshine.'

Mrs. Topman unwillingly withdrew, and Ida was alone in the sitting-room
which her lover had occupied for the last fortnight.

Much individuality can hardly be expected in a temporary lodging--a mere
caravansary in life's journey; and yet, even in the brief space of a
fortnight, a room takes some colour from the habits and ideas of the
being who has lived in it.

Ida looked round curiously, wondering whether she would discover any
indications of her lover's character in Mrs. Topman's parlour. The room,
despite its open casements, smelt strongly of tobacco. That was a small
thing, for Ida knew that her lover smoked. She had seen him several times
throw away the end of his cigar as he sprang from his boat by the river
meadow. But that array of various pipes and cigar-holders--that cedar
cigar box--that brass tobacco jar on the mantelpiece, hinted at an ardent
devotion to the nymph Nicotina such as is rarely pleasing to woman.

'I am sorry he is so wedded to his pipes,' thought Ida with a faint sigh.

And then she turned to the cheffonier to inspect her lover's stock of
literature.

A man who loves his books never travels without a few old
favourites--Horace or Montaigne, Elia, an odd volume of De Quincey, a
battered Don Juan, a worn-out Faust, a shabby Shelley, or a ponderous
Burton in his threadbare cloth raiment.

But there was not one such book among Mr. Wendover's possessions. His
supply of mental food consisted of a half a dozen shilling magazines, the
two last numbers of _Punch_, and three or four sporting papers. Ida
turned from them with bitter disappointment. She seemed to take the
measure of Brian Wendover's mind in that frivolous collection, and she
was deeply pained at the idea of his shallowness.

'What has he done with himself in the long evenings?' she asked herself.
'Has he done nothing but smoke and read those magazines?'

She took up the _Cornhill_, and found its graver essays uncut. It was the
same with the other magazines. Only the most frivolous articles had been
looked at. Mr. Wendover was evidently anything but a reading man.

'No wonder he does not like the Abbey,' she thought. 'The country must
always seem dull to a man who does not care for books.'

And then she reminded herself remorsefully of his generous affection, his
single-minded devotion to her, and how much gratitude she owed him.

She read all that was worth reading in the magazines, she laughed at all
that was laughable in _Punch,_ and the long, slow day wore on somehow.
Mrs. Topman brought her lunch, and consulted her about dinner.

'You will not dine until Mr. Wendover comes back, I suppose, miss? You
and he can have a nice little dinner together at seven.'

Ida blushed at the mere notion of hobnobbing alone with a gentleman in
that water-side lodging.

'No thanks; this will be my dinner,' she answered quietly. 'Please don't
get anything more for me. No doubt Mr. Wendover will dine at the hotel,
if he has not dined in London. I shall want nothing more except a cup of
tea.'

After luncheon Ida went out and strolled by the river, that river of
which no one ever seems to grow weary. She wandered about the level
meadows, where the last of the wild-flowers were blooming, or she sat on
the bank, watching the ripple of the water, the slow smooth passage of
pleasure-boat or barge, and the day was long but not dreary. It was so
new to her to be idle, to be able to fold her hands and watch the stream,
and not to fear reproof because she had ceased from toil. At Mauleverer,
at this tranquil afternoon hour, while those rooks were sailing so calmly
high above her head--yonder belated butterfly fluttering so happily over
the feathery grasses--all nature so full of rest--they were grinding away
in the hot schoolroom, grinding at the weekly geography lesson, addling
their brains with feeble efforts to repeat by rote dry-as-dust
explanations about the equator and the torrid zone, latitude, longitude,
winds and tides, the height of mountains, the population of towns,
manufactures, creeds; not trying in the least to understand, or caring to
remember; only intent on getting over to-day's trouble and preparing in
some wise to meet the debts of to-morrow.

'Oh, thank God, to have got away from that treadmill,' said Ida, looking
up at the bright blue sky;' can I ever be sufficiently grateful to
Providence, and to the man whose love has rescued me?'

Her deliverer came strolling across the fields in quest of her presently,
tired and dusty, but delighted to be with her again. He sat down by her
side, and put his arm round her waist for the first time in his life.

'Don't,' he said, as she instinctively recoiled from him; 'you are almost
my own now. I have got the licence, I have seen the parson, and he is
quite charmed at the idea of marrying us to-morrow morning. He had heard
of your little escapade, it seems, and he thinks we are doing quite the
wisest thing possible.'

'He had heard--already!' exclaimed Ida, deeply mortified. 'Has Miss Pew
been calling out my delinquencies from the house-top? Oh, no,--I
understand. Tuesday is Mr. Daly's afternoon for Bible class, and he has
been at the school.'

'Exactly; and Miss Pew unburdened her mind to him.'

'Did he think me a dreadful creature?'

'He thinks you charming, but that I ought to have gone to the hall-door
when I courted you; as I should have done, dearest, only I wanted to be
sure of you first. He was all kindness, and will marry us quietly at nine
o'clock to-morrow, just after Matins, when there will be nobody about to
stare at us; and he has promised to say nothing about our marriage until
we give him leave to make the fact public.'

'I am glad of that,' said Ida, looking at her shabby gown. 'Do you think
it will matter much--will you be very much ashamed of me, if I am married
in this threadbare old cashmere?'

She had a faint hope that he would exclaim, 'My love, I have brought you
a wedding dress from Regent Street; come and see it.' But he only smiled
at her tenderly, and said--

'The gown does not matter a jot; you are lovelier in your shabby frock
than any other bride in satin and pearls. And some of these days you
shall have smart frocks.'

He said it hopefully, but as if it were a remote contingency.

He spoke very much as her impecunious father might have spoken. He, the
master of Wendover Abbey, to whom the possession of things that money
could buy must needs be a dead certainty. But it was evidently a part of
his character to make light of his wealth; assuredly a pleasant
idiosyncrasy.

They dawdled about on the bank for half an hour or so, talking somewhat
listlessly, for Ida was depressed and frightened by the idea of that
fateful event, giving a new colour to all her life to come, which was so
soon to happen. Brian was very kind, very good to her; she wished with
all her heart that she had loved him better; yet it seemed to her that
she did love him--a little. Surely this feeling was love, this keen sense
of obligation, this warm admiration for his generous and loyal conduct.
Yes, this must be love. And why, loving him, should she feel this
profound melancholy at the idea of a marriage which satisfied her
loftiest ambition?

Perhaps the cause of her depression lay in the strangeness of this sudden
union, its semi-clandestine character, her loneliness at a crisis in life
when most girls are surrounded by friends. Often in her reckless talk
with Bessie Wendover she had imagined her marriage. She would marry for
money. Yes, the soap-boiler, the candlestick maker--anybody. It should be
a splendid wedding--a dozen of the prettiest girls at Mauleverer for her
bridesmaids, bells ringing, flowers strewn upon her pathway, carriage and
four, postilions in blue jackets and white favours, all the world and his
wife looking on and wondering at her high fortune. This is how fancy
had painted the picture when Ida discoursed of her future in the
butterfly-room at Mauleverer; Miss Rylance listening and making sarcastic
comments; Bessie in fits of smothered laughter at all the comic touches
in the description; for did not true-hearted Bessie know that the thing
was a joke, and that her noble Ida would never so degrade herself as to
marry for money? And now Ida was going to do this thing, scarcely knowing
why she did it, not at all secure in her own mind of future happiness;
not with unalloyed pride in her conquest, but yielding to her lover
because he was the first who had ever asked her; because he was warm and
true when all else in life seemed cold and false; and because the
alternative--return to the poor home--was so dreary.

The conversation flagged as the lovers walked in the twilight. The sun
was sinking behind the low hedge of yonder level meadow. Far away in
mountainous regions the same orb was setting in rocky amphitheatres,
distant, unapproachable. Here in this level land he seemed to be going
down into a grave behind that furthest hedge.

It was a lovely evening--orange and rosy lights reflected on the glassy
river, willows stirred with a murmurous movement by faintest zephyrs--a
wind no louder than a sigh. Brian proposed that they should go on the
river; his boat was there ready, it was only to step into the light
skiff, and drift lazily with the stream.

They got into the Abbey river, among water-lilies whose flowers had all
died long ago, face downwards. The season of golden flowers, buttercup,
marsh-mallow, was over. The fields were grayish-green, with ruddy tinges
here and there. The year was fading.

Ida sat in dead silence watching the declining light, one listless hand
dipping in the river.

Brian was thoughtful, more thoughtful than she had known him in any
period of their acquaintance.

'Where shall we go for our honeymoon? he asked abruptly, jingling some
loose coins in his pocket.

'Oh, that is for you to decide. I--I know what I should like best,'
faltered Ida.

'What is that?'

'I should like you to take me to Dieppe, where we could see my father,
and explain everything to him.'

'Did you write to him to-day?'

'No; I thought I would tell him nothing till after our marriage. You
might change your mind at the last.'

'Cautious young party,' said Brian, laughing. 'There is no fear of that.
I am too far gone in love for that. For good or ill I am your faithful
slave. Yes, we will go to Dieppe if you like. It is late in the year for
a place of that kind; but what do we care for seasons? Do you think your
father and I will be able to get on?'

'My father is the soul of good nature. He would get on with anyone who
is a gentleman, and I am sure he will like you very much. My stepmother
is--well, she is rather vulgar. But I hope you won't mind that. She is
very warm-hearted.'

'Vulgarians generally are, I believe,' answered Brian lightly. 'At least,
one is always told as much. It is hard that the educated classes should
monopolize all the cold hearts. Vulgar but warm-hearted--misplaces her
aspirates--but affectionate! That is the kind of thing one is told when
Achilles marries a housemaid. Never mind, Ida, dearest, I feel sure I
shall like your father; and for his sake I will try to make myself
agreeable to his wife. And your little brother is perfection. I have
heard enough about him from those dear lips of yours.'

'He is a darling little fellow, and I long to see him again. How I wish
they could all be with me to-morrow!'

'It would make our wedding more domestic, but don't you think it would
vulgarize it a little?' said Brian. 'There is something so sweet to me in
the idea of you and me alone in that little church, with no witnesses but
the clerk and the pew-opener.'

'And God!' said Ida, looking upward.

'Did you ever read the discourses of Colonel Bob Ingersoll?' asked Brian,
smiling at her.

'No; what has that to do with it?'

'He has curious ideas of omnipotence; and I fancy he would say that the
Infinite Being who made every shining star is hardly likely to be on the
look-out for our wedding.'

'He cares for the lilies and the sparrows.'

'That's a gospel notion. Colonel Bob is not exactly a gospel teacher,'

'Then don't you learn of him, Brian,' said Ida, earnestly.

CHAPTER IX.

A SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

The sun shone upon Ida's wedding morn. She was dressed and down before
seven--her shabby cashmere gown carefully brushed, her splendid hair
neatly arranged, her linen collar and cuffs spotlessly clean. This was
all she could do in the way of costume in honour of this solemn day. She
had not even a new pair of gloves. Mrs. Topman, who was to go to church
with her in a fly from Chertsey, was gorgeous in purple silk and a summer
bonnet--a grand institution, worn only on Sundays. Breakfast was ready in
the neat little parlour, but Ida would only take a cup of tea. She
wandered out to the river-side, and looked at the weir and the little
green island round which the shining blue water twined itself like a
caress. All things looked lovely in the pure freshness of morning.

'What a sweet spot it is!' said Ida to Mrs. Topman, who stood at her
gate, watching for the fly, which was not due for half an hour; 'I should
almost like to spend my life here.'

'Almost, but not quite,' answered the matron. 'Young folks like you wants
change. But I hope you and Mr. Wendover will come here sometimes in the
boating season, in memory of old times.'

'We'll come often,' said Ida; 'I hope I shall always remember how kind
you have been to me.'

A distant church clock struck the half hour.

'Only half-past seven,' exclaimed Mrs. Topman, 'and Simmons's fly is not
to be here till eight. Well, we _are_ early.'

Ida strolled a little way along the bank, glad to be alone. It was an
awful business, this marriage, when she came to the very threshold of
Hymen's temple. Yesterday it had seemed to her that she and Brian
Wendover were familiar friends; to-day she thought of him almost as a
stranger.

'How little we know of each other, and yet we are going to take the most
solemn vow that ever was vowed,' she thought, as she read the marriage
service in a Prayer-book which Mrs. Topman had lent her for that purpose.

'It's as well to read it over and understand what you're going to bind
yourself to,' said the matron; 'I did before I married Topman. It made me
feel more comfortable in my mind to know what I was doing. But I must say
it's high time there was a change made in the service. It never can have
been intended by Providence for all the obedience to be on the wife's
side, or God Almighty wouldn't have made husbands such fools. If Topman
hadn't obeyed me he'd have died in a workhouse; and if I'd obeyed his I
shouldn't have a stick of furniture belonging to me.'

Ida was not deeply interested in the late Mr. Topman's idiosyncrasies,
but she was interested in the marriage bond, which seemed to her a very
solemn league and covenant, as she read the service beside the quietly
flowing river.

'For better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health,
to love and to cherish, till death us do part.'

Yes, those were awful words--words to be pronounced by her presently,
binding her for the rest of her life. She who was marrying a rich man for
the sake of his wealth was to swear to be true to him in poverty. She who
was marrying youth and good spirits was to swear to be true to sickness
and feeble age. A terrible covenant! And of this man for whom she was to
undertake so much she knew so little.

The fly drove along the towing-path, and drew up in front of Mrs.
Topman's garden gate as the Chertsey clocks struck the hour, and Mrs.
Topman and her charge took their places in that vehicle, and were jolted
off at a jog-trot pace towards the town, and then on by a dusty high road
towards that new church in the fields at which the Mauleverer girls
deemed it such a privilege to worship.

It was about forty minutes' drive from the lock to the church, and Matins
were only just over when the fly drew up at the Gothic door.

The incumbent was hovering near in his surplice, and the pew-opener was
all in a fluster at the idea of a runaway marriage. Brian came out of the
dusky background--the daylight being tempered by small painted windows in
heavy stone mullions--as Ida entered the church. Everything was ready.
Before she knew how it came to pass, she was standing before the altar,
and the fatal words were being spoken.

'Brian Walford, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?'

'Brian Walford!' she heard the words as in a dream. Surely Walford was
the second name of Bessie's other cousin, the poor cousin! Ida had heard
Bessie so distinguish him from the master of the Abbey. But no doubt
Walford was some old family name borne by both cousins.

Brian Walford! She had not much time to think about this, when the same
solemn question was asked of her.

And then in a low and quiet voice the priest read the rest of the
time-hallowed ceremonial, and Brian and Ida, glorified by a broad ray of
morning sunshine streaming through an open window, stood up side by side
man and wife.

Then came the signing of the register in the snug little vestry, Mrs.
Topman figuring largely as witness.

'I did not know your name was Walford,' said Ida, looking over her
husband's shoulder as he wrote.

'Didn't you? Second names are of so little use to a man, unless he has
the misfortune to be Smith or Jones, and wants to borrow dignity from a
prefix. Wendover is good enough for me.'

The young couple bade Mrs. Topman good-bye at the churchdoor. The fly was
to take them straight to the station, on the first stage of their
honeymoon trip.

'You know where to send my luggage,' Brian said to his landlady at
parting.

'Yes, sir, I've got the address all right;' and the fly drove along
another dusty high road, still within sight of the river, till it turned
at right angles into a bye road leading to the station.

At that uncongenial place they had to wait a quarter of an hour, walking
up and down the windy platform, where the porter abandoned himself to the
contemplation of occasional rooks, and was sometimes surprised by the
arrival of a train for which he had waited so long as to have become
sceptical as to the existence of such things as trains in the scheme of
the universe. The station was a terminus, and the line was a loop, for
which very few people appeared to have any necessity.

'Would you mind telling me where we are going, Brian?' Ida asked her
husband presently, when they had discussed the characteristics of the
station, and Brian had been mildly facetious about the porter.

She had grown curiously shy since the ceremonial. Her lover seemed to her
transformed into another person by those fateful words. He was now the
custodian of her life, the master of her destiny.

'Would I mind telling you, my dearest? What a question! You proposed
Dieppe for our honeymoon, and we are going to Dieppe.'

'Does this train go to Newhaven?'

'Not exactly. Nothing in this life is so convenient as that. This train
will deposit us at Waterloo Station. The train for Newhaven leaves London
Bridge at seven, in time for the midnight boat. We will go to my chambers
and have some lunch.'

'Chambers!' exclaimed Ida, wonderingly. 'Have you really chambers in
London?'

'Yes.'

'What a strange man you are!'

'That hardly indicates strangeness. But here at last is our train.'

A train had come slowly in and deposited its handful of passengers about
ten minutes ago, and the same train was now ready to start in the
opposite direction.

Ida and her husband got into an empty first-class compartment and the
train moved slowly off. And now that they were alone, as it were within
four walls, she summoned up courage to say something that had been on her
mind for the last quarter of an hour--a very hard thing for a bride of an
hour old to say, yet which must be said somehow.

'Would you mind giving me a little money, while we are in London, to buy
some clothes?' she began hesitatingly. 'It is a dreadful thing to have to
ask you, when, if I were not like the beggar girl in the ballad, I should
have a trousseau. But I don't know when I may get my box from Mauleverer,
and when I do most of the things in it are too shabby for your wife; and
in the meantime I have nothing, and I should not like to disgrace you, to
make you feel ashamed of me while we are on our honeymoon tour.'

She sat with downcast eyes and flaming cheeks, deeply humiliated by her
position, hating her poverty more than she had ever hated it in her life
before. She felt that this rich husband of hers had not been altogether
kind to her--that he might by a little forethought have spared her this
shame. He must have known that she had neither clothes nor money. He who
had such large means had done nothing to sweeten her poverty. On this her
wedding morning he had brought her no gift save the ring which the law
prescribed. He had not brought her so much as a flower by way of
greeting; yet she knew by the gossip of her schoolfellows that it was the
custom for a lover to ratify his engagement by some splendid ring, which
was ever afterwards his betrothed's choicest jewel. The girls had talked
of their elder sisters' engagement-rings: how one had diamonds, another
rubies, another catseyes, more distinguished and artistic than either.

And now she sat with drooping eyelids, expecting her lover-husband to
break into an outburst of self-reproach, then pour a shower of gold into
her lap. But he did neither. He rattled some loose coins in his pocket,
just as he had done yesterday when he talked of the honeymoon; and he
answered hesitatingly, with evident embarrassment.

'Yes, you'll want some new clothes, I daresay. All girls do when they
marry, don't they? It's a kind of unwritten law--new husband, new gowns.
But I'm sure you can't look better than you do in that gray gown, and
it looks to me just the right thing for travelling. And for any other
little things you may want for the moment, if a couple of sovereigns will
do'--producing those coins--'you can get anything you like as we drive to
my chambers. We could stop at a draper's on our way.'

Ida was stricken dumb by this reply. Her cheeks changed from crimson to
pale. Her wealthy husband--the man whose fortune was to give her all
those good things she had ever pictured to herself in the airy visions of
a splendid future--offered her, with a half-reluctant air, as if offering
his life's blood, two sovereigns with which to purchase a travelling
outfit. What could she buy for two sovereigns? Not all the economy of her
girlhood could screw half the things she wanted out of that pitiful sum.

She thought of all those descriptions of weddings which were so eagerly
devoured at Mauleverer, whenever a fashionable newspaper fell in the way
of those eager neophytes. She recalled the wonderful gifts which the
bridegroom and the bridegroom's friends showered on the bride--the
glorious gown and bonnet in which the bride departed on her honeymoon
journey. And she was offered two sovereigns, wherewith to supply herself
with all things needful for comfort and respectability.

Pride gave her strength to refuse the sordid boon. She had the contents
of her small travelling bag, and she was going to her father's house,
where her step-mother would, perhaps, contrive to provide what was
absolutely necessary. Anything was better than to be under an obligation
to this rich husband who so little understood her needs.

Could she have married that most detestable of all monsters, a miser? No,
she could hardly believe that. It was not in a Wendover to be mean. And
all that she had observed hitherto of Brian's way of acting and thinking
rather indicated a recklessness about money than an undue care of pounds,
shillings, and pence.

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