The Golden Calf

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'What an abominable row!' whispered Dr. Rylance. 'Is this what they call
music?'

Urania smiled, and felt meritorious in that, after being chosen as one of
the four for this very 'Zampa,' she had failed ignominiously as a timist,
and had been compelled to cede her place to another pupil.

'I might have toiled for six weeks at the horrid thing,' she thought,
'and papa would have only called it a row.'

'Zampa' ended amidst polite applause, the delighted parents of the four
players feeling that they had not lived in vain. And now the music
mistress took her place at one of the pianos, the top of the instrument
was lowered, and Miss Fane, a little fair girl with a round face and
frizzy auburn hair, came simpering forward to sing 'Una voce,' in a reedy
soprano, which had been attenuated by half-guinea lessons from an Italian
master, and which frequently threatened a snap.

Happily on this occasion the thin little voice got through its work
without disaster; there was a pervading sense of relief when the crisis
was over, and Miss Fane had simpered her acknowledgments of the applause
which rewarded a severely conscientious performance.

'Any more singing?' inquired Dr. Rylance of his daughter, not with the
air of a man who pants for vocal melody.

'No, the next is the "Moonlight Sonata."'

Dr. Rylance had a dim idea that he had heard of this piece before. He
waited dumbly, admiring the fine old room, with its lofty ceiling, and
florid cornice, and the sunny garden beyond the five tall windows.

Presently Ida Palliser came slowly towards the piano, carrying herself
like an empress. Dr. Rylance could hardly believe the evidence of his
eyes. Was this the girl whose deportment had been called abominable, whom
Urania had denounced as a horror? Was this the articled pupil, the girl
doomed to life-long drudgery as a governess, this superb creature, with
her noble form and noble face, looking grave defiance at the world which
hitherto had not used her too kindly?

She was dressed in black, a sombre figure amidst the white muslins and
rainbow sashes of her comrades. Her cashmere gown was of the simplest
fashion, but it became the tall full figure to admiration. Below her
linen collar she wore a scarlet ribbon, from which hung a silver locket,
the only ornament she possessed. It was Bessie Wendover who had insisted
on the scarlet ribbon, as a relief to that funereal gown.

'I was never so surprised in my life,' whispered Dr. Rylance to his
daughter. 'She is the handsomest girl I ever saw.'

'Yes, she is an acknowledged beauty, said Urania, with a contraction of
her thin lips; 'nobody disputes her good looks. It is a pity her manners
are so abominable.'

'She moves like a lady.'

'She has been thoroughly drilled,' sneered Urania. 'The original savage
in her has been tamed as much as possible.'

'I should like to know more of that girl,' said Dr. Rylance, 'for she
looks as if she has force of character. I'm sorry you and she are not
better friends.'

Ida seated herself at the piano and began to play, without honouring the
assembly with one glance from her dark eyes. She sat looking straight
before her, like one whose thoughts are far away. She played by memory,
and at first her hands faltered a little as they touched the keys, as if
she hardly knew what she was going to play. Then she recollected herself
in a flash, and began the firm, slow, legato movement with the touch of a
master hand, the melody rising and falling in solemn waves of sound, like
the long, slow roll of a calm sea.

The 'Moonlight Sonata' is a composition of some length. Badly, or even
indifferently performed, the 'Moonlight Sonata' is a trial; but no one
grew weary of it to-day, though the strong young hands which gave
emphasis to the profound beauties of that wonderful work were only the
hands of a girl. Those among the listeners who knew least about music,
knew that this was good playing; those who cared not at all for the
playing were pleased to sit and watch the mobile face of the player as
she wove her web of melody, her expression changing with every change in
the music, but unmoved by a thought of the spectators.

Presently, just as the sonata drew to its close, an auburn head was
thrust between Dr. Rylance and his daughter, and a girl's voice
whispered,

'Is she not splendid? Is she not the grandest creature you ever saw?'

The doctor turned and recognized Bessie Wendover.

'She is, Bessie,' he said, shaking hands with her. 'I never was so struck
by anyone in my life.'

Urania grew white with anger. Was it not enough that Ida Palliser should
have outshone her in every accomplishment upon which school-girls pride
themselves? Was it not enough that she should have taken complete
possession of that foolish little Bessie, and thus ingratiated herself
into the Wendover set, and contrived to get invited to Kingthorpe? No.
Here was Urania's own father, her especial property, going over to the
enemy.

'I am glad you admire her so much, papa,' she said, outwardly calm and
sweet, but inwardly consumed with anger; 'for it will be so pleasant for
you to see more of her at Kingthorpe.'

'Yes,' he said heartily, 'I am glad she is coming to Kingthorpe. That was
a good idea of yours, Bessie.'

'Wasn't it? I am so pleased to find you like her. I wish you could get
Ranie to think better of her.'

Now came the distribution of prizes and accessits. Miss Pew took her seat
before the table on which the gaudily-bound books were arranged, and
began to read out the names. It was a hard thing for her to have to award
the three first prizes to a girl she detested; but Miss Pew knew the
little world she ruled well enough to know that palpable injustice would
weaken her rule. Ninety-nine girls who had failed to win the prize would
have resented her favouritism if she had given the reward to a hundredth
girl who had not fairly won it. The eyes of her little world were upon
her, and she was obliged to give the palm to the real victor. So, in her
dull, hard voice, looking straight before her, with cold, unfriendly
eyes, she read out--

'The prize for modern languages has been obtained by Miss Palliser!' and
Ida came slowly up to the table and received a bulky crimson volume,
containing the poetical works of Sir Walter Scott.

'The prize for proficiency in instrumental music is awarded to Miss
Palliser!'

Another bulky volume was handed to Ida. For variety the binding was
green, and the inside of the book was by William Cowper.

'The greatest number of marks for English history and literature nave
been obtained by Miss Palliser.'

Miss Palliser was now the happy possessor of a third volume bound in
blue, containing a selection from the works of Robert Southey.

With not one word of praise nor one smile of approval did Miss Pew
sweeten the gifts which she bestowed upon the articled pupil. She gave
that which justice, or rather policy, compelled her to give. No more.
Kindliness was not in the bond.

Ida came slowly away from the table, laden with her prizes, her head held
high, but not with pride in the trophies she carried. Her keenest feeling
at this moment was a sense of humiliation. The prizes had been given her
as a bone might be flung to a strange dog, by one whose heart held no
love for the canine species. An indignant flush clouded the creamy
whiteness of her forehead, angry tears glittered in her proud eyes. She
made her way to the nearest door, and went away without a word to the
crowd of younger girls, her own pupils, who had crowded round to
congratulate and caress her. She was adored by these small people, and it
was her personal influence as much as her talent which made her so
successful a teacher.

Dr. Rylance followed her to the door with his eyes. He was not capable of
wide sympathies, or of projecting himself into the lives of other people;
but he did sympathize with this girl, so lonely in the splendour of her
beauty, so joyless in her triumph.

'God help her, poor child, in the days to come!' he said to himself.

CHAPTER III.

AT THE KNOLL.

Between Winchester and Romsey there lies a region of gentle hills and
grassy slopes shadowed by fine old yew trees, a land of verdure, lonely
and exceeding fair; and in a hollow of this undulating district nestles
the village of Kingthorpe, with its half-dozen handsome old houses, its
richly cultivated gardens, and quaint old square-towered church. It is a
prosperous, well-to-do little settlement, where squalor and want are
unknown. Its humbler dwellings belong chiefly to the labourers on the
Wendover estate, and those are liberally paid and well cared for. An
agricultural labourer's wages at Kingthorpe might seem infinitely small
to a London mechanic; but when it is taken into account that the tiller
of the fields has a roomy cottage and an acre of garden for sixpence
a-week, his daily dole of milk from the home farm, as much wood as he can
burn, blankets and coals at Christmas, and wine and brandy, soup and
bread from the great house, in all emergencies, he is perhaps not so very
much worse off than his metropolitan brother.

There was an air of comfort and repose at Kingthorpe which made the place
delightful to the eye of a passing wanderer--a spot where one would
gladly have lain down the burden of life and rested for awhile in one of
those white cottages that lay a little way back from the high road,
shadowed by a screen of tall elms. There was a duck-pond in front of a
low red-brick inn which reminded one of Birkett Foster, and made the
central feature of the village; a spot of busy life where all else was
stillness. There were accommodation roads leading off to distant farms,
above which the tree-tops interlaced, and where the hedges were rich
in blackberry and sloe, dog-roses and honeysuckle, and the banks in
spring-time dappled with violet and primrose, purple orchids and wild
crocus, and all the flowers that grow for the delight of village
children.

Ida Palliser sat silent in her corner of the large landau which was
taking Miss Wendover and her schoolfellows from Winchester station to
Kingthorpe. Miss Rylance had accepted a seat in the Wendover landau at
her father's desire; but she would have preferred to have had her own
smart little pony-carriage to meet her at the station. To drive her own
carriage, were it ever so small, was more agreeable to Urania's temper
than to sit behind the over-fed horses from The Knoll, and to be thus, in
some small measure, indebted to Bessie Wendover.

Ida Palliser's presence made the thing still more odious. Bessie was
radiant with delight at taking her friend home with her. She watched
Ida's eyes as they roamed over the landscape. She understood the girl's
silent admiration.

'They are darling old hills, aren't they, dear?' she asked, squeezing
Ida's hand, as the summer shadows and summer lights went dancing over the
sward like living things.

'Yes, dear, they are lovely,' answered Ida, quietly.

She was devouring the beauty of the scene with her eyes. She had seen
nothing like it in her narrow wanderings over the earth--nothing so
simple, so beautiful, and so lonely. She was sorry when they left that
open hill country and came into a more fertile scene, a high road, which
was like an avenue in a gentleman's park, and then the village duck-pond
and red homestead, the old gray church, with its gilded sun-dial, marking
the hour of six, the gardens brimming over with roses, and as full of
sweet odours as those spicy islands which send their perfumed breath to
greet the seaman as he sails to the land of the Sun.

The carriage stopped at the iron gate of an exquisitely kept garden,
surrounding a small Gothic cottage of the fanciful order of
architecture,--a cottage with plate-glass windows, shaded by Spanish
blinds, a glazed verandah sheltering a tesselated walk, sloping banks and
terraces, on a very small scale, stone vases full of flowers, a tiny
fountain sparkling in the afternoon sun.

This was Dr. Rylance's country retreat. It had been a yeoman's cottage,
plain, substantial and homely as the yeoman and his household. The doctor
had added a Gothic front, increased the number of rooms, but not the
general convenience of the dwelling. He had been his own architect, and
the result was a variety of levels and a breakneck arrangement of stairs
at all manner of odd corners, so ingenious in their peril to life and
limb that they might be supposed to have been designed as traps for the
ignorant stranger.

'Don't say good-bye, Ranie,' said Bessie, when Miss Rylance had alighted,
and was making her adieux at the carriage door; 'you'll come over to
dinner, won't you, dear? Your father won't be down till Saturday. You'll
be dreadfully dull at home.'

'Thanks, dear, no; I'd rather spend my first evening at home. I'm never
dull,' answered Urania, with her air of superiority.

'What a queer girl you are!' exclaimed Bessie, frankly. 'I should be
wretched if I found myself alone in a house. Do run over in the evening,
at any rate. We are going to have lots of fun.'

Miss Rylance shuddered. She knew what was meant by lots of fun at The
Knoll; a romping game at croquet, or the newly-established lawn-tennis,
with girls in short petticoats and boys in Eton jackets; a raid upon
the plum-trees on the crumbling red brick walls of the fine old
kitchen-garden; winding up with a boisterous bout at hide-and-seek in the
twilight; and finally a banquet of sandwiches, jam tarts, and syllabub in
the shabby old dining-room.

'I'll come over to see Mrs. Wendover, if I am not too tired,' she said,
with languid politeness, and then she closed the gate, and the carriage
drove on to The Knoll.

Colonel Wendover's house was a substantial dwelling of the Queen Anne
period, built of unmixed red brick, with a fine pediment, a stone shell
over the entrance, four long narrow windows on each side of the tall
door, and nine in each upper story, a house that looked all eyes, and was
a blaze of splendour when the western sun shone upon its many windows.
The house stood on a bit of rising ground at the end of the village, and
dominated all meaner habitations. It was the typical squire's house, and
Colonel Wendover was no bad representative of the typical squire.

A fine old iron gate opened upon a broad gravel drive, which made the
circuit of a well-kept _parterre_, where the flowers grew as they only
grow for those who love them dearly. This gate stood hospitably open at
all times, and many were the vehicles which drove up to the tall door of
The Knoll, and friendly the welcome which greeted all comers.

The door, like the gate, stood open all day long--indeed, open doors
were the rule at Kingthorpe. Ida saw a roomy old hall, paved with black
and white marble, a few family portraits, considerably the worse for
wear, against panelled walls painted white, a concatenation of guns,
fishing-rods, whips, canes, cricket-bats, croquet-mallets, and all things
appertaining to the out-door amusements of a numerous family. A large
tiger skin stretched before the drawing-room door was one memorial of
Colonel Wendover's Indian life; a tiger's skull gleaming on the wall,
between a pair of elephant's ears, was another. One side of the wall was
adorned with a collection of Indian arms, showing all those various
curves with which oriental ingenuity has improved upon the straight
simplicity of the western sword.

It was not a neatly kept hall. There had been no careful study of colour
in the arrangement of things--hats and caps were flung carelessly on the
old oak chairs--there was a licentious mixture of styles in the
furniture--half Old English, half Indian, and all the worse for wear: but
Ida Palliser thought the house had a friendly look, which made it better
than any house she had ever seen before.

Through an open door at the back of the hall she saw a broad gravel walk,
long and straight, leading to a temple or summer-house built of red
brick, like the mansion itself. On each side of the broad walk there was
a strip of grass, just about wide enough for a bowling-green, and on the
grass were orange-trees in big wooden tubs, painted green. Slowly
advancing along the broad walk there came a large lady.

'Is that you mother?' asked Ida.

'No, it's Aunt Betsy. You ought to have known Aunt Betsy at a glance. I'm
sure I've described her often enough. How good of her to be here to
welcome us!' and Bessie flew across the hall and rushed down the broad
walk to greet her aunt.

Ida followed at a more sober pace. Yes, she had heard of Aunt Betsy--a
maiden aunt, who lived in her own house a little way from The Knoll. A
lady who had plenty of money and decidedly masculine tastes, which she
indulged freely; a very lovable person withal, if Bessie might be
believed. Ida wondered if she too would be able to like Aunt Betsy.

Miss Wendover's appearance was not repulsive. She was a woman of heroic
mould, considerably above the average height of womankind, with a large
head nobly set upon large well-shaped shoulders. Bulky Miss Wendover
decidedly was, but she carried her bulkiness well. She still maintained a
waist, firmly braced above her expansive hips. She walked well, and was
more active than many smaller women. Indeed, her life was full of
activity, spent for the most part in the open air, driving, walking,
gardening, looking after her cows and poultry, and visiting the
labouring-classes round Kingthorpe, among whom she was esteemed an
oracle.

Bessie hung herself round her large aunt like ivy on an oak, and the two
thus united came up the broad walk to meet Ida, Bessie chattering all the
way.

'So this is Miss Palliser,' said Aunt Betsy heartily, and in a deep
masculine voice, which accorded well with her large figure. 'I have heard
a great deal about you from this enthusiastic child,--so much that I was
prepared to be disappointed in you. It is the highest compliment I can
pay you to say I am not.'

'Where's mother?' asked Bessie.

'Your father drove her to Romsey to call on the new vicar. There's the
phaeton driving in at the gate.'

It was so. Before Ida had had breathing time to get over the introduction
to Aunt Betsy, she was hurried off to see her host and hostess.

They were very pleasant people, who did not consider themselves called on
to present an icy aspect to a new acquaintance.

The Colonel was the image of his sister, tall and broad of figure, with
an aquiline nose and a commanding eye, thoroughly good-natured withal,
and a man whom everybody loved. Mrs. Wendover was a dumpy little woman,
who had brought dumpiness and a handsome fortune into the family. She had
been very pretty in girlhood, and was pretty still, with a round-faced
innocent prettiness which made her look almost as young as her eldest
daughter. Her husband loved her with a fondly protecting and almost
paternal affection, which was very pleasant to behold; and she held him
in devoted reverence, as the beginning and end of all that was worth
loving and knowing in the Universe. She was not an accomplished woman,
and had made the smallest possible use of those opportunities which
civilization affords to every young lady whose parents have plenty of
money; but she was a lady to the marrow of her bones--benevolent, kindly.
thinking no evil, rejoicing in the truth--an embodiment of domestic love.

Such a host and hostess made Ida feel at home in their house in less than
five minutes. If there had been a shade of coldness in their greeting her
pride would have risen in arms against them, and she would have made
herself eminently disagreeable. But at their hearty welcome she expanded
like a beautiful flower which opens its lovely heart to the sunshine.

'It is so good of you to ask me here,' she said, when Mrs. Wendover had
kissed her, 'knowing so little of me.'

'I know that my daughter loves you,' answered the mother, 'and it is not
in Bessie's nature to love anyone who isn't worthy of love.'

Ida smiled at the mother's simple answer.

'Don't you think that in a heart so full of love some may run over and
get wasted on worthless objects?' she asked.

'That's very true,' cried a boy in an Eton jacket, one of a troop that
had congregated round the Colonel and his wife since their entrance. 'You
know there was that half-bred terrier you doted upon, Bess, though I
showed you that the roof of his mouth was as red as sealing-wax.'

'I hope you are not going to compare me to a half-bred terrier,' said
Ida, laughing.

'If you were a terrier, the roof of your mouth would be as black as my
hat,' said the boy decisively. It was his way of expressing his
conviction that Ida was thoroughbred.

The ice being thus easily broken, Ida found herself received into the
bosom of the family, and at once established as a favourite with all.
There were two boys in Eton jackets, answering to the names of Reginald
and Horatio, but oftener to the friendly abbreviations Reg and Horry.
Both had chubby faces, liberally freckled, warts on their hands, and
rumpled hair; and it was not easy for a new comer to distinguish Horatio
from Reginald, or Reginald from Horatio. There was a girl of fourteen
with flowing hair, who looked very tall because her petticoats were very
short, and who always required some one to hug and hang upon. If she
found herself deprived of human support she lolled against a wall.

This young person at once pounced upon Ida, as a being sent into the
world to sustain her.

'Do you think you shall like me?' she asked, when they had all swarmed up
to the long corridor, out of which numerous bedrooms opened.

'I like you already,' answered Ida.

'Do thoo like pigs?' asked a smaller girl, round and rosy, in a holland
pinafore, putting the question as if it were relevant to her sister's
inquiry.

'I don't quite know,' said Ida doubtfully.

''Cos there are nine black oneths, tho pwutty. Will thoo come and thee
them?'

Ida said she would think about it: and then she received various
pressing invitations to go and see lop-eared rabbits, guinea-pigs, a tame
water-rat in the rushes of the duck-pond, a collection of eggs in the
schoolroom, and the new lawn-tennis ground which father had made in the
paddock.

'Now all you small children run away!' cried Bessie, loftily. 'Ida and I
are going to dress for dinner.'

The crowd dispersed reluctantly, with low mutterings about rabbits, pigs,
and water-rats, like the murmurs of a stage mob; and then Bessie led her
friend into a large sunny room fronting westward, a room with three
windows, cushioned window-seats, two pretty white-curtained beds, and a
good deal of old-fashioned and heterogeneous furniture, half English,
half Indian.

'You said you wouldn't mind sleeping in my room,' said Bessie, as she
showed her friend an exclusive dressing-table, daintily draperied, and
enlivened with blue satin bows, for the refreshment of the visitor's eye.

While the girls were contemplating this work of art the door was suddenly
opened and Blanche's head was thrust in.

'I did the dressing-table, Miss Palliser, every bit, on purpose for you.'

And the door then slammed to, and Bessie rushed across the room and drew
the bolt.

'We shall have them all one after another,' she said.

'Don't shut them out on my account.'

'Oh, but I must. You would have no peace. I can see they are going to be
appallingly fond of you.'

'Let them like me as much as they can. Do you know, Bessie, this is my
first glimpse into the inside of a home!'

'Oh, Ida, dear, but your father,' remonstrated Bessie.

'My father has never been unkind to me, but I have had no home with him.
When my mother brought me home from India--she died very soon after we
got home, you know'--Ida strangled a sob at this point--'I was placed
with strangers, two elderly maiden ladies, who reared me very well, no
doubt, in their stiff business-like way, and who really gave me a very
good education. That went on for nine years,--a long time to spend with
two old maids in a dull little house at Turnham Green,--and then I had a
letter from my father to say he had come home for good. He had sold his
commission and meant to settle down in some quiet spot abroad. His first
duty would be to make arrangements for placing me in a high-class school,
where I could finish my education; and he told me, quite at the end of
his letter, that he had married a very sweet young lady, who was ready to
give me all a mother's affection, and who would be able to receive me in
my holidays, when the expense of the journey to France and back was
manageable.'

'Poor darling!' sighed Bessie. 'Did your heart warm to the sweet young
lady?'

'No, Bess; I'm afraid it must be an unregenerate heart, for I took a
furious dislike to her. Very unjust and unreasonable, wasn't it?
Afterwards, when my father took me over to his cottage, near Dieppe, to
spend my holidays, I found that my stepmother was a kind-hearted, pretty
little thing, whom I might look down upon for her want of education, but
whom I could not dislike. She was very kind to me; and she had a baby
boy. I have told you about him, and how he and I fell in love with each
other at first sight.'

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