Laura E. Richards - "Hildegarde's Neighbors"

Hosea Ballou - "A Series of Letters In Defence of Divine Revelation"

New York Evening Journal - "What's in the New York Evening Journal"

Mary Antin - "From Plotzk to Boston"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Golden Calf

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




Blanche sighed, and shook her head despondently.

'As for me, I feel centuries old,' she said; 'but that is only natural in
such a dead-and-alive hole as Kingthorpe.'

Which speech being interpreted meant that Miss Wendover had not had a new
frock or an invitation to a garden party for the last fortnight.

'Still,' she argued,' one ought to make the best of one's life even at
Kingthorpe, and picnics and rambles help one to endure existence. You
used to be such a delightful companion, and now no one but little Vernie
ever seems to get any fun out of you. He is always talking of the larks
he has at the Abbey.'

'Sir Vernon is good enough to call the mildest form of diversion a lark!'
said Brian Wendover, smiling at her.

'Come now, I will make a bargain with you,' said Blanche.

'John Jardine and Bess are coming over next week to spend Bessie's
birthday with us, which, as you know, is a family festival that we never
allow to be celebrated anywhere else. Bess and John and the babies are
coming to us, and Vernon Palliser is going to the Homestead, and his
mother is coming over from Bournemouth to stay a few days with Aunt
Betsy; so you see it will be a grand family gathering of Wendovers and
Pallisers. Now, if you are anything like the man you were seven years
ago, prove it by joining us on this occasion.'

'I cannot refuse; and I will try my uttermost to forget that I have lived
seven lonely years since that happy summer.'

'Ah, it was a happy summer!' sighed Blanche, who affected to be weighed
down by the burden of mature years. 'I wasn't _out_ in those days, and I
hadn't a care.'

'What form does your festival take this year? and where do you mean to
celebrate it?'

'Oh, a picnic, of course, if this lovely weather only holds out. We have
not had one really proper picnic this year.'

'But don't you think the seventh of September is just a little late for
an _al fresco_ feast? Suppose we were to make it luncheon and afternoon
tea at the Abbey, with unlimited tennis in the afternoon.'

'That would be simply delicious,' said Blanche, concluding that Mr.
Wendover intended to invite all the eligible young men of his
acquaintance to be found within twenty miles.

'Then it is agreed. You need give yourself no further trouble. You have
only to bring your people--the Knoll party, and the Homestead party.'

'Precisely. Of course _you_ can ask as many as you like.'

The year which was gone had been one of perfect peace for Ida, peace
overshadowed by the memories of pain and horror; but those memories had
been lightened, and her mind had been comforted, and soothed, and
fortified by Aunt Betsy's loving companionship, by that common-sense and
broad way of thinking which was as a tower of strength in the day of
trouble. Yet for months after that awful time at Wimperfield her nights
had been broken by dreadful dreams or too vivid reminiscences of her
husband's evil fate, that terrible decay of mind and body, that gradual
annihilation of the energies and powers of manhood which it had been her
painful lot to witness.

Aunt Betsy took care that the young widow's days should be too busy for
much thought. She found constant occupation for her. She sent her about
to the remotest corners of the parish to minister to the sorrows of
others; she gave her the sick to nurse, and the old and feeble to care
for, and the young to teach; so that there should be no leisure left from
dawn to sunset for futile lamenting over the irrevocable past. But in the
silence of night those dreaded memories crept out of their hiding-places,
as other vermin creep out of their holes under cover of darkness, and it
was long before they began to grow less vivid and let a terrible.

From the moment Miss Wendover appeared at Wimperfield on the afternoon
after the fire, coming as quickly after the receipt of the news as horses
could convey her, Ida had been sheltered and protected by her love. No
sooner was Brian laid at rest in his grave in Wimperfield churchyard than
Aunt Betsy carried off the hopeless, broken-down widow to the Homestead,
where Ida resumed all her old duties; so that there were times when it
seemed as if all the years of her married life were but a dream from
which she had awakened, a dream which had subdued and saddened her whole
nature, and had made her feel old and weary.

But there was much of happiness in her life, so much that she was fain to
put aside all signs and tokens of grief except her dense black gowns and
crape bonnets, and to rejoice with those who rejoiced; for here was Aunt
Betsy, the most cheery and unselfish of women, whose life ought to be all
sunshine, inasmuch as she spent so large a portion of it in brightening
the lives of others; and here were the boys and girls from the Knoll,
always in uproarious spirits, and wanting Ida's sympathy in all their
delights; and here was Vernon coming over from the Vicarage on Salisbury
Plain, at all times and seasons, for a few days' holiday, rosier and
stronger and more sporting every time she saw him, great upon hawking and
hunting, and full of grand schemes for his future life at the new
Wimperfield. He had forgotten Brian's melancholy doom, as easily as youth
is apt to forget everything, in the hurry and ardour of life's morning;
but his love for his sister knew no abatement. He wanted her to share in
all his future joys.

'You are not going to stay at the Homestead all your life, are you?' he
asked one day. 'Of course you are going back to Wimperfield directly the
new house is finished?'

'No, dear, I could never live at Wimperfield again,--it would recall too
many sad scenes. When Aunt Betsy is tired of me I shall go abroad. I have
seen so little of the world, you know.'

'Oh, if you want to travel, you can go with me when I come of age; but in
the meantime you must help mother to keep house at Wimperfield. It will
be quite a new place--everything new--nothing to remind you of father or
Brian. And then in a few years I shall be of age, and then we can go off
to the Rockies together.'

'With Cheap Jack for our guide, philosopher and friend.' said Ida.

'Well, no; I'm afraid Cheap Jack won't go with us!' answered Vernon,
laughing.

'I have such a reason to be grateful to him that I could hardly object to
his company,' said Ida; 'and I am quite unhappy at never having been able
to thank him or reward him for saving my life.'

'He didn't want to be thanked or rewarded. Didn't I tell you that he was
not that kind of man?'

'But why should any man go through life doing good to others, and never
getting thanks or praise for his goodness,' said Ida. 'It is a most
unpleasant form of misanthropy. I feel quite uncomfortable under the
burden of my obligations to Mr. Jack; and though I have made every effort
to put myself in communication with him, through Mr. Mason and others, I
have not been able to find out where he is or anything about him.'

'Odd, isn't it?' said Vernon. 'He left the cottage on the day after the
fire, didn't he? shut it up, and took the key to Lord Pontifex's steward,
and drove off with his books and things packed in his cart, goodness
knows where, after having made a free gift of his stock to the
villagers.'

'Not a very profitable way of carrying on business,' said Ida. 'He must
have had means independent of his trade.'

'Well, I don't suppose we shall ever see him again,' returned Vernon,
cheerfully, somewhat to Ida's disgust; for this indifference to the
sudden close of a once enthusiastic friendship argued a lightness and
fickleness of disposition in Sir Vernon Palliser.

And now it was again the eve of Bessie's birthday, that day which had
twice been fraught with fatal influences for Bessie's friend; and Ida
could not put away the feeling that this seventh of September, finding
her once again on the scene of past fatalities, must needs bring her some
new evil, some undreamed of crisis in her life. Yet what would happen to
her now? She asked herself. The play was played out. She had lived her
life. For her tragedy and comedy were alike over and done with.

The morning of the seventh dawned fair and bright. If there were any omen
in those pinky clouds which flecked the tender gray of early morning,
surely it must be a portent of good and not of evil; although Lady
Palliser, who was not given to over-cheerful views, declared at breakfast
that such roseate hues in early morning meant bad weather before noon.

'Let the weather be never so unkind, we'll find a way of enjoying
ourselves at the Abbey,' said Aunt Betsy, who was in tremendous
spirits--'Won't we, Vernie?'

'Of course,' answered Vernon. 'Mother has a new bonnet, and is afraid of
getting it spoiled. The weather won't interfere with us. We can play
hide-and-seek in the Abbey cellars.'

'Oh, Vernie! and get shut behind a secret panel or in a chest, like that
poor girl in the poem Ida used to read to us.'

'Don't be afraid, mother. If I get into a chest, you may depend I shall
know how to get out of it. That girl in the poem was a duffer for not
having made more row; and her lover was a beastly sneak for not ferreting
out her hiding-place.'

'They ought to have had a detective down from London,' remarked Lady
Palliser, ignoring both the scene and the date of the story.

Her reading had lain much among novels in which the private detective was
omnipotent, the unraveller of all mysteries, the avenger of every wrong.

Miss Wendover drove Lady Palliser to the Abbey in her phaeton, and the
party from the Knoll went in the roomy family waggonette; but Vernon and
his sister walked across the fields and the common, by that path which
Ida had trodden on the day she first saw the master of the Abbey. How
vividly she recalled her feelings on that day--the pain and embarrassment
she felt in Brian Wendover's presence, the agony of humiliation! And then
had followed the too happy, too perilous days in which he had been her
familiar friend, the fatal night on which he had declared himself her
lover.

Well, she was free now. She could meet him and think of him without sin;
but since his return she had met him at most half a dozen times, and then
always in the company of other people. He had greeted her cordially, as
friend should greet friend, but he had not sought her society. He knew
that she was living in his aunt's house, but he had only been to that
house once since his return.

'Time was, time is, time's past,' said the brazen oracle. Ida began to
tell herself that for her time was verily past. Life, and youth, and love
had been hers; but fate had been adverse, and she had wasted them, and
they were over and gone.

She had some time for pensive reverie, as she walked to the Abbey, Vernon
being as usual more occupied by the inhabitants of the hedges and ditches
than by his companion; but once arrived at the Abbey, there was no time
for sadness. Bessie was on the threshold to welcome her, and the whole
Knoll family were swarming in the great hall, where Brian, standing under
the picture of the famous Sir Tristram, was giving cordial welcome to
everyone.

How handsome he looked under the likeness of his ancestor! and how
vividly the modern face recalled the ancestral lineaments! Time had only
deepened the noble lines of his countenance, and added dignity to his
figure and bearing. He looked happy, too, like a man upon whom the future
smiles assuringly. The fancy flashed across Ida's mind that he was
engaged to be married, and that he meant to announce the fact to his
family to-day, perhaps, and to introduce the lady. She looked hastily
round the hall, almost expecting to see some new face, young, lovely,
beaming with smiles--the face of the chosen one. But there was no one
except Lady Palliser and the house of Wendover.

'I have not asked any strangers, Blanche,' said Brian. 'I thought we
should all have more fun if we had the old place to ourselves.'

'How good of you!' replied the matronly Bess. 'I'm sure we shall all
enjoy ourselves ever so much more.'

Blanche was disappointed. Lawn-tennis among relations was all very
well, but she had plenty of that at the Knoll. She felt sorry she had
put on her best hat and Indian silk frock, elaborately frilled with
twine-coloured lace. A cotton gown, and the oldest thing in garden hats,
would have been good enough for such an assembly.

The Colonel and Mrs. Wendover had driven over with their children. It was
quite a family party--Bessie's babies, a girl able to toddle, and a boy
in the nurse's arms, were the great features of the entertainment, the
grandmother openly worshipping them, the grandfather condescending to
occasional patronage of this third generation, but evidently anxious to
dissemble his pride.

'Bessie makes such a preposterous fuss about her babies,' said Blanche,
after declining lawn-tennis with Eva and her two brothers. 'I hope if
ever I am deluded into marrying, I shall not degenerate into an upper
nurse.'

The Abbey had been swept and garnished in honour of the occasion, every
room brightened with flowers--even that sacred apartment, Brian's study,
thrown open to the public. After luncheon it happened somehow--Ida could
hardly have explained how--that she and Brian were alone together in this
very room, the afternoon sunlight shining on them--for in spite of Lady
Palliser's prophecy the day had been lovely--the scent of stocks and
mignonette and sweet-peas blowing in upon them from the old-fashioned
garden at the back of the Abbey. They had strayed to this spot with the
others; and the others had strayed off and left them, Ida looking
absently at the backs of the Greek dramatists, Brian looking intently at
her.

'I don't think you have been in this house since the day we first met in
the hall below?' he said, interrogatively.

'No, I have never been here since.'

'And yet you were once fond of the Abbey. You used to like wandering
about the old house and gardens. You would sit reading in the library.
The housekeeper has often talked to me about you.'

She stood before him with lowered eyelids, pale and dumb, shrinking from
him almost as she had shrunk from him seven years ago by the old sundial
in the moonlit garden, when it was a sin to listen to his ardent avowal.

'Ida, why are you silent? Why will you not speak of the past?'

'The past is past!' she said, falteringly. 'It was full of grief and
shame for me. I want to forget it if I can.'

'Forget all that is bitter, remember all that is sweet!' he pleaded,
drawing nearer to her. 'There is much of that old time which is
unspeakably dear to me--the happy time in which I first loved you,
deeming you were free to be loved and won. You are free now, Ida, sole
mistress of your fate and mine; and I love you as dearly now as I loved
you seven years ago. More I could not love you, for I loved you then with
all my heart and mind. Ida, you once talked of being mistress of Wendover
Abbey. Its master is at your feet, your faithful slave to the end of his
life. Will you have this old house for your own, Ida, and thus, and thus
only, make it home for me?

His arm was round her, gently, experimentally, the answer not being quite
certain, even yet.

She slowly lifted the dark-fringed lids, looked at him with adoring
eyes--eyes which never before had looked thus upon the face of man.

'Can you be in earnest?' she asked, in a low sweet voice. 'Can you lift
me so high--I, that had fallen so low?'

He clasped her to his heart, and sealed the promise of their unclouded
future with a passionate kiss.

'At last, at last, I hold you in my arms!' he said, fondly; 'but not for
the first time, my angel!'

'What do you mean?'

'Who was it carried you out of the burning house last year?' he asked,
smiling at her.

'Cheap Jack.'

'I was Cheap Jack.'

'You!'

'Yes. I lived far from the sight of this dear face, as long as I could
bear my life, and then after five years of exile in far lands, where my
soul sickened for the sight of you, I came back to England, heard in
London that your husband was an idler and a drunkard, and foresaw evil
days for my darling. I could be nothing to her; but at least I could
watch over her, near at hand, yet unknown. So I took up my abode on the
Hanger within a mile or so of her dwelling. Don't pity me, dearest. It
was not a hard life after all. I had my books and Nature for my
companions, all the joy I could have, not having you.'

'However shall I repay you?'

'Only look up to me as you looked just now, and let me feel you are my
own for ever.'

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