The Golden Calf by M. E. Braddon (page 4)

through. But she could not improve her situation by going anywhere else. The station, with its dingy waiting-rooms and garish refreshment-room, was as good an hotel for her as any other. She was faint for want of food, having taken nothing since her apology for breakfast at seven o’clock.

‘Can one get a cup of tea here?’ she asked of the dry-as-dust matron in charge of the waiting-room; whereupon the matron good-naturedly offered to fetch her some tea.

‘If you would be so kind,’ she faltered, too exhausted to speak above a whisper; ‘I don’t like going into that crowded refreshment-room.’

‘No, to be sure–not much used to travelling alone, I daresay. You will be better when you’ve had a cup of tea.’

The tea, with a roll and butter, revived exhausted nature. Ida paid for this temperate refreshment, went to the booking-office, made some inquiries about her ticket, and bought herself a book at the stall, wherewith to beguile the time and to distract her mind from brooding on its own miseries.

She felt it was a frightful extravagance as she paid away two of Miss Cobb’s shillings for Bulwer’s ‘Caxtons;’ but she felt also that to live through those three tedious hours without such aid would be a step on the road to a lunatic asylum.

Armed with her book, she went back to the waiting-room, settled herself in a corner of the sofa, and remained there absorbed, immovable; while travellers came and went, all alike fussy, flurried, and full of their own concerns–not one of them stopping to notice the pale, tired-looking girl reading in the remotest corner of the spacious room.

A somewhat stormy passage brought the boat which carried Ida and her fortunes to straggling, stony, smelly Dieppe, now abandoned to its native population, and deprived of that flavour of fashion which pervades its beach in the brighter months of August and September. The town looked gray, cold, and forbidding in the bleak October morning, when Ida found herself alone amidst its stoniness, the native population only just beginning to bestir itself in the street above the quay, and making believe, by an inordinate splashing and a frantic vehemence in the use of birch-brooms, to be the cleanest population under the sun; an assertion of superiority somewhat belied by an all-pervading odour of decomposed vegetable matter, a small heap of which refuse, including egg-shells and fishy offal–which the town in the matutinal cleansing process offered up to the sun-god as incense upon an altar–lay before every door, to be collected by the local scavenger at his leisure, or to be blown about and disseminated by the winds of heaven.

Alone upon the stony quay, in the freshness and chilliness of early morning, Ida took temporary refuge in the humblest _cafe_ she could find, where a feeble old woman was feebly brooming the floor, and where there was no appearance of any masculine element. Here she expended another of Miss Cobb’s shillings upon a cup of coffee and a roll. She had spent five and twenty shillings for her second-class ticket. The debt to Miss Cobb now amounted to a sovereign and a half; and Ida Palliser thought of it with an aching sense of her own helplessness to refund so large a sum. Yesterday morning, believing herself about to become the wife of a rich man, she had thought what fun it would be to send ‘Cobby’ a five-pound note in the prettiest of ivory purses from one of those shops in the street yonder.

She drank her coffee slowly, not anxious to hasten the hour of a home-coming which could not be altogether pleasant. She was as fond of her father as adverse circumstances had allowed her to be; she adored her half-brother, and was not unkindly disposed towards her step-mother. But to go back to them penniless, threadbare, disgraced–go back to be a burden upon their genteel poverty. That was bitter.

She had made up her mind to walk to Les Fontaines rather than make any further inroad upon Miss Cobb’s purse for coach-hire. What was she that she should be idle or luxurious, or spare the labour of her young limbs? She went along the narrow stony street where the shops were only now being opened, past the wide market where the women were setting out their stalls in front of the fine old church, and where Duguesclin, heroic and gigantic, defied the stormy winds that had ruffled his sculptured hair.

Two years and a half ago it had been a treat to her to walk in that market-place, hanging on her father’s arm, to stand in the sombre stillness of that solemn cathedral, while the organ rolled its magnificent music along the dusky aisles. They two had chaffered for fruit at those stalls, laughing gaily with the good-tempered countrywomen. They had strolled on the beach and amused themselves economically, from the outside, with the diversions of the _etablissement_. An afternoon in Dieppe had meant fun and holiday-making. Now she looked at the town with weary eyes, and thought how dull and shabby it had grown.

The walk to Les Fontaines, along a white dusty road, seemed interminable. If she had not been told again and again that it was only four miles from the town to the village, she would have taken the distance for eight–so long, so weary, seemed the way. There were hills in the background, hills right and left of her, orchards, glimpses of woodland–here and there a peep of sea–pretty enough road to be whirled along in a comfortable carriage with a fast horse, but passing flat, stale, and unprofitable to the heavy-hearted pedestrian.

At last the little straggling village, the half-dozen new houses–square white boxes, which seemed to have been dropped accidentally in square enclosures of ragged garden–white-walled penitentiaries on a small scale, deriving an air of forced liveliness from emerald-green shutters, here a tree, and there a patch of rough grass, but never a flower–for the scarlet geraniums in the plaster vases on the wall of the grandest of the mansions had done blooming, and beyond scarlet geraniums on the wall the horticultural taste of Les Fontaines had never risen. The old cottages, with heavy thatched roofs and curious attic windows, with fruit trees sprawling over the walls, and orchards in the rear, were better than the new villas; but even these lacked the neatness and picturesque beauty of an English cottage in a pastoral landscape. There was a shabby dustiness, a barren, comfortless look about everything; and the height of ugliness was attained in the new church, a plastered barn, with a gaudily painted figure of our Blessed Lady in a niche above the door, all red and blue and gold, against the white-washed wall.

Ida thought of Kingthorpe,–the rustic inn with its queer old gables, shining lattices, quaint dovecots, the green, the pond, with its willowy island, the lovely old Gothic church–solid, and grave, and gray–calm amidst the shade of immemorial yews. The country about Les Fontaines was almost as pretty as that hilly region between Winchester and Romsey; but the English village was like a gem set in the English landscape, while the French village was a wart on the face of a smiling land.

‘Why call it Les Fontaines?’ Ida wondered, in her parched and dusty weariness. ‘It is the dryest village I ever saw; and I don’t believe there is anything like a fountain within a mile.’

Her father’s house was one of the white boxes with green shutters. It enjoyed a dignified seclusion behind a plaster wall, which looked as if anyone might knock it down in very wantonness. The baby-boy had varied the monotony of his solitary sports by picking little bits out of it. There was a green door opening into this walled forecourt or garden, but the door was not fastened, so Ida pushed it open and went in. The baby-boy, now a sturdy vagabond of five years old, was digging an empty flower-bed. He caught sight of his sister, and galloped off into the house before she could take him in her arms, shouting, ‘Maman, une dame–une dame! lady, lady, lady!’ exercising his lungs upon both those languages which were familiar to his dawning intelligence.

His mother came out at his summons, a pretty, blue-eyed woman with an untidy gown and towzley hair, aged and faded a little since Ida had seen her.

‘Oh, Ida,’ she said, kissing her step-daughter heartily enough, despite her reproachful tone, ‘how could you go on so! We have had such a letter from Miss Pew. Your father is awfully cut up. And we were expecting you all yesterday. He went to Dieppe to meet the afternoon boat. Where have you been since Tuesday?’

‘I slept at the lock-house with a nice civil woman, who gave me a night’s lodging,’ said Ida, somewhat embarrassed by this question.

‘But why not have come home at once, dear?’ asked the step-mother mildly. She always felt herself a poor creature before her Juno-like daughter.

‘I was flurried and worried–hardly knew what I was doing for the first few hours after I left Mauleverer; and I let the time slip by till it was too late to think of travelling yesterday,’ answered Ida. ‘Old Pew is a demon.’

‘She seems to be a nasty, unkind old thing,’ said Mrs. Palliser; ‘for, after all, the worst she can bring against you is flirting with your friend’s cousin. I hope you are engaged to him, dear; for that will silence everybody.’

‘No, I am not engaged to him–he is nothing to me,’ answered Ida, crimsoning; ‘I never saw him, except in Fraeulein’s company. Neither you nor my father would like me to marry a man without sixpence.’

‘But in Miss Pew’s letter she said you declared you were engaged to Mr. Wendover of the Abbey, a gentleman of wealth and position. She was wicked enough to say she did not believe a word you said; but still, Ida, I do hope you were not telling falsehoods.’

‘I hardly knew what I said,’ replied Ida, feeling the difficulties of her position rising up on every side and hemming her in. She had never contemplated this kind of thing when she repudiated her marriage and turned her face homewards. ‘She maddened me by her shameful attack, talking to me as if I were dirt, degrading me before the whole school. If you had been treated as I was you would have been beside yourself.’

‘I might have gone into hysterics,’ said Mrs. Palliser, ‘but I don’t think I should have told deliberate falsehoods: and to say that you were engaged to a rich man when you were not engaged, and the man hasn’t a sixpence, was going a little too far. But don’t fret, dear,’ added the step-mother, soothingly, as the tears of shame and anger–anger against fate, life, all things–welled into Ida’s lovely eyes. ‘Never mind. We’ll say no more about it. Come upstairs to your own room–it’s Vernie’s day-nursery now, but you won’t mind that, I know–and take off your hat. Poor thing, how tired and ill you look!’

‘I feel as if I was going to be ill and die, and I hope I am,’ said Ida, petulantly.

‘Don’t, dear; it’s wicked to say such a thing as that. You needn’t be afraid of your poor pa; he takes everything easily.’

‘Yes, he is always good. Where is he?’

‘Not up yet. He comes down in time for his little _dejeuner a la fourchette_. Poor fellow, he had to get up so early in India.’

Captain Palliser had for the last seven years been trying to recover those arrears of sleep incurred during his Eastern career. He had been active enough under a tropical sky, when his mind was kept alive by a modicum of hard work and a very wide margin of sport–pig-sticking, peacock-shooting, paper-chases, all the delights of an Indian life. But now, vegetating on a slender pittance in the semi-slumberous idleness of Les Fontaines, he had nothing to do and nothing to think about; and he was glad to shorten his days by dozing away the fresher hours of the morning, while his wife toiled at the preparation of that elaborate meal which he loved to talk about as tiffin.

Poor little Mrs. Palliser made strenuous efforts to keep the sparsely furnished dusty house as clean and trim as it could be kept; but her life was a perpetual conflict with other people’s untidiness.

The house was let furnished, and everything was in the third-rate French style–inferior mahogany and cheap gilding, bare floors with gaudy little rugs lying about here and there, tables with flaming tapestry covers, chairs cushioned with red velvet of the commonest kind, sham tortoiseshell clock and candelabra on the dining-room chimney-piece, alabaster clock and candelabra in the drawing-room. There was nothing home-like or comfortable in the house to atone for the smallness of the rooms, which seemed mere cells to Ida after the spaciousness of Mauleverer Manor and The Knoll. She wondered how her father and mother could breathe in such rooms.

That bed-chamber to which Mrs. Palliser introduced her step-daughter was even a shade shabbier than the rest of the house. The boy had run riot here, had built his bricks in one corner, had stabled a headless wooden horse and cart in another, and had scattered traces of his existence everywhere. There were his little Windsor chair, the nurse-girl’s rocking chair, a battered old table, a heap of old illustrated newspapers, and torn toy-books.

‘You won’t mind Vernon’s using the room in the day, dear, will you?’ said Mrs. Palliser, apologetically. ‘It shall be tidied for you at night.’

This meant that in the daytime Ida would have no place for retreat, no nook or corner of the house which she might call her own. She submitted meekly even to this deprivation, feeling that she was an intruder who had no right to be there.

‘I should like to see my father soon,’ she said, with a trembling lip, stooping down to caress Vernon, who had followed them upstairs.

He was a lovely, fair-haired boy, with big candid blue eyes, a lovable, confiding child, full of life and spirits and friendly feeling towards all mankind and the whole animal creation, down to its very lowest forms.

‘You shall have your breakfast with him,’ said Mrs. Palliser, feeling that she was conferring a great favour, for the Captain’s breakfast was a meal apart. ‘I don’t say but what he’ll be a little cross to you at first; but you must put up with that. He’ll come round afterwards.’

‘He has not seen me for two years and a half,’ said Ida, thinking that fatherly affection ought to count for something under such circumstances.

‘Yes, it’s only two years and a half,’ sighed Mrs. Palliser, ‘and you were to have stayed at Mauleverer Manor three years. Miss Pew is a wicked old woman to cheat your father out of six months’ board and tuition. He paid her fifty pounds in one lump when he articled you–fifty pounds–a heap of money for people in our position; and here you are, come back to us like a bad penny.’

‘I am very sorry,’ faltered Ida, reddening at that unflattering comparison. ‘But I worked very hard at Mauleverer, and am tolerably experienced in tuition. I must try to get a governess’s situation directly, and then I shall be paid a salary, and shall be able to give you back the fifty pounds by degrees.’

‘Ah, that’s the dreadful part of it all,’ sighed Mrs. Palliser, who was very seldom in the open air, and had that despondent view of life common to people who live within four narrow walls. ‘Goodness knows how you are ever to get a situation without references. Miss Pew says you are not to refer to her; and who else is there who knows anything of you or your capacity?’

‘Yes, there is some one else. Bessie Wendover and her family.’

‘The people you went to visit in Hampshire. Ah! there went another five pounds in a lump. You have been a heavy expense to us, Ida. I don’t know whether anyone wanting to employ you as a governess would take such a reference as that. People are so particular. But we must hope for the best, and in the meantime you can make yourself useful at home in taking care of Vernon and teaching him his letters. He is dreadfully backward.’

‘He is an angel,’ said Ida, lifting the cherub in her arms, and letting the fair, curly head nestle upon her shoulder. ‘I will wait upon him like a slave. You do love me, don’t you, pet?’

‘Ess, I love ‘oo, but I don’t know who ‘oo is. _Connais pas_,’ said Vernon, shaking his head vehemently.

‘I am your sister, darling, your only sister.’

‘My half-sister,’ said Vernon. ‘Maman said I had a half-sister, and she was naughty. _Dites donc_, would a whole sister be twice as big as you?’

Thus in his baby language, which may be easier imagined than described, gravely questioned the boy.

‘I am your sister, dearest, heart and soul. There is no such thing as half-love or half-sisterhood between us. You should not have talked to him like that, mother,’ said Ida, turning her reproachful gaze upon her step-mother, who was melted to tears.

‘Your father was so upset by Miss Pew’s letter,’ she murmured apologetically. ‘To pay fifty pounds for you, and for it to end in such humiliation as that. You must own that it was hard for us.’

‘It was harder for me,’ said Ida; ‘I had to stand up and face that wicked woman, who knew that I had done no wrong, and who wreaked her malignity upon me because I am cleverer and better-looking than ever she was in her life.’

‘I must go and make your father’s omelette,’ said the stepmother, ‘while you tidy yourself for breakfast. I think there’s some water on the washstand, and Vernon shall bring you a clean towel.’

The little fellow trotted out after his mother, and trotted back presently with the towel–one towel, which was about in proportion to the water-jug and basin. Ida shuddered, remembering the plentitude of water and towels at The Knoll. She made her toilet as well as she could, with the scantiest materials, as she might have done on board ship; shook and brushed the shabby gray cashmere–her wedding gown, she thought, with a bitter smile–before she put it on again, and then went down the bare narrow deal staircase, superb in all the freshness of her youth and beauty, which neither care nor poverty could spoil.

Captain Palliser was pacing up and down his little dining parlour, looking flurried and anxious. He turned suddenly as Ida entered, and stood staring at her.

‘By Jove, how handsome you have grown!’ he said, and then he look her in his arms and kissed her. ‘But you know, my dear, this is really too bad,’ he went on in a fretful tone,’ to come back upon us like a bad penny.’

‘That is what my step-mother said just now.’

‘My dear, how can one help saying it, when it’s the truth? After my paying fifty pounds, don’t you know, and thinking that you were comfortably disposed of for the next three years, and that at the expiry of the term Miss Pew would place you in a gentleman’s family, where you would receive from sixty to a hundred per annum, according to your acquirements–those were her very words–to have you sent back to us like this, in disgrace, and to be told that you had been carrying on in an absurd way with a young man on the bank of a river. It is most humiliating. And now my wife tells me the young man has not a sixpence which makes the whole thing so very culpable.’

‘Please let me tell you the extent of my iniquity, father, and then you can judge what right Miss Pew had to expel me.’

Whereupon Ida quietly described her afternoon promenades upon the river-path, with the Fraeulein always in her company, and how her friend’s cousin had been permitted to walk up and down with them.

‘Nobody supposes there was any actual harm,’ replied Captain Palliser, ‘but you must have been perfectly aware that you were acting foolishly–that this kind of thing was a violation of the school etiquette. Come, now, you knew Miss Pew would disapprove of such goings on, did you not?’

‘Well, yes, no doubt I knew old Pew would be horrified. Perhaps it was the idea of that which gave a zest to the thing.’

‘Precisely! and you never thought of my fifty pounds, and you ran this risk for the sake of a young man without a penny, who never could be your husband.’

Ida grew scarlet and then deadly pale.

‘There, don’t look so distressed, child. I must try to forget my fifty pounds, and to think of your future career. It is a deuced awkward business–here come the omelette and the coffee–an escapade of this kind is always cropping up against a girl in after life–sit down and make yourself comfortable–capital dish of kidneys–the world is so small; and of course every pupil at Mauleverer Manor will gabble about this business. No mushrooms!–what is the little woman thinking about?’

Captain Palliser seated himself, and arranged his napkin under his chin, French fashion. His features were of that aquiline type which seems to have been invented on purpose for army men. His eyes were light blue, like his boy’s–Ida’s dark eyes were a maternal inheritance–his hair was auburn, sprinkled with gray, his moustache straw-colour and with a carefully trained cavalry droop. His clothes and boots were perfect of their kind, albeit they had seen good wear. He had been heard to declare that he had rather wear feathers and war-paint, like a red Indian, than a coat made by a third-rate tailor. He was tall and inclining to stoutness, broad-shouldered, and with an easy carriage and a nonchalant air, which were not without their charm. He had what most people called a patrician look–that is to say the air of never having done anything useful in the whole course of his existence–not such a patrician as a Palmerston, a Russell, a Derby, or a Salisbury, but the ideal lotus-eating aristocrat, who dresses, drives, and dines and gossips through a languid existence.

The Captain’s career in the East had not been particularly brilliant. His lines had not lain in great battles or stirring campaigns. Except during the awful episode of the Mutiny, when he was still a young man, he had seen little active service. His life, since his return from India, had been a blank.

His mind, never vigorous, had rusted slowly in the slow monotony of his days. He had come to accept the rhythmical ebb and flow of life’s river as all-sufficient for content. Breakfast and dinner were the chief events of his life–if it was well with these it was well with him.

There was a rustic tavern where in summer a good many people came to dine, either in the house or the garden, and in a room adjoining the kitchen there was a small French billiard-table with very big balls. Here the Captain played of an evening with the _habitues_ of the place, and was much looked up to for his superior skill. An occasional drive into Dieppe on the _banquette_ of the diligence, and a saunter by the sea, was his only other amusement.

His daughter poured out his coffee, and ministered to his various wants as he breakfasted, eating with but little appetite herself, albeit the fare was excellent.

Captain Palliser talked in a desultory way as he ate, not often looking up from his plate, but meandering on. Happily for Ida, who had been reduced to the lowest stage of self-abasement by her welcome, he said no more about Miss Pew or his daughter’s gloomy prospects. It was not without a considerable mental effort that he was able to bring his thoughts to bear upon other people’s business. He had strained his mind a good deal during the last twenty-four hours, and he was very glad to relax the tension of the bow.

‘Rather a dull kind of life for a man who has been used to society–eh, Ida?’ he murmured, as he ate his omelette; ‘but we contrive to rub on somehow. Your step-mother likes it, and the boy likes it–wonderful healthy air, don’t you know–no smoke–no fogs–only three miles from the sea, as the crow flies. It suits them, and it’s cheap–a paramount consideration with a poor devil on half-pay; and in the season there are some of the best people in Europe to be seen at the _etablissement_.’

‘I suppose you go to Dieppe often in the season, father?’ said Ida, pleased to find he had dropped Miss Pew and the governess question.

‘Well, yes; I wander in almost every fine day.’

‘You don’t walk?’ exclaimed Ida, surprised at such activity in a man of his languid temper.

‘Oh, no; I never walk. I just wander in–on the diligence-or in, a return fly. I wander in and look about me a little, and perhaps take a cup of coffee with a friend at the Hotel des Bains. There is generally some one I know at the Bains or the Royal. Ah, by-the-bye whom, do you think I saw there a fortnight ago?’

‘I haven’t the least idea,’ answered Ida; ‘I know so few of your friends.’

‘No, of course not. You never saw Sir Vernon Palliser, but you’ve heard me talk about him.’

‘Your rich brother, the wicked old baronet in Sussex, who never did you a kindness in his life?’

‘My dear, old Sir Vernon has been dead two years.’

‘I never heard of his death.’

‘No, by-the-bye. It wasn’t worth while worrying you about it, especially as we could not afford to go into mourning. Your step-mother fretted about that dreadfully, poor little woman; as if it could matter to her, when she had never seen the man in her life. She said if one had a baronet in one’s family one ought to go into mourning for him. I can’t understand the passion some women have for mourning. They are eager to smother themselves in crape at the slightest provocation, and for a mean old beggar like Vernon, who never gave me a sixpence. But as I was saying, these two young fellows turned up the other day in front of the Hotel des Bains.’

‘Which two young fellows, my dear father? I haven’t the faintest idea of whom you are talking,’ protested Ida, who found her father’s conversation very difficult to follow.

‘Why, Sir Vernon, of course–the present Sir Vernon and his brother Peter: ugly name, isn’t it, Ida? but there has always been a Peter in the family; and as a rule,’ added Captain Palliser, growing slower and dreamier of speech as he fell into reminiscences of the past–‘as a rule the Peter Pallisers have gone to the dogs. There was Major Palliser–fought in the Peninsula–knew George the Fourth–married a very pretty woman and beat her–died in the Bench.’

‘Tell me about the present Sir Vernon,’ asked Ida, more interested in the moving, breathing life of to-day than in memories of the unknown dead. ‘Is he nice?’

‘He is a fine, broad-shouldered young fellow–seven or eight and twenty. No, not handsome–my brother Vernon was never distinguished for beauty, though he had all the markings of race. There is nothing like race, Ida; you see it in a man’s walk; you hear it in every tone of a man’s voice.’

‘Dear father, I was asking about this particular Sir Vernon,’ urged Ida, with a touch of impatience, unaccustomed to this slow meandering talk.

‘And I was telling you about him,’ answered the Captain, slightly offended. His little low-born wife never hurried and hustled his thoughts in this way. She was content to sit at his feet, and let him meander on for hours. True that she did not often listen, but she was always respectful. ‘I was remarking that Sir Vernon is a fine young fellow, and likely to live to see himself a great-grandfather. His brother, too, is nearly as big and healthy–healthy to a degree. The breakfast I saw those two young men devour at the hotel would have made your hair stand on end. But, thank heaven, I have never been the kind of man to wait for dead men’s shoes.’

‘I see,’ said Ida. ‘If these boys had been sickly and had died young, you would have succeeded to the baronetcy.’

‘To the baronetcy and to the estate in Sussex, which is a very fine estate, worth eight thousand a year.’

‘Then, of course, they are strong, and likely to live to the age of Methuselah!’ exclaimed Ida, with a laugh of passing bitterness. ‘Who ever heard of luck coming our way? It is not in our race to be fortunate.’

The shame and agony of her own failure to win fortune were still strong upon her.

‘Who knows what might happen?’ said the Captain, with amiable listlessness. ‘I have never allowed my thoughts to dwell upon the possibilities of the future; yet it is a fact that, so long as those young men remain unmarried, there are only two lives between me and wealth. They feel the position themselves; for when Sir Vernon came over here to lunch, he patted my boy on the head and said, in his joking way, “If Peter and I had fallen down a crevasse the other day in the Oberland, this little chap would have been heir to Wimperfield.”‘

‘No doubt Sir Vernon and his brother will marry and set up nurseries of their own within the next two or three years,’ said Ida, carelessly. Eager as she had been to be rich during those two and a half bitter years in which she had so keenly felt the sting of poverty, she was not capable of seeing her way to fortune through the dark gate of death.

‘Yes, I daresay they will both marry,’ replied Captain Palliser, gravely, folding his napkin and whisking an accidental crumb off his waistcoat. ‘Young men always get drifted into matrimony. If they are rich all the women are after them, If they are poor–well, there is generally some woman weak enough to prefer dual starvation to bread and cheese and solitude. Vernon told me he had no idea of marriage. He and his brother are both rovers–fond of mountain-climbing, yachting, every open-air amusement.’

‘Did you see much of them while they were at Dieppe ?’

‘They only stayed three days. They walked over here to lunch, put the poor little woman in a fluster–although they were very pleasant and easy about everything–invited me to dinner, tipped the boy munificently, and went off by the night-boat, bound straight for Wimperfield and the partridges. Very fine partridge shooting at Wimperfield! Vernon asked me to go across with him and stay at the old place for a week or two; but my sporting days are over. I can’t get up early; and I can’t walk in shooting-boots. Besides, the little woman would have fretted if I had left her alone so long.’

‘But the change would have done you good, father.’

‘No, my dear; any change of habits would worry me. I have dropped into my groove and I must stay in it. What a pity you were not here when your cousins called! Who knows what might have happened? Vernon might have fallen over head and ears in love with you.’

‘Don’t, father!’ cried Ida, with absolute pain in her voice. ‘Don’t talk about marrying for money. There is nothing in life so revolting, so degrading. Be sure, it is a sin which always brings its own punishment.’

‘My dear,’ said the Captain, gravely, ‘there are so many love-matches which bring their own punishment, that I am inclined to believe that marrying for money is a virtue which ought to ensure its own reward. You may depend, if we could get statistics upon the subject, one would find that after ten years’ marriage the couples who were drawn together by prudential motives are just as fond of each other as those more romantic pairs who wedded for love. A decade of matrimony rounds a good many sharp angles, and dispels a good many illusions.’

CHAPTER XI.

ACCOMPLISHMENTS AT A DISCOUNT.

Now began for Ida a life of supreme dullness–an empty, almost hopeless, life, waiting upon fortune. Her father was kind to her in his easy-going, lymphatic way, liking well enough to have her about him, pleased with her affection for his boy, proud of her beauty and her talents, but with no earnest care for her welfare in the present or the future. What was to become of wife, son and daughter when he was dead and gone, was a question which Captain Palliser dared not ask himself. For the widow there would be a pittance, for son and daughter nothing. It was therefore vital that Ida should either marry well or become a money-earning personage. Of marriage at Les Fontaines there seemed not the faintest probability, since the experiences of the past afford so few instances of wandering swains caught and won by a face at a window, or the casual appearance of a beautiful girl on a country road.

Of friends or acquaintance, in his present abode, Captain Palliser had none. The only people he had ever cared for were the men and women he had known in India; and he had lost sight of those since his marriage. They were scattered; and he was too proud to expose his fallen fortunes to those who had known him in his happier days, those days when the careless expenditure of his modest capital had given him a false air of easy circumstances.

His life at Les Fontaines suited him well enough, individually. It was a kind of hibernation. He slept a good deal, and ate a good deal, and smoked incessantly, and took very little exercise. For all that is best and noblest in life, Captain Palliser might just as well have been dead. He had outlived hope and ambition, thought, invention. He exercised no influence upon the lives of others, except upon the little homely wife, who was a slave to him. He was no possible good in the world. Yet his daughter was fond of him, and pleased to bear him company when he would have her; and under her influence his sluggish intellect brightened a little.

For the first few weeks of her residence at Les Fontaines, Ida was tortured by a continually recurring fear of Brian Wendover’s pursuit. He had let her go coolly enough; but what if he were to change his mind and follow and claim her? She belonged to him. She was his goods, his chattels–to have and to hold till death did them part. Her life was no longer her own to dispose of as she pleased. Would he let her alone?–he who had held her in his arms with passionate force, who had entreated her to stay with him, and had surrendered her reluctantly in sullen anger.

What if anger, which had been stronger with him than love at that last moment, should urge him to denounce her–to tell the world how base a thing she was–a woman who had been eager to marry a rich man and had been trapped by a pauper! She glanced with a sickening dread at every letter which her father received, lest it should be from Brian, telling her shameful story. She counted the days as they went by, saying to herself, ‘A fortnight since we were married; surely if he had meant to claim me he would have come before now.’ ‘Three weeks! now I must be safe!’ And then came the dull November morning which completed the calendar month since her wedding-day, and her husband had made no sign. She began to feel easier, to believe that he repented his marriage as deeply as she did, and that he was very glad to be free from its bondage.

And now she was able to think more seriously of her future. She had answered a great many advertisements in the _Times_, wherein paragons were demanded for the tuition of youth or the companionship of age; but as she saw the papers only on the day after their publication, other paragons, on the spot, were beforehand with her. She did not receive a single answer to those carefully written letters, setting forth her qualifications and her willingness to work hard.

‘I shall waste a small fortune in postage-stamps, father,’ she said at last, ‘and shall be no nearer the mark. My only chance is to advertise. Will you give me the money for an advertisement? I am sorry to ask you, but–‘

‘My dear, you are always asking me for money,’ replied Captain Palliser, peevishly; which was hardly fair, as she had asked him nothing since her return, except the sum of thirty shillings, being the exact amount of which she stood indebted to kind-hearted Miss Cobb. ‘However, I suppose you must have it.’ He produced a half sovereign from his meagrely-furnished purse. ‘It is only right you should do something; indeed, anything is better than wasting your life in such a hole as this. But what if you do get any answers to your advertisement? Who is to give you a character, since that old witch at Mauleverer Manor has chosen to put up her back against you?’

‘That must be managed somehow,’ answered Ida, moodily. ‘Will it not be enough for the people to know who you are, and that I have never been in a situation before? Why should they apply to the schoolmistress who finished my education?’

‘People are so suspicious,’ said the Captain, ‘and the handsomer a girl is the more questions they ask. They seem to think she has no right to be so handsome. However you must risk it’

Ida wrote her advertisement, an unvarnished statement of her qualifications as a teacher, and of her willingness to be useful; not a word about references. The advertisement appeared a few days later, and the little family at Les Fontaines anxiously awaited the result, even little Vernon eagerly expressing himself on the subject, his youthful ears being open to every topic discussed in his presence, and his youthful mind quick to form opinions.

‘You shan’t go away!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ma, she shan’t go, shall she? lady shan’t have her; I want her always; you mustn’t go, sissie,’ all in baby language, with a curious perversion of consonants. He had climbed on her knee, and had his arms round her neck–energetic young arms which almost throttled her. She had been his chief companion and playfellow for the last five weeks, had read him all his favourite fairy-tales over and over again, had sat with him of an evening till he fell asleep, an invincible defence against bogies and vague fears of darkness. She had taken him for long rural rambles, over breezy downs towards the sea, had dug and delved with him on the lonely beach below the great white lighthouse, warmly coated and shawled, and working hard in the November wind; and now, just when he had grown fonder of her than anyone else in the world, she was going to leave him. He lifted up his head and howled, and refused all comfort from mother or father. Ida cried with him. ‘My pet, I can’t bear to leave you, but I must; my darling, I shall come back,’ she protested, clasping him to her breast, kissing his fair tearful face, soft round cheeks, lovely blue eyes swimming in tears.

‘To-morrow?’ inquired Vernon, with a strangled sob.

‘No, darling, not to-morrow; there would be no use in my going just for one day; but I am not going yet–I don’t know when I am going–Vernon must not cry. See how unhappy he is making poor mamma.’

Mrs. Palliser put her hands before her face, and made a bohooing noise to keep up the illusion; whereupon the affectionate little fellow slipped off his sister’s knee, and ran to his mother to administer comfort.

‘I am not going away yet, Vernon; indeed, I hardly know whether I am ever going at all. I have come back like a bad penny, and I seem likely to be as difficult to get rid of as other bad pennies,’ said Ida, despondingly, for three posts had gone by since the insertion of her advertisement, and had brought her nothing. The market was evidently overstocked with young ladies knowing French and German, able to play and sing, and willing to be useful.

After this Vernon would hardly let his sister out of his sight. He had a suspicion that she would leave him unawares–slip out of the door some day, and be gone without a moment’s warning. That is how joy flees.

‘My pet, be reasonable,’ said Ida; ‘I can’t go away without my trunk.’

This comforted him a little, and he made a point of sitting upon one of Ida’s trunks, when they two were alone in that barely furnished chamber which served for her bed-room and his day-nursery.

She contrived to tell him fairy-tales, and to keep him amused; albeit she was now busy at carefully overhauling, patching, and repairing her scanty wardrobe–trying to make neat mending do duty for new clothes, and getting ready against any sudden summons. She could not bring herself to ask her father for money, sadly as she wanted new garments. He had given her five pounds in August, and two sovereigns since her return, and the way he had doled out those sums indicated the low state of his funds. No, the gown that had been new at The Knoll must still be her best gown. Last winter’s jacket, albeit threadbare in places, must do duty for this winter. Before the next summer she might be in the receipt of a salary and able to clothe herself decently, and to send presents to this beloved boy, who was not much better clad than herself.

But the days wore on, and brought no answer to her advertisement.

‘I shouldn’t wonder if it were the foreign address,’ said Captain Palliser, when they were all speculating upon the cause of this dismal silence. ‘People are suspicious of anyone living abroad. If you had been able to advertise from a rectory in Lincolnshire, or even an obscure street at the west end of London, they’d have thought better of you. But Boulogne, Calais, Dieppe, they all hint at impecuniosity and enforced exile. It’s very unlucky.’

The postman stopped at the little green gate next morning, and Ida flew to receive his packet. It was a letter for her–a bulky letter–in a hand she knew well, and her heart seemed to stop beating as she looked at the address.

The hand was Bessie Wendover’s. Who could tell what new trouble the letter might announce? Brian might have told his family the whole history of his marriage and her unworthy conduct. Oh, what shame, what agony, if this were so! And how was she to face her father when he asked her the contents of the letter? She ran out into the garden–the little bare, joyless garden–to read her letter alone, and to gain time.

This is how the dreaded epistle ran:–

‘My dear darling, ill-used, cruel thing,–

‘However could you treat me so badly? What is friendship worth, if you set no higher value upon it than this? I don’t believe you know what friendship means, or you never could act so. How miserable you have made me! how wretched you must have been yourself! you proud, noble-minded darling–under the sting of such vile treatment.

‘I wrote to you three times last month, and could not imagine why my letters were unanswered. Brian had told me that you were perfectly well, and looking splendid when he saw you in October, so I did not think it could be illness that kept you silent; and at last I began to feel angry, and to fancy you had forgotten me, and were ungrateful. No, I don’t mean that, dearest. What reason had you for gratitude? The obligation was all on my side.

‘Towards the end of October I wrote to Brian, telling him of your silence, and asking if he could find out if you were well. He answered with one of his short, unsatisfactory scrawls that he had reason to know you were quite well. After this I felt _really_ offended; for I thought you must have deceived me all along, and that you had never cared a straw about me; so I coiled myself up in my dignity, and, although I felt very unhappy, I resolved never to write you another line till you wrote to me. I was very miserable, but still I felt that I owed a duty to my own self-respect, don’t you know; and just at thistimall went to Bournemouth, where we were very gay. Father and mother knew no end of people there, and I began to feel what it really is to be out, which no girl ever could at Kingthorpe, where there are about three parties in a twelvemonth.

‘Well, darling, so I went on leading a frivolous life among people I did not care twopence for, and hardening my heart against my dearest friend, when, on the day we came home, I happened to take up the _Times_ in the railway carriage. I hate newspapers in a common way, but one reads such things when one is travelling, and out of mere idleness I amused myself skimming the advertisements, which I found ever so much more interesting than the leading articles. What should my eye light upon but an advertisement from a young lady wanting to go out as a governess–address I.P., Le Rosier, Les Fontaines, near Dieppe–and the whole murder was out. You must have left old Pew’s and be living with your father. I was horribly indignant with you–as, indeed, I am still–for not having told me anything about it; but directly I got home I telegraphed to Polly Cobb, as the best-natured girl I knew at Mauleverer, asking where you were, and why you had left. I had such a letter from her next day–spelling bad, but full of kind feeling–giving me a full account of the row, and old Pew’s detestable conduct. She told me that Fraeulein vouched for your having behaved with the most perfect propriety, and never having seen Brian out of her presence; but Brian’s meanness in not having told me about the trouble he had brought upon you is more than I can understand.

‘Well, darling, I went off to Aunt Betsy, who is always my _confidante_ in all delicate matters, because she’s ever so much cleverer than dear warm-hearted mother, who never could keep a secret in her life, sweet soul, and is no better than a speaking-tube for conveying information to the Colonel. I told Aunt Betsy everything–how it was all Brian’s fault, and how I adore you, and how miserable I felt about you, and how you were trying to get a situation as governess, in spite of that malignant old Pew–she must be a lineal descendant of the wicked fairy–having said she would give you no certificate of character or ability.

‘Now, what do you think that sweetest and best of aunties said? “Let her come to me,” she said; “I am getting old and dull, and I want something bright and clever about me, to cheer me and rouse me when I feel depressed. Let her come to me as a companion and amanuensis, help me to look after my cottagers, who are getting too much for me, and play to me of an evening. I like that girl, and I should like to have her in my house.”

‘I was enchanted at the thought of your being always near us, and I fancied you wouldn’t altogether dislike it; although Kingthorpe certainly is the dullest, sleepiest old hole in the universe. So I begged Aunt Betsy to write to you _instanter_; said I knew you would be charmed to accept such a situation, and that she would secure a treasure; and, in all probability, you’ll have a letter from her to-morrow.

‘And now, dear, I must repeat that you have treated me shamefully. Why did you not write to me directly you left Mauleverer? Could you think that I could believe you had really done wrong–that I could possibly be influenced by the judgment of that old monster, Pew? If you could think so, you are not worthy to be loved as I love you. However, come to us, sweetest, directly you get auntie’s letter, and all shall be forgiven and forgotten, as the advertisements say.’

Ida kissed the loving letter. So far, therefore, Brian had not betrayed her; and, having kept her secret so long, it might be supposed he would keep it for all time.

Poor little warm-hearted Bessie! Was not she by her foolish falsification–a piece of mild jocosity, no doubt–the prime author of all the evil that had followed? And yet Ida could not feel angry with her, any more than she could have been angry with Vernon for some piece of sportive mischief.

‘Thank God, he has kept our wretched secret,’ she thought, as she folded Bessie’s long letter, and went back to the house. ‘I am grateful to him for that.’

She went in radiant, gladdened at the thought of being able to relieve her father and step-mother of the burden of her maintenance; for the fact that she was a burden had not been hidden from her. They had been kind; they had given her to eat and to drink of their best, and had admired her talents and accomplishments; but they had let her know at the same time that she was a failure, and that her future was a dark problem still far from solution–a problem which troubled them in the silent watches of the night. Nor did they forget to remind her from time to time that by her imprudence–pardonable although that imprudence might be–she had forfeited six months’ board and lodging, together with those educational advantages the Captain’s fifty pounds had been intended to purchase for her. These facts had been reiterated, not altogether unkindly, but in a manner that made life intolerable; and she felt that were she to continue at Les Fontaines for the natural term of her existence, the same theme would still furnish the subject for parental harpings.

‘Father,’ she said, going behind Captain Palliser’s chair, as he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, and read yesterday’s _Times_, ‘I want you to read this letter. It is a foolish schoolgirl letter, perhaps; but it will show you that my friends are not going to discard me on account of Miss Pew.’

The Captain laid down his paper, and slowly made his way through Bessie’s lengthy epistle, which, although prettily written, with a good deal of grace in the slopes and curves of the penmanship, gave him considerable trouble to decipher. It was only when he had discovered that all the B’s looked like H’s, and that all the G’s were K’s, and all the L’s S’s, and had, as it were, made a system for himself, that he was able to get on comfortably.

‘Bless my soul,’ he murmured, ‘why cannot girls write legibly?’

‘It is the real Mauleverer hand, papa, and is generally thought very pretty,’ said Ida.

‘Pretty, yes; you might have a zigzag pattern over the paper that would be just as pretty. One wants to be able to read a letter. This is almost as bad as Arabic. However, the girl seems a good, warm-hearted creature, and very fond of you; and I should think you could not do better than accept her aunt’s offer. It will be a beginning.’

‘It is Hobson’s choice, papa; but I am sure I shall be happy with Miss Wendover,’ said Ida; and then she gave a faint sigh, and her heart sank at the thought of that Damoclesian sword always hanging over her head–the possibility of her husband claiming her.

Mrs. Palliser was much more rapturous when she heard the contents of the letter–much more interested in all details about Ida’s future home. She wanted to know what Miss Wendover was like–how many servants she kept–whether carriage or no carriage–what kind of a house she lived in, and how it was furnished.

‘You will be quite a grand lady,’ she said, with a touch of envy, when Ida had described the cosy red-brick cottage, the verandahed drawing-room and conservatory added by Miss Wendover, the pair of cobs which that lady drove, the large well-kept gardens; ‘you will look down upon us with our poor ways, and this house, in which all the rooms smell of whitewash.’

‘No, indeed, mamma, I shall always think of you with affection; for you have been very kind to me, although I know I have been a burden.’

‘Everything is a burden when one is poor,’ sighed her stepmother; ‘even one extra in the washing-bills makes a difference; and we shall feel it awfully when Vernon grows up. Boys are so extravagant; and one cannot talk to them as one can to girls.’

‘But I hope you will be better off then, mamma.’

‘My dear, you might as well hope we should be dukes and duchesses. What chance is there of any improvement? Your poor papa has no idea of earning money. I’m sure I have said to him, often and often, “Reginald, do _something_. Write for the magazines! Surely you can do _that_? Other men in your position do it.” “Yes,” he growled, “and that’s why the magazines are so stupid.” No, Ida, your father’s circumstances will never improve; and when the time comes for giving Vernon a proper education we shall be paupers.’

‘Poor papa!’ sighed Ida; ‘I am afraid he is not strong enough to make any great effort.’

‘He has given way, my dear; that is the root of it all. We shall never be better off, unless those two healthy, broad-shouldered young men were to go and get themselves swallowed up by an earthquake; and that is rather too much for anyone to expect.’

‘What young men?’ asked Ida, absently.

‘Your two cousins.’

‘Oh, Sir Vernon and his brother. No, I don’t suppose they will die to oblige us poor creatures.’

‘They went up the what’s-its-name Horn, in Switzerland,’ said Mrs. Palliser, plaintively. ‘It made my blood run cold to hear them talk about it. “By Jove, Peter, I thought it was all over with you,” said Sir Vernon, when he told us how foolhardy his brother had been. But you see they got to the bottom all safe and sound, though ever so many people have been killed on that very mountain.’

‘I’m glad they did, mamma. We may want their money very badly, but we are not murderers, even in thought.’

‘God forbid!’ sighed the little woman. ‘They are fine-grown, gentlemanly young men, too. Sir Vernon gave my Vernie a sovereign, and promised him a pony next year; but, good gracious! how could we afford to keep a pony, even if we had a stable? “You had better make it the other kind of pony,” says your father, and then they all burst out laughing.’

‘So little makes a man laugh!’ said Ida, somewhat contemptuously. That picture of her father making sport of his poverty irritated her. ‘Well, dear mamma,’ she said presently, moved by one of those generous impulses which were a part of her frank, unwise nature, ‘if ever I can earn a hundred a year-and there are many governesses who get as much–you shall have fifty to help pay Vernon’s schooling.’

‘You are a dear generous ‘arted girl,’ exclaimed the stepmother, and the two women kissed again with tears, an operation which they usually performed in the hour of domestic trouble.

Miss Wendover’s letter came next day, a hearty, frank, affectionate letter, offering a home that was really meant to be like home, and a salary of forty pounds a year, ‘just to buy your gowns,’ Miss Wendover said. ‘I know it is not sufficient remuneration for such accomplishments as yours, but I want _you_ rather than your accomplishments and I am not rich enough to give as much as you are worth. But you will, at least, stave off the drudgery of a governess’s life till you are older, and better able to cope with domineering mothers and insolent pupils.’

Such a salary was a long way off that hundred per annum which Ida had set before her eyes as the golden goal to be gained by laborious pianoforte athletics and patient struggles with the profundities of German grammar; but, as Captain Palliser paid, it was a beginning; and Ida was very glad so to begin. She wrote to Miss Wendover gratefully accepting her offer, and in a very humble spirit.

‘I fear it is pity that prompts your kind offer,’ she wrote, ‘and that you take me because you know I left Mauleverer Manor in disgrace, and that nobody else would have me. I am a bad penny. That is what my father called me when I came home to him. And now I am to go back to Kingthorpe as a bad penny. But, please God, I will try to prove to you that I am not altogether worthless; and, whatever may happen, I shall love you and be grateful to you till the end of my life.

‘As you are so kind as to say I may come as soon as I like, I shall be with you on the day after you receive this letter.’

Ida’s preparations for departure were not elaborate. Her scanty wardrobe had been put in the neatest possible order. A few hours sufficed for packing trunk and bonnet-box. On the last afternoon Mrs. Palliser came to her highly elated, and proposed a walk to Dieppe, and a drive home in the diligence which left the Market Place at five o’clock.

‘I am going to give you a new hat,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘You must have a new hat.’

‘But, dear mamma, I know you can’t afford it.’

‘I _will_ afford it, Ida. You will have to go to church at Kingthorpe’–Mrs. Palliser regarded church-going as an oppressive condition of prosperous respectability. One of the few privileges of being hard up and quite out of society was that one need not go to church–‘and I should like you to appear like a lady. You owe it to your pa and I. A hat you must ‘ave. I can pay for it out of the housekeeping money, and your pa will never know the difference.’

‘No, mamma, but you and Vernon will have to pinch for it,’ said Ida, knowing that there was positively no margin to that household’s narrow means of existence.

‘A little pinching won’t hurt us. Vernie is as bilious as he can be; he eats too many compots and little fours. I shall keep him to plain bread and butter for a bit, and it will do him a world of good. There’s no use talking, Ida, I mean you to ‘ave a ‘at; and if you won’t come and choose it I must choose it myself,’ concluded the little woman, dropping more aspirates as she grew more excited.

So mother and daughter walked to Dieppe in the dull November afternoon, Vernon trudging sturdily by his sister’s side. They bought the hat, a gray felt with partridge plumage, which became Ida’s rich dark bloom to perfection; and then they went to the Cathedral, and knelt in the dusky aisle, and heard the solemn melody of the organ, and the subdued voices of the choir, in the plaintive music of Vesper Psalms, monotonous somewhat, but with a sweet soothing influence, music that inspired gentle thoughts.

Then they went back to the Market-Place, and were in time to get good places on the _banquette_ of the diligence, before the big white Norman horses trotted and ambled noisily along the stony street.

Ida left Dieppe late on the following evening, by the same steamer that had brought her from Newhaven. The British stewardess recognised her.

‘Why, you was only across the other day, miss!’ she said; ‘what a gad-about you must be!’

She arrived in London by ten o’clock next morning, and left Waterloo at a quarter-past eleven, reaching Winchester early in the day. How different were her feelings this time, as the train wound slowly over those chalky hills! how full of care was her soul! And yet she was no longer a visitor going among strangers–this time she went to an assured home, she was to be received among friends. But the knowledge that her liberty was forfeited for ever, that she was a free-agent only on sufferance, made her grave and depressed. Never again could she feel as glad and frank a creature as she had been in the golden prime of the summer that was gone, when she and Bessie and Urania Rylance came by this same railway, over those green English hill-sides, to the city that was once the chief seat of England’s power and splendour.

A young man in a plain gray livery and irreproachable top-boots stood contemplatively regarding the train as it came into the station. He touched his hat at sight of Miss Palliser, and she remembered him as Miss Wendover’s groom.

‘Any luggage, ma’am?’ he asked, as she alighted; as if it were as likely as not that she had come without any.

‘There is one box, Needham. That is all besides these things.’

Her bonnet-box–frail ark of woman’s pride–was in the carriage, with a wrap and an umbrella, and her dressing bag.

‘All right, ma’am. If you’ll show me which it is I’ll tell the porter to bring it. I’ve got the cobs outside.’

‘Oh, I am so sorry,–how good of Miss Wendover!’

‘They wanted exercise, ‘um. They was a bit above themselves, and the drive has done ’em good.’

Miss Wendover’s cherished brown cobs, animals which in the eyes of Kingthorpe were almost as sacred as that Egyptian beast whose profane slaughter was more deeply felt than the nation’s ruin–to think that these exalted brutes should have been sent to fetch that debased creature, a salaried companion. But then Aunt Betsy was never like anyone else.

Needham took the cobs across the hills at a pace which he would have highly disapproved in any other driver. Had Miss Wendover so driven them, he would have declared she was running them off their legs. But in his own hands, Brimstone and Treacle–so called to mark their difference of disposition–could come to no harm. ‘They wanted it,’ he told Miss Palliser, when she remarked upon their magnificent pace, ‘they never got half work enough.’

The hills looked lovely, even in this wintry season–yew trees and grass gave no token of November’s gloom. The sky was bright and blue, a faint mist hung like a veil over the city in the valley, the low Norman tower of the cathedral, the winding river, and flat fertile meadows–a vision very soon left far in the rear of Brimstone and Treacle.

‘How handsome they look!’ said Ida, admiring their strong, bold crests, like war-horses in a Ninevite picture, their shining black-brown coats. ‘Is Brimstone such a very vicious horse?’

‘Vicious, mum? no, not a bit of vice about him,’ answered Needham promptly, ‘but he’s a rare difficult horse to groom. There ain’t none but me as dares touch him. I let the boy try it once, and I found the poor lad half an hour afterwards standing in the middle of the big loose box like a statter, while Brimstone raced round him as hard as he could go, just like one of them circus horses. The boy dursn’t stir. If he’d moved a limb, Brimstone ‘ud have ‘molished him.’

‘What an awful horse! But isn’t that viciousness?’

‘Lor’, no mum. That ain’t vice,’ answered the groom smiling amusedly at the lady’s ignorance. Vice is crib-biting, or jibbing, or boring or summat o’ that kind. Brimstone is a game hoss, and he’s got a bit of a temper, but he ain’t got no vice.’

Here was Kingthorpe, looking almost as pretty as it had looked when she gazed upon it with tearful eyes in her sad farewell at the close of summer. The big forest trees were bare, but there were flowers in all the cottage gardens, even late lingering roses on southern walls, and the clipped yew-tree abominations–dumb-waiters, peacocks, and other monstrosities–were in their pride of winter beauty. The ducks were swimming gaily in the village pond, and the village inn was still glorious with red geraniums, in redder pots. The Knoll stood out grandly above all other dwellings–the beds full of chrysanthemums, and a bank of big scarlet geraniums on each side of the hall door.

It seemed strange to be driven swiftly past the familiar carriage-drive, and round into the lane leading to Miss Wendover’s cottage. It was only an accommodation lane–or a back-out lane, as the boys called it, since no two carriages could pass each other in that narrow channel–and in bad weather the approach to the Homestead was far from agreeable. A carriage and horses had been known to stick there, with wheels hopelessly embedded in the clay, while Miss Wendover’s guests picked their footsteps through the mud.

But the Homestead, when attained, was such a delightful house that one forgot all impediments in the way thither. The red brick front–old red brick, be it noted, which has a brightness and purity of colour never retained for above a twelvemonth by the red brick of to-day–glowing, athwart its surrounding greenery, like the warm welcome of a friend; the exquisite neatness of the garden, where every flower that could be coaxed into growing in the open air bloomed in perfection; the spick-and-span brightness of the windows; the elegant order that prevailed within, from cellar to garret; the old, carefully-chosen furniture, which had for the most part been collected from other old-world homesteads; the artistic colouring of draperies and carpets–all combined to make Miss Wendover’s house delightful.

‘My house had need be orderly,’ she said, when her friends waxed rapturous; ‘I have so little else to think about.’

Yet the sick and poor, within a radius of ten miles, might have testified that Miss Wendover had thought and care for all who needed them, and that she devoted the larger half of her life to other people’s interests.

It was a clear, balmy day, one of those lovely autumn days which hang upon the edge of winter, and Miss Wendover was pacing her garden walks bare-headed, armed with gardening scissors and formidable brown leather gauntlets, nipping a leaf here, or a withered rosebud there, with eyes whose eagle glance not so much as an aphis could escape. From the slope of her lawn Aunt Betsy saw the cobs turn into the lane, and she was standing at the gate to welcome the traveller when the carriage drew up.

There was no carriage-drive on this side of the house, only a lawn with a world of flower-beds. Those visitors who wanted to enter in a ceremonious manner had to drive round by shrubbery and orchard to the back, where there were an old oak door and an entrance-hall. On this garden front there were only glass doors and long French windows, verandahs, and sunny parlours, opening one out of another.

‘How do you do, my dear?’ said the spinster heartily, as Ida alighted; ‘I am very glad to see you. Why, how bright and blooming you look–not a bit like a sea-sick traveller.’

‘Dear Miss Wendover, I ought to look bright when I am so glad to come to you; and, as to the other thing, I am never sea-sick.’

‘What a splendid girl! That unhappy little Bessie can’t cross to the Wight without being a martyr. But, Ida, I am not going to be called Miss Wendover. Only bishops and county magnates, and people of that kind, call me by that name. To you I am to be Aunt Betsy, as I am to the children at The Knoll.’

‘Is not that putting me too much on a level–‘

‘With my own flesh and blood? Nonsense! I mean you to be as my own flesh and blood. I could not bear to have anyone about me who was not.’

‘You are too good,’ faltered Ida. ‘How can I ever repay you?’

‘You have only to be happy. It is your nature to be frank and truthful, so I will say nothing about that.’

Ida blushed deepest scarlet. Frank and truthful–she–whose very name was a lie! And yet there could be no wrong done to Miss Wendover, she told herself, by her suppression of the truth. It was a suppression that concerned only Brian Walford and herself. No one else could have any interest in the matter.

Betsy Wendover herself led the way to the bed-chamber that had been prepared for the new inmate. It was a dear old room, not spacious, but provided with two most capacious closets, in each of which a small gang of burglars could have hidden–dear old closets, with odd little corner cupboards inside them, and a most elaborate system of shelves. One closet had a little swing window at the top for ventilation, and this, Miss Wendover told Ida, was generally taken for a haunted corner, as the ventilating window gave utterance to unearthly noises in the dead watches of the night, and sometimes gave entrance to a stray cat from adjacent tiles. A cat less agile than the rest of his species had been known to entangle himself in the little swing window, and to hang there all the night, sending forth unearthly caterwaulings, to the unspeakable terror of Miss Wendover’s guest, unfamiliar with the mechanism of the room, and wondering what breed of Hampshire demon or afrit was thus making night hideous.

There was a painted wooden dado halfway up the wall, and a florid rose and butterfly paper above it. There was a neat little brass bedstead on one side of the room, a tall Chippendale chest of drawers, with writing-table and pigeon-holes on the other side; the dearest, oldest dressing-table and shield-shaped glass in front of the broad latticed window; while in another window there was a cushioned seat, such as Mariana of the Moated Grange sat upon when she looked across the fens and bewailed her dead-and-gone joys. There were old cups and saucers on the high, narrow chimney-piece, below which a cosy fire burned in a little old basket grate. Altogether the room was the picture of homely comfort.

‘Oh, what a lovely room!’ cried Ida, inwardly contrasting this cheery chamber with that white-washed den at Lea Fontaines, with its tawdry mahogany and brass fittings, its florid six feet of carpet on a deal floor stained brown, its alabaster clock and tin candelabra–a cheap caricature of Parisian elegance.

‘I’m glad you like it, my dear, ‘answered Miss Wendover. ‘Bessie said it would suit you; and all I ask you is to keep it tidy. I hope I am not a tyrant; but I am an old maid. Of course, I shall never pry into your room; but I warn you that I have an eye which takes in everything at a flash; and if I happen to go past when your door is open, and see a bonnet and shawl on your bed, or a gown sprawling on your sofa, my teeth will be set on edge for the next half-hour.’

‘Dear Miss Wen–, dear Aunt Betsy,’ said Ida, corrected by a frown, ‘I hope you will come into my room every day, and give me a good scolding if it is not exactly as you like. Everything in this house looks lovely. I want to learn your nice neat ways.’

‘Well, my love, you might learn something worse,’ replied Miss Wendover, with innocent pride. ‘And now come down to luncheon; I kept it back on purpose for you, and I am sure you must be starving.’

The luncheon was excellent, served with a tranquil perfection only to be attained by careful training; and yet Miss Wendover’s youthful butler three years ago had been a bird boy; while her rosy-cheeked parlour-maid was only eighteen, and had escaped but two years from the primitive habits of cottage life. Aunt Betsy had a genius for training young servants.

‘You had better unpack your boxes directly after luncheon, said Miss Wendover, when Ida had eaten with very good appetite, ‘and arrange your things in your drawers. That will take you an hour or so, I suppose–say till five o’clock, when Bessie is coming over to afternoon tea.’

‘Oh, I am so glad! I am longing to see Bessie. Is she as lovable and pretty as ever?’

‘Well, yes,’ replied Aunt Betsy, with a critical air; ‘I think she has rather improved. She is plump enough still, in all conscience, but not quite so stumpy as she was last summer. Her figure is a little less like a barrel.’

‘I hope she was very much admired at Bournemouth.’

‘Yes, strange to say, she had a good many admirers,’ answered Miss Wendover coolly. ‘She made a point of never being enthusiastic about her relations. She had always partners at the dances, I am told, even when there was a paucity of dancing men; and she was considered rather remarkable at lawn tennis. No doubt she will tell you all about it this afternoon. I have some work to do in the village, and I shall leave you two girls together.’

This was a delicacy which touched Ida. She was very anxious to see Bessie, and to talk to her as they could only talk when they were alone. She wanted to know her faithful friend’s motive for that cruel deception about Brian Walford. That the frank, tender-hearted Bessie could have so deceived her from any unworthy motive was impossible.

Five o’clock struck, and Ida was sitting alone in the drawing-room, waiting to receive her friend, just as if she were the daughter of the house, instead of a salaried dependent. The pretty carved Indian tea-table–a gem in Bombay blackwood–was wheeled in front of the fire-place, which was old, as regarded the high wooden mantel-piece and capacious breadth of the hearth, but essentially new in its glittering tiles and dainty brass fire-irons.

The clock had hardly finished striking when Bessie bounced into the room, rosy and smiling, in sealskin jacket and toque.

‘Oh, you darling! isn’t this lovely?’ she exclaimed, hugging Ida. ‘You are to live here for ever and ever, and never, never, never to leave us again, and never to marry, unless you marry one of the Brians. Don’t shudder like that, pet, they are both nice! And I’m sure you like Brian Walford, though, perhaps, not quite so much as he liked you. You do like him now, don’t you, darling?’ urged Bess.

Ida had withdrawn from her embrace, and was seated before the low Bombay table, occupied with the tea pot. There was no light but the fire and one shaded lamp on a distant table. The curtains were not yet drawn, and white mists were rising in the garden outside, like a sea.

‘Bessie,’ Ida began, gravely, as her old schoolfellow sat on a low stool in front of the fire, ‘how could you deceive me like that? What could put such a thing in your head–_you_, so frank, so open?’

‘I am sure I hardly know,’ answered Bess, innocently. ‘It was my birthday, don’t you know, and we were all wild. Perhaps the champagne had something to do with it, though I didn’t take any. But that sort of excitement communicates itself; and running up and down hill gets into one’s head. We all thought it would be such fun to pass off penniless B. W. for his wealthy cousin–and just to see how you liked him, with that extra advantage. But there was no harm in it, was there, dear? Of course, he told you afterwards, when you saw him at Mauleverer?

‘Yes, he told me–afterwards.’

‘Naturally; and having begun to like him as the rich Brian, you didn’t leave off liking him because of his poverty–did you, darling? The man himself was the same.’

Ida was silent, remembering how, with the revelation of the fraud that had been practised upon her, the very man himself had seemed to undergo a transformation–as if a disguise, altering his every characteristic, had been suddenly flung aside.

She did not answer Bessie’s question, but, looking down at her with grave, searching eyes, she said,–‘Dear Bessie, it was a very foolish jest. I know it is not in your nature to mean unkindly to anyone, least of all to me, to whom you have been an angel of light; but all practical jokes of that kind are liable to inflict pain and humiliation upon the victim–however innocently meant. Whose idea was it, Bess? Not yours, I think?’

‘No; it was Urania who proposed it. She said it would be such fun.’

‘Miss Rylance is not usually so–funny.’

‘No; but she was particularly jolly that day, don’t you remember? in positively boisterous spirits–for her.’

‘And the outcome of her amiability was this suggestion?’

‘Yes, darling. She had noticed that you had a kind of romantic fancy about Brian of the Abbey–that you had idealised his image, as it were–and set him up as a kind of demi-god. Not because of his wealth, darling–don’t suppose that we supposed that–but on account of that dear old Abbey and its romantic associations, which gave a charm to the owner. And so she said what fun it would be to pass off Brian Walford as his cousin, and see if you fell in love with him. ‘I know she is ready to lay her heart at the feet of the owner of the Abbey,’ Urania said; and I thought it would be too delicious if you were to fall in love with Brian Walford, who could not help falling in love with you, for of course it would end in your marrying him, and his getting on splendidly at the Bar; for, with his talents, he must do well. He only wants a motive for industry. And then you would be our very own cousin! I hope it wasn’t a very wicked idea, Ida, and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me,’ pleaded Bess, kneeling by her friend’s chair, with clasped bands upon Ida’s knees, and sweet, half-tearful face looking up, ‘My darling, I have never been angry with you,’ answered Ida, clasping the girl to her heart, with a stifled sob. ‘But I don’t think Miss Rylance meant so kindly. Her idea sprang from a malevolent heart. She wanted to humiliate me–to drag my most sordid characteristics into the light of day–to make me more abject than poverty had made me already. That was the motive of her joke.’

‘Never mind her motive, dear. All I am interested in is your opinion of Brian. I hope he behaved nicely at Mauleverer.’

‘Very nicely.’

‘Cobb says that Fraeulein positively raves about him–declares he is quite the most gentlemanly young man she ever saw–a godly young man she called him, in her funny English. And, she says, that he was madly in love with you. Of course he made you an offer?’

‘How could he do that when I was always with the Fraeulein?’

‘Oh, nonsense. Brian is not the kind of young man to be kept at bay by a mild nonentity like the Fraeulein. He told me before he left that he was desperately in love with you, and that he meant to win you for his wife. I asked him how he intended to keep a wife, and he said he should write for the magazines, and do theatrical criticisms for the newspapers, till briefs began to drop in. He was determined to win you if you were to be won. So I feel sure that he made you an offer, unless, indeed, that horrid old Pew spoiled all by her venomous conduct.’

‘That is it, dear. Miss Pew brought matters to an abrupt close.’

‘And you are not engaged to Brian?’ said Bess, dolefully.

‘No.’

‘And he didn’t follow you to Dieppe?’

‘No.’

‘Then he is not half so fine a fellow as I thought him.’

‘Suppose, Bessie, that after a little mild flirtation, with Fraeulein Wolf for an audience, we both discovered that our liking for each other was of the very coolest order, and that it was wiser to let the acquaintance end?’

‘You might feel that; but I would never believe it of Brian. Why, he raved about you; he was passionately in love. He told me there was no sacrifice he would not make to call you his wife.’

‘He had so much to sacrifice,’ said Ida, with a cynical air.

‘Don’t be unkind, Ida. Of course I know that he has his fortune to make; but he is so thoroughly nice–so full of fun.’

‘Did you ever know him do anything good or great, anything worth being remembered–anything that proved the depth and nobility of his nature?’ asked Ida, earnestly.

‘Good gracious! no, not that I can remember. He is always nice, and amusing. He doesn’t like carrying a basket, or skates, and things; but of course, where there are younger boys one couldn’t expect him to do that; and he hates plain girls and old women; but I suppose that is natural, for even father does it, in his secret soul, though he is always so utterly sweet to the poor things. But I am sure Brian Walford has a tender heart, because he is so fond of kittens.’

‘I didn’t mean to insinuate that he was a modern Domitian,’ answered Ida, smiling at Bessie’s childish earnestness. ‘What I mean is that there is no depth in his nature, no nobility in his character. He is shallow, and, I fear, selfish. But, Bessie, my pet, I am going to ask you a favour.’

‘Ask away,’ cried Bessie, cheerfully; ‘I can’t give you the moon, but anything which I really do possess is yours this instant.’

‘Don’t let us ever talk of Brian Walford. I can never get over the feeling of humiliation which Miss Rylance’s practical joke caused me; and my only chance of forgetting it is to forget your cousin’s existence.’

‘Oh, but he will come to The Knoll, I hope, at Christmas, and then you will think better of him.’

‘If he should come I–I hope I shall not see him.’

‘Has he offended you so deeply?’

‘Don’t let us talk about him, Bess. Tell me all about your Bournemouth triumphs. I hear you were the belle of the place.’

‘Then you have heard a most egregious fib. There were dozens of girls with nineteen-inch waists, before whom I felt myself a monster of dumpiness. But I got on pretty well. I don’t pretend to be a good dancer, but I can generally adapt myself to the badness of other people’s steps, and that goes for something.’

And now having got away from all painful subjects, Bessie rattled on at a tremendous pace, describing girls and gowns, and partners, and tennis tournaments, and yachting excursions, all in a breath, as she sat in front of the fire sipping her tea, and devouring a particular kind of buttered bun for which Miss Wendover’s cook was famous.

‘Aunt Betsy’s tea is always nicer than any one else’s; and so are her buns and her butter; in fact everything in this house is nicer than it is anywhere else,’ said Bessie, pausing in her reminiscences. ‘You are in clover here, Ida.’

‘Thanks to your goodness, Bess.’

‘To mine? But I have positively nothing to do with it.’

‘Yes, you have. It is from the wish to please her warm-hearted little niece that Miss Wendover has been so good to me.’

‘But if you had been plain or stupid she would have only been kind to you at a distance. Aunt Betsy has her idiosyncrasies, and one of them is a liking for beauty in individuals, as well as in chairs and tables and cups and saucers. You will see that all her servants are pretty. She picks them for their good looks, I believe, and trains them afterwards. She would not have so much as a bad-looking stable boy.’

‘Hard upon ugliness to be shut out of this paradise,’ said Ida.

‘Oh, but she finds places for the ugly boys and girls, with people whose teeth are not so easily set on edge, she says herself. And now I must be off, to change my frock for dinner. You know the back way to The Knoll–across the fields to the little door in the kitchen-garden. You will always come that way, of course. When are you coming to see us? To-morrow?’

‘You forget that my time is not my own. I will come whenever Miss Wendover can best spare me.’

‘Oh, you will have plenty of spare time, I am sure.’

‘I hope not too much, or I shall be too sharply reminded that Miss Wendover has taken me out of charity.’

‘Charity fiddlestick! A prize-winner like you! And now good-bye, pet, or I shall be late for dinner, which offends the Colonel beyond measure.’

Bessie scampered off, Ida following her to the glass door, only in time to see her running across the lawn as fast as her feet could carry her. It was characteristic of Bessie to cut everything very fine in the way of time.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

And now began for Ida a life of exceeding peacefulness, comfort, happiness even; for how could a girl fail to be happy among people who were so friendly and kind, who so thoroughly respected her, and so warmly admired her for gifts altogether independent of fortune–who never, by word or look, reminded her that she was in anywise of less importance than themselves?

Nor had the girl any cause to fear that she was a useless member of Miss Wendover’s household. That lady found plenty of occupation for her young companion–varied and pleasant duties, which made the days seem too short, and the leisure of the long winter evenings an agreeable relief from the busy hours of daylight.

That exquisite neatness which gave such a charm to Wendover’s house was not attained without labour. The polished surface of the old Chippendale bureaus, the inlaid Sheraton chairs and tables, could only be maintained by daily care. A housemaid’s perfunctory dusting was not sufficient here; and Miss Wendover, gloved and aproned, and armed with leathers and brushes, gave at least half an hour every morning to the care of her old furniture. Another half hour was devoted to china; and the floral arrangements indoors, even in this wintry season, occupied half an hour more. This was all active work, about which Aunt Betsy and Ida went merrily, talking tremendously as they polished and dusted, and upon all possible subjects, for Miss Wendover’s lonely evenings had enabled her to read almost as much as Southey, and she delighted in telling Ida the curious out-of-the-way facts that were stored up in her memory.

Sometimes there was an hour or so given to culinary matters–new dishes, new kickshaws, _hors d’oeuvres,_ savouries–to be taught the young, teachable cook-maid; for whenever Miss Wendover went to a great dinner, her eagle eye was on the alert to discover some modern improvement in the dishes or the table arrangements.

Then there was gardening, which absorbed a good deal of time in fine weather; for Aunt Betsy held that no gardener, however honestly inclined, would long feel interested in a garden to which its owner was indifferent. Miss Wendover knew every flower that grew–could bud, and graft, and pot, and prune, and do everything that her youthful gardeners could do, beside being ever so much more learned in the science of gardening.

Then there were inspections of piggery and poultry-yard, medicines and particular foods to be prepared for the poultry, hospitals to be established and looked after in odd corners of the orchard, and the propagation of species to be carried on by mechanical contrivances.

On wet days there was art needlework, for which Miss Wendover had what artists would call a great deal of feeling, without being very skilful as an executant. Under her direction, Ida began a mauresque border for a tawny plush curtain which was to be a triumph of art when completed, and which was full of interest in progress. She worked at this of an evening, while Miss Wendover, who had a fine full voice, and a perfect enunciation, read aloud to her. Then, when Miss Wendover was tired, Ida went to the piano and played for an hour or so, while the elder lady gave herself up to rare idleness and dreamy thought.

These were home duties only. The two ladies had occupations abroad of a more exacting nature. Miss Wendover until now had given two botany lessons, and one physical science lesson, every week in the village school. The botany lessons she now handed over to Ida, whom she coached for that purpose. Summer or winter these lessons were always given out of doors, in the course of an hour’s ramble in field, lane, or wood. Then Miss Wendover had a weekly class for domestic economy, a class attended by all the most promising girls, from thirteen years old upwards, within five miles. This class was held in the kitchen or housekeeper’s room at the Homestead; and many were the savoury messes of broth or soup, cheap stews and meat puddings, and the jellies and custards compounded at these lessons, to be fleut off next day to the sick poor upon Miss Wendover’s list.

Then there was house to house visiting all over the widely-scattered parish, much talk with gaffers and goodies, in all of which Ida assisted. She would have hated the work had Miss Wendover been a person of the Pardiggle stamp; but as love was the governing principle of all Aunt Betsy’s work, her presence was welcome as sunshine or balmy air; so welcome that her sharpest lectures (and she could lecture when there was need) were received with meekness and even gratitude. In these visits Ida learned to know a great deal about the ways and manners of the agricultural poor, all the weakness and all the nobility of the rural nature.

Every Saturday or half-holiday at the village school–blessed respite which gave the hard-worked mistress time to mend her clothes, and make herself bright and trim for Sunday, and opened for the master brilliant possibilities in the way of a jaunt to Bomsey or Winchester–Miss Wendover gave a dinner to all the school children under twelve. She had taken up Victor Hugo’s theory that a substantial meat dinner, even on one day out of seven, will do much to build up the youthful constitution and to prevent scrofulous diseases. Moved by these considerations, she had fitted up a disused barn as a rustic dining-hall, the walls plastered and whitewashed, or buff-washed, the massive cross timbers painted a dark red, a long deal table and a few forms the only furniture. Here every Saturday, at half-past one o’clock, she provided a savoury meat dinner; and very strong must be that temptation or that necessity which would induce Aunt Betsy to abandon her duties as hostess at this weekly feast. It was she who said grace before and after meat–save when some suckling parson was admitted to the meal; it was she who surveyed and improved the manners of her guests by sarcastic hints or friendly admonitions; and it was she who furnished intellectual entertainment in the shape of anecdote, historical story, or excruciating conundrum.

Ida was allowed to assist at these banquets, and there was nothing in her new life which she enjoyed more than the sight of all those glad young faces round the board, or the sound of that frank, rustic laughter. Some there were naturally of a bovine dullness, in whom even Miss Wendover could not awaken a ray of intelligence; but these were few. The generality of the children were far above the average rustic in brightness of intellect, and this superiority might fairly be ascribed to Aunt Betsy’s influence.

A fortnight before Christmas, by which time Ida had been at the Homestead more than a month, Miss Wendover suggested a drive to Winchester, and before starting she handed Ida a ten-pound note. ‘You may want some additional finery for Christmas,’ she said kindly. ‘Girls generally do. So you may as well buy it to-day.’

‘But, dear Aunt Betsy, I have only been with you a month.’

‘Never mind that, my dear. We will not be particular as to quarter-days. When I think you want money I shall give it to you, and we can make up our accounts at the end of the year.’

‘You are ever so much too good to me,’ said Ida, with a loving look that said a good deal more than words.

There was a light frost that whitened the hills, and the keen freshness of the air stimulated Brimstone to conduct of a somewhat riotous character, but Miss Wendover’s firm hand held his spirits in check. Treacle was a sagacious beast, who never did more work than he was absolutely obliged to do, and who allowed Brimstone to drag the phaeton while he trotted complacently on the other side of the pole. But Miss Wendover would stand no nonsense, even from the amiable Treacle. She sent the pair across the hills at a splendid pace, and drove them under the old archway and down the stony street with a style which won the admiration of every experienced eye.

They drew up at the chief draper’s of the town; and here Miss Wendover retired to hold a solemn conference with the head milliner, a judicious and accomplished person who made Aunt Betsy’s gowns and bonnets–all of a solid and substantial architecture, as if modelled on the adjacent cathedral. Ida, left alone amidst all the fascinations of the chief shop in a smart county town, and feeling herself a Croesus, had much need of fortitude and coolness of temper. Happily she remembered what a little way that five-pound note had gone in preparing her for her summer visit to The Knoll, and this brought wisdom. Before spending sixpence upon herself she bought a gown–an olive merino gown, and velvet to trim it withal–for her stepmother.

‘I don’t think she gets a new gown much oftener than I do,’ she thought; ‘and even if this costs four or five shillings for carriage it will be worth the money, as a Christmas surprise.’

The gown left only trifling change out of two sovereigns, so that by the time Ida had bought herself a dark brown cloth jacket and a brown cashmere gown there were only four sovereigns left out of the ten. She spent one of these upon some pale pink cashmere for an evening dress, and half a sovereign on gloves, as she knew Miss Wendover liked to see people neatly gloved. Ten shillings more were spent upon calico, and another sovereign went by-and-by at the bootmaker’s, leaving the damsel with just twenty shillings out of her quarter’s wage; but as the need of pocket-money at Kingthorpe, except for the Sunday offertory, was nil, she felt herself passing rich in the possession of that last remaining sovereign. She would have liked to spend it all upon Christmas gifts for her young friends at The Knoll; but this fond wish she relinquished with a sigh. Paupers could not be givers of gifts. Whatever she gave must be the fruit of her own labour–some delicate piece of handiwork made out of cheap materials.

‘They are all too good to think meanly of me because I can only show my gratitude in words,’ she told herself.

As Christmas drew near Ida listened anxiously for any allusion to Brian Walford as a probable visitor; and to her infinite relief, just three days before the festival, she heard that he was not coming. He had been invited, and he had left his young cousins in suspense as to his intentions till the last moment, and then had written to say that he had accepted an invitation to Norfolk, where there would be shooting, and a probability of a stag-hunt on foot.

‘Which I call horridly mean of him,’ protested Horatio, who had come across the fields expressly to announce this fact to Ida. ‘Why can’t he come and shoot here? I don’t mean to say that there is anything particular to shoot, but he and I could go out together and try our luck. Our hills are splendid for hares.’

‘Do you mean that there are plenty of hares?’ inquired Ida.

‘No, not exactly that. But it would be capital ground for them, don’t you know, if there were any.’

‘And where is your other cousin Brian?’ asked Ida, merely for the sake of conversation.

All interest, all idle dreaming about the unknown Brian was over with her since the fatal mistake which had marred her life. She could not conceive that anything save evil could ever arise to her henceforward out of that hated name.

‘Oh, he is in Sweden, or Turkey, or Russia, or somewhere,’ replied Horatio, with a disgusted air; ‘always on the move, instead of keeping up the Abbey in proper style, and cultivating his cousins. A man with such an income is bound in duty to his fellow-creatures to keep a pack of foxhounds. What else was he sent into the world for, I should like to know?’

‘Perhaps to cultivate the knowledge of his fellow-creatures in distant countries, and to improve his mind.’

‘Rot!’ exclaimed Horatio, who was not choice in his language. ‘What does he want with mind? or to make a walking Murray or Baedeker of himself? Society requires him to lay out his money to the local advantage. Here we are, with no foxhounds nearer than the New Forest, when we ought to have a pack at our door!’

Ida could not enter into the keen sense of deprivation caused by a dearth of foxhounds, so she went on quietly with her work, shading the wing of the inevitable swallow flitting across the inevitable bulrushes which formed the design for a piano back.

Presently Bessie came bouncing in, her sealskin flung on anyhow, and the most disreputable thing in hats perched sideways on her bright brown curls.

‘Mother is going to let us have a dance,’ she burst forth breathlessly, ‘on Twelfth Night! Won’t that be too jolly? A regular party, don’t you know, with a crumb-cloth, and a pianiste from Winchester, and perhaps a cornet. It’s only another guinea, and if father’s in a good temper he’s sure to say yes. You must come over to The Knoll every evening to practise your waltzing. We shall have nothing but round dances in the programme. I’ll take care of that!’

‘But if there are any matrons who like to have a romp in the Lancers or the Caledonians, ain’t it rather a shame to leave them out in the cold?’ suggested Horatio. ‘You’re so blessed selfish, Bess.’

‘We are not going to have any matrons. Mother will matronize the whole party. We are going to have the De Travers, and the Pococks, and the Ducies, and the Bullinghams over from Bournemouth.’

‘And where the deuce are you going to put ’em?’

‘Oh, we can put up at least twenty–on spare mattresses, don’t you know, in the old nursery, and in the dressing-rooms and bath-room; and as for us, why, of course, _we_ can sleep anywhere.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Horatio; ‘I hope you don’t suppose I am going to turn out of my den, or to allow a pack of girls to ransack my drawers and smoke my favourite pipe.’

‘I don’t suppose any decent-minded girl would consent to sleep in such a loathsome hole,’ retorted Bessie. ‘She would prefer a pillow and a rug on the landing.’

‘My den is quite as tidy as that barrack of yours,’ said the Wykhamiste, ‘though I haven’t yet risen to disfiguring my walls with kitchen plates and fourpenny fans. The cheap aesthetic is not my line.

‘Don’t pretend to be cantankerous, Horatio,’ said Ida, looking at him with the loveliest eyes, twinkling a little at his expense; ‘we all know that you are brimming over with good-humour.

Perhaps Aunt Betsy will take in some of your visitors, Bess. I am sure they shall be welcome to my room, if I have to sleep in the poultry yard.’

‘Happy thought,’ cried Bessie; ‘I’ll sound the dear creature as to her views on the subject this very day.’

Aunt Betsy was all goodness, and offered to accommodate half a dozen young ladies of neat and cleanly habits. She protested that she would have no candle-grease droppers or door-mat despisers in her house.

‘The Homestead is the only toy I have,’ she said,’ and I won’t have it ill-used.’

So six irreproachable young women, the pride of careful mothers, were billeted on Miss Wendover, while the more Bohemian damsels were to revel in the improvised accommodation of The Knoll.

That particular Christmas-tide at Kingthorpe was a time of innocent mirth and youthful happiness which might have banished black care, for the nonce, from the oldest, weariest breast. For Ida, still young and fresh, loving and lovable, the contagion of that youthful mirth was irresistible.

She forgot by how fine a hair hung the sword that dangled over her guilty head–or began to think that the hair was tough enough to hold good for ever. And what mattered the existence of the sword provided it was never to fall? Sometimes it seemed to her in the pure and perfect happiness of this calm rural home, this useful, innocent life, as if that ill-advised act of hers had never been acted–as if that autumn morning, that one half-hour in the modern Gothic church, still smelling of mortar and pitch-pine, set in flat fields, from which October mists were rising ghostlike, was no more than a troubled dream–a dream that she had dreamed and done with for ever. Could it be that such an hour–so dim, so shadowy to look back upon from the substantial footing of her present existence–was to give colour to all the rest of her life? No, it was the dark dream of a troubled past, and she had nothing to do but to forget it as soon as possible.

Forgetfulness–or at least a temporary kind of forgetfulness–was tolerably easy while Brian Walford was civil enough to stay away from Kingthorpe; but the problem of life would be difficult were he to appear in the midst of that cordial circle–difficult to impossibility.

‘It is evident that he doesn’t mean to come while I am here,’ she told herself, ‘and that at least is kind. But in that case I must not stay here too long. It is not fair that I should shut him out of his uncle’s house. It is I who am the interloper.’

She thought with bitterest grief of any change from this peaceful life among friends who loved her, to service in the house of a stranger; but her conscience recognised the necessity for such a change.

She had no right to squat upon the family of the man she had married–to exclude him from his rightful heritage, she who refused to acknowledge his right as her husband. He had done her a deep wrong; he had deceived her cruelly; and she deemed that she had a right to repudiate a bond tainted by fraud; but she knew that she had no right to banish him from his family circle–to dwell, under false pretences, by the hearth of his kindred.

‘I did wrong in coming here,’ she thought; ‘it was a mean thing to do. Yet how could I resist the temptation, when no other place offered, and when I knew I was such a burden at home?’

In the very midst of her happiness, therefore, there was always this corroding care, this remorseful sense of wrong-doing. This present life of hers was all blissful, but it was bliss which could not, which must not, last. Yet what fortitude would be needed ere she could break this flowery bondage, loosen these dear fetters which love had laid upon her!

Once, during that jovial Christmas season, she hinted at a possible change in the future.

‘What a happy day this has been!’ she said as she walked across the wintry fields with Miss Wendover on the verge of midnight, after a Christmas dinner and a long evening of Christmas games at The Knoll, Needham marching in front of them with an unnecessary lantern, and all the stars of heaven shining in blue frosty brilliance above their heads, ‘and what a happy home! I feel it is a privilege to have seen so much of it; and by-and-by, when I am among strangers–‘

‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Aunt Betsy, sharply; ‘there is to be no such by-and-by; or, if there ever be such a time, it will be your making, not mine. You suit me capitally, and I mean to keep you as long as ever I can, without absolute selfishness. If an eligible husband should want to carry you off, I must let you go; but I will part with you to no one less than a husband–unless, indeed,’ and here Betsy Wendover’s voice took a colder and graver tone, ‘unless you should want to better yourself, as the servants say, and get more money than I can afford to give you. I know your accomplishments are worth much more; but it is not everybody to whom you would be as their own flesh and blood.’

‘Oh, Aunt Betsy, can you think that I should ever set money in the scale against your kindness–your infinite goodness to me?’

‘When you talk of a change by-and-by, you set me thinking. Perhaps you are already beginning to tire of this rustic dullness.’

‘No, no, no; I never was so happy in my life–never since I was a child playing about on board the ship that brought my mother and me to England. Everybody were kind to me, and made much of me. My mother and I adored each other; and I did not know that she was dying. Soon after we landed she grew dangerously ill, and lay for weeks in a darkened room, which I was not allowed to enter. It was a dreary, miserable time; a lonely, friendless child pining in a furnished lodging, with no one but a servant and a sick-nurse to speak to; and then, one dark November morning, the black hearse and coaches came to the door, and I stood peeping behind a corner of the parlour blind, and saw my mother’s coffin carried out of the house. No; from the time we left the ship till I came to The Knoll I had never known what perfect happiness meant.’

‘Surely you must have had some happy days with your father?’ said Aunt Betsy.

‘Very few. There was always a cloud. Papa is not the kind of man who can be cheerful under difficulties. Besides, I have seen so little of him, poor dear. He did not come home from India till I was thirteen, and then he fell in love with my stepmother, and married her, and took her to France, where he fancies it is cheaper to live than in England. Yet I cannot help thinking there are corners of dear old England where he might find a prettier home and live quite as cheaply.’

‘Of course, if he were a sensible man; but I gather from all you have told me that there is a gentlemanlike helplessness about him–as of a person who ought to have inherited a handsome income, and is out of his element as a struggler.’

‘That is quite true,’ answered Ida; ‘my father was not born to wrestle with Fate.’

They were at the glass door which opened into the morning-room by this time. The room was steeped in rosy light–such a pretty room, with chintz curtains and chintz-covered easy-chairs, low, luxurious, inviting; the only ponderous piece of furniture an old Japanese cabinet, rich in gold work upon black lacquer. On the dainty little octagon table there was a large shallow brown glass vase full of Christmas roses; and there was an odour of violets from the celadon china jars on the chimney-piece. Aunt Betsy’s favourite Persian cat, a marvel of fluffy whiteness, rose from the hearth to welcome them. It was a delightful picture of home life.

Miss Wendover seemed in no hurry to go to bed. She seated herself in the low arm-chair by the fire, and allowed the Persian to rub its white head and arch its back against her dark brocade skirt. No one within twenty miles of Winchester wore such brocades or such velvets as Miss Wendover’s. They were supposed to be woven on purpose for her. Her gowns were gowns of the old school, and lasted for years, smelling of the sandal or camphor wood chests in which they reposed for months at a stretch, yet, by virtue of some wonderful tact in the wearer, never looked dowdy or out of date.

‘Now,’ said Miss Wendover, with a resolute air, ‘let us understand each other, my dear Ida. I don’t quite like what you said just now; and I want to hear for certain that you are satisfied with your life here.’

‘I am utterly happy here, dear Aunt Betsy. Is that a sufficient answer? Only, when I came here, I felt that it was charity–an impulse of kindness for a friendless girl–that prompted you to offer me a home; that, in accepting your kindness, I had no right to become an encumbrance; that, having enjoyed your genial hospitality for a space, I ought to move on upon my journey, to go where I could be of more use.’

‘You too ridiculous girl, can you suppose that you are not useful to me?’ exclaimed Aunt Betsy, impatiently. ‘Is there a single hour of your day unoccupied? Granted that my original motive was a desire to give a comfortable home to a dear girl who seemed in need of new surroundings, but that idea would hardly have occurred to me unless I had begun to feel the want of some energetic helpmate to lighten the load of my daily duties. The experiment has answered admirably, so far as I am concerned. But it is just possible you feel otherwise. You may think that you could make better use of your powers–earn double my poor salary, win distinction by your fine playing, dress better, see more of the world. I daresay to a girl of your age Kingthorpe seems a kind of living death.’

‘So far from that, I love Kingthorpe with all my heart, so much that I almost hate myself for not having been born here, for not being able to say these are my native fields, I was cradled among these hills.’

‘So be it. If you love Kingthorpe and love me, you have nothing to do but to stay here till the hero of your life-story comes to carry you off.’

‘There will be no such hero.’

‘Oh, yes, there will! Every story, however humble, has its hero; but yours is going to be a very magnificent personage, I hope.’

The little clock on the chimney-piece chimed the half-hour after midnight, whereupon Aunt Betsy started up and called for her candle. She and Ida kissed as they wished each other good night on the threshold of the elder lady’s room.

After this conversation, how could Ida ever again broach the subject of departure? and yet she felt that sooner or later she must depart. Honour, conscience, womanly feeling, forbade that she should remain at the cost of Brian Walford’s banishment.

CHAPTER XIII.

KINGTHORPE SOCIETY.

On New Year’s Eve Miss Wendover gave one of her famous dinner-parties;