The Golden Calf by M. E. Braddon

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'Mamma, however could we live so long in that horrid little house in
France?' he demanded one day, as he prowled about his mother's spacious
morning-room in the autumn dusk, dragging fine old folios out of a book
shelf in his search for picture-books, while Lady Palliser and her
stepdaughter sat at tea by the fire.

The lady of the house gave a faint sigh.

'I don't know, Vernie,' she said. 'I almost think I was happier there
than I am here. It was a poor little place, but I felt it was my own
house, and I never feel that here.'

'It will be my house when papa's dead,' replied Vernon, cheerfully,
seating himself on the ground in front of the broad bay window and
turning over Gell's 'Pompeiianai'; 'everything will be mine. Is that why
you don't feel as if it was yours now?'

'No, Vernie, that's not it. I hope it will be a great many years before
your father is taken away.'

'But you don't think so,' argued Vernon. 'You told him the other day that
if he did not walk more, and take less champagne, he would soon kill
himself.'

'But I didn't mean it, darling. I only spoke for his good. The doctor
says he must take no champagne, or only the dryest of the dry.'

'What a silly that doctor must be!' interrupted Vernon; 'all wine is
wet.'

'The doctor meant wine that is not sweet, dear.'

'Then he should have said so,' remarked Vernon, sententiously. He had
lived all his little life in grown-up society, and had been allowed to
hear everything, and to talk about everything, whereby he had come to
consider himself an oracle.

'The doctor thinks your poor papa has a lym--lym--'

'Lymphatic temperament?' suggested Ida.

'Yes, dear, that's the name of his complaint,' replied Lady Palliser, who
was not scientific. 'He has a--well, that particular disease,' continued
the little woman, breaking down again, 'and he ought to diet himself and
take regular exercise; and he won't diet himself, and he won't walk or
ride; and I lay awake at nights thinking of it,' she concluded,
piteously.

'You can't lay awake,' said the boy; 'Ida says you can't. You can lay
down your hat or your umbrella, but _you_ can't lay. It's impossible.

'But I tell you I do, Vernie; I lay awake night after night,' protested
Lady Palliser, not seeing the grammatical side of the question. 'Oh,
Vernie!' as the folio plates gave an alarming crackle, 'you are tearing
that beautiful big book which cost your grandfather so much money.'

'It's a nasty book,' said Vernon, 'all houses and posts and things. Show
me some nice books, Ida; please, do.'

Ida was sitting on the carpet beside him in the next minute and together
they went through a bulky quarto Shakespeare with awe-inspiring
illustrations by Fuseli. She told him what the pictures meant, and this
naturally compelled her to tell the stories of the plays, and in this
manner she kept him amused till it was time to dress for dinner, and
almost bedtime for the little man. The happiest hours of her life were
those in which she devoted herself mentally and bodily to her young
brother. If he had loved her in adversity a year ago, he loved her still
better in prosperity, when she was able to do so much more for his
comfort and amusement. He was rarely out of her sight, the companion of
all her rides and rambles, the exacting charge of her life. Brian Walford
was not slow to perceive that the boy took precedence of him in all his
wife's thoughts, that the boy's society was more agreeable to her than
that of her husband, and his health and happiness of more importance. As
a wife she was amiable, submissive, dutiful; but it needed no
hypersensitiveness on the husband's part to warn him that she gave him
duty without love, submission without reverence or esteem The
consciousness of his wife's indifference made Mr. Wendover less agreeable
than he had been during that brief courtship among the willows and rushes
by the river. He was inclined to be captious, and did not conceal his
jealousy of the boy from Ida, although he set a watch upon his tongue in
the presence of Vernon's father and mother.

After all it was a rather pleasant thing to have free quarters at
Wimperfield, to have hunters to ride, and covers to shoot over which were
almost as much his own as if they had belonged to him. Sir Reginald
Palliser had a large way of conferring benefits, which was instinctive in
a man of his open and careless temper. Having given Brian Wendover what
he called the run of his teeth at Wimperfield, he had no idea of limiting
the privileges of residence there. Even when the stud-groom grumbled at
the laming of a fine horse by injudicious bucketting up hill and down
hill in a lively run with the Petersfield Harriers Sir Reginald made
light of the injury, and sent Pepperbox into the straw-yard to recover at
his leisure. His own use of the stable was restricted to an occasional
ride on an elderly brown cob, of aristocratic lineage and manners that
would have been perfect but for the old-gentleman-like habit of dropping
asleep over his work. The new baronet was too lazy to hunt, too liberal
to put down the hunting stable established by his predecessor. The horses
were there--let Ida and Brian ride them. Of those good things which the
blind goddess had flung into his lap nothing was too good for his
daughter or his daughter's husband in Sir Reginald's opinion.

Happily for the domestic peace, Lady Palliser was able to get on
harmoniously with her stepdaughter's husband, and was not disposed to
grudge him the luxuries of Wimperfield.

Brian Walford had been quick to take that good-hearted little woman's
intellectual measure. He flattered her small vanities, and made her so
pleased with herself that she was naturally pleased with him. His shallow
and frivolous nature made him livelier company than a man of profounder
thought and deeper feeling. He sang light and lively music from the comic
operas of the day, nay, would even stoop to some popular strain from the
music-halls. He was clever at all round games and drawing-room
amusements. He enlivened conversation with puns, which ranged from the
utterly execrable to the tolerably smart. He quoted all the plays and
burlesques that had been acted in London during the last five years; he
could imitate all the famous actors; and he was a past master of modern
slang. There was not much society within an easy drive of Wimperfield,
but the few jog-trot county people who dined, or lunched, or
afternoon-tea'd with the Pallisers were enlivened by Mr. Wendover's
social gifts, and talked of him afterwards as a talented young man.

So far Mr. Wendover had taken the goods the gods provided with a placid
acceptance, and had shown no avidity for independence. He was silent as
to his professional prospects, although Sir Reginald had told him in the
beginning of things that if he wanted to make his way at the Bar any
money required for the smoothing of his path should be provided.

'You are too good,' Brian answered lightly; 'but it isn't a question of
money--it's a question of time. The Bar is a horribly slow profession. A
man has to eat his heart out waiting for briefs.'

'Yes, I have always heard as much,' said Sir Reginald; 'but will it do as
well for you to eat your heart out down here as in the Temple? Will the
briefs follow you to Wimperfield when the propitious time comes?'

'I believe they are about as likely to find me here as anywhere else,'
answered Brian, moodily,--he was apt to turn somewhat sullen at any
suggestion of hard work--'and in the meanwhile I am not wasting my time.
I can go on writing for the magazines.'

That writing for the magazines was an unknown quantity. The young man
occasionally shut himself in a little upstairs study on a wet day, smoked
excessively, and was supposed to be writing laboriously, his intellect
being fed and sustained by tobacco. Sometimes the result of the day was a
fat package of manuscript despatched to the post-office; sometimes there
was no result except a few torn sheets of foolscap in the waste-paper
basket Sometimes the manuscript came back to the writer after a
considerable interval; and at other times Mr. Wendover informed his wife
vaguely that 'those fellows' had accepted his contribution. Whatever
honorarium he received for his work was expended upon his _menus
plaisirs_--or may be said rather to have dribbled from his waistcoat
pocket in a series of trivial ex-travagances which won him a reputation
for generosity among grooms and such small deer. To his wife he gave
nothing: she was amply provided with money by her father, who would have
lavished his newly-acquired wealth upon her if she had been disposed to
spend it; but she was not. Her desires were no more extravagant now than
when she was receiving ten pounds a quarter from Miss Wendover. Sooth to
say, the temptations to extravagance at Wimperfield were not manifold.
Ida's only need for money was that she might give it to the poor, and
that, according to Jeremy Taylor, is to send one's cash straight to
heaven.

The few old-established inhabitants of the neighbourhood, mostly sons of
the soil, who attended the village church, were very plain in their
raiment, knowing that they occupied a position in the general regard
which no finery of velvets or satins could modify. Did not everybody
about Wimperfield know everybody else's income, how much or how little
the various estates were encumbered, the poverty or richness of the soil,
and the rent of every farm upon it? It was only when Lady Pontifex of
Heron Court came down from town, bringing gowns and cloaks and bonnets
from Regent Street or the Rue de la Paix, that a transitory flash of
splendour lighted up the shadowy old nave with the glow of newly-invented
hues and the sheen of newly-woven fabrics. But the natives only gazed and
admired. There was nobody adventurous enough to imitate the audacities of
a lady of fashion. Miss Emery, of Petersfield, was quite good enough for
the landed gentry of this quiet region. She had the fashions direct from
Paris in the gaily-coloured engravings of _Le Follet_, and what could
anyone want more fashionable than Paris fashions? True that Miss Emery's
conscientious cutting and excellent workmanship imparted a certain
heaviness to Parisian designs; but who would care to have a gown blown
together, as it were, by girls who were not allowed to sit down at their
work?

The life at Wimperfield was a pleasant life, albeit exceedingly quiet.
There were times when Brian Walford felt the dulness of this rustic
existence somewhat oppressive; but if life indoors was monotonous and
uneventful, he had a good deal of amusement out of doors--hunting,
shooting, football, and an occasional steeple-chase within a day's drive.
And a grand point was that nobody asked him to work hard. He could make a
great show of industry with books and foolscap, and nobody pryed too
closely into the result.

CHAPTER XXII.

LADY PALLISER STUDIES THE UPPER TEN.

Ida was not left long in ignorance as to the friendly feelings of those
she had left behind at Kingthorpe. Bessie's first letter reached her
within a few days of her arrival at Wimperfield--a loving little letter,
full of sorrowful expressions about the two good young fellows who were
gone, yet not concealing the writer's pleasure at her friend's elevation.

'When are we to meet again, dearest?' asked Bessie, after she had given
full expression to her feelings; 'are you to come to us, or are we to
go to you? What is the etiquette of the situation? Father and mother
know nothing about outside points of etiquette. Beyond the common
rules of dinners and calls, calls and dinners, I believe they are in
benighted ignorance. Shall we tell John Coachman to put four horses to
the landau--with himself and the under-gardener as postilions--and post
over to Wimperfield--just as they pay visits in Miss Austin's novels?
Perhaps now we have gone back to Chippendale furniture, we shall return
to muslin frocks and the manners of Miss Austin's time. I'm sure I wish
we could. Life seems to have been so much simpler in her day, and so much
cheaper. Darling, I am longing to see you. Remember you are my cousin
now--my very own near relation. It was Fate, you see, that made me so
fond of you, from that first evening when you helped me so kindly with my
German exercise.'

There was also a letter from Aunt Betsy, quite as affectionate, but in
much fewer words, and more to the purpose.

'We shall drive over to see your father and mother as soon as we hear
that they are disposed to receive visitors,' said Miss Wendover in
conclusion.

'I wonder Miss Wendover did not say Sir Reginald and Lady Palliser,'
observed Ida's stepmother, when she had read this letter.

The little woman had been devoting herself very earnestly to the perusal
of books of etiquette--'The Upper Circles,' 'What is What,' 'The Crême de
la Crême,' and works of a corresponding order, and was now much more
learned in the infinitesimals of polite life than was Sir Reginald or his
daughter. She had a profound belief in the mysterious authors of these
interesting volumes.

'The "Crême de la Crême" must be right, you know, Ida,' she said, when
some dictum was disputed, 'for the book was written by a Countess.'

'A Countess who wears a shoddy tourist suit, and smokes shag, and sleeps
in a two pair back in Camden Town, most likely,' said Sir Reginald,
laughing.

The new baronet utterly refused to be governed by the hard and fast rules
of the 'Crême de la Crême.' He daily did things which were absolute and
awful heresies in the sight of that authority, and Lady Palliser was
sorely exercised at her very first dinner-party by seeing the county
people of Wimperfield setting at naught the precepts of the anonymous
Countess at every stage of the evening. They did those things which they
ought not to have done, and they left undone those things which they
ought to have done, and, from the Countess's point of view were utterly
without manners.

But although Lady Palliser thought Miss Wendover's letter deficient in
ceremony, she was not the less ready to welcome Ida's Kingthorpe friends;
so a hearty invitation to dine and stay the night was sent to the Colonel
and his wife, to Aunt Betsy, and as many of the junior members of the
family as the biggest available carriage would hold.

It was the beginning of November when this visit occurred, but the
foliage was still green on the elm tree tops, while many a lovely tint of
yellow and brown still glowed on the woodland. The weather was balmy,
sunshiny, the sky as blue as at midsummer; and Ida, with her face as
radiant as the sunlight, stood in the porch ready to welcome her friends
when the wagonette drove up.

'Oh! but where are Blanche and Eva? and why did not the boys come?' she
inquired, when she had shaken hands with the Colonel, and had been kissed
and embraced by Mrs. Wendover, Aunt Betsy, and Bessie: 'surely they are
coming too?'

'No, dear; I think we are quite a strong enough party as it is,' answered
Mrs. Wendover.

'Not half strong enough! you have no idea what a barrack Wimperfield
is--but Bessie knows, and ought to have told you. There are
two-and-twenty bedrooms. It would have been a charity to have filled some
of them. I am dreadfully disappointed!'

'Never mind, dear, you will see enough of them, depend upon it. But where
is Brian?'

'Oh! it is one of his harrier days. He left all sorts of apologies for
not being at home to receive you. He will be home before dinner. Here is
mamma,' as Lady Palliser came sailing out, in a forty-guinea gown from
Jay, all glitter of bugles, and sheen of satin, putting Mrs. Wendover's
homespun travelling dress to shame. There was a dinner-gown with the
luggage, but a gown which, in comparison with Lady Palliser's satin and
jet, would be like the cloudy countenance of Luna on a November night, as
compared with the glory of Sol on a midsummer morning. But then, happily,
Mrs. Wendover was not the kind of person to suffer at being worse dressed
than her hostess. Lady Palliser sank in a low curtsey when Ida murmured a
rather vague presentation, and again beheld the Countess's eternal laws
violated by her guests, for the Colonel and his wife shook hands with a
vigour which in the 'Crême de la Crême' was stigmatised as a barbarous
vulgarity; while Aunt Betsy was so taken up with Ida that, after a smile
and a nod, she actually turned her back upon the lady of the house.

'My poor child, how horridly ill you are looking,' Miss Wendover
exclaimed, holding Ida by both hands and looking searchingly into her
face. 'Prosperity has not agreed with you. I can see the traces of
sleepless nights under your eyes.'

'It was such a shock,' murmured Ida.

'Yes, it was a terrible shock. Those fine frank young fellows! It was
ever so long before I could get the images of them out of my mind. And I
could not help feeling very sorry for them, in spite of your good
fortune--'

'Don't call it my good fortune,' said Ida; 'I am glad my father is better
off; but I was happier when I was poor.'

'And yet you used to say such bitter things about poverty?'

'Yes, I was a worshipper of Mammon in those days; but now I have got
inside the temple and have found out that he is a false god.'

'He is not a god, but a devil. "The least erected spirit that fell from
heaven." My poor Ida! And so you have found out that there are dust and
ashes inside golden apples! Never mind; you will learn to enjoy the
privileges and comforts of wealth better when you are better used to
being rich. And in the meantime tell me that you are happy in your
married life, that you and Brian are getting on pleasantly together.'

'We never quarrel,' said Ida, looking downward.

'Oh, that is a bad sign. Tell me something better than that.'

'You all told me that it was my duty to live with my husband. I am trying
to do my duty,' Ida answered gravely.

There was no radiance upon her face now. All the happiness--the unselfish
delight of welcoming her friends--had faded, and left her pale and
despondent.

She threw off all gloomy thoughts presently, and was running about the
house, showing her friends their rooms, giving directions to servants,
making a good deal more fuss, and making more use of her own hands, than
the author of 'La Crême de la Crême' would have tolerated.

'A lady's hands,' said that exalted personage, 'are not for use, but for
ornament. Her first object should be to preserve their delicacy of form
and colour; her second to be always _bien gantée_. She should never lift
anything heavier than her teacup; and she should rather endure some
inconvenience from cold while waiting the attendance of her footman than
she should so far derogate from feminine dignity as to put on a shovel of
coals. The rule of her life should be to do nothing which her domestics
or her _dame de compagnie_ can do for her.'

'My dearest Ida,' remonstrated Lady Palliser, remembering this classic
passage, 'what do you mean by carrying that bag?' Are there no servants
in the house?'

'Half-a-dozen too many, mamma; but I like to do something with my own
hands for those I love.'

Lady Palmer sighed, recalling the days when she had cooked her husband's
breakfasts and dinners, and had been happier--so it seemed to her now--in
performing that domestic duty than in giving orders to a housekeeper of
whom she stood in awe. But Fanny Palliser had made up her mind that she
ought to become a fine lady, in order to do credit to her husband's
altered fortunes, and she was working assiduously with that intent.

The guests had arrived in time for luncheon, and after luncheon Lady
Palliser and the three elders went for a long drive in the landau, to
explore the best points in the surrounding scenery, while Ida and Bessie,
with Vernon in their company, started for a long ramble in the Park and
woods. The boy ran about hither and thither, flitting from bank to bank,
in quest of flowers or insects, curious about everything in nature, vivid
as a flash in all his movements. Thus the two girls were left very much
to themselves, and were able to talk as they liked, only occasionally
giving their attention to some newly-discovered wonder of Vernon's, a
tadpole in the act of shedding his horny beak, or some gigantic
development of the genus toadstool, which species was just then in full
season.

At first there was a shadow of constraint upon Bessie's manner; and in
one whose nature was so frank, the faintest touch of reserve was
painfully obvious. For a little while all her talk was of Wimperfield and
its beauties.

'And to think that my dear old pet should be a leading member of our
county families!' she exclaimed; 'it is too delightful.'

'Indeed, Bess, I am nothing of the kind. I am a very insignificant
person--nothing but my father's daughter. Brian and I are only here on
sufferance.'

'Oh, that's nonsense, dear. I heard Sir Reginald tell my father that
Wimperfield was to be your home and Brian's as long as ever you both
like--as long as your father lives, in fact. Brian can have his chambers
in town, and work at his profession, but you are to live at Wimperfield.'

'That can hardly be,' answered Ida, gloomily; 'when Brian goes to London,
I must go with him. It will be my duty, you know,' with a shade of
bitterness.

'Well, then, this will be your country house--and that will be ever so
much better; for after all, you know, however delightful the country may
be, it is rather like being buried alive to live in it all the year
round. I suppose Brian will soon begin to work at his profession--to read
law books, and wait for briefs, don't you know.'

'I hope so,' answered Ida, coldly; 'but I do not think your cousin is
very fond of hard work.'

'Oh, but he must work--manhood demands it. He cannot possibly go on
sponging upon your father for ever.'

'There is no question of sponging. Brian is welcome here, as you have
heard. Lady Palliser likes him very much, and we all get on very well
together.'

'But you would like your husband to work, wouldn't you, Ida?'

'I should like him to be a man,' answered Ida, curtly.

In all this time there had been no mention of that other Brian--the owner
of Wendover Abbey. No word of congratulation had come to Ida from him
upon the change in her fortunes; nor had her husband told her of any
communication from his cousin. She concluded, therefore, that Brian the
elder had made no sign. It might be that he had dismissed her from his
mind as unworthy of further thought or care. He had discovered her
falsehood, her worthlessness, and she was no longer the woman he had once
loved and honoured She had passed out of his life, like an evil dream
which he had dreamed and forgotten.

His voice had been silent when those other voices--the Colonel's and the
Curate's--had told her that it was her duty to fulfil the vow she had
vowed before God's altar: to share her husband's fate for good or ill.
Brian, her lover of a few minutes before, had held his peace. What had he
thought of her in those bitter moments? Had there been one touch of pity
mingled with his scorn? She could not tell. He had made no sign.

From the moment of her friends arrival she had tremulously expected some
mention of Mr. Wendover's name; but that name had not been spoken. The
silence was a relief: and yet she yearned to know something more: whether
he had spoken of her with friendly feeling, whether he thought of her
with compassion.

Not for worlds would she have questioned Bessie upon this subject: not
even Bessie, whose childish love so invited confidence, before whose
tender eyes she could never feel ashamed.

After that little talk about Brian Walford there followed a good deal of
talk about Mr. Jardine. He was promised a living, not a big benefice by
any means, but still an actual living and an actual Vicarage, in the
vicinity of Salisbury Plain; and he and Bessie were to be married early
in the following year, as soon as there were enough spring flowers to
decorate Kingthorpe Church, the Colonel had said.

'It is to be in the time of daffodils, just before Lent,' said Bess;
'Easter comes late next year, you know.'

'I don't know; but no doubt you have found out all about it,' Ida
answered, laughing. 'God bless you, dear, and make your wedded life one
long honeymoon!'

'I have seen marriages like that,' said Bess. 'Father and mother, for
instance. They are always spooning. Oh, Ida! doesn't it seem dreadfully
soon to be married?'

'There is plenty of time for reflection,' answered Ida, with a sigh.

Bessie remembered how sudden a thing matrimony had been in her friend's
case.

'Ah, darling, I know what you are thinking about,' she said tenderly.
'You married on the spur of the moment, and were just a little sorry
afterwards; but I have been so fenced and guarded by parental wisdom that
I could not do anything foolish--if I tried ever so. And then John is far
too wise to propose anything wild or romantic--yet I think if he had come
to me and said, "There is a dog-cart at the gate, let us drive over to
Romsey Church and be married," I should hardly have known how to say no.
But, Ida, dear, tell me that your hasty marriage has turned out a happy
one after all. Brian is so very nice. Confess now that you are happy with
him!'

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