He had never ceased to be jealous of the brother whom she loved so much more fondly than she had ever loved, or even pretended to love, her husband; but he had left off expressing that jealousy in open unbraiding.
Once he had been in the habit of saying, "You will have a boy of your own some day, and then Master Vernie will be nowhere;" but that hoped-for son had never come, and Vernon was still all in all to his sister. Brian knew that it was so, and submitted to his lot in sullen acquiescence. After all, his marriage had brought him much that was good--had smoothed his pathway in life; and if--if, by-and-by, some such fatality as that which had cleared the way for Reginald Palliser, should clear the way for Ida, his wife would be the owner of one of the finest estates in Suss.e.x. He wished no evil to the young baronet, he bore no grudge against him for Ida"s idiotic fondness; but the fact remained that the boy"s death would make Brian Walford Wendover"s wife a rich woman. It is not in the nature of a man living among sharp-witted lawyers and men about town to ignore a fact of this kind. His friends had talked to him about it after the publication of Sir Reginald Palliser"s will.
"A fine thing for you if that young gentleman were to go off the hooks,"
said they; but Brian protested that he had no desire for such promotion.
He was fond of the boy, and was very well satisfied with his own position.
"I daresay you do like the little beggar," answered his particular friend, who was loafing away the earlier half of the afternoon in Mr.
Wendover"s chambers, smoking Mr. Wendover"s cigarette, and sipping Mr.
Wendover"s Apollinaris slightly coloured with brandy--a very modest form of entertainment surely, and yet the cigarettes and the superfine cognac, which were always on tap in Elm Court, made no small appearance in the accounts of tobacconist and wine merchant. "You would be sorry if anything were to happen to him, no doubt; just as I shall be sorry when the governor bursts up--poor old fellow! But I know I want his money very badly; and I think you could spend a good deal more than your present income."
Brian admitted with a light laugh that his capacity for expenditure was considerably in excess of his resources.
"You know how quietly I live," he began.
_"Comme ci, comme ca,"_ muttered his friend.
"And yet even now I am in debt."
"And have been ever since I first knew you, and would be if you had fifty thousand a year!"
"Oh, that"s inevitable," said Brian. "A man with an income of that kind must always be in debt. He never can know when he comes to the boundary line. When a man starts in life by believing he is enormously rich, and can have everything he wants, he is pretty sure to go to the dogs. That"s the way the sons of millionaires so often drift towards the gutter."
CHAPTER XXIV.
"FRUITS FAIL AND LOVE DIES AND TIME RANGES."
Brian found Wimperfield duller as a place of residence after Sir Reginald"s death; or it may be that he found London gayer, and his professional duties more absorbing. It was not often that his wife and mother-in-law were gratified by any public notification of his engagements; but now and then the name of Mr. Wendover appeared as junior counsel in some insignificant case, and Lady Palliser, who read the _Times_ and _Post_, diligently apprised Ida of the fact.
"You see Brian is getting on quite nicely," she said approvingly, "and by-and-by when he has plenty of work, you will have a small house in town, I suppose--somewhere about Belgravia--and only come to Wimperfield for your holidays."
f.a.n.n.y Palliser had never left off compa.s.sionating Ida for her frequent separation from her husband. She had never divined that Ida was happier in Brian"s absence than when he was with her. The wife had so borne herself that her husband should not be put to shame by her indifference.
She lived the larger half of her life apart from him; but Lady Palliser and her gossips believed that in so doing the young couple sacrificed inclination to prudence. So soon as they could afford to maintain a town house they would have one.
It was midsummer weather, and the rose garden at Wimperfield, that garden which had been Ida"s own peculiar care for the last four years, the garden which she had improved and beautified with every art learned from that ardent rose-worshipper Aunt Betsy, was glorious with its first blooms. Sir Reginald Palliser had been dead a year and a half, but Ida still wore black gowns, and the widow had in no wise mitigated the severity of her weeds. The two women had lived peaceably and affectionately together ever since the baronet"s death, leading a quiet but not unhappy life, the placid monotony of their existence agreeably varied by frequent intercourse with the family at Kingthorpe.
The only changes at The Knoll were of a gentle domestic character. No cloud of trouble had darkened that happy household. Bessie had become a brisk, business-like little matron, dividing her cares between her yearling baby and her husband"s parish; troubled, like Martha, about many things, but only in such a manner as women of her temperament like to be troubled. Reginald had begun his University career as an undergraduate of Balliol, and talked largely about Professor Jowett, and Greek. Horatio was still a Wintonian. The Colonel had grown a little stouter, and his wife was too polite to cultivate a slimness which might have seemed a reproach to her husband"s comfortable figure. Blanche was "out," a development of her being which meant that she was occasionally invited to a friendly dinner-party with her father and mother, that her clothes cost three times as much as they had cost while she was "in," that she had ideas about blue china and sunflowers, lamented the shabbiness of The Knoll drawing-room and the general untidiness of the household, and that she abandoned herself to despondency whenever there was a long interval between one garden party and another. The child Eva had become exactly what Blanche had been four years ago. Urania was still Urania Rylance, just a shade more self-opinionated, and more conscious of the inferiority of her fellow-creatures. These innate instincts had been ripened and developed by several London seasons, and were now accompanied by a flavour of sourness which was meant for wit. She had not been without offers, but there had been no offer tempting enough to induce her to abandon her privileges as Dr. Rylance"s daughter. She had an idea that her marriage would be the signal for Dr. Rylance to take unto himself a second wife; and she was disinclined to give that signal. The more anxious her father seemed to dispose of her in the marriage market, the more tenaciously she clung to the privileges of spinsterhood.
"I hope you are not in a hurry to get rid of me, father," she said at breakfast one morning, when Dr. Rylance urged the claims of a cultured youth in the War Office.
"No, my dear; I don"t think I have shown any undue haste. This is your fifth London season."
I hope you do not call my intermittent glimpses of town a season,"
sneered Urania.
"I have you here as often and as long as I can," answered her father, becoming suddenly stony of countenance, "and I take you out as much as I can. Mr. Fitz Wilson has seven hundred a year. I could give you--say three; and surely with a thousand a year two young people might live in very good style--even in these pretentious days."
"No doubt. But I don"t care for Mr. Fitz Wilson, and I care still less for the kind of style which can be maintained upon a thousand a year,"
replied Urania, with the air of a d.u.c.h.ess. "That would mean a small house 011 the skirts of Regent"s Park, or a flat in the Marylebone Road, I suppose--and no carriage."
"Marry whom you please, my love, and when you please," said her father; "but remember that time is not standing still with any of us."
There had been no change at the Abbey in the years which were gone since Brian Walford claimed his bride, except that the new schools had been built under Colonel Wendover"s superintendence. The old house still resembled the palace of the sleeping beauty; except that trustworthy servants took care of it, and kept moths, spiders, mice, and all such small deer at a distance. The owner of the mansion was still absent, roaming about somewhere in Northern India, as it was supposed; but his letters were few and far between. His kindred at Kingthorpe were accustomed to think of him as a wanderer in far-away places, and gave themselves very little anxiety about him. To have been anxious once would be to be anxious always, since a traveller"s risks are manifold, and there is never a year when the eager spirit of some valiant explorer is not quenched in sudden death. Brian Wendover had been away so long that people had left off talking about him; and it seemed a natural condition for the Abbey to be tenantless--a capital place for picnics and afternoon teas. The Wendovers of The Knoll took all their visitors there as a matter of course--played tennis on the lawn between the goodly old cedars; and Blanche, who was of a much more enterprising disposition than her sister Bessie, had tried her hardest to induce Mrs. Wendover to give a ball in the old refectory.
Ida and her husband were strolling about the rose-garden in the quiet hour after luncheon, while Lady Palliser dozed over her knitting-needles in her favourite chair by the long French window. Brian had come to Wimperfield somewhat unexpectedly, while the London season was still at its height, and all the law courts in full swing. He came home invalided, and wanting rest and care: but he refused to consult the family doctor, a general pract.i.tioner born and bred in the adjacent village,--clever, sagacious, homely in dress and manners, and, in the opinion of Lady Palliser, a tower of strength. She liked a fatherly doctor.
"What is the use of seeing old Fosbroke when I have had the best advice in London?" Brian said, peevishly, when urged by his mother-in-law to take advice from the family doctor. "I know exactly what ails me--nervous exhaustion, an over-worked brain, and that kind of thing. I suppose it is a natural consequence of modern civilisation: men"s brains have to go at express speed in order to keep pace with the average intelligence of the time."
"If you had only a better appet.i.te!" sighed Lady Palliser, who had been distressed at seeing her son-in-law send away plate after plate, with its contents hardly touched.
"I wouldn"t mind having a bad appet.i.te if I could sleep, said he; "it"s insomnia that tells upon a fellow."
Brian did not enter into the causes of this dire malady, which had begun with long nights given to dissipation--not to gross pleasures or vulgar companions, but to a semi-intellectual dissipation: wit, fun, copious talk about all things between heaven and earth, in the society of artists, actors, journalists, Bohemians of all the arts. To the man who begins by doing without sleep there sometimes comes a day when sleep will refuse to answer to his bidding. He has acquired the habit of perpetual wakefulness. The sleep-mechanism of the brain is out of gear. It will go for half-an-hour, perhaps, or for a few minutes, in spasmodic jerks: and then it stops all at once, as if the machinery had gone wrong.
So it was with Brian. Those festive nights given over to the feast of reason and the flow of soul--not to riot or drunkenness, but to the half-unconscious consumption of much brandy and soda--nights in which the atmosphere seemed charged with wit and wisdom as with mental electricity--nights in which a young man, able to talk smartly upon any given topic, was carried away by the consciousness of his power, and thought himself a G.o.d.
Brian was a member of all those joyous clubs--the night flowers of the club world, which unfold their petals in the small hours, when the playhouses are shut, and the lights have been extinguished in all sober households. There was no offence in any of these inst.i.tutions, and they offered a fine intellectual arena, afforded a splendid training for literary youth: but to a man who loved them too well they meant a shattered const.i.tution.
Brian had come to Wimperfield in the hope that quiet and country air would bring back sleep to his eyelids and steadiness to his nerves; but he had been there a week, and his hand was no steadier, his nights were no less wakeful. He fancied himself growing weaker day by day, and although the great authority in Harley Street had strictly forbidden any stimulant except one gla.s.s of stout with his mutton chop at luncheon, Brian, who was quite unable to eat the chop, found it impossible to lunch without plenty of dry sherry, or to dine without champagne, and after dinner drank a good deal of that fine old port which had been laid down by old Sir Vernon Palliser in forty-seven.
Ida was very kind and gentle to her husband at this time, seeing that he was really in need of her tenderness. She devoted herself to his amus.e.m.e.nt, walked with him, rode with him, drove with him; but although he was grateful, he was not happy. A terrible depression of mind, broken by flashes of hilarity, had taken possession of him. The London physician had told him frankly that his nerves were shattered, but that all would be well with him if he left off all stimulants, ate chops and steaks, and lived in the open air; but as yet he had been unable to cope with the most diminutive chop, or to exist for three hours without stimulants.
Even those rides and drives with Ida seemed a weariness to him, and he would have escaped them if he could.
This afternoon he paced the rose-garden listlessly by Ida"s side, smoking a cigarette--that cigarette which was rarely absent from his lips.
"Are you sure your London doctor does not object to your smoking so much?" Ida asked presently, noting the languid uncertainty of the fingers which held the cigarette.
"I am not sure about anything. I told him I could not live without tobacco, and he said I might smoke two or three cigarettes in the course of the day--"
"Oh, Brian, and you smoke--"
"Two or three dozen! Not quite so bad as that, eh? But no doubt I do go considerably outside the medico"s mark. I could no more exist by line and rule in that way than I could fly. No, if I am to die of tobacco and late hours, I am doomed."
"But there is no such thing as being doomed; every man is his own master--he can mould his life as he likes."
"Can he? That depends upon the man. I am not going into the mystery of fate and free will. There is the question of temperament--hereditary instinct. If I cannot have intellectual society--new ideas--variety--I must die. I could not lead the life you live here--not life, but stagnation."
"I have the books I love, this dear park, and all the lovely country round us--horses--dogs--and some very pleasant neighbours: and I try to do a little good in my generation."
"All very well; but you are as much out of the world as if you were in the centre of Africa. I could not exist under such conditions. Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. This to me would be as bad as Cathay. But now I suppose you are going to be perfectly happy, now that your brother is coming home."
"Yes. I am always happy, when I have him--he is more and more companionable every day of his life."
Vernon was expected that afternoon. He was coming home for a summer holiday, just when summer was at her loveliest He was not bound by public school rules, or obliged to wait for the stereotyped watering-place season. The Jardines were to bring him over this afternoon, and were to stay at Wimperfield for a couple of days. Ida glanced towards the avenue every now and then, expecting to catch a glimpse of the approaching carriage between the leafy elms.
Brian strolled by her side with a listless air, smoking, and murmuring a few words now and then for courtesy"s sake. He had very little to say to his wife. She did not care for the things he cared for, or understand the kind of life he lived. She loved books, the books which are for all time; he was a mere skimmer of books and reviews--mostly reviews; and he cared only for new books, new ideas, new theories, new paradoxes. His cleverness was the cleverness of the daily press--the floating froth upon the sea of knowledge. He liked to talk to a man of his own stamp, with whom he could argue upon equal terms; but not to a woman who had steeped her mind in the wisdom and poetry of the past.