MRS. BEACHAM “RUNS RUSTY.”
It was, as I before said, the day previous to that appointed for the
wedding, and Mrs. Beacham, feeling slightly bemuddled and restless, and
being withal half, and only half, reconciled to her son’s marriage, was
passing a quiet hour in the large old-fashioned kitchen-garden, which
had formed for the best part of half a century her glory and her pride.
In the days before John’s engagement to Honor Blake, and when the mother
and son together ruled the household in harmony, and with a prudent yet
not illiberal hand, Mrs. Beacham had been remarkable for a quiet
cheerfulness of disposition and--making allowance for occasional
outbreaks--for a kindly temper. The world had hitherto gone well with
her, and she--in common gratitude bound--had gone well with the world.
What wonder was it, then, that Updown Paddocks, with its cheery,
hospitable mistress, and with “young John,” so pleasant as he was, and
open-handed, came to be well appreciated as a “good house,” to use a
rustic but expressive phrase, throughout the whole country side?
There was something anomalous, as may already have been noticed, in the
social position occupied by the wealthy owner of Updown Paddocks. A
simple yeoman by birth, but withal well educated--for he had passed
through the grammar-school, at which, according to his mother’s frequent
boast, more than half the pupils were “gentlemen’s sons”--John Beacham,
whose manners, if not fashionable, were such as to render him quite an
admissible guest, was nearly as frequently met with at the tables of the
middle-class aristocracy as at the humbler “boards” of those who might
be more correctly termed his equals. As a natural result also of his
profession as a horse-breeder (bear in mind, however, O captious reader,
with what an honest and unselfish steadiness of purpose that trade was
carried on), his intimate acquaintance amongst men socially very much
his superiors rapidly increased; and so great was the esteem in which
John Beacham, not only as an honourable man, but as one whose knowledge
of horse-flesh could not be denied, was held, that at the time of his
marriage with pretty Honor Blake it would have occasioned no surprise
to the Lord-lieutenant of the County had he been invited to meet at
dinner the man whose yearly sales of stock amounted on an average to
double the net-income of the acknowledged greatest man in Sandyshire.
Nor was Mrs. Beacham, after a fashion appreciated by herself, without
her share of the popularity and honours enjoyed by her son. It is true
that she was never included in the invitations over which her maternal
heart rejoiced. Never, even in a dream, had the stately old lady, in her
black lutestring dress, and her cap of finest Mechlin lace (a heirloom
in her family), found herself a guest at Gillingham Castle, at Clifton
Court, or even at the less-imposing table of sporting Dr. Thorpe, the
very reverend the Dean of the neighbouring episcopal town of Gawthorpe.
But the sensible old woman was quite content to be thus excluded: she
entertained very shrewd ideas, not only regarding old womanhood, but the
proprieties of life generally, and had not, at her age, to learn that,
even had all things besides been what she, in her simplicity, was wont
to call “suitable,” there remained the unanswerable fact that after a
certain age ladies cease to be ornamental, and as dinner-table guests
must therefore expect to be overlooked.
But although this autocratic middle-class dowager had been hitherto
philosophically content to remain in the background, it was more than
probable that she would take a different view of this highly important
matter, and would be less amenable to reason, should the beautiful
daughter-in-law, whose loveliness might, as the saying is, “adorn a
court,” chance to be more highly appreciated than herself by the society
to which her son was by courtesy admitted. Even, however, were that not
to be the case, there still remained the more than probability that the
homage which in John’s home had hitherto been paid to herself, to _her_
hospitality, _her_ “pleasantness,” and _her_ powers of causing social
enjoyment, would be shared by, if not indeed transferred to, the far
younger and more attractive woman who was so soon to make an inroad into
Updown Paddocks. Like many hospitable people, Mrs. Beacham was rather
inordinately fond of popularity, and the idea of sharing that popularity
with a young and winsome bride was eminently distasteful to her.
Ah, well indeed is it for us that the dark corners of our hearts can be
seen only by ourselves and by a God who judges mercifully. Our best
friends and our dearest relations--the wife of our bosom, and the
husband of our choice--might have to hold his or her breath with
surprise and consternation could a glance behind the unholy of unholies
be obtained, and what is thought and planned in those hidden corners be
brought to light. Honor Blake’s future mother-in-law was neither a
cold-hearted nor a cruel woman; and yet, as the time of her expected
deposition drew nigh, it is to be feared that not a few of the
reprehensible feelings which go far towards the making of a villain rose
up within her breast against John’s unoffending bride elect.
“Well, mother, and what’s the case with you? Jolly--eh?” exclaimed a
cheery voice behind the widow, as that grieving woman, with her head
bent lower than was usual with her, prepared to take a fourth turn along
her favourite walk. “Pretty bobbish--eh?” John repeated, attempting,
after the fashion of cheerful strong-nerved persons, to brighten the
countenance and enliven the spirits of the sorrowful by a loud voice and
unaccustomed sportiveness of language. “Speculating on the crop of
gooseberries, eh?” John added, offering his arm to his mother, who
accepted the attention with a sigh that boded ill for the success of her
son’s efforts. “Plenty of work this year in the preserving line, I
expect; I never saw a greater promise of fruit.”
“It wasn’t the gooseberries nor yet the currants I was thinking of,
John,” said Mrs. Beacham mournfully. “It’s to-morrow was in my head,
and I couldn’t help wishing, that I couldn’t, that Honor was more
steady-like, and older too, John, for your sake. It would be better by
half if she was nigher thirty than twenty. Why she’s little better than
a child, and it’s not so easy, let me tell you, to put old heads upon
young shoulders.”
John laughed hilariously. Naturally of a cheerful turn of mind, his
spirits, as the hour of his wedded happiness drew near, grew almost
boisterous, and although not given to the utterance of melodious sounds,
he could have sung aloud for very joy through every hour of that his
marriage eve.
“Thank you for nothing, mother,” he said good-humouredly; “I’m quite
content with my young woman as she is. Youth’s a complaint that’s pretty
soon got the better of with all of us, and Honor--Heaven bless her!--has
got more sense and judgment, child as she is, than many an older woman.
God grant I may make her life a happy one!” he added, raising his hat
reverently. “If it depends on me to do it, I’m not afraid but what
she’ll find all go smoothly at the Paddocks.”
There was a pause after this rather suggestive speech, a pause which
Mrs. Beacham filled up by mentally asking herself what John could mean.
Were his words intended to convey a hint? or, what was still more
hurtful to her maternal feelings, a _warning_? Could it be that John was
already preparing to mount guard over his precious Honor? Had he thus
betimes his lance in rest to defend her from domestic evils, from
imaginary wounds to be inflicted hereafter by her mother-in-law? The
thought flashed through her mind, bringing a look that was not
altogether pleasant to her still bright, bead-like black eyes: one
glance, however, at her son’s honest countenance was sufficient to make
her ashamed of having for a moment entertained the suspicion that he had
implied more than met the ear. He was in very truth incapable of aught
that was not thoroughly open and straightforward, and the mother who
bore him should have learned by long experience that the female art of
innuendoing was as foreign to his nature and habits as the making a
bonnet, or the concocting of a Sunday pie.
Mrs. Beacham, at the age of threescore years and ten, had not yet quite
passed the age of impulsiveness. She had wronged that kindly-natured son
of hers by a suspicion injurious to his habitual frankness, and to the
affection towards herself on which she had such good reason to rely, and
self-reproach rendered her for the moment both tender and apologetic.
“My dear boy,” she said, pressing his strong arm with her thin
be-mittened fingers, “it sha’n’t be _my_ fault if this marriage of yours
don’t turn out well. But I’m an old woman now, my dear, and you must
make allowances. It may go a little hard with me at first, too, to see
another cared for afore me, but I shall get used to that; and, John, you
may trust your mother, for how could I help loving the woman that was
good to my boy?”
“That’s right, mother,” said John heartily; “you couldn’t, I’m certain
sure of that. And Honor will be good; never fear for her. She may be a
trifle giddy and thoughtless, perhaps; though even if she’s that, I’ve
got to find it out; but her heart--the darling!--is in the right place,
and that, to my mind, is what signifies the most. I only wish you could
have seen her with those children of Clay’s! It would have done your
heart good. I declare, she’s been as patient as an angel with that
little pickle Tom, when I should have liked nothing better than to punch
his ugly head; and then as to taking care of one in sickness, you should
just hear Mrs. Clay talk of her! So quiet and so sensible; always giving
the medicines at the right time, and never a thought about herself, even
if she was nights upon nights kept out of her bed, poor girl. Why,
mother, she must be almost as clever about sick people as you are
yourself--and that’s saying a good deal, as I, who have had an illness
or two in my life, can witness to.”
The aged mother and her stalwart son were on the best possible terms by
this time, she leaning with an air of proud maternal content on his arm
as they stood together on the broad walk which ran along the far end of
the well-stocked garden. The view from that spot was an extended as well
as a pleasant one. Away beyond the bright green meadows, where the young
stock leaped and gambolled on the springy turf--away beyond the not
unpicturesque ranges of buildings suggestive of John Beacham’s lucrative
business--lay “hedgerow elms,” and hills gray-blue in the soft spring
sunshine, while to the right, beyond Clay’s Farm, where pretty Honor
Blake was making ready for her bridal, an extensive pine-forest gave
depth and “body” to the picture.
“Isn’t it pretty, mother?” John said. “I think the view from this walk
prettier every time I see it. She’s sure, Honor is, to like the
Paddocks; and only to think that to-morrow is to be our wedding-day; and
that in a fortnight--not more; for I don’t intend to be away longer from
you and home--only to think that in a fortnight my little Honor may be
standing here between us, listening to the nightingales, I hope; for
they’ll be singing in the hawthorn hedge, as they do every year, by
that time; and, O, mother, it all seems too bright and beautiful to be
true!”
There was a moisture, strong man though he was and iron-nerved, in
John’s clear brown eyes as he spoke of his coming joy, and his voice
trembled with emotion. The old lady noticed his agitation; and again her
heart was hardened, not against her son, but against the unconscious
object of his love.
“He never shed a tear, that I can remember, ever since he was a man
grown, for _me_,” was her silent reflection as they passed together into
the old farm-house. Mrs. Beacham was, as I have endeavoured to make
appear, very far from being an ill-disposed woman; and yet it was,
perhaps, just as well for John’s peace of mind that he knew nothing of
the strange complication of feelings which, albeit they owed their
origin to devotion towards himself, threatened, nevertheless, to make
shipwreck of the comfort and happiness of his idolised Honor.