LADY MILLICENT CONDESCENDS.
Family prayers were over at the Castle. The ladies and gentlemen, who I
fear were very little the better for the ceremony, and the servants,
who, if they prayed at that time in the morning at all, would probably
have infinitely preferred doing so in their so-called “closets” than
under the eyes of their employers, had each and all risen from their
knees; and breakfast, never much of a meal, according to the young men’s
view of the matter, was in progress.
“A fine day for the wedding, eh?” remarked Arthur. “I’m glad you’re
going, ma’am; John is one of the best fellows going. I owe him some
attention for teaching me to ride. A deuced stick, too, I was at first,
and a precious deal of trouble I gave him. There is nothing like
beginning early though, and John was as patient as--”
“Well, as patient as what, or who?” asked Lady Millicent, noticing that
he hesitated--she being one who, in the smallest as well as the most
important occasions of life, never obeyed the valuable rule, _Glissez
mortels, mats n’appuyez pas_.
“O, I don’t know!” replied Arthur, who hated having what he said
investigated--torn into threads, as he called it--by his lady mother.
“Nothing particular. I believe, though, that I was going to say--as a
woman.”
“I daresay,” sneered Lady Millicent; “your experience in that line has
been too extensive for the simile not to strike you at once.”
Arthur bit his lip to keep down the retort that had risen to his tongue.
He was not so well disposed as he had a year before shown himself to be
to bear in a patient spirit the being snubbed and tyrannised over. A
lengthened absence, together with the flattering attention everywhere
shown to the heir-apparent of Gillingham--to say nothing of the
matrimonial engagement which made him feel so like a man--were all in
their different degrees responsible for the symptoms of rebellion that
were rife within him. Lady Millicent looked, too, according to Arthur’s
fancy, especially provoking on that bright spring morning. The almost
shabby “slight” mourning in which--for economy’s sake, as the world
supposed--it was the wealthy-widow’s pleasure to deck herself, looked
terribly out of keeping with the sunshine of the “glad new year,” and
with the bright fresh flowers (a cheap luxury) never absent from the
breakfast-table at Gillingham Castle, and which, on that especial
morning, were redolent of votive offerings to the first of May. It was
sad to think that at that breakfast of herbs (Lady Millicent did not
approve of stalled-ox-feeding so early in the day), and so soon after
the return of the first-born son, that son should be constrained to
strive--but happily not in vain--to keep his temper.
The hour of eleven had struck by the clock of the Switcham parish church
when, punctual to the moment, there was seen driving up the gentle
ascent leading to the picturesque old gothic building, Lady Millicent’s
open carriage, drawn by the powerful high-stepping pair of brown horses,
half-brothers, bred by John’s father, and sold by him ten years before
for a “long figure,” for the use of the Lady Millicent Vavasour. John
Beacham took an honest pride--aged animals though they were--in those
horses; and when from the elevated spot in the churchyard on which he
was standing he caught sight of their grand “tops,” and heard the rapid
footfall of the powerful thorough-breds on the gravelled road beneath,
the memory of his dead father rose up strong within him, and John, ere
he stepped forward hat in hand to welcome the liege lady of Gillingham,
passed his honest hand over his eyes, to brush away the moisture that
had gathered on their lids.
The little church, as Lady Millicent, with her two daughters, walked
slowly up the aisle, was filled to overflowing with eager sight-seers.
From the moment it became generally known that the great family from the
Castle had graciously condescended to honour John Beacham’s marriage
with their presence, public interest in that event had risen to its
height. Already the wedding presents graciously sent to the oldest and
most respected tenant on the Gillingham estates had been duly inspected
and admired, and the miniature bust in bronze of “the late lamented
Cecil Vavasour, Esq.,” a dozen or two of which had been cast by Lady
Millicent’s orders for such occasions as the present, had been duly
forwarded the day before as a mark of esteem to the owner of Updown
Paddocks, had been passed round among the friends and acquaintances
assembled at Clay’s Farm, and received its meed of approval.
The simple people were a little puzzled by the ponderous ornament
destined to grace the delicate throat of the bride. It was “milady’s”
gift, and therefore safe from either animadversion or suspicion; but,
under other circumstances, it is just possible that some few judicious
critics--the ladies especially--might have been tempted to pronounce
the “pebble” brooch, in its thin setting of pale chased gold, not only
an ugly but a parsimonious gift. That _noblesse oblige_ formed no
portion of Lady Millicent’s creed was a fact that in some way or other
had come to be, perhaps, dimly suspected by the little world over whom
she reigned. It would take a long time, however, and an enlarged
experience of her ladyship’s meanness, selfishness, and general
incapacity, before the _fact_ of those proclivities would become an
accepted truth by those whose fathers had lived in the good old “God
save great George our King!” days, and who had been brought up to
believe in the Vavasours of Gillingham. The memory of the good Squire
still lingered amongst them. There were stories yet extant of his
kindliness, his forgetfulness of self, his open-handed charity, and his
rare and simple common sense. What wonder, then, that with the savour of
his good deeds yet lingering about the widow, there should still be
found a few ready to respect where she respected, and willing to honour
those whom “milady” delighted to honour?
The church was then, as I have already said, crowded with people, when
Lady Millicent sailed graciously down the aisle, clad in the rustling
black-silk dress which the curtseying school-children had known so long,
and which had brushed their humble skirts so often. The bride was
momentarily expected, and when the excitement caused by Lady Millicent’s
entry had subsided, and she was comfortably seated in the rectory pew,
all heads were turned towards the door in momentary expectation of
another and a still more important arrival.
The manner of Miss Blake’s coming was well known to the initiated. There
were no high-stepping brown horses to convey _her_ to the
churchyard-gate; and if the arrival of the first performers in the
little drama were delayed, it was probably because the wheels of the
Leigh “fly” tarried in the narrow lanes (deeply rutted by the passage of
Farmer Clay’s wagons) which led up to the farm-house. It was an ancient
vehicle, and had been called originally, I believe, a barouche-landau,
which had been called into requisition to convey the bride and as many
of the Clay family as could conveniently be packed into it to the
village church that day.
“Make yourselves as small as you can, children, for fear of tumbling
Honor’s frock,” the good-natured farmer had said as he deposited his two
delighted little girls in the roomy carriage, and then, his own portly
person being perched on the box-seat, the equipage drove off. The party,
with the exception of the bride, who was rather pale and thoughtful, was
in high spirits; and if the Leigh “fly” did smell a trifle mouldy, and
if the busy hungry moths had drilled a few round holes in the dingy drab
lining, why what mattered it to them? It was none the less able to carry
bright Honor Blake to her bridal; none the less in the children’s eyes a
grand part of the brilliant pageant which would, for many a day to come,
render that sweet first day of May a bright spot in their memories.
“O, mother! if there isn’t milady’s carriage!” exclaimed Ruth, a rather
precocious young lady of ten, who had very unwillingly abdicated in
favour of that “owdacious” Jenny the honour and glory of holding the
bride’s bouquet at the altar; and Mrs. Clay, as she afterwards expressed
herself, was “struck all of a quiver” with the shock of perceiving that
the Castle carriage had arrived before them. Through the little iron
gate between the yew-trees, which was set wide open to receive them--and
very near to which Honor, in her agitation, did _not_ perceive the two
young men, Lady Millicent’s sons, standing to witness the rural
show--the simple _cortège_ passed. Mr. Clay, a sturdy yeoman-like
looking man, attired in a Sunday costume, in which he never either
seemed or felt at home, tucked the bride, to whom he was about to play
the part of father, tightly under his arm, and the rest following, they
walked slowly up the rising ground between the rows of commemorative
tombstones to the church.
There was a slight movement, and a faint murmur of “Here she comes,” as
the fair white-robed figure, her slight form half-concealed by a long
floating veil--neither Honiton nor Mechlin, yet it served the purpose
well--was first caught sight of, passing behind the old baptismal font.
The faint blush that had risen over neck and brow as Honor entered and
_felt_ the gaze of many eyes upon her deepened into crimson as she
neared the altar. Then a sudden change came over the clear complexion
which had been but a moment before glowing as a rose, and “from that
out,” as Mrs. Tamfrey, who was present, was afterwards heard to say,
“the bonny bird looked for all the world as if she had seen a ghost.”
As for happy honest John Beacham, he played, as is generally the
melancholy fate of bridegrooms, a very secondary part on the occasion.
“M.,” all-important as he really is, sinks in his bran new coat and
waistcoat, into something even less than insignificant by the side of
the peerless creature in her robes of innocence, with the symbolic
wreath upon her “shining hair.” No one but his mother thought much of
John as he stood side by side with “the Irish gurl,” and in a clear
manly voice pronounced the vows that bound him to her whilst life
should last. To the elderly woman, about to sink into the mild dignity
of dowagerhood, that tall, broad-shouldered man, with his thick wavy
hair, his clear blue eyes, and, as the worthy woman often boasted, his
“wholesome” skin, was a far more important personage than that “slip of
a girl” who had, at an age when he ought to have known better, made such
a fool and “ninny” of her only son. Her eyes, from the moment that he
entered the church, never for a moment left his face. The demon of
jealousy, which in the solitude of her home she had in some degree
successfully combated, returned with redoubled force at the sight of
John’s proud and radiant face, filled with a tenderness which gave quite
a novel expression to his sun-burnt features.
The ceremony was no sooner over than Lady Millicent, who was known to
take a great lady’s gracious interest in the domestic affairs of her
tenantry, came forward with extended hand and wished the young people
joy. The little speech which she made on the occasion was listened to
with the outward appreciation and respectful attention usually accorded
to the platitudes of the powerful. Possibly John Beacham, whose young
wife’s hand was trembling on his arm, would have preferred silent good
wishes to this outward and highly-flattering demonstration of goodwill.
Honor, too, blushing as she was beneath the gaze of a church-full of
wonder-seekers, would gladly have escaped to the cool vestry, whence, by
a quiet path beneath the old yew-trees, she and John would have gained
the neat new brougham which he had purchased for his bride, and which
was in waiting to receive her. But this was not to be. Not to be, at
least, until Lady Millicent had gone through the ceremony of alluding in
gratifying terms to her late husband’s interest in, and she might almost
say (Lady M. was certainly wonderfully condescending) her friendship
for, John; not to be till, holding the bride’s hand within her own (an
_honour_ which it is to be hoped that young woman fully appreciated),
she had expressed a gracious hope that Mrs. John would prove worthy of
her mission upon earth--namely, that of being a true and obedient wife,
and a devoted mother to the children with whom Providence might deign to
bless her union.
“A very neat and appropriate speech,” laughed Horace, as the two young
men sauntered out of the churchyard. “I should have liked to put in
something poetical and complimentary about the ‘bridal of the earth and
sky,’ for, by Jove! she looks a good deal too delicate and ethereal to
be John Beacham’s wife.”
“She is very beautiful, certainly,” Arthur responded. “I hope it will
answer; but somehow those sort of marriages don’t always end as well as
they begin;” and having thus lucidly delivered himself, they walked on
for a short while in silence.