A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS.
Arthur Vavasour, in all that he had said to his brother regarding the
state of things at Updown Paddocks, had not willingly diverged a
hair’s-breadth from the truth. It had caused him more vexation than
surprise to learn that other voices besides the “still small” whisper of
his own conscience were beginning to enlarge upon a course of conduct,
the imprudence of which--to use no harsher term--had long been manifest
to himself. Young as he was in years, Arthur had not, after a _jeunesse
orageuse_, still to learn how soon and easily the fair fame of a woman
is breathed upon and tarnished. In more ways than one is the breath of
man poisonous to his fellows. Well did Arthur Vavasour know that while
he--the heir-apparent to wealth and honour--he, the strong man, armed at
all points for the battle of life--would come unscathed out of the
tainted atmosphere of suspicion, she, the tender bird exposed to its
baneful influence, would flutter her feeble wings, and fall killed
_morally_ by the strong insidious poison. Of this melancholy truth Sophy
Duberly’s affianced husband was as cognisant as the oldest sage that
lives; and yet so selfish was he and so graceless--you perceive that
there is nothing singular and abnormal in this young man’s character and
conduct--that he could not bring himself to forego a pleasure, many of
the infallible evils to result therefrom, he, in his rare moments of
reflection, so plainly foresaw.
His first visit to the Paddocks was the consequence (and this young
sinner sometimes twisted the fact into a strange kind of condonation) of
a pressing invitation from honest John himself. Partly from former
respect and affection for the deceased Squire, and in some degree from a
liking which he took to the open cheerful manners of the heir-apparent,
John Beacham seized the earliest opportunity of making that young
gentleman “free,” as it were, of the house in which his father had been
so frequent and honoured a guest.
Nor was John’s hospitable parent behindhand in her well-meant endeavours
to make Lady Millicent’s first-born understand that he was a welcome
guest at Pear-tree House. He was always “pleasant-spoken,” she used to
say, “without an ounce of milady’s pride about him.” “Young Mr. Arthur”
besides (and that was another important point in his favour) was very
far from making himself “common” in the houses, whether large or small,
of his lady mother’s tenants. I am afraid, after all, that this old lady
was--after the fashion of her class in _her_ day--something of a lord
lover. The taste has somewhat left that class of late years, rampant as
it still is on the higher rungs of the social ladder; and in Mrs.
Beacham it was only preserved, and that feebly, by some of the
traditions and associations of the past. She entertained an idea too
that the son in whom all her hopes and pride were centred was better
looked on, by reason of his acquaintance (professionally) with the
titled ones of the land. It may be doubted, indeed, whether this
simple-minded body did not, in some vague and unreflecting way, consider
John’s friendship, or rather familiarity, with a rich earl of sporting
proclivities, and the fact of his being, so to speak, “hand and glove”
with the heir of Gillingham, decided proofs, had any been wanting, of
her son’s general superiority to his fellow-men.
The fever of expectation and delight into which the usually sedate old
woman was thrown on the first occasion when John informed her that “Mr.
Arthur” was coming to see the “stock” and “take” his luncheon at the
Paddocks, afforded some amusement and not a little surprise to Honor.
For herself she hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that her
acquaintance with Mr. Vavasour was likely to be improved. That his
coming was not, by any means, a matter of indifference to her cannot be
denied. It could hardly be that the railway journey passed in his
company, short and uneventful though it was, had not left some trace of
it behind. Beautiful daughter of Eve though she was, never had eyes of
man rested on her face as those of Arthur Vavasour had done that day;
but although her vanity had been to a certain degree gratified by a
scrutiny which she had _felt_ rather than seen, yet she had, whilst
undergoing it, experienced a sensation of _malaise_--a nameless _fear_
almost--which caused her rather to shrink from a first meeting with
Arthur Vavasour. As regarded John, he took the event, for which his
mother was making such grand preparations, quite as a matter of course.
Beyond the fact that Mr. Arthur was the Squire’s son, and one to whom
the farmer gave credit for possessing hereditary virtues, the handsome
young man, who, as all the country knew, was engaged to the heiress of
Fairleigh, was no more to him than any other visitor at the Paddocks.
Not that honest John was the very least in the world what is called “a
leveller.” To “even” himself with those socially above him never
entered his head. The ambition which of all others is the most apt to
“o’erleap itself and fall o’ the other side”--the ambition, namely, of a
_churl_ to be a gentleman--was an infirmity quite unknown to the simple
mind of the Sandyshire farmer. He was absorbed, besides, rationally and
wholesomely, in his business, and that business, as John was quite
conscious, he thoroughly understood. A sense of superiority (that sense,
let it be remembered, being indorsed by the fiat of public opinion) is
apt to induce (even though that superiority may be evidenced in a
comparatively humble manner) a certain sense also of independence. This
sense, then, was a strong and healthy resident in John Beacham’s breast.
He knew--none better--that his knowledge of the business in which his
soul delighted was anything but superficial, and it was to him a source
of pride that his opinion in equine matters had grown to be treated as a
law. I repeat that John Beacham was no “leveller”. He was quite as ready
as his neighbours to “give tribute to whom tribute, and honour to whom
honour,” is due; but it was pretty much the same to him, provided that
the individual in question knew _something_ about horse-flesh, whether
guest of his were prince or peasant, duke or dog-breeder. His thoughts
ran entirely on his stock, and his mind was so fully engrossed by the
future of his yearlings that he felt literally none of that common
sensation of “not-at-homeishness” which is apt to render individuals in
John’s somewhat anomalous position both awkward and uncomfortable.
Few men in any rank of life could be pleasanter as a host than the owner
of Updown Paddocks. At his hospitable board, the rich and “great,” and
even the self-important, “forgot to remember” that they were
condescending. A native politeness induced by entire forgetfulness of
self placed him on a par with the most exalted, the most fastidious, and
the most sensitive. But, above all things, let it be remembered that he
was _true_--true to the backbone. The air of the “stable,” as I have
before said, had instilled no principles of trickery into John Beacham’s
breast, and, as Cecil Vavasour had once been heard to remark, he would
as soon expect one of John’s _fillies_ to be capable of entering into a
conspiracy to defraud, as that his old friend would in a single instance
depart from the strict rules of honour and integrity.
* * * * *
“Now then, Honor, look sharp; I can’t have any dawdling to-day. When
gentlemen come to lunch at the Paddocks, they expect, and so does John,
to find everything good. You won’t soil your white hands, that I don’t
think likely, with helping in the setting on; but you might gather a few
flowers for the beanpots all the same, and if there’s time afterwards
you can change your gown afore Mr. Arthur comes. A silk one would look a
deal better than that washy muslin. I’m sure John, poor fellow, gave you
plenty of smart dresses, and you needn’t begrudge the wearing one of
them now and then.”
Honor, who had already learned that there is ofttimes wisdom in keeping
silence even from good words, proceeded with cheerful alacrity to the
execution of one at least of her appointed tasks. The tasteless
arrangement of those same “beanpots” had long been to her a source of
minor discomfort, and often had she longed to work, with deft and dainty
fingers, a reformation in the huge overgrown posies with which it was
Mrs. Beacham’s pleasure to adorn the windows of the “best parlour” in
the old farm-house. A very snug and pleasant room it was, and would have
been a pretty one, could Honor have effected the change she was often
planning, namely, that of introducing French windows instead of the
old-fashioned lattices, which let in so little light, and impeded the
view outside so greatly. And, as if to make the room still darker,
there were, ever and always, those dreadful beanpots standing never an
inch out of their respective places on the spider-legged pembroke tables
in front of the latticed panes. It was wonderful, Honor sometimes
thought, how flowers could be made to look so little attractive as those
which old Mrs. Beacham was in the habit of packing together for the
adornment of her show parlour. The old lady’s floral tastes were of the
massive and gorgeous school. She delighted in peonies, and many-coloured
dahlias were her passion. Honor had more than once attempted a reform in
this delicate branch of household duty; but Mrs. Beacham, who had no
opinion of her daughter-in-law’s taste, had hitherto declined her
offers, and nothing short of a press of business on the occasion of Mr.
Vavasour’s visit would have caused the busy old autocrat to break
through a fixed habit of her life.
Honor wondered to herself, as, with her large garden-hat shading her
eyes from the sun, and a flower-basket on her arm, she bent over a
favourite plant rich with pinks in brilliant blossom, dropping at the
same time one of the treasures into her basket, whether Mr. Vavasour had
the least idea what a commotion his coming to the house for half an hour
was causing. She caught herself marvelling too whether he liked the
smell of roast beef and cabbage: for the house had been redolent of
both when Honor gladly exchanged the scene of bustle and confusion, and
the aroma of a meal more plentiful than refined, for the fresh air of
heaven and the perfumes of the roses and the pinks. She did not hurry
over her task. There was time enough before the arrival of their guest
for a little more dallying with the flowers, a few more quiet thoughts
over how she would look, and what _he_--that half-dreaded new
acquaintance--would say to her. Honor had not the slightest intention of
complying with the last of her mother-in-law’s injunctions; the “washy”
dress--it was of soft blue muslin, and the girl looked like a bright
azure flower in it, as she flitted about between the rows of
fruit-bushes, culling the dear old “common” flowers that are still to be
found in such ancient kitchen-gardens as the one that appertained to
Pear-tree House--the “washy” dress that had provoked Mrs. Beacham’s
animadversion was not, Honor determined, to be cast aside. Since the
affair of the bonnet, she had resisted all attempts at interference with
her toilet. The day too, as the sun rose higher and higher in the
heavens, had grown oppressively hot, so hot that her fair face was a
little flushed, and she loosened the strings of her hat that the light
summer breeze might blow more freely round her throat. The coolest spot
in all the garden was the terrace-walk, a little raised above the level
of a shady lane, into which those above could look over the trimmed
sprays of what John--who loved the place, and smoked his quiet pipe
there often in the summer evenings--was wont to call the “nightingale
hedge.” With Honor too the terrace was a favourite resort: she would
take her book there, or her work, and sit dreamily on the rough stone
bench for hours, till summoned home by the shrill voice of her
mother-in-law, who, being essentially a woman of action, had no patience
with the “idle ways of John’s silly chit of a wife.” On that especial
day, however, Honor had no time to waste in reverie. She would, she
thought only rest for a moment under the shade of the old thorn-tree;
the sun shone so glaringly down upon the teeming apple-trees, on the
clean-kept rows of strawberry-beds sloping downwards to the gravelled
walks, yellow and glowing in the midday heat. Honor could not, however,
long remain, pleasant as it was, in that cool breezy place. Only a
moment to pluck a sprig of sweet syringa from a shrub of ancient date,
growing near the hawthorn-tree; only a moment to hear--Well! What did
she hear? Why, the slow footsteps of a horse, advancing with even pace
along the lane below! Instinctively she rose from her seat, and peering
over the hedge, she recognised in the equestrian, who politely raised
his hat from his head (for a simultaneous movement had caused him to
look towards the terrace), the figure of Arthur Vavasour.
It was too late to retreat, her blushing face was just above him, and
she could only hope that he would not think her very _missyish_ and
forward. _That_ road--the one that he had chosen--was not the usual one
from Gillingham to the Paddocks, and this, Honor, feeling and seeming a
good deal confused and awkward, endeavoured to make him understand. She
had forgotten, or rather she had never heard, the proverb, that _qui
s’excuse, s’accuse_; but Arthur both remembered and applied it. It is
always a temptation to jump at conclusions that are flattering to our
vanity, and the “jump” on this occasion was far too alluring to be
withstood. Arthur had in good truth very little grounds for supposing
that Honor had betaken herself to that quiet spot for the purpose of
awaiting his arrival. He was profoundly ignorant, beyond the simple fact
that she was beautiful, of all that appertained to or regarded John
Beacham’s wife. Unfortunately too he had been a good deal thrown among a
class of women, who would have taken no great shame to themselves had
they been caught in the deed for which he gave that pretty,
unsuspecting Honor credit. Arthur had met with a good deal of petting
and spoiling from the sex in general. He was handsome, and he knew it.
Honor was looking tantalisingly lovely and attractive as she stammered
forth her silly, smiling excuses; so--it was foolish certainly, but he
was not yet “of age,” remember, and it would have been so “muffish” to
ride on as if she were not there--so Arthur Vavasour, following the
impulse of the moment, and meaning, as he would have said, no more than
to be “civil,” contrived (without awkwardness, which would have been
fatal in such a case) to spring with his feet upon the saddle, and to
bring his face on a level with Honor’s.
She could not help laughing; it was “such a foolish thing to do;” and
then there came, after he had shaken hands with her over the hedge, the
fear that the horse would move on, and that there would be an
“accident.”
“He might move on--O, please don’t wait!” she said, feeling a little
smitten with what struck her as an act of chivalry on the part of that
good-looking young aristocrat.
“He won’t stir--he knows better,” Arthur said, as he steadied himself
against a strong ash sapling that jutted out from the bank. “Steady,
will you!” to the animal, who was picking out the tender blades of
grass for his own especial eating from among the ground-ivy, the
delicate cranesbill, and the wild violets with which the pretty rural
fence was lined. “He knows this road, and so do I, of old. Jack was my
father’s cob, Mrs. Beacham--one of _your_ father-in-law’s breeding, and
he used always to come this way to the Paddocks.”
It was a pretty way--the prettiest, Honor thought and said--from the
Castle; not that she had ever been the whole road--far from it, she
said. It was a beautiful way, people told her, all through, but she had
never been nearer to the Castle in her life than the end of
Pender’s-lane. John did promise to take her farther when he had the
time, and she was going to learn to ride, and horses were allowed in
many places inside the Chace where a carriage wasn’t, so John said, and
if so, why she might some day see, without giving trouble, she added
meekly, a little of the beautiful place of which she had heard so much.
Arthur professed himself delighted to think that he could afford the
wife of his old friend pleasure in any way; mentally regretting that,
owing to his insecure footing on old Jack’s saddle, he could not be
quite as delightful as he wished, or as the occasion deserved.
“It will be awfully jolly to have you on horseback,” he said, “and
Beacham will mount you in something like style.”
“O yes,” Honor said eagerly, “there is a chestnut--such a beauty! John
calls her Lady Meg--that he is breaking for me; not a pony--quite a tall
horse; and--O Mr. Vavasour, I told you so! Have your hurt yourself?”
She was answered by a laugh from below, and by the cheerily-spoken
words, “All right!” as Arthur, who had suddenly, and _nolens volens_,
found himself reseated in his saddle, rode away.
Once more left to the companionship of her own thoughts, Honor began to
think how foolish it had all been; and then came the speculation as to
how Mrs. Beacham would take the news (for it seemed a very important
event to simple-minded Honor) of Mr. Vavasour’s escapade. If Honor had
not been afraid of her stepmother (which she was), it would all have
been plain-sailing enough. It had been a purely accidental meeting--no
harm had been intended--and certainly Honor could not be called to
account for the foolish risking of Mr. Vavasour’s bones. All this, and
more, the perplexed and tired girl repeated to herself as she walked
slowly on towards the house, thinking how best to tell the little story
which was already assuming in her eyes the features of an “event.”
To her surprise--for she had fancied he would be waylaid by John, and
carried off at once to see the “stock”--she perceived, through one of
the parlour-windows, Mr. Vavasour sitting on the ponderous sofa covered
with peony-patterned chintz, and in amiable converse with his hostess,
who was doing her best, in more ways than one, to entertain him. In a
few more minutes Honor was in the room, and--_mirabile dictu!_--shaking
hands with Arthur Vavasour. It was very evident that for some reason or
other--_what_, Honor would have found it difficult to determine--he had
kept the fact of that very innocent meeting on the terrace-walk a
secret. Honor hardly knew whether to be relieved or sorry that he had
done so. That she could do otherwise than follow his lead, never for a
moment, strange as it may seem, occurred to her. The nature of this
young wife was rather an ease-loving one, and to be spared the listening
to Mrs. Beacham’s diatribes was felt by her to be a great boon; so she,
unwisely it must be owned, held her peace, keeping Arthur’s secret
(alas, that there should have been one, of even the most insignificant
description, between those two!) alike from the cantankerous old lady,
and the husband who had as yet given her no cause to fear that he would
ever be severe either on her follies or her faults.