UNSTABLE AS WATER.
Time was speeding away in the fair grounds of Danescourt; the
trotting-match had been trotted, and the rat-tailed horse had won the
race. Colonel Norcott was triumphant; and the _déjeuner à la fourchette_
had put everyone--men, women, and children--more or less, into still
higher spirits than before. As yet, Honor, not at all, as we know, to
her surprise, had seen nothing of Arthur Vavasour. The latter had given
tolerably truthful reasons for his change of purpose. “Circumstances
over which” he believed that “he had no control” were accountable for
his appearance at Danescourt that day; but that he had greatly rejoiced
in silence over those same adverse circumstances was a corollary with
which he had not found it necessary to garnish his statement. And yet
the same reasons for his absence, which had before appeared to him such
wise and prudent ones, were in as full force _now_ as they had been
when Arthur Vavasour decided in his own mind that he would be insane to
place himself at the same time within sight and reach both of his
_fiancée_ and the woman whom absence had only rendered still more dear
to him.
“I will not go near her, I will only watch her from a distance; my
beautiful Honor! my sweet fairy rose! And it shall be the last time, the
very last! In a short time--ah, how very short!--the die will be cast;
my fate will be sealed, and I shall be hundreds of miles away, with only
the memory of my darling to link me with the past.”
Some such thoughts as these--selfish, self-pitying, wicked
thoughts--were passing through Arthur Vavasour’s mind when Colonel
Norcott met him on the course, and lightly talked to him of his love.
And since that moment,--while joining groups of acquaintances, uttering
unmeaning love-speeches into the ear of his betrothed, or endeavouring
to assume an interest which he felt not in the fate of Farmer Scroop’s
rat-tailed trotter--he never for many moments together lost mental sight
of Honor Beacham, never ceased to remember that at any turn of the road,
under any spreading tree--where smiles and merriment, and the ringing
sounds of youthful voices, and the pretty colouring of woman’s dress
gave life and animation, he might chance to see his lovely Honor, and
there perchance betray, by an unguarded word or look, to other eyes than
Norcott’s the secret of his heart.
But if Arthur Vavasour thought a good deal during those swiftly passing
hours of Honor Beacham, that rather _insouciante_ young woman did not (a
fact which, had he known it, would not have greatly improved the temper
of her admirer) trouble her pretty little head much about him. That she
should not so have done (albeit Mr. Vavasour stood foremost in her mind
as the finished type of all that was handsome, agreeable, and
accomplished) is very easily to be accounted for. The scene to Honor was
so deliciously new, and so untiringly interesting. Never, during that
short life of hers, had she witnessed anything so gay, so grand, or so
fascinating. In the dresses of the ladies alone she could have feasted
her unaccustomed eyes for hours; and when to these was added the charm
of their contagious laughter, and the latent enjoyment of knowing
herself to be both observed and admired, can we wonder that Honor should
scarcely have found time to greatly regret the absence of her friend?
Once, indeed, she thought of him; thought of him too very sadly, as of
one who was far away, and whom it might be very long, years perhaps,
before she met again. It was the sound of the trumpets and trombones,
the brazen serpents and the wailing cornets, that touched the minor
chord of melancholy in her impulsive breast. The band had been (with the
regiment to which it belonged) to the Russian war, and the perfume of
glory, for those simple Sandyshire people, hung--though many a year had
passed since their return from “foreign parts”--about those military
musicians still. The air they played was that sad, yet stirring parting
one, that plaintive _Partant pour la Syrie_, which has so often fallen
upon loving hearts as the knell of buried hopes, the echo of farewells
between young loving hearts doomed never to meet this side the grave for
ever. Honor listened in dreamy silence to “the lengthened sweetness long
drawn out” of the suggestive notes, and then, in spite of surrounding
merriment and the shouts of boisterous mirth, the tears rose to her long
lashes, and but for very shame she could have turned aside to weep.
But it was only for a moment that the fancy of the impressionable Irish
girl flew back to, and rested mournfully on, those farewell scenes still
fresh in the memory of the young. The present was neither the occasion,
nor was she in the mood, to be sorrowful. Although there was no
delightfully agreeable gentleman to look his admiration, and to elevate
her by his ever-welcome sympathy to what that foolish Honor had begun to
think her rightful place in the social scale, yet life, and especially
life at Danescourt that day, contained for her a good deal that was
pleasant and enjoyable. And then, if the thought did cross her mind that
it would be very nice for Mr. Vavasour to be there, there came with that
thought the recollection that, even supposing him to be among the goodly
company assembled more as lookers-on than as participators in the sports
provided, would it be likely that with Miss Duberly in the grounds,
ready to claim her lover’s undivided attention, _he_ should have either
leisure or inclination to waste time upon his humbler friend? The answer
given by common sense to this query, though humbling, was very good for
Honor, inducing her to rest satisfied with the companionship of her
friends the Clays--the kind, hospitable, unsophisticated Clays--who were
always in the seventh heaven of delight at seeing her; albeit the
necessary farm business, and the four miles between the two houses,
rendered the meetings with “darling Honor” not so frequent as they were
desirable. John Beacham was always glad to welcome the Clays; and even
in that noisy crowd (Lady Guernsey’s _humble_ quests were feeling much
more at home since the inner man had been refreshed by creature
comforts)--even in that noisy crowd, he was quite satisfied of his
little wife’s safety and enjoyment, when his neighbour’s well-brought-up
children--including “big Affy,” the eldest born, a steady lad of
fifteen, who was already beginning to be a great help on the farm--were
surrounding his merry, happy-looking wife, while she, “God bless her!”
John sometimes said with a half-sigh, looked “a precious deal too young
for him, the darling! playing there with the young ones, like the child
she almost was.”
On the present occasion, Honor, seeing her husband walk away with his
friend Jack Winthrop (their two heads laid together in eager
conversation on some subject, probably equine, that demanded the
undivided attention of both), allowed herself to be beguiled (after
seeing her mother-in-law safely settled in a shady corner with her
faithful adherent Widow Thwaytes by her side) to a portion of the
grounds which she had not yet visited, but which, according to
description, was a perfect paradise of delight. In a shady dell, forming
an area of about three hundred yards in diameter, a little quiet
recreation had been, at the request of Lady Guernsey’s children,
prepared for the especial enjoyment of the small fry--_respectable_
small fry, _sous-entendu_--who had been bidden to the sports that day.
There, on the short well-kept turf, was the miniature croquet-ground
where the little Clays, with Honor Beacham as mistress of the revels,
and a few other children, the belongings of some of the more important
tenantry, were making the most of their holiday, and shouting gleefully
to one another in their uproarious play.
Such a “good time,” as the Yankees say, they had of it! Honor, the
happiest of the happy, looking, as she stood there with her
croquet-mallet in her hand, and stamping her small foot in playful
petulance at the stupidity of her partner (the pickle Tommy of her
governess-days), the impersonification of bright youth and unreflecting
joy.
“Now, Tommy, how could you, you stupid fellow! Why, that was _my_ ball;
you had no business to knock _that_ away. Now, mind what you are about,
like a good mite, and you shall have some _goodie-goodies_ when the game
is over.”
How pretty and animated she looked, while thus--acting on past
experience of his character--exciting the recreant Tommy to rational
behaviour by a bribe! That young gentleman seemed very far from amenable
to reason. A merry, dark-eyed, gipsy-looking boy he was, bent upon
tyrannous rule, while Honor, laughing at his tricks, was, with her two
little gloved hands upon his shoulders, holding him back with playful
determination that the other little ones, as this judicious umpire said,
might have a chance. She was for the moment entirely absorbed in the
childish game. Tommy, though an especial favourite, was, Honor
laughingly declared, “so naughty;” and then her womanly love of
protecting the weak had been called into play by the piteous appeal of a
blue-eyed girl of six, who tearfully claimed her championship against
the encroachments of that wicked Tom.
It was at that moment, and when the fun was growing more fast and
furious than the respective mothers of those unconventional guests would
have thought permissible, that a small group of spectators suddenly
appeared upon the scene. It consisted of Sophy Duberly, Horace Vavasour,
and two of Lady Guernsey’s young daughters, who had volunteered the to
them delightful task of introducing Miss Duberly to where the tenants’
children were, at a humble distance, aping their superiors at the
fashionable game which the young aristocrats believed in as a
_spécialité_ of their own.
“It’s such fun to see them,” said Lady Margaret; “they haven’t an idea
how to play! Julia and I have been watching them without their knowing
it, and they _are_ so stupid!”
This noble maiden, who was ten years of age, possessed a turn for
satire (which quality her mamma prudently suppressed. “It does not do,
you know, to encourage clever children to make remarks”); and it being
gratifying, as we all know, to find anyone performing anything worse
than we are capable of executing it ourselves, the little Lady Margaret
was well-pleased to act as show-woman of the plebeian sports, as they
were conducted that day. The approach of the party, walking slowly along
the greensward, was not noticed by the croquet-players (so exuberant was
the laughter that, not exactly, it is to be feared, under “sweet control
of gracefulness,” rang from their souls) till it was too late to look
conventionally demure, was not noticed, in short, till Lady Margaret and
her convoy were almost in the midst of Honor’s not very promising
scholars. She was the first to perceive them, and after a hurried
glance, one of the bright sudden blushes that was the most engaging of
its attractions spread over her beautiful face.
Sophy Duberly, like all those who saw Honor for the first time, was
struck, nay almost startled, by her loveliness. She longed to ask Horace
Vavasour the name of that peerless creature, but she was for the moment
obliged to restrain her curiosity; for they were almost within earshot
of the woman whom Horace knew so well by sight, knew too as the _rival_
of the gentle-natured heiress so soon to be his sister-in-law.
In common with all the world, the world at least of her own county,
Sophy had heard of the loveliness of the well-to-do farmer’s wife; and
in common too with many of her sex she had at one time felt some
curiosity to see the “Irish beauty” of whose marvellous attractions so
much within her hearing had been said. But the fleeting curiosity had
long since passed away, and the idea did not enter her head that the
blushing girl before her was identical with John Beacham’s bride. She
looked so little like a “common person’s” wife, so little indeed like
_any_ wife, as she stood there in her girlish grace, with her pretty
hat, her diaphanous dress, and looped-up skirt. Poor Leech might have
rejoiced over her as a perfect model of dainty damselhood; but I think
that Miss Sophy Duberly stands excused for not, on the spur of the
moment, surmising that Honor Beacham could be that commonplace and
necessarily unideal creature, a farmer’s wife!
The appearance on their playground of the formidable strangers, but more
especially the unlooked-for advent of their little ladyships, produced a
very serious effect on the spirits of the children. Suddenly, and as
though struck by the wand of some mysterious fairy, their laughter was
hushed, their little hands hung down, and even their round bright faces
seemed lengthened and less rosy.
“Go on; pray don’t let us stop you,” Sophy said good-naturedly. But it
was of no use, the spell was broken; and in spite of Honor’s smiling
attempts to restore tranquillity, and to make them feel at home, the
tenants’ ruddy-cheeked children refused to listen to the voice of the
charmer, even though that charmer was an affable young lady in one of
Mrs. Heath’s prettiest hats, and who was heiress to some eighty thousand
(at least, so said the voice of rumour) pounds per annum.
Honor was half-amused and half-provoked by the bashfulness which induced
this signal failure. “They are such tiresome little things,” she said,
with a shy smile, but not in the least awkwardly, and addressing herself
more to Miss Duberly than to Horace. Her own natural good taste
whispered to her that it was better (since that young lady had taken the
initiative) not to stand there like a person either waiting for an
introduction, or conscious of being too lowly placed to dare to speak
before her superiors. “They are so little used to strangers; they can be
merry enough though when they are by themselves.”
Horace was rather taken aback by Mrs. John’s proceeding; for he had
seen little of the world, and entertained rather old-fashioned ideas on
the subject of caste. That pretty girl’s relations too with his brother
were, or rather had been, peculiar; and Horace, as the wise head of the
family (whose doings and sayings he was, _tant soit peu_, given to
criticise and condemn), felt it incumbent on him--a false position
entails so many false moves--to be on this momentous occasion dignified
and formal.
Lifting his hat gravely from his fair curls (a luxuriant crop of waving
hair was the solitary beauty which he had inherited from his dead
father), Horace Vavasour said, with a mingled stiffness and urbanity,
worthy of the future “public man:”
“I believe that I have the honour of speaking to Mrs. John Beacham?”
On hearing this semi-interrogation, Miss Sophy Duberly, young lady of
the world though she was, made a slight, though very perceptible, start
of surprise. Although, woman-like, she had kept the feeling closely
concealed within the impregnable fastnesses of her own breast, this
young heiress had nevertheless experienced some of the jealous pangs
which female flesh is heir to, on becoming acquainted--in a partial
degree--with her lover’s frequent visits to John Beacham’s farm. That
she, an heiress, and, consequent on that favoured condition, a petted
beauty, should really be slighted for the farmer’s wife, or indeed for
any wife, was an idea that never entered simple little Sophy Duberly’s
head; but there nevertheless was a soreness--if anyone had dared to call
the feeling by the ugly name of jealousy she would have repelled the
charge indignantly--about that spot in the young girl’s memory, which
was connected with that beautiful Honor Beacham, and therefore it was
that she had not been able to repress that foolish little start, which
would have betrayed to any keen observer a mind not entirely at ease.
But although this was so, the kind feeling of the indulged heiress
towards a person so unmistakably her inferior (as the warehouseman’s
daughter, amiable though she was, believed Honor to be) induced the
bride-elect to attempt a task, in which, however, nature had been
beforehand with her--the task, that is to say, of preventing Mrs. John
Beacham from either looking or feeling, under these exceptional
circumstances, awkward or ill at ease.
“I am so sorry we interrupted you,” she was beginning, when a voice and
step behind her checked the words upon her lips. “Arthur!” she exclaimed
joyfully. “Ah, I was sure it was you! I thought you would come! But how
late it is!” And her two hands were held out for his acceptance
joyfully. His own were in hers, though, as Horace saw at once, he looked
worn and worried, when he perceived, though she had turned away on his
arrival, the presence there of Honor Beacham. Men, even the most
practised ones, are, when compared to women, poor dissemblers; so it
need cause no surprise that while Arthur Vavasour started, and displayed
a momentary agitation, Honor, on the contrary, betrayed not the
slightest sign or token of emotion. It might be that the very emergency
of the case gave her courage to play a part, for she guessed at once,
from the tone and manner of her greeting, that the affable young lady
was Mr. Vavasour’s promised bride, and--stronger reason still for
showing a fearless front--_she_, the petted, prosperous wife, had no
guilty feelings to conceal, no cause to shrink from the inquiring gaze
either of friend or foe.
She was very glad to see her friend, but she would have been better
pleased had their meeting been on horseback in the quiet lanes, or on
foot in the old-fashioned home-garden, where the pinks and roses were in
the full glory of their summer beauty. She had vaguely expected another
meeting there--not yet awhile, but when Arthur should come home again,
after the months she heard he meant to spend in foreign travel, and
when he would talk to her of all the curious sights that he had seen,
and all the marvellous adventures that had fallen to his lot. Half in
sadness, half in hope, Honor had indulged in all innocence this dream.
She had grown accustomed to his absence as to an inevitable necessity;
had taught herself to think of him as one to whom she had said (for the
time at least) a last “farewell;” and behold! there he was again,--tall,
handsome, with those tender caressing eyes looking, despite his future
bride’s presence, into hers, and the hand, the long-lingering pressure
of which she remembered, alas, too well, holding, for one _speaking_
second, her own within its clasp.
“We have been interrupting Mrs. Beacham, who was good-naturedly amusing
the children,” said Horace. “They were as merry as any little beggars
could be, weren’t they, Lady Margaret? before we came, and now they look
as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.”
“Won’t it?” said Arthur, laughing--he was always good-natured to
children, and especially to those that he had seen Honor pet. The little
Clays he was acquainted with, both personally and individually, and it
was even on record at the farm that the young Squire had given that
ne’er-do-weel boy Tommy his first lesson in the noble game of cricket.
“What, tired already! I never saw such idle brats! Here, you Tommy, run
and fetch the balls.”
But here Honor interposed. She did not want the children to be
troublesome; besides, the voice of conscience within her whispered that
Arthur Vavasour was in duty bound, so soon after his arrival, to devote
himself to his _fiancée_.
“You are very kind, Mr. Vavasour,” she said; “but I think that the
little ones must be tired; and Tommy,” stroking his swarthy cheek kindly
as he leant against the skirt of her fresh muslin dress, “is a bad boy,
and mustn’t be spoilt.”
Perhaps Arthur understood her, for he said no more about the croquet
game, nor did he, beyond a parting bow, respectful and commonplace, take
any notice of her departure, with little Tommy clinging to her skirt,
and the small blue-eyed girl, whose champion she had been, holding with
all the force of her tiny fingers Honor’s hand in hers.
“How pretty she is,” said Sophy, when they were out of hearing, “and so
well dressed and well behaved, too! She made quite a graceful curtsey as
she went away. I wonder where she learnt it.”
At that moment Sophy was utterly devoid of any jealous feelings towards
Mrs. Beacham. Hers was a very frank and unsuspicious nature, and
moreover, what was there to fear? Had not her dearly-loved Arthur been
instigated in his choice of her by love alone--a comfortable fact made
evident beyond dispute by the brilliancy of Mr. Vavasour’s future
prospects? In less than four years he would be one of the richest
commoners in England; how, then, could she entertain any of those
misgivings which are so apt to haunt the couch and damp the happy hopes
of young ladies in Miss Duberly’s position? But there was yet another
cause for the mind at ease with which “little Sophy” was blest, when,
leaning on the arm of her betrothed, she paid a not unwilling tribute to
Mrs. Beacham’s beauty. Ladies, more especially perhaps wealthy ones, are
often rather apt to overrate the influence of their ladyhood _per se_,
while the loveliness of women in a rank inferior to their own is shorn
in their opinion, and for the mere reason of that inferiority, of half
its powder to charm. The coldness, too, of Arthur’s parting salutation
was well calculated to reassure one so inexperienced in human wiles as
“old Dub’s” guileless daughter. How was she, poor child, to guess that,
while _her_ heart was throbbing with almost wild delight at the
unexpected happiness afforded by his presence, he, the faithless one,
while giving no outward signs of aught save pleasure in her beaming
smiles and tender words, was thinking only of the simplest, easiest way
in which to make his escape to Honor, and turning over in his mind the
least perilous words in which to reveal to the wife of his dead father’s
friend the fact that he adored her!