Volume 2 — CHAPTER III. 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!