Volume 3 — CHAPTER XXII. JOHN GIVES WAY.

When John Beacham, after his worse than fruitless search after his missing wife, returned, which he at once did, to the Paddocks, Mrs. Beacham, though by no means addicted to sudden alarms, was startled by the change which a few short hours had wrought in his outer man. The soft spring evening was beginning to draw in, and the scent of the honeysuckle was filling the air, when the old lady, catching the sound of horse’s hoofs (Tom Simmons’s thoughtful care for the master whom he loved had prompted him to have Black Jenny in waiting at Switcham for the chance of John’s return), laid down the knitting which was her unfailing occupation after dark, and stood beneath the blossoming woodbine that Honor loved, waiting to greet her son. He rode forward very slowly—so slowly that Mrs. Beacham, who had been accustomed for years to the brisk walk, verging on a trot, at which the best rider in Sandyshire was in the habit of bringing in his horse, imagined for a moment that it could not be really John who came at such a lingering, lagging pace towards his home. But if the mother, who knew his ways so well, thought that the step of her son, or rather that of his good black steed, was strangely altered, how much greater was the shock of surprise when, by the failing light, she looked upon John’s careworn face!

Throwing himself in a listless fashion, widely different from his accustomed energetic movements, from the saddle, he stood by the old woman’s side beneath the rustic porch, she looking up with sad inquiry (for the suspense and worry of the last six-and-thirty hours had quelled her spirit) into her son’s dulled and altered eyes.

“O, John!” she said pitifully, “dear, dear John!” and then turning her head aside, for the strong-minded old woman scorned her own weakness, she in secret wiped away the tears which the sight of poor John’s misery had wrung from her aged eyes.

He put her very gently aside, so gently that none could see the action, and then striding in with a firm step to his own business-room, he closed and locked the door. Truly he was in no mood either to endure pity or submit to the questionings even of the mother who bore him. The return to his home, to the sight of familiar faces gazing at him with the compassion which was so hard to bear, had been in itself a severe trial to the proud man, to whom a good name was a treasure beyond, price, and who could never—never, as he repeated with a terrible monotony to himself—hold up his head again. But grievous as these trials were, there was worse, much worse remaining behind; for the death of that poor young woman, who had so short a time before been full of life and happiness, lay (indirectly, it is true, but still it did lie—John never deceived himself on that point) on his own miserable head; and the weight of that death and the dread of it pursued him as might the swift footsteps of an avenging spirit, even into the stillness of his closet. Turn which way he would, all seemed dark around him. Alone henceforth, and while life should last (for since the evident impossibility on Arthur Vavasour’s part to deny that he had seen Honor in London, the last ray of hope as regarded her virtue had been swept away)—alone in his deserted home—alone with his shame and his disgrace—what wonder was it that John Beacham, in the silence and solitude of his chamber, should have given way to a despondency that was twin-brother to despair?

A tap at the door, not a delicate or gentle one, for there were no genteel and well-trained servants at the Paddocks, roused the master of the house from the kind of stupor of grief into which he had fallen.

“A letter, please, sir,” said a voice outside—the voice of Hannah, who, not finding her summons for admittance, promptly answered, had “tried the door,” and that method of ingress having proved an unsuccessful one, she, with laudable perseverance, had hit upon another plan for the attainment of her object.

“A letter, please, sir,” and, in a lower voice at the key-hole, “I think it is from the young missus.”

The words, as Hannah had anticipated, acted like a charm. In a moment the door flew open under John’s eager hand, and seizing the letter (it was the one which Honor had written previous to her departure, and which had remained ever since its delivery under Hannah’s watchful care), he speedily succeeded, though the daylight was waning fast, in making himself master of its contents.

As he read the simple words—very simple they were, and childish, but each one carrying with it a proof of the writer’s innocence and truth—the light of hope dawned once more on poor John’s darkened brain, and big tears of gratitude broke from his wearied eyes. Surprised, worn out both physically and mentally, for he had been more than thirty hours without rest or food, he could at first scarcely bring himself to understand the relief which, nevertheless, he felt was a great and blessed one. Laying his head down on his folded arms, with one short but fervent ejaculation of thankfulness hovering on his parched lips, the man whose iron frame had hitherto seemed almost impervious to fatigue, and proof against the ordinary ills that flesh is heir to, grew gradually insensible to outer things, losing all sense whether of joy or sorrow, in the heavy and lethargic slumber which is too often the precursor of serious illness.

Once and again, treading softly and on tiptoe, the old woman, anxious and miserable, stole to the side of the motionless figure, wondering at this unnatural quiet. But Hannah bade her not to worry herself.

“It’s just nothing but being fairly worn out,” she said, “and who’s to wonder, I should like to know?” she went on defiantly. “A man, if he’s as strong as Samson, can’t abear being worritted for ever. Any way,” the worthy creature said to herself, “I’m glad I kept the letter, maybe missus would have nobbled it; so she might. There’s never no knowing what some folks is up to;” and Hannah chuckled inwardly, as she set the tea-things in preparation for the master’s waking.

But neither on that occasion, nor for many a day afterwards, did “the master,” who was so beloved by all who knew him, join in the daily meals, the regular partaking of which those who lead a simple life in farmhouses are wont to consider as absolutely necessary for the sustainment of the vital principle existing within the human frame. John awoke from the death-like slumber into which he had fallen with shivering limbs and an aching head; symptoms which even Mrs. Beacham’s limited experience told her denoted the commencement of a violent fever; and such in fact it proved. For many days John’s life was in serious danger; in such danger that the country folk, coming from miles around to learn news of his condition, lingered about for hours near the door, expecting—fearing to hear the worst. In such danger, that the poor old woman, his mother, knew no rest either by night or day, for at the pillow on which the fevered head lay tossing restlessly, she listened remorsefully to his delirious ravings, ravings in which were mingled in strange confusion the names of his lost Honor and of Arthur’s “murdered” wife.