Volume 3 — CHAPTER VIII. JOHN BEACHAM MAKES A DISCOVERY.

People, especially imaginative ones, are apt to talk a good deal about coming shadows and presentiments of evil, becoming especially diffuse on the subject of the low spirits which they feel or fancy they have felt previous to any great and dire calamity. In my humble opinion such warnings lie entirely in the imagination, and, moreover, those who prate about this gift of second sight are apt to forget the million cases of unannounced misfortunes to be set against the isolated instances of anticipated evil. Amongst these million cases we may safely cite that of Honor Beacham on the afternoon of that famous Tuesday when, with complaisant Mrs. Norcott for her duenna, she strolled with Arthur Vavasour under the avenue of arching trees, then in their rich wealth of snowy beauty, which leads, as all the world well knows, to

Had Honor either been a few years older, less constitutionally light of heart, or more experienced in sorrow, she would never have been able so entirely—as was the case with this giddy young woman—to cast off the sense and memory of her woes. A reprieve after all is but a reprieve; and the consciousness that each moment, however blissful, serves only to bring us nearer to its termination, ought to and does fill the minds of the thoughtful with very sobering reflections. But, as I have just remarked, Honor’s constitutionally happy spirits buoyed her up triumphantly on the waters whose under-swell betokened a coming tempest, and throughout the two swiftly-passing hours which she spent in the beautiful park with Arthur Vavasour by her side, she, recklessly setting memory and conscience at defiance, was far happier than she deserved to be.

The “pale and penitential moon” was rising over the Hyde-Park trees as the open carriage drove into Stanwick-street, and Honor, half pale and remorseful too now that the hour was drawing near when she must think, promised, in answer to Arthur’s whispered entreaty, that no commands, no fatigue, no dangerous second thoughts, should cause her to absent herself that night from the theatre, where she was to enjoy one of their last pleasures, he reminded her, together. She ran upstairs—a little tired, flushed, eager, beautiful. Would there be—she had thought more than once of that as they drove homewards—would there be any letter for her upon the table in the little sitting-room where what Mrs. Norcott called a “heavy tea” was set out for their delectation? Would there—she had no time to speculate upon chances; for her quick eye soon detected a business-like-looking missive directed to herself, and lying on the table in front of her accustomed seat.

With a feeling of desperation—had she delayed to strive for courage the letter would probably, for that night at least, have remained unread—she tore it open and perused the following lines, written in her husband’s bold, hard, rather trade-like writing, and signed by the name of John Beacham:

“Dear Honor,—I suppose you have some excuse to make for yourself, though I can see none any more than my mother does. You seem to be going on at a fine rate, and a rate, I can tell you, that won’t suit me. I have been at the house you lodge at to tell you that I shall take you home with me to-morrow; so you had better be ready early in the day. My mother thinks you must have been very badly brought up to deceive us as you have done, and it will be the last time that I shall allow you to spend a day under your father’s roof.”

Poor Honor! Poor because, tottering, wavering between good and ill, it required but a small impetus, given either way, to decide her course. If it be true (and true indeed it is) that grievous spoken words are wont to stir up anger, still more certain is it that angry sentences written in moments of fierce resentment, and read in a spirit of rebellion and hurt pride, are apt to produce direful consequences. When Honor, with the charm of Arthur Vavasour’s incense of adulation still bewildering her brain, and with the distaste which the memory of old Mrs. Beacham’s society inspired her with strong upon her, read her husband’s terse and unstudied as well as not particularly refined epistle, the effect produced by its perusal was disastrous indeed. Dashing the passionate tears from her eyes, and with a wrench throwing off the dainty little bonnet and the airy mantle in which Arthur Vavasour had told her she was so exquisitely “got up,” she prepared herself to meet again at the New Adelphi the man whose influence over her, aided by the unfortunate circumstances in which she was placed, had more than begun to be dangerous. On that night, her last night—but—and here Honor laid down the brush with which she was smoothing out her rich rippling tresses—but must it be indeed, she asked herself, the last night that she would be free? The last night that she might hope to pass away from the wretched thraldom, the detested daily, hourly worry of her unloved and unloving mother-in-law? Must she indeed return (and at the unspoken question her heart beat wildly, half with terror and half with the joyful flutter of anticipated freedom), must she obey the order—for order it was, and sternly, harshly given—to place herself once more in Mrs. Beacham’s power, in the home which that domineering and unkind old woman had rendered hateful to her?

To do Honor only justice, there was no glimmering, or rather, to use a more appropriate word, no overshadowing, of guilt (of guilt, that is to say, as regarded the straying of the thoughts to forbidden pleasures) in her desire—a desire that was slowly forming itself into an intention—of making a home for herself elsewhere than at the Paddocks. She had arrived, with the unreflecting rapidity of impulsive youth, at the decision that John had ceased to love, and was incapable of appreciating either her beauty or her intellect. His mother, too—and in this decision Honor was not greatly in the wrong—wished her anywhere rather than in the house where she had been accustomed to reign supreme; and this being the case, and seeing also that poor Honor could expect (for did not those two threatening letters proclaim the fact?) nothing but unkindness on her return, there remained for her only the alternative—so at least she almost brought herself to believe—of separating herself from those with whom she lived in such continued and very real unhappiness.

During all the time that was employed in tastefully arranging the hair whose rich luxuriance scarcely needed the foreign aid of ornament, and in donning the dress fashioned after the décolletée taste of the day, but which Mrs. Norcott—who entertained an unfortunate fancy, common to bony women, of displaying her shoulders for the public benefit—assured her was the de rigueur costume for the theatre,—during all the time that Honor was occupied in making herself ready for the evening’s dissipation, the idea of “living alone” haunted and, while it cheered, oppressed her. Of decided and fixed plans she had none; and whether she would depart on the morrow, leaving no trace to follow of her whereabouts, or whether she would delay her purpose till a few days should have elapsed after her enforced return to Pear-tree House, were subordinate arrangements which this misguided young woman told herself that she would postpone for after consideration. For the moment, the prospect of listening to the most exciting of dramas, and of seeing (for she was easily pleased) the well-dressed audience of a popular theatre, bore their full share in causing the future, as it hung before Honor’s sight, to be confused and misty. The convenient season for thought was to be after this last of her much-prized pleasures; and when this bouquet of the ephemeral delights by which her senses had been so enthralled would be a memory and a vision of the past, the young wife told herself that the time for serious reflection should begin.

An hour later, in a box on the pit tier, listening with every pulse (for Honor was too new and fresh not to take an almost painful interest in the half-tragic and perfectly-acted play) beating responsive to newly-aroused sensations, the young wife of the Sandyshire farmer attracted a good deal more attention and admiration than she—entirely engrossed with the scene and the performance—could, vain daughter of Eve though she was, have supposed to be possible. Her dress, made of inexpensive materials, but of pure, fresh white, and unadorned, except with a bunch of pale-blue convolvulus, matching another of the same flower in the side of her small, fair head, was a triumph of unpretending simplicity. Alas, however, for the fashions of these our days! For well would it have been—before one pair of eyes, gazing on Honor’s attractions from the pit, had rested on her beauty—could some more efficient covering than the turquoise cross, suspended from her rounded throat by a black velvet ribbon, have veiled her loveliness from glance profane! Honor little knew—could she have had the faintest surmise that so it was, her dismay would have been great indeed—Honor little knew whose eyes those were that for a short ten minutes—no more—were riveted, with feelings of surprise and horror which for the moment almost made his breast a hell, upon the box in which she was seated. John Beacham—for the individual thus roused to very natural indignation was no other than that much-aggrieved husband—had learned from chattering Lydia, on his visit to Stanwick-street, that Mrs. Beacham was on that evening to betake herself to the New Adelphi with—the name went through honest John’s heart like a knife—Mr. Vavasour and Mrs. Norcott. They were gone—“them three,” Miss Lydia said—to “’Ampton Court” for the afternoon; but the Colonel—he was expected back before the others. Perhaps the gentleman—the parlour-maid was totally ignorant of the visitor’s right to be interested in Mrs. John Beacham’s movements—perhaps the gentleman would wait, or it might be more convenient to him to call again when the Colonel would have come back from the races. She didn’t believe that Colonel Norcott would go to the theatre. She’d heard some talk of his going to the club; but if—

John, who had heard with dilated and angry ears the main points of these disclosures, and who was very far from desiring to come in contact with the man whom upon earth he most despised and disliked, waited to hear no more, but, striding hastily away, surrendered himself, not only to the gloomiest, but to the most bitter and revengeful thoughts. That this man—unsuspicious though he was by nature, and wonderfully ignorant of the wicked ways of a most wicked world—should at last be roused to a sense of the terrible possibility that he was being deceived and wronged was, I think, under the circumstances, only natural; and in proportion to the man’s previous security—in proportion to his entire trust, and complete deficiency of previous susceptibility regarding Honor’s possible shortcomings—was the amount of almost uncontrolable wrath that burned within his aching breast. For as he left that door, as he walked swiftly down the street, and remembered how he had loved—ay, worshipped—in his simple, inexpressive way, the lovely creature who was no longer, he feared, worthy either of his respect or tenderness, no judgment seemed too heavy, no punishment too condign for her who had so outraged his feelings and set at naught his authority. Full of these angry feelings, and boiling over with a desire to redress his wrongs, John Beacham repaired to the tavern where he was in the habit, when chance or business kept him late in London, of satisfying the cravings of hunger. Alone, at the small table on which was served to him his frugal meal of beefsteak and ale, John brooded over his misfortunes, cursing in bitterness of spirit the hour when he first saw Honor Blake’s bewildering face, and exaggerating—as the moments sped by, and his blood grew warmed with one or two unaccustomed “tumblers”—the offences of which she had been guilty.

He was roused from this unpleasant pondering by the clock that ticked above the tall mantelshelf of the coffee-room sounding forth the hour of eight. Eight o’clock, and John, who never passed a night if he could help it in London, had not yet made up his mind where to spend the hours which must intervene before his morning meeting with his wife. Enter the doors of Colonel Norcott’s abode—save for the purpose of carrying away the headstrong, deceitful girl whom he, John’s enemy, had so meanly entrapped—the injured husband mentally vowed should be no act of his: not again would he trust his own powers of self-command by finding himself, if he knew it, face to face with the object of his hatred. From the hour, and to that effect he registered a vow—from the hour when he should regain possession of his wife, all communication of every kind whatsoever should cease between Honor and the bold bad man in whose very notice there was contamination and disgrace. From henceforward Honor, so he told himself, would find a very different, and a far less yielding, husband than the fool who had shut his eyes to what his mother’s had so plainly seen. Henceforward the young fop and spendthrift, whom for the boy’s father’s sake he had encouraged to visit at his house, should find it less easy to make an idiot of him. Henceforward—but at this point in his cogitation a sudden idea occurred to him; it was one that would in all probability have struck him long before, and would certainly have shortened the modest repast over which he had been lingering, if he had entertained—which certainly was not yet the case—any doubts and suspicions of a really grave character relative to Arthur Vavasour’s intimacy with his wife. That she had deceived him with any design more unpardonable than that of temporarily amusing herself was a thought that had not hitherto found a resting-place within the bosom of this unworld-taught husband; though that Honor had so deceived him was a blow that had fallen very heavily upon him. Thoroughly truthful in his own nature, and incapable of trickery, he had been so startled and engrossed by the discovery in Honor’s mental idiosyncrasy of directly opposite qualities, that for a while he was incapable of receiving any other and still more painful impression concerning her. To some men—especially to those unfortunately-constituted ones who see in “trifles light as air” “consummation strong” of their own jealous fantasies—it may seem strange that John Beacham should not have sooner taken the alarm, and vowed hot vengeance against the destroyer of his peace. That he had not done so was probably owing to a happy peculiarity in his constitution. He was a man too well aware of his own hasty temperament to rush without reflection into situations to which I can give no better or more expressive name than that of scenes. To quarrel with, also, or to offend the son of Cecil Vavasour would have been a source of infinite pain to the man whose respect and affection for his dead landlord would end but with his life; his wish, therefore, that Arthur had been and was no more to Honor than the companion, in all innocence, of her girlish follies, was the father to the conjecture as well as to the belief that so it was.

Probably, had John been returning for business purposes that day to the Paddocks, the idea which did then and there occur to him, of hurrying off to the New Adelphi, in order to judge for himself—as if in such a case any man could judge justly!—of Honor’s conduct and proceedings, would never have entered his head. It was a sore temptation only to look again, sooner than he had expected, at his wife’s beautiful face; and as, in memory as well as in anticipation, he dwelt upon it, the strong man’s heart softened towards the weak child-like creature whom he had sworn to honour as well as to love, and it would have required but one smile from her lips, one pressure of her tender arms, to persuade him once again that she was perfect, and that if fault or folly there had been, the error lay in himself alone.

Perhaps in all that crowded house—amongst that forest of faces that filled the boxes and gallery to the roof—there was not one, save that honest countryman, whose attention was not fixed and absorbed that night on one of the most sensational melodramas that have ever drawn tears from weak human eyes. At another time and under other circumstances John Beacham who, strong-bodied and iron-nerved man though he was, could never keep from what he called making a fool of himself at a dismal play, would not have seen unmoved the wondrous tragic acting of one of the very best (alas, that we must speak of him in the past!) of our comic actors: but John Beacham, on the night in question, was not in the mood to listen with interest to the divinest display of eloquence that ever burst from human lips. He was there for another and less exalted purpose: there as a spy upon the actions of another—there to feast his eyes (for, as I said before, in spite of all her errors, his heart was very soft towards the one woman whom he loved) on the wife who had defied his authority, and, possibly, made him an object of ridicule.

He had not been long in the unconspicuous place he had chosen before, not far removed from him—in a box, as I before said, on the pit tier—he descried his unsuspecting wife. Such a start as he gave when first he saw her! Such a start that, had not his neighbours on the next seat been fully occupied with the Stage, they must have perceived and wondered at his agitation. At first he could hardly bring himself to believe—so changed was she, and so wondrously beautified—that it could in reality be his own Honor whom he saw there, radiant in her glorious loveliness, and with that loveliness—ah, poor, poor John Beacham!—displayed, in a manner which almost took away his breath, to the gaze of hundreds upon hundreds of admiring eyes.

Until that moment—the moment when he saw her the admired of all beholders, in the evening toilet which so enhanced her attractions, it may be doubted whether John had ever entirely realised the exceeding beauty of the wife whom he had chosen. In her simple morning-dress, and especially in the little coquettish hat which he had sometimes seen her wear, the honest farmer was quite willing to allow that Honor was prettier by far than nine out of ten of the pretty girls that tread the paths of life; but it was in the dress, or rather undress, that evening dissipation rendered (according to Mrs. Norcott’s dictum) necessary that young Mrs. Beacham became—in her husband’s eyes—not only a marvel and miracle of loveliness, but a source of such exceeding pain to that inexperienced rustic that in his agony of jealous susceptibility he clenched his muscular hands together till the blood well-nigh burst from his finger-ends with the strong though all involuntary compression of his fingers.

For there was more than the sight of those white shoulders to rouse the demon of anger in his breast; there was more than the memory of the woman’s deceit to harden his heart against her; for beside, or rather behind her, leaning over those same white shoulders in most lover-like and devoted fashion, stood Arthur Vavasour, the man of whom his mother had in her rude fashion warned him, the man whose father had been not only his (John Beacham’s) friend, but his benefactor!

Whispering in her ear, calling the crimson blush to her fair cheek—the husband saw it all! And ah, how at that moment poor John hated that dark handsome face—the face of one looking so like a tempter sent to try the faith and virtue of an angel only too ready, so it seemed, to fall!

Will any of my readers—any, that is to say, who have in their own persons borne the burden and the heat of human passions—marvel that this man, spurred by the spectacle before him—the spectacle not of fictitious crimes and sorrows, for there was a side-scene in which a deeper melodrama was being enacted for his benefit—should have “lost his head” under the pressure of such unwonted excitement?

Something—it was not common sense or reason, for he was long past any safeguard they could render him—something retained the man, whose passions were so rapidly growing to be his master, in the place which, between two elderly playgoers who were entirely absorbed by the “scene,” had been assigned to him—retained him, that is to say, till such time as, the act being over, he could move from his place without causing public excitement and commotion.

When the curtain fell, and the rushing, rustling sound betokened that the spectators, over-wrought and excited, were stretching their limbs and refreshing their brains by a change of scene and posture, John Beacham, following a sudden and uncontrollable impulse, and with no fixed purpose within his brain or choice of words upon his lips, staggered like a drunken man to the box where Honor, breathless with eagerness and her fair face flushed with excitement, had just—in entire and happy ignorance of her husband’s proximity—turned her glossy head to talk over the startling incidents of the play with Arthur Vavasour.