Chapter X: How the “old Lady” Took It

It would be hard to say whether gratified maternal pride or a perhaps natural jealousy was uppermost in Mrs. Beacham’s mind when she saw from her parlour window the uproarious advent of her belongings. It was delightful to think how popular John was,--for what but the respect and affection in which he was universally held could, in her opinion, account for the great amount of bodily exertion attendant on dragging a heavy carriage a mile and upwards to the very door of the Paddocks? It was pleasant also to reflect that she was the mother of one whom the world delighted to honour; but with that reflection came the alloying thought that another, _id est_, the “Irish gel” sitting complacently--for so Mrs. Beacham pictured her--by the side of the infatuated John, was to come in for far more than her merited share of popular attention.

The house from which the stern old lady watched the return of her son from his first lengthened absence was a long, rambling, one-storied abode, built of brick whose hue was mellowed by age, and with its south front covered almost to the roof with two centenarian pear-trees, the fruit of which was renowned for its size and flavour throughout the whole country-side, and to which, moreover, was owing the name of “Pear-tree House,” that had, time out of mind, been the appropriate designation of John Beacham’s home. From the elevated site of that home, those within, who chanced to be gazing from the south windows, could obtain an excellent view of what was passing in the Paddocks outside. They could trace the well-kept private road winding through the bright green meadows, which were portioned off from each other by shade-giving hedgerows, and dotted with white freshly-painted gates. Many a time had Mrs. Beacham, knitting in hand--she could make a stocking blindfold, as the good woman had been heard to boast--sat at the window of the small low-roofed parlour (the parlour with the heavy beams across the ceiling, which she never would allow to be modernised and made smooth), watching the coming of her son--listening for the sound of his well-hung dog-cart, or the swift footsteps of the weight-carrying thoroughbred bearing his owner home, after a hard day’s exercise, to his evening meal.

The news that “the master” was on the road, that the Wild Woman had been left behind at Switcham, and that the carriage was being _drawed_ home by the boys from the village, was not long in reaching Pear-tree House. It was through the means of Letty the parlour-maid, a young woman given to holding evening converse with smart serving-men over out-of-sight palings, that the intelligence arrived at Mrs. Beacham’s expectant ears.

“Coming home without the horse? Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed the old lady, rising from her seat, however, with considerable alacrity, to ascertain the truth or falsehood of Letty’s report. She was not kept long in suspense. Round the thick screen of laurel-bushes there was heard a confused sound of human voices, shouting, laughing, and _hooraying_,--then the carriage, with John and Honor inside, was drawn up with a rush to the door, and “the master,” much moved with happiness and gleeful excitement, sprang out upon the hall steps.

“Well, mother,” he said, kissing her cheek with warm affection, while his arm was thrown round the old woman’s waist, “what do you think of this start? Jolly, ain’t it?” And in the exceeding delight of the moment he forgot his precious Honor altogether!

She was well content, poor child, to be overlooked. It had required a strong effort on her part not to mar her husband’s enjoyment by any display of foolish womanly weakness. She felt faint and nervous, and the painful shrinking from her first interview with the dreaded autocrat of Pear-tree House had returned with redoubled force as the crisis of arrival drew nearer and more near. She had made no sign, however, of her distress, and had even contrived, in the fear that John might make the uncomfortable discovery that she was less happy than himself, to summon the ghost of a smile to her pale and quivering lip.

They were standing together--those three who fully expected that all the years of their future lives would be passed together--on the broad, well-worn stone steps leading to the entrance-door of the house. Mrs. Beacham had returned her son’s embrace with interest. There was for the moment unmixed pleasure in seeing his well-loved face again; but, because of that very pleasure, her welcome to Honor was stiff and ceremonious. A touch of the small cold hand with her unbending fingers, and a kiss on the pale cheek that grew paler still under the infliction, was all the greeting bestowed by John’s mother on the daughter he had brought home to her.

“Three cheers for the missus!” shouted John’s volunteer team, whereupon the air rang with the loud hurrah that only British throats can give. Inspired by the near prospect of the strong ale which they foresaw would be forthcoming from the far-famed Pear-tree cellar, not a boy or man amongst them spared his lungs, and twice and again, each time more deafening than the last, burst forth the ringing cheer, till even John was fain to put his fingers to his ears, and to cry, with a laugh, “Hold, my friends; enough!”

“I’m sure, my good fellows,” he began, when the tumult had in some degree subsided, and the necessity of returning the compliment by a speech was evidenced by the expectant looks of the bystanders, “I’m sure that my wife is uncommonly obliged to you.” (His _wife_! thought Mrs. Beacham senior, who, having hitherto been considered in the light of “missus” at the Paddocks, had taken the compliment to herself.) “My wife,” repeated John, laying what poor soured Mrs. Beacham considered an insulting stress upon the obnoxious word,--“my wife has, I am sorry to see, retired. She is not very strong, and the journey has knocked her up; but another time--”

“At the christening of little master, eh?” cried a shrill voice from the very centre of the crowd; whereupon there was a laugh--one of those rude, coarse, blustering laughs with which untaught human nature, before it has learnt to discriminate between wit and humour, erects the sole form of joke which it is capable of understanding.

John looked about him in dismay. It was dreadful to think that Honor--his delicate blushing Honor--should have overheard, and been shocked by, that horrible allusion. For the first time since he had known her it was a relief to find that she was not by his side; he only hoped that she had gone upstairs--to bed--anywhere rather than run the risk of being wounded by such coarse, such premature remarks.

“I have been more gratified than I can well express,” John went on to say, and briskly enough this time, for he wished to get the whole thing over, and to have his house to himself, “by the flattering manner in which you have welcomed us home again. I see a great many old friends’ faces among you, and I hope one day to see your wives’ faces--and may you all be as happy as I am! There is plenty of ale, thank God! in the cellar, and as cheering is thirsty work, to say nothing of coming up here against collar this warm day, I hope you’ll all accept a glass apiece, and then go back and set the bells of Switcham Church a-ringing. I’m not much of a hand at a speech, and so, as it’s getting late, and we’re all pretty well tired, I shall wish you a very Good-Night.”

He shook hands heartily, after this delicate hint, with those that stood nearest to him, and the crowd, eager to taste the reward of their exertions, caused no further delay by any lengthened expression of applause. In a few minutes all was peaceful outside the south front of the old house. There was no sound save the faint rustling of the wind among the branches, and the last twitter of the birds ere they nestled to their nightly sleep. Only inside was there strife. Not the strife of outward jangling, or of sneering words, but the far more perilous discord that lies hid behind a smiling mask. John’s mother was very civil to Honor, but she could not forgive her for the _slight_ put upon Mrs. Beacham of the Paddocks.

“Three cheers for the missus” indeed! It remained to be seen, the old lady said to herself, who _was_ mistress at Pear-tree House. _Two_ couldn’t be, that was very clear; but if Mrs. John fancied that _she_ was going to “knock under,” why all that she could say was, that that young woman would find herself pretty considerably mistaken.