Chapter XII: Uphill Work

It was now the middle of June, and Honor Beacham was undergoing the often painful process of “settling down” in her new home. The observation is no new one, that the presence of a mother-in-law, be she the parent of either wife or husband, in the _ménage_ of a newly-married couple is seldom conducive to happiness. Honor, in common with all the world, had heard the aphorism--heard it without believing it; for why, she had often asked herself, should there of necessity be jealousies and bickerings amongst those who were so near of kin, and whose interests were identically the same? For her part, although a certain nervous shyness, rare amongst her country people, made her a little “foolish,” as John called it, when she thought of the possible difficulty of pleasing his mother, yet, on the whole, she had entertained no doubt of her success. The experience of her short life had not accustomed her to failure. As yet, Honor had met with far more smiles than frowns, as she stepped gaily along the flower-strewn path of life. Why, then, was she to entertain misgivings of the future? Why suppose that her untiring efforts to gain love and praise would be likely, in the case of John’s obdurate mother, to be met with nothing better than “snubbings” and mortification?

“Well, Honey, and how do you and the old lady get on together?” was John’s first question, when, on the evening following their return, and after an absence of many consecutive hours, he found himself alone with his young wife.

Poor Honor! What would she not have given to be able to say with a full and grateful heart that John’s mother had been “so good” and “kind” to her? that henceforward she could love the dear “old lady” as though the strongest ties of blood had knitted them together? She would have been so glad, too, to give John pleasure; for well she knew how much, how very much, at heart he had it that she and his mother should, to use his characteristic phraseology, “pull well together.” Poor Honor! poor little well-intentioned Irish maiden! She was sadly, altogether indeed, deficient in moral courage, or in that early stage of her married life she would have done that which might have changed the whole future of her existence; namely, have frankly confessed to John her belief that never, do what she could, and strive with all the powers of both head and heart, could she hope to succeed in softening Mrs. Beacham’s feelings towards her.

Against such a course, not only the tenderness, but the harmless, natural vanity of the young wife revolted. It would be hard upon John to be told that his expectations were so very far from being realised, and it would be almost equally hard upon her were she forced to confess that she had so signally failed in making a favourable impression. Honor, I am ashamed to say, had shed more tears on that her first day’s experience of an actual “home” than were either sensible or becoming. Her poor little lip had quivered painfully when Mrs. Beacham, treating her “like company,” had politely refused her assistance in such small household cares as the dusting of dainty china and the “tying down” of bottled gooseberries, both of which tasks were, as Honor thought, quite within her powers skilfully to perform. But it was worse still when, at the early dinner (without John, who was kept away by urgent business connected with the “stock”), her mother-in-law, calling her “Mrs. John” with stately formality, had kept her at arm’s-length in a forbidding manner better imagined than described. In vain she strove by all the simple arts she knew to work her way within the fence that girded the good dame about as though with palisades of iron. She spoke of John--_her_ John--with a large warm-hearted admiration and a meek self-effacing gratitude that might have warmed a heart of stone. But all in vain. Mrs. Beacham evidently considered that laudation of John was an encroachment on her own rights, and, with a snort of dignified displeasure, turned the subject to one more within the province and capacity of the daughter-in-law whom she neither wished nor intended to love. John Beacham little guessed how sore a heart it was that watched so longingly that day for his return. If he thought about Honor at all (and dearly as he loved his wife, why should he have thought of her when his hands were so brimful of business, and his head, long though it was, could scarcely carry all the weighty load that, for the nonce, it had to bear?)--if he thought, then, about Honor at all, it was to fancy her sitting side by side with “the old lady,” talking, as foolish women do, with eager interest about the trifles that to them make up the sum of life--the fashion of a bonnet, the wearing capabilities of a carpet, and the merits or misdemeanours of a maidservant.

There was not a misgiving as to the truth in John’s honest breast, while, helping himself to slice after slice of a cold sirloin, which he pronounced as good a “bit” of meat as any in England, he dilated with the loquacity and _verve_ of a man whose soul is in his subject on all that had taken place during his absence: the promise held out by the young stock, the health and well-being of the old, and the trustworthiness and intelligence of Will Simmons, who had been on the farm, man and boy, for forty years, were largely dwelt on; and for once, as it appeared by John Beacham’s showing, things had gone on quite as well during the master’s absence as they would have done had they been subject to his daily supervision. Verily “eye-service” was unknown in the breeding-establishment of Updown Paddocks!

And all this time, what was Honor thinking of as she sat by her husband’s side, her work lying idle on her lap, and her eyes fixed vacantly on the goodly joint so rapidly diminishing under the effects of John’s healthy appetite? He had not waited for the answer to his question regarding the way in which she and “the old lady” had “got on” together. The query had, in fact, been almost made unconsciously, no fear of a possibly unfavourable reply having for a moment crossed his mind; but to Honor, who had yearned for his return from a vague idea that there would be comfort and encouragement from his very presence--to Honor, whose heart was sore and her mind engrossed by the failures and mortifications with which that long wearisome day had been fraught--the sight of that excellent John satisfying, with such evident _gusto_, his carnivorous appetite, and wholly engrossed by interests extraneous to herself, was anything but exhilarating. Nor were matters mended when, an hour later, the tired, contented man (the empty glass, where hot toddy _had been_, standing empty at his elbow) stretched himself comfortably in his big leathern chair, and slept the sleep of the just.

Will any of my readers, when I inform them that this was the climax of poor little Honor’s woe, and that at the sight of John’s slumbering form tears welled from her eyelids, be disposed utterly to despise my heroine, and condemn her as one unworthy the interest and sympathy of sensible people? If there be any such--and I am quite prepared to believe in their existence--all I can say is, that their knowledge of female nature is as limited as their charity for human weakness is small and inefficient. That this young wife was very far from either feeling or conducting herself as she should have done, I am quite willing to admit. The deep slumber of the unconscious John, to say nothing of the heavy breathing (I will not shock my refined readers by using a more definite term) that arose at stated intervals from his place of repose, ought to have sounded sweetly in his helpmate’s ears as a proof of good digestion and a mind at ease. Patiently--contentedly even--should she have bided the time of his awaking; while, instead, what did that impulsive Honor do? Why, with those foolish tears still glistening on her long lashes, she whispered a “good-night” to her mother-in-law and crept off to bed, nothing heeding the warning finger and the “hush--sh--sh” of the disagreeable old lady; acts which, in Honor’s condition of mind--for the poor girl was not, I grieve to say, perfect--were in themselves no trifling aggravation.