Chapter XVII: Boys Will Be Boys

The intelligence which soon after reached the Paddocks, namely, that Arthur Vavasour was about to leave Gillingham, took Honor by surprise. Not that she was ignorant of the all-important fact that the time was drawing near when the heir-apparent was to take upon himself the duties and responsibilities of matrimony. There was nothing new to Switcham and its neighbourhood in the idea that their young landlord was at the early age of twenty-one to pass at once from the thoughtless irresponsibility of boyhood to the duller dignity of a man; and yet for all that, and though Honor had often heard her husband’s friends and neighbours talk over the coming event, she never seemed quite to realise the fact that Arthur Vavasour was going to be married. One reason of this might be that the future husband of Sophy Duberly was not in the habit of himself alluding to the approaching change. As Honor sometimes said to herself, he seemed to entirely forget what was hanging over his head. His spirits were often fitful; at one time bright and joyous, at another depressed almost to zero. Honor, remembering his engagement, would often marvel at his fits of absence, his look--so strange in one so young--of brooding care; for during the many weeks which Arthur Vavasour had spent either at the Castle or as a guest of his future father-in-law, Honor had seen a great deal of Miss Duberly’s intended husband. There had been nothing conspicuous or curiosity-rousing in their intimacy. Other gentlemen came and went, and were offered lunch (that meal at the Paddocks was famed far and wide for excellence) by hospitable John Beacham; and other gentlemen might, if they were so disposed, join that pretty, modest-looking little wife of his in her daily rides on the Lady Meg. For how long, or rather for how short a time these two young persons would, under less propitious circumstances, have escaped the heavy censure which their thoughtlessness deserved, it would be hard to say. It was a great thing for both that one at least was but a bird of passage. Very soon (in a few short weeks only), Mr. Vavasour was to be married; and in the mean time there were plenty--a glorious safeguard for endangered reputations--of other things and people, besides the farmer’s wife, to be talked about. There was the _trousseau_ of the bride, the number and beauty of her presents, and--still more immediately interesting to the young of all degrees in that division of Sandyshire--there were the anticipated festivities at Danescourt, in honour, as was almost openly declared by the popular Countess of Guernsey, of Arthur Vavasour’s “coming of age.”

Honor Beacham’s little head had at that time fully enough (like those of her neighbours) to occupy it. She was too young, too fresh-hearted and inexperienced, not to look forward with a keen anticipation of delight to the out-of-doors amusements that were to be enjoyed in Lord Guernsey’s park, to which all the “respectable” inhabitants of the neighbourhood, the “big” tenants, not only of Gillingham and Danescourt, but also the most highly considered, that is to say, the most prosperous of the Leigh tradesmen had been invited. Danescourt would in former days, before railroads were, have been deemed almost out of visiting distance from Switcham; but steam had done its usual work of approximation, and now it required but the short space of twenty minutes to convey the travellers from the furthest point of Switcham parish to the great lodge-gates of “the Court.”

But though young Mrs. Beacham was by no means insensible to the coming pleasure in a few days to be vouchsafed to her unpresuming class, still there remained, it is to be feared, more space in her mind than was altogether advisable for thoughts of Arthur Vavasour and his approaching “change” of circumstances and life. She had grown, very different as were their positions in life, to know him (as she fancied) very thoroughly. From the first she had felt and seemed to herself to be the equal in _degree_, as it is called, of Arthur Vavasour. Whether it were that her individual nature was delicate and refined, or that, as the foolish creature loved to think, her birth, of the particulars of which she knew so little, was one sufficiently “gentle” to account both for the peculiarity of her tastes and the gracefulness of her appearance, must remain for the present an open question; one thing, however, is certain, namely, that she and Arthur Vavasour were not only rarely at a loss for subjects of conversation, but that never once in all their intercourse had he caused her to remember either by word or look that his position in life was more exalted than her own. Take it altogether, in spite of Mrs. Beacham’s crossness, and although John had been often very busy among his horses and his men, those two months had been a singularly happy time to Honor. She had enjoyed to a degree, which only to look back upon was a delight, those delicious rides in evening-time through the shady lanes, those canters over the springy turf in the beautiful “Chace” which Arthur already talked of as his own, those strolls about the pleasant Paddock garden, when just a tinge of sentiment--of _sentiment_ guessed at rather than expressed--mingled with Arthur’s more commonplace words, and lent the charm of charms, although she knew it not, to all that Honor gathered from her companion’s lips. She was indeed, and for that matter so also was John himself, thoroughly happy in the cheerful society of Arthur Vavasour. He was the familiar friend, the ever-welcome guest both of “master” and of “young missus,” and “as a friend” he deemed it his duty to impart to her the fact of his approaching marriage, and that he must, before many days would be past over, bid adieu to Gillingham.

She was in the garden that afternoon, and they (Honor and her friend) were standing together side by side on the famous terrace, when the latter said abruptly:

“Before I see you again, Mrs. Beacham, how many things will have changed! I shall be a married man--how absurd it sounds!--tied and bound by the chain of a wife!” and he laughed nervously as he said the word.

Honor, feeling rather confused, contrived to murmur something about not exactly seeing the absurdity of the measure proposed. It _might_ be entertaining, certainly, but she did not understand why Mr. Vavasour laughed.

“Well, I suppose I didn’t mean precisely absurd, but unsatisfactory somehow--startling almost at my age, you know--to be bothered by a wife.”

Honor’s sense of the ridiculous was struck by the word “startling,” and she laughed; such a musical laugh it was! Arthur thought she never looked so pretty as when she was amused.

“I suppose you have been warned in time?” she said; “it hasn’t taken you entirely by surprise that there exists a young lady whose lot it is to be Mrs. Arthur Vavasour.”

His quick eye glanced at her for a moment. Was there a shade, the slightest in the world, of _pique_ in her words and tone? He could not say. Honor was not in the least prone to sarcasm, but her manner had a little taken him by surprise, and he answered hesitatingly:

“Warned! yes, of course I was warned--warned by my own follies, my own actual idiotcy, that I must do something of the sort. I suppose you know all about it--all that the world reports, at least. How that--I know one oughtn’t to say such things, but you are so safe--that there isn’t much love in the matter. Old Duberly is as rich as a Jew--”

Honor opened wide the eyes of astonishment and consternation.

“Rich! yes, I know he is rich; but what is that to you--you, with all that money, that beautiful place? O, Mr. Vavasour, you never can be going to marry because the lady is rich! Think how dreadful not to love her! And people say, too, that Miss Duberly is young and pretty. Ah!” she continued musingly, “I know now what Mrs. Beacham must have meant when she said something of the kind; but I never, never would have believed it, unless you had told me so yourself.”

“Then don’t believe it now,” he said, drawing a step nearer, for he was touched and gratified by her implied compliment to the disinterestedness of his character and motives. “It is quite out of my line, I hope, to do anything of the kind. But, you see, fathers are different from sons--_they_ look forward, which we don’t; and besides, I quite well remember mine saying to me once that he considered it rather a misfortune than otherwise for a man to be in love with the girl he was going to marry.”

“Did he say so? And John always tells me that the Squire was such a kind, good man--the kindest and best he ever knew.”

“Yes, he was all that, but I fancy he was cold too; some people, you know, become cold--from disappointment, I suppose, or something--as they grow old. But about old Duberly’s money there’s a good deal to be said. You see,” he added, anxious to preserve the character for disinterestedness which he was conscious of not deserving, “that there is a likelihood of a title (that of Baron de Vavasour), which has been in my father’s branch of the family since the Wars of the Roses, being disputed after the death of a very old relation, who now bears the honours. My father was very anxious that I should some day be a peer of the realm--why, I never could understand; and as my mother does not trouble herself much about my advancement in life, I shall have to look out for myself.”

“And why? I am very stupid and ignorant about such matters, or I daresay I should guess.”

“I don’t know why you should, and I’m afraid I’m boring you all this time; but the fact is that in this enlightened country of ours enormous wealth--and the two fortunes united would be what is called colossal--can almost command a peerage. But there is a better reason than the one I have just been telling you of for my marrying an heiress--a reason which anyone connected with old Duberly might be proud of. They say he might be made a peer any day he liked, _only_ from his high-mindedness, his wonderful liberality to the poor, and the excellent use he makes of an income of eighty thousand a year. A wonderful lot of money, isn’t it?” he continued, as he and Honor sauntered on towards the high holly-hedge which bounded the garden on the east side, and was ever a pleasant shelter from both wind and sun.

He did not expect to be answered--there could be no two opinions regarding the marvellous proportions of Mr. Duberly’s income; and indeed, his thoughts as well as Honor’s had wandered far enough away both from ambitious hopes and peers expectant.

“What a bore this going away is!” Arthur said after a pause; “I’m a wonderful fellow to get fond of a place. Do you get fond of a place? I mean a place one lives much in, you know.”

“I think it depends very much upon the people we are with,” Honor said, and the next moment regretted her thoughtless words; for Arthur said eagerly:

“Exactly! just my feeling. It is not the ‘where,’ but the ‘who.’ I should never have grown so fond of the Paddocks if--but you are not going in, Mrs. Beacham? Do take one more turn--only one. It is such a beautiful evening, and the old lady cannot be so unreasonable as to expect you will waste it in the house. Hark! there is the first note of the nightingale. Won’t you stay and listen to it for the last time with me?”

His voice sounded very soft and persuasive, but Honor, usually so pliant to the wishes of others, was inexorable. It was very pleasant there among the roses. The summer air fanned her cheek with such a sweet refreshing breath, and it was hard to change it for the low-ceilinged parlour where Mrs. Beacham was expecting her, and which that worthy lady (who entertained rather an objection to fresh air in rooms) had a peculiar talent for rendering “stuffy.” Above all, it was hard to say “good-bye” to Arthur Vavasour--hard to leave her pleasant friend--the friend who “understood” her, and who had so often, with such quiet, unobtrusive kindness, saved her from the annoyance of old Mrs. Beacham’s “worrying ways.”

“I think I must go in now,” she said quietly, though her heart was beating fast. “I have been out long enough;” and her step was not very steady as she drew nearer to the house which, without _him_, she could not have told Arthur truly that she loved.

He stopped, however, before they were within view of the windows, and exclaimed with angry vehemence,

“I shall say good-bye here, I hate public leave-takings. You will give me your hand, at least?”

Poor Honor! Her very anxiety to do right--her instinctive dread that something, she knew not what, might be said by Arthur that John’s wife ought not to listen to--did her ill service at that crisis of her life. Had she pursued her walk with an even step, and without the blushing agitation that betrayed her inward feelings, Arthur would never have taken courage to address her in those petulant and peremptory words. She was frightened, half angry, and half fascinated by his vehemence; but she never thought of withholding the hand he asked for. Why should he doubt her giving it? What had happened during that short quarter of an hour to change the friendly relations that had subsisted between them? It was all strange, and sudden, and bewildering; and tears of regret and reproach glistened in Honor’s upturned lashes.

She looked this way and that, in pretty and very manifest confusion, her soft red lips slightly pouting; it was so vexatious to be silly, and to have nothing to say just when she so particularly wanted to utter something to the purpose; and then Mr. Vavasour--it was so rude and tiresome--would keep looking at her so! If he would only go! Honor felt quite sure _that_ would be a relief. She had never in life before felt so thoroughly uncomfortable.

He spoke at last--what an age those few short moments had appeared!--and, still with her hand in his, said in a low voice, and feelingly, despite the _badinage_ that neutralised its tone of sentiment,

“I hope you don’t mean quite to forget me, Mrs. Beacham? I’ve had a very jolly hour or two here with--John, since I’ve been at home this time. I shall think of you the day I’m turned off; perhaps you’ll remember to return the compliment?”

The words were trivial and foolish enough, but he pointed their meaning by such a searching gaze into Honor’s violet eyes, that she turned her head away abashed, and angry both with herself and him. Quickening her step, they were in another moment in full view of the “parlour” window, and then, and not till then, she took courage to reply:

“John will be very sorry when you’re gone--he said so only yesterday; and--and we shall all be glad to know that you are happy. Good-bye, Mr. Vavasour, I _must_ go in now.” But suddenly recollecting the claims of her mother-in-law to respectful observance, “Won’t you come and see Mrs. Beacham before you go? She is old, you know, and old people don’t like to be overlooked.”

Arthur hesitated a moment, and then declined the well-intended offer. He was in no mood for tolerating Mrs. Beacham’s old-world platitudes, and twaddling lamentations on his departure. His approaching marriage would also, as he was well aware, be brought on the _tapis_, and of that subject he had for the nonce had more than enough. Arthur was good-natured, lively, and popular--indeed, the heir was generally allowed to be far more affable than Mr. Horace--but, like most young men who are born to a “position,” and whom the world has helped to spoil, Arthur Vavasour did not “go in” much for spoiling others. If it did not interfere with his own comfort or convenience, he would be wonderfully kind and civil to a dull old man, or even to a disagreeable old woman; but as a rule, and when he was inclined to be otherwise employed, he forgot, or altogether ignored, the claims of useless people on his notice. His conduct on his departure from the Paddocks was an instance of this not uncommon peculiarity. After his interview with Honor, he was in no mood--poor fellow--for the commonplace and the tiresome. He was very sorry, he said to Honor, he hoped that she would make his excuses to Mrs. Beacham, but he was late, and dinner was waiting probably (a fib on Arthur’s part) at the Castle. So, after one long, lingering look, under which the young wife’s colour rose tumultuously, and a silent pressure of her hand, he left her to the companionship of her own not very lively thoughts.

The message left by Mr. Vavasour was duly, and indeed with some slight amplification, conveyed by Honor to its destination. Her natural tact had led her to add some of the conventional phrases--a few of the _banal_ expressions of regret which come so “handy” to the use of the kind-hearted and the courteous; but on the matter-of-fact organisation of the “old lady” these little civil emanations from pretty Honor’s brain were completely thrown away, for she was thoroughly “put about” by the departure, without the ceremony of leave-taking, of her young landlord, and nothing that Honor could either say or do possessed, for that day at least, the power of smoothing her ruffled plumage. Had Arthur Vavasour been gifted with the power of taking serious thought of the future, he would have reflected longer before he made an enemy of that pretentiously hospitable old woman. He little dreamt that the seeds of distrust and suspicion were that day sown, by his own act of omission, in Mrs. Beacham’s breast; so true is it that our most trivial acts, our _mignons_ and unnoticed sins, may one day rise up in judgment against us, and be unto us a means of well-merited punishment.

That night Honor retired to her own chamber with a very strong sense of ill-usage. She had returned from her walk out of spirits and subdued, but nevertheless she had done her best to be cheerful, had sung her prettiest ballads, and smiled her brightest smiles--but all in vain; Mrs. Beacham had been cross, and her husband, tired with his day’s work, had passed the evening in sound and uninterrupted slumber. Poor little Honor! Sitting there before the looking-glass, her rich brown hair rippling over her shoulders, she could hardly refrain from asking herself whether nature had made her so very beautiful, for _this_. She was beginning to think that, as Arthur Vavasour had once expressed it, she was rather “wasted upon John.” There were _others_ perhaps (I am afraid that Honor was beginning to forget how much she owed to her generous-hearted husband) who might have been better able to appreciate her. There was one--O child, child! dwell not for your life--for your soul’s life’s sake--on that _first thought_ that leads towards the broad road of sin! It may seem a very trifling and unimportant thing that--contrasting in your mind the flattering devotion of a polished gentleman with the unstudied, homely ways of him who, come what come may, is, and must be, your yoke-fellow--that worthy, tired John, who slumbers while you sing, and who seems so utterly to ignore the fact that you are young and fair, has, you may imagine, given you a right by his lumpish somnolence, his unflattering _insouciance_, to consider yourself aggrieved; but, believe me, there is danger in such self-pityings as these. Remember that _le mieux_ is never half so redoubtable an enemy to _le bien_ as when the would-be lover is brought into juxtaposition with the husband, who, secure of his once-coveted possession, either neglects or seems incapable of valuing the better part of the treasure he has won. Honor, in the dearth of mental companionship, turned as instinctively as the flower to the sun to the “mind” capable (it is the old story) of understanding her. She was motherless, poor girl!--the child of no tender prayers, no eager, anxious hopes. Should she pass safely through her trial it will be well with her; but if she fall, God help her! for the world will not judge her less harshly because of the “extenuating circumstances” which may, let us humbly hope, recommend her to mercy in the day of doom.