Chapter VII: Lady Millicent Condescends

Family prayers were over at the Castle. The ladies and gentlemen, who I fear were very little the better for the ceremony, and the servants, who, if they prayed at that time in the morning at all, would probably have infinitely preferred doing so in their so-called “closets” than under the eyes of their employers, had each and all risen from their knees; and breakfast, never much of a meal, according to the young men’s view of the matter, was in progress.

“A fine day for the wedding, eh?” remarked Arthur. “I’m glad you’re going, ma’am; John is one of the best fellows going. I owe him some attention for teaching me to ride. A deuced stick, too, I was at first, and a precious deal of trouble I gave him. There is nothing like beginning early though, and John was as patient as--”

“Well, as patient as what, or who?” asked Lady Millicent, noticing that he hesitated--she being one who, in the smallest as well as the most important occasions of life, never obeyed the valuable rule, _Glissez mortels, mats n’appuyez pas_.

“O, I don’t know!” replied Arthur, who hated having what he said investigated--torn into threads, as he called it--by his lady mother. “Nothing particular. I believe, though, that I was going to say--as a woman.”

“I daresay,” sneered Lady Millicent; “your experience in that line has been too extensive for the simile not to strike you at once.”

Arthur bit his lip to keep down the retort that had risen to his tongue. He was not so well disposed as he had a year before shown himself to be to bear in a patient spirit the being snubbed and tyrannised over. A lengthened absence, together with the flattering attention everywhere shown to the heir-apparent of Gillingham--to say nothing of the matrimonial engagement which made him feel so like a man--were all in their different degrees responsible for the symptoms of rebellion that were rife within him. Lady Millicent looked, too, according to Arthur’s fancy, especially provoking on that bright spring morning. The almost shabby “slight” mourning in which--for economy’s sake, as the world supposed--it was the wealthy-widow’s pleasure to deck herself, looked terribly out of keeping with the sunshine of the “glad new year,” and with the bright fresh flowers (a cheap luxury) never absent from the breakfast-table at Gillingham Castle, and which, on that especial morning, were redolent of votive offerings to the first of May. It was sad to think that at that breakfast of herbs (Lady Millicent did not approve of stalled-ox-feeding so early in the day), and so soon after the return of the first-born son, that son should be constrained to strive--but happily not in vain--to keep his temper.

The hour of eleven had struck by the clock of the Switcham parish church when, punctual to the moment, there was seen driving up the gentle ascent leading to the picturesque old gothic building, Lady Millicent’s open carriage, drawn by the powerful high-stepping pair of brown horses, half-brothers, bred by John’s father, and sold by him ten years before for a “long figure,” for the use of the Lady Millicent Vavasour. John Beacham took an honest pride--aged animals though they were--in those horses; and when from the elevated spot in the churchyard on which he was standing he caught sight of their grand “tops,” and heard the rapid footfall of the powerful thorough-breds on the gravelled road beneath, the memory of his dead father rose up strong within him, and John, ere he stepped forward hat in hand to welcome the liege lady of Gillingham, passed his honest hand over his eyes, to brush away the moisture that had gathered on their lids.

The little church, as Lady Millicent, with her two daughters, walked slowly up the aisle, was filled to overflowing with eager sight-seers. From the moment it became generally known that the great family from the Castle had graciously condescended to honour John Beacham’s marriage with their presence, public interest in that event had risen to its height. Already the wedding presents graciously sent to the oldest and most respected tenant on the Gillingham estates had been duly inspected and admired, and the miniature bust in bronze of “the late lamented Cecil Vavasour, Esq.,” a dozen or two of which had been cast by Lady Millicent’s orders for such occasions as the present, had been duly forwarded the day before as a mark of esteem to the owner of Updown Paddocks, had been passed round among the friends and acquaintances assembled at Clay’s Farm, and received its meed of approval.

The simple people were a little puzzled by the ponderous ornament destined to grace the delicate throat of the bride. It was “milady’s” gift, and therefore safe from either animadversion or suspicion; but, under other circumstances, it is just possible that some few judicious critics--the ladies especially--might have been tempted to pronounce the “pebble” brooch, in its thin setting of pale chased gold, not only an ugly but a parsimonious gift. That _noblesse oblige_ formed no portion of Lady Millicent’s creed was a fact that in some way or other had come to be, perhaps, dimly suspected by the little world over whom she reigned. It would take a long time, however, and an enlarged experience of her ladyship’s meanness, selfishness, and general incapacity, before the _fact_ of those proclivities would become an accepted truth by those whose fathers had lived in the good old “God save great George our King!” days, and who had been brought up to believe in the Vavasours of Gillingham. The memory of the good Squire still lingered amongst them. There were stories yet extant of his kindliness, his forgetfulness of self, his open-handed charity, and his rare and simple common sense. What wonder, then, that with the savour of his good deeds yet lingering about the widow, there should still be found a few ready to respect where she respected, and willing to honour those whom “milady” delighted to honour?

The church was then, as I have already said, crowded with people, when Lady Millicent sailed graciously down the aisle, clad in the rustling black-silk dress which the curtseying school-children had known so long, and which had brushed their humble skirts so often. The bride was momentarily expected, and when the excitement caused by Lady Millicent’s entry had subsided, and she was comfortably seated in the rectory pew, all heads were turned towards the door in momentary expectation of another and a still more important arrival.

The manner of Miss Blake’s coming was well known to the initiated. There were no high-stepping brown horses to convey _her_ to the churchyard-gate; and if the arrival of the first performers in the little drama were delayed, it was probably because the wheels of the Leigh “fly” tarried in the narrow lanes (deeply rutted by the passage of Farmer Clay’s wagons) which led up to the farm-house. It was an ancient vehicle, and had been called originally, I believe, a barouche-landau, which had been called into requisition to convey the bride and as many of the Clay family as could conveniently be packed into it to the village church that day.

“Make yourselves as small as you can, children, for fear of tumbling Honor’s frock,” the good-natured farmer had said as he deposited his two delighted little girls in the roomy carriage, and then, his own portly person being perched on the box-seat, the equipage drove off. The party, with the exception of the bride, who was rather pale and thoughtful, was in high spirits; and if the Leigh “fly” did smell a trifle mouldy, and if the busy hungry moths had drilled a few round holes in the dingy drab lining, why what mattered it to them? It was none the less able to carry bright Honor Blake to her bridal; none the less in the children’s eyes a grand part of the brilliant pageant which would, for many a day to come, render that sweet first day of May a bright spot in their memories.

“O, mother! if there isn’t milady’s carriage!” exclaimed Ruth, a rather precocious young lady of ten, who had very unwillingly abdicated in favour of that “owdacious” Jenny the honour and glory of holding the bride’s bouquet at the altar; and Mrs. Clay, as she afterwards expressed herself, was “struck all of a quiver” with the shock of perceiving that the Castle carriage had arrived before them. Through the little iron gate between the yew-trees, which was set wide open to receive them--and very near to which Honor, in her agitation, did _not_ perceive the two young men, Lady Millicent’s sons, standing to witness the rural show--the simple _cortège_ passed. Mr. Clay, a sturdy yeoman-like looking man, attired in a Sunday costume, in which he never either seemed or felt at home, tucked the bride, to whom he was about to play the part of father, tightly under his arm, and the rest following, they walked slowly up the rising ground between the rows of commemorative tombstones to the church.

There was a slight movement, and a faint murmur of “Here she comes,” as the fair white-robed figure, her slight form half-concealed by a long floating veil--neither Honiton nor Mechlin, yet it served the purpose well--was first caught sight of, passing behind the old baptismal font. The faint blush that had risen over neck and brow as Honor entered and _felt_ the gaze of many eyes upon her deepened into crimson as she neared the altar. Then a sudden change came over the clear complexion which had been but a moment before glowing as a rose, and “from that out,” as Mrs. Tamfrey, who was present, was afterwards heard to say, “the bonny bird looked for all the world as if she had seen a ghost.”

As for happy honest John Beacham, he played, as is generally the melancholy fate of bridegrooms, a very secondary part on the occasion. “M.,” all-important as he really is, sinks in his bran new coat and waistcoat, into something even less than insignificant by the side of the peerless creature in her robes of innocence, with the symbolic wreath upon her “shining hair.” No one but his mother thought much of John as he stood side by side with “the Irish gurl,” and in a clear manly voice pronounced the vows that bound him to her whilst life should last. To the elderly woman, about to sink into the mild dignity of dowagerhood, that tall, broad-shouldered man, with his thick wavy hair, his clear blue eyes, and, as the worthy woman often boasted, his “wholesome” skin, was a far more important personage than that “slip of a girl” who had, at an age when he ought to have known better, made such a fool and “ninny” of her only son. Her eyes, from the moment that he entered the church, never for a moment left his face. The demon of jealousy, which in the solitude of her home she had in some degree successfully combated, returned with redoubled force at the sight of John’s proud and radiant face, filled with a tenderness which gave quite a novel expression to his sun-burnt features.

The ceremony was no sooner over than Lady Millicent, who was known to take a great lady’s gracious interest in the domestic affairs of her tenantry, came forward with extended hand and wished the young people joy. The little speech which she made on the occasion was listened to with the outward appreciation and respectful attention usually accorded to the platitudes of the powerful. Possibly John Beacham, whose young wife’s hand was trembling on his arm, would have preferred silent good wishes to this outward and highly-flattering demonstration of goodwill. Honor, too, blushing as she was beneath the gaze of a church-full of wonder-seekers, would gladly have escaped to the cool vestry, whence, by a quiet path beneath the old yew-trees, she and John would have gained the neat new brougham which he had purchased for his bride, and which was in waiting to receive her. But this was not to be. Not to be, at least, until Lady Millicent had gone through the ceremony of alluding in gratifying terms to her late husband’s interest in, and she might almost say (Lady M. was certainly wonderfully condescending) her friendship for, John; not to be till, holding the bride’s hand within her own (an _honour_ which it is to be hoped that young woman fully appreciated), she had expressed a gracious hope that Mrs. John would prove worthy of her mission upon earth--namely, that of being a true and obedient wife, and a devoted mother to the children with whom Providence might deign to bless her union.

“A very neat and appropriate speech,” laughed Horace, as the two young men sauntered out of the churchyard. “I should have liked to put in something poetical and complimentary about the ‘bridal of the earth and sky,’ for, by Jove! she looks a good deal too delicate and ethereal to be John Beacham’s wife.”

“She is very beautiful, certainly,” Arthur responded. “I hope it will answer; but somehow those sort of marriages don’t always end as well as they begin;” and having thus lucidly delivered himself, they walked on for a short while in silence.