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SINK OR SWIM? 
 
LONDON': 
 
 EOBSOS AND SOW, OREAT KORTHEBlf PaHTTISG TTORKS, 
 
 TAXCaAS nOAD, S.'VV. 
 
SINK OR SWIM? 
 
 % iob£(. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 RECOMMENDED TO MERCY," 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TINSLEY BROTHEES, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 
 
 1868. 
 
 C77»e right 0/ translation and reproducti<m is reserved.^ 
 
SINK OR SWIM? 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 WHAT THEY SAID IN THE VILLAGE. 
 
 " If I hadn't heard it from IMi's. Clay herself, I 
 never would have believed it! To think that 
 John Beacham, who's a sensible man as men go, 
 should be marrying an Ii'ishwoman ! If Honor 
 Blake was English-born now, one wouldn't blame 
 hun so much ; but to choose a gu'l that comes of 
 people who, as everyone knows, you can't trust 
 farther than you can see them, is what I call a sin 
 and a shame." 
 
 The speaker was a woman of low stature, elderly, 
 and sharp of voice and feature. She was seated 
 at a round old-fashioned mahogany table, on which 
 a teapot of the material known as Britannia metal 
 steamed with a pleasant warmth, while the odour 
 of buttered toast, " hot and hot," filled the 
 
2 SINK OR aWL^L 
 
 little room in -wliicli she and a clioscn clium and 
 gossip had met together to talk over the domestic 
 affairs of their friends and neighhom's. 
 
 The name and title of the first-mentioned lady 
 Avas !Mi's. Thwaytes, and she, heing at the present 
 time a widow, and highly respected, kept a small 
 general shop in an old-fashioned village, to which 
 I shall give the name of Switcham. This village, 
 situated near the grandest and most imposing of 
 England's rivers, could be reached by express train 
 in something a little under an hour and a half 
 from London. It was, considering this proximity, 
 rather a behindhand village. Progress had not 
 hitherto made any gigantic strides in the old-world- 
 looking place, wdiere not a single house was less 
 than a century old, and where the aged inhabitants 
 of the quiet spot had not as yet ceased to speak of 
 crinoline as an abomination, and the absence 
 (on young women's heads) of that decent article 
 called a cap as a sign and symbol of a lost and 
 abandoned soul. 
 
 The guest of the widow Thwaytes was qualified 
 in many ways to be that highly-respected person- 
 age's confidential friend and favourite gossip. A 
 widow indeed she was, forlorn and desolate by her 
 own account, but comfortable withal in outward 
 circumstances, and possessed of a portly person, 
 mid a complexion indicative of good cheer and in- 
 
WHAT THEY SAID IX THE VILLAGE. o 
 
 ward content. Mrs. Tamfrey, for that was the re- 
 Hct's name, had been left (hke the congenial friend 
 above named) vnth an only daughter to solace her 
 declining years; and, after duly casting that young 
 woman upon her own resources as a domestic ser- 
 vant, she — the widow of the deceased Mr. Tam- 
 frey, a journeyman carpenter in a comfortable 
 Avay of business — had entered upon the attractive 
 career of a monthly nurse. In this lucrative pro- 
 fession she had met with marked and flattering 
 success. Endowed with a low voice, a caressing 
 manner, and a universal fund of anecdote, as well 
 as considerable powers of invention, " jMrs. Tam," 
 as she was habitually called, made her way very 
 successfully among the matrons, yomig and middle- 
 aged, of the district; and over a cup of " woman's 
 best restorer, balmy tea," the widow Tamfrey was 
 very generally allowed to be — during the pauses 
 between her professional engagements — very ex- 
 cellent company. 
 
 The room in which these well-suited friends 
 had met for the purpose (not openly avowed, but 
 nevertheless existent) to which I before alluded 
 was a snug but not very spacious apartment run- 
 ning parallel with, and having easy access to, the 
 shop. ]\Iiss Thwaytes, the widow's only daughter, 
 and a young person verging on forty, was occu- 
 pied in the said shop — waiting upon customers and 
 
4 SINK OR S^VDI. 
 
 keeping up tlie credit of the establishment by ci^^l 
 speeches and oft-repeated remarks on tlie beauty of 
 the weather and other such banal topics of conver- 
 sation. A wonderfully useful person in her way 
 was Esther Thway tes ; a thorough Avoman of busi- 
 ness, keen-eyed, calculating, and Avith only the 
 very smallest of soft spots in the woman's heart 
 beating under her maidenly bosom. But there 
 was yet another purpose besides that of business 
 utility to which Miss Esther Thwaytes was daily 
 put. AVitli her the aged mother, who possessed but 
 that one ewe lamb, was always indulging in, not 
 sweet converse, gentle reader — not the interchange 
 of soul with soul, nor the pleasant fellowship of 
 congenial trenchenvomen — but the inexhaustible 
 enjoyment, the indescribable satisfaction of what 
 we have heard described in five single letters as 
 " words." They were both — the daughter of forty 
 and the parent of sixty-five — essentially " naggers." 
 The daily food of snip-snap, the eternal picking of 
 bones, was as necessary to them as the air they 
 breathed. Deprived of wholesome excitement, the 
 lives of these two women would have been horribly 
 flat and uninteresting; a vis inertia', despite the 
 busy shop, the cheering tea-diinkings, and the 
 friendly intercourse with that unfailing gossip 
 ^Irs. Tamfrey, the monthly nurse of Switcham. 
 That exemplary village functionary was pouring 
 
WHAT THEY SAID IN THE VILLAGE. 5 
 
 out her third dish of tea when, with a wheezy sigh, 
 she commenced a reply to her friend's comment on 
 tlie approaching marriage. 
 
 " As sure as I sits here, Jane Thwaytes," she 
 said oratorically, " if tfohn Beacham marries that 
 Irish gnrl he'll come to trouble. There's that 
 about ^liss Blake as speaks a vollum. It isn't 
 that she's, so to speak, aither bold or forrard; I 
 couldn't say that of her — no, not if I was to be put 
 upon my Bible oath; but what I do say is, that 
 she's got a look with her eyes that I would have 
 whipped my daughter out of before she w^as twelve 
 years old, or I would have known the reason why." 
 
 " It's singular now, ain't it," suggested Mrs. 
 Thwaytes, "that one can't learn more about who 
 she is, and where she comes from? A nussery 
 governess too isn't much to boast of neither, and 
 I don't wonder as the old lady is a bit put out. 
 The Beachams have allers held their heads high, 
 and John's mother hasn't been behindhand with 
 'em. She's not the woman, I'm thinking, to like 
 being mother-in-law to a gurl who may, for any- 
 thing that's known, be a gentleman's love-child. 
 And, pretty as she is — I must say that for her — 
 and like a lady too. Miss Blake had to dress the 
 children, and hem the pincloths, and all that sort 
 of thing at Clay's Farm." 
 
 " All that sort of thing ! I should think so, and 
 
G SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 a precious deal more to that. Wlij from the first 
 moment that Mrs. Clay was took in labour — and 
 that's been twice in the two years that Miss 
 Blake's been at "the farm — the most of the head- 
 work fell upon Honor. Tliere was this to be 
 thouorht of, and that to be done — the children to 
 be kep from noise, and the master from being put 
 out because the baking was spoiled. Everything, 
 morning, noon, and night — and I used to think it 
 was a bit too much for such a mere girl as she is 
 — fell upon the nussery governess." 
 
 '' And that's true, I believe, or the Clays, one 
 and all, wouldn't make so much of her as they do ; 
 and the old lady ought to think of that, proud as 
 she is, for she'll be a rare help, will Honor, at the 
 Paddocks. A good headpiece of her own, and 
 not above making herself useful ; and add to that 
 that John's getting on for forty, and is particular 
 in his ways — so he is. He means honourable, does 
 Mr. Beacham, and stands high with rich and poor^ 
 and what's more, he can take his wife to as good a 
 home as any in the country." 
 
 " Better, maybe, for his wife if it was a 
 poorer one," said Mrs. Tamfrey, who knew some- 
 thing of the world and of human natm-e. " When 
 a young gurl that's been used to work marries a 
 man that can keep her without it, ten to one that 
 slie gets into mischief. I don't say, if she gits a 
 
^YHAT THEY SAID IX THE VILLAGE. 7 
 
 family about lier, which it's a'most certain she 
 ^^ill/' continnecl ^Irs. Tarn, speaking, as was only 
 natural, in the interests of her profession, " that 
 Mrs. John Beacham won't settle down; but she's 
 but a giddy thing at present, always laughing — I 
 declare it's the prettiest thing to hear her, and 
 makes one laugh, too, for company; but if she 
 dont have a family — and John Beacham's nearly 
 old enough to be her father — and if the young men 
 get about her, why" — and Mrs. Tam, deeming, 
 probably, that she had said enough to enlighten 
 the feminine mind of her auditor, wound up her 
 prognostications with a very suggestive sigh. 
 
 " I hope not. It would be a sad thing, indeed, 
 if mischief came of this grand marriage of hers. 
 I should be sorry for John Beacham if it was to," 
 mumbled the widow Thwaytes, whose mouth was 
 fuller than was altogether becoming of well-salted 
 buttered toast. " I should be sorry as sorry could 
 be for John if trouble was to come upon him that 
 way. Ah well! if the Squire had only lived! 
 Such a gentleman as he was for advising and 
 keeping things straight ! There isn't a day nor 
 yet an hour that the parish doesn't feel the want 
 of him. If Squire Vavasour had been spared, 
 things would have gone on, as w^e've all on us 
 said a hundred times, in quite another guess sort 
 of fashion. There would have been more living 
 
8 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 at the Castle tlieii, and a precious sight more 
 money spent in the ])arish. Tlie Castle then 
 would have been a proper house for young people 
 to live in, and be married out of; and now what is 
 it? As Mrs. Shepherd says — and she ought to 
 know that's been housekeeper these twenty years 
 at the great house — there's as much skinflinting 
 there as if milady hadn't as many pounds as she 
 has thousands. ' I declare,' says she to me, which 
 it will be a week to-morrow, the day I was taking 
 tea with her up at the Castle, — ' I declare,' says 
 she, ' it's a sin and a shame how little's been spent 
 this five years at Gillingham Castle. The Chace 
 itself and the game and all has been let to go to 
 rack and ruin. Next to no labourers employed, 
 no parties given where there used to be a'most 
 open house kep, and such a home made for the 
 youuix ixentlemen as it's no wonder tliev should 
 run a little wild when they was let out like.' " 
 
 " There'll be a change now, I'm thinking," sug- 
 gested Mrs. Tamf rey after a pause ; " the young 
 ladies are getting on, you know, and ^fr. Arthur 
 coming of age next year will make something of a 
 stir, in course." 
 
 The widow shook her head \vith a dreary air 
 of superior wisdom. " From what Mrs. Shepherd 
 tells me" — and the words were said in one of those 
 ominous whispers that are intended to imply even 
 
^YHAT THEY SAID IX THE VILLAGE. \) 
 
 more of knowledge than is expressed — "from 
 what ]Mrs. Shepherd says, there's no coming of age 
 yet awhile for the air aperient of GilUngham. 
 There's something out of the common, it appears, 
 though what it is jSIi's. Shepherd couldn't speak 
 to exactly, in the last entail. Anyway, milady — 
 which seems odd, don't it? she having been the 
 heiress — hasn't got, after a certain day — that's pos 
 — anything to do with the estate and property. It's 
 that, folks say — them as knows something about 
 the matter — as puts her out so. And it's to be, 
 some saA^s, when ^Ir. Arthur is five-and-twenty 
 that his mamma will have to walk out of her own 
 house like a private person, after all the money 
 and land that she was born to." 
 
 "Let milady alone," put in Mrs. Tam de- 
 cidedly; " she'll be rich enough, if all's true, what- 
 ever happens. There's a pretty long purse a-fill- 
 ing somewhere, I'll be bound. It's little besides 
 her name that she gives to all them mad-houses 
 and county 'ospittles that there's such a talk about. 
 No, no ; Milady Millicent isn't one to be short of 
 cash, whoever else goes to the wall — but," inter- 
 rupting herself, " my gracious ! Jane Thwaytes, if 
 there ain't two parties a-waiting in the shop, and 
 no one in life to serve them but Esther !" 
 
 Startled l^y this appeal to her love of gain and 
 order, the widow, after a hurried wipe of her lips 
 
10 SIXK OR SWLM. 
 
 ^vitli the corner of her apron, Inistlecl into tlic ad- 
 joining shop Avith a shaq^ rebuke already on her 
 tongue. It was a tidy and very prosperous estab- 
 lishment that of which Esther Thwaytes was tho 
 prop and mainstay. In it you could obtain all 
 that the heart of a reasonable woman of simple 
 tastes and habits ought to desire. On one side, 
 the counter was strewed with cheap ribbons, sno^^y 
 cap-fronts, artificial flowers more gaudy than artis- 
 tic, with occasionally a tempting novelty in the 
 shape of the last new thing in bonnets. The 
 other side of the widow's flourishing " store" con- 
 tained goods that were more useful than orna- 
 mental. Tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuflP, together 
 with other articles of home and colonial produce, 
 were procurable at " the" shop in the main street 
 of Switcham. As a matter of course, the widow, 
 enjoying the benefit of a monopoly, drove a thriv- 
 ing trade ; and, equally as a matter of com^se, in- 
 cessant were her jeremiads on the disjointedness 
 of the times, the dearness of provisions, the ini- 
 quity of subordinates, and the general decadence of 
 all things since the da)'S which she w^as pleased to 
 call " her time." And yet, at scarcely any hour 
 of the day from the early hour of opening was the 
 little sliop devoid of customers; while towards the 
 witching time of evening, and that more especially 
 on a Saturday night (for the widow was no advo- 
 
WHAT THEY SAH) IX THE ^^LLAGE. 11 
 
 cate for early closing), her house was one, it may be 
 said, of " call" — a regular rendezvous for the busy 
 and the idle, for the sweethearts and the gossips, of 
 the village where the much-respected widow had 
 been born and bred. 
 
CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE ANTECEDENTS OF IMILADY. 
 
 The Lady ^lillicciit Vavasour, wliose proceedin<Ts 
 were tlius f?o freely commented upon by her in- 
 feriors, was tlie onl}' child of the rich and potent 
 Earl of Gillingham. That nobleman, who survived 
 the Countess, his wife, but little more than a year, 
 bequeathed at liis decease, with restrictions and a 
 good deal a contre comr, all that he possessed, in 
 land, mines, personalt}^, and otherwise, to his only 
 child, the Lady Millicent aforesaid and in the last 
 chapter duly commented upon. 
 
 The income produced l)y the above-mentioned 
 properties — of all of which the heiress came into 
 undisputed possession at the age of twenty-three — 
 amovmted at a moderate computation to thirty 
 thousand pounds per annum. The Lady ^lillicent 
 Vavasour therefore took her stand on the platform 
 of public estimation with the ^>r<?.s^/ye of being one 
 of the richest heiresses in England. 
 
 As might naturally be expected, the eyes of the 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 13 
 
 world and eke the monster s tongne liad from lier 
 earliest womanhood a good deal to look and say on 
 the subject of the Lady Millicent's future dispo- 
 sition in marriage. That she would — like the 
 Maiden Queen of mighty memory, or the banker's 
 heiress of nineteenth-centnry renown — be content 
 to enjoy her power alone j no one appeared for a 
 single moment to imagine. There exist, always 
 have existed, and probably always Avill exist, a 
 large proportion of the bolder sex of whoiii it is 
 averred, and safely too, that they are not '' marry- 
 ing men ;" but whoever in his or her experience — 
 and I say it without jirejudice — has heard of a 
 " non-marrying woman" ? Such a being, if it were 
 discovered to exist, would be an anomaly, a lusus 
 naturce, a freak, so to speak, of the mighty mother 
 who has done all things not only wondrously, but 
 "decently and in order." 
 
 But if there be a class of females likely to 
 " go in," as the saying is, for celibacy, that class is 
 the genus heiress. There are causes too nnmerous to 
 mention that may account for this established fact : 
 the watchfulness alike of friends and foes ; a 
 natural as well as a cultivated suspicion that " men 
 are not (always) what they seem ;" the difficulties 
 attendant on an emharras de choic ; and last, but 
 by no means least in importance, the fear of being 
 reduced to a second-rate power, — may all be cited 
 
14 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 as good and sufficient reasons for the delay which 
 so frequently occurs in the "going off'" of an 
 heiress. As regarded the Lady ^lillicent Vavasoui', 
 the rich partie par excellence of this story, tlie last- 
 mentioned cause was, far and away beyond the 
 rest, the one to Avliich might be attributed the 
 important fact that she had reached the age of 
 twenty-four while still a single woman. 
 
 There is much to be said in excuse for the 
 almost proverbial arrogance and love of power 
 which marks the woman who is born to greatness. 
 She is so (jften taught — if not indeed by words, 
 at least by the deference of those around her, by 
 the inevitable yielding to her will, and by the 
 kotooing of dependents — that she is, in her way, a 
 Queen, that it would be rather surprising if any 
 humbler ideas of her own position should find 
 entrance into her mind. A great deal has been 
 advanced and written on the importance of pubHc 
 schools as tending to the discovery of that imagi- 
 nary line known as a young gentleman's "level;" 
 but whether this hoped-for good is ever attained, 
 and if attained whether it be worth the high price 
 often paid for its possession, must remain an open 
 (question; the distressing truth however cannot, I 
 feai', be disputed, that the " level " of a young 
 lady possessed of forty thousand pounds per annum 
 is never likely to be found, save and except 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF IMIL.VDY. 15 
 
 in rare cases of matrimonial felicity — in those 
 exceptional cases, I mean, where there is no struggle 
 for power, where the Salic law as exemplified in 
 tlie nineteenth-century wife is virtually set aside, 
 and where (but this is a sine quel non) the husband 
 is in every way worthy of this heroic act of volun- 
 tary self-abnegation. 
 
 That the Lady Millicent Yavasour was ^ery 
 far from being the model Avoman whose price 
 is far above rubies will very speedily be seen. 
 She was a cold and unattractive child, and she 
 ^ew up to be in many respects a cold and unat- 
 tractive woman; but that she was so must in a 
 great measure be attributed to the peculiarity of 
 her "bringing up," and, strange to say, to the 
 regretable fact that she was not born to be a man. 
 The Earl and Countess of Gillingham were both 
 what I must be permitted to describe as " family- 
 mad.*' That the Yavasours were the most ancient, 
 the noblest, and most exalted of all the races of 
 men upon earth, this elderly and highly respect- 
 able couple religiously believed. Previously to her 
 union mth the last male of this ancient family, the 
 Lady Caroline M^Int}Te (the respected mother 
 of Lord Gillingham's heiress) had entertained a 
 foolish prepossession in favour of the old Scottish 
 l)lood which ran in her own blue veins ; but the 
 en£ri'aftin£i of her northern race in the still noisier 
 
IC) SINK OR S\MM. 
 
 stock of the Vavasours of Gillingham was sufficient 
 to inoculate her with every prejudice entertained 
 by Kichard, eleventh earl of that most princely 
 house. 
 
 They were not — barring this one folly — either 
 a particularly silly or an especially objectionable 
 pair. They were a little grand and distant to 
 those who might be so daring as to claim equality 
 w^itli themselves, but to their clearly-marked infe- 
 riors and to the actual iioor they were kind, 
 generous, and "pleasant." 
 
 Perhaps the person who suffered the most from 
 the " madness" which may be said to be inherent in 
 the Vavasour blood was their only child — the Lady 
 Millicent, whose career will form one of the sub- 
 jects of these pages. To her, without intending 
 to be otherwise than affectionate and kind, the 
 behaviour of both father and mother was invaria- 
 bly cold and distant. She was never forgiven for 
 the " sin" of her birth — never pardoned, j)oor 
 unconscious child, for the guilt of being a girl ! 
 As the last male descendant of the Vavasours, 
 Lord Gillingham would willingly have given ten 
 years at least of his vast rent-roll, for a son in 
 whose person the grand old title might be per- 
 petuated ; and the Countess his wife fully shared ' 
 in what she deemed his very natural discontent. 
 To bear without murmuring this crum2)led rose- 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 17 
 
 leaf on their luxurious coucli was not in the 
 nature of either ; so instead of making the best of 
 the only child with which Providence had blessed 
 them, they did precisely the contrary: and the 
 little Lady Millicent, deprived of the caresses and 
 the softening influence of a gentle mother's love, 
 grew up as I have described her to be — cold, arro- 
 gant, and unamiable. 
 
 The young lady herself was fully capable of 
 appreciating the wrong that had been done, not 
 only to her family but to society at large, by the 
 deplorable accident of her birth. As one of the 
 richest heiresses in England, and as the bearer of a 
 name so noble and so honoured, she was of course 
 a "personage;" and as one of the uppermost (that 
 could not be denied) of the upper ten thousand she 
 would take her place, and an exalted place too, 
 amono^ the m-eat ones of the land ; but — there was 
 the rub! — there "pinched the shoe," and "galled 
 the withers" — she was not and would not be, in 
 the course of nature, a peeress ! Power — the 
 power that wealth would give — was hers, but 
 precedence — that honour so dearly valued by her 
 sex — was sadly and, unless it were obtained by 
 marriage, for ever wanting. 
 
 When, after her parents' decease, which oc- 
 curred soon after she had completed her twenty- 
 third year, tlie orphaned lieiress pondered regret- 
 VOL. I. C 
 
18 srxK OR SWIM.. 
 
 fully upon tlicse things, the idea of purchasing 
 ■Nvitli her valued thousands one of the highest of 
 England's titles could scarcely fail to occur to 
 one whose love of rank — the well-imbihed pre- 
 judice of a dull and unsympathised-with childhood 
 — was only outdone l)y her passionate attachment 
 to power. Well did the Lady !Millicent know — for 
 her girlhood had not all been spent in the seclu- 
 son of Gillingham, and at London balls and routs 
 and dinner-parties she had learned something of 
 the level of gold — well did the heiress know that, 
 were she willing to barter her rent-roll for rank, 
 the negotiation would have been only too easily 
 effected. But, all things considered, this young 
 woman was not so willing. Any superiority en- 
 joyed by a husband, any benefit conferred u2:)on 
 her through him, would — so singularly was she 
 constituted — have been as gall and wormwood to 
 her taste. She was overweeningly proud, besides, 
 even as her parents had been before her, of 
 the name she bore; and, singular as it may at 
 first seem, it was to that very pride in, and at- 
 tachment to the name of Vavasoiu* that the 
 tardy marriage of this proud and impracticable 
 lady was owing. 
 
 Late in the summer of the year following on 
 her accession to wealth and power, the Lad}^ ^lil- 
 licent set forth in great state o]i a continental 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 19 
 
 tour. As companions on the way she had chosen 
 Lord and Lady Merioneth : a good simple-minded 
 pail', ready and able to be amused, and withal 
 tolerably slow to comprehend (from the circum- 
 stance of their OA\ai entire want of foolish family 
 pride) the besetting sin of their young com- 
 panion. 
 
 The dehcate health of Lady I\lillicent Va- 
 vasour waSj to the sui'prise of the world in ge- 
 neral, the alleged motive for her spending the 
 winter abroad. It had been suddenly discovered 
 that the lungs of the heiress were delicate; and 
 although her breadth of chest and generally 
 healthy appearance tended to correct the asser- 
 tion, pubhc interest — no unusual occurrence when 
 the malade imaginaire^ or othenvise, happens to be 
 a millionau'e — was immediately enlisted in " poor 
 dear" Lady ^Millicent's behalf. " So yomig !" 
 " so gifted !" " so attractive I" It would, in- 
 deed, be hard (and a "liberty" was implied, if 
 not actually spoken) if Death should venture to 
 approach within hailing-distance the august person 
 of the Lady of Gillingham. Happily, however, 
 as it soon became manifest, there was no immediate 
 danccer that the wealth of the heiress would be 
 turned into some obscure and probably (to the 
 public) uninteresting channel. Long before the 
 money-scattering English party had reached Flor- 
 
20 SINK OR S\nM. 
 
 ence the Lady Millicent had thrown off every 
 appearance of invalidness, and was ready for any 
 amusement suitable to lier exalted position which 
 chance might throw in her way. And ready, too, 
 for something more than amusement — ready to be 
 softened into as much love as her nature was 
 capable of feeling, by one worthy of the best affec- 
 tions of a far worthier woman than was the Lady 
 Millicent Vavasour. Cecil Vavasour was a cousin, 
 many times removed, of that autocratic lady — the 
 descendant of a junior branch of the noble family 
 whose name he bore ; and, moreover, in Ids branch 
 of the family there existed the title of baron — a 
 title which there was every probability would 
 eventually be borne by this poor and compa- 
 ratively obscure relation. Comparatively obscure, 
 for in a world of his own — a world that was 
 not that of the Lady ^lillicent Vavasour — the 
 intellectual Init retiriiii]^ Cecil was known and 
 honoured. She for that reason, among others 
 too insignificant to mention, had never till on 
 the occasion of this her first continental trip 
 chanced to fall in with her kinsman ; and when at 
 last she did make his acquaintance, the effect of 
 even a first meeting was marked and decisive. 
 Not that there was much in Cecil Vavasour's 
 outward man calculated to touch a woman's fancy 
 or to win her heart. lie was some years past 
 
THE ANTECEDENTS OF MILADY. 21 
 
 thirty, and in person neither handsome nor the 
 reverse; but there was a something nndefinably 
 attractive even in the reserve of manner, that 
 spoke of latent power, and of an intelligence 
 above that of ordinary and unreflecting mortals. 
 He was tall, too, and of a stately presence ; one of 
 those men, in short, to whom, both physically and 
 mentally, a woman, be she ever so highly placed 
 in her own estimation, would hardly have refused 
 to pay the tribute of tacitly acknowledging to 
 her own self that he was her master. Cecil's fa- 
 ther, a practical though not exactly a discerning 
 man, had intended his only son for the Bar ; but 
 circumstances, to say nothing of the young man's 
 own individual tastes, decided against the realisa- 
 tion of the old gentleman's plans. A short so- 
 journ in Italy, whither he had gone to protect and 
 comfort an invalid sister, whose days when she 
 left the shores of England were already well-nigh 
 numbered, had completed the dislike to his pro- 
 fession which before had been little more than 
 a surmised distaste. Cecilia Vavasour died a 
 tranquil death in the soft climate of Tuscany ; 
 and her brother, throwing law study to the winds, 
 and leaving Blackstone to grow dusty on its 
 shelves, remained to make the best of his three 
 hundred a year in the sunny land that he had 
 learned so soon to love. 
 
22 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 Cecil Vavasour had been three years in Italy — 
 a busy idler, devoted, ahnost to idolatiy, to the 
 Beautiful that has survived the touch of Time ; as 
 well as to the memories, the associations, and the 
 soft sadness that cling around the decaying ruins 
 of the i^ast. He had roved from place to place, 
 mixing little in society, but yet not actually shun- 
 ning communion with his fellows, when Lady Mil- 
 licent arrived at Florence. It would have been 
 impossible, even had he felt the wish (which he 
 did not) to avoid his cousin, for the quondam bar- 
 rister not to become intimate ^\ath the heiress of 
 Gillingham. At first he was very shy — as shy as 
 a proud poor man was almost certain to be under 
 the peculiar circumstances in which he was 
 placed. Compared to the cousin, who called him 
 Cecil, and treated him from the first witli marked 
 kindness and consideration, he might well be 
 termed an impecunious relation. Had Lady Mil- 
 licent's conduct towards him been different — had 
 she behaved to him with anything approaching 
 to her usual rigid aiTogance — his poverty would 
 have troubled Cecil Vavasour but little. It was 
 his young kinswoman's gentleness, her unwonted 
 amiability, her actual deference towards himself, 
 that, while it rendered him ill at ease in her so- 
 ciety, both puzzled and touched him. He little 
 guessed, while gi'adually falling under the spell of 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 23 
 
 ii woman who in yontli was not destitute of per- 
 sonal attractions, and who could be agreeable 
 when she chose, what was the true mainspring 
 of her conduct reo'ardino; him. He could form 
 no idea of the hidden demon of Pride lurking 
 beneath that still exterior. To his thinking, Lady 
 Millicent Yavasour — young, courted, A^ith tens of 
 thousands yearly at her command, with power to 
 effect so vast an amount of good to others, and 
 (which we fear was almost equally en\^able in Mr. 
 Va\'asour's sight) with wealth to indulge to the 
 utmost every aesthetic taste — was scarcely likely 
 to ambition any extra or unpossessed advantage. 
 And then he was himself so utterly unassuming, 
 so entirely unaware that he in his own person 
 o^^aled, or was likely ever to own, gifts that the 
 rich heiress of Gillingham could covet, that, as 
 I said before, he was at the beginning almost 
 more puzzled than gratified by her notice. 
 
 That this state of things should have occa- 
 sioned at first a something of distance in the 
 relations between the cousins is not surprising, 
 nor need it aflPord subject for wonder that that 
 very distance lent a piquancy to their intercourse 
 which was not, to the petted heiress at least, 
 ^vithout its charm. Lady Millicent had been so 
 beset by flatterers, and so cloyed by adulation, 
 that the silence, the fits of absence, and the 
 
24 SIXK OR SWDI. 
 
 almost hrusquenes of her cousin Cecil were gi'eeted 
 by her as a veiy af]^reeable variety. She was sick 
 to death of oversweet confections, of butter and 
 honey slie had been positively surfeited, so that 
 the lionest l)rown-l)rea(l diet, dry and husky though 
 it was, whicli was all that she appeared likely to 
 obtain from Cecil Vavasour, tasted fresh and 
 wholesome to her fevered palate. 
 
 But there was, as I before said, another cause — 
 the cause, in fact — for Lady ^lillicent's obvious ap- 
 preciation of her cousin, and that motive power was 
 her cousin's future rank ; for ^Ii'. Vavasour, simple 
 as he stood before her, quiet, unpretending, notice- 
 able for his carelessness of outward advantages, his 
 simple manners, and his unfashionable dress, could 
 nevertheless, failing some very abnormal event, be 
 the means of obtaining for her in a mitigated de- 
 (Ti'ee the fulfilment of her lono;-clierislied desire — 
 the hope of her heart, the insatiable craving, known 
 only to herself, to wear, while retaining the noble 
 name of Vavasour, the coronet of a British peeress 
 on her brow. 
 
 The com'tshi}), if courtship it could be called, 
 between Lady Millicent and the future Baron de 
 Vavasour was somewhat singular and out of rule ; 
 and if any distinct offer of marriage were made 
 between the parties — not a common occurrence, 
 by the way, in set and deliberate phrase, be- 
 
THE ANTECEDENTS OF MILADY. 25 
 
 tween acknowledged lovers — that offer was be- 
 lieved by those best acquainted with the con- 
 tracting parties to have emanated from the lady. 
 That Cecil believed — free from personal vanity 
 thouo^h he was — in her attachment to himself 
 there could be no doubt ; nothing, therefore, re- 
 mained for the man whose own nature was too 
 noble for him to fear for himself the imputation of 
 mercenary motives, but to put his pride, and his 
 scruples, if such he had, into his comparatively 
 empty pockets, and to accept the goods which his 
 millionaire kinswoman had provided for him. 
 
 Perhaps, had the autocratic mistress of Gilling- 
 ham and its dependencies been better acquainted 
 mtli the character of Cecil Vavasour, she might 
 have hesitated longer ere she selected him as the 
 partner of her life. With all her ambition, she 
 yet required a husband who would understand 
 her character and enter into her views; and of 
 this ^Ir. Vavasour soon showed himself to be in- 
 capable. Misled by the natural faith which we 
 all are apt to place in our own individual judg- 
 ment. Lady Millicent had discovered imaginary 
 qualities in the man whom she had lionoured Avith 
 her choice. Deceived by the extreme composure 
 of manner and the gentle reserve which were 
 among her kinsman's outward characteristics, she 
 had given him credit for an indolence of disposi- 
 
26 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 tioii wliicli slic ratlier approved of than regretted, 
 and for an inl)orn pride of race calculated to 
 assimilate satisfactorily with her own. They were 
 married, and the Lady ^lillicent was not long m 
 <liscovering to her annoyance — for hers was not a 
 character to take a disappointment to heart — that 
 she had made a fatal mistake. A better man, nor 
 one possessed of a more conscientious spirit than 
 that which dwelt in Cecil Vavasour, never walked 
 the earth. That this was so, no one wdio boasted 
 the slightest knowledge of character would long 
 doubt. It might be, though that fact had yet to 
 be decided, that the lawyer mangu^ was not likely 
 to be a distinguished man; but the most casual 
 observer would have decided at once upon the 
 impossibility of his being otherwise than an up- 
 right and a straightforward one. But for all this, 
 and though Mr. Vavasour proved to be, in the 
 broad and usual acceptation of the term, an ex- 
 cellent husband. Lady ^lillicent was, and wdthal 
 showed herself to be, bitterly and hopelessly dis- 
 appointed. It was terrible to find that, instead of 
 sympathising in her ambitious desires, Cecil was 
 content to devote himself to the cultivation of his 
 understanding, the care of his wife's extensive 
 property, the amelioration of the condition of the 
 poor, and later, as the — to him — exceeding blessing 
 of children was gi'anted to his hopes, to the educa- 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 27 
 
 tion and moral training of liis sons and daugh- 
 ters. At every time and season, and to all the 
 occupations and interests of her husband, Lady 
 Millicent took marked exception. She had ex- 
 pected to find him an amiable nonentity, and 
 instead, there was ever at her side an earnest and 
 liighly intelligent companion ; one too who, al- 
 though he was no rival power ready to edge her 
 ^)ff the throne she so dearly prized, was neverthe- 
 less a man who, entertaining both stern and ex- 
 ulted notions of the responsibilities of the rich, was 
 not easily to be diverted from the line of duty — 
 often narrow and difficult — which he had marked 
 out for himself to follow. Under the vexatious- 
 ness of this tardy discover}'. Lady Millicent daily 
 fumed and fretted — fumed and fretted till her 
 temper, never one of the best, grew pee\dsli and 
 easy of irritation, and till the chafing of the crum- 
 pled rose-leaf against the sensitive skin of the 
 proud woman's self-esteem grew to be a painful, and 
 in process of time a never-to-be-cicatrised sore. 
 
 Nor was Cecil Yavasour long behindhand in 
 aAvakincr from the one delusion that had so eff'ec- 
 tually changed for him the cherished habits of a 
 life. The conviction that the love in which he had 
 believed had been but a passing fancy, and the 
 certainty that he was solely valued by her as a 
 stepping-stone on which to rise to rank, were not 
 
28 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 subjects for agreeable reflection. But though Vava- 
 soiu* Avas capable of feeling keenly the wrong — for 
 'svrong it was — that had been clone him, he Avas the 
 last man in the world either to complain of, or to 
 grow silently morbid under, its infliction ; only by 
 his deeds could it be surmised that he was an un- 
 willing sliarer in the good things prociu'able by 
 the Ijady ]\Iillicent's gold ; and as, previously to 
 Lis marriage, he had steadfastly resisted the mak- 
 ing of any settlement by which he could in his 
 own person benefit, so did lie, after becoming con- 
 vinced of his wife's indifference, keep with rigid 
 economy his private expenses within the scope of 
 his own limited means to defray, while he ab- 
 stained as much as lay in his power from indulg- 
 ence in luxuries which those means would, un- 
 assisted, have been inaderpiate to procure for him. 
 Setting aside this glaring instance (which it 
 clearly was) of eccentricity, Cecil Vavasour, as 
 was universally allowed, acted well up to the obli- 
 gations imposed upon the rich and powerful. 
 There was no lordly house throughout the length 
 and breadth of the land in which the rights of 
 hospitality were exercised with a more liberal hand 
 than at the various residences owned and occupied 
 by the Vavasour family. At Gillingham Castle 
 especially, where the establishment was on an 
 almost princely scale, the grand old house was 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 29 
 
 twice a year brimming over with guests, and far 
 and wide spread the reputation for " good enter- 
 taining" of the Lady Millicent and her consort. 
 But for all that this was so, and although Cecil 
 Vavasour was loved and appreciated by the poor, 
 wdiose invaluable friend and adviser he ever proved 
 himself to be, he was not generally popular either 
 with his equals or his superiors in social position. 
 To anyone accustomed to look inquiringly into 
 human motives, and to those who have gained 
 knowledge of mankind by enlarged association 
 with their fellows, the fact that Cecil Vavasour, 
 with all his excellence, liis gentleness and his 
 hospitality, was not generally a favourite, wdll 
 excite but little surprise. As a rule, the silent 
 and apparently self-conceited man rarely meets 
 with favour, for silence is too often taken for a 
 diagnostic of pride, and pride is of all human 
 qualities the one which both men and women find 
 the most difficult to pardon. But there was yet 
 another qualit}^, and it was the one to which his 
 taciturnity was mainly to be attributed, that inter- 
 fered greatly with the comfort of Cecil Vavasour's 
 existence — he was constitutionally, and therefore 
 incurabl}^, sluj. Now the shyness of a middle-aged 
 gentleman who has lived much in society, and 
 wdiose intellect is above the average, is one of those 
 " facts" to believe in which it is necessary that the 
 
30 ?<ixK OR s\n:M. 
 
 individual called upon to exhibit tliis credulity 
 should he either a pliysiologist, or himself the 
 victim of mauvaise lionte. It is probable that ^Ii\ 
 Vavasour met with few or none ayIio were capable 
 either of understanding or making allowances for 
 his infirmity ; and tlius it chanced that, though no 
 man living was more formed by nature to enjoy 
 the blessings of friendship, he passed through life 
 without meeting (of his own degree) a single con- 
 genial soul into whose breast he could poui' out his 
 sorrows, or ask for sympathy with his joys. 
 
 What wonder is it if under these circum- 
 stances, and with his large warm heart dependent 
 solely upon tliem for tenderness and love, he 
 should lia^'c fairly doated on his children ? There 
 were four of them. The eldest, Arthur, a hand- 
 some dark-e3'ed lad, was destined by the provisions 
 of his grandfiither's will to enter into possession^ 
 at the age of twent}'-five, of by far the greater 
 portion of the Gillingham property, provided that 
 on his — the said eldest son of Lady Millicent 
 Vavasour — arriving at the above-named age, his 
 mother should not be in legal phrase a femme 
 couverte. This singular disposition of property 
 occasioned at the time of the Earl's decease no 
 little surprise, but owing probably to the circum- 
 stance that there was at that period no " heir male 
 of Lady Millicent's bod}'" in existence, only a veiy 
 
THE AXTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 31 
 
 limited amount of discontent was mingled with the 
 universal astonishment of all who thought them- 
 selves qualified to give an opinion on the subject. 
 
 The cliild next in age to this fortune-favoured 
 individual was also a son ; he w^as little more than 
 a year his brother's junior, and inherited more 
 of his father's disposition than had been engrafted 
 on his elder brother. The two boys offered (both 
 in person and character) marked contrasts to each 
 other. The heir was, as I before said, a handsome 
 fellow, tall, dark-eyed, and well formed. From his 
 cradle he had been a child of whose outw^ard come- 
 liness any parent might be proud, and Lady 
 Millicent loas proud of him accordingly — proud, 
 but not fond ; it was not in her nature to attach 
 herself to any living being, save and except the 
 heiress of Gillingham : and the effects of this 
 monopoly of sentiment very soon became apparent 
 in the young family growing up around her. 
 
 Of Horace, her second son, the Lady Millicent 
 was neither proud nor fond. He was born deli- 
 cate, and his infancy being a sickly and a trouble- 
 some one, his lady mother took a disgust to the 
 child who was associated in her mind with doctors' 
 visits (this great personage, being very robust 
 herself, had no patience with illness), occasional 
 visits to a nursery smelling of drugs, and the 
 irritating wailing of a suffering infant. As little 
 
32 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 Horace advanced in years, everyone, ^vith the 
 excejition of Ins mamma, prononnced him to be, 
 though a phiin mite of a cliild enongli, a veiy 
 engaging and intelHgent specimen of humanity. 
 lie ^vas very sweet-tempered too, and docile, 
 "<Tettino:" his babv lessons, as the head nurse 
 expressed herself, twice as quick as ]\Iaster Vava- 
 sour. But then it must be remembered that 
 Arthur was an elder son ; and when a child is born 
 with a silver spoon in his mouth, anything above 
 the average amount of brains is, as all the Avorld 
 will allow, a superfluous possession. Two daughters, 
 Ehoda and Katherine — of whom more hereafter — 
 completed the family, to the care and ediication 
 of which Cecil Vavasour, both from a high sense 
 of duty and following the dictates of his own 
 heart, o;reatlv devoted himself. Perfectly alive to 
 the injury done to the children by the absence on 
 their mother's part of either the appearance or 
 the reality of maternal tenderness, he did all that 
 lay in his power to remedy the evil ; but with 
 the best intentions, a man cannot in such a case, 
 to any effectual purpose, play a woman's part. 
 A father's caresses to his child lack ever the 
 softness of a woman's touch ; and moreover Cecil 
 Vavasour's nature was not, as we know, a demon- 
 strative one : his constitutional infirmity of shy- 
 ness, even when alone with the children in whose 
 
THE AXTECEDENTS OF MILADY. 33 
 
 well-being liis own happiness was bound up, 
 shackled and oppressed him, proving a sad hin- 
 drance to that perfect confidence between parent 
 and child which is so valuable an element in edu- 
 cation. But although in some respects Cecil 
 Vavasour might fall short in his exalted aims, 
 though the young people at the Castle might and 
 probably did miss the invaluable advantage of 
 which they were deprived by Lady Millicent's 
 natural hardness of character, they were neverthe- 
 less, in one respect at least, highly favoured. On 
 their father's unchangeable justice they could ever 
 and always implicitly rely, as well as on that 
 entire absence of caprice which is one of the 
 most precious negative gifts with which those in 
 power, whether great or limited, can be endowed. 
 
 Perhaps the main error in Mr. Vavasour's 
 system of education — for he had in his deep and 
 absorbing conscientiousness formed a plan for the 
 bringing-up of his children, from which he never 
 deviated — was, that they were over-educated, and 
 kept too strictly within the narrow bounds of 
 standard and routine. He may have forgotten, 
 and it is probable that his lady wife had never 
 known, that the natural fermentation of human 
 passions wdthin the breast, if too closely confined 
 therein, is liable to become a dangerous element. 
 Tie the vessel in which inflammable matter is 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 kept too tightly and too early down, and when the 
 liot season of the year arrives, and the working 
 goes on with furious heat within, tlien bursts the 
 ligature and out flies the cork, while careful, 
 parents, terrified at the explosion, marvel liow, 
 after all their precautions, and the mighty pains 
 they took, there should be a crash so fearful, and 
 so melancholy a waste of good materials. 
 
 There are some men, and of these was Cecil 
 Vavasour, into whose inner life other, and ap- 
 parently unauthorised, people entertain a morbid 
 desire to pry. The question of who really ruled 
 at the Castle was often mooted, not only in the 
 ^dllage of Switcham itself, but throughout the 
 whole of the adjacent country. That Mr. Vava- 
 sour was a very " superior" man, the world had 
 been from the first quite ready to acknowledge. 
 If any confirmation of this received fact were 
 wanting, it was to be found, so said the ini- 
 tiated, in the great and manifest improvement in 
 Lady MlHcent's property since the epoch of her 
 man'iage. This improvement had been brought 
 about so quietly, and Mr. Vavasour took so little 
 apparent part in the management of the estates, 
 that it was hard to say at whose instigation, or 
 by whose superior judgment, so many salutaiy 
 reforms had been carried out. There had been 
 no sudden or startlino; chano;es. There had not 
 
THE ANTECEDENTS OF MILADY. 35 
 
 even been an unjust steward dismissed, or a se- 
 ries of hitlierto unsuspected frauds unearthed and 
 punished. How and when this silent, unboastful 
 man worked so effectually for the good, not only 
 of his rich wife's estates, but for the welfare of 
 each individual amongst the many whom he reli- 
 giously believed were, in a manner, intrusted to 
 his charge, was a mystery to all. Nor was this 
 the only mystery talked over amongst the in- 
 quisitive — and they were many — regarding Cecil 
 Vavasour and his belongings. Was he, asked the 
 curious, a happy and a contented man ? Had the 
 acquisition of wealth opened to him new sources 
 of enjoyment? Had Lady Millicent's husband, 
 during the years of his married life, suffered in 
 mind from domestic disappointment, from the cold- 
 ness of his wife's unsympathising nature, or from 
 her besetting sin — a mean jealousy of power ? It 
 is very probable that he did so suffer, for those 
 men frequently undergo the most whose exterior 
 is undemonstrative, and who are to all appear- 
 ance insensible to the touch of Sorrow's wand; 
 but whether Cecil Vavasour were or w^ere not, in 
 these respects, a fitting object for sympathy, the 
 public never was quite able to make up its mind ; 
 for before such a desirable end could be attained, 
 death, to the regret of all who knew him, cut short 
 
36 SINK OR S^VIM. 
 
 the earthly career of one avIio might truly have 
 been called the " poor man's friend." 
 
 Arthur A^avasour had just completed his fif- 
 teenth year — he being then in the fifth form at 
 Eton — when he received the direful intelligence 
 of a loss which, to him, was truly an irreparable 
 one. The casualty which rendered him an orphan 
 had from the first been pronounced by the medi- 
 cal men to be a serious case. It was occasioned 
 by the accidental going-off of a gun in the hand 
 of a careless under-keeper, one bright May morn- 
 ing, when Mr. Vavasour and his younger son, who 
 was the private pupil of a neighbouring clerg}'- 
 man, were rook-shooting in a distant part of Gil- 
 lingham Chace. For several days Cecil Vavasour 
 continued to suffer much and patiently ; then on a 
 sudden all i)ain left him, and he knew that his 
 doom was sealed. The report of ^Ii'. Vavasour's 
 danger spread rapidly through the country, and 
 people flocked in crowds to the lodge-gates of 
 Gillingham to learn the truth, and to inquire, 
 with hushed voices and with saddened looks, 
 Avhether there were any hope that the good man 
 whose days were numbered might yet be spared 
 to them. For, if the}' had ne\'er known the value 
 of Cecil Vavasour before, they recognised it now. 
 When he was about to be removed from amonn-st 
 tliem, there was scarcely one amongst the poor. 
 
THE ANTECEDENTS OF MILADY. 37 
 
 the soiTowfal, and the troubled but remembered 
 some act of generosity, some sympathising word, 
 some excellent advice bestowed in time of need. 
 It seemed difficult to realise the truth that such 
 a man — one too in the full vigour of his life 
 and strength — was so early destined to go the 
 way of all flesh. To be sure he w^as but enduring 
 the lot appointed for everyone that is born of a 
 woman, and ichy men should show longer faces, 
 and talk ^xiih. more whispering voices of the ac- 
 cidents and losses of the great and wealthy than 
 they are given to do of the self-same misfortunes 
 when they befall those who are formed of more 
 common clay, it may at first sight be difficult to 
 understand; but the fact that so it is remains 
 the same. And thus it chanced that the Lady 
 ^lillicent, self-absorbed and phlegmatic though 
 she was, elicited in her threatened widowhood 
 far more of general sympathy and interest than 
 would have been awarded to a hundred bereaved 
 and penniless women sobbing out their hearts' 
 grief in an atmosphere of poverty and dirt, and 
 surrounded by ragged orphans howling for the 
 bread-winner who would return to them no more 
 for ever. 
 
 It was well for Cecil Vavasour that he had 
 not left to 'Hhe last" the duty of preparing for 
 the end ; for the time allowed him for such pre- 
 
38 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 paration was short indeed. On liis bed of death 
 he found coui'age to speak veiy frankly to the 
 wife who stood shocked, miserably disappointed, 
 and perhaps at that supreme moment remorseful, 
 by his side. In few but solemn words he com- 
 mitted his chlldi'en to her care. They would, 
 under God, who is the Father of the fatherless, 
 be hers only now, hers to guide, to counsel, and to 
 instruct. On her and on her only would rest, 
 so the dying man in his feverish anxiety declared 
 to her, their well-being both in this transitory life 
 and in that to which lie was hastening ; and as she 
 should do her duty by his treasures, so, prayed the 
 feeble voice with touching fervour, might He who 
 judgeth all men have mercy upon her in the world 
 that is to come ! They were his last words. After 
 a faintly-whispered farewell to the old servants, 
 who were weeping near the door, there remained 
 but the silent pressure of the death-cold hand, a 
 quiver of the pale lips, as one by one his children 
 bent their young fresh faces to receive the part- 
 ing kiss, and the spirit of Cecil Vavasour entered 
 into its rest. 
 
 There was a grand funeral, at which Lady 
 Millicent, in the longest and crapiest of robes, and 
 utterly devoid of crinoline, assisted, leading her 
 eldest son by the hand, and looking the bereaved 
 and grieving widow to perfection. There were 
 
THE ANTECEDEXTS OF MILADY. 39 
 
 many true mourners in the crowd that followed 
 Cecil Vavasour to the grave, and not a few of 
 these were of opinion that true sorrow shuns a 
 multitude, and that the newly-made widow who 
 can follow her husband's ashes to then- last resting- 
 place has not very dearly loved him in his life- 
 time. Be this as it may — and it is after all as hard 
 to judge the feelings of others as it is to estimate 
 their powers of self-control — the Lady Millicent, 
 surrounded by her children, did conduct herself at 
 her dead husband's funeral with a very praise- 
 worthy amount of dignified self-command. Among 
 those wdio had been Cecil Vavasour's friends and 
 acquaintances there w^ere grave faces and regretful 
 hearts ; but the poor wept for him ; and the time 
 soon came, after he had departed from among 
 them, when folk of all degrees began to see clearly 
 what manner of man he had been of whom during 
 his unobtrusive life they had known so little. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 
 
 The approaching marriage of [NEr. John Beacham, 
 whose family had been time out of mind one of 
 the most respected and respectable in the entire 
 parish of Switcham, within the boundaries of which 
 the Beachams had held land to a large extent 
 under many a successive lord of the manor of 
 Gillingham, was a very important event in that 
 quiet locality. In his way, John Beacham might 
 almost be styled a 2^ublic character. Far and near, 
 whenever a certain highly interesting subject — 
 namely, that of horses — was upon the tajns, honest 
 John's name was pretty certain to Ijc brought pro- 
 minently forward. It was surprising — in a country 
 and on a matter in which almost even^ youno- iien- 
 tleman, probably, held a first-rate opinion of his 
 own merits as a judge of" cattle" — what weight the 
 fiat of John Beacham, farmer and horse-breeder, 
 was wont to carry with it. The latter vocation — 
 and a highly lucrative one it was — had not been 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 41 
 
 exercised for more than a dozen years or so by tlie 
 lessees of Shotover Farm, by which name, by the 
 way, the hundreds of broad acres rented by the 
 Beacham family had, for generations past, been 
 known. Some six years before the death of John's 
 father, the estate called Updown Paddocks, and 
 which consisted of many a broad and fertile mea- 
 dow, admirably adapted for breeding purposes, was 
 announced to be for sale. It lay in tempting 
 proximity to Mr. Beacham' s farm; the price in 
 that prudent individual's opinion was a reasonable 
 one ; he and his trusted son John were agreed in 
 the matter ; so, in due course of time, the tenants 
 of Shotover progressed to the dignity of landowners. 
 Meanwhile, and pending the final arrangements 
 for the purchase, John's mother, the '' old lady" of 
 whom honourable mention has already been made, 
 
 showed herself anythino- but favourable to the new 
 
 I.' ~ 
 
 plan. Though a Yorkshire woman born and bred, 
 the love of horses and of horse-dealino; was not in- 
 herent in her septuagenarian breast. She was a tall, 
 large-boned, but, in spite of her seventy years, still 
 a well-favoured woman. John was her only sur- 
 viving child, infantile complaints of various kinds 
 having carried away four others before they had 
 had time to wind themselves too closely round her 
 heart ; and in the said John, therefore — in his pre- 
 sent comfort and his future fortunes — all her best 
 
42 siXK OR swi:\i. 
 
 aflPections and lier keenest interests were concen- 
 trated. Many were the anxious moments endured, 
 and not a few the querulous remarks uttered, by 
 the fanner's cautious wife before the complete suc- 
 cess of the undertaking, so judiciously, and withal 
 so conscientiously, carried on by her husband and 
 son, laid her fears to rest, and effectually put a 
 stop to her gloomy forebodings of loss and ruin. 
 It is true that the excellent woman was kept a 
 little in the dark regarding the details of the busi- 
 ness which was already making for the breed- 
 ing establishment of Beacham and Son a name 
 throughout the land. The "old lady"— for by 
 that title John's stately mother was known in the 
 neighbourhood of her abode — would have been 
 not a little startled had she chanced to learn the 
 amount of money that had been invested at Up- 
 down Paddocks. She seldom, after havinsc be- 
 come perfectly convinced that the " concern" was 
 a safe investment, alluded to the subject ; but it is 
 more than probable that had Mrs. Beacham been 
 required to make a rough guess at the sum-total 
 expended yearly on the " horse-breeding business," 
 she would, without much hesitation, have named 
 something under half the amount that John, who 
 was no nif]^o;ard of his cash, thouoht nothinfij of 
 paying for the least costly of his pure-blooded 
 "sires." 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 43 
 
 Mrs.Beacham was justly proud of the increase of 
 Wealth and consideration which had accrued to her 
 family by means — as she was fully justified in be- 
 lieving — of the intelligence and undeviating recti- 
 tude of her husband and son. But, most of all, in 
 the simplicity of her feudal zeal, she was boastful 
 of the friendship and unfailing regard evinced for 
 both by the " good Squire," as he was everywhere 
 denominated (for they were tenants, not of ^Ii\ 
 Vavasour, but of "milady"), by that discriminating 
 and kindly gentleman. A deeply-rooted lo^'e of- 
 the animal of whose race so many noble specimens 
 were always to be seen at Updown Paddocks 
 would have been alone sufficient to account for 
 Cecil Yavasoui-'s frequent visits to Mr. Beacham's 
 establishment ; but, in addition to this, there was 
 a genuine liking and sincere respect for the two 
 men who never permitted the desire for gain to 
 triumph over their sense of honour, and wdio, al- 
 though they breathed the air which is supposed to 
 be so deleterious to honesty, yet retained a pure 
 and healthy sense of what was due, not only to 
 their customers and themselves, but to the noble 
 animals on whose merits "they so successfully 
 traded. Cecil Vavasour thoroughly enjoyed the 
 five miles of pleasant country walk, which had for 
 its end and object a chat with Lady Millicent's 
 model tenants — the Beachams of Updown Pad- 
 
44 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 docks. He delioplited in tlieir shrewd uncommon 
 
 o 
 
 sense, in their practical equine knowledge, in their 
 cordial welcome, and, above all, in the sight of the 
 young stock gambolHng over the sweet short pas- 
 ture of the Paddocks, whilst their sober mothers 
 cropped the staff of their lives in placid and un- 
 molested enjoyment. 
 
 The deaths, under very different circumstances, 
 of the Squire and John's greatly-regretted father 
 took place within three months of each other. The 
 illness of the latter was a lingering one, induced 
 by imprudent self-exposure to wet and cold ; and 
 when at last tlie news went forth that the old man 
 was no more, deep and general was the regret ex- 
 pressed by all ranks for his loss. His widow, too, 
 mourned very sincerely for one who had been a 
 good husband for the space of near upon forty 
 vears to her ; but then she was so fortunate as to 
 have "John" to comfort her, and he, as all the 
 neighbours round would have been ready to ac- 
 knowledge, was " a host in himself." 
 
 It was the last day of April, the eve of " the 
 maddest, merriest day in all the glad new year," 
 and the eve, besides, of »Tohn Beacham's wedding- 
 day — the day that was to make him, according 
 to his own belief, the happiest of human beings. 
 The weather was lovely. The spring had been a 
 
EYERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 45 
 
 forward one, so that there were not wanting lilacs 
 and laburnums, Gueldres roses and hawthorn blos- 
 som, to deck the maypoles and adorn the floral 
 arch which it was the gallant purpose of the 
 Switcham youths to erect over the churchyard 
 gate, through which the bridal party had to pass. 
 
 The exceeding beauty of the giid wdio had won 
 what was uniyersally considered by her j^eers a 
 prize in the matrimonial market, and a certain 
 mystery which hung about her origin, would alone 
 have been sufficient, without reckoning John Bea- 
 cham's well -deserved popularity, to account for 
 the interest and curiosity created by the approach- 
 ing nuptials. Honor Blake certainly was very 
 lovely; that could not be denied. Fresh and 
 sweet as a rose in June, with a profusion of light- 
 brown wavy hair, melting blue eyes (had they in 
 very truth a "look," as Mrs. Tamfrey averred, 
 in their languid depths?), and cherry lips that 
 seemed pouting to be kissed; but for all this 
 beauty, and partly, perhaps, because of her rich 
 personal endowments, women — ay, and men like- 
 ■wise — were very curious to learn something cer- 
 tain and tangible regarding the quondam nursery 
 governess at Clay's Farm. All that was positively 
 known regarding John's fiancee amounted to this 
 — namely, that her early childhood had been 
 passed at a superior description of farm-house 
 
4(5 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 in tlie fill' west of Ireland, and, moreover, it was 
 very apparent tliat she had been delicately as well 
 as tenderly reared. At the age of seven, a person 
 callincT herself the child's aunt had removed the 
 little Honor from the affectionate care of the 
 " wadow Moriarty," the " snug woman" who had 
 hitherto acted a mother's part by the blue-eyed 
 Irish maiden ; and the next important event in 
 the little girl's life was the being placed in a re- 
 spectable country boarding-school, where she com- 
 pleted an education that was more solid than orna- 
 mental. Eventually, and when she had reached 
 the age of sixteen. Miss Blake, through the me- 
 dium of the above-spoken-of relation, whose name 
 was Balnbridge, and who had been for many 
 years in the service, as housekeeper, of a wealthy 
 Sandyshire family, obtained the situation of nur- 
 sery governess at Clay's Fami. The Clays were 
 excellent people in their line, and they neither 
 overworked nor underfed the young person, who 
 did her best, though she was still, as good-natured 
 Mi's. Clay often said, "but a giddy thing," to 
 please them. 
 
 John Beacham, although he had not been 
 behindhand in admiring Honor's beauty, was too 
 busy, and o^vned too little of a sentimental nature, 
 to fall in love with her at first sight. She was 
 such a mere child, too, compared to himself. He, a 
 
EM^RY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 47 
 
 man of thirtv-five, weather-beateiij and with lines 
 upon his brow, to say nothing of a rare gray hair 
 or two that his old mother \dewed with pain crop- 
 ping out in his thick brown whiskers, was many a 
 year too old to mate himself with that bright bud 
 of beauty. But though steady John Beacham 
 was wise enough in his calmer moments, and 
 when safe from the glamom' of Honor Blake's 
 blue eyes, to remember these salutary facts, it was 
 altogether a different affair when he chanced to 
 meet her, looking so brightly pretty, Avalking with 
 the farmer's children in the shady lanes, or wdien 
 the Httle lake, on the borders of Clay's Farm, was 
 ice-bound in the cold December weather, making 
 a sunny spot where her sweet radiant flice was 
 seen amongst the busy skaters. There is no need 
 to dwell upon the not very remarkable particulars 
 of this rustic courtship. John was Honor's first 
 lover — the first that she had ever thought or 
 read of. Marriage — an affair to which she, like 
 every girl of sense, of course looked forward to — 
 seemed a pleasant, an exciting, and an important 
 event in life. It would be delightful to have new 
 clothes, and a home and children of her own ; 
 for Honor was very fond of, as well as patient 
 with, little people; and perhaps her satisfaction 
 at her approaching marriage was more closely 
 connected with thoughts of baby -smiles and 
 
48 SIXK OR SWDI. 
 
 "Avaxen touches" tlian the girl herself, In her 
 pui'e and perfect innocence, suspected. Be that 
 as it may, she did not hesitate, no, not for a 
 single moment, ere she said "yes" in answer 
 to John Beacham's offer; nor afterwards, when 
 the hour for reflection came, did she feel one pang 
 of regret for the uncpialified assent that she had 
 given. 
 
 They were to be married in May — as John 
 arranged before he left the small old-fashioned 
 "company" parlour at Mr. Clay's farm, in which 
 this important chapter in the joint lives of himself 
 and Honor had been opened. To be married 
 in May, — that is to say, in two months' time, — 
 and not a word imparted as yet to the one 
 so vitally interested in the matter — not a hint 
 of what was going on dropped to the " old lady" 
 at Updown Paddocks I 
 
 Mrs. Beacham, who had kept house for her 
 well-beloved John from the hour when the old 
 man had departed for a world where seed-time 
 and harvest are no more, was a woman acknow- 
 ledged by all who knew her (and, indeed, she 
 had, for that matter, been known to boast of the 
 peculiarity herself) to have not only a "will" but 
 "ways" of her own. She was a bustling busy 
 personage, one whom no one in her household 
 would have ventured to "answer;" while as for 
 
EVERY D0C4 HAS ITS DAY. 49 
 
 interference with any of lier orders or arrange- 
 ments, why not even John himself would have 
 dreamt of such a thing. The love of power and 
 rule was in her plebeian breast fully as firmly 
 implanted as in that of the autocratic mistress of 
 the Castle — the division of her kingdom would 
 have been as unpleasant a disintegration to the 
 one as to the other ; and it therefore required some 
 little courage on John Beacham's part to enable 
 him to go through with credit the duty of impart- 
 ing to his mother that he w^as about to take 
 unto himself a wife. 
 
 Between Mrs. Beacham and her son there 
 had always existed a sincere, though not a de- 
 monstrative, affection. They had, moreover, no 
 secrets from one another, and nothing in John's 
 previous life and conversation had ever tended 
 to awaken in the susceptible mind of the ^^old 
 lady" the natural jealousy of a mother. It was 
 wonderful during his twenty years or thereabouts 
 of manhood how very little the straightforward 
 fully -occupied fellow had had to tell. On his 
 first emerging from hobbledehoyhood, that discreet 
 body, his mother, had not been without her fears 
 that John Avould play, after the example of 
 other lads, the lover and the fool. Anxiously, 
 and much as a fussy trembling hen watches, 
 when they seem likely to get into troubled waters, 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 SINK OR swi:\i. 
 
 the erratic movements of a brood of ducklings^ 
 so did the parent of honest misentimental John 
 torment herself with the fear that some "silly 
 useless chit," some "forward wasteful hussy," 
 w^as alluring her precious son into the hot 
 waters of a love- scrape. Time wore on, how- 
 ever; the down gave place to bristles on the 
 young farmer's chin, his voice grew manly, and 
 he took his place as one having authority in the 
 family councils, while as yet he betrayed no 
 symptoms calculated to justify his mother's 
 alarm. 
 
 The neighbours (for a single young man in 
 John's position is, to a certain extent, public 
 property) began at length to grow alarmed at 
 the apparently phlegmatic cliaracter of Mr. 
 Beacliam's idiosyncrasy. It seemed to them so 
 terribly likely that he would live and die a 
 bachelor; and then what a throwing away of 
 advantages, what a loss to some young woman 
 or other of the many who would have said "yes" 
 to John of such a house and home as would be 
 provided for her at the Paddocks ! 
 
 These lamentations and prognostics, when they 
 reached the ears of Mrs. Beacham, were met 
 not only with ridicule, but with an indignant 
 protest. "What could they, a set of ignorant 
 busy bodies, know of Avhat w^as passing in the 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 51 
 
 mind of a sensible man like Jolm? She had 
 no patience, not she, Avitli that everlasting talk 
 about getting married, putting thoughts into 
 young men's heads that wouldn't be there 
 mthout, and interfering in a way that no decent 
 person ought to do with other people's sons. If 
 John meant to many he would, and if he didn't 
 why he wouldn't, and that was all about it ; and 
 for her part, she just wished that ever^^body 
 would leave him alone and mind their own 
 business." 
 
 At length, and by the time that Mrs. 
 Beacham had almost, if not quite, ceased to think 
 of her son as a possibly marrying man, he — 
 the hitherto practical and prudent bachelor — 
 began to manifest certain symptoms, which, but 
 for the sense of security into which she had 
 rocked herself, could scarcely have failed to 
 awaken the spirit of suspicion in the old lady's 
 breast. It was again cfwing to the hints of her 
 neighbours, and the more outspoken w^ords of 
 that agreeable gossip the widow Thwaytes, that 
 certain eccentricities perpetrated by her son 
 reached his mother's ears. Among the most 
 suggestive of these eccentricities was the 2)urchase 
 in London of a "booky" of hothouse flowers, 
 and the drivino; of his big black horse " like mad" 
 to Clay's Farm, in order that the gardenias and 
 
52 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 the Cape jasmines might be fresh and sweet 
 when they met the eyes of pretty Honor Bhike. 
 
 At first, ^Irs. Beacham positively decUned to 
 entertain the idea that at his time of life John 
 wonld be that foolish as to be made an idiot of 
 by a "gel." As long as blindness to her son's 
 weakness was possible, she shut her eyes resolutely 
 to facts, and refused to believe even the evidence 
 of her senses. The neighbours might, and in- 
 deed at this interesting crisis they did, come 
 about her daily like bees, buzzing restlessly about 
 the tempting honey-pot, in which was silently 
 fermenting a domestic event, in the boiling-point 
 of which all felt themselves to be more or less 
 intimately concerned; but busy though they 
 were, and curious, as well as tolerably well in- 
 formed withal, his mother, trusting to John's 
 good sense, and being herself either ignorant or 
 forgetful of the power of the tender passion, 
 remained tranquil in her fancied security. 
 
 But at last the storm burst, and the hour 
 for full confession came. On one blustering 
 March night, when the shutters of the old farm- 
 house were closed aijainst the wild north wind — 
 wdien the mother and son were sitting at the 
 sturdy well-polished mahogany table, he, Avith his 
 account-books before him, while Mrs. Beacham, 
 on thrifty thoughts intent, was engaged heart and 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 53 
 
 soul in turning tlie heel of a gray lambswool 
 stocking — John, after much debating .in his own 
 mind as to the manner in which his communica- 
 tion could best be made, stammered forth th 
 few initiatory words that rendered the aftei 
 disclosure comparatively easy. 
 
 "Mother, you know Honor Blake?" and 
 having so said, with his big manly heart beating 
 a trifle faster than usual, John Beacham leant 
 back in his chair, and thrust his two hands into 
 his w^aistcoat-pockets. 
 
 The old woman dropped her knitting-needles 
 in the extremity of her surprise and consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 "Know the girl!'' she repeated, looking up 
 blankly at John's troubled face ; whereupon he, 
 taking heart of grace, entered upon his confession. 
 
 '* Mother, it's a long story, and I don't know 
 exactly where to begin." 
 
 " Then you had better commence at the end," 
 said the old lady crossly. John, however, took her 
 up at once. His hesitation and timidity had been 
 terrible barriers to fluency so long as his mother's 
 feelings were to be soothed, and her jealousy of 
 his affection laid to rest; but directly it became 
 a question of temper' — when once the old lady, as 
 was her wont on rare occasions of irritation, began 
 to take her son " up short" — then hesitation van- 
 
54 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 islied as if by magic, and John Beacham found 
 comparatively no difficulty in telling his news. 
 
 " Come, come, mother," he said cheerfully, 
 " don't take what I'm going to say that way. You 
 couldn't surely have expected — it wasn't in human 
 nature, you know — that I should go on all my life 
 like this." 
 
 "Like this! and what, I should be glad to 
 know, do you mean by Hhis'? This, indeed! Why, 
 John, haven't you been done for, and cared for, 
 and looked to? and haven't you had a mother 
 that's kep house for you as careful and as regular, 
 though I say it, as ever a house was ? Haven't I 
 seen to the linen, and made sure you wasn't 
 cheated, as most lads' are, by the woman serv^ants, 
 which they take advantage of their foolishness, 
 and — and," with a little quiet whimper that went 
 to John's heart, " what more — I only ask you that, 
 John — can you want of a woman than what your 
 poor old mother has done for you?" 
 
 This appeal, absurd and utterly unreasonable 
 though it was, touched John ; so rising briskly 
 from his chair, ho, to the manifest detriment of the 
 crimpest of ruffs, threw his arm round the old 
 woman's neck, and kissed her mthered but still 
 rosy cheek fondly. 
 
 " Dear old mother," he said cheerily, " as if I 
 didn't know all that ! You've been everything to 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 55 
 
 me, God knows, and I should be a brute if I 
 could forget it ; but, mammy," lie went on coax- 
 ingly, and with a scarcely conscious use of the old 
 and half-forgotten name which was hers in the 
 long-past days of his troublesome boyhood, "you 
 must remember that I am getting on ; and if I'm 
 ever to think about finding a wife at all, it's time 
 I set about it. Besides, there's Honor, who — " 
 
 ii Why, John, she's Irish !" broke in the old 
 lady, in a tone well calculated to convey the im- 
 pression that she, at least, considered Miss Blake's 
 birthplace as an insuperable bar to any closer con- 
 nection with himself. " She's Irish, which is bad 
 enough of itself, dear knows, without it's being said 
 of her, as it is said, which well you know, John, 
 that she's a young woman as hasn't friends. In 
 m2/ time, which they say everything's changed 
 now, and more's the pity — if folks was respect- 
 able they'd friends of some sort or another to 
 show, which this Miss Blake seemingly has not ; 
 and, John," lowering her voice to a whisper, 
 although they were far enough removed from 
 human ears, she and John in fact being the only 
 two persons still up and about in the old house, 
 "John, do you know, between ourselves, I shouldn't 
 wonder, that I shouldn't, if the girl was to turn 
 out to be a love-child!" 
 
 John was silent for a moment, being in fact 
 
OG SIXIv OR SWIM. 
 
 utterly at a loss how best to reply to these decid- 
 edly unpleasant suggestions. He had himself — 
 but that -was prior to the time when he had be- 
 come so blindly and irrevocably in love — he 
 had himself felt some misgivings, in addition to 
 some little curiosity, regarding Honor Blake's birth 
 and parentage. Not, as he had since taught him- 
 self to think, that the matter was one of primary 
 importance. To be sure, if he had a rather strong 
 prejudice regarding such things, it was in favour 
 of legitimate birth. He certainly would not be 
 exactly gratified by the tardy discovery that his 
 dearly beloved Honor was a "love-child;" but 
 then, on the other hand, if his bride did chance 
 to be that reprobated being, a friendless girl, why 
 there was comfort after all to be picked out of 
 tJiat. Having no near and acknowledged kins- 
 folk of her own, she would be the more likely to 
 devote herself exclusively to her husband ; and it 
 was this comforting reflection which enabled him to 
 respond with tolerable boldness to ^Ii's. Beacham's 
 hypothesis. 
 
 " As to Honor's being Irish, mother, I don't 
 think that matters much one way or the other. 
 There's good and bad in all countries, and in my 
 opinicm she's as much too good for me, even if she 
 was to turn out Avhat you call a ^ove-child,' as 
 she is too young and too pretty." 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 57 
 
 " Too good !" retorted the old woman angrily ; 
 " I should just like to hear anybody else say such 
 a word as that ! I'd j^retty soon show 'em what I 
 thought of their opinion !" 
 
 John Beacham laughed. " There'd be plenty," 
 he rejoined, " if they were only bold enough, that 
 you'd hear say that same, mother; for Honor is 
 far and away too good for a man of my age, who 
 has got somehow into bachelor ways, and who's a 
 rough out-of-doors kind of man compared to her. 
 Yes, she's far and away too good, and so you'll 
 think, mother, when you come to know her better. 
 She's as gentle as a lamb, and as playful, pretty 
 creature! as a kitten, and not a bit vain nor stuck 
 up, for all that she must know how beautiful she is. 
 So very beautiful and delicate I Why she's like 
 a precious bit of china, or one of the sweet pink- 
 and-white flowers in the Castle conservatory. I 
 don't wonder that people talk of her, or that they 
 come from miles away to Switcham church just to 
 get a look at the blue-eyed Irish girl — the darling 
 that, with your leave, dear mother, I hope on May- 
 day next to call my wife." 
 
 John Beacham was certainly 'not intended by 
 nature for a diplomatist; nevertheless, he showed 
 some knowledge of human nature, and of his 
 mother's nature in particular, when he adduced 
 the fact that the fame of Honor's beauty had 
 
58 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 spread far and Avide, as an argument in favour of 
 his marriage. If ^Irs. Beacham possessed one in- 
 grained weakness more patent than the rest, it 
 was that very common one of steadfastly believing 
 each and all of her belongings to be incalculably 
 superior to those of a similar nature owned by 
 anyone else. That her son's wife would be beau- 
 tiful beyond the average lovehness of womankind 
 was a great point in favour of Mrs. Beacham's 
 future daughter-in-law. The worthy woman for- 
 got — as who would not have done under the cir- 
 cumstances ? — that beauty is a dangerous gift, and 
 that a "fair woman," should she chance to be 
 without " discretion," is often very inconveniently 
 placed in a sober and quiet man's household. 
 For the moment too the old lady, who loved rule 
 so well, forgot that the more attractive in person 
 was her son's bride, the less chance did there exist 
 that she herself could " hold her own" ai^ainst this 
 new and overwhelming influence. For the hour, 
 however, maternal love and a certain sense of 
 gratified pride being in the ascendant, she replied 
 to John's eulogium in a manner which, notwith- 
 standing the tone of plaintive resignation that 
 marked her words, sent John reassm'ed and com- 
 forted to bed. 
 
 "Well, well," ,she said, with the sigh peculiar 
 to elderly ladies when they are about to se poser en 
 
EVERY DOG HAS ITS DAY. 59 
 
 victimes, — " well, well ! I suppose that vdiat is to be 
 \vill be. In course, it isn't for old folks like me to 
 give advice to young ones. The weak must go to 
 the wall, as it's only right, I suppose, and nat'ral 
 they should • and them as has had their day must 
 just make room, like the trees and the plants as is 
 mthered away, for others. I only hope, that's all 
 I have to say, that she'll make you a good wife, 
 John ; and if so be she does, why I'm not one — 
 be sure of that — to be set ao;ainst her. But it's 
 hard lines all the same, so it is. ^A son's not 
 your son,' as the saying goes, ^when he takes 
 him a wife.' No, he's not your son — come what 
 come may." 
 
 And Mrs. Beacham, after solacing herself with 
 the utterance of this soothing reflection, took her- 
 self off quietly to bed. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 :mrs. beacham " runs rusty.' 
 
 It was, as I before said, the day previous to that 
 appointed for the wedding, and Mrs. Beacham, 
 feehng slightly bemuddled and restless, and being 
 withal half, and only half, reconciled to her son's 
 marriage, was passing a quiet hour in the large 
 old-fashioned kitchen-garden, which had formed 
 for the best part of half a century her glory and 
 her pride. 
 
 In the days before John's engagement to 
 Honor Blake, and when the mother and son to- 
 gether ruled the household in harmony, and with 
 a prudent yet not illiberal hand, Mrs. Beacham 
 had been remarkable for a quiet cheerfulness of 
 disposition and — making allowance for occasional 
 outbreaks — for a kindly temper. The world had 
 hitherto gone well with her, and she — in common 
 gratitude bound — had gone well with the world. 
 What wonder was it, then, that Updown Pad- 
 docks, with its cheery, hospitable mistress, and 
 
MRS. BEACHAM " RUNS RUSTY.*' 61 
 
 with " young Jolm," so pleasant as lie was, and 
 open-lianded, came to be well appreciated as a 
 ''good house," to use a rustic but expressive 
 phrase, throughout the whole country side? 
 
 There was something anomalous, as may al- 
 ready have been noticed, in the social position 
 occupied by the wealthy owner of Updown Pad- 
 docks. A simple yeoman by birth, but withal 
 well educated — for he had passed through the 
 grammar-school, at which, according to his 
 mother's frequent boast, more than half the 
 pupils were " gentlemen's sons" — John Beacham, 
 whose manners, if not fashionable, were such as 
 to render him quite an admissible guest, was 
 nearly as frequently met with at the tables of 
 the middle-class aristocracy as at the humbler 
 "boards" of those who might be more correctly 
 termed his equals. As a natural result also of 
 his profession as a horse-breeder (bear in mind, 
 however, O captious reader, with what an honest 
 and unselfish steadiness of purpose that trade was 
 carried on), his intimate acquaintance amongst 
 men socially very much his superiors rapidly 
 increased ; and so great was the esteem in which 
 John Beacham, not only as an honourable man, 
 but as one whose knowledo-e of horse-flesh could 
 not be denied, was held, that at the time of his 
 marriage with pretty Honor Blake it would have 
 
62 SINK OR s^^^M. 
 
 occasioned no surprise to the Lord-lieutenant of 
 the County had he been invited to meet at dinner 
 tlie man whose yearly sales of stock amounted on 
 an averajre to double the net-income of the ac- 
 knowledged greatest man in Sandyshire. 
 
 Nor was Mi's. Beacham, after a fashion appre- 
 ciated by herself, without her share of the popu- 
 larity and honours enjoyed by her son. It is true 
 that she was never included in the invitations 
 over which her maternal heart rejoiced. Never, 
 even in a dream, had the stately old lady, in her 
 black lutestring dress, and her cap of finest 
 MecliUn lace (a heirloom in her family), found her- 
 self a guest at Gillingham Castle, at Clifton Court, 
 or even at the less-imposing table of sporting 
 Dr. Thorpe, the very reverend the Dean of the 
 neighbouring episcopal town of Gawthorpe. But 
 the sensible old woman was quite content to be 
 thus excluded : she entertained very shrewd ideas, 
 not only regarding old womanhood, but the pro- 
 prieties of life generally, and had not, at her age, 
 to learn that, even had all things besides been 
 what she, in her simplicity, was wont to call "suit- 
 able," there remained the unanswerable fact that 
 after a certain age ladies cease to be ornamental, 
 and as dinner-table guests must therefore expect 
 to be overlooked. 
 
 But althouf^h tliis autocratic middle -class 
 
MRS. BEACHAM " RUNS RUSTY." Go 
 
 dowager liaci been liitlierto pliilosopliically con- 
 tent to remain in the backgronnd, it was more 
 than probable that she would take a different 
 view of this highly important matter, and would 
 be less amenable to reason, should the beautiful 
 daughter-in-law, whose loveliness might, as the 
 saying is, "adorn a court," chance to be more 
 highly appreciated than herself by the society 
 to which her son was by courtesy admitted. 
 Even, however, were that not to be the case, 
 there still remained the more than probability 
 that the homage which in John's home had 
 hitherto been paid to herself, to her hospitality, 
 her "pleasantness," and her powers of causing 
 social enjoyment, would be shared by, if not in- 
 deed transferred to, the far younger and more 
 attractive woman who was so soon to make an 
 inroad into Updown Paddocks. Like many hos- 
 pitable people, !Mrs. Beacham was rather inordi- 
 nately fond of popularity, and the idea of sharing 
 that popularity with a young and winsome bride 
 was eminently distasteful to her. 
 
 Ah, well indeed is it for us that the dark 
 corners of our hearts can be seen only by oiu- 
 selves and by a God who judges mercifully. Our 
 best friends and our dearest relations — the wife 
 of our bosom, and the husband of our choice — 
 might have to hold his or her breath with sur- 
 
64 SINK OR swi:m. 
 
 prise and consternation could a glance behind 
 the unholy of unholies be obtained, and what is 
 thought and planned in those hidden corners be 
 brought to light. Honor IMake's future mother- 
 in-law was neither a cold-hearted nor a cruel wo- 
 man ; and yet, as the time of her expected depo- 
 sition drew nigh, it is to be feared that not a few 
 of the reprehensible feelings Avhich go far towards 
 the making of a villain rose up within her breast 
 against John's unoffending l)ride elect. 
 
 " Well, mother, and what's the case with you ? 
 Jolly — eh ?" exclaimed a cheery voice behind the 
 widow, as that grieving woman, with her head 
 bent lower than was usual with her, prepared 
 to take a fourth turn alono; her faA^ourite walk. 
 "Pretty bobbish — eh?" John repeated, attempt- 
 ing, after the fashion of cheerful strong-nerved 
 persons, to brighten the countenance and enliven 
 the spirits of the sorrowful by a loud voice and 
 unaccustomed sportiveness of language. " Spe- 
 culating on the crop of gooseberries, eh?" John 
 added, offering his arm to his mother, who ac- 
 cepted the attention with a sigh that boded ill 
 for the success of her son's efforts. " Plenty of 
 work this year in the preserving line, I expect ; I 
 never saw a greater promise of fruit." 
 
 "It wasn't the gooseberries nor yet the cur- 
 rants I was tlnnking of, John," said Mrs. Beach- 
 
MRS. BEACHAM "RUNS RUSTY." 65 
 
 am mournfLill}'. " It's to-morrow was in my head, 
 and I couldn't help wishing, that I couldn't, that 
 Honor was more steady-like, and older too, John, 
 for your sake. It would be better by half if she 
 was nigher thirty than twenty. Why she's little 
 better than a child, and it's not so easy, let me tell 
 you, to put old heads npon young shoulders." 
 
 John laughed hilariously. Naturally of a 
 cheerful turn of mind, his spirits, as the hour 
 of his wedded happiness drew near, grew almost 
 boisterous, and although not given to the utter- 
 ance of melodious sounds, he could have sung 
 aloud for very joy through ever}^ hour of that 
 his marriage eve. 
 
 "Thank you for nothing, mother," he said 
 good-humouredly ; "I'm (|uite content with my 
 young woman as she is. Youth's a complaint 
 that's pretty soon got tlie better of with all of us, 
 and Honor — Heaven bless her! — has got more sense 
 and judgment, child as she is, than many an older 
 woman. God grant I may make her life a happy 
 one I" he added, raising his hat reverently. " If 
 it depends on me to do it, I'm not afraid but what 
 she'll find all go smoothly at the Paddocks." 
 
 There was a pause after this rather suggestive 
 speech, a pause which ]Mi's. Beacham filled up by 
 mentally asking herself what John could mean. 
 "Were his words intended to convey a hint? or, 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
<)6 SEsK OR SWIM. 
 
 wliat "svas still more hurtful to lier maternal feel- 
 ings, a learning'^ Could it be that John was 
 already preparing to mount guard over his pre- 
 cious Honor .^ Had he thus betimes his lance 
 in rest to defend her from domestic evils, from 
 imaginary wounds to be inflicted hereafter by her 
 mother-in-law? The thought flashed through 
 her mind, brinmn^ a look that was not alto- 
 gether pleasant to her still bright, bead-like black 
 eyes: one glance, however, at her son's honest 
 countenance was sufficient to make her ashamed 
 of having for a moment entertained the suspicion 
 that he had implied more than met the ear. He 
 was in very truth incapable of aught that was not 
 thoroughly open and straightforward, and the 
 mother who bore him should have learned by 
 long experience that the female art of innuendoing 
 was as foreign to his nature and habits as the 
 making a bonnet, or the concocting of a Sunday 
 pie. 
 
 Mrs. Beacham, at the age of threescore years 
 and ten, had not yet quite passed the age of impul- 
 siveness. She had wronged that kindly-natured 
 son of hers by a suspicion injurious to his habitual 
 frankness, and to the affection towards herself on 
 which she had such good reason to rely, and self- 
 reproach rendered her for the moment both ten- 
 der and apologetic. 
 
MRS. BEACHAM "RUNS RUSTY." 67 
 
 " My dear boy," she said, pressing liis strong 
 arm witli her thin be-mittened fingers, "it sha'n't 
 be my fault if this marriage of yom's don't turn 
 out well. But I'm an old woman now, my dear, 
 and you must make allowances. It may go a little 
 hard with me at first, too, to see another cared for 
 afore me, but I shall get used to that ; and, John, 
 you may trust your mother, for how could I help 
 loving the woman that was good to my boy ?" 
 
 " That's right, mother," said John heartily ; 
 " you couldn't, I'm certain sure of that. And 
 Honor will be good ; never fear for her. She 
 may be a trifle giddy and thoughtless, perhaps; 
 though even if she's that, I've got to find it out ; 
 but her heart — the darling ! — is in the right place, 
 and that, to my mind, is what signifies the most. 
 I only wish you could have seen her with those 
 children of Clay's ! It would have done your heart 
 good. I declare, she's been as patient as an angel 
 with that little pickle Tom, when I should have 
 liked nothing better than to punch his ugly head ; 
 and then as to taking care of one in sickness, you 
 should just hear !Mrs. Clay talk of her ! So quiet 
 and so sensible ; always giving the medicines at 
 the rig-ht time, and never a thought about her- 
 self, even if she was nights upon nights kept out 
 of her bed, poor girl. Why, mother, she must be 
 almost as clever about sick people as you are your- 
 
68 SIXK OR SWDI. 
 
 self — and that's saying a good deal, as I, who have 
 had an illness or two in my life, can witness to." 
 
 The aired mother and her stalwart son were on 
 the hest possible terms by this time, she leaning 
 with an air of proud maternal content on his arm as 
 they stood together on the broad walk which ran 
 along the far end of the well-stocked garden. The 
 "sdew from that spot was an extended as well as a 
 pleasant one. A^vav beyond tlie ' briMit m-een 
 meadows, where the young stock leaped and gam- 
 bolled on the springy turf — away beyond the not 
 unpicturesque ranges of buildings suggestive of 
 John Beacham's lucrative business — lay " hedge- 
 row elms," and hills gray-blue in the soft spring 
 sunshine, while to the light, beyond Clay's Farm, 
 where pretty Honor Blake was making ready for 
 her bridal, an extensive pine-forest gave depth 
 and ^' body" to the picture. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty, mother?" John said. "I 
 thiidv the ^iew from this walk prettier every time 
 I see it. She's sure. Honor is, to like the Pad- 
 docks ; and only to think that to-morrow^ is to be 
 our wedding-day ; and that in a fortnight — not 
 more ; for I don't intend to be away longer from 
 you and home — only to tliiidv that in a fortnight 
 my little Honor may be standing here between us, 
 listening to the nightingales, I hope; for they'll 
 be singing in the hawthorn hedge, as they do 
 
MRS. BEACHAM " RUNS RUSTY." 69 
 
 every year, by that time ; and, O, mother, it all 
 seems too bright and beantiful to be trne !" 
 
 There was a moisture, strong man though he 
 was and iron-nerved, in John's clear brown eyes 
 as he spoke of his coming joy, and his voice trem- 
 bled with emotion. The old lady noticed his agi- 
 tation; and again her heart was hardened, not 
 against her son, but against the unconscious ob- 
 ject of his love. 
 
 " He never shed a tear, that I can remember, 
 ever since he was a man grown, for 7?ie," was her 
 silent reflection as they passed, together into the 
 old farm-house. ]Mi's. Beacham was, as I have 
 endeavoured to make appear, very far from being 
 an ill-disposed woman ; and yet it was, perhaps, 
 just as well for John's peace of mind that he knew 
 nothing of the strange complication of feelings 
 which, albeit they owed their origin to devotion 
 towards himself, threatened, nevertheless, to make 
 shipwreck of the comfort and happiness of his 
 idolised Honor. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE DAY OF DAYS. 
 
 " ]Ma.YN't I come ill, Plonor ? O, please let me ! 
 Mother said I might come and ask; and I've 
 brought you such a many pretty flowers. We've 
 been up, Teddy and I have, ever since five o'clock, 
 looking for sweet orchids in the south meadow. 
 Do, O do let me in! I'll be as good as gold; 
 and I won't rumple your new frock one bit." 
 
 It was early morning yet on the eventful day 
 which had been appointed for Honor Blake's nup- 
 tials. Those early daylight hours had seemed veiy 
 long to the girl who, for the first time in her life, 
 had slept a troubled sleep ; and yet, when little 
 Jenny Clay, a chubby bright-eyed child of seven, 
 tapped at the bride's door, and vehemently im- 
 plored to be admitted, the big white-faced kitchen 
 clock had but just struck the hour of six, and it 
 wanted still some four hours of the time when the 
 little girl, already half wild with excitement, would 
 enjoy her long-promised honour — namely, that of 
 
THE DAY OF DAYS. 71 
 
 being first bridesmaid to the heroine of the day, 
 her dearly-loved Honor Blake. 
 
 Jenny was in her normal state a quiet rational 
 child enough; but "the Avedding" had, for the 
 time being, turned everything (without, unfortu- 
 nately, excepting the children's brains) topsy- 
 tm-yy at Clay's Farm. A lawless time during 
 the week preceding her wedding-day had Honor's 
 quondam pupils ; and poor Mrs. Clay, what with 
 the last baby, and the expectation, in the course of 
 the smnmer, of a ninth visit from the widow Tamfrey, 
 had enough to do in keeping, as she often remarked, 
 the house from being tm-ned out of windows. 
 
 During Jenny's lengthened entreaty — an en- 
 treaty which had been resj)onded to by a voice 
 within the bolted door, begging to be left a little 
 longer in peace — another door, the one opposite 
 to Honor's sleeping apartment, had been briskly 
 opened, and a female head clothed in a many- 
 frilled nightcap being protruded therefrom., a 
 sharp, high-pitched voice was heard — infinitely 
 to the relief of the bride-elect — calling Miss Jenny 
 to order. 
 
 "Come away, you naughty girl," cried Mrs. 
 Clay, administering at the same time a gentle 
 shake to the delinquent. " Didn't I tell you I 
 wouldn't have it? Go back to bed directly, or 
 father'll give you a whipping, so he will." 
 
72 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 At this terrible tlireat, and -with the fear of 
 bed in broad dayliii'lit (and on such a morning 
 too) before licr eyes, ,Jenny began to Avliimper — 
 a sound Avliich so moved the pity of tlie Ijride- 
 elect, that before the awful sentence could be 
 carried into execution a sweet face, shrouded 
 with wavino; masses of liii^ht brown hair, made 
 its appearance at the half- opened door; and 
 Honor, pressing the soft lips, that were a trifle 
 less rosy than their wont, on Jenny's upturned 
 forehead, said tenderly, 
 
 "Do what mother tells you, my sweetie. It 
 won't be long uow before it's breakfast -time. 
 And, Mrs. Clay, please not to think the chil- 
 dren have disturbed me, for I have been up and 
 about for ever so long. What a beautiful morn- 
 ing it is ! Such a sunrise I I have been look- 
 ing at it over the Eastheigh Hills ; and to think 
 that this is the last time, the very last time, that 
 I shall ever sit at this dear little window, and hear 
 the birds singing in the trees, and the cows, with 
 old Barbara after them in her blue petticoat, com- 
 ing in to be milked!" 
 
 The girl was in a meltino; mood that bright 
 spring morning, for she brushed a tear from her 
 long lashes, when Mrs. Clay, in motherly fashion, 
 told her what a foolish child she was to be low- 
 spirited on her wedding morning. " It wasn't like 
 
THE DAY OF DAYS. 73 
 
 Honor," she said, '4o be down-hearted." And 
 the good woman was right there, for the girl's 
 moods were changeful as an April sky, and in 
 another moment, stirred by a sudden memory, 
 the sweet lips were parted by a smile. 
 
 " I saw Joe Gregg," she said, " come across 
 the meadow just now, with such a coat on his 
 back! The tails trailing on the ground, and a 
 noseo-av as bio; as his head stuck in his waistcoat ! 
 I hope he won't be very absurd at church, and 
 make us lauoii when we ouoiit to be solemn." 
 
 " Foolish fellow I'' rejoined Mrs. Clay, laugh- 
 ing heartily as the idea of the village idiot, one of 
 the most harmless of his unfortunate kind, ob- 
 trnding himself and his hatchet-face and uncouth 
 figure at the marriage ceremony, presented itself 
 to her mental vision. " And now, my dear," she 
 added sensibly, "for goodness' sake do put your 
 nightcap on again, and go to bed; you'll be as 
 pale else, when John sees you, as if you'd had 
 an illness ; and white, you know, wants a colour. 
 It's very trying, as I've always said, to the skin, 
 is white;" and kindhearted Mrs. Clay, after this 
 useful warning to the girl whom she had grown 
 to love almost as a daughter, retired to her own 
 apartment, and silence once more reigned through- 
 out the narrow corridor. 
 
 The smile faded from Honor's face as she re- 
 
^4 SIXIC OR SWBI. 
 
 turned to tlie low seat beside the open window, 
 and allowed her eyes again to wander over the 
 fair scene without. Over the broad meadows, 
 stretching eastwards towards tlie Paddocks, a 
 lihny haze, hght as the bridal veil of a disem- 
 bodied spirit, was lingering still — lingering till 
 the jocund god of day, "rejoicing as a bride- 
 groom to run his course," should lift it softly 
 from fair Nature's face. 
 
 In other and more prosaic words, there hung 
 — no uncommon circumstance — a mist over the 
 low-lying lands through which a certain little 
 winding river called the Bram pursued its de- 
 vious course. The da}' — there was no safer 
 prognostic than that light and silvery nebulous- 
 ness — would be a glorious one, and the bonny 
 bride of that same first of May was, it might be 
 hoped, fated to be another of the proverbially 
 "happy" ones on whom the sun's sjinpathising 
 rays had warmly shone. 
 
 The girl — so soon to he that thing which man 
 
 (has made — a woman (it was simply a female that 
 the hand of God created) — gazed out upon the 
 peaceful scene — on the Ijudding trees in wliicli the 
 loving birds were twittering, on the path through 
 the meadows, trod so often by the merry children 
 Avhen she — scarcely more than a child herself — 
 had headed their joyous company in meiTy search 
 
 ) 
 
THE DAY OF DAYS. 75 
 
 of the dab-cliicks' nests Mng peaceably in tlie 
 reeds beside the Bram, or of wikl flowers, fresh 
 and sweet, cropping up throngh the long grass 
 in the sunny meadows. 
 
 It was her wedding-day — her day of days — 
 and yet something very like a sigh broke from 
 the Irish girl's lips, and there was a moisture 
 (could it be the dew of tears ?) upon her cheek. 
 She was not unhappy — no, and a thousand times 
 no — she could not be sorrowful with the loA'e of a 
 good man assured to her, and with the promise 
 of such a home as it was in John Beacham's 
 power to give. She was certainly not unhaj)py. 
 She had promised to be John's wife unhesitat- 
 ingly, and with a grateful heart. He had only 
 done his promised bride justice when he had de- 
 clared that she was neither vain nor aspiring. 
 Honor could not be ignorant of the fact that she 
 was beautiful, but of the power and the advan- 
 tages of beauty she knew as little as did ^Irs. 
 Clay's two-year-old child. It could hardly then 
 be owig to a latent feelino; that she was throw- 
 ing her rare loveliness away — casting, so to speak, 
 her pearls before swine — that Honor's heart was 
 at that moment heavy Avithin her ; and yet, could 
 John have looked on her at that moment — could 
 he have seen the listless attitude and the clouded 
 brow of the girl he so fondly loved — he would 
 
7 b SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 liave been justified in reading repentance where 
 he woukl liave looked for joy. And, as I said 
 before, he would have been mistaken. There was 
 none — no, not even the shadow of a regret on 
 Honor's i)art for the promises that liad so firmly 
 bound her to Ije a farmer's wife. Only the day 
 before her spirits were as buoyant, and her heart 
 as light, as in the joyous days gone by ; only the 
 evening before she had, with all a young girl's 
 natural pleasure in self-adornment, entered into the 
 full spirit of the role in which her bridal costume 
 was to play so all-important a part. The wedding- 
 dress, pretty and pure and tasteful, although no 
 hand more cunning than that of the humble 
 Leigh artiste had been employed in its confection, 
 had been pronounced by the jmy of maids and 
 matrons assembled to give judgment on its merits 
 to be a decided success ; and Honor, if the truth 
 must be told, had been so childish — should we not, 
 however, rather say so womanlike ? — as to ])lace 
 clandestinely upon her fair head the wreath of 
 orange-flowers (a real London cadeau from John), 
 she blushing all the while for fear that any living 
 soul miirht know what a ^ain sillv tliinii: she was. 
 
 All these signs and symptoms Ijeing taken into 
 consideration, I think we are justified in the con- 
 clusion that Honor Blake did not actually expe- 
 rience regret that she was about to render kind, 
 
THE DAY OF DAYS. 77 
 
 prosperous John Beacham the happiest of men. 
 She was a trifle confused and bewildered, perhaps, 
 en that her marriage morning. In some way — 
 hoAv she could not have explained — the conviction 
 had come home to her that beino; bound in wed- 
 lock means something more than new clothes, the 
 congratulations of friends, accession of dignity, 
 and even than spoken vows. It w^as all very nice 
 and pleasant, that listening to pretty speeches, and 
 contemplating the simple presents with which her 
 friends (they were not numerous, and she had 
 been so little in the world) had rejoiced the heart 
 and gratified the harmless vanity of the whilom 
 nursery governess. But agreeable as all this was, 
 and novel, and soul-stirring, the time came, as we 
 ha\'e seen, when she began to look at the more 
 serious side of this, to her, vitally interesting 
 question : took, in short, at the eleventh hour, to 
 overhauling her stock of comforts and necessaries 
 previous to entering the boat in which she and 
 John were henceforth to sail together. And the 
 first question she put to her own heart was, 
 whether her store of love for the voyage, that 
 promised to be a long one, was sufficient not only 
 to last out the time, but was moreover of a quality 
 to withstand the changes of heat and cold, and the 
 many unavoidable trials both of calm and of 
 rough weather. In very plain and simple Ian- 
 
78 SINK OR swnr. 
 
 guage Honor, late as It was in the clay, inquired 
 of her own lieart concerning this matter. Did she 
 in very sober and earnest truth love as he deserved 
 to be beloved the man to ^vhom she was about 
 to plight her troth ? Did she hang upon his 
 wordsj and watch, as for a glimpse of heaven, for 
 his smile ? Had she — ah ! that was the test of 
 tests — pined for him in absence, and, pure and 
 innocent though she was, longed with shy, sweet 
 blushes for the moment when considerate friends, 
 taking pity on the engaged lovers, w^ould leave 
 them to an undisturbed and blissful Ute-d-ttte ? 
 
 The reply to these home queries was not, I 
 greatly fear, altogether satisfactory, as how Indeed 
 could it be, when it was the near prospect of that 
 life-long ttte-a-tete which first aroused the spirit of 
 inquiry In Honor's maiden breast? It was this 
 prospect (could this have been so, my reader, if 
 Love were lord of all within her ?) that dimmed 
 the lustre of her eyes, and cast a cloud over the 
 sunshine of her spirits. 
 
 For an hour and more she sat in the same 
 place, looking forth into the brightness of the 
 morning, and hearing without heeding the mur- 
 murs of busy life that each moment became more 
 audible throughout the house. For an horn' and 
 more she sat there, the light breeze fanning her 
 flushed cheek, and cooling the full and crimson lips, 
 
THE DAY OF DAYS. 79 
 
 wMcli ere anotlier sun should go down upon tlie 
 earth would be part and parcel of another's 
 wealth ! 
 
 " What is the use of thinking ?" she said half 
 iiloud, and rising with a slight shiver, for the morn- 
 ing air was fresh, and her light wrapping-gown 
 afforded but a thin protection from the cold. 
 '^ What is the use of thinldng ? There is no use 
 of tormenting myself when I ought to be happy, 
 in this stupid senseless way." 
 
 And Honor was right. Use there could be 
 none now in asking herself how much she loved 
 the excellent man who in all loyalty believed that 
 he possessed her whole, entire heart. She had 
 not intentionally deceived him ; indeed this inex- 
 perienced girl was little likely to surmise whether 
 or not she had so deceived him. " Thinking" was, 
 therefore, in her case, " but idle waste of thought." 
 Nothing — that at least was quite clear to Honor — 
 was farther from her wish than to alter her rela- 
 tions with the generous lover, who, as the saying 
 is, worshipped the very ground she trod on. For 
 nothing that the world could offer, so she told 
 herself, Avould she grieve or disappoint him ; 
 and so nothing remained for this young woman, 
 wdiom so many in her own degree, and of her 
 own sex, were env}'ing for her good fortune, but 
 to bestir herself, both mentally and physically, 
 
80 SINK OR swi:m. 
 
 and accept the good things that had been provided 
 for lier witli a grateful heart ? 
 
 A httle womanly vanity — could anything be 
 more natural ? — came to the aid of John Beacham's 
 fiancee as she braided the soft brown tresses that 
 the honest ixentleman farmer was never wearv of 
 admiring. It would never do, she thought, to 
 look dull and iighi on her wedding-day; so she 
 threw melancholy to the winds, and decked her 
 face with smiles, and called that busy little Jenny 
 in, to hinder rather than to help the imjDortant 
 business of the toilet. Honor's was not a selfish 
 nature, and when tlie children threw their arms 
 round her neck, kissing her witli more zeal than 
 discretion, and calling her their "sweet, their 
 pretty Honey," she almost forgot the circumstance 
 of the "new frock," and returned the truthful 
 caresses in much of the spirit which dictated their 
 bestowal. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 NOT QUITE FOR ^lOXEY. 
 
 "How like my motlier to be patronising tliis 
 wedding — -just the thing she is certain to do ! 
 That sort of popuhirity costs nothing — not five 
 shiUings, or trust Milady for staying away." 
 
 " O, but, Arthur, you forget the present," 
 said Kate Vavasour — " the present that cost, O, 
 such a quantity of money ! — mamma did not say 
 how much. But it's a brooch like a bull's-eye, only 
 flat, with a wliite stripe across it ; and it came 
 from the jeweller's at Leigh, with several others to 
 choose from, and mamma kept the biggest. She 
 said it was ^just the thing,' but I can't say that 
 I admired it much." 
 
 " I should think not," said her brother scorn- 
 fully — "a wretched Scotch pebble as a wedding 
 present for the wife of such a tenant as John 
 Beacham — a man whose fatlier and grandfather 
 were born and bred on the land! Such a favourite 
 of my father's too;" and Arthur Vavasour, who 
 VOL. I. G • 
 
o:^ SINK OR s^^^:\^. 
 
 had just returned from a nine-months' foreign tour, 
 and wlio, in the company of a pleasant and amen- 
 able tutor, had lost for a time the memory of 
 Lady Millicent's " wholesome retrenchments," 
 made a mental resolve to contrast her niggardly 
 cadean to Honor Blake -with an offering of his 
 own which would be more worthy of the bride's 
 acceptance. He and his favom'ite sister Kate, a 
 lively girl, but without any great pretensions to 
 beauty, and who, in Lady ^lillicent's opinion, 
 required a good deal of keeping under, were 
 sauntering through the once beautifully kept con- 
 servatory, where now — infinitely to Arthur's dis- 
 gust — he could trace the same " odious system of 
 dirty economy" which everywhere met his eye. 
 
 "It isn't nice, certainly," Kate said, stoophig 
 while she spoke to pick off the dead leaves of a 
 neglected pelargonium ; " I am afraid they will 
 all think it so mean. Much better to have given 
 nothing. However, I am glad we're going ; we so 
 seldom do anything lively, that even this seems 
 quite a change. Besides, Atty, you will like to 
 see the bride. She was away last year with the 
 Clay's Farm children for change of air, after 
 they had scarlet-fever," continued Kate, who was 
 a great picker-up of local news, a peculiarity in 
 a young lady of " position," for which Lady Milli- 
 cent's treatment of her children was in a great 
 
NOT QUITE FOR MOXEY. 83 
 
 degree tlie cause. " Yon missed seeing her then, 
 I remember. But, Arthm-, do tell me, is there no 
 chance of the Castle growing livelier, do you 
 think ^ What a time it is now since things have 
 been as thej used to be ! and then that dismal 
 half-mourning ! It can't be," lowering her voice, 
 ^'for mj poor father all this time. Don't jou 
 think now, Ai'thur, that mamma will surely make 
 some change at Gillingham soon ?" 
 
 " Can't sa}'," said Arthur, throwing the end 
 of the cigar he had been smoking upon the ill- 
 cleaned mosaic pavement of the conservatory; "I 
 never attempt either to understand my mother or 
 to make the sliojhtest o-uess as to what she is o'oin£[ 
 to do. But about this w^onderful beauty who is 
 to be made a ^^dfe of to-day— who is she ? And 
 "what do people know about her ? 
 
 ^^Not much, I believe. The Pembertons' 
 housekeeper, Mrs. Bainbridge, who has lived 
 with them for ages, and who is a great friend 
 of the Clays, recommended Miss Blake, who is 
 her niece, to them as nursery governess to their 
 children, and — " 
 
 " Governess, indeed ! By Jove, vdiat \d\\ that 
 class of people come to next ? However, I suppose 
 it will be thought a civil thing to go and see John 
 Bcacham turned ofP. There never w^as a better 
 fellow either in his line or out of it ; and then, as 
 
84 SIXIv OR SWDI. 
 
 I said before, lie was such an uncommon favourite 
 of my father." 
 
 "Yes, wasn't he?" Kate said eagerly. She 
 was a little thoughtless child of twelve when Cecil 
 Vavasour died ; but the kind father, with his mild 
 face and winning voice, lived in her memory still, 
 had taught her to like and ap})rcciate all that 
 he, in his useful lifetime, had seemed to value. 
 " Wasn't dear papa fond of the Beach ams ? How 
 often he used to trudge away over the fields, with 
 the thick ash stick that stands in the corner of the 
 inner hall in his hand, to visit the Beachams at 
 the farm ! Poor dear papa I he used to say that 
 he placed John first of the few honest men he 
 knew. But, Arthur dear," and she put her arm 
 coaxingly within her brother's, " do you really 
 think that Rhoda will come out this }'ear, and — " 
 
 *' And will Miss Katherine Va^^asour, as a na- 
 tural sequence to that event, beam out upon the 
 London world the year following — a consumma- 
 tion so dcvouth' to be wished? Upon my word, 
 Kitty, though I am pretty well up to your crafty 
 ways and clever little dodges, you have come to 
 the very last person in the world who is likely 
 even to give a guess at my lady's plans. And as 
 to asking her — why she would think such ques- 
 tions, especially from the heir-apparent, to the last 
 degree indelicate, presuming — in the worst possi- 
 
XOT QUITE FOR MONEY. 85 
 
 ble taste, in short. But here comes xiorace. He 
 caiij perhaps, throw some light upon the matter. 
 He has twice the pluck that I have when it comes 
 to tackling my lady. I don't think, for some reason 
 or other, that she hates him quite as much as she 
 does me. — I say, old fellow," he continued, as 
 Horace Yavasour, a f air - complexioned, intelli- 
 gent-looking young man, came loungingly to- 
 wards them, with his hands thrust into his trousers- 
 pockets, '' do you happen to know anything of the 
 prospects of this cheerful family of ours i Here 
 is Kate, at sixteen and a half — isn't that about 
 the mark, eh, Kitty? — naturally crazy to know 
 when there is any chance of her being married. 
 Don't laugh ; it's a serious business, as I have no 
 doubt Ilhoda thinks too, though she hasn't the 
 brass, like you, to ask leading questions on the 
 subject. However, what do i/ou say it is to be ? 
 London, or no London ? Husbands, or no hus- 
 bands .^ It is really time that these poor girls 
 should know their fate." 
 
 Horace, thus appealed to, shook his head omi- 
 nously. " I am as much in the dark as you can 
 be," was his unsatisfactory exordium. "Milady 
 will be lono; enono;h before she either chooses con- 
 ndants from among her children, or holds a conseil 
 de famille as to their individual hopes and wishes. 
 In the mean time," he added, stretching himself 
 
86 STXK OR SWI-M. 
 
 wearily, "what a bore this life is! I declare I 
 would rather break stones upon the road than go 
 on as we do at Gillingham. No creature except 
 the clergyman and the London lawyer ever asked 
 to the house, and my mother so awfully serious 
 and gloomy ! 1 declare, since the day when I was 
 supposed to have finished my education, and when 
 old Collins took his final leave with a handsome 
 present of my father's photograph as a testimony 
 of my lady's regard and esteem, I have never once 
 enjoyed the unpurchasable luxury of a laugh. 
 The best chance to get one is to spend an hour 
 Avith Thady Nolan in the stables. He's an impor- 
 tation since your time, Arthur, and I assure you, 
 from personal experience, that you would find his 
 society quite a resource. He is full of genuine 
 Irish humour — quite a character in his way — 
 and never, by any chance, takes liberties." 
 
 " I am glad," Arthur said, " that my mother 
 hasn't reduced the stable establishment to quite 
 the same miserable footing as everything else 
 about this miserable place. Individually, it doesn't 
 so mucli signify to me; not personally, I mean. 
 When a man is going to be married — " 
 
 "Then it is true? O, Atty!" exclaimed 
 Kate, and her eyes filled with tears, for she loved 
 that prodigal and tant soit peu unprincipled 
 brother, of whose faults she knew so little, very 
 
NOT QUITE FOR MONEY. 87 
 
 dearly, and the idea of liis marriage was, in some 
 undefinable way, a blow to lier. 
 
 " True I Of conrse it is. What was there 
 besides for me to do ? There was that season in 
 London, two years ago now — how time does fly ! — 
 when you were all living so quietly in the country 
 here, and when I — but there's no • earthly use in 
 going over it all again. All I ask of you is, whe- 
 ther you, Kate, or you, Horace, or anyone that 
 knows us both, would suspect me of marrying 
 Sophy Duberly, miless — unless I couldn't help 
 myself?" 
 
 " I can't see that exactly," Horace said. 
 " She's a yevj fine-looking girl, and always jolly, 
 with plenty to say for herself. I only wish that 
 I had the good fortune to make an impression on 
 just such another. I like your talking like a 
 victim, Ai'thur ! Heiresses to twenty thousand a 
 year are not as plenty as blackberries, and Sophy 
 Duberlys don't grow on every hedge, to be had 
 for the picking." 
 
 "Well, that's true enough, and I daresay it 
 mil all answer very well. Sophy is, I beheve, 
 what is generally called a 'nice g'irl,' and has an 
 idea that she is fond of me, which may, or may 
 not, be an illusion. Of the two, father or 
 daughter, I confess I think old Dub himself the 
 best fellow. I like the house too. There's a 
 
88 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 laissez-aller about it that is perfectly delicious 
 -vvlien contrasted Avitli our home. There is not an 
 atom of (jene at Thanes Court. One may say and 
 do and look as one likes at Mr. Duberly's house. 
 There are no cranky speeches; no domineering 
 determination that only one person in the house is 
 to lay down the law. I declare that if our home 
 had been the least like that — if our mother resem- 
 bled in anything that jolly old boy at Thanes 
 Court — I, at the unripe age of — under twenty-one 
 — should probably not be about to tie myself for 
 life — a thing to which, at present, I feel not the 
 least inclination — to a young woman for whom at 
 present — well, there is no use in being over-rcon- 
 fidential — if Sophy were as lovely as the Calipe- 
 gean Yenus, or even as attractive and charming 
 as John Beacham's Irish bride, I shall probably 
 not look much at her face when she has been my 
 wife a year. 
 
 * Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 
 He would have written sonnets all his life V " 
 
 he repeated to himself as he walked slowly away 
 through a rarely-used but admirably-proportioned 
 billiard -room into an apartment on the ground 
 floor, which, by prescriptive right, he considered 
 as his own. 
 
 " Poor Arthur !" Horace said, when he and 
 his sister were left alone ; '^ I had no idea that he 
 
NOT QUITE FOR MONEY. 89 
 
 cared so little about lier. I wonder what my 
 mother will say wdien she hears it is all settled T 
 
 '^ I wonder, too. Be glad, I should think ; but 
 she won't say so, and will be angry because she 
 was not told while it was going on. You were, I 
 suppose, you close, ill-natured, unbrotherly boy ! 
 Of course, those long letters from Atty while he 
 was at Cannes, and Avliich you ke]3t so provokingly 
 to yourself, were all about Sophy Duberly. Now, 
 tell me, Horace — there's a good, dear boy — didn't 
 he propose then ? I am sure he did, and that he 
 told you all about what he said to Sophy, and 
 what she answered, and — "' 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous, Kate; men^ (Horace was 
 nineteen, and the down was beoinninor to darken 
 on his chin) " are not in the habit of wasting 
 letter-paper on such nonsense. Arthur made 
 running at Cannes, of course, but nothing was 
 settled till he and the Duberly s met the other 
 day in Paris. I am sure that no one ought 
 to wonder at his marrying. People will stare, of 
 course — I mean those who can't look behind the 
 scenes. They will think it extraordinary that the 
 heir to such a property as my mother's should 
 marry when he is only one -and -twenty /or 
 Qnonei/.^^ 
 
 "Xot quite for money only. You said just now, 
 yourself, that Sophy was nice — " 
 
90 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 "Did I? AYell, so she is; and if I were half 
 as good-looking a fellow as Atty, I should look 
 out for a girl a quarter as nice, with an eighth 
 part of Sophy's expectations ; and if she accepted 
 me, I should think myself a deuced lucky dog. 
 Heiah ho ! AYliat an a<Te it seems before the ex- 
 amination time I I wonder how long my mother 
 thinks one can endure such a horrible existence 
 as this." 
 
 "It can't last for ever," Kate said; " and it is 
 quite as bad for us as it is for you ; and yet you 
 never hear either Rhoda or me lamenting over our 
 fate as you do over yours." 
 
 " O, girls are different I Women are meant 
 to live in the country, and stay at home." 
 
 It was not the first time that Katherine Vava- 
 sour had listened to the enunciation of this popular 
 aphorism, and, as usual, it provoked her exces- 
 sively. In her opinion, the "lines" that had 
 fiillen to Plorace were very pleasant compared to 
 those hard ones which had been meted out to her- 
 self and her sister. He was permitted a certain 
 kind of liberty, had a horse to ride, and provided 
 that the hours for meals were not infringed on, or 
 the family-prayer bell neglected, he was allowed 
 to go and come pretty much as he liked. As re- 
 garded her daughters, however, Lady Millicent's 
 family rules and arrangements were far more 
 
XOT QUITE FOR MONEY. 91 
 
 strict. Since the simultaneous dismissal (for tlie 
 flagrant offence of joint matrimonial attentions) of 
 Mr. Collins and Kate's steady middle-aged go- 
 verness, Lady Millicent had deemed it her duty 
 to still further circumscribe the narrow circle of 
 her daughters' pleasures. She was a woman who 
 dishked trouble, so that a few "general orders," 
 such as that no books from the circulating li- 
 brary were to be read, and no walks outside 
 the park walls were to be taken, formed the 
 staple of her very stringent form of government. 
 Against these retrenchments, as well as against 
 the daily dulness of their monotonous existence, 
 Kate Vavasour (Rhoda was made of more sub- 
 missive stuff) was perpetually chafing. She 
 dreaded the moment, too, when Horace would be 
 emancipated from the yoke which so sorely galled 
 her own youthful shoulders. His education had 
 been principally a home one, a private tutor 
 having for the last three years been busily em- 
 ployed at the Castle in jn-eparing the younger sons 
 for the ordeal of a civil - service examination. 
 Horace had been very impatient of the home re- 
 straints which during those three years had been 
 imposed upon him. (Jftcn had he been seized 
 with an almost irresistible longing to fly from the 
 tedious sameness, the almost unendurable routine, 
 of his home hfe. Had Lady Millicent been only 
 
92 siXK OR s^^^:\r. 
 
 tolerably sympathetic — had she entered the least 
 into their feelings — been but a few degi'ees less 
 hard, less self -engrossed, and less unwilling to 
 allow her chiklren a few of the pleasures to which 
 young flesh believes itself to be heir — it is more 
 than probable that Horace would have been less 
 anxious to escape from an existence which after 
 cill contained, as in later years he was ready to 
 acknowledge, so many of the elements of happi- 
 ness. That he did not so endeavour to escape 
 was owing partly to the affection of Horace Vava- 
 sour for his sisters, who were wont to protest with 
 tears that they could not endure their fate if he, 
 the only one who kept their house alive, were to 
 desert them; and partly to the liahlt of submis- 
 sion wdiich had grown with his growth and 
 strengthened with his strength. Before Lady Mil- 
 licent's second son also there was a road in life 
 marked out — a point in the horizon on which his 
 eyes and hopes were fixed. That point in the 
 future was the competitive examination for which 
 he had been so long and diligently preparing him- 
 self; that road in life was the one that led, through 
 mental effort, as a "govermnent servant," to dis- 
 tinction. The career chosen for Horace Vavasour 
 was that of a "puldic man;" how far an almost 
 strictly private education was calculated to fit him 
 for that career may remain an open question. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 LADY MILLICEXT CONDESCENDS. 
 
 Fa:mily prayers were over at the Castle. The 
 ladies and gentlemen, who I fear were very little 
 the better for the ceremony, and the servants, wlio, 
 if they pra3'ed at that time in the morning at all, 
 wonld 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 ^^oung 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 
 
94 SIXK OR SWI.M. 
 
 being one ^vllo, in tlie smallest as well as the most 
 imi)ortant occasions of life, never obeyed the valu- 
 able rule, Glissez mortels, mais napjyuyez pas. 
 
 " O, I don't know !" replied Arthur, who hated 
 ha\iiig 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." 
 
 iViihur bit his lip to keep down the retort that 
 had risen to his tongue. He was not so well dis- 
 posed 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 ta 
 the heir-apparent of Gillingham — to say nothing 
 of the matrimonial eno;af^ement which made him 
 feel so like a man — were all in their different de- 
 grees responsible for the symptoms of rebellion that 
 were rife within him. Lady INIillicent 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,'^ 
 
LADY MILLICEXT CONDESCENDS. 95 
 
 and witli tlie brigiit fresli flowers (a cheap luxury) 
 neA'er absent from tlie breakfast-table at Gilling- 
 liam 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 jMillicent did not approve of stalled- 
 ox-feeding so early in the day), and so soon after 
 the retm*n of the first-born son, that' son should 
 be constrained to strive — but happily not in A'ain 
 — 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 build- 
 ing. 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 jMillicent Vavasour. John Beacham 
 took an honest pride — aged animals though they 
 were — in those horses; and when from the ele- 
 vated spot in the churchyard on which he was 
 standing he caught sight of then' grand " tops," 
 and heard the rapid footfall of the powerful tlio- 
 rough-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, 
 
^() SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 passed liis lionest hand over his eyes, to brush 
 awav the moisture tliat had gathered ou their Hds. 
 
 The little ehurcli, as Lady ^lilliceut, with her 
 two daughters, walked slowly up the aisle, was 
 filled to overflowiuix with eao;er sio-ht-seers. From 
 the moment it became generally known that the 
 great family from the Castle had graciously con- 
 descended to honour John Beacham's marriao-e 
 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 Vava- 
 sour, 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 api)roval. 
 
 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 
 
LADY MILLICEXT COXDESCEXDS. 97 
 
 pronounce the '^ pebble" broocli, in its thin setting 
 of pale chased gold, not only an ngly but a par- 
 simonious 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 ihafact of 
 those proclivities would become an accepted truth by 
 those whose fathers had lived in the good old " G od 
 save great George our King !" days, and who had 
 been brought up to believe in the Ya^'asours of Gil- 
 lingham. The memory of the good Squire still lin- 
 gered 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 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 was momentarily expected, and wlicn tlie excite- 
 ment caused by Lady Milliccnt's entry had sub- 
 sided, and she was comfortably seated in the rec- 
 tory pew, all heads were turned towards the door 
 in momentary expectation of another and a still 
 more important arrival. 
 
 The manner of ISIiss Blake's coming was well 
 known to the initiated. There were no high- 
 stepping brown horses to convey Iter to the church- 
 yard-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 
 Fanner Clay's wagons) wdiich led up to the 
 fami-house. It was an ancient vehicle, and had 
 been called originally, I believe, a barouche-lan- 
 dau, 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. 
 
 "Ivlake yourselves as small as you can, chil- 
 dren, 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 excep- 
 tion of the bride, who was rather pale and thought- 
 ful, was in high spirits ; and if the Leigh " fly" did 
 
LADY :\riLLICEXT COXDESCEXDS. 99 
 
 smell a trifle mould}', and if tlie busy limigry mollis 
 had drilled a few round holes in the dingy di'ab lin- 
 ing, why what mattered it to them ? It was none 
 the less able to cany 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 i\iay a bright spot in their memories. 
 
 " O, mother ! if there isn't milady's car- 
 riage !" 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 ISIrs. 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. Throuo;h tlie little iron i^ate be- 
 tween the yew-trees, which was set mde open to 
 receive them — and very near to which Honor, in 
 her agitation, did 7iot perceive the two young men. 
 Lady Millicent's sons, standing to witness the rural 
 show — the simple co/'^^c^^e 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 
 
100 sixK OR s^^^:M. 
 
 risin<r in'onnd between the rows of commemorative 
 tombstones to tlie clmrcli. 
 
 There was a slight movement, and a faint mur- 
 mur of " Here she comes," as the fair white-robed 
 figure, her shght 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 chano;e came over the clear com- 
 plexion which had been but a moment before 
 glowing as a rose, and " from that out," as ^Irs. 
 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 bourid him to her 
 
LADY MILLICEXT CONDESCENDS. 101 
 
 whilst life should last. To the elderly woman, 
 about to sink into the mild dignity of dowager- 
 hood, 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 mo- 
 ment that he entered the church, never for a mo- 
 ment left his face. The demon of jealousy, which 
 in the solitude of her home she had in some degree 
 succesfully 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 at- 
 tention usually accorded to the platitudes of the 
 powerful. Possibly John Beacham, whose young 
 wife's hand Avas trembling on his arm, would 
 have preferred silent good wishes to this outward 
 and highly-flattering demonstration of good-will. 
 
102 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 Honor, too, blushing as slic 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 lionour which it is to be hoped 
 that young woman fully appreciated), she had 
 expressed a gracious hope that ISIrs. 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 Provi- 
 dence mio'ht deimi 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, hy Jove I she 
 looks a good deal too delicate and ethereal to be 
 John Beacham's wife." 
 
 " She is very beautiful, certainly," Arthur re- 
 
LADY MILLICENT CONDESCENDS. 103 
 
 sponded. " I liope it mil answer ; but some- 
 how 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. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 hoxor's hoxeymoox. 
 
 "Nothing the matter, really, John. I am not ill, 
 indeed — only stupid;" and Honor, leaning on her 
 husband's arm, looked up into his face ^vith one of 
 her sunniest smiles. 
 
 "Stupid! How's that?" John said. "You 
 were never stupid at the Clays'. You were gay as 
 a bird there, my darling. What's come over you, 
 my sweet one ? I hope you've got everything you 
 want to make you happy ?" 
 
 " Indeed I have, John," said Honor, speaking 
 with that smallest soiqvpn of a brogue which made 
 evervbody wonder, so young had she been when 
 she left her native soil, how it was that the Celtic 
 accent clung to her at all. "Indeed I have, John. 
 I am verij happy;" and she spoke so softly, and 
 pressed the arm to which she clung with such a 
 tender loving force, that John, entirely reassured, 
 went on his way rejoicing. 
 
 Honor only said what she believed to be the 
 
HOXOR'S H0XEY3100X. 105 
 
 truth, and yet, for all tliat, lier heart — although 
 she could not have told you Avhy — was heavy 
 within her. Perhaps it was the enforced idleness 
 of her life — for neither she nor John had anything 
 to do at Ryde — which weiglied upon her spirits. It 
 had been so very different at the Clays'. There 
 was Ruthie to teach, and little Jenny to pet and 
 keep in order ; to say nothing of Tom — that ter- 
 ril^le Tom I — whose frock and trousers were al- 
 ways, do what you would, in the wash-tub ; and 
 Neddy, who was wise beyond his years, and 
 whose questionings on abstruse subjects were 
 for ever taxing Honor's simple stores of know- 
 ledge to the utmost. 
 
 It might be, then, that she missed the avo- 
 cations which kept her alwa}'s busy in her old 
 home; and besides, she had so early seemed to 
 have exhausted all she had to say to John. 
 They had talked over the kindness of the Clays, 
 and laughed together, just a very little, at Lady 
 Millicent's grandiosity, which even Honor's li- 
 mited experience taught her was slightly out of 
 keeping with the nature of her gifts. The tri- 
 fliniT incidents of the weddino; also — the abnor- 
 mal and unexpected ones, that is to say — had 
 more than once, in the dearth of other topics, 
 formed cheerful subjects for conversation between 
 the newly-married pair. 
 
106 SIXK OR SWBI. 
 
 " I was sure that Joe Griggs would do some- 
 tliing extraordinary," Honor said, *^wlien I saw 
 liim coming across the meadow -with that great 
 bunch of yellow flowers stuck upon his coat. I 
 little thought they were nothing in the world 
 but dandelions, and that he had brought them to 
 give me in the church. Mrs. Clay was quite 
 vexed with me for taldng them, but I couldn't 
 bear to hurt his feelings; and if they did stain 
 my frock it didn't signify much — I can turn the 
 side-breadth, and then no one will know any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 John Beacham was profoundly ignorant of 
 the mysteries of a lady's dress; of "side-breadths" 
 he knew no more than he did of Sanscrit, and 
 lie Would hardly have noticed a stain if he had 
 seen it ; but he did know — and what was in- 
 finitely more to the purpose, he could apj^re- 
 ciate — a delicate and an unselfish trait in the 
 woman that he had made his vdfe. He thouo;ht 
 it very " yjretty" of Honor to accept the idiot's 
 offering, and so he told her lovingly as they 
 wandered together in the pleasant walks out- 
 side the town, which in itself seemed to them 
 both so infinitely dull. 
 
 Unfortunately for the success of their trip 
 the weather proved very unfavoui*able for honey- 
 mooning. The sun that had shone so brightly 
 
hoxor's hoxeymoox. 107 
 
 that glad Maj-claj at "liome" seemed to liave 
 entirely forsaken the sea-shore, along which John 
 Beacham and his wife, for variety's sake, some- 
 times tmiied their steps. To judge of weather 
 matters from the severity of the cold, and the 
 force with which the strong north-eastern blew 
 upon " the Island," a second and a sterner winter 
 than the last was visiting the earth. The early 
 leaves, nipped by the severity of the blast, hung 
 bro^T.1 and withered on the twigs. Noses were 
 suggestively roseate, warm shawls were gathered 
 closely round shivering forms, and the face of 
 Nature was, as it were, hidden behind a cloud. 
 
 Honor was very far from being a literary 
 character; and yet — melancholy to relate — she 
 had not been more than three days a mfe when 
 she found herself regretting that John was not 
 more of a reading man. He could not be called 
 a dull companion, for he took a real interest in 
 the talk of others, was easily amused, and both his 
 remarks and replies were sensible and to the pur- 
 pose; but for all this, and though the scene and 
 their position were new, time — there could be no 
 doubt about that fact — did hang heavy at Ryde 
 both with Honor and her husband. Sooth to 
 say, the latter was rather like a fish out of water 
 at that sea-side watering-place. The jom'ney and 
 the voyage thither, with that exquisite Honor by 
 
108 SINK OR s^^^:M. 
 
 his side, liad been sim])ly delieioiis, and tlie coming 
 fortniij;lit would, he had doubted not, pass as a too 
 short hour of perfect iind hitherto undreamt-of 
 bhss. Too soon, however, the active-minded man, 
 to wliom absence of employment was such an 
 entirely novel phase of existence, discovered that 
 his short dream on the deck of the Hyde steamer 
 was not destined to be realised. His beautiful 
 Honor was not one whit less perfect, nor was 
 his conviction that he was the happiest of men 
 less firm, than when he led her first Avithin the 
 gates of Paradise : but — and there, in a word, lay 
 the true cause of the evil^ — Ryde was not Updowji 
 Paddocks — not the place where the interests of 
 his life had so long been centred ; not the spot 
 where the brood-mares, plump and matronly, and 
 the young stock, wild witji youth and spirits, met 
 his eyes at every turn as he took his daily Avalks ; 
 not the spot, in short, where, at every moment 
 of his life, he had something to do, to think of, 
 and to project. Not to mince the matter, John 
 Beacham — dearly and passionately as he loved 
 his wife — was, at the end of ten days' holiday-time, 
 sick to death of the place to Avhicli he and Honor 
 had betaken themselves to be liapp}'. Never in 
 all his life had he found the days so long, never 
 in his experience had the wind howled and the 
 sleet pelted during spring-time as it did at Eyde 
 
HOXOR'S HOXEYMOOX. 109 
 
 during that memorable fortnight in the so-called 
 " merrie" month of May. 
 
 " I wonder what the yearlings think of this/' 
 was John's remark, one bitter, blustering day, as 
 he and Honor were boldly wrestling with the 
 breeze on the long wooden pier. " I only hope 
 that Simmons has been mindins^ my orders. The 
 worst of it is, that in these days understrappers 
 are all for haying opinions of their own — a thing 
 / never was allowed," he added with a cheery 
 smile, " when I was a youngster. I think the 
 old woman is about rio-ht in sayino; that eyery- 
 thing is changed since her time. I wonder, though, 
 what ice should think of o-oinojs on if they were to 
 come back to what she remembers them fifty 
 years ago." 
 
 '•\{q should find some of them A'ery funny, 
 I daresay," said Honor, laughing. " Dress, for 
 instance. Now, I think Mrs. Beacham's lace cap 
 so nice for an old lady, but — " 
 
 " Don't call mother * jMi's. Beacham,' Honey," 
 John said. " Honey" was a pet name that he had 
 bestowed upon his wife. It was sweet, he thought, 
 and delicate, and besides in the Bible it was 
 written that "honey was good;" so altogether it 
 seemed to suit his little wife ; and she, after 
 laughingly telling him that the j^etlt nom was still 
 more Irish than her own, answered to it as readily 
 
110 SINK OR SmM. 
 
 as tlioiigli she had been called *^ Honey" from her 
 birth. 
 
 " I want my mother to be the same as if she 
 was your own, Honey," John said. *^ She's a good 
 woman — a better, to my thinking, never trod the 
 ground. But she's cranky sometimes. I can't 
 say that she isn't tliat. You'll have to bear Avith 
 her. Honey, I don't doubt, now and then ; but 
 you won't mind that, pet? One must make 
 allowances for old people ; they get into ways of 
 their own, you know, and it isn't easy for them 
 to change. Indeed, I'm not sure," he added 
 musingly, " that, after a certain age, anyone is 
 much the better for altering the ways that they've 
 got used to." 
 
 *^ After a ^ certain age' ! Ali, now, John," 
 Honor said in a tone of playful reproach, '^sure 
 you're not going to say that you're not the better 
 for not living lonely like at the Paddocks? I 
 only hope though — ah, you don't know, John, 
 how much I wish it" — and she spoke with a sad 
 kind of earnestness — " that your mother — I'll not 
 call her [Mrs. Beacham, if you don't like it — will 
 not think that you are the worse for change. I 
 know I'm foolish, John, and young and inexpe- 
 rienced; but I mean to try and please her. I 
 hope she'll like me. Do you think she will, 
 
honor's honeymoon. Ill 
 
 Joliii ?" and she looked up wistfully in her hus- 
 band's face, awaiting his reply. 
 
 '''Like youT he repeated with an amused 
 laugh at the intense absurdity of the doubt im- 
 plied. ^' Like you ! I should think she would 
 indeed ! Why, Honey, you'll be her daughter, 
 child — think of that ! — and the liodit of the home 
 
 o 
 
 that never had a daughter in it before ; and you'll 
 be petted and made much of; and those pretty 
 little hands of yours won't have anything to do 
 but to make pictures of the trees and flowers as 
 you're so fond of doing ; and sometimes, especially 
 of a Sunday evening, when my mother loves a 
 hymn dearly, you'll sing to us in that warbling 
 way you used to do at Clays'. I haven't forgotten 
 — no, nor I never shall, if I live to be a hundred 
 — the first time I listened to your voice. Pet. It 
 w^as just a simple nursery song to please the chil- 
 di'en — not much to speak of, I daresay, either as 
 to words or music — but somehow or other, I don't 
 know how it was, it went to my heart as straight 
 as an arrow from a bow." 
 
 They were on the pier still — that cold shelter- 
 less Eyde Pier — the wild wind whistling about 
 their ears, and toying with Honor's drapery in 
 a manner more rudely familiar than was alto- 
 gether agreeable to that young lady's feelings.' 
 At that moment the vision of certain peaceful 
 
112 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 lanes — lanes where the niglitingales sang, and 
 the clematis twined about the hawthorn-trees — 
 flashed across her tenacious memor^^, and filled 
 her mind with pleasant thoughts of home. 
 
 " Anythinrr would be better than this," she 
 said to herself, as the nor'-wester, tearing round 
 the extremity of the pier, so nearly swept her off 
 her legs tliat she was forced to cling convulsively 
 to her husband's strong arm for protection. 
 
 John's last Avords, and the cheery confidence 
 with which he spoke of the success of their soli- 
 tude a trois, from tlic contemplation of which she 
 had hitherto nervously shrunk, contributed not a 
 little to her conviction that, all things considered, 
 they would be better off at Updown Paddocks than 
 listening in that half-deserted town to the melan- 
 choly murmur of '* the sad sea waves." 
 
 ^' What's in your little head now — eh, 
 Honey?" asked John, when the hearty laugh 
 caused by the wind's boisterous behaviour had 
 subsided, and they were trudging calmly home- 
 ward to their early — that is to say, their six- 
 o'clock — dinner. 
 
 " Nothing particular, only — " 
 
 ^' Only what? Out with it, pet," persisted John, 
 who could not help nourishing a faint hope that 
 Honor, like himself, might be growing home-sick, 
 and was only watching for an opportunity of mak- 
 
hoxor's hoxeymoox. 113 
 
 ino; known lier weakness — ^^ ont with it. I 
 slioukln't wonder now," he continued archly, ^' to 
 find we were both thinking of the same thing." 
 
 Honor reddened up to the veiy roots of her 
 hair. She was an inveterate blusher. A word, 
 a look, nay even a passing thought flitting across 
 her ow^n pure mind, would send the red blood 
 coursing under her delicate skin. This pecu- 
 liarit}-, which formed one of her greatest charms, 
 was a source of constant annoyance and morti- 
 fication to the young wife. It was so tiresome 
 to betray what otherwise no one would know any- 
 thing about but herself ; so provoking, that John 
 might be guessing now that she was harbouring 
 a wish that was not altogether flattering to his 
 self-love. She was lonoino- thouo-h she would not 
 have told him so for worlds, to go aw^ay from 
 Ryde. The strangest feeling of depression — a 
 depression for which she could not in the least 
 degree account — was creeping over her spirits. 
 To analyse her sensations would have been for 
 this young girl simply an impossibility. That the 
 aspect of life and the things of life had, in some 
 inscrutable manner, changed for her, she Avas, 
 after a vague fashion, aware. There was a shade 
 over her future. An extinguisher seemed, by 
 s(nne invisible hand, to have been placed over 
 the bright point in the horizon, where hope had 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 before slione with sucli uiKllDiincd lustre. Honor 
 was far too untaught in the mysteries of our 
 complex human nature to understand, in even a 
 limited degree, yvhy the sunshine of her life — in 
 spite of John's love, her matronly dignity, and her 
 new clothes — seemed suddenly to have faded out. 
 How was this young girl, this almost child, to 
 surmise that the number of newly-made wives 
 who go through the like ordeal is legion ? Sooner 
 or later, in a greater or in a less degree, the 
 same flagging of the spirits, the same utterly-un- 
 expected and hard-to-be-endured tccdium vitce, op- 
 presses the young spirit which had soared, alas, 
 too high, and had dropped to earth so quickly. 
 Time and "habit" may, or may not, according to 
 the idiosyncrasy of the suiferer, produce bene- 
 ficial results ; but who can deny that the con- 
 dition is a critical one ? Who will not be found 
 willing to agree that this probable condition of 
 mind should form matter for serious reflection 
 before the irrevocable words are spoken which 
 bind one w^oman to one man so long as their 
 lives shall last? There is an easy-to-be-beheved- 
 in "flatness," a flatness very depressing to the 
 female mind, when the one great event — the epoch 
 to wdiich all the daughters of Eve naturally look 
 forward — is past and over, and the wife has quietly 
 to learn whether or not she is "dearer than the 
 
honor's hoxeymoox. 115 
 
 bride." Anticipation — liiglily raised, and coloured 
 by the wondrous charm inalienable from' the un- 
 known — is at an end for ever; and fruition, in 
 nine cases out of ten, makes poor amends for the 
 loss of hope's gay pleasures, and the absence of the 
 joy which anticipation brings. 
 
 But, in addition to this, there were other and 
 peculiar reasons why Honor should be unsettled, 
 at least, if not discontented, in her mind. She 
 had made the discovery that, in more ways than 
 one, that excellent John, of whom before marriage 
 she had comparatively seen so little, was unsuited to 
 her ! Beyond a mutual liking to be out of doors, 
 and a decided fondness for dogs and horses. Honor 
 could not perceive that they had a single taste in 
 common. He liked music after a fashion ; that 
 is to say, it gave him pleasure to hear her sing 
 a simple ballad, such as "The banks of Allan 
 Water," or the " Soldier's Tear" — old-world songs, 
 of which he liked to listen to the words wdien 
 Honor took especial pains clearly to enunciate 
 them for his benefit. Of modern poetry — of the 
 " whispered balm," the " music spoken," which 
 thrilled through Honor's bright and teeming fancy 
 to her heart — John Beacham was profoundly igno- 
 rant. Of Tennyson he knew little, save his name ; 
 while of the beauties of Longfellow he was as 
 
116 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 ignorant as of the scattered pages of the Sibyl's 
 prophecies. 
 
 Now it clianced that tliis pretty, ambitious 
 Honor, Avlio, pcncUng any positive information 
 concerning her birth, had tJiouffltt licrself into the 
 beHef that she was born a " hady," liad arrived at 
 the not wliolly irrational conviction that lier hus- 
 band's literary tastes (for a gentleman) miglit with 
 advantage be more extended and refined. Slie was 
 angry with herself for having come to this con- 
 clusion. John was so kind and thoughtful, so 
 tender of her feelings, and so unwearied in his 
 efforts to amuse her, that Honor felt quite wicked 
 to have discovered in him even one shortcoming ; 
 and the consciousness that she was not so happy 
 as he hoped to see her made the poor child feel 
 positively guilty. That dear, good John ! How 
 kindly he had taken her about ! What a number 
 of excursions (getting wet through more than once 
 in consequence) he had indulged her in ! And if 
 the weather had been but fine, would there have 
 been a single nook, both in the Island and outside 
 it, that the newly-man-ied pair would not, during 
 the passing of those uneventful days, have made 
 acquaintance with ? 
 
 If the weather had but been fine ! Ay, there 
 w^as the rub ; but there also lay, in some sort, the 
 way out of their difficulties. 
 
honor's hoxeymoox. 117 
 
 "I was tliinkino; how milucky we have been," 
 Honor said, when the quick blush had faded from 
 her cheek, and the glance of deprecation had been 
 withdrawn. "Not one single fine day have we 
 had since we left Sandyshire I I wonder if it has 
 rained and blown so much at home. O my poor 
 feather !" she murmured piteously (for they were 
 by this time within the narrow entrance of their 
 cottage lodging, and Honor had taken off the little 
 hat with which the wind and spray had been 
 making havoc, and was twirling it with an air 
 of half-comic dismay upon her fingers), — " my 
 poor feather ! and such a beauty as it was when 
 it came home from Leigh !" 
 
 She was a child still in her love for new toys 
 and the pretty trifles that adorn a woman; and 
 almost a child she looked as she stood there 
 stroking the pheasant's breast (pheasant-plumage 
 was the last new thing hi hat - trimmings that 
 had, at this period, found its way to Leigh), and 
 pouting her rosy lip in simulated sorrow. 
 
 John Beacham was eminently " matter-of-fact," 
 a quality which goes very far towards the making 
 of common sense. He believed Honor to be really 
 fretting over her feather, and he comforted her 
 accordingly. 
 
 " Never mind about the hat, Honey," he said, 
 after pressing his lips on the fresh rounded cheek 
 
118 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 tliat was so temptingly at hand. " We'll go home 
 and get another. Hats and feathers wear twice as 
 long in Sandyshire. The sea air is the deuce and 
 all to pay for spoiling things. What do you say, 
 pet ? Shall we see if the weather ain't better at 
 the Paddocks? This place is all very well, and 
 I've been as happy in it — well, as happy as a king, 
 if a king ever is happy, which I'm doubtful of, 
 unless it's in the honeymoon; but home is home 
 after all, and I — don't laugh, pet ; you'll feel the 
 same one day yourself — never can manage to feel 
 at home anywhere else." 
 
 " I didn't laugh at you, John," Honor said, 
 passing her arm coaxingly within her husband's. 
 '^ I was only pleased to be going home. I believe 
 I'm just tired of having nothing to do — you know 
 you always called me a busy little body — and be- 
 sides, I want you to go back to the pretty beasties 
 you are so fond of. There's Lady Bell; you 
 can't deny now, John, that you're di'eadfully 
 wrapped up in Lady Bell ! I've caught you 
 more than once wondering what the baby would 
 be; and then there's the something Dove — what 
 do you call her? — the beautiful gray mare with 
 the wicked eye, that — " 
 
 "Never mind the mare," put in Jolm hastily; 
 " and. Honey, mind this, I'm not wrapped up in 
 
HOXOR'S HOXEYMOOX. 119 
 
 anvtlihioj but voii. I sliall be Mad to see the 
 mares again, but if you care to stay — " 
 
 " But, John, I don't care to stay ; I would 
 rather, a tliousand times, go home ; I want to 
 be^in mv hfe — our life too-ether — at the Pad- 
 docks. And there's your mother too — ^}^our mother 
 must be so lost without you. She said to me the 
 very last thing : ' Don't keep John too long away ; 
 nothing goes on well without the master's eye, 
 and time lost isn't so easy found again.' " 
 
 John Beacham laui>:hed. There was his mother 
 all over in those trite sentences. It was so like 
 her, too, to mix up business with the fade senti- 
 mentality (as the old woman, had she known the 
 words, would have termed it) of the wedding-day. 
 
 " My mother knows tolerably well what she is 
 about," he said, " and there's often plenty of wis- 
 dom to be picked out of those dry sa}dngs of hers. 
 I'll be bound now she's counting the days till we 
 come back; I can see her as plain now as if I 
 was at home" (and John grew quite enthusiastic 
 as the liomehj prospect rose up before him): " I can 
 see her giving out the yellow soap for the house- 
 cleaning, and keeping the maids up to their duty — 
 ah, she was always a good one for that — and then 
 off to the parlour to dust the ornamental china 
 with her cambric handkerchief. Dear old mother ! 
 -She mayn't be one of the tender sort — not what I 
 
120 SINK on swi:m. 
 
 call a crying kind of woman — bnt she's good at 
 heart, though I don't remember — no, not even 
 when my father died — I can't say I do, that she 
 Avhat you may call shed tears. She may have 
 done so, of course, and I not know it ; l3ut to the 
 best of my l)elief my mother is just the kind of 
 woman not to." 
 
 It was characteristic of John Beacham, and of 
 his extreme correctness and scrupulosity of speech, 
 that after delivering himself of this interesting 
 family diagnostic, he seemed somewhat uneasy in 
 his mind, and as if not thoroughly satisfied that 
 he had spoken no more than the exact and literal 
 truth. It was characteristic too of his wife, and 
 of a habit which was hers of putting this and that 
 together, that she read to herself (all unwittingly, 
 for the accusation of ])erusing '^ character " would 
 have been received by a laugh of incredulity) not 
 only in John's cautious ways, but in the proof just 
 adduced of her mother-in-law's lack of tenderness, 
 elements of future discomfort for herself. Visions 
 of this maitresse feimne, stern, thrifty, and uncom- 
 jH'omising, darkened her mental vision. Ever 
 since her engagement to John, Mrs. Beacham 
 had been, to a certain extent, an object of dread 
 to the quick-witted girl, who felt instinctiA'ely that 
 she w^ould never be cordially welcomed, save by its 
 master, to the old farm-house. She saw her now, 
 
hoxor's hoxeymoox. 121 
 
 in lier mind's eye, with that svmholic piece of 
 yellow soap in her bony hands — cold, square-cut, 
 neat, and clean. Very, ay, terribly cold she must 
 be, Honor thought, or she would have wx^pt some- 
 tujies in the years tliat John had known her ; Mrs. 
 Beacham must — so decided the April- natured girl, 
 to whom tears and smiles came both so readily — 
 either have been blessed with a very happy life, or 
 with very limited powers of feeling. It was 
 pleasanter on all accounts to attribute the insensi- 
 bility of her fellow-woman to the former cause ; 
 so she said in her gentle acquiescing way : 
 
 " Your mother is very fortunate in having 
 known so few troubles ; I think, though, that crying 
 or not crying has a great deal to do with people's 
 constitutions. I cry dreadfully easily: I shall try 
 not, when Mrs. Beacham — I beg your pardon, 
 John — Avhen mother sees me. She would think 
 me such an awful little goose. But about going 
 home, John," she went on after a pause, during 
 which her husband still continued looking silently at 
 the empty grate ; you see, he w^as so very anxious 
 that Honor should iiot be led by him to return a 
 day sooner than she felt inclined. " About going 
 home ; suppose we write and say we're coming — 
 you would like it, I know quite well, and I shall be 
 so glad to see the roses in the dear old garden that 
 you are so fond of. They will all be in blossom 
 
122 SINK OR svaM. 
 
 soon, and then tlie new greenhouse, and all the 
 pretty new flowers — " 
 
 **And the new inanner, and chaiseloncf, and 
 sofa table," John said slily — "you've got it all to 
 see, Honey. I've had such a pretty sunny room 
 new fui'nished for you — a room that m}^ mother 
 never used nor cared for. I don't know how it 
 was," he continued musingly, " but she certainly 
 never did care for that room. And yet it looks 
 to the south, and opens out upon the garden. 
 Windows down to the ground, you know, and yet 
 not exactly to the ground ; for there is a flight, or 
 rather two flights, of old stone steps, that meet 
 together in a sort of little balcony at the top ; and 
 the balustrades are iron, all as old as old can be, 
 and covered thick with honeysucldes and roses. 
 Yes, I feel sure that you will like your room. 
 Honey, and be as happy in it, I hope, as a little 
 bird.""^ 
 
 Honor felt sure of it too ; it would be so 
 delightful to step out among the pinks and roses 
 in that dear old-fashioned garden at the Paddocks. 
 She had only been there once — once on an occa- 
 sion that it was not easy to forget, namely, when 
 she had been driven over from Clay's Farm by 
 John to be inspected and pronounced judgment 
 on by the formidal)le old lady in the black-silk 
 dress, who watched her with such a keen- eyed 
 
honor's hoxeymoon. 123 
 
 scrutiny, calling thereby so many painful bluslies 
 to lier burning clieeks. 
 
 Those days of trial were happily over now. 
 According to John — and Honor placed unbounded 
 confidence in her husband's judgment — there was 
 no reason for the nameless alarm which had often 
 filled her mind at the idea of sharing the home of 
 John Beacham's mother. By degrees, and partly 
 moved thereto by the springing trustfulness of 
 youth, the young wife had learned even to think 
 with pleasure of that other inmate of her new 
 home, whose affection she hoped to win, and to 
 whose comfort it was her firm intention to devote 
 herself. 
 
 "So that's all settled," said John, drawing a 
 long breath, as he thrust his ^^a'iting-desk from 
 him, and threw up his big muscular arms for what 
 he called a "stretch." "Leave this at ten; strike 
 across country; after the voyage to Reading, and — 
 yes, that's exactly it — be home for my mother's tea 
 at seven. Won't she be glad to get the letter, 
 that's all ! And sha'n't I be glad to tell lier that 
 I've got the sweetest, to say nothing of the pret- 
 tiest, wife that ever a fellow was blest with?" 
 
 " And your mother '11 say you spoil me," Honor 
 said, wdiile a sigh struggled with a smile for mas- 
 tery. " You mustn't be making too much of me, 
 
124 siXK OR s^nM. 
 
 Jolin. You'll be having mo, like little Tommy 
 Clay, crying for I don't know what, one of these 
 days, if you don't take care." 
 
 " God bless you, my Irish darling I" exclaimed 
 John enthusiastically, for the slight Celtic accent 
 in which his young wife spoke made her words 
 sound veiy sweet and winning to his ears. ^'God 
 bless you ! and while I live, and after it pleases 
 Him to take me, may you be as hapj)y, dearest, as 
 you deserve to be !" 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE welco:me ho:me. 
 
 A FORTNIGHT, minus t^YO days, had passed since 
 John Beacham was married, and once more, on 
 the occasion of the retnrn of the bride and bride- 
 groom to their home, all Switcham was on the tip- 
 toe of expectation. At the little wayside station, 
 almost a private one for the accommodation of 
 " the Castle," few trains thronghout the day were 
 in the habit of stopping. There was one at 7.10 
 P.:m., a fact to which the time-table and Bixidshaw, 
 those sworn enemies to indiscreet surprises, bore 
 useful witness ; and as by that train the bridal party 
 was by the Switchamites fully expected to arrive, a 
 considerable crowd had (when the down passengers 
 were due) assembled round and about the station, 
 ready, with more heartiness than good taste, to be- 
 stow on the returned travellers a noisy and a cordial 
 welcome home. 
 
 Meanwhile John and his pretty wife had spent 
 the greater part of the day in London, enjoying, 
 amongst other inexpensive pleasures, the apparently 
 
126 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 inexliaustible one of looking in at the tempting 
 %vinclows of the West-end sliops. It was Saturday 
 afternoon, and the carriages, as was usual on that 
 day, were pretty well filled with passengers. Honor 
 and her husband had already taken their places, 
 the first bell had been ining» and onl}^ one seat re- 
 mained unappropriated in tlie compartment which 
 they occupied, when a handsome, distinguished- 
 looking young man, whose face Honor thought she 
 had seen before, came slowly sauntering along the 
 platfonn. He glanced in a careless manner to- 
 wards the carriages as he passed, but his eye 
 chancing to catch sight of John's honest sun-burnt 
 face, he stopped, and nodding familiarly, asked 
 the latter if there was a vacant place. 
 
 " Plenty," John said cordially. — " Make a little 
 room. Honey. That's it. — Quite well, sir ?" — shak- 
 ing hands cordially with the new-comer, whom he 
 introduced to his wife as " the young Squire." 
 
 " You must excuse me," he went on, speaking 
 with the cheery voice and pleasant smile that 
 were amono; the various causes of the well-known 
 horse-breeder's popularity, — "you must excuse me 
 for calling you so. I've known you ever since 
 you was such a little chap, and your noble father" 
 (John's ideas of nobility were somewhat confused, 
 inasmuch as the sim|)le fellow was weak enough to 
 behcve in the " patent" of a good man who " fears 
 
THE WELCO:\IE HOME. 12.7 
 
 God, and loves bis neiglibonr as liimself") — ^'your 
 noble fatlier was Hbe Squire' before you, sir, 
 and we wouldn't like tlie title to die out. — I liave 
 known tbis gentleman, my dear," turning to 
 Honor, wlio was blusliing crimson bebind ber 
 little coquettisb veil, "ever since" — suiting tbe 
 action to tbe word — " be was that bigli." 
 
 Artliui' lauo-bed. Tbe train was a'oino: at 
 express speed now, so tbat conversation vras car- 
 ried on under difbculties. " You must bave bad 
 wretcbed weatber during your excursion," be 
 said, addressing bimself less exclusively to Honor 
 tban be would bave done bad sbe been exactly in 
 bis own position in life. He was, as I bave more 
 tban once said, a very good-looking }'oung gentle- 
 man, and being besides unfortunately endowed 
 witli tbe often dangerous gift, described by one of 
 tbe most brilliant of Frencb novebsts as Vceil a 
 femmes, be was a little in tbe babit of bonnes 
 fortunes. Honor, too, was looking wonderfully 
 pretty, as sbe sat opposite, witb lowered eyebds, 
 colouring under tbe pleasing Consciousness of being 
 gazed at and admired, i^'tbur was not much 
 troubled witb sbyness, but for some reason, or 
 otber be did not find it quite easy just tben to 
 talk to Jobn Beacbam's wife. 
 
 '' Well, I can't say tbat tbe sun did trouble us 
 mucb," Jobn said : " as I told Honor tbere, sbe 
 
128 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 might liave left lier parasols and sun-shades behind 
 her. Such a fortnight as it's been I never knew 
 before, for the time of year. AVe've come back a 
 day or t^^ o before time ; l)ut Ave were half afraid 
 the old lady would find it dull l.)y herself at the 
 Paddocks, to say nothing of the stock," he added, 
 laughing. " Honor tells me sometimes that she 
 believes I care more for the mares and foals than 
 I do for kith and kin." 
 
 "Ah, now I didn't say quite that, John," 
 Honor said in a very low tone ; but Arthur caught 
 the words and replied to them : 
 
 " I'm sure you didn't, Mrs. Beacham, and John 
 will be forgettino; his out-of-door amusements 
 altO£!;ether, now that he's ffot somethino; better 
 than kith and kin at home. I only wish that we 
 were half as well off at the Castle. The old house 
 has grown more melancholy than ever since I 
 went away. By Jove, what a county it is I No 
 hunting — no neighbourhood — nothing earthly to 
 be done I" 
 
 "Why don't vou take to breediufr?" John 
 asked ; " there's an interest for you at once. 
 Manage one of your own farms, and have plenty 
 of young stock, and, take my word for it, you'll be 
 all right then." 
 
 Before Arthur could make any reply to this 
 characteristic piece of advice, the train had 
 
THE ^N^ELCO^klE HOME. 129 
 
 slackened speed, and looking out, he announced 
 that they had aiTn^ed at Switcham. It was, as I 
 before remarked, a small unpretending station, 
 A'er}^ quiet as a rule, which made the crowds 
 assembled in and about it all the more remark- 
 able. 
 
 " What can be o^oino; on ?" said Honor. " John, 
 look at those people. Maybe the Queen is coming 
 along the line ;" and she looked out curiously upon 
 the throng, as the long train slowly rolled on 
 towards it. 
 
 Suddenly there was heard a shout — the wel- 
 come cry of a hundred tongues, as the bride's fair 
 face was recognised, and John Beacham, the man 
 whom both rich and poor loved and respected, 
 was known to be once more amongst them. Honor 
 drew back, embarrassed and distressed. 
 
 " O, John ! it's because of our coming home," 
 she whispered ; but John was too busy, and, if the 
 truth must be told, too pleased at this public 
 reception, to be very ready with his sympathy. 
 
 "Switcham! S^^^tcham!" shouted the bust- 
 ling official, as he threw open the carriage-door ; 
 and in a moment John was on the platform, his 
 hands full of packages, and a Inroad smile of unmi- 
 tigated happiness lighting up his honest face. 
 
 " Can I be of any use ? Hadn't you better 
 take my arm?" Arthur said. He spoke in the 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 SL\KORSWIM. 
 
 soft conventional tone wliicli the constant mixing 
 with what is called " good society" renders habi- 
 tual, but to Honor, at that moment of (to her) real 
 distress, it seemed the confidential whisper of a 
 friend, and the gentle intervention of a champion. 
 
 " Make way !— Will you be so good ?— A little 
 on one side, there's a good man," urged Arthur, 
 pressing forward ^dtli John Beacham's bride 
 upon his arm, and addressing certain individuals 
 amongst the complimenting crowd, who allowed 
 their curiosity to get the better of their good 
 breeding, with an impertinent amenity that was 
 not without its effect. "Stand Ijack, please. 
 — That's all right. — This is joiiv brougham, is 
 it not?" to Honor, who, pale, bewildered, and 
 overcome, was looking round helplessly for her 
 husband. 
 
 " O, you needn't expect Beacham yet," said 
 Arthur, laughing ; " he is shaking hands with 
 everybody, right and left. That's what comes of 
 being popular. It would be long enough before 
 all those fellows Avanted to shake hands with me. 
 Ah, there he is ! You will let me see you safe 
 into the carriage? By heavens! wliat are all 
 those fellows going to do?" he exclaimed, as a 
 numl3er of young men and boys, wlio had crowded 
 round the brougham, gave evident tokens of pre- 
 paring for an ovation. Already the coachman — 
 
THE \\TELC03IE HOME. 131 
 
 one of John Bcacliam's most trusted retainers — 
 was off his box, and had taken his professional 
 stand bj the head of the powerful, high-stepping 
 bay mare, whose traces were hanging loosely at 
 her sides, and who was beginning to manifest 
 very decided symptoms of impatience. Honor 
 was greatly agitated — her nerves, like all those of 
 persons who feel deeply, were not strong — and the 
 shout of welcome which had brought tears to her 
 eyes, and a cjlohus hystericus to her delicate throat, 
 was still tingling in her ears. Arthur felt her 
 hand tremble, and her breath come quick and 
 pantingly from her parted lips. He feared she 
 was going to faint, and in his exasperation made 
 matters worse by swearing at the crovrd, and 
 devoting to perdition the authors of her an- 
 noyance. 
 
 At that moment (the whole affair had not 
 occupied many minutes) John Beacham, hot, red- 
 faced, and happy, made his appearance. He 
 laughed heartily, having no suspicion of his 
 Avife's distress, at what was going forward. 
 
 " Fire away, boys !" he cried to the strong men 
 who had already taken the Wild Woman's place 
 in the shafts. " Eatlier you than me, this warm 
 day, anyhow ! — Jump in. Honor ;" and then, look- 
 ing round at his wife, he saw with dismay how 
 pale she was. "Never mind. Pet: they're good 
 
132 . SINK OR S^YIM. 
 
 fellows, and they won't be long about it. — Xow 
 then, away with you ! — Good-bye, Mr. Vavasour ;" 
 and Arthur, standing by, his eyes fixed on the 
 white friglitened face within the carriage, saw, as 
 in a dream, the laughing, shouting throng, and in 
 the midst of it, moving slowly onward, the dark- 
 green brougham that bore the lovely Honor to 
 her home. 
 
 " By " he muttered to himself, as he 
 
 gathered up the reins of his dog-cart, "to think 
 that such beauty as that should be wasted on a 
 boor !" 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 HOW THE " OLD L^VDY" TOOK IT. 
 
 It would be hard to say wlietlier gratified maternal 
 pride or a perhaps natural jealousy was upper- 
 most in Mrs. Beacham's mind when she saw from 
 her parlour window the uproarious advent of hei* 
 belongings. It was delightful to think how popu- 
 lar John was, — for what but the respect and affec- 
 tion 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 Pad- 
 docks ? It was pleasant also to reflect that she was 
 the mother of one whom the world delighted to 
 honom- ; but with that reflection came the alloying 
 thought that another, id est, the "Irish gel" sit- 
 ting 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 retmni of her son from his first 
 
134 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 lengthened absence was a long, rambling, one- 
 storied abode, built of brick whose hue was mel- 
 lowed 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 tlu'oughout 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 pass- 
 ing in the Paddocks outside. They could trace 
 the Avell-kept private road winding through the 
 bright green meadoAvs, which were portioned off 
 from each other by shade-giving hedgerows, and 
 dotted with v,hite freshly-painted gates. Many a 
 time had !Mrs. Beacham, knittino- in hand — she 
 could make a stockino; blindfold, as the £[ood wo- 
 man 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 — listen- 
 ing for the sound of his well-hung dog-cart, or the 
 swift footsteps of the weight-caiTying thorough- 
 bred bearing his owner home, after a hard day's 
 exercise, to his evening meal. 
 
HOW THE "old lady" TOOK IT. 135 
 
 The news that " the master" was on the road, 
 that the Wild Woman had been left behind .at 
 Switcliam, and that the carriao-e was beino; drawecl 
 home by the boys from the village, was not long in 
 reachino; Pear-tree Honse. It was throno'h the 
 means of Letty the parlour-maid, a young ^^o- 
 man o;iven to holdino; eveninor converse with 
 smart serving-men over out-of-sight palings, that 
 the intelligence arrived at ^Irs. Beacham's expect- 
 ant ears. 
 
 " Coming home without the horse ? Stuff and 
 nonsense I" exclaimed the old lady, rising from her 
 seat, however, with considerable alacrity, to ascer- 
 tain the truth or falsehood of Letty's report. She 
 was not kept long in suspense. Eound the thick 
 screen of laurel-bushes there Avas heard a confused 
 sound of human voices, shouting, laughing, and 
 lioorayincj^ — then the carriage, with John and Ho- 
 nor 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 over- 
 
13G SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 looked. It liad required a strong effort on lier part 
 not to mar her husband's enjoyment by any display 
 of foolisli womanly weakness. She felt faint and 
 nervousj and the painful shrinkin<>; 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 misjht 
 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 pleasm'e 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 unbend- 
 ing 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 daugh- 
 ter he had brought home to her. 
 
 "Three cheers for the missus !" shouted John's 
 volunteer team, whereupon the air rang with the 
 
137 
 
 loud liurrali tliat only British throats can give. 
 Inspired by the near prospect of the strong ale 
 Avhich 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 Avas evidenced by the expectant looks of 
 the bystanders, '^ I'm sure that my wife is uncom- 
 monly obliged to you." (His icife I thought Mrs. 
 Beacham senior, who, having hitherto been con- 
 sidered in the lio;ht of "missus" at the Pad- 
 docks, 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, ehf 
 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 natui'e, before it has learnt to 
 
138 SINK OR swi:\r. 
 
 discriminate between ^vit and luTn:iour, greets the 
 sole form of joke Avliicli it is capable of under- 
 standino'. 
 
 John looked about him in dismay. It was 
 dreadful to think that Honor — his delicate blush- 
 ing Honor — should have oA-crheardj 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 ANOunded by 
 such coarsCj such premature remarks. 
 
 " I have been more gratified than I can well 
 express," John w^ent on to sa}', 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 wdiich you have welcomed 
 us home again. I see a great many old friends' 
 faces among you, and 1 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 
 
HOW THE " OLD LADY" TOOK IT. 139 
 
 we're all pretty well tired, I shall wish you a very 
 Good-Nio-ht." 
 
 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 length- 
 ened 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 mud 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 sneer- 
 ing words, but the far more perilous discord that 
 lies hid behind a smilino; mask. John's mother 
 was very civil to Honor, but she could not for- 
 give her for the sliglit 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 icas mistress at Pear-tree House. Two 
 couldn't be, that was very clear; but if Mrs. 
 John fancied that she Avas going to " knock 
 under," why all that she could say was, that 
 that yomig woman would find herself pretty 
 considerably mistaken. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 BET^\'EEX TWO STOOLS. 
 
 " Do any of you happen to know when Arthur is 
 goinfj to be married?" 
 
 The question "svas Lady MiUicent's, and she 
 asked it of her three younger children one day 
 towards the end of ^lay, when Arthur was absent 
 for a few days iu London, and the family dinner 
 — not a very lively one — had been just concluded. 
 The ser\'ants — two of them in plush and powder, 
 with their chief in all the dignity of a white tie 
 and glittering studs — had left the room, and mi- 
 lady, looking as usual fat, fair, and comfortable 
 in her dark dress, a little passe'e de mode, en- 
 sconced her double chin within the palm of her 
 puffy white hand, and quietly awaited a response. 
 
 The girls from either side of the richly-fur- 
 nished table glanced furtively at each other, and 
 Horace, who was feeling especially bright, in con- 
 sequence of having that day received the long- 
 looked-for notification that his examination would 
 take place in the following week, tapped his 
 
BETWEEX TWO STOOLS. • 141 
 
 .fingers lightly against the mahogany table, with 
 an assumed air of taking no interest in the ques- 
 tion. He was seated in his brother's place, a 
 half smile — a smile in which there was much 
 latent satire — plapng over his intelligent face. 
 Probably Lady Millicent's real or affected in- 
 terest in her son's proceedings rather amused 
 than disturbed him. 
 
 " Can't anyone answer ?" said Lady Millicent, 
 who, like all gi'eat people, had an objection to 
 being kept waiting, and who was apt to be what is 
 vulgarly called '^put out" by any apparent ab- 
 sence of obsequious respect. " It doesn't give much 
 trouble to say either ' yes' or ' no,' and Arthur is 
 so extremely mysterious that I am unfortunately 
 obliged to address myself to others for information." 
 
 '^ I think it depends a good deal on his coming 
 of age," said Horace, who, in spite of a certain 
 vein of cynicism which occasionally gave bitter- 
 ness to his words, was sincerely attached to his 
 brother, and ever ready to give him a helping 
 hand. 
 
 " I don't suppose that old Dub will make any 
 objection to its being a case of no settlements on 
 our side — he's such an uncommon liberal old fel- 
 low ; but, as Atty says, — and upon my word I think 
 he's right, — it is awfully disgusting to owe every- 
 thing to a woman." 
 
142 SINK OR s^^^M. 
 
 " Your poor father was of a clifFcrent opinion/' 
 said Lady ^Millicent drilj, and Avitli her voice 
 lowered to the properly pathetic tone in which 
 idone she allowed herself to speak of her dead 
 husband. Horace turned very red at this un- 
 expected and, as he mentally called it, indelicate 
 remark. He was by nature an observant cha- 
 racter, and young as he had been at the time of 
 his father's fatal accident, he had, without enter- 
 taining any desire to spy into peccant places, into 
 the rifts, great or small, of his parents' inner life, 
 already seen enough vA\h those keen eyes of his 
 to convince him that only the outside surface of 
 tilings was smooth in his stately and prosperous 
 home. The two lads had during Cecil Vavasour's 
 lifetime been accustomed to hear much obsequi- 
 ous praise and prostemating flattery of their 
 mother. For years they had grown up in the 
 faith of her prudence, her large-mindedness, her 
 liberality, and her cleverness ; and it was not till 
 long after they were fatherless that either Horace 
 or Aithur became entirely convinced that Lady 
 Millicent had shone Avith reflected lustre only, 
 and that the good gifts for which the world had 
 given her credit were not hers, but those of the 
 husband who had borne his faculties througli life 
 with such a meek and unobtrusive grace. How 
 far Lady ^lilliccnt was at that time aware of the 
 
BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 143 
 
 fiict tliat tliti eyes of not only lier children but the 
 world were opened to her shortcomings we need 
 not now inquire. Proud and arrogant though she 
 was, ^* milady" Avould have been very far from 
 pleased could she have learned the truth, and 
 known what a " falling-off was there," where but a 
 few short years before all tongues, both male and fe- 
 male, great and small, were wagging in her praise. 
 
 ^' Please, dear mother/' Horace said, with the 
 angry spot deepening on his brow, " to remember 
 that my poor father's name can never be brouglit 
 in — in — this way without giving pain to all of us. 
 I always feel that the opinions of one that is dead 
 should be held even more sacred than those of a 
 person who is absent. The latter may come back 
 either to uphold or to deny them, while — " 
 
 "My dear Horace," interrupted Lady ^lilli- 
 cent haughtily, "this will never do; you will be 
 thought — pardon me for saying so — a terrible 
 bore in society if you take to laying down the 
 law in this prosy way. I little thought when I 
 asked you a simple question about your brother 
 what I was bringing upon myself." 
 
 Horace laughed good-humouredly. Like most 
 young men, he hated a scene of any kind, and was 
 very apt, for his sisters' sake as well as his own, to 
 turn off Lady Millicent's attacks with a joke. 
 
 "Thank you, ma'am, for the hint," he said 
 
144 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 good-lmmoureclly. "It was a great mistake on 
 my part dogmatising in sucli a ponderous fashion. 
 As to your question, my dear mother, I really 
 believe that Artluir is ^vaitini>: to learn some- 
 thing of your wishes on the subject. As we all 
 know, he will be twenty-one next month." 
 
 " Yes, the parish register could have told you 
 that," put in Lady Millicent sarcastically ; " but 
 I confess to seeing no connection whatever be- 
 tween vour brother's ao-e and his marria2;e." 
 
 She fixed her eyes firmly on her son as she 
 spoke. They were large, handsome, defiant eyes, 
 the only good feature in her face — good, that is, 
 if a feature can be called so which assists to give 
 a hard and unfeminine expression to its owner's 
 countenance. Again Horace endeavoured to pass 
 the matter lightly and playfully off. 
 
 "Well, it is very absurd, I daresay," he said; 
 " but somehow or other, though, the two do seem to 
 be connected. Perhaps, as I said before, Arthur 
 does not quite like marrying in forma ijauperis. 
 He may expect that the tremendously important 
 event of his comins; of acre would be ushered in 
 by a ^ceremony' which would require his pre- 
 sence. You can understand, my dear mother," 
 Horace went on rather hurriedly, for he felt that 
 he was treading on dangerous ground, — " you can 
 understand that this is rather an— an awkward 
 
BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 145 
 
 subject to talk over with you; and besides, you 
 will, I am sure, enter into liis feelings about Mi*. 
 Duberly. He is, as I said before, a capital old 
 fellow; but, nevertheless, he may perhaps take 
 it into his head to think that Ai'thur's family 
 mifyht — mio;ht come forward — " 
 
 " Come forward ! Why, the man's father was a 
 cowkeeper, or a butterman, or something of that 
 kind ! You don't mean to say that they are going 
 to make difficulties?" 
 
 "Not difficulties. O, no. ]Mr. Duberly would 
 never run the risk of ' dear Sophy' losing what she 
 had set her heart on. I believe that if she wished 
 to marry the chimney-sweep — " 
 
 "Which would be not at all an unsuitable 
 alliance." 
 
 They all laughed, following Lady Millicent's 
 lead, that lady evidently thinking that she had 
 made rather a happy hit. Kate, however, who 
 was growing nervous, telegraphed to her brother a 
 hint that he should l3e silent — a caution wdiich the 
 Avilful Horace utterly disregarded. 
 
 "Poor old Atty," Horace said, very imperti- 
 nently liis mother thought (in fact, it was really 
 surprising how greatly his approaching emancipa- 
 tion was awakening the spirit of self-assertion in 
 his juvenile breast), — " poor old Atty, it is terrible 
 to think that he should be driven at his time of 
 YOL. I. L 
 
146 SLNTv OR SWIM. 
 
 life by force of circumstances and adverse fate to 
 sucli awful encanaillement as tins !" 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by ^adverse 
 circumstances/ " said Lady Millicent, looking very 
 stern, and rising from lier cliair with a consider- 
 able accession of dignity ; " if young men will be 
 extravagant and get into debt, they must take tlie 
 consequences;" and having so said, Lady Milli- 
 cent, after signing to her daughters to remain 
 where they were, swept grandly out of the room. 
 
 "O, Horace, how could you!" exclaimed 
 Kate in an awe-struck whisper. 
 
 "How could I!" mimicked Horace. "How 
 could I what ? Why, you little goose, when shall 
 I make you understand that it is always better to 
 take (metaphorically speaking, of course) the bull 
 by the horns ? You ought to know that by this 
 time ; but, as you don't, I can only repeat what I 
 have said fifty times before — that, what with your 
 grimaces and Rhoda's tears, you are about the two 
 silliest young women in Christendom. — Now, Roe 
 dear," he went on, addressing his eldest sister in a 
 tone of mock displeasure which, together with the 
 quaint name which he had bestowed upon the 
 quiet and slightly sentimental girl, set Kate off — 
 no unusual occurrence — into what Horace called 
 a fit of the giggles, — "now. Roe dear, what in 
 the world are you ciying about now?" 
 
BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 147 
 
 " I wasn't crying, Horace/' said Rliocla. She 
 was ratlier a pretty pale-faced girl, whose tears — 
 for her nerves were weak — came at very slight 
 provocation to her eyelids. She had wiped one 
 furtively away while her brother began to '^ chaff" 
 her about this well-known propensity, and then 
 was quite ready to say tremulously : '^ I wasn't cry- 
 ing, only everj^thing seems so uncomfortable ; and 
 it is so odd, not knowing when Arthur is to be 
 married. I believe he has told you ! Now, has 
 he, Horace? Don't be ill-natured;" and both 
 the girls at once set to work to kiss and coax 
 him. 
 
 "Paws off!" cried Horace, laughing. "No, 
 then, he hasn't — upon my word, he hasn't. 
 There! I hate not knowing the truth as much 
 as you do ; and I only wish he w\as to be mar- 
 ried next week." 
 
 "And why?" Kate eagerly exclaimed ; "you 
 usen't to like — " 
 
 " Usen't I What grammar ! You'll want Miss 
 Bates back again if you can't speak your mother- 
 tongue better than that." 
 
 "' Never mind my mother- tongue," Kate began 
 impatiently. " I want to be told — " 
 
 " You want to be told a thousand things that 
 you've no business to know. You are both as 
 curious as a couple of magpies ; but you may 
 
148 SIXK OR S^\^M. 
 
 chatter till midnight without getting a word out 
 of me. I'm off to the stable for a smoke ; so you 
 needn't bother me any more." 
 
 In spite of the cheerful air and janty manner 
 Avitli which he endeavoured to conceal his troubles, 
 Horace Vavasour did not smoke on that especial 
 evening " the pipe of contentment ;" nor could 
 the corn-bin on which he sat be in the smallest 
 degree considered as typical of that well-known 
 *^ carpet of hope" on which the lethargic Turk is 
 supposed to take his ease. 
 
 ^' It is all my mother's fault," he murmured 
 to himself, as he kicked his dangling heels discon- 
 solately against the solid oak. ^' If my mother 
 would but behave like other people ! If she had 
 kept up her house and establishment in London, 
 or even if she had gisxn Arthur the means of 
 living like a gentleman, I never will believe that 
 he could have got into these awful scrapes. What 
 will happen if he does not marry soon, God knows; 
 and yet for that poor girl's sake one ought not 
 to wish it. I was sure how it would all be if 
 once — " He drew a long whistling breath, and 
 threw down the end of his cigar, crushing its last 
 spark out with the heel of his boot. It w as nine 
 o'clock now, and the great church -like stable- 
 bell had already called the ^' faithful" to evening 
 prayers ; and from force of habit, it is to be feared, 
 
BETWEEN TWO STOOLS. 149 
 
 rather than from a higher and more Christian 
 cause, Horace Yavasour hurried back to the Castle. 
 He did not seem to himself, however, to care much 
 whether he infringed Lady Millicent's rules on 
 that sweet May evening or not. He was a man 
 now, with a man's profession, a man's cares, and, 
 to a certain extent, a man's responsibilities. For 
 years — very long }'ears they appeared now as he 
 looked back to them — he had nis^htly seen that loner 
 array of serving men and women lining the old oak 
 wall, and, as it were, praying. He had heard his 
 lady mother read many a blessing over their heads ; 
 but somehow or other the ceremony had not seemed 
 to bring a blessing with it ; and Horace was cer- 
 tainly rather consoled than otherwise with the re- 
 flection that from that day forward, for many a 
 night to come, he would be allowed to spend his 
 evening hours as he pleased. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 UPHILL WORK. 
 
 It was now the middle of June, and Honor 
 Beacham was undergoing tlie often painful pro- 
 cess of "• settling down" in lier neiv liome. 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 manage of a newly-married couple 
 is seldom conducive to happiness. Honor, in com- 
 mon 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 ner- 
 vous 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 
 
UPHILL WORK. 151 
 
 her to failure. As yet, Honor had met with far 
 more smiles than frowns, as she stepped gaily along 
 the flower-stre^vn 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 ob- 
 durate 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 honrs, 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 character- 
 istic 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 mio;ht have chancped 
 the whole future of her existence; namely, have 
 
152 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 frankly confessed to Jolin lier Ijelief that never, 
 do what she could, and strive with all the powers 
 of both head and heart, could she hope to succeed 
 in softenino; Mrs. Beacham's fcelino;s towards her. 
 Against such a course, not only the tenderness, 
 but the hanuless, natural vanit}' of the young 
 A\-ife revolted. It would be hard upon John to be 
 told that his expectations Avere so very far from 
 being realised, and it Avould be almost equally 
 hard upon her were she forced to confess that she 
 had so signally failed in making a favourable im- 
 pression. Honor, I am ashamed to say, had shed 
 more tears on that her first day's experience of an 
 actual " home" than were cither sensible or becom- 
 ing. Her poor little lip had quivered painfully 
 when ^Irs. 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 goosebemes, both of 
 which tasks Avere, as Honor thought, quite within 
 her powers skilfully to perform. But it was worse 
 still Avhen, at the earh' dinner (without Jolm, avIio 
 Avas kept aAvay by urgent business connected A^'ith 
 the "" stock"), her mother-in-law, calling her "Mrs. 
 John" Avith stately formality, had kept her at 
 ann's-leiigth in a forbidding manner better ima- 
 gined than described. In vain she strove by all 
 the simple arts she kncAv to Avork her Avay Avithin 
 
UPHILL WORK. 153 
 
 tlie fence that girded the good dame about as 
 though witli pahsades of iron. She spoke of 
 John — her John — with a large warm-hearted ad- 
 miration and a meek self-effacing gratitude that 
 mificht have warmed a heart of stone. But all in 
 vain. ^Irs. Beacham evidently considered that 
 laudation of John was an encroachment on her 
 own rights, and, with a snort of dignified displea- 
 sm'e, turned the subject to one more within the 
 province and capacity of the daughter-in-law 
 whom she neither -svished nor intended to love. 
 John Beacham little guessed how sore a heart it 
 was that watched so longingly that day for his 
 return. K he thought about Honor at all (and 
 dearly as he loved his wife, why should he have 
 thouo^ht 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 pro- 
 
154 SINK OR S^VIM. 
 
 nounccd as good a ^' bit" of meat as any in Eng- 
 land, lie dilated Avitli the loquacity and verve of a 
 man whose soul is in his subject on all that had 
 taken place dui'ing his absence : the promise 
 held out by the young stock, the health and well- 
 being of tlie old, and the trustworthiness and 
 intelligence of Will Simmons, who had been on 
 the fann, man and boy, f(jr 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. Yerily " eye-service" was un- 
 known 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 com- 
 fort and encouragement from his very presence — 
 
UPHILL WORK. 155 
 
 to Honor, whose heart was sore and lier mind en- 
 grossed by the failui'es and mortifications with 
 Avhich 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 her- 
 self, 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 cliau', 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 siMit of John's slumbering form 
 tears welled from her eyelids, l^e disposed utterly 
 to desj)ise my heroine, and condemn her as one 
 unworthy the interest and sympathy of sensible 
 people ? If there be any such — and I am quite pre- 
 pared to believe in their existence — all I can say is, 
 that then' 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 cither feelino; or conductincj 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) 
 
156 SINK OR S^VIM. 
 
 that arose at stated intervals from his phice of re- 
 pose, ought to liave sounded sweetly in his help- 
 mate'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, Avith 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 them- 
 selves no triflino; a<][2;ravation. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A BREEZE ABOUT A BONNET. 
 
 It was on a Sunday morning, about a fortnight 
 after the return of the travellers, that Honor had 
 the first serious warning of coming " difficulty" 
 with her mother-in-law. I have often heard it 
 remarked, and I fear with some degree of truth, 
 that the Seventh is very apt to be the one, of all 
 days in the year, when domestic differences do 
 most frequently arise. Why this should be is 
 not, I think, very difficult of comprehension. To 
 such women as Mrs. Beacham — to the habitually 
 " busy" — the enforced idleness of Sunday hangs 
 terribly heavy on the folded hands. When an 
 active - minded and energetic female has no- 
 thing to do, there is a terrible temptation to be 
 cantankerous. With John's restless, vigorous- 
 bodied parent the Sabbath was anything but a 
 favourite time. She paid all outward respect to 
 the hours between sunrise and bedtime on the 
 " Lord's day." Her best gown wa^ donned, and 
 
158 siXK OR s^^^M. 
 
 her roast beef eaten ; tlie knitting-needles were 
 ])ut away, and Cowpcr's Sermons or Law's Seiions 
 Call brought forward in their stead. [Mrs. Beacham 
 might even go so far as to call the "Sabbath a 
 dehght, the holy of the Lord, honourable ;" but 
 she was, nevertheless, very thankful (under the 
 rose) when the irksome hours drew to a close ; 
 and if there did happen to be a day when, to 
 use Letty's favourite expression, " missus got out 
 the wrong side of her bed," that day was pretty 
 certain to be the Seventh. 
 
 It would seem that John was not altogether 
 unaware of this trifling peculiarity, for during 
 breakfast-time he was seen to icink more than 
 once with an air of comic warning to Honor, as 
 much as to say, " Take no notice ; this is but a 
 passing shower, the looming of a summer cloud ; 
 the slightest possible crumpling of the tender roses 
 with which our bed is strewn." He was quite 
 in the dark — Honor understood that well — as to 
 the real state of things between her and his 
 mother. He had yet to discover that, during 
 his long daily absences, although no overt act, no 
 icords even of which she could actually complain, 
 had made her life uncomfortable, still there was 
 an undercurrent of "nagging," a perpetual though 
 not always a very perceptible " talking at," on the 
 old lady's part, which was far harder to endura 
 
A BREEZE AEOUT A BOXXET. 159 
 
 patiently tliaii tlie open liarslmess of language 
 wlilcli Honor felt certain tliat John's mother 
 ■was often longing to attack her -vvith. 
 
 The first Sunday at the Paddocks having been 
 a hopelessly rainy day, there had been no walking 
 along the lanes to attend Di\'ine Ser^dce : the 
 Seventh day had, however, now come round again, 
 and the shy consciousness of early wifehood having 
 a little worn off, Honor, as was only natural, had 
 allowed her thoughts to wander to a no less import- 
 ant subject than the dress in which, at Switcham 
 Church, she was to make her first appearance 
 as a wife. The result of these meditations, 
 and also — if the truth must be told — of a little 
 stitching and altering, was as pretty a specimen of 
 Sabbath-day adornment as ever entered the walls 
 of a villai^e church. And a' et there w^as nothino; 
 (bright as a spring butterfly though she looked) 
 the least over-dressed, or unbecoming her situation 
 in life, in Honor Beacham's attire. There were 
 no incongruities, no single article of dress outshone 
 or put shame upon the other, there had been no 
 "trimming of robe of frieze with copper-lace;" but 
 all was neat, effective, and, so far as Honor and the 
 Lein;li dressmaker to,Q;ether could achieve the de- 
 sired object, according to the make and fashion of 
 the day. 
 
 " Now then, Honey, let's have a good look at 
 
IGO SINK OR SWTM. 
 
 you," exclaimed John, as, five minutes before the 
 moment appointed for setting forth, his wife, with 
 a blush of gratified canity on her cheek (for the 
 glass had told her she was worth the looking at), 
 tripped confidently up to him for approval. Before 
 he could speak, however, ^Irs. Beacham's harsh 
 voice broke the charm, and John's complimentary 
 words were frozen on his lips. 
 
 " My good gracious me !" she cried ; " why 
 you're never surely going to church in that 
 thing I"' and she pointed with a thick finger, 
 clothed in the stoutest of useful bottle-green gloves, 
 at Honor's airy bonnet ; a small senseless thing- 
 enough, but very becoming all the same, with 
 its trimming of blue forget-me-nots, showing 
 off to perfection the soft beauty of the brown 
 braided hair, and matching the azure eyes, 
 John thought, so prettily. " To church of all 
 places I*' continued the old lady, whose head- 
 gear, being of very ancient fashion and mate- 
 rials, had struck Honor as far more remarkable 
 than her own. '^ ^Vliy, you'll have everyone look- 
 ing at you !" 
 
 "And like enough too," said John with a laugh, 
 and hoping by this judicious manoeuvre to divert 
 the rising storm, " let her put on what she may. 
 But I say, mother, what's wrong with Honor's 
 bonnet? I don't pretend to know much about 
 
A BREEZE ABOUT A BOXXET. 161 
 
 women's dress, about tlieir crinoline and liair- 
 bags, for instance. You don't wear one of them 
 I'm glad to see, Honey," he went on, twisting a 
 shining curl that strayed upon her white throat 
 round his big finger as he spoke. " I'm all for 
 nature, I am ; but as for the child's bonnet, 
 mother — " 
 
 " Now, John," put in Mrs. Beacham irritably, 
 " don't you be foolish. I must know better than 
 you can do what's proper for a young woman to 
 wear; and I say that such a tliiug as that isn't fit 
 to be seen within a church door." 
 
 Honor could not help smiling — for she did 
 not foresee to what extent her stepmother's temper 
 would carry her — at the old woman's abuse of her 
 unoffending costume. She felt certain too of John s 
 support, and thsrefore replied cheerfully : 
 
 " I am very sorry ; I thought it such a pretty 
 bonnet. However, I daresay nobody will look at 
 it ; and my best hat got so spoilt at Eyde — " 
 
 " Spoilt indeed ! Ryde seems to have played 
 the mischief with all your smart new clothes. And 
 as if you could venture into chm'ch in one of those 
 flighty pork-pies, that I hate the very sight of !" 
 
 " Well then," interposed John, " as that mat- 
 ter's settled, suppose Ave cut along. Got your 
 Prayer-book, eh, Honey ? That's all right ;" and 
 he was half out of the door, when, instead o-f 
 
 VOL. I. isL 
 
1G2 SINK OR S^YIM. 
 
 following on liis footsteps, ^Irs. Beacliam plumped 
 her ample figm'c down on lier own especial arm- 
 cliair, and planted her two hands defiantly on her 
 knees. 
 
 " You may go to church, John, if you like ; 
 but as for me, if you've no objection, I prefer to 
 remain at home." 
 
 " Nonsense, mother ! Come ! The idea of 
 going on so about a bonnet! I'm sure Honor 
 doesn't care, do you. Pet? She doesn't mind 
 what she Avears, mother, not she ! She's pretty 
 enough not to, any Avay," he added in a lower 
 tone ; not so low, however, but that his mother 
 heard the words, and grew thereupon more than 
 ever determined to conquer and humble the object 
 of John's foolish admiration and absm'dly weak 
 and blamable indulgence. 
 
 " If she doesn't care then, let her change it," 
 she said stolidly, — " let her change it. She's got 
 another in her box — one that a decent woman 
 needn't be ashamed to be seen in, and — " 
 
 " O, John, it's such an old-fashioned one !" 
 Honor broke in. " I've had it these two years, 
 and it's only fit for rainy days. I'd rather not 
 go, indeed I would;" and the tears, I am sorry to 
 say, were abeady very near her biught blue eyes. 
 
 John scratched his head in very positive per- 
 plexity. To yield to his mother had, from long 
 
A BREEZE AEOUT A BOXNET. 163 
 
 liabit, become almost second nature to the good- 
 tempe^d man; but then, nature — and nature 
 too Avith a very powerful voice — pleaded within 
 him strongly for Honor. He could not bear to 
 see her vexed ; and she would be vexed, that he 
 knew right well, if they both — his mother and 
 himself — went off to church and left her all alone. 
 But then, if she so disliked the idea of wearing 
 the two-year-old bonnet, and if — which he knew 
 well enouMi would be the case — his mother would 
 not yield, why what was to be done ? It was the 
 beginning of domestic troubles — a foreshadowing 
 of the cloud that was to darken all John's future 
 Hfe — the first faint warnings of the fell disease 
 that, like the cankerworm, eats into the vital 
 parts, and poisons the whole sap of life, and this 
 truth (though John was far enough from shaping 
 to himself any, even the most indistinct, of the 
 evils that were threatening his peace) probably 
 lay at the root of the strange discouragement 
 which, while he turned his eyes alternately from 
 his wife to his mother, gave a look of bewilder- 
 ment to his usually placid face. 
 
 It was that look which decided Honor, show- 
 ing her the way her duty lay, and awakening her 
 pity for the man halting so helplessly between 
 two opinions. 
 
 ^' After all," she said to herself, calling up as 
 
164 SINK OR S^\7M. 
 
 much pliilosopliy to lier aid as a weak vessel of 
 lier sex and age could hope to summon, — " after 
 all, what does it signify? It is absurd to make 
 so much fuss about a bonnet;" and then aloud, 
 " I don't care — indeed I don't, John ; and rather 
 than vex you, I'll change it in half a moment ;" 
 and she ran upstairs with an alacrity whicli con- 
 firmed John in the impression that she Avas an 
 angel. 
 
 And so at the moment — or at least very like 
 one — Honor felt that she had earned the right 
 to be considered; for she was — absurd as it may 
 seem to those among my readers who have either 
 outlived, or have never been subject to, the weak- 
 ness of personal vanity — about to make what was 
 to her a great, ay even a heroic, sacrifice. She 
 had so looked forward to appearing her very 
 best that day. Keligion, I grieve to confess, had 
 Httle enough to do (when, alas ! has it ever much ?) 
 witli the fitting on of the best gown, and the 
 extra smoothing of the shining hair. In nine 
 cases out of ten, the remembering of the Sabbath- 
 day does not mean the keeping of it holy. Jill, it 
 is to be feared, goes to church to show herself; 
 while Jack, in his best coat and Sunday hat, goes 
 through the same ceremony that he may join his 
 sweetheart. Can we wonder that too often these 
 respective parties come to grief, and, like the Jack 
 
A BREEZE ABOUT A BONNET. 165 
 
 mid Jill in the story-book, ^YOllnds and bruises 
 (metaphorically speaking) are the well-deserved 
 consequences of their levity and supeixherie? 
 
 Seeing then that the female mind is, both from 
 nature and habit, loth to believe in the "glaring 
 impotence" of " dress," we may excuse this poor 
 Honor for her petulance, and for the little angry 
 jerk with which she threw open the old mahogany 
 wardrobe, and drew from it the contemned and 
 faded specimen of bj^gone finery. With a flushed 
 face, and hands that trembled a little with the 
 passing irritation of the moment, she tied the 
 tumbled strings under her dainty chin, and then, 
 without stopping to look at her "shabby" self in 
 the glass, she hastened down the stairs. 
 
 John and his mother had already left the 
 house when Honor, feeling very proud of her 
 holocaust, and not a little eager to judge of its 
 effect upon those she had endeavoured to please, 
 rushed into the hall. She knew it was late, and 
 moreover Mrs. Beacham was, she felt, precisely 
 the kind of old woman who would not enter 
 a Church after the service had begun for the 
 world; but in spite of these and other excuses 
 that might be made for the disappearance of her 
 companions. Honor did feel it a little hard that 
 they had not waited for her — a trifle provoking 
 that John should have cared so little whether 
 
166 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 she looked well or ill in that "guy of a thing" 
 that she had put upon her head. She betrayed 
 no outward signs of the foolish, perhaps too it 
 may be called jnieiile, inward struggle — the battle 
 against what I fear mio;ht almost be called a " bit 
 of temper' that was rife within her. Overtaking 
 John and his mother walking quietly arm-in-arm, 
 " as if nothing had happened," it was only natui'al, 
 I think, that this silly girl should have entertained 
 a vague impression that she, the bride of four 
 w^eeks old, had been " thrown over" — and that, too, 
 after she had shown herself so willing to " oblige" 
 — for the sake of the " cross," " fussy" old woman, 
 behind whose broad uncompromising back Honor 
 (and it must be confessed that at the moment she 
 did not greatly love the sight) was trudging across 
 the meadows, with her fair face — that bonnet was 
 so very old-fashioned and ugly! — slightly over- 
 shadowed by a passing cloud. 
 
 It luas only a trifle, you will say, that produced 
 this inauspicious result ; but need I repeat that 
 trifles make up the sum of human life ? Were 
 we all to look back upon some of the most im- 
 portant incidents of our lives, I think — could we 
 all be strictly honest with ourselves — we should 
 be willino; to allow that what seemed a mere 
 "nothina" at the time was not without its in- 
 fluence, not only on om' conduct, but on that 
 
A BREEZE ABOUT A BOXXET. 167 
 
 wliicli goes by the name (for want of a better) 
 of our destinies. Honor would have been as in- 
 credulous as her neighbours had it been suggested 
 to her that in her present petulance there lay the 
 germ of future peril, and that the apparently 
 insignificant family feud with which that peaceful- 
 seeming Sabbath had been marked was le com- 
 onencement de la fin of her life's history ; and yet 
 that so it was the events hereafter to be disclosed 
 AATill greatly tend to prove. 
 
 Many and curious Avere the eyes turned to- 
 wards "Farmer Beacham's" pew that holiday 
 in early June, w^hen the sun shone out and na- 
 ture's garb was fresh, and when it would almost 
 seem that, out of compliment to the bride, each 
 daughter of Eve there present had bedecked her- 
 self in her Sunday's best. With her head bent 
 down and half hidden by the high oaken walls 
 of the old-fashioned pew, Honor endeavoured, and 
 not wholly without success, to remember that the 
 " place in which she stood was holy ground." She 
 never once raised her blue eyes from the bran- 
 new red-morocco Prayer-book — gilt-edged, and 
 which was one of John's earliest offerings to his 
 betrothed — which she held in her hand. A shy 
 consciousness that she was the observ^ed of all 
 observers in that crowded village church, toge- 
 ther with the mortifying reflection which, inalgre 
 
108 SIXIv OR SAVIM. 
 
 die, would intrude itself, that she was not "fit 
 to be seen/' brought pretty waves of colour to 
 the lowered girlish face. 
 
 From his place in the gallery, the most con- 
 spicuous one in the big, well-cushioned, luxurious 
 family pew, there was one who throughout the 
 service continued furtively to gaze upon the fea- 
 tures which to his eyes were so surpassing fair. 
 Though, for his age, he had seen a good deal of 
 the world, Arthur Yavasour was still in every 
 way too young to set the opinion of that world at 
 absolute defiance ; so he chose the opportunity 
 when he and the rest of the cono-reo-ation were on 
 their knees, repeating with wearisome monotony 
 that tliev were all " miserable sinners," to o;aze 
 his fill at the farmer's lovely bride. In the house 
 of God, under the shelter of his folded arms, in 
 the humble posture of a penitent, he was already 
 breaking in his heart the one of the command- 
 ments on which most strenuously depends "our 
 neighbour's" peace, his honour and well-being ! 
 
 Truly it was well for Cecil Vavasour that his 
 sleep was sound in the churchyard vault that day, 
 and that to him it was not given to look w^ithin 
 the erring heart of his eldest born ! That son, 
 who in his beautiful childhood had been so very 
 near his father's heart, stood terribly in need that 
 
A BREEZE ABOUT A BONNET. 169 
 
 Sabbatli-day, proud and handsome and prosper- 
 ous though he seemed, of the " effectual fervent 
 prayer" which in the sight of Heaven " availeth 
 mucli." 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 
 
 Before the summer days had begun to shorten^ 
 and by the time that Arthui' Vavasour's evident 
 admiration for young ^Irs. Beacham had begun 
 to make his more cool and sensible younger 
 brother seriously uneasy, the period — namely, the 
 end of Auo;ust — was fixed for the marriao;e of the 
 heir with Miss Sophia Duberly, the only child of 
 one of the richest nobodies in the county. A 
 fortnight previous to the epoch named, Arthur 
 would, unless, as Horace facetiously remarked^ 
 anything happened to the contrary, attain the 
 mature age of twenty-one. As regarded the latter 
 event, Lady ^lillicent had continued to maintain 
 a dogged and portentous silence. She was well 
 aware that her children, the girls especially, had 
 hoped and expected that Arthur's " coming of age" 
 would not j^ass over entirely without the " praise 
 and honour due" to a rich man's son so situated ; 
 and though the traditional ox need not be exactly 
 
MR. DUBERLY TiVKES THE ALARM. 171 
 
 roasted whole, nor mo^antic bonfires lif]jlited on the 
 occasion, yet Lady Millicent was as well aware 
 as if the county newspapers had not persistently 
 proclaimed the fact that England expected her 
 on this occasion to do her duty. 
 
 "I do really beheve she would hinder Atty 
 comino; of aire at all if she could," Kate said one 
 day, when Horace had "run down" for an hour 
 to brighten up his sisters, and see how things in 
 general were going on. "Mamma does so hate 
 any of us being jolly." 
 
 "And you call ^coming of age' ^ being jolly,' 
 eh, goosie ? Learn then, O foolish child, that the 
 event you speak of means ' looking up,' paying 
 one's own bills, being responsible for one's own 
 actions — being, in sliort, out of nonage^ without the 
 accruing of a grain of brains to oneself thereby." 
 
 " But I suppose that something will be done," 
 persisted Kate, who, in spite of her brother's re- 
 peated assurances that a miracle would probably 
 not be wrought in her behalf, still nursed the 
 hope that "milady" would at last be brought to 
 reason. "I cannot believe that the 14th of" 
 August will pass like every other dull stupid 
 day. I thought there was always a dinner, and 
 a ball, and speeches." 
 
 "And buttering up, and slithering down," 
 broke out Horace savagely ; " toadying, flatter- 
 
172 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 Ing, and lies ! Of all the occasions in life ^vlien 
 that kind of thing is carried on, there's nothing 
 like the coming of age of an heir-apparent !" 
 
 " I (piite agree with you, my dear Horace," 
 said Lady Millicent, sailing in silently from behind 
 a treacherous portiere^ and raising a painful douht 
 in her children's mind as to the extent of her 
 knowledge thus surreptitiously acquired of their 
 opinions. " A great waste of words always, to say 
 nothing of the whole proceeding being always in 
 the worst possible taste." 
 
 "Of course! The idea of crying Vive le 
 o'oiJ before the poor old king is dead! Simply 
 monstrous, I call it. Artiiur too quite agrees with 
 me; and after all, what business has the county to 
 trouble itself about the matter one way or the 
 other?" 
 
 "I hear," said Lady Millicent, who did not 
 feel quite sure that her son was not speaking in 
 the ironical vein to which she had so especial an 
 objection, — " I hear that the Guernseys are going 
 to make themselves more than usually ridiculous 
 this year at Fairleigh. Lady G. intends to do the 
 popular, they say, for a whole fortnight. Open 
 house is to be kept — so intensely absurd ! And 
 people of all kinds to be asked! Li sliort, a 
 regular omnium gatherum /" 
 
 '^ O no, mamma, not quite that," Rhoda said 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 173 
 
 timidly, but terribly eager withal to do away with 
 an impression wliicli might tend to exclude her 
 from a participation in the gaieties of Fairleigli. 
 "" Not quite ; and O, mamma," gathering a kind of 
 desperate courage from the emergency of the case, 
 " you promised that if Lady Guernsey gave a ball 
 this year, I should go to it. I know just how it 
 is; Charlotte Mellon told me all about the arrange- 
 ments. All kinds of people are to be asked to the 
 archery meeting and the fireworks — all the out-of- 
 doors amusements, that is ; but at the ball there 
 will only be the comity families, and — " 
 
 "How delightfully dull and select!" said 
 Horace. "And how highly satisfactory, Rhoda, 
 to think that you will make your d(^hut under such 
 very favourable auspices I" 
 
 "Anything is better than a mixed society," 
 said Lady Milliceiit loftily. " In these days one 
 cannot be too careful whom one associates with. I 
 foresee no end of annoyances with the Duberly 
 connections. The women belonmiio; to that class 
 of persons are often positively dreadful. Really 
 Arthur is much worse than thoughtless ! Only 
 this afternoon he has been the cause of my being 
 excessively worried and disturbed ! Here is a 
 letter which I have just received from Mr. 
 Duberly. I thought it most extraordinary when 
 I saw the post-mark, Bigglesworth, that /should 
 
1 74 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 receive a letter from any of the family ; but I 
 was still more astonislied wlien I glanced over tlie 
 contents. Read it! I really couldn't get through 
 it all, but I saw it was about your lu'other being 
 so much at Updown Paddocks. His father — fancy 
 the man talking to me about his relations ! — con- 
 siders it very wrong, lie writes, and dangerous 
 to be on the turf; and Arthur must^ he concludes, 
 have to do with race-horses, or he would never be 
 so much with John Beacham at the Paddocks. 
 You had better see your brother about it, Horace, 
 as soon as possible. I really can have nothing to 
 do personally with these people. They are re- 
 spectable, of course, or your poor father would 
 not have countenanced tliem; but they are terribly 
 mezzo cetto, and when that is the case, anything 
 approaching to familiarity had better be avoided." 
 Amongst Lady Millicent's " peculiarities" (and 
 they were not a few) that of extreme bodily rest- 
 lessness was one of the most remarkable. She was 
 one of the very busiest of idlers, never for fifteen 
 consecutive minutes, excepting at meal or prayer- 
 time, in the same place. These "fidgety ways" 
 were troublesome, as well as frequently incon- 
 venient, to those about her. To know where 
 others of a household are, the more especially 
 when those "others" chance to be of the nature 
 of Lady Millicent Vavasour, is often of advantage 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAEES THE ALARM. 175 
 
 to tlie subordinates of a family. Severity, Caprice, 
 an absence on the said subordinates' part of know- 
 ing how anything " will be taken" by the " head 
 of the family," are each and all sufficient to ac- 
 count for the secretiveness, guilty in appearance, 
 that kindles in l^oth children and servants the 
 v^y natm-al desire that the whereabouts of the 
 domestic autocrat should not always be a matter 
 of conjecture. But it was to no inward fever, 
 no derangement of the sensitive nerves, that the 
 nomadic condition of the lady of Gillingham could 
 be attributed, for her health was perfect, and her 
 constitution sound. The erratic habit had been 
 formed in childhood, and had increased, instead 
 of diminishing, with advancing years. 
 
 "I say, ^liss Curiosity, that won't do. You 
 mustn't read other people's letters." 
 
 Lady Mllicent had glided with her accus- 
 tomed stately step from the room ; and Horace, in 
 whose hand was ^Ir. Duberly's open letter, glanced 
 up at his sister Kate reading over his shoulder 
 the epistle which her lady mother was either too 
 autocratic or too indolent to answer. Kate's co- 
 lom', between shame and amusement, mounted 
 \isibly. Although taught by experience that his 
 ^^bark was worse than his bite," she was still a 
 little afraid of her brother Horace. 
 
176 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 " I tliought everybody was to read it,'"' slie said 
 deprecatingly. " Don't be ill-natured, Horace ; I 
 do so want to know about Atty." 
 
 "I daresay you do; and if you did, why every^- 
 body else would pretty soon be in the secret, and 
 with a yengeance too ! No, no. Miss Katie ; a 
 young lady Avho chatters to her maid is neither old 
 enough nor wise enough to be told family secrets 
 to — so off with }'ou ! If you want anything to do 
 go to the terrace, and keep a good look-out for 
 Arthur ; tell him there's a row going on, and that 
 he'd better look sharp, and take the bull by the 
 horns." 
 
 '^ And now for old Dub's letter," muttered 
 Horace, after convincing himself by ocular de- 
 monstration that both his sisters were saunter- 
 ing along the broad gravel -walk, and, as he 
 doubted not, exercising their united powers of 
 guessing on the subject of Arthm-'s misde- 
 meanours. " Old Dub's too straiglitforsvard to 
 say anything that my lady can understand ;" 
 and with this dutiful commentary on his parent's 
 powers of comprehension, Horace Vavasour be- 
 took himself to his task. 
 
 " My dear ^Lvdam," — so this straightforward 
 letter began — " I gi'eatly regret the necessity of 
 calling your attention to the subject of your 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE iVLARM. 177 
 
 eldest son ; but as that subject is at present con- 
 nected with the happiness of my only daughter, 
 there is no other course left me to pursue. You 
 are a\yare that Sophy is my only child, and 
 your oAvn feelings as a mother ^yill lead you to 
 understand that her welfare must be infinitely 
 precious to me. My reason for troubling you 
 to-day is very simple, and the question I desire 
 to have answered is, I think, natural enough, 
 being neither more nor less than a demand, on 
 my part, whether the report that your son Ar- 
 thur has a horse in training for the turf is true 
 or false. You 'will perhaps be inclined to ask 
 why I have thought it necessary to beat about 
 the bush ; why, in short, I did not put this cjues- 
 tion to your son instead of to you. To this 
 very natural remark all I could say is that I did, 
 without delay, mention the reports which had 
 reached my ears to Arthur, and that from him 
 I could gain no satisfactory reply. He neither 
 positively denied or actually confirmed the scan- 
 dal ; for so great is my horror of gambling in 
 any shape that I can designate taking a single 
 step on what is called the ^turf by no milder 
 name ; and the consequence of our conversation 
 was simply this, — namely, that, being yary far 
 from satisfied either by your son's words or 
 manner, I take the liljerty of requesting your 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 maternal aid in discovering the truth. Of your 
 son's constant, I was about to say daily, visits 
 at the Paddocks there is, I fear, no doubt, and 
 you can hardly wonder that, with my child's 
 future comfort at stake, I feel it my bounden 
 duty to investigate thoroughly, and without loss 
 of time, the cause and motive for a proceeding 
 so remarkable. I have no desire that this in- 
 quiry, on my part, should be kept secret either 
 from Ai'tlim* or from the world at large, and 
 ha^ e the honour to remain, dear madam, 
 " Yours faithfully, 
 
 "ANDREW DUBERLY." 
 
 " Well, old fellow, you are in for it now ! I 
 wouldn't be in your place for something," said 
 Horace when, half an hoiu' after he had finished 
 reading " old Dub's" letter, and long before the 
 annoyance caused by its perusal had in any de- 
 gree subsided, Arthur lounged, after his usual 
 indolent fashion, through the open window into 
 the libraiy. 
 
 " AVel], what is the row ? The girls told me 
 there was something wrong. Upon my soul, one 
 might as well pitch one's tent in Mexico, or in 
 the Argentine Republic, for any chance of peace 
 one has in this confomided place." 
 
 " Better a great deal," said Horace seriously, 
 
MR. DUBERLY T.VKES THE ALARM. 179 
 
 — "better, a thousand times, go to the uttermost 
 ends of the earth than sow such a storm as, if 
 I'm not mistaken, you will reap the whirlwind 
 of by and by." 
 
 "Well, but what is in the wind f asked 
 Arthm-, smiling at the faint idea that he had 
 made a joke. 
 
 " What! Just read that, and you'll soon see 
 what a kick-up there's likely to be." 
 
 " Prying old idiot I" exclaimed Arthur, toss- 
 ino; the letter of his future father on the table 
 
 in dissnst. " Why the can't he mind his 
 
 own business, and be hanged to him !" 
 
 "Perhaps he thinks that his daughter is his 
 business; but howeyer that may be, the deed is 
 done, the letter written, and the question now is 
 how you can satisfy old Dab's mind that all is 
 right. I conclude that it is all right, though I 
 must say, Atty, it does, between you and me, look 
 fishy, your going so yery often oyer to John 
 Beacham's house." 
 
 "But I don't go there so A^ery often," broke 
 in Arthur eagerly ; " it's all a pack of cursed lies. 
 How could I go to the Paddocks eyery day, as the 
 old fool says I do, when I am twice a week, at 
 least, at Fairleigh?" 
 
 "Eeally! How pleasant for Sophy!" said 
 Horace drily. " The worst of all this, though, is, 
 
ISO SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 that old Dub isn't quite in liis dotage yet, and 
 may be sufficiently up in local geography to be 
 aware that, by judicious management, it is possible 
 to reach Fairleigh via Updown Paddocks. Seri- 
 ously now, Atty, can you in your sober senses 
 think that the wa}' you are going on is either right 
 or prudent ? Here you are, within a few weeks of 
 marrying the girl you are engaged to — a nice girl, 
 too, and you thought so yourself before you got 
 spoone}' (nay, hear me out, for it is true, and you 
 know it is) on John Beacham's wife, — here you 
 are, I sa}', making her (I mean Sophy Duberly) 
 miserable ; and what is far worse — for girls soon 
 ffet over that kind of thino; — vou are sowino; the 
 seeds of lasting wretchedness in another man's 
 house. You are — " 
 
 "I — I am doing nothing," broke in Arthur 
 pettishly; adding, with brotherly familiarity, 
 ^' What a fool you are !" 
 
 "Thanks for the compliment; but I must be 
 a still greater fool than I am not to foresee a little 
 of the mischief that is brewing there." And he 
 pointed over his shoulder in the direction of John 
 Beacham's home. " Why, even a child could see 
 it, — even Katie, avIio for a girl is wonderfully 
 unknowing in delicate matters of this kind and 
 description — " 
 
 " But," said Arthur, very seriously this time, 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 181 
 
 and speaking in language ^yllich wovikl have car- 
 ried conviction to liis brother's mind, even had the 
 latter (which was not the case) entertained the 
 idea tliat there was anything ^^ really wrong" in 
 Arthur's intimacy with John Beacham's family, — 
 " but, Horace, I declare to you solemnly, by all I 
 hold most sacred — I won't say by my love for my 
 mother, for I don't love her, and it would be ex- 
 tremely odd if I did — but I swear to you by my 
 father's memory that there is no foundation, none 
 whate^'er, for any of the spiteful things that people 
 dare to say of John Beacham's wife. She's not 
 happy, poor little thing, certainly, but — " 
 
 " Not happy ? Why, what's the matter with 
 her ? She's got the best husband in the country, 
 and the nicest house to live in — I declare I don't 
 know a more comfortable place than Pear-tree 
 House — and the prettiest horse to ride, and — " 
 
 " Yes, of course ; all that is very nice ; but 
 then there's the old w^oman." 
 
 "John's mother? So she is the crumpled 
 rose-leaf, eh?" 
 
 " Well, yes, in some degree ; but then John 
 himself is partly to blame. You see, he does not 
 understand Honor." 
 
 "That may be more his misfortune than his 
 fault, poor fellow ! But, Atty, I am sorry to hear 
 that you have come to confidences. I had an idea 
 
182 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 before all this that Honor was a quiet, good, hon- 
 ourable girl ; and I know that the parson's wife had 
 the best possible opinion of her, wdien she was a 
 girl, and used to teach a class at milady's school ; 
 but what you say now makes me think her very 
 far from either sensible or grateful — to say nothing 
 of rectitude. When I know what a real good fel- 
 low John Bcacham is, it seems such a shame of 
 his wife to be complaining of him." 
 
 Ai'thur laughed. He felt, in his superior wis- 
 dom, that his brother knew wonderfully little of 
 the qualities required by a woman in the man who 
 aspires to her love. 
 
 "Nonsense!" he said; "she doesn't complain. 
 One sees those things for oneself, without hearing 
 about them. I never saw a gentler or a more for- 
 bearing creature than that dear little Irish girl, 
 who is wTctchedly out of place at Updown Pad- 
 docks. She is utterly wasted upon John, who, as 
 you say, is the best fellow in the world, only so 
 boorish compared to her, and so thoroughly unln- 
 tellectual ! Thinks of nothing from morning till 
 night, and probably (beams of nothing then, but 
 of his farm and breeding-stud. I declare that it 
 seems the work of some horrible fate, some ma- 
 licious demon, to have bound such a glorious 
 woman as that to the side of a man so totally 
 unsuited to her — so completely incapable of appre- 
 
MR. DUBERLY T^^SLES THE ALARM. 183 
 
 ciating tlie beauty, and the delicacy, and tlie re- 
 finement — " 
 
 Horace stopped him with a laugh. 
 
 " The Lady Clara Vere de Vere and the clown, 
 eh, over again? Well, I suppose it may be be- 
 cause I happen to be one of the rougher-looking 
 sort myself — made of coarser clay, you know — 
 that I cannot help having a sort of fellow-feeling 
 for poor John. I wonder now, if I were ever to 
 marry — and such an event is just possible, though 
 I confess that it does not seem likely, as things 
 stand at present, — I wonder, I was going to say, 
 whether in that case any of you good-looldng, 
 languid swells — you fastidiously refined fellows — 
 would be found willing to believe me capable of 
 appreciating the charms of my own wife. Of 
 course, it is not in the power of we ordinary mor- 
 tals to make ourselves as agreeable as men who are 
 blessed with straight noses, six feet of manhood, 
 and wavy hair ; but you might give us credit for 
 some sense of the beautiful ; you really might allow 
 that we can see and feel and love the woman whom 
 you admire, even though nature may have cruelly 
 denied us the gift of charming in our turn." 
 
 Arthur looked at his brother in surprise. It 
 was very seldom that Horace, who was not of an 
 impulsive nature, broke into so discursive a speech. 
 He had a way — at least, so it had hitherto ap- 
 
184 siXK OR swi:m. 
 
 peared — of taking life and the tilings of life so 
 easily. Judging from the airy insouciance of his 
 words and manner, his own lack of personal at- 
 traction had never weighed upon his spirits; the 
 giving of advice, too, Avhether by implication or 
 otherwise, to his . Lig, experienced elder brother, 
 was so out of Horace's line, that Arthur's surprise 
 at this unexpected outbreak is scarcely to be won- 
 dered at. Any relative response, however, whether 
 in the shape of protest against, or of acquiescence 
 in, the general truth of his brother's remark, ap- 
 peared to him to be simply impossible, and he 
 therefore betook himself to the open field of gene- 
 ral observation. 
 
 "What a bo]X' it is," he said with a yawn that 
 was not wholly the result of weariness, " that every 
 simple thing one does gets commented on and 
 gossipped about !" 
 
 " That comes of being an elder son. One of 
 the penalties of greatness is the bore, as you call 
 it, of being the observed of all observers. It would 
 be long enough before the world paid me such 
 a compliment. Seriously, though," he continued, 
 glad, perhaps, of the opportunity thus afforded of 
 passing off as a jest the sarcasms which had in a 
 moment of irritation escaped his lips, — " serioush', 
 though, Arthur, this strikes me as being that un- 
 pleasant thing called a ^crisis.' If I know any- 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 185 
 
 tiling of old Dab, lie won't let tliis matter rest till 
 it's tliorouglily cleared up. He wouldn't liave 
 written to Lady !M. if lie hadn't been in earnest ; 
 and now the question is, how the deuce you are 
 going to tackle the old fellow." 
 
 " God knows ; I'm quite sure that / don't !" 
 said Arthur helplessly, for he foresaw endless diffi- 
 culties — greater difficulties far than Horace could 
 form any idea of — in the process of " tackling" to 
 which his brother alluded. " It's such a nuisance — 
 such a horrible nuisance — to be questioned in this 
 sort of way !" 
 
 " Is it ? I don't think I should mind it ; that 
 is to say if I was all right — all on the square, you 
 know. The fact is, Atty, — and I can see it as 
 plain as possible, though of course it isn't pleasant 
 to you to believe it, — that old Duberly has got 
 two ideas about this business in his head; and 
 these two ideas are, in my opinion, two too many. 
 In the first place he is suspicious, as old fellows 
 of that kind are so apt to be, about the horse- 
 breeding part of the affiiir. Xow, if you could 
 tell him on your honour that you have no horse 
 in training — that you have not the slightest in- 
 tention, either directly or indirectly, of going on 
 the turf — Avliy there would be nothing more to 
 be said on that score." 
 
18G SINK OR s^^T\I. 
 
 Artliur rose from his cliair and walked about 
 tlie room impatiently. 
 
 " But suppose I caii't s^Year to that ?" he said, 
 speaking in the annoyed tone of a man who had 
 forced himself to utter a disagreeable truth. "The 
 fact is," he went on confidentially, "I have bought 
 — on tick of course — one of John Beacham's 
 yearlings — the best he has bred since he began 
 the concern — by Oddfellow out of Gay Lady. 
 You never saw such bone ! John's quite certain 
 — and you know how safe he is — that my colt- — 
 Rough Diamond his name is — will be a Derby 
 horse. I paid a long price for him — I'm half 
 afraid to say how much — but when one is so posi- 
 tively certain to make such a pot of money as I 
 shall, why what does it signify?" 
 
 The look — half comic and half pityingly sar- 
 donic — that settled for a moment on the plain, 
 but singularly expressive, face of Horace Vava- 
 sour would have been a study for a picture. 
 
 "Sol" he drawled out, "the old fellow is 
 not so far- wrong after all ! No wonder you were 
 taken aback when he asked those leading ques- 
 tions !" 
 
 " Taken aback ! I should think I just was ! 
 Why I should like to know what ijou would have 
 been !" 
 
 " Quite as much disgusted, I suspect, if not 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 187 
 
 more tliaii you were yourself ; but someliow or 
 other, Atty — thougli I don't set up for being a 
 bit better than other people — these are not, I 
 fancy, exactly the kind of hobbles that I should 
 have been likely to get into." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Arthur a little 
 sulkily. " It strikes me that I haven't done any- 
 thing at all out of the common way." 
 
 "Xot the least in the world," rejoined Horace 
 drily ; " but that does not disprove what I said. 
 I don't want to boast. The fact, if it were proved, 
 is nothing to be proud of; but I feel sure that 
 I should not have made love to one woman while 
 I was eno;ao:ed to another ; and as certain am I of 
 this — that I should not have gone into partnership 
 with an honest man like John, in order that — " 
 
 "Horace!" cried Arthur in a towering pas- 
 sion, and taking his stand in front of the chair 
 in which his brother leant back, calm and im- 
 passible, "you have no right — none whatever — 
 especially after what I said just now, to believe 
 me capable — " 
 
 "It is partly from the very words you said 
 just now tliati draw my conclusions," interrupted 
 Horace. '' What old Duberly drew his from can 
 only of course be guessed at." 
 
 " Guessed at ! What utter rot ! What con- 
 founded humbuo; !" 
 
188 SINK OR s^^^M. 
 
 " Well, have it your own way. Ghe up that 
 poor girl Sophy — for it is giving her up if you 
 don't satisfy her father — be talked of all over 
 the county as — " 
 
 "I don't care a d — n about that," growled 
 Arthur. 
 
 " So many fellows have said before they were 
 tried. Throw away all chance of that blessed 
 home at Fairleigh, that the poor girls have built 
 upon so much ; and all because you haven't the 
 courage, or rather because you are too self-in- 
 dulgent, to give u[) a little momentary amuse- 
 ment, — or rather, if you like it l^etter, though I 
 confess to considering it a distinction without a 
 difference, because you happen to be a little — as 
 I said before — spooney on John Beacham's wife." 
 
 Arthur made a gesture indicative of disgust. 
 
 '^ Hear me out, please," Horace went on to 
 say. '^ "What I want you to do is, to think se- 
 riously of all these necessary consequences, and 
 to ask yourself whether le jeu rant la chandelle. 
 I, for my part — but then I have the good fortune 
 neither to be, nor to fancy myself, in love — have 
 an idea that it does not. In the first place, re- 
 member — not that we are any of us in much 
 danger of the fact escaping our memory — what a 
 WTctched home this is. Think what a contrast 
 to the dulness, the restraint, the everyday — well, 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 189 
 
 I won't go Oil ; wo botli know only too wxll how 
 wretched one person can contrive to make a honse 
 — bnt jnst think of the contrast to all this that 
 Fairleigli is I Old Dnberlv^ with, his cheerful, 
 hearty ways — I declare Lady M.'s are enough to 
 give one a sickener of refinement ; everyone al- 
 lowed to please himself; no one lying in wait for 
 occasions on which to differ ; annoying trifles, or 
 trifles that might have been annoying, delight- 
 fully slided over; and no Hiead-of-the-house' ty- 
 ranny, causing one to long at every hour of the 
 day for the desperate remedy of a bloodless revo- 
 lution — *' 
 
 "That is all very true, but—" 
 
 "But what? I suppose you mean to remind 
 me that }'ou are not doomed to bear with the 
 wretchedness of Gillingham for ever. Of course 
 you are not ; but in the mean time there are the 
 involvements, — O Atty, I hate to talk of, bnt you 
 know that there tliey are. And then there is poor 
 Sophy — so fond of you, so trusting and affec- 
 tionate. It would not break her heart, I know, 
 to hear of all this nonsense ; but it would make 
 her deuced miserable." And the younger brother, 
 a little overcome by the picture he had conjured 
 up, stopped for a moment to recover himself. 
 Very soon, however, he was at the old arguments 
 again. " She wouldn't have a pleasant time of it, 
 
190 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 of course. And as for Lady M., slie would be 
 less inclined than ever to give you anything of 
 an allowance. You have ascertained that there 
 are insurmountable impediments to raising money 
 on tlie estates ; and my mother — may her shadow 
 never be less! — is a hale woman of, if I mistake 
 not, forty-two. What do you say to your pro- 
 spects? Inviting, eli ? And just fancy what a 
 blow it woidd be to tlie girls. Why, ever since 
 it was all settled, and you wrote from Kome to 
 tell us so, their spirits, poor things, have been 
 entirely kept up by the idea — by the hope, I mean 
 — of a kind of occasional home at Fairleigli. 
 They are very fond of Sophy; and, in short, 
 Atty, if you could but make up your mind to 
 give up — well, all your interests at Updown Pad- 
 docks, all would go on quite smoothly again. You 
 could answer old Dub face to face without fear 
 of consequences ; and — and I don't think you 
 would regret it, Atty," — ^laying his hand affec- 
 tionately on his brother's shoulder, — " I don't in- 
 deed. I think it pays, don't you, old fellow, 
 making other people — I mean those that one's 
 fond of —jolly?" 
 
 " Well, yes ; I fancy it does," Arthur said 
 musingly ; " and of course one hates this kind of 
 thing. It's nonsense, too, to suppose that I want 
 to make any change — about little Sophy, I mean. 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALAR:\I. 191 
 
 Of course I wish to many licr, and if it's only to 
 be done by giving up Rougli Diamond, why, I've 
 no alternative. It 25 a bore though ; upon my soul 
 it is ! He is so certain to win ! And then there's all 
 the nuisance of the talk with Mr. Duberlj'. I say, 
 Horace, do be a good fellow, and help me out of 
 this. It would do quite as w^ell — ay, and better 
 still — if you would settle the business for me." 
 
 " How do you mean ^ settle it' ?" Horace 
 asked. 
 
 " Well, tell him you know that it's all hosli ; 
 that there Avas no harm in life — you'd go bail 
 for that — in my sometimes j^aying a visit of an 
 afternoon, just to have a look at the stock, to 
 Beacham at the Paddocks ; and that — that, in 
 short, the sooner I'm married the better." 
 
 " And how about the Eough Diamond ?" asked 
 Horace, who felt perhaps the least in the world 
 suspicious regarding the destination of that pro- 
 mising animal. 
 
 " O, I suppose I must sell him ; not much 
 difficulty about that. He wouldn't be a shadow 
 of use to me unless I entered him; wdiich is, of 
 course, out of the question now. I w^ill see John 
 about it this afternoon. There are lots of men 
 who would give as much or more than I did for 
 him. So that's settled; and you may say so, if 
 you like, with my compliments to old Dub." 
 
102 SINK OR s^^^M. 
 
 " I'll do it, of course, if you wisli it," said 
 Horace, after deliberating for a few moments on 
 his brother's proposal ; " but 1 can't help think- 
 ing — don't fancy, though, that I want to get off — 
 that this is the kind of thing a man had better do 
 himself." 
 
 " Do you think so ? Well, then, I don't," said 
 Arthur, laughing ; " and that makes all the differ- 
 ence. I should be sure to make a mess of it, 
 while }ou arc the coolest hand possible at that 
 kind of thing. On the whole, it has just oc- 
 curred to me, after I've seen .lohn about the nag, 
 that it wouldn't be half a bad move to go to 
 Pemberton's for a week or so. He has been 
 asking me to pay them a visit for weeks past, 
 and I should escape from the festivities, as 
 they call them, at the Guernseys' next week. I 
 hate that kind of thing infernally; and engacjed 
 people in public are always in a ridiculous posi- 
 tion. Yes, I think I certainly will go for a week 
 or so to Sir Richard's." 
 
 " Very good," rejoined Horace ; he was wise, 
 as I before remarked, for his years, and therefore 
 forbore (albeit he had his own opinion on the 
 subject) any comment on his brother's sudden 
 resolution to leave the Chace during Lady Guern- 
 sey's " popularity week." " Very good ; but, Atty" 
 — as his brother, throwing open the French win- 
 
MR. DUBERLY TAKES THE ALARM. 193 
 
 (low, gave evident tokens of a desire to cnt short 
 tlie interview, — " you are quite sure it's all on 
 the square about the colt ? Of course you mean 
 it now," he added hastily, as Arthur turned round 
 a red and angry fiice ; " but everyone is liable to 
 be tempted — I am sure that / am — and seeing 
 Rough Diamond again might — " 
 
 " Not a bit of it. Don't be afraid. I know 
 what I'm al30ut ; only it's not fair to John to leave 
 liim in the dark about it : so I'm off. No occa- 
 sion to answer Mr. Duberly's letter, I suppose, till 
 to-morrow?" 
 
 " AYell, I should say there is. However, I'll 
 ask my mother. It. was written to her, though 
 what old Dub was thinking of when he did that 
 same is more than I can guess." 
 
 ••* Lady Mill was deucedlv indignant at the 
 liberty," said Arthur, laughing. " Few things 
 have ever amused me more than ni}" mother's 
 anxiety for this marriage, and her intense disgust 
 at being brought into contact with any of the 
 Duberly lot." 
 
 " I wonder which will behave the worst at the 
 wedding, old Dub or my lady ! In quite another 
 way he has ten times her pride, but then he is 
 far more deficient in polish." 
 
 They both laughed lightly at the ideas which 
 this remark called up ; and after a few more last 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
194 SINK OR s\n:M. 
 
 words, cac-li Lrotlicr departed on liis own separate 
 errand. 
 
 As Arthur Vavasour had predicted and felt 
 assured, it required few arguments, and a very 
 little exertion of diplomatic talent, to convince "lit- 
 tle Sophy's'' good-natured parent that there was- 
 nothing really wromj either in the character or 
 conduct of the " handsome young fellow" who had 
 won his daughter's heart. A short conversation 
 witli that " steady, sensible one of the brothers"" 
 (the thoughtful Horace), a little coaxing and pet- 
 ting on the part of his " darling girl," and a posi- 
 tive assurance — it was ^' a case of honom-, mind, 
 Mr. Duberly" — more than once repeated — from 
 Arthur, that he had sold the two-year-old (that 
 wonderful Rough Diamond, of whom such great 
 things were expected), to Colonel Xorcott, of 
 sporting celebrity, for an almost fabulous sum — 
 were sufficient to set the unsuspicious, sanguine 
 mind of " old Dub" at rest. Arthur Vavasour was 
 received again with open anns at Fairleigh; the 
 fatted calf, so to speak, was killed ; and Sophy — 
 caressing, tender Sophy — put on her best robe to. 
 do honour to the exculpated prodigal. 
 
CHAPTER XA \ 
 
 A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS. 
 
 Arthur Vavasour, in all that lie had said to 
 his brother regarding the state of things at Up- 
 down Paddocks, had not \yilHngly diverged a hair's- 
 breadth from the trnth. It liad caused him more 
 vexation than surprise to learn that other voices 
 besides the " still small" whisper of his own con- 
 science were beginning to enlarge upon a course 
 of conduct, the imprudence of which — to use no 
 harsher term — had long been manifest to himself. 
 Young as he was in years, Arthur had not, after 
 a jeimesse orageuse, still to learn how soon and 
 easily the fair fame of a woman is breathed upon 
 and tarnished. In more ways than one is the 
 breath of man poisonous to his fellows. Well 
 did Arthur A^avasour know that while he — the 
 heh'-apparent to wealth and honour — he, the 
 strong man, armed at all points for the battle of 
 life — would come unscathed out of the tainted 
 atmosphere of suspicion, she, the tender bird 
 
196 SIXlv OR SWIM. 
 
 exposed io its baneful influence, would flutter 
 her feel)le Aviuos, and fall killed morallij by the 
 strong iusidious poison. Of this melancholy truth 
 Sophy Duberly's affianced husband ^vas as cognis- 
 ant as the ohlest sage that lives; and yet so selfish 
 was he and so graceless — you perceive that there 
 is nothinii' sinoular and abncn'mal in this vouno; 
 man's character and conduct — that he could not 
 bring himself to forego a pleasure, many of the 
 infallible evils to result therefrom, he, in his rare 
 moments of reflection, so ])lainly foresaw. 
 
 His first visit to the Paddocks was the conse- 
 quence (and this young sinner sometimes twisted 
 the fact into a strange kind of condonation) of 
 a pressing invitation from honest John himself. 
 Pai-tly from former respect and affection for the 
 deceased Squire, and in some degree from a liking 
 which he took to the open cheerful manners of the 
 heir-a])parent, John Beacham seized the earliest 
 opportunity of making that yonng gentleman 
 "free," as it were, of the house in which his fa- 
 ther had been so frequent and honoured a guest. 
 
 Nor was John's hospitable parent behindhand 
 in her well-meant endeavours to make Lady Mil- 
 licent's first-born understand that he was a wel- 
 come guest at Pear-tree House. He was always 
 ^' pleasant-spoken," she used to say, " without an 
 ounce of milad}'s pride about him." " Young Mr. 
 
A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS. 197 
 
 Arthur' besides (and that was another important 
 point in his favom*) was very far from making 
 himself ^' common" in the houses, whether large 
 or small, of his lady mother's tenants. I am afraid, 
 after all, that this old lady was — after the fashion 
 of her class in her day — something of a lord lover. 
 The taste has somewhat left that class of late 
 years, rampant as it still is on the higher rungs 
 of the social ladder ; and in Mrs. Beacham it was 
 only preserved, and that feebly, by some of the 
 traditions and associations of the past. She en- 
 tertained an idea too that the son in whom all 
 her hopes and pride were centred was better 
 looked on, by reason of his acquaintance (profes- 
 sionally) with the titled ones of the land. It may 
 be doubted, indeed, whether this simple-minded 
 body did not, in some vague and unreflecting way, 
 consider John's friendship, or rather familiarit}', 
 with a rich earl of sporting proclivities, and the 
 fact of his being, so to speak, " hand and glove" 
 with the heir of Gillingham, decided proofs, had 
 any been wanting, of her son's general superiority 
 to his fellow-men. 
 
 The fever of expectation and delight into 
 which the usually sedate old woman was thrown 
 on the first occasion when John informed her that 
 '' i\Ii\ Arthur" was coming to see the " stock" and 
 '' take" his luncheon at the Paddocks, afforded 
 
198 SINK OR swni. 
 
 some amusement and not a little surprise to 
 Honor. For lierself she hardly knew whether 
 to be glad or sorry that her acquaintance with 
 ^Ir. Vavasour was likely to be improved. That 
 his coming was not, b}' any means, a matter of 
 indifference to her cannot be denied. It could 
 hardly be that the railway journey passed in his 
 company, short and uneventful though it was, 
 had not left some trace of it behind. Beautiful 
 daughter of Eve though she was, never had eyes 
 of man rested on her face as those of Arthur 
 Vavasour had done that day; but although her 
 vanity had been to a certain degree gi'atified by 
 a scrutiny which she had felt rather than seen, 
 yet she had, whilst undergoing it, experienced a 
 sensation of malaise — a nameless fear almost — 
 which caused her rather to shrink from a first 
 meeting with Arthur Vavasour. As regarded 
 John, he took the event, for which his mother 
 was making such grand preparations, quite as a 
 matter of course. Beyond the fact that Mr. Ar- 
 thur was the Squu-e's son, and one to whom the 
 farmer gave credit for possessing hereditary vir- 
 tues, the handsome young man, who, as all the 
 countiy knew, was engaged to the heiress of Fair- 
 leigh, was no more to him than any other visitor 
 at the Paddocks. Not that honest John was the 
 very least in the world what is called " a leveller." 
 
A STORM AT THE P.VDDOCKS. 199 
 
 To " even" liimself with those socially above him 
 never entered his head. The ambition which of 
 all others is the most apt to "o'erleap itself- and 
 fall o' the other side" — the ambition, namely, of 
 a churl to be a gentleman — was an infirmity qnite 
 unknown to the simple mind of the Sandyshire 
 farmer. He was absorbed, besides, rationally and 
 wliolesomely, in his business, and that business, 
 iis John was quite conscious, he thoroughly un- 
 derstood. A sense of superiority (that sense, let 
 it be remembered, being indorsed by the fiat of 
 pubKc opinion) is apt to induce (even though 
 tliat superiority may be evidenced in a compa- 
 ratively humble manner) a certain sense also of 
 independence. This sense, then, was a strong 
 and liealthy resident in John Beacham's breast. 
 He knew — none better — that his knowledge of 
 the business in which his soul delighted was any- 
 thing but superficial, and it was to him a source 
 of pride that his opinion in equine matters had 
 grown to be treated as a law. I repeat that 
 John Beacham was no "leveller." He was quite 
 as ready as liis neighbours to "give tribute to 
 whom tribute, and lionour to whom honour," 
 is due ; but it was pretty much the same to 
 liim, provided that the individual in question 
 knew something about horseflesh, whether guest 
 of his were prince or peasant, duke or dog- 
 
200 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 breeder. Ilis tliouglits run entirely on his stock, 
 and his mind was so fully engrossed by the 
 future of his yearlings that he felt literally none 
 of that common sensation of " not-at-homeish- 
 ness" which is apt to render individuals in John's 
 somewhat anomalous position both awkward and 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 Few men in any rank of life could be pleas- 
 anter as a liost than the owner of Updown Pad- 
 docks. At his hospitable board, the rich and 
 "great," and even the self-hnportant, "forgot to 
 remember" that they Avere condescending. A na- 
 tive politeness induced by entire forgetfulness of 
 self placed him on a par with the most exalted, 
 the most fastidious, and the most sensitive. 
 But, above all things, let it be remembered that 
 he Avas triie — true to the backbone. The air of 
 the " stable," as I have before said, had instilled 
 no principles of trickery into John Beacham's 
 breast, and, as Cecil Vavasour had once been 
 heard to remark, he would as soon expect one 
 of John's fillies to be capable of entering into 
 a conspiracy to defraud, as that his old friend 
 would in a single instance depart from the strict 
 rules of honour and integrity. 
 
 "Now then. Honor, look sharp; I can't have 
 any dawdling to-day. When gentlemen come to 
 
A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS. 201 
 
 lunch at the Paddocks, tliey exjDect, and so does 
 John, to find everything good. Yon won't soil 
 your wliite hands, tliat I don't think likely, with 
 helping in the setting on ; but you might gather a 
 few flowers for the beanpots all the same, and if 
 there's time afterwards you can change your 
 gownd afore Mr. Arthur comes. A silk one 
 would look a deal better than that washy muslin. 
 I'm sure John, poor fellow, gave you plenty of 
 smart dresses, and you needn't begrudge the wear- 
 ing one of them now and then." 
 
 Honor, who had already learned that there is 
 ofttimes wisdom in keeping silence even from 
 good words, proceeded with cheerful alacrity to 
 the execution of one at least of her appointed 
 tasks. The tasteless arrangement of tliose same 
 '^ beanpots" had long been to her a source of minor 
 discomfort, and often had she longed to work, 
 with deft and dainty fingers, a reformation in the 
 huge overgrown posies with which it was Mrs. 
 Beacham's pleasure to adorn the windows of the 
 "best parlour" in the old farm-house. A very 
 snug and pleasant room it w^as, and would have 
 been a pretty one, could Honor have effected the 
 change she was often planning, nameh', that of 
 introducing French windows instead of the old- 
 fashioned lattices, which let in so little light, and 
 impeded the view outside so greatly. And, as if 
 
202 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 to make the room still darker, tlierc were, ever 
 and always, tliose dreadful l)eanpots standing 
 never an inch out of tlieir respective places on 
 the spider-legged pembroke tables in front of the 
 latticed panes. It was wonderful. Honor some- 
 times thought, how flowers could be made to look 
 so little attractive as those which old Mrs. Beacham 
 was in the habit of pacldng together for the 
 adornment of her sliow parlour. The old lady's 
 floral tastes were of the massive and o;oro;eous 
 school. She delighted in peonies, and many- 
 coloured dahlias were her passion. Honor had 
 more than once attempted a reform in this deli- 
 cate branch of household duty ; but Mrs. Beacham, 
 who had no opinion of her danghter-in-law's taste, 
 had hitherto declined her offei's, and nothing short 
 of a press of business on the occasion of Mr. Vava- 
 sour's visit w^ould have caused the busy old auto- 
 crat to break through a fixed habit of her life. 
 
 Honor wondered to herself, as, with her large 
 garden-hat shading her eyes from the sun, and a 
 Hower-basket on her ann, she bent over a favourite 
 plant rich with pinks in brilliant blossom, dropping 
 at the same time one of the treasures into her 
 basket, wliether Mr. Vavasoiu* had the least idea 
 what a commotion his coming to the house for 
 half an hour was causing. She caught herself 
 marvelling too whether he liked the smell of roast 
 
A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS. 203 
 
 beef and cabbaire : for the house had been redo- 
 lent of both when Honor gladly exchanged the scene 
 of bustle and confusion, and the aroma of a lueal 
 more plentiful than refined, for the fresh air of 
 heaven and the perfumes of the roses and the 
 pinks. She did not hurry over her task. There 
 was time enough before the arrival of their guest 
 for a little more dalhdno- with the flowers, a few 
 more quiet thoughts over how she would look, and 
 what he — that half-dreaded new acquaintance — 
 would say to her. Honor had not the slightest 
 intention of complying with the last of her mother- 
 in-law's injunctions ; the " washy" dress — it was of 
 soft blue muslin, and the girl looked like a bright 
 azure flower in it, as she flitted about between the 
 rows of fruit-bushes, culling the dear old " com- 
 mon" flowers that are still to be found in such 
 ancient kitchen-gardens as the one that apper- 
 tained to Pear-tree House — the "washy" dress 
 that had provoked Mrs. Beacham's animadversion 
 was not. Honor determined, to be cast aside. 
 Since the affair of the bonnet, she had resisted 
 all attempts at interference with her toilet. The 
 day too, as the sun rose higher and higher in the 
 heavens, had grown oppressively hot, so hot that 
 her fair face was a little flushed, and she loosened 
 the strino;s of her hat that the lii^ht summer 
 breeze might blow more freely round her throat. 
 
204 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 The coolest spot in all tlic garden was the terrace- 
 walk, a little raised ahove the level of a shady lane, 
 into which those above could look over the 
 trimmed sj)rays of what »John — who loved the 
 place, and smoked his cpiiet })ipe there often in the 
 summer evenint]js — was wont to call the " nit^ht- 
 ingale hedge." With Honor too the terrace was a 
 favourite resort : she would take her book there, 
 or her work, and sit dreamily on the rough stone 
 bench for hours, till summoned home by the shrill 
 voice of her mother-in-law, who, being essentially 
 a woman of action, had no patience with the " idle 
 ways of John's silly chit of a wife." On that 
 especial day, however. Honor had no time to waste 
 in reverie. She would, she thought only rest for 
 a moment under the shade of the old thorn-tree ; 
 the sun shone so glaringly down upon the teem- 
 ing apple-trees, on the clean-ke])t rows of straw- 
 berry-beds sloping downwards to the gravelled 
 walks, yellow and glowing in the midday heat. 
 Honor could not, however, long remain, pleasant as 
 it was, in that cool breezy place. Only a moment 
 to pluck a sprig of sweet syringa from a shrub of 
 ancient date, growing near the hawthorn-tree ; 
 only a moment to liear — AVell I What did she 
 hear? Why, the slow footsteps of a horse, ad- 
 vancing Avitli even pace along the lane below ! 
 Instinctively she rose from her seat, and peer- 
 
A stor:\i at the paddocks. 205 
 
 ing over tlie liedge, she recognised in the eques- 
 trian, ^Yllo politely raised his hat from his head 
 (for a simultaneous movement had caused, him 
 to look towards the terrace), the figure of Ai'thur 
 Vavasour. 
 
 It was too late to retreat, her blushing face 
 Avas just above him, and she could only hope that 
 he would not think her very missyish and forward. 
 That road — the one that he had chosen — was not 
 the usual one from Gillingham to the Paddocks, 
 and this, Honor, feeling and seeming a good deal 
 confused and awkward, endeavoured to make him 
 understand. She had forgotten, or rather she had 
 never heard, the i)roverb, that qui sexcuse^ s' accuse; 
 but Arthur both remembered and applied it. It 
 is always a temptation to jump at conclusions that 
 are flattering to our vanity, and the ^^jumj)" on 
 this occasion Avas far too allurino; to be withstood. 
 Arthur had in irood truth very little cjrounds for 
 supposing that Honor had betaken herself tj that 
 quiet spot for the purpose of awaiting his arrival. 
 He was profoundly ignorant, beyond the simple 
 fact that she was beautiful, of all that apper- 
 tained to or regarded John Beacham's wife. Un- 
 f<jrtunately too he had been a good deal thrown 
 among a class of women, who would have taken 
 no great shame to themselves had they been 
 caught in the deed for which he gave that prettv, 
 
20G SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 unsuspecting Honor credit. Ai'tliur had met witb 
 a good deal of petting and spoiling from the sex 
 in general. lie Avas handsome, and he knew it. 
 Honor was looking tantalisingly lovely and at- 
 tract i\e as she stammered forth her silly, smiling 
 excuses; so — it was foolish certainly, but he was 
 not yet " of age," remember, and it would have 
 been so " muffisli" to ride on as if she were 
 not there — so Artluu* Yavasour, following the 
 impulse of the moment, and meaning, as he would 
 have said, no more than to be "civil," contrived 
 (without awkwardness, which would have been 
 fatal in such a case) to spring with his feet upon 
 the saddle, and to bring his face on a level with 
 Honor's. 
 
 She could not help laughing ; it was " such a 
 foolish thing to do ;" and then there came, after he 
 had shaken hands with her over the hedge, the 
 fear that the horse would move on, and that there 
 would be an " accident." 
 
 "He might move on — 0, please don't wait!" 
 she said, feeling a little smitten Avitli what struck, 
 her as an act of chivalry on the part of that good- 
 lookino; vounfj; aristocrat. 
 
 "He won't stir — he knows better," Arthur 
 said, as he steadied himself against a strong ash 
 saj)ling that jutted out from the bank. " Steady, 
 will you I" to the animal, who was picking out the 
 
A STOR:\r AT THE PADDOCKS. 207 
 
 tender blades of grass for liis own especial eating 
 from among the ground-ivy, the delicate cranes- 
 bill, and tlie wild violets with which the pretty 
 rural fence was lined. "He knows this road, 
 and so do I, of old. Jack was my father's cob, 
 Mrs. Beacham — one oiyour father-in-law's breed- 
 ing, and he used always to come this way to the 
 Paddocks." 
 
 It was a prett}' way — the prettiest, Honor 
 thought and said — from the Castle; not that she 
 had ever been the whole road — far from it, she 
 said. It was a beautiful way, people told her, all 
 through, but she had never been nearer to the 
 Castle in her life than the end of Pender's-lane. 
 John did promise to take her farther when he had 
 the time, and she was going to learn to ride, and 
 horses were allowed in many places inside the 
 Chace where a carriage wasn't, so John said, and 
 if so, why she might some day see, ^^ithout giving 
 trouble, she added meekly, a little of the beauti- 
 ful place of which she had heard so much. 
 
 Ai'thur professed himself delighted to think 
 that he could afford the vrife of his old friend 
 pleasure in any way; mentally regretting that, 
 owino; to his insecm^e footincs; on old Jack's saddle, 
 he could not be quite as delightful as he wished, 
 or as the occasion deserved. 
 
 " It will be awfully jolly to have you on horse- 
 
208 SIXK OR SWDI. 
 
 back," lie said, ^^and Beacham avIU mount you 
 ill sometliiiiii; like style." 
 
 ^' yes," Honor said eagerly, "there is a chest- 
 nut — such a beauty ! John calls her Lady ^leg — 
 that he is breaking for me; not a pony — quite a 
 tall horse ; and — O Mr. Vavasour, I told you so ! 
 Have your hurt yourself^" 
 
 She was answered by a laugh from below, and 
 by the cheerily-spoken words, "All right!" as 
 Arthur, Avho had suddenly, and nolens volens^ 
 found himself reseated in his saddle, rode away. 
 
 Once more left to the companionship of her 
 own thoughts, Honor began to think how foolish 
 it had all been ; and then came the speculation 
 as to how ^Irs. Beacham would take the news 
 (for it seemed a very important event to simple- 
 minded Honor) of Mr. Vavasour's escapade. If 
 Honor had not been afraid of her stepmother 
 (which she was), it would all have been ])lain-sailing 
 enouirh. It had been a purely accidental meet- 
 ing — no harm had been intended — and certainly 
 Honor could not be called to account for the 
 foolish risking of ^Ir. Vavasour's bones. All this, 
 and more, the perplexed and tired girl repeated 
 to herself as she walked slowly on towards the 
 house, thinking how best to tell the little story 
 which was already assuming in her eyes the fea- 
 tures of an " event." 
 
A STORM AT THE PADDOCKS. 209 
 
 To her surprise — for she had fancied he would 
 be wayhiid by John, and carried off at once to 
 see the " stock" — she perceived, through one af the 
 parlour - windows, Mr. Vavasour sitting on the 
 ponderous sofa covered with peony -patterned 
 chintz, and in amiable converse with his hostess, 
 who was doing her best, in more ways than one, 
 to entertain him. In a few more minutes Honor 
 was in the room, and — mlrahile dlctu! — shaking 
 hands with Arthur Vavasour. It was very evi- 
 dent that for some reason or otlier — what, Honor 
 would have found it difficult to determine — he 
 had kept the fact of that very innocent meeting 
 on the terrace-walk a secret. Honor hardly kncAV 
 whether to be relieved or sorry that he had done 
 so. That slie could do otherwise than follow his 
 lead, never for a moment, strange as it may seem, 
 occurred to her. The nature of this young wife 
 was rather an ease-loving one, and to be spared 
 the listenino- to Mrs. Beacham's diatribes was felt 
 by her to be a great boon; so she, unwisely it 
 must be owned, held her peace, keeping Arthur's 
 secret (alas, that there should have been one, 
 of even the most insignificant description, be- 
 tween those two !) alike from the cantankerous old 
 lady, and the husband who had as yet given her 
 no cause to fear that he would ever be severe 
 either on her follies or her faults. 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE ELEMENTS WERE IX FAULT. 
 
 From the time of that chance meeting, Arthur 
 Vavasour became a very frequent A'isitor at the 
 Paddocks. Ostensibly there was generally some 
 business excuses for the "calls" that were made so 
 often, and lasted so long. There was so frequently 
 an ailing or an unsound horse, concerning which 
 an opinion was required ; and then, as v>e already 
 know, the Paddocks lay so conveniently on the 
 road to Fairleigh, that it was hardly surprising 
 that poor Sophy's somewhat fickle lover should 
 stop to rest him on the way. 
 
 There is no den}-ing the truth that young 
 Mrs. Beacham did greatly enjoy Mr. Yavasoiu-'s 
 society. They had so many (the old reason !) tastes 
 in common. He had read the books she liked, 
 and he delighted in less commonplace and more 
 classic music than '' The soldier's tear," and 
 that old, old " Banks of Allan Waters," which 
 Honor Avas so tired of. His voice too, vvlien he 
 
THE ELEMENTS WERE IX FAULT. 211 
 
 spoke, was so soft and low — an " excellent thing" 
 in man as well as woman — and that same voice 
 sonnded doubly pleasant after a morning spent in 
 listening to Mrs. Beacham's querulous tones and 
 harsh Yorkshire dialect. 
 
 It was surprising to herself how soon Honor 
 felt at her ease with Arthur Vavasour, and how 
 short a time had been necessary to make her 
 forget that he was the son of that formidable 
 Lady Millicent; while she^but what had been 
 her origin Honor believed herself never destined 
 to learn — it was enough that she had been but a 
 humble teacher to some farm-house children, and 
 that John, that best and kindest of created beings, 
 had taken her, penniless and almost friendless as 
 she was, to his home and to his heart. 
 
 There is something not altogether un suggestive 
 in the fact that John Beacham's bride was, at that 
 period of her short married life, for ever reminding 
 herself that she "owed everything to John." It 
 almost seemed as though she were throwing up a 
 line of defence, a formidable. . battery, to guard 
 against any future attacks upon his peace. He 
 v.'as so really kind to her, not tenderly demon- 
 strative certainty, and anything but sentimental; 
 but she could trust him so entirely. John was 
 never capricious, and rarely hasty or rough of 
 -speech; he never "bothered*' either about trifles—^ 
 
212 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 a deliglitful negative quality -wliicli many wives 
 never appreciate properly till tliey have expe- 
 rienced the bore of having a womanly, house- 
 keeping kind of helpmate "worrying" about 
 a home, the space and means of which are neces- 
 sarily limited. That John Beacham was all, and 
 more than all, this. Honor was constantly repeating 
 to herself. Perhaps — it was more than likely — 
 she was anxious to hide, under this heap of esti- 
 mable qualities, the aggravation of some of poor 
 John's trifling defects of manner^ his few uncourtly 
 habits, his sometimes ill-pronounced words. Be 
 this as it may. Honor betrayed no sign, even to 
 herself, that she Avould have desired any change in 
 one so excellent and unselfish as her husband; it 
 is even probable that, had not the peccant places 
 been pointed b}' force of contrast, she would have 
 found little to regret in John's cheery voice and 
 genial, though untutored, manners. 
 
 One great pleasure — tJie ])leasure of which 
 Honor had spoken with such girlish glee to 
 Arthur Vavasour — that, namely, of riding on 
 horseback — had been without loss of time vouch- 
 safed to the breeder's wife. She had a '^w^onderful 
 figure for a horse"' he had said from the first, 
 and when to that was added the conviction that, 
 though she had not been in the "saddle from a 
 child," his wife's seat and hand were j^erfect. 
 
THE ELE.MEXTS WERE IX FAULT. 213 
 
 John's delight was extreme. The " teaching" 
 proved a comparatively easy matter ; Lady Meg 
 was quiet as a lamb ; and very soon (for John 
 was often too bnsy to accompany her) Honor was 
 trusted on horseback, with only a small farm-boy 
 as attendant, to take her equestrian pleasure where 
 she chose. 
 
 The only indi\ddual to whom this new state of 
 affairs ffave anv umbrao^e was old ^Irs. Beacham, 
 who, wlien John did not happen to be present, 
 grew very bitter on the subject of Honor's fa- 
 vourite pleasure. 
 
 '^ It's more than I ever had — and I a Yorkshire- 
 woman born — is a horse of my own," she said one 
 day to Honor, as the latter stood waiting for 
 Lady Meg, and looking very pretty and grace- 
 ful at the A\dndow, her long green habit trailing 
 on the floor, and her gauntleted hand (John had 
 fjot lier up beautifully) playing with her little 
 dandified whip. "I wonder John can allow of 
 such a thing as your riding about the country 
 in this way. Things have got turned upside down 
 Avith a vengeance since I was young." 
 
 "John likes it," Honor said, turning round 
 with a smile that disclosed two rows of pearly 
 teeth, and which ought to have mollified the 
 sour old lady's temper. "I never should have 
 thought of riding if it hadn't been for John, 
 
214 SINK OR S\VIM. 
 
 and now 1 do love it so ! I don't tliink I ever 
 liked anything half so much." 
 
 ^' You'd like anything that kep you idle, that's 
 my belief. You'd leave everything for other 
 people to do, }'ou -would. Anybody else may 
 slave themselves to death, so as you keep your 
 hands white and don't bend your back to work." 
 
 " Now, that is hard," replied Honor, trying 
 to laugh off the old woman's irritation. " I won't 
 bear any more of John's sins ! Wh}', don't you 
 remember, mother" — she called her so, to please 
 ♦lohn — " don't you remember how he came home 
 one day and found me rubbing the table, and 
 liow angry he was, and how he said that neither 
 you nor I were ever to do such things again, 
 for that, thank God, he was rich enough to pay 
 for servants to do the housework ? Dear John I 
 he always tries to please everybody." 
 
 " More fool he ! Everybody indeed ! That's 
 the sort of thing that brings people to the work- 
 house. / was brought up different. / never 
 could see, not I, the good of }'oung people being 
 idle. Work keeps 'em out of mischief, and 
 hinders Avliite hands, which ain't of no use as 
 far as I can see, except to make the gentlemen 
 stare at 'em." 
 
 It was ])erhaps fortunate for Honor that the 
 old lady could not see the crimson blush that 
 
THE ELEMENTS ^N-ERE IX FAULT. 215 
 
 mantled over cheek and brow at tins coarse and 
 uncalled-for remark. Had that been the case, 
 Mrs. Beacham would have suspected — what was 
 indeed the truth — that her dauo-hter-in-law was 
 cjuite conscious of, and felt indeed rather gratified 
 by, the fact that one gentleman at least had both 
 looked at and admired the taper fingers, white 
 and soft as those of the finest lady in the land, 
 to which ^Irs. Beacham alluded. 
 
 At that moment, and while Honor's face was 
 still tm-ned towards the window, a few heavy 
 drops were seen to fall against tJie panes, and 
 the prolonged roll of (hstant thunder gave tokens 
 of a coming tempest. 
 
 '' O, there's the rain I How dreadfully pro- 
 voking I Just when I was going out ! What 
 shaUIdo?" 
 
 " What will you do? Why, bear it to be sure, 
 and be thankful you've nothing worse to bear. 
 I'm going across the meadow to see James Stokes' 
 whitlow. It will be lon£^ enouo;h before such 
 a helpless thmg as you has the stomach for such 
 sights;" and so, gnimbling as she went, the busy 
 old soul departed — to do her justice, she was 
 always ready to lielp — on her errand of mercy. 
 
 Honor sat down before the work-table, which 
 was strewed all over Avith the marks of woman's 
 industry and handicraft — men's lambswool stock- 
 
216 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 ings in readiness for mending, a corner of 
 liideous patchwork protruding from an open 
 basket, and a general aspect around of rather 
 unpicturesque disorder. It was ])art of Honor's 
 daily employment to "tidy tlie tables" after one 
 of Mrs. Beacham's mending mornings was 
 brought to a close, and, but for the rattling 
 thunder overliead, she would have proceeded to 
 her task at once. The noise of the stonii, how- 
 ever, together with the solitude of the room, 
 overcame and oppressed her — the vivid flashes of 
 lightning, darting across her face, dazzled her eyes ; 
 so resting her face upon her outspread arms, she 
 endeavoured, as best she could, to shut out the 
 startling tokens of the tempest. But all in vain. 
 Honor, though not (as it is called in common 
 parlance) afraid of thunder and lightning, had 
 it in her to be morbidly sensitive to an atmosphere 
 heavily laden, as was the case at present, with 
 electric fluid. Her head, which had begun to ache 
 violently, seemed as if bound with a circlet of 
 iron, and she felt miserably depressed and ner- 
 vous — so nervous, that for almost the flrst time 
 in her life she experienced a dread of being alone. 
 It was intensely foolish and cowardl}' and absurd 
 — of that Honor would have been the first, in her 
 sober senses, to acknowledge the truth; but she 
 was hardly herself just then, the thunder boomed 
 
THE ELE:\IEXTS ^^'ERE IX FAULT. 217 
 
 witli such startling violence over the old house, 
 and the Avind, which had commenced with a 
 warning murmur, was howling amidst the trees, 
 as it seemed, in very rage and fmy. Truly it 
 was an awful storm. Each thunderclap sounded 
 louder and more vengeful than the last, till 
 gathering, as it would appear, its forces for a final 
 outburst, such a volley rattled over Honor's bent- 
 down head, that in a perfect agony of terror she 
 sprang upon her feet, and was rushing from the 
 room when her steps were arrested by the sight 
 of a human figure advancing rapidly from the 
 open doorway. 
 
 A real cordial, e^'cn in that moment of be- 
 wilderment and fear, the cheerful voice of Arthur 
 Vavasour seemed to Honor when he said lightly — 
 
 "What, all alone in the storm? No joke, is 
 it ^ By Jove, I don't know that I was ever out 
 in a worse." 
 
 She tried to recover herself ; it was mortify- 
 ing, hateful, to be thought such a silly coward ; 
 l3ut her ner\'es were overwrought (meteorological 
 influences have a peculiar effect sometimes on cer- 
 tain delicatelj^-organised constitutions) ; and when 
 another thunderclap, still fiercer than the preceding 
 one, crashed over the old-tiled roof, and the room 
 was all ablaze with dazzling light. Honor, pale 
 and trembling, and utterly bereft, for the moment, 
 
218 SINK OR swi:\i. 
 
 of self-comiiKuul, uttered a faint cry of terror, 
 and lild lier wliite face against the nearest screen 
 — that screen chancing, unluckily, to be Arthur 
 Vavasour's shoulder ! 
 
 It ^^as the Avrong place for the wrong head 
 certainly; nor did it rest there long. A slight, 
 the very faintest, pressure of the hand that had 
 in all loyalty taken hers, to reassure and strengthen 
 the failing nerves, Avas sufficient to recall the 
 trembling girl to a sense of the error into which 
 the Avild instinct born of alarm had led her. The 
 storm, too, had suddenly abated in violence, the 
 thunder Avas already dying a-^-ay in the distance ; 
 and Honor, viewing her conduct from a common- 
 sense as well as a commonplace point of view, felt 
 thoroughly ashamed of herself. 
 
 "I can't think how I could be so foolish," she 
 said, with a blush that made her look, Arthur 
 thought, more beautiful than ever. 
 
 He laughed. He was very anxious to make 
 her feel comfortable as regarded that quite unin- 
 tentional act of trifling familiarity. 
 
 "I don't know what you call foolish, JSIrs. 
 Beacham," he said. "It strikes me that a woman 
 who could stand such a row as that must be a very 
 strong-minded party indeed. I didn't above half 
 like it myself, and having a lively recollection of 
 the day when I was a small boy — when the big 
 
THE ELEMENTS ^M^RE IX FAULT. 219 
 
 oak in your liusband's meadow was struck with 
 lightning, and a man Idlled under it — I thought 
 that a wetting was better than tliat, so I cut along 
 tlirough the rain and — here I am." 
 
 He had scarcely finished when another step, 
 a masterful and heavy one, was heard in the 
 passage, and John Beacham, out of breath and 
 wet to the skin (a calamity concerning which, 
 greatly to his mother's displeasure, he was never 
 kno^Ani to trouble himself), hurried into the room. 
 
 After shaking hands heartily with Mr. YaA'a- 
 sour, the master of the house set about accounting 
 for his sudden return and the plight in which he 
 found himself. 
 
 "I was away at Leigh," he said, wiping his face 
 and head with a large coloured-silk pocket hand- 
 kerchief, j" when the storm began, and I saw at once 
 it was going to be a sneezer. Says I to myself, 
 ' The missus won't like this ;' not that I had any 
 particular reason for thinking so. There's been 
 no thunderstorm since we knew each other — eh, 
 Honor? But somehow it struck me that you 
 might be frightened, so I told the ostler, though 
 it was rainino' cats and doo-s by that time, to brinir 
 out Scrapegrace in a jiftV. Tim thought I was 
 mad, I do believe. You see," he added with an 
 arch glance at his audience, "he hadn't a little 
 wife at home to trouble his head about and make 
 
220 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 an old fool of liiin. Says lie, ^You'll be wet 
 through, sir, before }'Ou'\e been out five minutes ;' 
 and so, of course, I was. But what did it matter ? 
 I never troubled myself about a wet jacket, and 
 Scrapegrace isn't the boy to be afraid of a flash 
 of litrhtninix, so I threw mv lei^ over the saddle 
 and — here I am." 
 
 ^' Here I am !" the very words (a singularity, 
 trifling as it may appear, Avliich stinick Honor's 
 sensitive imagination at once) tliat Arthur Vava- 
 sour had used while accounting for his oppor- 
 tune presence at the farm. The two men were 
 standiufT one on either side of her, and the marked 
 contrast lietween them impressed itself for the 
 first time on Honor's mind and heart. There 
 was John, large-framed and strong of bone ; his 
 rather massive features redeemed from plainness by 
 the frank and kind expression which softened and 
 almost idealised them : his skin roughened by ex- 
 posure to the weather; and his hands, usually 
 guiltless of gloves, brown, muscular, and manly. 
 His very dress, moist and rain-stained, and his 
 shirt-collar limp and blackened with the dingy 
 drippings from the good man's " wideawake," 
 told against his personal appearance; whilst, on 
 the contrary, Arthur's tout ensemble, from the 
 crown of his dark waving hair to the tips of his 
 well-made, though not by any means dandified, 
 
THE ELEMENTS WERE IX FAULT. 221 
 
 boots, was as perfect as care and money and taste, 
 to say nothing of an excellent material, in tlie 
 sliape of his own handsome face and gracefnl 
 fignre, could make it. 
 
 Honor felt the contrast, and a pang of self- 
 reproach darted through her breast : of self-re- 
 proach and shame ; shame that her head had 
 rested, thoucrli only for a moment, ao-ainst that 
 well-made coat ; and ah, far more fatal impulse 
 than that which shame can giye — the impulse 
 that closed her lips against the ayowal of the 
 deed ! 
 
 And yet, in yery truth, there Avas nothino; to 
 tell ; and, moreoyer, it would haye giAcn the 
 matter far more importance than it deseryed, had 
 Honor made a small descriptiye narrative, for 
 her husband's benefit, of what had occurred. And 
 so, for a second time, where her relations w^itli 
 Ai'thur Yayasour were concerned, she held her 
 peace ; and the consciousness that there was this 
 secret between them, albeit that secret was one 
 of so yery trivial a description, lent the kind of 
 charm to the intercourse between Honor and 
 Arthur Yayasour Avhicli is never without its fruits. 
 Arthui' had a sincere regard for John Beacham. 
 The former w^as what is called an honourable 
 man, but he was only twenty-one, and at that age, 
 though flesh is in one sense weak, it is terribl}' 
 
222 SINK OPv SWDI. 
 
 strong too. Honor was wondorfuUj fair, and the 
 man had not courage to fleo the temptation which 
 tlie woman, bcguihng him in lier simple ignorance, 
 A\as daily so unfortunate as to set before him. 
 
 Verily it was time that interference came ; 
 time that Horace, strong in brotherly affection, 
 spoke his mind without fear of consequences to 
 Ai'thur Vavasour. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. . 
 
 BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 
 
 The intellio;ence wliicli soon after rcacliscl the 
 Paddocks, namely, that Arthur Yavasour was 
 about to leave Gillingham, took Honor by sur- 
 prise. Not that she was ignorant of the all-im- 
 portant fact that the time was drawing near when 
 the heir-apparent was to take upon himself the 
 duties and responsibilities of matrimony. There 
 was nothino; new to Switcham and its neioiibour- 
 hood 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 3'et for all that, 
 and though Honor had often heard her husband's 
 friends and neighbours talk over the cominn; event, 
 she never seemed quite to realise the fact that 
 Arthur Yavasour was going to be married. One 
 reason of this might be that the futiu-e husband of 
 Sophy Duberly was not in the habit of himself 
 alluding to the approaching change. As Honor 
 
224 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 sometimes said to lierself, lie seemed to entirely 
 forget ^vllat was hanging ovvv liis head. His 
 spirits were often fitful ; at one time bright and 
 joyous, at another depressed almost to zero. Honor, 
 remembering his eno;am'ment, woidd 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 IMiss Du- 
 berly's intended husband. There had been no- 
 thing conspicuous or curiosity-rousing in their 
 intimacy. Other gentlemen came and went, and 
 were offered lunch (that meal at the Paddocks 
 Avas famed far and wide for excellence) by hos- 
 pitable John Beacham ; and other gentlemen 
 might, if they were so disposed, join that pretty, 
 modest-lookino; little wife of his in her dailv 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 sa}'. It was a great 
 tliino; for both that one at least was but a bird of 
 passage. ^ cry soon (in a few short weeks only), 
 Mr. A^avasour was to be married ; and in the mean 
 time there were plenty — a glorious safeguard for 
 endangered reputations — of other things and peo- 
 
BOYS ^^TLL BE BOYS. 225 
 
 pie, besides tlie farmer's wife, to be talked about. 
 There was the trousseau of the bride, the number 
 and beauty of her presents, and — still more imme- 
 diately interesting to the young of all degrees in 
 that division of Sandyshire — there w^ere the anti- 
 cipated festivities at Danescourt, in honour, as 
 was almost openly declared by the popular Coun- 
 tess 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 amuse- 
 ments that wx're 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 pros- 
 perous of the Leigh tradesmen had been invited. 
 Danescourt would in former days, before railroads 
 were, have been deemed almost out of visiting dis- 
 tance from Switcham ; but steam had done its 
 usual work of ap])roximation, and now it required 
 but the short space of twenty minutes to convey 
 the tra\'ellers from the furthest point of Switcham 
 parish to the great lodge-gates of "the Court." 
 But though young Mrs. Beacham was by no 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
SINK OR S^YDI. 
 
 means insensible to the coming pleasure in a few 
 (lays to be vouchsafed to her unpresuming class, 
 still there remained, it is to be feared, more sj^ace 
 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 Vava- 
 sour. YV^hether 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 re- 
 member either by word or look that his position in 
 life was more exalted than her own. Take it alto- 
 gether, 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 onlj^ to look back 
 
BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 227 
 
 upon was a delight, those dehcious rides in even- 
 ing-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, wdien 
 just a tinge of sentiment — of sentiment guessed at 
 rather than expressed — mingled with Ai'thur'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 Yavasour. He was the familiar friend, 
 the ever- welcome guest both of " master" and of 
 ^S'ouno; missus," and "as a friend" he deemed it 
 his duty to impart to her the fact of his approach- 
 ing 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 to- 
 gether 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 bv the chain of a wife !" and he laughed 
 nervously as he said the word. 
 
 Honor, feeling rather confused, contrived to 
 
228 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 murmur something about not exactly seeing tlie 
 absurdity of the measure proposed. It might 
 be entertaining, certainly, but she did not under- 
 stand wh}' ^Ir. Vavasour laughed. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I didn't mean precisely 
 absurd, but unsatisfactory somehow — startling 
 almost at my age, }'0u 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 Avheu she was amused. 
 
 " I suppose you have been warned in time ?" 
 she said ; " it hasn't taken you entirely by sm-prise 
 that there exists a young lady whose lot it is to 
 be ^Ii's. Arthur Vavasour." 
 
 His quick eye glanced at her for a moment. 
 Was there a shade, the slightest in the world, of 
 jyique 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 sur- 
 prise, 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 
 
BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 229 
 
 love in the matter. Old Diiberly is as rich as a 
 Jew—" 
 
 Honor opened wide the eyes of astonish- 
 ment 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 ha^'e believed it, unless you had told me so 
 yourself." 
 
 " Then don't believe it now," he said, draw- 
 ing 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 Ave 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 
 
230 SINK OR s^^'IM. 
 
 that the Squire vvas 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 the}- 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 dis- 
 interestedness which he was conscious of not 
 deserving, " that there is a likelihood of a title 
 (that of Baron de Vavasom'), 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 hfe, 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 om's enonnous 
 w^ealth — 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 marry- 
 
BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 231 
 
 iiig an lielress — a reason wliicli anyone con- 
 nected with old Duberly miglit be proud of. 
 They say lie miglit be made a peer any day he 
 liked, only from his high-mindednesSj his wonder- 
 ful 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 liio^h 
 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 mar- 
 vellous proportions of Mr. Duberly's income ; and 
 indeed, his thoughts as well as Honor's had wan- 
 dered far enough away both from ambitious hopes 
 and peers expectant. 
 
 "What a bore this .going away is!" Artluu^ 
 said after a pause ; " I'm a wonderful fellow to get 
 fond of a place. Do you get fond of a place t 
 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 
 
232 SINK OR 8WDI. 
 
 not going in, Mrs. Bcacham? Do take one more 
 turn — only one. It is sucli a beautiful evening, 
 and the old lady cannot be so unreasonable as to 
 expect you will waste it in tlie house. Hark ! there 
 is tlie first note of the nightingale. AYon't you 
 stay and listen to it for the last time with me ?" 
 
 His yoice sounded yery soft and persuasive, 
 but Honor, usually so pliant to the wishes of 
 others, was inexorable. It was very pleasant tliere 
 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 par- 
 lour where ^L's. Beacham was expecting lier, and 
 which that worthy lady (who entertained ratlier 
 an objection to fresh air in rooms) had a peculiar 
 talent for rendering "stuify." Above all, it was 
 hard to sav "o;ood-bve" 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 " wor- 
 rying ways." 
 
 "I think I mnst go in now," she said quietly, 
 though her heart was beating ftist. " 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. 
 
BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 233 
 
 He stopped, however, before tliey were within 
 view of the windows, and exclaimed with angry 
 vehemence, 
 
 "I shall say good-bye here, I hate pnblic 
 leave-takings. You will give me your hand, at 
 least?" 
 
 Poor Honor! Her very anxiety to do rio-ht — 
 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 Avithout the blushing agi- 
 tation that betra}-ed her inward feelings, Arthur 
 Avould never have taken courage to address her in 
 those petulant and peremptory words. She w^as 
 frightened, half angr}^, and half fascinated by his 
 -vehemence; but she never thought of withholdino^ 
 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 up- 
 turned 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 
 
234 SINK OR S^VIM. 
 
 Avanted to utter something to tlie purpose ; and 
 tlien Mr. Vavasour — it was so rude and tiresome — 
 -would keep looking at her so ! If he would only 
 go I Honor felt quite sure that would be a relief. 
 She had never in life before felt so thoroughly 
 imcomfoi-table. 
 
 He spoke at last — what an age those few 
 shoi*t moments had appeared ! — and, still with her 
 hand in his, said in a low voice, and feelingly, 
 despite the hadmage 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 com- 
 pliment?" 
 
 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 "parloui'" 
 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, 
 
BOYS ^YILL BE BOYS. 235 
 
 Mr. Yavasour, I 77iust go in now." Bnt suddenly 
 recollectinoj tlie claims of lier motlier-in-la\v to 
 respectful observance, "Won't you come and 
 see Mrs. Beacliam before you go? Slie is old, 
 you know, and old people don't like to be over- 
 looked." 
 
 Artlim' hesitated a moment, and tlien declined 
 the well-intended oiGPer. Pie was in no mood for 
 tolerating ^Ii's. Beacliam's old-world platitudes, and 
 twaddling lamentations on his departure. His 
 approaching marriage would also, as he was well 
 aw^are, be brought on the tapis, and of that sub- 
 ject he had for the nonce had more than enough. 
 Artlim' 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 mth his owm comfort or convenience, 
 he would be w^onderfully 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 emploj'ed, lie forgot, or altogether ig- 
 nored, 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 intervie^^' with Honor, he was in no 
 
23(5 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 mood — poor fellow — for the commonphice and the 
 tiresome. lie was very sorry, he siiid to Honor, 
 lie 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 com- 
 panionship of her own not very lively thoughts. 
 
 The message left by Mr. Vavasour was duly, 
 and indeed with some slight amplification, con- 
 veyed by Honor to its destination. Her natural 
 tact had led her to add some of the conventional 
 phrases — a few of the hanal expressions of regret 
 which come so " handy" to the use of the kind- 
 hearted and the coui'teous; 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 cere- 
 monv of leave-taking, of her young landlord, and 
 nothing that Honor could either say or do pos- 
 sessed, for that day at least, the power of smooth- 
 ing her ruffled plmnage. Had Arthur Vavasour 
 been gifted with the power of taking serious 
 thought of the future, he would have reflected 
 longer l)efore he made an enemy of that preten- 
 tiously hospitable old >voman. He little dreamt 
 
BOYS WILL BE BOYS. 237 
 
 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 tri- 
 A'ial acts, oui' 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 
 "sWtli a very strono; sense of ill-usao:e. She had 
 
 J CI O ~ 
 
 returned from her walk out of spirits and suljdued, 
 but nevertheless she had done her best to be cheer- 
 ful, 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 un- 
 interrupted 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 A^^avasour 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 jirst thought that leads 
 towards the broad road of sin ! It may seem a 
 
238 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 ver}^ trifliiipj and unimportant tiling that — con- 
 trasting in your mind the flattering devotion of 
 a pohshed 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 un- 
 flattering insouciance, to consider yom'self ag- 
 grieved ; 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 hien as 
 when the would-be lover is brought into juxta- 
 position with the husband, who, secure of his once- 
 coveted possession, either neglects or seems incapa- 
 ble of valuing the better part of the treasure he has 
 won. Honor, in the dearth of mental companion- 
 ship, turned as instinctively as the floAver 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 circum- 
 stances " which may, let us humbly hope, recom- 
 mend her to mercy in the day of doom. 
 
CHAPTER XVni. 
 
 NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM. 
 
 Apter the departure from the neighbourhood of 
 Arthur Vavasour, there seemed at first to be a 
 great gap in Honor's hfe. He had tokl her that 
 he was going to remain a fortnight or more in 
 London previous to his marriage, which was to 
 take place there in great form and state on the kxst 
 day of August. Arthur had no intention, as he 
 assured Mrs. Beacham, of being present at the 
 Danescourt festivities. His mother — that was his 
 avowed reason — did not view those festivities, in 
 so far as tliey regarded liiin, with a favourable 
 <?ye; and it was '•' better taste" (so Arthur assured 
 his intimate acquaintances, his brother and his 
 sisters included) to keep away, during Lady 
 Guernsey's Avell- intended hospitalities, from his 
 home at Gillingham. His real motive for ab- 
 senting himself was, however, a widely different 
 one. He was well aware that not only would his 
 intended bride be present, to expect, and with good 
 
240 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 right and reason, tliat he should devote himself to 
 her service, but also that the woman whom it was 
 his fate to love (men are very apt to account for 
 the indulgence of their evil propensities in some 
 such irrational manner) with a passion hitherto by 
 him undreamt of would be a guest though a hum- 
 ble one, within the walls of Danescourt Park ; and 
 those glorious eyes of hers — Honor's eyes were 
 haunting ones, and followed or rather led Arthur 
 to what he was pleased to call his '* doom," when 
 he was far away — would look their wonder if he 
 kept aloof; an evidence of self-controlling powers, 
 by tlie way, which Mr. Vavasour, to do him jus- 
 tice, greatly doubted his own ability on that occa- 
 sion to display. 
 
 The fetes — it was now past the middle of July 
 — were to commence in three days' time, and the 
 certainty that her friend would take no part in 
 them had thrown a little damp on Honor's highly- 
 wrought expectations. The pretty new diess, an- 
 other of John's expensive cadeaux, was not to her 
 the " thiuii: of beaut v" that it had been when she 
 had wondered to herself, in all innocence (Honor's 
 thoughts and mind were pure as yet as unsunned 
 snow), whether Mr. Vavasour would think her well- 
 dressed — dressed " like a lady," in short, which was 
 Honor's ne plus ultra of ambition. It would be a 
 pretty sight — she could look forward to that ; and 
 
NATURE .VBHORS A VACUUM. 241 
 
 it was very good of John to give up a whole after- 
 noon — two even, he said, if it would please her 
 and his mother (ah, Honor, how^ silly it was to 
 half resent this sharing of your husband's atten- 
 tions !) — to see the "tomfooleries" at Danescourt. 
 But although Mrs. John Beacham would of course 
 make her appearance on the croquet and the arch- 
 ery ground, yet the zest, the charm of the day's 
 amusement, seemed, in some to her incomprehen- 
 sible way, to have momentarily departed, if not to 
 be utterly extinct. But it was when on horseback, 
 and during the long rides, longer than ever now, 
 which she took durincv those sweet summer after- 
 noons, that Honor the most missed and regretted 
 her com})anion. She had no " young friends," no 
 intimate associates of her own rank and degree, 
 with whom to exchange the nothings or the somc- 
 tJiuKjs, as the case may be, wdiich are of interest to 
 juvenile matrons, whose housekeeping is in its in- 
 fancy, and whose husbands are rich enough to 
 make the menage trouble a source of pleasure and 
 of pride. Honor stood, for her misfortune, very 
 much alone at the Paddocks. There was some- 
 thino;, as I once before explained, anomalous in 
 her husband's position — a something which, even 
 had his wife not been what the neighbours called 
 a little inclined to be " set up," would have pre- 
 vented her beino; " hand - and - o-loye" with such 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 personages as tlie widows Thwa}-tes and TamfiWy 
 or even with j\Ii.ss Parsons, wlio sold caps and 
 bonnets at a " liii!;li fiorure" at Leiffli, and dig- 
 iiified her shop-girls with the title of young ladies. 
 It was unfortunate, I repeat, that young Mrs. 
 Beacham, for the reasons aforesaid, found herself 
 eompanionless in the home which John had hoped 
 to make so pleasant for her; and it was doubly 
 unfortunate in that, by eschewing as intimates 
 those with whom her husband's mother did not 
 consider herself too good (forsooth !) to consort, 
 Honor contrived without much difficulty to pro- 
 vide herself with more than one very efficacious 
 enemy. 
 
 It chanced that in the afternoon succeeding 
 Mr. Vavasour's farewell visit, the widow Thwaytes, 
 who had for many years occupied the post of 
 humble fiiend to the greater lady at the Paddocks,, 
 had come panting along the lanes (for the day 
 was warm, and the fair pedestrian inclined to 
 " stoutness") to take a neighbourly cup of tea 
 with her more aristocratic crony. As the reader 
 may possibly remember, albeit he has to glance 
 mentally as far back as the first chapter of this 
 story, the ^vidow Thwaytes, being withal a good- 
 natured woman enough, was by no means ill- 
 disposed towards the sweet-spoken beauty of whom 
 the Clays, and, indeed, all who knew her, 'Hhought 
 
NATURE ABHORS A VACUU:\I. 243 
 
 SO much." Very wlllino-lv and often feelinf]!: that 
 the jealous-temperecl old lady was decidedly in the 
 wrong, would ]\Irs. Thwaytes have spoken her 
 mind to her old chum and neighbour on the sub- 
 ject of Honor's merits. It angered her at the 
 first to hear iVirs. Beacham's querulous and un- 
 called-for innuendoes ao;ainst her dauo;hter-in-law ; 
 but the time soon came — after it grew to be un- 
 mistakably evident that "Mrs. John meant to 
 keep herself to herself" — when the widow went 
 over, heart and soul, to the enemy. Her ready 
 sympathy, which procured her many an excellent 
 " dish " of her favourite beverage, was well appre- 
 ciated by the mistress of Updovvn Paddocks; 
 '' mistress," as her guest persisted in calling her, 
 in spite of Mrs. Beacham's plaintive assurance 
 that she had nothing now to do with the manage- 
 ment of John's household, and that if tinners went 
 Avrong she was not answerable for them. Ileo' day 
 was over ; but the time Avould come, perhaps,, 
 when some people — she named no names — would 
 find that new brooms, though they swept ever so 
 clean, were not so good as old ones, and that 
 pretty faces couldn't make up for fanciful ways 
 and idle habits. ^Irs. Thwaytes would listen by 
 the hour encouragingly to these outpourings of a 
 wounded spirit, and though very far, as I before 
 hinted, from an ill-natm'ed woman, she would 
 
244 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 occasionally throw in a drop of balm in the shape 
 of an admittance that ^[rs. John Avas but yomig, 
 that she would improve in time, and last (not 
 least in novelty and conclusiveness), that it was a 
 moral as well as a physical impossibility to place 
 an old head on the slioulders of the young. 
 
 It was with some such conversation as this 
 that the two old gossips (John was never in the 
 house at tliat hour, and Honor was getting ready 
 for her ride) were beguiling the time on that 
 warm July afternoon. The window of . the 
 ^' parlour' was wide open (it was not the best 
 apartment ; that was kept sacred to visitors of a 
 more aristocratic stamp than the w^idow Thwaytes), 
 and from it there was a view of the ancient 
 paved court, or stable-yard, where the ^lorello 
 cherry trees grew against the north wall, where 
 Honor fed her pigeons in the morning, and where 
 stood tlie lichen-covered old horse-block which 
 Honor, in default of Arthur Vavasour's assist- 
 ance, was fain to climb, in order (it was rather 
 an ignoble proceeding) to mount as best she 
 could that graceful, high-born animal, the Lady 
 Meg. 
 
 " A little nearer, please, Jem, I can't quite 
 reach the stirruj);" and Honor, standing on the 
 top of the block, which had, in the days of 
 John's father and grandfather, done good service 
 
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM. 245 
 
 in its line, with lier long habit just raised enough 
 to show her dainty foot, and with her fair girlish 
 face slightly flushed, both with amusement and 
 vexation, tried by coaxings and caresses to draw 
 the mare within her reach. 
 
 " She's frightened, that's what it is, Jem," 
 she said. " So! Meg!" and again she stroked the 
 mare's arched neck with the tips of her gaunt- 
 leted fino'ers. Near enou«;h, however, to be 
 mounted Lady Meg would by no means consent 
 to be led, and Jem scratched his head at last 
 in perplexity. 
 
 "It's a pity the young Squire beant here," he 
 said ; whereupon Honor flushed crimson, and Mrs. 
 Thwaytes, who overheard the words, laughed sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 " Lead her on once more, and then try 
 again," Honor said, feeling desperate with those 
 two pairs of aged eyes fixed curiously upon her. 
 Jem did as he was ordered, and the experiment 
 proving successful. Honor mounted her steed, and 
 with an unconcern that was less real than 
 affected, rode slowly away. 
 
 " Humph ! I'm glad that Mihidy has had to 
 help herself at last," iSIi's. Beacham remarked, 
 " No fine gentleman from the Castle to put his 
 hand, with tlie beautifullest of gloves on, under 
 her foot to-day! AVhat was good enough for 
 
"246 sixiv OR s^^^M. 
 
 John's grandfather she'll have to find good 
 enough for her. V\c no patience, / haven't, with 
 such stuck-up ways." 
 
 Mrs. Thwaytes hstencd and sighed. The 
 subject on wliich her ally had touched was not 
 one that could be pursued without due thought 
 and deliberation. As yet, though well aware 
 that a mean maternal jealousy had begot some- 
 thing very like hatred to Honor in Mrs. 
 Beacham's breast, the widow did not feel by 
 any means thoroughly assured that she could 
 safely touch upon the impropriety of Mr. Vava- 
 sour's intimacy with John's young wife. The 
 old lady had not, in that quiet busy home of 
 hers, marched even ever so laggingly with the 
 times. In a groove, her mind was that of the 
 right woman in the right place. She had never, 
 in the course of a long life, striven to throw off 
 a prejudice, or struggled to free herself from the 
 trammels of a preconceived and stolidly retained 
 idea. To the simple (may I be pardoned for 
 calling it the piure ?) mind of the farmer's widow 
 crime was crime, and had never been softened 
 by a petit nom. On the second of those two 
 tables of stone, at which, for nearly forty years, 
 she had looked reverently from her pew, there 
 were certain Commandments which she (in com- 
 mon with many of the young, who say their 
 
XATURE .VBHORS A VACUUM. 247 
 
 Catechism, and are taught to fear God) beheved, 
 as rec^arded herself and her beloiifiincrs, to be futile 
 and useless ordinances. '' Thou shalt not steal ;" 
 "Thou shalt do no murder;" "Thou shalt not 
 commit adultery." It was rio-ht, of com'se, that 
 the injunctions should be there; but what had 
 she or hers, or, indeed, any respectable members 
 of the community, to do wath wickedness so 
 horrible ? Mrs. Beacham was neither a news- 
 paper reader, a novel lover, nor a dissecter of 
 human character and motives. Of the degrees 
 of crime, of relative amount of guilt (temptation 
 and temperament being taken into account), she 
 was as ignorant as poor Joe Griggs, the village 
 idiot; and this being so, her companion having 
 withal sufficient shrewdness to comprehend the 
 same, that worthy gossipmonger hesitated slightly, 
 and took time to choose her w^ords, before she 
 startled Mrs. Beacham with the news of what 
 the Swdtcham folks might, could, or did say about 
 John's pretty wife. She had laughed signifi- 
 cantly — for a woman wdio could not be called ill- 
 natured, it was not a pleasant laugh — as Honor 
 rode away. That young lady had been more 
 than usually " 'aughty, the saucy thing!" Mrs. 
 Thwaytes had told herself that afternoon, and 
 she did not feel at all inclined to spare her any 
 of the consequences of her misdeeds. 
 
248 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 " She's a pretty creature, is Mrs. John," she 
 said, witli a commiserating sigh, as the two con- 
 genial spirits resumed their places (they had been, 
 as I said, watcliing Honor "mount" from tlie win- 
 dow) at tlie tea-table ; " a sweet pretty creature, and 
 so I always said. It's a pity she's so thoughtless, 
 though it's the way, as one may say, with young 
 folks. We should remember that we was young 
 once ourselves, and not be hard upon them as is 
 like the little bears with all their troubles afore 
 them." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by troubles," 
 said Mrs. Beacham, stirring her tea with a great 
 accession of energy. "John's wife isn't likely 
 to have much of tliem, I fancy. The work'us 
 isn't built, no, nor yet the alms'us, that's to hold 
 her, I'm thinking. We can pay our wa)', and 
 can put a pound or two on one side at the end 
 of the twelvemonth ; and for that," she added 
 solemnly, " I'm thankful to the Lord this day." 
 
 The widow, feeling slightly rebuffed by her 
 friend's serious tone of remonstrance, was silenced 
 for a while ; the occasion was, however, too tempt- 
 ing to be lost, so she continued with greater caution 
 the difficult task of opening her companion's eyes 
 to the truth. 
 
 "Well, well, mem," she said soothingly, "to 
 think that \'ou should fancy I had need to be told 
 
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM. 249 
 
 that! There's more troubles, though, as we all 
 well kuows, tliau those whieh comes from poverty, 
 and it was of them I thought it mv dooty to speak. 
 I beg pardon if Tve offended," dusting the crumbs 
 from lier company silk dress as she spoke. " It's 
 a painful thing is dooty, and what's got through 
 at all times with a heffort, which, as the Bible 
 says, is its own reward." 
 
 ^'I know what the Bible says as well as you 
 do," retorted Mrs. Beacham loftily, " which I read 
 it times and often when other folks that shall be 
 nameless is in their beds ; and if you come to dooty, 
 Jane Thwaytes, let me tell you that — " 
 
 " Lor' bless me I" put in the general dealer in 
 a fright, ^'you're taking me altogether wrong, 
 mem ; it was t-totally of someone else I was a- 
 speaking, and, indeed, a-thinking of. There's many 
 a night, if you 11 believe me, that I've laid awake 
 a-wishing, and a-wondering how I was to go 
 tlirough with this unpleasantness. People will 
 talk, we know, and injynes won't stop 'em ; but if 
 you was just, maybe, to say a word or two to Mrs. 
 John — " She paused, for something in the hard 
 but still mobile face of her companion rcAcaled 
 that the insidious droppings had taken effect upon 
 the stone, and that the worst part of her evil work, 
 namely, the beginning, had l)een accomplished. 
 Mrs. Beacham, however, was not the kind of 
 
250 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 woman to allow (if she know it) of any, even the 
 most homoeopathic triumph, over her either by 
 friend or foe. To ^vhatsoever extent she miMit 
 dislike her danghter-in-law, and though it is to be 
 feared that she would ha\'e welcomed any occasion 
 of either humlding or annoying her son's petted 
 wife, the proud old woman would have shrunk 
 sensitively from any open scandal, and would have 
 stoutly denied any assertion calculated to bring 
 discredit on the honour of her son. The idea of 
 Honor being spoken of in the manner hinted by 
 the widow Thwaytes, was positively hateful to her, 
 and she parried the affront in her haughtiest and 
 grandest manner. 
 
 "I don't understand your meaning, Jane 
 Thwaytes," she said, " and I don't want to. 
 Talk, indeed ! I'd soon talk them if they gave me 
 any of the nonsense going on in the village about 
 this house. Talk, indeed ! The idea of people 
 tcilking I ''"' and the irate old woman sniffed and 
 snorted vigorously at the bare idea of a climax so 
 preposterous. 
 
 Mrs. Thwaytes was terribly distressed. She 
 would not, as she solemnly declared, have had 
 ^Irs. Beacham '^ put out" for the world. It had 
 given her trouble enough, goodness knew, to stop 
 people's evil tongues. It wasn't Mrs. John's fault 
 — that she always had said — that gentlemen loould 
 
XATURE ABHORS A VACUUM. 251 
 
 look after Iier. Mr. Vavasour liad made a little 
 free, perhaps, but it didn't folloAV tliat Mrs. Joliu 
 had anything to say to him ; anj^A'ay, he was to be 
 married in a fortnight, people said and, as far as 
 S^Yitcllam was concerned, it was, as everyone must 
 allow, " a good job too." 
 
 A good job, in sooth ; but the boon would have 
 been a still more precious one to all concerned if 
 the officious mdow had been gagged before she 
 could administer that '' harmless h.int,'^^ and present 
 that innocuous nut to her gi'and friend to crack. 
 ^Ii's. Beacham was not one who received ideas 
 mth exactly wax-like ease, but once a novel 
 thought took root within her, it would ha^'e been 
 4\s hard to efface it from its granite bed as to 
 destroy letters graven " w^ith ^a pen of iron on the 
 surface of a rock." 
 
 " Well, Honey," said John Beacham, when he 
 met his ^vife an hour or two afterwards at the 
 doorway of the parlour ; he a trifle tired with his 
 hard day's work, and quite ready for the meal he 
 called his supper, while Honor, her long habit 
 gathered up over her arm, was looking all the 
 fresher and prettier for tlie exercise she loved, 
 "well. Honey, and hovf did Lady Meg carry 
 you to-day? Rode her pretty fast, eh? Took 
 Iier a breather, I suspect, on the downs. I 
 
252 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 must be lookiuo; out for oue Avitli more bone for 
 you soon. Women are the deuce and all to ride a 
 horse hard," lie added, with a laugh, as he helped 
 himself to a foamin(r <>;lass of home-brewed ale. 
 
 Mrs. Beacham, who had struck Honor as look- 
 ing more tlian usually crabbed, here put in her 
 word. 
 
 "If Honor doesn't know how to ride, I think 
 she had better give it up," slie said. "I wonder, 
 Jolni, you should like to have your horses ruined 
 "svith her workinij them to death." 
 
 John was immensely amused at his mother's 
 remark. It was sucli an excellent joke, her taking 
 him in earnest. The idea of his kind-hearted, 
 gentle Honor — his wife, who petted and spoilt 
 every living tiling that came in her way — being 
 seriously belie\ed capable of riding a great strong 
 horse to death, was to him irresistibly comic. 
 
 " Well, that is a good un !" he said, as soon as 
 he had recovered from the excess of merriment in 
 Avliich Honor's natural sense of the ludicrous, and 
 the contagion of John's irresistible laugh, had 
 induced her to join. " That is a good un, by 
 Jove ! Wli}', mother, you must think that Honor 
 is a ^ great jockey,' as the Paddies say ; but I can 
 tell you that she's far and away too good a rider 
 to dama<^e a horse. I never knew man or woman 
 to have a better nor a lighter hand on a horse's 
 
NATURE ABHORS A VACUUM. 253 
 
 mouth. You should hear Mr. Vavasour talk of 
 your seat, Honor! And he's a pretty good judge 
 of such things. Arthur Vavasour is his father all 
 over about horses, and Avhat belongs to 'em. I'm 
 sorrv he's gone ; and more sorry, too, that he's 
 changed his mind about Rough Diamond. He's 
 a sure card is that animal, and I would a deal 
 rather that Arthur had him than that Colonel 
 Fred Xorcott, that he says he's sold him to." 
 
 Mrs. Beacham had fixed her eye steadily on 
 Honor's countenance from the moment that Arthur 
 Vavasour's name Avas mentioned ; and when her 
 son had finished speaking, she said in a cold, 
 inquiring manner that could scarcely fail to con- 
 vey the impression that more was meant than met 
 the ear : 
 
 " Well, if you haven't tired out the horse, 
 you've made your own face red enough, in all con- 
 science. I say, John, did you ever see such a 
 colour as Honor's got all of a sudden ?" 
 
 John Beacham looked at his wife admiringly, 
 and the flush, as he did so, deepened on her face. 
 
 "I don't see much difference," he said with 
 a laugh. "Honor's always like the pretty rose 
 that has grown ever since I can remember next 
 the h'lcr lavender-bush in the kitclien-£][arden — 
 they call it the ^maiden blush,' I think ; not but 
 what you're something redder now, Pet ? It's the 
 
254 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 bein<T looked tit, I suppose. Why, who knows? 
 I miglit begin blushing myself, if anybody took 
 the trouble to notice my looks. But they don't ; 
 the more's the pity — ain't it, Honey?" and get- 
 ting up from the table, for his evening meal was 
 over by this time, he laughingly patted his wife's 
 glowing cheek, and then kissed it fondly — so 
 fondly, that Mrs. Beacham, looking on with jaun- 
 diced eyes, and with the evil demon of maternal 
 jealousy let loose within her, could hardly succeed 
 in keeping that precious thing, her temper. 
 
 '• I wonder what's come over the old lady," 
 John said, when he found himself that evening 
 alone with his wife, and could indulge in a few 
 minutes' confidential discom'se before sleep — the 
 deep, healthy sleep of the weary — overtook him. 
 "She isn't half the woman she was. She's grown 
 peevish, to my thinking, and nagging — a thing 
 she never was given to before. Perhaps it's her 
 health," he added meditativelv. " She's a strone: 
 woman for her time of life; but she's getting on,, 
 and I fancy she's altered — don't you think so^ 
 Pet? Grown ^^Tinkled-like, and haggard, eh?" 
 
 Honor could not perceive any outward change^ 
 she said; and in the matter of temper, the subject 
 being a delicate one to discuss with her hus- 
 band, she deemed it wisest to hold her peace. To- 
 iler great relief, unsuspecting John was too sleepy 
 
NATURE ABHORS A YACUU:\I. 255 
 
 to pursue the subject, and in a few minutes' lil.s 
 deep regular breatliing was the only sound that 
 broke the stillness of that large old-fashioned bed- 
 chamber. 
 
 Honor was what is called a light sleeper, and 
 the early birds had begun to twitter in the branches 
 before her eyes were closed in slumber. She was 
 but eighteen however, and therefore sleep, when 
 it did steal over her senses, was dreamless and 
 refreshing. Under twenty-five, all our material 
 acts, when they are done at all, are done so- 
 thoroughly ! 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ARTHUR RECEIVES ABSOLUTIOX. 
 
 Arthur Vavasour had, as tlie reader has ah-eady 
 learned, found little difficulty in persuading the 
 kind-hearted, unsuspicious man ^vhose colossal for- 
 tune had been made in the manufacturing dis- 
 tricts, and Avho entertained exalted ideas (very 
 convenient ones on this occasion) of the honour of 
 a hioh-born English gentleman, that he, Arthur 
 Vavasour, was entirely free from spot or blemish, 
 or an\' such thin^]: as refrarded his future son-in- 
 law's intimate acquaintance with John Beacham 
 and his two yearlings. 
 
 Old Dub, as he was familiarly called, inhabited, 
 during his annual sojourn in the country, a mag- 
 nificent "mansion" on the western borders of 
 Sandyshire. It was an abode that had once be- 
 longed to a Duke, and princely hospitality had 
 been, during the residence of the aforesaid noble- 
 man, for a lengthened period dispensed within the 
 noble walls of Fairleigh Manor. His Grace, how- 
 
ARTHUR RECEIVES ABSOLUTION. 257 
 
 ever, coming — according to nineteentli- century 
 slang — " to grief," the place was degraded to the 
 hammer, being purchased bv the solvent ^Ir. 
 Duberly for a sum that Avould have liquidated any 
 debts save those of a Duke or a crowned head, but 
 Avhich was barely sufficient to satisfv the more 
 clamorous creditors of the quondam owner of 
 Fairleigh. 
 
 The immediate change for good effected in 
 the neighbourhood through the abiding therein of 
 a wealthy proprietor, who paid his bills and "lived 
 cleanly as a gentleman should," was very speedily 
 evident. It might be supposed, too, that the 
 satisfaction at that change would have been great 
 and general. This, however, was far from being 
 the case. There is a certain mao^ic m the xerv 
 name of Duke, and the " neighbourhood," clinging, 
 in a kind of stupid, unreasoning w^ay to old asso- 
 ciations, old habits, and traditions, took exception 
 at old Dub; and for a long while either treated 
 him as a usurper, or consented, as it were 
 under protest, to admit him among their inti- 
 mates. This was the more extraordinary, inas- 
 much as the new-comer showed very little incli- 
 nation to hide his talents, id est his pieces of gold, 
 in a napkin. On the contrary, he not only kept 
 open house, and was ten times as genial as the 
 " Dook," but he owned (as we have shown) a very 
 
 YOL. I. S 
 
258 SINK OR s^vDI. 
 
 nice-looking daugliter, who was witluil (for ]Mr. Du- 
 berly was a Avidower) the heiress to his weaUh ; 
 whereas the "Duchess" girls were plain young 
 women with high noses, whose only fortune was 
 the pedigree on whicli their parent had brought 
 as much discredit as it is possible for a duke to 
 entail upon his belongings. 
 
 But notwithstanding all his manifest advan- 
 tages, "old Dub," the merchant-prince, who paid 
 his way, employed the people, and was a blessing 
 to his neighbourhood, found it up-hill work to 
 conciliate the goodwill of individuals wdiose social 
 tastes had been refined — ripened, indeed, so to 
 speak — under the sunshine of ducal notice, and 
 who had enjoyed the privilege of ducal proximity. 
 By slow degrees, however, the thorough excellence 
 of the man told against the spurious advantages of 
 position ; the memory of the princely banquets 
 few and far between as compared to those offered 
 to their acceptance by the new owner of Fairleigli, 
 faded away from the minds of the iuAited. "Dub's" 
 wines were excellent, and his daughter's face (to 
 say nothing of her being an lieh*ess) was fair to 
 see ; so in process of time, the descendant of the 
 Manchester warehouseman took his place — no lon- 
 ger under protest — amongst the magnates of the 
 land ; and the dark-eyed, lively Sophy was sought 
 for in marriage by the great ones of the earth. 
 
ARTITJR RECEIVES ABSOLUTIOX. 259 
 
 " Say no more about it, my dear boy ; say — 
 no — more," the kind-hearted old man had said to 
 Arthur when the latter, for the first time after 
 Horace Yavasoiu-'s vicarious explanation, found 
 himself in the library at Fairleigh ; " say — no — 
 more ;" and, as he spoke, pausing between each 
 word as if to emphasise their meaning, he pressed 
 his wi'inkled hand on the young man's shoulder. 
 "I'm almost sorry I wrote to ^lilady at all. I 
 suppose," rather wickedly, "that it made the 
 deuce and all of a kick-up, eh ? As for Sophy, I 
 can tell you, I've had a pretty time with her ! I 
 wish you joy of that young lady, Arthur 1" and he 
 laughed heartily, the good old man, at the excel- 
 lence and originality of his joke. "And so you're 
 off to the Pembertons? old family friends, you 
 say — All right ; just as w^ell to keep those sort of 
 people up, I daresay, though I can't say I have 
 manv of the kind to trouble me. No youncy ladies 
 there though, eh, to worry Sophy? You young 
 London fellows are not always to be trusted," and 
 again he laughed — a genial hearty laugh that 
 did one ^ood to hear. 
 
 "No, indeed," Arthur said, joining, though 
 rather feebly, in the merriment. " All that sort 
 of thing is over for me now. I shouldn't care to 
 go to Sir Richard's, only it is an old engagement ; 
 and if I don't go now — " 
 
2 GO SIXK OR SWDI. 
 
 " You won't he allowed to later, you rogue ! 
 Is that what you mean — a previous enijagement 
 to ^liss Sophy, eh? AVell, well, my dear boy, 
 do as you like about it all — or rather, I should say, 
 what Sophy likes. And now be off ^\ith you. 
 You've given more time already than she'll think 
 right to the old fellow, and you'll find her in the 
 conservatory, I fancy, or, if not, in her own flower- 
 garden. By George I" continued the old man, 
 nibbincT his forehead with a recollection half 
 comic and half sorrowful of a certain intei-view 
 ■\^^th his daus^hter, whose tears he was never 
 known to be proof against, and who had shown 
 herself a true woman on the occasion of her lover's 
 temporary eclipse, — " by George I Avhat a way she 
 was in, to be sure ! I could hardly fancy it was 
 my little Sophy, the slip of a girl that I was 
 dancinix on mv knee no lonixer n^o than vester- 
 dav, as it seems I And now she's a woman, and 
 able to take her own part ; ay, and yow^ part too, 
 my lad. God bless her ! I could have told her 
 then, only I didn't like to, she v>-as so rampageous, 
 and it doesn't do to spoil the creatures, that I was 
 more than half sorry I'd called you over the coals. 
 But on the whole, Arthur, it's just as well as it is ; 
 ixnd between ourselves, my boy, although I don't 
 know that my brother the parson, who is going to 
 splice you and Sophy, wouldn't call mc an old 
 
ARTHUR RECEDES ABSOLUTIOX. 261 
 
 fool for saying it, I'm not sui'e that I don't like 
 you the better for what's past and gone. You 
 might, you know — and I'm told that many a 
 young man w^ould haye done such a thing — you 
 might haye kept it to yom'self that you'd given 
 that long sum for one of John Beacham's year- 
 lings ; for it was a long sum, eight hundred 
 ])ounds, I think your brother said it w^as; and 
 terribly like gambling, you must own, it looked ! 
 Howeyer, that is all oyer now, and you are well 
 out of it. I am sure you think so too, eh ?" 
 
 Artluu" hesitated a little ere he answered this 
 leading question. For some reason, which it is 
 not necessary at this stage of the story to explain, 
 he was not particularly partial to talking of that 
 famous colt, known in the betting-ring, and in 
 sporting circles generally, as Rough Diamond. 
 It is just possible that he was not quite so glad to 
 be what ]Mr. Duberly called " out of it" as that 
 gentleman seemed to think ; still, he contriyed to 
 answer cheerfully enough that " it was all right," 
 and that he hoped that Norcott would haye good 
 luck with the brute now he had got him. 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed the cheerful old man. 
 " So iioughrider, or whatever his name is, has 
 come to be called a brute, eh ? The way of the 
 world, sir ; the way of the world ! Whatsoever is 
 oiu' own is perfection ; but directly it becomes 
 
2G2 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 our friend's — poof!" — and he snapped his fingers 
 
 significantly — "it isn't worth a brass farthing! 
 
 Seen the sort of thing, by George! a hundred 
 
 times. But I say, Arthur," lowering his' voice to 
 
 a whisper, " about this Colonel Norcott ; what 
 
 and who is he ? I've a sort of idea that I know 
 
 somethino; about him. Didn't he (^o to the colo- 
 re o 
 
 nies, or the dogs, or some confounded place ? I'm 
 a bad hand at remembering that kind of thing ; 
 couldn't even when I was a young man ; and now 
 I might as well try and recollect who built the 
 Monument." 
 
 Again, as at the mention of Colonel Norcott 
 in connection with that unlucky steed Rough 
 Diamond, Arthur looked ill at ease. He answered 
 readily enough, however, to the effect that he 
 believed Colonel Norcott had formerly been in 
 the Irish Greys, but that it was long before Ms 
 time, and that he (Arthur) knew very little in 
 any way about the purchaser of John Beacham's- 
 colt. 
 
 "In the Irish Greys, was he?" Mr. Duberly 
 said thoughtfully. " All, that reminds me ! How 
 little it takes sometimes to do that kind of thing ! 
 Colonel Norcott was the man — correct me if I'm 
 wronsc — who had something to do with an adver- 
 tisement. Answered one from a respectable young 
 woman, eh ? and — ah yes I It all comes home to 
 
ARTHUR RECEWES ABSOLUTION. 263 
 
 me no-w. A bad business — a shocking bad business 
 indeed ! " 
 
 Arthur reflected a little, and then said that he 
 was afraid, from some things he had heard, that 
 Colonel Norcott was the identical man existing 
 for life under the kind of cloud alluded to by Mr. 
 Duberly. "I don't think that I ever heard the 
 particulars," he said. " I fancy his wife left him, 
 or was an objectionable person, or something ex- 
 tenuating of that kind. She is dead now, fortu- 
 nately for him, and he has married again, 1 fancy 
 — some colonial person, whom they say is rather 
 nice." 
 
 "The triumph of hope over experience, eh?" 
 remarked Mr. Duberly, who was rather fond of 
 extracting from the limited stores of his memor}^ 
 sundry quotations, ancient as they were classic. 
 " But what has the man been doing down here ? 
 Is he in society, or is he not ? He is a fine-looking 
 fellow enough for a middle-aged man. I saw him 
 one day driving what you call a ^ trap ' in the 
 High-street at Leigh, and asked who he was. 
 What is his connection, I wonder — for I suppose 
 he has one — with Sandyshire ?" 
 
 " O, as to that, there is reason enough for his 
 hanging about here," said Arthur, glad, as it 
 seemed, to offer a legitimate guarantee for Colonel 
 Korcott's quasi-respectability. ^'The Norcotts 
 
264 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 are, or I slionld rather say u-ere^ a county family. 
 Fre(l Xorcott's father was a rich man, and his 
 mother, -who is nearly related to the Pembertons, 
 has a comfortable jointure, luckily for lier, as her 
 son (there was only him) managed to get rid of 
 ever\tliing else "sery early in his career, I fancy." 
 ^' And li\es now upon his wits, I suppose ? " 
 '^ Partly ; and then I imagine his mother helps 
 him a little ; not much, though, for she is married 
 again to a !Mr. Baker, who is not particularly 
 attached to C(jlonel Fred. The Bakers — he is a 
 retired solicitor, or something of that kind — live 
 in a pretty little place about three miles the other 
 side of Leigh ; and the fact of its lying convenient 
 to the Gawthorpe racecourse is quite sufficient to 
 account for Fred Xorcott turning up occasionally 
 in these parts. And now, sir, having told you all 
 I know and suspect about the family, I think I may 
 as well go and say good-bye to Sophy." 
 
 Leaving the placidly happy old man comfortably 
 ensconced, newspaper in hand, in his favourite 
 arm-chair by the wide open French window of the 
 library, Arthur Vavasour went in search of his 
 betrothed. He knew as well almost as if the 
 interview were over what would take place be- 
 tween him and that tender, unassuming, rather 
 commonplace little girl (as I am afraid he called 
 lier) who was waiting for him in the magnificent 
 
ARTHUR RECEIVES ABSOLUTIOX. 265 
 
 conservatory, book in liand, but without a passing 
 idea, poor child ! save of* the man who gave her in 
 return so httle of his love, so small a portion of 
 his waking as well as sleeping thoughts. There 
 was none — and the w^ant in her case was a serious 
 misfortune — of the " delightfully capricious," the 
 ^^ charmingly various," the ^^ tantalisingly myste- 
 rious," in the character of Sophy Duberly. Her 
 nature, which was simple and guileless as a child's, 
 could be read at a glance in the soft brown eyes, 
 honest, tender, and trusting — ejes which are rarely 
 to be seen in a human countenance, but which those 
 Avho are addicted to canine friendships can recollect 
 in the head of more than one faithful beast wdiich 
 has lain at his feet, and been unto him as a brother. 
 Coquetry, that useful woman's weapon, w^as an 
 utterly unknown " arm " to this simple-hearted 
 heiress. The most practised teacher in the female 
 art of self-defence would have failed to make 
 Sophy understand the handling of that perilous 
 instrument. Her "yea" was "yea," and her 
 "nay" "nay," and somewhat "yea," "nay," it is 
 to be feared that her variety-loving intended some- 
 times found her. 
 
 In person, this humble heiress to countless 
 thousands w^as quite sufficiently attractive to 
 have been loved — as all women in her position 
 naturally desire to be^ — for herself alone. Her 
 
266 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 featiu'cs were not ren;iilar, nor can licr eyes be 
 described as either large or " liquid;" but her figure 
 was fine, her complexion good, her teeth white, 
 and her tout ensemble decidedly effective. She 
 worshipped Arthur Vavasour with a devotion 
 which was alike unmerited and inexpedient. At 
 Kome, — where he first became acquainted with 
 the millionaire English mees, at whose feet pen- 
 niless princes with titles dating from the days 
 of the Tribunes laid their pedigrees humbly 
 down, and where the money of the ^Manchester 
 warehouseman proved the ''open sesame" to the 
 highest and the most exclusive socict}', — Ar- 
 thur Vavasour had taken a high place amongst 
 the many aspirants for Miss Duberly's favourable 
 notice. He was his mother's son, and that 
 mother, at present in possession of an income of 
 some thirty thousand pounds per annum, must, 
 in a very few years (for the particulars of the 
 Earl of Gillingham's will were in the world 
 very generally known), abdicate — or rather, be 
 very unpleasantly de])osed in favour of her eldest 
 son. With such prospects as these, it was im- 
 possible to attribute mercenary motives to that 
 handsome, agreeable pretendant ; and that Mr. Va- 
 vasour could be thinking of marrying for money 
 was an ilea that never once presented itself^ 
 either to Mr. Dul^erly or his daughter. It was 
 
ARTHUR RECEIVES xVBSOI.UTIOX. 2G7 
 
 pleasant to believe that tlie attentions of one in 
 Mr. Vavasour's position must of necessity be so 
 purely (as was patent to the world) disinterested. 
 To Sophy, who had been duly warned against the 
 mercenary nature of all human motives, the con- 
 viction that Arthur was an exception to the 
 f^eneral rule was especially delightful. After all 
 that she had heard, and read, and seen — after the 
 raids by impecunious aristocrats into the regions 
 where the richer ten thousand guarded their well- 
 earned gold, of which she had more than once 
 been herself the destined victim — what wonder 
 that this middle-class young lady, who was not 
 (what girl of any promise is ?) without her small 
 ambitions, should have seen in Arthur Vavasour 
 the realisation of all her fondest dreams, her 
 highest aspirations? 
 
 She made no secret of her preference. An in- 
 dulged and petted only child, Sophia Duberly had 
 never known the necessity, scarcely even the 
 advisableness, of sometimes keeping her feelings to 
 herself; and so it followed that Arthur knew full 
 well, long before the avowal had been made in 
 words, that the rich heiress loved him. 
 
 It was well for him that Miss Duberly could 
 not guess how very slight was the effect that the 
 discovery produced upon him. Well, too, for him 
 that the girl to whom he was about to plight 
 
268 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 liis troth knew, in common with all the world, 
 so very little of the actual state of affairs at 
 GilHngham Castle. They were a proud race, 
 those Vavasoui's; their pride — Arthurs, at least, 
 taking the turn of resenting in silence his mother s 
 meanness, love of power — call it what you will — 
 whicli led her to keep him, the heir-apparent, so 
 " short," that he was driven (that was the young 
 man's way of putting it) to run in debt, and 
 eventually to marry for money ; results which 
 were of com'se intensely odious and " disgusting."' 
 
 The heir of Gillingham was descending in a 
 very compromising manner from his pedestal in 
 thus mixing his blue l3lood, and being brought 
 down to the dull dignity of a " family-man," by 
 an enforced union with the Manchester man's 
 daughter. Arthur had, however, no resource but 
 to submit. In silence (with the single exception 
 of his ahnost unbounded confidence in his brother 
 Horace) this self-indulgent, self-pitying young 
 English gentleman bore liis cross, inwardly 
 chafino; the while ao;ainst the " shifts" to which 
 he was reduced, and the self-denial that he 
 was sometimes called upon to practise. 
 
 It was not till Arthur was firmly established 
 in the good graces of the merchant-prince — not 
 till he was, in short, one of themselves — that he 
 ventui'ed to open the ejes of ^li\ Duberly to the 
 
ARTHUR RECER'ES ABSOLUTIOX. 269 
 
 peculiarities of Ladv Millicent's character, and 
 the unjust as well as unmotlierly conduct of 
 Avhicli lie was himself a victim. As he had 
 fully expected would be the case, this confession 
 had no power to shake his hold on the good 
 opinion of the unsuspecting Duberlv. As a 
 matter of course, Lady Millicent (whose pride 
 and "stand-aloof" ways had already caused her 
 to be no favourite with the plain-spoken, inde- 
 pendent millionaire) came in for her full share of 
 invective, and of a contemptuous ridicule of which, 
 had she known of its existence, she would have 
 strongly disapproved; but it is more than pro- 
 bable that "old Dub" liked his futm-e son-in-law 
 even better after this rather humiliatino- confes- 
 sion than he had done before. The love of patro- 
 nising and protecting is inherent in most human 
 breasts ; and fortunate, indeed, is it that so it has 
 been ordained to be, for where very frequently, 
 were it other^^'ise, would the feeble and the friend- 
 less be ? The love, then, of patronising being one 
 of our nature's idiosyncrasies, and Mr. Duberlv not 
 being ?f?inatui'ally constituted, that excellent man 
 felt more than ever disposed to act a father's part 
 towards the " good-looking }'oung fellow" of whom 
 his only child, his dearly-beloved little Sophy, was 
 so fond. 
 
 AVith regard to that simple-minded and rather 
 
270 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 benlglited young lady, avIio was entirely ignorant 
 of the great moral truth that over-indulgence is 
 orjually prcjudiciid to the grown-up among mankind 
 as it is to children of a smaller growth, she scarcely 
 knew how to make enough, (after the knowledge 
 of what she considered liis ill-usage,) of Arthur 
 Vavasour. The way that she petted and coaxed, 
 and yielded to, and made much of this not parti- 
 cularly humble-minded young gentleman, was, as 
 the Yankees say, a caution. It was veiy nice, of 
 com'se, and sweet, and flattering, and the object of 
 all this worship ought, by rights, to have demon- 
 strated unbounded gratitude, and have shown 
 himself to be more deeply and ardently in love 
 than ever ; but for some reason or other — human 
 nature is so thoroughly inscrutable that we can b}^ 
 110 means account for this unsatisfactory result — 
 Arthur's affection for his unsuspecting and devoted 
 fiancee began to decrease in an inverse ratio to 
 that which she so evidently entertained for liim. 
 Of this melancholy decadence he was himself, for 
 a while, happily unconscious ; indeed, it required 
 the awakening within him of another love to 
 arouse this iiifidele malgre lui to a proper sense of 
 his position. 
 
 The conviction that he is bound to marry one 
 woman while his feelings, passions — call them 
 what you will — are wrapped up in another, can 
 
ARTHUR RECEIVES ABSOLUTION. 271 
 
 never be agreeable to any man. Arthur Vava- 
 sour was no practised dissembler, and it was fully 
 as mucli as he found himself able to effect to pre- 
 vent Sophia Duberly, during a stay of four-and- 
 twenty hours, from discovering the truth — namely, 
 that thoucfh he was with her in the bodv, his 
 thoughts — alas, for her ! — were far away. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SO:METniXG .VBOUT " 3IILADY." 
 
 Ox tlie 23d of July, in the year 186—, the day 
 remarkable as that on which Arthur Yavasour 
 reached his twenty-first birthday, crowds of people 
 of every degree, and all, as it seemed, on pleasure 
 bent, were assembled in tlie park, and along the 
 roads that led towards the beautiful "seat" known 
 as belonging to the Earl of Guernsey. It was a 
 pretty place — not "princely," like Fairleigh, or 
 frowning proudly in baronial grandeur, after the 
 fashion of noble and time-honoured Gillingham ; 
 but, thougli inferior in magnificence to its more 
 imposing neighbours, Danescourt was, after all, a 
 mansion and estate not wholly unworthy the rank 
 of its owners. 
 
 Lady Guernsey, who was country born and 
 bred (albeit one of the most popular women in 
 England, and perfectly " at home" everywhere), 
 was greatly attached to Danescourt. She was 
 never so happy — so said those who knew her best, 
 
SOMETHIXa ABOUT "MILADY." 273 
 
 for Lady Guernsey was a person who talked very 
 little about herself — as when, the London season 
 being over, she could devote herself at " dear" 
 Danescourt to her garden, her children, and her 
 poor. 
 
 The Lacys were a large family, there were 
 seven of them — '' the curate's half-dozen," Lord 
 Guernsey used often to say, with a cheery laugli, 
 wliicli would have sounded pleasant from any lips, 
 but was, of course, doubly exhilarating from a lord's. 
 He was a capital person altogether, that ^belted 
 earl," whose girdle was capable of encircling tlie 
 slender waists of two modern guardsmen, and 
 whose face beamed so pleasantly with genuine 
 £>-ood-nature, to sav nothinii: of the o-ood thinii's of 
 this life, that the man must have l^eeu morose 
 indeed, and ingrained with mental jaundice, whose 
 spirits were not lightened b}' the glow of his genial 
 companionship. 
 
 Between the Yavasom' family and that of the 
 Lacys, who were comparatively new settlers in 
 the county (their coming dating as lately as the 
 Restoration), there had never existed any of those 
 ties, either of friendship or family connection, 
 which near neighbomdiood is sometimes known to 
 cement. Though, as it is only natural to conclude, 
 many brave sons and fair daughters must, in the 
 course of centuries, have sprung from the re- 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 SIXK OR S^YIM. 
 
 spectlve maiTiaii^c-bcds of those liiglily distinguislied 
 families, no intermamages liad taken place be- 
 tween them. The hereditary politics also of the 
 two races were, and always had been, diametrically 
 opposed — one reason probably, among many, why 
 no closer bonds than the cold ones of acquaint- 
 anceship had hitherto linked together the members 
 of two of the most ancient, as well as most re- 
 spected "houses" in the county. 
 
 The Earl and Countess of Guernsey, who, as 
 I before said, were genial, warm-hearted ])eople, 
 would gladly (not for the sake of Lady Milliceiit, 
 whom they did not like, but for that of the young- 
 people at the Castle, whom they did) have esta- 
 blished warmer and cordial relations with their 
 neighbours at Gillin£]^ham Castle. They were un- 
 feignedly sorry for the poor girls, whose youth 
 was bliglited by Lady Millicent's selfish adherence 
 to a system of seclusion — a system introduced and 
 persevered in, as Lord Guernsey, avIio was an 
 outspoken man, did not hesitate to say, far more 
 from the promptings of a parsimonious spirit than 
 from any deep and lingering sorrow for "poor 
 Cecil's" death. 
 
 " Don't tell me," he would say, speaking almost 
 bitterly for one so habitually good-tempered, — 
 "' don't tell me about Lady Mill's being a ^ pattern 
 widow.' She is no more a pattern widow than 
 
SOMETHIXG ABOUT '' MILADY." 275 
 
 she was, at any time since I liave known anything 
 about her, a pattern wife or a pattern mother. 
 I never had any patience with all that £unkey- 
 isli humbug about Lady Millicent's perfections. 
 Whatever good was done in that family — and a 
 gi'eat deal icas done, that we all know — is to be 
 attributed solely to Cecil Yavasour. As for Lady 
 Mil—" 
 
 "Well, well," put in Lady Guernsey good- 
 liumouredly, " I think there is something to be said 
 for her. That Will of her father's must be terribly 
 tr}dng to a person of her domineering temper." 
 
 " So are a great many wills — all wills, in short, 
 that are antagonistic to om* own. It doesn't fol- 
 low, though, that we are justified in trying to set 
 them on one side. In my opinion — but then I 
 have never been tried," he added, laughing, "by 
 a similar aggravation — in my opinion, the will of 
 a dead man, like his last injunctions, ought to be 
 held sacred. A curse is more likely than a bless- 
 inoj to follow on its beino; set aside." 
 
 " And they do say that Lady Millicent is going 
 to try the case — against her own son, too ! It 
 looks unnatural; but I still say, although I am 
 anything but fond of her, that there is some good 
 in Lady Mill. She is fond of her children, after 
 a fashion; she is anxious about them when they 
 are ill, which isn't often, for there never were 
 
276 SINK OR s^^^M. 
 
 more liealtliy creatures ; and I really tlihik that 
 but for this chiuse in the will — I mean, if it had 
 been left to her to manage that great fortune in 
 her own Avay — Lady Millicent would have given 
 no cause for the world to say tliat she is neither 
 a rrood mother nor a faithful stewardess.*' 
 
 " Perhaps not. l^ou women know one ano- 
 ther's characters and motives best. Lady Mill 
 mat/ have hidden excellences in her nature (veiy 
 securely hidden, too, I must say), which it recjuires 
 a woman's })enetration to discover. My experi- 
 ence of life tells me that if there be anything 
 estimable in a tremendously rich person like Milady 
 ^Millicent, that same estimable quality increases 
 and magnifies itself a liundredf(jld in going from 
 mouth to mouth ; while, on the contrary-, the 
 praiseworthiness of the poor is a very unfructifying 
 and unprofitable article indeed. For my part 
 (mind, I expect to be abused), now that the fashion 
 is gone by of glorifying my Lady ^lillicent — not 
 that it would have gone by if poor Cecil had lived 
 — for my part, and 1 say it without fear of being 
 contradicted, what I think is (and I repeat it 
 again), that all the talk there used to be about 
 her being faultless, and all that kind of thing, was 
 totally undeserved. Like thousands of other 
 prosperous people, she never did anything openly 
 bad. She Avas not, I daresay, much given to 
 
SOMETHIXG ABOUT " MILADY," 277 
 
 breaking the ten Commandments ; but then, I 
 should be ghid to ask, where were lier temptations ? 
 Ladies are not much in the habit of swearing ; she 
 had neither father nor mother to honour or dis- 
 honour ; there was nothing for her to covet ; and, 
 God knows, no man in his senses would covet 
 her!" 
 
 "You are not very charitable to poor Lady 
 Mill," said the Countess, laughing in spite of her- 
 self at this resume of their neio-hbour's " o:ifts." 
 
 " Charitable? I should think not ! Who with 
 any Christian feeling would be charitable to one 
 Avho has gained for herself such a name for hard- 
 ness of heart, while she professes to respect God's 
 holy law and commandments, as Lady ]\iillicent 
 Yavasour? I am not, I hope, either a humbug 
 or a prig : but I like to see people act up to what 
 they profess, and I should have a better opinion 
 than I have of our neighbour at the Castle if she 
 talked about religion less, and acted up to its 
 dictates more." 
 
 " In my opinion," said Lady Guernsey thought- 
 fully, " more than half of her pretended love of 
 seclusion and country life, which people have said 
 so much about, arises from selfishness and indo- 
 lence !" 
 
 " Bravo !" said his lordship in delight. " I 
 knew it would come ! Let a woman alone, if 
 
278 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 she's a sensible one, for amvino; at the rldit con- 
 elusion. Now, I'll tell you what it is, Gertrude," 
 he added more seriously, and placing his wife's 
 hand within his arm, as they strolled together 
 under the branching chestnuts of the grand old 
 avenue leading to the house ; " I'll tell you ex- 
 actly Avhat it is. There may be, as you say, no 
 real harm in Lady Mllicent ; but she is neither 
 tender, nor open, nor womanly. Gad, what 
 should I do, and what would the children do, 
 with such a mother as that? As for the poor 
 things at the Castle up there, I declare it's a 
 shame to see her muddle away their existence as 
 she does. Those two fine young men — Arthur, 
 particularly, who, between you and me, is a little 
 soft, and who required no end of judgment in liis 
 raising — are utterly ruined." 
 
 " I hope not, poor things," said Lady Guern- 
 sey, who was given to look, even more tlian was 
 her lord, at the bright side of every shield, " I hope 
 not; one never can tell how boys will turn out. 
 I'm often really quite uneasy about Ernest ; and 
 yet—" 
 
 " You needn't trouble yourself, my dear Ger- 
 trude, about him. Ernest is one of your quiet, 
 lymphatic sort, but l)otli those }'oung fellows at 
 the Castle are of another kind of constitution ; and 
 I'm as certain that Arthur, at least, will come to 
 
SOMETHING ABOUT "MILADY." 279 
 
 grief, as I am glad tliat lils poor father didn't 
 live to see it." 
 
 ^•I often thought that Mr. Vavasour v^asn't 
 pursuing the wisest plan in the world about his 
 boys," remarked Lady Guernsey pensively. " The 
 Vavasour children never seemed to be allowed to 
 find their own pleasures like other boys and girls. 
 They were very good, I daresay, and were always 
 well-behaved ; but I used often to fancy it would 
 have been more natural if they had been naughty 
 sometimes like their neighbours." 
 
 " Much more natural ! And then the plan of 
 sending Arthur to travel with that kind of half- 
 and-half gentleman tutor was very bad. For my 
 part, I don't believe Lady Mill knows a gentle- 
 man when she sees him. All she thinks of is 
 Power, and all she dreads is the time when Arthur 
 will be twenty-five, and the hour for her despot- 
 ism w^ill have sounded. My own idea is — and 
 many })eople, I fancy, suspect the same — that she 
 is making up a purse against the evil day of 
 dowagerhood. One thing, ho^A^ever, is certain, 
 namely, that all this — this unfortunate state of 
 tliino;s at Gillino-ham — is a sad business for the 
 poor on the estate. Already the appearance of 
 the cottages, and, above all, the state of moral 
 feeling among the labourers on the Gillingham 
 estate, has undergone a serious change for the 
 
280 SINK OR SmM. 
 
 worse. Tlie lower orders — I liate tlie name, l)ut 
 it says wliat I want to express — were secure of 
 Cecil Vavasour's sympathy. Ay, even of liis 
 friendship, wliile as for his widow — But enough 
 of tliis ; for our own motes, my dear Gertrude, are, 
 after all, not so completely eradicated tliat we can 
 afford to lay so much stress upon the heams tliat 
 we may happen to discover in our neighhour's 
 eyes." He spoke only half seriously, for Lord 
 Guernsey was one of those who take a cheerful 
 view of all things and suhjects ; hut the conversa- 
 tion just narrated w^as not without its effect, inas- 
 much as his w^ife ohtaincd in consequence free 
 leave and permission that on the occasion of Ar- 
 thur's twenty-first hirthday Danescourt should be 
 as gay as a full bevy of summer guests could make 
 it. Nominally, the festive week at the Coiu't had 
 nothino; to do with Arthur's comino^ of acre. The 
 good-natured host and hostess were too desirous of 
 giving pleasure to each and all of the young Vava- 
 sours, for any hint of the truth to have designedly 
 passed their lips. But for all their caution, it 
 did, of course, come to be noised abroad that the 
 Guernseys were teaching Lady Millicent her duty, 
 and that for once in their lives her young daugh- 
 ters were to be indulged in the opportunity of 
 enjoying themselves. 
 
CHAPTEK x:^;I. 
 
 MRS. BEACHAM GOES A PLEASURING. 
 
 " Well, mother, ain't tins better now than to he 
 sittino" mendino' stockino;s, and to be bothermo; 
 about pickles and preserves at homef asked ge- 
 nial John Beacham of his highly respectable pa- 
 rent as mother and son, sitting in the front-seat of 
 the most well-appointed of " traps," were jogging 
 quietly along the^pleasant lanes towards Danes- 
 court. 
 
 It was somewhat against the grain, and not a 
 little to his own inconvenience, that John Beach- 
 am was devoting a day to amuse his woman- 
 kind on that eventful twenty-fourth of July. 
 Danescourt was a good five-and-twenty miles from 
 the Paddocks. In little more than half-an-hour 
 the travellers could be conve^^ed by rail from 
 Switcham to Gawthoqie ; the latter place being 
 the nearest toT^^l and station — distant about three 
 miles — from Danescourt. But Mrs. Beacham un- 
 fortunately entertained, amongst other immutable 
 
282 SINK OR Hwni. 
 
 prejudices, a very decided one against steam lo- 
 comotion. As a rule she was not greatly troubled 
 with "nerves;" but the exception was when, 
 by some extraordinary concatenation of circum- 
 stances, she found herself whirled along in an 
 express-train, gasping for breath, and ejacidating 
 piteous appeals for protection to that Power which, 
 under the ordinary circumstances of everyday life, 
 we are all of us so given both to ignore and to for- 
 get. It was a standing joke (when that lady was 
 not present) that old ]\Irs. Beacham invariably 
 began to say her prayers the moment the pace 
 of the train b}' which she was travelling com- 
 menced to accelerate. Indeed, so patent and un- 
 mistakable were her sufferings, that John — well- 
 to-do, open-handed John — who, " thank good- 
 ness, was not obliojed to look twice at a shillinec 
 before he spent it," and who was unwilling to 
 turn a day's i)leasure into one of penance, decided 
 to drive his mother and his pretty wife in the 
 new " trap ;" the services of that famous horse 
 "Jolly Boy," an animal who could "trot his nine 
 mile an hour, sir, without turning a hair," being 
 put into requisition on the occasion. As a matter 
 of course, her own personal dignity being con- 
 cerned in the matter, Mrs. Beacham had refjuired 
 some pressing before she allowed herself to be 
 persuaded to attend the gala scene at Danescourt. 
 
MRS. BEACHAM GOES A PLEASURING. 283 
 
 She was not wanted, tlie old lady declared, in sticli 
 gay places as that. At her' age slie was better 
 at liome minding the house; while other people, 
 wdio icere fond of gadding about, took their plea- 
 sure in Lord Guernsey's park. It was rather 
 provoldng, Honor thought, to see her stepmother 
 jjosei' en victimCj when she, the younger woman, 
 was perfectly well aware that had ^irs. Beacham 
 been sixteen instead of sixty-five, she could hardly 
 have looked forward with greater satisfaction than 
 was in fact the case, to that day's long-promised 
 " outing." That she, Honor, did not press her 
 stepmother to do violence to her feelings by con- 
 descending to form one of the little party to 
 Danescourt was a fruitful source of ao-o-ravation ; 
 and when the old lady did eventually take her 
 place in the front-seat of the " trap," attired in a 
 wonderful new bonnet from Leigh, and a Paisley 
 shawl of many colours — her own choice, and 
 w-orn for the first time that day — her temper could 
 not, with justice, be said to be above its average 
 standard of good humour and composure. 
 
 With a little sigh of resignation Honor took 
 her place on the back-seat, where, for the next 
 three hours, she was doomed to be imprisoned, 
 her limbs cramped by sundry bags and boxes — 
 for they had decided to spend the night at Gaw- 
 thorpe — and her view circumscribed by John's 
 
284 siXK OR swnr. 
 
 broad shoulder^;, and by tlic gaudy sliawl pinned 
 with old-fasliior.cd tightness round liis mother's 
 ampk* back. Tlioiigh "wanting yet two liours to 
 noon, the July sun was already darting its broil- 
 ing rays over the travellers' heads ; and Mrs. 
 Beacham's solid cotton umbrella, hoisted for that 
 autocratic lady's comfort, materially interfered Avith 
 that of the slio-ht fifjcare behind, which was clad in 
 the simplest of airy muslins, while there rested on 
 the thick braids of her fair hair a dainty hat that 
 was, in ^Irs. Beacham's opinion, most reprehen- 
 sibly juvenile and coquettish. 
 
 "Better, ain't it, mother?" John said, as the 
 well-bred brown horse draixcfed the heavv wcio;ht 
 l)ehind him through the sand of a cross-country 
 lane. " The country is beautiful to-day. Hold 
 up, Jolly Boy ; and. Honor, sit close, my dear. 
 This road is rather in a go-to-the-bad state ; and 
 it wouldn't do to be pitched out in the dust in 
 that pretty get-up of yours." 
 
 Honor laughed. She was girl — child enough, 
 also, you may say — to be amused by the jolts 
 that half shook her out of her seat, and so gi*eatly 
 disturbed the old lady's temper. In the excite- 
 ment of the drive, the changing of the scene, and 
 the anticipation of the coming gaiety, she had 
 forgotten ^Ir. Vavasour altogether ; and that 
 gentleman would have been but ill-pleased could 
 
:mrs. beacham goes a pleasuring. 285 
 
 he have guessed how small a share he had in young 
 Mrs. Beacham's thouohts duriuo; the lono- drive 
 
 o o o 
 
 that day. 
 
 " AVell, thank goodness, here we are at last!*' 
 exclaimed the discomfited old lady, when at length 
 a sudden turn in the hi^'h-road brought them in 
 sight of a pretty i\'y-covered lodge, which stood 
 invitingly open, and which John informed Honor 
 was the principal entrance to the Danescourt 
 grounds. " Snch a dusting as I've had to be sure I 
 I declare to goodness that my best silk won't be 
 worth five shillings when I get it home. A silk, 
 too, that cost me seven shillings a yard no longer 
 ao;o than last Mav twehemonth, and was as ixood 
 this nwrning as it was the day I bought it." 
 
 " AVell, mother, we must buy you another, 
 that's all," said John good-humouredly. '' But, 
 I say! if there isn't jolly Jack Winthrop, with 
 the old chestnut out, I see ! — How are you. Jack ? 
 and how's the mare ?" — pulling up Jolly Boy 
 to have a few moments horsey talk with his old 
 acquaintance. '' Sound again, eh ? Steps a little 
 short still, don't she, with the near foreleg ?" 
 
 Jack AVinthrop, who was a wiry-made sport- 
 ing-looking character, in a black cut-away and a 
 low-crowned hat, was sitting behind a wicked- 
 looking ^' red" mare, the which animal was har- 
 nessed to a vehicle called a dog-cart, but incapable 
 
286 SIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 of containiiifr, Avltli any degree of comfort, any 
 creature, four-footed or otherwise, in addition 
 to the said wiry Jack himself. He gaye a know- 
 ing nod and wink to John, and threw an admir- 
 ing ghmce at Honor, as he passed, at the full 
 swing of the wicked chestnut, the more steady- 
 going ^' fomily man." 
 
 John shook his head grayeiy. "There he 
 goes !" he said. " That's just the way with those 
 fellows ! Jack, now, has doctored up tliat mare 
 of his ; and some poor deyil of a muff will be 
 stuck, I'll answer for it, before the day is out." 
 
 It was scarcely, however, the place or the 
 season for moralising. They were by this time 
 in the ruck of carriages and horsemen, all going 
 in one direction, and John Beacham's attention 
 was amply employed, not only on the steering 
 of Jolly Boy through the crowd, but in re- 
 turning the cordial greetings of his many friends 
 and acquaintances. At length, and after sundry 
 exclamations of alarm, and more than one ii> 
 voluntary clutch at the reins on the part of 
 John's agitated parent, the little party in the 
 "trap" came in sight, through an opening in 
 the trees, of a great wdiite marquee, capable — 
 if the yoice of rumour could be believed — of 
 containing within its canvas walls a whole re- 
 giment of soldiers, the said marquee having 
 
MRS. BEACIIA3I GOES A PLEASURIXG. 287 
 
 been erected in a broad and sheltered glen, at 
 abont five hundred yards' distance from the 
 house. The scene that presented itself to Ho- 
 nor's admirino; e^aze was full of life and colour 
 and animation. The band of an infantry regi- 
 ment, at that time stationed at Leigh, was thun- 
 dering forth a popular polka, adapted to brazen 
 instruments in full regimental force. Groups of 
 well-dressed people were scattered here and there 
 over the o-reensward ; the bran chin o' trees lent 
 a delicious shelter from the fierce rays of the 
 summer sun ; and a glimpse that could be caught 
 by the curious of the interior of the tent disclosed 
 an array of plates, dishes, and glasses that would 
 have caused the heart of a fastins^ man to dance 
 with anticipated bliss. 
 
 " Now, then, look alive ! Jump out ! The 
 horse Avon't stand in this row," said John, a 
 little impatiently perhaps, for Jolly Boy, in spite 
 of the five and twenty miles' journey, was restless 
 with excitement, and Will Burton, one of Mr. 
 Beacham's trusted " helpers," who had been sent 
 on by train to wait his master's coming, was hold- 
 ing him (though with some little difficulty) steady 
 by the bit during the ^^ young missus's" descent. 
 
 Honor made what haste she could, gather- 
 ing together her full skirts to save them as best 
 she might from the dusty wheel, and feeling. 
 
288 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 .she scarcely knew why, ii something in her 
 liusbantl's tone |tliat jarred against her sense 
 of what was dehcate and becoming ; jarred too 
 against her own conscionsness of beauty, of 
 being well-dressed; of being, in short, a little 
 woman worthy to be petted and admired. She 
 was not cross — far from it — as she shook out 
 her ample dra})ery and took John's sturdy arm, 
 while Mrs. Beacham held firm possession of the 
 other; but, though not the least angry witli her 
 husband. Honor was too habitually good-tempered, 
 and, at the moment too happy, to be that, she was 
 perhaps rather more disposed than she had been 
 before to greet with satisfaction any appreciating 
 words or flattering attentions which might chance 
 to fall to her lot. Xor were such opportunities 
 for the gratification of a vanity which was more 
 natui'al than harmless, likelv to be wantincj. 
 Honor's beauty was not of the kind to be passed 
 over in a crowd, be that crowd ever so dense 
 or individually preoccupied. The exquisite co- 
 louring, delicate as it was rich, of her bright 
 young face — the lips slightly jmrted, red and 
 dewy — and the violet e}es, half-shy, half-laugh- 
 ing, made up a toiU ensemble that many a man 
 turned and turned again to look upon, as Honor 
 Beacliam flitted amongst the throng that da>', 
 leaning on her husband's arm. 
 
CHAPTEli XXII. 
 
 A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 
 
 Maxy gentlemeiij as 1 have just said — gentlemen, 
 that is, by brevet and by prescriptive right — made 
 themselves conspicuous that day by their open 
 and undisguised admiration for John Beacham's 
 beautiful wife. Honor was, unfortunately, pre- 
 cisely in the position which of all others renders 
 a young woman the most easy to be beset by this 
 indelicate description of flattery. There is some- 
 thing in the very name of a " horse-breeder's 
 wife" which at once connects itself in the mind 
 v/itli what is as ^'fast" and "slangy" and for- 
 ward as the most fast and free and horsey 
 amono; the "fine youncr Encvlish ladies" of our 
 day. Those who chanced to know Honor per- 
 sonally might have proclaimed the contrary; but 
 somehow young men in general do not care much 
 to assert that a beautiful girl with whom they are 
 acquainted has betrayed the reverse of the pro- 
 clivities above alluded to"; so, for lack of a cham- 
 VOL. I. U 
 
290 SINK OR SWDI. 
 
 pion, those who ^^'e^e not acquainted with Mrs. 
 Jolin Beacham judged of that young woman as it 
 pleased them best. 
 
 Amono-st the chiss of "o-cntlemen" above al- 
 luded to — messieurs qui suivent les femmes from 
 rule, from habit, and from inclination — the one 
 that stared the most at, and followed the closest 
 on. Honor's footsteps was the individual with whom 
 the reader has already made some slight acquaint- 
 ance in his character of owner of that celebrated 
 yearling yclept Eough Diamond. 
 
 Colonel Norcott, whose history in his native 
 county had been for some years " a blank," was 
 at this period of his life somewhere about five- 
 and-forty years of age. Five -and -forty, lien 
 sonnees, nevertheless he looked younger than his 
 age, for his figure, Avliich (whatever else he had 
 lost) he had been fortunate enough to keep, was 
 slight and juvenile ; his hair, though less lux- 
 uriant than of yore, was still thick and glossy ; 
 and his face, wdiich, though always plain, even to 
 ugliness, was singularly attractive and intelli- 
 gent, had stood so well the wear and tear of 
 jears that many pronounced Fred Norcott a 
 better- looking man in middle-age than he had 
 been in the days when a greater amount of per- 
 sonal beauty might fairly have been expected 
 of him. 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 291 
 
 Frederick Norcott, an only and over-indulged 
 son, was barely se^'enteen when lie commenced his 
 career in life as a light dragoon. He possessed 
 great natural shrewdness, a good memory, and a 
 rare gift of rendering himself agreeable to those 
 whom he desired to please. Principles he had 
 none. To instil any such troublesome things into 
 his son's youthful mind had been deemed by Fred's 
 father a work of supererogation. Fred would be 
 Avell off, had good connections, and was rather a 
 sharp fellow than otherwise ; so the country gen- 
 tleman, who knew but little of the world, and who 
 — his own nature being both a proud and a cold 
 one — had himself kept clear of scrapes, sent his 
 only son forth into " life" with the injmictions to 
 do nothing dishonourable, and never to make a 
 fool of himself. 
 
 There are some young men thus ushered into 
 a world of trial and of temptation, for whom the 
 code of honour — in so many respects the Christian 
 code — would stand in stead of what are called 
 higher principles, and would keep them at least 
 tolerably straight in the path which they were 
 fated to tread ; but of such exceptional young men 
 as these Frederick Norcott did not, unfortunately 
 for himself and his friends, happen to be one. 
 Cursed with the strongest passions, adoring as well 
 as despising women, utterly selfish, and a gambler 
 
292 SINK OR sui:\r. 
 
 to the backbone, -wlio can wonder tliat Frederick 
 Norcott sliould very early in life have become 
 bankrupt in fortune, friends, and reputation, — in 
 all, in short, that should make existence valuable 
 to its possessor? But for the wars, which were 
 consecutively so instrumental in the " keeping 
 going" of sundry of England's impecunious sons 
 and heroes, Fred Norcott would very soon have 
 been laid on an extremely comfortless shelf. How 
 he contrived to live, after his paternal inheritance 
 bad been reduced to actual nothingness, was pretty 
 much a secret between the Jews, his creditors, and 
 liimself. As a soldier, however, he stood high. 
 As fearless before the foe as he was audacious with 
 the fair, Fred Xorcott, as long as shots were flying, 
 and human flesh and bones were required to stop 
 them, kept his head above water tolerably well. 
 But the day of reckoning came at last. Ships 
 came l)ack full instead of empty of soldiers from 
 the East ; the last rebel Pandy was scattered to 
 the winds; the dead had buried their dead, and 
 hungry^ creditors began to think of gathering up 
 the fragments that remained. For a time — why 
 does not appear, except for the reason that some 
 men do possess more than others the gift of soften- 
 ing hearts — Colonel Norcott's natural enemies 
 seemed disposed to allow him that highly improv- 
 able item, time. Perhaps seeing that the Colonel 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 293 
 
 came under the head of that large class, namely, 
 " distmguished officers," it ^vould scarcely have 
 paid, humediately after his retirement from the 
 service, to be hard upon him. To have coarsely 
 insisted upon payment — to have " taken steps" for 
 the "settlement" of their Ion o;-stan dine; accounts 
 — might have occasioned the loss to those rapa- 
 cious tradesmen of the custom of better men ; so, 
 as I said before, they waited for a while, with what 
 patience they could muster, for the turning of the 
 tide. 
 
 As is generally the case, immunity from pu- 
 nishment was very far from working either re- 
 formation or improvement. The iniquities wdiich 
 Fred had committed in the green tree were per- 
 petrated by hhn still more villanously in the brown. 
 At the age of thirty-six, there were few atrocities, 
 chiefly under the rose, of which he had not been 
 guilty ; and it was at that age — an age at which 
 the wild oats are supposed to be sown, and the 
 new leaf lastingly turned over — that the ex-dra- 
 goon committed the act of which " old Dub" en- 
 tertained so vague a recollection, but the conse- 
 quences of wliich eventually drove Colonel Fred 
 (with all his debts upon his head, and very little 
 money in his pockets) to Australia. 
 
 This climax in the career of the ex-dragoon 
 took place about a dozen years before the opening 
 
294 SIXK OR SWDl. 
 
 of my story ; and Colonel Korcott, after spending- 
 ten of those years in banishment, had retnrned to 
 his native land a wiser if not a hetter man. Nor 
 had he, as -svc already hnoAv, retnrned alone ; for 
 there was a IMrs. Norcott — a colonial heires§, it 
 was said — who had taken pity on Fred's poverty 
 and loneliness, and endowed him with her hand 
 and fortune. At the time my story opens, two- 
 years, or nearly so, had elapsed since Colonel Nor- 
 cott — gay, agreeable, but slightly under a cloud — 
 made his reappearance on the stage of the London 
 ■\N'orld. How or at what period terms had been 
 made with the creditors to whose former leniency 
 the prodigal owed so much, history deponeth not. 
 That they were satisfied with the turn affairs had 
 taken was evidenced by the fact that " the Colonel'" 
 roamed, with a free step and jarret teiidre, about 
 his former haunts ; while for the nonce — whether- 
 such a state of things w^ould last remained to be 
 seen — a veil seemed by common consent (amongst 
 the laxest portion of Colonel Norcott's former ac- 
 quaintances) to be thrown over his past delin- 
 quencies, and non mi ricordo, save amongst the ultra 
 strict, was as regarded his errors the order of the day. 
 
 "Who is that gentleman, John ?" asked Honor, 
 her face still flushed with the crimson tide that a 
 prolonged stare from Colonel Norcott's bold in-- 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 295 
 
 sinuating eyes had tliro-svn into it. "I fancy I 
 have seen him before. Did not he come to the 
 Paddocks one day about buying a horse ?" 
 
 " A great many people do that, my dear," re- 
 sponded John absently. " Came to buy a horse, 
 did he ? And which of all these gentlemen is it 
 that you mean?" 
 
 ^'AVhich? O, that one! there he goes — the 
 tall man in the light coat ; you can see him now 
 between the trees, talking to the person that you 
 call Jack AYinthrop." 
 
 John Beacham, who had a moment before 
 been intensely amused by watching an animated 
 game at "Aunt Sally," turned in the direction 
 indicated, but at first without being able to dis- 
 cover the object of his wife's curiosity. The hand 
 that rested on his arm positively trembled with 
 impatience. Honor could not account for the 
 strange interest which she seemed to take in that 
 middle-aged, distinguished-looking man. To her. 
 Colonel Xorcott, erect and soldier-like, with his 
 grand military bearing, and his five-and-forty 
 years so bravely carried, seemed almost an old 
 man, or rather an old prince. Somebody very 
 remarkable he was — of that Honor had no 
 doubt; and the fact of his having noticed her 
 did not tend to lessen the interest that he had 
 excited. 
 
29G SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 " O John, can't you see hiin ?" she said eagerly, 
 *' There, he is out of sight now! Why icouldnt 
 you look before ? I knoio he is somebody great — 
 a foreign prince, or something of that kind." 
 
 Jolm laughed gaily. " Why, child," lie said, 
 " what do you know about foreign princes ? Do 
 you suppose there's anything in the cut of their 
 jib different from other people's ? Why, if you 
 want to see an article of that sort, I'll bring you 
 a mustachioed fellow up to lunch one of these 
 days. There's plenty of all sorts come, one way 
 or the other, to the Paddocks. They speak pretty 
 good English, do most of the mounseers, or there 
 ain't many words would pass betw^een me and 
 them. But about this gent. Honey, that you're 
 so anxious to know the name of. Is that him, 
 coming back again, and looking this way ?" 
 
 By this time the tall figure of Colonel Norcott 
 was again in sight, swinging his cane, and saunter- 
 ing slowly towards the spot where John Beacham, 
 with those two very different specimens of woman- 
 kind — one leaning upon either arm — was stand- 
 ing. It must have been evident to any looker-on 
 whose attention was not otherwise engrossed that 
 the Colonel manifested a decided inclination to 
 haunt the spot where that beautiful face and 
 ela7icee girlish figure were to be seen and admired. 
 Honor, perceiving his return, felt that so it was ; 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 297 
 
 and the shy blush rose again to her cheek as she 
 answered John's question in the affirmative. 
 
 Rather to her surprise, the latter turned away 
 abruptly, thus avoiding the meeting v/ith the 
 gallant Fred which must othenvise have taken 
 place. 
 
 " O," he began, and Honor knew by his height- 
 ened colour that her husband's natui'ally quick 
 temper had received a touch of the spm', "so 
 that's the party, is it? Well, Honey, I won't 
 promise to bring him up to the house — that is, 
 at least, unless I'm obliged to, which I don't think 
 likely. Why, my dear, that's Colonel Norcott, 
 a man who — but never mind ; yoiCve nothing to 
 do with what he is, nor I neither, excepting that 
 he bought Rough Diamond of Arthm' Vavasour, 
 and — well, I never thought to care so little whether 
 a colt of my breeding proved a winning horse or 
 not." 
 
 " They were great people once in the county 
 were the Norcotts," put in Mrs. Beacham. " I've 
 heard old ]Mrs. Parsons — she that was mother to' 
 the fly-away thing that keeps the shop at Leigh 
 now — say, times and over, that Madam Norcott — 
 which she's nothing better than Mrs. Baker now 
 — used to buy gownds of her that a duchess might 
 have wored; and she could afford it too; and it 
 was a pity that this young man made ducks and 
 
208 SINK OR SWIM. 
 
 (Irakes of everything, for it was him, warn't it, 
 John, that brought the family down to what 
 it is?" 
 
 Before her son couhl answer, which he was 
 about to do in the affirmative, the well-known 
 proverb having reference to a certain gentleman 
 in black who shall be nameless, was once more 
 unsatisfactorily illustrated by the reappearance on 
 the scene of the spendthrift in question. Coming 
 this time totally unawares upon the unsuspecting 
 trio, it was impossible for John to evade, as he had 
 before done, the meeting with a man of Avhose 
 character and principles he entertained the worst 
 possible opinion. The object of his dislike came 
 forward with a degagce air, and after nodding in a 
 patronising manner to John, stopped in the middle 
 of the broad turf- covered walk, thus effectually 
 barring the passage. 
 
 "Fine day! Looked like rain this morning. 
 Your wife, eh, Beacham? Happy to be intro- 
 duced. We're kinder pardners now, as the Yan- 
 kees say, and you must wish me good luck, Mrs. 
 Beacham, with Rough Diamond. Ladies have 
 all the luck in racing, and I shall expect you'll 
 remember me in your prayers." 
 
 " I hear the colt is looking well," John said 
 stiffly. " I've no interest in him myself now he's 
 out of Mr. Vavasour's hands ;" and he was mov- 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 299 
 
 iiig Oil, when Colonel Norcott, stepping on one side, 
 joined himself (walking on Honor's side) to the 
 party. 
 
 ^'Been ridino; lately, Mrs. Beacham?" he said 
 coolly. " That little mare of yours is a pretty 
 goer; but then, who should he well mounted if 
 you- are not? Of course you had the pick of 
 your husband's stables, and there's nothing like 
 them, I always say. Such luck, too, Beacham, 
 your stock have. By George ! I expect to make 
 a pot of money out of Rough Diamond." 
 
 " I hope you won't be disappointed, sir," said 
 John drily. "And now," stopping dead short, 
 and looldng resolutely at a turn in the road which 
 led (at right-angles) in another direction, " and 
 now I believe that we must wish you good-morn- 
 ing. I am a business man ; and as I don't often 
 afford myself a day's leisure, I wish to make the 
 most of it ;" and having so said, he bowed with 
 grave civility to the Colonel, and drew his woman- 
 kind away. 
 
 Fred Norcott was not the kind of man to be 
 easily repulsed. He did not stand in the slightest 
 awe of John. " A low fellow of a horse-breeder, 
 you know," is the way he would have described 
 the man whose watchwords w^ere truth and 
 honesty, and whose palm was as pure as a 
 sucking child's from bribes. " A fellow who ought 
 
300 SINK OR S^VIM. 
 
 to be obliiXGd to a i:entleman for noticin(]>: him, 
 which one wouldn't do, }ou know, except for his 
 wife. By Jove I mch a pretty creature ! Such 
 eyes! and a foot — " 
 
 But there is no need to follow this unchartered 
 libertine in his (imagined) unseemly rhapsodies. 
 That he did intensely admire the wife of the man 
 he affected to despise had been made quite suffi- 
 ciently evident during that short colloquy, not only 
 to the object of that admiration, but to lionest 
 John himself. The latter was not either of a 
 quarrelsome or a susceptible temperament. It was 
 not in his nature to take umbrage at any respect- 
 fully evinced appreciation of his wife's beauty. 
 Anything so pretty as Honor Avas of course made 
 to be looked at ; l3ut looked at, not with eyes of 
 convoitise — not with the bold, much-meaning, 
 purity-tainting stare with which men of the stamp 
 of dissolute Fred Norcott brinf^ burninoj blushes 
 to the cheeks of girlish beauty. John's blood had 
 boiled within him when the colom-, stirred by the 
 bad man's gaze, had risen to his fair wife's brow. 
 He could have felled that slight, delicate-looking 
 libertine to the ground with one blow of his 
 powerful right arm, and the act would have done 
 good, perhaps, to both men; but John had, for 
 the moment at least, his passions under control, 
 and the quondam soldier was left standing scath- 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 301 
 
 less upon the greensward, and gazing vacantly at 
 Honor's retreatino- fimire. 
 
 The abruptness — not to call it rudeness — 
 Avith which John Beacliam had given him his 
 conge seemed to have produced very httle effect 
 in rousinsj Fred Norcott's indio-nation. The im- 
 pression that the sight of Honor had made upon 
 him was for too powerful for any other emotion 
 either to lessen or to remove it. The fact was that 
 in the Celtic beauty he had traced, or fancied he 
 could trace, one of those extraordinary resem- 
 blances which sometimes, in our walk through 
 life — lookino- back, it mav be, alono; the "won- 
 drous track of dreams" — startle us into retro- 
 spective thought. 
 
 "How hke! My G— d! how hke !" he said 
 to himself. " The same fair hair, and loner dark 
 eyelashes. The same — " 
 
 "I beg yom' pardon. Colonel Norcott; but I 
 believe you are thinldng of Mrs. John Beacham ?'* 
 and a middle-aged woman, neatly but plainly 
 dressed, who had approached unperceived (so con- 
 stant was the hum of voices, and so soft and thick 
 the tnrf beneath her tread), dropped a curtsey 
 to the gentleman, and begged to say that her 
 name was Bridget Bainbridge. 
 
 As is the frequent case with intriguing persons. 
 Colonel Norcott's first idea, when he chanced to 
 
302 HIXK OR SWIM. 
 
 find himself accosted by a stranger, was, that lie 
 was about to be inijiosed upon ; he . therefore — 
 iilbeit a little taken aback by the sound of a 
 name which he had not heard for many a bygone 
 year — commenced an immediate scrutiny of the 
 woman's features, in order the better to secure 
 himself against the evil of being " done." Appa- 
 rently the investigation was corroborative, for after 
 a moment or two he said in a hurried whisper : 
 
 " It is a long time since we met, and you have 
 chosen rather a public i)lace in which to make 
 yourself known. If you have anything to say, go 
 in that direction," and he pointed to a narrow 
 pathway, leading to a dense shrubbery of ever- 
 greens. "Go," he continued authoratively ; "and 
 I ^^'ill join you in a few moments." 
 
 The woman who had called herself Bridget 
 Bainbridge seemed about to speak, then stopped, 
 hesitated a little, as if unable to make up her 
 mind as to the best course to be pursued, and 
 finally decided on following the Colonel's direc- 
 tions. The latter, after waiting — Avith a strange 
 look of perplexity in his face — for a few brief 
 moments, turned away in an opposite direction, 
 but in one which, for he knew the "lay" of the 
 Danescourt grounds well, would conduct him 
 eventually to the place where Mrs. Bainbridge was 
 waiting for his coming. His step was far slower 
 
A TOUCH OF THE SPUR. 303 
 
 now, and infinitely less assured, than when he had 
 advanced with that air conqucrant of his to damage 
 with a word and look the peace of mind of that 
 bright rustic beauty. There was evidence of 
 thought in his lowered head, and of a nameless 
 anxiety in his knitted brow. Something had tamed 
 his spirits since he had caught sight of that 
 quiet-looking middle-aged female, and as he ap- 
 proached the place where she was waiting for 
 him, the pulsations of his heart grew quicker, and 
 large beads of sweat stood out upon his forehead. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 ROBSON AND SON, GREAT NORTHERN PRINTING WORKS, 
 
 PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. 
 
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