“Only some tea,” Honor said, “and soon, please.”
She was beginning to feel rather faint from fasting, and the thought of tea and bread-and-butter, albeit the cates to be provided by Mrs. Casey were little likely to be tempting, was rather agreeable to her imagination.
“Directly,” was the prompt reply of the woman whom Honor, though she could not have told the reason why, liked less well every time she saw her. And Mrs. Casey was as good, and indeed, to Honor’s annoyance, even better than her word; for with “the tea,” which made its appearance in the form of battered Britannia metal, cracked and cemented crockery, damp bread, and sky-blue milk, came in due form, and with a manner that was decidedly patronising, the landlady herself. Seating herself on the comfortless little sofa by Honor’s side, the Widow Casey (Honor might, if she had cared to listen, have speedily known a good deal concerning that respectable person’s antecedents) commenced a series of what she imagined to be highly ingenious and diplomatic queries regarding her lodger’s birth and parentage, her education and her antecedents. To the best of her ability, Honor warded off the danger of making any direct reply to these troublesome investigations. She had taken the precaution to remove her wedding-ring, and could therefore pass herself off as Miss Blake, an orphan whose friends were tired of supporting her, and who was therefore desirous of finding her own living in the best way she could. The person she was expecting was a married gentleman. Honor laid especial stress on that fact, though it was quite evident that Mrs. Casey’s “O, indeed!” did not proclaim any very satisfactory effect produced upon her mind by the knowledge of Mr. Vavasour’s connubial condition. After that trifling episode, the self-invited visitor remained for a good hour, as if glued to the piece of furniture of which she had taken uninvited possession; and it was owing to no absence of loquacity on her part if, before that hour was over, Honor was not well aware of certain interesting portions of her landlady’s family history—namely, that she too had the bad luck to be an “orphan;” that Casey, poor fellow, loved his drop, which was often a loss and a hindrance to her well-doing; that her favourite son had been drowned at sea, and her daughter had just five months before married a gentleman in the surveying line, who had his horse and shay, and could keep her, bless you! like a lady.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JOHN DISCOVERS HIS LOSS.
Four o’clock had long ago struck,—for those were busy times for John, and people who could not be put off came to him at all hours on matters connected with his industrie,—four o’clock had long ago struck before John’s hearty voice—it was the kind of voice that sent a feeling of serenity through the whole house in which it had a right to resound—made itself heard in the hall and passages of Pear-tree House.
“Mother! Hallo! O, there you are.” And then it was, “Where’s Honor, mother? Upstairs, eh?”
Mrs. Beacham both looked and felt uncomfortable. It was now many hours since she had seen the daughter-in-law whose feelings she was well aware she had galled and wounded to the utmost. Where those hours had been spent by Honor—whether in the solitude of her own room, or wandering out into the fields—whether in paying a visit to her friends the Clays (at which news Mrs. Beacham would have secretly greatly rejoiced), the latter knew not. All of which she felt quite certain was, that John would demand a strict account of his wife’s proceedings, whether those proceedings were voluntary or otherwise; and if Honor had in very truth been some seven or eight hours alone and without food, the old lady did not doubt that he would be very seriously displeased. John was not habitually an observant man; but there was that in his mother’s face which made him suspect that something was wrong. That she had been, during his absence, harsh with, if not, indeed, positively unkind to, his young wife, was, however, the worst of John Beacham’s fears; but these were disagreeable and annoying enough; and it was with the evident irritation of a hasty-tempered man that he repeated the words:
“Where is Honor? She isn’t ill, mother, is she? Or” (more nervously still) “is anything the matter?”
“Nothing, that I know of,” replied Mrs. Beacham ceremoniously. It always provoked her to see John “fussing,” as she called it, over his wife. “Honor is in her own room, I suppose, looking over her finery, as usual. If you want her, you had better call her down.”
John waited not to hear this piece of advice. A strange but faint presentiment of evil—not the evil that had overtaken him, that was too terrible to have entered even the outside confines of his imagination, but a sense that some annoyance was preparing—oppressed and worried him. Mounting the stairs with hasty footsteps, and calling his wife’s name the while, he was very speedily at the chamber-door, where he tapped—as was his wont—very softly for admittance,—softly at first; and then, receiving no reply, he repeated the summons more noisily; but still without the desired effect. Then, and not till then, he entered, and was surprised—though not yet roused to a state of alarm—by the condition in which he found the usually neat and well-ordered sleeping-room. On the bed, which, tossed and tumbled, bore marks of having been pressed by the weight of a reclining and very restless figure, lay near the pillow a handkerchief still wet with abundant tears; while open drawers, a small, very small, jewel-casket standing—not its usual place—conspicuously upon the toilet-table, and a certain general disarray suggestive of departure, made, for a single moment, John’s heart to stand still within him for fear.