Sink or Swim? , Volume I

It would be hard to say whether gratified maternal pride or a perhaps natural jealousy was uppermost in Mrs. Beacham's mind when she saw from her parlour window the uproarious advent of her belongings. It was delightful to think how popular John was, -- for what but the respect and affection 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 Paddocks? It was pleasant also to reflect that she was the mother of one whom the world delighted to honour; but with that reflection came the alloying thought that another, _id est_, the "Irish gel" sitting 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 return of her son from his first lengthened absence was a long, rambling, one-storied abode, built of brick whose hue was mellowed 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 throughout 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 passing in the Paddocks outside. They could trace the well-kept private road winding through the bright green meadows, which were portioned off from each other by shade-giving hedgerows, and dotted with white freshly-painted gates. Many a time had Mrs. Beacham, knitting in hand -- she could make a stocking blindfold, as the good woman 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 -- listening for the sound of his well-hung dog-cart, or the swift footsteps of the weight-carrying thoroughbred bearing his owner home, after a hard day's exercise, to his evening meal.