Nor were matters much better as regarded the relations between Mrs. Beacham and her silent daughter-in-law. The old lady, whose heart had begun to warm towards John’s well-descended wife, was not well pleased to find that Honor scarcely seemed aware of the change of manner adopted in her favour. Always courteous, but never familiar, Mrs. John Beacham (and the result was scarcely to be wondered at) conveyed the impression that she was proud; and this conviction hardened more than one heart against the suffering girl. Proud! What was there, in very truth, in her birth to excite sensations of arrogance and self-esteem in even the weakest of human hearts? Could Honor have been able to answer this question as it should have been answered, there would have been a better chance of safety for this poor, ignorant, and ambitious girl. As it was, however, the senseless idea that she was a lady, and the memories of those superior refinements in habits, manners, and _entourage_ which (in connection with her father and his belongings) clung around her, were fatal to Honor’s happiness and peace of mind. If she only, in those miserable days, when everyone--when even John himself--seemed estranged from her, could have been blessed with that chiefest of blessings, the blessing of _hope_--hope in the shape of a tenderly longed-for maternity--all might, in spite of the past, have been well with poor little Honor Beacham; but of that--the commonest of earthly boons--there appeared to be no immediate prospect. By one of those strange caprices of Nature, which we find it so hard to understand, this woman, with the large tender heart, whose love for children, and indeed all helpless things, was almost intense, seemed destined (as the months wore on, and still there was no call for the pretty preparations which so delight the heart of a young, expectant mother) to be childless. That this seemed not unlikely to be the case, was a constant source of aggravation to old Mrs. Beacham; and in moments of strong irritation against Honor, she would even go so far as to endeavour to make John share her feelings on the subject. “It all comes of marrying a fine lady,” she said one day, as her son, with the look of care that had grown habitual to his honest face, was taking what he called a “snack,” previous to a hurried journey up to London on business. “In my time, married women had children, and plenty of ’em, if so be they kep their healths. There’d have been four of you, John, as you know, if I hadn’t buried three, bless ’em! before they--”