Instinctively the young wife, as the gaunt figure of the old woman, clad in the sternest of nightcaps and the most uncompromising of flannel gowns, made its appearance in the doorway, turned an appealing face to her husband, thus mutely claiming his protection and support. Unfortunately, however, for this weak vessel, whose conscience was assisting to render her a coward, the language of _looks_ was an unknown one to single-eyed John Beacham. In addition also to this ignorance, it would have been hard to make him understand that it was against his own mother that Honor, in that piteous glance of hers, entreated that he would array himself. He was experiencing at that moment one of the effects of a long habit of filial obedience and respect, and that effect was a real regret that his aged parent should have her rest disturbed, and her mind harassed by his wife’s--to say the least of it--thoughtless conduct. John’s affection for his mother was too deeply rooted to be easily shaken; and though he had, for a passing moment, been softened, quelled, subdued by his tenderness for his wife--though he had for a short while forgotten that Honor had, in more ways than one, braved, disobeyed, and utterly deceived him--yet, with the presence of the respectable and unimpeachably virtuous woman who had first opened his unwilling eyes to the culprit’s errors, the remembrance of those errors crowded once more thick and fast upon him; so thick and fast that his very face grew darker and more serious, whilst Mrs. Beacham, happily unconscious that her appearance was not precisely a dignified one, advanced slowly, candle in hand, into the room. CHAPTER XII. MRS. BEACHAM REFUSES TO FORGET. “Well, mother,” John said airily, and with the laudable desire of making things pass off with ease and comfort to all parties--“well, mother, we’ve got Honor back again, you see; but I’m sorry you got up. I tried to keep Hannah quiet, but she’s got a foot like a cart-horse, and a voice like a peacock, hang her!” “I wasn’t asleep, my dear,” sighed the old lady, seating herself with a dignified air--the effect of which was slightly neutralised by the above-named dressing-gown and cap--“I wasn’t asleep; it ain’t easy to be with all that is going on;” and she folded her aged hands before her with an air of patient resignation, which was not without its effect upon poor John. For that excellent man, at this crisis of his hitherto unexciting life, was really very greatly to be pitied. Longing, above all things, for peace and quietness--loving his young wife with a deep and passionate fondness, and sincerely wishing that his respected parent might find a dutiful daughter in his precious Honor--it was to him a terrible thought that a “scene” of some kind must inevitably take place before matters could run smoothly again between his womankind.