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diff --git a/78596-0.txt b/78596-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cbd9091 --- /dev/null +++ b/78596-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4725 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78596 *** + + + + +A FATAL SILENCE + + BY + FLORENCE MARRYAT + + AUTHOR OF + ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ETC., ETC., ETC. + + _IN THREE VOLUMES_ + + VOL. II. + + LONDON + + GRIFFITH FARRAN OKEDEN & WELSH + NEWBERY HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD + AND SYDNEY. + + + + + D.: G. C. & CO.: 30.91. + + _The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved._ + + + + +_CONTENTS._ + + + PAGE + CHAPTER I. + PAULA IS MARRIED, 1 + + CHAPTER II. + A TRIUMPHANT RETURN, 28 + + CHAPTER III. + PAULA’S VISITORS, 60 + + CHAPTER IV. + LADY BRISTOWE, 89 + + CHAPTER V. + A MYSTERIOUS LOSS, 124 + + CHAPTER VI. + THE WIDOW’S STRATAGEM, 154 + + CHAPTER VII. + THE SCANDAL SPREADS, 183 + + CHAPTER VIII. + A VALIANT PARTISAN, 202 + + CHAPTER IX. + NEW PROSPECTS, 221 + + + + +A FATAL SILENCE. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +PAULA IS MARRIED. + + +Hal Rushton was very anxious that Mrs Sutton should live with Paula and +himself at Deepdale. The old lady was fragile, and he thought it would +gratify his future wife to make the last years of her mother’s life +comfortable. He would have liked to see the unfortunate offspring of +Carl Bjornsën put away in an asylum, or under judicious guardianship, +and so have removed from his sight and memory for ever all trace of +Paula’s first marriage. And if he could only forget it, as if it had +never been (he said to himself), he should be so inexplicably happy. +But, as Paula had anticipated, Mrs Sutton refused either to live at +Highbridge Hall or to give up the charge of her little grandson. She +loved the helpless child--that was the first reason, but there was +another. The local practitioner of Grassdene, who had known the little +imbecile from his birth, and all the circumstances of the case, had +persuaded a friend of his--a famous brain doctor, who was taking a +holiday at Lynmouth--to see the child and pass an opinion on him, +and his verdict had been that Paulie would never be any better, and +was very unlikely to live over fourteen or fifteen years of age. So, +as long as he lived, his grandmother declared she would never part +with him. This settled the question, for much as Hal would have liked +his wife to enjoy the society of her mother, the resolution they had +arrived at, not to let the public of Deepdale into the secret of +Paula’s former life, entirely prohibited the presence of the little +boy at Highbridge Hall. So he spent the few weeks before his marriage +in a state of feverish anxiety, rushing about after painters and +upholsterers, and ready to fly in a temper with everybody, and to +declare nothing was being done well enough, nor quickly enough, for the +divinity that was coming to bring the sunshine of Heaven upon the old +place. Mr and Mrs Measures were both very good to the hot-headed young +man in those days--the lady especially so. She it was who restrained +his extravagance, and prevented his destroying the calm and mellow +tone of the old Hall by the introduction of a lot of modern furniture +and pictures that would have killed half its beauty. Hal had never had +his taste educated or directed. All he wanted to do was to provide +everything that Paula could possibly desire, and he was ready, in +consequence, to take any advice that Mr Snoad of Haltham chose to give +him. But Mrs Measures was his guardian angel in this particular, and +the old rooms bloomed anew in soft, subdued colours under her guiding +hand. She took a delight in making the house look as superior to +all other houses in Deepdale as she possibly could. She was secretly +overjoyed at the idea of Paula Stafford coming back to queen it over +the Gribbles and Axworthys, and the rest of the parishioners, who had +hounded her from the village, and she had taken such a dislike to her +successor, rosy-cheeked, glossy-haired Miss Brown, that the vicar could +hardly persuade her to enter the schoolhouse. + +‘A vulgar, presuming, underbred little body, who talks to me as if I +were her equal,’ she exclaimed. ‘Who can expect these ignorant children +to improve under her auspices? They have lost half that Miss Stafford +taught them already. Ah, what short-sighted fools they were to drive +that girl away, and how glad I am that Hal Rushton had the wisdom to +see what a pearl had been cast amongst swine.’ + +And, notwithstanding the vicar’s remonstrances, the steadfast hearted +little woman made use of the same expression in the very teeth of Mr +Gribble. + +‘Good-morning, ma’am,’ he said one day as he met her coming out of the +schoolroom; ‘you have been to see our dear Miss Brown engaged in her +labours of love.’ + +‘Labours of love! do you call them, Mr Gribble? Is not Miss Brown +receiving the usual teacher’s stipend?’ asked Mrs Measures. + +‘Surely, ma’am, and well she deserves it, too. Such a pious young +woman, affording so hexcellent an example to our dear little ones. I am +sure my good lady and I say that we can never be sufficiently thankful +as we found Miss Brown. Quite a godsend in every sense of the word.’ + +‘Indeed, I fancy I heard you say something of the same kind respecting +Miss Stafford when she first came to Deepdale.’ + +‘Ah! but pardon me, ma’am, _I_ knows, and all Deepdale knows, as you +take an uncommon interest in that young person--so you’ll pardon me, +ma’am, for saying as we was grossly deceived.’ + +‘I quite agree with you, Mr Gribble,’ retorted the vicar’s wife; ‘you +_were_ grossly deceived in Miss Stafford, but it was not your fault so +much as your ignorance and the ignorance of your friends. Miss Stafford +was a great deal too good for the position she held here, and you were +unable to appreciate her. She is a lady by birth and breeding, and I +rejoice to think she is coming back to hold her proper position amongst +us as Mr Rushton’s wife. It was misfortune that compelled her to stoop +to the office of teacher to the children of Deepdale, and I think it +was very brave of her to accept it. But she was a pearl cast before +swine, and so anyone who compared her with Miss Brown would say.’ + +‘A _what_, ma’am?’ demanded the churchwarden, unable to believe his +ears. + +‘A pearl cast before swine, Mr Gribble,’ repeated Mrs Measures, ‘and I +have told the vicar so several times.’ + +Mr Gribble did not know what to answer. He was boiling over with rage, +and yet he dared not offend the vicar’s wife by expressing his real +feelings. So he smiled in a sickly manner, and said,-- + +‘Well, ma’am, of course we all know as Miss Stafford is a favourite of +yours and the vicar’s, and I daresay she made her story good in your +eyes. Still, ma’am, when you talk of a _pearl_, ma’am, and _swine_, +ma’am, I must say I consider the comparison ’ard.’ + +‘I can’t help what you think about it, Mr Gribble. It will not change +my opinion. Miss Stafford is my friend, and Mrs Hal Rushton will be my +friend, and whoever thinks anything but what is good of her will have +to keep it to himself or answer to Mr Rushton for it. Good-day,’ and +without further comment Mrs Measures passed on. + +‘Well, my dear, things _is_ come to a pretty pass,’ Mrs Gribble +confided to Mrs Axworthy later on, ‘when a clergyman’s wife calls her +’usband’s parishioners _pigs_ to their faces. That’s what _we_ all +are, Mrs Axworthy, ma’am--pigs and swine. And Miss Stafford, who had +gentlemen in to supper unbeknown to all, is a pearl of great price. +Why, it’s blasphemous, that’s what it is, and Mr Gribble says it ought +to be reported to the bishop. Swine, indeed! I’d like to know what Mrs +Measures is herself, then. Why, she ain’t got a dress in her bureau +as is worth the value of my Sunday satin. She’s a nice person to go +talking about _swine_. It makes me sick.’ + +And here Mrs Rushton ‘dropped in’ for five minutes’ talk, and the story +was repeated to her, and soon made the round of every house in the +village. But though everyone fumed and spluttered over it, no one dared +to resent it, except to one another. They could not afford to make a +public example of Mrs Measures’ offensive remark. Were they not all +tradesmen, and dependent in a great measure on the patronage of the +vicarage and the Hall? Had not even the great Mr Gribble an interest in +supplying corn and oats to Mr Rushton’s stables? So they chewed the cud +of bitterness in silence so far as the Hall and vicarage were concerned. + +At last August drew to a close--the house was ready for the reception +of the bride--and Hal Rushton packed up his portmanteau and prepared +to start for Devon. Mrs Measures was the last person to shake hands +with him. + +‘Mind you are to bring her straight to us,’ she cried cheerily. ‘I +shall expect you both in a fortnight’s time. Tell Paula she must take +us as she finds us. There will be no preparation, and no fuss--only a +hearty welcome--unless, indeed,’ she added, laughing, ‘Mr Gribble takes +it into his head to erect a flowery arch, with an appropriate motto on +it.’ + +‘And Mrs Rushton, senior, stops the carriage to present her with a +bouquet,’ said Hal, infected with the idea. ‘No, no, Mrs Measures, we +shall look for only one honour, and that will be your welcoming smile. +Good-bye.’ And with a touch of his hat, off he flew in his dog-cart, +with a radiant face, to catch the train at Haltham. + +Paula had objected to being married in Grassdene. Her first wedding had +taken place there, and the church was full of unpleasant remembrances. +So it had been arranged that they should go over to Lynmouth, with only +Mrs Sutton and the good old doctor, whose name was Gibbon, and after +the ceremony and a lunch at the hotel the elders were to return to +Grassdene together, and leave the bride and bridegroom to themselves. +Hal had pleaded for a quiet honeymoon. He hated the idea of leaving +England, and rushing about foreign towns like two strangers--dragging +his wife about from one place of amusement to another, and leaving +themselves no leisure for quiet talk or mutual acquaintance with each +other’s minds. Happily, Paula held the same opinions. She loved her +promised husband dearly. All she wanted was himself, and the less +they mixed with other people the better she should be pleased. So +they agreed to spend their short holiday at Lynmouth, where they were +equally unknown, and Hal had secured rooms at a quiet hotel close +to the lovely wooded slopes of Devon, the land of ferns and rocks +and rivulets, and everything that is dreamy, poetical and romantic. +Here, for the time being (mamma and the doctor having been carted +back to Grassdene), they were absurdly and ridiculously happy. The +weather was glorious, and as soon as their breakfast was completed +they would wander forth together, armed with books and shawls and a +luncheon basket, and try to lose themselves in the lovely glades by +which Lynmouth is surrounded. Then, when Hal had found a particularly +enticing little bower, where the leafy branches made a canopy overhead, +and the carpet was formed of moss and tiny fern fronds, he would spread +out the shawls for Paula to rest upon, and cast himself full length +at her feet, with his head upon her lap and his eyes cast upward to +her face. And she would open a book and commence to read to him, but +there were so many interruptions of a frivolous nature that she would +generally lay it aside in despair, and drift into conversation instead. +And these conversations proved the first real insight she gained to her +lover’s soul. Now, with the sweet familiarity of husband and wife, they +could talk to each other as they had never talked before, and Hal told +her all that was in his mind, and all that had been there since he had +waked up to the knowledge that he had a mind at all. She had known him +hitherto as a frank, generous hearted and pleasant spoken man, who was +brave and fearless, fond of all field sports and country amusements, +and especially fond of herself. But she had had no notion, until she +married him, of how much more there was in Hal Rushton than all that. +He was no student, and not much of a reader, but he had studied nature +deeply, and he had thought upon all sorts of subjects. _She_ interested +him because she was a little encyclopedia of knowledge, and had a most +retentive memory for chapter and verse, and _he_ interested her because +he seemed to have arrived at so many of the same conclusions as she +had entirely by thinking out the subject for himself, without any aid +from literature. And so they grew to be great friends--these two--and +confidants, which is quite apart from and very much better than being +great lovers. + +‘I know that I am an awful duffer,’ said Hal one day, when Paula had +expressed her surprise at the accuracy of his scientific knowledge, +‘but you see I’ve got into a habit of thinking out things by myself, +as I ride or walk about the country fields and lanes. I’ve led a very +lonely life, you know, darling, hitherto. My father never associated +with me. He was an old man when I was born, and I suppose my society +bored him. And when that detestable woman took up a position in the +house, I saw less of him still. And since his death you may imagine +the life I’ve led with the widow and her son. The only pleasure I had +was trying to get out of their presence. So I have grown up very much +alone, and been accustomed to puzzle out my ideas by myself, without +appealing to the opinion of anyone. I am afraid you will find me a very +rough, ignorant sort of fellow, darling (I warned you of that, you may +remember, long ago), but you will bear with me, won’t you, and teach me +better, because I worship the very ground you tread on.’ + +‘But, Hal, you underrate yourself,’ Paula replied. ‘You must possess +a very deep-thinking brain to have arrived at the opinions you hold +without the help of anybody. It is easy enough to learn what others +have written down for us, but a very different thing to work the +problems out for ourselves. I will not let you depreciate your talents +any more. I am never tired of hearing you talk. I could listen for +hours. You know so much about plants and flowers and animals, and the +weather, and all that concerns that sweet, happy nature, the memory of +which even seems to have been obliterated from my mind by--’ + +But Hal put his hand over her mouth. + +‘Against orders,’ he cried gaily. ‘We are going to live together, +please God, for many years, amidst the sweet, happy nature you admire, +and all that you do not know about it I will teach you. Paula, have you +ever ridden on horseback?’ + +‘No, dear, I have never had the opportunity to learn.’ + +‘I will teach you, darling. What a pleasure it will be to me. For I +flatter myself that if I _do_ know anything, it is about horses. And +my friend Ashfold of Haltham has the prettiest little mare for sale +you ever saw, and as quiet as a lamb. I will write to him about her +to-morrow.’ + +‘You mustn’t be extravagant, dear Hal, to procure me luxuries. I can be +quite content without riding on horseback.’ + +‘But I shall never be content till I see you there. Your lovely figure +will be shown off to perfection in a habit. Only, you must promise me +one thing, Paula.’ + +‘What is that?’ + +‘Not to take to hunting.’ She laughed merrily at the idea of flying +over hedges and ditches when she had never yet sat in the saddle. ‘Ah, +you may laugh, darling, but you don’t know how soon the desire may come +to you, nor how infectious it is. But I couldn’t bear it, Paula. It +would destroy all my nerve to know you were in the field. I should give +up following the hounds myself. I should be so terribly anxious.’ + +‘Dear boy, don’t excite yourself about it. I expect I shall have enough +to do looking after that big house without thinking of hunting, neither +have I any desire that way. But if the idea makes you nervous, I will +promise you never to do it.’ + +‘Thank you, dear. It is a great relief to my mind. I don’t think that +without it I could ever have taught you to ride. I have seen such +horrible accidents occur in the field--and to think of one’s wife, +one’s own flesh and blood, being mangled or killed in that manner--’ +He shut his eyes for a moment, as though to shut out the sight, and +then continued: ‘There is a girl, Amy Willard, whom I have known from +childhood. She is the daughter of a neighbouring farmer, and is a +splendid horsewoman--indeed, she was put in the saddle almost as soon +as she could sit there by herself--and she attends all the meets. Well, +do you know, she has spoiled many a good day’s hunting for me, for +when the run is unusually hard, or the ground is broken up, I cannot +get her out of my head, and am always wondering if she has come to +grief, or not. Women are at such a terrible disadvantage in the hunting +field.’ + +‘Well, I will never spoil your pleasure in that way, Hal, for I know +how much you enjoy it.’ + +‘Oh, I like a run, now and then, as well as the best of them, but I +expect I sha’n’t hunt as regularly this season as I have been used to +do.’ + +‘Yes, you must. It will vex me if you give up any of your usual habits +for my sake. Besides, I am proud of your prowess in the hunting field, +and last autumn I used to think you looked so handsome in your pink +coat and top-boots, as you rode home past the schoolhouse window.’ + +‘Little flatterer! I shall want you to drive out in your pony chaise +sometimes and see the hounds throw off. It is such a pretty sight. You +will have to learn to drive as well as ride, Paula. Did I tell you that +I had sold the phaeton and bought a low basket-carriage instead, with a +nice little black pony, for you to jog along the country lanes in? And +your great lumbering husband will jog with you sometimes, sweetheart, +if you will let him.’ + +‘Oh, Hal, you are too good to me. Driving about in my own carriage! +Why, I sha’n’t know myself. And that dear old garden, too, at which +I sometimes peeped through the drive gates, I look forward so to +wandering about it. I shall feel as if I were in a dream when I find +myself settled down for ever at Highbridge Hall.’ + +‘You don’t know half the treasures I have to show you yet, Paula. I +hope you like dogs, my dear?’ + +‘Very much. I had a little terrier once, long, long ago, that I loved +like a child. It had grown up with me from a puppy. It was my little +friend.’ + +‘And what became of it?’ + +Paula flushed. + +‘You had better not ask me,’ she replied in a low voice. + +‘That brute wouldn’t let you keep it?’ said Hal interrogatively. + +‘Worse than that. He nearly kicked it to death because--because--it +came on the quarter-deck after me, and then he flung it into the sea. I +can’t think of it even now, Hal,’ said Paula in a faltering voice, ‘I +loved the poor little thing so.’ + +‘I wonder the fellows on board ship didn’t lynch that man twenty times +over. However, let’s hope he’s got it hot now,’ replied Hal fiercely. +‘But don’t cry, my angel. I know one dog can’t make up for the loss of +another, but you shall keep as many as you like at the Hall. You have +seen some of my golden setters. I am considered rather famous for them +in the county, and sell a couple of dozen puppies sometimes in the +year. I am sure you must love puppies?’ + +‘Oh, yes, and kittens and chickens, and everything that is young,’ she +replied eagerly, and then, checking herself, she continued slowly: +‘Isn’t it sad, Hal, that loving them all as I do I should feel it so +difficult to love my own child? I don’t care for him half so much as +mother does. Poor little fellow! He repels me sometimes, and seems to +be an epitome of all my miserable past.’ + +‘Dearest, I can quite understand the feeling. It is one of the +unhappinesses I mean to strive to make you forget. It would have been +better if God had seen fit to take the poor little chap. But as He +hasn’t, I am glad your mother is so fond of him. But don’t dwell on +the subject, Paula. Your best comfort lies in the fact that the child +is unconscious of his loss. _He_ is happy enough, there is no doubt of +that.’ + +‘Oh, yes, and this is the last time in my life in which to worry +myself unnecessarily. For you have made me so happy, love. I cannot +recognise in myself the wretched, despondent girl who used to toil +to put something like sense into the brains of those awful children +at Deepdale. And now to go back to the very same place as _your +wife_--_I_, whom Mr Gribble used to think he highly honoured by giving +a seat in his gig to Haltham. Oh, it does make me laugh so to think +of it, dear, all the time I am ready to weep with gratitude for your +having changed my prison to a paradise.’ + +‘And what have you done for me, Paula? Made me know happiness for the +first time in my life. I can conceive in all the world no greater +bliss than this. To be alone with the woman I love best--with my own +wife--and to know that neither of us has a thought that is not shared +by the other. You have seen that I am a jealous man, dear. That is +true, though I do not anticipate that you will ever make me jealous of +any other man in the future.’ + +‘Oh! never, _never_, Hal.’ + +‘But if anything _could_ rouse my jealous feelings again, it would be +to know that you had any greater _friend_ than myself, that there was +anyone in the wide world who shared a thought you would not confide to +me. That conviction would make me so hopeless, in thinking that though +I held your body I had no power to enchain your mind. One soul, one +body. That is my idea of a true marriage. And though your body were to +decay, I could still be happy, knowing I held the key to your soul. +But your body, however fresh and beautiful, would be worthless to me +without the other and dearer claim. I don’t know if I make myself plain +to you. I tumble all my stupid thoughts out at your feet. But that is +the delight of having a friend, that one need never be at the trouble +of appearing at one’s best.’ + +‘But you are always at your best to me, Hal, and I agree with every +word you say. And you need never be afraid I shall have a closer friend +or confidant than yourself. Indeed, with the exception of dear kind Mrs +Measures, I do not expect to have many friends in Deepdale. I wonder +what attitude your stepmother will assume towards me. She cannot feel +very cordially disposed, since my advent ousts her from the Hall.’ + +‘I won’t answer for what she _feels_, but I am quite sure she will not +display any open hostility towards you. I am rather afraid of having +too much of the other thing. But pray don’t encourage her, Paula. Place +her visits to the Hall at once on a formal footing, and don’t let her +get too familiar with you. If you do, she will try to re-establish +herself as one of the family. And I have had more than enough of +her, darling. She is a vulgar, illiterate woman, not fit to be your +companion, and though my father unfortunately gave her our name, I will +never own her as a relation. She has her own house now, and let her +stay in it. I will have the Hall no longer polluted by her presence.’ + +‘It will be rather difficult, I am afraid, to keep her out of it, when +it has been her home for so many years,’ said Paula dubiously. + +‘It will require tact, but I am determined it shall be done,’ replied +her husband. ‘If we don’t make a stand against it, we shall have that +woman and her son sitting down with us at every meal, and offering to +share our drives and walks. No, no; I have married you for myself, and +I mean to keep you to myself. I will not have you herding with Mrs +Rushton and Mrs Gribble and Mrs Axworthy, and others like them. There +are one or two ladies in Deepdale besides Mrs Measures, and a few more +in Haltham, and if they don’t care to know us, we’ll do without any +society but our own; for I am determined you shall never be pulled down +to the level of the envious, back-biting crew who drove you out of your +appointment.’ + +‘Oh, Hal,’ sighed Paula, ‘sometimes I think, suppose I should bring +you into an atmosphere of strife and disunion, instead of peace and +happiness?’ + +‘Strife and disunion!’ he echoed, laughing, ‘how should they hurt us so +long as there is love and unity in our own hearts? But I have plucked +my White Rose, and I will not have her dragged down again to the dirty +level of these people. You were placed on it by the appointment you +held amongst them, but you have risen above it to your proper position, +and you shall not descend again, unless it be through condescension. +But they will not easily forgive you for having frustrated their +designs, and the less you have to say to them at all the better. But +come, my darling, the dew is beginning to fall. We had better stroll +back to dinner. I must not risk your taking cold, even for such a +lovely time as this.’ + +After a fortnight spent much in the same manner, the lovers began to +think of turning their steps homeward in right earnest. For though +they dearly loved each other, they were both sensible that life held +too many serious duties to permit of such a time of idle dalliance +lasting for ever or even being satisfactory for very long. Hal began +to think of his stables more often than he had done, and to wonder if +his head-groom Derrick was doing his duty by the horses, and checking +the corn-chandler’s account regularly. And Paula was secretly longing +to view her new possessions and mount authority over the domestic +arrangements at the Hall--to enter, in fact, upon the little kingdom of +which Hal had made her queen. + +‘Such a notable housekeeper as you are, who can make tea as beautifully +as you did for me once or twice in the schoolhouse,’ he said, laughing, +‘will be delighted with the stores of linen and china and glass at the +Hall. Not that I know much about it myself, but Mrs Measures assured me +they were quite _unique_. But I am not going to have you turn yourself +into a drudge, my Paula, mind that. You may superintend your maids as +much as you like, but they must do the work for you, or they must go. +I want you to sing and play, and read and ride, and enjoy your life +to the utmost. You have had enough hardship already, poor child, God +knows. The future shall be as bright and pleasant as I can make it for +you.’ + +Paula could not answer him. A big ball rose in her throat to prevent +it. But she squeezed his arm tight, and a prayer went up from her very +heart to God to make her grateful for all His benefits. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +A TRIUMPHANT RETURN. + + +Amongst Mrs Measures’ most intimate friends was Lady Bristowe. She did +not live in Deepdale, but at a big place called Tor Abbey, some miles +distant, and as she was the widow of Admiral Sir Thomas Bristowe, and +had a large income, the country people considered her to be a very +grand lady indeed. In reality she was a very uninteresting personage. +Her fat, soft, foolish face, with its triple chins, was always +good-natured and smiling, but her intellect was at the lowest ebb, and +she was ready to be swayed by every contrary wind of doctrine, and to +believe all that was told to her. Had it not been, indeed, for the +sagacity of her companion, Miss Sarah Brennan, Lady Bristowe would +have been oftener taken in than she was. Miss Brennan was a sharp, +keen woman, between thirty and forty years of age, with a suspicious +nature, an evil tongue, and a propensity for the society of the lower +classes. She was half a lady’s maid and half a companion, of sufficient +unimportance to be thrust in the background whenever it was convenient +for her employer to do so, and yet considered good enough to sit with +Lady Bristowe, and take her meals at table, whenever there was no one +better to be procured. For, with all her riches, her ladyship was a +lonely woman, and wanted an object in life. She had but one child--a +son, who was in the Royal Navy, and generally away at sea--and she soon +tired of her country amusements, her poultry yard and flower garden +and pet spaniels, when she had no one but Miss Sarah Brennan to talk +to about them. It was this reason that had made her take to driving +over to see Mrs Measures much oftener than was convenient to that +busy little woman. She would be just looking over the vicar’s linen, +perhaps--or making a cake for Sunday, or superintending the pickling +of gherkins, or the boiling of raspberry jam--when up the vicarage +drive would come rolling the open barouche of Lady Bristowe, with its +grand bay horses and its pompous men-servants, and her ladyship’s +portly figure occupying all the front seat, while Sarah Brennan sat +at the back, with a couple of Blenheim spaniels. But Mrs Measures had +never had the heart to repulse her ladyship’s friendship. She was too +good-natured to do so, and Lady Bristowe was too good-natured for +anyone to be angry with. She beamed with good-nature. She pressed her +benefits on those she liked, until it became impossible to refuse them. +And her fat, foolish face would shake with laughter over the silliest +story or the feeblest joke, whilst her companion sat opposite, with +hard, stony eyes and tightly compressed lips, the very model of a +dangerous and unsympathetic woman. Naturally Mrs Measures soon confided +the history of Hal Rushton’s love and marriage to Lady Bristowe. She +had called one day when the vicar’s wife was on the point of going +over to Highbridge Hall, and she had told her all about it. Not _quite_ +all, perhaps, for she omitted two of the leading incidents, one being +Paula Stafford’s quarrel with the churchwardens, the other that Hal’s +father’s widow was such a low and uneducated person. Mrs Measures +considered herself justified in withholding these facts, since she +did not see the use of repeating them, nor what business they were of +anyone but the parties concerned. So Lady Bristowe was left to imagine +that the pretty school teacher had relinquished her situation on +purpose to marry the handsome young farmer, and she thought it a most +romantic story. Indeed, she became quite enthusiastic about it, and all +the more so because Paula had turned out to be the daughter of a naval +officer. The Royal Navy was Lady Bristowe’s ‘fetish.’ Her father and +her brothers had all been sailors. She had married a sailor, and her +only child was a sailor, so that to pick up anything that had belonged +to the navy in Deepdale seemed like treasure-trove in her eyes. She +became quite anxious for the return of the bride and bridegroom, that +she might become personally acquainted with young Mrs Rushton, and +bestow some of her favours upon her. + +‘I have so few friends, you know, dear Mrs Measures,’ she said. ‘There +is positively no one fit to associate with about here except yourself +and Miss Levenson of Pryde and Lord and Lady Warden at Cheath Hall. It +will be a real pleasure if this young lady will visit me occasionally +at Tor Abbey. Oh, not just yet, of course,’ she continued, smiling +broadly; ‘we must give them time to grow a little tired of each other’s +company. _We_ know what it is at first, don’t we, Mrs Measures? You +haven’t forgotten, I daresay, any more than myself, all the billing and +cooing, and the dears and the darlings. The men are all alike, my dear. +But it wears off very soon, that’s the funny part of it,’ and Lady +Bristowe chuckled over the idea until her face was crimson. + +‘It is lucky it _does_ wear off,’ replied the vicar’s wife, ‘or it +would sadly interfere with the business of life. I wonder how the +house or the servants or the babies would get on if marriage were one +long honeymoon.’ + +‘Talking of houses,’ said Lady Bristowe, ‘I should like to see over +Highbridge Hall next time you go there, if you don’t think the young +people would consider it an impertinence.’ + +‘I am _sure_ they would not,’ replied Mrs Measures warmly. ‘They ought +to be flattered by the interest you take in it. The workmen have not +quite finished there yet, and I go over every afternoon to see how they +are getting on, for we expect Mr and Mrs Rushton home the second week +in September.’ + +‘They come to the vicarage first, do they not?’ + +‘Yes, for a week. I thought I could help Paula to put the finishing +touches to her house better if she were staying here instead of at +Highbridge Hall.’ + +‘I shall come over and make their acquaintance whilst they are with +you,’ said Lady Bristowe. + +‘They will be pleased, I am sure,’ responded her friend, ‘and I am +equally certain you will be pleased with them. I can assure you I look +upon them as quite my best friends in Deepdale.’ + +This conversation led to a visit to Highbridge Hall, where good-natured +Lady Bristowe discovered that the little greenhouse was rather +scantily furnished, and insisted upon filling it with exotics from her +magnificent glasshouses at Tor Abbey. + +‘We mustn’t let the bride come home and find anything wanting,’ she +said. ‘Now, really, my dear, you must let me have my way in this little +matter. You know we have dozens of plants more than we can use; indeed, +my gardener, Bennett, makes an income out of selling my seedlings. I +shall order him to stock this little house for the winter.’ + +‘I am sure Paula will deeply appreciate your kindness, Lady Bristowe. I +believe the child loves flowers above everything else, but Mr Rushton +has not turned his attention hitherto to ornamental gardening. He is +fonder of his stables. However, Paula will keep him up to it now.’ + +A few days after Mrs Measures mentioned that the day for their return +was fixed upon, and she intended to meet them at the Haltham station +and bring them home. + +‘What _in_, my dear?’ inquired her ladyship. + +Mrs Measures laughed a little, and said,-- + +‘Well, I mean to drive into Haltham in our own chaise, but as it only +holds two, I shall leave the man to bring it home, and hire an open fly +from Moore, which will carry us all three, and the luggage into the +bargain.’ + +‘Nonsense, my dear Mrs Measures; you will do no such thing. You will +take my carriage. Fancy bringing a bride and bridegroom home in a musty +old fly. I won’t hear of it. They must have the barouche, and are as +welcome to it as the flowers in May.’ + +‘But, my dear Lady Bristowe, this is going too far. The Rushtons have +no such claim on you. They are quite simple young people, you must +remember, and I am afraid it would seem like putting them under too +deep an obligation.’ + +‘What, my lending my carriage to _you_. No, no, you don’t get out of +it that way. It is at your disposal on the tenth, and will be at the +vicarage in time to meet the four o’clock train at Haltham.’ + +‘You are so kind, I don’t know how to refuse you,’ murmured Mrs +Measures, who yet saw the advantage to her young friends of such an +acquaintance, ‘but it seems too bad to deprive you of your carriage +this fine weather for even an afternoon. What will you do without it, +Lady Bristowe?’ + +‘Well, I was going to propose that, as there are four seats in the +barouche, I would drive into Haltham with you, that is to say if I +should not be in the way.’ + +‘_In the way!_ in your own carriage. How can you suggest such a thing?’ +replied the vicar’s wife reproachfully; ‘indeed you are altogether too +good, and I am sure Hal and Paula will say the same. This will make +their home coming quite a triumphal return.’ + +And in her heart Mrs Measures was secretly delighted at the idea of +the envy and surprise which would be excited in the breasts of Paula’s +enemies by the open interest displayed in her by the lady of Tor Abbey. +Of course everybody in Deepdale knew that she was expected to return +home with her husband on the tenth of September, and many were the +speculations as to whether she would feel her position so acutely as +to hide her confusion in a close fly, or whether she would be brazen +enough to drive through the village in an open one. Mrs Gribble, whose +‘viller’ was situated some way past the vicarage, took the trouble to +walk down to Mrs Axworthy’s cottage, which stood on the way to Haltham, +in order to watch from her front window for the Rushtons’ return, and +Mrs Axworthy sent her son Jemmy some little distance up the road in +order that he might run back and let them know as soon as ever the fly +came in sight. Mrs Measures, the better to baulk their curiosity, and +render the _dénoûement_ the more striking, had herself driven over to +the Abbey that morning and persuaded her friend to go to Haltham by +another route, so that the residents in Deepdale were quite ignorant +that she had started to meet the newly married couple. + +‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Gribble to Mrs Axworthy, ‘that the vicar’s wife +is a-fussing and a-fuming in the kitchen because her dear Miss Stafford +is coming ’ome. Redikerlous! Mrs Poland says she sent in two ducks and +an ’am there yesterday morning. Mutton and beef ain’t good enough, I +suppose, for such as she. She may be thankful if she finds meat in +her mouth to her life’s end, for notwithstanding all the fuss they’re +a-making about her, she ain’t no good, Mrs Axworthy, and that they’ll +find out to their cost before many years is over their ’eads. I pities +that pore young man from the bottom of my ’eart. He ain’t been all +he should have been, perhaps, to his stepma, but he’s deserving of a +better lot than this anyway.’ + +‘So _I_ sez,’ responded Mrs Axworthy, ‘but Mr Haxworthy, _he_ say that +they’re much of a muchness. Young Hal Rushton was always stuck-up and +himperent to his helders, and that’s a bad sign in a young man. Shall +you have a good view of them from where you hare, Mrs Gribble, or shall +we go hupstairs?’ + +‘Oh, no, thank you, I can see beautiful,’ replied Mrs Gribble, who was +ensconced behind a lace window curtain; ‘not that I cares much how the +minx looks, or don’t look, for never does she darken my doors, after +the insult she paid Mr Gribble, and she needn’t think it. I daresay she +thinks, now she’s a-coming ’ome as Mrs Rushton, and the ’All’s been +fresh done up for ’er, that the ladies of Deepdale will forget all +that’s gone before, and be ready to congratulate ’er upon ’er marriage. +But not _me_, Mrs Axworthy. I ain’t made of sich stuff. I’ve got a very +true ’eart, and a very feeling one, but I can’t forget a hinsult, nor +yet a hinjury, nor I don’t consider as Mrs Rushton is a proper person +for any of us ladies to pass the time of day to.’ + +‘Well,’ said her friend contemplatively, ‘me and Haxworthy have had +many a talk over it, and he says as how we stand in a difficult +position with regard to the vicarage. There is no doubt that, +right or wrong, Mr and Mrs Measures _have_ took up Miss Stafford +(or Mrs Rushton, as I should say), and he don’t want to lose the +churchwardenship, nor have any misunderstanding with the vicar. And he +says that no doubt ’Al Rushton will be giving parties on ’is return, in +order to make things straight for his wife, and he thinks it will be +the dooty of us ladies to visit ’er, cool-like if you choose, but still +to go to the ’All, and keep in with the vicarage for our gentlemen’s +sakes.’ + +‘Ah, well, if they gives pleasant parties, dances and garden “feets,” +and suchlike, I don’t know as I mightn’t try to overlook the +past,’ replied Mrs Gribble affably, ‘but I can never like ’er, Mrs +Axworthy--_never_!’ + +‘Ma, ma!’ cried Jemmy, tearing into the room, breathless and dusty, +‘the carriage is a-coming over the ’ill now, and it’s got two ’orses +and two coachmen.’ + +‘Two ’orses, Jem!’ echoed his mother. ‘It can’t never be the Rushtons, +then. It must be Lady Bristowe or Lady Warden driving through Deepdale. +Why, there ain’t a two-’orse fly in all Haltham!’ + +‘It’s Lady Bristowe’s barouche; I can see the green liveries,’ said Mrs +Gribble, as she gazed through the curtain, with Mrs Axworthy leaning +over her shoulder. + +The open carriage drew nearer. It was going at a rapid rate, and the +horses’ coats were slightly flecked with foam. In it were seated four +people. On the front seat, Lady Bristowe, with the bride by her side, +and on the back, Hal and Mrs Measures; and all three ladies held +enormous bouquets of flowers, Paula’s being made entirely of white +blossoms. They all looked very happy, and were talking and laughing +together; but they passed the window like a flash of lightning, and +left nothing but a cloud of dust behind them. Mrs Gribble and Mrs +Axworthy looked at one another with undissembled surprise. + +‘Well, I _never_!’ cried the latter, as soon as she found her tongue, +‘if it wasn’t them, after all, and in Lady Bristowe’s carriage, sitting +there as ’igh and mighty as you choose, and as if it all belonged to +them. And did you see her ’at, Mrs Gribble, ma’am, with a white feather +curled round it, and a fawn Newmarket coat? What next? Well, wonders +will never cease! And how did her ladyship come to know ’em as intimate +as all that? That’s some of Mrs Measures’ doings, I’ll be bound. Lady +Bristowe is always at the vicarage; but to visit a parson’s wife is +a different thing. Well, if I hadn’t seen it with my own heyes, I +wouldn’t never have believed it.’ + +‘Nor me neither,’ rejoined the other lady. ‘“It’s the ungodly +flourishing like a green bay tree,” as the scripture says, and I feel +as if some ’orrible dispensation must be ’anging over Deepdale when +sich injustices is allowed. Miss Stafford riding in her ladyship’s +barouche, when she ain’t never so much as taken any notice of _me_, as +everyone knows for miles around to be the churchwarden’s lawful wife. +Well, I must go ’ome and tell Mr Gribble this, for he’d never believe +it from any lips but mine.’ + +Meanwhile, Hal and Paula had been anything but elated by the honour +so unexpectedly paid to them. They would much rather have driven home +quietly by themselves, or in the company of Mrs Measures. To see her +kind face on the platform of Haltham station had been a real pleasure. +Hal Rushton had wrung her hand, exclaiming, ‘This _is_ a surprise! How +very good of you. Paula will be as delighted as myself,’ and turned to +communicate the news to his wife, as she alighted from the carriage. +But when Mrs Measures had replied, ‘I am not alone. My friend Lady +Bristowe, who is anxious to make your acquaintance, has driven me over +in her barouche, and intends to take us all back to the vicarage,’ +the young people, though rather overwhelmed, were obliged to consent. +And Lady Bristowe had been so effusive in her welcome, too. She had +shaken Hal’s hand as if she had known him all his life, and insisted +upon kissing the pretty, pathetic-looking bride. So the luggage was +dispatched in Moore’s fly, and the party returned in triumph, as we +have seen, to Deepdale. The bouquets had been rather a trial to Hal. +Like most men, he abhorred anything like publicity or display, but +the flowers were there, and Lady Bristowe would take no denial. And +as a palliative to being carried through the village as if they were +going to the races or the hustings, there was the undoubted fact that +her ladyship had paid his young wife a great compliment, and that the +acquaintance might be of service to her. Mrs Gribble and Mrs Axworthy +were not the only people in Deepdale who saw and commented on this +unexpected return. Every window in the village held a face or two, +full of disappointment and surprise. Deepdale had intended to be +condescending to Mr and Mrs Hal Rushton if it found it worth its while +to be so, but in the face of Lady Bristowe’s patronage it began to +fear that its condescension might be overlooked. Her ladyship would +not enter the vicarage, for Paula seemed tired, although her face was +flushed, and she said she ought to take a rest. But she did not part +from her without finding out the Christian name of her late father, +that she might look him up in the _Navy List_ as soon as she got home, +and she assured the young couple that she should be one of the first +to welcome them when they took possession of their own house, and she +hoped very soon to see them both at Tor Abbey. And then she enfolded +Paula once more in her ample embrace, and thrusting all the bouquets in +her hands, she drove smiling away. + +‘The most good-natured woman in the world,’ said Mrs Measures, as she +led the way into the cool vicarage parlour, ‘and one whom I hope will +be a good friend to you, Paula. She is very rich, and has no near +relations on which to bestow her benefits, and she has taken such +a fancy to you because your father was in the navy. You must take +everything she chooses to give you, my dear, and be very sweet to her +in return, for she knows all the county families, and is really a +person of importance.’ + +‘I am sure we are very much obliged for her kindness,’ replied Hal; +‘but I’m afraid the county families will be a cut above us, Mrs +Measures.’ + +‘I don’t know why they should be. A man can be no more than a +gentleman, and now that you have got rid of that objectionable widow, +there is no obstacle to your receiving anybody in your house. But let +me show Paula to her room, that she may take off her things.’ + +When they descended to the parlour again a substantial meal was spread +upon the table, and the vicar was present. He saluted them kindly, +but rather gravely, at least Paula imagined he was more cordial with +Hal than with herself. He called the former ‘dear boy,’ and shook +him warmly by the hand, but to her he only expressed a wish that her +married life might be long and happy. Afterwards, on thinking it over, +she blamed herself for blaming him. It was foolish of her to have +forgotten that he had known her husband from a child, and she was a +comparative stranger to him. Still, something in the tone of his voice +had reminded her of the day that she had been catechised by him in that +same room, in the presence of his churchwardens, and told her that +he had not forgotten it either. This feeling, added to her fatigue, +made Paula unusually quiet during the evening meal, and Mrs Measures +remarked that her gay spirits had suddenly flagged. + +‘It is the fatigue of the long railway journey,’ said Hal, looking +fondly at her. ‘She is not a very strong little body, Mrs Measures, +and we must pack her off to bed early to-night, in order that she may +recover herself.’ + +Something had certainly occurred to depress Paula’s spirits, for when +the meal was concluded, and she crept into the vicarage garden after +her husband, she was as white as a lily. + +‘My darling,’ he exclaimed, as he kissed the slight hand she thrust +within his arm, ‘to-day has been too much for you. My White Rose looks +quite drooping. Won’t you be good, and go to bed, whilst I run over to +the Hall and have a look at the dogs and horses?’ + +‘Oh, no, Hal,’ she answered earnestly, clinging to him. ‘Please let me +go with you. I am not too tired--indeed, I am not--and I should so love +to see _our_ house, love, and _our_ garden.’ + +‘But, Paula, it is nearly a mile from this.’ + +‘It will do me good to walk. I have been sitting all day. Can’t you see +that it is the heat, dear, that makes me look so pale? A little walk in +the cool evening air will do me all the good in the world.’ + +‘All right, then. Get your hat, and we’ll be off. I’ll tell Mrs +Measures where we are going.’ + +In another minute they were pacing together the quiet country fields +that lay between the vicarage and the Hall. + +‘Do you know,’ said Paula, when they were out of human earshot, ‘why +I longed to come with you this evening, Hal? It was just in order to +find myself alone with you again, like we were at Lynmouth. To-day, +with all its bustle and publicity and congratulation, we have seemed to +be wider apart than we were yesterday. It is all kindness, I know, but +it comes between us, and I want you--_you only_.’ + +‘You silly girl,’ said Hal, venturing to kiss the white face upturned +to his, ‘shall we not be always together for the rest of our lives? +Why, you’ll be sick of me before long, Paula, after the fashion of +modern wives, and looking out for someone else to admire you and say +pretty things to you.’ + +‘Never, never, Hal! Don’t speak like that. You pain me.’ + +‘Well, then, I won’t, until it happens. But I agree with you, darling. +We are never so happy as when we are alone. For my own part, I would +rather have gone straight home to the Hall, even if it were not quite +ready for us, but Mrs Measures’ offer was so kind, and so evidently +came from her heart, that I did not think it possible to refuse it.’ + +‘Oh, no! And don’t think I am ungrateful to such a kind friend as +she is to us. Only, our _own_ home! It will be so delightful to find +ourselves there, won’t it, Hal?’ + +‘It will be the heaven I have dreamt of, Paula,’ he replied. + +‘This is the extent to which I have yet gone,’ said Paula, as they +reached the gates of the Hall, and caught a glimpse through them of +the lawn and flower garden, which were approached by a handsome drive +bordered by rhododendron and other flowering shrubs. ‘You don’t know, +Hal, how often the poor school teacher walked this way in the evenings, +and peered through those gates, and wondered if her handsome friend +were anywhere about, or if he guessed how she regarded him.’ + +‘Don’t allude to those hateful days, my Paula; never think of them +again,’ cried Hal, as he swung open the wide gates for her to pass +through. ‘You are in your own domains now, darling, “Monarch of all you +survey,” and God bless you for consenting to queen it over them and +me.’ + +He raised his hat as he spoke, and Paula thought a wife had never had +a more chivalrous welcome to her new home. The house and grounds were +naturally looking their best, and she was enchanted with everything she +saw. She had not thought it would be half so beautiful, nor that Hal’s +head and heart would have been filled with so much care for her. Soft +tears hung trembling on her eyelashes as she realised her happiness, +and she could find no words in which to express her feelings. She could +only cling close to her husband’s arm, and whisper her love to him, +as he pointed out the alterations he had made and the improvements he +had effected in the different departments. His stables were his great +pride, and he was not satisfied till Paula had inspected his two tall +hunters, the mare he drove in his dog-cart, and the little pony for her +basket-carriage. + +‘We only want a riding horse for the mistress, Derrick, and then I +think we shall be complete,’ he said to the groom. ‘By-the-way, has Mr +Ashfold sent over any message about his chestnut filly? I wrote to him +about it from Lynmouth.’ + +‘Mr Ashfold was over here last week, sir,’ replied Derrick, touching +his forelock, ‘and the little mare ain’t quite herself--got cold or +summat--or he would have sent her over for the lady to try. But he +expected she would be all right by now.’ + +‘Well, I must write again and ask after her. Where’s Joe?’ + +‘He’s out somewhere with the dogs, sir. I don’t let him go till I’ve +brought the horses in from exercise. He’ll be back before long.’ + +‘Are the dogs all right?’ + +‘Yes, sir. “Queenie” whelped down a litter of five the day before +yesterday, but she’s locked up in the outhouse, and Joe’s took the key.’ + +‘Well, they ought to be A1, if they live. Come, dear, I won’t let you +stand about any longer. We will walk over and see the dogs to-morrow. +Why, it is past eight. Mrs Measures will be expecting us home.’ + +‘One more turn round the garden, Hal,’ pleaded Paula, ‘it is so lovely. +I think I shall sit out here all day. What is that grand dark tree +whose branches sweep the ground?’ + +‘A cedar, dear. It is grand, as you say, but it destroys the grass +underneath it. I prefer the mulberry and walnut trees. I can’t tell you +how many hundred years old this mulberry tree is. It has stood here for +generations. And it has a fine promise of fruit on it, too. Do you like +mulberries?’ + +‘Oh, I _love_ them!’ cried Paula childishly. ‘I shall have black teeth +all day long as soon as they are ripe.’ + +‘Greedy girl. We will carry out an arm-chair to the kitchen garden, and +there you shall sit and gorge, till we have to carry you back in it. +By-the-way, you haven’t seen the fruit and vegetable garden yet. It is +close by--behind that wall. Come and be introduced to old Potter, the +gardener. Old Potterer, as I call him; but he’s a good old servant, and +will adore you.’ + +He pulled her playfully away from the lawn as he spoke, and opened a +door in the stone wall that enclosed the fruit garden. The evening was +still light, and every object discernible, although the green leaves +had assumed a greyer tint in the fading day. + +‘I expect Potter has gone home. I think he generally strikes work at +seven. I have some splendid peach trees here, Paula. I wish we could +find a basket. We would take some peaches to Mrs Measures. They must be +in perfection now.’ + +‘There is someone moving at the bottom of the garden, Hal,’ said Paula, +‘don’t you see, close to the wall.’ + +‘By Jove! yes. It’s Potter picking the fruit. I told him to let the +cook preserve what ripened during our absence. Let us go and stop his +depredations.’ + +They ran down the walk together hand in hand like two children, and +startled the figure next the wall, which turned out to be not the +gardener but the widowed Mrs Rushton, with a market-basket on her arm, +which she was busily filling with fruit. Hal perceived the situation at +a glance, and his face darkened. + +‘Mrs Rushton,’ he exclaimed, ‘what on earth are you doing here?’ + +The widow’s freckled and unwholesome looking face appeared quite +ghastly in the half light, as she turned it towards them and stepped +quickly off the garden bed. + +‘Oh, ’Al!’ she replied, ‘is that you? I ’eard you was expected to-day +at the vicarage, but I didn’t think to meet you ’ere.’ + +‘I suppose not; but I conclude you see I have my wife with me?’ replied +Hal haughtily. + +‘To be sure, and I ’ope I sees you well, ma’am,’ said the widow, as she +thrust forth a horny hand for Paula to shake. ‘I’ve been quite busy +picking up the peaches. There’s such a many on ’em, and they do lie and +rot so, it seems a pity. But we was always famous for our fruit at the +’All, wasn’t we, ’Al?’ + +‘Yes. But I see no necessity for _your_ picking them up, Mrs Rushton. +Our servants are surely capable of doing that, and I gave Potter my +orders respecting the wall fruit before I left. Did you consult him +about it?’ + +‘Consult Mr Potter?’ cried the widow, tossing her head, ‘why, certainly +_not_. It would be a strange thing, I think, if _I_, who ’as lived in +this ’ouse as my own for ten year, should demean myself to consult a +gardener before I picks up a few peaches.’ + +‘But why give yourself the trouble?’ continued Hal, taking the basket, +which was full to the brim with the choicest fruit, from her hand. +‘It is very good of you, of course, but there is no need. However, as +it happens, you have saved Mrs Rushton and myself the task of picking +them, as we were just about to do, for Mrs Measures. Is this _your_ +basket?’ + +‘No, I suppose not. Nothink seems mine nowadays. I took it from the +tool ’ouse. Times is wonderful changed, ma’am,’ she continued, to +Paula, ‘but it’s Time only as will show if it’s for the better. Pride +’as its fall, as well as misfortin’, and it’s only dooty as brings a +blessing. But I wish you ’ealth and ’appiness, ma’am, for to enjoy what +you’ve got. Good-evening.’ + +And with that Mrs Rushton swept up the garden path and disappeared. + +‘Oh, Hal, you have mortally offended her,’ said Paula. + +‘I don’t care if I have. She sha’n’t steal our peaches, if I can help +it. I suppose she’s been filling her basket every day during our +absence. I will have the key of the fruit garden brought into the +house for the future, and give Potter strict orders to admit no one +but ourselves. By Jove! this basket is heavy. She must have got about +twenty pounds in it. But it’s her last attempt at thieving. I’ll take +care of that.’ + +‘How vicious she looked, Hal. There was quite a lurid light in her +green eyes whilst she was pretending to wish me well. I am sure she +hates me for having usurped her place at the Hall.’ + +‘No, Paula, not _her_ place. She has had no right here since my +father’s death. But I daresay she bears you no goodwill, for she is a +malicious, evil-natured person.’ + +‘She is horrible,’ acquiesced Paula, ‘and I wish we had not met her +here on the first occasion of our seeing our dear home together. It +seems like an evil omen--as if she were a malignant fairy who had the +power to blight our happiness if we offended her.’ + +‘Now, my darling, you’re getting silly, which proves you are +over-tired. How lucky I thought of telling Derrick to pop “Tubby” into +the pony chaise. Jump in, and I’ll put the widow’s spoils at your +feet. That’s it! Now, the reins, Derrick. I am just going to show the +mistress what her new pony is made of, and as soon as I have dropped +her at the vicarage I’ll bring him back again.’ + +And as ‘Tubby’ trotted at a good pace through the flower-scented +lanes, and Hal’s loving words were poured into her ears, Paula forgot +her passing dismay at Widow Rushton’s greeting, and thought only of the +great happiness before her. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +PAULA’S VISITORS. + + +The incident of the ‘rape of the peaches,’ though considered an +excellent joke at the vicarage, was looked upon in a totally different +light by the inhabitants of Wavertree Cottage. Mrs Rushton returned +home, fuming over the insult she declared she had received, to relate +the story to her son Edward Snaley, who was idling the evening away +by lolling over the window sill in his shirt sleeves, and smoking a +black briar-root pipe. As the widow finished her abuse of her stepson’s +behaviour, he withdrew from the window and took a seat by the table, +leaning his elbows upon it. + +Ted Snaley has not figured prominently in these pages yet, but he was +by no means an unimportant tool in his mother’s hands, and more than +ready to further any scheme of revenge which she might be inclined +to carry out. He hated his stepbrother Hal Rushton. The dislike had +commenced long before their parents had become united, when Ted was +a malicious lad, given to torturing animals and oppressing smaller +children, and Hal had given him one or two thrashings for his cruelty. +When his mother married old Farmer Rushton, she had made Ted believe +that he would inherit half (if not all) the property at her own death, +and he had never forgiven Hal for stepping in (as he termed it) between +his prospects and himself. He had always hated him, and done everything +he could think of to annoy him, even whilst he was being entertained +under his roof, and now that he had been turned out of the Hall, he +hated him still more. His green, white-lashed eyes gleamed with an evil +fire as he leaned forward on the table and confronted the widow. + +‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I want to have a serious talk with you about this. +We must have no more fooling about it. Are we going to keep in with the +’All, or are we not? We must decide that there question afore I says +another word.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted, how you do talk, to be sure! In course we must keep in +with ’em, drat ’em both. But how are we to live here comfortable else? +_You_ won’t work in this gardin, you know. You’re a deal too lazy, and +a ’undred a year won’t go far towards keeping the ’ouse up. You’ve bin +brought up like a gentleman since I married old Rushton, and you won’t +like to miss your luxuries. But I don’t know where you’ll get ’em, +unless it’s in pickin’s from the ’All.’ + +‘_Pickin’s from the ’All_,’ repeated Snaley witheringly. ‘Yes, and I +means to ’ave pickin’s from the ’All, but not the sort as you want. +Wot’s the good of getting ’Al’s back up for the sake of a few paltry +peaches? How’ll that ’elp us? No, what I means is this--are we game for +a big thing, or are we not? ’Cos if we are, we must go on a new tack, +and be very partikeler they don’t see our ’and.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted,’ cried the widow, closing the window and drawing her chair +close to his, ‘you’re a sharp ’un, I know, but whatever would you be +at?’ + +‘Mother,’ said Snaley in a low voice, ‘you’re a good nuss, I know, when +you chooses, but don’t you think as the old man might have lasted a +little longer if you ’adn’t been there?’ + +He fixed his piercing little eyes upon her with so elfish a look as he +spoke that the widow’s pale face grew yellow beneath his scrutiny. + +‘Bless me, lad, no! What a hidea! And of your own mother, too. Lor’, +Ted, you can’t think what you’re a-saying of.’ + +‘Oh, yes, I do; and I means what I says, too. And what ’arm was it, +now? I’m sure that old beggar ’ad been about long enough, and was only +a nuisance. But _I_ see’d you pour stuff into his beef-tea more times +than one.’ + +‘’Twas only to make the poor dear sleep, Ted.’ + +‘Yes, sure; and a good long sleep, too. It sent him to kingdom come +before his time. And I’m ready to join you in another little game of +the same sort, for I know _we’ll_ never split upon each other.’ + +‘Split on you, my boy! I’d rather ’ang myself first. But do you mean +’Al? What would be the good of it, Ted?’ + +‘Why, ain’t he left half the property to me in his will? Didn’t he use +to tell us so?’ + +‘Lord love you, lad, you’re simple. D’ye suppose he hasn’t made another +will since his marriage, and bequeathed it all to that white-faced +’ussy? In course. We should only be ’elping ’er to it all the sooner.’ + +‘Well, we must fix the blame on ’er, then. That won’t be difficult. +Make ’un sick first, and put the stuff in ’er pocket or box or summat. +_I’ll_ find the way to do it, never you fear, when the right time +comes, but it won’t be yet for a long spell. And it won’t be never, +unless we’re on easy terms with the ’All people, and hin and hout, as +if it was our own ’ouse.’ + +‘Ah, if _she’ll_ let us,’ responded his mother; ‘but she’s a deep ’un, +my dear. You should have seen ’er look at me to-night when she saw them +few trumpery peaches, as much as to say, “You’ve bin a-stealing of _my_ +fruit.” I wish it may choke ’er.’ + +‘Well, you mustn’t take no more fruit, nor heggs, nor nothink. Let ’em +give ’em to us. They’ll do it sure enough if we only plays our cards +well. Be very haffable to ’em, and hoffer to help ’em in the ’ouse, +or advise the young mistress, and then when their heyes is shut, and +they think we don’t want nothink of ’em, that’ll be the time to lay our +plans. It’ll come as easy for you then to nuss him as it did to nuss +his father.’ + +‘You’re a clever lad, my Ted, a very clever lad. You ought to have been +brought up for a liyar,’ said his mother admiringly, only she meant a +limb of the law and not an Ananias. + +‘I’m proud you think so,’ returned her son, ‘and if you’re in ’arnest, +take my advice and be as haffable as hever you can. When they return +home, you go up to the ’All, and take the bride a present. Just a +bucket of flowers, or a pincushion, or what not. ’Tain’t the value of +the thing, but the hattention as will put ’em off their guard. And +don’t say no more spiteful things, mother, but talk a little soft-like +about the old ’un, and say ’ow good he was to you and me, and ’ow you +loves the old ’ouse for ’is sake. A pint of ile will go further with +them than a gallon of vinegar. You see if I ain’t right.’ + +‘I believe you are, Ted, my boy,’ said the widow, ‘and you must have +got all your cunning from me, for your father was a downright fool.’ + +‘Oh, never mind ’im,’ exclaimed Snaley; ‘he won’t never trouble you any +more. But do as I say, and you’ll see ’ow things will work up arter a +while. Meantime, we’ll think it out. It’ll want a lot of thinking out, +mother, and we must go about it very slow and careful, but by ’ook or +by crook I’m determined to work my way back into ’Ighbridge ’All, if I +’ave to step over a grave to git there.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted, don’t talk like that,’ cried Mrs Rushton, with a shudder; +‘them’s words to _think_ on, my dear, but ’tain’t safe to speak ’em +aloud, not even to your mother.’ + +‘All right, but don’t you forget ’em now you’ve ’eard ’em. I shall be +planning this day and night until I see my way to something. Curse that +interfering old parson. I’d like to give ’im one for his nob at the +same time. If it hadn’t been for ’im, you and me would be owning the +’All to-day.’ + +‘That’s sure enough, Ted, and I’d like to serve ’im out, and ’is +smug-faced wife, too. Well, none of us know what’s in the future, nor +’ow things mayn’t turn out. I’m glad to see you’ve got sich a sperrit, +Ted, and I ’ope it’ll carry you through heverythink.’ + +‘Never fear. But, remember, mother, the _first_ thing is to get on a +hamicable footing at the ’All. When is they going to settle down there?’ + +‘I’m not sure. I see the cook this evening, but she didn’t know, which +threw me right off my guard, so that when I looked up and see ’em +standing close to me I a’most screamed. Lor’! you should ’ave seen the +white feathers in her ’at, Ted, and her ’air--which she used to keep +tucked up at the school’ouse--’anging all over her face. She thinks +she’s a real lady now, she does. There’s no mistake about that.’ + +‘Well, I doubt if she’ll look like a lady long--not if we puts a +pisening job on ’er,’ said Ted. + +‘Oh, ’Al wouldn’t believe nothink against ’er. He looked at ’er in that +way, it made me quite sick.’ + +‘I always told you ’e was sweet on ’er,’ replied her son, and there, +for the time being, the conversation ended. + +After her first visit to the Hall, Paula felt a continually increasing +desire to settle in her new home. She panted to be free of the +vicarage, and find herself alone with her husband, and busying herself +with the multifarious duties that awaited her. Mrs Measures did +everything in her power to make the visit agreeable to her, and was +always affectionate and kind, but her manner contrasted too favourably +with that of the vicar. Mr Measures was not deficient in courtesy to +his fair guest, but he continued so grave and uncommunicative that his +presence invariably made Paula uncomfortable, and gave her the sense of +being in the way. After a few days she confided her feelings to Hal. + +‘I _wish_ we were at home,’ she sighed. ‘There is something about the +vicarage that depresses me. Do you know, Hal, I am sure Mr Measures has +never forgiven me about that little affair with Seth Brunt. He always +addresses me in such a solemn manner, and yesterday, when I went into +the dining-room, where he was reading, he got up with his book and left +the room.’ + +Hal Rushton flushed with annoyance, but pretended all the same that +there was nothing to be annoyed at. + +‘Nonsense, my darling. He was only afraid your chatter might distract +him from his studies. Clergymen have to read up sometimes, you know, in +order to write their sermons. You mustn’t be a goose, and fancy things.’ + +‘But I don’t think this is fancy, Hal. He was very much annoyed with me +at the time. Mrs Measures said so, and I suppose he still suspects me +of not having told the truth.’ + +‘Well, tell it to him now, then, if you think it best, Paula.’ + +‘How can I say more than I did? I told them Brunt was an old servant, +and they would not believe me. It was that odious Mr Gribble who tried +to make out that it was improper. Mr Measures would have taken my word +for it if it had not been for his suggestions.’ + +‘Oh, very well,’ replied Hal hastily, ‘“Least said, soonest mended.” I +should not open the subject again if I were you.’ + +It was a sore remembrance to the young husband, for he knew the +interpretation the villagers had put upon it. And to reveal one link +of the chain of a story which had been related in the public papers +was to give a clue to that portion of Paula’s life which he wished so +earnestly to be forgotten. But the next moment his arm was round his +wife’s waist, and his kisses on her cheek. + +‘We will go home as soon as ever we can, my darling, on the very +day our visit ends here. And then we must think about giving a nice +party, and inviting the Measures and our other friends to enjoy our +hospitality in return.’ + +‘We must wait, first, to see who calls on us,’ replied Paula. ‘Perhaps +no one will want to know me, dear Hal, and then our party will turn +into a _tête-à-tête_.’ + +‘All the better if it would; but I have no fear,’ exclaimed her husband. + +And he had no need to fear. Before Mrs Hal Rushton had been established +in her own house a week everyone of consequence had called on her, some +from sheer curiosity, and others from sheer pleasure in welcoming +a new mistress to Highbridge Hall, where Hal’s gentle mother, Edith +Hereford, was still remembered to have reigned. Lady Bristowe was +amongst the first callers, and she came armed with a valuable present +out of all proportion to her slight acquaintance with the recipient. + +‘Now, my dear,’ she said, as she fastened a gold bracelet, with a +diamond anchor upon it, on Paula’s arm, ‘you must let me have the +pleasure of making my little bride a present. It is customary, you +know. Everyone should be prepared with a little offering, and I hope +you will wear mine for my sake.’ + +‘But, Lady Bristowe, it is far too valuable. I never possessed anything +so handsome in my life. And the gardener tells me I have to thank you +for stocking my greenhouse also, and that all these pretty plants came +from Tor Abbey. How can I thank you?’ + +‘Why, by looking as pleased and as pretty as you do now, my dear, and +by coming to see me at the Abbey, and brightening the old place up a +bit. Now, when are you and your handsome husband coming to dine with +me? Please name an early day.’ + +‘I must ask Hal first,’ replied Paula, blushing and smiling, ‘and he +is not at home to-day. But I will write to you, Lady Bristowe, if that +will do as well.’ + +‘Well, let us say next Wednesday, and then you can write me if it’s not +convenient. No ceremony, you know, my dear. Five o’clock dinner, and +only an old woman to sit down with. So never mind your fripperies, but +bring yourself. That’s all I care for. And now, who has been to see +you?’ + +‘Not very many people. We only came here the day before yesterday. The +Willards and Sheppards have called; they are both old friends of my +husband’s. And Mrs Measures has looked in to see how I am getting on, +and a funny little old lady called Miss Foker.’ + +‘Ah, well, I daresay you’ll have more than you want by-and-by. Callers +are always a nuisance, town or country. But I want you to look on me +as a friend, my dear. Don’t worry yourself to pay me formal visits, but +drive over in your little pony chaise whenever you feel inclined, and I +shall call in sometimes to see if you fancy a seat in my carriage.’ + +‘Thank you so much,’ said Paula. + +‘It’s nothing to thank me for, my dear. Your young face is a boon to +me, and I shall not be able to see it too often. Don’t forget about +Wednesday,’ and Lady Bristowe drove off to make room for other visitors. + +As her carriage passed down the drive of rhododendrons it caused two +foot-passengers to shrink into the bushes to prevent being run over. +They were Mrs Gribble and Mrs Axworthy, whose respective lords and +masters had decided they must pay the bride at least _one_ visit, +in order to please the vicar, and who had accordingly set forth in +company for the sake of mutual support. Mrs Gribble was arrayed in her +celebrated plum-coloured satin, with a black velvet bonnet, ornamented +with artificial geraniums, and Mrs Axworthy wore a black cloth cloak, +down to her heels, and a bonnet of dirty white silk, which boasted of +two green feathers gracefully drooping on one side. Both of the ladies +wore white cotton gloves for the occasion, and were looking very red +and flustered and uncomfortable. + +‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs Axworthy, as the carriage passed them, +‘if her ladyship ain’t been before us. Whatever makes her condescend +so? I call it bemeaning her rank. But there’s the chay waiting at the +door. ’Urry up a bit, do, Mrs Gribble, ma’am, or we shall miss ’er, and +I don’t feel as if I could make another journey up ’ere in this ’eat.’ + +Paula, in fact, having thought she would have no more visitors that +afternoon, was just about to assume her walking attire, in order to +be ready for Hal when he returned to take her for a drive, and when +she heard that the churchwardens’ wives were in the drawing-room she +decided to put it on before she encountered them. Her face flushed and +her hand trembled as she heard their names. She could not but remember +what they had said of her, and how they had withdrawn their vulgar +little children from the contamination of her society, and she would +have been less than woman if the near prospect of meeting them had +not made her blood rise and called up all her pride. She lingered a +little longer over her toilet than was necessary, and descended to the +drawing-room, slowly drawing on a long pair of mouse-coloured gloves. +She entered the door, carrying her graceful head erect, like a stag +that scents danger in the air, and bowing to her guests, dropped into +a chair, and waited for them to open the ball. Mrs Gribble and Mrs +Axworthy became very uncomfortable at the coolness and formality of +their reception. They had expected the self-conscious young woman, who +had been detected in so grave a breach of discipline as to be compelled +to quit her situation, to be overcome by the condescension of their +proffered reconciliation, instead of which she received them as if +she were an injured and offended queen, and they two subjects humbly +suing for forgiveness. They were at an utter loss how to begin the +conversation; but at last Mrs Axworthy took heart of grace to become +the spokeswoman. + +‘Mrs Gribble and me ’ave come, Mrs Rushton, ma’am, by the wish of our +good gentlemen, to wish you and Mr Rushton ’ealth and ’appiness in your +wedded life, and to ’ope as all bygones may be bygones.’ + +‘You are very good,’ replied Paula, with studied formality. + +‘Perhaps you ’ardly expected to see us, ma’am, considering how we +parted. But we ’ave all known Mr ’Al from a boy, as you may say, and +should be sorry not to be on visiting terms with his lady. Mrs Gribble, +ma’am, I think I speak your sentiments with my own?’ + +‘Oh, certainly, yes,’ responded Mrs Gribble nervously, as Paula still +sat silent before them, and apparently busily employed in buttoning her +long gloves. + +‘You ’ave a fine place ’ere, ma’am,’ continued Mrs Axworthy, with a +kind of desperation. ‘I can remember the time when the first Mrs +Rushton (Miss Edith Hereford as was) lived in it. Ah! _she_ was a real +lady, Mr ’Al’s mamma was, and come of a most respectable family. Poor +dear! Poor dear! It’s a pity she couldn’t ’ave lived to see her son +grow up. This was _’er_ place, you know.’ + +‘So I have heard,’ replied Paula. + +‘She brought it to the old gentlemen on their marriage. Well! well! +there ’ave been sad changes. Have you made the acquaintance of Miss +Brown, our new teacher, yet? Such a sweet lady--so haffable and +free-like, and “oily” respectable.’ + +‘Indeed! That must be a great advantage,’ said Paula, with a curled +lip; ‘I hope the children will profit by it.’ + +‘Oh, they adores Miss Brown,’ exclaimed Mrs Gribble, finding her tongue +for the first time. ‘My Lottie and Carrie, they says to me as she is a +real lady, and ’as the very best of eddication.’ + +‘That must be a great satisfaction to you, Lottie and Carrie being +such excellent judges,’ replied her hostess quietly. + +Meanwhile, Mrs Axworthy had left her seat, and approaching the window +looked out on the wide smooth-shaven lawn. + +‘Lor’, what an ’andsome bit o’ grass. ’Asn’t Mr ’Al made it bigger of +late, ma’am?’ + +‘I believe my husband has taken in some of the paddock this year.’ + +‘It would accommodate a heap o’ people. I suppose you’ll be giving +garden “feets” and carpet ’ops, ma’am, to celebrate your coming ’ome?’ + +‘I do not know. Mr Rushton and I do not care much about society.’ + +‘Deepdale will be expecting as much,’ put in Mrs Gribble. ‘When Mr +’Al’s mother was married, the ’ole village was “feeted,” and they give +dinners and suppers and dances.’ + +‘Indeed!’ said Paula. ‘But I don’t think we know sufficient people to +give parties for. There are so few gentlemen’s families in Deepdale.’ + +She meant this for a thrust, and it went home. + +‘Oh, dear!’ cried Mrs Axworthy, tossing her head, ‘_I_ should ’ave +said there was a many. I’m sure I know above twenty ladies myself, and +then there are all their good gentlemen and little families. Why, Mrs +Gribble here makes up four by ’erself alone.’ + +‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ returned Paula, wilfully misconstruing her +meaning, ‘you are talking of a school treat. No, I don’t think it would +quite do for me to give one yet awhile; besides, I very much dislike +children.’ + +‘Mrs Gribble,’ exclaimed Mrs Axworthy, red with indignation, ‘I think +it is time for us to be going, ma’am,’ and they rose from their chairs +simultaneously, and advanced to Paula with the idea of shaking hands, +not because they felt cordially disposed towards her, but because they +knew of no other way to get out of the room. But Paula, anticipating +their design, rose also, and moved towards the bell. She would _not_ +shake hands with these women, she said to herself indignantly. So +as they were still standing before her, ignorant how to take the +initiative, her servant answered her summons, and saying very quietly, +‘Show Mrs Gribble and Mrs Axworthy out, Susan,’ she bowed to them as +she had done on entering, and turned away. The churchwardens’ ‘ladies,’ +red and flustered, understood but too well that they were dismissed, +and followed the servant from the room. They did not dare trust +themselves to speak till they were half-way down the drive, and then +their indignation burst forth in words. + +‘Did you _ever_!’ exclaimed Mrs Axworthy. ‘_I_ never see sich airs +in all my life. Coming down in ’er ’at, and putting on ’er gloves, +and never so much as shaking us by the ’and. The coolness and the +himperence of it all! Her marriage must ’ave turned ’er ’ead.’ + +‘It’s them Measureses and Bristowes as ’ave done it,’ said her friend. +‘Took ’er out of ’er station, till she don’t know what she would be +after. Did you see ’er bowing and smirking at us? I could ’ave tore +her gloves and ’er ’at off and trampled on them. Six-button gloves, +indeed, and that pale they will be siled in an afternoon. And what _is_ +she, I should like to know! A trumperious school teacher. I could cry +with vexation to think as we ’ad ever demeaned ourselves to call on +’er.’ + +‘Did you ’ear ’er say, Mrs Gribble, ma’am, as there were so few +“gentlemen’s families” in Deepdale? Don’t she call Mr Gribble a +gentleman, and Mr Haxworthy? Why, what would she ’ave? I bet they’re +better gentlemen than the low feller as took tea with ’er in the +school’ouse. But that’s all forgotten, of course. Mrs ’Al Rushton’s +going to queen it over us all, never mind what Miss Stafford chose to +do. But, mark my words, she won’t be able to give none of ’er parties +unless the ladies of Deepdale are invited. She won’t ’ave enough to +make a party unless she ’as us. She can’t give a garden “feet” for only +Lady Bristowe and Mrs Measures, though she _did_ try to treat us as if +we was the dirt under her feet.’ + +‘I’ll never forgive Gribble for ’aving pulled me into sich a scrape,’ +said the other lady. ‘_I_ says to ’im this morning, Mr Gribble, I says, +you can’t make a silk pus out of a sow’s hear, and if you marry that +young woman fifty times hover, she won’t never be more respectable than +she was in the school’ouse. But gentlemen is that obstinate. He says +that where the vicar goes we did ought to go. And so far he’s right, +but I won’t stand being trod upon by an ’ussy like that, and so I shall +tell ’im this very night.’ + +And so nursing their righteous wrath, and spitting out venom upon +the offender, they returned home with a worse grievance against the +ex-school teacher than they had ever had before. + +Paula laughed when she related the interview to her husband, but Hal +was indignant that the women should have presumed to call upon her. + +‘How _dared_ they?’ he questioned angrily. ‘Do they imagine for a +moment that, because you once occupied a situation that placed you on a +seeming equality, I am going to allow you to mix on friendly terms with +all the scum of Deepdale? Why, the laundress and the butcher’s wife +will be leaving their cards on you next, and expecting to be admitted +to the drawing-room.’ + +‘I shouldn’t have minded it if they had come in a friendly spirit,’ +said Paula, ‘but it was evident their visit was dictated only by +curiosity, or a desire to show me that _they_ did not consider that my +marriage made any difference in my position. No, I couldn’t stand it at +all. I hope I was not _too_ rude, but I felt it was incumbent on me to +put them in their place at once, and I hope they will never come near +me again.’ + +‘I forbid your going down to see them if they do,’ said Hal. ‘I won’t +have the petals of my White Rose sullied by contact with them.’ + +The following evening at tea Paula said archly,-- + +‘I’ve had some more visitors, Hal. Guess who they were.’ + +‘How can I tell? Old Potter’s wife, perhaps, or Mrs Snoad from Haltham.’ + +‘Oh, dear, no. Somebody much nearer home. Your stepmother and her son.’ + +Hal made a grimace of unmitigated aversion. + +‘Well, the less you see of them the better I shall be pleased.’ + +‘But, Hal dear, I think you’re a little hard on Mrs Rushton. She seemed +full of good wishes for our happiness, and see what she brought me as a +wedding gift.’ + +And Paula uncovered from its paper wrappings something which looked +like a small pillow, covered with spotted muslin and pink ribbon bows. + +‘What on earth is it?’ + +‘A pincushion, dear. Rather a large one, I confess, but it will do for +the spare room. But it was kind of the old woman to think of us, wasn’t +it?’ + +‘Humph! I would rather she didn’t. Her thoughts are like wormwood, +and apt to turn everything to gall. Where did she get this atrocious +offering?’ + +‘Oh, Hal, she made it all herself, and she apologised for its being +such a humble gift, but she isn’t rich, you know. I couldn’t help, +somehow, being rather sorry for her when she mentioned her regret at +leaving the Hall. You see, I couldn’t appreciate the joy of being here +myself as much as I do if I couldn’t realise what the loss of it would +be. I assure you the tears were in her eyes when she looked at the +improvements in the garden. And she was _so_ shabby. I don’t believe +she can have had a new cloak for years.’ + +‘Well, my child, that’s not my fault, nor her own either, for she must +have feathered her nest considerably whilst she was with me, and might +easily afford a new turn-out by this time. Oh, Paula, you don’t know +how I hate that woman. Sometimes I think she worried my poor father +into the grave before his time.’ + +‘Hal, darling, that _must_ be fancy. I confess her appearance doesn’t +impress me, and Mr Snaley is still worse than his mother, but it must +certainly be a great change from the Hall to Wavertree Cottage. Mrs +Rushton complained a good deal of rheumatism. She is afraid the little +pond at the back of the cottage makes it damp.’ + +‘And do you want me to reinstate them both here in consequence, +sweetheart? Because, I won’t.’ + +‘Oh, no, dear, of course not; only, they must miss the luxuries they +enjoyed here. Mrs Rushton told me her kitchen garden had been so much +neglected nothing would grow in it, and she can’t eat Farmer Rich’s +butter after that she used to superintend the churning of it at the +Hall.’ + +‘That was only to try and work on your sympathy. I have already told +the old woman that she can have all she requires from our dairy.’ + +‘That was very good of you, Hal. I’m afraid we vexed her sadly that +evening about the peaches. She apologised so much she made me feel +quite ashamed, and I said we never should have taken the basket from +her had we not thought that she had gathered them to save Potter the +trouble.’ + +‘_That_ was a cracker, my darling; however, let it pass. And what had +the noble Ted to say for himself?’ + +‘He brought me that bouquet of chrysanthemums in the Chinese bowl. His +mother told me they came from Haltham, as he could find nothing good +enough for me in Deepdale.’ + +At this Hal laughed long and lustily. + +‘Ted Snaley turned into a ladies’ man!’ he exclaimed. ‘What next, +I wonder! If you can achieve such transformations as these, Paula, +I shall not be surprised to hear of the widow coming out as a +professional beauty.’ + +And amidst the mirth engendered by this fancy the theme of Mrs +Rushton’s visit gave place to some other subject. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +LADY BRISTOWE. + + +The Bristowe acquaintance promised after a while to become a nuisance. +Hal hated dinner-parties, and all kinds of festivities away from his +own home, but her ladyship was so pressing they hardly knew how to +refuse her. + +‘We _must_ go this once, Hal,’ pleaded Paula. ‘I don’t look forward to +it any more than you do, but the old lady has certainly been very kind +to us, and we must not be ungrateful.’ + +‘Very well,’ acquiesced the young man, in a tone of dissatisfaction, +‘for the first time, then, and the last. I’m not going to drag myself +away from my dogs and horses to make small-talk at a dinner table. I +gave all that sort of thing up long ago. I believe I have a suit of +dress clothes somewhere, but I very much doubt if I can get into them.’ + +‘I’ve treated you too well, you lazy boy, and you’ve grown too stout,’ +said Paula, laughing. + +‘Seriously though, my darling, don’t you remember our compact, that +neither of us was to interfere with the amusements of the other? Go and +dine with all the old ladies in the neighbourhood if it pleases you, +but leave me in the stables. I never _was_ a society man, you know. I +believe that if I had seen you first in a drawing-room I never should +have become intimate enough with you to propose.’ + +‘Well, I’ll never ask you again, dear--I promise you that--but just +this once you will come to please me. Whoever heard of a bride going +out to dine at the house of a new acquaintance by herself? It would be +too funny.’ + +‘It would be the only funny thing about it then. I anticipate a +frightfully dull evening.’ + +‘So do I; but it would be a thousand times worse without you. After +this, if she ever asks us again, I shall tell her plainly that we +intend to give up all formal visiting whatever.’ + +So Hal gave in, and on a certain lovely afternoon in September he drove +his wife over to Tor Abbey. He wore a dust-coat over his evening suit, +and her white dress was well covered up from view, and they alighted at +the Abbey looking very fresh and handsome, and suitably attired, and +were received by Lady Bristowe with enthusiasm. + +They found her sitting in the grand old library, through the stained +glass windows of which the setting sun cast violet and ruby shades on +the bindings of the books and the carved oak cases, and gave the room +the appearance of an oriel chapel. Sarah Brennan was seated in one of +the window recesses, occupied with needlework, but Lady Bristowe did +not take the trouble to introduce her to either of her guests. + +‘Now, I call this really kind of you,’ she said, as she embraced Paula +and shook hands with Hal, ‘to take the trouble to drive all this way +to dine with a stupid old woman. You know I said you would meet no one +but myself. I have persuaded Mr Vernon, our curate, to make a fourth +at table, just to keep Mr Rushton company, but he is such a quiet +creature he counts for nothing. And now you will go upstairs, dear, +and remove your things. Brennan, show Mrs Rushton the way up to the +yellow room, and assist her to dismantle. Mr Rushton, my man will take +your overcoat. It has been a lovely day, hasn’t it--more like July than +September? And we shall have October here in a day or two. Dear, dear, +how the time flies. Pray sit down and make yourself comfortable.’ + +And Lady Bristowe reseated herself in her capacious arm-chair, and +continued to chatter, with the view of amusing her guest until the +party should be reinforced. Meanwhile, Sarah Brennan had led Paula +up a wide staircase, lined with family portraits and oil paintings, +to a large bedroom, hung with old-fashioned yellow satin, where she +deposited her hat and cloak, and ruffled up the pretty curls upon her +forehead by aid of the Venetian mirror on the dressing-table. As she +did so she became conscious of a very evil pair of eyes watching her +movements, in the person of Miss Brennan. The companion was, indeed, +feeling anything but well-inclined towards the new-comer. She knew +the position she had held in Deepdale, and resented the idea of a +village schoolmistress being treated by Lady Bristowe as an equal, +whilst _she_ was ignored, as if she had been the lowest servant in +the establishment. _Her_ father had been a thriving tradesman in the +Italian warehouse line, and she would like to know what more Mrs +Rushton’s father had been. Paula, seeing the look with which she +regarded her, and attributing it to illness, asked her kindly if she +felt well. + +‘Perfectly so, thank you,’ returned Miss Brennan, with thin pursed-up +lips, ‘and if you’re ready, perhaps we had better go downstairs again.’ + +She would not have dared address Paula in so familiar a manner before +her employer, but she felt aggressively bold now that they were alone. +Paula recognised the feeling, and with a slight flush on her face, +retraced her steps to the library. + +‘Ah, how pretty you look,’ cried Lady Bristowe effusively, as she +entered it. ‘Mr Rushton, you have the handsomest wife for miles round +Deepdale.’ + +‘I know that,’ replied Hal, laughing. + +‘And I am very jealous of you, sir, and want to share your spoils with +you. I wish I had found her out first. Then I should have carried her +off, and you would have been out of the running altogether. Come and +sit down by me, my love. Why, how old are you? You don’t look twenty in +that white frock.’ + +‘Oh, I am much more than that, Lady Bristowe. I was twenty-five on my +last birthday.’ + +‘And not married till then? What were the men about not to run off with +you long ago? And where did you live before you came to Deepdale?’ + +‘Chiefly with my mother,’ replied Paula, colouring. + +‘Ah, your mother. She is living still, is she not? How sorry she +must have been to part with you. By-the-way, I cannot find your dear +father’s name in the Royal Navy list. Lieutenant George Stafford, was +he not? And I think you said he died at sea. Poor dear, how sad. But +how is it his name is not down in the _Navy List_?’ + +Paula coloured rosily. The question took her by surprise. She had +no wish to disclose more of her private affairs than was absolutely +necessary, but Lady Bristowe’s pertinacity left her no alternative but +to tell the truth. And Sarah Brennan, from her sheltered window seat, +had seen the blush, and noted it. + +‘I called myself “Stafford” whilst I was at the schoolhouse, Lady +Bristowe, but it is not my real name. I was so poor that I was obliged +to work for my living, but I saw no necessity to drag my father’s name +in the dirt. He was Lieutenant George Sutton, not Stafford.’ + +‘Oh, Sutton, Sutton, of course that makes all the difference,’ +exclaimed her ladyship. ‘Brennan, bring me the _Navy List_. Ah, here +it is, of course, in the deceased officers’ list. Lieutenant George +Sutton, R.N., of H.M.S. _Thunderer_. Ah, there is no more noble service +on the face of the earth than the Royal Navy, and I am glad you thought +to uphold its name. I admire you for having worked to help your dear +mother, though, and “All’s well that ends well,” eh, Mr Rushton? But +here is Mr Vernon, and now we shall have some dinner.’ + +‘A thousand apologies for being behind my time, Lady Bristowe,’ said +the curate briskly, ‘but these parish duties are terribly exacting.’ + +‘Well, now you _are_ come, let me introduce you to Mr and Mrs Rushton,’ +chuckled his hostess, ‘and give Mrs Rushton your arm, and take her into +dinner, and we will follow suit.’ + +The men-servants who announced the meal threw open the door of the +dining-room and ushered them into a repast more fit for a party of +four-and-twenty than of four. The good-natured Lady Bristowe seated +herself, panting, at the head of her table, with Hal and Paula on +either side of her and the curate opposite, and applied herself +steadily to pressing the different dishes on their acceptance. After a +while, however, and when all her guests were busily engaged, each with +a powdered flunkey behind his chair, she reverted to the subject of +Paula’s mother. + +‘And so your poor dear mother is left all alone? That must be very +sad for her. Cannot you persuade her to follow you to Deepdale, Mrs +Rushton?’ + +Paula shook her head. + +‘My husband was good enough to ask her to reside altogether with us,’ +she said, ‘but she would not come. She loves her own home too well, and +she has many friends round her.’ + +‘And where may her home be, my dear?’ + +Paula hesitated. She felt as if so much that she would rather have left +unsaid was being dragged out of her against her will, yet how could she +refuse to answer so simple and natural a question. The idea flashed +through her mind to give a false address, but she had not the time to +mature it, and so in her confusion she blurted out the truth. + +‘At Grassdene,’ she said, in a low voice. + +‘Grassdene!’ echoed Lady Bristowe, ‘surely that is not far from +Lynmouth? My sister, Mrs Archibald Craig (the wife of Captain Craig, +commanding the _Lightning_ gunboat--all in the Royal Navy, you see, my +dear), lives at Lynmouth, and I go down to see her almost every year. +I shall make a point, next time I am there, of going over to Grassdene +and making the acquaintance of your dear mother. Mrs Craig will like to +know her, too, I am sure. We have such a fellow-feeling for anyone who +is connected with the dear old service.’ + +Paula glanced hurriedly at her husband, as if to seek for counsel. But +he was looking fixedly at his plate, with something of a frown upon his +brow. So she took it upon herself to answer. + +‘You are very kind, Lady Bristowe, but my mother is somewhat of an +invalid, and never receives any visitors. I hope you will not be +offended with me for saying so, but you must not take any trouble on +her account. She lives a very secluded life, and goes nowhere.’ + +‘An invalid!’ cried her ladyship. ‘Oh, that is very sad. But my +sister, Mrs Craig, might be of use to her. She has a magnificent place +in Lynmouth, with any amount of hot-houses, and a few grapes, or a +pine-apple, or any delicacies of that sort, are always acceptable in +sickness. I shall write to-morrow to Mrs Craig and tell her to lose no +time in showing what attention she can to Mrs Sutton.’ + +‘Oh, pray--_pray_ don’t,’ exclaimed Paula involuntarily, but with so +much fervour in her tone that the attention of all at the table was +directed to her. As soon as ever the words had escaped her lips, she +would have recalled them, but it was too late. She blushed painfully as +she felt the surprise she had evoked by her _brusquerie_, and the more +so when Hal remarked,-- + +‘That is not a very polite return for Lady Bristowe’s kindness, Paula.’ + +‘Oh, I hope you don’t think me ungrateful,’ she said, turning to her +hostess with moistened eyes. ‘I cannot thank you enough for the offer, +but my mother is so sensitive--so nervous--she shrinks so terribly from +seeing or speaking with strangers, that I thought--I was afraid--’ + +‘Oh, never mind, my dear,’ interposed Lady Bristowe, with a shade less +warmth in her demeanour; ‘of course Mrs Craig would have known how to +show her desire to be of use without intruding on Mrs Sutton’s privacy, +but if you think it would be a distress instead of a pleasure to her, +we will say no more about it.’ Then, turning from her altogether, she +addressed the curate instead: ‘Do you know when the rector is coming +home again, Mr Vernon? He seems to me to be taking a very long holiday.’ + +Mr Vernon replied that they confidently expected the rector to take +the pulpit the Sunday after next, and then the conversation drifted on +parochial matters, and Paula sat by and listened listlessly, feeling +very much as if she were all of a sudden in disgrace. But the idea of +Lady Bristowe and her sister bearing down upon Grassdene in one of +their grand carriages, and perhaps without any warning, to find Mrs +Sutton in _déshabille_, and to see poor little Paul or encounter some +neighbour who had known her during her first married life, had been too +much for her susceptibility. She was very silent during the remainder +of the meal, but as the ladies rose from table her hostess passed her +stout arm through Paula’s slender one with a familiarity that told her +the little annoyance was forgotten. + +‘I don’t know when I have taken such a fancy to anyone as I have to +you, my dear,’ she said, on their way to the drawing-room. ‘I quite +feel as if I had found a daughter. I only wish you _were_ my daughter. +I wish my dear son Wallace may find such another wife for himself; +but he is a lawless fellow, and says he will never marry. I have +never shown you my Wallace’s portrait,’ she continued, halting before +a full-length oil painting of a young naval officer. ‘Here is the dear +boy, you see, taken in his first epaulettes. Isn’t it a fine face? A +little heavy-browed, perhaps, like his dear father the Admiral, but +good all round, and the sweetest temper in the world.’ + +‘Like his mother,’ said Paula, smiling. + +‘Ah, my dear, what merit is there in having a good temper when no one +presumes to ruffle it? Here have I been from girlhood, surrounded with +everything I could possibly desire, and, except for losing the Admiral, +without a trouble.’ + +‘And the separation from your only son,’ suggested Paula. + +‘But that is inevitable. He is in the Royal Navy, and it would have +broken my heart if he had refused to enter it. So, you see, I have so +little to complain of that the difficulty would be to find something +to lose my temper about.’ + +‘You have such an amiable disposition, Lady Bristowe. Some people will +fall out with themselves sooner than with no one at all.’ + +‘What a terrible misfortune it must be, though. That is like poor dear +Brennan. I have had that young woman in my service five years, and I +don’t know when I have seen her smile. I allow her a great many more +privileges than I ever agreed to do, yet she is never happy. Ah! here +she comes, with her long face. Well Brennan, what is it?’ + +‘If you please, your ladyship, shall you require my services for an +hour or so? If not, I thought I would take a stroll before bedtime.’ + +‘Dear me, no. Haven’t I got Mrs Rushton? Go and take a stroll, by all +manner of means. Make yourself happy, Brennan, that is all I ask. Will +you take my pets with you?’ + +‘If your ladyship wishes it.’ + +‘No; on second thoughts, they might incommode you, and I should like to +show the darlings to Mrs Rushton. Tell James to bring them all round +before the drawing-room windows. I always keep up my breed of Blenheim +spaniels, my dear. The Admiral used to say they were the only dogs a +lady should possess. I have three little pets in the house, but several +more in the stables. Are you fond of animals?’ + +‘Very much so, Lady Bristowe. We have some beautiful setters and +pointers at home, but no dog small enough to live indoors.’ + +‘Oh, I shall have to give you one of my Blenheim puppies. I believe my +coachman has some just ready to leave the mother. It is not _everyone_ +I would give one of my puppies to, my dear. They are thoroughbred dogs, +you know, and my coachman doesn’t like the breed going out of the +Abbey. But _you_ are an exception, and I should like to think you had +one in your possession.’ + +‘You are too good to me,’ faltered Paula, feeling a presentiment all +the while that her ladyship’s goodness would have some unpleasant +termination. + +The little dogs were duly admired, and the pup, greatly against the +coachman’s inclination, selected from the litter, and Paula had just +taken it in her arms, and was fondling and caressing it, when the +gentlemen came in from the dining-room and learned how it had come into +her possession. + +‘You are indeed highly favoured, Mrs Rushton,’ observed Mr Vernon. ‘I +don’t know when Lady Bristowe has given one of her little dogs away +before. I remember our rector’s wife giving her some very broad hints +on the subject once, but she was deaf as well as dumb.’ + +‘If I gave to one, I must give to all, but _this_ is a very different +case,’ replied Lady Bristowe. ‘I look upon Mrs Rushton as my adopted +daughter.’ + +‘Oh, indeed, I was not aware of it. You have known this young lady, +doubtless, for a long time?’ + +‘Well, not so long, counted by weeks and months perhaps, but we feel as +if we had known each other all our lives, don’t we, my dear?’ said her +ladyship, patting Paula’s cheek. + +Paula’s large grey eyes looked up gratefully, but she said nothing. She +could not echo her hostess’s sentiment, but she thought it very good +of her to express it. Presently Lady Bristowe drew Hal away to admire +the prospect from a bay window, and Mr Vernon was left, comparatively +speaking, alone with Paula. + +‘Am I right,’ he inquired, ‘in thinking that, not long ago, you held +the position of school teacher in Deepdale?’ + +‘Quite right,’ she replied; ‘I was there for over two years.’ + +But she wondered as she said it if the fact of her former position +would ever be forgotten, or cease to be spoken of. + +‘I thought I could not be mistaken,’ rejoined her companion. ‘I was +over there at the local examinations last year, and thought how much +credit your pupils did you. And you gave up your appointment to get +married?’ + +Paula bowed her head. + +‘I must congratulate you. I have not had the pleasure of meeting Mr +Rushton before this evening, but I have often heard of him. I believe +he is the son of Farmer Rushton of Highbridge. Was there not a widow?’ + +‘Yes; but she is not Hal’s mother, and she does not live with us,’ said +Paula. + +‘Well, I am very pleased to have been introduced to you. The Measures +are great friends of mine, but I little thought the Mrs Rushton I heard +of as staying at Deepdale vicarage was the same as Miss Stafford. I +hope this will not prove to be our last meeting.’ + +He was captivated with the sweet face and bearing of Hal Rushton’s +young wife, but he was at the same time slightly puzzled. He did not +believe it possible there could be anything to be said against the +guest of Mrs Measures and Lady Bristowe, and yet surely some unpleasant +reports had reached him respecting the departure of the school teacher +from Deepdale. Mr Vernon kept turning the two things over in his head +without arriving at any satisfactory conclusion, and left Tor Abbey +without having unravelled the mystery. Certainly he could believe no +harm of pretty Mrs Rushton. It must be concluded, therefore, that the +rumours which had reached him were untrue. With the curate’s departure +the little party broke up. Hal wrapped up his wife carefully in her +large cloak, and placed her in her pony chaise, and after a great many +affectionate farewells from Lady Bristowe, and entreaties that they +would soon visit her again, they took their way home. For some minutes +Hal drove in silence, flicking the pony in a way that proved he was not +altogether in a good temper, and then he said interrogatively,-- + +‘Well, Paula?’ + +‘What is it, dear? I am afraid you proved a true prophet, and have not +enjoyed your evening. Yet the poor old lady did all she possibly could +to make it pleasant to us.’ + +‘I wasn’t thinking of that. My mind was ruminating on several things +that occurred during dinner, and which make me say that the less we +encourage Lady Bristowe’s familiarity the better. She is a kind woman, +but a very pushing one, and if she ever suspects there is a secret +concerning you she will not rest until she has discovered what it +is. I wish you hadn’t accepted that dog from her. It will be another +obligation to make breaking the intimacy more difficult.’ + +‘I wish I had not,’ replied his wife, looking down on the little animal +in her lap, ‘but I hardly knew how to refuse it. She presses her gifts +on one so warmly. It seems impossible to reject them without giving +offence.’ + +‘I always doubt these sudden affections,’ continued Hal. ‘It is +ridiculous to hear her talk of you in such an extravagant manner, whom +she has only known for a month. Such natures are apt to cool just +as suddenly as they have warmed, and I won’t have you taken up and +cast off as if you were an old shoe. We must return Lady Bristowe’s +hospitality in our small way; but don’t accept any more invitations to +Tor Abbey, Paula. Lay all the blame on me. Say that I won’t go out +into society, and that you cannot go without me. We shall be happier by +ourselves, love, believe me.’ + +‘I know we shall,’ replied Paula fervently, ‘and for my own part I wish +we had never been introduced to Lady Bristowe at all. She has already +been the cause of your speaking impatiently to me, and I would “cut” +everybody in the world sooner than they should come in the slightest +degree between us.’ + +‘Now, darling, you are rushing into the other extreme. No one shall +ever come between us, neither is there the slightest necessity for +“cutting” Lady Bristowe, who has really done us a great honour. But +such honours are rather above us, Paula. We cannot return them in like +measure, and neither you nor I want to be the _protégés_ of a grand +lady. I am only a farmer’s son, and have never pretended to be anything +more--a country gentleman, perhaps, you may call me, but not fit to +provide small-talk for late dinner-parties. I hate them, Paula, they +are so much time wasted to me; and if you love me as you say you do, +you will give them up for my sake, and let me live my quiet, peaceful +life at home.’ + +‘_If I love you_,’ said Paula reproachfully. ‘Oh, Hal, can you have any +doubt of it? From this moment I will never accept a formal invitation +again. Only tell me what you wish, dearest, and it shall be done.’ + +‘My love, don’t think I want you to sacrifice your own inclinations +for me. Go where you will, but leave me at home. I am so much happier +there. But we must give some sort of an entertainment in return for the +civility of our neighbours, and that as soon as you can manage it.’ + +‘Let it be a garden-party then, Hal, for the weather is quite fine +enough for it, and it will not worry you so much. We can have tennis +and croquet and a dance upon the lawn, and an _al fresco_ meal laid out +on tables on the terrace. Do you think we know enough people to make it +pleasant?’ + +‘I believe so. There will be the Measures, of course, and he has a +brother at Rodney Wold with half-a-dozen lads and lasses. Then there is +Lady Bristowe and the Ashfolds, and Willards and Marchmonts, and you +must ask Miss Foker and her brother and the Borrowdales--’ + +‘And the Gribbles and Axworthys,’ said Paula slyly. + +‘By Jove, no! They never enter my house on _my_ invitation. But I know +several families out Pennett way, old friends of my mother’s people, +who I feel sure would be delighted to make my wife’s acquaintance. Oh, +we shall make up a nice party, never fear; and there is a quartette in +Haltham (Spring, the stationer, is one of them) who go out to play for +dances, and sing glees between whiles, and will enliven the festivities +considerably.’ + +‘Hal,’ said Paula presently, ‘we shall have to ask your stepmother and +Edward Snaley.’ + +Her husband turned his head and regarded her steadfastly in the face. + +‘Are you serious?’ he asked. + +‘I am, indeed. I am afraid people will think it very strange if they +are left out.’ + +‘Let them think what they choose. It won’t hurt us.’ + +‘But, Hal dear, won’t it look just a little “caddish” not to ask them? +As if we were ashamed to be seen with them?’ + +‘But that’s just it. I _am_ ashamed of them--heartily and thoroughly +ashamed--not because they are humble, but because they are so +infernally low-minded and vulgar. No, Paula, it is not to be thought +of for a minute. Be kind to Mrs Rushton and her son, if you will--I +would not check your generous nature for the world--but you cannot ask +them to a mixed party. It would be an insult to every one of your lady +visitors.’ + +‘I am sorry,’ sighed Paula. ‘It is very awkward. I wish they did not +live in Deepdale.’ + +‘So do I. But it is one of the scrapes I have got you into, and you +must make the best of it. If giving a party necessitates the presence +of the _ci-devant_ Mrs Snaley and her beauteous offspring, the party +must be given up.’ + +‘Very well, dear, we will think no more about it. What day shall we fix +upon?’ + +‘Oh, make it an early one. Deepdalers are not used to long invitations. +Say a week hence, the fifth of October. That will give you plenty of +time to make your preparations.’ + +‘I will have such a _lovely_ spread,’ exclaimed Paula, with the +enthusiasm of a young housekeeper, ‘a _dejeûner à la fourchette_. That +sounds well for Deepdale, doesn’t it, Hal?’ + +‘Capital! But what does it mean?’ + +‘Luncheon and tea combined, eaten at four o’clock,’ replied his wife, +laughing. ‘It shall be a nice one, I assure you. I begin to feel quite +excited over it, and will make out the list of guests and write the +invitations the first thing to-morrow morning.’ + +The young people did not speak of their project except to one another, +and yet somehow the news got bruited abroad, and by the afternoon +of the next day everybody in Deepdale knew that Mrs Hal Rushton was +about to give a garden-party (a ‘feet,’ as Mrs Axworthy termed it) at +Highbridge Hall, and that the Haltham quartette had been hired for +the occasion. All the ‘ladies’ were on the _qui vive_ in a moment, +wondering _who_ would be invited, and speculating on what they +themselves ought to wear on the auspicious occasion. + +‘For, in course,’ as Mrs Axworthy remarked to Mrs Gribble, ‘we shall +hall be hasked, as is only our doo. I’m sure she howes it to us, Mrs +Gribble, ma’am, for a shabbier wedding visit I never see, with never +a bit of cake nor a drop of wine to drink their ’ealths. But no doubt +they was reserving their hospitality for this “feet,” and will come out +handsome now. What are you thinking of wearing ma’am?’ + +‘Well, I hardly know,’ returned Mrs Gribble. ‘Of course, I must respeck +myself, and yet I don’t want to seem to do too much honner to the +young person Mr ’Al has married. I’ve a sweet green _muslin de laine_ +that I ’ad for my Carrie’s christening, and I think if I was to trim it +with a little white lace, and put a gold butterfly or so in my Sunday +bonnet, it would look very hairy and summer like.’ + +‘Charming,’ said her friend; ‘and I’m glad to ’ear you’ll wear green, +as then we won’t clash, for I’ve settled on my pink silk skirt, with a +black velvet bodice, and a ’at with my white ostrich plumes in it. If +I can carry it out as I ’ave it in my mind’s heye, I don’t think there +will be another costume like it in the whole “feet.” The pleasantest +part of these little gatherings is planning your dress beforehand, +and we mustn’t forget as our good gentlemen ’old a ’igh position in +Deepdale.’ + +‘Well, naterally everyone will be hasking who _we_ are. I think I shall +let my Lottie and Carrie go in book-muslin and blue ribbins. There’s +nothing sweeter, and the frocks they ’ad for the last examinations are +as good as noo. I wish Mr Stubbins ’adn’t cut their ’air so short +yesterday. It looks genteeler tied up with ribbins. But there, one +can’t ’ave heverythink.’ + +‘I’m a-longing to see the hinvites,’ said Mrs Axworthy. ‘I suppose they +will be sent round to-morrer. Jane Clark told Haxworthy that she was +a-writing of them hall to-day.’ + +The morrow arrived, however, without bringing the expected invitations, +but the ladies did not lose hope. They could not conceive it possible +that any party could be given at Highbridge Hall without including +their names. They still evinced the greatest interest in listening +to the account of all that was to be done on the occasion; of how a +large marquee was to be pitched on the lawn for the refreshments, and +Mr Rushton had ordered six dozen of champagne from Haltham, and a +professed cook was coming over to superintend the making of jellies and +savoury pies. + +‘I should call it redickerlous for such as _’er_,’ confided Mrs +Axworthy to her crony Gribble, ‘unless it was to show honner where +honner’s doo. The fact is, ma’am, Mrs ’Al Rushton is beginning to see +it will be best to keep friends with them as can open their mouths or +shut ’em as they feel inclined. She’s a sharp ’un, take my word for it.’ + +But when the days went on without bringing the expected invitations, +and little Miss Foker came over and triumphantly displayed the letter +she had received, asking herself and her brother to the Hall for the +fifth of October, the churchwardens and their ladies began to suspect +there must be something wrong. + +‘She couldn’t never mean to leave us _hout_!’ exclaimed Mrs Axworthy, +with her face the colour of a beet. + +‘Impossible! Think of the himperence of it,’ replied Mrs Gribble; ‘why, +it’s as good as putting her character in our ’ands.’ + +‘Oh, it’s a beauty she’ll get from me when I’ve a chance to give it +’er,’ cried the other, ‘hinsulting us before the whole neighbourhood +in this manner. Deepdale ladies ain’t good enough company for Mrs ’Al +Rushton, I suppose. She must ’ave barrow knights, widders, and hearls +and countesses for her garden “feet.” Very good, she’ll see. She’s made +henemies of hus two, Mrs Gribble, who might have been ’er friends, and +it remains to be seen which on us will be the wuss for it.’ + +‘It’s _sickening_,’ retorted Mrs Gribble, as from the window they +watched the arrival of the marquee and some dozens of garden chairs +from Haltham. + +When the day of the party arrived everything was most propitious. +The weather was beautiful--not a cloud appeared in the blue sky--not +a guest disappointed them by sending a tardy excuse for his +non-appearance, for everybody was but too glad to come. Mrs Measures +brought a goodly array of nephews and nieces, and Lady Bristowe was +accompanied by several young people from her own parish. To crown +all, Mrs Willard, one of Hal’s oldest friends, in addition to her own +family, begged to be allowed to introduce the Countess of Warden, who +was anxious to join the garden-party. + +Paula, who was looking the quintessence of a white rose in her simple +muslin dress and white chip hat, was almost disposed to be overwhelmed +at first by receiving such distinguished guests, but in dispensing her +simple hospitality to them she soon became at her ease. Lady Warden, +who was quite a young woman, appeared to enjoy herself as much as +anybody there, and after playing at lawn tennis all the afternoon, and +disposing of an excellent meal in the marquee, chose Hal Rushton to +lead off Sir Roger de Coverley with her on the lawn, and finally left +them full of regret that the Earl had not had such a good time with +her. The Haltham quartette discoursed sweet music all the day, and +the strains from their instruments were carried over the grounds of +Highbridge Hall into the village, making the listeners green with envy, +whilst the banquet was declared to be the best thing of the kind ever +seen in Deepdale. + +‘Paula, my dear, you have surpassed yourself,’ exclaimed Mrs Measures, +as she surveyed the long tables, bright with sparkling glass and +burnished silver, and covered with raised pies and boned game, salmon +and chicken mayonnaise, jellies, creams and trifles, whilst fruit and +flowers filled every available space. ‘I don’t believe they have ever +seen such a spread in Deepdale before. You will wake to-morrow and find +yourself famous.’ + +‘A poor fame, dear Mrs Measures, to have its foundation on truffled +turkeys and champagne.’ + +‘Not so, Paula, on the art of being an admirable hostess, and knowing +how to make your friends happy. Everybody is delighted and votes your +garden-party the most successful they have ever attended. I am afraid +there must be some sore and envious hearts in Deepdale this afternoon.’ + +‘I hope not. I think we have asked everybody to whom we owed anything. +But they are Hal’s friends, of course, and I only followed the list he +gave me.’ + +‘Well, it has been very delightful, and I have enjoyed myself +immensely. How many are there present?’ + +‘I am not quite sure. So many of them have brought friends. I should +think about a hundred.’ + +‘I must not keep you from them longer, Paula. They are beginning to +dance again. I believe they will never leave off. And it is growing +late--past seven, I declare. I must go and find the vicar. He has to +hold a class at eight. Good-bye, my dear, and many congratulations to +you.’ + +Paula echoed the farewell rather languidly. She had been running about +all the afternoon and began to feel tired. Yet her face was flushed, +and her husband thought he had never seen her look more lovely than she +did as she stood by his side and shook hands with her departing guests. +At last they were all gone. The dusk was falling, the strains of music +had ceased, the quartette were finishing the remains of the truffled +turkeys and champagne. + +‘Come, my darling,’ said Hal lovingly, as he wound his arm about his +wife’s waist, ‘you have done your duty bravely, and you are tired out. +Come in and take off all your finery, and rest upon the sofa.’ And he +drew her into the house. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +A MYSTERIOUS LOSS. + + +Paula, following her husband’s advice, removed her pretty lace dress +and flowery hat, and putting on a dark wrap, lay down on the sofa in +the breakfast parlour whilst her servants made her some tea. It was for +the first time, then, that Hal perceived a little pile of letters and +newspapers waiting for him. + +‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘I have been so busy all day I have had no +time to think of my correspondence. However, I suppose they are only +circulars. I seldom get anything more interesting.’ + +He opened one or two county newspapers, and tossed them to one side as +he spoke. + +‘I suppose our garden-party will get into the _Haltham Chronicle_, +Paula. I saw Spring making copious notes. You’ll see your whole bill of +fare in print next Saturday.’ + +Paula smiled faintly, but did not answer. She was lying back on the +sofa cushions, with her eyes closed, for now that the excitement +and the necessity for exertion were over she felt how much her head +ached. Her husband went on with his letters. He sent a couple of +advertisements to join the newspapers, but the contents of the third +envelope he opened seemed to arrest his attention. It was a very short +letter, but he read it several times over before he ventured furtively +to glance at his wife, who was lying in the same position, with closed +eyes. After a minute or two, he walked gently up to her side, and +kissed her brow. Paula looked up, and lifting her arms, wound them +around his neck. + +‘Paula, darling,’ he whispered, ‘I have had a letter about your mother. +I am afraid she is not well.’ + +Paula sat up on the sofa, and opened her eyes wide. + +‘Not _well_,’ she exclaimed incredulously, ‘mother not well. Why, I +heard from her only two days ago, and she did not mention it. What is +the matter with her, Hal? Read me her letter.’ + +‘The letter is not from her, dear. It is from the doctor.’ + +‘From Dr Gibbon, and he writes to _you_. How strange, when he has known +me so long. Well, what does he say? Don’t keep me in suspense.’ + +‘It is not from Dr Gibbon, dearest. Perhaps he is away for his +holiday. It is from some stranger of the name of Courtfield, and all +he says is: “Dear sir,--Mrs Sutton is seriously ill, and desires to +see Mrs Rushton. Please bring or send her to Grassdene as soon as +possible.--Yours faithfully, L. Courtfield.”’ + +Paula pressed both her hands against her brows. + +‘Courtfield, Courtfield,’ she murmured, ‘I do not know the name. Why +should he write?’ And then, as though conviction had for the first +time burst upon her, she cried: ‘Oh, mother, mother. She must be _very_ +ill, indeed, to let a stranger write to tell us of it. And I have been +singing and dancing all the afternoon, whilst she was perhaps _dying_. +Oh, what a wicked, wicked girl I am. I have not thought half enough +of my poor mother, and all she has done and suffered for me. I have +been wrapt up in you, and your love for me, and the pride of my new +possessions. Oh, Hal, Hal, is God going to send a judgment upon me?’ + +‘For loving me, dearest, and opening your poor parched heart to receive +my love? I hope not. He would not be the Father of us all if He grudged +His children the only real comfort they have in this world. But Paula, +darling, listen to me. There is a train from Haltham at eleven o’clock +for the west. I will travel down by it to Grassdene, and send you a +wire directly I arrive to let you know how your mother is.’ + +‘And leave me here alone, doing nothing!’ she cried. ‘Oh, no; that +would be worse than death. I will go with you, Hal. We will go to my +dear mother together.’ + +‘Oh, Paula, you are so exhausted with fatigue. A night journey may make +you ill. Take my advice, dear one, and go to bed. You can join me by +the earliest train to-morrow, if you still desire it.’ + +‘And meanwhile my mother may die without seeing me again. Do you +suppose this Courtfield would have said “Come as soon as possible” had +there been no danger? Oh, no, Hal; I must go with you. I should kill +myself with anxiety and suspense if you left me here alone.’ + +‘If that is your opinion, of course you must come,’ replied her +husband, ‘and I suppose it will be best, as this letter alludes so +particularly to you. But we have no time to spare, dearest. It is +nearly nine now, and we have an hour’s drive before us. Can you be +ready so soon?’ + +‘Oh, yes,’ she cried, springing from the sofa. ‘I require nothing but +to change my dress, and put up the few things I may want for the +night. Louisa will do that for me. Oh, my heart is so full of fear and +misery. And when I was looking forward so much to seeing her again.’ + +Hal had no answer to make to this outburst of sorrow. He believed it +best to let it have its way. He knew enough of the suddenness with +which misfortune overtakes us to fear what might be in store for Paula, +and it was as well she should be prepared. So he went in search of +Louisa, and told her that her mistress had received unexpected bad +news, and had to leave the Hall that night, and she must go and help +her to pack up. And in the flurry and distress of departure Paula +had only time to instruct her maid to go over to the vicarage the +first thing in the morning and tell Mrs Measures she had been called +away on account of her mother’s illness, and would write to her from +Devonshire. She flung on a soft, warm travelling dress, for the nights +were beginning to be chilly, and having filled a handbag with her +toilet necessaries, was standing ready at the hall door for some time +before her husband drove up in his dog-cart. + +‘Jump in, dear,’ he said; ‘I ordered the cart instead of the pony +chaise because the mare will take us quicker into Haltham. Where is +your travelling plaid, and have you no veil? I am so afraid you will +take cold in the night air. Wait a moment and I will fetch them for +you.’ + +He wrapped her up tenderly, as if she had been an ailing child, and in +the midst of her trouble Paula could not help feeling that as long as +she had her husband’s love she could never be entirely miserable. It +was a very silent and melancholy journey that followed, for neither +of them dared tell their thoughts to the other. Paula sat throughout +the night holding Hal’s hand, and staring with sleepless eyes into the +darkness, as she wondered vaguely what might be before her. In the +early dawn they arrived at Lynmouth, where they had spent their happy +honeymoon, and had to wait there for an hour and a half before getting +a train to take them to the nearest station to Grassdene. Hal took +Paula to an hotel, and insisted upon her swallowing some coffee, but +suspense seemed to make the act almost impossible. At last the moment +arrived to start again, and at about seven o’clock in the morning a +rickety old fly halted with them before the little home of Mrs Sutton. +Paula turned the handle of the vehicle door and hurried up the garden +path. Her summons brought a respectable looking woman to the door. + +‘How is my mother?’ she asked breathlessly. + +The woman scrutinised her keenly. + +‘Is it Mrs Rushton?’ she said. + +‘Yes, yes. Is Mrs Sutton better? Pray do not keep me in suspense.’ + +‘If you’re Mrs Rushton, ma’am,’ replied the woman, ‘the doctor’s +waiting to see you in the parlour now. He came over early on purpose to +meet you on arrival. Here is the lady, sir,’ she continued, throwing +open the sitting-room door, through which Paula, closely followed by +her husband, passed. A tall, spare young man was standing to receive +them as they entered. + +‘Are you the Mr Courtfield who wrote to us?’ cried Paula hastily, for +it was no time for ceremony, and she could think of no one but her +mother. + +‘I am, madam; and I presume I speak to Mrs Rushton?’ + +‘Yes. How is my mother, and where is Dr Gibbon?’ + +‘Dr Gibbon is away for a fortnight, and I am acting for him. I was +called in to see Mrs Sutton the day before yesterday, and I regret to +tell you that she is very ill--very ill, indeed.’ + +Paula’s large eyes seemed to start out of her white face. + +‘Is--there--no hope?’ she said, in a strange husky voice. + +The stranger replied gravely,-- + +‘There _is_ no hope, madam, I regret to say. It is better you should +know it at once.’ + +‘Oh, let me go to her. Why am I staying here?’ cried Paula wildly. + +She would have left the room, but Mr Courtfield looked significantly at +Hal Rushton, who laid a restraining hand upon her. + +‘My dearest, stay with us. Don’t you understand?’ + +‘No! What? What would you say?’ + +‘That your dear mother is happier than you or I, Paula. That she has +gone beyond the reach of sorrow.’ + +She gazed at him in a vague, wondering manner for a moment, and then, +laying her head down on the table, burst into a violent flood of tears. + +‘It will do her good,’ said Hal mournfully. ‘She has suspected it from +the beginning, though she has not said a word. Poor girl! it has come +on her far too suddenly.’ + +‘I might have told you the worst when I wrote,’ replied Courtfield, +‘for there was no illness. The poor lady was found dead the day before +yesterday. I was only called in to testify to the cause of death, +which must have taken place some hours before I saw her.’ + +‘But where, then, was Eliza?’ demanded Paula in her surprise, lifting +her wet face for the doctor’s scrutiny. + +‘Who is Eliza?’ he asked in his turn. + +‘My mother’s servant, who attended on her and the child. She used to +come here every day. Why did she not give notice of her illness?’ + +‘My dear lady, you puzzle me. There was no servant in the house when +I entered it. Indeed, the person who summoned me--a Mrs Jones--told +me expressly that Mrs Sutton was alone. She entered the cottage, I +believe, accidentally, and was shocked at what she saw here.’ + +‘_Mrs Jones!_’ repeated Paula wonderingly, ‘that is the baker’s wife. +But who was it opened the door to me, then?’ + +‘Oh, that is an hospital nurse of my acquaintance who I took upon +myself to send for from Durnham, as I felt you would not like the body +to lie here unwatched.’ + +‘Thank you,’ replied Paula, as she commenced to weep afresh; +but suddenly she started up again with the question: ‘But the +child--_where_, then, is the child?’ + +‘_The child!_’ echoed Mr Courtfield, in a tone of mystification. + +‘Yes, my little boy, who lived here with my mother. Where is he? He +must be with someone in Grassdene. Eliza must be taking care of him +somewhere. Why are they not here to meet me?’ + +‘I am quite unable to answer your questions, Mrs Rushton. I am a +stranger in Grassdene, and I never entered this cottage nor saw your +poor mother until she was dead. It was Mrs Jones who gave me your name +and address. But she said nothing about a child. Perhaps the little boy +is with her.’ + +‘Oh, I must see Mrs Jones,’ exclaimed Paula impatiently. ‘I must hear +all she can tell me about this terrible mystery. My mother, ill and +alone. It is too horrible to think of. I shall not be satisfied till I +have seen Mrs Jones and Eliza.’ + +‘Mrs Jones I will go and fetch for you at once,’ said Mr Courtfield, +taking up his hat, ‘and doubtless she will tell you where the servant +is. If you want anything in my absence, will you call Nurse Moore? You +will find her very attentive and kind,’ and Mr Courtfield hurried away. + +As he disappeared Hal held out both his arms to Paula, and folded her +closely to his heart. + +‘Weep here, my darling,’ he said. ‘I will give you twice the love I +have done hitherto now that you have lost hers.’ + +‘Hal,’ she whispered fearfully, ‘_what_ shall we do about the child?’ + +‘Don’t worry your dear head about anything more than you can help at +present. All will come right in the end, Paula. You will have but to +express your wishes for your husband to carry them out to the very best +of his ability.’ + +‘Ah, what should I do without you?’ she cried, as she nestled closely +to him. ‘You are my world.’ + +But at this juncture in bustled Mrs Jones, with her arms and face a +mass of flour, fresh from the baking house. + +‘Oh, Mrs Rushton,’ she exclaimed, ‘how glad I am you’re come, for I’ve +had such a shock as I thought I could never have got over. Your poor +dear ma!’ + +Paula had known the baker’s wife before her first marriage, and +consequently had no hesitation in speaking to her of her private +affairs. + +‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Jones, it has been a terrible blow for all of us. But +tell me how it happened. I want to know _everything_.’ + +‘Lor’, my poor dear, there’s nothing to tell, except that the day +before yesterday, as ’Liza hadn’t been round for the bread in the +morning as usual, I thought I’d run in and see if there was any +mistake, and when I walked in by the back door, which stood open, and +went into the kitchen, you might have knocked me down with a feather, +for there sat your poor dear ma, in all her clothes, stiff and cold. I +thought she was sleeping at first, but when I touched her and see her +face--there, it almost killed me, too.’ + +‘Had there been--foul play?’ demanded Paula, with horror-stricken eyes. + +‘Oh, no, my dear, ’twas her heart, as the doctor will tell you, and +it had been weak for years, as _I_ knew well. And she couldn’t have +suffered, poor dear lady, for she looked as calm as an infant, just as +she looks at this moment, bless her.’ + +‘But where was Eliza, Mrs Jones? Was _she_ not with my poor mother when +she was taken ill? Why didn’t she send for the doctor sooner?’ + +‘My dear lady, no one knows where Eliza is. That is the strange part +of it. I see her, as it might be, on the Saturday when she came to our +place for two loaves, and it was because she didn’t call on the Monday, +nor yet on the Tuesday, that I took the liberty to look in here. But +none of us have seen Eliza since, not even her aunt, so we thought as +Master Paulie had gone to you, perhaps--’ + +‘Master Paulie with _me_!’ interpolated her listener. ‘Who told you +that? He has not been with me, Mrs Jones, since my marriage.’ + +‘Why, surely,’ cried the baker’s wife, ‘’Liza told me on Saturday as +the child was going or had gone (I’m sure I forget which) up to stay +with you in Deepdale, and when the girl was missing, and your poor +dear ma unable to say nothing to nobody, I made sure ’Liza had gone to +take care of him. I was telling her aunt, Mrs Chandler, so only last +evening, as we was talking it over, and saying how strange it was as +she had never come to say good-bye.’ + +But here she was interrupted by a loud cry from Paula,-- + +‘But where _is_ the child, then? Where is my poor helpless little boy? +Oh, God! am I to lose them both in one day?’ + +Hal Rushton and Mrs Jones both looked aghast. Where could the poor +imbecile child be? What mystery was involved in the death of Mrs +Sutton and the disappearance of her unfortunate charge? + +‘But the child _must_ be somewhere in Grassdene,’ exclaimed Hal. ‘He +scarcely left his grandmother’s sight. Some of the villagers must know +where he is.’ + +‘I’m _sure_ he’s not in Grassdene,’ returned the baker’s wife, ‘for +there isn’t a soul here but what knows the other, and one would have no +need to ask twice about it. Besides, haven’t we all known Master Paulie +from his birth? And it was so natural to think he’d gone to visit his +mother. I’m sure I never doubted it for a moment.’ + +‘Something terrible must have happened,’ moaned Paula. ‘The boy has +fallen over the cliffs, or been brutally murdered, and the shock has +killed my poor mother. I feel sure of it. She loved Paulie so dearly. +But where is Eliza, who might have solved the mystery? Why has _she_ +disappeared also? Oh, Hal, the uncertainty and darkness of it all seems +the hardest part to bear.’ + +Hal tried to soothe and reassure his wife, but he had his own +suspicions on the subject. + +Supposing the poor child had lost his life through the carelessness of +the servant, been drowned, perhaps, or allowed to fall over the cliffs, +and the shock of hearing the news had killed Mrs Sutton, what more +likely than the fear of disclosure and blame had induced Eliza to run +away from her native village and seek a situation elsewhere. But this +was pure conjecture, and he would not worry his wife by suggesting it. +Yet it was very hard to listen to her lamentations and fears and be +able to say nothing to comfort her. After a while they went upstairs +together hand in hand, and stood with bated breath beside the silent +body of the dead. Mrs Sutton, who had once been a very pretty woman, +and had possessed an amiable disposition, should have looked very calm +and peaceful lying in her shroud. But she did not. There was a strained +and anxious look upon her features, which her daughter noticed at once, +as a sign that her death had not been a painless one. But Nurse Moore +corrected her. It had been ascertained beyond doubt that her decease +was due to failure of the action of the heart, and that her spirit had +passed away as she sat in an ordinary manner in her arm-chair. But the +grieving daughter could not be satisfied. She wept over the marble +face of her dead mother until her husband drew her by force from the +chamber, and then all her cry was for her lost child. The maternal +solicitude which had seemed to slumber in the boy’s presence was called +to life under the dread that she should never see him again, and she +passed the day in wild lamentations over her double loss and futile +conjectures as to how one at least of them had been occasioned. + +‘Hal,’ she said to her husband, as they sat at night together in the +desolate little parlour, ‘did I not tell you, when I first heard of my +poor mother’s illness, that God had sent a judgment upon me for being +so happy? What right had I to be light-hearted and prosperous, and +surrounded by friends, whilst I left my darling mother to live here +alone, and bear all the trouble and anxiety of my ill-fated child? It +is as though I had been cowardly enough to run away from the burden I +created for myself.’ + +‘Your mother thought differently, Paula. She told me that whenever +she looked at poor little Paul she felt she could not blame herself +sufficiently for having persuaded you--a child in experience--to marry +a man of whom you both knew so little as Captain Bjornsën. I believe +it was this feeling of self-reproach which made her so devoted to the +child, and so anxious to relieve you of the burden of him.’ + +‘Ah! my mother was an angel,’ cried Paula, weeping afresh; ‘she loved +me too much. My unhappy marriage was the fault of no one except the man +who turned it into a hell for me, and made me almost hate the sight of +the poor child who reminded me of him. May God forgive me for it. I +shall never forgive myself. I was not a mother to Paulie. I scarcely +ever felt as if he belonged to me. And yet, Hal, when he was first +born, I was so fond and proud of him. I forgot all my past trouble in +the joy of having a baby of my own. When he smiled at me, in a baby’s +meaningless way, I used to think he knew how miserable I had been, and +wanted to console me for it, and dreamed of the time when he would be a +strong, kind man, to defend me and take care of me and be the comfort +of my life. And then, as time passed on and the smile never seemed to +have any more meaning in it, and his eyes, which could see flowers and +birds and water, failed to recognise me, and the dreadful truth was +broken to me by Dr Gibbon, that my boy was an idiot, my heart seemed +to harden against Providence, and instead of pitying the poor little +creature, I shrunk from him. _Mother_ didn’t. My own blessed mother +opened her arms to the child whom my cold heart had deserted, and drew +him into them. He never gave a proof of his want of intellect but she +showered fresh love upon him, whilst _I_ could remember nothing but +the cruel blows and curses that made him what he was. And now it is all +over. I feel that I am no longer a mother, and I would give the world +to bring him back again. My poor, innocent, unoffending child!’ + +‘Paula, my dearest, you must not despair. We shall find him yet. The +boy cannot have been lost in a place like this. Perhaps the girl Eliza, +frightened by your mother’s sudden death, ran home with Paulie to her +friends.’ + +‘No! No! She _has_ no friends. She is an orphan, and was brought up by +her aunt, Mrs Chandler, who complains of not having seen her before she +left. Where Eliza may be, I cannot tell, but I am sure that my child +is dead. He used to wander about these slopes all by himself looking +for wild flowers. He must have fallen over them. His little body is +lying somewhere on the beach, smashed to pieces. I feel it. I know it. +I shall see it lying so all my life. Oh, Hal, this will kill me. I +cannot remain on earth when those two have gone to Heaven.’ + +‘But, Paula, if there is any foundation for your fears, you shall, at +least, not remain in this torturing uncertainty,’ said Hal. ‘To-morrow +I will engage men to search the whole of the coast for ten miles round, +to see if they can find any traces of such a catastrophe. If they fail +to do so, I hope you will be satisfied that you are mistaken.’ + +‘But if he has not fallen over the cliffs, he may have been drowned in +the sea. Oh, Hal, I am certain he has come by a violent death, and the +shock killed my dear mother. Why else should she have that strained +and pained look on her dead features. Nurse Moore says she can have +suffered no physical pain, but she experienced some awful shock or +fright, I am sure of that. All the rest of my life I shall be haunted +by that look. It is as if she had died longing to tell _me_ something +that would affect my peace of mind. And what could that be but the +death of my poor child. Oh, God! if I might but have seen and spoken +to her, if only for ten minutes, before you took her away from me for +ever.’ + +‘Paula, my darling, I know what you must be suffering under this +harrowing suspense, but don’t lose heart until we have seen Eliza. +We _must_ be able to trace Eliza. A girl like that could not have +possessed the means to go very far. If she has been frightened away by +your mother’s death, she is sure to come back after a while. Hunger +alone will compel her to do so. Mr Courtfield told me that your old +friend Dr Gibbon is expected back to-morrow. Try and be patient till +you have seen him. He may be able to throw light upon the subject. +For my sake, Paula, for _my_ sake, don’t make yourself ill with the +violence of your grief.’ + +But though Paula did not reject her husband’s tenderness, it only +seemed to make her tears flow faster, until she wept herself to sleep, +from sheer exhaustion, in his arms. + +The next day brought home Dr Gibbon, but he could give them no relief. +He was very much shocked to hear of his old friend’s sudden death +(although he had known what she suffered from for years past), but he +could tell them nothing about little Paul, whose disappearance, with +that of the servant girl, was as mysterious to him as to everyone +else. The last time he had seen the child and his grandmother they had +both been in their usual health and spirits, and he had a toy in his +portmanteau which he had brought back for the little boy. He visited +every house in the village, questioning as he went, but not a soul +appeared to have heard or seen anything to point to the occurrence of +an accident. The person who could be traced as the very last to have +seen or spoken with Paulie was a little girl called Becky Silver, who +affirmed she had met him and Eliza on Tuesday morning whilst they were +talking to a man. + +‘Who was the man?’ demanded Dr Gibbon. + +‘I don’t know, sir. I never see’d ’im before. I’m thinking he was a +tramp. He was very dusty, and ’is ’at was broken.’ + +‘Was he young or old?’ + +‘I don’t know, sir. I couldn’t see ’is face. They was on the other side +the ’edge. I think the man was begging or summat. I ’eard ’Liza talking +to ’im, but Paulie ’e never say nothing.’ + +‘Where did they go?’ + +‘They didn’t go nowheres, sir. They stood still on t’other side the +’edge.’ + +‘Did Eliza seem friendly with this man?’ + +‘No, sir. She didn’t seem nothink. She was settling Paulie’s pinafore.’ + +‘Why didn’t you speak to them, Becky?’ + +‘Oh, I never do, sir. I can’t a-bear ’Liza, and Paulie he’s got no +sense. I didn’t even nod to ’em. I just walked on and said nothink.’ + +‘This witness can evidently throw no light upon the mystery,’ said Dr +Gibbon to Hal Rushton; ‘but I don’t like the idea of the tramp. And +yet, what would a tramp get by carrying off or murdering this poor +little child? He did not belong to rich people. The clothes on his +back would not have fetched five shillings.’ + +‘And yet murder has been committed for less,’ remarked Hal. + +‘You are right, sir, but not in open daylight and in the presence of a +witness. It’s the girl’s disappearance that puzzles me. What has _she_ +gone away for? It is incomprehensible.’ + +‘My wife will insist that some accident must have happened to the child +through the carelessness of the servant, and that when she found the +announcement caused her mistress’s death she was so terrified that she +ran away.’ + +‘It would be an excellent surmise if an accident _had_ happened, but +how could a child fall over these cliffs without all the village +knowing it? The population lives by fishing. The beach is seldom +without men and women on it.’ + +‘So _I_ say, but to satisfy Paula I have engaged a dozen fishermen who +know the coast to search it in every possible place. The certainty of +the poor child’s death would be better than this cruel suspense. I +feel, if it goes on, that it will kill her.’ + +‘No, no; she will get over it. It is doubly hard coming at the same +time as her mother’s death, but the boy could never have been anything +but a trouble to her, and when time has convinced her that he is gone +for ever, she will find it a relief. And let us hope she may in due +time have other children to make her entirely forget her unfortunate +firstborn.’ + +‘God grant it,’ said Hal Rushton reverently. + +But though every trouble was taken, and no money was spared, not +a trace could be found of the missing child or servant girl, and +inquiries at the nearest station proved of no avail. No such man as +Becky Silver had described had been known to alight at or depart +from the platform, and the only thing left to be done was to place +descriptions of the missing persons in the hands of the police. After +which the whole agitation seemed to go to sleep for ever. Meantime, +Mrs Sutton’s funeral took place, and Hal Rushton and Dr Gibbon were +the only mourners who followed to see her laid to rest in the little +graveyard beside the hill, whilst Paula sat at home like a statue, +stupefied with grief. She had left off accusing herself of being the +murderer of her mother and the destroyer of her child, but one could +plainly see that she still believed it. + +The mother’s love, that had slept so long, had wakened with tenfold +force, and no woman who has loved and lost her baby could ever suffer +as Paula suffered at the hands of her accusing conscience. Even when +Hal, in his great love and pity for her, timidly suggested what Dr +Gibbon had alluded to, and told her he should pray that God would send +another child to comfort and console her, she turned round upon him in +a manner she had never done before, and declared she wanted no more +children; that nothing and no one could make up to her for the loss of +Paulie; and that she should weep for him to the end of her days. + +And so her husband took her back to Highbridge Hall, still miserable +and dejected, and with the terrible doubt about her child to make +matters worse, and a great dread of meeting any of her friends or +neighbours again. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE WIDOW’S STRATAGEM. + + +It was about a week after the young Rushtons’ return to Deepdale, and +the widow and her son were seated at tea together in the parlour of +Wavertree Cottage, when they perceived Sarah Brennan at the garden +gate. The table was in much the same condition as it used to be at +Highbridge Hall before Paula was installed as mistress there. An iron +tray, without a cloth, held the teapot and cups and saucers, whilst +the bread, bearing greasy marks of butter over it, and the butter +plentifully besprinkled with bread crumbs, were set upon the red +worsted tablecloth, after the fashion of the lower classes. There was +no stint, however, though plenty of vulgarity. Eggs and cream from +the Highbridge dairy, and home-made preserves from the Highbridge +storeroom--part of the spoils carried away after the domestic +siege--were engaging the attention of Mrs Rushton and her son, when +they perceived Lady Bristowe’s companion wrestling with the latch of +the gate. + +‘Why, lor’, if there ain’t that woman Brennan,’ cried the widow, with +her mouth full. ‘What on hearth can she want with us? I’m sure I’ve +never given her any encouragement, but I s’pose we must hoffer her a +dish of tea.’ + +‘That won’t ’arm us,’ rejoined Ted Snaley. ‘But look ’ere, mother, +don’t you be a-giving yerself away, at the same time, as you did to +Ellen Foster yesterday arternoon. You told ’er a deal too much. Wot’s +the good of letting all Deepdale know as we’re not intimate at the +’All? Don’t you s’pose it’ll go round the place? Don’t we ’ope to be +so, and _mean_ to be so, into the bargin? But I’m always a-telling +you you must work more dark. Pretend as we knows everything, and are +always there, and then it’ll come quite natural when we are. Do you +understand me now?’ + +‘Lor’, yes, Ted. But do go and ’elp that poor creature, for she don’t +seem to know where the latch is.’ + +‘All right. But, remember, if she tells you anything you don’t know +you’re to look as if you did.’ + +‘I won’t forget, Teddy. You’re a sharp ’un, to be sure,’ replied the +widow, chuckling over his advice. + +In another minute Miss Sarah Brennan had found her way into the room. + +‘Good-evening,’ ejaculated her hostess; ‘this _is_ a honner, to be +sure. I ’ope I see you well, miss, and hall the Habbey party. How do +her ladyship like this change? Quite chilly, ain’t it? We shall have +winter ’ere before we knows it. You’ll ’ave a cup of tea?’ + +‘Thank you, Mrs Rushton, I shall be obliged,’ returned Miss Brennan, +‘for I’ve been on my feet all the afternoon. Her ladyship has driven +over to see Lord and Lady Warden, and dropt me in Deepdale on her way, +and I’m going to walk back to the Abbey this evening. We drove first to +the Hall to inquire after Mrs Hal Rushton, but she wouldn’t see us, and +we could hear no particulars whatever. Lady Bristowe was sadly vexed. +She has taken such an interest in Mrs Rushton she quite thought _she_ +would be admitted, whoever was denied. I could see it ruffled her. So +I thought I would walk over here before I went home and learn if you +could give me a little information about the matter.’ + +The widow had just begun to say ‘Lor’, my dear, I don’t know no more +than you do,’ when a violent kick under the table from Mr Snaley’s +hobnailed boots recalled her to her senses. + +‘Lor’, my dear,’ she said instead, ‘I don’t know as I can tell you +anything satisfactory. It’s a family matter, you see, that only +concerns ourselves. My poor daughter-in-law has lost her poor mother +very suddent like, and it’s so upset ’er, as well it may, that she +feels as if she couldn’t a-bear to see no one but Ted and me.’ + +‘And Mr Rushton, I suppose?’ said Miss Brennan, as she sipped her tea. + +‘Oh, ’Al, of course. He don’t count. He’s the same to ’er as me and my +boy there. But she’s very much shook and upset, and quite ill, as you +may say, and confined to her room.’ + +‘But how did it all happen, Mrs Rushton? _That_ is what her ladyship +wants to know. The gentleman was out when we called to-day, and +the servant knew nothing except that Mrs Hal Rushton had lost her +mamma very suddenly, and had seen no one since she came home but Mrs +Measures.’ + +‘And me and mother. The first person she called out for was mother,’ +interpolated Ted. + +‘In course,’ said Mrs Rushton, ‘and what more nateral, poor dear.’ + +‘You can tell me, then, how it was that Mrs Sutton died? Her ladyship +is anxious to hear all the particulars.’ + +‘Mrs _’oo_?’ cried the widow. + +‘Mrs Sutton, Mrs Rushton’s mother. Ah! I know she called herself +“Stafford” whilst she was teaching at the schoolhouse, but she told +Lady Bristowe that she only did that to save her family name.’ + +‘Oh, yes, in course,’ repeated the widow, who had got so out of her +depth that her tea and bread-and-butter effected a collision that +caused her to choke and splutter for the next five minutes. ‘And so +Mrs ’Al told her ladyship that. Well, I didn’t think she’d let it out +of the family, but there’s no ’arm done, arter all, and she can please +’erself. And what more is it you wants to know, miss?’ + +‘What did Mrs Sutton die of? Was it heart complaint?’ + +‘Yes, miss, it were. She was always complaining of it, poor dear, for +years past, and it took her off suddent at the last, as it always +do. There ain’t much to tell beside that. Mrs ’Al ’eard the noos the +evening she give the “feet” at the ’All. Me and Ted, we wasn’t there, +as perhaps you’ve ’eard, miss. My son and daughter, of course, they +was most pressing as we should go, but I had an ’orful attack of +tic-doloureux, and Ted ’e’s that dootiful ’e wouldn’t leave me. ’Al, +’e says, “Whatever shall we do without you, mother?” ’e says; but +there, miss, you can understand it must be painful for me to attend any +merrymaking in the ’ouse where my dear good ’usband lived and died.’ + +‘Oh, yes, I can quite understand it,’ replied Miss Brennan; ‘and then +your daughter-in-law didn’t behave quite nicely to you or anyone while +she was at the schoolhouse, did she? Of course, I don’t mean anything +wrong, but we heard of it over at the Abbey, at least I did, and so did +our curate, Mr Vernon.’ + +Mrs Rushton was just about to launch forth on her beloved scandal when +another kick from Ted caused her to wince with pain. + +‘Lor’, Ted,’ she exclaimed rather testily, ‘I wish you’d keep your +feet t’other side the table. You always was fine in the feet from a +boy. You’re quite mistook, Miss Brennan, as everybody helse was about +the school’ouse,’ she continued to her guest. ‘It was a mistake from +beginning to end, as even our vicar Mr Measures ’ad to acknowledge. +Why, she stayed in the vicarage first of all, and ’er ladyship called +on ’er there. You must have ’eard that as well?’ + +‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve heard pretty well _everything_,’ rejoined Miss +Brennan; ‘but her ladyship having, as you may say, taken up Mr and Mrs +Hal Rushton, and shown a good deal of sympathy about Mrs Sutton’s state +of health, is naturally hurt at being kept in the dark about her death, +as she quite expected to be the first to hear all the particulars.’ + +‘But there ain’t nothing to tell,’ replied Mrs Rushton. ‘As soon as +Mrs ’Al ’eard ’er mother was ill she went down with ’er ’usband to +Devonshire, but the poor lady was gone before they got there. And when +the burial was over they come ’ome. And it shook the poor girl up +considerably, as it would do to hanyone with a ’eart.’ + +‘And was Mrs Sutton buried at--at--I forget the name of the place where +she lived,’ said Sarah Brennan inquisitively. + +The widow, who had never heard it, was nonplussed. + +‘No, she wasn’t’ she answered stoutly; ‘the body was taken away to be +buried in the family vault in London.’ + +‘Bravo, mother!’ cried Ted Snaley, clapping her on the back when +Miss Brennan, finding she could extract no further information, had +disappeared, ‘you did famously. Blest if I couldn’t ’ave roared aloud +when you come out with the family vault. Don’t you see how much better +it is not to let out as we’re all at loggerheads?’ + +‘Yes. But I say, Ted, there’s summat fishy about Mrs ’Al. I always said +so, and I’m sure on it. Now, why did she give a false name when she +come here?’ + +‘That’s jest what I want you to find out, but you won’t do it by +sticking at Wavertree Cottage. I bet there’s lots be’ind that no one +knows but ’erself. Things, p’r’aps, as would make ’Al kick ’er out +from the ’All like a dog. Think of that. And you’re just the woman to +worm ’em out of ’er.’ + +‘Aye, if she’d take a little more kindly to me. But she ’as sich a +stand off manner with ’er.’ + +‘So she ’ad when things were all right, but this here is jest your +time. From what I ’ear, she’s regular down in ’er luck. Charlotte the +dairymaid told me yesterday that she’s quite ill with frettin’, and she +won’t see no one. Mrs Measures was in her room for ten minutes when she +first come ’ome, and that’s all. She’s refused herself to heverybody, +and don’t seem to ’ave no ’eart even to order dinner, nor to go hout +nor hin, but sits all day in ’er own room crying.’ + +‘But if she won’t see no one, Ted, what’s the use of my trying.’ + +‘Well, you must go to ’er as a nuss, and not as a visitor. Make some of +your beef jelly, or other nostrums, and take it up in your ’and. And +if she won’t see you the first day, go the second, and the third, until +she _do_ see you. You can do it if you choose, mother. And now that the +shooting season’s on, ’Al’s out all day almost, and you will be able to +get at ’er alone. Make yourself useful to ’er. Order the dinners, and +look after the ’ousekeeping, and see if you can’t get back some of your +old hinfluence at the ’All.’ + +‘You’re a _very_ clever lad, Ted,’ exclaimed his mother, as she +regarded his ugly face and ungainly figure with fond admiration. + +‘Well, I can see through a brick wall as far as any, I s’pose,’ +rejoined her amiable offspring, ‘and I am sure if you wants to get any +hinfluence hover that young person, you must do it by fair means and +not by foul. Don’t you remember what a fuss she made over that there +pincushion you took to ’er when we went to the ’All?’ + +‘Yes, and it was you as told me to take it, too. Well, Ted, I’ll foller +your advice again, my lad, and set about making some of my beef jelly. +It’ll set beautiful this cool weather. And I’ll make a junket as well. +Grapes and game and all sorts they ’ave at the ’All, but they ’aven’t +an ’and like mine to turn out jellies and junkets.’ + +Accordingly, the very next day saw Mrs Rushton taking her way to +Highbridge Hall, carrying a basket carefully covered with a white +cloth. She did not ask for admittance. She walked straight into the +house, through the kitchen premises, and Hal being after the pheasants +and partridges, there was no one in authority to bar the way. The +servants had no right to deny her ingress, and they would not have +dreamt of doing so, considering the position she had so lately held +there. She merely asked for dishes on which to pile her dainties, and +inquired in which room Mrs Hal Rushton was to be found. + +‘I think the mistress is in her boo-daw,’ replied the housemaid, ‘but +I’m afraid you won’t get in, mum. She won’t open the door for nobody.’ + +‘Oh, I’m sure she will open it for _me_,’ said the widow, as she +arranged her offerings upon a tray. + +‘She haven’t eaten enough to feed a fly since she come ’ome,’ remarked +the cook. + +‘That’s why I’ve brought ’er some of my sick-room jelly,’ returned +Mrs Rushton. ‘You mustn’t be offended, cook, but I’ve sick-nussed for +thirty year, and should know summat about it by this time.’ + +‘Oh, no offence, Mrs Rushton, mum,’ cried the cook. ‘I should have +thought a nice solid bit o’ beef would ’ave done the missus more good, +but there’s no sayin’. Some relishes one thing and some another, and so +long as you eat it don’t much signify what it is,’ and so the widow was +allowed to carry her tray upstairs without molestation. + +Poor Paula was indeed very much in need of comfort. She had cried +herself nearly blind, but her tears had brought her no relief. She +could think, indeed, of her poor mother as safe and happy in Heaven, +but her heart was sick and heavy with fears for Paul. Where was he? +What was he doing? Was he alive and suffering, or dead and at rest? +These thoughts tortured her day and night, and she felt as if they +would never be satisfied. She shrunk from seeing any of her friends or +acquaintances. She could not speak of her mother yet. The wound had +been too recently inflicted, and she feared lest in her agony of doubt +she might blurt out something about Paul. Her husband was everything +that was good and kind to her, and if love could have cured her pain, +it would have already disappeared, but he could do nothing to mitigate +the tortures of suspense and remorse which she was suffering. And so +she had prayed him to leave her, had even summoned up the ghost of a +smile with which to send him on his way, and tried hard, as soon as +he was gone, to reduce the chaos of her mind to some sort of order, +and force herself to attend to her household duties. But anyone who +has tried it knows how very difficult that is whilst the heart is +bowed down with grief and the mind distracted with anxiety. The petty +details of choice and expenditure jar so terribly by contrast with the +bigness of one’s sorrow, and it hurts one’s pride to break down before +one’s inferiors. Paula was feeling all this as she lay face downwards +on the sofa in her boudoir and heard a low tap at the door. + +‘It’s all right, cook,’ she answered fretfully. ‘There’s no hurry. Mr +Rushton will not be home till seven. I will send down my orders as soon +as I have thought of something.’ + +But a voice answered,-- + +‘It ain’t the cook, my dear. It’s jest me as has took the liberty to +bring you a little jelly of my own making,’ and without waiting for +permission Mrs Rushton opened the door and entered the room. + +Paula sat up on the sofa and regarded her wonderingly. She could not +believe at first _who_ had invaded her privacy, and to do the widow +justice she was honestly shocked by the young wife’s appearance. +Paula’s complexion was white and sodden from lengthened weeping. Her +hair was untidily twisted round her head, and she wore a dress of black +crape cloth, without the slightest relief, which added to the pallor +of her countenance. She looked wonderfully altered, indeed, from the +handsome young woman who had received her friends so short a time ago +at the garden-party. All her beauty seemed to have vanished in an hour. +Mrs Rushton could not restrain her surprise. + +‘Oh, lor’, my dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘you _do_ look bad. Why, whatever +’ave you been a-doing to yourself?’ + +‘I cannot see any visitors. Indeed, I am not fit for it,’ said Paula +faintly. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Rushton, but I must ask you to excuse me.’ + +‘Well, well, I ain’t a visitor--I’m only a sick-nuss, and you’ve no +call even to speak to me,’ replied the widow, as she placed her tray +upon the table. ‘But it won’t do for you to go without nourishment for +so long, and so I ’ave made bold to bring you a little beef jelly and a +Devonshire junket. And a glass of sherry wine, too. That won’t do you +no ‘arm.’ + +‘But I cannot--’ commenced Paula. + +‘Oh, yes, you can. You’ve no need to worry over them, but jest leave +’em there, and put a spoonful to your lips as you feel inclined. You +mustn’t go too long, you know--not for ’Al’s sake, nor yet your own. +And though ’e never _did_ like me, my dear, on accounts of my marrying +his father, I’ve lost my own poor mother, you see, at eighty-nine, and +I feels for you.’ + +Paula laid her head down upon the sofa again, and concealed her face +from view. + +‘Now, I’m not going to talk of it, my dear. I know my place too well +for that. I know that though my poor dear good ’usband made me mistress +of all ’e ’ad, I’m not a lady born, and Mr ’Al need never think as +I’d presume on the past now that heverythink is haltered. But ’aving +kep ’ouse for ’im for so many years, and knowing well what a ’ardship +it is to look after dinners and sichlike for a young person in your +circumstances, I thought I’d come up and see if I could be of hany use +to you with the servants--not to hintrude, you hunderstand, but to +save you the trouble of thinking at sich a time.’ + +‘Mrs Rushton,’ said Paula, raising her head again, ‘I think it is +very kind of you to have thought of it--very, _very_ kind. I don’t +seem as if I _could_ think even of such trifles. My head aches +so--and--and--everything upsets me.’ + +‘Yes, yes, _I_ know,’ replied the widow soothingly, ‘and I didn’t +ought to be here, but I wanted to bring you up the jelly and junket +myself, and I’m going immediate. Well, now, don’t you trouble to think +of nothink. I’ll order the dinners and breakfasts and heverythink if +it’ll save you a-doing of it. And to-morrow I’ll come back and do the +same. And don’t let Mr ’Al worrit hisself, thinking as he’ll see me. +I’ve come up to try and save _you_, my poor dear, and I’ll keep out of +sight, never you fear.’ + +‘Don’t say that,’ urged Paula; ‘you are doing me a great kindness. I +wanted a little help so much just now, and Hal will be the first to +acknowledge it. But I am really not fit to talk.’ + +‘In course not. I know what you’re feeling, jest as if it was myself. +And so now I’ll go and see as Mr ’Al ’as heverythink comfortable +against ’e comes ’ome. But won’t you take jest _one_ teaspoonful of +jelly afore I goes?’ said Mrs Rushton coaxingly. + +‘To please _you_, I will,’ replied Paula. + +She swallowed two or three spoonfuls, and half a glass of wine, and Mrs +Rushton descended to the kitchen quarters convinced that her victory +was won. There she told the servants, much to their dissatisfaction, +that their mistress had deputed her to issue the necessary household +orders, and there she remained till she had seen the seven o’clock +dinner, to which Hal sat down alone, properly dished and served, +when she resumed her walking attire and walked back to Wavertree +Cottage to receive the congratulations of her son. Hal Rushton was +the least satisfied of all at the new arrangement. He returned home +from shooting as the afternoon drew in, and sat down rather sad and +disappointed to a lonely dinner. Paula declared herself to be still too +ill or too miserable to come downstairs, and the young husband could +not help comparing the depressing influence of the present with the +happy remembrance of the past. How long, he wondered, as he descended +to the dining-room, would his comfort be sacrificed to his wife’s grief +for her mother and her child. But a charming little dinner awaited him. +He had been forced to put up with anything the country cook chose to +give him since his return home, but this evening she had apparently +excelled herself. A dish of dainty cutlets, a roast partridge, and some +of his favourite pancakes, soon put Hal into a better humour, for the +very best of men are influenced by their dinner, and after a glass or +two of Burgundy he felt happy and hopeful again. + +‘My compliments to the cook,’ he said gaily, as he got up from the +table, ‘and tell her that’s the best dinner she’s given me this week, +and now that she has got into the straight path, I hope she’ll keep to +it. Has your mistress taken anything to-day?’ + +‘Only a little jelly and beef-tea, sir,’ replied the parlour-maid. + +‘Well, send the tea up to her room, and tell cook to let us have +something nice with it--buttered toast or cakes. Perhaps Mrs Rushton +will fancy them.’ And he ran up, two steps at a time, into Paula’s +presence. + +She was sitting up now, gazing with grief-stricken eyes upon the fast +gathering shadows that were settling down upon the lawn and surrounding +foliage and leaving the little room in darkness. + +Hal sat down on the sofa beside her, and threw his arms about her waist. + +‘My darling,’ he exclaimed fondly, ‘why do you sit in the dark? It is +so gloomy.’ + +‘It suits me all the better, Hal. I am gloomy, too.’ + +‘But you mustn’t give way to it, Paula. You must try to look upon the +brighter side of things.’ + +‘What brighter side is there for me? Oh, this terrible uncertainty,’ +pressing her hands against her heart, ‘it is killing me.’ + +‘No, dearest, for my sake, do not say anything so cruel. Try to believe +it is a certainty, Paula. You know how careful Dr Gibbon and I were to +leave no stone unturned to ascertain the truth, and that the case is +now in the hands of the sharpest detectives in London, so that if there +is anything further to learn about it we shall, without doubt, receive +the information.’ + +‘And meanwhile, Hal--’ replied Paula in a voice of pain. + +‘Meanwhile, darling, however hard the suspense is to bear, you only +share it with all those who have lost friends at sea or by any other +mysterious accident. Hundreds of mourners receive no certain assurance +of their loss, except such as time and silence bring them. Not that I +would depreciate the pain, my dearest, only it grieves me so to see you +looking so pale and unhappy. What have you eaten to-day?’ + +‘Oh, plenty,’ said Paula listlessly. ‘The servants have sent me up +something almost every hour.’ + +‘_I_ have had a capital dinner,’ continued Hal briskly; ‘all my +favourite dishes. I sent out my compliments to cook in return for it, +but I fancy they are due _here_ instead, and that my dear girl has +been trying to combat her own feelings for the sake of her unworthy +husband’s comfort. I only wish you had enlivened the meal with your +presence, dear. Then it would have been perfect.’ + +‘_I_ didn’t order it,’ replied Paula, in the same languid voice. ‘I +can’t think of anything now. My head throbs so. It was Mrs Rushton.’ + +‘_Mrs Rushton!_’ repeated Hal, with a frown. + +‘Yes. She came up here this morning to know if she could be of any use +to me with the housekeeping, and I was only too thankful to let her do +it. She brought me some jelly and junket she had made herself. I am +sure she means to be kind.’ + +‘Perhaps,’ replied Hal, in an altered tone, ‘but the question is, _to +whom_? I am sorry you encouraged her, Paula. I would rather have dined +off cook’s hashed mutton by far.’ + +‘Well, I am not fit to do anything at present, and no one else has +offered to help me.’ + +‘Mrs Measures is only too anxious to be with you, and is a far better +companion for you than Mrs Rushton.’ + +‘How could I ask Mrs Measures to come here and order the dinner, and +look after the servants, when she has her own house to superintend?’ +said Paula fretfully. ‘Besides, Mrs Rushton didn’t offer herself as a +companion. She only proposed to save me the household drudgery that I +feel at present utterly unfit for. I think you are very hard upon her, +Hal. She can’t help having been born in an inferior position to your +own.’ + +‘And I have never blamed her for it,’ replied her husband; ‘but I know +her better than you do. I made a vow when she left the Hall that she +should never re-enter it. However, if she is of any assistance to you--’ + +‘Of course she is an assistance to me, and more so than any stranger +could be, because she is familiar with all your likes and dislikes.’ + +‘She certainly managed to send up a dinner to my taste to-day, and +it is all the more surprising because when she lived here, with that +detestable son of hers, I never had anything fit to eat. Pray is she +hanging about the house now?’ + +‘Oh, no, I suppose not. I conclude when she had arranged the meals that +she went home. But she said she should come again to-morrow.’ + +Hal gave a kind of mock groan. + +‘I hope the elegant Ted is not a necessary part of the invasion,’ he +said. + +Paula began to cry. She was so weakened she was quite unfit to bear the +least raillery or opposition. + +‘Why should he be?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why do you hint at such a thing? +If you don’t wish me to have any help or assistance, now that I am so +broken down I am unfit for anything, go and tell Mrs Rushton not to +come here again, and I will try and struggle on as best I can alone. +But oh, Hal,’ she continued, amidst gasping sobs, ‘if I cannot have +rest and peace and quiet whilst my brain seems as if it were on fire, I +shall go mad--I shall go mad, I know I shall--or I shall die.’ + +She flung herself, in utter abandonment, upon the sofa as she +concluded, and there was nothing left for Hal to do but to soothe her. +He hated the very names of the widow and her son, but he loved his wife +from the bottom of his heart, and felt for her bereavement as deeply +as it was possible for him to do. He threw his arms about her slender +form, and pressed his lips upon the long fair hair that streamed over +her shoulders, and assured her a dozen times that she should never +hear him breathe another word against any arrangement that tended to +her comfort. He would welcome anyone who relieved her of the duties +she felt unequal to perform, and if the Hall had become distasteful +to her he would take her away at once--to the seaside, or on the +continent, anywhere--so long as it brought peace and distraction to her +overwrought nerves. Paula lay and listened to him almost as if she were +in a dream, until a sense of the self-sacrifice he was proposing smote +upon her understanding. + +‘But to go away _now_,’ she said at length, in a tone of wonder, ‘when +the shooting season is at its height, and hunting is just about to +begin. If you were to take me away from Deepdale now, you would lose +your whole year’s pleasure, Hal.’ + +‘And do you think that fact would influence me for one moment against +the thought of doing you good, Paula? How little you must think of my +love for you. Why, dearest, I would give up hunting and shooting and +every pursuit I like best, not only for a season but a lifetime, to +bring back the flush of health to your face and the light of happiness +to your eyes. You don’t realise how I love you, Paula.’ + +‘You are too good--too good,’ she murmured, as she seized his hand and +kissed it. ‘But oh, my poor mother--my poor child! Oh, Hal, do you +think I shall ever know for _certain_ what has become of Paulie?’ + +‘I am _sure_ of it,’ he replied, with a feigned assurance which he did +not feel. ‘It is impossible but that such means as we have employed +must sooner or later prove successful. Only, my love must try and +have patience. And now, what is it to be? Will you come away with me +somewhere?’ + +‘No, no, Hal; let me stay here--_here_, where the news will reach me +soonest. I am quite content--indeed I am. Only, let me see no one and +hear no one unless I choose, and by-and-by this cloud will pass away, +and I shall be myself again.’ + +Hal Rushton sighed, but did not answer. _He_ thought silence and +solitude the worst things possible for her, but the medical men had +told him to let her have her own way, and he feared to disobey them. +So the days and weeks and months passed on, and very few people in +Deepdale saw anything of young Mrs Rushton, whilst the widow had quite +re-established herself as housekeeper at Highbridge Hall. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +THE SCANDAL SPREADS. + + +Of all Paula’s acquaintances, Lady Bristowe was the most indignant at +the turn affairs had taken. She had quite expected that the sudden +devotion she had conceived for the young wife was reciprocal, and that +she would be the first if not the only person admitted to weep over +her trouble with her, and carry the interesting details far and wide. +And when she found that day after day she received the same message, +that Mrs Hal Rushton was not well enough to see anybody, she became +affronted (as foolish people are apt to be), and from having been +Paula’s warmest partisan became ready to cavil at her actions before +anyone. The insult (as Lady Bristowe considered it) was greatly +aggravated one day when, as her carriage stood before the Hall door and +she received the same answer to her inquiries, the shabby figure of +the Widow Rushton was seen to walk up the drive and enter the charmed +portals without a question. + +‘Who is that person in black?’ demanded her ladyship, with vulgar +curiosity. + +The servant hesitated a moment. + +‘_That_, your ladyship? Oh, _that’s_ Mrs Rushton as was--the old lady, +your ladyship--the old gentleman’s widow.’ + +‘And what is _she_ doing here? I thought Mrs Hal Rushton didn’t notice +her,’ continued Lady Bristowe. + +‘Oh, yes, my lady. She’s here every day almost. She does all the +housekeeping since the mistress has been so poorly, and sees after the +master’s dinners.’ + +‘And does your mistress see _her_?’ + +‘Sometimes, my lady. Mrs Rushton nurses the mistress, like, and takes +her trays up to her room. But she don’t eat nothing to speak of.’ + +‘And your mistress can’t see _me_?’ + +‘She sent her kind regards, if you please, my lady, and she ain’t well +enough to see no one yet.’ + +‘Very good. Palmer’ (this to the coachman), ‘drive home.’ + +And Lady Bristowe sank back on her seat, very red and indignant, and +highly offended, and from that day was quite ready to discuss Paula’s +behaviour from the worse point of view. + +‘But you must not forget,’ said Mr Vernon, when she laid her complaint +before him, ‘that Mrs Rushton has not been brought up in the same +sphere of life as yourself, and is probably ignorant that she is guilty +of a breach of manners in excluding you when she admits so undesirable +a person as old Farmer Rushton’s widow.’ + +‘Oh, that’s only an excuse, Mr Vernon, because the girl’s young and +pretty. Isn’t she the daughter of an officer in the Royal Navy? Where +could she have learned better manners than in the service?’ + +‘Perhaps so--had she enjoyed the advantages of it. But, you know, +she was only the village school teacher of Deepdale, and not quite +blameless even in that lowly department. For my part, I was quite +astonished to find her as ladylike as she is.’ + +‘She told us why she turned teacher--to assist her mother, the person +who is dead. But what do you mean by saying she was not “quite +blameless,” Mr Vernon?’ + +The curate looked distressed. + +‘Surely you must have heard of it. I wouldn’t have mentioned it had I +thought otherwise. But--so intimate as you are with the Measures--’ + +‘Why, it was the Measures who introduced this girl to me.’ + +‘Just so; and therefore the little scandal (whatever it was) is not +worth repeating, since you may be sure, had _they_ believed it, +they would never have continued to honour Mrs Rushton with their +acquaintance.’ + +‘But what was it? If the Measures could bear it with impunity, so can +I.’ + +‘But is it kind or wise to spread such tales? They are like the +grain of mustard seed that grows up in a night. They are far better +forgotten.’ + +‘Not if there is no truth in them. Since you have said so much, Mr +Vernon, I must insist on your finishing the story.’ + +‘I wish I had never commenced it; but I made sure you had already +been told. It was an ill-natured report set abroad, I believe, by the +churchwarden, Mr Gribble.’ + +‘I know Mr Gribble. We have our straw, I think, from him. What did he +say about Mrs Rushton?’ + +‘I really can hardly remember,’ replied the curate, who was sincerely +repenting his rash allusion; ‘but I know it was made the subject of +a clerical inquiry, from which the young lady emerged, it must be +presumed, with flying colours, since Mr and Mrs Measures still visit +her.’ + +‘But you said she had not been “quite blameless,”’ persisted Lady +Bristowe, who scented a scandal. + +‘I am vexed with myself for using such an expression, Lady Bristowe. It +was not fair to your young friend.’ + +‘Oh, don’t call her by that name, Mr Vernon. She has behaved so +curiously, not to say ungratefully, to me lately, that I really cannot +look upon myself any longer as her friend.’ + +‘I am sorry for that. I think you should (as I said before) make +allowances for her. I think, myself, she was too young and refined for +the position of a school teacher. The churchwardens expected her to +behave as a servant, whereas she took upon herself the liberties of a +gentlewoman.’ + +‘In what way?’ + +‘By receiving her friends in the schoolhouse after hours.’ + +‘_Men_ friends?’ said her ladyship sharply. + +‘I don’t know--I am not quite sure--I am really not competent to give +an opinion,’ stammered the curate. ‘I think, if you wish to hear the +story, you had better apply to Mrs Measures, Lady Bristowe, who is sure +to know the truth.’ + +‘Oh, it’s not of much interest to _me_,’ cried her ladyship, tossing +her head, and getting very red in the face. ‘The young woman is +hardly likely to come to Tor Abbey again after the heartless manner +in which she has treated me. She has been home for nearly six weeks, +Mr Vernon, and hardly a day has passed without my going or sending to +inquire after her health, and asking if I could be of any service to +her, and I have received nothing in return but the coldest and most +consistent refusal--always the same message, that she is too ill to +see anyone. And yet, when I was there yesterday afternoon, I saw that +low, ignorant woman Mrs Rushton, I mean the old farmer’s widow, who, I +have understood, the young people would have nothing to do with, walk +into the house as if it belonged to her, and the servant told me she +was there every day in attendance on her mistress. It’s not very likely +after _that_, Mr Vernon, that I shall waste any more of my time or +attention on Mrs Hal Rushton.’ + +‘And yet,’ remarked the curate, ‘though the widow is, as you say, +an illiterate and low-born person, she was, after all, the late Mr +Rushton’s wife, and no one could blame his son for acknowledging it.’ + +‘Oh, dear, no. Certainly not,’ exclaimed Lady Bristowe sarcastically; +‘but if that sort of company is good enough for Mrs Hal Rushton, _mine_ +is decidedly too good.’ + +‘I can hardly imagine that fair, delicate looking girl enjoying the +companionship of Mrs Rushton, senior,’ said Mr Vernon; ‘but perhaps she +permits it in deference to her husband’s wishes.’ + +‘No such thing, Mr Vernon. The husband hates the old woman and her +son. Mrs Measures has told me so far. Depend upon it, the ladies are +congenial to each other, and perhaps, after all, her story about +belonging to the Royal Navy may be a subterfuge, and their stations in +life not so dissimilar.’ + +‘But I thought you had found the name and services of young Mrs +Rushton’s father recorded in the _Navy List_, Lady Bristowe?’ + +‘But how am I to know the girl gave me her right name? She passed under +another at the schoolhouse, you must remember. Indeed, I think Mrs +Measures was very wrong to introduce her into society without knowing +more about her. _My_ idea is that she will turn out to be a regular +impostor.’ + +‘Come, come, your ladyship is going a little too far. From what I +hear, this poor girl seems to have experienced a terrible shock from +the sudden death of her mother, and is really ill. Dr Minton was very +anxious about her a week ago. When she recovers her mental equilibrium, +everything will be right again.’ + +‘Not with _me_, Mr Vernon. I am not the sort of person to chop and +change with every passing wind. I am only sorry I ever gave her one of +my matchless Blenheims. I little thought at the time that it would be +subjected to the companionship of a herdsman’s widow.’ + +‘Well, the dog, at least, will not suffer from the contact,’ exclaimed +Mr Vernon, laughing. ‘And now my advice to your ladyship is to go and +have a talk over this matter with your friend Mrs Measures, and her +good sense will put things straight between you.’ + +But Lady Bristowe was obstinate as well as foolish, and ready to +believe herself the best judge of her own actions. She had become +inquisitive on the subject of Paula’s misdemeanours at the schoolhouse, +and suspected that Mrs Measures would make the best of them, if not +deny them altogether. So she determined first to draw the truth out +of Mr Gribble. But she displayed great caution on the occasion. She +ordered her carriage to call on some friends at a distance, and +declined to take Miss Brennan or the dogs with her. + +‘Ought not Totsie to go for a drive this afternoon?’ pleaded the +companion, who wanted one herself. ‘Your ladyship remarked that she +refused her breakfast this morning.’ + +‘Mind your own business, Sarah Brennan,’ exclaimed Lady Bristowe +sharply, ‘and take the dog for a walk in the garden instead. When I +want your company, I am perfectly able to tell you so.’ + +‘Old cat!’ ejaculated Miss Brennan, as the carriage rolled down the +drive. ‘I bet if she had that pasty-faced Mrs Hal Rushton for a +companion she would take her with her everywhere. But she never thinks +of me unless it is to look after her shawls or her dogs.’ + +But if Sarah Brennan thought that Paula Rushton stood higher in her +employer’s estimation that day than herself she was mistaken. Lady +Bristowe’s small mind was filled with the desire to find out all she +could against her late _protégée_, and as soon as she had called upon +her friends she desired the coachman to drive to Deepdale and stop at +Mr Gribble’s door. She had some insignificant question to ask--some +trifling account for corn or straw to settle in her hand--but her +chief object in calling at the churchwarden’s private residence was, +of course, to try and lead the conversation round to Paula’s illness, +and see what revelations the mention of her name might not bring forth. +It happened, however, to be market day, and Mr Gribble had gone to +Haltham. Mrs Gribble was at home, though, and seeing her ladyship’s +carriage stop at the door, she ran down the garden path as fast as her +unwieldy bulk would permit her and stood at the wicket gate, with her +cap strings flying like pennants in the autumn breeze. + +‘Good afternoon, Mrs Gribble,’ said Lady Bristowe condescendingly. ‘Can +I see Mr Gribble on a little matter of business?’ + +‘Mr Gribble is hout, your ladyship. He have gone into Haltham to the +market; but if your ladyship will give your horders to me--’ + +‘I will get out, Mrs Gribble, for a minute,’ returned Lady Bristowe, as +she placed her plump hand on the shoulder of her footman and descended +to the ground. + +Mrs Gribble was astonished. Lady Bristowe had never called at her house +before--even to pay a bill. Such transactions had always taken place +through her coachman. She could not imagine what personal business she +could have with her. She hurried on first to open the parlour door, and +to usher her guest in, and then she fidgeted about the room, uncertain +whether she ought to stand deferentially before her or take a chair and +look as if she were at her ease. + +‘Is it the little account, my lady?’ she began presently. ‘Mr Gribble +’e don’t care ’ow long it run at the Habbey. I know that.’ + +‘I have brought the account, and I wish to pay it,’ replied Lady +Bristowe, as she produced the corn and hay bill and laid it with a +ten-pound note upon the table. ‘But I had also a question to ask of Mr +Gribble, which, doubtless, you can answer as well. As churchwarden, I +believe he takes a good deal of interest in the village school?’ + +‘Oh, yes, my lady,’ said Mrs Gribble, who had ventured by this time to +work herself into a chair, ‘’e do. ’E’s most henergetic, is Mr Gribble, +in the church work, and spends hall his spare time a-looking round. +I’m sure I and Mrs Haxworthy (which is the other churchwarden’s lady) +hoften says our good gentlemen his married to the church and schools, +they’re so hoften there.’ + +‘And have you a good teacher, Mrs Gribble? Are you quite satisfied with +her?’ + +Mrs Gribble lifted her hands to denote her admiration. + +‘Oh, your ladyship, we hare indeed. Miss Brown, she’s jest a hangel. +Such a contrast to--’ But here Mrs Gribble, with sudden remembrance, +stopped short. + +‘Such a contrast to _what_, Mrs Gribble?’ + +‘Oh, my lady, I shouldn’t have spoke, perhaps, but feelings will hup. +But our former teacher, Miss Stafford as was, is a friend, I hear, hof +your ladyship’s.’ + +‘No, Mrs Gribble; you have been misinformed. I _have_ received Mrs +Rushton at the Abbey, but rumours have reached me since that make +me fear I was hasty--rumours of her behaviour whilst she was the +schoolmistress of Deepdale, and, to tell you the truth, I came here +to-day to your husband, as to a God-fearing, upright, conscientious +man, to hear what he could tell me regarding it. But, perhaps, _you_ +may remember the circumstance?’ + +‘_Remember_ hit, my lady! No one hin Deepdale will hever forget it--not +if they lives to be a ’undred. Mr ’Al Rushton, ’eadstrong like, ’e +chose to marry ’er spite of heverythink, hand so I s’pose it’s all +hover, and one had best ’old one’s tongue.’ + +‘But, Mrs Gribble, I must beg you, in confidence, to tell me what it +was. I cannot, in justice to my name and family, admit guests to the +Abbey of whose character there is the slightest doubt. I must entreat +you to tell me all you know.’ + +But Mrs Gribble held back. She could talk to her equals fast enough, +but to express her sentiments before this grand lady might be to lose +the custom of half the gentry in the neighbourhood. And she was a +friend of Mrs Measures, too. + +‘I’m sure, your ladyship,’ she commenced, ‘I’m loath to refuse you +hanything, but Mr Gribble ’e wouldn’t like my saying nothing as could +find its way back to the vicarage.’ + +‘But they knew it--whatever it may be--at the vicarage, surely?’ + +‘Oh, yes, my lady. It was there the hinfamous scandal was sifted, has +you may say, but Mrs Measures she chose to ’ave it ’ushed up. Hand it’s +as much has hour comfort’s worth--Mr Gribble hand me--to say a word +more habout it.’ + +‘It will never get to the vicarage through _me_,’ remarked Lady +Bristowe. + +‘You can promise _hour_ names will not transpire, my lady?’ + +‘Certainly, Mrs Gribble. I ask you, _as a friend_, to let me know the +truth of this matter.’ + +‘Oh, well, my lady, hif it’s to oblige _you_,’ cried Mrs Gribble, +delighted to have a shot at the enemy, ‘hi’d sacrifice heverythink. +It was a ’orrible thing, my lady--quite degrading. Miss Stafford she +was found by my own ’usband, late at night, shut hup in her rooms with +two gentlemen, and one was quite a ferocious lookin’ feller with a +beard, a foreign chap, Mr Gribble said. And when Miss Stafford as was +she was hasked for a hexplanation, she wouldn’t give none, not heven +his name, but stood there, hobstinate-like, before the minister and the +churchwardens, and refused to hopen her mouth, and so she was turned +hout of her place with hignominy.’ + +‘But how did Mr Rushton, who holds so good a position here, come to +marry her, then?’ + +‘Ah, my lady, ’e was one of ’em. _’E_ knew more than met the heye, +you may depend upon that, so ’e thought fit to shelter ’er. She ’ad +to leave Deepdale whether or no. Not a lady would send her daughters +to learn of ’er after they come to know of it; but Mr ’Al Rushton ’e +follered ’er and married ’er (at least ’e _says_ ’e married ’er), +hand Mr and Mrs Measures they hagreed for to let bygones be bygones, +I s’pose, and to receive ’er for ’er ’usband’s sake. But ’tisn’t +heverybody in Deepdale has sees with _their_ heyes, your ladyship. +’Tain’t many has calls hat ’Ighbridge ’All, though I ’ave ’eard lately +has that poor dear forgiving soul, Mrs Rushton, the old gentleman’s +widow, ’as been good enough to go up and nurse Mrs ’Al through the +judgment that’s come upon ’er.’ + +‘Well,’ said Lady Bristowe, who was burning with indignation, ‘I _am_ +surprised that my friend Mrs Measures never gave me a hint of all this. +I hardly think she has behaved fairly to me in not doing so.’ + +‘Ah, my lady, there’s many a one in Deepdale as has wondered to see the +falarity you ’ave demeaned yourself to use with Mrs ’Al Rushton. A many +would ’ave liked to speak, but durstn’t. We was too low hand ’umble for +that. But that a lady like your ladyship should drive side by side with +a young person has was discovered in such hacts--’ + +‘It will _never_ occur again, Mrs Gribble, you may be sure of that,’ +replied Lady Bristowe, as she rose from her seat, ‘and I am very much +obliged to you for opening my eyes in the matter. I shall not betray +you, you may be sure. I had already heard something of the kind before +from our curate, Mr Vernon. Never mind the change from the note. You +have two little daughters, I believe, buy them some dolls with what may +be over. Good afternoon.’ + +And Lady Bristowe got into her carriage and drove away. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +A VALIANT PARTISAN. + + +Dear, gentle Mrs Measures was seated in the vicarage drawing-room, +engaged in needlework. She was one of those simple souls who neither +need nor seek for excitement, but are always to be found when +wanted--neatly dressed whatever the hour of the day, and ready with +a quiet welcome for their visitors. Mrs Measures was rather anxious +about Paula just then, and as she stitched away at the vicar’s shirts +she was thinking very earnestly about her. During all her uneventful +married life she had never conceived so deep an interest in anyone as +in Hal Rushton’s wife. She had never believed a word against her, and +she never would. Whatever might have been equivocal in her actions +whilst she was the school teacher of Deepdale, Mrs Measures felt sure +could be easily explained if Paula chose to explain it, and the only +puzzling part of it to the vicar’s wife was that she had _not_ so +chosen. It had seemed to her simple mind such an easy way by which +to set matters right with everyone. But Paula had elected otherwise, +and the affair had almost faded from Mrs Measures’ mind. The girl +was married now, and in quite a different position of life. What was +worrying her friend about her at the present moment was her utter +abandonment to her grief for her mother’s death. It was so hopeless--so +unresigned--that it seemed wicked in Mrs Measures’ sight. She had seen +her several times--Paula would not deny herself to this her best and +dearest friend in Deepdale--but her visits had not been calculated to +make either of them happier. Paula’s violent outbursts of despair, of +self-reproach, even of questioning the goodness of the Hand that had +laid the bereavement upon her, had shocked and grieved Mary Measures, +who under similar circumstances would have bowed her head to the storm, +and let all God’s waves go over her. She did not blame her young +friend, whose sorrow was evidently genuine, but she felt unhappy about +her, and wished she would open her heart freely, and see if together +they could not discern some streak of light in the appalling darkness. +But Paula was remarkably reserved even with Mrs Measures. The same +determination not to open her lips that had displayed itself under her +cross-examination by the vicar and the churchwardens seemed to have +come over her again, and though she kept on moaning for her mother, she +steadfastly refused to air the subject, or to enter into any details +concerning it, and Mrs Measures believed that until she could bring +herself to do so her grief would stand no chance of working its own +cure. She was musing thus, sad, but very loyal to the girl she had +learned to love, when Lady Bristowe’s carriage stopped before the door. +Mrs Measures did not particularly enjoy the society of Lady Bristowe, +but in her capacity as the vicar’s wife she felt bound to receive +everybody, and so she rose with a smile to greet her as she entered +the room. But her ladyship did not smile. Her face was very red with +suppressed indignation and the autumn air, and as she sank into the +best arm-chair she looked as vindictive as her fat, jolly cheeks would +allow her to do. Mrs Measures perceived the difference in her at once. + +‘Why, what is the matter?’ she exclaimed. ‘Has anything occurred to +annoy you?’ + +‘Yes, Mrs Measures, something has occurred to annoy me _very much +indeed_, and it concerns your _protégée_, Mrs Hal Rushton. Why did +you not tell me, before you permitted me to invite her as a guest to +Tor Abbey, what sort of a character she had borne whilst she was the +teacher of Deepdale school?’ + +Now, Mrs Measures was very gentle, but she was not servile. She was +meek as a mouse with her friends, but she could fight like a lion for +them, and all the lion that was in her was roused upon this occasion. + +‘In the first place, Lady Bristowe,’ she replied in a dignified manner, +as she resumed her seat, ‘you never consulted me before asking Paula to +dine with you, and if you had, I should have told you that, since she +is my friend, your doubts were as insulting to me as to her.’ + +‘Oh, but you can’t deny having heard it, Mrs Measures, because I +understand that the official inquiries into her behaviour took place +in your presence, and in this very house, and that the young woman was +turned out of her situation, in consequence.’ + +‘That is not true,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Miss Stafford (as she was +then) resigned her appointment herself, and left Deepdale the following +day.’ + +‘Her name was _not_ Miss Stafford. That is another subterfuge. Her +mother’s name was Sutton, and I suspect there must have been some very +good reason for changing her name.’ + +‘I consider your suspicion both unjust and uncharitable, Lady Bristowe.’ + +‘I don’t see it. People don’t change their names, as a rule, unless +they have done something to be ashamed of. And then this scandal about +her being locked up in the schoolhouse with some strange man. Why, it +is terrible! I wonder she ever had the face to show herself in Deepdale +again.’ + +‘The very fact of her doing so ought to convince your ladyship that she +has nothing to be ashamed of. But _who_ has been repeating this scandal +to you, Lady Bristowe? A few weeks ago you could not speak highly +enough of Mrs Rushton, and now you seem to have turned entirely against +her. As her friend, I must ask the reason.’ + +‘That is not far to search, Mrs Measures. I called on Mrs Hal Rushton +at your request--’ + +‘Oh, excuse me. You heard her name first from my lips, perhaps, but I +never urged you to make her acquaintance. On the contrary, it was your +own proposal to take your carriage to Haltham to meet the young people +on their return from their wedding tour, and I demurred at the idea at +first for fear lest they should feel less at home in the presence of a +stranger.’ + +‘But you never mentioned a word about this business or I certainly +should not have gone.’ + +‘I did not consider you had any right to hear it. It was past and over, +and Paula was coming as a guest to my house--as an _honoured_ guest, +Lady Bristowe, as she always will be to me. I believe in her, and I +believe in her right to keep her own counsel where she chooses to do +so.’ + +‘That may be all very well for _you_, Mrs Measures,’ replied her +ladyship rather insolently. ‘Of course, as a clergyman’s wife, you have +to receive all sorts of people--good, bad, and indifferent--but _I_ +hold too high a position, as the mistress of Tor Abbey, to be able to +do as I choose in such matters. And I repeat that it was not a friendly +action on your part to permit me to extend my patronage to people who +are not worthy of it.’ + +‘The Rushtons are far above your patronage, Lady Bristowe. +They neither need nor desire it. I am not sure that even your +acquaintanceship has given them any pleasure.’ + +‘And you refuse, then, to let me hear what you know about this scandal?’ + +‘Utterly. It is no business of yours or mine. And if it were, you +would hear nothing about it from me. Paula is my friend--more than my +friend--I love her dearly, and I am not in the habit of discussing the +doings nor the characters of my friends.’ + +‘You are obstinately determined to shield her,’ replied Lady Bristowe +angrily, ‘but under the circumstances I feel I have a right to demand +the truth, and I shall appeal to Mr Measures for it.’ + +‘Here _is_ Mr Measures,’ exclaimed her hostess, rapping at the window +pane to attract the attention of her husband in the garden; ‘but +question him as you may, you will get no other answer from him than you +have from me.’ + +The vicar obeyed the summons, and entered the drawing-room, with a spud +in his hand and a considerable amount of garden earth upon his boots. + +‘You will excuse my attire, I hope, Lady Bristowe,’ he began. ‘I saw +your horses some time ago, but was too diffident to appear before you +till summoned. But this is a busy time for gardeners. I suppose you +have a fine show of dahlias coming on at the Abbey?’ + +‘Yes, Mr Measures. The gardener tells me we shall have some splendid +blooms this autumn. But I want to speak to you upon quite another +matter. You will be sorry to hear that I and your wife have fallen out +terribly this afternoon.’ + +‘You and Mary!’ exclaimed the vicar, with surprise, ‘surely not. What +could you find to quarrel about?’ + +‘Lady Bristowe has appealed to me,’ said Mrs Measures, with a slightly +heightened colour, ‘for the details of the story that Mr Gribble +set about concerning Paula before her marriage, and I have refused +to discuss the matter with her. It is a thing of the past, and best +forgotten, and Paula is our friend, so I decline to talk of her behind +her back.’ + +‘Quite right, quite right,’ replied the vicar; ‘it was an unfortunate +business, but it is over, and, for all our sakes, the less said about +it the better.’ + +‘But I am not satisfied with so lame an explanation, Mr Measures,’ said +Lady Bristowe; ‘you seem to forget that I have stooped to notice this +young person (whom I believed to be worthy of it).’ + +‘And so she is,’ cried the vicar’s wife indignantly. + +‘Pray, Mrs Measures, let me finish what I was about to say to your +husband. I have asked her to my house, and visited her in return, +and should have continued to do so (although she has behaved most +ungratefully lately in refusing to admit me to her presence), but I +have heard some discreditable stories concerning her behaviour whilst +she was the schoolmistress of Deepdale, and came to your wife for a +confirmation or a denial of them. She refuses to give me either.’ + +‘You set her a hard task,’ replied the vicar, smiling affectionately at +his wife. + +‘But, Edward, _you_ can satisfy Lady Bristowe on this point,’ said +Mrs Measures anxiously; ‘_you_ can tell her that Paula would not have +remained on friendly terms at the vicarage if there had been the +slightest doubt of the purity of her motives or her character.’ + +‘My dear Mary, you know I never interfere with your friendships. I have +too much faith in your good sense,’ said the vicar evasively. + +‘But you do not deny the truth of the reports, sir, all the same,’ +remarked Lady Bristowe. + +‘The reports, as your ladyship calls them, were never verified. +Miss Stafford preferred to resign her appointment to satisfying the +curiosity of the parish guardians. Whether she was right or wrong +signifies little now. She is no longer Miss Stafford, and I daresay she +has almost forgotten that she was ever the village school teacher.’ + +‘She was always far above it in every way,’ exclaimed Mrs Measures. +‘She is a lady by birth and education, and only accepted such a +subordinate position in order not to be a burden on her mother, and I +honoured her for it, and I upheld her in her decision. _Why_ should +she have pandered to the vulgar curiosity of people far beneath her in +station when she knew she was in the right?’ + +‘Oh, it is very easy to _say_ we are in the right,’ remarked Lady +Bristowe, ‘but when our characters are called into question, Mrs +Measures, I consider it is a duty we owe to ourselves and our friends +to clear them as far as lies in our power.’ + +‘Friends--_real_ friends--don’t require any such assurance,’ said Mrs +Measures warmly. ‘And as for characters, whose character has _not_ been +assailed in some form or other? Has not yours, Lady Bristowe?’ + +Lady Bristowe rose from her seat with a crimson face, and shook out her +silken skirts. + +‘Mrs Measures,’ she said loftily, ‘be kind enough to see me to my +carriage. I wish to go home.’ + +‘I hope your ladyship does not imagine--’ + +‘I wish to go home,’ repeated Lady Bristowe distinctly; ‘and I wash my +hands of Mrs Hal Rushton and all her antecedents from this day and for +ever.’ + +And so saying she sailed out of the vicarage drawing-room and drove off +in solemn dudgeon. + +‘Mary, my dear,’ said Mr Measures, as he re-entered his wife’s +presence, ‘you shouldn’t have said that. I am afraid you have mortally +offended her ladyship. What made you do it? I never heard you say such +an ill-natured thing before.’ + +‘I said it because I despise her for turning against Paula, when she +has tested what a sweet, dear girl she is, just because someone has +raked up this detestable scandal. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with my +assurance that there is no truth in it? And you disappointed me too, +Edward. Why couldn’t you have told the old lady that it was a pack of +falsehoods, instead of beating about the bush as you did, and making +her suspicions stronger instead of weaker?’ + +The vicar looked distressed, and sat down on the sofa beside his wife. + +‘Mary, my dear,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to upset you, but I can’t +say what I do not believe to be true. I passed over a great deal at +that time, for your sake, and because I believed Miss Stafford would +leave Deepdale for ever. When she came back to us in such an altered +position, and you seemed anxious to receive her at the vicarage, I +made no objection, because I love to please you, and I would rather +err on the side of leniency. I like the girl, too, and wish anything +that was ever said against her to be forgotten. But I _cannot_ overlook +the fact that she refused to give any satisfactory explanation of the +matter, and if you wish me to say otherwise, you must keep me out of +all discussions of the subject.’ + +‘Which means that you believe the worst you can of her. Edward, I +didn’t think it of you. I have always quoted you as the most Christian +man I know,’ replied his wife. + +‘I hope I take a Christian view of the matter, Mary, but I _cannot_ +believe against my senses. I told you at the time, and I repeat it +now, an innocent woman would have disclosed _everything_ sooner than +have a slur cast upon her character. Where there is concealment there +is usually something wrong. It may lie with others, still it is wrong, +and the guiltless has to bear the brunt of it. Tell me the truth, now. +As matters stand, however much you may regard Paula Rushton, aye, and +believe in her from your own consciousness, would you like to hear me +_swear_ that there is nothing in her antecedents that she wishes to +conceal?’ + +‘_Swear_,’ repeated Mrs Measures in a startled voice. ‘I have never +heard you swear, Edward, and I shouldn’t like you to do it for anybody.’ + +‘But, my dear, a man’s word should be as sacred as his oath. The simple +truth with regard to your young friend is, that I know nothing for +certain, and therefore I can say nothing.’ + +‘Well, she has lost _one_ friend through that detestable Mr Gribble, +and she may lose others,’ exclaimed Mary Measures resolutely, ‘but she +shall never lose _me_, not if I have to stand beside her in a felon’s +dock.’ + +‘And I consider that one of the best things in her favour is her +capability of attracting and holding such a friend as you are, Mary. +Don’t fret about her losing Lady Bristowe. After all, she is but a +foolish, arrogant, and purse-proud woman, and I feel sure that Hal +Rushton will not regret the loss of her acquaintance, whatever his wife +may do.’ + +‘Oh, I don’t think Paula cares two straws about her, only she is so +prostrate at this moment that any revival of the old scandal would +be sure to distress and make her worse. Edward, you never saw anyone +so despondent. I believe, if it were not for her husband, she would +do something rash. She sits half the day silent, with her hands +idly folded in her lap, and if you get her to mention her loss, she +reproaches herself so bitterly that you would think she had had +something to do with it. If she had _killed_ her mother she could +hardly feel more remorse. And her condition is having such an effect +upon her poor husband. What am I to do with them both?’ + +‘Why doesn’t Hal Rushton take her away?’ + +‘She won’t go. She seems always to be on the point of receiving some +news, as if she expected her mother might return and not find her +there. Sometimes I really think her grief has affected her mind.’ + +‘Poor girl! It is very sad, and occurring so soon after her marriage. I +heard a rumour to-day that old Mrs Rushton has been re-admitted to the +Hall. Is that true?’ + +‘She goes up there daily to superintend the housekeeping, of which +Paula is quite incapable at present. And the old woman appears to be on +her best behaviour. I wonder if she has any hope of being reinstated at +the Hall?’ + +‘It wouldn’t be a bad plan, if she saves your friend the drudgery of +housekeeping. But what would Hal say to it? He has such a holy terror +of his stepmother and her son.’ + +‘Oh, that dreadful Ted Snaley. I don’t think Paula could stand him in +the house, however useful his mother might be. But when she is well +again--’ + +‘Mary, my dear,’ said the vicar anxiously, as he put his hand under her +chin and turned her face up to view, ‘are you crying?’ + +‘Oh, Edward, sometimes I fear Paula may never get well again, and then +to hear people so ill-natured about her!’ + +‘There, there, dear, don’t anticipate evil. Her present condition, +after such a shock as she has received, is only natural. Pray for her +Mary, and pray with her, and all will be right again. You are her most +valiant partisan on earth. Try some of your persuasive powers with +Heaven. And if you think it would do Paula any good to come and stay at +the vicarage, where you could be always with her, bring them both over +here, and that will be the best proof Lady Bristowe could have that if +I cannot swear that black is white, I am at least content to believe +that my neighbours are as good as I am myself.’ + +‘They are _not_--they are _not_,’ replied his wife enthusiastically. +‘You are the best and the most righteous man I ever knew, Edward, and I +would rather be a sinner at your mercy than sit in the highest seat of +the world’s favour.’ + +‘But you’re a silly woman, and know nothing,’ said her husband, as he +kissed her. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +NEW PROSPECTS. + + +The little world of Deepdale was really shocked when Paula appeared +amongst them again, so changed was she from the bright, happy bride +that Hal Rushton had brought home to Highbridge Hall, and even from +the pensive, girlish school teacher who had only seemed to drag her +weary life away. Her clear complexion had turned to sodden white, her +eyes were dull and languid, her form seemed shrunk beneath her clinging +black garments. Even Lady Bristowe, encountering her grave salutation +one day, as the little pony carriage passed her ladyship’s cumbersome +chariot, turned round with horrified amazement to Sarah Brennan and +said,-- + +‘Is that _really_ Mrs Hal Rushton? If she hadn’t bowed to me, I don’t +believe I should ever have known her again. I never saw anybody so +changed in all my life.’ + +‘Yes, my lady, she is terribly white and thin. I am sure that anybody, +to look at her, would say she’d got something on her mind. Quite the +ghost of her former self. And her mother-in-law says she’s so weak she +can hardly get up and down stairs without assistance.’ + +‘_Her mother-in-law!_’ repeated Lady Bristowe; ‘you don’t mean to tell +me, Sarah Brennan, that you have any acquaintanceship with that low +person the Widow Rushton?’ + +Miss Brennan coughed dubiously. + +‘I have met her once or twice, my lady, when I have been out walking. +It’s not always possible to avoid it, you see, nor to help passing a +few words when you are spoken to.’ + +‘Well, I beg you _will_ avoid it for the future, Sarah Brennan, or you +will leave my service,’ rejoined Lady Bristowe. ‘I will not have a +person who is constantly in my company associate with people of that +class. You had better go down into the servants’ hall at once.’ + +‘But I hear that Mrs Rushton is always with her daughter-in-law +Mrs Hal,’ said Miss Brennan. ‘She’s head housekeeper and nurse and +everything at Highbridge Hall now.’ + +‘That’s nothing to me. Mrs Hal Rushton can do as she likes. My orders +to you are imperative.’ + +‘Of course, my lady. But I thought as young Mrs Rushton is such a +favourite at the Abbey--’ + +‘She is _not_ a favourite there any longer. I don’t wish to hear you +even mention her name. I consider that she entered my house under false +pretences, and her visit will never be repeated. And I desire that +_you_ drop all intimacy with the family also. Do you understand me, +Sarah Brennan?’ + +‘Oh, yes, my lady, perfectly,’ returned the companion, who was only too +pleased to think that her rival was out of favour. + +It was true that Lady Bristowe’s visit to the vicarage had decided her +to have no more to do with Paula Rushton. Mrs Measures’ warm advocacy +had had no effect against the vicar’s half-hearted condemnation, and +Lady Bristowe was not a great enough nor a noble enough woman to cling +to anyone against the opinion of the majority. So she thought it more +prudent to go with the stream, and discontinue her visits to Highbridge +Hall. + +Paula scarcely noticed her defalcation, and if she did it was to +rejoice that the nuisance of refusing to see her had ceased. Although +she looked so thin and pale, her health was certainly improved, and +her mental equilibrium was restored. Some months had passed now since +her mother’s death, and she could speak of her loss with calmness and +a certain degree of hope. Her kind friend Mary Measures had gently +approached the subject with her, and dwelt so much on the happy side +of it--on the thought of her mother at rest from the cares which had +worried her in this life, and reunited to the husband she had loved so +much and mourned so deeply--that Paula had been able at last to ease +her labouring mind by telling of her mother’s virtues and affection +for herself, and repeating many a little anecdote of her goodness and +patience and long-suffering. So far her grief was somewhat mitigated, +and had her cause for trouble ended here it would (like all such +bereavements) have had its bitterness assuaged by time. But there was +that other unnatural grief to fight against--the grief she dared not +speak of, and which ate into her very soul--the mysterious loss of +Paulie. Mrs Measures wondered why the girl continued so hopelessly +despairing. It was so unlike the usual effect of trouble on a gentle +and unexcitable nature like hers. She consulted her own husband and +Paula’s husband on the subject, but neither of them could suggest a +solution. At last she thought she had solved the mystery. As Christmas +approached Paula confided to her that she was about to become a mother. +That fact seemed to explain everything. Physical weakness had prevented +the poor girl getting the better of her mental despondency. And now, +thought Mrs Measures, everything must be right. Paula would have a +grand vehicle of distraction. Mary Measures had never been a mother +herself, to her great disappointment, but like many childless women she +took a vivid interest in little babies and all that pertained to them. +She kissed Paula a dozen times when the news was made known to her, and +told her that God was mercifully sending this great blessing in order +to compensate her for her loss. + +‘You will have your hands full now, dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘and no time +to give to unavailing regret. You must begin to fight against it from +this very moment, Paula, for the sake of the dear baby that is coming. +You would not like to harm it, I am sure. Suppose it were born weakly, +or crippled, or with any other affliction because of your want of +self-control--’ + +‘No, no, not _that_. Don’t speak of that,’ said Paula feverishly. + +She was lying on the sofa at the time, and Mary Measures, who sat +beside her, was alarmed to see how she became crimson and livid by turn. + +‘My dear, don’t imagine I suppose it for a moment--why, Paula, what +chance is there of such a thing?--only, I have always heard that +expectant mothers should be careful above all else to keep their minds +at rest. Oh, Paula, dear, don’t look like that. You will make me so +sorry that I spoke. Think only, dear, of the great joy that is coming +to you.’ + +‘It is not certain it will be a joy,’ replied Paula sadly; ‘sometimes +children are sent to be a curse instead of a blessing.’ + +‘Oh, surely not. Think of having a dear baby of your own to love and +cherish, and to bring up to be a comfort to you.’ + +‘I don’t _want_ to think of it,’ said Paula fretfully. ‘I am not even +sure that I want _it_. Children are certain cares and very uncertain +blessings.’ + +Mrs Measures did not know what to make of her friend’s state of mind. +A young woman married to the man she loved, and expecting her first +baby, to speak of it in such a melancholy and disparaging manner was +an anomaly to her, and made her think how differently _she_ would have +felt under similar circumstances. As she was leaving the Hall that day +she met Mrs Rushton, senior, walking about the drive and picking off +the blackened leaves which had been killed by the first frost. The +vicar’s wife disliked the widow exceedingly, and could not understand +Paula delegating the whole of her household duties to her hands. Still, +as she was there, and evidently a comfort or assistance to her friend, +she saluted her courteously. + +‘I ’ope you find Mrs ’Al better and more resigned like to-day, ma’am?’ +said Mrs Rushton. + +‘I think she is better, but there is still great room for improvement,’ +replied Mrs Measures. ‘It is a bad sign, I am afraid, her showing such +indifference about her condition.’ + +‘Yes; quite unnateral, ain’t it. However, I’ve sick and monthlied for +thirty years and seen many sich. It hall depends upon their ’ealth. +Mrs ’Al ain’t strong, and sees heverythink in a gloomy light. She’ll +be well enough by-and-by, though I don’t think she ’as a strong +constitootion, and will take a lot of care and attention.’ + +‘Are you going to nurse her in her confinement?’ inquired Mrs Measures, +rather anxiously. + +‘Oh, lor’, ma’am, I ’opes not. I’ve done a deal of nussing in my time, +and I wants a little rest. I ain’t as young as I was--fifty-eight on my +last birthday--and I’m not strong enough for racket. I’ve recommended +Mrs ’Al a hexcellent nuss, Mrs Cornes of ’Altham, a good, honest, +sober, kind-hearted creature as will do ’er and the baby justice in +hevery way. I shouldn’t care for the job myself at all, ma’am.’ + +‘I only thought,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘that as you seem so +friendly--’ + +‘Oh, we’re friendly enough,’ interrupted Mrs Rushton. ‘Mrs ’Al, she +’ave turned me and my boy out of the ’All as you may say, but I don’t +bear ’er no malice. And when I see ’er so unnaterally cast down by ’er +ma’s death, and giving way so terrible, I thought it only right for +Al’s sake to offer to ’elp ’er. I can’t forget as ’Al is my poor dear +’usband’s son, nor that ’e asked me with ’is last breath for to look +arter ’im and ’is in every way.’ + +‘Really,’ said Mary Measures to her husband, some hours later, ‘I begin +to blame myself for having thought and spoken so harshly of old Mrs +Rushton. Of course she is an ignorant and low-born woman (she can’t +help that), but I think there’s a lot of good in her. She speaks so +kindly now of Hal and Paula. She seems quite to have forgotten her old +grudge against her stepson’s marriage.’ + +‘All my wife’s geese are swans,’ replied the vicar affectionately. + +‘You don’t believe in her having turned over a new leaf then, Edward?’ + +‘I haven’t observed it yet, my dear. I think the woman is a detestable +hypocrite, and I would not trust her further than I could see her. I +shall never forget her conduct at Farmer Rushton’s death. If she had +had her way then, Hal would have been left a dependant on her bounty.’ + +‘Then isn’t it all the more to her credit that she has forgiven you for +outwitting her, and Hal for benefiting by your sense of justice?’ + +‘It would be--if she _had_. But I don’t believe she has forgiven either +Hal or me.’ + +‘Do you think she is playing a part, then?’ + +‘I shouldn’t like to express an opinion on the subject. But I should be +very wary of the old woman myself.’ + +‘Oh, Edward, you make me feel so miserable. Is nothing in this world +what it seems?’ + +‘Very little, Mary, very little,’ was the vicar’s reply. + +In this instance Mr Measures was decidedly right. Mrs Rushton played +her cards so well that for a while Hal and Paula were completely +taken in by her. She fully intended to nurse Paula herself, but she +knew her stepson so much disliked her presence that the very mention +of such a thing would rouse his opposition. So she pretended that +she would not undertake it upon any account, and highly recommended +the services of Mrs Cornes, who had nursed Lady Warden with her son +and heir, and bore the highest testimonials from her ladyship. Under +ordinary circumstances Hal Rushton would not have cared _who_ nursed +his wife through her expected trial, but as it was his deepest fears +were excited by her condition. He could not feel any pride or pleasure +in the anticipation of the birth of his child, so fully was his mind +occupied by Paula’s extreme weakness of body and depression of mind. He +was ready to cavil at the capabilities, even, of Mrs Cornes, until he +had seen the very flattering letter of recommendation with which the +Countess of Warden had sent her on her way. And then he told his wife +to write and engage her at any cost, to keep the month of June open, +in order that she might spend it at Highbridge Hall. But Paula was +indolent and apathetic as usual, and Mrs Rushton offered to step into +the breach and interview Mrs Cornes on her account. + +‘Don’t you worrit yourself about it, my dear,’ she said. ‘No one +expects ladies in your sitivation to go running after their nusses. +You’ve seen ’ow ’igh ’er recommendations is, and I’ll go into ’Altham +for you and settle with ’er about the time and so forth. Or, you can +write ’er a letter, and I’ll bring you the hanswer. I must go into +’Altham after some more cambric and flannel or we sha’n’t never be +ready in time.’ + +‘But it will be such a trouble to you, Mrs Rushton,’ replied Paula +languidly. + +‘Lor’, no, my dear. Not if ’Al will let Ted ’ave the tax-cart or the +shay to drive me into ’Altham. You can’t be expected to know what’s +necessary, as I do--_you_, who ’ave never ’ad a baby to ’andle before.’ + +At this Paula coloured slightly and turned uneasily away, and the widow +noted both actions. + +‘Mother,’ said Ted Snaley, as he drove her into Haltham the following +day, ‘are you a-going to let Mrs Cornes nuss Mrs ’Al?’ + +‘Not if I can ’elp it, Ted. It’s all chance, though, and I don’t see +my way clearly yet; but if it’s a boy, it’ll ruin your prospects of +getting hany of the property as was left to you and me by my ’usband, +and we was defrauded out of it. And if it’s heither boy or gal, and +lives and thrives, there won’t be no ’ope for us, for if we found +out Mrs ’Al’s secret to-morrow (and that she _’as_ a secret I’d lay +my right ’and) and ’e turned ’er out of the ’ouse, why there’d be +the child for ’im to live and work for, and we might go to the wall. +No, Ted, if this ’ere child lives, we’d better give hup the game +haltogether.’ + +‘Well, then, it _mustn’t_ live. Nothing heasier.’ + +‘’Ush, ’ush, my boy; don’t ’oller like that. ’Ow can you tell ’oo’s +be’ind the ’edge? If you must speak of it, speak as soft as you can.’ + +With this the widow turned her head round and whispered in his ear. + +‘It _won’t_ live,’ she said, ‘it’ll be too weakly.’ + +‘But if Mrs Cornes gets ’old of it, mother, ’ow then?’ + +‘She sha’n’t get ’old of it, then, Ted, not if _I_ knows it.’ + +‘’Ow will you manage it?’ + +‘Give ’er a wrong date. Nothing heasier than to make a mistake of that +sort. I shall tell ’er to keep ’erself ready for the hend of June, and +we shall ’ave it ’ere by the first, when she’ll be busy with someone +helse. Then they’ll be all in an ’urry and flummux, and glad of me or +hanybody to take ’er place.’ + +‘’Urra, mother, you’ve ’it it,’ cried Mr Snaley. ‘And what about _her_?’ + +‘Oh, we mustn’t think of nothink more, Ted. We’ve said too much about +it already. But Mrs ’Al ain’t in a good state of health, to my mind, +and I should feel very nervous about ’er, if she was hanything to me. +I’ve seen many a poor creature go off at sich times as ’ad double ’er +strength.’ + +Mrs Rushton found Mrs Cornes at home, and had soon put her into +the possession of the fact that her services would be required at +Highbridge Hall about the end of June. + +‘The hend of June,’ said that worthy, as she examined a much +bescribbled almanac of the current year; ‘what day should you take it +to be doo, now? Before the twentieth, say, or hafter?’ + +‘Oh, lor’, Mrs Cornes, ma’am, it’s quite himpossible to fix it +for certain. You know what these young creetures with their first +hare--with no more hidea of the when nor the wherefore than the babies +themselves. But _h’I_ should say _hafter_ the twentieth, hif it was put +to me.’ + +‘I couldn’t take the case afore, ma’am. I’m doo at Mrs Nelson’s, which +I’ve nussed with six a’ready, on heighteenth of May, and she generally +come to ’er day, and wouldn’t part with me hunder the month for untold +gold. So there it lay, you see. On the heighteenth hor twentieth of +June I shall be free to take your lady if she go to ’er time. But I had +better see ’er about it myself. When shall I find her at ’ome?’ + +‘That I can’t say, Mrs Cornes, nor hif she’d see you if you called. +She’s ’ad a terrible loss in her ma, poor thing, who died in her chair +suddent-like, and it’s hupset her mind a bit, so that she’s very queer +in ’er ’ead at times and won’t see a soul.’ + +‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed the nurse, with a shiver, ‘I don’t like them sort +of cases at all. It’s to be ’oped she won’t go hoff ’er ’ead when her +time comes. I’ve ’ad terrible work sometimes even to keep ’em in bed. +One of my ladies got up at night, when we was hall asleep, and flung +’erself and ’er baby right out of the winder.’ + +‘Lor’, how ’orrible. I ’opes there’ll be nothink of the sort ’ere. +But if you’ll write a line, ma’am, for to say as you’ll hold yourself +engaged to Mrs ’Al Rushton for June, I’ll take it back to ’er, hand if +she wants to see you before’and she can write and let you know.’ + +Upon which the nurse wrote a few words as desired, which the widow took +back to Paula. But Hal was not satisfied with the transaction. + +‘This is nonsense,’ he said. ‘I am not going to let you engage a nurse +without seeing her. She might turn out to be some gin-drinking, snuffy +old woman whom we couldn’t endure in the house. You must write and tell +her to come over here, Paula.’ + +‘Oh, Hal, not yet. It is not necessary There is heaps of time. I do +hate strangers so I don’t want to see anybody.’ + +‘Perhaps, my darling; but if you leave it till too late you may not get +a nurse at all. Only see if you like this Mrs Cornes. If not, I will +send to London sooner than you should not be properly attended to.’ + +So Paula sent a note to Mrs Cornes, desiring her to come over to +Highbridge Hall, and confided it to the care of her factotum, Mrs +Rushton, who brought back a message to the effect that Mrs Cornes had +been called out unexpectedly to nurse a gentleman who had sustained +a serious accident, and it was impossible she could leave him, but +the first moment she was at liberty she would come to Deepdale to see +her employer, and some weeks, she hoped, before her services would +be required. With which assurance Paula appeared to be perfectly +satisfied, as she lay back on her sofa by the open window and watched +the blossoming of the coming summer. + +‘Have you never seen your nurse yet, Paula?’ asked Mary Measures +one evening, as she sat beside her friend and watched the somewhat +tremulous and changeful expression on her face. + +‘Not yet. She is too busily engaged, but she is coming over to see me +the beginning of next month. I hear she is a very respectable woman, +and I feel quite satisfied about her.’ + +‘Of course,’ answered the vicar’s wife cheerfully; ‘but I think she +should be in the house beforehand. Suppose you were taken ill in the +night? It is such a long way to drive into Haltham.’ + +‘Only seven miles,’ said Paula indifferently. ‘Hal’s little mare would +do it under the hour.’ + +‘But that means another hour to come back again, and allowing for +probable delays and Mrs Cornes’ preparations, perhaps three hours,’ +replied her friend anxiously. + +‘Well, what of that? It will be all right. And _you_ would come to me +at any time, wouldn’t you, Mary?’ + +‘You know I would, dear, but I should not be of much use, and I can’t +bear the idea of your being left alone so long. I wonder it doesn’t +frighten you, Paula; but you seem quite indifferent on the matter. One +would think, to hear you talk, that you had a nursery full upstairs.’ + +‘Oh, it will be all right. It is no use worrying,’ replied Paula +listlessly, as she turned her face round to the window. + +The starlings and blackbirds were hopping about the newly mown lawn, +picking up the unfortunate worms and grubs. (How little one ever +thinks, by-the-bye, when contemplating a peaceful scene of rural +happiness, how many innocent creatures that contribute to it are +feeling anything but peaceful or happy the while.) The gardener was +potting out the beds of geraniums, verbenas and calceolarias, and +Lady Bristowe’s Blenheim puppy, now full grown, was playing about +with a noisy fox terrier, and getting much the worst of the fun. As +Mrs Measures watched Paula gazing at their frolics, with a smile, she +suddenly saw a deep flush rise to her forehead and fade away again, +leaving her ashy pale. + +‘Paula,’ she exclaimed quickly, ‘are you in any pain? You don’t seem +well to me.’ + +‘I don’t feel quite the thing,’ replied the girl languidly. ‘It is so +warm and close, and I get so tired of lying here.’ + +‘Why don’t you go for a drive? It would do you good this lovely +evening. Cannot Mr Rushton take you? Is he too busy?’ + +‘_Too busy_,’ repeated Paula, with a faint smile, ‘why, Mary, you don’t +half know yet what a darling my Hal is. No business, nor pleasure, nor +anything, would keep him from waiting upon me, especially now. I am +quite ashamed sometimes to trouble him so much. Oh, he is far too good, +too kind. I am thankful when he will take a little leisure for himself.’ + +‘You are very happy with him, Paula.’ + +‘As far as _he_ is concerned,’ she answered without thinking, +‘very--_very_ happy. If I die within the next month, Mary, I shall have +had more than my share of earthly happiness.’ + +‘Why should you talk of dying, dear?’ said Mrs Measures tenderly. ‘You +mustn’t even think of such a thing. You are as strong as most women are +at such a time.’ + +‘Do you think so?’ replied Paula, with her eyes raised to the sky. ‘But +I have suffered so much lately, you know, and--and it makes me lose +hope.’ + +When Mary Measures left her she went in search of Hal Rushton, and +found him busy over his stable accounts, and smoking a pipe, which he +laid down on her approach. + +‘Now, Mr Rushton, don’t do that,’ she said, ‘or I shall run away. I +only came to speak to you about Paula. I wish this Mrs Cornes was in +the house. I don’t think she is quite well.’ + +Hal started from his seat, pipe and all else forgotten. + +‘_Not well!_’ he echoed. ‘Do you mean--’ + +‘No, no; don’t alarm yourself, and remember I am very ignorant about +such matters. Still, if Mrs Cornes could be communicated with, without +alarming Paula, I think it would be desirable to do so in case of +necessity.’ + +‘But the woman is not at home. She is nursing some man out in the +country. And there is no other nurse in Haltham. What on earth can I +do? We didn’t expect her services would be required for the next three +weeks.’ + +‘Mr Rushton, don’t think anything more about it. _I_ daresay I am all +wrong. But Paula looks feverish and uneasy. Will you go up to her, and +if I can be of any use, you know where to find me.’ + +‘Thank you, yes. I will go at once,’ and he flew upstairs like a bird +to the presence of his wife. + +‘My darling, my own darling,’ he exclaimed anxiously, as he bent over +her couch, ‘what is the matter? Are you not well?’ + +‘Quite as well as usual,’ she said, twining her arms round his neck, +and drawing his face down to her own. ‘What has that silly Mary been +saying to my love, to make him look so frightened. I have a headache +from the heat, and I am tired, that is all--’ + +And she kissed him fondly, almost passionately, as she spoke. + +‘My own wife,’ he murmured, ‘what should I do if you were taken ill +without better help than we could give you?’ + +‘There is no fear of it,’ she answered stoutly, though she knew in her +heart that there was every fear. But she lay there in the twilight, +with her husband’s face pressed against her own, and did not let him +guess a tittle of what she was suffering. But a few hours later it was +impossible to disguise it. Hal rushed into the vicarage as white as a +sheet with fear, to entreat Mrs Measures to come to his wife at once, +as there was no doubt that her trial was near at hand. + +‘What can I do?’ he exclaimed distractedly as they walked back +together to the Hall. ‘I know it is of no use going for Mrs Cornes, +and Dr Addison is so young, I am half afraid Paula will object to his +attending her. Oh, Mrs Measures, if anything should go wrong with her.’ + +‘My dear friend, there is no chance of that. It is certainly very +unfortunate, but we must do the best we can. Old Mrs Rushton is an +excellent sick-nurse, and will doubtless attend to Paula just as well +as Mrs Cornes. Is she at the Hall?’ + +‘Not at present. She has betaken herself home for the night. But can’t +we manage without her. Mrs Measures, I can’t tell you how I distrust +that woman. I hate to see her about the house, and have only endured +her presence for Paula’s sake. But to instal her in the sick-room, to +see her handling my wife and child, I don’t think I could stand it. I +believe I should tell her outright all that I think and have thought +of her from the commencement, and make a regular breach between us for +ever more.’ + +‘But, my dear Mr Rushton, that is very foolish. I quite agree with +you that she is odious, but if she can contribute to your dear wife’s +safety or comfort at this crisis, you must put your personal dislike +for her into your pocket. It is absolutely necessary that Paula should +have a competent nurse on this occasion, for her own sake and that of +the child.’ + +‘Couldn’t _you_ nurse her?’ asked Hal dubiously. + +‘No, my dear friend, I could not, for several reasons. I am not strong +enough for night work, besides, I know nothing about children, and I +have my own house and husband to look after. I will be with dear Paula +as much as possible during the day, but I cannot undertake any more.’ + +‘Louisa, then?’ + +‘Oh, nonsense. Louisa is only a girl. Such cases require an +experienced woman. If you really cannot get Mrs Cornes to come, you +_must_ have Mrs Rushton.’ + +But Hal still hesitated. + +‘As soon as I have taken you to my darling’s side, Mrs Measures,’ he +said, ‘I will drive as hard as I can into Haltham, and see if it is not +possible to procure Mrs Cornes. And you will not leave her, I am sure, +until I am back again.’ + +‘Of course, I will not leave her,’ replied the vicar’s wife. + +But when she saw Paula she refused to stay at the Hall during Hal’s +absence unless Mrs Rushton stayed there also. She had seen enough of +such cases to know that a very short time might make a great change in +the young wife’s condition, and she insisted upon Hal’s going first to +Wavertree Cottage and summoning his stepmother. By this time she did +not find him so hard to persuade. He was frightened to death by the +sight of Paula’s white face and the sound of her stifled moans, and +rushed like a lamplighter to the widow’s cottage, where he disturbed +her frugal supper by his news. + +‘Lor’, you don’t never mean to say so, ’Al,’ she cried, as she drew +the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘Poor dear! Took already! She +must ’ave tripped, or summat. I’ll go hup, in course, and do my best +for ’er, but I do ’ope as you’ll catch Mrs Cornes, for I ain’t strong +enough to sit up at nights.’ + +‘Yes, yes, I am going to drive into Haltham at once for her, Mrs +Rushton. But will you come back with me to the Hall now? I shall not +feel easy unless I leave you there. Mrs Measures is with her, but she +has had no experience.’ + +‘_Mrs Measures_,’ repeated the widow, with ineffable scorn. ‘Much _she_ +must know about sich things. I’ll walk back with you, ’Al, if you wish +it. I ain’t finished my supper, but I daresay as I can get a bit and a +sup up at the ’All. Ted, my lad, reach me down my shawl and bonnet hoff +that ’ook, and don’t go to bed yet awhiles, has I’ll be a-coming back +again if Mrs Cornes takes her proper place to-night.’ + +‘And what about Dr Addison?’ inquired Hal fearfully. ‘Should I send for +him also?’ + +‘Lor’, ’Al, no. There’ll be no need to trouble ’im, I shouldn’t think, +before the morning. But I’ll be the best judge of that, and Ted here +can fetch ’im at any time. And when I comes to think of it, my lad, +you’d better come hup to the ’All as well, and then you’ll be ready in +case of need.’ + +And so Hal Rushton, too anxious now about his wife to care about any +secondary consideration, had to walk back to his house between the +unsavoury couple. When he arrived there he found his mare and dog-cart +ready for him, and started with all speed for Haltham. His errand was +eminently unsatisfactory. The proprietors of the house where Mrs Cornes +lodged did not even know her present address, nor had any idea when +she was expected to return. She made her own engagements, they said, +and came and went as she thought proper, and they never troubled her +with any questions. Neither could they tell him of any other nurse to +be procured in Haltham. So, sick at heart and wild with anxiety, Hal +Rushton turned the mare’s head towards Deepdale, and took her home as +fast as she could lay her feet to the ground, in order to find out what +had happened during his absence. + + + + +END OF VOL. II. + + +COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. + + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + +Apparent typographical errors in spelling and punctuation have been +silently corrected. + +Spellings representing dialect have been retained. + +Italics have been represented by _underlines_. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78596 *** |