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.