THE FINAL BREACH.
The widow’s yellow complexion turned a sort of green-grey colour with
indignation and surprise.
‘What ’ave I been a-giving ’er? What do you mean by your himperence?’
she exclaimed.
‘I mean what I say. I’m the medical officer of this parish, and if you
don’t answer me I shall report you. What have you been dosing this baby
with?’
‘A fine medical hofficer, indeed! A mere paltry boy who knows nothink.
I’ve not given ’er hanythink but what’s good for ’er. She’s ’ad the
breast. What do you make of that?’
‘Do you call _this_ the breast, Mrs Rushton?’ said Addison, producing
the vial from his pocket.
‘_That!_ Why, that’s what I keep for my toothache. You thinks yourself
mighty clever, I daresay, but you’ve found a mare’s nest this time.’
‘Whatever you keep it for, you have given the baby some of it, and you
have made her ill in consequence. I have strongly advised Mr Rushton to
take her out of your hands. I do not consider she is safe in them.’
‘Oh, _you_ don’t consider it, don’t you,’ she cried mockingly, ‘_you_,
who was in your swaddling clothes when I was a full-grown woman? You’re
a nice person, you are, to pass an opinion on the matter. If Mrs ’Al
’ad ’ad a grain of sense she wouldn’t ’ave let sich a hignoramus across
the threshold.’
‘Be quiet,’ said Hal authoritatively. ‘I will not allow you to insult
this gentleman in my house.’
‘Oh, _your_ ’ouse, indeed. It’s only by a fluke as it _is_ your ’ouse.
A fine pair of gentlemen, as ought to be follerin’ the plough and
serving in a chemist’s shop instead of setting themselves hup above
their betters.’
‘Now, come, Mrs Rushton,’ said the doctor, ‘you had better be careful
what you say, for it is in my power to do you a considerable injury.’
‘Oh, I’m not afraid of what you can do to _me_, young man--_me_, who am
a hindependent lady, and would ’ave been the howner of this very ’ouse
hif my poor dear ’usband ’adn’t been bullied out of it on ’is dying
bed.’
‘With what motive you have administered a dangerous narcotic to a newly
born infant I cannot say, but if it is from ignorance, it proves you to
be utterly unfit to have the charge of a baby. I have told Mr Rushton
so openly. If you were a hired nurse, I should order you out of the
house at once--as it is, I must leave your stepson to do as he thinks
best in the matter. I have expressed my opinion, and there my duty
ends. Is it decided that I am to see Mrs Roberts, Rushton?’
‘Most certainly. See her as soon as you can.’
‘I will go there at once, and she will probably be here in an hour.
Good evening.’ And Dr Addison left the room.
‘And pray ’oo’s Mrs Roberts?’ demanded the widow as the doctor
disappeared.
‘That is just what I am going to tell you,’ replied Hal. Then he turned
to Louisa, who was holding the baby, and said, ‘Take that child back to
the nursery, and if your mistress should ask for Mrs Rushton, say she
is talking to me in the drawing-room, nothing more. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the girl, as she carried the child away.
When she found that they were alone, the widow trembled. With all her
insolence, she was a coward, and very much afraid of her stepson’s
wrath. She began by trying to brave it out.
‘Well, I’m awaiting to ’ear ’oo Mrs Roberts may be,’ she said, looking
Hal full in the face.
‘And I am quite ready to tell you,’ he answered. ‘She is a woman who is
coming to look after my wife and child, in your place.’
‘Ho! And I’m to be kicked hout, I s’pose, like a dog, hafter hall
I’ve done for ’em, jest because that fool of a doctor ’as got up a
cock-and-bull story about my toothache mixture.’
‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ thundered Hal, losing his patience. ‘You
_know_ it is not a cock-and-bull story. You know that, for some reason
best known to yourself, you have given my poor baby that poisonous
stuff, that the sleep she has been thrown into in consequence was an
unnatural one, and that, if her mother had not perceived it in time,
you might have killed her.’
‘Oh, her _mother_!’ cried the widow sarcastically. ‘It’s strange she
should know such a lot about babies, ain’t it? ’Tain’t hoften as ladies
with their first know ’ow long they should sleep and ’ow long they
should keep awake. She’s uncommon clever is Mrs ’Al. One would think
she’d ’ad ’alf-a-dozen already.’
Hal felt the blood rush to his face at the insinuation, but he answered
firmly,--
‘Never you mind what she knows or does not know. She has evidently been
too clever for you in this instance. Now, Mrs Rushton, you and I must
understand each other. Whether you did this thing in ignorance or from
_malice prepense_, you will never do it again, for from this hour I
forbid you, or your son Ted Snaley, to put your foot within the gate of
my grounds. Do you understand me?’
‘Hunderstand you! Do you s’pose I’m a hijiot that I can’t hunderstand
you? But I might ’ave hexpected as much. You come of a mean, ungrateful
lot. Hif your father ’adn’t been a fool and a coward, ’e wouldn’t never
’ave let a canting parson frighten ’im out of ’is passed word.’
‘Don’t you dare to abuse my dead father or I’ll put you out of the
house with my own hands,’ cried Hal. ‘Do you suppose that, if he
hadn’t been weak enough to make you his wife, you would ever have been
tolerated in it? You have dared me to tell you the truth, and you
shall have it. It was my full intention when I married never to let
you visit nor associate with my wife. But she has a kind heart, and
you got round her in some way, and I didn’t like to check her generous
impulses. But I was terribly annoyed when I found you had wormed
your way into the Hall again, and still more when by the unfortunate
accident of Mrs Cornes’ absence you took her place by Paula’s bedside.
For I have never trusted you, Mrs Rushton. I remember how you lied to
and deceived and robbed my father, and I had no belief in your behaving
better to his son. And I was right. You have nearly robbed us now of
the best thing we possess--our child. And so there’s an end to it. Our
acquaintanceship is over from to-day.’
He spoke hotly as a man would under such circumstances, but he spoke
determinately, and it was evident that what he said he meant. This
conviction made the widow reckless of her answer.
‘And a good job hif it had died hif it’s agoing to grow up like its
mother,’ she exclaimed.
‘Don’t you say a word against my wife to me,’ thundered Hal, turning
round upon her, with lowering brows.
‘Oh, you needn’t think that none of your bawling, nor your black looks,
will frighten _me_,’ she cried. ‘I know many a thing has would make
your fine madam lower ’er crest, and so do hothers hin Deepdale. _She_
knows if hit’s to ’er hinterest to keep friends with _me_ or not.
You may himagine you knows hall about ’er, Mr ’Al, but you hain’t a
Solomon, nor yet a detective, and the lookers-on see most of the game.’
‘Silence, woman!’ he exclaimed angrily. But he did not like to raise
his voice for fear of disturbing Paula.
‘No, I _won’t_ be silent,’ returned the widow defiantly, ‘not for you
nor hanybody, and if this his to be hour last hinterview, you shall
’ave my mind. Don’t you try to touch me,’ she continued, as Hal
approached her threateningly, ‘or I’ll ’ave you hup for an assault, and
speak hout what I know before the perlice. You takes your fine school
teacher, as is found locked up with a man at night, and makes ’er the
mistress of this ’ouse, and fancies as the ’ole county’s agoing to bow
down before ’er, and madam she makes henemies of those as might ’ave
been ’er friends. Do you s’pose they ’aven’t talked of what they know
against ’er? Where are hall the grand ladies and gentlemen as come to
your “feet”? Where’s my Lady Bristowe, and my Lady Warden, and the
Honourable Mrs Stacey, hand the rest of ’em? Why, Lady Bristowe she
says hopenly has she never was so deceived in hany young woman before,
and she’ll never henter the ’ouse again.’
‘I don’t wish her to do so. I have not the slightest interest in
anything you may be able to tell me. I know the malice of which you are
capable. All I want you to do now is to leave my house, and never enter
it again.’
‘And I’m ready to leave it, ’Al, but I don’t go till you’ve ’eard the
’ole of what I’ve to say. I daresay my lady hupstairs ’ave given you
a very plausible hexplanation of her doings in the school’ouse, and
you’re fool enough to swaller it. But that hain’t the last of hit--mark
my words--nor that man hain’t the last of them, neither, and she’ll
bring you to shame yet, though your father’s widder hain’t good enough
to associate with ’er; and hall I says his, I prays ’Evin as she may.’
‘You wicked woman,’ exclaimed Hal, ‘how I can have endured you and your
blistering tongue about me so long I cannot tell. But in slandering my
wife to my face you have cut your own throat. I intended to have let
you remain in Wavertree Cottage. I will do so no longer. I will not
endure such a reptile as you are at my very gate. To-morrow you will
receive a notice to quit, and you may find yourself a home wherever you
can.’
‘You will turn us out of the cottage?’ cried the widow shrilly.
‘Yes, I will turn you out of the cottage. You deserve no favour nor
kindness at my hands, and I will not have my wife’s life polluted by
your presence.’
‘_Your wife!_ Your wife, indeed. A pretty person to be polluted. There
were men before you, ’Al Rushton, and there’ll be men after you--mark
that--and you’ll live to remember my words, and to curse the day you
ever met ’er.’
‘Will you leave my house, or am I to put you out of it?’ exclaimed Hal.
‘Oh, I’m agoing, you needn’t fear, but not without my belongings. I’ve
lost enough by coming to the ’ouse at all without leaving them be’ind
me.’ And as she spoke she moved to the door.
‘You shall not go upstairs,’ said Hal, placing himself in her way.
‘But I _must_ go hupstairs. ’Ow am I to get my things helse? You don’t
suppose has I would trust ’em to hanybody. Stand hout of my way, ’Al,
and let me pass.’
‘You do not enter my wife’s presence again,’ replied the young man
firmly, as he rang the bell. ‘Everything that belongs to you shall be
brought down here, but you shall not mount the stairs.’
‘But I hinsist!’ she commenced.
‘And _I_ insist,’ he replied again, with flashing eyes, that she dared
not further oppose, as he walked out of the drawing-room and locked the
door behind him. In another moment he was by his wife’s bedside.
‘Paula, darling,’ he said, ‘Mrs Rushton is not very well, and I am
going to send her home.’
‘Not well, Hal? What is the matter with her? I thought she was made of
cast-iron.’
‘She is not a young woman, you know, Paula, and the night work is too
much for her. And you won’t mind her going, because you know how much I
dislike her?’
‘Oh, no, dearest; I would rather be alone with you. She never let us
have a moment together. But who will look after baby?’
‘Dr Addison knows of a very nice woman, a Mrs Roberts, whom he will
bring over to the Hall this evening. You will be quite comfortable with
her. So, if you will keep the baby beside you for a few minutes, Louisa
can put Mrs Rushton’s valuables together.’
‘Isn’t she coming up to say good-bye to me?’ inquired Paula.
‘No, dear, not to-night. To tell you the truth, she was so tired and
anxious to see her son that I have already sent her home, and am going
to despatch Tom with her things. In a few days, if you still wish to
see her, we will talk about it. Meanwhile you will have a good exchange
in Mrs Roberts, who is a much younger woman.’
‘Poor Mrs Rushton! I am sorry I have overworked her. I am glad you have
sent her home, Hal. She is too old to be up night and day,’ said Paula,
perfectly unsuspicious of there having been any disturbance, as she
nestled down on her pillows with her baby beside her.
Louisa having accomplished the necessary packing, and carried the small
box down to the drawing-room, Hal unlocked the door again, and stood
by whilst Mrs Rushton examined each article to make sure that they had
not detained any of her property. Meanwhile the pony chaise had been
ordered to convey her to Wavertree Cottage, and in a few minutes she
and her box were placed in it and going rapidly down the drive. Hal was
so dreadfully afraid of what her evil tongue might prompt her to say on
parting that he only waited to see her seated before he ran upstairs to
watch her departure from an upper window, and when he saw the little
carriage disappear from view he heaved a deep sigh of relief.
‘Thank Heaven!’ he mentally exclaimed. ‘There is the last of that
slanderous viper. Never will I show her any leniency again. Never does
she put her splay foot over my threshold. She meant to kill my babe, I
feel sure of it, as she would like to kill, if she dared, both Paula
and myself. What a curse she has been to my family. But it is ended,
and for ever.’
Yet, as he turned from the window, he did not immediately seek his
wife’s chamber. Slanderous as he believed the widow’s tongue to be,
the words she had uttered rung in his ears, and the insinuations she
had made had stirred his jealous nature. A doubt in a lover’s mind is
almost akin to blasphemy, and in a husband’s, when all opportunity for
appeal is over, it is worse. Hal did not distrust Paula, and had never
done so since the jealous fit he took concerning her first husband,
yet he could not help remembering, when it was recalled to his mind,
that she _had_ deceived him (though unintentionally) on that occasion,
and that she had very successfully concealed her identity and her
antecedents for two years before they were revealed to him. A woman
who has deceived once may deceive again. Hal Rushton did not say these
words to himself, but they floated in a misty manner through his brain,
after the widow had left Highbridge Hall, and he was relieved when the
arrival of Dr Addison with Mrs Roberts, a plump, comely young woman of
about thirty, diverted his thoughts in another direction.
Meanwhile Mrs Rushton, senior, was having rather a rough time of it at
Wavertree Cottage. When Ted Snaley understood _why_ she had been so
summarily dismissed, and _what_ she had said to her stepson, together
with the threatened ejectment from their present dwelling-house, he
rounded on his mother in the way that mean, coarse natures will round
upon those who have failed instead of succeeded in their attempted
enterprise.
‘You gave the brat sich a dose as the doctor could find out, and
cheeked ’Al till ’e turned you out of the ’ouse, and swore to take the
cottage from us. Well, you _hare_ a fool,’ he said, with filial piety.
‘Blest if I hever ’eard the like. And at _your_ hage, too. You’ve
been and gone and done it now, and no mistake. And that’s the way you
advances my hinterests on the property, is it? I’m blest if I don’t
feel like blowing the whole gaff to ’Al, and getting you ’auled up for
hattempted murder.’
‘Oh, good Lord, Ted, you’d never go for to do sich a thing to your poor
mother!’ cried the widow. ‘I did it all for the best, Ted, and hif Mrs
’Al ’adn’t been up to snuff, and a deal sharper than hanybody _I’ve_
hever seen with her first before, heverythink would ’ave gone right.
But this hain’t the first time has she’s been a mother, I’d take my
hoath of that.’
‘What do it signify to us hif it’s her first or her fifteenth,’ said
Ted; ‘hit’s your blundering I’m a-talking of. Why, I could have done
the job better myself. The hidea of your not waiting till the doctor
was hout of the way. You’ve ruined us both now, and I’ll never forgive
yer.’
‘Lor’, Ted, don’t take on in that way about it. ‘Praps ’Al will come
round again.’
‘_Come round._ Not ’e. ’E’s been jest awaiting for a hopportunity like
this to cast hus off altogether. Hanybody but a hass could ’ave seen
that. You’ll get the notice to quit the cottage before another week’s
over your ’ead. ’Al ain’t the man to say one thing and mean another.
And now the question is, ’ow are you agoing to keep us both on a
’undred a year?’
The widow had long since seen the mistake she had made, but she tried
to smooth it over.
‘Oh, we’ll manage well enough, dearie,’ she replied; ‘we’ll go and live
in ’Altham. Hit’ll be livelier like for both of us, and I’m a’most sick
of Deepdale myself.’
‘_Livelier!_’ sneered her son. ‘Yes, it’ll be lively for me, too, when
you pops off, won’t it, considering as the money goes back into ’Al’s
pockets again? What do you s’pose I’m to do for a living _then_?’
‘Couldn’t you,’ suggested his mother, almost timidly, ‘couldn’t you
think hof a little work to do, Ted, afore I’m took? Not ’ard work,
in course--you’re not strong enough for that--but summat light, like
gardening or poultry keeping, as might keep you when I’m gone?’
‘No, I couldn’t,’ said Ted Snaley surlily. ‘I hain’t been brought hup
to work, hand I’m not agoing to begin now. Hif you wanted me to be a
working man, you should ’ave took better care of me, and not broke my
back afore I was a year old.’
‘Oh, Ted, it wasn’t your poor mother’s fault. It was hall along of a
neighbour gal as let you fall hover ’er shoulder, and never told a word
about it till ’twas too late.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s _your_ story,’ replied her son mockingly, ‘hand we can
believe has much has we choose of it. But, hanyway, it’s done, hand it
can’t be hundone. But hif you think I’m agoing to break it hover again
with ’ard work you’re mistook.’
‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Rushton, who was always anxious to
conciliate her crooked, evil-tempered son, ‘we’ll manage to git along
some’ow, Ted, and I don’t s’pose I shall die jest yet. I’m honly
fifty-height, you know, hand as strong and ’earty as most women of my
hage. Don’t you worrit hover this affair. I sees I was wrong, but I did
it for the best, hand we must make the best hof a bad job.’
‘Hall right,’ replied Ted. ‘So long as you gives me what I’ve bin
haccustomed to I sha’n’t say nothink. But if heither of _us_ ’as to
work, hit’ll be _you_. You’re strong and ’earty (as you say), and I
hain’t. But my belief his as you’ve made such a mess hand a muddle of
this ’ere business has you won’t forget to your dying day.’
And Mr Ted Snaley took care that (as far as _he_ was concerned) she
never _should_ forget it.
Hal Rushton, having seen his wife and child comfortably settled for
the night, and Mrs Roberts installed in office, lit his pipe and
walked forth to have a quiet saunter along the country lanes. His
heart was still heavy under the remembrance of his stepmother’s words.
However pure and worthy of esteem we may consider those we love, it is
always painful to hear their names lightly spoken of, and Hal writhed
under the idea that the petty, ignorant gossips of Deepdale had so
misconstrued Paula’s actions. How he wished she had never given them
cause to doubt her integrity. Without exactly making himself more
unhappy than indignant over the insults he had received through his
wife, he could not help feeling low about it, and as he thought it
over he sighed more than once, and everything (for the time being)
seemed flat, stale and unprofitable from Dan even to Beersheba. We have
all passed through the same experience. Whether due to his liver or
his friends, there are moments in every man’s life when he feels it is
not worth the living. Hal had not gone far, though, through the dusky
lane, which was lined with sweetbriar, roses and woodbine, when he
came across Mrs Measures, on her way home after the fulfilment of some
parish work. She flew to meet him.
‘Oh, Mr Rushton, I am so glad to see you,’ she exclaimed. ‘How is dear
Paula, and the baby? I have been so anxious for news of them.’
‘They are both going on well,’ replied Hal, as he put his pipe in his
pocket. ‘But why have you not been up to see my wife, Mrs Measures? She
has been looking for you daily, and _so_ disappointed because you did
not come.’
‘Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Rushton, it is on account of your
stepmother. She was so rude to me, the night the baby was born, that my
husband forbade my putting myself in her way again. She almost pushed
me out of the room, and told me the sooner I went home the better.
I can stand as much as most people, I think,’ said Mary Measures
modestly, ‘but that was a little too much for me. So I have waited to
hear that she is gone.’
‘I am _so_ sorry, Mrs Measures,’ exclaimed Hal, with sincere regret.
‘Had I known of your having been offered such an affront I would have
called at the vicarage days ago to apologise for it. But the coast is
clear now. The old woman _has_ gone, and for ever.’
‘_For ever!_’ repeated Mrs Measures; ‘that is a long day.’
‘Not too long to divide her and me,’ said Hal; ‘and when you have heard
my story, you will say so too.’
And thereupon he told her the main incidents which had led to the
expulsion of the widow from Highbridge Hall. Mary Measures was
horrified at the relation.
‘Oh, Mr Rushton, I hope I am not uncharitable, but I do not believe
in her ignorance. She, who has been accustomed to nursing for so many
years. She must have done it on purpose. Fancy giving opium to a newly
born infant. And to spite you and Paula. What a wicked old woman she
must be.’
‘She ought to be hung for it,’ said Hal sternly. ‘But do not mention
the subject to Paula, Mrs Measures. She knows nothing of it. We were
afraid it would be too great a shock for her, and make her fear some
ultimate danger to her baby. But Addison assures me that, as soon as it
has slept off the last dose, it will be all right again. Thank God, the
old wretch’s designs went no further.’
‘Thank God, indeed. After all dear Paula has suffered during the past
year, it would be too cruel for her to lose her baby. But how was it
that Mrs Cornes made such a mistake about the time she was wanted?’
‘I have not found that out yet, Mrs Measures, but I mean to do so. Mrs
Rushton had the engaging of her, and so I conclude it was part of her
plan to mislead her. But the widow and her son never enter my house
again. I have done with them from to-day, and I intend to take the
cottage from them. They are deserving of no consideration from me.’
‘I cannot blame you, Mr Rushton. That woman’s evil tongue is the curse
of Deepdale.’
‘If you could only have heard the vile insinuations she made against my
wife. If she had been a man, I would have felled her to the ground. As
it was, all I could do was to turn her out of my house, and forbid her
to enter it again.’
‘She has never been able to say enough against Paula. I have heard it,
through many people,’ observed Mrs Measures thoughtfully.
Hal took a sudden resolution.
‘Mrs Measures,’ he said, wheeling round so as to face her, ‘why has
Lady Bristowe ceased to visit at our house?’
The vicar’s wife did not know what to answer. She remembered her
ladyship’s last visit too vividly to be able to plead ignorance as to
the cause of her defalcation.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ continued Hal. ‘I never wished to know the
woman, and I don’t care if I never see her again, but I want to find
out why, after all her flattery and protestations of affection for
Paula, she has left off coming to Highbridge Hall.’
‘No one could answer that question satisfactorily but herself, Mr
Rushton. But you know how fickle some people are. How they take a
sudden fancy, and as suddenly drop it again.’
‘That explanation won’t do for me, Mrs Measures. People don’t drop
their acquaintances without some reason--true or otherwise. Lady
Bristowe has not been at our house since last November.’
‘Well, you know, Paula refused to see her after her mother’s death, and
perhaps that offended her. And once a person turns against another, in
ever so slight a degree, there are always plenty of mischief-makers
ready to creep in and make the breach wider.’
‘You mean that she has listened to the Deepdale scandal, and believes
it?’
‘I think she has heard something against Paula. I cannot say anything
further,’ replied Mrs Measures.
‘Curse all their venomous tongues!’ cried Hal wrathfully.
‘Why should you worry yourself about it, Mr Rushton?’ said Mrs Measures
sweetly. ‘Surely you can afford to rise above a village scandal? _You_
know what your wife is, and that is sufficient. And just now, when
she has given you this sweet baby, and settled down so happily in her
comfortable home, is the last moment in which you should remember a
past annoyance. Let it die a natural death. It only requires time to
kill it. And, meanwhile, forget it, and enjoy the blessings God has
sent you.’
‘You are right, Mrs Measures,’ replied Hal, as he grasped her proffered
hand. ‘You are a true, sensible woman, and I am a very foolish young
man. I have more happiness in my Paula than I deserve, and sufficient
to outweigh a thousand such annoyances as you allude to.’
‘That is the right way of looking at it, Mr Rushton, and rest assured
you will never lose a friend worthy of the name. My dear husband always
speaks of you with affection, and you may depend on me as your wife’s
true friend as long as my life lasts. I shall call to see her, and my
little godchild that is to be, to-morrow without fail.’
This conversation did much towards soothing Hal Rushton’s perturbed
spirit, and from that evening his domestic peace was restored. It
was impossible not to be happy now that the widow’s baneful presence
was removed from them. Everybody seemed to feel the benefit of the
change. The baby blossomed like a little rosebud under the fostering
care of Mrs Roberts, and Paula was soon out of bed and seated in an
arm-chair by the open window, enjoying the warm air and sunshine, and
growing stronger every day. Mary Measures was her constant companion,
and Paula seemed so happy and contented with her that Hal had no
hesitation in leaving them together whilst he went about his daily
avocations. But his greatest pleasure lay in seeing how completely his
wife’s low spirits and despondency had fled before her baby’s birth.
Her grief for her mother’s death seemed to have been swallowed up in
this new joy, and if she ever thought of Paulie she evinced no sign
of it. All her affections and her aspirations appeared to be centred
on her husband and her child. She clung about Hal as she had never
clung before, and would sit for hours with her infant on her lap,
gazing into her unformed features, and speculating on what she would
look like when she had grown to be a woman. Sometimes, either from
weakness or depth of feeling, she would sob for a few moments, with
her head on her husband’s breast, and whisper to him that she was not
worthy of so much happiness, and she feared lest Heaven should take it
back again. But the next minute she would be smiling, even whilst the
tears were standing in her eyes, and calling herself names for being
so stupid as to give way. A few more summer suns and she was sitting
out upon the lawn, or walking slowly round the garden, leaning on his
arm, whilst health and strength returned to her. She was no longer
Hal’s White Rose in those days. Her slight figure had become plump and
developed, and on her usually pale cheeks bloomed a vivid pink colour.
He used to joke with her about it, and say she was his cabbage rose,
and would be his peony before long. Lying on the grass at Paula’s feet,
whilst Mary Measures poured out their afternoon tea for them, and Mrs
Roberts paced up and down the paths with little Edith in her arms, Hal
Rushton used to think he had reached the ultimatum of human felicity.
It did not occur to him any longer that they were always (excepting
for the vicar’s wife) alone, and that no other friends looked in to
congratulate them on the new happiness they had acquired. And if he
had remembered the fact, it would not have annoyed him. He disliked
society, and found his world within the precincts of his own property.
But others were less slow to observe the change and to comment upon it.
Meanwhile Paula bloomed and the baby blossomed, and Hal Rushton was
content. As soon as it was certain that no permanent harm would accrue
to the baby from the narcotic she had swallowed, the true story of the
widow’s dismissal was related to Paula, and she joined her thanks to
those of her husband that the mischief had gone no further. Hal had
fulfilled his threat to send in the notice to quit to the tenants of
Wavertree Cottage. He was not a man (as Ted Snaley had observed) to say
one thing and mean another. He felt he had reached a crisis when no
further duty was required of him respecting his father’s widow, and
determined to rid himself, root and branch, of the Snaley family. Mrs
Rushton, therefore, was compelled, during the next quarter, to give
up her occupation of the cottage, whereupon she and her son removed
to Haltham, where they occupied two or three rooms over a shell-fish
shop in the market-place. ‘It was so cheerful and lively,’ as the widow
observed to her Deepdale friends, ‘to see the folks coming to market,
and to ’ear the ’aggling that went hon, and what with the smell of the
veggables and the shell-fish, me and Ted will never miss the country,
nor yet the seashore neither.’
Their departure was a great relief to Hal and Paula, who always took
good care when driving her little pony chaise into Haltham to avoid the
market-place lest she should encounter her enemy. But she never met
either the mother or her son. From the moment they left Deepdale, they
seemed to have dropped out of their lives altogether. And so the months
rolled on, until the summer had been succeeded by the autumn, and the
autumn by the winter, and little Edith was a bonny girl of six months
old. And still Hal Rushton’s domestic peace was undisturbed, and love
made a little paradise of Highbridge Hall.