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.