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.