THE WIDOW’S STRATAGEM.
It was about a week after the young Rushtons’ return to Deepdale, and
the widow and her son were seated at tea together in the parlour of
Wavertree Cottage, when they perceived Sarah Brennan at the garden
gate. The table was in much the same condition as it used to be at
Highbridge Hall before Paula was installed as mistress there. An iron
tray, without a cloth, held the teapot and cups and saucers, whilst
the bread, bearing greasy marks of butter over it, and the butter
plentifully besprinkled with bread crumbs, were set upon the red
worsted tablecloth, after the fashion of the lower classes. There was
no stint, however, though plenty of vulgarity. Eggs and cream from
the Highbridge dairy, and home-made preserves from the Highbridge
storeroom--part of the spoils carried away after the domestic
siege--were engaging the attention of Mrs Rushton and her son, when
they perceived Lady Bristowe’s companion wrestling with the latch of
the gate.
‘Why, lor’, if there ain’t that woman Brennan,’ cried the widow, with
her mouth full. ‘What on hearth can she want with us? I’m sure I’ve
never given her any encouragement, but I s’pose we must hoffer her a
dish of tea.’
‘That won’t ’arm us,’ rejoined Ted Snaley. ‘But look ’ere, mother,
don’t you be a-giving yerself away, at the same time, as you did to
Ellen Foster yesterday arternoon. You told ’er a deal too much. Wot’s
the good of letting all Deepdale know as we’re not intimate at the
’All? Don’t you s’pose it’ll go round the place? Don’t we ’ope to be
so, and _mean_ to be so, into the bargin? But I’m always a-telling
you you must work more dark. Pretend as we knows everything, and are
always there, and then it’ll come quite natural when we are. Do you
understand me now?’
‘Lor’, yes, Ted. But do go and ’elp that poor creature, for she don’t
seem to know where the latch is.’
‘All right. But, remember, if she tells you anything you don’t know
you’re to look as if you did.’
‘I won’t forget, Teddy. You’re a sharp ’un, to be sure,’ replied the
widow, chuckling over his advice.
In another minute Miss Sarah Brennan had found her way into the room.
‘Good-evening,’ ejaculated her hostess; ‘this _is_ a honner, to be
sure. I ’ope I see you well, miss, and hall the Habbey party. How do
her ladyship like this change? Quite chilly, ain’t it? We shall have
winter ’ere before we knows it. You’ll ’ave a cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, Mrs Rushton, I shall be obliged,’ returned Miss Brennan,
‘for I’ve been on my feet all the afternoon. Her ladyship has driven
over to see Lord and Lady Warden, and dropt me in Deepdale on her way,
and I’m going to walk back to the Abbey this evening. We drove first to
the Hall to inquire after Mrs Hal Rushton, but she wouldn’t see us, and
we could hear no particulars whatever. Lady Bristowe was sadly vexed.
She has taken such an interest in Mrs Rushton she quite thought _she_
would be admitted, whoever was denied. I could see it ruffled her. So
I thought I would walk over here before I went home and learn if you
could give me a little information about the matter.’
The widow had just begun to say ‘Lor’, my dear, I don’t know no more
than you do,’ when a violent kick under the table from Mr Snaley’s
hobnailed boots recalled her to her senses.
‘Lor’, my dear,’ she said instead, ‘I don’t know as I can tell you
anything satisfactory. It’s a family matter, you see, that only
concerns ourselves. My poor daughter-in-law has lost her poor mother
very suddent like, and it’s so upset ’er, as well it may, that she
feels as if she couldn’t a-bear to see no one but Ted and me.’
‘And Mr Rushton, I suppose?’ said Miss Brennan, as she sipped her tea.
‘Oh, ’Al, of course. He don’t count. He’s the same to ’er as me and my
boy there. But she’s very much shook and upset, and quite ill, as you
may say, and confined to her room.’
‘But how did it all happen, Mrs Rushton? _That_ is what her ladyship
wants to know. The gentleman was out when we called to-day, and
the servant knew nothing except that Mrs Hal Rushton had lost her
mamma very suddenly, and had seen no one since she came home but Mrs
Measures.’
‘And me and mother. The first person she called out for was mother,’
interpolated Ted.
‘In course,’ said Mrs Rushton, ‘and what more nateral, poor dear.’
‘You can tell me, then, how it was that Mrs Sutton died? Her ladyship
is anxious to hear all the particulars.’
‘Mrs _’oo_?’ cried the widow.
‘Mrs Sutton, Mrs Rushton’s mother. Ah! I know she called herself
“Stafford” whilst she was teaching at the schoolhouse, but she told
Lady Bristowe that she only did that to save her family name.’
‘Oh, yes, in course,’ repeated the widow, who had got so out of her
depth that her tea and bread-and-butter effected a collision that
caused her to choke and splutter for the next five minutes. ‘And so
Mrs ’Al told her ladyship that. Well, I didn’t think she’d let it out
of the family, but there’s no ’arm done, arter all, and she can please
’erself. And what more is it you wants to know, miss?’
‘What did Mrs Sutton die of? Was it heart complaint?’
‘Yes, miss, it were. She was always complaining of it, poor dear, for
years past, and it took her off suddent at the last, as it always
do. There ain’t much to tell beside that. Mrs ’Al ’eard the noos the
evening she give the “feet” at the ’All. Me and Ted, we wasn’t there,
as perhaps you’ve ’eard, miss. My son and daughter, of course, they
was most pressing as we should go, but I had an ’orful attack of
tic-doloureux, and Ted ’e’s that dootiful ’e wouldn’t leave me. ’Al,
’e says, “Whatever shall we do without you, mother?” ’e says; but
there, miss, you can understand it must be painful for me to attend any
merrymaking in the ’ouse where my dear good ’usband lived and died.’
‘Oh, yes, I can quite understand it,’ replied Miss Brennan; ‘and then
your daughter-in-law didn’t behave quite nicely to you or anyone while
she was at the schoolhouse, did she? Of course, I don’t mean anything
wrong, but we heard of it over at the Abbey, at least I did, and so did
our curate, Mr Vernon.’
Mrs Rushton was just about to launch forth on her beloved scandal when
another kick from Ted caused her to wince with pain.
‘Lor’, Ted,’ she exclaimed rather testily, ‘I wish you’d keep your
feet t’other side the table. You always was fine in the feet from a
boy. You’re quite mistook, Miss Brennan, as everybody helse was about
the school’ouse,’ she continued to her guest. ‘It was a mistake from
beginning to end, as even our vicar Mr Measures ’ad to acknowledge.
Why, she stayed in the vicarage first of all, and ’er ladyship called
on ’er there. You must have ’eard that as well?’
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. I’ve heard pretty well _everything_,’ rejoined Miss
Brennan; ‘but her ladyship having, as you may say, taken up Mr and Mrs
Hal Rushton, and shown a good deal of sympathy about Mrs Sutton’s state
of health, is naturally hurt at being kept in the dark about her death,
as she quite expected to be the first to hear all the particulars.’
‘But there ain’t nothing to tell,’ replied Mrs Rushton. ‘As soon as
Mrs ’Al ’eard ’er mother was ill she went down with ’er ’usband to
Devonshire, but the poor lady was gone before they got there. And when
the burial was over they come ’ome. And it shook the poor girl up
considerably, as it would do to hanyone with a ’eart.’
‘And was Mrs Sutton buried at--at--I forget the name of the place where
she lived,’ said Sarah Brennan inquisitively.
The widow, who had never heard it, was nonplussed.
‘No, she wasn’t’ she answered stoutly; ‘the body was taken away to be
buried in the family vault in London.’
‘Bravo, mother!’ cried Ted Snaley, clapping her on the back when
Miss Brennan, finding she could extract no further information, had
disappeared, ‘you did famously. Blest if I couldn’t ’ave roared aloud
when you come out with the family vault. Don’t you see how much better
it is not to let out as we’re all at loggerheads?’
‘Yes. But I say, Ted, there’s summat fishy about Mrs ’Al. I always said
so, and I’m sure on it. Now, why did she give a false name when she
come here?’
‘That’s jest what I want you to find out, but you won’t do it by
sticking at Wavertree Cottage. I bet there’s lots be’ind that no one
knows but ’erself. Things, p’r’aps, as would make ’Al kick ’er out
from the ’All like a dog. Think of that. And you’re just the woman to
worm ’em out of ’er.’
‘Aye, if she’d take a little more kindly to me. But she ’as sich a
stand off manner with ’er.’
‘So she ’ad when things were all right, but this here is jest your
time. From what I ’ear, she’s regular down in ’er luck. Charlotte the
dairymaid told me yesterday that she’s quite ill with frettin’, and she
won’t see no one. Mrs Measures was in her room for ten minutes when she
first come ’ome, and that’s all. She’s refused herself to heverybody,
and don’t seem to ’ave no ’eart even to order dinner, nor to go hout
nor hin, but sits all day in ’er own room crying.’
‘But if she won’t see no one, Ted, what’s the use of my trying.’
‘Well, you must go to ’er as a nuss, and not as a visitor. Make some of
your beef jelly, or other nostrums, and take it up in your ’and. And
if she won’t see you the first day, go the second, and the third, until
she _do_ see you. You can do it if you choose, mother. And now that the
shooting season’s on, ’Al’s out all day almost, and you will be able to
get at ’er alone. Make yourself useful to ’er. Order the dinners, and
look after the ’ousekeeping, and see if you can’t get back some of your
old hinfluence at the ’All.’
‘You’re a _very_ clever lad, Ted,’ exclaimed his mother, as she
regarded his ugly face and ungainly figure with fond admiration.
‘Well, I can see through a brick wall as far as any, I s’pose,’
rejoined her amiable offspring, ‘and I am sure if you wants to get any
hinfluence hover that young person, you must do it by fair means and
not by foul. Don’t you remember what a fuss she made over that there
pincushion you took to ’er when we went to the ’All?’
‘Yes, and it was you as told me to take it, too. Well, Ted, I’ll foller
your advice again, my lad, and set about making some of my beef jelly.
It’ll set beautiful this cool weather. And I’ll make a junket as well.
Grapes and game and all sorts they ’ave at the ’All, but they ’aven’t
an ’and like mine to turn out jellies and junkets.’
Accordingly, the very next day saw Mrs Rushton taking her way to
Highbridge Hall, carrying a basket carefully covered with a white
cloth. She did not ask for admittance. She walked straight into the
house, through the kitchen premises, and Hal being after the pheasants
and partridges, there was no one in authority to bar the way. The
servants had no right to deny her ingress, and they would not have
dreamt of doing so, considering the position she had so lately held
there. She merely asked for dishes on which to pile her dainties, and
inquired in which room Mrs Hal Rushton was to be found.
‘I think the mistress is in her boo-daw,’ replied the housemaid, ‘but
I’m afraid you won’t get in, mum. She won’t open the door for nobody.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she will open it for _me_,’ said the widow, as she
arranged her offerings upon a tray.
‘She haven’t eaten enough to feed a fly since she come ’ome,’ remarked
the cook.
‘That’s why I’ve brought ’er some of my sick-room jelly,’ returned
Mrs Rushton. ‘You mustn’t be offended, cook, but I’ve sick-nussed for
thirty year, and should know summat about it by this time.’
‘Oh, no offence, Mrs Rushton, mum,’ cried the cook. ‘I should have
thought a nice solid bit o’ beef would ’ave done the missus more good,
but there’s no sayin’. Some relishes one thing and some another, and so
long as you eat it don’t much signify what it is,’ and so the widow was
allowed to carry her tray upstairs without molestation.
Poor Paula was indeed very much in need of comfort. She had cried
herself nearly blind, but her tears had brought her no relief. She
could think, indeed, of her poor mother as safe and happy in Heaven,
but her heart was sick and heavy with fears for Paul. Where was he?
What was he doing? Was he alive and suffering, or dead and at rest?
These thoughts tortured her day and night, and she felt as if they
would never be satisfied. She shrunk from seeing any of her friends or
acquaintances. She could not speak of her mother yet. The wound had
been too recently inflicted, and she feared lest in her agony of doubt
she might blurt out something about Paul. Her husband was everything
that was good and kind to her, and if love could have cured her pain,
it would have already disappeared, but he could do nothing to mitigate
the tortures of suspense and remorse which she was suffering. And so
she had prayed him to leave her, had even summoned up the ghost of a
smile with which to send him on his way, and tried hard, as soon as
he was gone, to reduce the chaos of her mind to some sort of order,
and force herself to attend to her household duties. But anyone who
has tried it knows how very difficult that is whilst the heart is
bowed down with grief and the mind distracted with anxiety. The petty
details of choice and expenditure jar so terribly by contrast with the
bigness of one’s sorrow, and it hurts one’s pride to break down before
one’s inferiors. Paula was feeling all this as she lay face downwards
on the sofa in her boudoir and heard a low tap at the door.
‘It’s all right, cook,’ she answered fretfully. ‘There’s no hurry. Mr
Rushton will not be home till seven. I will send down my orders as soon
as I have thought of something.’
But a voice answered,--
‘It ain’t the cook, my dear. It’s jest me as has took the liberty to
bring you a little jelly of my own making,’ and without waiting for
permission Mrs Rushton opened the door and entered the room.
Paula sat up on the sofa and regarded her wonderingly. She could not
believe at first _who_ had invaded her privacy, and to do the widow
justice she was honestly shocked by the young wife’s appearance.
Paula’s complexion was white and sodden from lengthened weeping. Her
hair was untidily twisted round her head, and she wore a dress of black
crape cloth, without the slightest relief, which added to the pallor
of her countenance. She looked wonderfully altered, indeed, from the
handsome young woman who had received her friends so short a time ago
at the garden-party. All her beauty seemed to have vanished in an hour.
Mrs Rushton could not restrain her surprise.
‘Oh, lor’, my dear,’ she exclaimed, ‘you _do_ look bad. Why, whatever
’ave you been a-doing to yourself?’
‘I cannot see any visitors. Indeed, I am not fit for it,’ said Paula
faintly. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Rushton, but I must ask you to excuse me.’
‘Well, well, I ain’t a visitor--I’m only a sick-nuss, and you’ve no
call even to speak to me,’ replied the widow, as she placed her tray
upon the table. ‘But it won’t do for you to go without nourishment for
so long, and so I ’ave made bold to bring you a little beef jelly and a
Devonshire junket. And a glass of sherry wine, too. That won’t do you
no ‘arm.’
‘But I cannot--’ commenced Paula.
‘Oh, yes, you can. You’ve no need to worry over them, but jest leave
’em there, and put a spoonful to your lips as you feel inclined. You
mustn’t go too long, you know--not for ’Al’s sake, nor yet your own.
And though ’e never _did_ like me, my dear, on accounts of my marrying
his father, I’ve lost my own poor mother, you see, at eighty-nine, and
I feels for you.’
Paula laid her head down upon the sofa again, and concealed her face
from view.
‘Now, I’m not going to talk of it, my dear. I know my place too well
for that. I know that though my poor dear good ’usband made me mistress
of all ’e ’ad, I’m not a lady born, and Mr ’Al need never think as
I’d presume on the past now that heverythink is haltered. But ’aving
kep ’ouse for ’im for so many years, and knowing well what a ’ardship
it is to look after dinners and sichlike for a young person in your
circumstances, I thought I’d come up and see if I could be of hany use
to you with the servants--not to hintrude, you hunderstand, but to
save you the trouble of thinking at sich a time.’
‘Mrs Rushton,’ said Paula, raising her head again, ‘I think it is
very kind of you to have thought of it--very, _very_ kind. I don’t
seem as if I _could_ think even of such trifles. My head aches
so--and--and--everything upsets me.’
‘Yes, yes, _I_ know,’ replied the widow soothingly, ‘and I didn’t
ought to be here, but I wanted to bring you up the jelly and junket
myself, and I’m going immediate. Well, now, don’t you trouble to think
of nothink. I’ll order the dinners and breakfasts and heverythink if
it’ll save you a-doing of it. And to-morrow I’ll come back and do the
same. And don’t let Mr ’Al worrit hisself, thinking as he’ll see me.
I’ve come up to try and save _you_, my poor dear, and I’ll keep out of
sight, never you fear.’
‘Don’t say that,’ urged Paula; ‘you are doing me a great kindness. I
wanted a little help so much just now, and Hal will be the first to
acknowledge it. But I am really not fit to talk.’
‘In course not. I know what you’re feeling, jest as if it was myself.
And so now I’ll go and see as Mr ’Al ’as heverythink comfortable
against ’e comes ’ome. But won’t you take jest _one_ teaspoonful of
jelly afore I goes?’ said Mrs Rushton coaxingly.
‘To please _you_, I will,’ replied Paula.
She swallowed two or three spoonfuls, and half a glass of wine, and Mrs
Rushton descended to the kitchen quarters convinced that her victory
was won. There she told the servants, much to their dissatisfaction,
that their mistress had deputed her to issue the necessary household
orders, and there she remained till she had seen the seven o’clock
dinner, to which Hal sat down alone, properly dished and served,
when she resumed her walking attire and walked back to Wavertree
Cottage to receive the congratulations of her son. Hal Rushton was
the least satisfied of all at the new arrangement. He returned home
from shooting as the afternoon drew in, and sat down rather sad and
disappointed to a lonely dinner. Paula declared herself to be still too
ill or too miserable to come downstairs, and the young husband could
not help comparing the depressing influence of the present with the
happy remembrance of the past. How long, he wondered, as he descended
to the dining-room, would his comfort be sacrificed to his wife’s grief
for her mother and her child. But a charming little dinner awaited him.
He had been forced to put up with anything the country cook chose to
give him since his return home, but this evening she had apparently
excelled herself. A dish of dainty cutlets, a roast partridge, and some
of his favourite pancakes, soon put Hal into a better humour, for the
very best of men are influenced by their dinner, and after a glass or
two of Burgundy he felt happy and hopeful again.
‘My compliments to the cook,’ he said gaily, as he got up from the
table, ‘and tell her that’s the best dinner she’s given me this week,
and now that she has got into the straight path, I hope she’ll keep to
it. Has your mistress taken anything to-day?’
‘Only a little jelly and beef-tea, sir,’ replied the parlour-maid.
‘Well, send the tea up to her room, and tell cook to let us have
something nice with it--buttered toast or cakes. Perhaps Mrs Rushton
will fancy them.’ And he ran up, two steps at a time, into Paula’s
presence.
She was sitting up now, gazing with grief-stricken eyes upon the fast
gathering shadows that were settling down upon the lawn and surrounding
foliage and leaving the little room in darkness.
Hal sat down on the sofa beside her, and threw his arms about her waist.
‘My darling,’ he exclaimed fondly, ‘why do you sit in the dark? It is
so gloomy.’
‘It suits me all the better, Hal. I am gloomy, too.’
‘But you mustn’t give way to it, Paula. You must try to look upon the
brighter side of things.’
‘What brighter side is there for me? Oh, this terrible uncertainty,’
pressing her hands against her heart, ‘it is killing me.’
‘No, dearest, for my sake, do not say anything so cruel. Try to believe
it is a certainty, Paula. You know how careful Dr Gibbon and I were to
leave no stone unturned to ascertain the truth, and that the case is
now in the hands of the sharpest detectives in London, so that if there
is anything further to learn about it we shall, without doubt, receive
the information.’
‘And meanwhile, Hal--’ replied Paula in a voice of pain.
‘Meanwhile, darling, however hard the suspense is to bear, you only
share it with all those who have lost friends at sea or by any other
mysterious accident. Hundreds of mourners receive no certain assurance
of their loss, except such as time and silence bring them. Not that I
would depreciate the pain, my dearest, only it grieves me so to see you
looking so pale and unhappy. What have you eaten to-day?’
‘Oh, plenty,’ said Paula listlessly. ‘The servants have sent me up
something almost every hour.’
‘_I_ have had a capital dinner,’ continued Hal briskly; ‘all my
favourite dishes. I sent out my compliments to cook in return for it,
but I fancy they are due _here_ instead, and that my dear girl has
been trying to combat her own feelings for the sake of her unworthy
husband’s comfort. I only wish you had enlivened the meal with your
presence, dear. Then it would have been perfect.’
‘_I_ didn’t order it,’ replied Paula, in the same languid voice. ‘I
can’t think of anything now. My head throbs so. It was Mrs Rushton.’
‘_Mrs Rushton!_’ repeated Hal, with a frown.
‘Yes. She came up here this morning to know if she could be of any use
to me with the housekeeping, and I was only too thankful to let her do
it. She brought me some jelly and junket she had made herself. I am
sure she means to be kind.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Hal, in an altered tone, ‘but the question is, _to
whom_? I am sorry you encouraged her, Paula. I would rather have dined
off cook’s hashed mutton by far.’
‘Well, I am not fit to do anything at present, and no one else has
offered to help me.’
‘Mrs Measures is only too anxious to be with you, and is a far better
companion for you than Mrs Rushton.’
‘How could I ask Mrs Measures to come here and order the dinner, and
look after the servants, when she has her own house to superintend?’
said Paula fretfully. ‘Besides, Mrs Rushton didn’t offer herself as a
companion. She only proposed to save me the household drudgery that I
feel at present utterly unfit for. I think you are very hard upon her,
Hal. She can’t help having been born in an inferior position to your
own.’
‘And I have never blamed her for it,’ replied her husband; ‘but I know
her better than you do. I made a vow when she left the Hall that she
should never re-enter it. However, if she is of any assistance to you--’
‘Of course she is an assistance to me, and more so than any stranger
could be, because she is familiar with all your likes and dislikes.’
‘She certainly managed to send up a dinner to my taste to-day, and
it is all the more surprising because when she lived here, with that
detestable son of hers, I never had anything fit to eat. Pray is she
hanging about the house now?’
‘Oh, no, I suppose not. I conclude when she had arranged the meals that
she went home. But she said she should come again to-morrow.’
Hal gave a kind of mock groan.
‘I hope the elegant Ted is not a necessary part of the invasion,’ he
said.
Paula began to cry. She was so weakened she was quite unfit to bear the
least raillery or opposition.
‘Why should he be?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why do you hint at such a thing?
If you don’t wish me to have any help or assistance, now that I am so
broken down I am unfit for anything, go and tell Mrs Rushton not to
come here again, and I will try and struggle on as best I can alone.
But oh, Hal,’ she continued, amidst gasping sobs, ‘if I cannot have
rest and peace and quiet whilst my brain seems as if it were on fire, I
shall go mad--I shall go mad, I know I shall--or I shall die.’
She flung herself, in utter abandonment, upon the sofa as she
concluded, and there was nothing left for Hal to do but to soothe her.
He hated the very names of the widow and her son, but he loved his wife
from the bottom of his heart, and felt for her bereavement as deeply
as it was possible for him to do. He threw his arms about her slender
form, and pressed his lips upon the long fair hair that streamed over
her shoulders, and assured her a dozen times that she should never
hear him breathe another word against any arrangement that tended to
her comfort. He would welcome anyone who relieved her of the duties
she felt unequal to perform, and if the Hall had become distasteful
to her he would take her away at once--to the seaside, or on the
continent, anywhere--so long as it brought peace and distraction to her
overwrought nerves. Paula lay and listened to him almost as if she were
in a dream, until a sense of the self-sacrifice he was proposing smote
upon her understanding.
‘But to go away _now_,’ she said at length, in a tone of wonder, ‘when
the shooting season is at its height, and hunting is just about to
begin. If you were to take me away from Deepdale now, you would lose
your whole year’s pleasure, Hal.’
‘And do you think that fact would influence me for one moment against
the thought of doing you good, Paula? How little you must think of my
love for you. Why, dearest, I would give up hunting and shooting and
every pursuit I like best, not only for a season but a lifetime, to
bring back the flush of health to your face and the light of happiness
to your eyes. You don’t realise how I love you, Paula.’
‘You are too good--too good,’ she murmured, as she seized his hand and
kissed it. ‘But oh, my poor mother--my poor child! Oh, Hal, do you
think I shall ever know for _certain_ what has become of Paulie?’
‘I am _sure_ of it,’ he replied, with a feigned assurance which he did
not feel. ‘It is impossible but that such means as we have employed
must sooner or later prove successful. Only, my love must try and
have patience. And now, what is it to be? Will you come away with me
somewhere?’
‘No, no, Hal; let me stay here--_here_, where the news will reach me
soonest. I am quite content--indeed I am. Only, let me see no one and
hear no one unless I choose, and by-and-by this cloud will pass away,
and I shall be myself again.’
Hal Rushton sighed, but did not answer. _He_ thought silence and
solitude the worst things possible for her, but the medical men had
told him to let her have her own way, and he feared to disobey them.
So the days and weeks and months passed on, and very few people in
Deepdale saw anything of young Mrs Rushton, whilst the widow had quite
re-established herself as housekeeper at Highbridge Hall.