A VALIANT PARTISAN.
Dear, gentle Mrs Measures was seated in the vicarage drawing-room,
engaged in needlework. She was one of those simple souls who neither
need nor seek for excitement, but are always to be found when
wanted--neatly dressed whatever the hour of the day, and ready with
a quiet welcome for their visitors. Mrs Measures was rather anxious
about Paula just then, and as she stitched away at the vicar’s shirts
she was thinking very earnestly about her. During all her uneventful
married life she had never conceived so deep an interest in anyone as
in Hal Rushton’s wife. She had never believed a word against her, and
she never would. Whatever might have been equivocal in her actions
whilst she was the school teacher of Deepdale, Mrs Measures felt sure
could be easily explained if Paula chose to explain it, and the only
puzzling part of it to the vicar’s wife was that she had _not_ so
chosen. It had seemed to her simple mind such an easy way by which
to set matters right with everyone. But Paula had elected otherwise,
and the affair had almost faded from Mrs Measures’ mind. The girl
was married now, and in quite a different position of life. What was
worrying her friend about her at the present moment was her utter
abandonment to her grief for her mother’s death. It was so hopeless--so
unresigned--that it seemed wicked in Mrs Measures’ sight. She had seen
her several times--Paula would not deny herself to this her best and
dearest friend in Deepdale--but her visits had not been calculated to
make either of them happier. Paula’s violent outbursts of despair, of
self-reproach, even of questioning the goodness of the Hand that had
laid the bereavement upon her, had shocked and grieved Mary Measures,
who under similar circumstances would have bowed her head to the storm,
and let all God’s waves go over her. She did not blame her young
friend, whose sorrow was evidently genuine, but she felt unhappy about
her, and wished she would open her heart freely, and see if together
they could not discern some streak of light in the appalling darkness.
But Paula was remarkably reserved even with Mrs Measures. The same
determination not to open her lips that had displayed itself under her
cross-examination by the vicar and the churchwardens seemed to have
come over her again, and though she kept on moaning for her mother, she
steadfastly refused to air the subject, or to enter into any details
concerning it, and Mrs Measures believed that until she could bring
herself to do so her grief would stand no chance of working its own
cure. She was musing thus, sad, but very loyal to the girl she had
learned to love, when Lady Bristowe’s carriage stopped before the door.
Mrs Measures did not particularly enjoy the society of Lady Bristowe,
but in her capacity as the vicar’s wife she felt bound to receive
everybody, and so she rose with a smile to greet her as she entered
the room. But her ladyship did not smile. Her face was very red with
suppressed indignation and the autumn air, and as she sank into the
best arm-chair she looked as vindictive as her fat, jolly cheeks would
allow her to do. Mrs Measures perceived the difference in her at once.
‘Why, what is the matter?’ she exclaimed. ‘Has anything occurred to
annoy you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Measures, something has occurred to annoy me _very much
indeed_, and it concerns your _protégée_, Mrs Hal Rushton. Why did
you not tell me, before you permitted me to invite her as a guest to
Tor Abbey, what sort of a character she had borne whilst she was the
teacher of Deepdale school?’
Now, Mrs Measures was very gentle, but she was not servile. She was
meek as a mouse with her friends, but she could fight like a lion for
them, and all the lion that was in her was roused upon this occasion.
‘In the first place, Lady Bristowe,’ she replied in a dignified manner,
as she resumed her seat, ‘you never consulted me before asking Paula to
dine with you, and if you had, I should have told you that, since she
is my friend, your doubts were as insulting to me as to her.’
‘Oh, but you can’t deny having heard it, Mrs Measures, because I
understand that the official inquiries into her behaviour took place
in your presence, and in this very house, and that the young woman was
turned out of her situation, in consequence.’
‘That is not true,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘Miss Stafford (as she was
then) resigned her appointment herself, and left Deepdale the following
day.’
‘Her name was _not_ Miss Stafford. That is another subterfuge. Her
mother’s name was Sutton, and I suspect there must have been some very
good reason for changing her name.’
‘I consider your suspicion both unjust and uncharitable, Lady Bristowe.’
‘I don’t see it. People don’t change their names, as a rule, unless
they have done something to be ashamed of. And then this scandal about
her being locked up in the schoolhouse with some strange man. Why, it
is terrible! I wonder she ever had the face to show herself in Deepdale
again.’
‘The very fact of her doing so ought to convince your ladyship that she
has nothing to be ashamed of. But _who_ has been repeating this scandal
to you, Lady Bristowe? A few weeks ago you could not speak highly
enough of Mrs Rushton, and now you seem to have turned entirely against
her. As her friend, I must ask the reason.’
‘That is not far to search, Mrs Measures. I called on Mrs Hal Rushton
at your request--’
‘Oh, excuse me. You heard her name first from my lips, perhaps, but I
never urged you to make her acquaintance. On the contrary, it was your
own proposal to take your carriage to Haltham to meet the young people
on their return from their wedding tour, and I demurred at the idea at
first for fear lest they should feel less at home in the presence of a
stranger.’
‘But you never mentioned a word about this business or I certainly
should not have gone.’
‘I did not consider you had any right to hear it. It was past and over,
and Paula was coming as a guest to my house--as an _honoured_ guest,
Lady Bristowe, as she always will be to me. I believe in her, and I
believe in her right to keep her own counsel where she chooses to do
so.’
‘That may be all very well for _you_, Mrs Measures,’ replied her
ladyship rather insolently. ‘Of course, as a clergyman’s wife, you have
to receive all sorts of people--good, bad, and indifferent--but _I_
hold too high a position, as the mistress of Tor Abbey, to be able to
do as I choose in such matters. And I repeat that it was not a friendly
action on your part to permit me to extend my patronage to people who
are not worthy of it.’
‘The Rushtons are far above your patronage, Lady Bristowe.
They neither need nor desire it. I am not sure that even your
acquaintanceship has given them any pleasure.’
‘And you refuse, then, to let me hear what you know about this scandal?’
‘Utterly. It is no business of yours or mine. And if it were, you
would hear nothing about it from me. Paula is my friend--more than my
friend--I love her dearly, and I am not in the habit of discussing the
doings nor the characters of my friends.’
‘You are obstinately determined to shield her,’ replied Lady Bristowe
angrily, ‘but under the circumstances I feel I have a right to demand
the truth, and I shall appeal to Mr Measures for it.’
‘Here _is_ Mr Measures,’ exclaimed her hostess, rapping at the window
pane to attract the attention of her husband in the garden; ‘but
question him as you may, you will get no other answer from him than you
have from me.’
The vicar obeyed the summons, and entered the drawing-room, with a spud
in his hand and a considerable amount of garden earth upon his boots.
‘You will excuse my attire, I hope, Lady Bristowe,’ he began. ‘I saw
your horses some time ago, but was too diffident to appear before you
till summoned. But this is a busy time for gardeners. I suppose you
have a fine show of dahlias coming on at the Abbey?’
‘Yes, Mr Measures. The gardener tells me we shall have some splendid
blooms this autumn. But I want to speak to you upon quite another
matter. You will be sorry to hear that I and your wife have fallen out
terribly this afternoon.’
‘You and Mary!’ exclaimed the vicar, with surprise, ‘surely not. What
could you find to quarrel about?’
‘Lady Bristowe has appealed to me,’ said Mrs Measures, with a slightly
heightened colour, ‘for the details of the story that Mr Gribble
set about concerning Paula before her marriage, and I have refused
to discuss the matter with her. It is a thing of the past, and best
forgotten, and Paula is our friend, so I decline to talk of her behind
her back.’
‘Quite right, quite right,’ replied the vicar; ‘it was an unfortunate
business, but it is over, and, for all our sakes, the less said about
it the better.’
‘But I am not satisfied with so lame an explanation, Mr Measures,’ said
Lady Bristowe; ‘you seem to forget that I have stooped to notice this
young person (whom I believed to be worthy of it).’
‘And so she is,’ cried the vicar’s wife indignantly.
‘Pray, Mrs Measures, let me finish what I was about to say to your
husband. I have asked her to my house, and visited her in return,
and should have continued to do so (although she has behaved most
ungratefully lately in refusing to admit me to her presence), but I
have heard some discreditable stories concerning her behaviour whilst
she was the schoolmistress of Deepdale, and came to your wife for a
confirmation or a denial of them. She refuses to give me either.’
‘You set her a hard task,’ replied the vicar, smiling affectionately at
his wife.
‘But, Edward, _you_ can satisfy Lady Bristowe on this point,’ said
Mrs Measures anxiously; ‘_you_ can tell her that Paula would not have
remained on friendly terms at the vicarage if there had been the
slightest doubt of the purity of her motives or her character.’
‘My dear Mary, you know I never interfere with your friendships. I have
too much faith in your good sense,’ said the vicar evasively.
‘But you do not deny the truth of the reports, sir, all the same,’
remarked Lady Bristowe.
‘The reports, as your ladyship calls them, were never verified.
Miss Stafford preferred to resign her appointment to satisfying the
curiosity of the parish guardians. Whether she was right or wrong
signifies little now. She is no longer Miss Stafford, and I daresay she
has almost forgotten that she was ever the village school teacher.’
‘She was always far above it in every way,’ exclaimed Mrs Measures.
‘She is a lady by birth and education, and only accepted such a
subordinate position in order not to be a burden on her mother, and I
honoured her for it, and I upheld her in her decision. _Why_ should
she have pandered to the vulgar curiosity of people far beneath her in
station when she knew she was in the right?’
‘Oh, it is very easy to _say_ we are in the right,’ remarked Lady
Bristowe, ‘but when our characters are called into question, Mrs
Measures, I consider it is a duty we owe to ourselves and our friends
to clear them as far as lies in our power.’
‘Friends--_real_ friends--don’t require any such assurance,’ said Mrs
Measures warmly. ‘And as for characters, whose character has _not_ been
assailed in some form or other? Has not yours, Lady Bristowe?’
Lady Bristowe rose from her seat with a crimson face, and shook out her
silken skirts.
‘Mrs Measures,’ she said loftily, ‘be kind enough to see me to my
carriage. I wish to go home.’
‘I hope your ladyship does not imagine--’
‘I wish to go home,’ repeated Lady Bristowe distinctly; ‘and I wash my
hands of Mrs Hal Rushton and all her antecedents from this day and for
ever.’
And so saying she sailed out of the vicarage drawing-room and drove off
in solemn dudgeon.
‘Mary, my dear,’ said Mr Measures, as he re-entered his wife’s
presence, ‘you shouldn’t have said that. I am afraid you have mortally
offended her ladyship. What made you do it? I never heard you say such
an ill-natured thing before.’
‘I said it because I despise her for turning against Paula, when she
has tested what a sweet, dear girl she is, just because someone has
raked up this detestable scandal. Why couldn’t she be satisfied with my
assurance that there is no truth in it? And you disappointed me too,
Edward. Why couldn’t you have told the old lady that it was a pack of
falsehoods, instead of beating about the bush as you did, and making
her suspicions stronger instead of weaker?’
The vicar looked distressed, and sat down on the sofa beside his wife.
‘Mary, my dear,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to upset you, but I can’t
say what I do not believe to be true. I passed over a great deal at
that time, for your sake, and because I believed Miss Stafford would
leave Deepdale for ever. When she came back to us in such an altered
position, and you seemed anxious to receive her at the vicarage, I
made no objection, because I love to please you, and I would rather
err on the side of leniency. I like the girl, too, and wish anything
that was ever said against her to be forgotten. But I _cannot_ overlook
the fact that she refused to give any satisfactory explanation of the
matter, and if you wish me to say otherwise, you must keep me out of
all discussions of the subject.’
‘Which means that you believe the worst you can of her. Edward, I
didn’t think it of you. I have always quoted you as the most Christian
man I know,’ replied his wife.
‘I hope I take a Christian view of the matter, Mary, but I _cannot_
believe against my senses. I told you at the time, and I repeat it
now, an innocent woman would have disclosed _everything_ sooner than
have a slur cast upon her character. Where there is concealment there
is usually something wrong. It may lie with others, still it is wrong,
and the guiltless has to bear the brunt of it. Tell me the truth, now.
As matters stand, however much you may regard Paula Rushton, aye, and
believe in her from your own consciousness, would you like to hear me
_swear_ that there is nothing in her antecedents that she wishes to
conceal?’
‘_Swear_,’ repeated Mrs Measures in a startled voice. ‘I have never
heard you swear, Edward, and I shouldn’t like you to do it for anybody.’
‘But, my dear, a man’s word should be as sacred as his oath. The simple
truth with regard to your young friend is, that I know nothing for
certain, and therefore I can say nothing.’
‘Well, she has lost _one_ friend through that detestable Mr Gribble,
and she may lose others,’ exclaimed Mary Measures resolutely, ‘but she
shall never lose _me_, not if I have to stand beside her in a felon’s
dock.’
‘And I consider that one of the best things in her favour is her
capability of attracting and holding such a friend as you are, Mary.
Don’t fret about her losing Lady Bristowe. After all, she is but a
foolish, arrogant, and purse-proud woman, and I feel sure that Hal
Rushton will not regret the loss of her acquaintance, whatever his wife
may do.’
‘Oh, I don’t think Paula cares two straws about her, only she is so
prostrate at this moment that any revival of the old scandal would
be sure to distress and make her worse. Edward, you never saw anyone
so despondent. I believe, if it were not for her husband, she would
do something rash. She sits half the day silent, with her hands
idly folded in her lap, and if you get her to mention her loss, she
reproaches herself so bitterly that you would think she had had
something to do with it. If she had _killed_ her mother she could
hardly feel more remorse. And her condition is having such an effect
upon her poor husband. What am I to do with them both?’
‘Why doesn’t Hal Rushton take her away?’
‘She won’t go. She seems always to be on the point of receiving some
news, as if she expected her mother might return and not find her
there. Sometimes I really think her grief has affected her mind.’
‘Poor girl! It is very sad, and occurring so soon after her marriage. I
heard a rumour to-day that old Mrs Rushton has been re-admitted to the
Hall. Is that true?’
‘She goes up there daily to superintend the housekeeping, of which
Paula is quite incapable at present. And the old woman appears to be on
her best behaviour. I wonder if she has any hope of being reinstated at
the Hall?’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad plan, if she saves your friend the drudgery of
housekeeping. But what would Hal say to it? He has such a holy terror
of his stepmother and her son.’
‘Oh, that dreadful Ted Snaley. I don’t think Paula could stand him in
the house, however useful his mother might be. But when she is well
again--’
‘Mary, my dear,’ said the vicar anxiously, as he put his hand under her
chin and turned her face up to view, ‘are you crying?’
‘Oh, Edward, sometimes I fear Paula may never get well again, and then
to hear people so ill-natured about her!’
‘There, there, dear, don’t anticipate evil. Her present condition,
after such a shock as she has received, is only natural. Pray for her
Mary, and pray with her, and all will be right again. You are her most
valiant partisan on earth. Try some of your persuasive powers with
Heaven. And if you think it would do Paula any good to come and stay at
the vicarage, where you could be always with her, bring them both over
here, and that will be the best proof Lady Bristowe could have that if
I cannot swear that black is white, I am at least content to believe
that my neighbours are as good as I am myself.’
‘They are _not_--they are _not_,’ replied his wife enthusiastically.
‘You are the best and the most righteous man I ever knew, Edward, and I
would rather be a sinner at your mercy than sit in the highest seat of
the world’s favour.’
‘But you’re a silly woman, and know nothing,’ said her husband, as he
kissed her.