Chapter IV: 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.