Chapter VI: 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.