Chapter VIII: 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.