Chapter II: The Final Breach

The widow’s yellow complexion turned a sort of green-grey colour with indignation and surprise.

‘What ’ave I been a-giving ’er? What do you mean by your himperence?’ she exclaimed.

‘I mean what I say. I’m the medical officer of this parish, and if you don’t answer me I shall report you. What have you been dosing this baby with?’

‘A fine medical hofficer, indeed! A mere paltry boy who knows nothink. I’ve not given ’er hanythink but what’s good for ’er. She’s ’ad the breast. What do you make of that?’

‘Do you call _this_ the breast, Mrs Rushton?’ said Addison, producing the vial from his pocket.

‘_That!_ Why, that’s what I keep for my toothache. You thinks yourself mighty clever, I daresay, but you’ve found a mare’s nest this time.’

‘Whatever you keep it for, you have given the baby some of it, and you have made her ill in consequence. I have strongly advised Mr Rushton to take her out of your hands. I do not consider she is safe in them.’

‘Oh, _you_ don’t consider it, don’t you,’ she cried mockingly, ‘_you_, who was in your swaddling clothes when I was a full-grown woman? You’re a nice person, you are, to pass an opinion on the matter. If Mrs ’Al ’ad ’ad a grain of sense she wouldn’t ’ave let sich a hignoramus across the threshold.’

‘Be quiet,’ said Hal authoritatively. ‘I will not allow you to insult this gentleman in my house.’

‘Oh, _your_ ’ouse, indeed. It’s only by a fluke as it _is_ your ’ouse. A fine pair of gentlemen, as ought to be follerin’ the plough and serving in a chemist’s shop instead of setting themselves hup above their betters.’

‘Now, come, Mrs Rushton,’ said the doctor, ‘you had better be careful what you say, for it is in my power to do you a considerable injury.’

‘Oh, I’m not afraid of what you can do to _me_, young man--_me_, who am a hindependent lady, and would ’ave been the howner of this very ’ouse hif my poor dear ’usband ’adn’t been bullied out of it on ’is dying bed.’

‘With what motive you have administered a dangerous narcotic to a newly born infant I cannot say, but if it is from ignorance, it proves you to be utterly unfit to have the charge of a baby. I have told Mr Rushton so openly. If you were a hired nurse, I should order you out of the house at once--as it is, I must leave your stepson to do as he thinks best in the matter. I have expressed my opinion, and there my duty ends. Is it decided that I am to see Mrs Roberts, Rushton?’

‘Most certainly. See her as soon as you can.’

‘I will go there at once, and she will probably be here in an hour. Good evening.’ And Dr Addison left the room.

‘And pray ’oo’s Mrs Roberts?’ demanded the widow as the doctor disappeared.

‘That is just what I am going to tell you,’ replied Hal. Then he turned to Louisa, who was holding the baby, and said, ‘Take that child back to the nursery, and if your mistress should ask for Mrs Rushton, say she is talking to me in the drawing-room, nothing more. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the girl, as she carried the child away.

When she found that they were alone, the widow trembled. With all her insolence, she was a coward, and very much afraid of her stepson’s wrath. She began by trying to brave it out.

‘Well, I’m awaiting to ’ear ’oo Mrs Roberts may be,’ she said, looking Hal full in the face.

‘And I am quite ready to tell you,’ he answered. ‘She is a woman who is coming to look after my wife and child, in your place.’

‘Ho! And I’m to be kicked hout, I s’pose, like a dog, hafter hall I’ve done for ’em, jest because that fool of a doctor ’as got up a cock-and-bull story about my toothache mixture.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that,’ thundered Hal, losing his patience. ‘You _know_ it is not a cock-and-bull story. You know that, for some reason best known to yourself, you have given my poor baby that poisonous stuff, that the sleep she has been thrown into in consequence was an unnatural one, and that, if her mother had not perceived it in time, you might have killed her.’

‘Oh, her _mother_!’ cried the widow sarcastically. ‘It’s strange she should know such a lot about babies, ain’t it? ’Tain’t hoften as ladies with their first know ’ow long they should sleep and ’ow long they should keep awake. She’s uncommon clever is Mrs ’Al. One would think she’d ’ad ’alf-a-dozen already.’

Hal felt the blood rush to his face at the insinuation, but he answered firmly,--

‘Never you mind what she knows or does not know. She has evidently been too clever for you in this instance. Now, Mrs Rushton, you and I must understand each other. Whether you did this thing in ignorance or from _malice prepense_, you will never do it again, for from this hour I forbid you, or your son Ted Snaley, to put your foot within the gate of my grounds. Do you understand me?’

‘Hunderstand you! Do you s’pose I’m a hijiot that I can’t hunderstand you? But I might ’ave hexpected as much. You come of a mean, ungrateful lot. Hif your father ’adn’t been a fool and a coward, ’e wouldn’t never ’ave let a canting parson frighten ’im out of ’is passed word.’

‘Don’t you dare to abuse my dead father or I’ll put you out of the house with my own hands,’ cried Hal. ‘Do you suppose that, if he hadn’t been weak enough to make you his wife, you would ever have been tolerated in it? You have dared me to tell you the truth, and you shall have it. It was my full intention when I married never to let you visit nor associate with my wife. But she has a kind heart, and you got round her in some way, and I didn’t like to check her generous impulses. But I was terribly annoyed when I found you had wormed your way into the Hall again, and still more when by the unfortunate accident of Mrs Cornes’ absence you took her place by Paula’s bedside. For I have never trusted you, Mrs Rushton. I remember how you lied to and deceived and robbed my father, and I had no belief in your behaving better to his son. And I was right. You have nearly robbed us now of the best thing we possess--our child. And so there’s an end to it. Our acquaintanceship is over from to-day.’

He spoke hotly as a man would under such circumstances, but he spoke determinately, and it was evident that what he said he meant. This conviction made the widow reckless of her answer.

‘And a good job hif it had died hif it’s agoing to grow up like its mother,’ she exclaimed.

‘Don’t you say a word against my wife to me,’ thundered Hal, turning round upon her, with lowering brows.

‘Oh, you needn’t think that none of your bawling, nor your black looks, will frighten _me_,’ she cried. ‘I know many a thing has would make your fine madam lower ’er crest, and so do hothers hin Deepdale. _She_ knows if hit’s to ’er hinterest to keep friends with _me_ or not. You may himagine you knows hall about ’er, Mr ’Al, but you hain’t a Solomon, nor yet a detective, and the lookers-on see most of the game.’

‘Silence, woman!’ he exclaimed angrily. But he did not like to raise his voice for fear of disturbing Paula.

‘No, I _won’t_ be silent,’ returned the widow defiantly, ‘not for you nor hanybody, and if this his to be hour last hinterview, you shall ’ave my mind. Don’t you try to touch me,’ she continued, as Hal approached her threateningly, ‘or I’ll ’ave you hup for an assault, and speak hout what I know before the perlice. You takes your fine school teacher, as is found locked up with a man at night, and makes ’er the mistress of this ’ouse, and fancies as the ’ole county’s agoing to bow down before ’er, and madam she makes henemies of those as might ’ave been ’er friends. Do you s’pose they ’aven’t talked of what they know against ’er? Where are hall the grand ladies and gentlemen as come to your “feet”? Where’s my Lady Bristowe, and my Lady Warden, and the Honourable Mrs Stacey, hand the rest of ’em? Why, Lady Bristowe she says hopenly has she never was so deceived in hany young woman before, and she’ll never henter the ’ouse again.’

‘I don’t wish her to do so. I have not the slightest interest in anything you may be able to tell me. I know the malice of which you are capable. All I want you to do now is to leave my house, and never enter it again.’

‘And I’m ready to leave it, ’Al, but I don’t go till you’ve ’eard the ’ole of what I’ve to say. I daresay my lady hupstairs ’ave given you a very plausible hexplanation of her doings in the school’ouse, and you’re fool enough to swaller it. But that hain’t the last of hit--mark my words--nor that man hain’t the last of them, neither, and she’ll bring you to shame yet, though your father’s widder hain’t good enough to associate with ’er; and hall I says his, I prays ’Evin as she may.’

‘You wicked woman,’ exclaimed Hal, ‘how I can have endured you and your blistering tongue about me so long I cannot tell. But in slandering my wife to my face you have cut your own throat. I intended to have let you remain in Wavertree Cottage. I will do so no longer. I will not endure such a reptile as you are at my very gate. To-morrow you will receive a notice to quit, and you may find yourself a home wherever you can.’

‘You will turn us out of the cottage?’ cried the widow shrilly.

‘Yes, I will turn you out of the cottage. You deserve no favour nor kindness at my hands, and I will not have my wife’s life polluted by your presence.’

‘_Your wife!_ Your wife, indeed. A pretty person to be polluted. There were men before you, ’Al Rushton, and there’ll be men after you--mark that--and you’ll live to remember my words, and to curse the day you ever met ’er.’

‘Will you leave my house, or am I to put you out of it?’ exclaimed Hal.

‘Oh, I’m agoing, you needn’t fear, but not without my belongings. I’ve lost enough by coming to the ’ouse at all without leaving them be’ind me.’ And as she spoke she moved to the door.

‘You shall not go upstairs,’ said Hal, placing himself in her way.

‘But I _must_ go hupstairs. ’Ow am I to get my things helse? You don’t suppose has I would trust ’em to hanybody. Stand hout of my way, ’Al, and let me pass.’

‘You do not enter my wife’s presence again,’ replied the young man firmly, as he rang the bell. ‘Everything that belongs to you shall be brought down here, but you shall not mount the stairs.’

‘But I hinsist!’ she commenced.

‘And _I_ insist,’ he replied again, with flashing eyes, that she dared not further oppose, as he walked out of the drawing-room and locked the door behind him. In another moment he was by his wife’s bedside.

‘Paula, darling,’ he said, ‘Mrs Rushton is not very well, and I am going to send her home.’

‘Not well, Hal? What is the matter with her? I thought she was made of cast-iron.’

‘She is not a young woman, you know, Paula, and the night work is too much for her. And you won’t mind her going, because you know how much I dislike her?’

‘Oh, no, dearest; I would rather be alone with you. She never let us have a moment together. But who will look after baby?’

‘Dr Addison knows of a very nice woman, a Mrs Roberts, whom he will bring over to the Hall this evening. You will be quite comfortable with her. So, if you will keep the baby beside you for a few minutes, Louisa can put Mrs Rushton’s valuables together.’

‘Isn’t she coming up to say good-bye to me?’ inquired Paula.

‘No, dear, not to-night. To tell you the truth, she was so tired and anxious to see her son that I have already sent her home, and am going to despatch Tom with her things. In a few days, if you still wish to see her, we will talk about it. Meanwhile you will have a good exchange in Mrs Roberts, who is a much younger woman.’

‘Poor Mrs Rushton! I am sorry I have overworked her. I am glad you have sent her home, Hal. She is too old to be up night and day,’ said Paula, perfectly unsuspicious of there having been any disturbance, as she nestled down on her pillows with her baby beside her.

Louisa having accomplished the necessary packing, and carried the small box down to the drawing-room, Hal unlocked the door again, and stood by whilst Mrs Rushton examined each article to make sure that they had not detained any of her property. Meanwhile the pony chaise had been ordered to convey her to Wavertree Cottage, and in a few minutes she and her box were placed in it and going rapidly down the drive. Hal was so dreadfully afraid of what her evil tongue might prompt her to say on parting that he only waited to see her seated before he ran upstairs to watch her departure from an upper window, and when he saw the little carriage disappear from view he heaved a deep sigh of relief.

‘Thank Heaven!’ he mentally exclaimed. ‘There is the last of that slanderous viper. Never will I show her any leniency again. Never does she put her splay foot over my threshold. She meant to kill my babe, I feel sure of it, as she would like to kill, if she dared, both Paula and myself. What a curse she has been to my family. But it is ended, and for ever.’

Yet, as he turned from the window, he did not immediately seek his wife’s chamber. Slanderous as he believed the widow’s tongue to be, the words she had uttered rung in his ears, and the insinuations she had made had stirred his jealous nature. A doubt in a lover’s mind is almost akin to blasphemy, and in a husband’s, when all opportunity for appeal is over, it is worse. Hal did not distrust Paula, and had never done so since the jealous fit he took concerning her first husband, yet he could not help remembering, when it was recalled to his mind, that she _had_ deceived him (though unintentionally) on that occasion, and that she had very successfully concealed her identity and her antecedents for two years before they were revealed to him. A woman who has deceived once may deceive again. Hal Rushton did not say these words to himself, but they floated in a misty manner through his brain, after the widow had left Highbridge Hall, and he was relieved when the arrival of Dr Addison with Mrs Roberts, a plump, comely young woman of about thirty, diverted his thoughts in another direction.

Meanwhile Mrs Rushton, senior, was having rather a rough time of it at Wavertree Cottage. When Ted Snaley understood _why_ she had been so summarily dismissed, and _what_ she had said to her stepson, together with the threatened ejectment from their present dwelling-house, he rounded on his mother in the way that mean, coarse natures will round upon those who have failed instead of succeeded in their attempted enterprise.

‘You gave the brat sich a dose as the doctor could find out, and cheeked ’Al till ’e turned you out of the ’ouse, and swore to take the cottage from us. Well, you _hare_ a fool,’ he said, with filial piety. ‘Blest if I hever ’eard the like. And at _your_ hage, too. You’ve been and gone and done it now, and no mistake. And that’s the way you advances my hinterests on the property, is it? I’m blest if I don’t feel like blowing the whole gaff to ’Al, and getting you ’auled up for hattempted murder.’

‘Oh, good Lord, Ted, you’d never go for to do sich a thing to your poor mother!’ cried the widow. ‘I did it all for the best, Ted, and hif Mrs ’Al ’adn’t been up to snuff, and a deal sharper than hanybody _I’ve_ hever seen with her first before, heverythink would ’ave gone right. But this hain’t the first time has she’s been a mother, I’d take my hoath of that.’

‘What do it signify to us hif it’s her first or her fifteenth,’ said Ted; ‘hit’s your blundering I’m a-talking of. Why, I could have done the job better myself. The hidea of your not waiting till the doctor was hout of the way. You’ve ruined us both now, and I’ll never forgive yer.’

‘Lor’, Ted, don’t take on in that way about it. ‘Praps ’Al will come round again.’

‘_Come round._ Not ’e. ’E’s been jest awaiting for a hopportunity like this to cast hus off altogether. Hanybody but a hass could ’ave seen that. You’ll get the notice to quit the cottage before another week’s over your ’ead. ’Al ain’t the man to say one thing and mean another. And now the question is, ’ow are you agoing to keep us both on a ’undred a year?’

The widow had long since seen the mistake she had made, but she tried to smooth it over.

‘Oh, we’ll manage well enough, dearie,’ she replied; ‘we’ll go and live in ’Altham. Hit’ll be livelier like for both of us, and I’m a’most sick of Deepdale myself.’

‘_Livelier!_’ sneered her son. ‘Yes, it’ll be lively for me, too, when you pops off, won’t it, considering as the money goes back into ’Al’s pockets again? What do you s’pose I’m to do for a living _then_?’

‘Couldn’t you,’ suggested his mother, almost timidly, ‘couldn’t you think hof a little work to do, Ted, afore I’m took? Not ’ard work, in course--you’re not strong enough for that--but summat light, like gardening or poultry keeping, as might keep you when I’m gone?’

‘No, I couldn’t,’ said Ted Snaley surlily. ‘I hain’t been brought hup to work, hand I’m not agoing to begin now. Hif you wanted me to be a working man, you should ’ave took better care of me, and not broke my back afore I was a year old.’

‘Oh, Ted, it wasn’t your poor mother’s fault. It was hall along of a neighbour gal as let you fall hover ’er shoulder, and never told a word about it till ’twas too late.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s _your_ story,’ replied her son mockingly, ‘hand we can believe has much has we choose of it. But, hanyway, it’s done, hand it can’t be hundone. But hif you think I’m agoing to break it hover again with ’ard work you’re mistook.’

‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Rushton, who was always anxious to conciliate her crooked, evil-tempered son, ‘we’ll manage to git along some’ow, Ted, and I don’t s’pose I shall die jest yet. I’m honly fifty-height, you know, hand as strong and ’earty as most women of my hage. Don’t you worrit hover this affair. I sees I was wrong, but I did it for the best, hand we must make the best hof a bad job.’

‘Hall right,’ replied Ted. ‘So long as you gives me what I’ve bin haccustomed to I sha’n’t say nothink. But if heither of _us_ ’as to work, hit’ll be _you_. You’re strong and ’earty (as you say), and I hain’t. But my belief his as you’ve made such a mess hand a muddle of this ’ere business has you won’t forget to your dying day.’

And Mr Ted Snaley took care that (as far as _he_ was concerned) she never _should_ forget it.

Hal Rushton, having seen his wife and child comfortably settled for the night, and Mrs Roberts installed in office, lit his pipe and walked forth to have a quiet saunter along the country lanes. His heart was still heavy under the remembrance of his stepmother’s words. However pure and worthy of esteem we may consider those we love, it is always painful to hear their names lightly spoken of, and Hal writhed under the idea that the petty, ignorant gossips of Deepdale had so misconstrued Paula’s actions. How he wished she had never given them cause to doubt her integrity. Without exactly making himself more unhappy than indignant over the insults he had received through his wife, he could not help feeling low about it, and as he thought it over he sighed more than once, and everything (for the time being) seemed flat, stale and unprofitable from Dan even to Beersheba. We have all passed through the same experience. Whether due to his liver or his friends, there are moments in every man’s life when he feels it is not worth the living. Hal had not gone far, though, through the dusky lane, which was lined with sweetbriar, roses and woodbine, when he came across Mrs Measures, on her way home after the fulfilment of some parish work. She flew to meet him.

‘Oh, Mr Rushton, I am so glad to see you,’ she exclaimed. ‘How is dear Paula, and the baby? I have been so anxious for news of them.’

‘They are both going on well,’ replied Hal, as he put his pipe in his pocket. ‘But why have you not been up to see my wife, Mrs Measures? She has been looking for you daily, and _so_ disappointed because you did not come.’

‘Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Rushton, it is on account of your stepmother. She was so rude to me, the night the baby was born, that my husband forbade my putting myself in her way again. She almost pushed me out of the room, and told me the sooner I went home the better. I can stand as much as most people, I think,’ said Mary Measures modestly, ‘but that was a little too much for me. So I have waited to hear that she is gone.’

‘I am _so_ sorry, Mrs Measures,’ exclaimed Hal, with sincere regret. ‘Had I known of your having been offered such an affront I would have called at the vicarage days ago to apologise for it. But the coast is clear now. The old woman _has_ gone, and for ever.’

‘_For ever!_’ repeated Mrs Measures; ‘that is a long day.’

‘Not too long to divide her and me,’ said Hal; ‘and when you have heard my story, you will say so too.’

And thereupon he told her the main incidents which had led to the expulsion of the widow from Highbridge Hall. Mary Measures was horrified at the relation.

‘Oh, Mr Rushton, I hope I am not uncharitable, but I do not believe in her ignorance. She, who has been accustomed to nursing for so many years. She must have done it on purpose. Fancy giving opium to a newly born infant. And to spite you and Paula. What a wicked old woman she must be.’

‘She ought to be hung for it,’ said Hal sternly. ‘But do not mention the subject to Paula, Mrs Measures. She knows nothing of it. We were afraid it would be too great a shock for her, and make her fear some ultimate danger to her baby. But Addison assures me that, as soon as it has slept off the last dose, it will be all right again. Thank God, the old wretch’s designs went no further.’

‘Thank God, indeed. After all dear Paula has suffered during the past year, it would be too cruel for her to lose her baby. But how was it that Mrs Cornes made such a mistake about the time she was wanted?’

‘I have not found that out yet, Mrs Measures, but I mean to do so. Mrs Rushton had the engaging of her, and so I conclude it was part of her plan to mislead her. But the widow and her son never enter my house again. I have done with them from to-day, and I intend to take the cottage from them. They are deserving of no consideration from me.’

‘I cannot blame you, Mr Rushton. That woman’s evil tongue is the curse of Deepdale.’

‘If you could only have heard the vile insinuations she made against my wife. If she had been a man, I would have felled her to the ground. As it was, all I could do was to turn her out of my house, and forbid her to enter it again.’

‘She has never been able to say enough against Paula. I have heard it, through many people,’ observed Mrs Measures thoughtfully.

Hal took a sudden resolution.

‘Mrs Measures,’ he said, wheeling round so as to face her, ‘why has Lady Bristowe ceased to visit at our house?’

The vicar’s wife did not know what to answer. She remembered her ladyship’s last visit too vividly to be able to plead ignorance as to the cause of her defalcation.

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ continued Hal. ‘I never wished to know the woman, and I don’t care if I never see her again, but I want to find out why, after all her flattery and protestations of affection for Paula, she has left off coming to Highbridge Hall.’

‘No one could answer that question satisfactorily but herself, Mr Rushton. But you know how fickle some people are. How they take a sudden fancy, and as suddenly drop it again.’

‘That explanation won’t do for me, Mrs Measures. People don’t drop their acquaintances without some reason--true or otherwise. Lady Bristowe has not been at our house since last November.’

‘Well, you know, Paula refused to see her after her mother’s death, and perhaps that offended her. And once a person turns against another, in ever so slight a degree, there are always plenty of mischief-makers ready to creep in and make the breach wider.’

‘You mean that she has listened to the Deepdale scandal, and believes it?’

‘I think she has heard something against Paula. I cannot say anything further,’ replied Mrs Measures.

‘Curse all their venomous tongues!’ cried Hal wrathfully.

‘Why should you worry yourself about it, Mr Rushton?’ said Mrs Measures sweetly. ‘Surely you can afford to rise above a village scandal? _You_ know what your wife is, and that is sufficient. And just now, when she has given you this sweet baby, and settled down so happily in her comfortable home, is the last moment in which you should remember a past annoyance. Let it die a natural death. It only requires time to kill it. And, meanwhile, forget it, and enjoy the blessings God has sent you.’

‘You are right, Mrs Measures,’ replied Hal, as he grasped her proffered hand. ‘You are a true, sensible woman, and I am a very foolish young man. I have more happiness in my Paula than I deserve, and sufficient to outweigh a thousand such annoyances as you allude to.’

‘That is the right way of looking at it, Mr Rushton, and rest assured you will never lose a friend worthy of the name. My dear husband always speaks of you with affection, and you may depend on me as your wife’s true friend as long as my life lasts. I shall call to see her, and my little godchild that is to be, to-morrow without fail.’

This conversation did much towards soothing Hal Rushton’s perturbed spirit, and from that evening his domestic peace was restored. It was impossible not to be happy now that the widow’s baneful presence was removed from them. Everybody seemed to feel the benefit of the change. The baby blossomed like a little rosebud under the fostering care of Mrs Roberts, and Paula was soon out of bed and seated in an arm-chair by the open window, enjoying the warm air and sunshine, and growing stronger every day. Mary Measures was her constant companion, and Paula seemed so happy and contented with her that Hal had no hesitation in leaving them together whilst he went about his daily avocations. But his greatest pleasure lay in seeing how completely his wife’s low spirits and despondency had fled before her baby’s birth. Her grief for her mother’s death seemed to have been swallowed up in this new joy, and if she ever thought of Paulie she evinced no sign of it. All her affections and her aspirations appeared to be centred on her husband and her child. She clung about Hal as she had never clung before, and would sit for hours with her infant on her lap, gazing into her unformed features, and speculating on what she would look like when she had grown to be a woman. Sometimes, either from weakness or depth of feeling, she would sob for a few moments, with her head on her husband’s breast, and whisper to him that she was not worthy of so much happiness, and she feared lest Heaven should take it back again. But the next minute she would be smiling, even whilst the tears were standing in her eyes, and calling herself names for being so stupid as to give way. A few more summer suns and she was sitting out upon the lawn, or walking slowly round the garden, leaning on his arm, whilst health and strength returned to her. She was no longer Hal’s White Rose in those days. Her slight figure had become plump and developed, and on her usually pale cheeks bloomed a vivid pink colour. He used to joke with her about it, and say she was his cabbage rose, and would be his peony before long. Lying on the grass at Paula’s feet, whilst Mary Measures poured out their afternoon tea for them, and Mrs Roberts paced up and down the paths with little Edith in her arms, Hal Rushton used to think he had reached the ultimatum of human felicity. It did not occur to him any longer that they were always (excepting for the vicar’s wife) alone, and that no other friends looked in to congratulate them on the new happiness they had acquired. And if he had remembered the fact, it would not have annoyed him. He disliked society, and found his world within the precincts of his own property. But others were less slow to observe the change and to comment upon it. Meanwhile Paula bloomed and the baby blossomed, and Hal Rushton was content. As soon as it was certain that no permanent harm would accrue to the baby from the narcotic she had swallowed, the true story of the widow’s dismissal was related to Paula, and she joined her thanks to those of her husband that the mischief had gone no further. Hal had fulfilled his threat to send in the notice to quit to the tenants of Wavertree Cottage. He was not a man (as Ted Snaley had observed) to say one thing and mean another. He felt he had reached a crisis when no further duty was required of him respecting his father’s widow, and determined to rid himself, root and branch, of the Snaley family. Mrs Rushton, therefore, was compelled, during the next quarter, to give up her occupation of the cottage, whereupon she and her son removed to Haltham, where they occupied two or three rooms over a shell-fish shop in the market-place. ‘It was so cheerful and lively,’ as the widow observed to her Deepdale friends, ‘to see the folks coming to market, and to ’ear the ’aggling that went hon, and what with the smell of the veggables and the shell-fish, me and Ted will never miss the country, nor yet the seashore neither.’

Their departure was a great relief to Hal and Paula, who always took good care when driving her little pony chaise into Haltham to avoid the market-place lest she should encounter her enemy. But she never met either the mother or her son. From the moment they left Deepdale, they seemed to have dropped out of their lives altogether. And so the months rolled on, until the summer had been succeeded by the autumn, and the autumn by the winter, and little Edith was a bonny girl of six months old. And still Hal Rushton’s domestic peace was undisturbed, and love made a little paradise of Highbridge Hall.