Paul’s mother, by no means a patient woman, vastly resented the scornful indignation apparent on Grace’s face; she drew herself up, and spoke with tight lips, acidly.
“Perhaps you’re not very capable of judging matters of this sort, my dear. You’ve lived so much in London that I dare say your notions of right and wrong are not quite clear. But, you see, I’m only a country bumpkin. I’m happy to say I think differently from you. I’ve always been under the impression that there is something to be said for morality. To my mind, Paul has been absurdly lenient in giving them a week. My father would have turned them out bag and baggage in twenty-four hours.”
Grace shuddered at the cruel self-righteousness of that narrow, bigoted face, and then slowly examined Paul, whose eyes were upon her, dreadfully pained because she was angry, but none the less assured of his own rectitude. She pursed her lips, and saying not a word more, went to her room. She felt that nothing could be done then, and made up her mind next morning to visit for herself the unlucky girl. Paul, disturbed because she did not speak to him, was about to follow further to expostulate; but his mother, sharply rapping the table with her fan, prevented him.
“Now, don’t run after her, Paul,” she cried peremptorily. “You behave like a perfect fool, and she just turns you round her little finger. If your wife has no sense of morality, other people have, and you must do your duty, however much Grace dislikes it.”
“I dare say we might manage to find Fanny Bridger some place.”
“I dare say you’ll do nothing of the sort, Paul,” she answered. “The girl’s a little wanton. I’ve known her since she was a child, and she always was. I wonder she had the impudence to come back here, but if you have any sense of decency you won’t help her. How d’you suppose you’re going to keep people moral if you pamper those who fall? Remember that I have some claims upon you, Paul, and I don’t expect my wishes to be entirely disregarded.”
In her domineering way she looked round the room, and it was obvious in every repellent feature—in her narrow lips, in her thin nose and little sharp eyes—that she remembered how absolute was her power over the finances of that house. Paul indeed was the Squire, but the money was hers, if she chose, to leave every penny to Bainbridge. Next day she came in to luncheon in a towering passion.
“I think you should know, Paul, that Grace has been to Bridger’s cottage. I don’t know how you expect the tenants to have any regard for modesty and decorum if your wife openly favours the most scandalous indecency.”
Grace turned on her mother-in-law with flashing eyes.
“I felt sorry for the girl, and I went to see her. Poor thing! she’s in great distress.”