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diff --git a/78598-0.txt b/78598-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8667a1f --- /dev/null +++ b/78598-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5565 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78598 *** + + + + +A FATAL SILENCE + + BY + FLORENCE MARRYAT + + AUTHOR OF + ‘LOVE’S CONFLICT,’ ‘VÉRONIQUE,’ ETC., ETC., ETC. + + _IN THREE VOLUMES_ + + VOL. III. + + LONDON + GRIFFITH FARRAN OKEDEN & WELSH + NEWBERY HOUSE, CHARING CROSS ROAD + AND SYDNEY. + + + + + D.: G. C. & CO.: 30.91. + _The Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved._ + + + + +_CONTENTS._ + + + PAGE + CHAPTER I. + THE DOCTOR AND THE WIDOW, 1 + + CHAPTER II. + THE FINAL BREACH, 30 + + CHAPTER III. + A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY, 62 + + CHAPTER IV. + THE FATE OF PAULIE, 91 + + CHAPTER V. + ON THE TRAIL, 115 + + CHAPTER VI. + THE WIFE’S DECEPTION, 139 + + CHAPTER VII. + AN ANONYMOUS LETTER, 168 + + CHAPTER VIII. + THE DÉNOÛEMENT, 197 + + + + +A FATAL SILENCE. + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +THE DOCTOR AND THE WIDOW. + + +But, as he hastened from the stables to the house, he was met on the +threshold by the parish doctor, Charles Addison, a young fellow of +six-and-twenty, who had come straight from his hospital practice to +Deepdale, and was crammed to the muzzle with the latest discoveries +and methods and ways. He smiled broadly as he encountered the anxious +husband. + +‘Come, Rushton,’ he exclaimed cheerfully, ‘there’s nothing to look +alarmed about. We’ve done bravely without you, and it’s all over. +There’s a little daughter waiting upstairs for you, man.’ + +‘A daughter,’ repeated Hal vaguely. ‘But my wife. How is my wife?’ + +‘As well as a woman can possibly be under the circumstances, and quite +ready to see you, if you will promise not to stay with her more than +five minutes. How about the nurse?’ + +‘I am sorry to say I have been unable to hear anything about her,’ +replied Hal, as the colour returned to his cheeks. ‘She is out in +the country somewhere, and I could not even gain her address. This +youngster having arrived somewhat before its time--’ + +‘Not a bit of it,’ rejoined the young doctor, decisively, ‘the child is +full grown, and a very good-sized infant into the bargain.’ + +‘Well, let me say, before it was expected, then, for I know my wife was +led to believe by Mrs Rushton--’ + +‘I don’t like that old woman. I beg your pardon, Rushton, I should have +said old lady.’ + +‘No, you shouldn’t,’ replied Hal, with quaint candour; ‘she isn’t a +lady, and you cannot possibly dislike her more than I do. But to-night +it was a case of Hobson’s choice. There was no one else capable +of attending to Mrs Rushton, and I was compelled to call in her +assistance. But, my dear boy, you are not going home without something +to eat and drink. Come with me into the dining-room.’ + +‘Don’t disturb your servants, Rushton, on my account. I’ll take a +brandy-and-soda, but I couldn’t swallow anything to save my life. Do +you know that it’s close upon two o’clock? Miss Rushton is just an hour +old. She was born on the stroke of one. I drink to her health,’ said +Addison, as he raised the glass to his lips. + +Hal joined him, but he was too much excited to attend to what his +companion was saying, and in pity for his anxiety the doctor rose +to go home, promising to return the first thing in the morning, and +cautioning him not to let his wife talk much or excite herself. As soon +as he had taken his departure, Hal flew impatiently to the sick-room. +Paula was lying there alone. In the next apartment, the door of which +stood open, he could distinguish a murmur of voices mingled with the +unmistakable wail of a new-born infant. But Hal could think of no one +at that moment but his wife, given back, as it seemed to him, from the +jaws of death. He went softly up to the bedside, and bending over her, +placed his head on the same pillow, partly to hide the tears that had +risen to his eyes. + +‘_My_ Paula,’ he whispered, ‘my _own_ dear Paula. I am _so_ thankful.’ + +She turned her face towards him, white and drawn with the suffering she +had gone through, but calm as an angel’s, and radiant with gratitude. + +‘Oh, Hal, dearest, so am I. It is all over, thank God, and I feel so +well. I wanted nothing--but _you_.’ + +He kissed her a dozen times as he said,-- + +‘I have not brought Mrs Cornes, I am sorry to say, Paula, for she is +away from home at present, but perhaps in a few days--’ + +‘Oh, never mind, dear Hal. It doesn’t signify. Nothing signifies now. +It is all right, Have you seen the baby--_our_ baby, Hal?’ + +‘Not yet, dearest. I have been able to think of nothing but my +gratitude that my love is spared to me.’ + +‘Were you disappointed to hear she was a girl?’ + +‘Not at all, darling. I love little girls, and shall spoil my white +rosebud for her mother’s sake.’ + +Paula began to laugh feebly. + +‘She isn’t much like a _white_ rosebud at present,’ she said, and then +Hal remembered the doctor’s caution not to let her talk, nor excite +herself. + +‘I must leave you now, Paula. Addison limited my visit to five minutes. +Do you feel sleepy?’ + +‘Yes, very. I have only kept my eyes open till I could see your dear +face.’ + +‘Then close them now, dear child, and I will sit by you till you are +asleep.’ + +And in a few moments the hand that lay in his relaxed its clasp, and +Paula lay back on her pillows, unconscious of everything. Hal drew the +bedclothes gently over her, and with one last look was about to creep +out of the room, when he remembered the child. Even at that moment, +when curiosity and a new sensation, which he could scarcely define, +were strong upon him, he seemed to shrink from gazing for the first +time upon his infant in the presence of Mrs Rushton. But the more +powerful feeling prevailed, and he walked on tiptoe into the next room. +There he found Louisa employed in airing linen, and making preparations +for the night, whilst the widow, looking like a Hecate, with her grey +wisps of hair tumbling over her face, was seated before a fire, with a +bundle of flannel in her lap. + +‘Where is the baby?’ he inquired, as he stepped over the threshold. + +‘Lor’, ’Al, ’ow you did startle me!’ exclaimed Mrs Rushton. ‘I was as +near hoff to sleep as possible. And when did you come ’ome?’ + +‘Oh, never mind. Half an hour ago.’ + +‘And you ’aven’t brought Mrs Cornes?’ + +‘No; she is not at home. Let me see the child.’ + +‘Oh, ’ere’s the child, safe enough,’ cried the widow, as she drew +back the flannel and displayed a little red, pulpy face and two weak, +blinking eyes. ‘But this is bad noos for me. Didn’t you ’ear when she’d +_be_ ’ome, ’Al, nor where she’d gone to?’ + +‘No, no, I could hear nothing. I’ll tell you all about it to-morrow. +Don’t speak so loud or you may wake Mrs Rushton. She is asleep. And so +that is my baby. What a funny little thing it is.’ + +‘Yes, she ain’t much to look at,’ replied the widow depreciatingly, +‘but I’ve seen weaker babies pull through before now. It all depends on +their constitootions.’ + +‘Is she weakly?’ demanded Hal, with a sudden fear. + +‘Well, you could ’ardly expect ’er to be strong, with the tantrums Mrs +’Al ’as put ’erself into the last few months. But, as I says before, I +daresay, with care and proper attention, as she’ll pull through.’ + +‘She seems very small to me,’ observed Hal, who had never seen a +new-born baby before. + +‘Oh, she _is_ small, no doubt of that. Lor’, I’ve ’andled ’em twice +this size. But the next few weeks will decide it. If they goes over the +month there’s more chance of rearing ’em.’ + +‘Dr Addison seems to think she’s a very healthy baby, and that my wife +has gone through it remarkably well.’ + +‘_Dr Haddison!_’ exclaimed Mrs Rushton, with supreme contempt. ‘What +can _’e_ know, a lad like that compared to _me_, who ’ave nussed +dozens? Why, there’d been a fine business if _I_ ’adn’t been ’ere. ’E +was as nervous as a cat. Mrs ’Al, she may thank ’er stars I was hon the +spot or this poor little creetur would never ’ave come into the world +halive. Dr Haddison, hindeed! I don’t know what Mrs Cornes will say to +’im, but ’e don’t hinterfere with _me_ while _I’m_ ’ere. A trumperious +bit of a lad like that! I was very sorry hafterwards has I sent for +’im hat all--’ + +‘I should have been very much annoyed if you had not,’ replied Hal. +‘But where is Mrs Measures? Has she gone home?’ + +‘_Mrs Measures_,’ reiterated the widow; ‘theer’s another of your fine +ladies as can do nothink but talk. Gone ’ome? I should think she ’ad. +I bundled ’er hoff as quick as I could. I said, begging your pardon +ma’am, you’re no use ’ere, but a ’indrance, and the sooner you go ’ome +the better. And so she went.’ + +‘Well, I cannot discuss these subjects with you to-night, an’ it is +time we were all in bed,’ said Hal. ‘Where do you sleep, Mrs Rushton?’ + +‘I don’t sleep nowheers, ’Al, till Mrs Cornes comes to take my place. +In course, you know nothing of sich matters or you’d be aware as the +nurse’s place is to sit up till the patient is hout of danger.’ + +‘But my wife is not in danger _now_, surely?’ cried Hal fearfully. + +The widow smiled with lofty pity for his ignorance. + +‘They’re _hall_ in danger till they’re hup,’ she said, ‘and Mrs ’Al, +she’s none too strong, I can tell you, and I couldn’t sleep a wink, not +if you was to put me on a bed of roses, until Mrs Cornes comes to take +my place. And so I sits ’ere, ’Al, till the morning.’ + +‘You are very good. I don’t know how to thank you,’ replied the poor +young husband, whose sudden happiness seemed to be all quenched, +as he walked away, and instead of going to bed as he intended to +do, went downstairs, with a sinking heart, and lay on the sofa in +the dining-room, thinking of all the terrible chances that had been +presented to his mind by Mrs Rushton’s words. He crept upstairs several +times before the dawn, and listened at the door of his wife’s bedroom +to see if he could hear anything to justify his fears, but with the +exception of Mrs Rushton’s sonorous snoring, and an occasional little +cry from the infant, no sound met his ears. With the early summer sun +came the young doctor to learn how his patient had passed the night, +and to him Hal confided the opinions which the widow had expressed +concerning both the mother and child. Charles Addison laughed her ideas +to scorn. + +‘Only an old woman’s cackle, my dear fellow,’ he said. ‘Don’t pay the +least attention to it. They love to make the worst of everything. +Take my word for it that Mrs Rushton is going on perfectly well, and +the baby is a fine thriving child, and don’t let the old woman do +anything against my orders for either of them. But I can see she has an +obstinate temper, and you’ll have to keep a sharp lookout over her.’ + +‘She is considered to be an excellent nurse, and seems to spare herself +no trouble,’ remarked Hal. + +‘Oh, I daresay,’ replied the other, ‘still, I wish you could get rid of +her.’ + +‘I will, as soon as ever my wife can do without her, but just now her +presence is inevitable--is it not?’ + +‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ replied the doctor. ‘But I don’t like her +eye. She reminds me of a vicious horse.’ + +Hal laughed at the simile, but he was comforted by Charles Addison’s +opinion, and resolved to follow out his directions. The issue seemed +to justify what the young doctor had said. Paula continued to progress +favourably, and the child appeared to thrive. Indeed, after the first +few hours it gave no trouble whatever, but seemed to sleep day and +night. But Hal, though delighted to see the improvement in his wife, +and to watch the colour (so long lost) returning to her face, and the +light to her eyes, could not get over his aversion to and his distrust +of his father’s widow, and watched her as a cat watches a mouse. The +first breach between them happened on this wise. + +It was a very warm, still afternoon in June, about ten days after the +baby’s birth. The summer had suddenly burst upon them, and the heat was +oppressive. Everything in nature seemed to stand still, and silence +reigned throughout Highbridge Hall. Hal had come in from his usual +round of inspection of the farm, and having taken off his thick boots, +thought he would have a look at Paula before he shod himself again. So +he went upstairs in his stockinged feet, and lifted the curtain that +hung before her bedroom door--left open on account of the heat. There +she lay, like a white rose (as he had so often fondly called her), +with a bunch of flowers that he had laid that morning on her pillow in +her hand, and her baby on her arm, both slumbering peacefully in the +noonday heat. Hal gazed at them for a few moments, feeling very happy +the while, and then turned his attention to the whereabouts of Mrs +Rushton, who usually occupied an arm-chair in the same room on such +occasions. But she was not there. Hal fancied he heard a rustling in +the next apartment, which had been dedicated _pro tem._ to the baby, +and crossing the bedroom floor lightly he looked in. His stepmother +was sitting with her back towards him, profoundly occupied with, and +evidently deeply interested in, the contents of a chest of drawers +which held private property of Paula’s. There she sat with a pile of +old letters and papers in her lap, each one of which she carefully +examined before she laid it aside. Hal’s blood boiled over with +indignation at the sight. He had known something of this proclivity on +the part of the widow before, but he had not thought she would have +dared to indulge it in his house. He entered the room--closed the door +carefully behind him--and advanced steadily to Mrs Rushton’s side. + +‘What are you doing there?’ he asked her sternly. + +She turned, and recognising him, grew livid, and tossed the papers back +into the drawer. + +‘No ’arm, ’Al. I’m trying to make some room for the baby’s things in +her ma’s drawers, and so I thought I’d pack these ’ere papers, which +don’t seem no good, in a box, and put ’em under the bed. Ain’t I +right?’ said the widow, but her voice shook with trepidation the while. + +‘_Right!_ to take my wife’s keys and open her chest of drawers and read +her private letters,’ exclaimed Hal. ‘You know you are doing one of the +meanest, dirtiest tricks of which a woman is capable. How _dare_ you do +it in _my_ house? I am not a feeble, half-witted old man like my poor +father, remember, whom you juggled and deceived, to the last day of his +life, and nearly caused to die with a sin upon his soul. I will not +stand such knavery for a moment. Give me back those keys at once, and +never presume to touch them again whilst you remain at the Hall.’ + +‘Well, this is a nice reward for hall I’ve done for you and yours,’ +whimpered the widow, ‘a-sitting hup to nuss your wife and child, and +a-straining my back and hupsetting my nerves--demeaning myself to be a +servant, and jest because my poor dear husband, who never spoke sich +words to me as _you_ ’ave, was your father, and asked me to be kind to +you for _’is_ sake. You seem to forget as I’ve saved you a five-pound +note in coming ’ere instead of Mrs Cornes, which I wish I’d never done +it.’ + +Hal remembered then that she had been of use to them in the time of +need, and relented of his harsh tones. + +‘To say nothink,’ continued Mrs Rushton, in an injured tone, ‘of ’aving +slaved like a blackamoor for Mrs ’Al for months past, while she lay +like a log on ’er sofa, and ’ardly gave one a “thank you” when all was +said and done for ’er.’ + +‘I have not forgotten it,’ returned Hal, less sternly; ‘it was against +my wishes, but my wife was not in a condition to be argued with, and +you were certainly a great help to her. I will see that you are not the +loser by it. But this act of yours almost cancels the obligation. Where +did you procure these keys?’ + +‘Where did I procure ’em?’ reiterated Mrs Rushton, in an insolent tone. +‘Why, hoff ’er ladyship’s mantelpiece, to be sure. You don’t suppose +I stole ’em, do you? And as for ’er rubbishy papers, as ought to be +be’ind the fire, what hinterest could _I_ ’ave in ’em except to clear +the place and make it a bit tidy--a bit more like it was when _I_ was +the missus ’ere, as I should have been to this day if my poor dear +’usband ’ad ’ad _’is_ way.’ + +‘We do not require your assistance in tidying-up, thank you,’ returned +Hal curtly; ‘we have servants to do that work. Be good enough to put +all those papers back into the drawers, and _I_ will take care they are +not meddled with again.’ + +He stood by whilst she bundled the packets of letters and scraps of +newspapers into their places, with a countenance full of hatred, malice +and revenge. When she had finished the task, he fitted the key into the +lock and turned it. As he did so he caught sight of a photograph in the +pocket of Mrs Rushton’s apron. + +‘What is that you have concealed in your pocket?’ he asked. She jerked +it out. + +‘Lor,’ if one of the rubbishy things ain’t dropt into my apron pocket. +You needn’t look as if you thought I was agoing to steal it, ’Al. +_That_ ain’t likely to be of much use to me, when I don’t heven know +who the people hare.’ + +‘And it is not necessary that you should know,’ remarked her stepson, +as he took the cardboard picture from her and locked it away with the +rest. + +But the sight of it sent a sudden thrill through his heart, half pain +and half fear. It was a faded photograph, taken some time before, of +poor Mrs Sutton, with little Paulie seated on her knee. He turned it +quickly round. There were no names upon the other side. The knowledge +afforded him relief, and as he secured it from further curiosity he put +Paula’s bunch of keys into his own pocket. + +‘I don’t want to say anything more about this very unpleasant business +at present, Mrs Rushton,’ he remarked before he left the room, ‘for my +wife’s sake, and because any quarrelling would certainly upset her. But +don’t let it be repeated--that’s all.’ + +‘Oh, _h’I_ don’t wish to repeat it,’ cried the widow insolently. +‘Heverything may go to ’ell before _I’ll_ touch ’em agen, for I don’t +get no gratitude for nothing I does, and that’s a fact.’ + +Hal Rushton left her without another word, but it did not smooth her +ruffled temper to perceive that before he went downstairs again he +tried the lock of every drawer and cupboard in the room to satisfy +himself that they were secure. + +‘Very good, Mr ’Al,’ said the widow to herself, as he disappeared, +‘very good. It hain’t _you_ I’m thinking as will get the best of _this_ +bargain. You won’t make no row because of your “dear wife’s sake,” and +because you wants my ’elp still for ’er and ’er brat, though you don’t +say it, but you forgets as they’re both in my ’ands, and I can do with +’em pretty well as I like. I wish I ’ad my Ted to consult with now. +_‘E’d_ set things right pretty sharp. But it won’t do for me to leave +my post, for that doctor don’t like me--I can see that plainly--and +would be glad of hany hexcuse to give me the sack. Lor’, there’s Mrs +’Al a-calling. It won’t do to let ’er see as there’s been a row. Well, +my dear,’ the old hypocrite was saying the next minute, ‘and what do +you want? Will you ’ave a cup of tea and a bit of bread and butter. It +ain’t quite the time, but you’d better take it if you’ve a mind to.’ + +‘No, thank you, Mrs Rushton. I would rather wait till Hal comes up to +take it with me. But will you take baby now? She has made my arm ache. +Fancy her being still asleep. What a little sleepyhead she is. She +seems never awake.’ + +‘Babies generally sleep ’alf their time,’ remarked the widow, as she +lifted up the infant preparatory to carrying it away. ‘Sometimes it’s +a sign of ’ealth, and sometimes of weakness. I ’opes this little missy +will get more wakeful as she grows stronger.’ + +‘Do you think she is weaker than she ought to be?’ inquired Paula, with +a mother’s quick alarm. + +‘Well, she might be stronger, of course. She ain’t so lively as some, +nor she don’t take her food so reg’lar, but, as you nusses ’er +yourself, I daresay she’ll get on all right by-and-by.’ + +These words sunk deep into Paula’s heart, and that evening, as she was +again lying with her baby on her arm, and Hal was sitting by her side, +she asked him if she didn’t think the little one looked rather pale. + +Hal laughed at the idea. + +‘_Pale_, my darling. She generally looks the colour of a beet to me, +particularly when she first wakes up and doubles her fists into her +face.’ + +‘But, Hal, she is so seldom awake, and when she is asleep, the colour +seems all to fade away. Look at her now. Her face is quite white, and +it seems puffy to me. I--I--feel afraid sometimes that she is not very +strong.’ + +‘I think it must be your fancy, darling. Addison assured me she was a +very healthy child.’ + +‘But he has not seen her since she was born, and Mrs Rushton has such a +peculiar way of talking of her that frightens me. Oh, Hal, suppose I +was to lose her too,’ she whispered, with her face close to his. + +‘But I can’t have you even suppose such a thing, Paula. There is no +reason for it. We will show the baby to Addison the next time he comes, +and he will tell you that you are frightening yourself for nothing. +Why, she is as plump as a little partridge.’ + +‘She is not so plump as she was when she was born,’ replied Paula, +with a sad smile, ‘and I am sure your stepmother does not consider her +strong.’ + +This conversation made Hal despatch a message at once to young Addison, +who was with them in half an hour. + +‘What’s the matter now?’ he asked as he entered the room, where Mrs +Rushton immediately joined them. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ + +‘_I’m_ the person you should put _that_ question to, young man!’ +interposed the widow loftily. ‘When you’ve been a few years hin the +perfession, you will know hit’s the nuss has is halways happealed to +for the ’ealth of the patients.’ + +‘Thank you for teaching me my business,’ replied the doctor coolly. +‘But I was addressing this lady. Don’t you feel so well, Mrs Rushton?’ + +‘Oh, yes, doctor. I am getting on beautifully, thank you. But my baby +seems so very sleepy. We can hardly rouse her, even to take her food; +and this evening she appears pale and puffy to me (though, perhaps, it +is only the fading light), so I felt a little anxious that you should +see her.’ + +At this announcement Mrs Rushton became unnecessarily indignant. She +seized the child up in her arms almost roughly, and was about to carry +it away into the next room. + +‘Here’s a fuss about nothing,’ she exclaimed rudely. ‘I should think +you might find something better to trouble the doctor about than that, +Mrs ’Al. And you might trust _my_ words a little more hinto the bargin. +’Aven’t I told you hover and hover again has the child is hall right. +And this is the nuss’s business hand _not_ the doctor’s, as can’t +possibly know ’alf so much of hinfants has I do.’ And she turned her +back on the party as she spoke. + +‘Mrs Rushton,’ said Dr Addison in a determined voice, ‘bring that child +here.’ + +‘But there ain’t nothink the matter with it. It’s has well has it can +be, and I won’t ’ave _my_ business interfered with by no doctors, nor +ladies either.’ + +‘Bring that child here,’ he repeated sternly. + +She returned to the bedside then, and held the baby out for his +inspection. Dr Addison examined its eyes and skin and mouth, whilst Hal +and Paula watched him narrowly. + +‘Nothing the matter here,’ he exclaimed cheerfully, as he finished his +examination. ‘Mrs Rushton is quite right, and the baby will do very +well by-and-by.’ + +‘Didn’t I say so?’ observed the widow, as she bore the child away. ‘But +there, hevery lad has as got a diploma must know more than a woman has +as nussed and monthlied for twenty years.’ + +‘I am afraid I am not a favourite with that old lady,’ remarked Addison +gaily, when she had disappeared. ‘Her allusions to my youth are too +cruel. However, I must bear it with what fortitude I can.’ + +‘She is excessively rude,’ replied Paula. ‘But do you _really_ think my +baby is all right?’ + +‘I really think, my dear lady, that there is no need for disquietude, +and the calmer you keep yourself the better she will thrive.’ And then +he talked with the husband and wife on indifferent topics, until it was +time for him to go away. ‘I will just say a word to the nurse before I +take my leave,’ he observed, as he walked into the next room. But it +was empty. + +The widow, to avoid a second catechism, had taken the baby downstairs +with her. Addison took advantage of the occasion to open the +toilet-table and washing-stand drawers, and to generally pry round the +premises. At length, behind a clock on the mantelpiece, he seemed to +come upon what he was searching for, and he put it, without demur, into +his pocket. + +‘The nurse has vanished. I suppose we shall find her downstairs,’ he +said as he returned to Paula’s room. + +‘You’ve been a long time looking for her,’ replied Hal, laughing. + +‘Yes. I was taking a survey of the apartment. It’s a nice airy one. +Good evening, Mrs Rushton. You have not the slightest cause for fear. +Please lie there in peace, and get well.’ But he secretly telegraphed +to Hal to follow him out of the room. ‘I wish to speak to you alone,’ +he said, as they went downstairs and entered the dining-room together. + +‘Now, Rushton,’ commenced the doctor, as soon as they were alone, +‘you must get rid of that old woman at once. What her object is I +cannot say, but she is dosing your child, and I won’t answer for the +consequences if it is left in her charge.’ + +‘_Dosing it!_’ exclaimed Hal, starting; ‘but what with?’ + +‘Laudanum, or a preparation of it. I saw that at once from the child’s +appearance, and when I searched the room I found the bottle. Here it +is,’ said Addison, holding it up. + +‘The old fiend! How I wish I had never let her come here. She wants to +murder it,’ cried the excited young father. + +‘Hush, my dear fellow. That is going too far. It is probably only +ignorance. These old women have terrible methods sometimes with regard +to new-born infants, and they will not be interfered with. You saw +how indignant she was at my presuming to pass an opinion upon it. +But it must be stopped, and at once. And the only way to do it is by +giving the child to another nurse. Mrs Rushton is both obstinate and +vindictive, and would probably increase the doses if remonstrated with.’ + +‘What can she do it for, Addison?’ + +‘To make the baby sleep, and save herself trouble.’ + +‘My poor little child! You are sure she has not injured it?’ + +‘I am quite sure that, out of her hands, it will be as well as ever in +a day or two. Your wife is quite right. That sleep was an unnatural +one, but, of course, I would not tell her so.’ + +‘But who will take this woman’s place? There is no other nurse in the +neighbourhood.’ + +‘Perhaps not. But I know a very respectable woman--a farmer’s wife--who +will be quite competent to take charge of the baby until you get a +regular nurse for it, and will carry out my directions faithfully. She +is a Mrs Roberts. Shall I go and fetch her? I would not leave that +child another hour in Mrs Rushton’s hands if I were you.’ + +‘I will _not_,’ replied Hal determinately, as he rang the bell. Louisa +answered it. + +‘Where is Mrs Rushton?’ he asked. + +‘In the drawing-room, sir, with the baby.’ + +‘Tell her to come here to me.’ + +‘Excuse me,’ interrupted the doctor, ‘but she would probably refuse. +Let us go to her, and Louisa you must come also. We shall want you to +hold the baby until we get another nurse for it.’ + +Stern as officers of justice, the two young men, accompanied by the +housemaid, entered the drawing-room. The widow was pacing up and down +it, with the infant in her arms. Hal walked straight up to her and took +it in his own. + +‘And what’s that for?’ she demanded shrilly. + +‘We have a question to put to you, Mrs Rushton, which requires your +whole attention,’ said the doctor. ‘_What_ have you been giving to that +child?’ + + + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY. + + +The winter of that year was typical--clear and frosty, without fog or +damp, and the young Rushtons almost lived out of doors. Paula, who +was stronger and healthier than she had ever been in her life before, +had developed, under Hal’s instructions, into a good horsewoman, but +she was a still more excellent whip. She took the keenest delight in +driving, and her husband in his desire to indulge her wishes, bought a +match for his mare, and put the pair into a curricle, which Paula used +to spin through the village at such a rate as to bring all the gossips +to their doors with the gruesome prophecy that she would live to break +her neck. It was a pretty sight to see her, with her fair face flushed +with excitement, wrapped up in furs to her chin, and sending her horses +at their smartest pace along the crisp highway. + +‘With a groom with ’is arms folded stuck up be’ind ’er like a graven +image,’ as Mrs Gribble remarked to Mrs Axworthy. ‘It’s redikerlous, +in my opinion, not to say wicked, to keep a human creetur in sich a +hattitoode. And did you see her furs, Mrs Axworthy, ma’am? Rooshian +sables, Mrs Roberts says they hare, and it’s sinful to see ’em on sich +a person. For what _is_ she, ma’am, but a school teacher, when all’s +said and done. Mr ’Al Rushton he may have married ’er, but that can’t +hunmake ’er what she his. And I wonder ’ow long it would be before he’d +give our dear good Miss Brown so much as a silk ’ankercher for her +throat.’ + +‘It would be well if she was nothink but a school teacher, Mrs +Gribble,’ replied her crony; ‘but there’s wuss be’ind, you may depend +on it. I shouldn’t be surprised to ’ear as she’d been used to this +sort of grander before. Folks don’t learn to ’andle the ribbins (as my +good gentleman calls it) in a minute. But ’ow could she ’ave come by +’em, Mrs Gribble, ma’am? _That’s_ the ’orrible thought to wrestle with.’ + +But whilst they wrestled with it Mrs Hal Rushton spun her bays along +gaily, and with not a little innocent triumph that she had outlived all +the ill-natured things that had been said of her, and risen to be one +of the most important residents and property owners in Deepdale. + +‘Paula,’ said Hal one hunting morning, as he stood before her in pink +and top-boots, ‘what are you going to do to-day?’ + +‘Nothing particular, darling,’ she answered, as she held up the baby to +play with his buttons. ‘Why do you ask?’ + +‘Because, if you wouldn’t mind driving into Haltham, I particularly +want to know if Ellis has received those patent snaffles from London. +It is more than a fortnight since I ordered them, and I have written +to him twice without receiving an answer. If it hadn’t been a hunting +day, I should have ridden in myself.’ + +‘Of course I will go, Hal, and if he hasn’t got them yet, what then?’ + +‘Tell him not to trouble further. I will write to the manufacturers +myself. I never saw such a slow place as Haltham. You have to wait a +twelvemonth for everything.’ + +‘They are all asleep,’ laughed Paula. ‘Oh, baby, you mustn’t pull your +daddy’s hair. That hurts.’ + +‘Bless her little fists!’ said Hal, as he disentangled his dark locks +from the chubby hands. ‘She has inherited the power of drawing from her +mother.’ + +‘_I_ can’t draw,’ cried Paula, pretending to misunderstand him. + +‘_Can’t_ you. Who was it drew me, then, from the farm down to the +schoolhouse, night after night, if only to see her shadow on the blind; +drew me to church on hot Sundays in summer, and cold Sundays in winter, +to watch her face bent down upon her prayer book; drew me, in fact, +until there was no further space to draw me over, because I was in her +arms for ever and ever?’ + +‘It was not _I_ who drew you,’ she whispered, with her face against +his. ‘It was your own good heart that impelled you to come.’ + +‘Well, anyway, I am very much here, am I not? And my dear girl is happy +to have me?’ + +‘Happier than she ever conceived it possible she could be.’ + +‘God bless you both!’ said Hal, as he kissed the mother and the child. +‘But I have no more time for “spooning.” Take your little brat away, +Paula--and don’t forget my commission.’ + +‘No, indeed. I will drive into Haltham directly after luncheon.’ + +‘And have luncheon early, dear. Don’t be out after dusk, if you can +help it. I am always nervous when you drive with lamps.’ + +‘What, along a straight road as smooth as a bowling alley. What an +insult to my skill as a whip. But I will be home by daylight, Hal, I +promise you.’ + +‘Thanks, darling. Well, I must be off. Once more, good-bye.’ + +His wife accompanied him to the hall door, and held the baby up to see +her daddy mount his hunter and ride down the drive. And then, after +some excellent fooling with her bantling, she dismissed her for her +morning walk, and went singing about the house herself like a bird. +She felt unusually happy that day. The fresh, exhilarating air was +enough in itself to raise her spirits. Then she had perfect health, +and her husband’s love and confidence, and what could any woman desire +more? She could not help, as she went about her household avocations, +contrasting her present lot with her former one, of which she could +not think, even now, without a shudder. How helpless, how hopeless, +how despairing she was then. And now, how warmly sheltered by Hal’s +protection, how full of hope for little Edith, and themselves how +surrounded by love and luxury and comfort. How thankful she should +be--nay, she _was_--for the marvellous change. If a close observer +had detected at this moment a little quiver of Paula Rushton’s lip, it +was dedicated, not to the past or future, not even to a thought of her +dead mother, but to the uncertain fate of her hapless firstborn. That +was the only ruffle on the quiet waters of her life--the remembrance +of Paulie. Often as she caressed her plump, healthy baby, and watched +the intelligence which was so rapidly developing itself in her bright +little face, the mournful eyes and vacant, pathetic smile of the child +for whom she had cared so little would rise up reproachfully before her +mental vision, and force her to swallow down something very like a sob. +But she never spoke of it to Hal, and he believed she had forgotten or +become reconciled to the loss of the imbecile child. For her own part, +she tried hard to believe that he was safe in Heaven, with her dear +mother, who had loved him so tenderly, but she never alluded to the +subject in any way. She had not forgotten the compact she had entered +into with Hal before their marriage, that the past was to be past and +dead for both of them, and not permitted to rise from its unholy grave +to disturb their new-born happiness. So she thrust the faint, momentary +thought of Paulie resolutely away, and went to the piano and sang a +merry song to drown it. + +She took her midday meal early, as she had promised her husband, and +by one o’clock she was driving in her usually rapid manner, which Hal +applauded and Deepdale glared at, along the highroad to Haltham. It +was not market day, but the town was rather full, and the saddler’s +shop stood in the busiest part of it. Paula was proceeding in that +direction, guiding her spirited bays very skilfully in and out of +the vegetable barrows and donkey carts that blocked the way, when an +itinerant musician (save the mark), with a cornopean wretchedly out +of tune, commenced to blow a discordant blast which he intended for +‘Annie Laurie.’ At the same time a crowd of urchins were following +and hooting at a shabbily dressed man, apparently not too sober, who +stumbled in front of them over the stony road, muttering to himself, +and occasionally distributing a curse for the benefit of his young +tormentors. Hal’s old mare was well trained and steady enough, but her +pole companion was new to harness as well as cornopeans, and with a +frightened rear made a sudden start forward, dragging the other with +her. Paula could have quieted them if left to herself, but the wretched +urchins on either side, perceiving the chance of a commotion, yelled +to alarm the horses still more, and for a moment they were beyond her +control. In that moment the slouching figure of the intoxicated man, +who had not had the sense to step aside, fell down in the middle of the +road, and the off mare touched him with her hoof. Paula pulled the pair +back on their haunches to prevent further mischief, and her groom was +at their heads in a moment, but the figure of the fallen man remained +motionless, and the yelling urchins called out, ‘You’ve been and killed +’im, missus.’ Paula turned sick with fright. She knew the accident +had happened by no fault of hers, but it was terrible to think she +had been the cause of it. Quite a crowd had assembled by this time--a +policeman among the number--and descending from her seat, Paula ordered +the groom to back the carriage out of the way whilst she ascertained +what injury had been done. + +‘Is he much hurt?’ she inquired anxiously of the police officer. + +The man turned the prostrate figure about with one hand, and then let +it drop again. It appeared to be that of a beggar or tramp. The clothes +were ragged and dirty, coated with clay and other earths, as though the +wearer was used to sleep out at nights, and the torn hat, which had +tumbled off when he fell, revealed a thick head of yellow hair, the +face being downwards and hidden from view. + +‘_I_ don’t think so, ma’am,’ replied the official. ‘The ’orse’s ’oof +may have touched ’im, but he fell first. He’s more drunk, to my mind, +than ’urt. I’d better take ’im to the lock-up, and then we can see +what’s the matter with ’im.’ + +‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Paula; ‘he must not go to the lock-up. I am very +much afraid it was my fault, and I will pay for medical assistance for +him. Where shall we take him, policeman? Who is the nearest doctor?’ + +‘Well, Dr Brown’s surgery is just round the corner, but he won’t thank +me for taking a drunken man there. There’s no blood, you see, ma’am, +nor nothing.’ + +‘But he may be bruised. I am sure the horse struck him. Speak to him, +policeman, and see if he can understand you.’ + +‘Here you, mister,’ commenced the official, as he touched the arm of +the prostrate figure, ‘can’t you get up and shake yourself? You’re not +hurt, you know. Come, now, let’s see if you can’t stand.’ + +He pulled him roughly by the arm as he spoke, and the man rose to a +sitting posture and then fell back again, with his face upturned to +the sky. Paula, who had been watching the proceedings with the deepest +interest, glanced at the features thus revealed to the public, and gave +a sharp cry. + +‘There’s no cause to be afeard, ma’am,’ said the policeman consolingly. +‘’E’s too drunk to touch you. But ’ere’s the doctor coming. Stand back, +you boys, will you, and let the gentleman pass.’ + +Someone in the crowd had run unasked to inform Dr Brown of the +accident, and he now appeared upon the scene. + +‘Dead! dead!’ he exclaimed quickly, as he examined the prostrate man. +‘Not a bit of it. Dead drunk, you mean. This seems more in _your_ line, +Jones, than mine. Run over, do you say? Well, he may have a bruise or +two to-morrow, but he’s too full of liquor to have sustained much hurt. +Wheels would roll over him as they would over a bladder of water. Is +this the lady who drove the carriage?’ + +He turned to Paula as he spoke, and was startled by her appearance. Her +eyes, which seemed fixed in her head, were staring at the vagrant’s +face, her countenance was the colour of death, and her limbs were +twitching involuntarily. Dr Brown believed her condition to be the +effect of fear. + +‘You mustn’t take it like this, madam,’ he said; ‘there is no real harm +done, and if there were, it is by no fault of yours. The man was too +drunk to keep his feet. Why, _you_ look in more need of my services +than he does.’ + +‘Who--who is he?’ she asked in a low husky voice, that seemed to have +the greatest difficulty in issuing from her dry, parched lips. + +‘_Who is he?_ I don’t fancy anybody can tell you that. A tramp, most +likely, and evidently a disreputable one. Does anyone know him in the +town?’ continued the doctor, addressing the gaping audience. + +‘’E lodges with Mother Sims,’ replied a squeaky voice. + +‘Yes, sir,’ chimed in a dozen others; ‘’is name is Bonson, and ’e lives +in Sims’ hattic.’ + +‘Let him be taken home, then,’ said Dr Brown, ‘and I’ll attend him +there. Jones, fetch a stretcher, and have him removed at once. This +lady requires my attention the more of the two.’ + +Paula shook her head silently, and with a face white as death, and +trembling fingers, extracted a couple of pounds from her purse and +pressed them into the doctor’s hands. + +‘My dear lady--Mrs Rushton of Highbridge Hall, if I am not mistaken--’ +She moved her head mechanically. ‘This is far too much. You exaggerate +the injury, I assure you. The man will be quite well by to-morrow.’ + +‘Please--take--it,’ she said, with an effort, and looking as if she +were about to swoon. But he still refused to accept it. + +At the sound of her voice, low as she had spoken, the vagrant on the +ground rolled his head round and regarded her, and their eyes met. +Paula said nothing, but leaning up against the little doctor, fainted +away in his arms. + +‘There, now,’ he exclaimed fussily, ‘didn’t I tell you this lady was +alarming herself unnecessarily. Look at this. Who will help me to carry +her to my surgery? Here, my man!’ he continued, addressing the groom. +‘Bring the carriage round the corner, and as soon as your mistress is +recovered, you must drive her home. Here’s a pretty bit of business +about a drunken tramp,’ he ended with, as he and another man carried +the unconscious Paula to his consulting room. As they passed him, the +vagrant raised himself on his elbow and looked after them. + +‘Aye, there she goes,’ he cried, ‘with her carriage and horses, whilst +I lie upon the ground, and may rot here for aught _she_ cares. Curse +her!’ + +‘Come, now,’ said the policeman, ‘stop that. The lady’s been a deal too +good to you. You would have been in the lock-up by this time but for +’er. Them ’orses’ ’oofs never touched yer. Get up, and go to your home. +D’ye hear?’ + +‘_My home!_’ repeated the man bitterly. ‘If I had my rights, my home +would be with her.’ + +‘Why, you’re drunker than I thought you were,’ said the policeman. ‘If +you speaks another word like that I’ll run you in. Get up, I say. Do +you mean to lie here till another wehicle drives over you?’ + +At this hint the vagrant rose to his feet, and having made a pretence +of dusting his tattered coat, shambled off the highway into a +by-street, where he disappeared. + +Meanwhile Paula, coming to herself in the little doctor’s surgery, +gazed vacantly at the cane benches and white-washed walls. + +‘You’re better now,’ said Dr Brown, as he held a glass to her lips. +‘Drink this and you will soon be yourself again.’ + +But Paula pushed the cordial from her, and staggering to her feet, +exclaimed,-- + +‘Let me go home.’ + +‘Of course you shall, directly you are able to do so. Your carriage is +waiting at the door. But let me entreat you to drink this first. Your +nerves are shaken, Mrs Rushton. That drunken brute frightened you, and +you are not fit to take so long a drive without a stimulant.’ + +She drank the draught, as he desired her, conscious that to continue to +refuse it was to delay her return to Deepdale. But as soon as it was +down she turned an ashen face to Dr Brown, and repeated,-- + +‘My carriage, please. I wish to go home.’ + +‘To be sure,’ replied the doctor cheerily; ‘but you mustn’t attempt to +drive yourself, Mrs Rushton. Take your mistress back very carefully, +Green, and she’ll be all right by the time she reaches Deepdale.’ + +And then he assisted Paula into the curricle, where she lay back +against the cushions, with half-closed eyes, and in a few minutes was +out of sight. + +‘Strange,’ thought the little doctor, as he looked after her. ‘I’ve +always heard her spoken of as such a brave and dependable woman, +but she doesn’t seem to be much more use in an emergency than the +generality of her sex. A great deal of good sympathy wasted on a +worthless vagabond.’ And with that he dismissed the subject from his +mind. + +It was not the groom’s business to watch the features or actions of his +mistress, and indeed it was as much as he could do to keep the two +ruffled mares in hand on their way home. But had he looked at her he +would have seen that Paula never altered her position, nor moved her +eyes, until he drew rein at the front door of Highbridge Hall. Then +she stumbled to the ground somehow, and felt her way, almost blindly, +to her own room. The afternoon was still at its height, the hour being +four, but there was a bright fire burning in her grate, before which +was spread a snowy sheepskin rug. Paula closed the door and locked it, +almost mechanically, and then, having torn off her furred mantle and +hat, she flung herself down, in a position of the utmost abandonment, +upon the sheepskin rug, with both her hands pressed tightly against +her temples. Even as she lay there the room seemed to go round and +round with her, the floor to shake and tremble beneath her weight, the +air to be full of buzzing, whirring noises that made thought almost +an impossibility. What was it that her mother had told her when she +returned from the journey to London, which she undertook solely to +satisfy her daughter’s anxious fear? That Carl Bjornsën had died in the +Paddington workhouse, from drink and disease, and that she was freed +from him by God as well as man--free to become Hal Rushton’s wife, and +to look him in the face and say truly that her first husband was dead, +and could never trouble either of them again. And to-day she had seen +Carl Bjornsën in the streets of Haltham, drunk, but living, tattered, +dirty and disreputable, yet living--a jibe for boys, a case for the +police, a wretched waif of humanity, apparently both friendless and +homeless, but still living, living, _living_--to curse and kill her +new-found happiness. + +She had no doubt whatever that it was he; that the degraded being +her horses had nearly run over was the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired Carl +Bjornsën she had once believed she loved. The sight of his thick crop +of yellow hair had given her a shock even before she had seen his +countenance (it had so painfully reminded her of that of the Swede); +but when she had looked at his face, and their eyes had met, although +his features were bloated by vice and distorted by passion at the +sight of her, she had recognised him at once as the husband whom she +believed to be lying in his grave. Everybody had misled her, then. Seth +Brunt, when he assured her his captain was dying, and her poor dear +mother, when she accepted the landlady’s assurance that her lodger had +breathed his last in the workhouse. They had not meant to deceive her, +perhaps (her mother assuredly not), but the terrible upshot was the +same. Carl Bjornsën lived, and had followed her to Haltham. But for +what purpose? Did he intend to make his way to Deepdale--to insult her, +perhaps, before her servants--to expose her secret to their neighbours, +to confront her in the very presence of her beloved husband, who had +felt the mere fact of his having existed so keenly as to extract an +oath from her never to mention it in his hearing again? Oh, no, no. At +whatever risk, Paula felt, she must keep this awful discovery from +Hal, or all their happiness might be wrecked with the knowledge of +it. If she could only meet Carl Bjornsën face to face, and learn his +intentions, and bribe him with money to go away, and to keep away, +their future peace might be secured. For a few moments she thought of +telling everything to Hal, who was so good and kind to her, and had +it not been for his exaggerated horror of divorce she would have done +so. But he did not believe in divorce. He had often told her that +if a marriage under such circumstances was legalised by man, it was +not blest by Heaven. He was a simple-minded, country-bred gentleman, +far behind all the fashionable foibles of the day, but such were his +opinions, and his wife shuddered as she recalled them. At all costs, +she decided in a bewildered manner, Hal must not hear the truth unless +it became absolutely necessary. But oh, how wretched that single +interview had made her. It seemed to have cast a gloom over her whole +life. Nothing _really_ was altered. Nothing _could_ be altered, and +she was quite innocent of having attempted to deceive her husband, +yet, as she lay face downwards on the rug, Paula felt as though she +were the guiltiest creature upon earth. At last the sound of the hall +clock striking six made her remember that Hal would soon be home from +his sport, and demanding to see her. She rose hastily, and approaching +the glass, was frightened at the sight of her white face and swollen +eyelids. How could she disguise the effects of the emotion she had +passed through? What should she say if Hal observed it? In another +moment she had plunged her face into a basin of cold water, and was +trying, though ineffectually, to remove the traces of her indisposition +and her tears. Her husband knocked at the door for admittance in the +very midst of it, and she had no excuse to deny his entrance. In he +came, laughing and happy as usual, with the fresh colour in his face +heightened by air and exercise, looking just what he was, a specimen of +a young and healthy Englishman, and stood before her fire warming his +hands, whilst she hid her face somewhat with her towel. + +‘Well, my darling,’ he began briskly, ‘we have had a glorious run, +after all. Those few drops of rain last night freshened up the scent +considerably, and made it quite easy going. Did you enjoy your drive? +What did Ellis say about the snaffles?’ + +Paula lowered the towel in her surprise. + +‘_Ellis!_ Oh, Hal, what will you say to me? I forgot all about him.’ + +‘Forgot _Ellis_. You _are_ a trustworthy messenger. What else did you +go to Haltham for?’ + +‘It _was_ stupid of me. But the new mare gave me a little trouble as we +got opposite the “Fox and Grapes,” and I turned the horses’ heads at +once, and drove home as quickly as possible.’ + +‘What did she do?’ + +‘A lot of boys began shouting at her, and she grew restive and reared.’ + +‘Did she frighten you, Paula? What’s the matter with your face?’ + +He left the fireplace, and walking up to her, examined her swollen +features. + +‘Why, you’ve been crying, my darling. What is the matter? Has anything +annoyed you?’ + +Paula was going to answer him in the negative when a thought stopped +her. The groom, James Green, had witnessed the accident, and seen her +faint. He would be sure to speak of it in the kitchen, and it might get +round to her husband’s ears. She had better tell him the truth (or part +of the truth) at once. + +‘Yes, I have been frightened, dear; but I would rather have kept it +from you, because you make such a fuss over every little thing that +happens to me. A tipsy man fell down in the road, and the horses nearly +went over him. It gave me a dreadful turn, and I--I--fainted.’ + +Hal’s loving arms were instantly folded round her, as though to shield +her from further harm. + +‘Oh, my darling, why didn’t you tell me this at first? _Fainted!_ I +didn’t know you _could_ faint. Were you in the carriage?’ + +‘No. I had got out to see if the man was hurt.’ + +‘And who looked after you? Did you fall in the road?’ + +Paula felt as if he would draw the whole truth out of her before he had +finished. + +‘Please don’t make a fuss about it,’ she said impatiently; ‘it was of +no consequence. I was afraid I had run over the man, and it gave me a +shock. Someone took me in somewhere and gave me a glass of water, and +I was all right in a minute or two, and then Green drove me home. I +shouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t seen my face.’ + +‘I should have thought it very strange if you had _not_ told me, Paula. +It is so unusual for you to show the white feather. Was the man hurt?’ + +‘Oh, no. He was only intoxicated, the policeman said, and the horses +had not touched him. When I heard that, of course I was all right. But +tell me about the meet, Hal. Who was there?’ + +‘Oh, the usual set. Mrs Simpson was out with us, looking a regular guy. +That woman must weigh fifteen stone. I pity her horse. I wonder if the +policeman was correct about that man? It would be very shocking if you +had really hurt him. It would be our duty to make him some recompense.’ + +Paula tapped her foot fretfully upon the floor. + +‘Didn’t I tell you he wasn’t hurt, Hal? I know what you’re thinking +about--that I have been driving too fast; but Green said it was a +wonder I didn’t go right over him, and that, if I hadn’t pulled up the +horses as promptly as I did, I must have done so. He was lying right in +the road.’ + +‘I am very thankful you _did_ pull up so quickly. Was he a Haltham man?’ + +‘No, no; a common tramp, with ragged clothes. Don’t talk of him any +more, please. I’d rather forget all about it.’ + +‘It has excited you more than you like to acknowledge, little woman,’ +replied Hal, as he sauntered out of the room to change his dress. + +As he disappeared, Paula threw herself into an arm-chair. What had she +said? How much had she acknowledged? How far had she betrayed herself? + +Her head was going round and round, and the faces of Carl Bjornsën +and Hal Rushton were revolving before her sight like the colours in a +kaleidoscope. Her old life and her new life seemed to be mingling into +one, until she hardly felt sure to which she belonged. The sight of +Carl Bjornsën had revived the past even whilst the voice of Hal Rushton +assured her of the present. She could neither reason with herself, +nor decide what was best to be done--she was only sure of this, that +she must carefully and calmly think over the best plan to get rid +of Carl Bjornsën. How she hated the man at that moment: the inhuman +wretch who had blighted her former life, and now had risen from the +dead (as it seemed to her) to torture her present. Had he stood before +her at that moment, and she had held a knife in her hand, she would +have been quite capable of running it into him. She _hated_ him, she +repeated to herself, with clenched teeth--she hated and despised him. +If he attempted to come between her and her Hal, if by persecutions or +annoyances he wrested from her but one tithe of her darling’s love or +confidence, she would poison him like some venomous animal whom it was +quite justifiable to put out of the way. + +The meek girl, who had submitted to such outrageous tyranny in the days +gone by, and was now the most ductile and loving woman in creation, +seemed suddenly to have been transformed into a fury, thirsting for +revenge. + +But her righteous anger was a very poor imitation of the passion of the +gods. It was the stamping hoof of the incensed ewe trying to defend her +lamb--the peck of the turtle-dove as the hand of the spoiler robs her +of her eggs. + +A knock for admittance at her bedroom door was followed by the entrance +of the nurse, with the cooing infant in her arms, and in a few moments +Paula had washed away all her angry feelings in a burst of tears over +her baby girl. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +THE FATE OF PAULIE. + + +It is a curious fact that when Paula’s mind had recovered the first +stunning shock of encountering Carl Bjornsën she began to try and +persuade herself that she had been mistaken, that the vagrant in +Haltham High Street had only borne a remarkable resemblance to her +late husband, and that her nerves were in such an excited condition +after the accident that she had exaggerated a passing likeness into +a reality. All that night she lay awake upon her bed thinking over +the assurances she had received of his death, and the improbability +of their being untrue, until she had almost persuaded herself she was +alarmed without cause. It was a fact that the tramp was very like Carl +Bjornsën, but then he might be a Swede, and she knew from experience +how much the men of that nation resemble each other. She fancied his +eyes had lighted on her with a malevolent glance, but the man was +intoxicated, and, doubtless, felt vicious at having been so nearly +run over. How _could_ he be Carl Bjornsën, she questioned herself +pitifully, when he had died in the workhouse at Paddington? She went +over Seth Brunt’s information, and her mother’s undoubted assurance, +again and again, until she had decided that she had been frightened by +a chimera, and she had only to look upon the man again to be convinced +she was mistaken. By the morning she had come to the resolution that +she would do so. She could not live a life of doubt and uncertainty. +It would poison her whole existence. She would know the best or the +worst before another night came round. When she rose, she was naturally +looking pale and haggard. She was the sort of woman who loses all her +delicate bloom from the want of one night’s sleep. Hal was concerned +at her appearance, and wanted her to stay at home and rest, whilst she +was madly impatient to be free from his scrutiny, and able to follow +out her plan. + +‘I shall not let you drive the new mare again, darling, until I have +tried my persuasive powers over her,’ he said at breakfast. ‘I shall +ride her round the farm to-day, and take her for a good bucketing over +the hills afterwards. That will teach her not to rear at everything. +And you had better stay at home, or go for a little walk. You are +looking ghastly pale still. I don’t like to see my pink rose turned +into a white one again.’ + +His wife did not know what to answer him. She intended to go into +Haltham that afternoon, but she dared not hint at such a thing for fear +lest he should offer to accompany her. + +‘What do you say yourself, Paula? What do you wish to do?’ + +‘I don’t feel like going out this morning,’ she answered after a while. +‘I would rather you stayed at home with me (if you don’t mind), and +took the mare for her bucketing in the afternoon. There are those +stable accounts to go through, you know, and you said yesterday you +wanted my assistance in writing some business letters.’ + +‘All right, my darling. So let it be. I think, as you forgot all about +Ellis yesterday, that we’ll write straight to the manufacturers, as I +proposed. And Walton must be advised about that cistern leaking. We’ll +give an hour or two to business, and then you must rest on the sofa +till luncheon. I cannot bear to see you look so ill.’ + +After luncheon he said to her, as his horse was waiting at the door,-- + +‘I suppose you feel hardly equal to riding round the farm with me, +Paula? The fresh air would do you good.’ + +He saw her colour as she replied,-- + +‘No, thank you, Hal. I have a dozen things to attend to yet. I should +only keep you waiting, and I would prefer a walk.’ + +‘Don’t go too far and overtire yourself.’ + +‘Oh, dear, no! I may walk round to see Mary; she has a coral necklace +for Edie.’ + +‘Very well, my dearest. Only, take care of yourself,’ he replied, as he +kissed and left her. + +As soon as he was fairly gone, Paula ordered the pony chaise to be made +ready. This was a little basket-carriage that only held two people, +and was drawn by a fat little animal called ‘Tubby,’ who went at the +rate of about four miles an hour. When it came round, she desired her +nurse to accompany her with little Edith. She was determined not to +have another eye-witness of her doings. She started as though for an +hour’s drive along the highroad, but as she reached the outskirts of +the village she said suddenly,-- + +‘By-the-way, Maria, I never got any rusks for baby in Haltham +yesterday. We must be nearly out of them. I think I had better drop you +here, and you can walk home with her, and I will go and get them. It +will never do to run short. Poor baby would be starved.’ + +‘I don’t think there’s any hurry, ma’am,’ replied Maria; ‘she must have +enough to last her for some days.’ + +‘But we can’t risk it. Suppose anything were to happen to prevent our +sending over. I could not be easy if they were not in the house, when +the child lives on nothing else.’ + +‘Mr Gribble’s cart goes in most every day,’ suggested the nurse, with a +view to solving the problem. + +‘Oh, nonsense, as if I would trust to that man. He would bring us +Abernethys, or Thorley’s Food for Cattle, or something equally +appropriate. Get down, Maria, and take baby home. You might call in at +the vicarage on your way. Mrs Measures was complaining the other day +how seldom she saw her godchild.’ + +‘Very good, ma’am,’ replied the servant, who was rather disappointed, +nevertheless, at losing the promised drive. + +As soon as she had disposed of her companions, Paula turned all her +attention to persuading ‘Tubby’ to step out a little more briskly than +usual on his way to Haltham. Her heart was beating fast under the doubt +whether she would be able to accomplish her design, and what awaited +her if she did so, and a dozen times she felt as if she must get out of +the pony chaise and run into the town, so soberly and unconcernedly did +‘Tubby’ go upon his way. The application of the whip, however smart, +seemed to make no impression on him. He only shook his fat sides, as if +a fly had tickled him, but did not quicken his footsteps for a moment. +Haltham lay seven miles from Deepdale. Would she ever get there and +back before dark was Paula’s despairing thought. At last, however, by +dint of whipping, chirruping, and jerking the reins, ‘Tubby’ managed to +crawl into the town about a hour and a half after she had started, and +Paula breathed quickly as she felt her time for action had arrived. She +was particularly anxious not to encounter Dr Brown, or the policeman +Jones, and yet she did not know how she should find where the vagrant +lived without the help of either of them. + +‘In mother Sims’ attic,’ some lad had shouted out that the man resided. + +‘_Mother Sims._’ There might be dozens of Mother Sims in Haltham. Who +would direct her to the right one? She drove her pony chaise round to +an obscure inn in the empty market-place where she often put up when in +Haltham--the ‘Black Horse’--the landlady of which knew her well. + +‘Well, here’s a surprise, to see you again so soon,’ she exclaimed, as +Paula descended and the ostler led the pony away. ‘We ’eard you was in +’Altham yesterday, and had a sad haccident, but no ’arm done, thank the +Lord, though you was a bit shook, doubtless, ma’am?’ + +‘Oh, no! Only a little frightened,’ replied Paula, as she followed the +landlady into the little parlour. + +Here, she thought, might be an opportunity to ascertain the address +she was looking for. She must ask _somebody_, she argued, why not Mrs +Spriggins as well as another? + +‘I’m glad it was no wuss, ma’am,’ continued the woman; ‘but them ’orses +of yours are very spirity.’ + +‘Not at all, as a rule, Mrs Spriggins. It was the boys shouting and a +man playing the cornopean that frightened them. But I’m afraid the poor +tipsy man must have been bruised. Have you heard anything about him?’ + +‘Not a word, ma’am, so I don’t think he can have come to no ’arm.’ + +‘One of the lads said he was lodging at Mother Sims’. Do you know where +she lives, Mrs Spriggins?’ + +‘No, I don’t, ma’am, unless it’s up Blind Alley, across the +market-place. There _is_ a Sims there, I know; but there are several of +the name in ’Altham.’ + +‘I suppose so. But Mr Rushton thinks it only right that we should make +the man some compensation in money, which I was too flurried to think +of yesterday. So I am trying to find him out to-day. I have to get some +rusks for my baby at Moon’s, and I will make a few inquiries at the +same time. Good afternoon, Mrs Spriggins. I shall require the chaise +about five.’ + +‘The doctor could tell you ’is address, ma’am,’ screamed the landlady +after her, as she descended the steps, ‘for my Joe told me as ’e’d been +good enough to attend the man at ’is own ’ouse.’ + +Paula felt her cheeks burn as she hurried across the market-place. What +had the ‘man’ told the doctor? How much might not be known in Haltham +of her former history at that very moment? She drew down her spotted +net veil closely over her hat, as though that could hide her agitated +features, and walked rapidly over the narrow sidepath until she had +reached Blind Alley. Calling a little girl out of the gutter, she gave +her a penny to tell her which of the houses belonged to ‘Mother Sims,’ +and was directed in consequence to the fifth door in the row, which +was next to a fish shop, at the upper window of which sat a young man +smoking a clay pipe. They were country-built houses, without bells or +knockers--only latched doors that opened on to the living room. Paula +rapped against Mother Sims’ with her knuckles first, and then timidly +lifted the latch. + +‘Does Mother Sims live here?’ she inquired, in a low voice. + +A woman answered to the name. + +‘I’m Mrs Sims, mum, if it’s me as you’re hasking for.’ + +‘Have you a lodger here--a very poor man--a sort of tramp--I don’t know +his name--’ + +‘_Me_ keep tramps in _my_ ’ouse!’ cried the woman shrilly. ‘I should +’ope not, indeed. What do you take me for?’ + +‘I did not mean to offend you, indeed,’ replied Paula earnestly. ‘I am +looking for the man. He is an object of charity, and I came to relieve +him.’ + +‘Well, he ain’t ’ere,’ said the woman rudely, as she closed the door +again. + +Paula stood perplexed on the pathway for a minute, whilst the young man +at the window over the fish shop eyed her movements keenly. + +‘Mother,’ he said, turning towards someone in the room, ‘I’ll be blowed +if there ain’t Mrs ’Al a-talking to the woman next door.’ + +‘_Mrs ’Al!_’ cried his mother, hurrying to his side and peering over +his shoulder. ‘Lor’, Ted, and so it is. Now, what may _she_ be wanting +in these parts?’ + +‘Don’t ’ang so far out of the winder or she’ll twig yer,’ said Ted +Snaley. ‘It’s ’er, an’ no mistake, and after no good, I’ll warrant. She +don’t seem to know what she’d be at. Now she’s ’as the market-place +again.’ + +‘Ted, my lad, you slip on your coat and foller ’er at a distance like, +and find out where she’s agoing. Don’t let ’er catch a sight of you, +for the Lord’s sake. And I’ll jest step into Mrs Sims and ’ear what she +wanted of ’er. She’s a deep ’un, Ted, you mark my words.’ + +Meanwhile Paula, baffled in her first attempt to find the man whom she +had almost persuaded herself by this time was _not_ Carl Bjornsën, had +remembered Mrs Spriggins’ advice, and was wondering if she could make +up her mind to call upon the doctor. After all (she argued), it was +the vagrant she was in search of, and it was the most natural thing +that she should wish to compensate him for the effects of her careless +driving, and no one need know anything more. As she was debating the +matter in her mind, she caught sight of Dr Brown’s boy, who had helped +to attend on her in the surgery, going his rounds, with a basket of +medicine on his arm. In a moment she had sprung after and detained him. + +‘I want you to tell me something,’ she said, panting. ‘You are Dr +Brown’s errand lad, are you not?’ + +‘Yes, mum,’ replied the boy wonderingly. + +‘I want to know where that man lives that I ran over yesterday. Do you +know his address? I hear Dr Brown has attended him.’ + +‘Yes, mum. I took a bottle of medicine there last night. He lodges at +John Sims’, in Barefoot Lane. It’s just round by Saint Mark’s Church, +mum--runs alongside it like--and Sims he lives at number fifteen.’ + +‘Thank you. Can you keep a secret?’ + +‘Yes, mum.’ + +‘I am going to give the poor man a little money, but I don’t want all +the world to know it. Will you promise me not to tell the doctor, or +anyone, that I asked for his address?’ + +‘Yes, mum,’ repeated the boy, with open eyes. + +He opened them still more when the lady in furs and a silk gown put +five shillings in his hand before she went on her way. He had never +had so much money at one time in his life before, and Paula was out +of sight before he had left off gazing at it, whilst Ted Snaley, who +had watched the little transaction from the opposite side of the way, +followed cautiously in her wake. Haltham considered itself an important +town but in reality it was very small, and except on market days very +empty. Its streets were easily traversed, and Paula’s light feet had +soon found Barefoot Lane, that ran alongside of Saint Mark’s Church. +She glanced from side to side before she entered it, and then, with a +rush, she made for number fifteen and rapped upon the door. This time +it was a man who answered her--John Sims himself, just home from work, +and sitting down to tea with his wife and family. + +‘May I come in?’ said Paula nervously, as she entered the doorway. ‘Are +you Mr Sims? I hear you have a lodger here--I don’t know his name--a +man who met with an accident in the High Street yesterday?’ + +‘Oh, yes, he’s here, worse luck, and I don’t know when we’ll get rid of +’im,’ replied John Sims surlily. ‘I meant to ’ave given ’im the sack +to-day, but the doctor he’s forbid it.’ + +‘Was--was he hurt?’ inquired Paula, with her purse in her hand. ‘I was +afraid he might be, and so I wanted--I wished to--’ + +‘If you’re agoing to give ’im money, mum, I should say as you might +find them as was more deservin’ of it--’owever, that’s no business o’ +mine,’ replied John Sims. ‘Do you want to go up to his hattic?’ + +‘Yes--I think so--’ stammered Paula. ‘I--I--should like to speak to him +if I can.’ + +‘Oh, it’s heasy enough, mum, if you fancies it,’ rejoined the man, +moving to the bottom of the stair and bawling out, ‘Moosoo! Moosoo +Bonson! ’Ere’s some ’un as wants to speak with you.’ + +All the answer that was elicited from the unseen lodger was conveyed by +a curse that came echoing down the staircase. + +‘’E’s at ’ome, at all events,’ remarked John Sims, with a look of +disgust, as he resumed his place at the tea-table; ‘you can go up when +you likes, mum, but all I ’ope is ’e won’t insult you.’ + +‘Oh, I am used to it--I am not afraid--I often visit sick people,’ +replied Paula, with a catching in her breath as she commenced to mount +the creaking stairs. + +The name by which Mr Sims had addressed his lodger, although so +uncouthly spoken, roused her worst fears again, and as she climbed to +the room which held him she felt as if she were going to her death. +It was at the very top of the house--a bare and dirty attic. As soon +as she tapped at the door and heard the voice, which replied ‘Come +in,’ she knew who she should see when she entered it. Calling all +her courage to her assistance, she passed the threshold, and there, +lying in bed, with his hollow eyes glaring from beneath his matted +yellow hair, she saw--without the shadow of a doubt--_Carl Bjornsën_. +Paula had so often assured herself during the last twelve hours that +her eyes must have played her false that meeting her former husband +thus was almost as great a blow as if she had looked upon him for the +first time. But it was the truth, and she was forced to accept it. She +staggered back against the white-washed wall, and stood there, with +fixed eyes and heaving breast, fighting against an irresistible desire +to scream. + +Carl Bjornsën, on his part, sat up and stared at her. His shirt was +ragged and dirty, and falling off his naked chest. There were no sheets +upon his filthy mattress, but a brown blanket covered the lower part +of his body--a most inadequate protection against the cold in a room +devoid of fire. The man’s whole appearance betokened the utmost poverty +and discomfort, and even in the midst of her horror Paula could not +help feeling compassion for him. + +‘And so--and so,’ at last she panted, ‘it is really _you_?’ + +‘It is really _me_,’ replied Carl Bjornsën, in the rasping guttural +voice that usually accompanies the last stage of consumption. ‘Who else +should it be? You thought you had got rid of me for ever, I suppose. +You hoped I was dead, and rotting in my grave.’ + +‘I heard that you were dead. I was told so. Have you been in league +with anybody to deceive me?’ + +‘Not I,’ he rejoined recklessly. ‘What would have been the use of it? +You had kicked me off like a dog. It was nothing to you what became of +me, and so I took my own course, and went to the devil.’ + +‘That was not _my_ fault,’ she answered. + +‘Not _your_ fault! That is what you women always say. We love you, and +trust you, and give ourselves up to you, body and soul, and in return +you deceive us.’ + +‘I _never_ deceived you,’ she said proudly. + +‘Yes, you did. I thought I had married a girl who loved and understood +me. But you set yourselves above me and my companions. You despised me +for my weakness. You openly showed your disgust at my way of living, +when sympathy might have weaned me from it, and in return you made me +hate you--_you_, who once I had so much loved.’ + +‘Oh, Carl,’ cried Paula, ‘I daresay I was wrong. I was so young, and +you tried to make me submit to you through violence. I don’t want to +reproach you with it now, but you know you nearly killed me.’ + +‘I wish I had killed you altogether. You’ve killed me, body and soul, +by your desertion. If you’d stayed with me, I would have reformed. But +so long as you were safe, and living in comfort, what did you care. And +now, you’ve got a fine new husband, with a carriage and horses, and you +can run over my dying body as you’ve run over and crushed my soul.’ + +‘You do me an injustice,’ she cried indignantly; ‘but you always were +unjust. I left you, not for my own sake, but to save the life of my +child--the poor infant whom your cruel blows made imbecile. It was for +my bodily safety, and his, that you forced me to seek a shelter in the +law. You would have ended by hanging for murder if I had not divorced +you.’ + +‘And a good job too,’ he answered sullenly. ‘It would have been a +quicker and more painless ending than this. Look at me now. I have +nothing. I have lost my ship, my position, my health, my money. I am +starving, and all through you.’ + +‘It is not so,’ she replied with spirit; ‘you may have lost +everything, but it is through your own fault.’ + +‘Well, I am punished for it, as much as even _your_ heart could +desire,’ he replied. ‘I am dying, and without the bare necessaries of +life, whilst you are living in luxury at Highbridge Hall.’ + +‘Who told you of me or my doings? Why did you come here?’ she asked. + +‘Seth Brunt--the only true friend I ever had--saw you at Deepdale last +year, and wrote me word of it. I came as soon as I had the money, to +appeal to you--to your compassion, if you will--to spare me a few +shillings in my need.’ + +At this her woman’s heart melted. + +‘Oh, Carl, you cannot have thought so badly of me as to imagine I would +refuse. Only, it must be on one condition, that you do not disclose our +former connection to the people around you.’ + +‘You are ashamed of having been my wife,’ he said bitterly. + +‘I am ashamed that, _having been_ your wife, I am so no longer. It is +the divorce that shames me, Carl. I am the wife of a good man, and the +mother of his child, and I should bring disgrace on both of them if +your identity were known.’ + +‘You have not told the man you call your husband, then?’ + +‘He _is_ my husband--by law and love--as sacredly as any man could be, +and I _have_ told him _everything_. Only, he thinks you dead (as I +did), and if he discovered the contrary it might cause great trouble +between us, for he does not believe in the morality of divorce.’ + +‘And suppose _I_ don’t believe in it either,’ exclaimed Bjornsën, +‘suppose I choose to assert my former claim on you, what then?’ + +‘Then I should put the matter into the hands of the police, and ask +my husband to take me away from Deepdale until it was settled. Don’t +try to threaten me, Carl. You have no hold on me except that which is +evoked by the memory of the past.’ + +‘I am not so sure of that,’ said Bjornsën, in the hoarse weak voice +which was so often interrupted by coughing. ‘You have a child, you +say, by this man. Where is your other child--_my_ son--whom you stole +from me?’ + +‘Poor little Paulie! He is gone,’ replied the mother, with quivering +lips, ‘but his fate is a mystery. We think he was lost over the +Grassdene cliffs.’ + +‘Oh, you think _that_, do you? And you mourned his death, of course,’ +he said sneeringly. + +‘I did. I _do_ mourn it to this day,’ replied Paula, with the tears in +her eyes. + +‘Would you be glad to have him back again?’ + +She hesitated a moment. Would she be glad to receive back the poor +imbecile child whose existence had been a trouble to himself and +others, and whose presence she could never ask Hal to endure at +Highbridge Hall? + +‘Why ask me such a question?’ she returned. ‘He is safe in Heaven. Who +would wish to draw him thence again?’ + +‘That’s all you know about it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s all you care to +know about it. But you asked me just now why I had come to Haltham. +_This_ is my reason. Look here.’ + +And drawing down the dirty blanket, he showed her the face of a child +sleeping by his side. She pressed forward, curious and yet incredulous +as to what she should see there. + +God in Heaven! It was the face of Paulie! + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +ON THE TRAIL. + + +At that sight the stream of pity which had commenced to flow in Paula’s +heart for the abject and miserable wretch before her dried up, and her +eyes blazed with furious indignation. She seized the child in her arms, +and retreating with him to the further end of the room, stood like a +creature at bay, whilst she hurled a torrent of angry reproaches on +Carl Bjornsën’s head. + +‘You wretch! You mean, pitiful wretch! You inhuman brute! Not content +with injuring me to that extent that my poor boy was born an idiot, you +stoop to steal him from me--me, to whom the law of England as well as +the law of God had consigned him. And you killed my mother by it. Yes, +you are a murderer, as well as a drunkard, and I hate and despise you +more than I can say.’ + +‘I--killed--your mother?’ stammered Carl Bjornsën. + +‘You did! you did! She was found dead in her chair--dead of heart +disease, accelerated by the grief of Paulie’s loss. We could not +account for it then, but I see it all now. _You_ were the supposed +tramp that decoyed away the servant Eliza and the child, and I suppose +when she had served your purpose you cut her throat and flung her away +in a ditch. You are quite as capable of the one deed as the other.’ + +‘No no!’ exclaimed the man, in a shaking voice. ‘It is untrue. I did +not. The girl is safe in a situation in London. She wanted to stay +there. It was her own wish.’ + +‘And what did you do it for?’ cried Paula angrily. ‘What object had you +in taking the burden of this poor helpless lamb upon yourself?’ + +‘What did I do it for?’ he repeated, in a tone of the most hopeless +misery. ‘Look at me, and read the answer to the question in my +condition. Paula, for the last twelve months I have been starving. I am +so ill I cannot work. I have not the strength of that child.’ + +‘It has been brought on by your own fault. You have drank yourself to +this state. You were prosperous and healthy once, but you threw the +blessings God gave you into the gutter.’ + +‘That is true, but so is the other. When I stole the child, it was with +the hope he would bring me bread. I heard you had married again--that +you were well off and prosperous--and I thought you would pay me for +bringing back your child. I didn’t know till I had seen him that he was +an idiot.’ + +‘An idiot for whose idiotcy God will hold you responsible, Carl +Bjornsën.’ + +‘Perhaps. But one of which you were doubtless thankful to be quit.’ + +‘It is untrue. We have searched for him far and wide. His uncertain +fate has laid like a heavy load upon my heart.’ + +‘You have him back again now, then, and you can take him away with you +if you choose.’ + +‘Why did you not bring him to me before?’ + +‘I could not. I have been at death’s door for the past six months. I +have walked now, by slow stages, all the way from London, and I shall +never leave this town. He and I have starved together.’ + +Paula glanced at the child, still sleeping in her arms. He was +feather-weight, and his body was frightfully attenuated. His little +face was shrunk to nothing. The sight of him made her burst into tears. + +‘Oh, how cruel you have been,’ she exclaimed, ‘to take him from a safe +and happy home, and half kill him like this. My poor little Paulie, +who cared for nothing but the birds and flowers. What a life he must +have led with you in London. How had you the heart to do it to your own +child?’ + +‘I wanted money. I wanted bread,’ replied Bjornsën hoarsely. ‘If you +had ever starved, you would not ask me such a needless question. I +thought your mother’s love would have given me a hold over you for the +rest of my life. But I couldn’t get at you before, and I have been too +ill to write. Indeed, I didn’t know where to write to. I knew Brunt had +seen you somewhere near Haltham, and I was just beginning to set my +inquiries on foot when your horses knocked me over yesterday.’ + +‘How long have you been here?’ + +‘Only a few days.’ + +‘And how are you living?’ + +‘_Living!_’ he echoed, glancing round the bare attic. ‘Do you call +this living? I haven’t swallowed food for days. The few pence I have +gathered tramping have gone in drink, to keep my body and soul together +till I met you.’ + +A vision of what Carl Bjornsën had been when she married him flashed +suddenly across Paula’s mind--of the somewhat coarse-featured yet +bright and intelligent young Swede, with his blue eyes and his yellow +hair, standing on the deck of his own vessel, and looking every inch a +sailor--and then she glanced at the unshorn, dirty, emaciated figure on +the bed, and burst into a flood of tears, as she pressed little Paulie +closely to her breast. + +‘Oh, Carl,’ she sobbed, ‘I _am_ so sorry for you. It is +terrible--terrible to meet you thus. But what I _can_ do I will for the +old times’ sake.’ + +‘You had better take the child home,’ he said, in a faint voice. ‘I +didn’t tramp with him all this way only to sponge on you. That’s what +I _meant_ to do, if I’d had the strength, but I’ve broken down now for +good, and no money can keep me in the world. And so I wanted to bring +Paulie to you, and ask you to take care of him--not for _my_ sake, you +know, but for the sake of what you once thought me.’ + +At these words Paula lost her fear of her former husband, and +approached the pallet on which he lay. + +‘Carl,’ she said gently, ‘I have not forgotten those days, and I try +to think of them as kindly as I can. I have not much money at my own +command, but what I have shall be yours. You must move from this +wretched room without delay. It is not fit for a--a--gentleman, and I +will hire a nurse to look after you.’ + +‘No good,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘What nurse would undertake +the charge of such a patient? Besides, it will be all over in a few +days. The doctor said as much last night. Why, I’ve no lungs left. I +coughed them up months ago.’ + +‘Poor Carl,’ she murmured softly. + +‘Only, you take the youngster back with you, and I shall be content,’ +he continued. ‘I sha’n’t die easy unless he’s in your hands.’ + +Paula started. How could she take the boy back to Highbridge Hall +without revealing everything? Her heart sunk within her. It was +impossible. + +‘I cannot take him home with me to-night,’ she answered. ‘I have +already told you that Mr Rushton is not aware of your existence.’ + +‘Tell him of it, then.’ + +‘I _dare_ not. Oh, Carl, have pity on me. He loves me so, and I tremble +lest this knowledge should interrupt our peace. It would be impossible +to take Paulie to Highbridge Hall without the whole village hearing of +it. I must have time to prepare them for seeing him.’ + +‘And meanwhile he may die,’ said Bjornsën. ‘The doctor said last night +it was very doubtful if he would recover, and I can’t attend to him. +He’s so weak, he sleeps all day. Some morning I shall find he’s gone to +sleep for good. If you want to save his life, take him away.’ + +‘My poor little child!’ cried Paula, kissing him. ‘I will go and +consult Dr Brown on the subject. There is a children’s ward in the +hospital. Perhaps they will take him in there.’ She laid Paulie down +again by his father’s side, and taking out her purse, put its contents +into Carl Bjornsën’s hand. ‘As I go downstairs,’ she said, ‘I will +send the woman of the house up to you. Order what you want to make you +comfortable--but food, Carl, food, not drink, for Heaven’s sake--and I +will come and see you again to-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the doctor +about Paulie; and if they send for him from the hospital, you will let +him go?’ + +‘Anywhere, so we don’t see each other die,’ replied Bjornsën roughly, +as he clutched the money she handed him. + +She hardly knew how to take leave of him. There lay the man whom she +had married and borne a child to, and yet they were less than nothing +to one another. She loved Hal Rushton devotedly. She would not have +exchanged his affection for that of any man living, and yet it was +impossible to forget she had been Carl Bjornsën’s wife, and it seemed +dreadful to leave him, dying and poverty stricken, without a kindly +word. So she laid her hand timidly on his and said,-- + +‘God bless you, Carl. It pains me more than I can say to see you like +this.’ + +He did not answer her, but turned his face towards the wall, and Paula +closed the door and went downstairs with a beating heart. This time she +found Mrs Sims alone in the lower room, wondering not a little what +kept the lady with her dirty lodger in the attic so long. She went up +to her with a crimson face and said,-- + +‘The poor man upstairs is very ill, I am afraid, and so is the little +child.’ + +‘Yes, ma’am, so Sims says, but I ’ope we’re not going to ’ave a death +in the ’ouse. It do go against rooms so.’ + +‘I am sure they are in great want of food,’ continued Paula, ’and I +have given him a little money to procure it. Will you get him what he +may want? Some strong soup--and milk for the child?’ + +‘And where am I to get soup from at this time of day, ma’am?’ replied +Mrs Sims, ‘nor milk heither. Why, the milkman’s been come and gone two +hours ago.’ + +‘Very well. I will send some in. But you can give him some clean sheets +and pillow-cases, surely. It must be wretched for him to lie on the +ticking.’ + +‘Oh, I’m quite agreeable if so be as ’e can pay for them,’ replied Mrs +Sims, as Paula slipped away. + +She had done all she could for the present, but she felt that she must +see Dr Brown before she left Haltham. It was a terrible risk, she knew. +With a man like Carl Bjornsën, who had drank half his wits away, it was +quite impossible to say what disclosures might not be made. Yet still +(she said to herself), if all the world were made cognisant of her +former relationship to him, she must still do what she was doing if she +desired to live the rest of her life in peace, or to die with any hope +of mercy. It was now past five o’clock, and the winter’s afternoon was +closing in. Few people would have recognised her as she hurried by in +her dark clothing. No one _did_ recognise her except Ted Snaley, who +had skulked about in the shadows for an hour outside the Sims’ house +whilst she was engaged with Carl Bjornsën within, and who started +after her as soon as she left it. + +Paula found the little doctor in his surgery, having just come in from +his parish work. + +‘Ah, Mrs Rushton,’ he said, as he recognised her, ‘I hope I see you +quite recovered. That drunken fellow has a lot to answer for.’ + +‘I understand you visited him yesterday, doctor.’ + +‘And what could I do less, when a certain lady seemed so anxious about +him,’ said the gallant Dr Brown; ‘and, indeed, when I saw the state of +destitution in which the poor creature lies, I was sorry I had refused +the kind gift you offered me for him.’ + +‘I have just come from him,’ she answered hurriedly, ‘and he has +sufficient for his immediate need. But, doctor, the poor little child. +What can we do for him?’ + +Her companion looked grave, and stroked his chin. + +‘Ah, yes! It is very sad. It seemed very far gone to me.’ + +‘But we must save it,’ she cried anxiously. ‘We must take it away at +once. It is murder to leave it there. Is there not a children’s ward in +the hospital?’ + +‘But not for aliens, my dear lady. Besides, this is a case of +starvation--not of disease. Perhaps the workhouse authorities might be +persuaded to take the child in until--’ + +‘No, no; he shall not go to the workhouse!’ exclaimed Paula, and then +seeing Dr Brown look surprised at her vehemence, she added: ‘You see, I +feel myself rather responsible in the matter, having knocked over his +father yesterday.’ + +‘My dear lady, you no more knocked him over than I did. However, I +don’t want to check your benevolence. I think I know of a woman who +will take care of the poor little fellow.’ + +‘Oh, who is she?’ + +‘She is the wife of my night-porter and the mother of my errand boy. +A most kind-hearted creature, who takes in children occasionally to +dry-nurse. Is your mother at home, Sam?’ + +‘I think so, sir.’ + +‘Go and tell her to come round to me at once. She lives in the next +street,’ he explained to Paula, as the lad disappeared. + +‘What do you think of the poor man himself?’ she asked next. + +‘Oh, with _him_ it’s only a matter of time. He might die to-day, and he +may live for a week or two.’ + +‘No more?’ she exclaimed. + +‘Certainly no more, and I doubt if so much.’ + +‘Oh, doctor, pray do everything you can to ease his sufferings. +I will see that you do not lose by it. It is terrible to see +a--a--fellow-creature dying amidst such wretched surroundings. Cannot +we move him to more comfortable rooms?’ + +‘I wouldn’t attempt it, madam. Yesterday was his last day out. I found +a visible decrease of strength in him last night, and I don’t think +he could stand the exertion of a removal. He would probably die by the +way. The only thing to be done for him now is to see he has what he +requires till the change comes.’ + +‘I--I--suppose he was tipsy when he fell down yesterday, Dr Brown?’ + +‘I have no doubt of it, and also that a very small amount of liquor +would have an effect upon him. The poor fellow is in the very last +stage of consumption, induced by his excesses. His body is quite worn +out. Nothing could save him now. And he is still young, and must have +been good-looking at some time. What a pity to see a man, who might +have had the world before him, deliberately kill himself. And do you +know, Mrs Rushton, that from the few words he said to me I fancy he +must have seen better days. I mean that he is by birth a gentleman.’ + +‘Oh, no, no! It is impossible!’ she cried quickly. ‘And, Dr Brown, +these men who habitually drink, their brains break down, and they take +such queer fancies in their heads sometimes. You can’t believe what +they say, can you?’ + +The doctor was puzzled by his visitor’s query, and the anxious way in +which she put it, but he answered it just as she wished. + +‘Why, of course not. I shouldn’t dream of taking the word of a man like +that. But here is Mrs Wilfred.’ + +And thereupon there entered to the surgery a plump, rosy-faced woman, +to whom the doctor explained the case, asking if she would take charge +of the child, and telling her that Mrs Rushton of Highbridge Hall would +be answerable for the expense. + +‘And don’t spare it, Mrs Wilfred,’ added Paula, rather imprudently; +‘give him plenty of new milk, and eggs, and everything that will make +him strong. He used--at least Dr Brown says they must have seen better +days--and I have no doubt he has been used to everything of the best. +Poor wee mite! It will make your heart ache to see him. You can count +his bones.’ + +‘I will take every care of him, my lady,’ replied the country woman, +with a curtsey, ‘and the doctor here knows what I did for Mr William’s +baby when its poor mother died, and he thought himself there was no +hope for it.’ + +‘You are quite right, Mrs Wilfred,’ replied the doctor. ‘You’re an +excellent nurse, and if anyone can pull the poor child through, you +will. Stay here, and as soon as I’ve seen this lady to her carriage I +will walk round with you to Sims’, and you can bring him back. Take +a blanket with you, though, for he’s none too well clothed for this +frosty weather.’ + +‘He must have clothes. I will see about them to-morrow,’ said Paula +feverishly. + +‘And now, where is your carriage, Mrs Rushton?’ + +‘I drove the pony chaise to-day, and I left it at the “Black Horse,”’ +she replied. + +‘Afraid of running over another tipsy gentleman?’ he remarked jauntily, +as he stepped to the market-place by her side. + +‘I fancy Mr Rushton was half afraid of it, Dr Brown, for he is +exercising the frisky mare himself to-day. I am not quite sure,’ +continued Paula, ‘if he would approve of the visit I have paid this +afternoon. He would say I should have left it to you. Will you keep my +secret, doctor? It has eased my conscience, and no harm’s done.’ + +‘My dear lady, you may depend upon my silence, now and ever,’ replied +the little man, who was wonderfully attracted by her many charms. + +He was rather surprised, all the same, to hear her order Mrs Spriggins +of the ‘Black Horse’ to send up a bowl of her best soup and some +calves’-foot jelly to number fifteen Barefoot Lane without delay, and +place the dainties to her account. To be benevolent and anxious to +repair a supposed injury was one thing, but to purchase expensive soups +and jellies for the benefit of a wretched drunken vagrant was another, +and as Dr Brown handed Paula into her pony chaise, and received her +nervous farewell, he could not help wondering if she were as interested +in the fate of all the beggars she encountered. + +Meanwhile Ted Snaley, having followed her to the doctor’s surgery +and the ‘Black Horse,’ went back to his mother, bursting with the +information he had acquired. + +‘Well, Ted, my boy,’ said the widow, as he entered the room, ‘you’ve +been a tidy time after my lady. You don’t mean for to tell me as she +’asn’t gone ’ome till now? Why, it’s nigh on six o’clock.’ + +‘I’ve honly just seen ’er drive off,’ replied Ted, ‘and hif I’m not +mistook, hit’s the prettiest kettle o’ fish as hever _you_ see.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted, you don’t say so!’ exclaimed his mother, with joy gleaming +in her little green eyes, as she seated herself with her elbows on the +table. ‘Tell me all about it, there’s a good lad. His it a lover?’ + +‘Well, now, don’t be in sich a ’urry, and I’ll begin from the +beginning. There’s been a stranger--a kind of shabby gentleman +like--lodging with the Sims’ in Barefoot Lane for some days past, for +Jack Sims ’e’s spoke to me about him, but when I ’eard Mrs ’Al asking +for Sims’ next door I never thought of them. ’Owever, when I started +after ’er, I seen ’er speak to Brown’s boy, and then what did she do +but set hoff for Barefoot Lane, and sure enough she went into number +fifteen.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted, whathever for?’ + +‘That’s what I determined to find out, so when Jack comes out hafter +his tea I gets hall I can from ’im about their lodger. And ’is name’s +Bonson, and ’e’s got a child with him, and Mrs ’Al she’d gone straight +hup to ’is bedroom and ’e in bed.’ + +‘My, ’ow undecent!’ + +‘Well, she was there a hower. I waited and waited till I was sick on +it. At last my lady come out of the door, talking to Mrs Sims, and I +’eard ’er say as she’d given this Bonson money, and she’d send hup +soups and jellies for ’im at once.’ + +‘’Ow I do wish ’Al could ’ave ’eard her.’ + +‘He shall ’ear it in good time, never you fear. Well, after that, I +follows ’er to Brown’s surgery, where, in course, she was shut in, +and I couldn’t ’ear what they said. But arter a while Sam, the boy, +’e comes out and runs to ’is ’ome in Parton Street, and brings back +Mrs Wilfred, ’is mother. By-and-by they hall comes out, and I ’eard +the doctor telling Mrs Wilfred that when ’e’d seen Mrs ’Al into her +carriage she was to go along of ’im and bring the child back from +Barefoot Lane.’ + +‘Lor’, Ted, it’s the most hinteresting thing I ever ’eard. And what +next?’ + +‘Why, Mrs Wilfred and Sam they stayed on the surgery steps, and Dr +Brown ’e walked with Mrs ’Al to the “Black ’Orse.”’ + +‘Do you think _’e’s_ sweet on ’er, Ted?’ + +‘Don’t know, I’m sure, but it looks like it, don’t it? He walked as +close as ’e could to ’er, _that_ I see. And when they got to the “Black +’Orse,” he put her into the shay and wrapped the fur rug round ’er and +buttoned hup the apron. Oh, she’s a deep ’un, mother. I bet she’s got +’alf-a-dozen ’anging to ’er apron-string. And afore she went off she +ordered the best soup and jellies as Mrs Spriggins ’ad got to be sent +hup at once to Barefoot Lane. Now, what d’ye make of that?’ + +‘Ted,’ replied Mrs Rushton oracularly, ‘I’ve a hinspiration. That there +man in Barefoot Lane his the same bearded creetur as was locked up with +madam in the school’ouse.’ + +‘Why, now you mention it, ’e _’ave_ a beard. Jack Sims said so. And +’e’s a foreigner too--a moosoo--and talks a kind of broken like.’ + +‘_That’s_ ’im--that’s ’im!’ cried the widow, rubbing her rough hands +together with malicious delight. ‘Mr Gribble said ’e’d a rough sort of +voice. And so she’s whistled ’im back again. Pretty doings, indeed! And +there’s a child, too. Ted, you must get a sight of that there child +to-morrow, if you dies for it.’ + +‘There’s nothink heasier. I’ll call at Mrs Wilfred’s and hask if she’s +at liberty to take a nurse child. Sam says she never ’as more than one +at a time. Then she’ll show me this one, and I’ll ’ear the why and +the wherefore, and I’m blowed if we don’t lay a train as will blow +’Ighbridge ’All up to the skies.’ + +‘There’s a deal more in it than meets the heye, Ted,’ acquiesced his +mother. ‘I’ll take my hoath of that, and ’Al will live to be sorry as +’e hever drove me out of the ’All. ’Ow shall we tell ’im? ’E won’t ’ear +nothink against ’er, particular from us.’ + +‘We’ll ’ave to write it anonymous, and send it ’im through the post. +Rouse ’is suspicions, and get ’im to watch ’er, and ’e’ll find it all +out for hisself quick enough. Not as I think ’e’ll get rid of ’er +for it. She’ll lie to ’im too well for that. But it’ll make ’em both +miserable, and ’e’ll never ’ave no trust in ’er again, and that will +pay off a part of our debt to ’er--eh, mother?’ + +‘It’ll pay off a good part, my boy,’ she replied, patting him on the +back. ‘A very good part. And when shall we send the letter?’ + +‘Not till to-morrow. I ’eard ’er say she’d come in to town again +to-morrow, and I’ll be on the lookout for ’er, mother, and dog ’er +footsteps wherever she goes. We shall be more sure of it when I’ve +seed it for the second time.’ + +‘Lor’, how pleased Mrs Gribble and Mrs Haxworthy will be,’ was Mrs +Rushton’s last remark as they dropped the subject. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +THE WIFE’S DECEPTION. + + +As Paula found herself on the highroad to Deepdale again, and her hands +ceased trembling and her excitement was somewhat calmed, she began +to ask herself what she should say to Hal. It was now six o’clock--a +most unusual hour for her to be out in at that time of the year, and +when she reached home (thanks to ‘Tubby’s’ slow pace) it would be past +seven. The long interview with Carl Bjornsën, and the conference with +Dr Brown, had taken up much more time than she had anticipated, and her +heart sunk at the prospect of the long seven miles before her, and the +catechism that awaited her at the end of them. It was true she had the +baby’s rusks to produce as a reason for her unexpected journey, but +what pretext could she give for having been so long bringing them home? +She almost wished (as she thought over her perplexity) that ‘Tubby’ +would tumble down and break his knees, and afford her a good excuse +for the delay, but ‘Tubby’ was far too sensible and steady a beast for +that. At one time she had almost made up her mind to take Hal into her +confidence, and tell him everything, and it would have been well for +them both if she had adhered to the resolution. But the remembrance of +his anger at her reticence, when he heard she had been married--of his +firm belief that her first husband was dead--of his extracting a solemn +promise from her (even under that supposition) never to mention Carl +Bjornsën’s name before him again--and of the many times since their +union that he had expressed his thankfulness that she had been a widow +before they met, as he would never have married her under any other +circumstances, made her afraid to disclose the truth. How _could_ she +go to Hal and say, ‘However innocently, I have deceived you. I am not +a widow. My divorced husband is alive. He is now in Haltham, dying in +dirt and disease, and he has thrown my idiot child once more upon my +care?’ She could fancy Hal’s face as he heard the news: his jealous, +passionate face, which would change even at the slightest allusion to +the past, and her courage quailed before it. If he heard of this, she +felt the very least that he would do would be to order her never to see +Carl Bjornsën again, but to leave the brute who had half killed her to +the fate that he deserved. After it was all over--she said to herself, +shivering, and Dr Brown said it could not be very long--she would make +a full confession to her husband. But until then she must succour the +unfortunate creature whose last hours seemed to have been cast, as it +were, upon her mercy. Yet her heart quaked as she turned ‘Tubby’s’ +little obstinate head into the stable yard of Highbridge Hall and James +Green came forward to receive him. + +‘So the master’s in?’ she tried to say jauntily. + +‘In, ma’am,’ replied the groom. ‘He was back three hours ago, and he’s +been asking for you everywhere.’ + +Feeling very guilty, Paula jumped to the ground and ran up to the house. + +‘Where is your master?’ she inquired of Louisa, who opened the door. + +‘I think master’s gone over to the vicarage to look for you, ma’am,’ +was the reply. + +‘Hasn’t he had his dinner, then?’ + +‘Dinner went up at six, as usual, but master sent it down again, and +said he’d wait for you. Didn’t you meet him, ma’am?’ + +‘No. How should I?’ said Paula shortly, as she went up to her room. + +The vicarage had been her forlorn hope. She had thought, if she told +her husband she had called there, that Mary Measures, however grieved +and surprised at the subterfuge, would not have betrayed her, and the +forgetfulness of time might have been accounted for. But now she had +positively nothing to fall back upon except the rusks. Her head spun +when she thought of it. But she found time before Hal’s return to +change her dress, and brush out her fair hair, and remove all traces of +hurry or alarm from her countenance, and when she heard his footsteps +in the hall she ran down to meet him and to be the first to accuse +herself. + +‘Oh, Hal, dearest, what must you think of me? I am horrified to see the +time. I did not think it was nearly so late.’ + +Hal Rushton was a very jealous man, but not in the least suspicious +without a cause, and his sole idea on seeing her was thankfulness that +she had come home. + +‘My darling,’ he exclaimed as he kissed her, ‘what a fright you have +given me. Where have you been, and what has detained you?’ + +‘Nurse might have told you that I had gone to Haltham to get baby some +rusks--you know I can only get them at Moon’s--and it is all the fault +of that little beast “Tubby,” who went slower than a donkey.’ + +‘But why didn’t you tell me this morning that you wanted to go to +Haltham to-day? I would have driven you in myself. You must know that +the old pony is hardly fit for such a long journey.’ + +‘I didn’t know this morning that we were out of rusks. However, all’s +well that ends well.’ + +‘I don’t think it _has_ ended well,’ replied Hal, rather ruefully. ‘You +have given me an awful fright, and I expect the dinner’s spoiled.’ + +‘Oh, no! Cook is too clever for that. But let us order it up at once, +and forget this unfortunate _contre-temps_ of mine.’ + +Hal did as she desired, and until his hunger was appeased he did not +revert to the subject of her long absence. But with the wine and +walnuts it recurred to his mind. + +‘I cannot understand, Paula, how even “Tubby,” with his jog-trot pace, +can have taken between five and six hours to get into Haltham and back. +Bob told me you started by half-past one.’ + +‘I didn’t hurry the little brute, and I had been driving nurse and baby +about the village for some time before I started. I tried to urge him +on at first, but when I found it was no use, I let him go his own pace, +and I really thought at one time I had better get out and walk.’ + +‘It was foolish of you to attempt it at all,’ replied her husband, with +more reproach in his voice than he had used before, ‘and please don’t +do it again without letting me know. What did you do in Haltham?’ + +Paula was not used to deceit, and she could not help reddening as she +replied,-- + +‘Nothing, except get the rusks.’ + +‘Did you wait whilst Moon made them?’ + +She laughed nervously. + +‘I might just as well have done so for the time he kept me.’ + +‘Did you run over any more tipsy men?’ + +She blushed still deeper--in fact so deeply that no one could have +helped observing it--as she replied,-- + +‘What nonsense. As if I had an accident every day.’ + +‘Well, did you hear anything about your injured vagrant?’ + +She answered in a very low voice, ‘No!’ + +‘I don’t think the new mare will give you any more trouble. I took her +round the farm first, and then gave her an hour’s gallop on the downs. +She seemed rather pensive as she turned into her stable. I fancy she’ll +think over it to-night, and to-morrow I’ll drive you myself, and see +how she goes.’ + +‘Oh, Hal dear, there is no need. I told you it was not her fault. I am +not in the least afraid of her.’ + +‘I daresay not, my darling, but you are too precious to be allowed to +run any risk. Let me see, though. To-morrow is the meet, so I am afraid +you’ll have to be satisfied with old “Tubby” again. But, for goodness’ +sake, don’t take him into Haltham.’ + +‘Mayn’t I ride with you to see the hounds throw off, Hal?’ + +‘Of course, if you wish it. But it will be at ten o’clock, and you +don’t generally like to be in the saddle so early. Besides, to tell +you the truth, Paula, I particularly want to send Green over to Parton +Bridge to-morrow on an errand connected with the farm. But he will be +back by twelve, if you will postpone your ride to the afternoon.’ + +‘But why can’t I ride home that little way without a groom? You are too +particular, Hal. The Dashwoods never have a groom behind them.’ + +‘They are only farmer’s daughters, dear, and there are three of them. +And the meet is at Bostock to-morrow, two miles off.’ + +‘But only country lanes to come back in. Who will see me, Hal? And if I +_were_ seen, what matter. I am only a farmer’s wife!’ + +He smiled good-naturedly at the retort. + +‘But then, you’re the nicest wife in the county,’ he replied, ‘and I +can’t afford to lose you. However, if you will ride the old horse, you +shall have your wish, Paula. He will not bring you to any grief.’ + +But having gained her way, Paula’s forced spirits sunk again, and +she became suddenly dull and depressed. The thought of Carl Bjornsën +breathing out his last in that wretched attic, and of little Paulie +lying weak and wasted upon Mrs Wilfred’s knee, haunted her all the +evening. Nothing but fear had prevented her bringing her child home, +and now she despised herself for that fear. Her heart yearned over her +firstborn. The love which had sprung up for him when she believed him +lost to her for ever suffered no decrease from the knowledge that he +lived. On the contrary, she blamed herself, and she blamed the fate +that prevented his being by her side, and began to nurse a nervous +dread lest she should never see him alive again. And consequent on +this feeling there arose almost a distaste to the husband and the home +which were the obstacles to stand in the way of her doing her duty. +Even little Edith’s blooming health seemed a reproach to her when she +compared it with Paulie’s emaciation, and she put the infant (in whom +she had usually so much pride) away from her, and desired the nurse +to take it upstairs again, whilst she sat apart in a dark corner of +the low, long parlour, neither reading nor working, but unoccupied and +silent. + +‘Paula, my dear, are you too tired to give me a song?’ asked Hal +presently. + +‘Oh, yes, Hal. I couldn’t sing for the world. Pray don’t ask me,’ she +replied, in a broken voice. + +‘Why, of course not, if it worries you. But aren’t you well?’ + +‘I have a headache.’ + +‘It’s that confounded drive that has given it you. Hadn’t you better go +to bed? Nothing seems to please you to-night.’ + +‘You are right, Hal. I am tired, and out of sorts. I will take your +hint. Good-night.’ + +‘Good-night.’ + +It was seldom he let her leave him without a loving word, or a caress, +but something in her demeanour this evening--he could hardly say +_what_--repulsed him, and he scarcely looked up from his occupation as +she passed him by. She dragged her limbs wearily up to her own room, +and having declined all assistance, undressed herself and went to +bed. But she could not sleep. Visions of Carl Bjornsën’s haggard and +reproachful face--of her little Paulie’s wasted form--of the dirt and +destitution in which she had found them both, kept on passing through +her mind as she gazed with wide-open eyes into the darkness. + +‘They may be dying--_dying_--both of them,’ she thought, ‘whilst _I_ +lie here, chained and incapable of rendering them assistance. Oh, my +poor neglected and unloved baby! I must sleep--I _must_ sleep, or the +thought of you will drive me wild.’ + +An hour later, Hal Rushton’s slight ill-humour having quite evaporated, +he joined his wife upstairs, and was surprised to find her still awake. + +‘Oh, Paula, this will never do,’ he exclaimed. ‘How are you to be in +your saddle by half-past nine to-morrow morning if you cannot sleep +to-night? You don’t go to Bostock if you are tired. What on earth is +the matter with you?’ + +‘Nothing--nothing,’ she said impatiently, as she closed her eyes and +turned her head the other way, and thought that if anything should +occur to prevent her attending the meet there would be no chance of her +getting to Haltham on the morrow. + +Hal made no further remonstrance, but was soon wrapt in a healthy +slumber by her side, and after some hours of self-torture, Paula +followed his example. But dreams of the scenes she had passed through +pursued her, and she stirred and moaned, and was so uneasy, that after +a while she disturbed her husband, who sat up in bed and regarded her. +The winter’s dawn was just trying to struggle into light, and he could +see how flushed and feverish she appeared as she tossed from side to +side of her pillow. + +‘What can be the reason of it?’ he thought. ‘I hope she has not caught +some nasty fever or other in her ramblings, and is going to be ill.’ + +But at that moment a muttered word from Paula arrested his attention, +and he bent over her and listened. + +‘Carl,’ she murmured, ‘_poor_ Carl!’ + +Hal started. He had never heard that name from her lips before, all +through their married life. In deference to his wishes, and her +plighted word to him, she had never alluded voluntarily to her past; +and when on occasions it had been absolutely necessary to mention it, +she had invariably called her late husband Captain Bjornsën. Hal did +not believe that she ever thought of him by any other name, and was +it likely she should be dreaming of her dead enemy with any feeling +of sentiment? _Who_ could this Carl be? He bent over her again, and +touched her slightly with his arm, listening with bated breath to what +might follow. + +‘Carl,’ she repeated; and then suddenly rousing herself, exclaimed, +before she knew where she was, ‘Oh, my heart, my heart!’ + +‘What’s the matter with your heart?’ said Hal unsympathetically, as he +flounced into his place again, and made her understand, in a bewildered +way, that she had committed herself. + +‘Have I been talking in my sleep?’ she asked quickly. + +‘Yes; and an infernal lot of rubbish. I wish to goodness you’d be +quiet, and let a man rest. It’s not five o’clock yet.’ + +‘Oh, Hal, I am so sorry,’ she exclaimed, trembling to think what she +might have uttered to make him speak in so rough a tone. + +She stretched out her hand, and laid it timidly on his, but he turned +away, shaking it off as he did so, and left her wondering at his +unusual manner, but afraid to ask the reason of it. + +However, eight o’clock struck at last, and Louisa’s welcome voice was +heard outside the door announcing the advent of her hot-water and +morning cup of tea, which had never seemed so grateful to her parched +lips before. Hal, too, seemed to have forgotten the episode that had +upset him, and kissed her affectionately before he took his departure. + +‘Are you sure you are fit to ride to the meet to-day,’ he asked her +when they met at breakfast, ‘for you passed a very restless night?’ + +‘Quite--quite fit, Hal,’ she answered earnestly. ‘Don’t say anything +against my going, please, because it will do me good. I know I was +restless. I hope I didn’t disturb you,’ she added timidly. + +Hal shrugged his shoulders, screwed up his face, and left the room, a +proceeding which says more on some occasions than many words. However, +he made no further objection to her accompanying him to Bostock, which +lay about two miles off, between Deepdale and Haltham; and as soon as +breakfast was over they mounted their horses and set off, Hal riding +his own hunter, and Paula the old mare, which went as well under saddle +as in harness. Green was to take the new one, which with ‘Tubby’ +comprised the whole of their stable, to Parton Bridge, so that unless +Paula could get to Haltham after she left her husband to follow the +hounds there was no chance of her doing so that day. She fancied that +Hal looked at her once or twice rather inquisitively during their ride, +but she hoped that it was only because he feared she was not well. She +exerted herself, therefore, to laugh and talk with him, but she was a +bad actress, and, unlike most bad actresses, she knew when she failed, +so that it was a great relief to her when they reached Bostock Hill, +and were surrounded by their friends and neighbours. + +‘Are you going to honour the Hunt with your company to-day, Mrs +Rushton?’ exclaimed Mr Foker, as he approached her. + +Paula shook her head, smiling, and Hal answered for her. + +‘No; that is the last thing in the world I will let my wife do--until +I want to get rid of her altogether. She has only come to see the +hounds throw off, and is going to ride home quietly through the lanes +afterwards, because she has no groom to attend her to-day.’ + +‘Then I hope she will allow me to accompany her,’ replied Mr Foker, +‘for I am not going to follow myself this morning. I must give my horse +a little rest this week, and shall be most happy to see Mrs Rushton +home if she will allow me.’ + +‘Thank you, I shall be much obliged if you will,’ said Hal. ‘I don’t +like her riding alone at all, but to-day it was unavoidable. Paula +dear, you will be pleased to have Mr Foker as an escort?’ he continued, +addressing his wife. + +‘Oh, delighted!’ said Paula, whilst her busy brain began at once to +think of some plan by which she might effectually evade the little +man’s attentions. + +‘Don’t let us stand still,’ she whispered to her husband; ‘it is rather +cold. Come round the field with me.’ + +But as soon as they commenced to move their horses she perceived, to +her horror, that Mr Foker moved his too. In a few minutes, however, +someone addressed a remark to him which he stopped to answer. Hal +Rushton was for pulling up and waiting for him. + +‘But why need we do that?’ said Paula. ‘He bores me. I would much +rather be alone with you.’ + +‘But since he has offered to ride back with you, had we not better keep +together?’ suggested Hal. + +‘Why should we? Am I not big enough to be seen? The probability is that +we shall be the only two people left behind, and I shall have had more +than enough of him before we reach Deepdale.’ + +She inveigled Hal by these means to the opposite side of the field, +where their horses were lost (for the time being) amidst a crowd of +sportsmen. Lord Warden, who was M.F.H. of the county, was there, with +a large number of friends, and Paula knew that Mr Foker would be too +modest to shove his horse in amongst them even if he could. Her ruse +produced the desired effect. Until the hounds threw off, Hal and she +were talking and laughing with numerous acquaintances, and the former +forgot all about little Mr Foker and his promised escort. When the +view-halloo was at last given, and the hunt fairly started, he had +only time to call out, ‘Keep a tight hold over her till we’re gone’ +(alluding to the mare), before he had followed them. Now was Paula’s +chance. Without a thought of her husband’s warning, she gave her mare +the rein, and galloped the length of the next field after them. Then, +pulling up at a gate, she unlatched it, and entered the lane beyond, +and stood there, quietly sheltered by the high hedge, until the +sportsmen were out of sight; and Mr Foker, supposing that after all +pretty Mrs Rushton had changed her mind and followed the hounds, turned +his horse’s head in the direction of Deepdale alone. What will not a +spirited woman do to gain her own way? Paula heaved a sigh of relief +as through the leafless hedges she watched him depart, and thought how +nearly through his good-natured stupidity he had marred her plans. As +soon as the coast was clear she urged her mare into a smart trot, and +arrived with little delay at Haltham. The first place she called at, +after leaving her horse at the little inn in the market-place, was the +doctor’s surgery, which she found crowded with his free patients. + +‘You are over early this morning, Mrs Rushton,’ he exclaimed, as he +came to the door to receive her. + +‘Yes; but I won’t disturb you. I am not coming in,’ she answered. ‘I +only want to know Mrs Wilfred’s address, and how the child is.’ + +She tried to put the question indifferently, but there was a glitter in +her eye and a trembling anxiety in her voice which puzzled her hearer. + +‘Well, the child is better, I think--decidedly better. A warm bath and +plenty of milk have done wonders for him already. You will find him at +Mrs Wilfred’s, in Parton Street, and Sam shall go round with you and +show you the way.’ + +‘And--and--the man,’ she said in a low voice. + +‘The man is much the same, though (thanks to your benevolence, Mrs +Rushton) he has now many comforts around him, and has eaten well. But +he is past amendment. Shall I see you again before you leave Haltham?’ + +‘I think not. I am in a hurry. I cannot wait,’ replied Paula nervously, +and she walked away as fast as her habit would permit her. + +Sam ran after her to show her his mother’s house, and as soon as she +entered it she saw Paulie sitting up in a high chair at the table, +eating bread-and-milk. She was about to kiss him when she remembered +who he was supposed to be, and restrained herself. + +‘Oh, Mrs Wilfred,’ she exclaimed, ‘how is the little boy? I came to +inquire.’ + +‘Well, ma’am, he’s but a poor thing, as you can see for yourself, but +I believe he was well-nigh starved to death. I’m afraid to give him +anything but bread-and-milk, he eats so ravenous. And _that_ neglected, +poor lamb! You should have seen his delight when I gave ’im a warm +bath. He cooed like a baby. But he’s wrong in ’is poor head, ma’am, as +doubtless the doctor have told you.’ + +‘No; the doctor told me nothing except that he was better.’ + +‘There’s no doubt of it, I’m afeard. He can only say a few words, and +they’re not intelligible. He don’t seem to know how to talk. But he’s a +pretty creetur, and so gentle. Come, Charlie, speak to the lady.’ + +‘His name is Paul,’ said the lady, without thinking. + +‘Lor’, ma’am, is it now? I suppose his father told you, and I never +thought to ask the doctor. We must call him by it, then. Here, Paul, my +dear, do you hear nursie speak to you?’ + +But the child kept his eyes fixed on his bread-and-milk, and did not +take the slightest notice of her. + +‘Paulie,’ said his mother gently. + +At that sound something seemed to awake in the child’s feeble +memory--some ray of intelligence to strike his dim soul. A plaintive +smile played about his little mouth, and fixing his big grey eyes on +Paula, he uttered ‘Ga--ga! boo boo--ga!’ the syllables by which he used +to greet her mother. At the remembrance Paula’s soul was smitten to the +core, and she burst into a flood of hysterical tears. + +‘My dear lady, you mustn’t take on like this. Think of them at home,’ +cried the kind-hearted Mrs Wilfred, and the warning had the desired +effect. + +Paula did ‘think of them at home,’ and pulled out her handkerchief to +dry her eyes. + +‘It is foolish of me,’ she said, ‘but it is so very sad. I have a baby +of six months old that is more intelligent.’ + +‘And as well it may be, ma’am,’ cried the sympathetic Mrs Wilfred, ‘and +with a lady like yourself for its mother.’ + +‘This little fellow must have clothes,’ said Paula presently. ‘What is +he wearing now?’ + +‘Well, ma’am, those are some that my little David has outgrown that I +made bold to put upon him for the present, for his rags were in such a +state I couldn’t have them in the house.’ + +‘It was very kind of you, Mrs Wilfred, but as I mean to take care of +this poor little creature, you must get some for him. What will he +require?’ + +‘Well, ma’am, there’ll be shirts, and socks, and shoes, and a couple of +suits, and--’ + +‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ said Paula, interrupting her eloquence; ‘but +how much will they cost?’ + +She had begun to fear lest the money she had remaining in hand--about +seven pounds--would not be sufficient to supply what was needed for +Carl Bjornsën’s illness. And what would she do if it ran short and she +had to apply to her husband? + +‘Well, ma’am, if they’re to be nice serviceable things as will last the +child for some time, I should say from two to three pounds, for he must +have boots, you see, and--’ + +‘All right, Mrs Wilfred, let us say three pounds for the present,’ +replied Paula, as she produced the money. ‘And now, will you fetch me a +glass of water before I go? I am so thirsty.’ + +‘With pleasure, my lady,’ said the woman, disappearing to draw the +water from the well in the back garden. + +No sooner was she gone than Paula seized her child in her arms and +kissed him passionately. + +‘Paulie, Paulie,’ she whispered, ‘you shall not be left to strangers’ +care for long. _She_ loved you, my poor Paulie. She gave her life for +you, and your mother will love and protect you for your own sake and +hers. Oh! my poor, poor baby! My poor baby!’ + +The little child felt the warm bosom against which he was pressed, the +warm lips that caressed him, and his stunted nature seemed to expand +beneath it. + +‘Ma--ma!’ he articulated slowly. + +‘He knows me,’ thought Paula, with a sudden joy; ‘he will learn to +recognise and love me. Oh, thank God! thank God!’ + +The tears were glistening on her eyelashes as she hastily drank the +water that Mrs Wilfred brought her and left the cottage, not daring to +trust herself in the presence of her afflicted child any longer. + +She had still to visit Carl Bjornsën, and her knees knocked together as +she entered Barefoot Lane and asked for admittance at number fifteen. +The reception she met with was not encouraging. + +‘I’ve come to see Mr Bonson, your lodger,’ she said, as Mrs Sims opened +the door. + +‘Be he a relation of yours?’ demanded the woman curiously. + +Paula was taken aback, and began to stammer. + +‘_A relation!_ No. What makes you think so? A poor beggar like that.’ + +‘Oh! he ain’t always been a beggar, my ’usband says, and whether or no, +’e’s our lodger, and it ain’t usual for ladies to visit single men in +their bedrooms.’ + +Paula trembled with indignation from head to foot. + +‘How _dare_ you speak to me like that?’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you know who +I am? Mrs Rushton of Highbridge Hall. Do you suppose my husband does +not know of my visits to this sick man?’ + +‘I didn’t mean no offence, ma’am,’ said Mrs Sims, who saw she had gone +too far, ‘but my ’usband ’e won’t never let _me_ go into the lodgers’ +bedrooms except to clean them, and ’e said ’e should feel much more +comfortable like if Mr Rushton came along of you.’ + +‘Tell your husband to mind his own business,’ replied Paula loftily, as +she passed her to go upstairs. ‘I have a message from Mr Rushton for +this man, and I intend to deliver it.’ + +‘Oh! ’ave your own way, ma’am, in course,’ retorted the wife of Sims; +‘’tain’t no business of _mine_ what you do, but people _will_ talk, and +it ain’t the usual thing for ladies as is ladies to visit single men in +their bedchambers.’ + +So Paula heard her grumblings grow fainter and fainter from below, as +she climbed the creaking staircase, feeling more sick at heart about +her errand than she had done before. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. + + +Carl Bjornsën was lying on his bed, a little less dirty and +dishevelled, perhaps, than the day before, but still haggard and +unshorn, and with a sullen look upon his dying face. The room, +moreover, smelt strongly of brandy. + +‘Oh!’ cried Paula, as she involuntarily shrunk backward, with a gesture +of disgust, ‘you have been drinking. You have broken your promise to +me. You will kill yourself before your time.’ + +‘_Before my time_,’ he answered moodily, ‘as if my time wasn’t close at +hand, and a bottle of brandy or two would make much difference to it. +And what else did you suppose I should do with your money--the money +you dole out to me as if I were a beggar, whilst you drive backwards +and forwards to see me in your carriage, or come on horseback: Curse +you!’ + +His bitter words roused her spirit. + +‘If this is your gratitude,’ she cried, ‘I will not come again. I have +run a great risk in visiting you simply because I thought it was my +duty. But there can be no duty owing to a man who knows no better than +to bite the hand that feeds him.’ + +She turned away, and was about to descend the stairs, when she heard +the rasping guttural voice call after her. + +‘Paula! Paula! Don’t leave me. I am dying here alone.’ + +Of course she went back to him then. No woman with a heart in her bosom +could have done otherwise. But she did not approach the bed. Bjornsën +had flung himself, face downwards, on his pillows, in an attitude of +despair, but to have touched or caressed him would have seemed like an +infidelity on her part to Hal. + +‘Oh, Carl,’ she exclaimed, ‘why are you so ungenerous? Is it _my_ fault +that my husband is good to me? Am I to suffer all my life because your +cruelty spoilt the best part of it?’ + +‘But I lie here and think of it till it would drive me mad--unless I +had the brandy. _You_ to come to _me_ in furs and feathers, and talk of +your husband and your carriage--_you_, who were mine--_mine_--and who +would be mine to this day, if I had my rights.’ + +‘Thank God, I am not!’ she cried indignantly. ‘How did you treat me +when I was yours--with blows and curses.’ + +‘It was not I--it was the drink. I loved you, Paula, but you were cold +and indifferent, and you despised me, and the thought drove me wild. +But I am sorry for it now.’ + +‘I am glad you are sorry, Carl,’ she answered more gently, ‘because you +know that you must soon stand before your Maker, and He will accept +your sorrow as a reparation for your sin. And He will forgive you, as I +do.’ + +‘Will you come and stand by me when I die?’ he asked her hoarsely. +‘Will you hold my hand till my soul has left my body? It frightens me +to think of going alone.’ + +‘I will come if I am able,’ she replied; ‘but you must not forget that +I live seven miles from here, and I am not my own mistress.’ + +‘And you were once _my wife_,’ he muttered. ‘God! how strange it seems +that you should stand by me with dry eyes and speak to me as you do +now.’ + +‘Does it? Is it not stranger that you should forget the terrible gulf +you opened between us with your own hand, and that you should have sent +the unhappy girl you promised to cherish home to her mother, bruised +and bleeding, and with an idiot child to keep as a remembrance of you? +Carl, this is a solemn time for both of us, but I cannot forget (even +in the midst of it) that you were no husband to me, but only an inhuman +taskmaster.’ + +‘That’s right, kick a man when he’s down. It’s the way of women,’ +replied Carl Bjornsën fiercely. + +‘I hope not. I know that _I_ feel nothing but a kindly wish to +alleviate your sufferings now. But try not to think of me or the past. +Speak only of yourself. Is there anything more that I can do for you?’ + +‘Not to-day. I’ve got my brandy, thanks to the old woman, and that’s +better than wife or child to me.’ + +‘Paulie is better, you will be glad to hear that, and I have placed him +with a kind woman, who will nurse him back to health.’ + +‘All right. I sha’n’t live to see it. He is under your care now, and +you are responsible for him.’ + +‘Do the people here attend properly to you, Carl? Have you all you +require?’ + +‘Yes; all I want is to be left alone, if you have no better consolation +to give me than that.’ + +‘Then I will go,’ returned Paula; ‘but don’t let us part unkindly, +Carl. There has been enough of that between us already.’ + +‘And now that you have a fine house and a good income, and everything +you require, and are well out of my clutches, you can afford to be +generous. That’s about the long and the short of it, eh?’ + +Paula bit her lips to prevent an angry reply. + +‘I mean that I should like my last thoughts of you to be happier than +they were at first. For all that has happened between us, Carl, I +forgive you freely. Say that you forgive me, if anything in my conduct +led to it.’ + +‘You can believe anything you choose, and comfort yourself with any +humbug you like. If the real truth were known, you hate me, and will be +very glad when the earth rattles over my bones. But you dole out your +money as a salve for your conscience when I’m gone, and you can’t deny +it.’ + +‘I _do_ deny it,’ replied Paula. ‘I have done what I could for you, +because I pity you, and I think it is my duty, for the sake of what +you once were to me. But my conscience requires no salve, and if you +choose to regard my kindness in so pernicious a light, I cannot help +it. Good-bye, and may God forgive you.’ + +She turned, even as she spoke, and went down the stairs without casting +another glance behind her. + +As soon as she reached the little inn, she mounted her horse and rode +quickly homeward. She was frightened at what had taken place, and at +what might follow it. Since Carl Bjornsën had once more hold of the +brandy bottle, there was no saying what disclosures he might choose +to make. As Paula thought of it her heart beat like a sledge-hammer, +and she wished she had never been so foolish as to seek out the man. +Yet poor little Paulie! No, no! It must have been God’s hand that had +led her to the rescue of her unfortunate child, who would have been +sent to the workhouse without her assistance. Yet she was feeling very +miserable and very perplexed about it all when a circumstance happened +that threw her into a state of the greatest perturbation. As she rode +past a lane that led to a neighbouring village, her husband turned +quietly out of it, and stood in the road regarding her as if she had +fallen from the skies. + +‘_Paula_,’ he exclaimed in a voice of astonishment ‘where on earth do +you come from? I thought you promised me to ride straight home.’ + +‘_Promise._ Did I promise?’ she replied, in the utmost confusion. ‘Oh, +I think not, Hal. If I had promised, I should have done as you say--’ + +‘But why didn’t you go home? You know my objection to your riding +without a groom.’ + +‘Well, to tell you the truth, I felt as if I should enjoy a longer +ride, and so I cantered a little way up the highroad. It is quite safe +here, you know.’ + +‘You must have had a pretty good long canter,’ observed her husband +gravely. ‘It is two hours since we parted.’ + +‘Is it really? But what brings you back so soon?’ she said, trying to +speak lightly. + +‘My horse cast a shoe near Balcombe, so I am taking him gently home. +But I little thought I should meet you.’ + +‘My dear Hal, don’t talk as if I had committed a crime.’ + +‘I am vexed at it, I tell you frankly. Where did you leave Mr Foker?’ + +‘Little Foker? I’m sure I don’t know. The mare started when you threw +off, and carried me over the first field. And by the time I returned he +had gone--at least I never saw him again.’ + +‘He must have thought you rather discourteous. I wish you had told me +you were going to ride further.’ + +‘My dear boy, how could I tell you if I were not sure of it myself? May +one never have a sudden fancy? The day is fine, and I felt equal to it. +So I thought I would take advantage of both circumstances. Is there +anything so wonderful in that?’ + +‘Perhaps not. But I wish I had known it beforehand,’ he repeated +obstinately. + +And then they rode home together in silence, both occupied with their +own thoughts. As they stood in the hall together, and Hal was placing +her riding-whip and his crop in the rack, he observed quickly,-- + +‘I wish you’d be _quite_ open with me, Paula.’ + +She imagined he knew everything then, and started violently. Even in +the darkened hall he could see the vivid colour rush into her face. + +‘What do you mean?’ she cried. ‘How am I _not_ open with you?’ + +‘I don’t mean to accuse you of regular deception, only I think, when +we were discussing the advisability of your riding back from Bostock +without a groom, that you must have had _some_ idea of extending your +morning’s exercise. And I would rather you had told me, even if I +disapproved of it. I should like to think you were always quite frank +with me, dear.’ + +She was about to frame some quick reply when a glance at his handsome +honest face disarmed her. She _had_ deceived him (though Heaven knew +how unwillingly), and he had every right to be angry with and reproach +her. A sudden sense of guilt smote her conscience, and she threw her +arms round his neck and burst into tears. But that was a penitence far +beyond what Hal wished to see or had attempted to provoke. + +‘Why, my darling!’ he exclaimed affectionately. ‘Is this the effect +of my words? What a brute I must be. I only wished to caution you, my +sweetheart. I am so anxious about you whenever you are out of my sight. +It is only my love that made me speak, Paula. Oh, don’t cry like that +or I shall wish I had never mentioned it.’ + +‘No, no, Hal. You are right, and I am wrong. And I _will_ be open with +you--I will, I will.’ + +A convulsive sob rose in her throat, and choked her further utterance. +Her husband bent over her and kissed her fondly. + +‘Now, Mrs Rushton,’ he said gaily, ‘I won’t have any more of this. The +servants will think I have been beating you. Luncheon is ready, and so +am I, so come along and give it me at once.’ + +He drew her into the dining-room, and began to talk of other things, +and Paula was only too glad to change the subject and let it drop into +the great gulf of forgetfulness. But as they rose from table it was +renewed. + +‘Lend me some money, love,’ said Hal carelessly. ‘Parrish is waiting +below to have his bill settled, and I have parted with all my cash.’ + +‘How much do you want?’ asked Paula, all in a flutter. + +‘Let me see,’ replied her husband, as he drew a piece of paper from his +waistcoat pocket and examined it, ‘three pounds seventeen and six. I’ll +give it you back to-morrow.’ + +Paula trembled. She knew she had not so much money left in her purse. + +‘Must you pay Parrish to-day?’ she said. + +Hal shrugged his shoulders. + +‘_Must_,’ he echoed; ‘there’s no must in the matter, only the man is +poor, and this is the second time he’s called for the settlement of his +account. Why can’t you let me have it?’ + +‘Because--because,’ she stammered, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t as much money +left, Hal.’ + +‘Nonsense, my dear. You forget. I gave you ten pounds last Monday.’ + +‘I know you did. But--but--I have spent it.’ + +Hal laughed. He thought she was joking. + +‘_How_ could you have spent ten pounds in a week, Paula? What have you +spent it on?’ + +‘I--I--can’t remember, at least not in a minute. I suppose I’ve +frittered it away on little things. I’m very sorry, but it is almost +all gone, Hal.’ + +‘How much have you left?’ he asked gravely. + +Paula opened her purse, and with a shaking hand counted out twenty-two +shillings. + +‘Whew!’ whistled Hal, ‘that is of no use. Well, I don’t want to find +fault with you, my girl, but I _do_ think eight pounds eighteen +shillings rather a large sum to throw away in five days, and +particularly when you can’t remember what you spent it on.’ + +‘I’m afraid I’ve been extravagant,’ faltered Paula, with a burning +face. ‘But--but--’ + +‘Well, never mind, dear, for this once,’ said Hal kindly (for his was a +most generous nature), ‘but don’t forget that our income _has_ a limit. +I will pay Parrish with a cheque instead, which is against my rule, as +the country people look with great suspicion on a piece of paper as an +equivalent for goods received.’ + +He went laughing from the room, but left Paula miserable, and wondering +why he should have asked such a favour of her on the very day when she +had been unable to grant it. Almost all her ten pounds, she knew, had +gone in the cause of Carl Bjornsën and little Paulie, and yet she had +stood like a culprit before her husband, and feared to confess it. How +she longed to tell him everything. How she hated the secret that lay +between them, as she dragged her weary limbs up to her room and threw +herself on the bed in an abandonment of despair. + +Meanwhile Hal Rushton dismissed his creditor and walked forth into +his grounds, whistling softly to himself. He had not given a second +thought to Paula’s little bit of extravagance. It had surprised +him because it was so unlike her, but he never interfered with the +expenditure of her money, and he was a light-hearted young fellow who +threw off care as a duck does water. He met his baby and her nurse in +the drive, and taking little Edith in his own arms, carried her round +the stables, and drew her chubby hand over the horses’ sleek coats--for +he was determined she should grow up to love all dumb animals as he +did, and often talked of the day when she should ride round the farm +with him on a little pony--and then he superintended the grooms’ +work, and walked down to the milking-shed, and took a look at the new +plantation at the end of the drive, and visited the poultry woman to +order the number of fowls that were to be slaughtered for market. After +which, followed by half-a-dozen dogs, he strolled down to the village +smithy to give directions about the shoeing of his hunter, and by the +time he had finished talking to various friends whom he met on his +way, and turned his footsteps again towards Highbridge Hall, it was +past five o’clock, and the winter’s dusk was falling. + +He was walking steadily along the road, whilst his dogs were burrowing +in the banks after imaginary rats or starting the birds in the adjacent +fields, when the village postman came tramping behind him. + +‘Any letters for me, Jones?’ asked Hal cheerily, as the man reached his +side. + +‘Yes, sir; and it’s the last in the bag. I was going up to the Hall +with it now.’ + +‘Give it to me, and I’ll save you the trouble of going further,’ +replied Hal. + +‘Thank ye, sir,’ replied the postman, as he handed him the letter and +turned back again. + +Hal Rushton took the envelope in his hand and examined the address +mechanically. As has been said before, his correspondence was seldom an +interesting one, and he did not recognise the handwriting, which looked +like that of a tradesman. It was nine chances to one that he did not +put it in his pocket unopened but the one chance predominated, and he +broke the seal, and taking out the enclosure, he read it in the waning +light. As his eye fell on the words which it contained his brow became +ominously dark, and his unused hand clenched at his side. + +‘Liars! cowards!’ he exclaimed aloud, as he finished the epistle. +‘By God, if I ever catch them, I will make them pay for this wicked +slander.’ + +He fixed his eyes again upon the letter, and read it over two or three +times in succession. It ran somewhat after this fashion:-- + + ‘SIR,--The Ladies of Haltham would like to know who the gentleman + at No. 15 Barefoot Lane, to whom Mrs R. is so attentive, may be. + They presume he is a relative, as ladies don’t lavish their money or + their presents, in an usual way, on strangers. Nor yet visit them in + their bedrooms. Perhaps he is _an old acquaintance_. Haltham is proud + to have had the honour of Mrs R.’s company three days running, but + would like to know the reason, and so I daresay would you.--From + those who wish you well out of it, + + THE LADIES OF HALTHAM.’ + +Hal Rushton was not a man to pay any attention (in an ordinary way) +to an anonymous letter. If it had not tallied so much with his own +observation, he would have torn it in pieces, and scattered it to the +four winds of Heaven, and never given it another thought. But he was +in love with his wife, and he had considered her behaviour during the +last three days very strange, to say the least of it. Her unusual +demeanour when she returned from Haltham on Wednesday with the story +(a fabrication, perhaps) of having run over some tipsy vagrant, and +fainted from the fright; her decided refusal to ride with him on +Thursday, on the plea of preferring a walk, and then slinking off to +Haltham again in the pony chaise to buy rusks, which the stable boy +might have fetched for her at any time. And then her restlessness at +night--Hal clenched his teeth when he thought of it--and her murmuring +a man’s name, ‘Carl,’ in her sleep. He knew that ‘Carl’ had been her +first husband’s name, but the brute was dead, and she had both feared +and hated him. She would never breath _his_ name without an execration. +But Carl was a very common appellation. There were hundreds of Carls +knocking about England, worse luck. _Which_ of them all had the wife +of his bosom been thinking of when she murmured that name? Then the +occurrence of the morning--Paula’s decided disregard of his wishes, and +her confusion on being asked the reason--the condition of her horse, +lathered with foam, which proved how hard he had been ridden--and, +Heavens! the money he had asked her for and she had been unable to +produce--what had she done with it? And why did every detail of her +behaviour coincide with this cruel and slanderous letter? Although +the afternoon was chilly, the sweat stood on Hal Rushton’s brow as +he remembered these things, and his inability to account for them. +He was very jealous of his wife’s affection, and he had a right to +be, for ever since their marriage his heart had been as open to her +as the day, and he had never done a single thing which he would have +been ashamed for her to know. But though he despised and condemned the +writer of the letter which was giving him so much pain, he could not +help acknowledging that Paula’s actions tallied with its insinuations. +But who could the man be, and was it possible she had visited anyone +without his knowledge? If she had done so, he argued it must have been +for the sole purpose of charity, which, like most of her good deeds, +his White Rose did in secret. + +But why not confide in him, then--his common sense argued for him--why +so much blushing and confusion and reticence--such unusual petulance +as Paula had exhibited the last few days--such prevarication and +uncalled-for emotion? Something was at the bottom of it, Hal felt sure +of that--not the contents of this wretched letter, which he crumpled +up and thrust into the deepest recesses of his pocket, but something +of which he had not been told, and which had unfortunately led to it. +His first idea was to go straight home to his wife and show her the +anonymous letter, and ask her for an explanation. And yet an inward +feeling held him back. Would it not seem like an insult to her purity +even to seek the refutation of such a scandalous falsehood? Would Paula +ever forgive him for doubting her? Would it not be better to wait +patiently until she came of her own accord and laid the explanation +in his hands? But his mind did not confine its reasoning to the event +of the moment. It wandered back over the past, and reviewed every +circumstance that had militated against his wife’s popularity in +Deepdale. That first _escapade_ in the schoolhouse. Of course she +had explained it all satisfactorily to himself, and though he had +never seen Seth Brunt, he had accepted her version of the story, and +believed that the man who had been killed in the railway accident +was the same who had visited her in the schoolhouse. But he had no +proof of it, and now this wretched letter, with evident allusion to +the same circumstance, hinted that Paula’s _protégé_ at Haltham +was ‘an old acquaintance.’ Was it possible that everybody knew more +of the matter than he did, and that the evident dislike which the +Deepdale matrons had conceived for his wife arose purely from their +disbelief in her integrity? Could _that_ be the reason that Lady +Bristowe had discontinued to visit them, and that Mrs Measures seemed +so uncomfortable and confused when he mentioned the subject to her? +He would wrest the truth out of Mary Measures, though (Hal thought to +himself fiercely), if he died for it. People should not say things +about Paula behind his back that they were afraid to say to his face. +Yes, that was his last determination. He would repeat nothing of what +he had heard to Paula. He would bear the pain of it as best he could +by himself. But he would take the first opportunity to consult Mrs +Measures in a roundabout way. And meanwhile he would prevent his wife +from going into Haltham again, and see how she took it. If she were +passive in the matter, she could have no strong motive for going +there. And if she had, she would betray it in her face. But yet he +did not--_could_ not doubt her. Hal shed a few tears as he strolled +up and down in the quickly gathering darkness, and then, ashamed of +his weakness, dashed them away, with an oath, and began to make long +strides towards home. But when he reached the Hall he entered the +gun-room, where he usually transacted his farming business, and locking +the door behind him, ordered Louisa to tell her mistress that he was +engaged, and did not wish to be disturbed. And then he sat down, and +laid his head upon the polished desk, and remained in the same position +all the evening, trying to decide what he should do. When supper was +announced, he rose and stumbled into the dining-room, with ruffled +hair, and eyes reddened by thought and anxiety. + +Paula feared at first he had been drinking, his appearance was so +unusual and his answers so curt and roughly spoken. And when she +rose, and tenderly inquiring if he were well, placed a hand upon his +shoulder, he jerked it off (not quite unkindly, but as though the +touch oppressed him), and pleading a headache, walked out again into +the night air, leaving her mournfully surprised at his behaviour, and +with a heart palpitating to learn the cause. Her visit to Carl that +morning had not left her very anxious to see him again, but she felt +that she must know each day how he was going on, or the end might come +without her knowledge. In fact, the unhappy girl did not know _what_ +to do. She dared not confide in her husband--she dared not confide in +the doctor--and the vision that haunted her was that of Carl dying +alone, and being thrust into a pauper’s coffin and huddled into a +pauper’s grave. It was too terrible. He was a bad and reckless man, +who deserved neither pity nor compassion, but he was the father of her +child, and with some women that very natural fact goes an unnaturally +long way. Her tender, romantic temperament, even in the midst of a +domestic happiness which she would have died sooner than resign, +could not help compassionating the luckless creature who had thrown +all his worldly chances away. And though she shrunk from his touch, +and despised his weakness, she was restless away from him, and could +settle down to nothing in Deepdale, whilst she did not know what was +going on at number fifteen Barefoot Lane. She quite anticipated that, +after her apparent rebellion of that morning, Hal would offer to be +her escort on the following day, and she had arranged a most ingenious +plan by which he was to leave her at a certain linendraper’s shop to +choose long-cloths and flannels for her clothing society, whilst he +transacted whatever business he might have in Haltham. She could easily +persuade him that her task would take an hour--there was so much to do +and select--and that would give her ample time to run round during his +absence both to Mrs Wilfred’s and Barefoot Lane. She wanted to take +some toys to little Paulie, to call up a smile in that wan, vacant +face, and to feel she had done something to make the poor little fellow +happy. But when the morrow, which was a Saturday, came, she found her +husband proof against all her entreaties that he would take her for a +drive. + +‘Hal dear,’ she commenced at breakfast, ‘what are your plans for +to-day?’ + +‘I have made none,’ he answered, almost sullenly. + +‘Then shall we ride or drive?’ + +‘Neither.’ + +‘What do you mean, dear?’ + +‘I mean that the horses have been overworked lately, and I intend to +give them a rest.’ + +‘_Overworked_, Hal?’ she repeated incredulously. + +‘Yes. They’ve had too much going in and out of Haltham to my mind, and +a day’s stable will do them good. Horses are not made of cast-iron, as +women seem to think. And you’ll be all the better for a rest too, I +daresay.’ + +Paula did not know what to make of his manner, but she coloured as she +answered gently,-- + +‘That is just why I hoped you would drive me into Haltham, dear. I +thought I would choose the materials for my clothing society at +Millar’s.’ + +‘Not to-day. You must put it off for a while.’ + +‘But to-morrow will be Sunday,’ she argued. + +‘Yes. And Monday is a hunting day, when I shall require a couple of +horses for myself, and have promised to lend the mare to the vicar’s +nephew. So, you see, the clothing society will have to wait.’ + +‘I _do_ see. And that the convenience of the vicar’s nephew and +yourself come before mine.’ + +‘Well, d--n it all, you’ve been into Haltham every day this week!’ +exclaimed Hal, with a sudden burst of passion that was very unlike him +to exhibit. + +Paula rose quietly, and left the room without another word. It was +the first time such a scene had taken place between her husband and +herself, and she was quite unable to account for the cause. She knew +nothing of the anonymous letter, that still lay crumpled up in the +pocket of Hal’s shooting jacket. If she had, she would have gone down +on her knees and confessed everything to him. All that day she was +terribly restless, and Hal watched her actions keenly. She felt as +if she could not stay in the house, but wandered about the grounds, +as she deliberated what (in the event of her husband continuing his +prohibition) she could possibly do. Her feud with the Deepdale ladies +rebutted hardly here, for there was not one whom she could ask in a +friendly way to give her a lift into Haltham. Mrs Measures, it is true, +possessed a pony carriage, but her steed, alas, was not much better +than ‘Tubby,’ and was seldom called upon to do more than a couple +of miles, as he dragged the vicar’s wife round the village on her +parochial duties, and stood contentedly before each door whilst she +talked with her humble friends within. And, beside Mary, there was no +one from whom Paula could humble herself to ask a favour, neither was +there such a thing as a fly or a vehicle of any sort to be hired in +Deepdale. She thought of her drives in Lady Bristowe’s chariot with +a sigh--even Mr Gribble’s ‘phee-aton’ would have been an acceptable +conveyance to her now. But she tried to console herself with the hope +that all would go well in Haltham till the following week, and that +Hal’s extraordinary whim about the horses would evaporate before she +had any need to use them. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +THE DÉNOÛEMENT. + + +But she need not have imagined that Hal took no notice of her mood, or +of her actions, for he watched both with the eyes of love sharpened +by jealousy to those of a lynx. As she wandered aimlessly round the +garden, or sat in a chair, with her listless hands lying folded in her +lap, her husband was wondering if it were possible she was thinking of +anyone but himself. When two people who really love each other lose for +a while their trick of mutual confidence, their manners must become +strained and uneasy. Both Paula and Hal were suffering deeply--he, who +had been ready to stake his life upon his wife’s immaculate fidelity, +from a terrible suspicion that, like many another man, he had been +deceived--and she, because the world seemed too hard and cruel to walk +through, and for the moment she was out of love with life, and dreaded +lest even what had appeared to her a solemn duty might prove the +destruction of her happiness. She did not know that Hal was watching +her, but _she_ watched _him_ at every furtive moment, fearing to read +some suspicion of her in his face, or to hear him demand an immediate +explanation of her visits to Haltham. The position she found herself +in, and the difficulties which loomed for her in the future, combined +with the certain knowledge that, sooner or later, an explanation must +ensue, made her restless, irritable, and unlike herself. The next +day was Sunday, a bright, clear morning, and Hal Rushton supposed +that, as usual, his wife would go to church. He was not a church-goer +himself--he disliked the formality and publicity of the whole +proceeding--but Paula had always attended the morning service, and +especially since she had become so intimate with Mary Measures. But on +this particular Sunday, though the church bells were ringing through +the village, she kept her seat before the fire, and made no attempt to +move. + +‘Are you not going to church this morning?’ he inquired. + +‘No, Hal; it is too cold. I prefer to stay at home.’ + +Her husband laughed, not altogether agreeably. + +‘I’m afraid whoever saw you riding or driving about all the week would +stare at that excuse, Paula. The thermometer is three degrees higher +than it was yesterday.’ + +‘Is it? But I am not aware that I owe an excuse to anybody.’ + +‘Perhaps not; but if you condescend to give one, let it be the truth.’ + +‘You have grown very particular all of a sudden, Hal. I will say I am +lazy, then, if that will suit you better than the cold.’ + +‘Or that you have no inducement to leave the house to-day, eh, Paula? +Well, then, I’ll stay at home and keep you company.’ + +‘Yes, do, Hal,’ she answered, more briskly than he had anticipated, +‘and I will write some of your letters for you if you will let me.’ + +She held up her face to him for a kiss as she spoke, and he was just +about to give it her, when a sudden recollection seemed to strike him, +and he evaded the temptation and passed on. Her apparent pleasure at +his remaining at home had seemed so like sincerity until he remembered +that it was Sunday, a day on which he never allowed his horses nor +servants to be worked without an actual necessity, and that she had +no possible means of getting into Haltham without creating a public +scandal. The baby opportunely appeared at this juncture, however, to +prevent any attempt at explanation, and in romping with her the young +parents forgot for a while their mutual anxieties. But as soon as +little Edie was relegated to her nursery the same gloom settled down +upon them--wretched doubt on one side, and harrowing suspense upon the +other. As soon as their early dinner was concluded, Mary Measures +walked in, anxious to learn what had kept Paula from the morning +service. + +‘I was so afraid you might be ill, dear,’ she exclaimed, as she +affectionately embraced her, ‘and so I persuaded Edward to let me come +over and spend the afternoon with you.’ + +‘How good of you, Mary, to give up the schools and afternoon service +for my sake,’ replied Paula. + +‘Oh, my dear, don’t think me wicked, but if you were a clergyman’s wife +you would know what a relief it is to miss church sometimes. Of course +I am glad to be able to help my husband in his parish duties, but when +it comes to week after week, and year after year, it is apt to grow a +little _ennuyante_, and it is quite delightful to get a holiday. And I +have really earned it, for I had no sleep last night from toothache. +But here am I talking of myself, and not a word about you. What is the +matter, Paula? I have not seen you all the week. Are you not well?’ + +‘Oh, yes, I am all right,’ replied Paula, ‘only dull and tired.’ + +‘Dull? What have you been doing with yourself, then? Why didn’t you +come over to me? Mr Rushton frightened us out of our wits on Thursday +by declaring you were lost, but Green told our man you had only +attempted to take “Tubby” into Haltham. Why didn’t you call at the +vicarage for our “Tommy,” dear? The two harnessed together might have +stimulated each other’s energies. What time did you get home that +evening?’ + +‘Oh, not so very late,’ replied Paula confusedly; ‘but in a stupid +village like this one cannot be out an hour after one’s usual time +without creating a sensation. But come upstairs and take off your +things, Mary, and let us have a cosy afternoon together.’ + +‘So we will, dear; but I must be back in time for evening church or +Edward will be reading the Commination Service over me.’ + +The ladies left the room together, and went up to Paula’s chamber. As +Mrs Measures was engaged before the looking-glass, Louisa’s voice was +heard at the door, saying,-- + +‘Can I speak to you for a moment, ma’am?’ + +With an excuse to her friend, Paula went into the corridor to confront +the servant. + +‘What is it, Louisa?’ + +‘If you please, ma’am,’ said the girl, in a mysterious whisper, +‘there’s a man below as brought this note from Haltham, and he says he +had strict orders to see it delivered in your own hands and no one’s +else’s.’ + +Paula’s cheeks grew pallid as she opened the envelope. It was from +Dr Brown, and the contents fulfilled her worst anticipations. Carl +Bjornsën was sinking rapidly, and begging to see her again. The little +doctor apologised for sending the news to her, but he was perplexed how +to act, and thought she had better know the truth. The man could not +live through the night. That was his opinion, and he left her to act as +she thought best in the matter. The corridor seemed to spin round with +her as she read the note. What was she to do? How _could_ she act? She +pressed her two hands against her temples to try and still the buzzing +in her ears. + +‘Lor’, ma’am, how white you look,’ cried the girl, with whom her +mistress was a great favourite. + +Paula placed her hand upon Louisa’s shoulder. + +‘Yes, Louisa,’ she said gently, ‘I am not well; but don’t mention it +to--to--anybody.’ + +Then she pulled out her pocket-pencil, and writing the words ‘_I will +come_’ at the bottom of the note, she refolded it, and told her maid to +direct the man to carry it back to his employer just as it was. + +‘Send him away as quickly as possible,’ she added faintly, ‘and don’t +let them talk about it downstairs. And, Louisa, be in my room in half +an hour. I have something particular to say to you. And--and--you will +be silent?’ + +‘I won’t say a word to no one, dear mistress,’ replied the girl firmly, +as she went on her errand. + +Paula returned to the bedroom, and taking up a flask of +_eau-de-cologne_, threw it liberally over her face and head. + +‘Paula, you are _not_ well,’ exclaimed the vicar’s wife; ‘you are as +white as a sheet.’ + +‘No, dear Mary, I am not well,’ she replied, ‘but please don’t mention +it before my husband. I ask it as a particular favour. You will oblige +me greatly by remembering it.’ + +‘Of course I won’t,’ said Mrs Measures; ‘but let us go back to the +fire. I’m afraid you have caught a chill.’ + +Hal was still lounging in the dining-room, but when he saw his wife +enter with Mary Measures he left them together and went out of the +house. Paula fidgeted about for some time, unable to think of any +excuse to leave her friend, when suddenly she said she had some +directions to give in the kitchen, and flew up to the bedroom instead, +where Louisa was patiently awaiting her. + +‘Louisa, will you be my friend,’ she exclaimed, ‘and help me in a great +perplexity?’ + +‘Oh, mistress, you may depend on me. Didn’t I nurse you through all +your illness before Miss Edith came? And I know you have trouble, +ma’am. I can’t help seeing it.’ + +‘You can be a great help to me, Louisa, if you will, and I’m sure you +can trust me to ask you to do nothing wrong. There is a person in +Haltham who is very anxious to see me, and I must go over there. Help +me to do so. I see no possible way, and I feel nearly distracted.’ + +‘But surely, ma’am, the master will let you have the carriage?’ + +‘No, no, Louisa; the master mustn’t know that I have gone. Don’t look +like that, girl. It is duty that takes me there, but a duty he does not +acknowledge.’ + +‘Can’t you pretend to be sick, ma’am?’ + +‘But Mr Rushton would enter my room.’ + +‘Not if I said you had one of those terrible attacks of neuralgia, +that make you almost blind. I’ll say you’ve taken one of your doses of +chloral, and then he won’t think of disturbing you.’ + +‘Oh, thanks, Louisa. That is a clever thought, and you must tell Mrs +Measures the same.’ + +She put on her hat and cloak as she spoke, and prepared to descend by +the back staircase. + +‘Pull down the blinds of my room, Louisa, and lock the door, and keep +the key in your pocket, and let no one in till I return. Tell Mrs +Measures I have been taken suddenly ill, and have gone to bed. Make my +apologies to her--say anything you like.’ + +‘But, dear mistress, how are you going?’ cried Louisa. ‘You can’t walk +all that way, surely!’ + +‘I don’t know. I must try. Some vehicle may pass me on the way. Only do +as I tell you,’ and Paula flew down the staircase like a bird. + +Louisa lowered the blinds and locked the door, and walked demurely down +to the dining-room, where Mrs Measures was poring over a magazine. + +‘If you please, ma’am,’ she began, ‘my mistress sends her love to you, +and she’s very sorry, but she can’t come downstairs again just yet. +Her head’s so bad.’ + +‘Why, what’s the matter, Louisa?’ exclaimed Mary Measures, rising from +her seat. ‘Is Mrs Rushton ill? I will go to her at once.’ + +‘No, if you please, ma’am,’ said the maid, barring the way. ‘She +gave me strict orders she was not to be disturbed. She’s got one of +them terrible attacks in the head. It came on suddenly when she was +upstairs, and she nearly fainted. So I gave her one of her doses of +chloral, that Dr Addison ordered for her, and she’s gone to bed, and +mustn’t be spoken to till she rouses of herself.’ + +‘Oh, of course, if she has taken chloral,’ replied the vicar’s wife, as +she reseated herself; ‘but I wish she had sent for me first. However, +I’ll wait here for a little while and see if the attack goes off.’ + +She had sat there for the rest of the afternoon, however, feeling a +little vexed by Paula’s conduct, when Hal came in, and she repeated the +story of his wife’s illness to him. + +There is nothing quickens a man’s intelligence like jealousy. Every +sense is on the alert then, and ready to add its quota to conviction. +As soon as he heard the word ‘chloral,’ Hal brought his clenched fist +down upon the table with an oath. + +‘It’s a lie!’ he exclaimed fiercely; ‘a d--d lie, to cover some other +subterfuge. She can’t have taken chloral. There’s none in the house.’ + +‘Mr Rushton,’ gasped the vicar’s wife, offended and alarmed, ‘what can +you be thinking of to speak in such a way before me?’ + +‘Oh, forgive me, Mrs Measures. I don’t know what I am saying. I think I +must be going mad.’ + +‘But why should you doubt that poor Paula had taken chloral? You know +she often does so.’ + +‘Because it so happens, Mrs Measures, that the bottle is empty. I took +it from her wardrobe some days ago, to try its effects on a poor brute +that had to be operated on, and forgot to tell my wife that I had used +it. Who told you this untruth?’ + +‘It was Louisa, but she delivered it as a message from her mistress. I +fancy you will find you are mistaken, Mr Rushton.’ + +‘We will decide the matter,’ he replied, as he rung the bell. Louisa +answered it. ‘You told Mrs Measures that your mistress had taken +chloral and gone to sleep?’ he said. + +‘Yes, sir,’ replied the girl firmly, though she was trembling like a +leaf, fearing he had met Paula on the road. ‘She has one of her bad +headaches, and she told me to let down the blinds, and she locked the +door and took a dose of chloral, and went to bed, and left strict +orders she wasn’t to be disturbed.’ + +‘Did you see her take the chloral?’ + +‘Yes sir.’ + +(How beautifully women can lie when they have a mind to it. In whatever +else they may fail, they are past-masters in the art of deception.) + +‘And from what bottle did she take it?’ + +‘From her own bottle, sir, that she keeps in the wardrobe.’ + +‘You are deceiving us, Louisa. There is no bottle of chloral in the +wardrobe. I took it away days ago.’ + +The girl grew white. + +‘The mistress told me--’ she faltered. + +‘Where is your mistress? Tell me the truth.’ + +‘Up in her bedroom, sir.’ + +‘I’ll go and prove it for myself,’ said Hal, as he strode to the door. + +‘But, sir--sir,’ cried Louisa pitifully, ‘she is asleep. You must not +wake her. You know what the doctor said.’ + +‘I shall not wake her. People under the influence of chloral sleep very +soundly. Give me the key of the room.’ + +‘It is locked inside, sir.’ + +‘Then I shall break it open,’ exclaimed Hal resolutely. + +‘Oh, Mr Rushton,’ interposed Mrs Measures, ‘pray don’t do anything so +violent. Consider how alarmed poor Paula will be. Besides, why should +you doubt Louisa’s word?’ + +‘I have my reasons for doubting it, Mrs Measures, and I mean to be +satisfied. Louisa, when your mistress has taken chloral before, you +have always locked the door outside, and kept the key, so that we might +enter it if she slept too long. You have the key in your pocket now. +Hand it over to me.’ + +‘But, master,’ she commenced, whimpering. + +‘Do as I tell you. Give me the key.’ + +She drew it slowly from her pocket, and he snatched it from her and +rushed upstairs, whilst Louisa began to sob, with her apron to her eyes. + +‘Oh, Louisa, what is all this about?’ inquired Mrs Measures, in a tone +of mournful surprise. + +‘It’s nothing wrong, ma’am. Mistress has gone for a walk, that’s all, +but she thought the master would make a fuss about it, and so--’ + +She was interrupted by Hal rushing down again, with his face aflame +with anger. + +‘It is as I expected,’ he cried. ‘You and your mistress are in league +to deceive me. The room is empty--the bed untouched. Where has she +gone?’ + +‘I--don’t--know, sir,’ sobbed Louisa. + +‘Another falsehood, I suppose,’ he shouted at her. + +‘No, indeed, sir.’ + +‘Has anyone been here for your mistress to-day? I’ll discharge you if +you keep anything back from me.’ + +‘Only--a man--with--a note,’ replied the servant. + +‘Where did he come from?’ + +‘Haltham, please, sir.’ + +‘And she went back with him?’ + +‘Oh, no, sir; not for an hour afterwards.’ + +‘Very good, that will do. You can go,’ he said shortly, and Louisa +scuttled back to the kitchen, with a heavy heart. + +‘Mr Rushton,’ exclaimed Mrs Measures as soon as they were alone, ‘why +are you so angry with Paula? What does all this mean?’ + +‘_Mean!_’ he replied, in a broken voice, as he threw himself into a +chair, and hid his face in his hands, ‘it means that the woman I loved +and trusted in, as I trust in Heaven, has deceived me, Mrs Measures, +and that there is someone in Haltham at this present moment whom she +cares for more than she does for me.’ + +‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the vicar’s wife stoutly. ‘Someone has been +misleading you. I wouldn’t believe it from Paula’s own lips.’ + +‘Read that, then,’ he answered, pulling the anonymous letter from his +coat pocket, ‘and then tell me how I can help believing.’ + +She smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the written slander, word +for word, and then turned it over and read it a second time before she +said,-- + +‘And is it _possible_ that you can place the information of a vile +anonymous letter like this before all the affection which your wife +has lavished on you? Hal Rushton, I am ashamed of you! You should have +treated this communication with the contempt it deserves.’ + +‘And so I should, if her conduct had not tallied with its story. By +hook or by crook, she has managed to get into Haltham every day this +week, Mrs Measures, and I never should have found it out except by +accident.’ + +‘Well, and suppose she has. What of it?’ + +‘You see what the letter says. She goes to visit some man in +secret--some man to whom she gives money and presents. And all her +money is gone, too. What _am_ I to think?’ + +‘That Paula is your true wife, and incapable of deceit.’ + +‘What! after the specimen of her integrity you have just received?’ + +‘It has surprised me, certainly,’ replied Mary Measures, ‘but, as a +friend even, I would never doubt her until I had proved her untrue.’ + +‘You are more trusting than I am,’ said Hal Rushton, ‘or you have less +at stake. You would not speak so calmly if we were discussing the +conduct of your husband instead of that of my wife.’ + +‘I think I should--indeed I am _sure_ I should. I love my husband +dearly, and there can be no love without trust and confidence.’ + +‘As much confidence as Paula has placed in me,’ said Hal bitterly. + +‘You have yet to learn why she has felt compelled to withhold it for a +little while. I feel sure it will be _only_ for a while, and that with +the explanation of the mystery all your doubts will melt away into thin +air. Paula really interested in any man but yourself! Rubbish! I would +as soon believe I was in love with Mr Gribble.’ + +‘You are a staunch friend, and an able advocate, Mrs Measures,’ said +Hal gloomily, ‘but I cannot follow you.’ + +‘Let me be _your_ friend also, then. What is it that you suspect?’ + +‘Everything. My wife visits a man of whom she tells me nothing. Isn’t +that sufficient?’ + +‘This gentleman who lives at number fifteen Barefoot Lane,’ replied +Mary Measures, referring to the letter. ‘It doesn’t sound like an +aristocratic abode to me. Do you think she has gone there now?’ + +‘I feel _sure_ of it. Where else should she be gone? And why should she +have stooped to this deception?’ + +‘Why not clear up your doubts, then?’ + +‘How can I do it?’ + +‘By following your wife to this address, and judging, if she is there, +and _why_ she is there, with your own eyes.’ + +Hal sprung to his feet at the suggestion. + +‘I will, I will. But if,’ he added, covering his face with his hands, +‘if--God help me!--I should find it to be true.’ + +‘It is _not_ true,’ cried Mary Measures indignantly. ‘I would stake my +soul upon her purity. And in proof of it, take me with you. Take me to +Barefoot Lane, that I may convince you that my dear friend is above all +suspicion.’ + +‘Will you really come with me?’ + +‘Have I not said it? Men may suspect the creature whom they think they +love, but a woman’s friendship is too pure to harbour an unworthy +doubt. If Paula has deceived you, it has been for the sake of others, +and not for herself. Be a man, Hal Rushton. Follow her, and take her +in your arms, and tell her never to insult your love again by being +afraid to tell you everything. And I will go with you.’ + +‘What about Mr Measures?’ + +‘Let one of your servants take over a note to tell him I am detained +here, and shall not be home for a few hours. My husband trusts me, and +will not suspect that I am making love to some other man,’ she said +rather sarcastically. + +‘Ah, but you have never deceived him,’ replied Hal, but his face was +far brighter than it had been, even as he said the words; and whilst +Mrs Measures wrote the note of explanation for her husband, he went +with alacrity to order the horses to be put into the carriage. + + * * * * * + +Meanwhile Paula, having walked as fast as she could lay her feet to +the ground, until free from the scrutiny of her neighbours, felt that +her strength was failing, and that she would not be able to go on foot +much further. She was deliberating in her mind as to which of the +farmhouses which lay between Deepdale and Haltham she could apply for +assistance, with the prospect of the least scandal, when she saw a +tax-cart, being driven at a furious rate, coming along the road towards +her. The driver was a young carter, and he would never have noticed her +uplifted hand or call to him to stop if she had not stood in the middle +of the road and made him (almost) drive over her. Then he pulled up +short as he remarked,-- + +‘Hullo, missus, that was a near shave. If I had gone over yer, it +wouldn’t ’ave been _my_ fault.’ + +‘Where are you going?’ she demanded breathlessly. + +The carter scratched his head with the butt end of his whip. + +‘Well, I scarcely knows. The missus is ill in bed, and the master won’t +leave ’er, so he sez to me, he sez, “George,” he sez, “tak’ the ould +mare and gie ’er a good bucketing alang the road.” So I was thinking +I’d take ’er through Deepdale, up to Parton Bridge, and round by +Seaford.’ + +‘It does not signify where you drive, then,’ said Paula quickly, ‘so +will you take me to Haltham? I am in a hurry, and I cannot walk. I will +pay you for it well,’ she said, taking ten shillings from her purse. + +‘Will you gie me ten shillings for the ride?’ said the carter, eyeing +the money greedily. ‘Then I’m your man, missus. Joomp up, and I’ll have +you in Haltham in no time, for the ould mare’s got the jumps to-day.’ + +The lad, who (luckily for Paula) lived some distance the other side +of Haltham, and had never seen nor heard of Mrs Rushton of Highbridge +Hall, was as good as his word, and in less than an hour she found +herself set down by Saint Mark’s Church, at the top of Barefoot Lane. +She rapped at the door of number fifteen with a fast-beating heart. She +feared so much she might be too late. The idea that Carl Bjornsën and +she should part for all time on this side Eternity, without one word of +mutual forgiveness, was a terrible one to her. A little boy opened the +door, and the first sight that met Paula’s eyes was that of Mrs Sims +sniffling and whining in a corner of the kitchen, with her apron over +her head. This woman, who could be hard and indifferent to the sick, +was ready (like all her class) to sob and moan over the dead whom she +had never succoured nor cared for in life. + +‘Is he gone?’ cried Paula, observing her studied emotion. + +‘Oh, dear, poor gentleman, I hope not,’ groaned Mrs Sims, ‘for it’s +a horful thing to ’ave a death in the ’ouse. But the doctor he’s up +there, and has been for the last hour, and Mrs Wilfred’s with ’im, +and the poor dear’s as bad as ’e can be. But I do ’ope as they’ll do +something to bring ’im round so he can be moved. For to ’ave a death in +the ’ouse--’ + +But Paula passed by her and heard no further. Her lamentations +affected her no more than the “keening” of the mourners at an Irish +funeral. All her anxiety now was to reach the upper chamber before +it was too late. What might happen when she got there she did not +even stay to contemplate. Poor Carl, the merry, sunny-haired Carl she +had once loved, was dying, and wanted to see her, and she would have +gone to him if the whole of Deepdale had been assembled in his room. +As she silently entered the door, her eye fell upon Paulie, seated +in a corner, and gazing wonderingly at the different colours on an +indiarubber ball which he held in his hand. He looked very different +from what he had done when he passed into Mrs Wilfred’s charge. His +pale golden locks had been washed and dressed till they lay like rings +of floss silk upon his forehead, and his grey eyes had a look of +content in them as he examined his ball and the embroidery on his white +pinafore, and the new socks and boots that adorned his little feet. +Paula’s heart went out to her child, and she could not help kissing him +as she passed. The action attracted the attention of the watchers by +the dying bed, and Mrs Wilfred exclaimed,-- + +‘Lor’, ma’am, you’ve only just come in time. The poor soul’s been +a-asking for you ever since the turn for death took place.’ + +‘He has but a few minutes more to live now, Mrs Rushton,’ added the +doctor, ‘and I sent for Nurse Wilfred in case you were unable to come. +I thought, too, he might ask for his little boy.’ + +‘I have made an effort--’ began Paula, in a trembling voice. + +‘A most charitable effort, my dear lady,’ returned Dr Brown. ‘I really +hardly expected you. And on a Sunday, too. But I thought, as you seemed +interested in the case, I had better let you know.’ + +‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Paula, as she went up to the bedside. + +Carl was lying propped up with pillows, to ease his labouring breath, +with eyes wide open, and hands and forehead clammy and cold. + +‘You are very ill, Carl,’ she whispered in his ear. He bowed his head +as he fixed his eyes upon her. ‘Is there anything you wish to say to me +before you go?’ + +‘Yes. Send--them--away,’ he said, with an effort. + +‘He wishes to speak to me alone. You won’t mind, will you?’ she said, +with sweet, appealing eyes, to Dr Brown. + +‘Of course not. We will wait on the landing outside,’ he replied, as he +drew Mrs Wilfred away with him. + +‘Are they gone?’ inquired Carl Bjornsën. + +‘Yes; we are quite alone. You can say what you like.’ + +‘Paula, Paula,’ he gasped, pulling her feebly towards him. ‘Forgive, +forgive.’ + +‘I do forgive you, Carl. I _have_ forgiven. And when we meet again, it +will be all forgotten.’ + +‘I was a brute,’ he murmured, ‘a brute.’ + +‘Don’t think of it any more. It is all over now. Think only where you +are going--and the mercy of the God who will understand your weakness, +and cleanse you from your sin.’ + +‘Will He forgive?’ + +‘I am sure of it. Ask him, Carl, even with your last breath.’ + +‘You--ask Him--for me.’ + +She knelt down by the bedside, and with the dying man’s hand in hers, +she addressed a few simple words to their mutual Father, that asked Him +to forgive them both for all their shortcomings, and to permit them to +meet again when this life was over. But as she rose from her knees she +saw an awful change had come over the dying man’s face. + +‘Nurse--doctor!’ she cried in alarm. + +Mrs Wilfred was the first to re-enter the room. + +‘Oh, hold ’im up, ma’am. Hold ’im up,’ she exclaimed, ‘for ’e’s agoing.’ + +Paula passed her arm immediately under the patient’s figure, so as +to raise his head upon her breast, and there, after a few gasping +sobs, Carl Bjornsën, who had insulted and ill-used her, and struck +and injured her beyond all telling, breathed out the remnant of his +worthless life. + +‘He’s gone,’ said the doctor, as Paula let the heavy head fall back +from her arm upon the bed again. ‘Well, the poor fellow has had a more +peaceful ending than I anticipated. And now, Mrs Rushton, that your +charitable offices are no more required by him, you will let me take +you away.’ + +‘Not yet,’ she replied, in a quiet voice, ‘not yet. Give me a moment to +think what should be done.’ + +‘I have a patient waiting me,’ he commenced. + +‘Go, go!’ she cried. ‘_You_ are no longer needed here, and the kindness +you have shown to this poor creature shall not be forgotten, I assure +you. Mrs Wilfred will do all that is necessary at present, and for the +rest--I will write you to-morrow.’ + +She sat down in a chair by the bedside, and buried her face in her +hands. She did not weep. She wished she could have done so--she was +only thinking--thinking. + +‘Get her away as soon as you can,’ whispered the little doctor to the +nurse; ‘she is overwrought. She had much better go home. The scene has +been too much for her.’ + +‘All right, sir. I understand,’ replied Mrs Wilfred, as the doctor +bustled away, and then she talked to the child for a few minutes, until +the lady should be more composed. Finding she did not speak or move, +however, she ventured after a time to go up to her and suggest that the +last offices for the dead should be performed at once, and that it was +desirable she should go downstairs. + +‘Very well, I will go home,’ said Paula wearily, as she rose to her +feet and kissed the child. + +One look only she cast back upon the dead face of Carl Bjornsën, and +then, with a heavy sigh, she descended to the lower room, and having +told Mrs Sims what had occurred, passed out into the open air. + +Just as she had closed the door, however, Hal Rushton’s phaeton came +thundering round the corner of the street, and drew up close beside +her. She raised her eyes, and saw to her astonishment her husband and +Mary Measures alight upon the pavement. Hal threw the reins to his +groom. + +‘Drive round to the “Black Horse,”’ he said, ‘and wait there till I +come to you.’ Then, as the carriage disappeared, he turned to his wife +and asked her, in a voice of subdued anger: ‘Why are you here, and +where have you been?’ + +His tone roused Paula’s pride. It was so condemnatory. Mary’s arm was +already thrust through hers, as she whispered,-- + +‘Don’t be frightened, darling. Tell him everything. I know there is +nothing wrong--’ + +‘I am not frightened, Mary,’ replied Paula quietly, as she withdrew +herself from her friend’s protecting clasp, ‘but I am waiting to hear +of what my husband suspects me.’ + +‘You have come here in secret,’ said Hal, ‘and used a subterfuge in +order to do so. I have been told there is someone at number fifteen +whom you visit. Is it true?’ + +‘It is true,’ she answered. + +‘A man?’ + +‘A man.’ + +‘Of your own station in life?’ + +‘Of my own station in life.’ + +‘Good God! and you can have the audacity--the shamelessness--to stand +there and confess it to my very face. Perhaps you will tell me he is +your lover--’ + +‘He _was_ my lover--once,’ she said. + +‘Oh, Paula, don’t say that,’ cried Mary, in a voice of distress. + +‘I cannot say otherwise, Mary.’ + +‘Very good, madam,’ exclaimed Hal wrathfully, ‘then go back to your +lover, for you don’t return to Highbridge Hall with me.’ + +‘I _am_ going back, but _you_ will come with me.’ + +‘I shall do no such thing, unless you wish to see murder committed.’ + +‘You will use no violence when you see him, I guarantee that.’ + +‘I refuse to go.’ + +‘Well, then, Hal, I say you _shall_ go. You have insulted me by your +suspicions. You owe me the opportunity of refuting them. Mary, you +love me too well to suspect me of wrong. _You_ will come with me, and +see the man of whose existence I have been afraid as yet to tell my +husband.’ + +‘Yes, Paula, you are right. We owe it to you to accept any explanation +you may choose to offer us, and we will come. Mr Rushton, I speak for +you as well as myself. You have been guided by me hitherto in this +matter, do as I ask you now.’ + +‘Very well,’ he said, in a low voice, ‘but remember I will not answer +for my actions.’ + +‘_I_ answer for them,’ replied Paula calmly, as she walked back to +number fifteen and demanded admittance. + +‘Mrs Sims,’ she said with much dignity as she entered, ‘call Mrs +Wilfred downstairs. This lady and gentleman wish to visit the attic +with me alone.’ + +‘Very good, ma’am,’ replied the woman, as she rose and did as she was +desired. + +In another minute Mrs Wilfred passed them on the stairs, carrying +little Paulie, whom Hal, in his excitement and curiosity, never even +observed. When they reached the top landing, Paula paused, and looking +at them with her mournful eyes, said,-- + +‘Silence, Hal, and uncover your head. In another moment you will stand +in a grander presence than that of the poor creature you have stooped +to be jealous of.’ + +She flung open the door, and they saw, stretched upon the coarse +bed, the dead form of Carl Bjornsën. At the sight all Hal’s angry +suspicions sunk to rest. He could not believe his wife had been holding +assignations with the man who had once inhabited this wasted and +neglected body. + +‘Oh, Paula, this is some work of charity,’ cried Mary Measures. ‘But +why have you kept it secret?’ + +‘Yes, _that_ is the question to be answered now,’ said Hal. ‘If this +was merely a work of charity, why has it been necessary to deceive your +husband in order to carry it through?’ + +‘Because, Hal, this dead body is that of a person whom you made me +solemnly promise never to mention to you again--whom you believed, and +I believed, to be beyond the reach of troubling us any more. It is that +of my first husband, Carl Bjornsën.’ + +‘_Your first husband_, Paula!’ exclaimed the vicar’s wife in amazement. + +‘Ah, dear Mary, you will have a sad story to listen to now; but I am +determined to conceal the truth no longer. It is sufficient for you to +know at present that I was a wife and a mother before I met Hal, but +I had divorced my husband. I believed I was a widow--so did my dear +mother, but we were misinformed. To my horror, I met Captain Bjornsën +in a dying condition in Haltham last Wednesday. I dared not tell Hal +for fear he should forbid my succouring him, and I dared not turn my +back upon his abject misery, lest God should desert me also in my dying +hour. Oh, Hal, if I have been wrong, forgive me. I have longed so much +to tell you all the truth, and I meant to do so some day, when it was +all past and over. I thought it better to act on my own impulse than +to run the risk of flying in the face of your authority. But I have +blundered somehow, and made you suspicious and angry with me. I am +very, very sorry. I can say no more.’ + +‘It was not your going into Haltham. It was a beastly anonymous letter +I received about it,’ grumbled Hal. + +‘Written, I daresay, by my friend Mrs Rushton. I have seen Ted Snaley +lurking about here on two occasions,’ replied Paula. + +‘Mr Rushton,’ whispered Mary, nudging his elbow, ‘what did I tell you +you were to do when you saw dear Paula again?’ + +‘You need not tell me twice, Mrs Measures. Paula, my darling, won’t you +come to me?’ he said, as he held out his arms and she flew into them. +‘My own wife! trust me more fully for the future. I am not such a brute +as you seem to think. Had I known of this business, I would have helped +you through it all.’ + +‘Oh, Hal, dearest, you are so good. And I am very foolish, but I +feared that it would pain you, and revive the old sore. But it is over +now, beyond recall. Poor Carl will never trouble us again. But there is +little Paulie, Hal--’ + +‘_Paulie!_ and alive? Where did you find him?’ + +‘In this garret, and almost on the brink of starvation. The woman +who passed us on the stairs held him in her arms. My heart has been +bleeding for my poor child all the week. This man stole him from +Grassdene, and the loss caused my poor mother’s death. Can’t you see it +all, Hal? He kidnapped Paulie, intending to black-mail mother and me +for his restoration. But God struck him down with sickness, and he was +unable to carry out his plan. When I met him again, he told me he had +begged his way up to Haltham to place the boy in my care. It may not +have been true. God knows. But he has gone to be judged for his actions +in this life, and we are not the ones to decide what his punishment +shall be.’ + +‘I acknowledge it, Paula. And now, my darling wife, I want you to take +your little boy and go straight home with Mrs Measures. James can drive +you, and I will follow in due course of time.’ + +‘_Take Paulie!_’ she cried, brightening up. ‘_May_ I take him? But oh, +Hal, if it should cause any unpleasantness for you.’ + +‘My dear girl, we will have no more deception of any kind. Deepdale may +think what it likes, but it shall know the truth. And I daresay, if you +ask her, your kind friend here will take all the task off your hands of +making it known.’ + +‘Of course I will,’ said Mrs Measures, ‘and it will only be a three +days’ wonder. Besides, you would never be happy without your boy, +Paula.’ + +‘Oh, no,’ she replied, her soft eyes beaming with maternal love. ‘I +have been so sad without him, you can’t think. And now I shall be able +to bring him up amongst the birds and the flowers he loves so well, and +with my darling little Edie. How happy he will be! How happy I am! Hal, +dear husband, how happy you have made me. But why won’t you come home +with us?’ + +‘Because, dearest, I don’t want you to visit this sad room again. Let +me settle everything with Dr Brown. It shall be in accordance with the +position this poor fellow once held, believe me. And I will invent some +excuse for having it so. I will say he was a poor relation, who had +brought himself down in the world. The little doctor will understand.’ + +‘I leave it all to you,’ she replied. ‘I leave myself, and all I am, +and have, in your hands from this day henceforward, Hal. Heaven has +been too good to me in giving me back my little Paulie. I want nothing +more now to complete my earthly happiness.’ She went up to the bed +once more, and gazed on the marble countenance. ‘God give you rest +and forgiveness, Carl Bjornsën,’ she said solemnly, and then, with a +passionate embrace to her husband, she clasped her friend’s hand and +accompanied her downstairs. + + * * * * * + +The story of her former marriage proved (as Mrs Measures had foretold) +a three days’ wonder in Deepdale, and then it was forgotten, and the +villagers grew as accustomed to see little Paul wandering over the +grounds of Highbridge Hall as to see his little sister trotting by +his side and talking to him in her baby fashion. And after a while, +when other little ones joined the family group, and became his daily +companions and his teachers, Paulie’s dormant intellect was drawn out +by love, until his mother was as proud and fond of her pensive boy as +if he had been a genius. + +So happiness reigned at Highbridge Hall, but something better reigned +there too--a mutual confidence between husband and wife, which was +never again disturbed. + + +THE END. + + + D.: G. C. & CO.: 9.91. + COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. + + + + +A SELECT LIST OF BOOKS + IN + GENERAL LITERATURE + AND FICTION + + + PUBLISHED BY + GRIFFITH FARRAN & CO., + NEWBERY HOUSE, 39, CHARING CROSS ROAD, LONDON. + + +The Standard Library of Fiction. + +_Crown 8vo._ _Cloth extra, with Frontispiece._ _Price 3s. 6d._ + + AN EVIL REPUTATION. By Dora Russell. + + THE DUCHESS. By Mrs. Hungerford. + + A FATAL SILENCE. By Florence Marryat. + + BROUGHT TOGETHER. Tales by “Rita.” + + HARVEST OF WEEDS. 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Bold text has been +represented by =equal signs=. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78598 *** |