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.