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.