AT GRASSDENE.
Mrs Sutton, Paula’s mother (for Stafford was entirely an assumed name)
was standing outside her cottage door at the close of that summer’s
evening, little dreaming that her daughter was so close at hand.
Grassdene stood on an elevation above the sea, but not so far from
it but that the still, glassy water, flecked here and there with a
touch of creamy white, could be easily distinguished as it murmured
over the pebbly shore. The village was encompassed by hills, covered
with scented grass, over which the Devonshire flocks were scattered in
peaceful rest. Peace, indeed, seemed to be written over the whole of
the little hamlet, and Mrs Sutton, looking up at the starry heavens,
wondered if her dear Paula were enjoying herself, and wished they
were together. For Paula’s unfortunate history, and Paula’s necessity
for work, were the two bugbears of her mother’s life. She took all the
blame to herself of her daughter’s ill-luck, whereas she had thought
she was doing the best thing in the world for her when she married her
to Captain Carl Bjornsën.
Mrs Sutton, the wife of a navy lieutenant, had been left a widow at an
early age, to keep herself and child on a pension of seventy pounds a
year. It was not living--it was a bare existence, leaving nothing over
for education or luxuries. So she had established herself in this tiny
cottage in Grassdene, where the common necessaries of life were cheap,
and so long as people were clothed it did not signify what they wore,
and set herself to the task of imparting all she knew to her daughter,
and, fortunately for Paula, her mother being a well-educated and
sensible woman, had been able to teach her a good deal. But when the
girl was eighteen, and had grown pretty and graceful and intelligent,
a young Swede, Carl Bjornsën, had been introduced to her by some
neighbours to whom he was paying a visit. He was not a _rara avis_ by
any manner of means, but he was fair-haired, like the generality of
his people, and had china-blue eyes and a florid complexion, and was
well-made and healthy; he was, moreover, in a good position as master
of a trading vessel, and able to marry. Above all, he was the first
man who had ever made love to Paula, and the girl considered him to be
perfection. Mrs Sutton was not averse to the match. Her own health was
far from strong, and her pension would die with her, and what better
fortune could she expect for her daughter than to see her comfortably
provided for in the event of her death. Carl Bjornsën appeared to be
all that was desirable. He spoke English well, though with an accent,
and he explained so clearly all he meant to do for his wife, and how
short the voyage between England and Sweden was, and how often Paula
would go home to see her mother, that Mrs Sutton thought her girl
had gained a treasure. Paula became excited, too, at the prospect of
travelling. A berth aboard the _Lily of Christiansand_, to her who had
spent all her life in Grassdene, appeared like Paradise, and she was
quite willing that the marriage should take place early. She told Hal
Rushton so. She said, when speaking of her marriage to him, that it
took place of her own free will. So it had done--but the happiness was
of short duration. Within two years she had returned to her mother’s
protection, a broken-down wreck--no more like the light-hearted girl
that had left it than a lily trampled in the mud is like the pure and
lovely flower that once raised its head amongst its garden peers. Carl
Bjornsën had turned out to be that worst of all sinners, a drunkard,
and violence and brutality had quickly followed upon his protestations
of fidelity. Mrs Sutton had never forgiven herself for this calamity.
She attributed all the misfortune to her own want of prudence and
foresight, and took all the blame of her daughter’s misery on her own
head. She would have kept Paula and her child on her scanty pittance,
and worked to increase it, if necessary, if Paula would have permitted
it. But her daughter had too much spirit and generosity for that. As
soon as she was able she had gone hard to work to qualify herself for
teaching, and when she gained a situation, she repaid Mrs Sutton all
she thought she had cost her during the year of probation, and had sent
her regular remittances for her child’s expenses ever since. She was a
dear, good daughter, and had deserved a better fate--so Mrs Sutton was
thinking as she gazed out upon the night and wondered whose figure it
could be that she saw coming over the hill towards her little cottage.
For Grassdene was such a primitive place that its residents were mostly
asleep by nine o’clock. As the figure commenced to run, as though
expectation quickened its footsteps, Mrs Sutton walked down the garden
path to meet it. ‘Surely, surely,’ she thought, ‘it can never be my
girl!’
But as the visitor approached nearer she recognised that it was.
‘Paula! Paula!’ she cried, hastening to embrace her. ‘My dear, what
brings you home?’
‘Misfortune, mother, as usual. Isn’t it always misfortune that brings
me to your arms? Is not my very appearance the harbinger of evil?’
‘No, no, my darling, don’t say that,’ replied Mrs Sutton. ‘I am glad
you have come. I was wearying for a sight of you. But why didn’t you
let me know before? Have they given you a holiday?’
‘Yes, dear, a very long holiday--for ever, as far as they are
concerned. I have thrown up my appointment.’
‘Oh, Paula, sixty pounds a year! Was it wise of you dear?’
‘I don’t know, mother, but I’ll tell you the whole story by-and-by. Let
us go in now. I have travelled all the way from Deepdale to-day, and I
am so tired. I wouldn’t have walked over from Lynmouth to-night only I
was afraid it would be too extravagant to sleep there. How is Paul?’
‘He is the same as usual, dear, and fast asleep hours ago. It is nearly
ten o’clock. Come in and have something to eat, and then I will hear
your story.’
She wound her arm round her daughter, and after kissing her several
times, led her into the little parlour, which was very barely
furnished, but had that indescribable look about it of belonging to a
gentlewoman. Mrs Sutton pointed to a large bowl of wild flowers in the
middle of the table.
‘Poor little Paul’s doing,’ she said. ‘He seems to care for nothing so
much as gathering flowers. He is out in the fields all day by himself,
and will not go to sleep till he has arranged his treasures. I don’t
think he has grown an inch since you saw him last, Paula.’
‘Poor dear baby,’ she answered softly, with something like a tear in
her eye, as she touched some of the flowers in the bowl.
Mrs Sutton made her sit down, and removed her cloak and bonnet, and
then she went into the little kitchen on the same floor, and returned
with a tray bearing the tea things and some bread-and-butter.
‘Since you gave me no warning of your arrival, Paula, you must
take what you can get,’ she said. ‘I have nothing but tea and
bread-and-butter, except a piece of honeycomb that Mr Benson left as a
present for Paul to-day.’
‘Mother, dear, I want nothing but bread-and-butter,’ replied Paula.
‘I am almost too tired to eat, and as for poor baby’s honeycomb, I
wouldn’t touch it for the world. Make me a cup of your famous tea,
dear. That will refresh me more than anything. And don’t look downcast,
mother. It is true I have lost my situation, but I have good news as
well as bad for you.’
‘Well, eat and drink first, my dearest, and then you shall talk. I
think you have grown thinner and paler lately, Paula. Have you had any
fresh trouble?’
‘I have had a lot of worry, mother. Who do you think came to see me the
other day as an ambassador from _him_? Seth Brunt.’
Mrs Sutton almost dropped the teapot in her surprise. She forgot all
her cautions to her daughter to eat first and talk afterwards as she
exclaimed,--
‘_Seth Brunt!_ Did he actually find you out there to worry you? Oh, my
Paula, when will this misery have an end?’
‘Hush, mother. Brunt will never worry me again. He is dead. He was
killed in a railway accident between Haltham and Bonnysett.’
‘Oh, my dear, is it wrong to say thank God? I never liked that man. I
distrusted his close friendship with Bjornsën. Don’t you remember, on
the trial, how hard he tried to influence the jury in his favour?’
‘Yes, and I believe he considered him ill-used to the last. He pleaded
his cause the whole time he was with me.’
‘However did he come to find you out?’
‘He met me, unfortunately, in Haltham on market day, and insisted on
speaking to me. He frightened me by calling me “_Madame_” before some
of my pupils, and I gave him leave to come to Deepdale in order to get
rid of him. But he was seen to visit me there, and all this worry has
come out of it. The churchwardens insisted on my giving up his name,
and I refused to do so. I could not foresee what trouble it might not
lead to. I preferred to give up the situation, and so I am here. I
would not have had my past raked up for all the world.’
‘Oh, my dear, you were quite right. Let it die. There will be no peace
for you otherwise. And Seth Brunt is dead, you say. I wish it had been
the other.’
‘So do I,’ acquiesced Paula feverishly. ‘I thought he could never do
me any harm again, but whilst he lives I shall not feel safe. Seth
Brunt declared to me that he _is_ dying. He urged me to forgive him, to
consider the possibility of returning to him, because he is at death’s
door--dragged down to it by his contemptible vices and dissipations.’
‘And what did you answer, child?’ demanded Mrs Sutton.
‘I asked him if he thought I was mad, or a fool, to go and put my head
into the noose again. I asked him if he had forgotten the blows, the
curses, the insults I had received; if he had forgotten Paul, blighted
from his birth on account of his father’s violence and cruelty. And he
said he had not, but he could not forget “his poor Captain” either.’
‘Bah!’ cried Mrs Sutton contemptuously, ‘one was as bad as the other.
But I have not forgotten my poor girl. I have not forgotten. I could
stand by and see that brute Bjornsën starve to death, or be beaten to
death, and not move one muscle with compassion, when I remember how he
took my only child from my side, and tortured her for his own pleasure.
Ah! Paula, it is all very well for the world to make fun of the
complaints of mothers-in-law. It should make sure, first, of how the
lamb has been treated before they condemn the poor sheep for impotently
butting at the eagle that is tearing it to pieces.’
‘Never mind, dear mother. My life may not be over yet. I have much
still to tell you. I have left some kind friends in Deepdale, and
_one_ who wanted me to stay there altogether.’
There was a hesitation in her voice that aroused Mrs Sutton’s
suspicions. She looked up quickly in her daughter’s face, and detected
a slight blush upon her cheek.
‘A _man_, Paula?’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, dear, a man. Now don’t call me a fool till you have heard all. It
is Mr Rushton, whose name I have often mentioned in my letters to you.
He is very different from Carl Bjornsën, you know.’
‘Ah! women all think that before marriage,’ replied Mrs Sutton
sorrowfully. ‘Paula, I shall go distracted if you marry again.
Think--only _think_ of what you have undergone--and do not tempt
Providence a second time. _Then_ you were ignorant of what brutes men
can be. But now you can have no such excuse, and will go to your fate
with your eyes open.’
‘But, mother dear, listen,’ said Paula, who, having finished her tea,
had risen and seated herself on a footstool at her mother’s feet. ‘Hal
Rushton is an English gentleman of refined manners and cultivated
mind. He has never drank to excess in his life, nor have I ever heard
him use an oath. He is the owner of Highbridge Farm. I am sure I must
have mentioned him to you. And he loves me, mother, as I have never
been loved before,’ concluded the girl as she hid her face upon her
mother’s lap.
‘Carl Bjornsën said he loved you, Paula,’ replied Mrs Sutton dubiously.
‘Ah! but what did we know of Carl before I married him. We had never
seen him at home, or heard what his friends said of him. We took
him on his own recommendation. And foreigners are so different from
Englishmen. I am sure that Hal Rushton would die sooner than strike a
woman. He is all that is chivalrous and honourable and good. The vicar,
Mr Measures, cannot speak too highly of him, and Mrs Measures says he
is the most admirable young man in Deepdale.’
‘And what do _you_ say, Paula?’
‘I love him, mother. I cannot help it. It came on me long before I was
aware. But he is so open and frank and generous, the wonder would be
if I could have resisted loving him.’
‘And you have come home to tell me that you are engaged,’ said Mrs
Sutton in a tone of vexation.
‘No, mother, I am not. Almost the last words I said to him were that I
considered myself free, and he was to consider himself so, too.’
‘But marriage has been mentioned between you?’
‘Yes; but it was on this wise. He proposed to me as Miss Stafford. He
knew me by no other name, and he took me so much by surprise that for
the moment I did not think to tell him I had been married. When I did
so, he was terribly cut up by the news. He took back every word he had
said to me, and I thought everything was over between us.’
‘Just like a man!’ interposed Mrs Sutton. ‘They may have fifty loves
themselves before they marry, but their wives must be as white as the
undriven snow.’
‘I don’t think Hal quite meant that,’ replied Paula softly, ‘only he
was disappointed to hear I had belonged so exclusively to anyone before
himself. But his jealous mood did not last long. Two days afterwards
he renewed his proposals, and wanted me to renew my promises. But I
refused, mother, to say anything further till I had consulted you. Hal
thinks I am a widow. If he knew the truth, I doubt if he would marry me
at all. What am I to do?’
‘Tell him the truth, Paula, and let him go. It may save you from a lot
of unhappiness. Stay with me, my dear child, and don’t trust yourself
again to the mercy of a man.’
‘Oh, but I love him, I love him, and I shall be miserable if I have to
give him up,’ exclaimed Paula as she laid her head down on her clasped
hands and began to cry.
‘What is it you want then, my dear?’ demanded her mother rather
impatiently. ‘How can I advise you? You must either tell him, or marry
him without telling him. What else can you do?’
‘Mother,’ said Paula, raising her tear-stained face to Mrs Sutton,
‘how can we find out if what Seth Brunt told me is true--if Carl is
really dying? If that were the case, I would wait till I was free.’
‘But you _are_ free, dear child, as free as the law can make you. I
almost wish that you were not, and then you couldn’t make a fool of
yourself for the second time.’
‘But all people don’t hold the same opinion about divorce, and somehow
I fancy that Mr Rushton would greatly object to it. Deepdale is a
gossiping place, and it might create scandal. If I only knew _where_ to
apply for the information; but Brunt gave me no idea of his address.’
‘Paula, if you are in earnest about this matter, _I_ can supply you
with Bjornsën’s address, for he had the impudence, not long ago, to
write and ask me for yours.’
‘Oh, mother, what _did_ you say?’
‘I took no notice of his letter, but I have it by me still. He is in
London.’
‘Then, as soon as ever I can, I will go up and ascertain if Brunt’s
account of his condition is true.’
‘Indeed, Paula, you will do no such thing. Do you suppose I would allow
you to expose yourself again to the insults of that drunken brute? What
renewed violence might he not be guilty of if he found himself alone
with you? He has never forgiven you for divorcing him, and has sunk
lower and lower in his debaucheries ever since. I will not hear of your
exposing yourself to such contamination.’
‘But to whom can we entrust such a commission, mother? To whom can
we write? I want it to be done as quietly as possible. Any further
publicity would kill me.’
‘My darling, it _shall_ be done with the utmost secrecy. If necessary,
_I_ will go to London myself and find out the truth for you. You can
trust your mother, can you not?’
‘Oh, mother, how good you are to me! No woman ever had so good a mother
before.’
‘You must not say that, dear. You hurt me by it. If it had not been for
my culpable, foolish trust in that man, you might have been a free,
happy girl at this moment, and able to marry anyone. Oh, to think I
should have delivered you over to the cruelty of such a brute! It tears
my heart to remember it.’
‘Don’t speak of it, mother. It is all over. And if--if--Heaven should
mercifully deliver me from him altogether, I shall be so happy the past
will only seem like an ugly dream to me.’
‘You will not marry Mr Rushton _unless_ you have proofs of Carl
Bjornsën’s death, Paula?’ said Mrs Sutton interrogatively.
Her daughter shook her head.
‘I think not. I have had to make one confession to him, and I could not
face another. And Hal is sensitive on such a score. I can see that.
He would always fancy that there might be a chance of my meeting Carl
Bjornsën, as I met Seth Brunt. I could not tell him. I would rather
break off all communication between us.’
‘And be unhappy, Paula?’
‘Yes. I am afraid I should be very unhappy. He has raised such a dream
of bliss in my mind. It would be terrible to have it dispelled.
Fancy, mother, being mistress of Highbridge Farm--that beautiful old
place--with an ample income at my command, and dear Hal for my husband.
Why, I should be one of the principal people in Deepdale, and all these
petty tradesmen who have turned me out of my situation would be the
first to bow down to me. It would be a great triumph. But I am not
thinking of that. I am thinking of the blessing of having a settled
home that I can ask you to, and a life spent with Hal Rushton. For,
indeed, I love him as I have never loved anybody in this world before.’
Mrs Sutton, listening to these words from her daughter’s lips, made a
secret vow that if it were possible she would secure this happiness
for her, as some sort of reparation for the terrible past. But she did
not tell her so. She only stooped down and kissed her forehead as she
said,--
‘Well, if after due reflection, Paula, you are of the same mind, I will
do my best to further your wishes, by going up to London and finding
out all I can about Captain Bjornsën. But now, my dear, you had better
come to bed. You are worn out by your long journey, and will be better
able to decide on your future after a night’s rest.’
She led her daughter upstairs as she spoke, and into her own bedroom.
A little crib stood in one corner. Paula walked up to it, and regarded
its occupant in silence. A little boy of about five years old lay in
it. He was not bigger than a healthy child of three, and the hands
outside the quilt were thin and wasted. He had pretty, delicate
features, not unlike those of his young mother, but there was a
something wanting in them that made itself apparent even in sleep--the
absence of the brain. The child was an imbecile. Paula gazed at him
with her eyes full of tears.
‘Poor little Paul!’ she murmured. ‘Oh, mother, how much better it
would have been for him if he had died before he was born. My poor,
unfortunate boy! Sometimes I feel as if I loved him with all my heart,
and sometimes an unnatural feeling comes over me, as I remember _whose_
son he is, and I could almost kill him for looking so like his father.
Oh, why didn’t God let that cruel blow murder his body instead of only
annihilating his brain?’
‘Hush, my dear,’ said Mrs Sutton reprovingly, ‘you must not speak like
that. It is a great trial for you, there is no doubt, but Paul is
_your_ child too. You must never forget that. And I really love the
little fellow, and should miss him terribly if he were gone, though
he is as troublesome as a baby of a year old, and as mischievous as a
monkey. You won’t take Paul from me, whatever happens, will you, my
dear?’ she concluded wistfully.
‘Oh, no,’ cried Paula, shrinking back, ‘I could not take him to
Deepdale, you know. It would be impossible. It would proclaim my story
at once.’
‘Does Mr Rushton know of his existence?’
‘Yes. But not that he is an imbecile.’
‘But he shall know everything before--before--’
Her mother looked at her and sighed. What would be the upshot of this
new life her child desired to take upon herself? Could any fresh and
fragrant blossom grow upon a branch so blighted from the beginning? And
yet how the poor darling had suffered. How cruel it would be to deny
her compensation for the past. She drew her gently away from Paul’s
crib, and into her own bed, but long after her daughter had sunk to
rest she remained anxious and wakeful, pondering in what way she could
best make up to her for the fearful mistake of her married life.