ALL DOUBT DISPELLED.
Paula, on the contrary, happy to be once more in her mother’s arms,
slept soundly, and dreamt of a possible future. All her anxieties and
doubts were smoothed away, as she thought she was wandering with her
lover over a range of thyme-scented hills, whilst he pointed out to
her the glories of the rising sun, as typical that the shadows of her
young life had passed away. Mrs Sutton heard her murmur ‘dear Hal’ in
her sleep with a fervency she had never used towards anyone in her
waking hours, and sighed to think how much her affections seemed to be
involved on behalf of this unknown young man, who might, after all,
refuse to fulfil the engagement he had made with her. But Paula slept
on, with a serene smile upon her face. Her hand was clasped in that of
Hal Rushton; his arm was round her waist; his eyes were looking into
hers. Peace and protection were her portion. She would have liked to
have dreamed on so for ever. But the bright summer sun streamed into
the latticed panes of the cottage window and waked her early. The first
sounds that met her ear, as she languidly opened her eyes, were--‘Ga,
ga, bah, ow.’
‘Hush, Paulie,’ said Mrs Sutton softly; ‘don’t make a noise and wake
poor mamma. Look at pretty mamma sleeping in Grannie’s bed. Does Paulie
love his pretty mamma?’
‘Ah, ga, wow, wow,’ articulated the idiot boy.
Paula closed her eyes again, with a heavy sigh. Would all her wakings
be like this? To come back from dreams of ineffable bliss and affection
to the consciousness that she was the mother of Carl Bjornsën’s
idiot child--the child whose brain and body he had blighted by his
brutal violence to herself? Mrs Sutton was dressing the little boy,
interrupting her task every moment by giving him long, loving kisses,
or murmuring some fond words into his ear. ‘Grannie’s little boy!
Grannie’s own dear little Paulie. Grannie’s dear good little child.’
These were among the loving epithets that his mother heard, and they
shamed her into imitating them. After all, what had the poor infant
done that he should command any feeling but one of deep compassion?
She raised herself on her elbow, and turning, looked at him. There was
nothing repulsive in his appearance. He was very small for his age,
and attenuated to a degree, the flesh scarcely seeming to cling to the
little bones, but his skin was fair as a lily, and his thin face had
a plaintive expression as though he were asking Heaven what he had
done to be so cruelly blighted. His large, grey eyes were vacant and
soulless, and his pretty mouth was partly open. His flaxen hair was
very scanty, owing to the disease in his brain, but taken altogether
little Paul Bjornsën was a pathetic picture, and not an unpleasing one.
Paula’s heart went out to him. He had grown so much more like herself
than like his father during their year of separation.
‘Paulie,’ she cried eagerly, ‘mamma has come home again. Don’t you know
me, baby?’
But all Paul did was to stare vacantly at her, with an open mouth, and
utter ‘Ga, ga, ow, ow.’
Paula sank back on her pillow, weeping.
‘Come, come, dear child,’ exclaimed her mother, ‘you mustn’t fret
because he doesn’t know you directly he sees you. A year is a long
time, even for an intelligent child, in which to remember. Paulie will
soon get accustomed to you. He follows me everywhere like a little dog,
and really I sometimes think he understands what I say.’
‘Yes, like a little dog, that is just it,’ said Paula bitterly, ‘and he
will never be any better. My poor little son!’
‘Come, dear, get up and put on your things, and when we have had
breakfast, you shall take him out into the fields to gather flowers,
and you will soon be the best of friends. Come, Paul, stand up and
let Grannie put on your pinafore. (See, Paula, he understands me
perfectly.) And now we will go downstairs and get pretty mamma’s
breakfast ready against she comes down, too.’
‘No, no, mother; wait a minute, and I will help you,’ cried Paula,
dashing into her clothes and forgetting everything but her desire to
save her mother trouble.
Mrs Sutton could not afford to keep a regular servant, and a young girl
who came in daily for a couple of hours was the only assistant she had
in doing the work of the house. As soon as their simple breakfast was
over, Paula took her little boy’s hand and led him out into the fields
to gather cowslips and shepherd’s purse and bindweed, with which to
make nosegays to adorn his grandmother’s cottage. This was the only
occupation he cared to follow, and young as he was the taste with which
he arranged his floral treasures showed that the artist spirit would,
under happier circumstances, have been strongly developed in him. His
eyes seemed to take in every blossom at a glance, so that his little
basket was soon full, and he kept on giving vent to all kinds of
guttural sounds of delight as he contemplated his spoils. But to Paula
the walk was one long agony. The vacant stare, the listless limbs, the
prematurely aged features, and the uncouth attempts to articulate, were
like so many knives run into her heart every time they came under her
notice, and she grew paler and paler as she contemplated the necessity
of introducing this unfortunate child to the notice of Hal Rushton.
She thanked Heaven that her mother loved the poor little creature and
wished to retain him, for she felt she could not have asked any man
to keep such a terrible witness to her former life for ever in his
presence. But in this Paula wronged Hal Rushton, who had one of the
tenderest hearts ever possessed by man. At last the morning stroll was
ended, and Paula’s watch warned her they must return. She reached home
pallid and worn out. Mrs Sutton, as usual, reproached herself for her
daughter’s fatigue.
‘I should not have let you go out to-day,’ she said; ‘you are still
feeling the fatigue of yesterday’s travelling.’
‘Oh, no, mother, it is not that,’ cried Paula, casting herself headlong
on the sofa; ‘it is the awful strain of trying to understand or make
oneself understood by that poor child. I look at him, and I wonder can
he be mine? Is this the baby I received with so much pride, and hoped
so earnestly would make up to me in some measure for the father’s want
of love? Oh! it is too cruel--it is too cruel. There must have been a
heavy curse, indeed, on my ill-fated marriage. Will it ever be lifted
off? Can I dare to take these bitter memories into another man’s home,
to cast their shadows over his life and mine?’
Mrs Sutton looked at her daughter with the profoundest pity. She seemed
so young, and, in the fond mother’s eyes, so beautiful to be abandoned
to a grief which was not of her own making. _Anything_, surely, would
be justifiable that should raise her once more to her proper place
amongst the youthful and the happy.
‘Paula,’ she said, ‘you take this matter too much to heart. Of course
it is a great misfortune, but it is not an uncommon one, and you have
known for the last three years that the dear child would never have
his senses. You have been so little with him that you have not got
accustomed to it. But try to make the best of it, my dear. He does not
suffer physically, that is one great comfort, and, as far as he is
able, he enjoys his little existence.’
‘But by-and-by, mother, by-and-by. What is to become of him then?’
‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, my child. As long as I
live, I shall be glad to look after him, and we cannot tell which of us
will go first. Be content to leave it to Heaven.’
‘But if he had been the same as other children, I should have been so
proud of him,’ sobbed Paula. ‘I should never have thought of marrying
again if I had had a son to love, and to love me. But this poor little
creature, what comfort or pleasure can he ever be to anyone? And yet
I feel so wicked not to be able to love him, and be proud of him,
whatever he may be.’
‘No, my dear, that would be beyond Nature; but I hope to see you
yet with children round your knee, that shall atone to you for this
bitter disappointment. I spoke rather coldly to you last night, I am
afraid, my darling, concerning this projected marriage. You took me by
surprise, and I could not at first perceive the advantages of it. But
I have been thinking over it seriously since, and I shall thank God if
it comes to pass. You say you love this man, and he loves you, and can
raise you above all want, or necessity for work, for the remainder of
your life. Well, then, the sooner it takes place the better.’
‘But, mother dearest, you forget the ordeal I may have to pass
through--my doubts concerning Carl Bjornsën’s condition.’
‘I have forgotten nothing, Paula, and whenever you think it best, or
feel equal to staying alone with little Paul, I will go up to London
and make all the needful inquiries for you.’
‘Oh, go at once, mother, and set my mind at rest. Hal will be writing
soon to hear my decision. Let me know the worst there is to know before
I receive his letter. Then I will leave him to decide the question
once and for ever. And if--if--’
‘If _what_, my dear?’
‘If he decides against it, I will try to get a situation in France or
America, somewhere far away, where I shall never hear the sound of his
dear name to wrench my heartstrings anew.’
‘And you would leave _me_, Paula, and your poor little child?’ said Mrs
Sutton reproachfully.
‘Oh, mother, what could I do? My heart is wrapt up in Hal Rushton. I
think I must have loved him from the first day we met. My affection
seems the growth of years. I know that if I lose him I shall still
have the duties of life to perform, but I must put the sea between us,
until I have forgotten the bright dream of happiness which his love has
opened up to me.’
‘Paula,’ replied Mrs Sutton, ‘I shall go to London to-morrow, and
set your mind at rest as soon as possible. You are feverish and ill,
dear child, and this suspense may do you harm. I have the address of
Captain Bjornsën’s landlady, and if he is not with her still, she will
certainly know where to find him, if he is still to be found. But
I may be absent for three or four days. Do you feel equal to taking
charge of Paulie for that time?’
‘Oh, mother, my own child! Of course I can.’
‘You will promise me, then, not to cry over him, which will only
frighten the poor little boy, without doing him any good. Treat him as
you would a baby, and he will respond in his own fashion. And I shall
come back with good news for you, my darling, rest assured of that. God
does not permit his children to be tortured for ever. He will have made
a way for you to begin a new life which shall recompense you for the
past.’
‘It will, it will!’ exclaimed Paula, ‘if I am only fortunate enough to
enter on it. I daresay you think I am foolish about the matter, mother,
but when you see Hal you will understand me better. And he will be a
son to you--I am sure he will. He has often called me a lucky girl to
have a mother. His mother died many years ago, and his father married
again, which made him very unhappy; but he will never remember that,’
said Paula, with a smile, ‘when we are married.’
Her hopeful smiles had still more effect upon her mother than her
tears. She could not bear to contemplate their being quenched in
disappointment. So she made all her preparations to start for London
the next day. Paula had proposed, very naturally, that they should
write first and see what tidings they could obtain of Captain Bjornsën
through the post, but Mrs Sutton had her own purpose for instituting
the inquiries in person. Then came the question of expenses. The
mother’s small income was quite incapable of stretching to cover a
journey from Devonshire to London, and, perhaps, a stay of two or three
days in the latter place; yet it was not until Paula threatened to go
instead of her that she consented to use some of her daughter’s savings
for the purpose. At last she was off, and Paula was left alone with
her little son. Mrs Sutton did not let the grass grow under her feet.
Though she reached London late in the afternoon, as soon as ever she
had secured a bedroom for her use in Paddington she set off to visit
the last address from which Carl Bjornsën had written to her. It was
not far from her own lodging, in a dirty little street leading out of
the Edgware Road. What a come down for the man who had married her
daughter, who had been a successful trader, and the master of his own
vessel, but who had sunk and sunk--pressed down by the heavy weight of
inebriety--until his own place and his own people knew him no more. Mrs
Sutton knocked timidly at the door, fearing that the drunken wretch
himself might encounter her when it was opened. But the only person
that appeared was a tattered landlady, who, with the words ‘No rooms
vacant here,’ was about to shut the door in her face.
‘Pardon me,’ said Mrs Sutton, ‘but can I see the owner of the house?’
‘I am the lady that owns the house. What do you want with me?’ was the
reply.
‘Does a Captain Bjornsën live here?’
‘_Captain Bjornsën?_’ echoed the woman scornfully; ‘a pretty captain!
No, he don’t, and a good job, too.’
‘Can you tell me where he has gone?’
‘Yes, I can tell you--to a place a deal too good for him. He’s gone to
the work’us, is Captain Bjornsën, unless he’s gone to hell, which is
the likeliest of the two, by this time. But I can’t stand talking about
sich riff-raff any longer,’ and again she was about to retreat.
‘One moment,’ pleaded Mrs Sutton, producing a half-sovereign, ‘I have
the misfortune to be connected with this person, and am anxious to
ascertain the truth concerning him. Can you spare me half-an-hour? I am
willing to pay for it,’ and she held out the money as she spoke.
The landlady softened. She held the door open for her visitor to pass
through, and ushered her into a meagre, grimy sitting-room on the same
floor.
‘Well, ma’am,’ she ejaculated, as she pocketed the half-sovereign and
rolled her blackened hands round in her blacker apron, ‘of course
when a lady _is_ a lady I’m ready to treat with her as sich, but I’m
sorry I can’t say no good of the Captain. He owes me a power of money,
which is cruel on a widder, and he lay here day after day drunk as an
’og, till I could stand it no longer, so I gave notice to the parish
authorities, and they came and took him off to the infirmary. But I
reckon he ain’t there now.’
‘Why should you think so?’
‘Because there was nothink of him left, ma’am. He had drunk hisself to
that beastly condition, he was at death’s door. I’m sure the officers
as come for him they had a nice work to get him away. He couldn’t
stand. He was crumpled up like an old sack. They said as they didn’t
believe he’d last till they got him to the house. But I didn’t pity
him. A nasty beast as brought it all on hisself, a-swilling and
a-swilling from morning till night. And I ’ope you’re not set on seeing
’im again, ma’am, for he’s gone--you may make up your mind to that--as
sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘But do you feel _quite_ sure?’ said Mrs Sutton eagerly. ‘Might he not
have recovered?’
‘_Recovered!_’ cried the landlady shrilly. ‘You ask any of my lodgers,
ma’am, if he could have recovered. Why, ’e was a mass of corruption.
’Twas enough to ruin my house to keep ’im here. And there would have
been a corpus in it if he’d stayed over the night. I never was so
thankful as when I see the last of him, though he owed me a matter of
over five pound, which I don’t suppose I shall ever see again, unless
you, being a real lady, would feel like paying ’is debt, seeing he was
a relation of your’n.’
‘No, no, my good woman, he was not a relation of mine, thank God,
although I had the misfortune to be connected with him. I would pay you
what is due and welcome, and it is very hard you should be defrauded of
it, but I am poor myself, and have not the money. All I came here to
ascertain was if Captain Bjornsën was alive or dead.’
‘Oh, he’s dead enough--you can make up your mind to that, ma’am--and a
good riddance, I should think, for his family. He didn’t live through
_that_ night, I’ll take my oath of it. He had the rattle in his throat
as they drove away from the door.’
‘And which infirmary did they take him to?’
‘The Paddington work’us, ma’am, and I wish I’d sent him there weeks
afore. But I always had too good a ’art for business. And now, is there
anythink else as you may want to know?’
‘Nothing, nothing, thanks. I will detain you no longer,’ said Mrs
Sutton, rising to take her leave.
‘And if ever,’ added the landlady, as she let her out at the door,
‘any of ’is relatives, ma’am, feel like discharging of his just doos,
I ’ope you won’t forget my name and address, for though I detained his
box, there wasn’t nothink in it, but a few empty bottles and a pair of
corduroys as wouldn’t fetch more than ninepence.’
‘I will not forget, rest assured of that,’ said Mrs Sutton as she
hurried from the door.
As she walked back to the room she had secured for herself her heart
beat rapidly. Her girl was free, then--morally and legally free. This
tormentor of her innocence and destroyer of her youth was gone to
render up his account before high Heaven of the dastardly way in which
he had used her. There was no doubt of the truth of the landlady’s
story. She had given it too naturally, and it coincided exactly with
that which Seth Brunt had told Paula. Carl Bjornsën’s vices had at last
revenged themselves upon him, and not only brought him down to death’s
door, but hustled him through it. Mrs Sutton was perfectly aware what
she ought to do next. She should have called on the workhouse officials
to receive a corroboration of the landlady’s story, and a proper
certificate of Captain Bjornsën’s death. She pondered over it that
night, but by the morning she had changed her mind, and decided with
herself that it was unnecessary, and her best plan was to go straight
back to Paula. The fact is, she was afraid. Suppose she were to hear
that their surmises were incorrect, that the man had recovered, or
was likely to do so, and that by instituting inquiries after him she
might in some way make herself responsible to the parish for taking him
off their hands. It would be too terrible. No, she was sure her best
plan of action was to take it for granted that what she had heard was
true, and Carl Bjornsën was gone for ever. And it could make no real
difference since Paula had been legally separated from him for the last
three years, and was free to marry whom she chose. Her poor girl! How
greatly she had suffered through her mother’s want of prudence. How
glad she would be to go home and tell her that she might be happy again.
Meanwhile Paula, left alone with the little imbecile, was trying
hard to school herself to encounter a disappointment. She had never
been lucky, she said, with a secret sigh as she sat with Paulie in
a flower-besprinkled meadow, so why should she expect to be so now.
Her former husband and she were separated for ever. He could never
exert any influence over her again, and she was legally free to do as
she chose, she knew all that well. But she also knew Hal Rushton’s
sensitive nature, and felt that the existence of Carl Bjornsën would
be a tremendous stumbling-block in the way of their marriage. And
was not Carl as strong as an ox? Had he not drunk himself down to the
edge of the grave many a time before, and risen up again, bloated and
blear-eyed, but with his iron constitution still as good as that of
most men? She would not dare to dream that so great a deliverance could
be in store for her. And in that case, what remained for her to do? Had
she the courage to seek for another situation, humble and uninteresting
as the last, and settle down again amongst strangers, to eat her heart
out with grief in silence? She shrunk from the idea with loathing. She
would so much rather cross the ocean, to America or Australia, and in
beginning a new life try to forget that the old life had ever been. Why
should not her mother and Paulie come with her? There was not much to
chain them to their native land, and everything to make them wish for a
freer and less cramped existence. This poor atom of humanity, who could
never take his place amongst his fellow-men at home, might perhaps
find his mind expand with his muscles in a fresher and less worn-out
soil. And there the hateful name of Bjornsën would never arise to
evoke the bitter memories of the past, and no other who had known him
would torture her as Seth Brunt had done. And Paula thought thus, until
England seemed to recede in the background and Australia stand out
boldly on the landscape like a Land of Promise. She did not expect Mrs
Sutton home for at least three days, and was astonished, as she was
sitting with her child in the fields, on a throne of buttercups, on
the evening of the second day, to see her coming slowly to meet them.
Paula jumped up in a minute, much disconcerting the little boy, who was
weaving buttercup chains on her lap, and ran to meet her mother.
‘Don’t tell me!’ she cried, as she came within earshot. ‘I have guessed
your news, dear mother, and am sorry you should have had your trouble
for nothing; but we can’t dispose events to suit our own convenience.
Why did you walk out to meet us here? You will be so tired. But come
home now, and I will get your tea.’
‘Paula, my dear, what has come to you?’ exclaimed Mrs Sutton, as she
gazed in her face, with its feverish cheeks and sparkling eyes. ‘You
are jumping at a conclusion with a vengeance. I don’t know what you are
thinking of, but I have some very serious news for you. Seth Brunt’s
story was true, my dear, and Carl Bjornsën will never trouble you
again. God has taken your cause into His own hands.’
Paula turned suddenly pale. The revulsion of feeling was too much for
her. She had met her mother close to a stile, and she caught at it with
both her hands, and trembled.
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘My dear, what _can_ I mean, except that it is as we anticipated, and
your husband is dead. He has drunk himself to death at last.’
‘Where did he die, mother?’
‘In the workhouse. His landlady told me he had reduced himself to
such a disgusting condition by drinking that she could stand it no
longer, and as he had not paid her for some time, she sent him to the
workhouse, and he died there the same night. She said he had the death
rattle in his throat as they drove away.’
‘Carl _dead_--dead in the workhouse,’ said Paula slowly, as tears
of pity gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. It was
inconsistent, but it was womanly. As long as she believed him to be
alive, and ready to wreak vengeance on herself for having got the
better of him, she felt hard and unforgiving. But now that she heard
that he was dead, and could never worry her again, her thoughts flew
back to the time when they had been better friends than at present,
and her heart compassionated his miserable end. But her mother became
impatient of her inconsistency.
‘Yes, dead in the workhouse, and it was a fitting end, I venture to
say, for such a life.’
‘When did it happen, mother?’
‘One day last week. About the same time, I fancy, as you saw Seth
Brunt. It is curious their being carried off so close together. Now,
Paula, you don’t mean to tell me you are going to cry for the loss of
a man who has been your greatest enemy--who has kicked you, and abused
you, and insulted you? This is too ridiculous. You should go down on
your knees instead, and thank God for having answered your daily
prayer, “Deliver us from evil.”’
‘Yes, mother, I know it, and I _shall_ be thankful by-and-by--when I
have had time to realise it. But just for the moment it seems so sudden
and so shocking. Poor Carl dead--dying without friends, or comforts,
or hope. Shovelled away into a pauper’s grave, without a soul to shed
one tear that he is gone. Mayn’t I cry--just a very little--over such
a wasted, wicked life? Think how different he might have been. How
different he _was_ when we first knew him. Don’t you remember the
Slaters bringing him over to the cottage? How young and fresh and
pleasant he appeared. You said you thought his Swedish accent was so
musical.’
‘Oh, Paula, don’t remind me of that time when I was foolish enough
to be persuaded by a prepossessing exterior and a soft tongue into
trusting the happiness of my only child to such a man. I don’t want to
remember such things. His subsequent behaviour blotted them all out. I
can think only of your sufferings, and I repeat, thank God that he is
gone, and if you don’t say the same, you are very ungrateful.’
‘I know it is best that he is gone,’ replied Paula softly, ‘for he
never would have been any better. He had lost everything in life, poor
fellow, through his drinking, and he would have gone on from bad to
worse. I told Brunt there could be no other end to it, that he was past
all reformation. But, mother, we were friendly once, if nothing more.
There was a time when Carl thought he loved me, and showed it after his
fashion. And death is always sad and solemn. Don’t think me weaker than
you need.’
‘I couldn’t think you weaker than I do,’ said Mrs Sutton bluntly. ‘To
talk like that about a craven wretch, who thought nothing of kicking
you, is sham sentimentality, in my opinion. If you have any motherly
feeling in your bosom, Paula, you have only to look at your poor child
to make you see the folly of lamenting the loss of a man like that.
Remember Paul, ruined in mind and body by the brutality of the father
who should have been his best protector. Bah! you ought to be ashamed
of yourself. Please don’t let me see any more of your tears. They make
me angry with you.’
Paula blazed up under the maternal reproach.
‘Mother, I do _not_ lament his loss. It is no loss. It is a blessing.
And I have not forgotten Paul, nor the cowardly blows that made him
what he is. Only, it seems sad for _anyone_ to be shut away from God’s
sunshine and God’s earth, whilst the world goes laughing and singing on
its way--and doubly sad when no one is left here to regret it.’
‘That’s all very pretty talking, my dear, but the good and the young
and the loveable are shut away in like manner with those who have
made themselves odious whilst here below. But the fact is, you are
over-excited, and don’t know what you are talking about. Suppose I were
to confess--since you display so much feeling in the matter--that I
have only told you this little fable to see how you would bear it, and
that Carl Bjornsën, instead of sleeping in a pauper’s grave, is alive
and fairly well, and likely to trouble and haunt you for many years to
come. What then?’
Paula caught her breath quickly.
‘You would not--you _could_ not have been so cruel, mother,’ she gasped.
‘No, my dear; but your dismay at the mere doubt should teach you what
your real feelings are. Come, now. Let us go home, and indulge in no
more hysterics. Where’s that blessed child? Still with his nose amongst
the buttercups. He’d stay there all night, as quiet as a mouse, if we’d
let him. Come here, my darling. When I want to weep, I’ll weep over
your blighted life, and not over the death of the dastard who blighted
it. Come to your grannie, boy. She loves you too well to lament over
your father.’
‘I do _not_ lament over him,’ exclaimed Paula almost fiercely. ‘Give
me my child, mother. You shall not teach him that you are the only
one who loves him. _I_ love him, too, and if I have ever harboured a
rebellious thought concerning him, may God forgive me, but it has been
only because--because--’
‘Because he is his father’s son. Exactly so. But from this day, my
daughter, let us make a compact to forget it. From this day, let the
name of Carl Bjornsën be a forbidden sound between us. He is dead. Let
his memory die with him.’
‘Yes, dear, I should wish it so. It is what I have been striving to do
for years past. As far as we can, we will.’
‘That is a promise,’ said her mother, as she turned and kissed her.
And then, holding Paulie between them, the two women walked over the
hills to their cottage home.