A MYSTERIOUS LOSS.
Paula, following her husband’s advice, removed her pretty lace dress
and flowery hat, and putting on a dark wrap, lay down on the sofa in
the breakfast parlour whilst her servants made her some tea. It was for
the first time, then, that Hal perceived a little pile of letters and
newspapers waiting for him.
‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed, ‘I have been so busy all day I have had no
time to think of my correspondence. However, I suppose they are only
circulars. I seldom get anything more interesting.’
He opened one or two county newspapers, and tossed them to one side as
he spoke.
‘I suppose our garden-party will get into the _Haltham Chronicle_,
Paula. I saw Spring making copious notes. You’ll see your whole bill of
fare in print next Saturday.’
Paula smiled faintly, but did not answer. She was lying back on the
sofa cushions, with her eyes closed, for now that the excitement
and the necessity for exertion were over she felt how much her head
ached. Her husband went on with his letters. He sent a couple of
advertisements to join the newspapers, but the contents of the third
envelope he opened seemed to arrest his attention. It was a very short
letter, but he read it several times over before he ventured furtively
to glance at his wife, who was lying in the same position, with closed
eyes. After a minute or two, he walked gently up to her side, and
kissed her brow. Paula looked up, and lifting her arms, wound them
around his neck.
‘Paula, darling,’ he whispered, ‘I have had a letter about your mother.
I am afraid she is not well.’
Paula sat up on the sofa, and opened her eyes wide.
‘Not _well_,’ she exclaimed incredulously, ‘mother not well. Why, I
heard from her only two days ago, and she did not mention it. What is
the matter with her, Hal? Read me her letter.’
‘The letter is not from her, dear. It is from the doctor.’
‘From Dr Gibbon, and he writes to _you_. How strange, when he has known
me so long. Well, what does he say? Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘It is not from Dr Gibbon, dearest. Perhaps he is away for his
holiday. It is from some stranger of the name of Courtfield, and all
he says is: “Dear sir,--Mrs Sutton is seriously ill, and desires to
see Mrs Rushton. Please bring or send her to Grassdene as soon as
possible.--Yours faithfully, L. Courtfield.”’
Paula pressed both her hands against her brows.
‘Courtfield, Courtfield,’ she murmured, ‘I do not know the name. Why
should he write?’ And then, as though conviction had for the first
time burst upon her, she cried: ‘Oh, mother, mother. She must be _very_
ill, indeed, to let a stranger write to tell us of it. And I have been
singing and dancing all the afternoon, whilst she was perhaps _dying_.
Oh, what a wicked, wicked girl I am. I have not thought half enough
of my poor mother, and all she has done and suffered for me. I have
been wrapt up in you, and your love for me, and the pride of my new
possessions. Oh, Hal, Hal, is God going to send a judgment upon me?’
‘For loving me, dearest, and opening your poor parched heart to receive
my love? I hope not. He would not be the Father of us all if He grudged
His children the only real comfort they have in this world. But Paula,
darling, listen to me. There is a train from Haltham at eleven o’clock
for the west. I will travel down by it to Grassdene, and send you a
wire directly I arrive to let you know how your mother is.’
‘And leave me here alone, doing nothing!’ she cried. ‘Oh, no; that
would be worse than death. I will go with you, Hal. We will go to my
dear mother together.’
‘Oh, Paula, you are so exhausted with fatigue. A night journey may make
you ill. Take my advice, dear one, and go to bed. You can join me by
the earliest train to-morrow, if you still desire it.’
‘And meanwhile my mother may die without seeing me again. Do you
suppose this Courtfield would have said “Come as soon as possible” had
there been no danger? Oh, no, Hal; I must go with you. I should kill
myself with anxiety and suspense if you left me here alone.’
‘If that is your opinion, of course you must come,’ replied her
husband, ‘and I suppose it will be best, as this letter alludes so
particularly to you. But we have no time to spare, dearest. It is
nearly nine now, and we have an hour’s drive before us. Can you be
ready so soon?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she cried, springing from the sofa. ‘I require nothing but
to change my dress, and put up the few things I may want for the
night. Louisa will do that for me. Oh, my heart is so full of fear and
misery. And when I was looking forward so much to seeing her again.’
Hal had no answer to make to this outburst of sorrow. He believed it
best to let it have its way. He knew enough of the suddenness with
which misfortune overtakes us to fear what might be in store for Paula,
and it was as well she should be prepared. So he went in search of
Louisa, and told her that her mistress had received unexpected bad
news, and had to leave the Hall that night, and she must go and help
her to pack up. And in the flurry and distress of departure Paula
had only time to instruct her maid to go over to the vicarage the
first thing in the morning and tell Mrs Measures she had been called
away on account of her mother’s illness, and would write to her from
Devonshire. She flung on a soft, warm travelling dress, for the nights
were beginning to be chilly, and having filled a handbag with her
toilet necessaries, was standing ready at the hall door for some time
before her husband drove up in his dog-cart.
‘Jump in, dear,’ he said; ‘I ordered the cart instead of the pony
chaise because the mare will take us quicker into Haltham. Where is
your travelling plaid, and have you no veil? I am so afraid you will
take cold in the night air. Wait a moment and I will fetch them for
you.’
He wrapped her up tenderly, as if she had been an ailing child, and in
the midst of her trouble Paula could not help feeling that as long as
she had her husband’s love she could never be entirely miserable. It
was a very silent and melancholy journey that followed, for neither
of them dared tell their thoughts to the other. Paula sat throughout
the night holding Hal’s hand, and staring with sleepless eyes into the
darkness, as she wondered vaguely what might be before her. In the
early dawn they arrived at Lynmouth, where they had spent their happy
honeymoon, and had to wait there for an hour and a half before getting
a train to take them to the nearest station to Grassdene. Hal took
Paula to an hotel, and insisted upon her swallowing some coffee, but
suspense seemed to make the act almost impossible. At last the moment
arrived to start again, and at about seven o’clock in the morning a
rickety old fly halted with them before the little home of Mrs Sutton.
Paula turned the handle of the vehicle door and hurried up the garden
path. Her summons brought a respectable looking woman to the door.
‘How is my mother?’ she asked breathlessly.
The woman scrutinised her keenly.
‘Is it Mrs Rushton?’ she said.
‘Yes, yes. Is Mrs Sutton better? Pray do not keep me in suspense.’
‘If you’re Mrs Rushton, ma’am,’ replied the woman, ‘the doctor’s
waiting to see you in the parlour now. He came over early on purpose to
meet you on arrival. Here is the lady, sir,’ she continued, throwing
open the sitting-room door, through which Paula, closely followed by
her husband, passed. A tall, spare young man was standing to receive
them as they entered.
‘Are you the Mr Courtfield who wrote to us?’ cried Paula hastily, for
it was no time for ceremony, and she could think of no one but her
mother.
‘I am, madam; and I presume I speak to Mrs Rushton?’
‘Yes. How is my mother, and where is Dr Gibbon?’
‘Dr Gibbon is away for a fortnight, and I am acting for him. I was
called in to see Mrs Sutton the day before yesterday, and I regret to
tell you that she is very ill--very ill, indeed.’
Paula’s large eyes seemed to start out of her white face.
‘Is--there--no hope?’ she said, in a strange husky voice.
The stranger replied gravely,--
‘There _is_ no hope, madam, I regret to say. It is better you should
know it at once.’
‘Oh, let me go to her. Why am I staying here?’ cried Paula wildly.
She would have left the room, but Mr Courtfield looked significantly at
Hal Rushton, who laid a restraining hand upon her.
‘My dearest, stay with us. Don’t you understand?’
‘No! What? What would you say?’
‘That your dear mother is happier than you or I, Paula. That she has
gone beyond the reach of sorrow.’
She gazed at him in a vague, wondering manner for a moment, and then,
laying her head down on the table, burst into a violent flood of tears.
‘It will do her good,’ said Hal mournfully. ‘She has suspected it from
the beginning, though she has not said a word. Poor girl! it has come
on her far too suddenly.’
‘I might have told you the worst when I wrote,’ replied Courtfield,
‘for there was no illness. The poor lady was found dead the day before
yesterday. I was only called in to testify to the cause of death,
which must have taken place some hours before I saw her.’
‘But where, then, was Eliza?’ demanded Paula in her surprise, lifting
her wet face for the doctor’s scrutiny.
‘Who is Eliza?’ he asked in his turn.
‘My mother’s servant, who attended on her and the child. She used to
come here every day. Why did she not give notice of her illness?’
‘My dear lady, you puzzle me. There was no servant in the house when
I entered it. Indeed, the person who summoned me--a Mrs Jones--told
me expressly that Mrs Sutton was alone. She entered the cottage, I
believe, accidentally, and was shocked at what she saw here.’
‘_Mrs Jones!_’ repeated Paula wonderingly, ‘that is the baker’s wife.
But who was it opened the door to me, then?’
‘Oh, that is an hospital nurse of my acquaintance who I took upon
myself to send for from Durnham, as I felt you would not like the body
to lie here unwatched.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Paula, as she commenced to weep afresh;
but suddenly she started up again with the question: ‘But the
child--_where_, then, is the child?’
‘_The child!_’ echoed Mr Courtfield, in a tone of mystification.
‘Yes, my little boy, who lived here with my mother. Where is he? He
must be with someone in Grassdene. Eliza must be taking care of him
somewhere. Why are they not here to meet me?’
‘I am quite unable to answer your questions, Mrs Rushton. I am a
stranger in Grassdene, and I never entered this cottage nor saw your
poor mother until she was dead. It was Mrs Jones who gave me your name
and address. But she said nothing about a child. Perhaps the little boy
is with her.’
‘Oh, I must see Mrs Jones,’ exclaimed Paula impatiently. ‘I must hear
all she can tell me about this terrible mystery. My mother, ill and
alone. It is too horrible to think of. I shall not be satisfied till I
have seen Mrs Jones and Eliza.’
‘Mrs Jones I will go and fetch for you at once,’ said Mr Courtfield,
taking up his hat, ‘and doubtless she will tell you where the servant
is. If you want anything in my absence, will you call Nurse Moore? You
will find her very attentive and kind,’ and Mr Courtfield hurried away.
As he disappeared Hal held out both his arms to Paula, and folded her
closely to his heart.
‘Weep here, my darling,’ he said. ‘I will give you twice the love I
have done hitherto now that you have lost hers.’
‘Hal,’ she whispered fearfully, ‘_what_ shall we do about the child?’
‘Don’t worry your dear head about anything more than you can help at
present. All will come right in the end, Paula. You will have but to
express your wishes for your husband to carry them out to the very best
of his ability.’
‘Ah, what should I do without you?’ she cried, as she nestled closely
to him. ‘You are my world.’
But at this juncture in bustled Mrs Jones, with her arms and face a
mass of flour, fresh from the baking house.
‘Oh, Mrs Rushton,’ she exclaimed, ‘how glad I am you’re come, for I’ve
had such a shock as I thought I could never have got over. Your poor
dear ma!’
Paula had known the baker’s wife before her first marriage, and
consequently had no hesitation in speaking to her of her private
affairs.
‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Jones, it has been a terrible blow for all of us. But
tell me how it happened. I want to know _everything_.’
‘Lor’, my poor dear, there’s nothing to tell, except that the day
before yesterday, as ’Liza hadn’t been round for the bread in the
morning as usual, I thought I’d run in and see if there was any
mistake, and when I walked in by the back door, which stood open, and
went into the kitchen, you might have knocked me down with a feather,
for there sat your poor dear ma, in all her clothes, stiff and cold. I
thought she was sleeping at first, but when I touched her and see her
face--there, it almost killed me, too.’
‘Had there been--foul play?’ demanded Paula, with horror-stricken eyes.
‘Oh, no, my dear, ’twas her heart, as the doctor will tell you, and
it had been weak for years, as _I_ knew well. And she couldn’t have
suffered, poor dear lady, for she looked as calm as an infant, just as
she looks at this moment, bless her.’
‘But where was Eliza, Mrs Jones? Was _she_ not with my poor mother when
she was taken ill? Why didn’t she send for the doctor sooner?’
‘My dear lady, no one knows where Eliza is. That is the strange part
of it. I see her, as it might be, on the Saturday when she came to our
place for two loaves, and it was because she didn’t call on the Monday,
nor yet on the Tuesday, that I took the liberty to look in here. But
none of us have seen Eliza since, not even her aunt, so we thought as
Master Paulie had gone to you, perhaps--’
‘Master Paulie with _me_!’ interpolated her listener. ‘Who told you
that? He has not been with me, Mrs Jones, since my marriage.’
‘Why, surely,’ cried the baker’s wife, ‘’Liza told me on Saturday as
the child was going or had gone (I’m sure I forget which) up to stay
with you in Deepdale, and when the girl was missing, and your poor
dear ma unable to say nothing to nobody, I made sure ’Liza had gone to
take care of him. I was telling her aunt, Mrs Chandler, so only last
evening, as we was talking it over, and saying how strange it was as
she had never come to say good-bye.’
But here she was interrupted by a loud cry from Paula,--
‘But where _is_ the child, then? Where is my poor helpless little boy?
Oh, God! am I to lose them both in one day?’
Hal Rushton and Mrs Jones both looked aghast. Where could the poor
imbecile child be? What mystery was involved in the death of Mrs
Sutton and the disappearance of her unfortunate charge?
‘But the child _must_ be somewhere in Grassdene,’ exclaimed Hal. ‘He
scarcely left his grandmother’s sight. Some of the villagers must know
where he is.’
‘I’m _sure_ he’s not in Grassdene,’ returned the baker’s wife, ‘for
there isn’t a soul here but what knows the other, and one would have no
need to ask twice about it. Besides, haven’t we all known Master Paulie
from his birth? And it was so natural to think he’d gone to visit his
mother. I’m sure I never doubted it for a moment.’
‘Something terrible must have happened,’ moaned Paula. ‘The boy has
fallen over the cliffs, or been brutally murdered, and the shock has
killed my poor mother. I feel sure of it. She loved Paulie so dearly.
But where is Eliza, who might have solved the mystery? Why has _she_
disappeared also? Oh, Hal, the uncertainty and darkness of it all seems
the hardest part to bear.’
Hal tried to soothe and reassure his wife, but he had his own
suspicions on the subject.
Supposing the poor child had lost his life through the carelessness of
the servant, been drowned, perhaps, or allowed to fall over the cliffs,
and the shock of hearing the news had killed Mrs Sutton, what more
likely than the fear of disclosure and blame had induced Eliza to run
away from her native village and seek a situation elsewhere. But this
was pure conjecture, and he would not worry his wife by suggesting it.
Yet it was very hard to listen to her lamentations and fears and be
able to say nothing to comfort her. After a while they went upstairs
together hand in hand, and stood with bated breath beside the silent
body of the dead. Mrs Sutton, who had once been a very pretty woman,
and had possessed an amiable disposition, should have looked very calm
and peaceful lying in her shroud. But she did not. There was a strained
and anxious look upon her features, which her daughter noticed at once,
as a sign that her death had not been a painless one. But Nurse Moore
corrected her. It had been ascertained beyond doubt that her decease
was due to failure of the action of the heart, and that her spirit had
passed away as she sat in an ordinary manner in her arm-chair. But the
grieving daughter could not be satisfied. She wept over the marble
face of her dead mother until her husband drew her by force from the
chamber, and then all her cry was for her lost child. The maternal
solicitude which had seemed to slumber in the boy’s presence was called
to life under the dread that she should never see him again, and she
passed the day in wild lamentations over her double loss and futile
conjectures as to how one at least of them had been occasioned.
‘Hal,’ she said to her husband, as they sat at night together in the
desolate little parlour, ‘did I not tell you, when I first heard of my
poor mother’s illness, that God had sent a judgment upon me for being
so happy? What right had I to be light-hearted and prosperous, and
surrounded by friends, whilst I left my darling mother to live here
alone, and bear all the trouble and anxiety of my ill-fated child? It
is as though I had been cowardly enough to run away from the burden I
created for myself.’
‘Your mother thought differently, Paula. She told me that whenever
she looked at poor little Paul she felt she could not blame herself
sufficiently for having persuaded you--a child in experience--to marry
a man of whom you both knew so little as Captain Bjornsën. I believe
it was this feeling of self-reproach which made her so devoted to the
child, and so anxious to relieve you of the burden of him.’
‘Ah! my mother was an angel,’ cried Paula, weeping afresh; ‘she loved
me too much. My unhappy marriage was the fault of no one except the man
who turned it into a hell for me, and made me almost hate the sight of
the poor child who reminded me of him. May God forgive me for it. I
shall never forgive myself. I was not a mother to Paulie. I scarcely
ever felt as if he belonged to me. And yet, Hal, when he was first
born, I was so fond and proud of him. I forgot all my past trouble in
the joy of having a baby of my own. When he smiled at me, in a baby’s
meaningless way, I used to think he knew how miserable I had been, and
wanted to console me for it, and dreamed of the time when he would be a
strong, kind man, to defend me and take care of me and be the comfort
of my life. And then, as time passed on and the smile never seemed to
have any more meaning in it, and his eyes, which could see flowers and
birds and water, failed to recognise me, and the dreadful truth was
broken to me by Dr Gibbon, that my boy was an idiot, my heart seemed
to harden against Providence, and instead of pitying the poor little
creature, I shrunk from him. _Mother_ didn’t. My own blessed mother
opened her arms to the child whom my cold heart had deserted, and drew
him into them. He never gave a proof of his want of intellect but she
showered fresh love upon him, whilst _I_ could remember nothing but
the cruel blows and curses that made him what he was. And now it is all
over. I feel that I am no longer a mother, and I would give the world
to bring him back again. My poor, innocent, unoffending child!’
‘Paula, my dearest, you must not despair. We shall find him yet. The
boy cannot have been lost in a place like this. Perhaps the girl Eliza,
frightened by your mother’s sudden death, ran home with Paulie to her
friends.’
‘No! No! She _has_ no friends. She is an orphan, and was brought up by
her aunt, Mrs Chandler, who complains of not having seen her before she
left. Where Eliza may be, I cannot tell, but I am sure that my child
is dead. He used to wander about these slopes all by himself looking
for wild flowers. He must have fallen over them. His little body is
lying somewhere on the beach, smashed to pieces. I feel it. I know it.
I shall see it lying so all my life. Oh, Hal, this will kill me. I
cannot remain on earth when those two have gone to Heaven.’
‘But, Paula, if there is any foundation for your fears, you shall, at
least, not remain in this torturing uncertainty,’ said Hal. ‘To-morrow
I will engage men to search the whole of the coast for ten miles round,
to see if they can find any traces of such a catastrophe. If they fail
to do so, I hope you will be satisfied that you are mistaken.’
‘But if he has not fallen over the cliffs, he may have been drowned in
the sea. Oh, Hal, I am certain he has come by a violent death, and the
shock killed my dear mother. Why else should she have that strained
and pained look on her dead features. Nurse Moore says she can have
suffered no physical pain, but she experienced some awful shock or
fright, I am sure of that. All the rest of my life I shall be haunted
by that look. It is as if she had died longing to tell _me_ something
that would affect my peace of mind. And what could that be but the
death of my poor child. Oh, God! if I might but have seen and spoken
to her, if only for ten minutes, before you took her away from me for
ever.’
‘Paula, my darling, I know what you must be suffering under this
harrowing suspense, but don’t lose heart until we have seen Eliza.
We _must_ be able to trace Eliza. A girl like that could not have
possessed the means to go very far. If she has been frightened away by
your mother’s death, she is sure to come back after a while. Hunger
alone will compel her to do so. Mr Courtfield told me that your old
friend Dr Gibbon is expected back to-morrow. Try and be patient till
you have seen him. He may be able to throw light upon the subject.
For my sake, Paula, for _my_ sake, don’t make yourself ill with the
violence of your grief.’
But though Paula did not reject her husband’s tenderness, it only
seemed to make her tears flow faster, until she wept herself to sleep,
from sheer exhaustion, in his arms.
The next day brought home Dr Gibbon, but he could give them no relief.
He was very much shocked to hear of his old friend’s sudden death
(although he had known what she suffered from for years past), but he
could tell them nothing about little Paul, whose disappearance, with
that of the servant girl, was as mysterious to him as to everyone
else. The last time he had seen the child and his grandmother they had
both been in their usual health and spirits, and he had a toy in his
portmanteau which he had brought back for the little boy. He visited
every house in the village, questioning as he went, but not a soul
appeared to have heard or seen anything to point to the occurrence of
an accident. The person who could be traced as the very last to have
seen or spoken with Paulie was a little girl called Becky Silver, who
affirmed she had met him and Eliza on Tuesday morning whilst they were
talking to a man.
‘Who was the man?’ demanded Dr Gibbon.
‘I don’t know, sir. I never see’d ’im before. I’m thinking he was a
tramp. He was very dusty, and ’is ’at was broken.’
‘Was he young or old?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I couldn’t see ’is face. They was on the other side
the ’edge. I think the man was begging or summat. I ’eard ’Liza talking
to ’im, but Paulie ’e never say nothing.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘They didn’t go nowheres, sir. They stood still on t’other side the
’edge.’
‘Did Eliza seem friendly with this man?’
‘No, sir. She didn’t seem nothink. She was settling Paulie’s pinafore.’
‘Why didn’t you speak to them, Becky?’
‘Oh, I never do, sir. I can’t a-bear ’Liza, and Paulie he’s got no
sense. I didn’t even nod to ’em. I just walked on and said nothink.’
‘This witness can evidently throw no light upon the mystery,’ said Dr
Gibbon to Hal Rushton; ‘but I don’t like the idea of the tramp. And
yet, what would a tramp get by carrying off or murdering this poor
little child? He did not belong to rich people. The clothes on his
back would not have fetched five shillings.’
‘And yet murder has been committed for less,’ remarked Hal.
‘You are right, sir, but not in open daylight and in the presence of a
witness. It’s the girl’s disappearance that puzzles me. What has _she_
gone away for? It is incomprehensible.’
‘My wife will insist that some accident must have happened to the child
through the carelessness of the servant, and that when she found the
announcement caused her mistress’s death she was so terrified that she
ran away.’
‘It would be an excellent surmise if an accident _had_ happened, but
how could a child fall over these cliffs without all the village
knowing it? The population lives by fishing. The beach is seldom
without men and women on it.’
‘So _I_ say, but to satisfy Paula I have engaged a dozen fishermen who
know the coast to search it in every possible place. The certainty of
the poor child’s death would be better than this cruel suspense. I
feel, if it goes on, that it will kill her.’
‘No, no; she will get over it. It is doubly hard coming at the same
time as her mother’s death, but the boy could never have been anything
but a trouble to her, and when time has convinced her that he is gone
for ever, she will find it a relief. And let us hope she may in due
time have other children to make her entirely forget her unfortunate
firstborn.’
‘God grant it,’ said Hal Rushton reverently.
But though every trouble was taken, and no money was spared, not
a trace could be found of the missing child or servant girl, and
inquiries at the nearest station proved of no avail. No such man as
Becky Silver had described had been known to alight at or depart
from the platform, and the only thing left to be done was to place
descriptions of the missing persons in the hands of the police. After
which the whole agitation seemed to go to sleep for ever. Meantime,
Mrs Sutton’s funeral took place, and Hal Rushton and Dr Gibbon were
the only mourners who followed to see her laid to rest in the little
graveyard beside the hill, whilst Paula sat at home like a statue,
stupefied with grief. She had left off accusing herself of being the
murderer of her mother and the destroyer of her child, but one could
plainly see that she still believed it.
The mother’s love, that had slept so long, had wakened with tenfold
force, and no woman who has loved and lost her baby could ever suffer
as Paula suffered at the hands of her accusing conscience. Even when
Hal, in his great love and pity for her, timidly suggested what Dr
Gibbon had alluded to, and told her he should pray that God would send
another child to comfort and console her, she turned round upon him in
a manner she had never done before, and declared she wanted no more
children; that nothing and no one could make up to her for the loss of
Paulie; and that she should weep for him to the end of her days.
And so her husband took her back to Highbridge Hall, still miserable
and dejected, and with the terrible doubt about her child to make
matters worse, and a great dread of meeting any of her friends or
neighbours again.