PAUL CONFESSES.
But though Stella recovered so well, and so much more quickly than they
had dared to hope, from the shock she had received that night, Paul
remained ill and low in spirits and in strength. Of course at first he
was very weak from loss of blood and shock, and no one wondered; but, as
time went on, and in spite of all that was done for him, he did not pick
op health as they expected him to. They fed him, and physicked him, and
tried to cheer him, but nothing seemed to do him any good, until at last
the doctor, the same who had pulled him out of the morass, and carried
Stella home, began to be puzzled about him. "Has he anything on his mind
that can be troubling him?" he asked Mr. Anketell, one day. "Something is
keeping him back; he is spiritless and depressed. It must be his mind;
his body is sound enough, and the wound is healing nicely. I wonder if he
has been up to any other escapade, and is uneasy about it? It is probably
quite a trifling thing, but I feel sure something is preying on the boy's
mind."
After the doctor had gone, Mr. Anketell wandered about the moor, thinking
deeply. The doctor's words had impressed him very much, and even while he
had been speaking the memory of the sleep-walking night, and Paul's odd
behaviour of the day previous to that, came back to him. Could Paul have
deceived them all as to the events of that night? Had something happened
then which he had not liked to confess?
He went slowly back to the farm, his heart heavy, his face stern.
But before he sought his son, he went to his own room, and prayed to God
to help him in his guidance of this boy of his.
Paul was alone, lying on a couch in his own room, to which he had been
carried after he had been shot. The sun had set, and a soft twilight was
filling the room, but the light which still came in at the window fell
full on Paul. Mr. Anketell, entering softly, saw the expression on the
boy's face, the look in his eyes, and his heart ached, and all his
sternness vanished. "My boy," he said, oh, so tenderly, "tell me what it
is that is troubling you; tell me all about it, I know there is something.
Can't you bring yourself to trust me not to be hard on you?"
No one knew what transpired at that meeting. No one but Mrs. Anketell in
fact ever knew it had taken place. It was to remain for ever a confidence
between them, and it was a confidence which bound father and son more
closely together all their lives after. They had a long, long talk; much
was confessed, much help given, much strength and courage. Paul never
forgot that evening and that talk in the twilight, or his first
realisation of the greatness of his father's love for him. No shyness, no
self-consciousness was left, no fear of meeting his father's eyes, no more
secrets lay between them. To Paul, though he but dimly realised it then,
and could not have explained it, that hour was a turning-point in his
life, and in all his after-life he thanked God for that one evening's
talk. But after the confession and the forgiveness was over, and all had
been told, they sat so long talking that presently the supper-bell rang,
and then came a light, slow step upon the stair. It was Stella's, they
knew. "Will you tell her?" whispered Paul, and though his heart was sore
with shame he did not falter.
"No," whispered back his father. "I shall tell no one. I want the
children to feel nothing but affection and respect for you, to look up to
you. Nothing must smirch Stella's beautiful love for you, Paul.
It is something you cannot prize too highly, and will some day know the
true value of."
"I will try not to let anything," said Paul gravely, and there came a tap
at the door. "Is daddy here?" asked Stella's voice, and then, opening the
door, "Oh, you are in the dark. Poor Paul, weren't you frightened?"
"Oh, no," said Paul simply, "father is here."
And then a happy little procession went down the stairs to supper--Paul in
his father's arms, Stella running in front to open doors. Exclamations of
joy greeted them as they appeared, for this was Paul's first appearance
below stairs. And his mother, who at the first glance saw that it was her
old, happy Paul who had come back to them, and that all the shadow which
had come between them had been cleared away, felt happier than she had for
many a long day. For one wilful mischievous boy can not only make himself
thoroughly unhappy, but everyone about him becomes unhappy too.
A week or two later they left Moor Farm for home, their holiday ended.
"Well," said Mr. Anketell, drawing a deep breath as he took his seat
beside them in the train, "it seems to me we lost nothing in the way of
excitement by not going to Norway. Dartmoor was able to give us as much
as we could manage with."
"I have never regretted the change," said Mrs. Anketell heartily,
"have you children?"
"Oh, no," cried Michael, excitedly. "We had adventures all the time, and
shooting, and everything."
"Yes," said Paul, laughing ruefully, "and I provided most of them."