Chapter IX: 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.