Chapter V: 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.