Chapter V: On the Trail

At that sight the stream of pity which had commenced to flow in Paula’s heart for the abject and miserable wretch before her dried up, and her eyes blazed with furious indignation. She seized the child in her arms, and retreating with him to the further end of the room, stood like a creature at bay, whilst she hurled a torrent of angry reproaches on Carl Bjornsën’s head.

‘You wretch! You mean, pitiful wretch! You inhuman brute! Not content with injuring me to that extent that my poor boy was born an idiot, you stoop to steal him from me--me, to whom the law of England as well as the law of God had consigned him. And you killed my mother by it. Yes, you are a murderer, as well as a drunkard, and I hate and despise you more than I can say.’

‘I--killed--your mother?’ stammered Carl Bjornsën.

‘You did! you did! She was found dead in her chair--dead of heart disease, accelerated by the grief of Paulie’s loss. We could not account for it then, but I see it all now. _You_ were the supposed tramp that decoyed away the servant Eliza and the child, and I suppose when she had served your purpose you cut her throat and flung her away in a ditch. You are quite as capable of the one deed as the other.’

‘No no!’ exclaimed the man, in a shaking voice. ‘It is untrue. I did not. The girl is safe in a situation in London. She wanted to stay there. It was her own wish.’

‘And what did you do it for?’ cried Paula angrily. ‘What object had you in taking the burden of this poor helpless lamb upon yourself?’

‘What did I do it for?’ he repeated, in a tone of the most hopeless misery. ‘Look at me, and read the answer to the question in my condition. Paula, for the last twelve months I have been starving. I am so ill I cannot work. I have not the strength of that child.’

‘It has been brought on by your own fault. You have drank yourself to this state. You were prosperous and healthy once, but you threw the blessings God gave you into the gutter.’

‘That is true, but so is the other. When I stole the child, it was with the hope he would bring me bread. I heard you had married again--that you were well off and prosperous--and I thought you would pay me for bringing back your child. I didn’t know till I had seen him that he was an idiot.’

‘An idiot for whose idiotcy God will hold you responsible, Carl Bjornsën.’

‘Perhaps. But one of which you were doubtless thankful to be quit.’

‘It is untrue. We have searched for him far and wide. His uncertain fate has laid like a heavy load upon my heart.’

‘You have him back again now, then, and you can take him away with you if you choose.’

‘Why did you not bring him to me before?’

‘I could not. I have been at death’s door for the past six months. I have walked now, by slow stages, all the way from London, and I shall never leave this town. He and I have starved together.’

Paula glanced at the child, still sleeping in her arms. He was feather-weight, and his body was frightfully attenuated. His little face was shrunk to nothing. The sight of him made her burst into tears.

‘Oh, how cruel you have been,’ she exclaimed, ‘to take him from a safe and happy home, and half kill him like this. My poor little Paulie, who cared for nothing but the birds and flowers. What a life he must have led with you in London. How had you the heart to do it to your own child?’

‘I wanted money. I wanted bread,’ replied Bjornsën hoarsely. ‘If you had ever starved, you would not ask me such a needless question. I thought your mother’s love would have given me a hold over you for the rest of my life. But I couldn’t get at you before, and I have been too ill to write. Indeed, I didn’t know where to write to. I knew Brunt had seen you somewhere near Haltham, and I was just beginning to set my inquiries on foot when your horses knocked me over yesterday.’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Only a few days.’

‘And how are you living?’

‘_Living!_’ he echoed, glancing round the bare attic. ‘Do you call this living? I haven’t swallowed food for days. The few pence I have gathered tramping have gone in drink, to keep my body and soul together till I met you.’

A vision of what Carl Bjornsën had been when she married him flashed suddenly across Paula’s mind--of the somewhat coarse-featured yet bright and intelligent young Swede, with his blue eyes and his yellow hair, standing on the deck of his own vessel, and looking every inch a sailor--and then she glanced at the unshorn, dirty, emaciated figure on the bed, and burst into a flood of tears, as she pressed little Paulie closely to her breast.

‘Oh, Carl,’ she sobbed, ‘I _am_ so sorry for you. It is terrible--terrible to meet you thus. But what I _can_ do I will for the old times’ sake.’

‘You had better take the child home,’ he said, in a faint voice. ‘I didn’t tramp with him all this way only to sponge on you. That’s what I _meant_ to do, if I’d had the strength, but I’ve broken down now for good, and no money can keep me in the world. And so I wanted to bring Paulie to you, and ask you to take care of him--not for _my_ sake, you know, but for the sake of what you once thought me.’

At these words Paula lost her fear of her former husband, and approached the pallet on which he lay.

‘Carl,’ she said gently, ‘I have not forgotten those days, and I try to think of them as kindly as I can. I have not much money at my own command, but what I have shall be yours. You must move from this wretched room without delay. It is not fit for a--a--gentleman, and I will hire a nurse to look after you.’

‘No good,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘What nurse would undertake the charge of such a patient? Besides, it will be all over in a few days. The doctor said as much last night. Why, I’ve no lungs left. I coughed them up months ago.’

‘Poor Carl,’ she murmured softly.

‘Only, you take the youngster back with you, and I shall be content,’ he continued. ‘I sha’n’t die easy unless he’s in your hands.’

Paula started. How could she take the boy back to Highbridge Hall without revealing everything? Her heart sunk within her. It was impossible.

‘I cannot take him home with me to-night,’ she answered. ‘I have already told you that Mr Rushton is not aware of your existence.’

‘Tell him of it, then.’

‘I _dare_ not. Oh, Carl, have pity on me. He loves me so, and I tremble lest this knowledge should interrupt our peace. It would be impossible to take Paulie to Highbridge Hall without the whole village hearing of it. I must have time to prepare them for seeing him.’

‘And meanwhile he may die,’ said Bjornsën. ‘The doctor said last night it was very doubtful if he would recover, and I can’t attend to him. He’s so weak, he sleeps all day. Some morning I shall find he’s gone to sleep for good. If you want to save his life, take him away.’

‘My poor little child!’ cried Paula, kissing him. ‘I will go and consult Dr Brown on the subject. There is a children’s ward in the hospital. Perhaps they will take him in there.’ She laid Paulie down again by his father’s side, and taking out her purse, put its contents into Carl Bjornsën’s hand. ‘As I go downstairs,’ she said, ‘I will send the woman of the house up to you. Order what you want to make you comfortable--but food, Carl, food, not drink, for Heaven’s sake--and I will come and see you again to-morrow. Meanwhile I will see the doctor about Paulie; and if they send for him from the hospital, you will let him go?’

‘Anywhere, so we don’t see each other die,’ replied Bjornsën roughly, as he clutched the money she handed him.

She hardly knew how to take leave of him. There lay the man whom she had married and borne a child to, and yet they were less than nothing to one another. She loved Hal Rushton devotedly. She would not have exchanged his affection for that of any man living, and yet it was impossible to forget she had been Carl Bjornsën’s wife, and it seemed dreadful to leave him, dying and poverty stricken, without a kindly word. So she laid her hand timidly on his and said,--

‘God bless you, Carl. It pains me more than I can say to see you like this.’

He did not answer her, but turned his face towards the wall, and Paula closed the door and went downstairs with a beating heart. This time she found Mrs Sims alone in the lower room, wondering not a little what kept the lady with her dirty lodger in the attic so long. She went up to her with a crimson face and said,--

‘The poor man upstairs is very ill, I am afraid, and so is the little child.’

‘Yes, ma’am, so Sims says, but I ’ope we’re not going to ’ave a death in the ’ouse. It do go against rooms so.’

‘I am sure they are in great want of food,’ continued Paula, ’and I have given him a little money to procure it. Will you get him what he may want? Some strong soup--and milk for the child?’

‘And where am I to get soup from at this time of day, ma’am?’ replied Mrs Sims, ‘nor milk heither. Why, the milkman’s been come and gone two hours ago.’

‘Very well. I will send some in. But you can give him some clean sheets and pillow-cases, surely. It must be wretched for him to lie on the ticking.’

‘Oh, I’m quite agreeable if so be as ’e can pay for them,’ replied Mrs Sims, as Paula slipped away.

She had done all she could for the present, but she felt that she must see Dr Brown before she left Haltham. It was a terrible risk, she knew. With a man like Carl Bjornsën, who had drank half his wits away, it was quite impossible to say what disclosures might not be made. Yet still (she said to herself), if all the world were made cognisant of her former relationship to him, she must still do what she was doing if she desired to live the rest of her life in peace, or to die with any hope of mercy. It was now past five o’clock, and the winter’s afternoon was closing in. Few people would have recognised her as she hurried by in her dark clothing. No one _did_ recognise her except Ted Snaley, who had skulked about in the shadows for an hour outside the Sims’ house whilst she was engaged with Carl Bjornsën within, and who started after her as soon as she left it.

Paula found the little doctor in his surgery, having just come in from his parish work.

‘Ah, Mrs Rushton,’ he said, as he recognised her, ‘I hope I see you quite recovered. That drunken fellow has a lot to answer for.’

‘I understand you visited him yesterday, doctor.’

‘And what could I do less, when a certain lady seemed so anxious about him,’ said the gallant Dr Brown; ‘and, indeed, when I saw the state of destitution in which the poor creature lies, I was sorry I had refused the kind gift you offered me for him.’

‘I have just come from him,’ she answered hurriedly, ‘and he has sufficient for his immediate need. But, doctor, the poor little child. What can we do for him?’

Her companion looked grave, and stroked his chin.

‘Ah, yes! It is very sad. It seemed very far gone to me.’

‘But we must save it,’ she cried anxiously. ‘We must take it away at once. It is murder to leave it there. Is there not a children’s ward in the hospital?’

‘But not for aliens, my dear lady. Besides, this is a case of starvation--not of disease. Perhaps the workhouse authorities might be persuaded to take the child in until--’

‘No, no; he shall not go to the workhouse!’ exclaimed Paula, and then seeing Dr Brown look surprised at her vehemence, she added: ‘You see, I feel myself rather responsible in the matter, having knocked over his father yesterday.’

‘My dear lady, you no more knocked him over than I did. However, I don’t want to check your benevolence. I think I know of a woman who will take care of the poor little fellow.’

‘Oh, who is she?’

‘She is the wife of my night-porter and the mother of my errand boy. A most kind-hearted creature, who takes in children occasionally to dry-nurse. Is your mother at home, Sam?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Go and tell her to come round to me at once. She lives in the next street,’ he explained to Paula, as the lad disappeared.

‘What do you think of the poor man himself?’ she asked next.

‘Oh, with _him_ it’s only a matter of time. He might die to-day, and he may live for a week or two.’

‘No more?’ she exclaimed.

‘Certainly no more, and I doubt if so much.’

‘Oh, doctor, pray do everything you can to ease his sufferings. I will see that you do not lose by it. It is terrible to see a--a--fellow-creature dying amidst such wretched surroundings. Cannot we move him to more comfortable rooms?’

‘I wouldn’t attempt it, madam. Yesterday was his last day out. I found a visible decrease of strength in him last night, and I don’t think he could stand the exertion of a removal. He would probably die by the way. The only thing to be done for him now is to see he has what he requires till the change comes.’

‘I--I--suppose he was tipsy when he fell down yesterday, Dr Brown?’

‘I have no doubt of it, and also that a very small amount of liquor would have an effect upon him. The poor fellow is in the very last stage of consumption, induced by his excesses. His body is quite worn out. Nothing could save him now. And he is still young, and must have been good-looking at some time. What a pity to see a man, who might have had the world before him, deliberately kill himself. And do you know, Mrs Rushton, that from the few words he said to me I fancy he must have seen better days. I mean that he is by birth a gentleman.’

‘Oh, no, no! It is impossible!’ she cried quickly. ‘And, Dr Brown, these men who habitually drink, their brains break down, and they take such queer fancies in their heads sometimes. You can’t believe what they say, can you?’

The doctor was puzzled by his visitor’s query, and the anxious way in which she put it, but he answered it just as she wished.

‘Why, of course not. I shouldn’t dream of taking the word of a man like that. But here is Mrs Wilfred.’

And thereupon there entered to the surgery a plump, rosy-faced woman, to whom the doctor explained the case, asking if she would take charge of the child, and telling her that Mrs Rushton of Highbridge Hall would be answerable for the expense.

‘And don’t spare it, Mrs Wilfred,’ added Paula, rather imprudently; ‘give him plenty of new milk, and eggs, and everything that will make him strong. He used--at least Dr Brown says they must have seen better days--and I have no doubt he has been used to everything of the best. Poor wee mite! It will make your heart ache to see him. You can count his bones.’

‘I will take every care of him, my lady,’ replied the country woman, with a curtsey, ‘and the doctor here knows what I did for Mr William’s baby when its poor mother died, and he thought himself there was no hope for it.’

‘You are quite right, Mrs Wilfred,’ replied the doctor. ‘You’re an excellent nurse, and if anyone can pull the poor child through, you will. Stay here, and as soon as I’ve seen this lady to her carriage I will walk round with you to Sims’, and you can bring him back. Take a blanket with you, though, for he’s none too well clothed for this frosty weather.’

‘He must have clothes. I will see about them to-morrow,’ said Paula feverishly.

‘And now, where is your carriage, Mrs Rushton?’

‘I drove the pony chaise to-day, and I left it at the “Black Horse,”’ she replied.

‘Afraid of running over another tipsy gentleman?’ he remarked jauntily, as he stepped to the market-place by her side.

‘I fancy Mr Rushton was half afraid of it, Dr Brown, for he is exercising the frisky mare himself to-day. I am not quite sure,’ continued Paula, ‘if he would approve of the visit I have paid this afternoon. He would say I should have left it to you. Will you keep my secret, doctor? It has eased my conscience, and no harm’s done.’

‘My dear lady, you may depend upon my silence, now and ever,’ replied the little man, who was wonderfully attracted by her many charms.

He was rather surprised, all the same, to hear her order Mrs Spriggins of the ‘Black Horse’ to send up a bowl of her best soup and some calves’-foot jelly to number fifteen Barefoot Lane without delay, and place the dainties to her account. To be benevolent and anxious to repair a supposed injury was one thing, but to purchase expensive soups and jellies for the benefit of a wretched drunken vagrant was another, and as Dr Brown handed Paula into her pony chaise, and received her nervous farewell, he could not help wondering if she were as interested in the fate of all the beggars she encountered.

Meanwhile Ted Snaley, having followed her to the doctor’s surgery and the ‘Black Horse,’ went back to his mother, bursting with the information he had acquired.

‘Well, Ted, my boy,’ said the widow, as he entered the room, ‘you’ve been a tidy time after my lady. You don’t mean for to tell me as she ’asn’t gone ’ome till now? Why, it’s nigh on six o’clock.’

‘I’ve honly just seen ’er drive off,’ replied Ted, ‘and hif I’m not mistook, hit’s the prettiest kettle o’ fish as hever _you_ see.’

‘Lor’, Ted, you don’t say so!’ exclaimed his mother, with joy gleaming in her little green eyes, as she seated herself with her elbows on the table. ‘Tell me all about it, there’s a good lad. His it a lover?’

‘Well, now, don’t be in sich a ’urry, and I’ll begin from the beginning. There’s been a stranger--a kind of shabby gentleman like--lodging with the Sims’ in Barefoot Lane for some days past, for Jack Sims ’e’s spoke to me about him, but when I ’eard Mrs ’Al asking for Sims’ next door I never thought of them. ’Owever, when I started after ’er, I seen ’er speak to Brown’s boy, and then what did she do but set hoff for Barefoot Lane, and sure enough she went into number fifteen.’

‘Lor’, Ted, whathever for?’

‘That’s what I determined to find out, so when Jack comes out hafter his tea I gets hall I can from ’im about their lodger. And ’is name’s Bonson, and ’e’s got a child with him, and Mrs ’Al she’d gone straight hup to ’is bedroom and ’e in bed.’

‘My, ’ow undecent!’

‘Well, she was there a hower. I waited and waited till I was sick on it. At last my lady come out of the door, talking to Mrs Sims, and I ’eard ’er say as she’d given this Bonson money, and she’d send hup soups and jellies for ’im at once.’

‘’Ow I do wish ’Al could ’ave ’eard her.’

‘He shall ’ear it in good time, never you fear. Well, after that, I follows ’er to Brown’s surgery, where, in course, she was shut in, and I couldn’t ’ear what they said. But arter a while Sam, the boy, ’e comes out and runs to ’is ’ome in Parton Street, and brings back Mrs Wilfred, ’is mother. By-and-by they hall comes out, and I ’eard the doctor telling Mrs Wilfred that when ’e’d seen Mrs ’Al into her carriage she was to go along of ’im and bring the child back from Barefoot Lane.’

‘Lor’, Ted, it’s the most hinteresting thing I ever ’eard. And what next?’

‘Why, Mrs Wilfred and Sam they stayed on the surgery steps, and Dr Brown ’e walked with Mrs ’Al to the “Black ’Orse.”’

‘Do you think _’e’s_ sweet on ’er, Ted?’

‘Don’t know, I’m sure, but it looks like it, don’t it? He walked as close as ’e could to ’er, _that_ I see. And when they got to the “Black ’Orse,” he put her into the shay and wrapped the fur rug round ’er and buttoned hup the apron. Oh, she’s a deep ’un, mother. I bet she’s got ’alf-a-dozen ’anging to ’er apron-string. And afore she went off she ordered the best soup and jellies as Mrs Spriggins ’ad got to be sent hup at once to Barefoot Lane. Now, what d’ye make of that?’

‘Ted,’ replied Mrs Rushton oracularly, ‘I’ve a hinspiration. That there man in Barefoot Lane his the same bearded creetur as was locked up with madam in the school’ouse.’

‘Why, now you mention it, ’e _’ave_ a beard. Jack Sims said so. And ’e’s a foreigner too--a moosoo--and talks a kind of broken like.’

‘_That’s_ ’im--that’s ’im!’ cried the widow, rubbing her rough hands together with malicious delight. ‘Mr Gribble said ’e’d a rough sort of voice. And so she’s whistled ’im back again. Pretty doings, indeed! And there’s a child, too. Ted, you must get a sight of that there child to-morrow, if you dies for it.’

‘There’s nothink heasier. I’ll call at Mrs Wilfred’s and hask if she’s at liberty to take a nurse child. Sam says she never ’as more than one at a time. Then she’ll show me this one, and I’ll ’ear the why and the wherefore, and I’m blowed if we don’t lay a train as will blow ’Ighbridge ’All up to the skies.’

‘There’s a deal more in it than meets the heye, Ted,’ acquiesced his mother. ‘I’ll take my hoath of that, and ’Al will live to be sorry as ’e hever drove me out of the ’All. ’Ow shall we tell ’im? ’E won’t ’ear nothink against ’er, particular from us.’

‘We’ll ’ave to write it anonymous, and send it ’im through the post. Rouse ’is suspicions, and get ’im to watch ’er, and ’e’ll find it all out for hisself quick enough. Not as I think ’e’ll get rid of ’er for it. She’ll lie to ’im too well for that. But it’ll make ’em both miserable, and ’e’ll never ’ave no trust in ’er again, and that will pay off a part of our debt to ’er--eh, mother?’

‘It’ll pay off a good part, my boy,’ she replied, patting him on the back. ‘A very good part. And when shall we send the letter?’

‘Not till to-morrow. I ’eard ’er say she’d come in to town again to-morrow, and I’ll be on the lookout for ’er, mother, and dog ’er footsteps wherever she goes. We shall be more sure of it when I’ve seed it for the second time.’

‘Lor’, how pleased Mrs Gribble and Mrs Haxworthy will be,’ was Mrs Rushton’s last remark as they dropped the subject.