Chapter VIII: The Dénoûement

But she need not have imagined that Hal took no notice of her mood, or of her actions, for he watched both with the eyes of love sharpened by jealousy to those of a lynx. As she wandered aimlessly round the garden, or sat in a chair, with her listless hands lying folded in her lap, her husband was wondering if it were possible she was thinking of anyone but himself. When two people who really love each other lose for a while their trick of mutual confidence, their manners must become strained and uneasy. Both Paula and Hal were suffering deeply--he, who had been ready to stake his life upon his wife’s immaculate fidelity, from a terrible suspicion that, like many another man, he had been deceived--and she, because the world seemed too hard and cruel to walk through, and for the moment she was out of love with life, and dreaded lest even what had appeared to her a solemn duty might prove the destruction of her happiness. She did not know that Hal was watching her, but _she_ watched _him_ at every furtive moment, fearing to read some suspicion of her in his face, or to hear him demand an immediate explanation of her visits to Haltham. The position she found herself in, and the difficulties which loomed for her in the future, combined with the certain knowledge that, sooner or later, an explanation must ensue, made her restless, irritable, and unlike herself. The next day was Sunday, a bright, clear morning, and Hal Rushton supposed that, as usual, his wife would go to church. He was not a church-goer himself--he disliked the formality and publicity of the whole proceeding--but Paula had always attended the morning service, and especially since she had become so intimate with Mary Measures. But on this particular Sunday, though the church bells were ringing through the village, she kept her seat before the fire, and made no attempt to move.

‘Are you not going to church this morning?’ he inquired.

‘No, Hal; it is too cold. I prefer to stay at home.’

Her husband laughed, not altogether agreeably.

‘I’m afraid whoever saw you riding or driving about all the week would stare at that excuse, Paula. The thermometer is three degrees higher than it was yesterday.’

‘Is it? But I am not aware that I owe an excuse to anybody.’

‘Perhaps not; but if you condescend to give one, let it be the truth.’

‘You have grown very particular all of a sudden, Hal. I will say I am lazy, then, if that will suit you better than the cold.’

‘Or that you have no inducement to leave the house to-day, eh, Paula? Well, then, I’ll stay at home and keep you company.’

‘Yes, do, Hal,’ she answered, more briskly than he had anticipated, ‘and I will write some of your letters for you if you will let me.’

She held up her face to him for a kiss as she spoke, and he was just about to give it her, when a sudden recollection seemed to strike him, and he evaded the temptation and passed on. Her apparent pleasure at his remaining at home had seemed so like sincerity until he remembered that it was Sunday, a day on which he never allowed his horses nor servants to be worked without an actual necessity, and that she had no possible means of getting into Haltham without creating a public scandal. The baby opportunely appeared at this juncture, however, to prevent any attempt at explanation, and in romping with her the young parents forgot for a while their mutual anxieties. But as soon as little Edie was relegated to her nursery the same gloom settled down upon them--wretched doubt on one side, and harrowing suspense upon the other. As soon as their early dinner was concluded, Mary Measures walked in, anxious to learn what had kept Paula from the morning service.

‘I was so afraid you might be ill, dear,’ she exclaimed, as she affectionately embraced her, ‘and so I persuaded Edward to let me come over and spend the afternoon with you.’

‘How good of you, Mary, to give up the schools and afternoon service for my sake,’ replied Paula.

‘Oh, my dear, don’t think me wicked, but if you were a clergyman’s wife you would know what a relief it is to miss church sometimes. Of course I am glad to be able to help my husband in his parish duties, but when it comes to week after week, and year after year, it is apt to grow a little _ennuyante_, and it is quite delightful to get a holiday. And I have really earned it, for I had no sleep last night from toothache. But here am I talking of myself, and not a word about you. What is the matter, Paula? I have not seen you all the week. Are you not well?’

‘Oh, yes, I am all right,’ replied Paula, ‘only dull and tired.’

‘Dull? What have you been doing with yourself, then? Why didn’t you come over to me? Mr Rushton frightened us out of our wits on Thursday by declaring you were lost, but Green told our man you had only attempted to take “Tubby” into Haltham. Why didn’t you call at the vicarage for our “Tommy,” dear? The two harnessed together might have stimulated each other’s energies. What time did you get home that evening?’

‘Oh, not so very late,’ replied Paula confusedly; ‘but in a stupid village like this one cannot be out an hour after one’s usual time without creating a sensation. But come upstairs and take off your things, Mary, and let us have a cosy afternoon together.’

‘So we will, dear; but I must be back in time for evening church or Edward will be reading the Commination Service over me.’

The ladies left the room together, and went up to Paula’s chamber. As Mrs Measures was engaged before the looking-glass, Louisa’s voice was heard at the door, saying,--

‘Can I speak to you for a moment, ma’am?’

With an excuse to her friend, Paula went into the corridor to confront the servant.

‘What is it, Louisa?’

‘If you please, ma’am,’ said the girl, in a mysterious whisper, ‘there’s a man below as brought this note from Haltham, and he says he had strict orders to see it delivered in your own hands and no one’s else’s.’

Paula’s cheeks grew pallid as she opened the envelope. It was from Dr Brown, and the contents fulfilled her worst anticipations. Carl Bjornsën was sinking rapidly, and begging to see her again. The little doctor apologised for sending the news to her, but he was perplexed how to act, and thought she had better know the truth. The man could not live through the night. That was his opinion, and he left her to act as she thought best in the matter. The corridor seemed to spin round with her as she read the note. What was she to do? How _could_ she act? She pressed her two hands against her temples to try and still the buzzing in her ears.

‘Lor’, ma’am, how white you look,’ cried the girl, with whom her mistress was a great favourite.

Paula placed her hand upon Louisa’s shoulder.

‘Yes, Louisa,’ she said gently, ‘I am not well; but don’t mention it to--to--anybody.’

Then she pulled out her pocket-pencil, and writing the words ‘_I will come_’ at the bottom of the note, she refolded it, and told her maid to direct the man to carry it back to his employer just as it was.

‘Send him away as quickly as possible,’ she added faintly, ‘and don’t let them talk about it downstairs. And, Louisa, be in my room in half an hour. I have something particular to say to you. And--and--you will be silent?’

‘I won’t say a word to no one, dear mistress,’ replied the girl firmly, as she went on her errand.

Paula returned to the bedroom, and taking up a flask of _eau-de-cologne_, threw it liberally over her face and head.

‘Paula, you are _not_ well,’ exclaimed the vicar’s wife; ‘you are as white as a sheet.’

‘No, dear Mary, I am not well,’ she replied, ‘but please don’t mention it before my husband. I ask it as a particular favour. You will oblige me greatly by remembering it.’

‘Of course I won’t,’ said Mrs Measures; ‘but let us go back to the fire. I’m afraid you have caught a chill.’

Hal was still lounging in the dining-room, but when he saw his wife enter with Mary Measures he left them together and went out of the house. Paula fidgeted about for some time, unable to think of any excuse to leave her friend, when suddenly she said she had some directions to give in the kitchen, and flew up to the bedroom instead, where Louisa was patiently awaiting her.

‘Louisa, will you be my friend,’ she exclaimed, ‘and help me in a great perplexity?’

‘Oh, mistress, you may depend on me. Didn’t I nurse you through all your illness before Miss Edith came? And I know you have trouble, ma’am. I can’t help seeing it.’

‘You can be a great help to me, Louisa, if you will, and I’m sure you can trust me to ask you to do nothing wrong. There is a person in Haltham who is very anxious to see me, and I must go over there. Help me to do so. I see no possible way, and I feel nearly distracted.’

‘But surely, ma’am, the master will let you have the carriage?’

‘No, no, Louisa; the master mustn’t know that I have gone. Don’t look like that, girl. It is duty that takes me there, but a duty he does not acknowledge.’

‘Can’t you pretend to be sick, ma’am?’

‘But Mr Rushton would enter my room.’

‘Not if I said you had one of those terrible attacks of neuralgia, that make you almost blind. I’ll say you’ve taken one of your doses of chloral, and then he won’t think of disturbing you.’

‘Oh, thanks, Louisa. That is a clever thought, and you must tell Mrs Measures the same.’

She put on her hat and cloak as she spoke, and prepared to descend by the back staircase.

‘Pull down the blinds of my room, Louisa, and lock the door, and keep the key in your pocket, and let no one in till I return. Tell Mrs Measures I have been taken suddenly ill, and have gone to bed. Make my apologies to her--say anything you like.’

‘But, dear mistress, how are you going?’ cried Louisa. ‘You can’t walk all that way, surely!’

‘I don’t know. I must try. Some vehicle may pass me on the way. Only do as I tell you,’ and Paula flew down the staircase like a bird.

Louisa lowered the blinds and locked the door, and walked demurely down to the dining-room, where Mrs Measures was poring over a magazine.

‘If you please, ma’am,’ she began, ‘my mistress sends her love to you, and she’s very sorry, but she can’t come downstairs again just yet. Her head’s so bad.’

‘Why, what’s the matter, Louisa?’ exclaimed Mary Measures, rising from her seat. ‘Is Mrs Rushton ill? I will go to her at once.’

‘No, if you please, ma’am,’ said the maid, barring the way. ‘She gave me strict orders she was not to be disturbed. She’s got one of them terrible attacks in the head. It came on suddenly when she was upstairs, and she nearly fainted. So I gave her one of her doses of chloral, that Dr Addison ordered for her, and she’s gone to bed, and mustn’t be spoken to till she rouses of herself.’

‘Oh, of course, if she has taken chloral,’ replied the vicar’s wife, as she reseated herself; ‘but I wish she had sent for me first. However, I’ll wait here for a little while and see if the attack goes off.’

She had sat there for the rest of the afternoon, however, feeling a little vexed by Paula’s conduct, when Hal came in, and she repeated the story of his wife’s illness to him.

There is nothing quickens a man’s intelligence like jealousy. Every sense is on the alert then, and ready to add its quota to conviction. As soon as he heard the word ‘chloral,’ Hal brought his clenched fist down upon the table with an oath.

‘It’s a lie!’ he exclaimed fiercely; ‘a d--d lie, to cover some other subterfuge. She can’t have taken chloral. There’s none in the house.’

‘Mr Rushton,’ gasped the vicar’s wife, offended and alarmed, ‘what can you be thinking of to speak in such a way before me?’

‘Oh, forgive me, Mrs Measures. I don’t know what I am saying. I think I must be going mad.’

‘But why should you doubt that poor Paula had taken chloral? You know she often does so.’

‘Because it so happens, Mrs Measures, that the bottle is empty. I took it from her wardrobe some days ago, to try its effects on a poor brute that had to be operated on, and forgot to tell my wife that I had used it. Who told you this untruth?’

‘It was Louisa, but she delivered it as a message from her mistress. I fancy you will find you are mistaken, Mr Rushton.’

‘We will decide the matter,’ he replied, as he rung the bell. Louisa answered it. ‘You told Mrs Measures that your mistress had taken chloral and gone to sleep?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the girl firmly, though she was trembling like a leaf, fearing he had met Paula on the road. ‘She has one of her bad headaches, and she told me to let down the blinds, and she locked the door and took a dose of chloral, and went to bed, and left strict orders she wasn’t to be disturbed.’

‘Did you see her take the chloral?’

‘Yes sir.’

(How beautifully women can lie when they have a mind to it. In whatever else they may fail, they are past-masters in the art of deception.)

‘And from what bottle did she take it?’

‘From her own bottle, sir, that she keeps in the wardrobe.’

‘You are deceiving us, Louisa. There is no bottle of chloral in the wardrobe. I took it away days ago.’

The girl grew white.

‘The mistress told me--’ she faltered.

‘Where is your mistress? Tell me the truth.’

‘Up in her bedroom, sir.’

‘I’ll go and prove it for myself,’ said Hal, as he strode to the door.

‘But, sir--sir,’ cried Louisa pitifully, ‘she is asleep. You must not wake her. You know what the doctor said.’

‘I shall not wake her. People under the influence of chloral sleep very soundly. Give me the key of the room.’

‘It is locked inside, sir.’

‘Then I shall break it open,’ exclaimed Hal resolutely.

‘Oh, Mr Rushton,’ interposed Mrs Measures, ‘pray don’t do anything so violent. Consider how alarmed poor Paula will be. Besides, why should you doubt Louisa’s word?’

‘I have my reasons for doubting it, Mrs Measures, and I mean to be satisfied. Louisa, when your mistress has taken chloral before, you have always locked the door outside, and kept the key, so that we might enter it if she slept too long. You have the key in your pocket now. Hand it over to me.’

‘But, master,’ she commenced, whimpering.

‘Do as I tell you. Give me the key.’

She drew it slowly from her pocket, and he snatched it from her and rushed upstairs, whilst Louisa began to sob, with her apron to her eyes.

‘Oh, Louisa, what is all this about?’ inquired Mrs Measures, in a tone of mournful surprise.

‘It’s nothing wrong, ma’am. Mistress has gone for a walk, that’s all, but she thought the master would make a fuss about it, and so--’

She was interrupted by Hal rushing down again, with his face aflame with anger.

‘It is as I expected,’ he cried. ‘You and your mistress are in league to deceive me. The room is empty--the bed untouched. Where has she gone?’

‘I--don’t--know, sir,’ sobbed Louisa.

‘Another falsehood, I suppose,’ he shouted at her.

‘No, indeed, sir.’

‘Has anyone been here for your mistress to-day? I’ll discharge you if you keep anything back from me.’

‘Only--a man--with--a note,’ replied the servant.

‘Where did he come from?’

‘Haltham, please, sir.’

‘And she went back with him?’

‘Oh, no, sir; not for an hour afterwards.’

‘Very good, that will do. You can go,’ he said shortly, and Louisa scuttled back to the kitchen, with a heavy heart.

‘Mr Rushton,’ exclaimed Mrs Measures as soon as they were alone, ‘why are you so angry with Paula? What does all this mean?’

‘_Mean!_’ he replied, in a broken voice, as he threw himself into a chair, and hid his face in his hands, ‘it means that the woman I loved and trusted in, as I trust in Heaven, has deceived me, Mrs Measures, and that there is someone in Haltham at this present moment whom she cares for more than she does for me.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ cried the vicar’s wife stoutly. ‘Someone has been misleading you. I wouldn’t believe it from Paula’s own lips.’

‘Read that, then,’ he answered, pulling the anonymous letter from his coat pocket, ‘and then tell me how I can help believing.’

She smoothed out the crumpled paper and read the written slander, word for word, and then turned it over and read it a second time before she said,--

‘And is it _possible_ that you can place the information of a vile anonymous letter like this before all the affection which your wife has lavished on you? Hal Rushton, I am ashamed of you! You should have treated this communication with the contempt it deserves.’

‘And so I should, if her conduct had not tallied with its story. By hook or by crook, she has managed to get into Haltham every day this week, Mrs Measures, and I never should have found it out except by accident.’

‘Well, and suppose she has. What of it?’

‘You see what the letter says. She goes to visit some man in secret--some man to whom she gives money and presents. And all her money is gone, too. What _am_ I to think?’

‘That Paula is your true wife, and incapable of deceit.’

‘What! after the specimen of her integrity you have just received?’

‘It has surprised me, certainly,’ replied Mary Measures, ‘but, as a friend even, I would never doubt her until I had proved her untrue.’

‘You are more trusting than I am,’ said Hal Rushton, ‘or you have less at stake. You would not speak so calmly if we were discussing the conduct of your husband instead of that of my wife.’

‘I think I should--indeed I am _sure_ I should. I love my husband dearly, and there can be no love without trust and confidence.’

‘As much confidence as Paula has placed in me,’ said Hal bitterly.

‘You have yet to learn why she has felt compelled to withhold it for a little while. I feel sure it will be _only_ for a while, and that with the explanation of the mystery all your doubts will melt away into thin air. Paula really interested in any man but yourself! Rubbish! I would as soon believe I was in love with Mr Gribble.’

‘You are a staunch friend, and an able advocate, Mrs Measures,’ said Hal gloomily, ‘but I cannot follow you.’

‘Let me be _your_ friend also, then. What is it that you suspect?’

‘Everything. My wife visits a man of whom she tells me nothing. Isn’t that sufficient?’

‘This gentleman who lives at number fifteen Barefoot Lane,’ replied Mary Measures, referring to the letter. ‘It doesn’t sound like an aristocratic abode to me. Do you think she has gone there now?’

‘I feel _sure_ of it. Where else should she be gone? And why should she have stooped to this deception?’

‘Why not clear up your doubts, then?’

‘How can I do it?’

‘By following your wife to this address, and judging, if she is there, and _why_ she is there, with your own eyes.’

Hal sprung to his feet at the suggestion.

‘I will, I will. But if,’ he added, covering his face with his hands, ‘if--God help me!--I should find it to be true.’

‘It is _not_ true,’ cried Mary Measures indignantly. ‘I would stake my soul upon her purity. And in proof of it, take me with you. Take me to Barefoot Lane, that I may convince you that my dear friend is above all suspicion.’

‘Will you really come with me?’

‘Have I not said it? Men may suspect the creature whom they think they love, but a woman’s friendship is too pure to harbour an unworthy doubt. If Paula has deceived you, it has been for the sake of others, and not for herself. Be a man, Hal Rushton. Follow her, and take her in your arms, and tell her never to insult your love again by being afraid to tell you everything. And I will go with you.’

‘What about Mr Measures?’

‘Let one of your servants take over a note to tell him I am detained here, and shall not be home for a few hours. My husband trusts me, and will not suspect that I am making love to some other man,’ she said rather sarcastically.

‘Ah, but you have never deceived him,’ replied Hal, but his face was far brighter than it had been, even as he said the words; and whilst Mrs Measures wrote the note of explanation for her husband, he went with alacrity to order the horses to be put into the carriage.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Paula, having walked as fast as she could lay her feet to the ground, until free from the scrutiny of her neighbours, felt that her strength was failing, and that she would not be able to go on foot much further. She was deliberating in her mind as to which of the farmhouses which lay between Deepdale and Haltham she could apply for assistance, with the prospect of the least scandal, when she saw a tax-cart, being driven at a furious rate, coming along the road towards her. The driver was a young carter, and he would never have noticed her uplifted hand or call to him to stop if she had not stood in the middle of the road and made him (almost) drive over her. Then he pulled up short as he remarked,--

‘Hullo, missus, that was a near shave. If I had gone over yer, it wouldn’t ’ave been _my_ fault.’

‘Where are you going?’ she demanded breathlessly.

The carter scratched his head with the butt end of his whip.

‘Well, I scarcely knows. The missus is ill in bed, and the master won’t leave ’er, so he sez to me, he sez, “George,” he sez, “tak’ the ould mare and gie ’er a good bucketing alang the road.” So I was thinking I’d take ’er through Deepdale, up to Parton Bridge, and round by Seaford.’

‘It does not signify where you drive, then,’ said Paula quickly, ‘so will you take me to Haltham? I am in a hurry, and I cannot walk. I will pay you for it well,’ she said, taking ten shillings from her purse.

‘Will you gie me ten shillings for the ride?’ said the carter, eyeing the money greedily. ‘Then I’m your man, missus. Joomp up, and I’ll have you in Haltham in no time, for the ould mare’s got the jumps to-day.’

The lad, who (luckily for Paula) lived some distance the other side of Haltham, and had never seen nor heard of Mrs Rushton of Highbridge Hall, was as good as his word, and in less than an hour she found herself set down by Saint Mark’s Church, at the top of Barefoot Lane. She rapped at the door of number fifteen with a fast-beating heart. She feared so much she might be too late. The idea that Carl Bjornsën and she should part for all time on this side Eternity, without one word of mutual forgiveness, was a terrible one to her. A little boy opened the door, and the first sight that met Paula’s eyes was that of Mrs Sims sniffling and whining in a corner of the kitchen, with her apron over her head. This woman, who could be hard and indifferent to the sick, was ready (like all her class) to sob and moan over the dead whom she had never succoured nor cared for in life.

‘Is he gone?’ cried Paula, observing her studied emotion.

‘Oh, dear, poor gentleman, I hope not,’ groaned Mrs Sims, ‘for it’s a horful thing to ’ave a death in the ’ouse. But the doctor he’s up there, and has been for the last hour, and Mrs Wilfred’s with ’im, and the poor dear’s as bad as ’e can be. But I do ’ope as they’ll do something to bring ’im round so he can be moved. For to ’ave a death in the ’ouse--’

But Paula passed by her and heard no further. Her lamentations affected her no more than the “keening” of the mourners at an Irish funeral. All her anxiety now was to reach the upper chamber before it was too late. What might happen when she got there she did not even stay to contemplate. Poor Carl, the merry, sunny-haired Carl she had once loved, was dying, and wanted to see her, and she would have gone to him if the whole of Deepdale had been assembled in his room. As she silently entered the door, her eye fell upon Paulie, seated in a corner, and gazing wonderingly at the different colours on an indiarubber ball which he held in his hand. He looked very different from what he had done when he passed into Mrs Wilfred’s charge. His pale golden locks had been washed and dressed till they lay like rings of floss silk upon his forehead, and his grey eyes had a look of content in them as he examined his ball and the embroidery on his white pinafore, and the new socks and boots that adorned his little feet. Paula’s heart went out to her child, and she could not help kissing him as she passed. The action attracted the attention of the watchers by the dying bed, and Mrs Wilfred exclaimed,--

‘Lor’, ma’am, you’ve only just come in time. The poor soul’s been a-asking for you ever since the turn for death took place.’

‘He has but a few minutes more to live now, Mrs Rushton,’ added the doctor, ‘and I sent for Nurse Wilfred in case you were unable to come. I thought, too, he might ask for his little boy.’

‘I have made an effort--’ began Paula, in a trembling voice.

‘A most charitable effort, my dear lady,’ returned Dr Brown. ‘I really hardly expected you. And on a Sunday, too. But I thought, as you seemed interested in the case, I had better let you know.’

‘I am much obliged to you,’ said Paula, as she went up to the bedside.

Carl was lying propped up with pillows, to ease his labouring breath, with eyes wide open, and hands and forehead clammy and cold.

‘You are very ill, Carl,’ she whispered in his ear. He bowed his head as he fixed his eyes upon her. ‘Is there anything you wish to say to me before you go?’

‘Yes. Send--them--away,’ he said, with an effort.

‘He wishes to speak to me alone. You won’t mind, will you?’ she said, with sweet, appealing eyes, to Dr Brown.

‘Of course not. We will wait on the landing outside,’ he replied, as he drew Mrs Wilfred away with him.

‘Are they gone?’ inquired Carl Bjornsën.

‘Yes; we are quite alone. You can say what you like.’

‘Paula, Paula,’ he gasped, pulling her feebly towards him. ‘Forgive, forgive.’

‘I do forgive you, Carl. I _have_ forgiven. And when we meet again, it will be all forgotten.’

‘I was a brute,’ he murmured, ‘a brute.’

‘Don’t think of it any more. It is all over now. Think only where you are going--and the mercy of the God who will understand your weakness, and cleanse you from your sin.’

‘Will He forgive?’

‘I am sure of it. Ask him, Carl, even with your last breath.’

‘You--ask Him--for me.’

She knelt down by the bedside, and with the dying man’s hand in hers, she addressed a few simple words to their mutual Father, that asked Him to forgive them both for all their shortcomings, and to permit them to meet again when this life was over. But as she rose from her knees she saw an awful change had come over the dying man’s face.

‘Nurse--doctor!’ she cried in alarm.

Mrs Wilfred was the first to re-enter the room.

‘Oh, hold ’im up, ma’am. Hold ’im up,’ she exclaimed, ‘for ’e’s agoing.’

Paula passed her arm immediately under the patient’s figure, so as to raise his head upon her breast, and there, after a few gasping sobs, Carl Bjornsën, who had insulted and ill-used her, and struck and injured her beyond all telling, breathed out the remnant of his worthless life.

‘He’s gone,’ said the doctor, as Paula let the heavy head fall back from her arm upon the bed again. ‘Well, the poor fellow has had a more peaceful ending than I anticipated. And now, Mrs Rushton, that your charitable offices are no more required by him, you will let me take you away.’

‘Not yet,’ she replied, in a quiet voice, ‘not yet. Give me a moment to think what should be done.’

‘I have a patient waiting me,’ he commenced.

‘Go, go!’ she cried. ‘_You_ are no longer needed here, and the kindness you have shown to this poor creature shall not be forgotten, I assure you. Mrs Wilfred will do all that is necessary at present, and for the rest--I will write you to-morrow.’

She sat down in a chair by the bedside, and buried her face in her hands. She did not weep. She wished she could have done so--she was only thinking--thinking.

‘Get her away as soon as you can,’ whispered the little doctor to the nurse; ‘she is overwrought. She had much better go home. The scene has been too much for her.’

‘All right, sir. I understand,’ replied Mrs Wilfred, as the doctor bustled away, and then she talked to the child for a few minutes, until the lady should be more composed. Finding she did not speak or move, however, she ventured after a time to go up to her and suggest that the last offices for the dead should be performed at once, and that it was desirable she should go downstairs.

‘Very well, I will go home,’ said Paula wearily, as she rose to her feet and kissed the child.

One look only she cast back upon the dead face of Carl Bjornsën, and then, with a heavy sigh, she descended to the lower room, and having told Mrs Sims what had occurred, passed out into the open air.

Just as she had closed the door, however, Hal Rushton’s phaeton came thundering round the corner of the street, and drew up close beside her. She raised her eyes, and saw to her astonishment her husband and Mary Measures alight upon the pavement. Hal threw the reins to his groom.

‘Drive round to the “Black Horse,”’ he said, ‘and wait there till I come to you.’ Then, as the carriage disappeared, he turned to his wife and asked her, in a voice of subdued anger: ‘Why are you here, and where have you been?’

His tone roused Paula’s pride. It was so condemnatory. Mary’s arm was already thrust through hers, as she whispered,--

‘Don’t be frightened, darling. Tell him everything. I know there is nothing wrong--’

‘I am not frightened, Mary,’ replied Paula quietly, as she withdrew herself from her friend’s protecting clasp, ‘but I am waiting to hear of what my husband suspects me.’

‘You have come here in secret,’ said Hal, ‘and used a subterfuge in order to do so. I have been told there is someone at number fifteen whom you visit. Is it true?’

‘It is true,’ she answered.

‘A man?’

‘A man.’

‘Of your own station in life?’

‘Of my own station in life.’

‘Good God! and you can have the audacity--the shamelessness--to stand there and confess it to my very face. Perhaps you will tell me he is your lover--’

‘He _was_ my lover--once,’ she said.

‘Oh, Paula, don’t say that,’ cried Mary, in a voice of distress.

‘I cannot say otherwise, Mary.’

‘Very good, madam,’ exclaimed Hal wrathfully, ‘then go back to your lover, for you don’t return to Highbridge Hall with me.’

‘I _am_ going back, but _you_ will come with me.’

‘I shall do no such thing, unless you wish to see murder committed.’

‘You will use no violence when you see him, I guarantee that.’

‘I refuse to go.’

‘Well, then, Hal, I say you _shall_ go. You have insulted me by your suspicions. You owe me the opportunity of refuting them. Mary, you love me too well to suspect me of wrong. _You_ will come with me, and see the man of whose existence I have been afraid as yet to tell my husband.’

‘Yes, Paula, you are right. We owe it to you to accept any explanation you may choose to offer us, and we will come. Mr Rushton, I speak for you as well as myself. You have been guided by me hitherto in this matter, do as I ask you now.’

‘Very well,’ he said, in a low voice, ‘but remember I will not answer for my actions.’

‘_I_ answer for them,’ replied Paula calmly, as she walked back to number fifteen and demanded admittance.

‘Mrs Sims,’ she said with much dignity as she entered, ‘call Mrs Wilfred downstairs. This lady and gentleman wish to visit the attic with me alone.’

‘Very good, ma’am,’ replied the woman, as she rose and did as she was desired.

In another minute Mrs Wilfred passed them on the stairs, carrying little Paulie, whom Hal, in his excitement and curiosity, never even observed. When they reached the top landing, Paula paused, and looking at them with her mournful eyes, said,--

‘Silence, Hal, and uncover your head. In another moment you will stand in a grander presence than that of the poor creature you have stooped to be jealous of.’

She flung open the door, and they saw, stretched upon the coarse bed, the dead form of Carl Bjornsën. At the sight all Hal’s angry suspicions sunk to rest. He could not believe his wife had been holding assignations with the man who had once inhabited this wasted and neglected body.

‘Oh, Paula, this is some work of charity,’ cried Mary Measures. ‘But why have you kept it secret?’

‘Yes, _that_ is the question to be answered now,’ said Hal. ‘If this was merely a work of charity, why has it been necessary to deceive your husband in order to carry it through?’

‘Because, Hal, this dead body is that of a person whom you made me solemnly promise never to mention to you again--whom you believed, and I believed, to be beyond the reach of troubling us any more. It is that of my first husband, Carl Bjornsën.’

‘_Your first husband_, Paula!’ exclaimed the vicar’s wife in amazement.

‘Ah, dear Mary, you will have a sad story to listen to now; but I am determined to conceal the truth no longer. It is sufficient for you to know at present that I was a wife and a mother before I met Hal, but I had divorced my husband. I believed I was a widow--so did my dear mother, but we were misinformed. To my horror, I met Captain Bjornsën in a dying condition in Haltham last Wednesday. I dared not tell Hal for fear he should forbid my succouring him, and I dared not turn my back upon his abject misery, lest God should desert me also in my dying hour. Oh, Hal, if I have been wrong, forgive me. I have longed so much to tell you all the truth, and I meant to do so some day, when it was all past and over. I thought it better to act on my own impulse than to run the risk of flying in the face of your authority. But I have blundered somehow, and made you suspicious and angry with me. I am very, very sorry. I can say no more.’

‘It was not your going into Haltham. It was a beastly anonymous letter I received about it,’ grumbled Hal.

‘Written, I daresay, by my friend Mrs Rushton. I have seen Ted Snaley lurking about here on two occasions,’ replied Paula.

‘Mr Rushton,’ whispered Mary, nudging his elbow, ‘what did I tell you you were to do when you saw dear Paula again?’

‘You need not tell me twice, Mrs Measures. Paula, my darling, won’t you come to me?’ he said, as he held out his arms and she flew into them. ‘My own wife! trust me more fully for the future. I am not such a brute as you seem to think. Had I known of this business, I would have helped you through it all.’

‘Oh, Hal, dearest, you are so good. And I am very foolish, but I feared that it would pain you, and revive the old sore. But it is over now, beyond recall. Poor Carl will never trouble us again. But there is little Paulie, Hal--’

‘_Paulie!_ and alive? Where did you find him?’

‘In this garret, and almost on the brink of starvation. The woman who passed us on the stairs held him in her arms. My heart has been bleeding for my poor child all the week. This man stole him from Grassdene, and the loss caused my poor mother’s death. Can’t you see it all, Hal? He kidnapped Paulie, intending to black-mail mother and me for his restoration. But God struck him down with sickness, and he was unable to carry out his plan. When I met him again, he told me he had begged his way up to Haltham to place the boy in my care. It may not have been true. God knows. But he has gone to be judged for his actions in this life, and we are not the ones to decide what his punishment shall be.’

‘I acknowledge it, Paula. And now, my darling wife, I want you to take your little boy and go straight home with Mrs Measures. James can drive you, and I will follow in due course of time.’

‘_Take Paulie!_’ she cried, brightening up. ‘_May_ I take him? But oh, Hal, if it should cause any unpleasantness for you.’

‘My dear girl, we will have no more deception of any kind. Deepdale may think what it likes, but it shall know the truth. And I daresay, if you ask her, your kind friend here will take all the task off your hands of making it known.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Mrs Measures, ‘and it will only be a three days’ wonder. Besides, you would never be happy without your boy, Paula.’

‘Oh, no,’ she replied, her soft eyes beaming with maternal love. ‘I have been so sad without him, you can’t think. And now I shall be able to bring him up amongst the birds and the flowers he loves so well, and with my darling little Edie. How happy he will be! How happy I am! Hal, dear husband, how happy you have made me. But why won’t you come home with us?’

‘Because, dearest, I don’t want you to visit this sad room again. Let me settle everything with Dr Brown. It shall be in accordance with the position this poor fellow once held, believe me. And I will invent some excuse for having it so. I will say he was a poor relation, who had brought himself down in the world. The little doctor will understand.’

‘I leave it all to you,’ she replied. ‘I leave myself, and all I am, and have, in your hands from this day henceforward, Hal. Heaven has been too good to me in giving me back my little Paulie. I want nothing more now to complete my earthly happiness.’ She went up to the bed once more, and gazed on the marble countenance. ‘God give you rest and forgiveness, Carl Bjornsën,’ she said solemnly, and then, with a passionate embrace to her husband, she clasped her friend’s hand and accompanied her downstairs.

* * * * *

The story of her former marriage proved (as Mrs Measures had foretold) a three days’ wonder in Deepdale, and then it was forgotten, and the villagers grew as accustomed to see little Paul wandering over the grounds of Highbridge Hall as to see his little sister trotting by his side and talking to him in her baby fashion. And after a while, when other little ones joined the family group, and became his daily companions and his teachers, Paulie’s dormant intellect was drawn out by love, until his mother was as proud and fond of her pensive boy as if he had been a genius.

So happiness reigned at Highbridge Hall, but something better reigned there too--a mutual confidence between husband and wife, which was never again disturbed.

THE END.

D.: G. C. & CO.: 9.91. COLSTON AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Apparent typographical errors in spelling and punctuation have been silently corrected.

Spellings representing dialect have been retained.

The word "that" has been added to the sentence that reads, "... Mrs Rushton has such a peculiar way of talking of her [that] frightens me."

Italics have been represented by _underlines_. Bold text has been represented by =equal signs=.