Chapter IV: The Fate of Paulie

It is a curious fact that when Paula’s mind had recovered the first stunning shock of encountering Carl Bjornsën she began to try and persuade herself that she had been mistaken, that the vagrant in Haltham High Street had only borne a remarkable resemblance to her late husband, and that her nerves were in such an excited condition after the accident that she had exaggerated a passing likeness into a reality. All that night she lay awake upon her bed thinking over the assurances she had received of his death, and the improbability of their being untrue, until she had almost persuaded herself she was alarmed without cause. It was a fact that the tramp was very like Carl Bjornsën, but then he might be a Swede, and she knew from experience how much the men of that nation resemble each other. She fancied his eyes had lighted on her with a malevolent glance, but the man was intoxicated, and, doubtless, felt vicious at having been so nearly run over. How _could_ he be Carl Bjornsën, she questioned herself pitifully, when he had died in the workhouse at Paddington? She went over Seth Brunt’s information, and her mother’s undoubted assurance, again and again, until she had decided that she had been frightened by a chimera, and she had only to look upon the man again to be convinced she was mistaken. By the morning she had come to the resolution that she would do so. She could not live a life of doubt and uncertainty. It would poison her whole existence. She would know the best or the worst before another night came round. When she rose, she was naturally looking pale and haggard. She was the sort of woman who loses all her delicate bloom from the want of one night’s sleep. Hal was concerned at her appearance, and wanted her to stay at home and rest, whilst she was madly impatient to be free from his scrutiny, and able to follow out her plan.

‘I shall not let you drive the new mare again, darling, until I have tried my persuasive powers over her,’ he said at breakfast. ‘I shall ride her round the farm to-day, and take her for a good bucketing over the hills afterwards. That will teach her not to rear at everything. And you had better stay at home, or go for a little walk. You are looking ghastly pale still. I don’t like to see my pink rose turned into a white one again.’

His wife did not know what to answer him. She intended to go into Haltham that afternoon, but she dared not hint at such a thing for fear lest he should offer to accompany her.

‘What do you say yourself, Paula? What do you wish to do?’

‘I don’t feel like going out this morning,’ she answered after a while. ‘I would rather you stayed at home with me (if you don’t mind), and took the mare for her bucketing in the afternoon. There are those stable accounts to go through, you know, and you said yesterday you wanted my assistance in writing some business letters.’

‘All right, my darling. So let it be. I think, as you forgot all about Ellis yesterday, that we’ll write straight to the manufacturers, as I proposed. And Walton must be advised about that cistern leaking. We’ll give an hour or two to business, and then you must rest on the sofa till luncheon. I cannot bear to see you look so ill.’

After luncheon he said to her, as his horse was waiting at the door,--

‘I suppose you feel hardly equal to riding round the farm with me, Paula? The fresh air would do you good.’

He saw her colour as she replied,--

‘No, thank you, Hal. I have a dozen things to attend to yet. I should only keep you waiting, and I would prefer a walk.’

‘Don’t go too far and overtire yourself.’

‘Oh, dear, no! I may walk round to see Mary; she has a coral necklace for Edie.’

‘Very well, my dearest. Only, take care of yourself,’ he replied, as he kissed and left her.

As soon as he was fairly gone, Paula ordered the pony chaise to be made ready. This was a little basket-carriage that only held two people, and was drawn by a fat little animal called ‘Tubby,’ who went at the rate of about four miles an hour. When it came round, she desired her nurse to accompany her with little Edith. She was determined not to have another eye-witness of her doings. She started as though for an hour’s drive along the highroad, but as she reached the outskirts of the village she said suddenly,--

‘By-the-way, Maria, I never got any rusks for baby in Haltham yesterday. We must be nearly out of them. I think I had better drop you here, and you can walk home with her, and I will go and get them. It will never do to run short. Poor baby would be starved.’

‘I don’t think there’s any hurry, ma’am,’ replied Maria; ‘she must have enough to last her for some days.’

‘But we can’t risk it. Suppose anything were to happen to prevent our sending over. I could not be easy if they were not in the house, when the child lives on nothing else.’

‘Mr Gribble’s cart goes in most every day,’ suggested the nurse, with a view to solving the problem.

‘Oh, nonsense, as if I would trust to that man. He would bring us Abernethys, or Thorley’s Food for Cattle, or something equally appropriate. Get down, Maria, and take baby home. You might call in at the vicarage on your way. Mrs Measures was complaining the other day how seldom she saw her godchild.’

‘Very good, ma’am,’ replied the servant, who was rather disappointed, nevertheless, at losing the promised drive.

As soon as she had disposed of her companions, Paula turned all her attention to persuading ‘Tubby’ to step out a little more briskly than usual on his way to Haltham. Her heart was beating fast under the doubt whether she would be able to accomplish her design, and what awaited her if she did so, and a dozen times she felt as if she must get out of the pony chaise and run into the town, so soberly and unconcernedly did ‘Tubby’ go upon his way. The application of the whip, however smart, seemed to make no impression on him. He only shook his fat sides, as if a fly had tickled him, but did not quicken his footsteps for a moment. Haltham lay seven miles from Deepdale. Would she ever get there and back before dark was Paula’s despairing thought. At last, however, by dint of whipping, chirruping, and jerking the reins, ‘Tubby’ managed to crawl into the town about a hour and a half after she had started, and Paula breathed quickly as she felt her time for action had arrived. She was particularly anxious not to encounter Dr Brown, or the policeman Jones, and yet she did not know how she should find where the vagrant lived without the help of either of them.

‘In mother Sims’ attic,’ some lad had shouted out that the man resided.

‘_Mother Sims._’ There might be dozens of Mother Sims in Haltham. Who would direct her to the right one? She drove her pony chaise round to an obscure inn in the empty market-place where she often put up when in Haltham--the ‘Black Horse’--the landlady of which knew her well.

‘Well, here’s a surprise, to see you again so soon,’ she exclaimed, as Paula descended and the ostler led the pony away. ‘We ’eard you was in ’Altham yesterday, and had a sad haccident, but no ’arm done, thank the Lord, though you was a bit shook, doubtless, ma’am?’

‘Oh, no! Only a little frightened,’ replied Paula, as she followed the landlady into the little parlour.

Here, she thought, might be an opportunity to ascertain the address she was looking for. She must ask _somebody_, she argued, why not Mrs Spriggins as well as another?

‘I’m glad it was no wuss, ma’am,’ continued the woman; ‘but them ’orses of yours are very spirity.’

‘Not at all, as a rule, Mrs Spriggins. It was the boys shouting and a man playing the cornopean that frightened them. But I’m afraid the poor tipsy man must have been bruised. Have you heard anything about him?’

‘Not a word, ma’am, so I don’t think he can have come to no ’arm.’

‘One of the lads said he was lodging at Mother Sims’. Do you know where she lives, Mrs Spriggins?’

‘No, I don’t, ma’am, unless it’s up Blind Alley, across the market-place. There _is_ a Sims there, I know; but there are several of the name in ’Altham.’

‘I suppose so. But Mr Rushton thinks it only right that we should make the man some compensation in money, which I was too flurried to think of yesterday. So I am trying to find him out to-day. I have to get some rusks for my baby at Moon’s, and I will make a few inquiries at the same time. Good afternoon, Mrs Spriggins. I shall require the chaise about five.’

‘The doctor could tell you ’is address, ma’am,’ screamed the landlady after her, as she descended the steps, ‘for my Joe told me as ’e’d been good enough to attend the man at ’is own ’ouse.’

Paula felt her cheeks burn as she hurried across the market-place. What had the ‘man’ told the doctor? How much might not be known in Haltham of her former history at that very moment? She drew down her spotted net veil closely over her hat, as though that could hide her agitated features, and walked rapidly over the narrow sidepath until she had reached Blind Alley. Calling a little girl out of the gutter, she gave her a penny to tell her which of the houses belonged to ‘Mother Sims,’ and was directed in consequence to the fifth door in the row, which was next to a fish shop, at the upper window of which sat a young man smoking a clay pipe. They were country-built houses, without bells or knockers--only latched doors that opened on to the living room. Paula rapped against Mother Sims’ with her knuckles first, and then timidly lifted the latch.

‘Does Mother Sims live here?’ she inquired, in a low voice.

A woman answered to the name.

‘I’m Mrs Sims, mum, if it’s me as you’re hasking for.’

‘Have you a lodger here--a very poor man--a sort of tramp--I don’t know his name--’

‘_Me_ keep tramps in _my_ ’ouse!’ cried the woman shrilly. ‘I should ’ope not, indeed. What do you take me for?’

‘I did not mean to offend you, indeed,’ replied Paula earnestly. ‘I am looking for the man. He is an object of charity, and I came to relieve him.’

‘Well, he ain’t ’ere,’ said the woman rudely, as she closed the door again.

Paula stood perplexed on the pathway for a minute, whilst the young man at the window over the fish shop eyed her movements keenly.

‘Mother,’ he said, turning towards someone in the room, ‘I’ll be blowed if there ain’t Mrs ’Al a-talking to the woman next door.’

‘_Mrs ’Al!_’ cried his mother, hurrying to his side and peering over his shoulder. ‘Lor’, Ted, and so it is. Now, what may _she_ be wanting in these parts?’

‘Don’t ’ang so far out of the winder or she’ll twig yer,’ said Ted Snaley. ‘It’s ’er, an’ no mistake, and after no good, I’ll warrant. She don’t seem to know what she’d be at. Now she’s ’as the market-place again.’

‘Ted, my lad, you slip on your coat and foller ’er at a distance like, and find out where she’s agoing. Don’t let ’er catch a sight of you, for the Lord’s sake. And I’ll jest step into Mrs Sims and ’ear what she wanted of ’er. She’s a deep ’un, Ted, you mark my words.’

Meanwhile Paula, baffled in her first attempt to find the man whom she had almost persuaded herself by this time was _not_ Carl Bjornsën, had remembered Mrs Spriggins’ advice, and was wondering if she could make up her mind to call upon the doctor. After all (she argued), it was the vagrant she was in search of, and it was the most natural thing that she should wish to compensate him for the effects of her careless driving, and no one need know anything more. As she was debating the matter in her mind, she caught sight of Dr Brown’s boy, who had helped to attend on her in the surgery, going his rounds, with a basket of medicine on his arm. In a moment she had sprung after and detained him.

‘I want you to tell me something,’ she said, panting. ‘You are Dr Brown’s errand lad, are you not?’

‘Yes, mum,’ replied the boy wonderingly.

‘I want to know where that man lives that I ran over yesterday. Do you know his address? I hear Dr Brown has attended him.’

‘Yes, mum. I took a bottle of medicine there last night. He lodges at John Sims’, in Barefoot Lane. It’s just round by Saint Mark’s Church, mum--runs alongside it like--and Sims he lives at number fifteen.’

‘Thank you. Can you keep a secret?’

‘Yes, mum.’

‘I am going to give the poor man a little money, but I don’t want all the world to know it. Will you promise me not to tell the doctor, or anyone, that I asked for his address?’

‘Yes, mum,’ repeated the boy, with open eyes.

He opened them still more when the lady in furs and a silk gown put five shillings in his hand before she went on her way. He had never had so much money at one time in his life before, and Paula was out of sight before he had left off gazing at it, whilst Ted Snaley, who had watched the little transaction from the opposite side of the way, followed cautiously in her wake. Haltham considered itself an important town but in reality it was very small, and except on market days very empty. Its streets were easily traversed, and Paula’s light feet had soon found Barefoot Lane, that ran alongside of Saint Mark’s Church. She glanced from side to side before she entered it, and then, with a rush, she made for number fifteen and rapped upon the door. This time it was a man who answered her--John Sims himself, just home from work, and sitting down to tea with his wife and family.

‘May I come in?’ said Paula nervously, as she entered the doorway. ‘Are you Mr Sims? I hear you have a lodger here--I don’t know his name--a man who met with an accident in the High Street yesterday?’

‘Oh, yes, he’s here, worse luck, and I don’t know when we’ll get rid of ’im,’ replied John Sims surlily. ‘I meant to ’ave given ’im the sack to-day, but the doctor he’s forbid it.’

‘Was--was he hurt?’ inquired Paula, with her purse in her hand. ‘I was afraid he might be, and so I wanted--I wished to--’

‘If you’re agoing to give ’im money, mum, I should say as you might find them as was more deservin’ of it--’owever, that’s no business o’ mine,’ replied John Sims. ‘Do you want to go up to his hattic?’

‘Yes--I think so--’ stammered Paula. ‘I--I--should like to speak to him if I can.’

‘Oh, it’s heasy enough, mum, if you fancies it,’ rejoined the man, moving to the bottom of the stair and bawling out, ‘Moosoo! Moosoo Bonson! ’Ere’s some ’un as wants to speak with you.’

All the answer that was elicited from the unseen lodger was conveyed by a curse that came echoing down the staircase.

‘’E’s at ’ome, at all events,’ remarked John Sims, with a look of disgust, as he resumed his place at the tea-table; ‘you can go up when you likes, mum, but all I ’ope is ’e won’t insult you.’

‘Oh, I am used to it--I am not afraid--I often visit sick people,’ replied Paula, with a catching in her breath as she commenced to mount the creaking stairs.

The name by which Mr Sims had addressed his lodger, although so uncouthly spoken, roused her worst fears again, and as she climbed to the room which held him she felt as if she were going to her death. It was at the very top of the house--a bare and dirty attic. As soon as she tapped at the door and heard the voice, which replied ‘Come in,’ she knew who she should see when she entered it. Calling all her courage to her assistance, she passed the threshold, and there, lying in bed, with his hollow eyes glaring from beneath his matted yellow hair, she saw--without the shadow of a doubt--_Carl Bjornsën_. Paula had so often assured herself during the last twelve hours that her eyes must have played her false that meeting her former husband thus was almost as great a blow as if she had looked upon him for the first time. But it was the truth, and she was forced to accept it. She staggered back against the white-washed wall, and stood there, with fixed eyes and heaving breast, fighting against an irresistible desire to scream.

Carl Bjornsën, on his part, sat up and stared at her. His shirt was ragged and dirty, and falling off his naked chest. There were no sheets upon his filthy mattress, but a brown blanket covered the lower part of his body--a most inadequate protection against the cold in a room devoid of fire. The man’s whole appearance betokened the utmost poverty and discomfort, and even in the midst of her horror Paula could not help feeling compassion for him.

‘And so--and so,’ at last she panted, ‘it is really _you_?’

‘It is really _me_,’ replied Carl Bjornsën, in the rasping guttural voice that usually accompanies the last stage of consumption. ‘Who else should it be? You thought you had got rid of me for ever, I suppose. You hoped I was dead, and rotting in my grave.’

‘I heard that you were dead. I was told so. Have you been in league with anybody to deceive me?’

‘Not I,’ he rejoined recklessly. ‘What would have been the use of it? You had kicked me off like a dog. It was nothing to you what became of me, and so I took my own course, and went to the devil.’

‘That was not _my_ fault,’ she answered.

‘Not _your_ fault! That is what you women always say. We love you, and trust you, and give ourselves up to you, body and soul, and in return you deceive us.’

‘I _never_ deceived you,’ she said proudly.

‘Yes, you did. I thought I had married a girl who loved and understood me. But you set yourselves above me and my companions. You despised me for my weakness. You openly showed your disgust at my way of living, when sympathy might have weaned me from it, and in return you made me hate you--_you_, who once I had so much loved.’

‘Oh, Carl,’ cried Paula, ‘I daresay I was wrong. I was so young, and you tried to make me submit to you through violence. I don’t want to reproach you with it now, but you know you nearly killed me.’

‘I wish I had killed you altogether. You’ve killed me, body and soul, by your desertion. If you’d stayed with me, I would have reformed. But so long as you were safe, and living in comfort, what did you care. And now, you’ve got a fine new husband, with a carriage and horses, and you can run over my dying body as you’ve run over and crushed my soul.’

‘You do me an injustice,’ she cried indignantly; ‘but you always were unjust. I left you, not for my own sake, but to save the life of my child--the poor infant whom your cruel blows made imbecile. It was for my bodily safety, and his, that you forced me to seek a shelter in the law. You would have ended by hanging for murder if I had not divorced you.’

‘And a good job too,’ he answered sullenly. ‘It would have been a quicker and more painless ending than this. Look at me now. I have nothing. I have lost my ship, my position, my health, my money. I am starving, and all through you.’

‘It is not so,’ she replied with spirit; ‘you may have lost everything, but it is through your own fault.’

‘Well, I am punished for it, as much as even _your_ heart could desire,’ he replied. ‘I am dying, and without the bare necessaries of life, whilst you are living in luxury at Highbridge Hall.’

‘Who told you of me or my doings? Why did you come here?’ she asked.

‘Seth Brunt--the only true friend I ever had--saw you at Deepdale last year, and wrote me word of it. I came as soon as I had the money, to appeal to you--to your compassion, if you will--to spare me a few shillings in my need.’

At this her woman’s heart melted.

‘Oh, Carl, you cannot have thought so badly of me as to imagine I would refuse. Only, it must be on one condition, that you do not disclose our former connection to the people around you.’

‘You are ashamed of having been my wife,’ he said bitterly.

‘I am ashamed that, _having been_ your wife, I am so no longer. It is the divorce that shames me, Carl. I am the wife of a good man, and the mother of his child, and I should bring disgrace on both of them if your identity were known.’

‘You have not told the man you call your husband, then?’

‘He _is_ my husband--by law and love--as sacredly as any man could be, and I _have_ told him _everything_. Only, he thinks you dead (as I did), and if he discovered the contrary it might cause great trouble between us, for he does not believe in the morality of divorce.’

‘And suppose _I_ don’t believe in it either,’ exclaimed Bjornsën, ‘suppose I choose to assert my former claim on you, what then?’

‘Then I should put the matter into the hands of the police, and ask my husband to take me away from Deepdale until it was settled. Don’t try to threaten me, Carl. You have no hold on me except that which is evoked by the memory of the past.’

‘I am not so sure of that,’ said Bjornsën, in the hoarse weak voice which was so often interrupted by coughing. ‘You have a child, you say, by this man. Where is your other child--_my_ son--whom you stole from me?’

‘Poor little Paulie! He is gone,’ replied the mother, with quivering lips, ‘but his fate is a mystery. We think he was lost over the Grassdene cliffs.’

‘Oh, you think _that_, do you? And you mourned his death, of course,’ he said sneeringly.

‘I did. I _do_ mourn it to this day,’ replied Paula, with the tears in her eyes.

‘Would you be glad to have him back again?’

She hesitated a moment. Would she be glad to receive back the poor imbecile child whose existence had been a trouble to himself and others, and whose presence she could never ask Hal to endure at Highbridge Hall?

‘Why ask me such a question?’ she returned. ‘He is safe in Heaven. Who would wish to draw him thence again?’

‘That’s all you know about it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it’s all you care to know about it. But you asked me just now why I had come to Haltham. _This_ is my reason. Look here.’

And drawing down the dirty blanket, he showed her the face of a child sleeping by his side. She pressed forward, curious and yet incredulous as to what she should see there.

God in Heaven! It was the face of Paulie!