AFTERMATH

Taranaki Daily News, 20 December 1933, Page 13

AFTERMATH

(By

Mrs. J. O. Arnold)

CHAPTER 12.

%fit night Norma wrote again to Hilary:—

"Beloved, I have so much to tell you. You have been near me all day—so near that I could almost feel your arms about me—look once more into your dear, true eyes. "I have been helping your mother. Is it wrong that she should lean upon me —find me useful, want me? Tell me, darling. I am often so perplexed, and find it difficult to judge between what is right; and what is all wrong. Sometimes I tell myself that the world—everyday people who live happy, normal lives, and who have never known what it is to be tempted as you and I were tempted, my beloved—never know the awfulness of having to choose between bitter loss and what the world calls sin—might even consider my comings here a wicked thing to have done. But the impulse to come was too strong to be resisted. I think I was brought. You told me, my own, that at Scutcheon Farm I should find rest. You little thought, when you said it, how I should come . . .

“And yet I have a curious feeling that I am her for a purpose—that Scutcheon Farm has a part to play in what is left of my life. For most of me is with you, my one lover. I live now for our child’s sake alone. But for him I should desire only to come to you—but for him my life Would be empty, aimless, a shadow.

. “I know so much, more of you, darling, since I have been here. Not you, yourself—your soul, all that made you just ... Hilary—but of what you must have been to your father and mother. I think your father’s sorrow has blotted out the years: to him you are a little child once more—his baby son, his'heir to carry-on the name he is so proud of. I see it in his devotion to our little child. Sometimes it makes me afraid—l do not know of what. As to your mother, I have found out that she hugs to herself a secret consolation ... it is deep satisfaction to her that you never loved any other woman but herself—that you were hers to the end. It is when she lets me know that—indirectly, but for anyone who understands as I do, quite clearly—when I see the triumphant, satisfied smile with which she tells me that you never married, that I feel most the deception of my life here. If she ever comes to know the truth, what will she say? "Yesterday she told me of her firm conviction that all wrong-doing has to be paid for with a price. She said there was no getting away from the penalty that will surely be exacted in this world or the next It was apropos of a girl here, Barbary Knips—you will probably know of her. She is in love with a man who has a hopelessly drunken wife ... Your mother has been very severe about it all.' But the man has left the village —and the girl. It seems tame she is the one who suffers most Your mother says it is S' just punishment They have not done anything wrong, beyond loving each other ....

"Here I am, Hilary, my darling, giving way to doubts and misgivings. They crowd upon me when I am alone . . . With you beside me, dearest, I should have scattered them to the winds . . . Shall I have to pay for being so blissfully happy in your love? For myself I do not care —not one little bit, beloved. But will punishment come to me through Bunny, as it sometimes came to me in sharp stabs, through you and for you, my own? ■

"This afternoon your friend David Arkle told me about those last hours you spent together before you left me lonely. He told me that you wanted to leave your money to me. I am glad you did not do it. If-you had, our secret would have been known to your people—and yet, yes I can when it is only written in a letter ... I should not have minded - what they thought of me, beloved, but I know that both your father and your mother would have judged that your honour had suffered through loving me—and that I could not have borne. “I have plenty of money to live upon—through a legacy. I am grateful for it, because it gives me our boy. But beyond that, what could money do for me? Nothing I care about." It could not bring you back to me, beloved—let me feel your lips on mine once more—fill the dreadful empty blank that your going means to me. It is a poor thing compared with love. Could any human being exchange the one for the other? And yet I know it is done—poor souls! It must be because they don’t know what love really is—as you and I know. “I like your friend David. He is a boy-man, and they are always lovable. I felt a little afraid at first that you might- have told him about me—or, at any rate, my name. But he told me today that he did not know my surname. I gather from that he may know me as •Norma.’ If so, he will be no wiser—for here, of course, I am Mrs. Trayle to everyone. In future I shall be careful, if I write any notes or sign my name, to give the initial only—l shall be quite safe that way. “But this secrecy—this double life — this deception—how cruel it all is, beloved! “Hilary! Was that you—a shadow behind my chair? My own sweetheart, are you there?” For weeks after the. garden-party Colonel Denison remained a mental wreck. A notable specialist declared with conspicuous honesty that he could do nothing. Complete rest, removal of all sources of worry, added to nature’s nursing, might in time restore him. . To this specialist alone did Mrs. Denisonconfide the exact nature of her husband’s delusion. She could not bear as yet that ' any one else should share that knowledge. The great man was of opinion that this being a harmless, meiely nitiful delusion, there was no need at present to dispel it. The tender fancy might be indulged in until such time as it would gradually fade with restored balance of mind. -So the household at the . tirange knew only that Mrs. Trayle s little boy did the master good, as he was suffering from low spirits, and the child was to be with him as much as possible. Mrs. Trayle was told the same, and no ' more. She at once agreed that Bunny should go to the Grange every day. Wet or fine, she took the child to visit Colonel Denison. Bunny and he had always been good friends —now they were Inseparable. There appeared to be some occult sympathy between them. Indoors or out they were completely happy together. Mrs. Denison’s thankfulness for this salvation in the time of her husband’s need was heart-deep. It was some time after the gardenparty that Barbary at last broke down as a result of prolonged anxiety. Judeth. coming down as usual at an early hour, found that she had to manage alone as best she could, her niece being too ill to get up. She missed the girl at every turn—the strong, young arms for actual work, the cheery presence for company. It was a much-worried Judeth who carried in Mrs. Trayle’s breakfast "I’m that boffled this mornin’ I scarce know what I’m abaht,” she began, after a hasty greeting. “I niver felt so reight down hen-hearted afore. Barbary’s bin lookin’ like a bogle these weeks past, and now she's a-bed!” “Poor. Barbary!” Mrs. Trayle said, with sympathy. “It’s dreadful for her. You’D admit that, Judeth.”

“When folks mak’ their beds to suit theirselves it’s on’y reight as they should lie on ’em,” the older woman answered grimly. "I reckon as Barbary’ll find hers full o’ lumps! What I’m thinkin’ on is you, ma’am. I don’t see wi’ two poorly folk i’ t’ place how I’m agoin’ to do. There’s a deal o’ fettlin’ wants doin’ i* a farm-hoose.”

Norma declared she was quite able to “do,” for herself. She would make as little extra work as possible, and would wait on herself until such time as Barbary should be downstairs again. So that when in a few days Judeth came to her to say that, though she was sorry, it would be impossible for her visitors to remain at the farm now that .Barbary’s capable assistance was no longer available,’ Norma herself fully realised all that the girl’s absence meant. "Doctor says as she’s reight out o’ sorts and nedes to do nowt but rest for a longish bit yet awhile. Then there’s Roger as well to look arter . . . Not but that . he’ll soon be carryin’ again. Takes his yale o’ mornin’ now jest as he did afore the bull gitten him. That’s a suer sign as he’s mendin’. An’ he dined someun or summat t’other day i’ the right old way,” Judeth concluded optimistically. Nevertheless, Norma glimpsed something above and beyond Judeth’s tale of woe. Things were no longer what they had been at Scutcheon Farm. An atmosphere of gloom seemed to have fallen upon the place: Roger was a changed man; Judeth’s irritability had increased tenfold; a shadow had fallen upon the homestead.

It was a blow. Norma knew of no other likely place in which to take up her abode. In fact, there was no suitable habitation anywhere in Ryedale. She did not want to leave Scutcheon Farm. She had grown accustomed to it and to Ryedale. London with its pulsating life, its many-sided fascinations, seemed to have receded from actuality, to have become a city of dreams. Here in this green comer of earth, surrounded by moor and fell, she was almost at peace.

Certainly it was better for Bunny. The boy throve magically in the pure air, nourished with food free from adulter-> ation and preservatives. He was a very picture of rosy childhood, and Norma had no desire to take him away from surroundings in which he flourished so amazingly.

She took her worry to the Grange—and her difficulty proved to be Mrs. Denison’s opportunity. .. “Come to us until Barbary is better, my dear,” she said, almost eagerly. “There are plenty of spare rooms here — and the nursery for the dear child.”

Norma hesitated. How strange a .tune for Fate the Fiddler—as Henley calls that unseen power—to play! She had not dreamed of such a possibility when desire first came to her to see Hilary’s old home. How was it going to end? What would be the outcome of it all?

On one point she had long since made up her mind. In no circumstances would she reveal to Colonel and Mrs. Denison her secret and Bunny’s identity. That would be to betray the man. she had loved. And yet at times the longing to make a clean breast of everything was hard to combat. With her whole soul she hated the deception she daily' practised.

And yet, when she arrived at the Grange—having finally decided to accept Mrs. Denison’s urgent invitation—a spirit' of rebellion blazed up in her suddenly. Had she and Bunny no right here? As.she unpacked her trunks in the spacious, lavender-scented bedroom, its chintz-hung Jacobean bed, handsome old furniture, and thick pile carpet contrasting luxuriously with the bareness of .her room at Scutcheon Farm, that curious .sense of haying been directed—ledapart from her own volition) seized her. Since Mrs. Denison was so extraordinarily? anxious to have her—compellingly eager, in fact—she would stay for a time. But being by nature honourable, the deception—or at the best the suppression of the truth—she was. obliged to practise fretted her continually. Often and often she had to resist sternly that impulse towards confession, loyalty to her dead lover restraining her.. The secret was not hers alone. Lucy Titherington forthwith installed herself as Bunny’s head-nurse. Frustrated motherly instincts found an outlet in waiting devotedly upon the little child when he was not with Colonel Denison. Bunny, in short, ran violent risk of being completely spoilt. As to Mrs. Denison, this fortuitous visit seemed to her like a dispensation of Providence specially designed to restore her husband. " His devotion to the boy was abnormal, however fond he might be of children in general. Moreover, he had begun to call" Bunny by Hilary’s name—distressing to the boy’s mother, and disturbing to Mrs. Denison. « , At last one moring, when Colonel Denison, Bunny, and Jock were engaged in a three-cornered game with a golf ball, a clear-voiced “Now, • Hilary, my lad—run!” brought a sudden flood of colour to Norma’s cheek and to Mrs. Denison conviction that she must tell the truth “My husband is living the time of our son’s childhood over again,” she said in a low voice to Norma, as they sat together under the sunny veranda, watching the happy trio: “he believes your little boy to be Hilary. I do not wonder —Bunny is extraordinarily like him the same fair hair and manly little figure—- • even the same happy laugh! .Somehow it seems quite natural for him to be here, running about just as Hilary used to do.” Norma smiled back at her, but kept silent. She co’ ld have spoken nothing but sheer truth at that moment. “It is a deep grief to my husband that Hilary never married and that there is no heir to carry on the old name,” Mrs. Denison continued. She did not include herself in that regret—honesty forbade her to say what she knew to be only partially true. She was sorry there was no grandchild; but in her secret heart she knew she was glad that no woman had shared her son’s, love —taking Hilary's complete devotion away from her. To the end he had been hers alone. The joy of that assurance was more than compensation to her for the absence of a grandchild. Strange, absorbing, overmastering passion that for all its strength was yet a poor thing, less mother-love than selfish love-hunger. Had her son : married, she would have secretly hated and been jealous of his. wife. “I am so glad you came to us, ,my ; dear,” Mrs. Denison went on. “The . doctors say that having Bunny with him may restore my husband. You see the > great sorrow of his life —our son’s death — ' is forgotten whilst he believes Hilary . to be here, not dead, but a little child again.” It was pathetic, and Norma's sympathy stirred. “But we cannot stay very long. What • will happen when we go?” she asked ' gently. : Mrs. Denison shook her head. l ao i not know,” she said. “We must leave [ that —and hope for the best. I wish we could find another little boy like Bunny i and adopt him. That would be the soluI tion of the whole difficulty.” Pregnant words. They sank into ths

mind and heart of the woman beside her like seeds into fruitful ground. But though they remained with Norma for many days, and through long wakeful nights, she refused to face the issue they suggested. All her life centred now upon her child, Hilary’s son —he was all she had left. (To be continued.)