'Vis way,' says the little girl catching hold of his hand, and turning down a path among the tombstones, 'Mummy always comes to a little tiny grave.'

Paul goes with her, wondering why he does so. When, why is it? that she is taking him to the grave of his.... And, good heavens! the person the child calls 'Mummy' is kneeling beside it, her head bent, apparently not hearing their approach.

'Oh, Mummy look,' cries the child, 'look what bootiful flowers me's gottened, him wouldn't let me get them meself. Look at him, Mummy,' she urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, 'him's name is Paul.'

She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.

'Clotilde,' at length he says, and his voice is low, 'you here.'

Her head is once more bowed--

'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'--with a slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to meet you like this.'

No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in a hoa.r.s.e unnatural voice.

'Dead,' she whispers.

'Ah!' and he breathes a sigh of relief, 'so you always come here,' he says, repeating the little girl's words, and then remembering her. 'Good G.o.d!' he cries, 'that child! speak, Clotilde, tell me,' he bends forward and touches her almost roughly, 'for Heaven's sake, speak, and say she is not your child, but no! I would rather not hear it,' and overcome by a strong emotion, he turns towards the sea, while a tumult of pa.s.sionate strife rends his very soul.

Why had he saved the child. One minute more where she had been would be certain death, if he had only known who she was he would never have rescued her, and yet--and yet--what harm has the _child_ done, that he should wish for her death like this.

Poor little innocent child, but who does she remind him of--not Clotilde, not that other, no it is Philippa she is like, what could it all mean.

A little tug at his leg interrupts his train of thought, and he becomes aware that the child is standing at his side, his first impulse is to push her away roughly, but the little thing is looking up at him so gravely. 'Mummy says,' she begins, 'that she doesn't know who I is, I'se Baby, and got losted years ago, but Mummy loves me.'

Paul returns quickly, 'Is this true?' he asks.

'Yes,' she replies slowly, 'quite true, I found her, and was never able to trace her parents; it is nearly three years ago now.'

'Three years, have you kept her,' he says, 'you! a woman with a past like yours, how--'

'Spare me! spare me!' she cries, 'have I not suffered enough, am I not suffering enough now, do not taunt me, I know well I deserve it; but I have always thought of you, as I saw you last, and your sad reproachful face has often stayed me from.... Last year, I thought I would go and seek you, I got as far as Brook Street, and there I saw you talking to a girl in a carriage, your back was turned to me, but I heard her say, "Poor woman, how ill she looks!" and I dared not speak to you; death was what I longed for, and I went to the river, but that girl's voice haunted me. "Poor woman," aye indeed! I _was_ to be pitied; I had done wrong, but I would try to atone--but why am I telling you all this, you who ought to hate and despise me, I who have ruined your life. Oh! my G.o.d! my G.o.d! have mercy--' And with a paroxysm of grief, she lays her head on the little green mound.

A strange sight the old vicar sees as he pa.s.ses through the long gra.s.s on his way to the church; a tall man in flannels gazing down on the figure of a woman, kneeling before him, divided only by a small grave, and a little golden-haired child looking at them wonderingly; he has spoken to the child before and now she leaves the other two and follows him into the sacred edifice.

The bell begins to toll for even-song, but neither Paul nor Clotilde move, so close they are together, only the past lies between them. A small cross marks the grave of their child, whereon his name, and age (but a few months) is inscribed.

Paul reads the inscription though he knows it only too well, and then he once more rests his gaze on the woman before him; the woman he once loved! nay, does still love, for a great desire to comfort her comes over him.

'Clotilde,' he says at length, 'let us forget the past. Come.'

He takes her by the hand and he leads her gently to the church, up the aisle they go, and side by side they kneel; and the old clergyman is not surprised to see them, and the little golden-haired child watches them from another pew.

CHAPTER XII

'I were but little happy, if I could say how much.'

SHAKESPEARE.

Twenty-four hours have come and gone and have left everyone a day older, they are all in the garden, except Paul; a little golden haired girl is playing with Teddy, and Mabel watches them from a distance with a beaming smile. For a great happiness has come to her, the empty place in her heart has been refilled, for a strange and wonderful thing has happened; for only the evening before, her brother knocked at her bedroom door, as she was dressing for dinner, and on her saying, come in, he opened it, and said, 'Mabel, here is somebody I should like you to see.'

Somebody! yes indeed; and a small somebody too, somebody so like Philippa, somebody! who had a little gold locket with a turquoise in the centre. Ah! it seems too good to be true!

'Lilian!' Mabel calls, and then as the child does not take any notice, 'Baby--' The child turns and looks shyly at her mother; and emboldened by a sweet smile she runs and hides her head in her mother's gown, while the little hands are covered with kisses.

'You won't be afraid of me, will you?' asks Mabel, 'and you will love me very soon, I hope.'

'Ses,' is the answer, 'but I must love Mummy still.'

'Yes, dear, of course,' is the answer, 'Mummy, as you call her, is coming to see me this afternoon.'

Teddy has been watching from the distance, his nose has been altogether put out of joint, and it is rather a melancholy freckled face that Philippa catches sight of.

'Why, Teddy,' she says, 'come here and tell me what you were doing all the morning, and oh, Jimmy,' she says, turning to her husband, 'do be an angel and take baby back to the nursery, Mabel is so engrossed with Lilian.'

'Come along then, old woman,' and Jimmy lifts up his niece, 'but I say, Lippa, don't you think it would be just as well to be out of the way when Paul comes.'

'Perhaps it would,' answers she, 'and you had better take Teddy with you as well.'

Jimmy has just turned the corner of the house, when he runs straight into Paul and the lady he saw in the train.

There is no time to retreat, so he says, 'How do you do?' and the baby puts further conversation out of the question, by beginning to howl, Jimmy in the bottom of his heart feels thankful for it, though aloud he says, 'I must depart with this tiresome person, come along Teddy.'

The baby deposited in the nursery, he keeps out of the way till tea-time, when he finds them all seated round a table still in the garden.

Clotilde had at first refused to see anyone, but Paul persuaded her at length, 'Sooner or later, you must,' he had said, 'you know Mabel, and Lippa is a dear little girl.'

'But--' and Clotilde had looked up at her husband with those large dark eyes of hers 'they will--'

'The past will be forgotten,' was his reply, spoken sadly and quietly.

And now she seems to be more at her ease.

'Have some tea, Jimmy,' says Philippa as he approaches.

'No thanks, it is too hot,' he replies.

'Come and sit then,' suggests Mabel pushing forward an empty chair, into which he sinks.

'Well, lazy boy, what have you been doing,' this from Lippa who is eating strawberries with apparent relish.

'Nothing,' is the yawned reply.

'Not even thinking of me,' and Lippa looks coquettishly at him from under her large shady hat.