Volume Four—Chapter Twenty One.
Rest.
There had been some talk of a speedy return to the old country, but the doctor shook his head.
“Let her live her few hours in rest and peace,” he said. “It would be madness to attempt such a thing.” And so all thought of the journey home was set aside, and Mrs Hallam was borne up to the cottage.
In her weakness she had protested, but Sir Gordon had quietly said:
“Am I your father’s oldest friend?” And then: “Have I not a right to insist—for Julie’s sake?”
She yielded, and the cottage for the next few months became their home, Bayle going down into the town, spending much of his time amongst the convicts and seeing a good deal of the Otways.
“That’s how it’s going to be,” said Mrs Otway. “I always said so, Jack.”
“Nonsense! he’s old enough to be her father.”
“Perhaps so in years; but he’s about the youngest man in his ways I ever knew, while she is old and staid for her age.”
“Time proves all things,” said Captain Otway. “Phil won’t get her, that’s certain.”
“No; that’s all over, and he is not breaking his heart about her, in spite of all the fuss at first. Well, I’m glad for some things; I shall be able to look Lady Eaton in the face.”
“A task you would very well have fulfilled, even if he had married Julia Hallam. It would take a very big Lady Eaton to frighten you, my dear. Been up to see Mrs Hallam to-day?”
The lady nodded.
“No hope?”
“Not the slightest,” said Mrs Otway quietly. Then after a pause: “Jack,” she said, “do you know, I think it would be wrong to wish her to live. What has she to live for?”
“Child—her child’s husband—their children.”
Mrs Otway shook her head.
“No; I don’t think she would ever be happy again. Poor thing! if ever woman’s heart was broken, hers was. I don’t like going up to see her, but I feel obliged. There are so few women here whom one like her would care to see. Ah, it’s a sad case!”
“Does she seem to suffer much?”
“She does not seem to, but who knows what a quiet, patient creature will bear without making a sign?”
The months glided on, and still Millicent Hallam lingered as if loth to leave the beautiful world spread before her, and on which she loved to gaze.
She had half-expected it, but it was still a surprise when Julia whispered to her, as she sat beside her couch, that she was going to be the wife of Christie Bayle.
Mrs Hallam’s eyes dilated.
“He has asked you to be his wife?” she said, in her low, sweet voice.
“No, mother,” said Julia, as she laid her head beside her, and gazed dreamily before her; “I don’t think he asked me.”
“But, my child—you said—”
“Yes, mother dear,” said Julia innocently, “I hardly know how it came about. It has always seemed to me that some day I should be his wife. Why, I have always loved him! How could I help it?”
Mrs Hallam laid her hand upon her child’s glossy hair, and closed her eyes, wondering in herself at the simple, truthful words she had heard. One moment she felt pained, and as if it ought not to be; the next, a flood of joy seemed to send a wave through her breast, as she thought of the days when Julia would be alone in the world, and in whose charge would she rather have left her than in that of Christie Bayle?
The battle went on at intervals for days; but at last it was at an end, and she lay back calmly as she said to herself:
“Yes, it is right. Now I can be at rest!”
Another month passed. Doctor Woodhouse came, as was his custom, more as a friend than from the belief that his knowledge could be of any avail. One particular morning he stopped to lunch, and went up again afterwards to see Mrs Hallam, staying some little time. He left Julia with her, and came down to where Sir Gordon was seated on the lawn with Bayle.
The latter started up, as he saw the doctor’s face, and his eyes asked him mutely for an explanation of his look.
The doctor answered him as mutely, while Sir Gordon saw it, and rose to stand agitatedly by his chair.
“Bayle,” he whispered; “I thought I was prepared, but now it has come it seems very hard to bear!”
Bayle glided away into the house, to go upstairs, meeting Thisbe on the way wringing her hands, and blinded with her tears.
“I couldn’t bear to stop, sir—I couldn’t bear to stop,” she whispered. “It’s come—it’s come at last.”
Bayle entered the room softly, steeling his heart to bear with her he loved some agonising scene. But he paused on the threshold, almost startled by the look of peace upon the wasted face, full in the bright Southern light.
Mrs Hallam smiled as she saw him there; and as he crossed the room and knelt by her side, she laid her hand in his, and feebly took Julia’s and placed them together.
“The rest is coming now,” she said.
Julia burst into a passion of weeping.
“Mother! Mother! If you could but live!” she sobbed.
“Live? No, my darling, no. I am so tired—so worn and weary. I should faint now by the way.”
She closed her eyes, smiling at them tenderly, and for the space of an hour they watched her sleeping peacefully and well.
And as Julia sat there with her hands clasped in Christie Bayle’s strong palms, a feeling of hopefulness and peace, to which she had long been a stranger, came into her heart. The doctor had once said that there might be a change for the better if his patient’s mind were at rest, and that rest seemed to have come at last.
The afternoon had passed away, and the fast-sinking sun had turned the clear sky to gold; and as the great orb of day descended to where a low bank of clouds lay upon the horizon, it seemed to glide quickly from their view. The room, but a few moments before lit up by the refulgent glow, darkened and became gloomy; but as the glorious light streamed up in myriad rays from behind the clouds, there was still a soft flush upon the sick woman’s face.
A wondrous stillness seemed to have come upon the watchers, for the hope that had been warm in Julia’s breast was now chilled as if by some unseen presence, and she turned her frightened eyes from her mother to Bayle, and back.
“Christie!” she cried suddenly.
“Hush!”
One softly-spoken, solemn-sounding word, as Christie Bayle held fast the hand of his affianced wife, and together they sank upon their knees.
The glowing purple clouds opened slowly, and once more as from the dazzling golden gates of the great city on the farther shore, a wondrous light streamed forth, filling the chamber and brightening the features of the dying woman.
The pain and agony of the past with their cruel lines had gone, and the beautiful countenance shone with that look of old that he who knelt there knew so well. But it was etherealised in its sweet calm, its restfulness, as the still, bright eyes gazed calmly and trustfully far out to sea.
Julia’s fingers tightened on her mother’s chilling hand, and she gazed with awe at the rapt look and gentle smile that flickered a few moments on the trembling lips.
Then, as the clouds closed in once more and the room grew dark, the passionate yearning cry of the young heart burst forth in that one word, “Mother?”
But there was no response—no word spoken, save that as they knelt there in the ever darkening room Christie Bayle’s lips parted to whisper, in tones so low, that they were like a sigh:
”‘Come unto Me all ye that are weary and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”