Volume Three—Chapter Eight.
Julia Seems Strange.
It was as if that forlorn cry uttered by Millicent Hallam pervaded their visit to the old home. It was a happy reunion, but how full of pain! Joy and sorrow were hand in hand. It was life in its greatest truth.
The sweet, peaceful old home, with its garden in the early livery of spring; the fragrance of the opening leaves; the delicious odour of the earth after the soft rain that had fallen in the night; the early flowers, all so bright in the clear country air, to those who had been pent up in town; while clear ringing, and each tuned to that wondrous pitch that thrills the heart in early spring, there were the notes of the birds.
Millicent Hallam’s eyes closed as she stood in that garden, clasping her child’s hand in hers, and listening to each love-tuned call. The thrush, that; now soft, mellow, and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird’s pipe; then again, from overhead, that pleasant little sharp “pink, pink,” of the chaffinch, followed by its musical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into glass; while far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the distance, came the lark’s song—a song she had not listened to for a dozen years.
“For the last time—for the last time, good-bye, dear home, good-bye!”
“Mother!”
“Did I speak?” said Millicent, starting.
“Speak?” cried Julia excitedly. “Oh, mother, dear mother, your words seemed so strange; they almost break my heart.”
“Hearts do not break, Julie,” said Mrs Hallam softly; “they can bear so much, my darling, so much.”
“But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear old place again.”
“Did I, my child?” said Mrs Hallam, dreamily, as she gazed wistfully round. “Well, who knows? who knows? Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for change.”
“And we must go, mother, away—to that place?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam sternly, and she drew herself up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart against the weakness of her child.
It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs Luttrell had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quivering lip.
“I can’t say a word, my child. I could only beg of you to stay.”
“And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father,” Millicent had said in return with many a tender caress.
Then the old people had pleaded that Julia might remain; and there had been another painful scene, and the night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy and sorrow.
Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the evening; but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow-stricken hearts in the old home.
Then had come the glorious spring morning, and, stealing through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till over all, like a cloud, came Millicent’s farewell to the home she would never see again.
Prophetic and true—or the false imaginings of a sorrow-charged brain? Who could say?
The stay was to be but short, for they returned that night by the coach which passed through, as it had gone on passing since that night when the agonised wife had sat watching for the news from the assize town.
“It will be better so,” Millicent Hallam had said. “It will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for long. We must finish and away. He is waiting for us now.”
About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and grave as ever, but with a smile for Julia, as she hurried to meet him, Millicent coming more slowly behind.
“I have brought the keys,” he said. “I found they were in Mr Thickens’s charge. May I give you a word of advice?”
“Always,” said Mrs Hallam smiling; but he noticed that she was deadly pale.
“I would not stay there long. I understand the feeling that prompts you to visit the old home again. See it and come away, for it must be full of painful memories; and now you must be firm and strong.”
“Yes, yes,” she said quickly. “You will stay here?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
“You are going out?” cried Julia.
“I must see our old home again, before I go,” said Mrs Hallam, in a sharp, nervous manner.
“And I may go with you, dear?” pleaded Julia.
“No; I must go alone,” said her mother in a strained, imperious manner. “Stay here.”
For answer, Julia shrank back, but only for a moment. Then her arms were round her mother’s neck, and she kissed her, saying:
“Remember Mr Bayle’s advice, dear. Come back soon.”
Mrs Hallam kissed her tenderly, nodded, and hurried into the house.
Ten minutes later, as Julia was seated in the little drawing-room at the tinkling old square piano, and Bayle was leaning forward watching her hands, with his arms resting upon his knees, thinking—thinking of the boyish curate who, in that very place, had told of his first passion, and then gone heart-broken away, there was a quick step on the gravel, and he turned to see the dark, graceful figure of the woman he had loved, her face closely veiled, and her travelling satchel upon her arm, pass through the gate, which closed with a sharp click.
“To stand face to face with the ghosts of her early married life,” he said, in a low voice. “Heaven be merciful, and soften Thou her fate.”
He started, for as but a short time since Julia had heard her mother’s audible thoughts, she had now heard his; and she was standing before him, pale, and with her hands clasped, as she looked in his care-lined face.
“Julia—my child!” he said wonderingly.
“I cannot bear it—I cannot bear it,” she cried, bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing; and she fled from the room.