Volume Three—Chapter Six.
In Her Service.
No, not even to Julia—his own child—for that part of the letter was a commission for her alone to execute. After all these long years of absence he sent her his orders—he, the dear husband of her first love.
And, oh! the joy, the intense delight of being able at last to execute his wishes, to work and strive for him, following out his most minute commands.
It was a long letter, containing few words of affection, but those she found studded through the ill-written pages, that seemed to have been the work of one who had not touched pen for years, a word that bore a loving guise, shining brightly here and there, as Millicent kissed it with all the fervour of a girl.
He said that he had not heard from her all these years, and that she might have written; that he had had to suffer fearful hardships, which he would not inflict upon her, though he was explicit enough to draw agonised tears from the loving woman’s eyes; that he had had much to endure, mentally and bodily; that his health had been often bad, and so on, right through the greater portion of the letter.
It never struck the patient wife that Hallam barely alluded to her, or suggested that she must have suffered terribly during his long absence. He had left her absolutely penniless, after ruining her father and mother; but here was his first letter, and there was not an allusion to how she had managed to struggle on for all this time—how had she lived? what had she done? how had she managed to keep her child?
Not a word of this kind; but it did not trouble the woman who knew all his pains and sufferings by heart, for she was hungering for news of him to whom she had blindly given herself, and the letter was full of that.
She did not wish to bathe her sorrowing face in the fount of her own tears, but in the fount of his, and she greedily drank in every word and allusion, making each the text which she mentally expanded in the silence of the night, till she seemed to be reading the complete history of her husband’s life for the past twelve years.
Certainly he hoped she was quite well, and that little Julie was the same. He supposed she would be so grown that he should hardly know her again, but he hoped she would not have forgotten him.
He made but little allusion to his sentence. And here perhaps Millicent Hallam felt a little disappointed, for he dealt in no severe strictures against those who had caused his punishment, neither did he reiterate his innocency. He merely said that he supposed Australia would always be his home now; and that she was to part with everything she possessed, take passage in the first ship with Julie, and come and join him at once—he would explain their future when she came.
No word about the old people either; or the repugnance wife and child might feel to leaving home to go to a strange land to join a convict father—not a word of this, for they were his wife and child. He wanted them, and he bade them come.
Millicent Hallam knew that the letter was selfish in the extreme, but it was the kind of selfishness that elated her, and filled her with joy.
He was innocent; he had suffered in silence a very martyrdom, all these years; but she was still the one woman in the world to him, and he had turned to her to bid her come and chase away his cares.
Blindly infatuated, strong, and yet weak as a girl; foolish in her trust in an utterly heartless and selfish, scoundrel; but how loving! Her young heart had opened like a flower at the breath of his love. He had been the sun that had warmed it with that wondrous new life, and it wanted something far stronger than occasional harshness, neglect, or the charges of man against man, to tear out the belief that had fast rooted itself in Millicent Hallam’s nature.
Blame—pity—what you will, and then thank God that in spite of modern society ways, follies of fashion, errors of education, weakness, vanity, and the hundred biassing influences, the world abounds with such loving, trusting women, always has done so, and always will to the very end.
One great joy that seemed to take ten years from her life as she read and re-read that letter to herself, and to Julie, who became infected by her mother’s enthusiasm, and at last believed that she was gladdened by the news, and sobbed in secret, she knew not why, as she thought of the time of parting.
But there was that one portion of the letter separated by two broad lines, ruled evidently with the pen drawn along the side of an old book, the rough edges showing where the point of a spluttering quill pen dipped in coarse ink had followed each irregularity.
Here are the lines that Robert Hallam emphasised by a few warning words at the beginning, telling her that they were of vital importance.
“And mind this, by carefully and secretly following out my instructions, you will free your husband from this wretched, degraded life.”
Could she want a greater impulse than that last to make her dwell upon his words, and prepare herself to execute the instructions which followed to the letter?
“He may trust me,” she said with a smile, as she carefully cut these instructions out of the letter, gummed them upon a piece of paper, and doubling this, carefully hid it in her purse.
There was a poignant feeling of pity and remorse in Millicent Hallam’s breast the next morning when, in spite of the way in which her heart was filled with the thoughts of their coming journey, the recollection of Christie Bayle’s tender care for them both pierced its way in like some keen point.
“I cannot help it,” she cried passionately. “It is my duty, and he will soon forget us.”
But when he of whom she thought came that morning, looking grave and pale, her heart reproached her more and more, for she knew that he was not of the kind to forget. This knowledge influenced her words and the tone of her voice, as she laid her hand in his, and then passed her arm round Julie.
“Once more,” she said, with a sad smile, “you are going in your unselfishness to help me, Christie Bayle.”
“Are you still determined?” he said, with a slight tremor in his voice, which grew firm directly, even stern.
“Yes!”
“Have you thought of the peril of the voyage for yourself and for Julie?”
“Yes; of everything.”
“The wild, strange life out yonder; your future—have you thought of this?”
“Yes, yes!” said Millicent Hallam calmly. “Can you ask me these questions, and at such a time?”
Christie Bayle remained silent, looking stern and cold; but it was a mere mask. He could not trust himself to speak, lest he should grow by turns piteous of appeal, angry and denunciatory of manner, so fully did he realise the horrors of the fate to which this man’s wife in her blind faith was hurrying.
“Do not think me ungrateful, dear friend,” she continued. “I cannot tell you how in my heart of hearts the truest gratitude dwells for all that you have done. Christie! brother! I am again in terrible distress. This once more you will be my help and stay?”
She approached and took his hand, raising it to her lips, feeling startled it was so icily cold.
But the next moment a change came over him, his sternness seemed to melt, his old manner to come back, as he said gently:
“You know that you have only to speak and I shall do all you wish; but let us sit down, and talk calmly and dispassionately about this letter. There, I will be only the true, candid friend. I do not attempt to fight against your present feeling; I only ask you to wait, to give the matter quiet consideration for a few days. It seems impertinent of me to speak of rashness; but before you decide to give up your little home—”
“Hush!” said Mrs Hallam firmly; and the bright light in her daughter’s eyes died out. “Do not speak to me like this. No consideration, no time could change me. Christie Bayle, think for a moment. For twelve long years I have been praying for this letter. From my heart I felt it hopeless to expect my husband’s pardon. Now the letter has come, you ask me to wait—to consider—to give up this plan—to refuse to obey these commands. Of what kind do you think my love for my husband?”
Bayle drew a long breath, and remained silent for quite a minute, while Julia watched him with a strange wrinkling of her broad, fair brow. The silence was painful, but at last he broke it, speaking as if the question had been that moment put.
“As of the love of a true wife. Yes, I will help you to the end. Tell me what you wish me to do?”
Julia turned away her face, for the tears were falling softly down her cheeks, but they were not seen by the other occupants of the room.
“I knew I could count upon you,” said Mrs Hallam eagerly, and as if in hot haste. “I know it will be a bitter pang to part from where I have spent these—yes, happy years; but it is our duty, and I will not waste an hour. I am only a helpless woman, Mr Bayle, so I must look to you.”
He nodded quickly.
“My husband bids me part with everything that remains of my little property.”
“Did he say that?” said Bayle dryly.
“He said, part with everything, take passage in the first ship, and come and join me.”
Bayle nodded.
“Then we shall pack up just sufficient necessaries for our voyage, Julie and I; and everything else must be sold. I shall realise enough to pay our passage from my furniture.”
“Oh, yes, certainly,” said Bayle quickly; “and you will have to spare.”
“And the ship; what am I to do? Oh! here is Sir Gordon, he will know.”
There was the tap of the ebony cane upon the pavement, a well-known knock, and, looking very wrinkled and careworn, Sir Gordon came in, glancing suspiciously from one to the other.
“Not the time to call, perhaps. I’m not Bayle here; but I’ve not had a wink of sleep all night, thinking of that outrageous letter, and so I came up at once to tell you, my dears, that it’s all outrageous madness. He—he must be out of his mind to propose it. I’ll—I’ll do anything! I’ll see the Secretary of State! I’ll try for a remission—a pardon! but you two girls—you children—you cannot, you shall not go out there!”
Mrs Hallam’s eyes flashed at this renewed opposition; but she crossed to the old man, took his hand, and led him to a chair by the window, where she began talking to him earnestly, while Bayle turned to Julie.
“And so you are going?” he said tenderly.
She gave him one quick look and then said:
“Yes. It is my father’s wish.”
Bayle gazed down at her sweet face, then wildly about the room, as memories of hundreds of happy lessons and conversations flowed back. Then his lips tightened, his brow smoothed, and he said in a cold, hard way: “The path of duty seems difficult at times, Julie, but we must tramp it without hesitating.”
“And you, too, will help me?” Mrs Hallam said aloud. “Any way, in anything,” said Sir Gordon sadly. “I would sail you both over in my yacht, but it would be madness to expose you to the risk. Yes; I’ll do the best I can to get you a passage in a good ship. Yes—yes—yes! I’ll do my best.”
He looked at Bayle in a troubled way, but found no sympathy in the cold, stern face that seemed to be unchanged when they left together an hour later, each pledged to do his best to expatriate two tender women, and so send them to what was then a wilderness of misery—and worse.
“It must be, I suppose, Bayle, my dear boy?” said Sir Gordon.
“Yes; it must be,” was the reply.
“I’m glad she says she will go down to Castor first, and stay a few days with the old people.”
“Did she say that?”
“Yes. It made me wonder whether she could be persuaded to leave Julie with them.”
“No,” said Bayle firmly; “they would never part, because he has ordered her to bring their child.”
“Yes; I saw that. Ah, Bayle, it’s a bad business; but we must make the best of it. Confound it all! why am I worrying myself about other people’s troubles? Here am I, an old man, with plenty of money and nothing to do but take care of myself and make myself happy, and live as long as I can. I say, why am I pestered with other people’s troubles?”
Bayle smiled sadly, and laid one hand upon that which rested upon his arm.
“Simply because you are a true man, that is all.” They parted soon afterwards, Sir Gordon to visit a friend in Whitehall, Bayle to speak to an auctioneer about the furniture and effects at the little house, giving orders to sell his own property to supply the funds for the voyage, and then to make a supposed further sale of Consols to realise the capital which Millicent Hallam honestly believed to be her own.