Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.
Over the Sea.
“Is—is it true, mother?” said Julia, as the town with its docks and shipping seemed to be growing less and less, while the Isle of Wight, and the land on their right looked dim and clouded over. The sun still shone, but it seemed to be watery and cold; there was a chill upon the sea, and though there was a great deal of hurrying to and fro among the sailors and soldiers as the cumbered decks were being cleared, it was to Mrs Hallam and her child as if a dead silence had fallen, and the noises of the ship and creaking of block and spar were heard from a distance.
Thisbe was seated near where they two stood by the bulwark, gazing towards the shore. Thisbe felt no desire to watch the retiring land, for her heart was very low, and she found rest and solace in shedding one salt tear now and then, and wiping it away with her glove.
Unfortunately, Thisbe’s glove was black, and the dye in her glove not being fast, the effect was strange.
“I’m a fool to cry,” she said to herself; “but he might have had as good manners as his master, and said ‘good-bye.’”
Thisbe must have been deeply moved, or she would not have sat there upon a little box that she would not let out of her hands, probably on account of its insecurity, for it was tied up with two different kinds of string.
“It seems to me,” continued Julia, “as if it were all some terrible dream.”
“But one that is to have a happy waking, Julie.”
“Poor grandma! she looked as if it would kill her,” said Julia, sobbing gently.
“Hush!” cried Mrs Hallam, grasping her child’s arm as a spasm of pain ran through her, and her face grew deadly pale. “We must think of one who, in pain and suffering, was dragged from his wife and child—forced to suffer the most terrible degradations. He is waiting for us, Julie—waiting as he has waited all these years. We must turn our backs upon these troubles, and think only of him. Be firm, my child, be firm.” There was almost a savage emphasis in Mrs Hallam’s words as she spoke.
“I’ll try, dear; but, grandpa!” sobbed Julie, as she laid her arm upon the bulwark and her face upon it, that she might weep unseen; “shall we never see him and the pleasant old garden again?”
“Julie, this is childish,” whispered Mrs Hallam. “Remember, you are a woman now.”
“I do,” cried the girl quickly; “but a woman must feel grief at parting from those she loves.”
“Yes, but it must not overbear all, my child. Come, we must not give way now. Let us go below to our cabin.”
“No,” said Julia; “I must watch the shore till it is dark. Not yet, not yet. Mother, I thought Sir Gordon liked us—was a very, very great friend?”
“He is; he always has been.”
“But he parted from us as if it was only for a day or two. He did not seem troubled in the least.”
Mrs Hallam was silent.
“And Mr Bayle, mother—he quite checked me. I was so grieved, and felt in such despair at parting from him till he stood holding my hands. I wanted to throw my arms round his neck, and let him hold me to his breast, as he used years ago; but when I looked up in his face, he seemed so calm and cheerful, and he just smiled down at me, and it made me angry. Mamma, dear, men have no feeling at all.”
“I think Mr Bayle feels our going deeply,” replied Mrs Hallam, quietly.
“He did not seem to,” said Julia pettishly.
“A man cannot show his sorrow as a woman may, my child,” said Mrs Hallam, with a sigh.
She gazed back at the land that seemed to be growing more dim, minute by minute, as the great ship careened over to the press of sail, and sped on down Channel.
A wistful look came into the mother’s eyes, as she thought of her child’s words. In spite of resolutions and promises, the parting from the old people had been most painful; but, throughout all, there had seemed to her to be a curious indifference to her going, on the part of Bayle. He had been incessant in his attentions; a hundred little acts had been performed that were likely to make their stay on shipboard more pleasant; but there was a something wanting—a something she had felt deeply, and the pain became the more acute since she found that her feelings were shared.
They stood gazing at the grey and distant land, when the evening was falling. They were faint for want of food; but they knew it not, for the faintness was mingled with the sickness of the heart, and in spite of the glowing happy future Mrs Hallam tried to paint, a strange sense of desolation and despair seemed to overmaster her, and all her fortitude was needed to save her from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing.
On and on with the water rushing beneath them, as they leaned upon the bulwarks, gazing still at the fast receding shore. There had been a great deal of noisy bustle going on around; but so wrapt were they in their own feelings that sailors and passengers, officers and men, passed and repassed unheeded. They were in a little world of their own, blind to all beside, so that it was with quite a start that Mrs Hallam heard, for the second time, a voice say:
“Surely, ladies, you must be cold. Will you allow me to fetch shawls from the cabin?”
The first time these words were spoken, neither Mrs Hallam nor Julia moved; but, on their being repeated, they turned quickly round, to find that Thisbe had gone below, and that where she had been seated upon her box an officer in undress uniform was standing, cap in hand.
“I thank you, no,” said Mrs Hallam coldly, as she returned the bow. “Julie, it is time we went below.”
The officer drew back as mother and daughter swept slowly by towards the cabin stairs, and remained motionless even after they had disappeared.
He was roused from his waking dream by a hearty clap on the shoulders.
“What’s the matter, Phil?” said a bluff voice, and a heavy-featured officer of about forty looked at him in a half-amused manner.
“Matter? Matter? Nothing; nothing at all.”
“Bah! don’t tell me. The old game, Phil. Is she nice-looking?”
“Beautiful!” cried the young officer excitedly.
“Ah! that’s how I used to speak of Mrs Captain Otway,” said the heavy-looking officer cynically; “but, my dear Phil, with all due respect to the sharer of my joys and the sorrows of going out to this horrible hole, Mrs Captain Otway does not look beautiful now.”
“Otway, you are a brute to that woman. She is a thoroughly true-hearted lady, and too good for you.”
“Much, Phil—much too good. Poor woman, it was hard upon her, with all her love of luxury and refinement, that she should be forced by fate to marry the poor captain of a marching regiment.”
“Sent out to guard convicts in a penal settlement, eh?”
“Yes, to be sure. Oh, dear me! I shall be heartily glad when we are settled down and have had a week at sea.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think time passes quite quickly enough. I say, Otway, do you think, if you asked her, Mrs Otway would lend a helping hand to those two ladies? They seem very strange and desolate on board here.”
“My wife? Impossible, Phil; she is in her berth already, declaring that she is sea-sick, when all the time it is fancy.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know? Because she never is; it is so as to get out of the misery and confusion of the first day. Look here, boy, I’m always glad to help you, though. Shall I do?”
“You do? What for?”
“To go down and try and set your last enslavers at their ease.”
“Don’t be idiotic.”
“Nice way for a subaltern to speak to his commanding officer, sir.”
“I was not speaking to my commanding officer, but to my old companion, Jack Otway.”
“Oh, I see! I say, Phil, which of the fair ones is it—Juno or Hebe?”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“All right. Who are they?”
“I can’t find out yet. The captain gave me their names, that’s all. Hist! here is their maid.”
Just then Thisbe, who had been below, creeping off quietly to make things a bit comfortable, as she called it, came on deck, having missed Mrs Hallam and Julia, expecting to find them where she had left them, leaning over the bulwarks; and full of haste, as she had found that there was at last something like a pleasant meal spread in the principal cabin.
“It’s very muddly,” she muttered to herself, “and I’d give something for a snug little room where I could make them a decent cup of tea. And this is being at sea, is it?—sea that Tom Porter says is so lovely. Poor wretch!”
Thisbe impatiently dashed a tear from her eyes, the reason for whose coming she would not own; and then she stopped short, wondering at the presence of a couple of officers, where she had left Mrs Hallam and Julia, for, from some reason best known to himself, Philip Eaton, of His Majesty’s —th Foot, was resting his arms where Julia had rested hers, and Captain Otway, in command of the draft on its way out to Port Jackson, had involuntarily taken Mrs Hallam’s place.
“Looking for your ladies?” said Eaton.
“Yes. What have you done with—I mean where are they?”
“One moment,” said the lieutenant in a confidential manner, as he slipped his hand into his pocket, “just tell me—”
He stopped astonished, for as she saw the motion of the young man’s hand, and heard his insinuating words, Thisbe gave vent to a sound best expressed by the word “Wuff!” but which sounded exceedingly like the bark of some pet dog, as she whisked herself round and searched the deck before once more going below.
“Another of them,” she muttered between her teeth. “Handsome as handsome, and ready to lay traps for my darling. But I’m not going to have her made miserable. I’m a woman now; I was a weak, watery, girlish thing then. I’m not going to have her life made a wreck.”
Thisbe went below, little thinking that it would be a week before she again came on deck.
The weather turned bad that night, and the customary miseries ensued. It was so bad that the captain was glad that he had to run into Plymouth, but no sooner was he there than the weather abated, tempting him forth again to encounter a terrible gale off the Lizard, and more or less bad weather till they were well across the Bay of Biscay, and running down the west coast of Spain, when the weather changed all at once. The sky cleared, the sun came out warm and bright, the sea went down, and one by one the wretched passengers stole on deck.
Among them, pale and depressed by the long confinement in the cabins, Mrs Hallam and Julia were ready to hurry on deck to breathe the sweet, pure air.
“And is that distant shore Spain?” said Julia wonderingly, as she gazed at the faint grey line at which every eye and glass was being directed.
“Yes, Julie,” said Mrs Hallam more cheerfully, “sunny Spain.”
“And it seems just now that we were gazing at dear old England,” said Julia, with a sigh.
“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam, grasping her hand with feverish energy, “but now we are so many hundred miles nearer to him who is waiting our coming, Julie. Let us count the miles as he is counting the minutes before he can take his darling to his heart. Julie, my child, we must put the past behind us; it is the future for which we must live.”
“Forget the past?” said Julia mournfully. “It was such a happy time.”
“For you, Julie, but for me one long agonising time of waiting.”
“Dearest mother,” whispered Julia, pressing her hand, and speaking quickly, “I know—I know, and I will try so hard not to be selfish.”
They had turned to the bulwarks the moment they came on deck, and, without casting a look round, had glanced at the distant coast, and then mentally plunged their eyes into the cloud ahead, beyond which stood Robert Hallam awaiting their coming.
“I had the pleasure of speaking to you before the storm, ladies,” said a voice, and as they turned quickly, it was to find Lieutenant Eaton, cap in hand, smiling, and slightly flushed.
Mrs Hallam bowed.
“I sincerely trust that you have quite recovered,” continued the young officer, directing an admiring gaze at Julia.
“Quite, I thank you,” said Mrs Hallam coldly.
“Then we shall see you at the table, Mrs Hallam—and Miss Hallam?” he continued, with another bow.
Julia returned the bow, looking flushed and rather indignant.
“I hope you will excuse me,” continued Eaton; “on shipboard you see we are like one family, all as it were in the same house.”
Mrs Hallam bowed again, flushing as ingenuously as her daughter, for these advances troubled her greatly. She would have preferred being alone, and in a more humble portion of the vessel, but Sir Gordon and Bayle had insisted upon her occupying one of the best cabins, and it seemed to her that she was there under false pretences, and that it was only a question of days before there must come discovery which would put them to open shame.
Driven, as it were, to bay by the young officer’s words, she replied hastily: “You must excuse me now; I have scarcely recovered.”
“Pray forgive me,” cried Eaton, giving Julia a look full of intelligence which made her shrink, “I ought to have known better. In a short time I hope, Mrs Hallam, that we shall be better acquainted.”
He raised his cap again and drew back, while, excited and agitated beyond her wont, Mrs Hallam exclaimed:
“It cannot be, Julie. We must keep ourselves aloof from these people—from all the passengers; our course is alone—till we join him.”
“Yes,” said Julia, in a troubled way, “we must be alone.”
“These people who make advances to us now,” continued Mrs Hallam, “would master the object of our journey before we had gone far, and then we should be the pariahs of the ship.”
“Would they be so unjust, mother?”
“Yes, for they do not know the truth. If they were told all, they would not believe it. My child, it was so that the world should never turn upon us and revile us for our misfortune that I have insisted all these years on living so reserved a life. And now we must go on in the same retired manner. If we are drawn into friendly relations with these people, our story will ooze out, and we shall have to endure the insult and misery of seeing them turn their backs upon us. Better that we should ostracise ourselves than suffer it at other hands; the blow will be less keen.”
“I am ready to do all you wish, dear,” said Julia, stealing her hand into her mother’s.
“My beloved,” whispered back Mrs Hallam, “it is our fate. We must bear all this, but our reward will be the more joyful, Julie: it is for your father’s sake. Think of it, my child; there is no holier name under heaven to a child than that of father.”
There was a pause, and then Julia, in a low, sweet voice, whispered: “Mother.”
The two women stood there alone, seeming to gaze across the bright sea at the distant land. Passengers and sailors passed them, and the officers of the ship hesitated as they drew near about speaking, ending by respecting the reverie in which they seemed to be wrapt, and passing on. But Millicent and Julia Hallam saw neither sea, shore, nor the distant land: before each the face of Robert Hallam, as they had known it last, rose out of, as it were, a mist. And as they gazed into the future, the countenance of Julia seemed full of timid wonder, half shrinking, while that of Millicent grew more and more calm, as her eyes filled with a sweet subdued light, full of yearning to meet once more him who was waiting all those thousand miles away.
So intent were they upon their thoughts of the coming encounter, that neither of them noticed the quiet step that approached, and then stopped close at hand.
“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam aloud, “we must accept our position, my child; better that we should be alone.”
“Not quite!”
Julia started round with a cry of joy, and placed her hands in those of the speaker.
“Mr Bayle?” she cried excitedly; “what a surprise!”
“You here?” cried Mrs Hallam hoarsely.
“Yes,” was the reply, given in the calmest, most matter-of-fact, half-laughing way, and as if it were merely a question of crossing a county at home. “Why, you two poor unprotected women, you did not think I meant to let you take this long voyage alone!”
Mrs Hallam drew a long breath and turned pale. She essayed to speak, but no words would come, and at last with a spasm seeming to contract her brow, she turned to gaze appealingly at her child.
“But you are going back?” said Julia, and she, too, seemed deeply moved.
He shook his head, and smiled.
“How good—how noble!” she began.
“Ah! tut! tut! little pupil; what nonsense!” cried Bayle merrily. “Why, here is Sir Gordon, who has done precisely the same thing.” And the old baronet came slowly up, raising his straw hat just as Thisbe came hurriedly on deck to announce the discovery she had made, and found that she was too late.