Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.
Robert Hallam Wants Fresh Air.
“That woman seemed as if she would never go,” said Hallam, entering the room hastily, and glancing at the clock.
“She does like to stop and chat,” replied Millicent, wondering at his manner. “What are you going to do?”
“I am off for a short run. I cannot bear this confinement any longer. It is dark, and no one will see me if I go out for a change.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“Go with me! No, not now,” he said hastily. “I want a little fresh air. Don’t stop me. I shall be back soon.”
His manner seemed very strange, but Millicent said nothing, only followed him into the hall.
“No, no,” he said hastily; “don’t do that. It is as if you were watching me.”
She drew back in a pained way, and he followed her.
“I’m pettish and impatient, that’s all,” he said smiling; and, closing the door after her, he hurriedly put on a cloak and travelling cap, muffling his face well; and then going softly out, and turning from the main street, he was soon after in the lane that led down by Thickens’s house and the mill.
“At last!” said a voice from the hedge-side, just beyond where the last oil lamp shed a few dim rays across the road. “I thought you were never coming.”
“Don’t talk. Have you everything ready?”
“Yes, everything. It is only a cart, but it will take you easily.”
“And are you sure of the road?”
“Certain. I’ve done it twice so as to be sure.”
“Good horse?”
“Capital. We can get over the twenty miles in three hours, and catch the York coach easily by twelve. It does not pass before then.”
“Mind, Stephen, I’m trusting you in this. If you fail me—”
“If I fail you! Bah! Did I ever fail you?”
“No, never.”
“Then don’t talk like that. You’ve failed me pretty often, all the same. Going?”
“Yes; I must get back.”
“What’s that—the Castor coach?”
“Yes,” said Hallam, starting. “It’s early.”
“Don’t be longer than you can help; but, I say, have you plenty of money for the journey? I’ve only a guinea or two left.”
“I have enough,” said Hallam grimly; and bidding his companion wait three hours, and if he did not come then to go back and return the next night, Hallam turned to hurry back to the town.
It was intensely dark as he approached the mill, where the stream was gurgling and plashing over the waste-water shoot. In the distance there was the oil lamp glimmering, and a light or two shone in the scattered cottages, but there was none at Thickens’s as Hallam passed.
There was a space of about a hundred yards between Thickens’s house and the next cottage, and Hallam had about half traversed this when he heard a step that seemed familiar coming, and his doubt was put an end to by a voice exclaiming, “Mind! Take care!”
Was it fate that had put this in his way?
He asked himself this as, like lightning, the thought struck him that Bayle had just come off the coach—he the sharer in the knowledge of his iniquity.
A sharp struggle, and close at hand there was the bridge and the flowing river. It might have been an accident. But even then there was Thickens. What if he closed with him, and—disguised as he was, Bayle could never know—Bayle—the bearer of that heavy sum of money! He intended flight that night; was it fate, he asked himself again, that had thrown this in his way? And as the thoughts flashed through his brain, they encountered roughly upon the path, and Hallam’s hand touched the thick pocket-book in Bayle’s breast.
It was a matter of moments. Even to Hallam it was like an encounter in a dream. A blind desire to possess himself of the money he had touched had come over him; and reckless now, half mad, he seized the curate by the throat. There was a furious struggle, a few inarticulate cries, a heavy fall, and he was kneeling upon him, and dragging the pocket-book from his breast.
All, as it were, in a dream!
Millicent Hallam stood listening at the window to her husband’s steps, and then pressed her hands to her burning forehead to try and think more clearly about her position. It was so hard to think ill of Bayle; she could not do it; and yet her husband had said he was his enemy, and fighting against him to destroy him. Besides, Bayle had not been near them for days. It was so strange that he should go away without telling her!
And so, as she stood there, the two currents of thought met—that which ran love and trust in her husband, and that which was full of gentle sisterly feeling for Bayle; and as they met there was tumult and confusion in her brain, till the first current proved the stronger, and swept the latter aside, running strongly on towards the future.
“He is my husband, and he trusts me now as I trust him,” she said proudly. “It is impossible. He could do no wrong.”
She went up to the bed-room where Julie lay asleep, and stood watching the sweet, happy little face for some time, ending by kneeling down, taking one of the little hands in hers, and praying fervently for help, for guidance, and for protection in the troubled future, that appeared to be surrounding her with clouds.
How dense they seemed! How was it all to end? Would she be called upon by her husband to leave their home and friends, and go far away? Well, and if that were her fate, husband and child were all in all to her, and it was her duty.
“He trusts me now,” she said smiling; and feeling happier and more at rest than she had for months with their petty cares and poverty and shame, she bent over and kissed Julie, when the child’s arms were clasped about her neck and clung there for a moment, before dropping listlessly back upon the bed.
Passing her hand over the child’s forehead to be sure that she was cool and that no lurking fever was there, Millicent went down to the dining-room again, to sit and listen for the coming step.
She had heard the coach come and go, but instead of the place settling down again into its normal quiet, there seemed to be a great many people about, and hurrying footsteps were heard, such as would be at times when there was an alarm of fire in the town.
And yet it was not like that. More, perhaps, as if there were some meeting, and the steps died away.
For a moment or two Millicent had been disposed to summon Thisbe, and send her to see what was wrong; but on drawing aside the curtains and looking out, the street seemed deserted, and though there were a few figures in the market-place, they did not excite her surprise.
“I am overwrought and excited,” she said to herself. “Ah! at last.”
There was no mistaking that step, and starting up, she ran into the hall to admit Hallam, who staggered in, closed the door quickly, and catching her hand, half dragged her into the dining-room.
She clung to him in affright, for she could see that the cloak he wore was torn and muddied, that his face was ghastly pale, and that as he threw off his travelling cap, there was a terrible swelling across his forehead, as if he had received some tremendous blow.
“Robert,” she exclaimed, “what is the matter?”
“Hush,” he said quickly; “be quiet and calm. Has Thisbe gone to bed?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“Quick, then; a basin and water, sponge and towel. I must bathe this place.”
“Did you fall?” she cried, as she hastily helped him off with the cloak.
“No. But quick; the water.”
She hurried away, shivering with the dread of some new trouble to come, but soon returned with the sponge, and busied herself in bathing the hurt.
“I was attacked—by some ruffian,” said Hallam hoarsely, as the water trickled and plashed back in the basin. “He struck me with a bludgeon and left me senseless. When I came to he was gone.”
“Robert, you horrify me!” cried Millicent. “This is dreadful.”
“Might have been worse,” he said coolly. “There, now dry it, and listen to me the while.”
“Yes, Robert,” she said, forcing herself to be firm, and to listen to the words in spite of the curious doubting trouble that would oppress her.
“As soon as I go upstairs to put a few things together and get some papers, you will put on your bonnet and cloak, and dress Julie.”
“Dress Julie!”
“Yes,” he said harshly, “without you wish me to leave you behind.”
“You are going away, then?”
“Yes, I am going away,” he said bitterly, “after hesitating, with a fool’s hesitation, all these days. I ought to have gone before.”
“How strangely you speak!” she said.
“Don’t waste time. Now go.”
“One word, love,” she whispered imploringly; “do we go for long?”
“No; not for long,” he said. And then, with an impatient gesture: “Bah!” he exclaimed; “yes, for ever.”
She shrank from him in alarm.
“Well,” he said harshly, as he glanced at his injury in the mirror, “you are hesitating. I do not force you. I am your husband, and I have a right to command; but I leave you free. Do you wish to stay?”
A feeling of despair so terrible that it seemed crushing came over Millicent. To go from the home of her childhood—to flee like this with her husband, probably in disgrace, even if only through suspicion—was for the moment more than she could bear; and as he saw her momentary hesitation, an ugly sneering laugh came upon his face. It faded, though, as she calmly laid her hand upon his arm.
“Am I to take any luggage?” she said.
“Nothing but your few ornaments of value. Be quick.”
She raised her lips and kissed him, and then seemed to glide out of the room.
“Yes,” he said, “I have been a fool and an idiot not to have gone before. Curse the fellow: who could it be?” he cried, as he pressed his hand to his injured forehead.
He took out his keys and opened a drawer in a cabinet, taking from it a hammer and cold chisel, and then stood thinking for a few moments before hurrying out, and into a little lobby behind the hall, from which he brought a small carpet-bag.
“That will just hold it,” he said, “and a few of the things that she is sure to have.”
He turned into the dining-room, going softly, as if he were engaged in some nefarious act. Then he picked up the hammer and chisel, and was about to return into the hall, when he heard a low murmur, which seemed to be increasing, and with it the trampling of feet, and shouts of excited men.
“What’s that?” he cried, with his countenance growing ghastly pale; and the cold chisel fell to the floor with a clang.