The Dreaded Message.
There was quite a change in the little house in the Clerkenwell Square. Life had been very calm and peaceful there for Julia, though she made no friends. Any advances made by neighbours were gravely and coldly repelled by Mrs Hallam.
Once, when she had felt injured by her mother’s refusal of an invitation for her to some young people’s party, and had raised her eyes reproachfully to her face, Mrs Hallam had taken her in her arms, kissing her tenderly.
“Not yet, my child; not yet,” she whispered. “We must wait.”
Julia coloured, and then turned pale, for she understood her mother’s meaning. They stood aloof from ordinary society, and they possessed a secret.
But now, since Sir Gordon had been brought to the house by Christie Bayle, their life appeared to Julia to be changed. Her mother seemed less oppressed and sad during the evenings when Sir Gordon came, as he did now frequently. There was so much to listen to in the animated discussions between the banker and the clergyman; and as they discussed some political question with great animation, Julia leaned forward smiling and slightly flushed, as Bayle, with all the force of a powerful orator, delivered his opinions, that were, as a rule, more sentimental than sound, more full of heart than logic.
He would always end with a fine peroration, from the force of habit; and Julia would clap her hands while Mrs Hallam smiled.
“Wait a bit, my dear,” Sir Gordon would say, nodding his head, “one story is good till the other is told.”
Then, in the coolest and most matter-of-fact way, he would proceed to demolish Bayle’s arguments one by one, battering them down till the structure crumbled into nothingness.
All this, too, was without effort. He simply drew logical conclusions, pointed out errors, showed what would be the consequences of following the clergyman’s line of argument, and ended by giving Julia a little nod.