“You have news for me!”
Christie Bayle had no more diplomatic power than a child, perhaps less than some; and he sank back in his chair, with his hand half-raised to his lips, gazing at her in a pained, appealing manner that excited her further.
“Yes,” she cried, “you are keeping something back. You think I cannot bear it, but I can. Yes, I am strong. Have I not borne all this pain these twelve years? And do you think me a child that you treat me so? Speak, I say—speak!”
“My dear Mrs Hallam,” began Sir Gordon soothingly.
“Hush, sir!” cried the trembling woman. “Let him speak. Mr Bayle, why do you torture me—you, my best friend? What have I done that you—ah! I see now. I—Julie—my child—he is dead!—he is dead!”
Julia had started to her side and caught her in her arms as she burst into a passionate wail, the first display of the wild despair in her heart that Bayle had seen for many years.
“No, no!” he cried, starting up and speaking with energy. “Mrs Hallam, you are wrong. He is alive and well.”
Millicent Hallam threw up her hands, clasped them together, reeled, and would have fallen but for her child’s sustaining arms. It was as if a sudden vertigo had seized her, but it passed as quickly as it came. Years of suffering had strengthened as well as weakened, and the woman’s power of will was tremendous.
“I am better,” she said in a hoarse, strangely altered voice. “Hush, Julie—I can bear it,” she cried imperiously. “Tell me all. You have heard of my husband?”
“Yes, Mrs Hallam, yes; but be calm and you shall know all.”