“I have lived in an agonising dread of this night for the past ten years,” said Bayle hoarsely.
“You?”
“Yes: I. Does it seem strange? I have seen her gradually growing more restful and happy in the love of her child. I have gone on loving that child as if she were my own. Was it not reasonable that I should dread the hour when that man might come and claim them once again?”
“But they are not his now,” cried Sir Gordon. “The man is socially dead.”
“To us and to the law,” said Bayle; “but is the husband of her young love dead to the heart of such a woman as Millicent Hallam?”
“Luttrell, man; Luttrell,” cried Sir Gordon excitedly; “don’t utter his accursed name!”
“As Millicent Hallam,” said Bayle gravely. “She is his wife. She will never change.”
“She must be made to change,” cried Sir Gordon, whose excitement and anger were in strong contrast to the calm, patient suffering of the man upon whose arm he hung heavily as they tramped on round and round the circular railings within the square. “It is monstrous that he should be allowed to disturb her peace, Bayle. Look here! Did you say that letter came enclosed to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then—then you were a fool, man—a fool! You call yourself her friend—the friend of that sweet girl?”