This Man's Wife
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The next morning Millicent Hallam insisted upon rising and dressing, to go over to Lindum and be present at the trial.
All opposition only irritated her, and at last Thisbe was summoned to the room.
“I shall be just outside,” whispered the doctor. “It is better than fighting against her.”
In less than five minutes he was once more by his child’s side, trying to bring her back from the fainting fit in which she had fallen back upon the bed, for she had learned her weakness, and her utter impotence to take such a journey upon an errand like that.
And then the weary day had crept on, with the delirium sometimes seizing upon the tottering brain, and then a time of comparative coolness supervening.
Dr Luttrell looked serious, and told himself that he was in doubt.
“The bad news will kill her,” he said to himself, as he went outside to walk up and down Miss Heathery’s garden, which was fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, “but very secluded,” as its owner often said.
There, with bare head and wrinkled brow, the doctor walked up and down, stopping, from habit, now and then to pinch off a dead leaf, or give a twist to one of the scarlet runners that had slipped from its string.
The night at last; and the doctor was sitting by the bedside, having sent Mrs Luttrell down, and then Thisbe, both utterly worn out and unhinged.
Millicent was, as Thisbe had said, dozing; but the fever was high, and Dr Luttrell shook his grey head.
“Who’d have thought, my poor flower,” he said, “that your young life would be blighted like this!”
He could hardly bear his suffering, and, rising from his chair, he stole softly into the back room, where Julia was sleeping calmly, the terrible trouble affecting her young heart only for the minute, and then passing away.
The old man bent down and kissed the sleeping face, and, as her custom was, Julia’s little arms went softly up and clasped the neck of him who pressed her soft cheek, and fell away again, heavy with sleep.
“He will come and tell me the truth.”
The words fell clearly on the doctor’s ear as he was re-entering the sick-room, but Millicent lay apparently sound asleep in the little white dimity-hung bed of Miss Heathery’s best room, while the soft murmur of voices came from below.
Millicent’s words were those of truth, for the moment the trial was over Christie Bayle had rushed out, and sprung into the post-chaise he had had in waiting, and for which changes of horses were harnessed at the three towns they would have to pass through to reach King’s Castor, over thirty miles away, and as fast as horses urged by man could go over the rough cross-road, that post-chaise was being hurried along.
The night was settling down dark as the first pair of steaming horses were taken out, and a couple of country candles were lit in the battered lamps. Then on and on, uphill slowly, down the far slope at a good gallop, with the chaise dancing and swaying about on its C-springs, and time after time the whole affair nearly being thrown over upon its side.
“It’s too dark to go so fast, sir,” remonstrated the wheeler postboy, as Bayle leaned his head out of the window to urge him on.
“Ten shillings a-piece, man. It’s for life or death,” cried Bayle; and the whips cracked, and the horses plunged into their collars, as the hedges on either side seemed to fly by like a couple of blurred lines.
“I must get up now, father,” said Millicent suddenly.
“My child, no, it is impossible. You remember this morning?”
“My dressing-gown,” she said in a low, decided voice. “Thisbe will carry me down.”
“No, no,” said Dr Luttrell decidedly. “You must obey me, child.”
“Dear father,” she whispered, “if I lie here in the agony of suspense I shall die. I must go down.”
“But why, my child?”
“Why,” she said. “Do you think I could bear any one else to hear his news but me?”
It was in vain to object, and in the belief that he was doing more wisely by giving way, Dr Luttrell summoned Thisbe, and, with Mrs Luttrell’s help, the suffering woman was partially dressed and borne down to the sitting-room. She bore the change wonderfully, and lay there very still and patient, waiting for the next two hours. The fever had greatly abated, and she listened, her eyes half-closed, as if in the full confidence that the news for which she hungered would not be long.
Thisbe and Miss Heathery had stolen out into the kitchen to sit and talk in whispers as, one by one, the last sounds in the town died out. The shutters here and there had long been rattled up. The letter-carriers from the villages round had all come in, and only a footfall now and then broke the silence of the little town.
Ten o’clock had struck, and Doctor and Mrs Luttrell exchanged glances, the former encouraging his wife with a nod, for Millicent seemed to be asleep. A quarter-past ten was chimed by the rickety clock in the old stone tower, and the only place now where there was any sign of business was up at the “George,” where lamps burned inside and out, and the ostlers brought out two pairs of well-clothed horses ready for the coach that would soon be through. By-and-by there was the rattle of wheels and the cheery notes of a horn, but they did not wake Millicent, who still seemed to sleep, while there was a little noise of trampling hoofs, the banging of coach doors, a few shouts, a cheery “All right!” and then the horses went off at a trot, the wheels rattled, and the lamps of the mail shone through the drawn-down blind. Then the sounds died away; all was still, and the clock chimed half-past. As the last tones throbbed and hummed in the still night air, Millicent suddenly stirred, sat up quickly, and pressed back her hair from her face.
“Help me! The chair!” she said hoarsely.
“Yes,” said the doctor, in answer to Mrs Luttrell’s look; and with very little aid Millicent left the couch, gathered her dressing-gown round her, and sat back listening.
“He will soon be here,” she said softly, and she bowed her head upon her breast.
She was right, for the horses were tearing over the ground in the last mile of the last stage, with Christie Bayle almost as breathless, as he sat back pale with excitement, and trembling for the news he had to impart. At the end of the trial and in his desire to keep his word, all had seemed strange and confused. He could feel nothing but that he had to get back to King’s Castor and tell her all. It was her command. But now that he was rapidly nearing home, the horror of his position began to weigh him down, and he felt ready to shrink from his duty, but all the time there was a sensation as if something was urging him on, fast as the horses seemed to fly.
The miles had seemed leagues before. This last seemed not a quarter its length; for there was the mill, there Thickens’s cottage, there the great draper’s, the market-place, the “George,” before which the horses were checked covered with foam.
With the feeling still upon him that he could not bear this news, and that it should have been brought by Sir Gordon, who had refused to come, he ran across to Miss Heathery’s house, and when he reached the door, it was opened. He stepped in and it was closed by Mrs Luttrell, who was trembling like a leaf.
“Come here! quick!”
Bayle knew and yet did not recognise the voice, it was so changed; but, as in a dream, he went past the little candlestick on the passage bracket, and in at the open parlour-door, where the light of the shaded globe lamp fell upon Millicent’s pale face.
“Father! mother!” she said quickly. “Leave us. I must hear the news alone!”
The doctor’s eyes sought Bayle’s, but his face was contracted as he stood there, hat and cloak in hand, pale as if from a sick-bed and his eyes closed.
Then he and Millicent were alone, and, as if stung by some agonising mental pang, he said wildly:
“No, no! Your father – mother! Let me tell them.” Millicent rose slowly, and laid her hand upon his arm.
“You bear me news of my husband,” she said, in an unnaturally calm voice. “I know: it is the worst!” He made no reply, but looked at her beseechingly. “I can bear it now,” she said, shivering like one whom pain had ended by numbing against further agony. “I see it is the worst; he is condemned!” There was a faint smile upon her lips as he caught her hands in his.
“You forced me to this,” he said hoarsely, “and you will hate me more for giving you this pain.”
“No,” she said, speaking in the same unnaturally calm, strained manner. “No: for I have misjudged you, Christie Bayle. Boy and man, you were always true to me. And – and – he is condemned?”
His eyes alone spoke, and then she tottered as if she would have fallen, but he caught her, and placed her in a chair.
“Yes: I know – I knew it must be,” she said with her eyes half-closed. “Every one will know now!”
“Let me call your father in?” he whispered.
“No: not yet. I have something to say,” she murmured almost in a whisper. “If – I die – my little child – Christie Bayle? She – she loves you!”
Millicent Hallam’s eyes filled up the gaps in her feeble speech, and Christie Bayle read her wish as if it had been sounded trumpet-tongued in his ears.
“Yes; I understand. I will,” he said in a voice that was more convincing than if he had spoken on oath.
By that time the news which the postboys had caught as it ran from lip to lip, before Christie Bayle could force his way through the crowd at Lindum assize court, was flashing, as such news can flash through a little inquisitive town like Castor, and, almost at the same moment as Christie Bayle made his promise, old Gemp stumbled into Gorringe’s shop to point at him and pant out:
“Transportation for life!”
Volume Three – Chapter One.
After Twelve Years – Back from a Voyage
“Why, my dear Sir Gordon, I am glad to see you back again. You look brown and hearty, and not a day older.”
“Don’t – don’t shake quite so hard, my dear Bayle. I like it, but it hurts. Little gouty in that hand, you see.”
“Well, I’ll be careful. I am glad you came.”
“That’s right, that’s right. Come down to my club and dine, and we’ll have a long talk; and – er – don’t take any notice of the jokes if you hear any.”
“Jokes?”
“Ye-es. The men have a way there – the old fellows – of calling me ‘Laurel,’ and ‘Yew,’ and the ‘Evergreen.’ You see, I look well and robust for my age.”
“Not a bit, Sir Gordon. You certainly seem younger, though, than ever.”
“So do you, Bayle; so do you. Why, you must be – ”
“Forty-two, Sir Gordon. Getting an old man, you see.”
“Forty! Pooh! what’s that, Mr Bayle? Why, sir, I’m – Never mind. I’m not so young as I used to be. And so you think I look well, eh, Bayle?”
“Indeed you do, Sir Gordon; remarkably well.”
“Hah! That confounded Scott! Colonel Scott at the club set it about that I’d been away for two years so as to get myself cut down and have time to sprout up again, I looked so young. Bah, what does it matter? It’s the sea life, Bayle, keeps a man healthy and strong. I wish I could persuade you to come with me on one of my trips.”
“No, no! Keep away with your temptations. Too busy.”
“Nonsense, man! Fellow with your income grinding day after day as you do. But how young you do look! How is Mrs Hallam?”
“Remarkably well. I saw her yesterday.”
“And little Julie?”
“Little!” said Christie Bayle laughing frankly, and justifying Sir Gordon’s remarks about his youthful looks. “Really, I should like to be there when you call. You will be astonished.”
“What, has the child grown?”
“Child? Grown? Why, my dear sir, you will have to be presented to a beautiful young lady of eighteen, wonderfully like her mother in the old days.”
“Indeed! Hah! yes. Old days, Bayle. Yes, old days, indeed. The thought of them makes me feel how time has gone. Look young, eh? Bah! I’m an old fool, Bayle. Deal better if I had been born poor. You should see me when Tom Porter takes me to pieces, and puts me to bed of a night. Why, Bayle, I don’t mind telling you. Always were a good lad, and I liked you. I’m one of the most frightful impositions of my time. Wig, sir; confound it! sham teeth, sir, and they are horribly uncomfortable. Whiskers dyed, sir. The rest all tailor’s work. Feel ashamed of myself sometimes. At others I say to myself that it’s showing a bold front to the enemy. No, sir, not a bit of truth in me anywhere.”
“Except your heart,” said Bayle, smiling.
“Tchut! man, hold your tongue. Now about yourself. Why don’t you get a comfortable rectory somewhere, instead of plodding on in this hole?”
“Because I am more useful here.”
“Nonsense! Get a good West-end lectureship.”
“I prefer the North here.”
“My dear Christie Bayle, you are throwing yourself away. There, I can’t keep it back. Old Doctor Thomson is dead, and if you will come I have sufficient interest with the bishop, providing I bring forward a good man, to get him the living at King’s Castor.”
Christie Bayle shook his head sadly.
“No, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a curious, wistful look coming into his eyes. “That would be too painful – too full of sad memories.”
“Pooh! nonsense, man! You can’t be a curate all your life.”
“Why not? I do not want the payment of a better post in the Church.”
“Of course not; but come, say ‘Yes.’ As to memories, fudge! man, you have your memories everywhere. If you were out in Australia you’d have them, same as I dare say a friend of ours has. Let the past go.”
Bayle shook his head.
“I’m thinking of settling down yonder myself. Getting too old for sea-trips. If you’d come down, that would decide me.”
“No, no. It would never do. I could not leave town.”
“Ah, so you pretend, sir. I’ll be bound that, if you had a good motive, you’d be off anywhere, in spite of what you say.”
“Perhaps. Your motive is not strong enough.”
“What, not your own interest, man?”
“My dear Sir Gordon, no. What interest have I in myself? Why, I have been blessed by Providence with a good income and few wants, and for the past eighteen years I’ve been so busy thinking about other people, that I should feel guilty of a crime if I began to be selfish now.”
“You’re a queer fellow, Bayle, but you may alter your mind. I’ve made up mine that you shall have the old living at King’s Castor. I shan’t marry now, so I don’t want you for that; but, please God I don’t go down in some squall, I should like you to say ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ over the remains of a very selfish old man, for I sometimes think that it can’t be long first now.”
“My dear old friend,” said Bayle, shaking his hand warmly, “I pray that the day may be very far distant. When it does come, as it comes to us all, I shall be able to think that the selfishness of which you speak was mere outside show. Gordon Bourne, I seem to be a simple kind of man, but I think I have learned to read men’s hearts.”
The old man’s lip quivered a little, and he tried vainly to speak. Then, giving his stout ebony cane a stamp on the floor, he raised it, and shook it threateningly.
“Confound you, Bayle! I wish you were as poor as Job.”
“Why?”
“So that I might leave you all I’ve got. Perhaps I shall.”
“No, no, don’t do that,” said Bayle seriously, and his frank, handsome face looked troubled; “I have more than I want. But, come, tell me; you have been down to Castor, then?”
“Yes, I was there a week.”
“And how are they all?”
“Older, of course, but things seem about the same. Place like that does not change much.”
“But the people do.”
“Not they. By George! sir, one of the first men I saw as I limped down the street in a pair of confoundedly tight Hessians Hoby made for me – punish my poor corns horribly. What with them and the stiff cravats a gentleman is forced to wear, life is unendurable. Ah! you don’t study appearances at sea. Wish I could wear boots like those, Bayle.”
“You were saying that you saw somebody.”
“Ah, yes; to be sure, I trailed off about my boots. Why, I am getting into – lose leeway, sir. But I remember now. First man I saw was old Gemp, sitting like a figure-head outside his cottage. Regular old mummy; but he seemed to come to life as soon as he heard a step, and turned his eyes towards me, looking as inquisitive as a monkey. Poor old boy – almost paralysed, and has to be lifted in and out. I often wonder what was the use of such men as he.”
Christie Bayle’s broad shoulders gave a twitch, and he looked up in an amused manner.
“Ah, well, what was the use of me, if you like? Doctor looked well; so does the old lady. Said they were up here three months ago, and enjoyed their visit I say, Bayle, you’d better have the living. Mrs Hallam might be disposed to go down to the old home again, eh?”
A quiet, stern look, that made Christie Bayle appear ten years older, and changed him in aspect from one of thirty-five to nearer fifty, came over his face.
“No,” he said, “I am sure Mrs Hallam would never go back to Castor to live.”
“Humph! Well, you know best. I say, Bayle, does she want help? It is such a delicate matter to offer it to her, especially in our relative positions.”
“No, I am sure she does not,” said Bayle quickly; “you would hurt her feelings by the offer.”
Sir Gordon nodded, and sat gazing at one particular flower in the carpet of his host’s simply-furnished room, which he poked and scraped with his stick.
“How was Thickens?”
“Just the same; not altered a bit, unless it is to look more drab. Mrs Thickens – that woman’s an impostor, sir. She has grown younger since she married.”
“Yes, she astonished me,” said Bayle, smiling with satisfaction that his visitor had gone off dangerously painful ground, “plump, pleasant little body.”
“With fat filling up her creases and covering up her holes and corners!” cried Sir Gordon, interrupting. “Confound it all, sir, I could never get the fat to come and fill up my creases and furrows. I saw her standing there, feeding Thickens’s fish, smiling at them, and as happy as the day was long. Deal happier than when she was Miss Heathery. Everybody seems to be happy but me. I never am.”
“See the Trampleasures?” said Bayle.
“Oh, yes, saw them, and heard them, too. Regular ornament to the bank, Trampleasure. People believe in him, though. Talks to them, and asks the farmers in to lunch. If he were not there, they’d think Dixons’ was going. Poor old Dixon, how cut up he was over that Hallam business! It killed him, Bayle.”
“Think so?” said Bayle, with his brow wrinkling.
“Sure of it, sir. It was not the money he cared for; it was the principle of the thing. Dixons’ name had stood so high in the town and neighbourhood. There was a mystery, too, about the matter that was never cleared up.”
“Hadn’t we better change the subject, Sir Gordon?”
“No, sir,” said Bayle’s visitor curtly. “Garrulity is one of the privileges of old age. We old men don’t get many privileges; let me enjoy that. I like to gossip about old times to some one who understands them as you do. If you don’t like to hear me, say so, and I will go.”
“No, no, pray stay, and I’ll go down with you to the club.”
“Hah! That’s right. Well, as I was saying, there was a bit of mystery about that which worried poor old Dixon terribly. We never could make out what the scoundrel had done with the money. He and that other fellow, Crellock, could easily get rid of a good deal; but there was a large sum unaccounted for, I’m sure.”
There was a pause here, and Sir Gordon seemed to be hesitating about saying something that was on his mind.
“You wanted to tell me something,” said Bayle at last.
“Well, yes, I was going to say you see a deal of the widow, don’t you?”
“Widow? What widow? Oh, Mrs Richardson. Poor thing, yes; but how did you know I took an interest in her? Hah! there: you may give me ten pounds for her.”
“Mrs Richardson! Pooh! I mean Mrs Hallam.”
“Widow?”
“Well, yes; what else is she? Husband transported for life. The man is socially dead.”
“You do not know Mrs Hallam,” said Bayle gravely.
“Do you think she believes in him still?”
“With her whole heart. He is to her the injured man, a victim to a legal error, and she lives in the belief which she has taught her child, that some day her martyr’s reputation will be cleared, and that he will take his place among his fellow-men once more.”
“I wish I could think so too, for her sake,” said Sir Gordon, after a pause.
“Amen!”
“But, Bayle, you – you don’t ever think there was any mistake?”
“It is always painful to me to speak of a man whom I never could esteem.”
“But to me, man – to me.”
“For twelve years, Sir Gordon, I have had the face of that loving, trusting woman before me, steadfast in her faith in the husband she loves.”
“Loves?”
“As truly as on the day she took him first to her heart.”
“But do you think that she really still believes him innocent?”
“In her heart of hearts; and so does her child. And I say that this is the one painful part of our intimacy. It has been the cause of coldness and even distant treatment at times.”
“But she seemed to have exonerated you from all credit in his arrest.”
“Oh, yes, long ago. She attributes it to the accident of chance and the treachery of the scoundrel Crellock.”
“Who was only Hallam’s tool.”
“Exactly. But she forgives me, believing me her truest friend.”
“And rightly. The man who fought for her at the time of the – er – well, accident, Bayle, eh?”
“Shall we change the subject?” said Bayle coldly.
“No; I like to talk about poor Mrs Hallam, and I will call and see her soon.”
“But you will be careful,” said Bayle earnestly. “Of course your presence will bring back sad memories. Do not pain her by any allusion to Hallam.”
“I will take care. But look here, Bayle; you did come up here to be near them?”
“Certainly I did. Why, Sir Gordon, that child seemed to be part of my life, and when Mrs Hallam had that long illness the little thing came to me as if I were her father. She had always liked me, and that liking has grown.”
“You educated her?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I suppose so,” said Bayle, looking up with a frank, ingenuous smile. “We have always read together, and painted, and then there was the music of an evening. You must hear her sing!”
“Hah! I should like to, Bayle. Perhaps I shall. Don’t think me impertinent, but you see I am so much away in my yacht. Selfish old fellow, you know; want to live as long as I can, and I think I shall live longer if I go to sea than if I stroll idling about Castor or in London at my club. I’ve asked you a lot of questions. I suppose you have done all the teaching?”
“Oh, dear, no; her mother has had a large share in the child’s education.”
“Humph! when I called her child, I was snubbed.” Bayle laughed. “Well, I’ve grown to think of her as my child, and she looks upon me almost as she might upon her father.”
“Humph!” said Sir Gordon rather gruffly. “I half expected, every time I came back, to find you married, Bayle.”
“Find me married?” said Bayle, laughing. “My dear sir, I am less likely to marry than you. Confirmed old bachelor, and I am very happy – happier than I deserve to be.”
“Don’t cant, Bayle,” cried Sir Gordon peevishly. “I’ve always liked you because you never threw sentiments of that kind at me. Don’t begin now. Well, there, I must trot. You are going to dine with me?”
“Yes; I’ve promised.”
“Ah,” said Sir Gordon, looking at Bayle almost enviously, “you always were quite a boy. What a physique you have! Why, man, you don’t look thirty-five.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry, man?”
“Well, then, I’m very glad.”
“Bah! There, put on your hat, and come down at once. I hate this part of London.”
“And I have grown to love it. ‘The mind is its own place.’ You know the rest.”
“Oh, yes, I know the rest,” said Sir Gordon gruffly. “Come along. Where can we get a coach?”
“I’ll show you,” said Bayle, taking his arm and leading him through two or three streets, to stop at last in a quiet, new-looking square close by St. John’s Street.
“Well, what’s the matter?” said Sir Gordon testily. “Nothing, I hope; only I must make a call here before I go down with you.”
“For goodness’ sake, make haste, then, man! My boots are torturing me!”
“Come in, then, and sit down,” said Bayle, smiling, as a stern-looking woman opened the door, and curtsied familiarly.