"Hi! Gorringe, here's that shack Hallam's wife come down. Quick! dost ta hear?"

Bayle had stayed back with Thickens to allow his travelling companions to go to the cottage alone, or these words might not have been uttered.

And as they appeared to come hissing through the air, Millicent Hallam seemed to realise more and more how Bayle had been their protector, and how she had done wisely in fleeing from the little town, where every flaw in a man's life was noted and remembered to the end.

"How dare he?" cried Julia indignantly; and her young eyes flashed.

"Mother, we ought not to have come down here."

"Hush, my child!" said Mrs Hallam softly; "who are we that we cannot bear patiently a few revolting words? If we were guilty, there would be a sting."

The episode was forgotten as they pa.s.sed out of the town, and along the pleasant road, nearer and nearer to the sweet old home. For Millicent Hallam's breath came more quickly. She threw back her veil; her eyes brightened, and her pale cheeks flushed.

There it all was, unchanged. The great hedges, the yews, the shrubs, and the pleasant rose and creeper-covered cottage, with its glittering windows, and door beneath the rustic porch, open as if to give them welcome.

"Yes, yes, yes!" cried Julia eagerly, and her voice sounding full of excitement; "I am beginning to remember it all again so well. I know, yes--the gate fastening inside. I'll undo it. Up this path, and grandpapa used to be there busy by his frames--round past the big green hedge, where grandmamma's seat used to be, so that she could watch him while he was at work. And I used to run--and, oh! yes, yes, there!

Grandpa! grandpa! here we are."

Had the past twelve years dropped away? Millicent Hallam asked herself, as, seeing all dimly through a veil of tears, she heard Julia's words, excited, broken, with all a child's surging excitement and delight, as she ran from her side, across the smooth lawn to where that grey little old lady sat beneath the yew hedge, to swoop down upon her, folding her in one quick caress, and then, before she had recovered from her surprise, darting away, and off the path, over the newly-dug ground, to where that grey old gentleman dropped the hoe with which he was drawing a furrow for his summer marrowfats.

The twelve years had dropped from Julia's mind for the time, and, a child once more, she was clinging to and kissing the old man, with whom she returned to where her mother was kneeling, locked in Mrs Luttrell's arms.

"The dear, dear, dear old place!" cried Julia, with childlike ecstasy.

"Grandpa, grandma, we're come down to stay, and we must never leave you again."

She stopped, trembling, her beautiful eyes dilated, and a feeling of chilling despair clutching at her heart, as her mother turned her ghastly face towards her, and her name seemed to float to her ears and away into the distance, in a cry that was like the wail of a stricken, desolate heart.

"Julia!"

"Mother, dearest mother, forgive me!" she cried, as she threw herself upon her breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. "I did not think: I had forgotten all."

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER EIGHT.

JULIA SEEMS STRANGE.

It was as if that forlorn cry uttered by Millicent Hallam pervaded their visit to the old home. It was a happy reunion, but how full of pain!

Joy and sorrow were hand in hand. It was life in its greatest truth.

The sweet, peaceful old home, with its garden in the early livery of spring; the fragrance of the opening leaves; the delicious odour of the earth after the soft rain that had fallen in the night; the early flowers, all so bright in the clear country air, to those who had been pent up in town; while clear ringing, and each tuned to that wondrous pitch that thrills the heart in early spring, there were the notes of the birds.

Millicent Hallam's eyes closed as she stood in that garden, clasping her child's hand in hers, and listening to each love-tuned call. The thrush, that; now soft, mellow, and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird's pipe; then again, from overhead, that pleasant little sharp "pink, pink," of the chaffinch, followed by its musical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into gla.s.s; while far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the distance, came the lark's song--a song she had not listened to for a dozen years.

"For the last time--for the last time, good-bye, dear home, good-bye!"

"Mother!"

"Did I speak?" said Millicent, starting.

"Speak?" cried Julia excitedly. "Oh, mother, dear mother, your words seemed so strange; they almost break my heart."

"Hearts do not break, Julie," said Mrs Hallam softly; "they can bear so much, my darling, so much."

"But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear old place again."

"Did I, my child?" said Mrs Hallam, dreamily, as she gazed wistfully round. "Well, who knows? who knows? Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for change."

"And we must go, mother, away--to that place?"

"Yes," said Mrs Hallam sternly, and she drew herself up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart against the weakness of her child.

It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs Luttrell had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quivering lip.

"I can't say a word, my child. I could only beg of you to stay."

"And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father," Millicent had said in return with many a tender caress.

Then the old people had pleaded that Julia might remain; and there had been another painful scene, and the night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy and sorrow.

Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the evening; but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow-stricken hearts in the old home.

Then had come the glorious spring morning, and, stealing through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till over all, like a cloud, came Millicent's farewell to the home she would never see again.

Prophetic and true--or the false imaginings of a sorrow-charged brain?

Who could say?

The stay was to be but short, for they returned that night by the coach which pa.s.sed through, as it had gone on pa.s.sing since that night when the agonised wife had sat watching for the news from the a.s.size town.

"It will be better so," Millicent Hallam had said. "It will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for long. We must finish and away. He is waiting for us now."

About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and grave as ever, but with a smile for Julia, as she hurried to meet him, Millicent coming more slowly behind.

"I have brought the keys," he said. "I found they were in Mr Thickens's charge. May I give you a word of advice?"

"Always," said Mrs Hallam smiling; but he noticed that she was deadly pale.

"I would not stay there long. I understand the feeling that prompts you to visit the old home again. See it and come away, for it must be full of painful memories; and now you must be firm and strong."

"Yes, yes," she said quickly. "You will stay here?"

"Certainly," he replied.

"You are going out?" cried Julia.

"I must see our old home again, before I go," said Mrs Hallam, in a sharp, nervous manner.

"And I may go with you, dear?" pleaded Julia.

"No; I must go alone," said her mother in a strained, imperious manner.

"Stay here."