"Doctor--Mrs Luttrell," he said, "you must try and calm her, or she will not be able to undertake this journey. Julie, my child, try what you can do. Good-night. Good-night."

As the door closed after him, Mrs Hallam walked back into the room looking calm and stern; but her face softened as Julia clung to her and then seated herself at her mother's feet, the next hours pa.s.sing so peacefully that it was impossible to believe that the time for parting was so near.

VOLUME THREE, CHAPTER TWELVE.

OVER THE SEA.

"Is--is it true, mother?" said Julia, as the town with its docks and shipping seemed to be growing less and less, while the Isle of Wight, and the land on their right looked dim and clouded over. The sun still shone, but it seemed to be watery and cold; there was a chill upon the sea, and though there was a great deal of hurrying to and fro among the sailors and soldiers as the c.u.mbered decks were being cleared, it was to Mrs Hallam and her child as if a dead silence had fallen, and the noises of the ship and creaking of block and spar were heard from a distance.

Thisbe was seated near where they two stood by the bulwark, gazing towards the sh.o.r.e. Thisbe felt no desire to watch the retiring land, for her heart was very low, and she found rest and solace in shedding one salt tear now and then, and wiping it away with her glove.

Unfortunately, Thisbe's glove was black, and the dye in her glove not being fast, the effect was strange.

"I'm a fool to cry," she said to herself; "but he might have had as good manners as his master, and said `good-bye.'"

Thisbe must have been deeply moved, or she would not have sat there upon a little box that she would not let out of her hands, probably on account of its insecurity, for it was tied up with two different kinds of string.

"It seems to me," continued Julia, "as if it were all some terrible dream."

"But one that is to have a happy waking, Julie."

"Poor grandma! she looked as if it would kill her," said Julia, sobbing gently.

"Hush!" cried Mrs Hallam, grasping her child's arm as a spasm of pain ran through her, and her face grew deadly pale. "We must think of one who, in pain and suffering, was dragged from his wife and child--forced to suffer the most terrible degradations. He is waiting for us, Julie-- waiting as he has waited all these years. We must turn our backs upon these troubles, and think only of him. Be firm, my child, be firm."

There was almost a savage emphasis in Mrs Hallam's words as she spoke.

"I'll try, dear; but, grandpa!" sobbed Julie, as she laid her arm upon the bulwark and her face upon it, that she might weep unseen; "shall we never see him and the pleasant old garden again?"

"Julie, this is childish," whispered Mrs Hallam. "Remember, you are a woman now."

"I do," cried the girl quickly; "but a woman must feel grief at parting from those she loves."

"Yes, but it must not overbear all, my child. Come, we must not give way now. Let us go below to our cabin."

"No," said Julia; "I must watch the sh.o.r.e till it is dark. Not yet, not yet. Mother, I thought Sir Gordon liked us--was a very, very great friend?"

"He is; he always has been."

"But he parted from us as if it was only for a day or two. He did not seem troubled in the least."

Mrs Hallam was silent.

"And Mr Bayle, mother--he quite checked me. I was so grieved, and felt in such despair at parting from him till he stood holding my hands. I wanted to throw my arms round his neck, and let him hold me to his breast, as he used years ago; but when I looked up in his face, he seemed so calm and cheerful, and he just smiled down at me, and it made me angry. Mamma, dear, men have no feeling at all."

"I think Mr Bayle feels our going deeply," replied Mrs Hallam, quietly.

"He did not seem to," said Julia pettishly.

"A man cannot show his sorrow as a woman may, my child," said Mrs Hallam, with a sigh.

She gazed back at the land that seemed to be growing more dim, minute by minute, as the great ship careened over to the press of sail, and sped on down Channel.

A wistful look came into the mother's eyes, as she thought of her child's words. In spite of resolutions and promises, the parting from the old people had been most painful; but, throughout all, there had seemed to her to be a curious indifference to her going, on the part of Bayle. He had been incessant in his attentions; a hundred little acts had been performed that were likely to make their stay on shipboard more pleasant; but there was a something wanting--a something she had felt deeply, and the pain became the more acute since she found that her feelings were shared.

They stood gazing at the grey and distant land, when the evening was falling. They were faint for want of food; but they knew it not, for the faintness was mingled with the sickness of the heart, and in spite of the glowing happy future Mrs Hallam tried to paint, a strange sense of desolation and despair seemed to overmaster her, and all her fort.i.tude was needed to save her from bursting into a violent fit of sobbing.

On and on with the water rushing beneath them, as they leaned upon the bulwarks, gazing still at the fast receding sh.o.r.e. There had been a great deal of noisy bustle going on around; but so wrapt were they in their own feelings that sailors and pa.s.sengers, officers and men, pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed unheeded. They were in a little world of their own, blind to all beside, so that it was with quite a start that Mrs Hallam heard, for the second time, a voice say:

"Surely, ladies, you must be cold. Will you allow me to fetch shawls from the cabin?"

The first time these words were spoken, neither Mrs Hallam nor Julia moved; but, on their being repeated, they turned quickly round, to find that Thisbe had gone below, and that where she had been seated upon her box an officer in undress uniform was standing, cap in hand.

"I thank you, no," said Mrs Hallam coldly, as she returned the bow.

"Julie, it is time we went below."

The officer drew back as mother and daughter swept slowly by towards the cabin stairs, and remained motionless even after they had disappeared.

He was roused from his waking dream by a hearty clap on the shoulders.

"What's the matter, Phil?" said a bluff voice, and a heavy-featured officer of about forty looked at him in a half-amused manner.

"Matter? Matter? Nothing; nothing at all."

"Bah! don't tell me. The old game, Phil. Is she nice-looking?"

"Beautiful!" cried the young officer excitedly.

"Ah! that's how I used to speak of Mrs Captain Otway," said the heavy-looking officer cynically; "but, my dear Phil, with all due respect to the sharer of my joys and the sorrows of going out to this horrible hole, Mrs Captain Otway does not look beautiful now."

"Otway, you are a brute to that woman. She is a thoroughly true-hearted lady, and too good for you."

"Much, Phil--much too good. Poor woman, it was hard upon her, with all her love of luxury and refinement, that she should be forced by fate to marry the poor captain of a marching regiment."

"Sent out to guard convicts in a penal settlement, eh?"

"Yes, to be sure. Oh, dear me! I shall be heartily glad when we are settled down and have had a week at sea."

"Oh, I don't know. I think time pa.s.ses quite quickly enough. I say, Otway, do you think, if you asked her, Mrs Otway would lend a helping hand to those two ladies? They seem very strange and desolate on board here."

"My wife? Impossible, Phil; she is in her berth already, declaring that she is sea-sick, when all the time it is fancy."

"How do you know?"

"How do I know? Because she never is; it is so as to get out of the misery and confusion of the first day. Look here, boy, I'm always glad to help you, though. Shall I do?"

"You do? What for?"

"To go down and try and set your last enslavers at their ease."