George Manville Fenn (continued 9)

Now light would come, and she would seem to see her course clearly and wonder that she should have hesitated before. It was all so simple. Sir Gordon was there in Sydney, her oldest friend. He it was who had been the sufferer by her husband’s defalcations, and of course it was her duty to go straight to him and tell him all.

No sooner had she arrived at this than she shrank from the idea with horror. What could she have been thinking! To go to Sir Gordon was to denounce her husband as a criminal, and the result would be to send him back to the prison lines and the hideous convict life that had changed him from a man of refinement to a brutal sensualist, from whom in future she felt that she must shrink with horror.

Those last thoughts distracted her. Shrink with horror from him whom she had so dearly loved, from him whom she had believed a martyr to a terribly involved chain of evidence! It was too terrible!

But what was she to do? She could not lead this life of luxury, purchased by the money she had so innocently brought; that was certain. She and Julia must leave there at once. They could not stay.

She shivered as she thought of the difficulties that would rise up. For where were they? Out here, in this half-civilised place, penniless; and what defence had she to bring forward if Robert Hallam, her husband and master, said no, she should stay, and claimed her and her child as his?

There was light again. She could appeal to the governor, for Hallam had forfeited his social rights, and she would be free.

Down came the darkness and shut out that light, closing her in with a blackness so terrible that she shuddered.

It was impossible—impossible!

“He is my husband,” she moaned, “and were he ten times the sinner, I could not take a step that would injure the man I loved—the father of my child!”

Christie Bayle!

Yes; Christie Bayle, truest and most faithful of friends, who in the days of his boyish love had resigned himself to her wishes, and promised to be her brother through life.

How good he had been; and how she had in her agony of spirit reviled him, and called him her husband’s enemy! How his conduct seemed to stand out now, bright and shining! How full of patient self-denial! Brother, indeed, through all, while she had been—she knew it now, and shivered in her agony—so obstinately blind.

Christie Bayle would help her and protect Julia, whom he loved as if she were his child. He would—yes, she reiterated the thought with a strange feeling of joy—he would help her, as he had helped her before, in this time of anguish, and protect Julia from that man.

For now came, in all its solid horror, the reality of that which had only been cast, so far, as a shadow across her path.

This man, Crellock, who had seemed like Hallam’s evil genius from the first, but whom she saw now as her husband’s willing tool, had conceived a passion for her darling child. More—he was her husband’s chosen companion in pleasure and in guilt, and Hallam would—if he had not done so already—accept him.

“And I sit here bemoaning my suffering,” she cried passionately, “when such a blow is impending for my darling. Shame! shame! Am I ever to be so weak a woman, so mere a puppet in others’ hands? Heaven give me strength to be forgetful of self, and strong in defence of my child!”

She pressed back her hair from her brow, which became full of lines, and, resting her elbows upon her knees, her chin upon her hands, she sat there gazing as it were into the future, as she told herself that her own sufferings must be as nought, but that she must save Julia from such a fate.

Sir Gordon? Bayle? No! no! Only as a last resource. Not even then; they must be left. They had known the truth from the first—she saw it now—and in pity for her had borne all she had said, and helped her.

No! to ask their aid was to punish her husband. That could not be. She must act alone, weak woman as she was. She must be strong now, and she and Julia must leave this man at once. They must take some cottage or lodging in the town, and work for a living. That must be the first step.

Then came the black cloud again, to shut out the hope. Hallam would not allow them to go; and if they could steal away they were absolutely penniless.

She sat gazing before her, feeling as if old age had come suddenly to freeze her faculties and render her helpless; but, starting from her blank sense of misery, she forced herself to think.

What should she do? Julia should not be a convict’s wife; she felt that she would rather see her dead.

Once more a ray of hope—a thin, bright ray of light piercing the cloud of darkness ahead.

Lieutenant Eaton!

He loved her child, and it had seemed as if Julia cared for him, but in her maiden innocency she had always shrunk from anything more than a friendly show of attachment.

“But he is manly, and evidently devoted to her,” said Mrs Hallam in a low voice. “She would soon learn to love him.”

She ran over in her own mind all that had passed since the acquaintance on ship-board began. Eaton’s attentions, the pleasant hours Julia had seemed to spend in his company, the young officer’s manner—everything pointed to its being on his part more than the gallant attention of one of his stamp. Then there was the life here since they had landed. His occasional calls; his evident hesitancy. It was all so plain. He loved Julia dearly, but he was kept back from proposing for her by her connections.

“But he will ignore them for her sake,” she cried at last joyously. “He must be learning day by day how true and good she is. He will forget everything, and she will be saved.”

Mrs Hallam started up with the ray of hope cutting its way more and more brightly through the dark cloud ahead; and then her senses seemed to reel, a terrible fit of giddiness came over her as she tottered, caught at a chair, and then fell heavily upon the floor.

Volume Four—Chapter Seven.

“To the Better Way.”

When Mrs Hallam came to herself, she was in bed, where she had lain, talking incoherently at times, during the greater part of a week.

It was evening, and the sun was shining in at the open window, lighting up Julia’s dark hair as she sat with her face in the shadow, careworn and evidently suffering deeply.

Mrs Hallam lay for some time feeling restful and calm. The fevered dream was at an end, and she had slept long, to wake now with that pleasurable sensation upon her that is given to the sick when an attack is at an end, and nature is tenderly repairing the damages of the assault. She was lying there; Julia, her beloved child, was by her side. A veil was between her and the past, and there was nothing but the peaceful sensation of rest.

Then, as her eyes wandered slowly about the room and rested at last upon her child, her mind began to work; the mother’s quick instinct awoke, and she read trouble in Julia’s face. The memories that were slumbering came back, and she tried to rise in her bed but sank back.

“Mother!”

“My child! Tell me quickly: have I been ill?”

“Yes; very, very ill. But you are better now, dear mother. I am so lonely! Ah! at last, at last!”

Worn out and weak with constant watching, Julia threw herself sobbing by the bedside, but only to hurriedly dry her eyes and try to be calm.

She succeeded, and answered the questions that came fast; and as she replied, Mrs Hallam trembled, for she could see that Julia was keeping something back.

“Have I been delirious?” she said at last.

“Yes, dear; but last night you slept so peacefully, and all through to-day. There, let me call Thisbe.”

“No, not yet,” said Mrs Hallam, clinging to her child’s arm, as a great anxiety was longing to be satisfied. “Tell me, Julia, did I talk—talk of anything while I was like that?”

Julia nodded quickly, and the despairing look deepened in her eyes.

“Not—not of your father, my child?” panted the suffering woman.

“Yes, mother, dear mother,” sobbed Julia, with a passionate cry that she could not withhold, and she buried her face in the sick woman’s breast.

The sun sank lower, and Julia’s low sobs grew more rare, but she did not rise from her knees—she did not lift her tear-stained face, while clasped about her neck, and her fingers joined above the glossy head, as if in prayer, Mrs Hallam’s hands, thin and transparent from her illness, seemed bathed in the orange glow of the sweet, calm eve.

All was still and restful on the hill-slope above the beautiful Paramatta River, and from the window there was a scene of peace that seemed to hinder the possibility of trouble existing on this earth.

“Julia,” said Mrs Hallam at length; “have you thought of all this—since—since I have been lying here?”

“Yes, dear, till I could think no more.”

“It has come at last,” said Mrs Hallam, as she lay with closed eyes.

“It has come, dear?” said Julia, starting up, and gazing at her mother with dilating eyes.

“Yes, my child, our path. I could not see it before in the wild confusion of my thoughts, but I know our duty now. You will help me, dear?”

“Help you, mother? Oh, yes. What shall I do?”

Mrs Hallam did not answer for a few minutes, and then said softly:

“You know all, you say. It has come to you with as great a shock as to me; but I can see our duty now. Julia, he must love us dearly; we are his wife and child, and we must lead him back to the better way.”

Volume Four—Chapter Eight.

A Convict Rising.

“Ah, Mr O’Hara,” said Bayle, holding out his hand, “I have not seen you for months. Why do you not give me a call?”

“Because I am a convict, sir,” said the young Irishman, paying no heed to the extended hand.

“Oh, yes; but that is past now,” said Bayle. “One doesn’t look upon you as one would upon a thief or a swindler, and even if you had been both these worthies, a man of my cloth comes to preach forgiveness, and is ready to hold out the right hand to every man who is sorry for the past.”

“But I am not sorry for the past, sir,” said O’Hara firmly.

“I’ve studied it all,” said Bayle quietly, “and the rising was a mistake.”

“Don’t talk about it, please, sir,” said O’Hara hotly. “You are an Englishman. You could not gaze upon that trouble, for which I was transported, from an Irishman’s point of view.”

“Then we will not talk about it,” said Bayle; “but come, I am no enemy of your country.”

“I should say, sir, that you were never any man’s enemy but your own,” said O’Hara dryly.

Bayle smiled.

“There, shake hands,” he said. “How has the world been using you?”

“Better lately, sir. I am comfortable enough in the Government office, and now I am helping the commission that is investigating the prison affairs. And you, sir?”

“Oh, I am busy enough, and happy enough. Then it was you I caught sight of in the prison yard a month ago? I thought it was; but it gave me such a chill that I would not look.”

“Why, sir?”

“I was afraid that you had gone backwards, and were there again.”

O’Hara’s hard, care-lined face relaxed, and there was a pleasant smile on his countenance when he spoke again. “I heard about you, sir, in the lines.”

“Indeed!”

“The men talked a good deal about you.”

“Yes?” said Bayle good-humouredly. “I’m afraid they laugh at me and my notions.”

“They do,” said O’Hara thoughtfully. “Poor wretches! But you have made more impression and gained more influence, sir, than you think.”

“I wish I could feel so,” said Bayle with a sigh.

“If you will take my opinion, sir, you will feel so,” said O’Hara. “I’m glad I met you, sir, for I have been a great deal in the prison lately, and I can’t help thinking there is something wrong.”

“Something wrong?”

“Yes, sir. I believe the men are meditating a rising.”

“A rising? In Heaven’s name, what do they expect to do?”

“Obtain the mastery, sir, or seize upon a vessel or two, and escape to some other land.”

“But have you good reason for suspecting this?”

“No other reason than suspicion—the suspicion that comes from knowing their ways and habits. Such a rising took place when I was there years ago.”

“Well?”

“It was suppressed, and the poor wretches who were in it made their case worse, as they would now.”

“But the authorities must be warned.”

“They have been warned,” said O’Hara quietly. “I am not one of them now, and knowing what I do of the musket and bayonet and the lash, I lost no time in laying my suspicions before my superiors. Yes,” he said, “I was right, was I not?”

“Right? Unquestionably. Such men, until they have been proved, have no right to be free. Then that is the meaning of the extra sentries I have seen.”

“That is it, sir; but if the sentries were doubled again, I’m afraid the mistaken men would carry out their notions, unless some strong influence were brought to bear. Why don’t you try to get hold of the ringleaders, sir, and show them the madness of the attempt?”

“I will,” said Bayle quickly, and they parted; but they were not separated a hundred yards before there was a shout, and Bayle turned to see O’Hara running after him swiftly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid I have spoken too late, sir. I heard a shot out yonder, beyond that house where the new road is being made. A strong gang has been at work there for a fortnight past. Do you hear that?”

Two distant shots in quick succession were heard, and Christie Bayle turned pale, for the sounds came from beyond the house pointed out, and that house was Hallam’s.

“We had better go and give the alarm at the governor’s office.”

“No, no,” said Bayle. “We may be in time to help up here. Come quickly, man; run!”

It seemed madness to O’Hara; but there was a decision in Bayle’s order that did not seem to brook contradiction, and being a quick, lithe man, he ran step for step with his companion, as they made their way amongst the park-like growth of the hill-side in the direction of the spot whence the sounds had come.

Bayle had a very misty idea of what he meant to do, and once or twice the thought came that, after all, this might be only some one amusing himself with a gun after the beautifully-plumaged birds that were common enough in the neighbourhood then.

These ideas were quickly overthrown, for soon they could see the uniforms of the convict guard in the distance, and the gleam of a bayonet, followed by another shot, and some figures running down the side of one of the valleys leading to the shore.

It was now that Bayle realised his intentions, and they were to go to the help of those who were at Hallam’s house, in case it should be attacked.

As they came nearer, though, it was evident that the fight which was in progress was more to the right of the house, and becoming fiercer, for some half-dozen shots were fired in a volley from a ravine down amongst some trees, the hills being occupied by a swarm of men.

All at once three figures came out of the house on the slope, and as he advanced Bayle made out that they were Hallam, Crellock, and one who was unmistakable from his undress uniform.

When they came out it was evident that the latter was urging his companions to follow him; but they stopped back, and he dashed on, down into the ravine.

It was heavy running for Bayle, and the young officer was far ahead of him; but he hurried on, O’Hara keeping well up to his side, and together they saw him meet a couple of the retreating guard, who stopped at his command, faced round, and accompanied him, the three plunging down among the bushes and disappearing from the sight of Bayle and his companion.

“The men will be very dangerous,” said O’Hara. “We shall find them armed with picks, spades, and hammers.”

“They will not hurt me,” panted Bayle, “and we may save bloodshed.”

“I don’t think they will hurt me,” said the young Irishman grimly. “Are you going on, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then I will risk it, too.”

They were going forward all the time, hurrying down into the valley, and leaving Hallam’s house away to the left, with Hallam and Crellock watching the proceedings, they having a view from their commanding position of that which was hidden from Bayle and his friend.

As they ran on, though, they heard another shot or two, and a loud shouting, while a couple of hundred yards on ahead they could see four of the guard retreating along the slope, pursued by about a dozen of the convicts, another party coming towards them, a glimpse of a bayonet showing that others of the guard were being driven back towards Hallam’s house, while in another minute it was plain that Eaton had not been able to join forces with the men.

In fact the convicts had divided into two parties, and these, going in opposite directions, were driving their guards before them with furious shouts.

A little army of two pensioners, led by an officer armed with a cane, had but a poor chance of success against some five-and-twenty savage men, whose passions had been raised to volcanic point by seeing a couple of their number shot down at the beginning of the fray, when they had risen against the sergeant and eight men who had them in charge. Of these they had beaten down the sergeant and two of his men, and were apparently determined upon taking revenge upon those who had fired upon them, before trying to escape.

The bushes hindered the view, but at last Bayle came in full sight of Eaton and the two men just as a stone was hurled, hitting one of them in the chest, so that he went down as if shot. His companion turned to fly, but a furious shout from Eaton stopped him, and he faced the enemy again as the young officer reached over the fallen guard, took his musket, with its fixed bayonet, and stood his ground, to protect the poor fellow who was down.

It was only a matter of moments, and before Bayle could get up the convicts had made a rush, yelling furiously.

It was hard to see what took place; but as Bayle ran down the slope, his heart beating fast with apprehension, the man dropped, and Bayle had just time to strike one blow on the young officer’s behalf, as the convicts closed him in, and bore him back against the scarped face of the little ravine.

It was only one blow, but it was given with the full force of a strong arm and had the weight of a well-built man rushing down a steep slope to give it additional force.

The result was that the man Bayle struck, and another behind him, went rolling over—the former just as he had raised a spade to strike at Eaton’s defenceless head.

“You cowardly dogs!” roared Bayle, as, failing another weapon, he caught up a spade one of the convicts had let fall.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected that the men gave way, and stood glaring for a few moments, till one of their number shouted:

“It’s only the parson, boys. Down with ’em!”

But they did not come on, and, taking advantage of their hesitation, Bayle turned to Eaton.

“Quick!” he said, “get away from here.”

“No,” said the young officer hoarsely. “I can’t leave my men. Ah!”

He uttered a sharp cry, and sank down, for a piece of stone had been hurled at him with force enough to dislocate his shoulder, half stunning him with the violence of the blow.

As the young man fell the convicts uttered a yell of delight, all three of their adversaries being now hors de combat; but they were not satisfied, one of their number rushing forward to deliver a cowardly blow with the stone-hammer he bore.

Bayle did not realise for the moment that so brutal an act could be committed upon a fallen adversary, and he was so much off his guard that he only had time to make a snatch at the handle, and partly break the force of the blow, which fell on Eaton’s cap.

Then there was a quick struggle, and the convict staggered, tripped over a loose block of stone, and fell with a crash. There was an ominous murmur here, and the men stood hesitating, each disposed to make a rush and revenge the fall of his companion; but there was no leader to combine the force and lead them on, and, taking advantage of their hesitation, Bayle stooped down, lifted the insensible man, and strode away.

The convicts were taken by surprise at this act, and some were for fetching him back, but the remainder were for letting him go.

“Take the swaddy’s guns, lads, and let’s be off at once,” said one of the party, and the two muskets were seized, a convict presenting the bayonet of the piece he had secured at the breast of one of the fallen men, both of whom lay half-stunned and bleeding on the rough ground.

“Shall I, boys?” he said.

“No; hold hard,” cried a voice, and a member of the party who had been in pursuit of the other portion of the guard came up. “Tie them hand and foot, and leave them so as they can’t give warning. Who’s that going up the hill?”

“Parson and the orficer,” said one of the men.

“And who’s that running yonder?”

“That Irishman who was in with us—O’Hara.”

“Can any one shoot and bring him down? Give me a musket.”

He snatched the piece offered to him, took careful aim by resting the musket on the edge of the scarped bank, and fired.

There was the sharp report, the puff of white smoke,

(This page missing.)

Volume Four—Chapter Nine.

Lieutenant Eaton is in the Way.

(This page missing.)

Panting, and with his throat dry with excitement as much as with exertion, he toiled on, feeling as if every few paces had brought him nearly to a haven of refuge, but only on raising his eyes to see the house apparently as far off as ever, and to hear the voices of the convicts close at hand, the gully acting as a kind of tube to convey the sound. He paused for a moment to get a better hold of his burden, and Eaton uttered a low groan, but he managed to get him in an easier position, and started off once more, toiling on till the gully opened on his left, and he saw O’Hara rise from behind some bushes, where he had been creeping, and begin to run. Then his blood seemed to turn cold, his heart to stop beating, for quicker than it can be told, there was a shout, a dead silence, and then the sharp report of a musket, as O’Hara went down, and rolled out of his sight as well.

Bayle ground his teeth, and a chill of despair came over him as he realised that the Irishman had been making for the town to give the alarm and bring help, while now the news might not reach Sydney till the hour when the draft and their guard should return.

“Those poor fellows!” moaned Eaton, piteously, as Bayle toiled on with him, seeing now that Hallam and Crellock were outside the verandah, looking curiously towards him, but not taking a step to his aid.

“I can’t ask their help if they do not offer it,” muttered Bayle, as he staggered on, growing weaker with his exertion, and finally stopping for a moment or two so as to get his breath.

Then came the confused murmur of voices, when, looking back, he saw that he was pursued; and as he pressed forward again the horrible thought flashed through his brain that he was leading the savage band of utterly reckless men right to the house where two tender women might even then be trembling witnesses of what was going on. The agony he suffered at this thought was so great that he stopped short, his brain swimming; and, in spite of the fact that the convicts were close behind, he would have staggered off to the left, had not a white figure suddenly appeared on the side farthest from where Hallam and Crellock had backed close to the window, and ran swiftly to meet him.

It was like some episode in a dream to Bayle, as that white figure flew to his side.

“Quick, Mr Bayle, quick!” and, catching at Eaton in the belief that she was helping to bear him, Julia pressed towards the house.

“Julie! are you mad?” roared Hallam, as soon as she was seen; and Crellock started out after her.

“Quick! help! help!” she cried in a sharp imperious manner; and, as is so often the case where one quick order is given, those who would not, if they had time to think, stir a finger in a cause, feel themselves moved by some irresistible influence, and obey. So Crellock seized Eaton, and helped bear him into the dining-room, Hallam banging to the window and fastening it as Eaton was thrown upon the couch.

“You are mad!” cried Hallam passionately. “They’ll wreck the place now.”

“They won’t hurt us,” said Crellock coolly; and to Julia’s horror he threw open the window as the convicts came up at the double and rushed into the room.

“Steady, mates, steady!” shouted Hallam. “You know us.”

The leading men hesitated a moment, and then one of them made a dash at Eaton.

“Now, boys, have him out,” he cried.

Julia shrieked, and threw herself before the helpless man, when the convict rudely caught her by the arms to swing her aside, but was sent staggering sideways from a blow dealt by Bayle.

“Save him, Mr Bayle,” shrieked Julia, as she clung to Eaton. “Father! oh, father, help!”

Neither Hallam nor Crellock stirred as the man whom Bayle had struck uttered an oath which was echoed by his companions, who seized Bayle and held him as others of the party dragged out Eaton, fortunately insensible to all that was going on.

In their insensate fury believing that they had a long list of injuries to repay the convict guard, who in guarding them had only done their duty, in another minute Eaton’s life would have been sacrificed, when there was the tramp of feet, an order given in a loud voice, and a party of soldiers led by Captain Otway dashed up with bayonets fixed. And then two wounded convicts were lying on the floor, the others were in full flight down the gully, pursued by the troops, a shot every now and then breaking the silence that had fallen upon the group.

Hallam was the first to speak, and he turned angrily upon Bayle.

“Were you mad to bring him here?” he snarled.

“Father!” cried Julia with a reproachful look, as she knelt down beside Eaton to hold her handkerchief to his wounded head.

Bayle made no reply to the question, but said sternly:

“Mr Hallam, you had better send for medical aid. My dear Julia, you must go.”

“No,” she cried with a quick, imperious look; “send for help.”

Bayle’s brow contracted, but he concealed the pain he suffered as he saw Julia bending over Eaton, and was hurrying out, but was met by Captain Otway, who came in breathless, followed by O’Hara, and a couple of his men.

“Is he much hurt?” he cried anxiously. “Carry out these two, my lads.”

He bent down over Eaton as Julia sobbed out, “He is killed! he is killed!”

“Oh, no: not so bad as that; only stunned. Here, you two,” he continued sharply, turning to Hallam and Crellock, “don’t stand there staring. Lift this gentleman on to the sofa.”

Years of slavish obedience to authority had left their traces, and as if moved by one impulse, they sprang to where Eaton was lying and lifted him to the couch. The moment this was done though, Hallam gave an impatient stamp of the foot and gazed at Crellock, who ground out something between his teeth.

“Now fetch water—a sponge,” said Otway, sheathing his sword, throwing off his cap, and turning up his sleeves.

“This is my house—”

Hallam said no more. He had begun in a fierce, loud voice, and then he stopped as Captain Otway turned upon him with an imperious—

“What’s that you say?” Then he seemed to recall where he was, for he glanced at Julia and Bayle. “Look here,” he said quietly, and he took a step or two towards Hallam to whisper something in his ear.

Hallam made no reply, but left the room, and did not return, Thisbe hurrying in directly after with basin and towels, and helping eagerly.

“Oh, come, come, my dear Miss Hallam,” said Otway, after cleverly bandaging the wound. “You must not take on like that. I can’t do anything to the shoulder—at least, I will not. Our doctor will soon put him right. There, see! he is coming to.”

“I have been trying very hard,” said Julia with a gasp; “but it is so dreadful.”

“No, no, no! Why, my wife would have seen it all without shedding a tear. It’s only dreadful when some one is killed, and, thank heaven! I don’t think one of the men has met that fate.”

“I wish I could feel the same about the convicts,” said Bayle softly.

“The convicts? Well, I wish so, too, Mr Bayle; but law and order must be maintained, and they know their lives are forfeit if they attempt to escape.”

Bayle nodded in acquiescence as he glanced at where Julia knelt beside Eaton, crying softly, and fanning his face.

“There, you have nothing to fear, Miss Hallam,” continued the Captain kindly. “Eaton has only had a few hard knocks—soldier’s salary, I call them. As to the rising, the poor wretches are, I expect, all taken by this time. Yes, here they come.”

He had walked to the window and gazed out to see the greater part of the convict gang, hot, bleeding some of them, and dejected, coming along, guarded by the soldiers under the command of a boyish-looking ensign.

“Ah, Mr O’Hara,” he said, stepping out, and laying his hand on the young Irishman’s shoulder, “I think we may thank you for getting up in time. Your message set us off, and we met you just in the nick. Why, man, you are hurt.”

“Not much, sir. They shot at me, and the bullet grazed my arm.”

“Come in,” he said, “and let me see.”

O’Hara followed unwillingly, but had to submit to have his wound dressed.

“Where is your master?” said the Captain at last, turning to Thisbe.

“In his room, sir.”

“Fetch him.”

Hallam uttered a furious oath when the message was given, and swore he would not come. Then, rising from his chair, he followed Thisbe to the dining-room like one compelled to obey.

“I am going to leave my brother officer in your charge, Mr Hallam,” said the Captain in the quick manner of one giving an order. “You will see that he has every attention! The regimental surgeon will be up in an hour or so. Miss Hallam, thank you for your kindness,” he continued, turning his back on Hallam. “Good-morning, Mr Bayle. I’m sorry you have had such an upset. You stay here, I suppose?”

“No,” said Bayle quietly; “I am going back to the town.”

“Come with me, then.”

He stepped out, and Bayle followed, but turned to look at Julia, who gave him one quick look that seemed to say “Good bye,” and then as he stepped out into the verandah he saw her bending over Eaton again.

“Nice little girl that,” said the Captain, as they marched down behind the guards and the wretched men they drove before them almost at the bayonet’s point.

Bayle bowed.

“Sweet and innocent, and all that. Really, Mr Bayle, I agree with my wife.”

“Indeed!” said Bayle.

“Yes; she thinks that at any cost her friends ought to have kept her in England, and not brought her here.”

Christie Bayle made no reply, for he was thinking of Philip Eaton lying wounded up at the house, and Julia installing herself as his nurse.

But she was not bending over him at that time, for no sooner had the last of the party gone, than Crellock said something fiercely to Hallam.

“No, no, never mind,” the latter said, savagely.

“I tell you I won’t have it,” cried Crellock. “Ah, you needn’t scowl like that. I’m not afraid of your looks. Will you go and fetch her out?”

“No, I shall not interfere.”

“Then I will,” cried Crellock, passionately. “I’ve been played with too long.”

“Played with!” cried Hallam. “Look here, Steve, if I put up with the bullying of that officer fellow, don’t you think I’m going to let you say and do what—”

He stopped short and literally flinched, as if he expected a blow, for Crellock turned upon him sharply, but merely looked him full in the face.

“Well, I—that is—I—”

He faltered and stopped. The old days of his domination had gone by; Crellock had ceased to be slave to the self-indulgent man, who had become servant, first to the strong drinks in which he indulged, and then, as his nerve failed, the obedient tool of him who had once trembled before him, worshipped him almost as the very perfection of what a man should be, and now made him tremble before him in his turn.

“Do you want to quarrel and get rid of me?” said Crellock, sharply.

“Don’t talk like that, my lad,” said Hallam, piteously. “You know how my health’s going, and how nervous I am. It makes me irritable when you are so unreasonable.”

“Yes, very unreasonable to bear what I do,” snarled Crellock. “But reasonable or no, I’m not going to back out of it, and I am not going to let you.”

Hallam’s flushed face turned of a sodden white.

“I’d just as soon be back with the gang,” continued Crellock, “as be trifled with in this way by a man who used to be one to say a thing and do it. Now he’s becoming a miserable, feeble driveller, afraid of every one who speaks to him.”

“So were you just now, when that Otway gave his orders.”

“Force of habit,” said Crellock, with a grim smile. “Anyhow, I’m not afraid of you, and if you have not strength of mind enough to carry out what I say, I shall do it without you.”

“No, no, Steve; you are so hasty,” said Hallam, in a feeble, whimpering tone.

“Hasty!”

“Well, as I keep telling you, there’s plenty of time.”

“And I keep telling you there is not. Look here, Hallam. I’m not blind. That miserable parson wants her.”

“Now you are getting ridiculous.”

“And this officer fellow will be making such way with her, if I don’t mind, that I shall have no chance.”

“You’re frightening yourself with bogies, Steve.”

“You’re playing such a double game, Robert Hallam, that either I shall have to take the reins in my own hands, or we shall come to a breakdown.”

“Nonsense! What’s the use of talking like that?”

“What’s the use of a man setting his mind upon something, and then letting a weak thing like you play with him? I’ll have no more of it. Now you have to do as I say or break, and that means—”

“Hush, Steve!” cried Hallam, looking sharply round; but Crellock paid no heed to his words, and swung out of the study to walk straight into the room where Julia was kneeling by Eaton, with Thisbe on the other side.

“Come here, Julia,” he said roughly; “I want you.”

“Hush! Not so loud,” she whispered, raising her hand.

“Come here!” he cried, with a stamp of the foot, “at once.”

Julia started to her feet with an angry look flashing from her eyes; and as she faced him, her countenance full of resentment, Thisbe rose, thinking of her mistress in bygone days.

“What do you want?” she said firmly.

“Your father wants you in the study at once.”

Julia flushed slightly, and glanced at Thisbe, whose face looked as hard as if cut in stone, while the resemblance was increased by the position of her eyelids, which were drawn down, as if to veil the anger that was burning in her breast.

Then, without a word Julia left the room, closely followed by Crellock, and Thisbe was left with the wounded man alone.

Volume Four—Chapter Ten.

In the Night.

Julia escaped the interview that she dreaded; for, just as they entered the hall, there was the thudding of horses’ feet coming over the road, and Hallam came out of his room with a curious startled look in his face, to catch Crellock by the arm.

“There’s something wrong, Steve,” he whispered hoarsely; “a stranger coming up, and the Captain with him.”

“Bah! You shivering coward,” said Crellock, with a look of contempt which made Julia bite her lip, though she could not hear the words. “You have drunk bad brandy till you see a warder in every man who comes to the house. Have a little pluck in you, if you can.”

The door was opened directly without ceremony by Captain Otway, who held it back for his companion, who had just dismounted, to enter.

“Sorry to intrude so unceremoniously, Miss Hallam,” said the Captain, ignoring the presence of the two men, “but I met my friend here coming up, Mr Woodhouse, our doctor.”

Julia bowed, and the doctor, a little, rubicund-looking man, took off his cap.

“I’m a bit of a vulture in my way,” he said pleasantly. “I always mount and come out to see whenever anything of this kind goes on. Which room, please?” he added quickly. “I want to get back.”

Julia hastily opened the door, and was about to follow them, but the doctor said quietly:

“No, no. You shall hear how he is afterwards.”

Julia coloured, for the visitor spoke in a very meaning tone; and, leaving the hall, she hurried to her mother’s side, while Hallam angrily backed into his room, followed by Crellock.

“They treat me as if I were nobody,” he cried, grinding his teeth; and then going to a cupboard he took out a bottle and glass, poured out some liquid and drank it off with a sigh of relief.

“Yes,” said Crellock slowly; “they don’t forget about our past, old fellow. Never mind. No, thank you: I promised Julie to leave the stuff alone;” and he thrust back the offered glass.

“You promised her that?” said Hallam.

“Yes, and I’m going to keep my word. Hang it, Bob Hallam, I wouldn’t drink myself into such a wreck as you’re getting to be for the whole world.”

The spirit was rapidly giving Hallam temporary confidence, and he turned upon his companion sharply.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he said, “or you’ll regret it.”

“Don’t speak to you like that?” retorted Crellock, scornfully. “Bah! I shall speak as I please. Look here, Robert Hallam, some of us must be masters, some servants. You’ve made yourself servant, so keep your place. I’m not going to be turned out of my purpose by a little Dutch courage.”

Hallam came at him furiously, but Crellock took him by the shoulders and thrust him back into his chair, and then stood over him.

“It won’t do, old fellow,” he said; “the nerve has gone, and the more you drink to get it up, the weaker it grows. Now then, we understand each other, so let’s settle this matter quietly, and get it over. No more excuses; no more shuffling. Understand me, I don’t mean to wait. What’s that?”

It was the voice of Captain Otway summoning some one to come; and Julia, who had been anxiously waiting, hastened down at the same time as Thisbe hurried to the room.

“The doctor wants to give a few instructions,” he said. “Eaton is going on all right, but he thinks he had better not be moved to-night, Miss Hallam, so we must beg your hospitality till to-morrow.”

“And there is no danger?” said Julia eagerly.

“Not if he is kept quiet,” said the doctor, putting on his gloves. “Let him sleep all he can. Some one ought to sit up with him to-night.”

“I’ll do that,” said Crellock, who had been standing in the doorway.

Julia started slightly, but Crellock’s countenance was quite unmoved.

“That will do,” said the doctor. “Come, Otway.”

The latter raised his cap, and they left the house.

“I don’t much like leaving Eaton with a ticket-of-leave man for nurse,” said the Captain, as they descended the hill towards their quarters.

“Oh, he’ll be right enough there,” replied the doctor chuckling. “The young lady will take care of him. I say, does Phil mean to marry her?”

“I don’t know,” said Otway shortly. “Let’s get on.”

They hurried away, and for the next two hours the doctor was busy with the injured people; the convicts being safe in the prison, groaning over their wounds and the ill-success of their attempt.

Julia felt a strange anxiety about their patient, as the night drew near; and her anxiety was increased by the behaviour of Mrs Hallam, who, after keeping her room for some days, declared herself well enough to come down.

Opposition from Thisbe and her child was useless, and she descended to sit with the latter, watching by Eaton’s couch, which was made up for him in the dining-room, where he lay apparently insensible to all that was going on around.

It was a strange afternoon and evening, the excitement of the early portion of the day having unnerved every one in the house. The meals were partaken of hastily, and the attention of all was centred on the sleeping man in the dining-room.

Julia, in her anxiety, was for staying with Thisbe and continuing the watch; but Crellock showed that he had not forgotten his promise, and a nameless dread took possession of the girl’s breast.

She told herself that it was absurd—that in spite of his roughness there seemed to be something genuine about her father’s companion; but, all the same, her dread increased, and it was the more painful, that she did not dare to communicate it to Mrs Hallam.

In fact, she was at a loss to explain her reasons for feeling alarmed to herself. Eaton seemed to be sleeping comfortably, and Crellock, when he came into the room, was gentle and respectful, more than was his wont.

“You two had better go to bed,” said Hallam at last roughly; and, pale and troubled looking, Mrs Hallam rose without a word, took Julia’s hand, and they left the room, but not to sleep; while Crellock’s watch began by his taking a candle, snuffing it, and holding it down close to Eaton’s face, scanning his features well before setting it on the chimney-piece, lighting a cigar, and going out into the verandah, to walk up and down, thinking deeply.

Sometimes he stopped to lean his arms on the wooden rail, and stare up at the great mellow stars that burned in the deep purple sky; but only to start as from a dream, to go back into the room, and see if the wounded man had moved.

When in the verandah he ground his teeth and clenched his hands.

“The fools!” he muttered; “they might have hit a little harder, and then—Pooh! what does he matter?”

At the end of an hour he stole back softly into the room to look at the sleeping man again.

“He’s not much hurt,” he muttered. “Who’s there?”

“Only me,” said Hallam, in a hoarse whisper. “Just coming to see how you were getting on.”

“No, you were not. You were watching me,” said Crellock, in an angry whisper. “Did you think I was going to kill him—to get him out of the way?”

“No, no. Nothing of the kind, my dear boy,” whispered Hallam. “There, I’ll go back to my room.”

“You’ll go up to bed,” said Crellock firmly. “You’ve been drinking too much.”

“Indeed, no. Just a little to steady me.”

“You go up to bed,” said Crellock, taking him by the shoulder. “I’m not going to have my dear father-in-law elect drive himself mad with brandy. Come, no nonsense! Bed!”

Hallam made a few feeble protests, and then suffered himself to be led up to his bedroom, Julia and Mrs Hallam sitting trembling in the next, and watching the light flash beneath their door, as they listened to the ascending and descending steps, followed by a rustling in Hallam’s room, the low angry muttering he indulged in, and then there was silence once again.

A quarter of an hour passed, and they were listening to the heavy, stertorous breathing, when a soft tap came at their door, the handle was turned, and Thisbe appeared.

“I only came to see if you were both quite safe,” she said. “I could not sleep.”

“Dear old Thisbe,” said Julia, kissing her.

“Do, do, please go to bed, my dears,” said Thisbe. “I’ll sit and watch by you;” and at last, in obedience to her prayer, mother and daughter lay down, but not to sleep, for the dread of some impending calamity that they fancied was about to befall them.

Meanwhile Crellock had returned to the dining-room and examined the wounded man again.

“It wouldn’t be hard,” he said to himself, with a laugh. “He is half killed, so it would only be half a murder. Why shouldn’t I? He would be out of his misery; and that drunken wretch gave me the credit of being about to do it.”

He stood gazing down at the sleeping face faintly seen by the candle-light; and then turned away to go out through the glass door, and pace the verandah again.

“I wonder whether that’s what they call a temptation,” he thought. “It would be very easy, and then—”

He stopped to lean over the rails again, and gaze before him out into the night.

“No,” he said softly. “I told the little lass I wouldn’t drink again, so as to be more fit to come nigh her, and I don’t think I should do to go nigh her if I killed that spark of a fellow so as to be sure of getting a wife. It’s curious what a woman can do,” he went on musing. “They can make anything of a man—go through fire and water to get her, but it must be fire and water such as she’d be glad to see me go through. A year or so ago I’d got to that state with the prison life and the lash, that I’d have given any soldier or warder a crack on the head and killed him, and felt the happier for doing it. Since I’ve been nigh her—since that day she hung over me, and gave me water, and wiped the sweat from my face, I’ve seemed as if I must make myself cleaner about the heart; and I have, all but the drink, and that was his fault, for he was never happy when he wasn’t forcing it on one.

“No, my fine fellow,” he said with a sigh, “you’re safe enough for me. I won’t hurt you; and as to her liking you—bah! If she does, I’ll soon make her forget that.”

He took a cigar from his pocket, and was in the act of placing it between his lips when his gaze became fixed, and he stood staring straight before him.

“Who’s there?” he said in a quick, sharp whisper. “I can see you. You there!”

He sprang over the rail, and his hand went by old habit into his pocket in search of a weapon; but the answer that came disarmed him.

“It is I.”

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” cried Crellock.

“I am watching,” said Bayle.

“Yes,” cried Crellock wearily. “Me, I suppose. Well, what have you seen? Do you think I was going to finish young Eaton? There—speak out.”

“I came up because I could not sleep,” said Bayle quietly. “I was anxious about my friends. How is Mr Eaton?”

“Go in and see,” said Crellock roughly; and he led the way through the verandah.

Bayle made no reply, but walked straight to the couch, after taking the candle from the chimney-piece, and examined the injured man.

“He is sleeping comfortably and well,” he said in a whisper, as he replaced the candle.

“Of course he is,” sneered Crellock. “You seem very fond of him.” Bayle paid no heed to his manner, but stood as if thinking. “Well, are you going to stop? Have a cigar?”

“I will stay and watch with you if you are tired, and relieve you for an hour or two,” said Bayle, at last.

“I’m not tired. You can stop if you like. You won’t find me very good company.” Bayle walked to the couch again, and stood looking down at the handsome dimly-seen face for a few minutes, while, with an impatient gesture, Crellock walked back into the verandah. At the end of a few minutes Bayle joined him. “You are going to stay then?” said Crellock.

“No,” replied Bayle, “I am going home.”

“Better stop,” sneered Crellock. “He’ll be safer if you do. I might do him some mischief.”

“No, Stephen Crellock,” said Bayle calmly, “I am not afraid of that; bad as you are. Good-night.”

Crellock started at the words “Bad as you are,” but the friendly sound of the “good-night” checked him.

“Good-night,” he said, hoarsely; and he stood watching the dark figure till it disappeared amongst the trees, and then paced the verandah, and sat and smoked till morning.

Volume Four—Chapter Eleven.

The Doctor Gives Way.

The doctor was up there soon after sunrise to find Mrs Hallam and Julia by Eaton’s couch, they having come down to take Crellock’s place shortly after daybreak.

“Good-morning. How is he?” said the doctor, quickly. “Mrs Hallam, you look ill yourself.”

“Nervous excitement. This trouble,” said Mrs Hallam, quietly; and she left the room with Julia, after answering a few questions.

The doctor examined the injury to the head, which was sufficiently grave, and then proceeded to re-bandage the shoulder that had been dislocated, watching the young man’s face, however, the while.

He felt the strained sinews, pressed on this bone, then on that, causing intense pain, and making his patient wince again and again; but though the muscles of his face twitched, and his lips involuntarily tightened, he did not even moan till, passing one hand beneath his shoulder, the doctor pressed on the bones again, when, with a sharp cry, Eaton drew in his breath.

“Hang it, doctor,” he whispered, quickly, “it’s like molten lead.”

“Ah, I thought that would make you speak, Phil. You confounded young humbug! I saw you were shamming.”

“No, no, doctor, not shamming. My head aches frightfully, and I can’t move my arm.”

“But you could get up and walk down to barracks to breakfast?”

“No, indeed I couldn’t, doctor.”

“It’s a lie, sir. If the enemy were after you, I’ll be bound to say you would get up and run.”

“By George, I wouldn’t!” whispered Eaton.

“Well, get up and have a go at them, my boy.”

“Perhaps I might do that,” said the young man, with the blood coming in his white face.

“Pretty sort of a soldier, lying here because you’ve had your shoulder out, and a crack on the head. Why I’ve seen men behave better after a bullet wound, or a bayonet thrust.”

“But there is no need for me to behave better, as you call it, and one gets well so much more quickly lying still.”

“With a couple of women paddling about you, and making you gruel and sop. There, get up, and I’ll make you a sling for that arm.”

“No, no, doctor. Pray, don’t.”

“Get up, sir.”

“Hush! Don’t speak so loudly,” whispered Eaton.

“Ah-h-h! I see,” said the doctor, “that’s it, is it? Why how dense I am! Want to stop a few days, and be nursed, eh?”

Eaton nodded.

“Fair face to sympathise. White hands to feed you with a spoon. Oh, I say, Phil Eaton! No, no! I’ve got my duty to do, and I’m not going to back up this bit of deceit.”

“I wouldn’t ask you if there was anything to call for me, doctor,” pleaded Eaton; “but I am hurt, there’s no sham about that.”

“Well, no; you are hurt, my lad. That’s a nasty crack on the head, and your shoulder must be sore.”

“Sore!” said Eaton. “You’ve made it agonising.”

“Well, well, a few days’ holiday will do you good. But no; I’m not going to be dragged up here to see you.”

“I don’t want to see you, doctor. I’m sure I shall get well without your help. Pray don’t have me fetched down.”

“I say, Phil,” said the doctor; “look me in the face.”

“Yes.”

“Is it serious? You know—with her.”

“Very, doctor.”

“But it’s awkward. The young lady’s father!”

“Miss Hallam is not answerable for her father’s sins,” said Eaton warmly.

“But the young lady—does she accept?”

Eaton shook his head.

“Not yet,” he said; “and now that the opportunity serves to clinch the matter you want to get me away. Doctor, for once—be human.”

Doctor Woodhouse sat with his chubby face pursed up for a few minutes, gazing down in the young man’s imploring countenance without speaking.

“Well, well,” he said, “I was a boy myself once, and horribly in love. I’ll give you a week, Phil.”

“And I’ll give you a life’s gratitude,” cried the young man joyfully.

“Why, by all that’s wonderful,” cried the doctor, with mock surprise, “I’ve cured him on the spot! Here, let me take off your bandages, so that you may get up and dance. Eh? Poor lad, he is a good deal hurt though,” he continued, as he saw the colour fade from the young man’s face, and the cold dew begin to form. “A few days will do him good, I believe. He is, honestly, a little too bad to move.”

He bathed his face, and moistened his lips with a few drops of liquid from a flask, and in a few minutes Eaton looked wonderingly round.

“Easier, boy? That’s it. Yes, you may stay, and you had better be quiet. Feel so sick now?”

“Not quite, doctor. Oh! I am so glad I really am ill.”

The doctor smiled, and summoned Mrs Hallam, who came in with Julia.

“I must ask you to play hostess to my young friend here. He shan’t die on your hands.”

Julia turned pale, and glanced from one to the other quickly.

“Mr Eaton shall have every attention we can give him,” said Mrs Hallam, smiling; and the doctor looked with surprise at the way her pale, careworn face lit up with tenderness and sympathy as she laid her hand upon the young man’s brow.

“I’m sure he will,” said the doctor, “and I’ll do my best,” he added, with a quick look at his patient, “to get him off your hands, for he will be a deal of trouble.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Mrs Hallam, speaking in all sincerity. “English women are always ready to nurse the wounded,” she added with a smile.

“I wish I could always have such hands to attend my injured men, madam,” said the doctor with formal politeness. “There, I must go at once. Good-bye, Eaton, my boy. You’ll soon be on your legs. Don’t spoil him, ladies; he is not bad. I leave him to you, Mrs Hallam.”

She followed the doctor to the door to ask him if he had any directions, received his orders, and then, with a bright, hopeful light in her eyes, she went softly back towards the dining-room. A smile began to glisten about her lips, like sunshine in winter, as she laid her hand upon the door. Then she looked round sharply, for in the midst of that dawning hope of safety for her child there was a heavy step, and the study-door opened.

She turned deadly pale, for it was Stephen Crellock’s step; and the words that came from the study were in her husband’s voice.

Volume Four—Chapter Twelve.

Mrs Otway on Love.

“Ah! Phil, Phil, Phil!” exclaimed Mrs Otway as she sat facing Eaton some mornings later, while he lay back in a Chinese cane chair, propped up by pillows. “Come, this will not do.”

He met her gaze firmly, and she went on.

“This makes five days that you have been here, tangling yourself more and more in the net. It’s time I took you by the ears and lugged you out.”

“But you will not?” he said, lifting his injured arm very gently with his right hand, sighing as he did so, and rearranging the sling.

Mrs Otway jumped up, went behind him, untied the handkerchief that formed the sling, and snatched it away.

“I won’t sit still and see you play at sham in that disgraceful way, Phil,” she cried. “It’s bad enough, staying here as you do, without all that nonsense.”

“You are too hard on me.”

“I’m not,” she cried. “I’ve seen too many wounded men not to know something about symptoms. I knew as well as could be when I was here yesterday, but I would not trust myself, and so I attacked Woodhouse about you last night, and he surrendered at once.”

“Why, what did he say?”

“Lit a cigar, and began humming, ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love that makes the world go round!’”

Eaton clapped his hands upon the arms of his chair, half raised himself, and then threw himself back, and began beating the cane-work with his fingers, frowning with vexation.

“There, you see what a lot of practice it takes to make a good impostor,” said Mrs Otway.

“What do you mean?”

“How bad your arm seems!”

“Pish!” exclaimed the young man, beginning to nurse it, then ceasing with a gesture of contempt, and looking helplessly at his visitor. “The pain’s not there,” he said dolefully.

“Poor boy! What a fuss about a pretty face! There, I’m half ready to forgive you. It was very tempting.”

“And I’ve been so happy: I have indeed.”

“What, with those two men?”

“Pish!—nonsense! It’s dreadful that those two sweet ladies should be placed as they are.”

“Amen to that!”

“Mrs Hallam is the sweetest, tenderest-hearted woman I ever met.”

“Indeed.”

“No mother could have been more gentle and loving to me.”

“Except Lady Eaton,” said Mrs Otway dryly.

“Oh! my mother, of course; but then she was not here to nurse me.”

“I’d have nursed you, Phil, if you had been brought into quarters.”

“Oh, I know that!” cried Eaton warmly; “but, you see, I was brought on here.”

“Where mamma is so tender to you, and mademoiselle sits gazing at you with her soft, dark eyes, thinking what a brave hero you are, how terribly ill, and falling head-over-ears more in love with you. Phil, Phil, it isn’t honest.”

“What isn’t honest?” he said fiercely. “No man could have resisted such a temptation.”

“What, to come here and break a gentle girl’s heart?”

“But I’m not breaking her heart,” said Eaton ruefully.

“I’ve written and told your mother how things stand.”

“You have?”

“Yes; and that you have taken the bit in your teeth, and that I can’t hold you in.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Eaton gloomily. “I don’t want to hurt my dear mother’s feelings; but when she knows Julia and Mrs Hallam—”

“And the convict father and his friend.”

“For Heaven’s sake don’t!” cried Eaton, striking the chair and wincing hard, for he hurt his injured shoulder.

“I must, my dear boy. Marriage is a terrible fact, and you must look at it on all sides.”

“I mean to get them both away from here,” said Eaton firmly. “Their present life is horrible.”

“Yes; it is, my boy.”

“My gorge rises every time I hear that drinking scoundrel of a father speak to Julia, and that other ruffian come and fetch her away.”

“Not a very nice way of speaking about the father of your intended,” said Mrs Otway dryly—“about your host.”

“No, and I would not speak so if I did not see so much. The man has served part of his time for his old crime, of which he swears he was innocent, and I’d forget all the past if I saw he was trying to do the right thing.”

“And he is not?”

“He’s lost,” said Eaton bitterly. “The greatest blessing which could happen to this house would be for him to be thrown back into the gang. He’d live a few years then, and so would his wife. As it is he is killing both. As for poor Julia—ah! I should be less than man, loving her as I do, if I did not determine to throw all thoughts of caste aside and marry her, and get her away as soon as I can.”

“I wish she were not so nice,” said Mrs Otway thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“Because, like the silly, stupid woman I am, I can’t help sympathising with you both.”

“I knew you did in your heart,” cried Eaton joyfully.

“Gently, gently, my dear boy,” continued Mrs Otway. “I may sympathise with the enemy, but I have to fight him all the same. Have you spoken to the young lady—definitely offered marriage?”

“No, not yet.”

“But you’ve taught her to love you?”

“I don’t know—yet—”

“Judging from appearances, Phil, I’m ready to say I do know. What about mamma?”

“Ah! there I feel quite satisfied.”

“What, have you spoken to her?”

“No, but she sits and talks to me, and I talk to her.”

“About Julia?”

“Yes; and it seems as if she can read my heart through and through. Don’t think me a vain coxcomb for what I am about to say.”

“I make no promises: say it.”

“I think she likes me very much.”

“Why?”

“She comes into the room sometimes, looking a careworn woman of sixty; and when she has been sitting here for a few minutes, there’s a pleasant smile on her face, as if she were growing younger; her eyes light up, and she seems quite at rest and happy.”

“Poor thing!” said Mrs Otway sadly. “But, there, I can’t listen to any more. I am on your mother’s side.”

“And you are beaten, so you may give up. It’s fate. My mother must put up with it. So long as I am happy she will not care. And, besides, who could help loving Julie? Hush!”

There was a tap at the door, and Julia entered.

“Not I, for one,” said Mrs Otway aside, as she rose and held out her hands, kissing the young girl warmly. “Why, my dear, you look quite pale. This poor bruised boy has been worrying you and your mother to death.”

“Indeed, no,” cried Julia eagerly. “Mr Eaton has been so patient all the time, and we were so glad to be able to be of service. Sir Gordon Bourne is in the other room with mamma. May he come in and see you?”

“I shall be very glad,” said Eaton, looking at her fixedly; and Mrs Otway noted the blush and the downcast look that followed.

“Phil’s right. He has won her.”

“He proposes driving you home with him, and taking you out in his boat. He thinks it will help your recovery.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t move yet,” said Eaton quickly.

“I think it would do you good,” said Mrs Otway. “What do you say, Miss Hallam?”

“We should be very sorry to see Mr Eaton go,” said Julia quietly; “but I think you are right.”

“Phil’s wrong,” said Mrs Otway to herself.

At this moment Sir Gordon entered the room with Mrs Hallam and proposed that Eaton should return with him, but only to find, to his annoyance, that the offer was declined.

“You will have to make the offer to my husband, Sir Gordon,” said Mrs Otway merrily. “You will not find him so ungrateful.” And then she turned to Eaton, leaving the old man free to continue a conversation begun with Mrs Hallam in another room.

“I do not seem to find much success in my offers,” he said, in a low voice; “but let me repeat what I have said. Should necessity arise, remember that I am your very oldest friend, and that I am always waiting to help Millicent Hallam and her child.”

“I shall not forget,” said Mrs Hallam, smiling sadly.

“If I am away, there is Bayle ready to act for me, and you know you can command him.”

“I have always been the debtor of my friends,” replied Mrs Hallam; “but no such emergency is likely to arise. I have learnt the lesson of self-dependence lately, Sir Gordon.”

“But if the emergency did occur?”

“Then we would see,” replied Mrs Hallam.

“Well, Philip, my dear boy,” cried Mrs Otway loudly, “in three days we shall have you back.”

“Yes, in three days,” he replied, glancing at Julia, who must have heard, but who went on with a conversation in which she was engaged with Sir Gordon, unmoved.

“Then good-bye,” she cried, “Mrs Hallam, Miss Hallam, accept my thanks for your kindness to my boy here. Lady Eaton appointed me her deputy, but I’m tired of my sorry task. Good-bye. Are we to be companions back, Sir Gordon?”

“Yes—yes—yes,” said the old gentleman, “I am coming. Remember,” he said, in a low tone to Mrs Hallam.

“I never forget such kindness as yours, Sir Gordon,” she replied.

“Good-bye, Julia, my child,” he said, kissing her hands. “If ever you want help of any kind, come straight to me. Good-bye.”

“If she would only make some appeal to me,” he muttered. “But I can’t interfere without. Poor things! Poor things!”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Gordon,” said Mrs Otway. “What are poor things?”

“Talking to myself, ma’am—talking to myself.”

“You don’t like Philip Eaton,” she said quickly.

“Eh? Well, to be frank, ma’am, no: I don’t.”

“Because he likes your little protégée?”

“I’m sorry to say, madam, that she is not my protégée. Poor child!”

“Hadn’t we better be frank, Sir Gordon? Suppose Philip Eaton wanted to marry her—what then?”

“Confound him! I should like to hand him over to the blacks!”

“What if she loved him?”

“If she loved him—if she loved him, Mrs Otway?” said the old man dreamily. “Why, then—dear me! This love’s one of the greatest miseries of life. But, there, ma’am, I have no influence at all. You must go to her father, not come to me.”

Volume Four—Chapter Thirteen.

In the Toils.

“So he goes to-day, eh?” said Crellock.

“Yes; I’ve seen him, and he’s going to-day.”

“Lucky for him, for I’ve got into a state of mind that does not promise much good for any one who stands in my way,” said Crellock, with an unpleasant look in his eyes. “And now, mind this: as soon as he is gone, and we are alone, the matter is to be pressed home. Here, I’ll be off. I don’t want to say good-bye.” He picked up his whip and stepped out into the verandah, walking along past the dining-room window, which was open, and through it came the voice of Julia in measured cadence, reading aloud.

Crellock ground his teeth and half stopped; but he gave his whip a sharp crack and went on.

“A row would only frighten her, and I don’t want to do that. The coast will be clear this afternoon.”

He went on round to the stable, saddled and mounted his horse, and turned off by the first track for the open country.

“A good ride will calm me down,” he said; and he went off at a gallop for a few miles, but with his head down, seeing neither green tree with its tints of pearly grey and pink, nor the curious tufts of grass in his path. A mob of kangaroos started before him and went off with their peculiar bounds; flock after flock of parrots, with colours bright as the most gorgeous sunset, flew screaming away; and twice over he passed spear-armed blacks, who ceased their task of hunting for grubs to stare at the man riding so recklessly through the bush.

All at once he dragged his horse back upon its haunches with a furious tug at the reins, and sat staring before him as in imagination he pictured a scene in the dining-room at the Gully House.

“I’m a fool,” he cried savagely; “a fool! I’ve got the fruit ready to my hand, and I’m getting out of the way so as to let some one else pluck it. Now perhaps I shall be too late.”

Dragging his horse’s head round, he set spurs to its flanks, and in the same reckless manner began to gallop back. This time he was less fortunate, though. As he went he left the horse to itself, and the careful beast avoided rough parts or leaped them, carrying his rider in safety. On the return Crellock was bent upon one thing only, getting back to the Gully House at the earliest moment possible. Twice over the horse swerved at an awkward depression or piece of rock, either of them sufficient to bring both to grief, but for reward there was a savage jerk at the bit, a blow over the head from the heavy whip, and a dig from the spurs. The result was that the poor brute went on as the crow flies at a hard gallop, rushed at an awkward clump of bush, rose, caught its hoofs, and fell with a crash, sending Crellock right over its head to lie for a few minutes half-stunned, and when he did gather himself up, with the scene seeming to sail round him, the horse was standing with its head hanging, snuffing at the coarse herbage, and stamping angrily with its off hind hoof.

“You awkward brute!” cried Crellock, catching at the rein, and then lashing the poor animal across the flank.

The horse started to the full length of the rein, but only on three legs; one had had a terrible sprain.

“My luck!” said Crellock savagely, and, taking off the bridle, he hobbled the horse’s legs, and started off to walk.

Julia went on reading, with Philip Eaton drinking in every word she uttered, and at last, leaning forward from the couch upon which he lay, he felt that the time had come, and, no matter who and what her relatives might be, here was the wife of his choice.

“Julia,” he said in a low voice made husky with the emotion from which he suffered.

She raised her eyes from the book and coloured, for it was the first time he had called her by her Christian name.

“Have you thought,” he said, “that I am going to-morrow?”

“I thought it was to-day,” she said naïvely.

“To-day? Yes, I suppose it is to-day, but I cannot think of anything but the one great fact that all this pleasant intercourse is to be at an end.”

Julia half rose.

“No, no,” he cried, trying to reach her hand, and then uttering a petulant ejaculation, for Mrs Hallam entered the room, looked eagerly from one to the other, and came forward, while Julia gave her a beseeching look, and went out.

For a few minutes neither spoke, and then Eaton placed a chair for Mrs Hallam, and as she took it gazing at him searchingly, he hastily thought over what he should say, and ended by saying something else, for in a quick, blundering way, he cried:

“Mrs Hallam, I cannot say what I wish. You know how I love her.”

Mrs Hallam drew a long sighing breath, full of relief, and her eyes became suffused with tears.

“Yes,” she said at last; “I felt that you did love her. Have you told Julie so?”

“Not in words,” he cried. “She disarms me. I want to say so much, but I can only sit and look. But you will give your consent?”

“Have you thought all this over?” said Mrs Hallam gravely. “You know everything—why we came here?”

“Yes, yes,” he cried quickly. “I know all. I have known it from your first landing.”

“Such a union would not be suitable for you,” she said gravely.

“Not suitable! Mrs Hallam, I am not worthy of your child. But you are playing with me,” he cried, his words coming fast now. “You will not oppose it. You see I know all. Give me your consent.”

She sat looking at him in silence for some moments, and then laid her hand in his.

“Yes,” she said. “If Julie loves you I will not withhold my consent.”

“And Mr Hallam, may I speak to him now? Of course he will not refuse me. You will tell him first. And Julia, where is she?”

In his eagerness his words came hurriedly, and he caught Mrs Hallam’s hands to his lips and kissed them.

“I will fetch Julie here,” she said gently, and with a strange look of repose coming over her troubled face.

She left the room and sought her child, who looked at her wonderingly.

“Come,” she said with her voice sounding broken and strange; “Mr Eaton wishes to speak to you.”

“Mother!” exclaimed Julia, shrinking.

At that moment they heard Hallam’s steps as he passed across the hall.

Mrs Hallam’s countenance changed, and she shuddered.

“Come,” she said; “you are not afraid of him?”

“Of Mr Eaton? Oh, no,” cried Julia with animation; “but—”

“Hush, my child! I will not leave you. Hear what he has to say before you speak.”

Julia’s eyes seemed to contract, and there was a shrinking movement, but directly after she drew herself up proudly, laid her hand in her mother’s, and suffered herself to be led into the room.

“At last!” cried Eaton, flushing with pleasure. “Julie, I dare speak to you now. I love you with all my heart.”

He stopped short, for the window was darkened by the figure of Stephen Crellock, who looked in for a moment, and then beckoned with his hand to some one in the verandah. Hallam came forward looking flushed and angry, and the two men entered the room.

“We are just in time,” said Crellock with a half laugh, but with a savage flash of the eye at Eaton. “Mr Lieutenant Eaton is bidding the ladies good-bye.”

Eaton gave him an indignant look, and turned to Hallam.

“Mr Hallam,” he said proudly, “Mr Crellock is wrong. I have been speaking to Mrs Hallam and—”

“Mr Crellock is right,” said Crellock in a voice of thunder, “and Mr Eaton is wrong. He is saying good-bye; and now, Robert Hallam, will you tell him why?”

“Yes,” said Hallam firmly; “Mr Eaton should have spoken to me, and I would have explained at once that Mr Stephen Crellock has proposed for my daughter’s hand, and I have promised that she shall be his wife.”

“But this is monstrous!” cried Eaton furiously. “Julie, I have your mother’s consent. You will be mine?”

Julia looked at him pityingly and shook her head.

“Speak! for heaven’s sake, speak!” cried Eaton.

“No,” she said in a low pained voice. “You have mistaken me, Mr Eaton. I could never be your wife.”

Eaton turned to Mrs Hallam to meet her agonised, despairing eyes, and then without a word he left the room.

For the blow had fallen; the shadow Millicent Hallam had seen athwart her daughter’s life had assumed consistency, and as the thought of her own fate came with its dull despairing pain, she caught Julia to her breast to protect her from Crellock, and faced him like some wild creature standing at bay in defence of her young.

Volume Four—Chapter Fourteen.

For Julie.

“Where are you going?” said Crellock roughly, as prowling about the verandah, in pursuance of a determination to take care that there should be no further interference with his plans, he carefully watched the place, ready to refuse entrance, in Hallam’s name, to every one who came till he had made sure of his prize.

It was very early in the morning, and he had come suddenly upon Thisbe, dressed for going out, and with a bundle under her arm.

“Into town,” she said sharply.

“What for?”

“To stay.”

“It’s a lie!” he said. “You are going to take a message to that parson, or the lieutenant. You have a letter.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Thisbe, looking harder than ever.

“What’s in that bundle?”

“Clothes. Want to see ’em? You can look.”

“Come, no nonsense, Thisbe! You don’t like me, I know.”

“I hate the sight of you!” said the woman stoutly. “So you may; but look here, you may as well understand that in future I shall be master here, and for your own sake you had better be friends. Now then, where are you going?”

“Into town, I tell you; and I shall send for my box. It’s corded up in my room.”

“Why, what do you mean?” he said.

“That I’m going, and I’m not coming back; and you two may drink yourselves to death as soon as you like.”

She brushed by him, and before he had recovered from his surprise, she was going down the path towards the gate.

A thought struck Crellock, and he ran upstairs to the room Thisbe had occupied, and, sure enough, there was the big chest she had brought with her, corded up tightly, and with a direction-card tacked on, addressed, “Miss Thisbe King. To be called for.”

“So much the better,” he said joyously; “that woman had some influence with Mrs Hallam, and might have been unpleasant.”

That day he went down the town to one of his haunts, and after a good deal of search found out that Thisbe was in the place, and had taken a small cottage in one of the outskirts. So, satisfied with his discovery, he returned, to find a man with a pony and dray on his way up to the house, where he claimed the box for its owner, and soon after bore it away.

Hallam was in his room, half dozing by the open window, ready to give him a friendly nod as he entered, threw down his riding-whip, and took up his usual position, with his back to the fireplace.

“Well,” said Hallam, “what news?”

“Oh, she has gone, sure enough.”

“So much the better,” said Hallam. “I always hated that woman.”

“What news have you?”

“None at all.”

“Have you told your wife that I wish the marriage to take place at once?”

“No.”

“Then go and tell her.”

Hallam shifted uneasily in his chair, but did not stir. “Look here!” cried Crellock fiercely, “do you want me to go through all our old arguments again? There it is—the marriage or the gang.”

“You would have to go too!” said Hallam angrily.

“Oh, no! Don’t make a mistake. I did not bring over the plunder; and not a single note you have changed can be brought home to me. Your leg is in the noose, or in the irons again, if you like it better. No nonsense! Go and see her while I prepare Julia.” Hallam rose, went to the cupboard, poured a quantity of brandy into a tumbler, gulped it down, and went to the drawing-room. Mrs Hallam, who was looking white and hollow of cheek, was seated alone, with Julia, half-way down the garden slope, gazing pensively towards the town.

Mrs Hallam rose quickly, as if in alarm, but Hallam caught her hand, and then softly closed the window, in spite of her weak struggle, as she saw Crellock crossing the garden to where Julia was standing.

“Now, no nonsense!” he said. “There, sit down.”

Mrs Hallam took the chair he led her to, and gazed up at him as if fascinated by his eyes.

“I may as well come to the point at once,” said Hallam. “You know what I said the other night about Crellock?”

“Yes,” she replied hoarsely.

“Well, he wishes it to take place at once, so we may as well get it over.”

“It is impossible!”

“It is not impossible!” he said, flashing into anger. “It is necessary for my comfort and position that the wedding should take place at once.”

“No, no, Robert!” she cried in a last appeal; “for the sake of our old love, give up this terrible thought. If you have any love left for me spare our child this degradation!”

She threw herself upon her knees and clasped his hands.

“Don’t be foolish and hysterical,” he said coldly; “and listen to reason, unless you want to make me angry with you. Get up!”

She obeyed him without a word.

“Now, listen. I shouldn’t have chosen Crellock for her husband, but he is very fond of her, and I cannot afford to offend him, so it must be.”

“It would kill her!” panted Mrs Hallam. “Our child! Robert—husband—my own love! don’t, don’t drive me to do this!”

“I’m going to drive you to obey me in this sensible matter, which is for the good of all. There, you see the girl is listening to him quietly enough.”

“It would kill her! For the sake of all the old times do not drive me to this—my husband!” pleaded Mrs Hallam again.

“You will prepare her for it; you will tell her it must be as soon as the arrangements can be made; you will stop all communications with Bayle and old Sir Gordon, and do exactly as I bid you. Look here, once let Julia see that there is no other course, and she will be quiet and sensible enough.”

“Once more!” cried Mrs Hallam passionately, “spare me this, Robert, and I will be your patient, forgiving wife to the end! I tell you it would break her heart!”

“You understand!” he said. “There, look at her!” he cried, pointing. “Why, the girl loves him after all.”

Julia was coming slowly up the path, with Crellock bending down and talking to her earnestly, till he reached the window, which Hallam unfastened, shrinking back and leaving the room, as if he could not face his child.

As Julia entered, Crellock seemed to have no wish to encounter Mrs Hallam, and he drew back and went round the house to the study window, where he stopped leaning on the verandah-rail and gazing in, as Hallam stood at the cupboard, pouring himself out some more brandy.

He had the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other, when he caught sight of the figure at the window, and with a start and cry of horror he dropped bottle and glass.

“Bah! where is your nerve, man?” cried Crellock with a laugh of contempt. “Did you think it was a sergeant with a file of men to fetch you away?”

“You—you startled me,” cried Hallam angrily. “All that brandy gone!”

“A good thing too! You’ve had plenty. Well, have you told her?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“The old thing.”

“But you made her understand?”

“Yes. What did Julia say?”

“Oh, very little. Told me she could never love me, of course; but she’s a clever, sensible girl.”

“And she has consented?”

“Well, not exactly; but it’s all right. There will be no trouble there.”

Meanwhile Julia had gone straight to her mother and knelt down at her feet, resting her hands upon her knees, in her old child-like position, and gazing up in the pale, wasted face for some minutes without speaking.

“There is no hope, mother,” she said at last; “it must be.”

Mrs Hallam sat without replying for some minutes; then, taking her child’s face between her thin hands she bent down and pressed her lips upon the white forehead.

“Julie,” she whispered, “I was wrong. I thought you loved Mr Eaton, and I believed that if you married him it would have cut this terrible knot.”

Julia smiled softly, and with her eyes half closed. There was a curious, rapt expression in her sweet face, as if she were dreaming of some impossible joy. Then, as if rousing herself to action, she gave her dark curls a shake, and said quietly:

“If I had loved Mr Eaton it would only have cut the knot as far as I was concerned. Mother, he would have broken my heart.”

“No, no; he loved you dearly.”

“But he would have taken me from you. No: I did not love him, but I liked him very much. But there, we must think and be strong, for there is no hope, dear mother, now. You are right. And you will be firm and strong?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Hallam, rising. “For your sake, my child—my child!”

Volume Four—Chapter Fifteen.

Crellock on Guard.

That night, after the roughly-prepared meal that topic the place of dinner, and at which mother and daughter resumed their places as of old, Hallam sat for some time with Crellock talking in a low tone, while Mrs Hallam returned to the drawing-room with Julia, both looking perfectly calm and resigned to their fate.

At last Hallam rose, and followed by Crellock, crossed the hall and opened the drawing-room door, where his wife and child were seated with the light of the candles shining softly upon their bended heads.

“It will be all right,” he muttered; and he turned round and faced Crellock, who smiled and nodded.

“Nothing like a little firmness,” he said, smiling.

Then Crellock went into the verandah to smoke his cigar and play the part of watch-dog in case of some interruption to his plans; and, while Hallam employed himself in his old fashion, drinking himself drunk in the house of Alcohol his god, the dark calm evening became black night, and a moist, soft wind from the Pacific sighed gently among the trees.

Crellock walked round the house time after time, peering in at the windows, and each time he looked there was the heavy stolid face of Hallam staring before him at vacancy; on the other side of the house Julia gazing up into her mother’s face as she knelt at her feet.

It must have been ten o’clock when, as Crellock once more made his round, he saw that Hallam was asleep, and that Mrs Hallam had taken up the candle still burning, and with Julia holding her hand, was looking round the room as if for a last good-night.

Then together they went to the door, hand in hand; the door closed; the light shone at the staircase window, then in their bedroom, where he watched it burn for about a quarter of an hour before it was extinguished, and all was dark.

“I shan’t feel satisfied till I have her safe,” he said, as he walked slowly back to his old look-out that commanded the road.

The wind came in stronger gusts now, for a few minutes, and then seemed to die quite away, while the clouds that overspread the sky grew so dense that it was hard to distinguish the trees and bushes a dozen yards from where he stood.

He finished his cigar, thinking out his plans the while, and at last coming to the conclusion that it was an unnecessary task this watching, he was about to make one more turn round the verandah, and then enter by the window and go to bed, when he fancied he heard a door close, as if blown by the wind that was once more sighing about the place.

“Just woke up, I suppose,” he said, and he walked towards the study window and looked in.

Hallam had not moved, but was sleeping heavily in his old position.

Crellock listened again, but all was perfectly still. It could not have been fancy. Certainly he had heard a door bang softly, and the sound seemed to come from this direction.

He stood thinking, and then went round and tried the front door.

“Fast.”

He walked round to the back door, following the verandah all the way, and found that door also fast.

“I couldn’t have been mistaken,” he said, as he listened again.

Once more the wind was sighing loudly about the place, but the noise was not repeated, and he walked on to the dining-room window; but as he laid his hand upon the glass door and thrust it open, a current of air rushed in, and there was the same sound: a door blew to with a slight bang.

Crellock closed and fastened the glass door as he stepped out and ran quickly round to the drawing-room, where it was as he suspected: the glass door similar to that he had just left was open, and blew to and fro.

“There’s something wrong,” he said excitedly, his suspicions being aroused; and, dashing in, he upset a chair in crossing the room, and it fell with a crash, but he hurried on into the hall, through to the study, and caught Hallam by the arm.

“Wake up!” he said excitedly. “Hallam! Wake up, man.”

He had to shake him heavily before the drink stupefaction passed off, and then Hallam stood trembling and haggard, trying to comprehend his companion’s words.

“Wrong?” he said. “Wrong? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet. Look sharp! Run up to your wife’s room. Take the candle. Quick, man; are you asleep?”

In his dazed state Hallam staggered, and his hand trembled so that he could hardly keep the light anything like steady. There was the knowledge, though faintly grasped, that something was terribly wrong. He gathered that from his companion’s excited manner, and, stumbling on into the hall, blundered noisily up the stairs while Crellock stood breathing hard and listening.

“Here, Millicent! Julie!” he cried hoarsely; “what’s the matter?”

Crellock heard the lock handle turn, and the door thrown open so violently that it struck against the wall, but there was no reply from the voices of frightened women.

“Do you hear? Milly—Julie! Why don’t you answer?” came from above, and Crellock’s harsh breathing became like the panting of some wild beast.

For a few moments there was absolute silence; then the sound of stumbling, heavy steps, and Hallam came out on to the landing.

“Steve!” he cried excitedly, perfectly sober now, “what is it? What does it mean? They’ve gone!”

“I knew it,” cried Crellock with a furious cry. “I might have seen it if I had not been a fool. Come down quick! They’ve not gone far.”

Candle in hand, Hallam came staggering down the stairs with his eyes staring and his face blotched with patches of white.

“They’ve gone,” he stammered hoarsely. “What for? Where have they gone?”

“Out into the dark night,” cried Crellock furiously. “There is only one way that they could go, and we must have them before they reach the town.”

“Town!” faltered Hallam; “town!” for in the horror of his waking and the conscience hauntings of the moment, he seemed to see two ghastly white faces looking up at him from the black waters of the harbour.

“Yes, come along, follow me as quickly as you can,” roared Crellock; and going swiftly through the dining-room he crossed the verandah and dashed out into the thick darkness that seemed to rise up as a protecting wall on behalf of those whom he pursued.

Volume Four—Chapter Sixteen.

The Flight.

“I am so weak, my child,” sighed Mrs Hallam, “that my heart fails me. What shall I do?”

Julia stood over her dressed for flight, and a chill of despair seized her.

“Oh, mother, try—try,” she whispered.

“I am trying, Julie. I am fighting so hard, but you cannot realise the step I am trying to take; you cannot see it, my child, as it is spread before me.”

“Let us stay then,” whispered Julie, “and to-morrow I will appeal to Sir Gordon to come to our help.”

“No,” said Mrs Hallam, firmly, as if the words of her child had given her strength, “we can ask help of no one in such a strait as this, Julie; the act must be mine and mine alone; but now the time has come, my child, I feel that it is too much.”

“Mother!” sobbed Julie, “that man horrifies me. You heard all that my father said. I would sooner die than become his wife.”

Mrs Hallam caught her arm with a sharp grip, and remained silent for a few moments. “Yes,” she said at last, “and much as I love you, my own, I would sooner see you dead than married to such a man as he. You have given me the courage I failed in, my darling. For myself, I would live and bear until the end; but I am driven to it—I am driven to it. Come.”

They were standing in the dark, and now for the time being Mrs Hallam seemed transformed. Gathering her cloak about her, she went quickly to the door and listened, and then turned and whispered to Julia.

“Come at once,” she said. “Follow me down.” Julia drew a long breath and followed her, trembling, the boards of the lightly-built house cracking loudly as she passed quickly to the stairs. And again in the silence and darkness these cracked as they passed down.

In the hall Mrs Hallam hesitated for a moment, and then, putting her lips to Julia’s ear:

“Stop!” she whispered.

Julia stood listening, and with her eyes strained towards where a light shone beneath the ill-fitting study-door from which, in the stillness, the heavy stertorous breathing of Hallam could be heard. She could hear, too, the faint rustle of Mrs Hallam’s dress as she paced along the hall; and as Julia gazed in the direction she had taken, the light that streamed from beneath, and some faint rays from the side, showed indistinctly a misty figure which sank down on its knees and remained for a few moments.