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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.
