Balm.It seemed as though that report awakened Philip Norton from the fit of mad despair that had prompted him to seek in oblivion the rest he could not find here—awakened him to the sense that he must be a murderer; for there, stretched at his feet, her light muslin dress already deeply stained by the blood flowing from her shoulder, lay the brave girl who had struggled to his side to suffer, almost with the loss of her own, for her successful endeavour to save his life. For some minutes, as he stood there in that dim pine arcade, Philip Norton’s brain was giddy; he felt as though awakening from some horrible dream, and it was only by an effort that he could recall the present; when, throwing the pistol aside, he knelt down by the fainting girl, and by means of his handkerchief succeeded in staunching the blood flowing from a long, jagged wound torn by the bullet in its passage along her shoulder.The sight of the wounded girl, as she lay pale and insensible at his feet, and the knowledge that it was his work, seemed to drive back the horrible thoughts of self, forcing him into action; and the next minute, trembling in every limb with anxiety for her safety, he was running to the nearest pit for water, bringing it in his soft hat, a little at a time, to sprinkle her stern marble face. Again and again he ran to and fro, growing more and more excited, but with a healthy excitement that moved his better impulses; for, forgetting his own pain, interest was excited in the deliverer whom he told himself that he had slain, to recompense her for her bravery in his behalf. But it was long before animation began to reappear, and the colour to return to Ada Lee’s face. Twice, though, Norton had been encouraged to persevere in his efforts by a sigh; and he had chafed her cold hands, torn off his coat to fold and place beneath her head, seen to, and tightened the bandage so that the blood was staunched, and had at last determined to bear her back into the village at all hazards. Then her soft blue eyes slowly unclosed, as he kneeled by her side, his arms gently supporting her against his breast, preparatory to rising and carrying her over the treacherous ground to the footpath.But the sight of those soft eyes gazing into his so wonderingly, arrested him, and for a few minutes no word was spoken, till by slow degrees, realising all that had passed, Ada’s eyes lost their strange wondering look, a shudder ran through her frame, and the old aspect of horror came back.“Are you hurt?” she gasped.“No,” he said, gently; and there was pity for her in his tones.“Not hurt?” she gasped again. “But the pistol?”“Hush!” he said, sadly. “You must not speak. You are wounded, and I am a soldier, and have seen and known many wounds. You must be quiet until I can get you back to the village.”“But you are safe—not hurt?” she said.“No—no!” he exclaimed, impetuously. “I—I—”“Yes—yes, I know. I remember all,” she said, eagerly. “I startled you—the pistol went off by accident—it struck me.”She smiled in his face as she spoke, while, burning with grief and shame, he cried:“Oh, Miss Lee, Miss Lee, has it come to this? Good Heaven! am I fallen so low that I must screen myself in this way? I am a coward—a pitiful—”“Hush—hush!” she cried, and her little hand was laid upon his lips. “I know how you suffered. I was in dread lest you should do anything rashly, and I followed; but it is our—your secret. Let it be hidden for ever. You may trust me.”Philip Norton groaned. “Hidden! How can it be hidden?” he said, as he pointed to her wounded shoulder, when, with the hot blood suffusing her face, she dragged the scarf she wore over the deep stain, and essayed to sit up, but fell back weak, and half fainting.Laying her gently down, he again fetched water, and bathed her face, when, reviving somewhat, she lay with her eyes half closed, and lips moving gently.“Did you speak?” he said, as he bent over her.“No,” she said, after a few moments. “I was praying. Will you try to lift me up?”Philip raised her a little, but she winced from the sharp pain caused by the movement, upon which he desisted; but, with a smile, she begged him to help her to her feet. A few moments’ trial, though, showed that she was utterly incapable of walking, when, taking her in his arms, Norton slowly and carefully bore her amidst the pine trees to the edge of the marsh, whence, after a brief rest, he again proceeded, bringing her over the soft, springy ground, till, during a longer rest, he said to her, in sad tones:“I thought the age of miracles was past, but an angel was sent to stay my hand.” Then, heedless of her remonstrance, he continued: “How am I ever to repay you for the injury I have done?”“By acting as a man should,” she said, softly; “by ceasing to be a coward. You,” she exclaimed excitedly, “a soldier—a man whom we loved—to fly from suffering like that! It was cruel to all—to Marion—to yourself! How could—”“For Heaven’s sake, spare me!” he groaned. “The sight of what I have done seems to have brought me back to a life of greater suffering. But you need not fear; I will bear it.”
It seemed as though that report awakened Philip Norton from the fit of mad despair that had prompted him to seek in oblivion the rest he could not find here—awakened him to the sense that he must be a murderer; for there, stretched at his feet, her light muslin dress already deeply stained by the blood flowing from her shoulder, lay the brave girl who had struggled to his side to suffer, almost with the loss of her own, for her successful endeavour to save his life. For some minutes, as he stood there in that dim pine arcade, Philip Norton’s brain was giddy; he felt as though awakening from some horrible dream, and it was only by an effort that he could recall the present; when, throwing the pistol aside, he knelt down by the fainting girl, and by means of his handkerchief succeeded in staunching the blood flowing from a long, jagged wound torn by the bullet in its passage along her shoulder.
The sight of the wounded girl, as she lay pale and insensible at his feet, and the knowledge that it was his work, seemed to drive back the horrible thoughts of self, forcing him into action; and the next minute, trembling in every limb with anxiety for her safety, he was running to the nearest pit for water, bringing it in his soft hat, a little at a time, to sprinkle her stern marble face. Again and again he ran to and fro, growing more and more excited, but with a healthy excitement that moved his better impulses; for, forgetting his own pain, interest was excited in the deliverer whom he told himself that he had slain, to recompense her for her bravery in his behalf. But it was long before animation began to reappear, and the colour to return to Ada Lee’s face. Twice, though, Norton had been encouraged to persevere in his efforts by a sigh; and he had chafed her cold hands, torn off his coat to fold and place beneath her head, seen to, and tightened the bandage so that the blood was staunched, and had at last determined to bear her back into the village at all hazards. Then her soft blue eyes slowly unclosed, as he kneeled by her side, his arms gently supporting her against his breast, preparatory to rising and carrying her over the treacherous ground to the footpath.
But the sight of those soft eyes gazing into his so wonderingly, arrested him, and for a few minutes no word was spoken, till by slow degrees, realising all that had passed, Ada’s eyes lost their strange wondering look, a shudder ran through her frame, and the old aspect of horror came back.
“Are you hurt?” she gasped.
“No,” he said, gently; and there was pity for her in his tones.
“Not hurt?” she gasped again. “But the pistol?”
“Hush!” he said, sadly. “You must not speak. You are wounded, and I am a soldier, and have seen and known many wounds. You must be quiet until I can get you back to the village.”
“But you are safe—not hurt?” she said.
“No—no!” he exclaimed, impetuously. “I—I—”
“Yes—yes, I know. I remember all,” she said, eagerly. “I startled you—the pistol went off by accident—it struck me.”
She smiled in his face as she spoke, while, burning with grief and shame, he cried:
“Oh, Miss Lee, Miss Lee, has it come to this? Good Heaven! am I fallen so low that I must screen myself in this way? I am a coward—a pitiful—”
“Hush—hush!” she cried, and her little hand was laid upon his lips. “I know how you suffered. I was in dread lest you should do anything rashly, and I followed; but it is our—your secret. Let it be hidden for ever. You may trust me.”
Philip Norton groaned. “Hidden! How can it be hidden?” he said, as he pointed to her wounded shoulder, when, with the hot blood suffusing her face, she dragged the scarf she wore over the deep stain, and essayed to sit up, but fell back weak, and half fainting.
Laying her gently down, he again fetched water, and bathed her face, when, reviving somewhat, she lay with her eyes half closed, and lips moving gently.
“Did you speak?” he said, as he bent over her.
“No,” she said, after a few moments. “I was praying. Will you try to lift me up?”
Philip raised her a little, but she winced from the sharp pain caused by the movement, upon which he desisted; but, with a smile, she begged him to help her to her feet. A few moments’ trial, though, showed that she was utterly incapable of walking, when, taking her in his arms, Norton slowly and carefully bore her amidst the pine trees to the edge of the marsh, whence, after a brief rest, he again proceeded, bringing her over the soft, springy ground, till, during a longer rest, he said to her, in sad tones:
“I thought the age of miracles was past, but an angel was sent to stay my hand.” Then, heedless of her remonstrance, he continued: “How am I ever to repay you for the injury I have done?”
“By acting as a man should,” she said, softly; “by ceasing to be a coward. You,” she exclaimed excitedly, “a soldier—a man whom we loved—to fly from suffering like that! It was cruel to all—to Marion—to yourself! How could—”
“For Heaven’s sake, spare me!” he groaned. “The sight of what I have done seems to have brought me back to a life of greater suffering. But you need not fear; I will bear it.”
What Followed.It was an accident—so people said at Merland, and from being a wonder for a time, it was soon forgotten; and when, pale and weak from many months of illness, Ada Lee was seen out, with the tall bronzed soldier pushing her invalid chair, or reading to her from some book, the gossips of the village used to prophesy. And yet no word of love had passed between the invalid and her companion. Ada’s prolonged stay at the Rectory had resulted in Mrs Elstree wishing her to make it her home, on the grounds of her own loneliness, now that Sir Murray Gernon had, on account of his wife’s health, decided to remain in Italy, where he had taken a residence on the shores of Como. While Ada, continuing weak and ill, accepted Philip’s attentions with a smile of pleasure, though there was sorrow at her heart, which bled daily for the sufferings of her companion.For time seemed to bring no healing to the wounds of Philip Norton, who, apparently disgusted with life, had sold out from the army, to settle down at his own place, Merland Hall, seeing no one, visiting nowhere save at the Rectory.But the result was what might have been expected. Philip Norton awoke one day to the fact that there was happiness for him yet in this world, and he told himself it would be his duty to devote his life to the suffering invalid—to the blighted woman who paid penalty for his sin. And one evening, when the sun was glowing ruddily in the west, Philip Norton rested his brown hand upon the thin transparent fingers, and then, in the stillness of the evening, he asked her, in low, earnest tones, if she would take him as her protector.“Ada,” he said, calmly, “I cannot love. You know all; but I owe you my life. Will you take that life now, with such devotion as I can attach to it, such tenderness as time will enable me to weave with it? I know I am but a broken, disappointed man; but you know my weaknesses and sufferings; you can help me to get through my journey, and, perhaps, in time you may learn to love me.”Ere he had finished speaking another trembling, fluttering hand was raised, to be placed upon his strong arm, and then, leaning forward, Ada’s poor thin pale lips were pressed upon his hand, as one might salute a king, and then softly whispering to herself the words, “At last! At last! Thank God!” the invalid sank back in her chair, fainting from the wild tumult of joyful feelings that, in her then weak state, seemed almost more than she could bear.For Ada Lee was dying; not, perhaps, in the ordinary sense of the word, for she might have lived on for years; but, none the less, she was fading away. One disappointment she had fought down; but the news of Norton’s death had preyed heavily upon her. Then had come his return, the shock, the adventures of the wedding-day, and, lastly, the wound. Her by no means strong constitution had given way beneath this, when, in addition, there had ever been the pang of hope deferred, and the sick heart finding no ease.It was a strangely unimpassioned wooing, that of Philip Norton; but Ada was content; and at the end of five years, bright, happy of face, and only slightly more matronly, she came one day into her husband’s study, to find him stern and thoughtful—looks which passed away as if by magic, as the sturdy little fellow she led by the hand ran to him and climbed upon his knee.“Is there anything the matter?” exclaimed Ada anxiously, as she leaned upon her husband’s shoulder.“Matter! No, love!” said Norton, heartily—another man now, his face lighting up with pleasure as his child snatched first at pens, then at paper, everything within reach—“unless it is with this young rebel; but what made you ask?”“Philip,” she said, softly, “you keep nothing from me, dear: do not begin now.”“Well, there,” he said, “I won’t;” and he drew her nearer towards him. “Heaven forbid that I should from the woman to whom I owe life and happiness such as no other man could enjoy. But you see,” he said, slightly hesitating, “I have been over to the Rectory this morning.”“Yes,” said Ada, anxiously.“And they have had a letter from Italy.”“Well, Philip?” she said, laying her head against his cheek, as one arm drew her nearer and nearer, while the other toyed with the boy’s curls.“Well, darling, it is nothing; but I could not help it: the news seemed to cause me a vague feeling of uneasiness—nothing but a passing cloud—for thoughts will go backwards sometimes. Not complimentary, that,” he said, laughing; “but I meant no more, love, than a general reference to old troubles.”“I know—I know,” she said, with unruffled countenance; “but what was the news?”“Well, dear, it was that workmen are to be sent up to the Castle directly; and there’s to be painting, and paper-hanging, and re-furnishing, and Heaven knows what beside; and I was thinking that Merland has done for years past now uncommonly well with the Castle in its present state, and that, if I had my will, it should remain as it is.”“And all this means, dear?” said Mrs Norton, quietly.“Yes, of course,” laughed Norton. “Now, did you ever see anything like the dog? Both his fingers in the ink! Yes, it means, of course, that after five years of absence the Gernons are coming home.”
It was an accident—so people said at Merland, and from being a wonder for a time, it was soon forgotten; and when, pale and weak from many months of illness, Ada Lee was seen out, with the tall bronzed soldier pushing her invalid chair, or reading to her from some book, the gossips of the village used to prophesy. And yet no word of love had passed between the invalid and her companion. Ada’s prolonged stay at the Rectory had resulted in Mrs Elstree wishing her to make it her home, on the grounds of her own loneliness, now that Sir Murray Gernon had, on account of his wife’s health, decided to remain in Italy, where he had taken a residence on the shores of Como. While Ada, continuing weak and ill, accepted Philip’s attentions with a smile of pleasure, though there was sorrow at her heart, which bled daily for the sufferings of her companion.
For time seemed to bring no healing to the wounds of Philip Norton, who, apparently disgusted with life, had sold out from the army, to settle down at his own place, Merland Hall, seeing no one, visiting nowhere save at the Rectory.
But the result was what might have been expected. Philip Norton awoke one day to the fact that there was happiness for him yet in this world, and he told himself it would be his duty to devote his life to the suffering invalid—to the blighted woman who paid penalty for his sin. And one evening, when the sun was glowing ruddily in the west, Philip Norton rested his brown hand upon the thin transparent fingers, and then, in the stillness of the evening, he asked her, in low, earnest tones, if she would take him as her protector.
“Ada,” he said, calmly, “I cannot love. You know all; but I owe you my life. Will you take that life now, with such devotion as I can attach to it, such tenderness as time will enable me to weave with it? I know I am but a broken, disappointed man; but you know my weaknesses and sufferings; you can help me to get through my journey, and, perhaps, in time you may learn to love me.”
Ere he had finished speaking another trembling, fluttering hand was raised, to be placed upon his strong arm, and then, leaning forward, Ada’s poor thin pale lips were pressed upon his hand, as one might salute a king, and then softly whispering to herself the words, “At last! At last! Thank God!” the invalid sank back in her chair, fainting from the wild tumult of joyful feelings that, in her then weak state, seemed almost more than she could bear.
For Ada Lee was dying; not, perhaps, in the ordinary sense of the word, for she might have lived on for years; but, none the less, she was fading away. One disappointment she had fought down; but the news of Norton’s death had preyed heavily upon her. Then had come his return, the shock, the adventures of the wedding-day, and, lastly, the wound. Her by no means strong constitution had given way beneath this, when, in addition, there had ever been the pang of hope deferred, and the sick heart finding no ease.
It was a strangely unimpassioned wooing, that of Philip Norton; but Ada was content; and at the end of five years, bright, happy of face, and only slightly more matronly, she came one day into her husband’s study, to find him stern and thoughtful—looks which passed away as if by magic, as the sturdy little fellow she led by the hand ran to him and climbed upon his knee.
“Is there anything the matter?” exclaimed Ada anxiously, as she leaned upon her husband’s shoulder.
“Matter! No, love!” said Norton, heartily—another man now, his face lighting up with pleasure as his child snatched first at pens, then at paper, everything within reach—“unless it is with this young rebel; but what made you ask?”
“Philip,” she said, softly, “you keep nothing from me, dear: do not begin now.”
“Well, there,” he said, “I won’t;” and he drew her nearer towards him. “Heaven forbid that I should from the woman to whom I owe life and happiness such as no other man could enjoy. But you see,” he said, slightly hesitating, “I have been over to the Rectory this morning.”
“Yes,” said Ada, anxiously.
“And they have had a letter from Italy.”
“Well, Philip?” she said, laying her head against his cheek, as one arm drew her nearer and nearer, while the other toyed with the boy’s curls.
“Well, darling, it is nothing; but I could not help it: the news seemed to cause me a vague feeling of uneasiness—nothing but a passing cloud—for thoughts will go backwards sometimes. Not complimentary, that,” he said, laughing; “but I meant no more, love, than a general reference to old troubles.”
“I know—I know,” she said, with unruffled countenance; “but what was the news?”
“Well, dear, it was that workmen are to be sent up to the Castle directly; and there’s to be painting, and paper-hanging, and re-furnishing, and Heaven knows what beside; and I was thinking that Merland has done for years past now uncommonly well with the Castle in its present state, and that, if I had my will, it should remain as it is.”
“And all this means, dear?” said Mrs Norton, quietly.
“Yes, of course,” laughed Norton. “Now, did you ever see anything like the dog? Both his fingers in the ink! Yes, it means, of course, that after five years of absence the Gernons are coming home.”
Ada’s Promise.The old love of change and adventure, which in earlier life had led Philip Norton into seeking a commission in the Indian army, clung to him still, and sometimes for days—sometimes even for weeks together, he would absent himself from home, journeying north or south, or even going abroad without making the slightest preparation. He would laugh on his return, and own that it was eccentric; but, perhaps, before many weeks had elapsed, he would again take his departure, while Ada never complained, for by constant study of his character, she felt that to some extent she now knew him well. He had given up all his former pursuits; ambition, too, had been set aside, and he had buried himself in the old Lincolnshire retreat, apparently content with his wife’s companionship—for visitors seldom crossed the steps of Merland Hall. “I am not fit for society,” Norton used to say, with a smile; and seeing how at times an unsettled, feverish fit would come upon him, resulting in some far off, aimless journey, from which he would return happy and content, Ada quietly forbore all murmurings, accepting her fate, thankful for the quiet, tender affection he displayed towards her. She used at last to laugh about his hurried departures, and long, purposeless trips, telling him that they acted as safety-valves for letting off the pent-up excitement of his nature, and he, taking her words in all seriousness, would earnestly accept her definition.“I know it seems strange and wild, and even unkind to you, dear; but I think sometimes that if I were chained down entirely to one place I should lose my reason. These fits only come on at times; perhaps during a walk, and then the inclination is so strong that I do not feel either the power or desire to battle with it.”Ada Norton felt no surprise, then, the morning after that on which the news respecting the Gernons had been received, when asking one of the servants if she had seen her master, she learned that he had been driven across to the town, and that the groom had just come back with the dog-cart.It was nothing new, but taken in conjunction with the last night’s conversation, it caused no slight uneasiness in her breast, and as she sat watching the gambols of their child, the weak tears began to course one another down her cheeks. For she felt that he was unsettled by the tidings they had heard; and for a few moments her heart beat rapidly as she recalled the past, trembling for her own empire when thinking of Marion Gernon’s return.Would not the old feeling of love come back, and would they not both hate her? Marion, for her possession of him who should have been her husband; Philip, for her ceaseless efforts to enlace herself round his heart. For, after all, he could not truly love her: he had been gentle, tender, affectionate, ever ready to yield to her every desire, almost worshipping his boy. In short, upon reviewing calmly her married life, with the sole exception of those occasional absences, she was obliged to own that she had all that she could desire, and that, however wanting in the wild, passionate, and romantic, Philip Norton’s love for her was imbued with that tender gentleness, based on admiration, trust, and faith, which was far more lasting and satisfying to the soul—a love that would but increase with years; and at last, with an impatient stamp of the foot, she wiped away her tears, upbraiding herself for her want of trust and faith in her noble husband, accusing herself of misjudging him. Catching up her boy, she covered him with kisses, her face lighting up with a joyful maternal pride in the strong link which had been sent to bind them together.“Heaven helping me,” she muttered, “I’ll never doubt him.”It was a grave promise—a vow hard to keep, as circumstances wove themselves in the future; and more than once Ada Norton had the excuse of sore temptation; but how she bore herself, how she kept faith in her husband under circumstances that might well raise doubts in the most trusting woman’s heart, will be seen in the sequel.
The old love of change and adventure, which in earlier life had led Philip Norton into seeking a commission in the Indian army, clung to him still, and sometimes for days—sometimes even for weeks together, he would absent himself from home, journeying north or south, or even going abroad without making the slightest preparation. He would laugh on his return, and own that it was eccentric; but, perhaps, before many weeks had elapsed, he would again take his departure, while Ada never complained, for by constant study of his character, she felt that to some extent she now knew him well. He had given up all his former pursuits; ambition, too, had been set aside, and he had buried himself in the old Lincolnshire retreat, apparently content with his wife’s companionship—for visitors seldom crossed the steps of Merland Hall. “I am not fit for society,” Norton used to say, with a smile; and seeing how at times an unsettled, feverish fit would come upon him, resulting in some far off, aimless journey, from which he would return happy and content, Ada quietly forbore all murmurings, accepting her fate, thankful for the quiet, tender affection he displayed towards her. She used at last to laugh about his hurried departures, and long, purposeless trips, telling him that they acted as safety-valves for letting off the pent-up excitement of his nature, and he, taking her words in all seriousness, would earnestly accept her definition.
“I know it seems strange and wild, and even unkind to you, dear; but I think sometimes that if I were chained down entirely to one place I should lose my reason. These fits only come on at times; perhaps during a walk, and then the inclination is so strong that I do not feel either the power or desire to battle with it.”
Ada Norton felt no surprise, then, the morning after that on which the news respecting the Gernons had been received, when asking one of the servants if she had seen her master, she learned that he had been driven across to the town, and that the groom had just come back with the dog-cart.
It was nothing new, but taken in conjunction with the last night’s conversation, it caused no slight uneasiness in her breast, and as she sat watching the gambols of their child, the weak tears began to course one another down her cheeks. For she felt that he was unsettled by the tidings they had heard; and for a few moments her heart beat rapidly as she recalled the past, trembling for her own empire when thinking of Marion Gernon’s return.
Would not the old feeling of love come back, and would they not both hate her? Marion, for her possession of him who should have been her husband; Philip, for her ceaseless efforts to enlace herself round his heart. For, after all, he could not truly love her: he had been gentle, tender, affectionate, ever ready to yield to her every desire, almost worshipping his boy. In short, upon reviewing calmly her married life, with the sole exception of those occasional absences, she was obliged to own that she had all that she could desire, and that, however wanting in the wild, passionate, and romantic, Philip Norton’s love for her was imbued with that tender gentleness, based on admiration, trust, and faith, which was far more lasting and satisfying to the soul—a love that would but increase with years; and at last, with an impatient stamp of the foot, she wiped away her tears, upbraiding herself for her want of trust and faith in her noble husband, accusing herself of misjudging him. Catching up her boy, she covered him with kisses, her face lighting up with a joyful maternal pride in the strong link which had been sent to bind them together.
“Heaven helping me,” she muttered, “I’ll never doubt him.”
It was a grave promise—a vow hard to keep, as circumstances wove themselves in the future; and more than once Ada Norton had the excuse of sore temptation; but how she bore herself, how she kept faith in her husband under circumstances that might well raise doubts in the most trusting woman’s heart, will be seen in the sequel.
Sir Murray’s Gentleman.There had been busy doings at the Castle, and Merland village was in an intense state of excitement. Old Chunt—Jonathan Chunt, who kept the “Black Bull”—said that there was to be some life in the place at last. He knew, for he had it from Mr Gurdon—old Gurdon’s lad, butMrGurdon now, and an awfully big man in his master’s estimation. He was butler now, and had come over to superintend the getting in order of the place, for Sir Murray was fond of company, and there were to be no end of gaieties at the Castle. Mr Gurdon was setting the old servants to rights and no mistake, for he’d got full power, and they hadn’t had such a waking up for long enough. Why, what with company’s servants coming down to the “Bull,” and post-horses now and then, and one thing and another, it would be a little fortune to him, Chunt said. Time there was a change, too: keeping a house like that shut up for the rats to scamper across the floors, was injuring the trade of the village, where there was no one else but the old people at the Rectory, and them Nortons, who might just as well be a hundred miles off, shutting themselves up as they did.Chunt knew, and he imparted his knowledge, with no end of nods and winks, to his fellow-tradesmen, as he termed them—to wit, Huttoft, the saddler, who made nothing but harness, and Mouncey, the baker, when they came in for a glass.“And if here ain’t Mr Gurdon himself!” exclaimed Chunt, one evening, when he had been distilling information to a select knot of customers. “Take a chair, Mr Gurdon, sir. Glad to see you this evening. Very curious coincidence, sir: we were just talking about you and your people;” which was indeed most remarkable, considering that nothing else had been talked of in the village for weeks past. “What’ll you take, sir? only give it a name. Quite an honour to have you distinguished furreners amongst us.”Mr Gurdon smiled and rubbed his hands; but, evidently considering that he had mistaken his position, he frowned the next moment, and nodded condescendingly to the tradesmen and little yeomen present. Certainly they had, several of them, known him as a boy; but then he had risen in the world, and deserved their respect; besides which, look at the patronage he could bestow. So Mr Gurdon frowned, coughed, and looked important; but, finding that room was made for him, and that incense in abundance was being prepared in his behalf, he condescended to take a seat, and gave what he would take the name of sherry, with which he smoked a cigar, whose aroma whispered strongly of the box from which it had been taken.Mr Gurdon’s presence, though, did not tend to the increase of comfort in the party assembled, for the gentleman’s gentleman seemed to have imbibed a considerable portion of his master’s dignity, sitting there very haughty and reserved, while, the flow of conversation being stopped, the rest sat still, smoked, breathed hard, and stared.But Chunt was satisfied, and he winked and nodded, and whispered behind his hand most mysteriously as he took orders from one and another. He expected that Mr Gurdon would thaw in time with a little management, and, putting on his diplomatic cap, he set to work by asking his advice.“That sherry’s not much account, Mr Gurdon, sir,” he said, in a whisper; “but it’s the best I’ve got to offer you. The long and short of it is, sir, we can’t order enough, in a little house like this, to make a wine-merchant care about sending it good; but I’ve got a few gallons of brandy down now that I should just like you to try, and give me your opinion. You see, it isn’t every day as one has a gent in as understands such things; but you, being used to your cellar, and having good stuff in your bins, yours is an opinion one would like to have. There, sir, now just taste that,” said Chunt, filling a liqueur-glass from a big stone bottle; “that’s, between ourselves, just as it comes—untouched, you know. I’ll mix you a glass hot; but just give me your opinion on it as it is.”Mr Gurdon was touched in a weak place, for, though his cellar knowledge was almost nil, it was not worth while to say so. Incense was nice—almost as nice as brandy, so accepting Chunt’s glass, and confidential wink, he tasted the brandy—tasted it again, and then agreed that it wasn’t bad, only it wanted age.“The very words as my spirit-merchant says to me, sir,” said Chunt. “If that brandy had age, sir, it wouldn’t be surpassed anywhere.”Mr Gurdon felt better, and agreed with one of the visitors present that they wanted rain. Then, after finishing the neat brandy, he commenced the stiff tumbler of hot grog placed before him by Chunt, toyed with the end of his cigar; and, finding a general disposition to pay him respect, and to call him “sir,” he gradually unbent—more swiftly, perhaps, than he would have done—under the influence of the brandy and water, for which he had a decided weakness, the potent spirit unlocking, or, as Chunt told his wife, oiling the butlers tongue, so that he gratified the curiosity of the Merlandites that evening to a considerable extent. And there was no lack of brandy and water that night: every one drank it, doing as Mr Gurdon did; and there was quite a struggle amongst the little traders for the honour of “standing” Mr Gurdon’s next glass, the most eager of them, so as not to be outdone, requesting Chunt to fill it again, while it was yet but half empty.“And do you like furren parts, Mr Gurdon, sir?” said Chunt, setting the ball rolling.“Pretty well—pretty well,” said Gurdon. “On the whole, perhaps, better than England. Society’s higher there—more titles.”“I suppose Mr Gurdon ain’t brought home a Hightalian wife,” said Huttoft.Mr Gurdon did not quite approve of this; and Huttoft had to suffer the frowns of the whole company.“And so, after all these years, Mr Gurdon, sir,” said Mouncey, who was in high spirits with the prospect of bread supplying, “you haven’t brought us home a heir to the Castle.”“No,” said Mr Gurdon; “and it’s my opinion as there’ll never be one.”“Turned out a happy match, and all that sort of thing, though, I suppose?” said Mouncey.“Happy! yes, I should think so. Sir Murray worships her, and she’s never happy unless he’s along with her, or else going hunting weeds and grass and moss in the hills. Lor’ bless you! it’s wonderful what a happy pair they are. Awfully jealous man, though, Sir Murray—nearly had a duel with a foreign Count, who wanted to be too attentive to my lady; but when my gentleman found as master meant fight, he cooled down, and made an apology.”“Ladyship changed much?” said Chunt.“Well, no; not much,” said Gurdon. “We all look older at the end of five years. She always was pale, and perhaps she is a bit thinner than when she went away. But there, you’ll see her safe enough before long; they’ll be home to-morrow, and she’ll be always out, either riding or walking.”“I used to fancy that things wouldn’t turn out happily after that set-out at the church door,” said Huttoft, venturing another remark. “Of course you know as Mr Norton’s settled down at the Hall?—married Miss Lee, you know. Good customer of mine, too.”“Ah, yes; we know all about that,” said Gurdon, sarcastically. “Her ladyship was frightened, of course; and enough to frighten any lady, to see a mad-brain fellow rush at her like that. Boy and girl love affair, that’s what that was. Them sort of things never come to nought; and look how soon he got over it and married. Her ladyship was upset about it, though, when she got the news. She was fond of her cousin, you know, Miss Lee, and you may say what you like here, but we got the right tale over abroad about that Captain Norton shooting her; while, when her ladyship heard that her cousin had been foolish enough to marry him, she had a brain fever, and was bad for weeks. No wonder, neither. He must be half-cracked with sunstroke or drink. They do say them Indy officers drink hard. Well, just one more, gents, and this must be the last.”Mr Mouncey could not help siding with the butler, for he happened to know that Captain Norton was a bit queer at times, as the servants had told him more than once, going rushing off to all parts without saying a word to anybody, not even to Mrs Norton; and he couldn’t quite see through it, unless it was, as Mr Gurdon said, the Captain was, after all, a bit touched.“By the way, though,” said Chunt, “isn’t he taking up with that Iron Company?”“Iron!” said Gurdon, thickly. “No iron about here.”“Oh yes,” said Huttoft; “they’ve found a bed, and there’s some talk of trying to work it, bringing coal by canal, but I can’t see as it will answer.”Soon after this the conversation became general upon the future of the iron, the company being divided, some declaring for riches to those who took shares in the company, others prognosticating that the shareholders would find the iron too hot to hold, and would burn their fingers in a way not to be forgotten. But, at last, remembrances of frowning wives sitting up for absent lords brought the hour into serious consideration, and, after glasses round, the enthusiastic party insisted upon seeing Mr Gurdon home, which they did to the lodge gates, parting from him most affectionately, though it might have been better had they continued their escort until he reached his normal bed, the one he chose, when left to himself, being a bed of verbenas, where he was found, covered with dew, at early morning, by Alexander McCray, one of the under-gardeners, who did not fail to treasure up the circumstance against the next time he might be snubbed.
There had been busy doings at the Castle, and Merland village was in an intense state of excitement. Old Chunt—Jonathan Chunt, who kept the “Black Bull”—said that there was to be some life in the place at last. He knew, for he had it from Mr Gurdon—old Gurdon’s lad, butMrGurdon now, and an awfully big man in his master’s estimation. He was butler now, and had come over to superintend the getting in order of the place, for Sir Murray was fond of company, and there were to be no end of gaieties at the Castle. Mr Gurdon was setting the old servants to rights and no mistake, for he’d got full power, and they hadn’t had such a waking up for long enough. Why, what with company’s servants coming down to the “Bull,” and post-horses now and then, and one thing and another, it would be a little fortune to him, Chunt said. Time there was a change, too: keeping a house like that shut up for the rats to scamper across the floors, was injuring the trade of the village, where there was no one else but the old people at the Rectory, and them Nortons, who might just as well be a hundred miles off, shutting themselves up as they did.
Chunt knew, and he imparted his knowledge, with no end of nods and winks, to his fellow-tradesmen, as he termed them—to wit, Huttoft, the saddler, who made nothing but harness, and Mouncey, the baker, when they came in for a glass.
“And if here ain’t Mr Gurdon himself!” exclaimed Chunt, one evening, when he had been distilling information to a select knot of customers. “Take a chair, Mr Gurdon, sir. Glad to see you this evening. Very curious coincidence, sir: we were just talking about you and your people;” which was indeed most remarkable, considering that nothing else had been talked of in the village for weeks past. “What’ll you take, sir? only give it a name. Quite an honour to have you distinguished furreners amongst us.”
Mr Gurdon smiled and rubbed his hands; but, evidently considering that he had mistaken his position, he frowned the next moment, and nodded condescendingly to the tradesmen and little yeomen present. Certainly they had, several of them, known him as a boy; but then he had risen in the world, and deserved their respect; besides which, look at the patronage he could bestow. So Mr Gurdon frowned, coughed, and looked important; but, finding that room was made for him, and that incense in abundance was being prepared in his behalf, he condescended to take a seat, and gave what he would take the name of sherry, with which he smoked a cigar, whose aroma whispered strongly of the box from which it had been taken.
Mr Gurdon’s presence, though, did not tend to the increase of comfort in the party assembled, for the gentleman’s gentleman seemed to have imbibed a considerable portion of his master’s dignity, sitting there very haughty and reserved, while, the flow of conversation being stopped, the rest sat still, smoked, breathed hard, and stared.
But Chunt was satisfied, and he winked and nodded, and whispered behind his hand most mysteriously as he took orders from one and another. He expected that Mr Gurdon would thaw in time with a little management, and, putting on his diplomatic cap, he set to work by asking his advice.
“That sherry’s not much account, Mr Gurdon, sir,” he said, in a whisper; “but it’s the best I’ve got to offer you. The long and short of it is, sir, we can’t order enough, in a little house like this, to make a wine-merchant care about sending it good; but I’ve got a few gallons of brandy down now that I should just like you to try, and give me your opinion. You see, it isn’t every day as one has a gent in as understands such things; but you, being used to your cellar, and having good stuff in your bins, yours is an opinion one would like to have. There, sir, now just taste that,” said Chunt, filling a liqueur-glass from a big stone bottle; “that’s, between ourselves, just as it comes—untouched, you know. I’ll mix you a glass hot; but just give me your opinion on it as it is.”
Mr Gurdon was touched in a weak place, for, though his cellar knowledge was almost nil, it was not worth while to say so. Incense was nice—almost as nice as brandy, so accepting Chunt’s glass, and confidential wink, he tasted the brandy—tasted it again, and then agreed that it wasn’t bad, only it wanted age.
“The very words as my spirit-merchant says to me, sir,” said Chunt. “If that brandy had age, sir, it wouldn’t be surpassed anywhere.”
Mr Gurdon felt better, and agreed with one of the visitors present that they wanted rain. Then, after finishing the neat brandy, he commenced the stiff tumbler of hot grog placed before him by Chunt, toyed with the end of his cigar; and, finding a general disposition to pay him respect, and to call him “sir,” he gradually unbent—more swiftly, perhaps, than he would have done—under the influence of the brandy and water, for which he had a decided weakness, the potent spirit unlocking, or, as Chunt told his wife, oiling the butlers tongue, so that he gratified the curiosity of the Merlandites that evening to a considerable extent. And there was no lack of brandy and water that night: every one drank it, doing as Mr Gurdon did; and there was quite a struggle amongst the little traders for the honour of “standing” Mr Gurdon’s next glass, the most eager of them, so as not to be outdone, requesting Chunt to fill it again, while it was yet but half empty.
“And do you like furren parts, Mr Gurdon, sir?” said Chunt, setting the ball rolling.
“Pretty well—pretty well,” said Gurdon. “On the whole, perhaps, better than England. Society’s higher there—more titles.”
“I suppose Mr Gurdon ain’t brought home a Hightalian wife,” said Huttoft.
Mr Gurdon did not quite approve of this; and Huttoft had to suffer the frowns of the whole company.
“And so, after all these years, Mr Gurdon, sir,” said Mouncey, who was in high spirits with the prospect of bread supplying, “you haven’t brought us home a heir to the Castle.”
“No,” said Mr Gurdon; “and it’s my opinion as there’ll never be one.”
“Turned out a happy match, and all that sort of thing, though, I suppose?” said Mouncey.
“Happy! yes, I should think so. Sir Murray worships her, and she’s never happy unless he’s along with her, or else going hunting weeds and grass and moss in the hills. Lor’ bless you! it’s wonderful what a happy pair they are. Awfully jealous man, though, Sir Murray—nearly had a duel with a foreign Count, who wanted to be too attentive to my lady; but when my gentleman found as master meant fight, he cooled down, and made an apology.”
“Ladyship changed much?” said Chunt.
“Well, no; not much,” said Gurdon. “We all look older at the end of five years. She always was pale, and perhaps she is a bit thinner than when she went away. But there, you’ll see her safe enough before long; they’ll be home to-morrow, and she’ll be always out, either riding or walking.”
“I used to fancy that things wouldn’t turn out happily after that set-out at the church door,” said Huttoft, venturing another remark. “Of course you know as Mr Norton’s settled down at the Hall?—married Miss Lee, you know. Good customer of mine, too.”
“Ah, yes; we know all about that,” said Gurdon, sarcastically. “Her ladyship was frightened, of course; and enough to frighten any lady, to see a mad-brain fellow rush at her like that. Boy and girl love affair, that’s what that was. Them sort of things never come to nought; and look how soon he got over it and married. Her ladyship was upset about it, though, when she got the news. She was fond of her cousin, you know, Miss Lee, and you may say what you like here, but we got the right tale over abroad about that Captain Norton shooting her; while, when her ladyship heard that her cousin had been foolish enough to marry him, she had a brain fever, and was bad for weeks. No wonder, neither. He must be half-cracked with sunstroke or drink. They do say them Indy officers drink hard. Well, just one more, gents, and this must be the last.”
Mr Mouncey could not help siding with the butler, for he happened to know that Captain Norton was a bit queer at times, as the servants had told him more than once, going rushing off to all parts without saying a word to anybody, not even to Mrs Norton; and he couldn’t quite see through it, unless it was, as Mr Gurdon said, the Captain was, after all, a bit touched.
“By the way, though,” said Chunt, “isn’t he taking up with that Iron Company?”
“Iron!” said Gurdon, thickly. “No iron about here.”
“Oh yes,” said Huttoft; “they’ve found a bed, and there’s some talk of trying to work it, bringing coal by canal, but I can’t see as it will answer.”
Soon after this the conversation became general upon the future of the iron, the company being divided, some declaring for riches to those who took shares in the company, others prognosticating that the shareholders would find the iron too hot to hold, and would burn their fingers in a way not to be forgotten. But, at last, remembrances of frowning wives sitting up for absent lords brought the hour into serious consideration, and, after glasses round, the enthusiastic party insisted upon seeing Mr Gurdon home, which they did to the lodge gates, parting from him most affectionately, though it might have been better had they continued their escort until he reached his normal bed, the one he chose, when left to himself, being a bed of verbenas, where he was found, covered with dew, at early morning, by Alexander McCray, one of the under-gardeners, who did not fail to treasure up the circumstance against the next time he might be snubbed.
Husbands and Wives.The Gernons had returned to the Castle for some days before Philip Norton came home, his wife anxiously scanning his countenance, to find him apparently quite happy and untroubled of mind. She had something she wished to say to him, but she shrank from her task, hardly knowing how to commence; her difficulty, though, was ended by Norton himself, who, as they were seated at tea, turned the conversation in the required direction.“So the Castle folks are back,” he said, quietly.“Yes; they arrived last Thursday,” said Mrs Norton, uneasily.“Busy times there’ll be there, then, I expect,” said Norton. “Do the old place good.”Mrs Norton looked searchingly at him, but not a muscle of his countenance was moved.“Do you know, love, I’ve been thinking over their return,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “and I fancy that, perhaps, it would be better if the intimacy between you and Lady Gernon were not resumed. Time works wonders, we know, but I cannot think that there could ever be the cordiality that one would wish to feel towards one’s friends.”“Can you read my thoughts, dear?” said Mrs Norton, kneeling at his feet, so as to rest her elbows on his knees, and gaze up in his face.“Well, not all,” he said, laughing. “A great many, though, for you are horribly transparent. But why?”“Because you have been thoroughly expressing my wishes. Do not think me foolish, but I do, indeed, think it would be better that there should be no intimacy between the families.”“Foolish!” he laughed. “Why, that would be like blaming myself. But there, I don’t think we need trouble ourselves; for I suppose they will be very grand, and take up only with the county families and grandees from London; they will not want our society. And do you know, dear, we shall have to pinch and save no end, for I have been investing heaps of money in a speculation—one, though, that is certain to pay. Iron mines, you know, that were found last year at Blankesley. Capital thing it is to be, so they tell me.”“But was it not foolish?” said Mrs Norton. “Had we not enough, dear?”“Well, yes,” he said, rather impatiently; “enough for ourselves, but we have the child to think of. You do not suppose he will be content to lead his fathers dreary life.”“Dreary, Philip?”“Well, no—not dreary. I don’t mean that; but quiet, retired existence; and besides, a little to do with this iron affair—a little occupation—will be the making of me. I’ve grown so rusty,” he said, laughing, “that I have run to iron to polish it off.”That same night a similar conversation took place at the Castle, where, in quiet, well-chosen words, Sir Murray expressed a wish that there might be no communication held with the inmates of the Hall.“Do you doubt me, Murray?” said Lady Gernon, rising, and standing looking down upon her husband, as he leaned back in his chair.“Doubt you!” he said, almost angrily. “My dear Lady Gernon, what a question!”“Then why should you ask me, now that at your wish we have returned to the Castle, to give up the love, sympathy, and companionship of my cousin? Why did we not stay abroad, if such coldness is to be preserved. I ceased corresponding with her at her marriage, but with what pain and cost you only know. Do not ask more of me.”“There—there,” he said, “what a trouble you are making of this trifle. It is my wish that the old acquaintanceship should not be renewed. No good can result from it; but, perhaps, for all parties a great deal of heartburning and pain. Be guided by me, Marion.”“Not in this,” she said, firmly. “Murray, I never yet in anything opposed your wishes, but in this I do. It is my intention to drive over and call upon Ada to-morrow, and I ask you to accompany me. To be distant now would be like disinterring old griefs and sorrows that should before this have been forgotten. Let the past be buried in the past, and let us be, with these our nearest neighbours, upon intimate terms. You do not know Philip and Ada as I know them; and I love them both too dearly to slight them even in thought.”“As you will,” he said, with a shrug of the shoulders.“And besides,” she continued, “your wish is almost an insult to your wife, Murray; it is cruel in tone, cruel in wording—harsh as it is unjust—unfair.”“Do I not say,” he exclaimed, angrily, “do as you will? I gave you my opinion as to what I thought would be best, and you differ. Very well; one of us must give way, and I have yielded. What more would you have? Do I ever play the domestic tyrant? Am I ever unreasonable?”Lady Gernon was silent, and stood pale and motionless, looking at the table upon which she rested her hand. She was still very beautiful; but there was a sharpness about her features that told of suffering, and the workings of a troubled heart. It was evident that she wished to speak, but the words would not come, and at last, fearing to display her agitation, she glided back to her seat.But she had gained her end: there was to be reconciliation, and a friendly feeling preserved between the two families. And why not? she asked herself. Were they to be always enemies on account of the past?Sinking thoughtfully back in her chair, she rested her forehead upon her hand, dreaming over the incidents of the past few years, and even while feeling a dread of the impending meeting, she felt a longing desire to look once more upon her old lover—upon the man who, upon her wedding-day, had seemed, as it were, to cast a blight upon her future life, as he appeared like one rising from the dead to upbraid her with her falling away.Lady Gernon did not see the curious way in which her husband sat and watched her, marking every change in her countenance, noting every sign. He had been startled by the earnestness with which she had combated his wishes. Her manner had been so new, her eager words so unusual; for during their married life her actions had been of the most subdued nature, and, as if resigning herself to her fate, she had been the quiet, uncomplaining wife, to whom his word had been law, while, proud of her beauty and accomplishments, he had been content.But no words passed till, rousing herself, Lady Gernon sought to remove any strange impression her utterances might have made—sought, but in vain, for she had unwittingly sown seeds that had already begun to germinate, striking root deeply in her husband’s breast, soon to flourish for ill in a way that should defy her utmost efforts to uproot them.
The Gernons had returned to the Castle for some days before Philip Norton came home, his wife anxiously scanning his countenance, to find him apparently quite happy and untroubled of mind. She had something she wished to say to him, but she shrank from her task, hardly knowing how to commence; her difficulty, though, was ended by Norton himself, who, as they were seated at tea, turned the conversation in the required direction.
“So the Castle folks are back,” he said, quietly.
“Yes; they arrived last Thursday,” said Mrs Norton, uneasily.
“Busy times there’ll be there, then, I expect,” said Norton. “Do the old place good.”
Mrs Norton looked searchingly at him, but not a muscle of his countenance was moved.
“Do you know, love, I’ve been thinking over their return,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “and I fancy that, perhaps, it would be better if the intimacy between you and Lady Gernon were not resumed. Time works wonders, we know, but I cannot think that there could ever be the cordiality that one would wish to feel towards one’s friends.”
“Can you read my thoughts, dear?” said Mrs Norton, kneeling at his feet, so as to rest her elbows on his knees, and gaze up in his face.
“Well, not all,” he said, laughing. “A great many, though, for you are horribly transparent. But why?”
“Because you have been thoroughly expressing my wishes. Do not think me foolish, but I do, indeed, think it would be better that there should be no intimacy between the families.”
“Foolish!” he laughed. “Why, that would be like blaming myself. But there, I don’t think we need trouble ourselves; for I suppose they will be very grand, and take up only with the county families and grandees from London; they will not want our society. And do you know, dear, we shall have to pinch and save no end, for I have been investing heaps of money in a speculation—one, though, that is certain to pay. Iron mines, you know, that were found last year at Blankesley. Capital thing it is to be, so they tell me.”
“But was it not foolish?” said Mrs Norton. “Had we not enough, dear?”
“Well, yes,” he said, rather impatiently; “enough for ourselves, but we have the child to think of. You do not suppose he will be content to lead his fathers dreary life.”
“Dreary, Philip?”
“Well, no—not dreary. I don’t mean that; but quiet, retired existence; and besides, a little to do with this iron affair—a little occupation—will be the making of me. I’ve grown so rusty,” he said, laughing, “that I have run to iron to polish it off.”
That same night a similar conversation took place at the Castle, where, in quiet, well-chosen words, Sir Murray expressed a wish that there might be no communication held with the inmates of the Hall.
“Do you doubt me, Murray?” said Lady Gernon, rising, and standing looking down upon her husband, as he leaned back in his chair.
“Doubt you!” he said, almost angrily. “My dear Lady Gernon, what a question!”
“Then why should you ask me, now that at your wish we have returned to the Castle, to give up the love, sympathy, and companionship of my cousin? Why did we not stay abroad, if such coldness is to be preserved. I ceased corresponding with her at her marriage, but with what pain and cost you only know. Do not ask more of me.”
“There—there,” he said, “what a trouble you are making of this trifle. It is my wish that the old acquaintanceship should not be renewed. No good can result from it; but, perhaps, for all parties a great deal of heartburning and pain. Be guided by me, Marion.”
“Not in this,” she said, firmly. “Murray, I never yet in anything opposed your wishes, but in this I do. It is my intention to drive over and call upon Ada to-morrow, and I ask you to accompany me. To be distant now would be like disinterring old griefs and sorrows that should before this have been forgotten. Let the past be buried in the past, and let us be, with these our nearest neighbours, upon intimate terms. You do not know Philip and Ada as I know them; and I love them both too dearly to slight them even in thought.”
“As you will,” he said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“And besides,” she continued, “your wish is almost an insult to your wife, Murray; it is cruel in tone, cruel in wording—harsh as it is unjust—unfair.”
“Do I not say,” he exclaimed, angrily, “do as you will? I gave you my opinion as to what I thought would be best, and you differ. Very well; one of us must give way, and I have yielded. What more would you have? Do I ever play the domestic tyrant? Am I ever unreasonable?”
Lady Gernon was silent, and stood pale and motionless, looking at the table upon which she rested her hand. She was still very beautiful; but there was a sharpness about her features that told of suffering, and the workings of a troubled heart. It was evident that she wished to speak, but the words would not come, and at last, fearing to display her agitation, she glided back to her seat.
But she had gained her end: there was to be reconciliation, and a friendly feeling preserved between the two families. And why not? she asked herself. Were they to be always enemies on account of the past?
Sinking thoughtfully back in her chair, she rested her forehead upon her hand, dreaming over the incidents of the past few years, and even while feeling a dread of the impending meeting, she felt a longing desire to look once more upon her old lover—upon the man who, upon her wedding-day, had seemed, as it were, to cast a blight upon her future life, as he appeared like one rising from the dead to upbraid her with her falling away.
Lady Gernon did not see the curious way in which her husband sat and watched her, marking every change in her countenance, noting every sign. He had been startled by the earnestness with which she had combated his wishes. Her manner had been so new, her eager words so unusual; for during their married life her actions had been of the most subdued nature, and, as if resigning herself to her fate, she had been the quiet, uncomplaining wife, to whom his word had been law, while, proud of her beauty and accomplishments, he had been content.
But no words passed till, rousing herself, Lady Gernon sought to remove any strange impression her utterances might have made—sought, but in vain, for she had unwittingly sown seeds that had already begun to germinate, striking root deeply in her husband’s breast, soon to flourish for ill in a way that should defy her utmost efforts to uproot them.
Food for Suspicion.“Who?” exclaimed Mrs Norton, aghast, as her servant hurriedly made an announcement.“Sir Murray and Lady Gernon. I saw the carriage come in at the lower gate. There they are, ma’am,” said the girl, as the grating of wheels upon the drive preceded a loud peal at the bell.“For Heaven’s sake be calm, Philip!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, as she saw him turn ghastly pale, all save the great scar upon his face, which seemed to glow and throb.“Not at home! We can’t see them!” he exclaimed hoarsely.“Too late,” she said, unwittingly giving him another pang, as she quoted his despairing words of the day when he had last seen Marion. “But, Philip, love, dear husband, recollect yourself,” she whispered imploringly; and then, trying to recover her composure, she rose as Sir Murray and Lady Gernon entered the room—the former courtly and at ease, the latter to run to Ada, throw her arms round her neck, and kiss her fondly, holding her for a few moments to her throbbing breast, while, overcome by the warmth of the greeting, Mrs Norton as lovingly returned the embrace.To her great delight, though, as she raised her eyes from her cousin, it was to see that, quite composed and courteously, Philip Norton had advanced to meet his guest, they had shaken hands, and Norton had now turned to greet Marion.Ada’s heart palpitated, and she hardly dared watch her husband, but turned to look at Sir Murray, who was narrowly scanning every glance and act. But Lady Gernon’s greeting of her old lover was graceful, kind, and yet dignified; her every word and look was unimpeachable, and Ada Norton’s agitation gave place to a feeling of thankfulness as she saw her husband take Marion’s hand without a shade crossing his countenance, press it slightly in a frank greeting, and then place for her a chair; when, apparently himself relieved, Sir Murray engaged his wife’s cousin in conversation, his old stiff, courtly manner being more proud and polished than ever, as he talked of their long absence, the changes that had taken place, expressing, too, a hope that he should see her often at the Castle.“Will you take me into the garden, Captain Norton?” said Lady Gernon, in a low tone. “I have something to say to you.” Then aloud: “Do you not find the weather very oppressive? I am always longing for the fresh air.”The remark was too pointed to escape observation, for Lady Gernon was no way skilled in subterfuge, while Norton hesitated for an instant, and there was a slight change in his countenance as he rose, saying:“You have probably not seen our poor place, Lady Gernon; will you walk round?” She rose on the instant and took his arm, and they passed through the French window on to the lawn, while, half rising, Ada Norton looked anxiously in Sir Murray’s face.“No,” he replied calmly, as, with a bitter smile on his lip, he read off her unspoken words. “I think we will stay. They will probably return directly;” and then he started, in a cool and indolent way, a fresh topic of conversation, to which, in the agitation she could not conceal, Ada could but reply in monosyllables.“Well, Marion,” said Norton, calmly, as they stood amidst the flower-beds of the little parterre, “you wish to speak to me?”“Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly. “I know that it may seem strange, but, Philip, I could not rest till I had spoken to you. Heaven willed that we should not be one, and I am now another’s. You loved me once; will you, for the sake of that old love, make me a promise?”“Loved you once—promise!” said Norton, bitterly.“Yes,” she cried, eagerly; “promise me, and then let the past be dead.”“What would you have me promise?” he said. “Though you fail with yours.”“Hush!” she said, imploringly; “do not be cruel. Now, at once, promise for the sake of our old dead love, that the past shall all be forgotten, and that you will treat my husband as a friend.”“The man who robbed me of all my hopes!”“Oh, hush! Do not speak so, Philip. There was some talk, before we left England, of a meeting—of angry words between you, and it was for this that I fostered Sir Murray’s desire to live abroad. But you will promise me, will you not—on your word—yours, Philip—that there shall never be a quarrel between you?”“Lady Gernon,” said Philip, coldly, “your husband is safe from me. My madness is at an end, and I am now your cousin’s husband. There, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, a change coming over him, “never let us refer to the past, and let us meet but seldom. Come back into the house. Forgive me if I speak bitterly, but the sight of your happiness would drive me to forget the duties I owe to others. Why did you come?”“For my husband’s sake,” said Lady Gernon. “And now, from my soul, I thank you. I know how worthless are my promises,” she said, bitterly; “but I can confide in yours. Now let us return.”The blood was mantling in Philip Norton’s forehead, and he was about to speak, when an end was put to the painful interview by the merry, prattling voice of a child, and Philip’s bright little fellow came running up, but only to draw back shyly on seeing the strange lady, who sank upon her knees with outstretched hands, as if hungering to clasp the child to her breast.“Yours?—your boy, Philip?” she said.“Mine, Lady Gernon,” said Norton, coldly, for he had once more regained control of himself. Then, stooping over the child, “Go to that lady, Brace,” he said; and in obedience the child suffered himself to be caressed, Lady Gernon kissing his bright little face eagerly, a tear or two falling the while upon his sunny hair.Lady Gernon was still on her knees, holding the boy, who, forgetting his fear, was playing with her watch-chain, when slowly, and with courtly grace, conversing loudly the while, Sir Murray led Ada Norton into the garden, when the dread and undefined feelings in the latter’s heart were chased away, and a happy light beamed in her eye as she caught sight of the group before her; but there was an ill-concealed, angry glance directed at his wife by Sir Murray, and another at the child—an angry, jealous, envious look, but it was gone in an instant, and, stooping down, he too sought to take the child’s hand, but only for it to shrink from him hastily.“Oh, Ada!” exclaimed Lady Gernon, with swimming eyes, as she laid her hand upon her cousin’s arm; and in those two words there seemed sufficient to disarm every doubt and suspicion—to break off the points of the thorns that had been ready to enter into her soul; and Ada, as much at rest as now seemed Lady Gernon, turned to her smilingly, ready to listen to her praises of the child’s beauty, and her prayers that they might be as of old.“I have been so lonely abroad, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, sadly. “You will renew the old days, will you not?”Ada Norton paused for a moment before she answered, looking steadfastly in her cousin’s face, to see there now a calm, sad serenity, that she could hardly understand, when, the words being repeated almost imploringly, the reply was, “Yes.”“I am at your service, Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray at that moment, when, once more, embracing the child, Lady Gernon kissed her cousin with the same old tenderness as of yore, turning the next moment to offer her hand, with a sad, quiet smile, to Philip Norton, who led her to the carriage; and then it all seemed to him to have been a dream, while the sound of the carriage-wheels, fast subsiding into a murmur, were but a part of the imaginings of his troubled brain. But the next instant he had started back to the reality, for his wife was gazing anxiously in his troubled face, when, as his eyes met hers, his old quiet smile came back, and, catching the boy in his arms, he made the little fellow shout with glee as he galloped him round the garden, to return with flushed face and tumbled hair to his watching wife.“Philip?” she said, looking up at him inquiringly.“My love,” he said, tenderly.“You have something to say to me, have you not?”“No,” he said, quietly; “unless it is—better friends than enemies.”Mrs Norton said no more; but there was a pang at her heart, for she felt that her husband was keeping something from her.
“Who?” exclaimed Mrs Norton, aghast, as her servant hurriedly made an announcement.
“Sir Murray and Lady Gernon. I saw the carriage come in at the lower gate. There they are, ma’am,” said the girl, as the grating of wheels upon the drive preceded a loud peal at the bell.
“For Heaven’s sake be calm, Philip!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, as she saw him turn ghastly pale, all save the great scar upon his face, which seemed to glow and throb.
“Not at home! We can’t see them!” he exclaimed hoarsely.
“Too late,” she said, unwittingly giving him another pang, as she quoted his despairing words of the day when he had last seen Marion. “But, Philip, love, dear husband, recollect yourself,” she whispered imploringly; and then, trying to recover her composure, she rose as Sir Murray and Lady Gernon entered the room—the former courtly and at ease, the latter to run to Ada, throw her arms round her neck, and kiss her fondly, holding her for a few moments to her throbbing breast, while, overcome by the warmth of the greeting, Mrs Norton as lovingly returned the embrace.
To her great delight, though, as she raised her eyes from her cousin, it was to see that, quite composed and courteously, Philip Norton had advanced to meet his guest, they had shaken hands, and Norton had now turned to greet Marion.
Ada’s heart palpitated, and she hardly dared watch her husband, but turned to look at Sir Murray, who was narrowly scanning every glance and act. But Lady Gernon’s greeting of her old lover was graceful, kind, and yet dignified; her every word and look was unimpeachable, and Ada Norton’s agitation gave place to a feeling of thankfulness as she saw her husband take Marion’s hand without a shade crossing his countenance, press it slightly in a frank greeting, and then place for her a chair; when, apparently himself relieved, Sir Murray engaged his wife’s cousin in conversation, his old stiff, courtly manner being more proud and polished than ever, as he talked of their long absence, the changes that had taken place, expressing, too, a hope that he should see her often at the Castle.
“Will you take me into the garden, Captain Norton?” said Lady Gernon, in a low tone. “I have something to say to you.” Then aloud: “Do you not find the weather very oppressive? I am always longing for the fresh air.”
The remark was too pointed to escape observation, for Lady Gernon was no way skilled in subterfuge, while Norton hesitated for an instant, and there was a slight change in his countenance as he rose, saying:
“You have probably not seen our poor place, Lady Gernon; will you walk round?” She rose on the instant and took his arm, and they passed through the French window on to the lawn, while, half rising, Ada Norton looked anxiously in Sir Murray’s face.
“No,” he replied calmly, as, with a bitter smile on his lip, he read off her unspoken words. “I think we will stay. They will probably return directly;” and then he started, in a cool and indolent way, a fresh topic of conversation, to which, in the agitation she could not conceal, Ada could but reply in monosyllables.
“Well, Marion,” said Norton, calmly, as they stood amidst the flower-beds of the little parterre, “you wish to speak to me?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, eagerly. “I know that it may seem strange, but, Philip, I could not rest till I had spoken to you. Heaven willed that we should not be one, and I am now another’s. You loved me once; will you, for the sake of that old love, make me a promise?”
“Loved you once—promise!” said Norton, bitterly.
“Yes,” she cried, eagerly; “promise me, and then let the past be dead.”
“What would you have me promise?” he said. “Though you fail with yours.”
“Hush!” she said, imploringly; “do not be cruel. Now, at once, promise for the sake of our old dead love, that the past shall all be forgotten, and that you will treat my husband as a friend.”
“The man who robbed me of all my hopes!”
“Oh, hush! Do not speak so, Philip. There was some talk, before we left England, of a meeting—of angry words between you, and it was for this that I fostered Sir Murray’s desire to live abroad. But you will promise me, will you not—on your word—yours, Philip—that there shall never be a quarrel between you?”
“Lady Gernon,” said Philip, coldly, “your husband is safe from me. My madness is at an end, and I am now your cousin’s husband. There, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, a change coming over him, “never let us refer to the past, and let us meet but seldom. Come back into the house. Forgive me if I speak bitterly, but the sight of your happiness would drive me to forget the duties I owe to others. Why did you come?”
“For my husband’s sake,” said Lady Gernon. “And now, from my soul, I thank you. I know how worthless are my promises,” she said, bitterly; “but I can confide in yours. Now let us return.”
The blood was mantling in Philip Norton’s forehead, and he was about to speak, when an end was put to the painful interview by the merry, prattling voice of a child, and Philip’s bright little fellow came running up, but only to draw back shyly on seeing the strange lady, who sank upon her knees with outstretched hands, as if hungering to clasp the child to her breast.
“Yours?—your boy, Philip?” she said.
“Mine, Lady Gernon,” said Norton, coldly, for he had once more regained control of himself. Then, stooping over the child, “Go to that lady, Brace,” he said; and in obedience the child suffered himself to be caressed, Lady Gernon kissing his bright little face eagerly, a tear or two falling the while upon his sunny hair.
Lady Gernon was still on her knees, holding the boy, who, forgetting his fear, was playing with her watch-chain, when slowly, and with courtly grace, conversing loudly the while, Sir Murray led Ada Norton into the garden, when the dread and undefined feelings in the latter’s heart were chased away, and a happy light beamed in her eye as she caught sight of the group before her; but there was an ill-concealed, angry glance directed at his wife by Sir Murray, and another at the child—an angry, jealous, envious look, but it was gone in an instant, and, stooping down, he too sought to take the child’s hand, but only for it to shrink from him hastily.
“Oh, Ada!” exclaimed Lady Gernon, with swimming eyes, as she laid her hand upon her cousin’s arm; and in those two words there seemed sufficient to disarm every doubt and suspicion—to break off the points of the thorns that had been ready to enter into her soul; and Ada, as much at rest as now seemed Lady Gernon, turned to her smilingly, ready to listen to her praises of the child’s beauty, and her prayers that they might be as of old.
“I have been so lonely abroad, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, sadly. “You will renew the old days, will you not?”
Ada Norton paused for a moment before she answered, looking steadfastly in her cousin’s face, to see there now a calm, sad serenity, that she could hardly understand, when, the words being repeated almost imploringly, the reply was, “Yes.”
“I am at your service, Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray at that moment, when, once more, embracing the child, Lady Gernon kissed her cousin with the same old tenderness as of yore, turning the next moment to offer her hand, with a sad, quiet smile, to Philip Norton, who led her to the carriage; and then it all seemed to him to have been a dream, while the sound of the carriage-wheels, fast subsiding into a murmur, were but a part of the imaginings of his troubled brain. But the next instant he had started back to the reality, for his wife was gazing anxiously in his troubled face, when, as his eyes met hers, his old quiet smile came back, and, catching the boy in his arms, he made the little fellow shout with glee as he galloped him round the garden, to return with flushed face and tumbled hair to his watching wife.
“Philip?” she said, looking up at him inquiringly.
“My love,” he said, tenderly.
“You have something to say to me, have you not?”
“No,” he said, quietly; “unless it is—better friends than enemies.”
Mrs Norton said no more; but there was a pang at her heart, for she felt that her husband was keeping something from her.
Brooding.People said that Lady Gernon had benefited by the change—that Italy could not have agreed with her—for day by day she seemed to be casting off the dull, heavy languor that oppressed her. There was still a quiet sadness pervading every movement; but Sir Murray, without hearing people’s remarks, noted for himself that she took more interest in the affairs of daily life: in place of disliking company, she now gladly met his wishes, concerning dinner or breakfast party. In fact, there was a complete change; but it gave no pleasure to her husband, for he watched her with jaundiced eyes, saying nothing, but followed her every movement uneasily. Even the apparent increase of affection she displayed towards him was distasteful; and he grew in private moody and dissatisfied. But only in private, for he told himself that he had a duty to perform—one which demanded all watchfulness and care, and sternly he set himself to that duty.The intimacy with the Nortons grew daily more close, and they dined several times at the Castle, the old warm affection between the two cousins growing stronger than ever. Both Lady Gernon and Mrs Norton viewed with satisfaction the quiet, unobtrusive courtesy of Sir Murray; while Captain Norton grew more and more dreamy, just waking up into an animated smile when spoken to, and joining for a few minutes in the conversation; but only to subside again directly after.No stranger could have imagined that there had ever been more than the simplest of friendly ties between the families, and Sir Murray Gernon again and again owned to himself that his wife’s conduct was unimpeachable; but, at the same time, it troubled him, that from the day of the visit to the Hall, and Lady Gernon’s unconcealed efforts to obtain a few words with her old lover in private, she had been an altered woman; and he felt that it was not on his account, else why had not the change come during the past five years. It troubled him, too, that there was nothing that he could complain of; and, as he sat one day in his library, thoughtfully brooding, he passed over in review the conduct of those in whom he was most interested. Captain Norton called but seldom, and then with his wife; he was absent, too, a great deal, report said, at the iron mines; and when at the Castle his attentions to Lady Gernon were always of the most formal nature, while, after rendering the duties incumbent on her towards her guest, Lady Gernon seemed to avoid him. Mrs Norton was evidently much attached to her cousin, while Lady Gernon—yes, there was the knot: Lady Gernon was another woman, growing daily brighter and more elate, while his spirit refused to let him believe that it was all due to the change of scene and return to the society of parents and friends.But he wanted some clue. He was, he told himself, wandering in the dark, for, musing upon imaginary wrong, he had grown into the belief that there was a plot against his happiness—that there were matters in progress that perhaps all but Mrs Norton and himself saw and mocked at. He was too proud to ask confidence, while a hint from any one would have been repulsed with indignation. He knew that others remarked the change in his wife; frequently, in fact, he had grimly thanked friends who had congratulated him. But all his brooding resulted in nothing, and at the end of six months he was soured and angry to find that his labours had been in vain. At times, he almost resented the gentle advances of Marion, telling himself that they were not genuine, but used as a blind; and often and often Lady Gernon went in tears to the Hall to ask her cousin’s sympathy—an act which only widened the breach daily growing between husband and wife. And this, too, at a time when Lady Gernon’s heart had begun to leap with new hopes—hopes of that happiness which she had envied in others; when the world gave promise to her of a happier future, with fresh cares and interests; so that, even now that this hopeful state lent brightness to her eye, and colour to her cheek, she had new cause for sorrow in her husband’s coldness.Sir Murray Gernon persuaded himself that his suspicions merely wanted confirmation, and, waiting that confirmation, he shut himself up, as it were, within his cold, proud hauteur, and waited—waited, for he would not stir an inch to find proof of his suspicions; it should come to him, and blankly stare him in the face before he would take step or speak word; and so the months glided on at the Castle, company coming and going, parties following one another rapidly, and Sir Murray Gernon a very pattern of courtly politeness to all. His greatest intimates congratulated him upon his domestic happiness, and he smiled his thanks, and then subsided again into his saturnine gloom, waiting—waiting for what he told himself would some day come.There was to be a grand party at the Castle, at Sir Murray’s wish, on the anniversary of the marriage. The idea had proceeded from Mrs Elstree, during a visit to the Rectory, and Sir Murray had immediately taken it up, though, upon receiving a meaning glance from the Rector, who had seen a shadow cross his daughter’s brow, the proposer would gladly have recalled her words.Great preparations were in progress; but after making his decree that there should be a grand affair, one that should do honour to his name, Sir Murray Gernon took no further interest in the matter.He was seated, as was his wont, one morning in his library, turning over his letters, and thoughtfully brooding over his wrongs. It was cruel, he said, that he, rich, powerful, and well endowed by nature, should suffer in this way. But he could wait; and he turned to think of what he should do to drive away the ennui which oppressed him. Suddenly a thought came, and ringing sharply, the summons was answered by a footman.“Send Gurdon here,” said the baronet; and then, adopting his most magisterial air, he sat waiting the coming of the butler, upon whom the thunders of his wrath were about to descend.Mr Gurdon, rather red of nose and pasty of face, soon appeared, wearing on the whole rather a limp expression. But John Gurdon had not improved in appearance; prosperity had not agreed with him. He said that it was his digestion; but Jane Barker—Mrs Barker now, my lady’s maid—shook her head at him and sighed, as she thought of the smart young fellow who used to come courting her at the Rectory, laughingly telling her that he’d caught the complaint of his master.“I think, Gurdon,” said Sir Murray, “that this is the third time that I have sent for you into the library.”“Yes—yes, Sir Murray,” said Gurdon, with a cough behind his hand.“It is the last time, then. But for your being an old servant, and son of an old tenant of my late father, I should discharge you at once!”“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, Sir Murray,” said the man piteously. “It shall never occur again; it shan’t, indeed!”“You had been drinking again, last night!”“Only the least drop, Sir Murray—the least drop. I was a little out of order yesterday.”“And you were not fit to come before her ladyship, in the drawing-room?”“Perhaps not quite, Sir Murray—not quite; but—but—”“And mind this is the last time. No servant of mine shall be a disgrace to my establishment.”“I humbly beg your pardon, Sir Murray, I do, indeed; and it shall never occur again, it shan’t, indeed. I know your ways, Sir Murray, and I should die, if you was to turn me off. Please look over it this once.”“I have looked over it, Gurdon, or I should have given you your wages when you entered the room. Now go and ask her ladyship if she can see me for a few minutes.”“Her ladyship isn’t in, Sir Murray.”“Not in?”“No, Sir Murray; I wanted to see her about the blue-room chandelier, and went up, but she was not there; and Barker said, sir, she had just put on her things and gone out.”“Did she order the pony-carriage?”“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship often goes out walking.”In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon started; for after months of waiting, it seemed to come to him with a sudden light flashing in upon his mind that he had found that which he had sought. He looked up the next moment in his servant’s face, trembling for his pride. Did that sallow, shivering creature who took his pay, and who had been trembling for fear of his frown, read his thoughts? Did he share his suspicions? For a moment, as he caught his eye, Sir Murray felt as if he could strangle him. It seemed to him that this man would henceforth possess a hold upon him, and assert himself upon the strength of his knowledge.The baronet could hardly arrest a groan; but he sat there, stern and immovable, fighting behind his mask of pride, to regain his composure before again speaking.“Let me know when her ladyship comes in—at least,” he said, correcting himself, “ask her if she will see me upon her return.”“Yes, Sir Murray.”“That will do. You can go,” said the baronet, for the man still lingered as if about to speak; but the next moment he made a low bow and left the room.As the door closed upon the servant, the strength which had been sustained by Sir Murray’s pride collapsed, and letting his head fall upon his hands, he groaned bitterly. The lines in his face grew more deeply marked; his lips became parched; and at last he rose from his seat to pace the room with hasty strides, as he turned over and over the thoughts that had flashed upon him.Yes, she was often out; her old passion for botany had returned, and, it had never struck him before, she did take long, very long walks. And now it was all plain enough: he was the laughing-stock even of his servants—he had read it in that man’s eye. True, he might dismiss him, but it was sure to be known throughout the house. But wait awhile; he would not be rash and hasty; he would think matters over.He smiled as he took his seat once more, but the smile faded into a look of the most bitter misery, and, as he sat there hour after hour awaiting Lady Gernon’s return, years seemed to have passed over his head, and not without leaving their marks.
People said that Lady Gernon had benefited by the change—that Italy could not have agreed with her—for day by day she seemed to be casting off the dull, heavy languor that oppressed her. There was still a quiet sadness pervading every movement; but Sir Murray, without hearing people’s remarks, noted for himself that she took more interest in the affairs of daily life: in place of disliking company, she now gladly met his wishes, concerning dinner or breakfast party. In fact, there was a complete change; but it gave no pleasure to her husband, for he watched her with jaundiced eyes, saying nothing, but followed her every movement uneasily. Even the apparent increase of affection she displayed towards him was distasteful; and he grew in private moody and dissatisfied. But only in private, for he told himself that he had a duty to perform—one which demanded all watchfulness and care, and sternly he set himself to that duty.
The intimacy with the Nortons grew daily more close, and they dined several times at the Castle, the old warm affection between the two cousins growing stronger than ever. Both Lady Gernon and Mrs Norton viewed with satisfaction the quiet, unobtrusive courtesy of Sir Murray; while Captain Norton grew more and more dreamy, just waking up into an animated smile when spoken to, and joining for a few minutes in the conversation; but only to subside again directly after.
No stranger could have imagined that there had ever been more than the simplest of friendly ties between the families, and Sir Murray Gernon again and again owned to himself that his wife’s conduct was unimpeachable; but, at the same time, it troubled him, that from the day of the visit to the Hall, and Lady Gernon’s unconcealed efforts to obtain a few words with her old lover in private, she had been an altered woman; and he felt that it was not on his account, else why had not the change come during the past five years. It troubled him, too, that there was nothing that he could complain of; and, as he sat one day in his library, thoughtfully brooding, he passed over in review the conduct of those in whom he was most interested. Captain Norton called but seldom, and then with his wife; he was absent, too, a great deal, report said, at the iron mines; and when at the Castle his attentions to Lady Gernon were always of the most formal nature, while, after rendering the duties incumbent on her towards her guest, Lady Gernon seemed to avoid him. Mrs Norton was evidently much attached to her cousin, while Lady Gernon—yes, there was the knot: Lady Gernon was another woman, growing daily brighter and more elate, while his spirit refused to let him believe that it was all due to the change of scene and return to the society of parents and friends.
But he wanted some clue. He was, he told himself, wandering in the dark, for, musing upon imaginary wrong, he had grown into the belief that there was a plot against his happiness—that there were matters in progress that perhaps all but Mrs Norton and himself saw and mocked at. He was too proud to ask confidence, while a hint from any one would have been repulsed with indignation. He knew that others remarked the change in his wife; frequently, in fact, he had grimly thanked friends who had congratulated him. But all his brooding resulted in nothing, and at the end of six months he was soured and angry to find that his labours had been in vain. At times, he almost resented the gentle advances of Marion, telling himself that they were not genuine, but used as a blind; and often and often Lady Gernon went in tears to the Hall to ask her cousin’s sympathy—an act which only widened the breach daily growing between husband and wife. And this, too, at a time when Lady Gernon’s heart had begun to leap with new hopes—hopes of that happiness which she had envied in others; when the world gave promise to her of a happier future, with fresh cares and interests; so that, even now that this hopeful state lent brightness to her eye, and colour to her cheek, she had new cause for sorrow in her husband’s coldness.
Sir Murray Gernon persuaded himself that his suspicions merely wanted confirmation, and, waiting that confirmation, he shut himself up, as it were, within his cold, proud hauteur, and waited—waited, for he would not stir an inch to find proof of his suspicions; it should come to him, and blankly stare him in the face before he would take step or speak word; and so the months glided on at the Castle, company coming and going, parties following one another rapidly, and Sir Murray Gernon a very pattern of courtly politeness to all. His greatest intimates congratulated him upon his domestic happiness, and he smiled his thanks, and then subsided again into his saturnine gloom, waiting—waiting for what he told himself would some day come.
There was to be a grand party at the Castle, at Sir Murray’s wish, on the anniversary of the marriage. The idea had proceeded from Mrs Elstree, during a visit to the Rectory, and Sir Murray had immediately taken it up, though, upon receiving a meaning glance from the Rector, who had seen a shadow cross his daughter’s brow, the proposer would gladly have recalled her words.
Great preparations were in progress; but after making his decree that there should be a grand affair, one that should do honour to his name, Sir Murray Gernon took no further interest in the matter.
He was seated, as was his wont, one morning in his library, turning over his letters, and thoughtfully brooding over his wrongs. It was cruel, he said, that he, rich, powerful, and well endowed by nature, should suffer in this way. But he could wait; and he turned to think of what he should do to drive away the ennui which oppressed him. Suddenly a thought came, and ringing sharply, the summons was answered by a footman.
“Send Gurdon here,” said the baronet; and then, adopting his most magisterial air, he sat waiting the coming of the butler, upon whom the thunders of his wrath were about to descend.
Mr Gurdon, rather red of nose and pasty of face, soon appeared, wearing on the whole rather a limp expression. But John Gurdon had not improved in appearance; prosperity had not agreed with him. He said that it was his digestion; but Jane Barker—Mrs Barker now, my lady’s maid—shook her head at him and sighed, as she thought of the smart young fellow who used to come courting her at the Rectory, laughingly telling her that he’d caught the complaint of his master.
“I think, Gurdon,” said Sir Murray, “that this is the third time that I have sent for you into the library.”
“Yes—yes, Sir Murray,” said Gurdon, with a cough behind his hand.
“It is the last time, then. But for your being an old servant, and son of an old tenant of my late father, I should discharge you at once!”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, Sir Murray,” said the man piteously. “It shall never occur again; it shan’t, indeed!”
“You had been drinking again, last night!”
“Only the least drop, Sir Murray—the least drop. I was a little out of order yesterday.”
“And you were not fit to come before her ladyship, in the drawing-room?”
“Perhaps not quite, Sir Murray—not quite; but—but—”
“And mind this is the last time. No servant of mine shall be a disgrace to my establishment.”
“I humbly beg your pardon, Sir Murray, I do, indeed; and it shall never occur again, it shan’t, indeed. I know your ways, Sir Murray, and I should die, if you was to turn me off. Please look over it this once.”
“I have looked over it, Gurdon, or I should have given you your wages when you entered the room. Now go and ask her ladyship if she can see me for a few minutes.”
“Her ladyship isn’t in, Sir Murray.”
“Not in?”
“No, Sir Murray; I wanted to see her about the blue-room chandelier, and went up, but she was not there; and Barker said, sir, she had just put on her things and gone out.”
“Did she order the pony-carriage?”
“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship often goes out walking.”
In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon started; for after months of waiting, it seemed to come to him with a sudden light flashing in upon his mind that he had found that which he had sought. He looked up the next moment in his servant’s face, trembling for his pride. Did that sallow, shivering creature who took his pay, and who had been trembling for fear of his frown, read his thoughts? Did he share his suspicions? For a moment, as he caught his eye, Sir Murray felt as if he could strangle him. It seemed to him that this man would henceforth possess a hold upon him, and assert himself upon the strength of his knowledge.
The baronet could hardly arrest a groan; but he sat there, stern and immovable, fighting behind his mask of pride, to regain his composure before again speaking.
“Let me know when her ladyship comes in—at least,” he said, correcting himself, “ask her if she will see me upon her return.”
“Yes, Sir Murray.”
“That will do. You can go,” said the baronet, for the man still lingered as if about to speak; but the next moment he made a low bow and left the room.
As the door closed upon the servant, the strength which had been sustained by Sir Murray’s pride collapsed, and letting his head fall upon his hands, he groaned bitterly. The lines in his face grew more deeply marked; his lips became parched; and at last he rose from his seat to pace the room with hasty strides, as he turned over and over the thoughts that had flashed upon him.
Yes, she was often out; her old passion for botany had returned, and, it had never struck him before, she did take long, very long walks. And now it was all plain enough: he was the laughing-stock even of his servants—he had read it in that man’s eye. True, he might dismiss him, but it was sure to be known throughout the house. But wait awhile; he would not be rash and hasty; he would think matters over.
He smiled as he took his seat once more, but the smile faded into a look of the most bitter misery, and, as he sat there hour after hour awaiting Lady Gernon’s return, years seemed to have passed over his head, and not without leaving their marks.