Part 6 (1/2)
”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 pa.s.sed 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.
Book 1, Chapter XII.
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 hoa.r.s.ely.
”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 pa.s.sed 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.”