Ada Lee was right: there was a good deal of the Spanish grandee in the
aspect of Sir Murray Gernon, who traced back his pedigree to the old
Norman days, when, as a recompense for the service of the stout knight,
Sir Piers Gernon, his squire, and so many men-at-arms, William gave him
the pleasant lands whereon he built his castle, overlooking many an acre
of Lincolnshire fen-land--a castle that gave place, in Tudor days, to
the fine, square, massive, and roomy building, which still retained the
name as well as the broad moat. Sir Murray entered the rectory
drawing-room, tall, swarthy, and haughty of bearing, and was chatting
graciously to the parents of his intended bride, when she entered the
apartment.
To a careless observer the morning's sadness had all departed, and
courtly lover could not have been better satisfied with his greeting as
Marion crossed the room to meet him, placing both her hands in his, and
looking up in his proud face as much as to say, "I am soon to be yours--
be gentle with me."
Sir Murray took the hands with quite a protective air, smiling down upon
the face, which he saluted with a lordly kiss upon the white forehead;
and then, apparently well satisfied with the lady so soon to grace his
table, he led her to a chair beside Ada, and in a somewhat cumbersome
fashion began to chat about the morning's proceedings.
"Studying dress I presume we should have been?" said Ada. "But we were
away by the edge of the marsh, botanising, for half the day. Poor
Marion has been taking a farewell of her favourite pursuit," she added,
laughingly.
"I don't see that at all," said Sir Murray. "I admire natural history,
and shall hope that Lady Gernon will prove a kind and patient
instructress."
"I think it was reserved for us at our return to find our brightest
specimens, though," said Marion, turning her large, dreamy eyes upon the
baronet. "I have to thank you for your present, Murray."
"Oh, don't talk about it--wear it," was the response. "They are the old
family jewels reset. I thought you would like them better modernised."
The dinner passed off quietly. Sir Murray Gernon, who prided himself
upon his birth, lineage, and wealth, taking matters in a courtly manner,
considering that it would be unbecoming, even upon the evening preceding
his marriage, to forget his dignity. Hence there was a something that
seemed almost verging upon coldness in his farewell that night, even
when he whispered the words, "Till to-morrow, dearest." There was no
apparent ardour, although he was, certainly, contented and proud; and he
rode home that night at a very respectable hour, telling himself that he
was one of the happiest men in the kingdom.
When Marion was once more alone with her cousin, the emotion, crushed
down, hidden beneath a mask of cheerfulness, asserted itself in a way
that alarmed even herself: sobs and hysterical cries seeming to tear
themselves from her breast, to be succeeded, though, at last by a calm,
as, evidently by a great effort, she overcame the weakness to which she
had given way.
"Don't be angry, Ada!" cried the agitated girl, as she clung to her
friend. "I am very--very weak, I know; but to-morrow I must be strong,
and put weakness aside. To-night, I feel that if I did not give way, my
agony would be greater than I could bear. I cannot dissimulate!" she
exclaimed, passionately. "I do not love this man as I should; he is
cold and haughty, and does not try to make me love him. I have tried--
tried hard, for they have set their mind upon it, and what can I do?
But the old, old love will come back, and I seem to see poor Philip
beckoning to me from the other side of the great black gulf, calling me,
as it were, to him; and to go on with this--to keep faith to-morrow, is
like being false, when I recall all my vows made before he went away."
"But, Marion, darling," exclaimed Ada, "does not death solve all those
ties? Come, dear, be tranquil, and do not give way to all this
weakness. You do not do Sir Murray justice: he is proud and haughty;
but look at the pride he has in you. There!" she cried, "I shall be
glad when to-morrow is here, and the wooing ended by the wedding. I
will not say, fight back all these sad memories, because I know you have
tried; but pray, pray think of duty, of what you owe to your betrothed,
as well as to your parents. Come, to bed--to bed, or I shall be blamed
for the sad, pale face that will be under the orange blossoms
to-morrow."
"Do you think the dead have power to influence us, Ada?" said Marion,
who had sat with her hair pressed back from her temples, and had not
apparently heard a word her cousin had said.
"The dead!--influence!" said Ada, looking almost with fear in her
companion's face.
"Yes, influence us; for it seems as if Philip were ever present with me,
drawing me, as it were, to him, and reproaching me for my want of faith.
Shall I always feel this?--always be haunted by his spirit, unseen but
by myself? Ada, do you believe in foresight--in a knowledge of what is
to be?"
"No, certainly not, you foolish, childish creature!" exclaimed Ada,
making an effort to overcome the strange thrill of dread her cousin's
words engendered. "How can you be so weak? It's cruel of you--unjust."
"I shall not live long, Ada. I feel it--I am sure of it. If there is
such a thing as a broken heart, mine is that heart. But I will do my
duty to all, hard as it may be. And now, kiss me, dear, and go to your
own room; for I am going to pray for strength to carry me through the
trial, and that Heaven will make me to my husband a good and earnest
wife."
What could she say?--how whisper peace to this troubled breast? Ada Lee
felt that peace must come from another source, and, kissing tenderly the
cold pale cheek, she went softly, tearfully to her own room.
Book 1, Chapter III.