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.
Book 1, Chapter X.