"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.
Book 1, Chapter XIII.