Ada Norton's wild appeal was answered by the Doctor's hand being held up
to command silence, and, for many hours from that moment, as he tended
his patient, he refused to answer all questions. At last, though, with
a sigh almost of pleasure, he said:
"I'll lie down now for a few hours. Call me when she wakes."
Only those who have watched by a bedside, expecting moment by moment
that the grim shade would claim its prey, can imagine the relief
afforded to all by that simple sentence. It told of hope and refreshing
slumber; of a return to consciousness; and, bent of head, the old Rector
left the chamber, feeling that his prayer had been heard, hopeful too,
now, that in all its plenitude the rest of his supplication would be
granted.
The change from despair to hopefulness was so sudden that, again and
again, Ada bent in doubt over her cousin's pillow, to press a gentle
kiss upon her pale face, before she could feel satisfied respecting that
faint, regular breathing, culminating now and then in a sigh of
satisfaction, so faint that it was like the softest breath of summer.
But, relieved in spirit, she at length took her departure, thanking Jane
for hurrying over to summon her as she had done.
Mrs Norton found her husband excitedly pacing the walk in front of the
house, and he made no scruple about displaying the cause of his anxiety,
for, hurrying to his wife's side, he caught her hands in his,
exclaiming:
"What of poor Marion?" And then, reading in her countenance that his
worst fears were not confirmed, he muttered a sigh of relief, "Thank
Heaven!--thank Heaven!"
"I fancy now that there is hope," whispered his wife, who, steadfast and
true herself, refused to harbour the slightest suspicion. He was
anxious respecting poor Marion Gernon's fate, and why should he not be
when all circumstances were taken into consideration? To say that his
deep interest in her cousin caused her no pain would be false, for it
did, and naturally; but that pain she concealed. In her thoughtful
moments, when reviewing the scenes at the Castle, and considering the
loss of the jewels in connection with her husband's troubles, his words
to Sir Murray Gernon, and sufferance even of his cruel blow, she knew
that either her husband was a thief, liar, and consummate villain, or
else a man of true nobility and the most refined honour. Was it likely
that she should pause for a moment in the verdict, as, clinging daily
more fondly to him, she tried, by her endearments, to soothe the
perturbation of his spirit. He loved her she was sure, and she would
not be mad enough to indulge in reproof or upbraiding.
Satisfied in her own mind that her cousin was out of danger, she would
visit her no more. It would be wrong, she felt, until the clouds of
suspicion that floated around were driven away. For she thought, with
hot and burning cheeks, of those suspicions until she angrily drove them
from her as unworthy of her notice. If her husband would but take her
more fully into his confidence--talk with her freely, ask her counsel,
and keep nothing back, she felt that she would be happy; but she thought
that it would be an insult to him to broach such matters, and day after
day she waited for the confidence that came not. He said nothing
respecting his financial troubles, in spite of her eager desire to know
his losses; but, to her great grief, he became day after day more sombre
and thoughtful, going out but little, save to make one of his long,
strange journeys, at a time, too, when her anxiety was at its greatest
height.
All would yet be well, though, she told herself, and still crushing down
thoughts inimical to her peace, she met him ever with the same smile,
but never to evoke a smile in return, save when their child came
gambolling forward, when, with swelling heart, she would offer,
mentally, a thanksgiving for that gift, and revel in the sunshine of his
brighter looks, until once more the clouds would seem to settle over his
soul.
To her he was always gentle, kind, and subdued; and, to a stranger he
would have seemed a model husband; but Ada Norton was not content: there
was a change--a marked change--in him, and more than once, in the
bitterness of her heart, she had wished that the Castle had still
remained desolate.
But she had one consolation during the long hours she was alone--her
boy; and, lavishing her love upon him, she lived on, hopefully waiting
for the sunshine; happy that, in spite of the fierce anger and suspicion
of Sir Murray Gernon, the quarrel with her husband had proceeded no
further, while, save for an occasional scrap of information gleaned in
visits to the Rectory, the doings of the Gernons were to her a sealed
book.
This had pained her at first, but her good sense told her that it was
best for all concerned; and, striving to forget the past, she saw the
time glide by in what was to her a calm and uneventful life till, shock
after shock, came tidings and blows that, like the storm beating upon
some good ship, threatened to make wreck of all her hopes. Tempest,
rock, quicksand, all were fighting, as it were, to make an end of her
faith--to destroy her happiness; calling forth fortitude and
determination to encounter sufferings more than ordinarily fall to the
lot of woman to bear.
Book 1, Chapter XX.