It was now an acknowledged fact that there could be no further intimacy
between the residents at Castle and Hall. The Nortons led a more than
ever secluded life, Mrs Norton finding it necessary to retrench in
every possible way to meet their altered circumstances, for the iron
company's affairs were worse and worse, and people loudly blamed Norton
for his folly. "Why did he not become bankrupt," they said, "as other
people would?" But Norton declined all such relief, his brow grew
wrinkled and his hair slightly grizzled at the sides, but he was
determined to pay to the last penny he could muster, and wait for the
change that he trusted would come, for his faith was perfect in his
enterprise.
Mrs Norton never complained, but always welcomed him with a smile when
he returned from his long absences. Cruel doubts would come at times,
brought up, perhaps, by some silly village tattle, but she cast them out
with a shudder, as if they were something too loathsome to be harboured
even for an instant; and, after such battles with herself, she would
greet her husband with increased tenderness, as she strove to chase away
the settled melancholy which oppressed him.
Twice only during many months had he encountered Sir Murray Gernon, to
meet with fierce, scowling looks of hatred; but no word was spoken, and
Philip Norton never knew the curses that were showered upon his head.
It was well for him, too, that he did not know that many a night, Marion
Gernon, brokenhearted and despairing, knelt by her solitary pillow to
say, almost in the words of the old prophet, "It is enough," and to pray
that she might pass away.
It was only at times, though, that such despairing thoughts oppressed
her; at others she would bewail her wickedness, and pray for strength,
as she looked upon the tiny slumbering face of her infant, and then
bathed it with tears.
For Lady Gernon's was now a sad and solitary life; Sir Murray seemed to
be plunged in some abstruse study, taking his daily ride or walk, but
spending the rest of his hours in his library. To the world, and to
that lesser one, their household, they were a model couple, dining
together regularly, and appearing a little in society, but not much, on
account of Lady Gernon's health--so it was said; but Sir Murray, at
heart, looked upon wife and child with a hatred that was almost a
loathing, and so Lady Gernon's return to convalescence was very slow.
Once--nay, many times--she had clung to her husband beseechingly, her
eyes telling her prayer; but she had soon found that such efforts merely
irritated him.
"Where is the cross?" he had asked her peevishly, and, upon her weak
protest reaching his ears, he had laughed scornfully.
"Lady Gernon," he once said, "had you spoken to me on his behalf--had
you told me of his strait--I would have placed thousands in your hands
to relieve him. But you have made my life a curse to me."
"But have you no faith?--my words--my solemn asseverations of
innocence," sobbed Lady Gernon.
"None!" he said, furiously--"none! I would not believe you were you
dying. You have made me a madman, I believe; you have disgraced me in
the eyes of the world; and I would have a divorce, but that I will not
have the scandal renewed, and in the lips of every idler in the kingdom,
the `Great Lincolnshire Scandal' for a newspaper heading, and endless
leading articles upon the gross immorality of the upper classes. Once
for all, let this rest. You have gained your title, and you have
_aided_--There, I will say no more; I will not descend to coarseness. I
was once a man of refinement, and, I believe, generous. Let the past be
dead--dead between us for ever. It should have been dead now, but that
you try to nurse it into life with your tears. Now leave me. You know
my commands; I will have this subject brought up no more!"
"Murray Gernon," said Marion, sadly, "you are in a dream. Some day you
will waken."
He did not reply, and she left the room.
As Lady Gernon's strength returned, she had, by slow degrees, taken to
her old pursuit; and often she might be seen, basket in hand, laden with
specimens, returning from some field or woodland ramble. But, so far,
once, and once only, while alone, it had fallen to her lot to encounter
Philip Norton, when he turned slowly out of the path, raised his hat,
and was gone.
She stood as if unable to proceed for a few minutes, and then walked
slowly on; but before night, Sir Murray Gernon knew of the encounter,
and fed with it the smouldering fire of his jealousy.
He had not stooped to the meanness before, but now, telling himself it
was his duty, he had her watched, finding in one of the servants a
willing tool; but his news was always of the most meagre; and growing
daily more morose, Sir Murray now gave way to a fresh belief--he felt
sure that his wife corresponded with some one at the Hall. At one time
he made up his mind to leave the neighbourhood--to return to Como; but
he stubbornly decided to the contrary, thinking that it would turn
attention to his family affairs. Then he decided to see "that unhappy
woman at the Hall," as he termed her, and to enlighten her upon the
state of affaire, while, if possible, he would secure her as his
coadjutor. He even went so far, during one of Norton's absences, as to
ride over; but he repented, and returned home more and more disposed for
solitude and misery; for he had almost grown to love his sense of
injury, pitying himself, and feeling that he was a martyr, seeing
nothing but the past, believing nothing but the evidence of his own
eyes, and resolutely shutting himself out from the happiness that might
have been his portion.
Suspicion is a ravenous monster, devouring all before it. Matters the
most ill-suited often become its food, as the simplest acts of the
suspected are magnified into guilt. The feeling grew stronger and
stronger every hour that he was being cleverly tricked; but though he
waited day after day for the coming enlightenment, it came not.
It must be, then, by night that some arrangement or correspondence was
made; and his brow grew blacker, and his head sank upon his breast, as
he muttered the thought.
The months had glided by rapidly, when, one night, after a long, gloomy
day, he retired to his bedroom--a different chamber to that he had
before used--but not to sleep; for, throwing himself upon a low couch,
he lay thinking of his present life, and asking his heart what was to be
the end?--whether it was possible that a reconciliation would ever take
place, and something, if not of happiness, of quiet esteem and
smoothness of life-course return?
He could not conceive it possible; it seemed to him then that death
alone could be the termination of such a state of being.
It was a gloomy introduction to his thoughts, that word death, and he
frowned more heavily as it oppressed him. Should he die himself? The
distance was but short, he knew, between here and eternity. But one
step, and all would be over: the wretchedness and misery of his life,
his torturing suspicions, the great mistake of the past, all swept away
in an instant; but then afterwards?
He paused, shuddering, as standing upon the brink, he peered forward
into that deep, dark, mysterious, impenetrable gulf of the unknown,
shrinking from it, too, for his was not the bold, reckless, daring
spirit for such a step. He knew it, too, and again began to find
sympathy for himself, condoling and pitying, and telling himself that no
man had ever before experienced such suffering as had fallen to his lot.
No, he ought not to die: the world at his age ought to be still bright
and fair, and ready to offer some goal for his aimless life. He ought
not to die, but--
The horrible thought that flashed across his brain made him get up and
pace the room hastily, the cold, dank beads of fear gathering themselves
upon his brow. He tried to chase out the thought; but he had brooded so
long, had given way to such wild phantasms, that it seemed now as if
some potent devil were at his ear, whispering temptation, and driving
him to the committal of some horrible deed. So strong grew the feeling
to his distempered imagination that he commenced muttering half aloud,
as if in answer to dictation from an evil prompter.
No, he would not be the first jealous husband who had taken revenge for
his wrongs; he had loved her, and been all that it was his duty to be;
but he had been betrayed, tricked, and cheated by the false-hearted
woman whom he thought he had won. Such a proceeding would be but an act
of justice; but the law said such acts should be done by the law alone--
that man, however injured, should not arrogate to himself the right to
punish, hence it must be done secretly, by some cunning device that
should blind men's eyes to the truth, and while amply bringing down
retribution on the heads of the guilty, his honour should be unstained,
the family shield untarnished.
But would not such a step be cold, blackhearted, premeditated murder?
The question seemed to flash across his brain as if prompted by some
better angel.
No: only justice, was whispered again to his ear--only justice, and then
he would be at rest. It was not right that he should die, but the
destroyer of his happiness; and then his mind would be at ease--there
would be peace for him for many years to come.
He smiled now: it was like comfort in a dire hour of need; and when the
upbraidings of conscience would have made themselves heard, they were
crushed down and stifled; for Sir Murray Gernon had been keeping his
house swept and garnished for the reception of the wicked spirits, and
they had now fully seized upon the offered abode. He smiled, for he
thought that he now saw a way out of his difficulties, and that he had
but to design some means for removing his false wife from his path to
commence a new life.
How should it be? he thought. Should he contrive a boating party upon
the great lake? Boats had before now been upset, and their occupants
drowned. Such accidents were not at all uncommon. Or there might be
some terrible catastrophe with the spirited horses of the carriage; the
part of the Castle where her ladyship slept might catch fire at a time
when a hampered lock and fastened window precluded escape; or, better
still, there was poison!
The evil spirit must at that time have had full possession of the
citadel, for it was with a baleful glare in his eyes that Sir Murray
Gernon strode up and down his room, stepping softly, as if fearing to
interrupt the current of his thoughts--thoughts that, in his madness,
seemed to refresh the thirsty aridity of his soul. After all these
months of misery, had at last, then, come the solution of his
difficulty? and he laughed--and laughed savagely--as he sat down once
more to plan.
Mercy? What had he to do with mercy? What mercy had they had upon his
life? Had they not blighted it when he was a calm, trusting, loving
man, searing his spirit with something more burning and corroding than
the hottest iron--the sharpest acid? Let them seek for mercy elsewhere:
his duty was to dispense justice, and he would be just!
Who could gainsay it? Was it not written in the Book that the
punishment for the crime was death--that the sinners should be stoned
with stones until they died? Not that he would stone them: his should
be a quiet, insidious vengeance--one that the world should not suspect,
and he would plot it out in time.
But what if she were, after all, innocent?
He tore that thought from his heart, accusing himself of cowardice, and
of seeking a way out of what would be the path to a new life. No; there
was no innocence there. His would be a crusade against guilt; and he
vowed a fearful vow that he would carry out his vengeance to the end.
Should it be by poison?
"Tap! tap! tap!" Three distinct, sharp touches as of a nail upon the
window-pane made Sir Murray start, shivering, from his guilty reverie.
What was that? Some ghostly warning for or against his plots?--or was
he so distempered by his broodings that this was but the coining of
imagination?
"_Tap! tap! tap_!"
There it was again, and for a moment a strange sense of terror pervaded
him, and he could not stir. But only for a moment; the next minute a
feeling of grim satisfaction prevailed. This, then, was to be a night
of enlightenment--here was a new revelation--this, then, was the means
of communication? Evidently some mistake of the bearer, and he had but
to go to the window, stretch forth his hand, and take a letter; or--the
thought sent a thrill through him as he stepped forward--was it the
keeping of an assignation? The window was many feet above the ground,
and if he dashed back the ladder--
He paused, for there was the slight darkening of the blind as if a
shadow were passing over it, and now, half-mad with rage, Sir Murray
Gernon felt that all his suspicions were confirmed, as, springing
forward, he tore the blind aside, just as again, loudly and distinctly,
came the blows upon the glass.
End of Volume I.
Book 1, Chapter XXVI.