Two months elapsed, and Merland village had almost ceased talking about
the grand funeral from the Castle--"the strange berryin'"--when, after
twenty long years, Lady Gernon was borne to the family vault, with the
Nortons, at Sir Murray's wish, for chief mourners. For he lay as he had
been stricken down, a broken, helpless man, tended ever by his two old,
faithful servants; McCray watching his every glance, and often and often
sitting at his bedside, to read to him, in a strong Scottish twang, the
news of the present and the future. But for a long while there was a
strange, uneasy aspect in Sir Murray Gernon's face whenever Jane McCray
was in the room. And that uneasy look was at last interpreted by the
housekeeper, who, as she smoothed his pillow, asked him of his
thoughts--for he had, as it were, questioned her with his eyes--while
she held bottle and medicine-glass in her hand.
"She never but once tasted it," said Jane McCray, "I changed it every
time."
His words came now only in broken utterances, so that only his regular
attendants could comprehend his wishes, but that time, plainly and
loudly came the words:
"Thank God!"
Few knew the bitter fight that took place in that proud man's breast,
as, humbled now, he saw clearly the way in which he had taken suspicion
to his breast, nurturing it and preparing the soil for its lasting stay,
until the foul roots had laced and interlaced--until it was like tearing
his heart to pieces to drag them forth. But it had to be done, and he
did it manfully, in those long hours, when he lay helpless and alone.
How he could read now the past by another light; his own weakness, the
bitter sufferings of the true-hearted woman who had striven to bear the
cross that had fallen to her lot. How all his wealth and possessions
had been but so much dust and ashes, and his life, so far, one dreary
blank. But there was the future!--and for awhile his face brightened,
and he looked elate; there was his child--there was Philip Norton's
child. Should not they possess the happiness that had never been his?
But then his brow became overcast, as he thought of how he would have to
humble himself before his old rival and enemy.
It was a bitter fight; but help came, as Isa glided into the room, and
knelt beside his pillow, placing her little hands in his; and the weak
tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks, as he prayed for strength to root
out the last foul thread that seemed to canker his breast. He could see
it all now--all so plainly, that with him rested the happiness of many
around; and as he took those hands and held them to his brow, he prayed
earnestly as man ever yet prayed, that the past might be forgiven, and a
new heart granted to his suffering breast.
That prayer must have been heard, for the next day Brace Norton and his
father were at the Castle, seated by the sick man's bed, till Sir Murray
made a sign to McCray, who whispered in Brace Norton's ear, and they two
left the room.
No eye saw--no ear heard what took place in that bed-chamber; but when,
at last, alarmed at the long silence, Brace and Isa stole in, Sir
Murray's eyes were closed, and Captain Norton's head was bowed down,
while Brace felt his heart leap and the tears rush to his eyes, as he
saw that their right hands were tightly clasped together.
Captain Norton started to his feet as the young couple entered, but it
was no display of shame at his weakness, for he clasped Isa directly to
his breast, and Brace saw that the hand his father had dropped was
feebly held out to him. And then, though no words were spoken, a
strange peace, hitherto unknown, stole upon every heart there present.
Book 2, Chapter XXXII.