Brooding.
People said that Lady Gernon had benefited by the change—that Italy could not have agreed with her—for day by day she seemed to be casting off the dull, heavy languor that oppressed her. There was still a quiet sadness pervading every movement; but Sir Murray, without hearing people’s remarks, noted for himself that she took more interest in the affairs of daily life: in place of disliking company, she now gladly met his wishes, concerning dinner or breakfast party. In fact, there was a complete change; but it gave no pleasure to her husband, for he watched her with jaundiced eyes, saying nothing, but followed her every movement uneasily. Even the apparent increase of affection she displayed towards him was distasteful; and he grew in private moody and dissatisfied. But only in private, for he told himself that he had a duty to perform—one which demanded all watchfulness and care, and sternly he set himself to that duty.
The intimacy with the Nortons grew daily more close, and they dined several times at the Castle, the old warm affection between the two cousins growing stronger than ever. Both Lady Gernon and Mrs. Norton viewed with satisfaction the quiet, unobtrusive courtesy of Sir Murray; while Captain Norton grew more and more dreamy, just waking up into an animated smile when spoken to, and joining for a few minutes in the conversation; but only to subside again directly after.
No stranger could have imagined that there had ever been more than the simplest of friendly ties between the families, and Sir Murray Gernon again and again owned to himself that his wife’s conduct was unimpeachable; but, at the same time, it troubled him, that from the day of the visit to the Hall, and Lady Gernon’s unconcealed efforts to obtain a few words with her old lover in private, she had been an altered woman; and he felt that it was not on his account, else why had not the change come during the past five years. It troubled him, too, that there was nothing that he could complain of; and, as he sat one day in his library, thoughtfully brooding, he passed over in review the conduct of those in whom he was most interested. Captain Norton called but seldom, and then with his wife; he was absent, too, a great deal, report said, at the iron mines; and when at the Castle his attentions to Lady Gernon were always of the most formal nature, while, after rendering the duties incumbent on her towards her guest, Lady Gernon seemed to avoid him. Mrs. Norton was evidently much attached to her cousin, while Lady Gernon—yes, there was the knot: Lady Gernon was another woman, growing daily brighter and more elate, while his spirit refused to let him believe that it was all due to the change of scene and return to the society of parents and friends.
But he wanted some clue. He was, he told himself, wandering in the dark, for, musing upon imaginary wrong, he had grown into the belief that there was a plot against his happiness—that there were matters in progress that perhaps all but Mrs. Norton and himself saw and mocked at. He was too proud to ask confidence, while a hint from any one would have been repulsed with indignation. He knew that others remarked the change in his wife; frequently, in fact, he had grimly thanked friends who had congratulated him. But all his brooding resulted in nothing, and at the end of six months he was soured and angry to find that his labours had been in vain. At times, he almost resented the gentle advances of Marion, telling himself that they were not genuine, but used as a blind; and often and often Lady Gernon went in tears to the Hall to ask her cousin’s sympathy—an act which only widened the breach daily growing between husband and wife. And this, too, at a time when Lady Gernon’s heart had begun to leap with new hopes—hopes of that happiness which she had envied in others; when the world gave promise to her of a happier future, with fresh cares and interests; so that, even now that this hopeful state lent brightness to her eye, and colour to her cheek, she had new cause for sorrow in her husband’s coldness.
Sir Murray Gernon persuaded himself that his suspicions merely wanted confirmation, and, waiting that confirmation, he shut himself up, as it were, within his cold, proud hauteur, and waited—waited, for he would not stir an inch to find proof of his suspicions; it should come to him, and blankly stare him in the face before he would take step or speak word; and so the months glided on at the Castle, company coming and going, parties following one another rapidly, and Sir Murray Gernon a very pattern of courtly politeness to all. His greatest intimates congratulated him upon his domestic happiness, and he smiled his thanks, and then subsided again into his saturnine gloom, waiting—waiting for what he told himself would some day come.
There was to be a grand party at the Castle, at Sir Murray’s wish, on the anniversary of the marriage. The idea had proceeded from Mrs. Elstree, during a visit to the Rectory, and Sir Murray had immediately taken it up, though, upon receiving a meaning glance from the Rector, who had seen a shadow cross his daughter’s brow, the proposer would gladly have recalled her words.
Great preparations were in progress; but after making his decree that there should be a grand affair, one that should do honour to his name, Sir Murray Gernon took no further interest in the matter.
He was seated, as was his wont, one morning in his library, turning over his letters, and thoughtfully brooding over his wrongs. It was cruel, he said, that he, rich, powerful, and well endowed by nature, should suffer in this way. But he could wait; and he turned to think of what he should do to drive away the ennui which oppressed him. Suddenly a thought came, and ringing sharply, the summons was answered by a footman.
“Send Gurdon here,” said the baronet; and then, adopting his most magisterial air, he sat waiting the coming of the butler, upon whom the thunders of his wrath were about to descend.
Mr. Gurdon, rather red of nose and pasty of face, soon appeared, wearing on the whole rather a limp expression. But John Gurdon had not improved in appearance; prosperity had not agreed with him. He said that it was his digestion; but Jane Barker—Mrs. Barker now, my lady’s maid—shook her head at him and sighed, as she thought of the smart young fellow who used to come courting her at the Rectory, laughingly telling her that he’d caught the complaint of his master.
“I think, Gurdon,” said Sir Murray, “that this is the third time that I have sent for you into the library.”
“Yes—yes, Sir Murray,” said Gurdon, with a cough behind his hand.
“It is the last time, then. But for your being an old servant, and son of an old tenant of my late father, I should discharge you at once!”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, Sir Murray,” said the man piteously. “It shall never occur again; it shan’t, indeed!”
“You had been drinking again, last night!”
“Only the least drop, Sir Murray—the least drop. I was a little out of order yesterday.”
“And you were not fit to come before her ladyship, in the drawing-room?”
“Perhaps not quite, Sir Murray—not quite; but—but—”
“And mind this is the last time. No servant of mine shall be a disgrace to my establishment.”
“I humbly beg your pardon, Sir Murray, I do, indeed; and it shall never occur again, it shan’t, indeed. I know your ways, Sir Murray, and I should die, if you was to turn me off. Please look over it this once.”
“I have looked over it, Gurdon, or I should have given you your wages when you entered the room. Now go and ask her ladyship if she can see me for a few minutes.”
“Her ladyship isn’t in, Sir Murray.”
“Not in?”
“No, Sir Murray; I wanted to see her about the blue-room chandelier, and went up, but she was not there; and Barker said, sir, she had just put on her things and gone out.”
