beneath this, when, in addition, there had ever been the pang of hope deferred, and the sick heart finding no ease.
It was a strangely unimpassioned wooing, that of Philip Norton; but Ada was content; and at the end of five years, bright, happy of face, and only slightly more matronly, she came one day into her husband’s study, to find him stern and thoughtful—looks which passed away as if by magic, as the sturdy little fellow she led by the hand ran to him and climbed upon his knee.
“Is there anything the matter?” exclaimed Ada anxiously, as she leaned upon her husband’s shoulder.
“Matter! No, love!” said Norton, heartily—another man now, his face lighting up with pleasure as his child snatched first at pens, then at paper, everything within reach—“unless it is with this young rebel; but what made you ask?”
“Philip,” she said, softly, “you keep nothing from me, dear: do not begin now.”
“Well, there,” he said, “I won’t;” and he drew her nearer towards him. “Heaven forbid that I should from the woman to whom I owe life and happiness such as no other man could enjoy. But you see,” he said, slightly hesitating, “I have been over to the Rectory this morning.”
“Yes,” said Ada, anxiously.
“And they have had a letter from Italy.”
“Well, Philip?” she said, laying her head against his cheek, as one arm drew her nearer and nearer, while the other toyed with the boy’s curls.
“Well, darling, it is nothing; but I could not help it: the news seemed to cause me a vague feeling of uneasiness—nothing but a passing cloud—for thoughts will go backwards sometimes. Not complimentary, that,” he said, laughing; “but I meant no more, love, than a general reference to old troubles.”
“I know—I know,” she said, with unruffled countenance; “but what was the news?”
“Well, dear, it was that workmen are to be sent up to the Castle directly; and there’s to be painting, and paper-hanging, and re-furnishing, and Heaven knows what beside; and I was thinking that Merland has done for years past now uncommonly well with the Castle in its present state, and that, if I had my will, it should remain as it is.”
“And all this means, dear?” said Mrs. Norton, quietly.
“Yes, of course,” laughed Norton. “Now, did you ever see anything like the dog? Both his fingers in the ink! Yes, it means, of course, that after five years of absence the Gernons are coming home.”
Ada’s Promise.
The old love of change and adventure, which in earlier life had led Philip Norton into seeking a commission in the Indian army, clung to him still, and sometimes for days—sometimes even for weeks together, he would absent himself from home, journeying north or south, or even going abroad without making the slightest preparation. He would laugh on his return, and own that it was eccentric; but, perhaps, before many weeks had elapsed, he would again take his departure, while Ada never complained, for by constant study of his character, she felt that to some extent she now knew him well. He had given up all his former pursuits; ambition, too, had been set aside, and he had buried himself in the old Lincolnshire retreat, apparently content with his wife’s companionship—for visitors seldom crossed the steps of Merland Hall. “I am not fit for society,” Norton used to say, with a smile; and seeing how at times an unsettled, feverish fit would come upon him, resulting in some far off, aimless journey, from which he would return happy and content, Ada quietly forbore all murmurings, accepting her fate, thankful for the quiet, tender affection he displayed towards her. She used at last to laugh about his hurried departures, and long, purposeless trips, telling him that they acted as safety-valves for letting off the pent-up excitement of his nature, and he, taking her words in all seriousness, would earnestly accept her definition.
“I know it seems strange and wild, and even unkind to you, dear; but I think sometimes that if I were chained down entirely to one place I should lose my reason. These fits only come on at times; perhaps during a walk, and then the inclination is so strong that I do not feel either the power or desire to battle with it.”
Ada Norton felt no surprise, then, the morning after that on which the news respecting the Gernons had been received, when asking one of the servants if she had seen her master, she learned that he had been driven across to the town, and that the groom had just come back with the dog-cart.
It was nothing new, but taken in conjunction with the last night’s conversation, it caused no slight uneasiness in her breast, and as she sat watching the gambols of their child, the weak tears began to course one another down her cheeks. For she felt that he was unsettled by the tidings they had heard; and for a few moments her heart beat rapidly as she recalled the past, trembling for her own empire when thinking of Marion Gernon’s return.
Would not the old feeling of love come back, and would they not both hate her? Marion, for her possession of him who should have been her husband; Philip, for her ceaseless efforts to enlace herself round his heart. For, after all, he could not truly love her: he had been gentle, tender, affectionate, ever ready to yield to her every desire, almost worshipping his boy. In short, upon reviewing calmly her married life, with the sole exception of those occasional absences, she was obliged to own that she had all that she could desire, and that, however wanting in the wild, passionate, and romantic, Philip Norton’s love for her was imbued with that tender gentleness, based on admiration, trust, and faith, which was far more lasting and satisfying to the soul—a love that would but increase with years; and at last, with an impatient stamp of the foot, she wiped away her tears, upbraiding herself for her want of trust and faith in her noble husband, accusing herself of misjudging him. Catching up her boy, she covered him with kisses, her face lighting up with a joyful maternal pride in the strong link which had been sent to bind them together.
“Heaven helping me,” she muttered, “I’ll never doubt him.”
It was a grave promise—a vow hard to keep, as circumstances wove themselves in the future; and more than once Ada Norton had the excuse of sore temptation; but how she bore herself, how she kept faith in her husband under circumstances that might well raise doubts in the most trusting woman’s heart, will be seen in the sequel.
Sir Murray’s Gentleman.
There had been busy doings at the Castle, and Merland village was in an intense state of excitement. Old Chunt—Jonathan Chunt, who kept the “Black Bull”—said that there was to be some life in the place at last. He knew, for he had it from Mr. Gurdon—old Gurdon’s lad, but Mr Gurdon now, and an awfully big man in his master’s estimation. He was butler now, and had come over to superintend the getting in order of the place, for Sir Murray was fond of company, and there were to be no end of gaieties at the Castle. Mr. Gurdon was setting the old servants to rights and no mistake, for he’d got full power, and they hadn’t had such a waking up for long enough. Why, what with company’s servants coming down to the “Bull,” and post-horses now and then, and one thing and another, it would be a little fortune to him, Chunt said. Time there was a change, too: keeping a house like that shut up for the rats to scamper across the floors, was injuring the trade of the village, where there was no one else but the old people at the Rectory, and them Nortons, who might just as well be a hundred miles off, shutting themselves up as they did.
Chunt knew, and he imparted his knowledge, with no end of nods and winks, to his fellow-tradesmen, as he termed them—to wit, Huttoft, the saddler, who made nothing but harness, and Mouncey, the baker, when they came
