It was the same with the Rector, for as Mrs Elstree rose to leave the room, he did not remove his gaze from his daughter’s face, but still sat watching silently and sadly for the change.
Mrs Elstree sought Sir Murray in his room; but he was not there, and then, as, candle in hand – unnecessary then, for a cold, pale light seemed to creep through the sky light over the grand staircase, to give to everything a chilly, forlorn, and strange look – she descended the stairs, she encountered a servant who, with a scared face, told her that Sir Murray was in the library, and then stood watching her descent.
She reached the library door and knocked, to receive no answer, and her repeated summonses were without effect, when, with a sigh, she turned to retrace her steps.
“He will not come,” she said. Then, to the maid, who had been watching her anxiously: “Have you seen Jane?”
“Went out, ma’am, with one of the gardeners, ever so long ago, ma’am.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, ma’am. She never said a word to me about it;” and the girl, and another who had joined her, turned to gaze uneasily at the closed library door.
Mrs Elstree slowly retraced her steps – slowly, though shivering the while with anxiety – and returned to the bedroom, to find the scene there unchanged. But she had hardly retaken her place by the bedside when there was a rustling at the door, and she turned her head, thinking that it might be Sir Murray, but, to her surprise, Ada Norton, closely followed by Jane, entered the room.
Ada spoke no word, but, gliding to the bedside, stood, pale and anxious, gazing down upon her cousin’s shrunken face. Then, stooping softly, she pressed a long kiss upon her white lips, the doctor making no sign of rebuke.
“Where is her child?” said Ada then, in an anxious tone, for, as she had bent down, Lady Gernon’s eyes had opened, and her lips had parted in a faint whisper.
“May it be fetched?” said Mrs Elstree, softly, to the doctor.
“Yes – yes,” he whispered, in tones that seemed to imply, “all is over now.”
Jane hurried, sobbing, from the room, for the last moments seemed to have come. There was something awful in the strange light of recognition that had come into Lady Gernon’s eyes; but when, softly sleeping, the tiny fragile one was borne in and laid in her arms, its soft, downy cheek resting upon her breast, the faintest dawning of a smile played for an instant upon the mother’s lip, her eyes gazed straight upwards for a few moments, and then closed, when, as Dr Challen swiftly pressed forward, to lean with anxious mien over the pillow, Mrs Elstree sank fainting into weeping Jane’s arms, while, with a despairing wail, Ada Norton gave utterance to one word, that sounded more like declaration than eager demand, as it thrilled through the strained nerves of all present, and that word was: “Dead?”
Not Yet
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.
Sir Murray’s Library
There was a buzz of satisfaction amongst the servants as, half hysterically, Jane Barker announced the tidings of a change for the better; but when she added thereto an order from the Doctor that Sir Murray should be made acquainted with the change, there was a look of intelligence passed from one to the other – a scared, frightened look, which she was not slow to perceive, and in eager tones demanded what was the matter.
“Nothing that I know of,” said one, “but – ”
“You always were a fool, Thomas!” exclaimed Jane, angrily. “Here, James, go and tell master at once.”
But James seemed not to have heard the command, for he suddenly disappeared through a door, against which he had happened to be standing.
“You go, then, Thomas,” said Jane; “and make haste, there’s a good man. He must be anxious to know.”
“Shouldn’t think he was,” said Thomas, “when Missus Elstree knocked ever so long at the libery and got no answer.”
Jane’s sharp eyes were again directed from one to the other, and then, without further pause, she set her teeth, nipped her lips together, and hurried across the hall to the library door.
She knocked at first softly, but there was no reply; then more loudly, with the same result; and at last, thoroughly alarmed, she beat fiercely upon the panels, calling loudly upon her masters name.
“Go and fetch Mr Elstree, and call up Dr Challen,” said Jane, huskily, for there was a horrible fear at her heart, though she resolutely kept it to herself. “Perhaps master may be in a fit,” she whispered.
The Rector was there in a few minutes, and after knocking and calling, he, too, turned pale, as the doctor now appeared upon the scene.
“Locked on the inside,” said the latter, after a momentary examination. “The door must be broken open, and at once. Is there a carpenter upon the premises?”
There was no carpenter, but one of the gardeners had some skill in doing odd jobs about the place, and he was known to possess a basket of tools. His name was therefore suggested.
“Fetch him at once!” exclaimed the Doctor, as excited now as any one present; and amidst an awe-stricken silence, the gardener’s advent was awaited.
But it took a good quarter of an hour to seek Alexander McCray, and during that period of breathless expectation, not a soul present thought of the possibility of an entrance being effected by the window. Thomas had peered twice through the key-hole, looking round afterwards with a pale, blank face, when seeing that it would probably be a quicker way of obtaining information than questioning, Dr Challen knelt down himself, to peer for some time through the narrow aperture, when he, too, rose, thoughtful and silent, the Rector refraining from questioning him, and no one else daring to do so. What Thomas had seen he at length communicated in whispers, but they did not reach the Rector, who, with a shuddering sensation oppressing him, kept on, in spite of himself, watching – as if his eyes were specially there attracted – the narrow slit beneath the door, as if expecting that some trace might probably there show itself of what had taken place within the room.
“Is this man coming?” exclaimed the Doctor at last; and another messenger was sent, while the women huddled together, whispering, and more than one thinking that that morning’s occurrences might result in a general discharge of servants, and a breaking up of the Castle establishment.
At last, though, there was the sound of footsteps, and very slowly and leisurely the Scotch gardener made his appearance, walking with the cumbersome gait of the men of the scythe and spade – slow, as a rule, as the growth of the plants they tend.
“Now, for Heaven’s sake, be smart, my good fellow!” exclaimed the Doctor.
“Ye’ll be wanting the door open, will ye?” said Alexander, slowly.
“Yes – yes!” exclaimed the Doctor impatiently.
“And have ye got authoughreety of Sir Moorray to force it open?” said Alexander.
“My good man, this is no time for authority. Make haste, and break open the door.”
“I’m no cheecan, gentlemen,” said Alexander, with the most aggravating coolness; “but I’ve got a verra good seetuation here, and I should be sore fashed if I had to luse it throw being rash. Sir Moorray might be verra angered with me for breaking the door.”
“My good man, I’d take all responsibility,” exclaimed the Rector. “Pray, be quick!”
“Weel, then, eef that’s the case, gentlemen,” said Alexander, refreshing his high-bridged nose with a pinch of snuff – “eef that’s the case, I’ll just go and fetch my tools.”
Alexander McCray nodded his head sagely, as he took his departure; and again there was an anxious lapse of time, certainly only of some minutes, but they seemed then to be hours, and, hurrying into the drawing-room, and seizing a poker, the Doctor was himself about to attack the door, when, chisel and mallet in hand, the gardener returned, his rush tool-basket over his shoulder; and then, strenuously exerting himself, he soon made an entrance, first for a chisel and then for a crowbar, with which he strained and strained hard to force open the strongly-made old oak carved door. For a long while the efforts were vain; but at last, with a loud crash, the door gave way, and so suddenly that the gardener fell back with great violence amongst the lookers-on, when, with an unanimous shriek of dismay, the women-servants turned and fled, to gaze from distant doorways for some scrap of interest connected with the elucidation.
But before Sandy McCray had gathered himself together, the Rector, followed by Dr Challen and Jane, had entered the room, when Mr Elstree’s first act was to catch Jane by the arm and press her back, as with his other hand he drew to the door.
“My good woman, you will be better away,” he said, earnestly.
“I’m not afraid, sir,” said Jane, quietly; “and perhaps I may be of some use.”
“Keep that door closed, then,” exclaimed the Doctor; and the next moment he was kneeling upon the carpet, where, motionless, stretched upon his face, and with his fingers tightly clutching the long nap of the Turkey carpet, lay the tall, proud form of Sir Murray Gernon.
“No, not that – not that, thank Heaven!” exclaimed the Doctor, after a brief examination, as, looking up, he answered the Rector’s inquiring gaze. “I was afraid so at first, but it is nothing of the kind. Not his own act, sir, but a sudden seizure, and no wonder. Tall, portly man – predisposition to apoplexy. Here, quick, Jane – basin and towels. Mr Elstree, open that window, and let’s have air; then send away those open-mouthed, staring fools outside. Nothing serious, I hope.”
As he spoke, he had loosened the baronet’s neckband, and torn the sleeve away from his arm, to lay bare and open a vein, his ministrations being followed before very long by a heavy sigh from the patient, other favourable symptoms soon supervening, and in a short time the baronet was pronounced out of danger.
“I don’t know what people would do if it were not for our profession,” said Dr Challen, importantly, as he fussed about in the hall, superintending the carrying of Sir Murray to his bed-chamber.
“And a wee bit help from a man as can handle twa or three tules,” said Sandy McCray, in a whisper to himself, for he was one of the porters; and then Dr Challen had the further satisfaction of knowing that he had two patients instead of one, both, though, progressing favourably.
The Gentle Passion
Some days had passed, and the Doctor had taken his departure, confining himself now to a couple of calls per diem. Lady Gernon was progressing fast towards recovery, and Sir Murray, very quiet and staid, was again up; but, so far as the servants knew, and did not omit to tattle about, he had had no interview with her ladyship. But the heads of the establishment were not the only ones in that house sore at heart, for Jane Barker, in her times of retirement, shed many a bitter tear. She never asked about him, but there were those amongst the domestics who heard the news, and soon bore it to her, that John Gurdon had left the neighbouring town where he had been staying, and was gone to Liverpool, with the intention of proceeding to Australia: in which announcement there was some little truth and a good deal of fiction, the shade of truth being that John Gurdon was going abroad, though not in the way he had published.
“And never to write and ask me to see him again,” sobbed Jane – “never to say ‘good-bye.’ Oh, what a blessing life would be if there was no courting in it! as is a curse to everybody, as I’ve seen enough to my cost, without counting my own sufferings.”
Jane was bewailing her fate at the open window one night when these thoughts passed through her breast for the hundredth time. Certainly, there was a pleasant coolness in the night air, but it is open to doubt whether poor Jane had not nourished a hope that, wrong as it was on her part, besides being unbecoming, John might by chance have repented and turned back just to say a few words of parting. She confessed once that she wished he would, and then she would wish him God-speed, and if he wanted ten or twenty pounds, she would give notice at the savings’ bank, draw it out, and send it to him by letter. But not one word would she say to stop him from going – no, not one word. He should go, and no doubt it would do him good, and break him of all his bad habits, and “perhaps,” she said, with a sob, “he may come back a good man, and we may be – ”
“Tst, Jane! – tst!”
For a few moments she could not move, the sound was so unexpected. She had hoped that he might come back, but for days past she had given it up, when now, making her heart leap with a joy she could not conceal, came the welcome sound from the darkness beneath where she leaned.
She had not heard him come, for the reason that Mr John Gurdon had been there for an hour before she had leaned out, and he had been stayed from announcing his presence sooner by a light in a neighbouring window; but now, that apparently all was still in the place, he gave utterance to the above signal, one which he had to repeat before it was responded to by a whispered ejaculation.
“How could I come, you cruel woman!” said Gurdon – “how can you ask me? Hadn’t you driven me by your hard-heartedness to make up my mind to go abroad? but only to find when I’d got to the ship that I couldn’t go without saying one long ‘good-bye.’ Oh, Jane! – Jane! – Jane!”
The remaining words were lost to Jane’s ear, but she could make out that he was sobbing and groaning softly, and it seemed to her, from the muffled sounds, that Gurdon had thrown himself down upon his face, and was trying to stifle the agony of his spirit, lest he should be heard, and so get her into trouble.
Poor Jane! her heart yearned with genuine pity towards the erring man, and her hands involuntarily stretched themselves out as if to take him to her breast, which heaved with sobs of an affection as sincere as was ever felt by the most cultivated of her sex.
“Oh, John!” she sobbed, “don’t – don’t! – please don’t do that!”
“How can I help it?” he groaned. “Why am I such a coward that I don’t go and make a hole in the lake, and put myself out of my misery?”
“Oh, pray – pray don’t, John!” sobbed poor Jane, whose feelings were stirred to their deepest depth, and, believing in her old lovers earnest repentance, she was all the weak woman now. “I’m ’most heart-broken, dear, without more troubles. You don’t know what has been happening lately.”
“No,” groaned Gurdon, “I don’t know. My troubles have been enough for me.”
“What with my lady nearly dying, and Sir Murray being locked up in the library, and the door being broken open to find him in a fit, the place is dreadful, without you going on as you do.”
“Don’t, please, be hard on me, dear,” groaned Gurdon; “and if they did break open the library door, they mended it again, I suppose, for Sir Murray’s got plenty of money, ain’t he?”
“No, they didn’t stop for no mending,” sobbed Jane. “It’s enough to do to mend poor people’s sorrows here as is all driving us mad. Money’s no use where you’re miserable.”
“And are you miserable, dear?” whispered Gurdon.
“Oh, how can you ask?” sobbed Jane.
“Don’t seem like it,” said Gurdon, softly, “or you’d come down and say a few words to me before I go away, perhaps for ever; for when once the great seas are rolling between us, Jane, there’s, perhaps, no chance of our seeing one another no more.”
“Oh, how can you ask me? You know I can’t!” exclaimed Jane, angrily.
“I thought as much,” whined Gurdon, in a deep, husky voice, and as if speaking only to himself; “but I thought I’d put her to the proof – just give her one more trial.”
“You cruel – cruel – cruel fellow! how can you torture me so?” sobbed Jane, who had heard every word. “It’s wicked of you, it is, when you know it’s more than my place is worth to do it.”
“Ah,” said Gurdon, huskily, “I did think once, that a place in my heart was all that you wanted, and that I had but to say ‘Come and take it, Jenny,’ and you’d have come. But I was a different man, then, and hadn’t gone wrong, and I’m rightly punished now. Goodbye, Heaven bless you! – bless you! and may you be happy!”
“But stop – stop a moment, John! Oh, pray don’t go yet! I’ve something to tell you.”
“I dursen’t stop no longer,” said John, huskily. “People will be sure to hear us; and bad as I am, Jenny, I wouldn’t do you any harm. No – no, I’d suffer anything – die for you, though I’ve been wrong, and taken a glass too much. Good – goo-oo-ood-bye!”
“But stop a moment, John, pray!” sobbed Jane.
“No – no; it’s better not.”
“Oh dear, what shall I do – what shall I do?” sobbed Jane.
“Won’t you say good-bye?” was whispered from below, and there was a soft rustling amongst the bushes beneath the tree.
“Oh, stop – stop!” cried Jane, hoarsely. “Don’t leave me like that. What do you want me to do?”
“Oh, nothing – nothing, only to say goodbye, Jane. I did think that I should have liked to hold you in my arms for a moment, and have one parting kiss. I seemed to fancy it would make me a stronger and a better man, so that I could go and fight my way again in a foreign world, and make myself fit to come back and ask you to be my wife.”
“But John, dear John, don’t ask me,” sobbed Jane. “How can I?”
“No – no,” he said, sadly; “you can’t. Don’t do anything of the sort. I only thought you might have come down and let me in through the billiard-room. But don’t do it, Jane; you might get into trouble about it, and one of us is enough to be in that way. Bless you, Jane! Think of me sometimes when I’m far away.”
Jane did not answer, but with the sobs tearing one after the other from her breast, she stood, listening and thinking. It was too hard upon her; she felt that she could not bear it. How, with all his faults, he still loved her, and should she – could she turn her back upon him when he was in such trouble? There was a hot burning flush, too, in her cheeks as she leaned, with beating heart, further from the window, determined to risk all for his sake.
“John! – John!” she whispered, “Don’t go yet; I’ll do what you want.”
No answer.
“Oh, John! – John! Pray don’t leave me like that. I’ll come down just for a few moments to say good-bye.”
Still no answer, only a faint rustle amongst the bushes.
Had he then gone? – left her while she was silent for those few minutes, thinking her to be hard, and cruel, and indifferent? or did he hope that she would repent, and had he gone round to the glass door by the billiard-room lobby?
“John!” she whispered again; and then more loudly, “John!”
“Is there anything the matter, my lassie?” said a voice – one which made the heart of Jane Barker to beat, for she recognised in it that of the Scotch gardener, who, it now struck her, had been very attentive to her of late.
“Matter! No,” said Jane; “I was only looking out at the stars, Mr McCray,” and she closed the window.
“Ye’re in luck to-neet, Sandy, laddie,” muttered the gardener. “Ye’ve got your rabbit, and reset your trap without so much as a single spiteful keeper being a bit the wiser; and now, taking a fancy to look at her window, ye’ve seen the little blossom hersel. But she’s a neat little flower, and when she’s done greeting after that dirty loon of a butler, she’ll come round. He was a bad one – a bad one, and as jealous as a Moor; but he’s out of the way now, and Jeanie, my sousie lassie, ye’ll be mine one of these days, I think.”
