At One.
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.