“I do not understand you, Sir Murray,” was the calm, sad reply, as for a moment Norton’s eyes met Marion Gernon’s imploring glance.
“Indeed,” said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look interchanged. “I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you should have been an actor.”
The colour seemed to fade from Norton’s face at these galling words, and the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces’ distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger—the weapon was fully cocked—and even the slightest contraction of the angry man’s muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton’s breast. But he did not wince—not a muscle moved; the man who had before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.
But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.
Jane’s Suspicions.
It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.
At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for—so they said—the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.
But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s—for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant—but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action—a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.
What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.