A Storm at Merland.
Sir Murray Gernon had, during the past few weeks, made a good deal of use of his horses—another sign, the stablemen observed, of a returning good state of things, for they were growing quite tired of doing nothing but taking the horses out for exercise. But Sir Murray’s rides were only round and about his own estate: he never went far, though he was out for hours at a time; and the day before there was again a fierce look upon his face, as he caught sight of Jane Barker hurriedly leaving Merland Hall.
“Of course!” he said; he might have known that before. Time proved all things, and here, at length, was before his eyes the arrangement by which letters and messages had been conveyed.
But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn’t been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and shivered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.
Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.
About an hour after Ada Norton’s visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.
“Stand aside a few minutes, William,” said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. “Well, what now?” he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman’s face told of tidings.
“I thought I’d better tell you, Sir Murray,” said the man, “her ladyship—”
“Not—?” ejaculated Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. “Has the doctor been sent for?”
“No, Sir Murray,” said the man; “her ladyship ain’t worse, only she went out this afternoon.”