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.