LI E) RAFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLRSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8*25 
 F353sa.pp
 
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 % Hnfael 
 
 G. MANVILLE FENN. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LOXDON : 
 
 TIXSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST , STRAND. 
 
 1871. 
 
 [All Rights reserved.]
 
 JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
 
 ^Z3 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL I 
 
 CHAP 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW . . 
 
 13 
 
 III.' 
 
 A GLANCE AT THE SUBSTANCE 
 
 . 21 
 
 IV. 
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR 
 
 . 26 
 
 V. 
 
 TOO LATE 
 
 . 42 
 
 VI. 
 
 AMIDST THE PINES 
 
 56 
 
 VII. 
 
 BALM 
 
 . 72 
 
 VIII. 
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED 
 
 . 79 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ada's promise . . 
 
 86 
 
 X. 
 
 SIR murray^s gentleman 
 
 . 92 
 
 XI. 
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES 
 
 . 104 
 
 XII. 
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION 
 
 . 113 
 
 XIII. 
 
 BROODING 
 
 . 124 
 
 XIV. 
 
 MAN AND MAID 
 
 . 137 
 
 XV. 
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS . . 
 
 . 148 
 
 XVI. 
 
 AN ENCOUNTER 
 
 . 162
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 XVII. jane's heart . . 
 
 XVIII. BENEATH THE SHADOW . . 
 
 XIX. NOT YET 
 
 XX. SIR Murray's library 
 
 XXI. THE GENTLE PASSION . . 
 
 XXII. jane's LOVERS. NO. I. 
 
 XXIII. A FALSE STEP . . 
 
 XXIV. RESCUE . . 
 
 XXV. SIR Murray's thoughts 
 
 
 . 172 
 
 
 . 187 
 
 
 . 200 
 
 
 . 207 
 
 » 
 
 . 217 
 . 231 
 
 
 . 242 
 
 
 . 253 
 
 
 . 263
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. 
 
 ' f\ii, how sweet tlie pines smell, Marion ! 
 I declare it's quite bliss to get down 
 here in these wilds, with the free wind blow- 
 ing the London smoke out of your back hair, 
 and no one to criticise and make remarks. I 
 won't go to the sea-side any more : pier and 
 band, and esplanade and promenade ; in pink 
 to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next 
 day in green ; and then a bow here and a 
 
 VOL. I. 1
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS, 
 
 *' de-do " there ; and " how's mamma ? " and 
 '' nice day ; " and all the same sickening stuff 
 over again. There ! I won't hear fault found 
 with the Fen-land ever any more. I don't 
 wonder at that dear old Hereward the Wake 
 loving it. Why, it's beautiful ! and I feel 
 free — as free as the air itself; and could set 
 off and run and jump and shout like a child ! ' 
 
 ' Dangerous work, running and jumping 
 here,' said a tall, pale girl, the speaker's com- 
 panion, as she picked her way from tuft to 
 tuft of heath and rushes, now plucking a 
 spray of white or creamy-pink moss, now 
 some silky rush, and at last bending long 
 over a cluster of forget-me-nots, peering up 
 from the bright green water plants, like tur- 
 quoise set in enamelled gold. 
 
 ' What lovely forget-me-nots ! ' cried her 
 blonde companion, hurrying to her side, the 
 oozy ground bending beneath her weight, as
 
 m THE OLD FEN-LAND. 
 
 she pressed forward. ' True blue — true blue ! 
 I must have a bunch as well.' 
 
 ' Poor Philip's favourite flowers/ said the 
 other, sadly. ' I have the little dried bouquet 
 at home now that he gave me — six years ago 
 this spring, Ada. Porget-me-not ! ' 
 
 She stood, sad and thoughtful, with the 
 flowers in her hand, the tears the while drop- 
 ping slowly upon the little blue petals, that 
 seemed hke eyes peering up at her. They were 
 standing together upon the edge of a wide 
 stretch of uncultivated marsh, which com- 
 menced as soon as the grove of whispering 
 pines through which they had come ceased to 
 flourish; though here and there, just as they 
 had been dragged forth from the boggy 
 depths, lay, waiting for carriage, huge roots of 
 pines, that had been growing, perhaps, two 
 thousand years before, and now, probed for 
 and dragged to the surface, proved to be
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 sound — un decayed, and crystallized with the 
 abundant turpentine, forming a fuel much 
 sought after by the country people. 
 
 ' Marion, darling,' whispered the fair girl, 
 passing her arm round the other's waist, and 
 speaking in soft, deep tones — a perfect con- 
 trast to her gay accents of a few moments 
 before — ' try not to mourn now : it is hardly 
 loyal, and it is of no avail. I too have wept 
 for the dead, many and many a time.' 
 
 ' Yes ; we all weep for our passed away,' 
 said Marion, sadly. 
 
 ' Yes, true ; I mourned, too, for poor 
 PhiHp, Marion.' 
 
 'Y^ou, Ada?' 
 
 ' Yes ; why not ? I feel no shame in 
 owning that I loved him, too — warmly as ever 
 you could, though I saw his preference and 
 bore it in silence.' 
 
 ' You, you — Ada ? '
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. 
 
 *Yes, dear, I. You think me light and 
 frivolous, but may not that be merely on the 
 surface ? I wept long when I found that he 
 loved and was engaged to you ; but I hid my 
 secret, for my only wish was to see him 
 happy ; and you cannot say that I ever failed 
 in my friendship.' 
 
 ' Never — never, dear,' said Marion, gazing 
 with troubled eyes at her friend, but clinging 
 to her the while ; and then, making their way 
 to the pine grove, they sat down amongst the 
 soft shed needles to rest, dreamily pondering 
 over the past, till, starting from her reverie, 
 Ada Lee exclaimed lightly : 
 
 'There, this will not do. Poor Philip 
 has gone to his soldier's grave, honourably 
 fighting for his country. May Heaven rest 
 him ! for he was a brave fellow ; but life is 
 not long enough for much time to be spent in 
 weeping. There, Marion, darling, rouse your-
 
 6 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 self ; this is not a thing of yesterday. Come ! 
 we must get back. Think of the wooing and 
 wedding, and be as merry and light-hearted 
 as I am. Heigho ! I wish, though, that some 
 one would marry me, and bring me to live 
 down here in these dear old solemn marshes. 
 How nice for me to be always close to you, 
 wouldn't it? There's a house across there 
 amongst the trees that would do capitally. 
 Who lives there ? ' 
 
 * No one, Ada,' said the other, sadly. 
 'That is Merland Hall, where poor Philip 
 should have dwelt.' 
 
 Ada started, and again her arm was 
 pressed round her companion's waist, when, 
 almost in silence, they walked back to the 
 parsonage, where Ada Lee was staying with 
 her friend, having come down from London 
 to fulfil the office of bridesmaid at Marion's 
 wedding.
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. 
 
 But on reaching her bed-room Marion 
 threw herself in a chair, letting the botanical 
 specimens she had been gathering fall upon the 
 carpet beside her, as she leaned her head upon 
 her hand, and remained silent and thoughtful. 
 
 ' Oh, come — come, darling ; this will never 
 do,' cried Ada. * Mrs Elstree said that I was 
 to do all I could to cheer and enliven you, 
 and here have I been making you worse with 
 my ill-chosen chatter. Why, you ought to be 
 as happy as the day is long : a fine, handsome 
 husband, young as well as rich ; a castle to 
 live in, and he as devoted as possible. Why, 
 I declare I'm almost in love with him myself. 
 Look at the presents he has sent you. Why, 
 one would think, to see that doleful face, that 
 you did not like him ! ' 
 
 * But I do, Ada. I esteem and respect, 
 and I think I love him.' 
 
 ' Think, indeed ! why, of course you do.
 
 8 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Didn't I see you give him a kiss last night 
 when he asked you as he was going ? ' 
 
 ' And I beheve that I shall be very happy 
 with him/ continued Marion, not heeding 
 her companion's words ; ' but, just now, as I 
 am going to take this irrevocable step, the 
 past all seems to come back, and it almost 
 seems as if I were going to be faithless to 
 poor Philip ; and, in spite of all I can do, my 
 poor heart is filled with forebodings.' 
 
 ' Oh dear — oh dear ! What a girl it is ! ' 
 cried Ada. ' This won't do, you know. 
 What am I to do with you ? Oh ! look here ! 
 Why, here's a note on the dressing-table, and 
 a case — a jewel-case, I'm sure ! Why, it's 
 another present from that dear Sir Murray. 
 Why, you happy, lucky darling ! There, pray 
 read your note, and do show me what's in 
 the case, there's a dear sweet girl.' 
 
 As she spoke, she seized a note lying by a
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. 9 
 
 large morocco case upon the dressing-table, 
 and eagerly placed it in her friend's hand, 
 laying the case in her lap, at the same time 
 stroking the hair from her forehead, and kiss- 
 ing her tenderly, though a shade of care and 
 anxiety was plainly visible upon the face she 
 strove to make appear mirthful. 
 
 Marion read the note, the colour mant- 
 ling faintly in her cheek the while. 
 
 ' He is most kind and affectionate,' she 
 said, sadly. ' I would that he had chosen 
 one more worthy of his love ! ' 
 
 ' How can you talk like that ? ' cried Ada, 
 reproachfully. 'There, do pray chase away 
 this horrible low-spiritedness ! It is not right 
 to Sir Murray, dear — it isn't, indeed ; and 
 I'm sure you have no cause to blame your- 
 self. But there, my own handsome darling, 
 I know what it is : you feel the step you are 
 going to take, and no wonder ; but try — pray
 
 10 THE SAPPHIEE CROSS. 
 
 try — for his sake, to be brighter. He's com- 
 ing to dinner, you know ; and he's a dear, 
 nice fellow, in spite of his pride and so much 
 of the Spanish grandee. Think, too, how 
 happy it makes Mr and Mrs Elstree to see 
 you so well provided for ! — and without going 
 right away. They're as proud as can be, and 
 the dear old rector is making out that he is 
 condescending wonderfully in letting Sir Mur- 
 ray have his darling. But all the time he's 
 reckoning" upon your being Lady Gernon, 
 and so is dear aunt. But come, you have 
 not shown me your present ; and, look here, 
 if all your specimens are not lying upon the 
 floor ! I suppose you will give up botany 
 now you are taking to husbandry.' 
 
 ' The joke is old, Ada,' said Marion, smil- 
 ing, and, making an effort, she rose from her 
 chair, gathered together her flowers and 
 mosses, and laid them on the table, before
 
 IN THE OLD FEN-LAND. 11 
 
 turning the handsome gilt key of the morocco 
 case, to display, glittering in the light, a gor- 
 geous suite of sapphires : necklet, bracelets, 
 earrings ; and a large cross, a mingling of the 
 same gems with brilliants. 
 
 * Oh, what a lovely piece of vanity ; ' cried 
 Ada, rapturously. ' Oh, my darhng, how 
 proud I shall feel of my friend Lady Gernon 
 — that is, if she does not grow too stilty for 
 her old friend.' 
 
 * For shame, Ada ! ' cried Marion. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know,' said Ada. ' I have 
 my forebodings, too, and I thnik I may as 
 well say good-bye for good when you start to- 
 morrow for your tour.' 
 
 *Do you wish to make me more un- 
 happy ? ' said Marion, reproachfully. 
 
 ' No, of course not,' said Ada, kissing her. 
 ' But, mark iny words, it will be so,' she con- 
 tinued, dreamily, as she clasped the jewels upon
 
 12 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 her friend's arms and neck. 'There, I declare 
 they are quite regal, and must have cost 
 hundreds of pounds ! I love sapphires ; they 
 are so much like forget-me-nots — true blue, 
 you know. There, how stupid I am, setting 
 you off again ! But look, darling, are they 
 not lovely ? I never saw a more beautiful 
 suite. That cross, too — it's magnificent ! 
 But you must take care not to lose it. The 
 ring is slight, and it might come detached. 
 Now, then, bathe those eyes, while I put the 
 present away. Really I've a great mind to 
 let you wear them at dinner to-night.' 
 
 Marion said nothing, and Ada slowly re- 
 placed the gems, lingering long over the 
 cross, little thinking it was to be the bane of 
 her cousin's life.
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 
 
 A DA LEE was right : there was a good 
 deal of the Spanish grandee in the as- 
 pect of Sir Murray Gernon, who traced back 
 his pedigree to the old Norman days, when, 
 as a recompense for the service of the stout 
 knight, Sir Piers Gernon, his squire, and so 
 many men-at-arms, WiUiam gave him the 
 pleasant lands whereon he built his castle, 
 overlooking many an acre of Lincolnshire fen- 
 land — a castle that gave place, in Tudor days, 
 to the fine, square, massive, and roomy build-
 
 14 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ing, which still retained the name as well as 
 the broad moat. Sir Murray entered the 
 rectory drawing-room, tall, swarthy, and 
 haughty of bearing, and was chatting gra- 
 ciously to the parents of his intended bride, 
 when she entered the apartment. 
 
 To a careless observer the morning's sad- 
 ness had all departed, and courtly lover could 
 not have been better satisfied with his greet- 
 ing as Marion crossed the room to meet him, 
 placing both her hands in his, and looking up 
 in his proud face as much as to say, ' I am 
 soon to be yours — be gentle with me.' 
 
 Sir Murray took the hands with quite a 
 protective air. smiling down upon the face, 
 which he saluted with a lordly kiss upon the 
 white forehead ; and then, apparently well 
 satisfied with the lady so soon to grace his 
 table, he led her to a chair beside Ada, and 
 in a somewhat cumbersome fashion began to
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 15 
 
 chat about the mornmg's proceedings. 
 
 ' Studying dress I presume we should 
 have been ? ' said Ada. ' But we were away 
 by the edge of the marsh, botanizing, for half 
 the day. Poor Marion has been taking a 
 farewell of her favourite pursuit,' she added, 
 laughingly. 
 
 ' I don't see that at all,' said Sir Murray. 
 ' I admire natural history, and shall hope that 
 Lady Gernon will prove a kind and patient 
 instructress.' 
 
 ' I think it was reserved for us at our re- 
 turn to find our brightest specimens, though,' 
 said Marion, turning her large, dreamy eyes 
 upon the baronet. ' I have to thank you for 
 your present, Murray.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't talk about it — wear it,' was 
 the response. ' They are the old family jewels 
 re-set. I thought you would like them better 
 modernized.'
 
 16 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 The dinner passed off quietly. Sir Mur- 
 ray Gernon, who prided himself upon his 
 birth, lineage, and wealth, taking matters in a 
 courtly manner, considering that it would be 
 unbecoming, even upon the evening pre- 
 ceding his marriage, to forget his dignity. 
 Hence there was a something that seemed 
 almost verging upon coldness in his farewell 
 that night, even when he whispered the words, 
 ' Till to-morrow, dearest.' There was no ap- 
 parent ardour, although he was, certainly, con- 
 tented and proud; and he rode home that 
 night at a very respectable hour, teUing him- 
 self that he was one of the happiest men in 
 the kingdom. 
 
 When Marion was once more alone with 
 her cousin, the emotion, crushed down, hid- 
 den beneath a mask of cheerfulness, asserted 
 itself in a way that alarmed even herself: 
 sobs and hysterical cries seeming to tear them-
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 17 
 
 selves from her breast, to be succeeded, 
 though, at last by a calm, as, evidently by a 
 great effort, she overcame the weakness to 
 which she had given way. 
 
 * Don't be angry, Ada ! ' cried the agi- 
 tated girl, as she clung to her friend. ' I am 
 very — very weak, I know ; but to-morrow I 
 must be strong, and put weakness aside. To- 
 night, I feel that if I did not give way, my 
 agony would be greater than I could bear. I 
 cannot dissimulate ! ' she exclaimed, passion- 
 ately. ' I do not love this man as I should ; 
 he is cold and haughty, and does not try to 
 make me love him. I have tried — tried hard, 
 for they have set their mind upon it, and 
 what can I do? But the old, old love will 
 come back, and I seem to see poor Philip 
 beckoning to me from the other side of the 
 great black gulf, calhng me, as it were, to him ; 
 and to go on with this — to keep faith to-mor- 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 18 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 row, is like being false, when I recall all my 
 vows made before he went away.' 
 
 ' But, Marion, darling,' exclaimed Ada, 
 ' does not death solve all those ties ? Come, 
 dear, be tranquil, and do not give way to all 
 this weakness. You do not do Sir Murray 
 justice : he is proud and haughty ; but look 
 at the pride he has in you. There ! ' she 
 cried, ' I shall be glad when to-morrow is 
 here, and the wooing ended by the wedding. 
 I will not say, fight back all these sad memo- 
 ries, because I know you have tried ; but 
 pray, pray think of duty, of what you owe to 
 your betrothed, as well as to your parents. 
 Come, to bed — to bed, or I shall be blamed 
 for the sad, pale face that will be under the 
 orange blossoms to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Do you think the dead have power to 
 influence us, Ada?' said Marion, who had 
 sat with her hair pressed back from her tem-
 
 UNDER THE SHADOW. 19 
 
 pies, and had not apparently heard a word 
 her cousin had said. 
 
 ^ The dead ! — influence ! ' said Ada, look- 
 ing almost with fear in her companion's face. 
 
 'Yes, influence us; for it seems as if 
 Philip were ever present with me, drawing 
 me, as it were, to him, and reproaching me 
 for my want of faith. Shall I always feel 
 this ? — always be haunted by his spirit, un- 
 seen but by myself? Ada, do you beheve in 
 foresight — ^in a knowledge of what is to be ? ' 
 
 ' No, certainly not, you fooHsh, childish 
 creature ! ' exclaimed Ada, making an effort 
 to overcome the strange thrill of dread her 
 cousin's words engendered. ' How can you 
 be so weak ? It's cruel of you — unjust.' 
 
 ' I shall not live long, Ada. I feel it — I 
 am sure of it. If there is such a thing as a 
 broken heart, mine is that heart. But I will 
 do my duty to all, hard as it may be. And
 
 20 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 now, kiss me, dear, and go to your own room ; 
 for I am going to pray for strength to carry 
 me through the trial, and that Heaven will 
 make me to my husband a good and earnest 
 wife.' 
 
 What could she say ? — how whisper peace 
 to this troubled breast? Ada Lee felt that 
 peace must come from another source, and, 
 kissing tenderly the cold pale cheek, she went 
 softly, tearfully to her own room.
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A GLANCE AT THE SUBSTANCE. 
 
 rpHE moon shone brightly through the 
 window of Ada Lee's bed-room as she 
 seated herself thoughtfully by her dressing- 
 table. She had extinguished her light, and, 
 attracted by the soft sea of silvery mist spread 
 before her sight over the marsh, she gazed 
 dreamily out, watching the play of the moon- 
 beams upon the wreathing vapour, now 
 musing upon the past, now upon the present, 
 and at last letting her eyes fall upon the 
 green lawn beneath the window — one of
 
 22 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 about half-a-dozen, looking out upon that side 
 of the old ivy-covered rectory. The trees 
 cast dark, massive-looking shadows here and 
 there, while patches of the grass, and now 
 and then a flower-bed stood out, bathed in 
 the soft light. 
 
 How long she sat there musing she could 
 not tell, but her reverie was rudely broken by 
 the sight of a dark figure coming forth from 
 amidst the shrubs upon her left, to stand for 
 a moment gazing up at the house. 
 
 Her heart beat violently, and a strange 
 swimming sensation made blurred and indis- 
 tinct the moonlit scene ; but when, approach- 
 ing more nearly to the window-pane, she 
 gazed anxiously out, the dark figure had 
 disappeared ; there was nothing visible but 
 the shadows cast by tree and shrub, and, 
 hastily casting aside her fears, she smiled, 
 telling herself that it was but fancy. .
 
 A GLANCE AT THE SUBSTANCE. 23 
 
 What could any one want there at that 
 time of the night ? Burglars ? Absurd, they 
 would not openly show themselves while there 
 were lights about the house, and even then it 
 was not likely that they would cross the lawn. 
 If not a creation of her brain, it was most 
 probably one of Sir Murray Gernon's keepers 
 out upon his rounds, and taking a short cut to 
 some copse or preserve. 
 
 But for all that, Ada Lee sat long watch- 
 ing from her window. The painful beating 
 of her heart was still there, and a cloud 
 of fancies kept flitting through her brain. 
 Strange, wild fancies they were, such as she 
 could not have explained ; but, in spite of her 
 efforts, troublous enough to make the tears 
 flow silently from her eyes as she recalled, she 
 knew not why, the heart-aches of the past, 
 and the battle she had had with self to hide 
 from every eye the suffering she had endured.
 
 24 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Again and again, as she rose from her seat 
 by the window and paced up and down the 
 room, she tried to drive away these troubled 
 thoughts, but they were too strong for her, 
 and at last, raging against her weakness the 
 while, she burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears — passionate as any shed by her friend 
 that night, as she threw herself, sobbing, by 
 the bedside. 
 
 ' There ! now I hope you'll be better ! ' 
 she exclaimed, apostrophizing herself in a half- 
 sad, half-bantering spirit. ' What we poor 
 weak women would do without a good cry 
 now and then, I'm sure I don't know. Well, 
 it's better to have it now than to break down 
 to-morrow at the altar. But a nice body I 
 am to be preaching to poor little Marion 
 about being weak and childish, for there 
 really is a something at these times that is too 
 much for our poor little weak spirits. I won-
 
 A GLANCE AT THE SUBSTANCE. 25 
 
 der whether men are nervous, or whether they 
 feel it at all ! ' 
 
 Ada Lee's words were light, and she knew 
 that she was trying to deceive herself as she 
 lay down to rest with a smile upon her lip ; 
 but when, towards dawn, sleep did come, it 
 was to oppress her with wild and confused 
 dreams, from one of which she awoke, trem- 
 bling as if from some great horror, but trying 
 vainly to recall the vision. It was of trouble 
 and danger, but she knew no more ; and it 
 was with sleep effectually banished from her 
 pillow that she lay at last, waiting for the 
 coming of that eventful day.
 
 26 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 
 
 T)EOPLE came from miles round to see that 
 wedding, for the morning was bright 
 and genial, and there were to be grand do- 
 ings up at the castle as soon as the happy 
 pair had taken their departure. It was not 
 often that a wedding took place at Merland 
 church, and this was to be no ordinary affair. 
 Hours before the time appointed the people 
 from the village and outlying farms began to 
 assemble. The school children, flower-laden 
 and excited, had rehearsed their part of
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 27 
 
 throwing flowers in the bride's path, and had 
 picked them up again ; the ringers were 
 having a preUminary ' qu-a-a-art ' of the very 
 bad ale sold at the village inn preparatory to 
 looking over the ropes of the three bells, all 
 that Merland tower could boast. Sir Mur- 
 ray Gernon's tenants, and the farmers' 
 daughters, were in an acute state of excite- 
 ment, and dresses that had been in prepar- 
 ation for days past Avere being carefully fit- 
 ted on. 
 
 ' There could not have been a brighter 
 and happier morning for you, my darling,' 
 exclaimed Marion's mother, as she kissed her 
 affectionately, holding her with the clinging 
 fondness of one about to lose a household 
 treasure ; proud of the position her child was 
 to take, but, now that it had come to the time, 
 tearful and hard pressed to hide her pain. 
 
 'And no bride ever looked better, aunt.
 
 28 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 I'm sure/ said Ada Lee, merrily, as she ad- 
 justed a fold here J and arranged some scrap 
 of lace there. 
 
 ' She'd have had to look strange and fine, 
 if she did, mum, that she would ! ' exclaimed 
 Jane, handmaiden in ordinary at the rectory, 
 but now to be promoted to the honourable 
 post of maid to Lady Gernon. Jane had first 
 entered the room very red of cheek, due to a 
 salute placed thereon by Mr Gurdon, Sir 
 Murray's gentleman, who had but a few 
 moments before arrived with the bouquet 
 Jane bore in her hand, and a note. But note 
 and flowers, and even the impudence of ' that 
 Gurdon,' were forgotten in Jane's genuine 
 admiration, as, catching Ada's words, she had 
 delivered her own opinion. 
 
 Till now, though pale, Marion's face had 
 been bright and animated as that of her 
 cousin, and to have seen the two girls, no one
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 29 
 
 would have imagined that they had each 
 passed a troubled and almost sleepless night. 
 The forebodings of the past seemed to have 
 been dismissed, and Ada, seeing how bright 
 and happy her cousin appeared, forbore even 
 to hint at last night's tears. 
 
 But now came a message from the anxious 
 rector, respecting time, and the last touches 
 were given to the bridal apparel ; when, turn- 
 ing round, after hastily adjusting her own veil, 
 Ada exclaimed : 
 
 ' Oh, Marion ! Is that wise ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Miss ! ' exclaimed Jane. 'Not wear 
 that beautiful bookey, as Sir Murray sent ? ' 
 
 Marion made no answer, but quietly ar- 
 ranged the bunch of forget-me-nots, culled the 
 previous day in the fen, and Aitterly regardless 
 of her cousin's words, pinned them on her 
 breast, with a sad smile. Then, turning to 
 Ada, she said, gaily :
 
 30 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' You must have that bouquet, Ada.' 
 
 'But there's ever so many more down- 
 stairs, miss, on purpose for the bridesmaids,' 
 said Jane, excitedly. And then she raised 
 her hands, as if mutely exclaiming, ' What 
 obstinacy ! ' as she saw Ada take the bouquet 
 and hold it, gazing curiously at Marion's pale, 
 sweet face, and then glancing at the little blue 
 flowers upon her breast. 
 
 Marion interpreted her looks, and leaning 
 forward, kissed her tenderly. 
 
 ' Don't grudge me that little satisfaction, 
 dear,' she said. * You see how I am this 
 morning. Are you not satisfied with the way 
 in which I have taken your advice to heart ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes — yes, dear,' exclaimed Ada, 
 clinging to her ; ' but was this wise ? ' And 
 she pointed with Sir Murray's bouquet to the 
 simple marsh flowers. 
 
 ' Wise ! ' said Marion, ' perhaps not ; but
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 81 
 
 I placed them there in memoriam. Should we 
 forget the dead ? ' 
 
 ' There, do pray, for goodness gracious' 
 sake. Miss, mind what you're a doing ! You're 
 cramming Miss Marion's veil all to nothing, 
 and I know you'll be sorry for it after.' 
 
 ' Jane's right,' said Ada, merrily. ' I 
 won't " cram " you any more. Come, dear, 
 there's uncle going out of his wits because 
 we're so long. He won't be happy till the 
 knot is tied. I know he's afraid that Sir 
 Murray will repent at the eleventh hour, aren't 
 you, uncle ? ' she continued, as, on opening 
 the door, she found the anxious father on the 
 landing. 
 
 ' Come, my dears — come, my dears ! ' he 
 cried ; and then, ' Heaven bless you, my dar- 
 ling ! ' 
 
 ' Ah — ah ! mustn't touch ! Oh, sir, please 
 don't ! ' exclaimed Ada and Jane in a breath ;
 
 32 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 for the father was about to clasp his child to 
 his breast. 
 
 * There ! Bless my soul, I forgot ! ' ex- 
 claimed the rector ; and, handing Marion 
 down, in a few minutes more the party were 
 walking across the lawn to the gate in the 
 great hedge, which opened upon the church- 
 yard, where they were saluted by a volley of 
 cheers — heartiest of the hearty ; cheers such 
 as had saluted Sir Murray Gernon and his 
 friends, when, a quarter of an hour before, his 
 barouche and four had come along the road, 
 dashed up to the gate, and, proud and elate, 
 the bridegroom had strode into the church, 
 hit, in the process, on the hat, back, and 
 breast with cowslips, hurled at him by the 
 over-excited school children. They could not be 
 restrained till the proper time by their equally 
 excited mistress, who, like the rest of the 
 feminine community present, was ready to fall
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 33 
 
 down and worship the proud handsome man 
 who had just passed into the church. 
 
 The cheering ceased, as the rectory party 
 were seen to cross over to the chancel door, 
 and the people crowded into the building. 
 There had not been such a congregation — 
 ' no, not since Sir Murray's father and mother 
 — Heaven rest 'em ! — were married in that 
 very church,' said the oldest inhabitant, who 
 wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his smock- 
 frock as he recalled the day. 
 
 'And how drunk you did get that day, 
 up ta castle, Joey ! ' said a crony. 
 
 ' Well, yes, lad, I did — I did,' said the 
 oldest inhabitant. ' But, then, castle ale is 
 stark drink, lad, and old Barnes Thorndike 
 used to brew good stuff.' 
 
 ' Nought like what they have there now, 
 lad,' said the other old lad, both speakers 
 being over eighty ; and comfortably seated as
 
 34 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 tliey were upon a tombstone, patiently wait- 
 ing the conclusion of the ceremony, with one 
 exception, they were now the only occupants 
 of the churchyard. 
 
 ' Well, I don't know, lad ; but we'll try it, 
 by and by — by and by. We'll get a lift up ta 
 castle, some gate or other, and see how things 
 are, for such days as this don't come often.' 
 
 ' Nay, not often,' said the other. ' But 
 it's open house up there to-day, and there's to 
 be fine doings after the squire's gone with his 
 lady; 
 
 ' Where are they going, lad ? ' 
 
 * Oh, furren parts, sure ; so my boy Jack 
 tells me.' 
 
 ' And he's agoin' too — ain't he ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, lad. He's Sir Murray's head man 
 now, and he's to be butler when they come 
 back ; and butlers keep keys, and there'll be 
 a rare taste or two — eh ? '
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 35 
 
 ' Ay ; and my Fan's gal, Jenny, she's go- 
 ing, you know — my grandchild as has been at 
 parson's. She's going with her young mis- 
 sus ; and strikes me, neighbour, as young 
 Jack Gurdon's thinking about her a good 
 deal. Jane's mother twitted her with it, and 
 the gal laughed ; and there might be more 
 strange things come to pass than for they two 
 to come to be butler and housekeeper up ta 
 old place.' 
 
 The old men chuckled and blinked at one 
 another upon the tombstone, for a few minutes, 
 and then one spoke : 
 
 ^ Ain't they a long time getting of it 
 done ? ' 
 
 '■ Two parsons, lad,' said the other. * Takes 
 two to do these grand weddings. But they'll 
 be a-coming out directly, for here's Miss 
 Minson putting the bairns straight with the 
 flowers. But who's yon ? '
 
 36 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 The first old man shaded his eyes with 
 his hands, as a tall figure, in a brown travel- 
 ling suit, crossed the churchyard hastily from 
 the rectory garden-gate, hurried up to the 
 chancel door, peered in, and then, as if struck 
 a violent blow, he reeled back against a tomb- 
 stone, to which he clung for a few moments, 
 till, recovering himself, he made his way in a 
 blind, groping fashion, towards the south 
 door, close to whose porch sat the two old 
 men. There was a fair gravel-path, but he 
 saw it not ; but walked straight forward, 
 stumbling over the mounds of the dead in his 
 way, and feeling with outstretched hands the 
 tombs — passing himself along, till, clear of 
 the obstacles, he again pressed on to the great 
 railed vault of the Gernon family, hard by 
 the porch, where, holding by one hand to the 
 iron rails, he tore off his broad soft felt hat, 
 and stood gazing into the church.
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 37 
 
 The school children, flower-basket in 
 hand, shrank back ; for there Avas something 
 starthng in the stranger's appearance. For 
 though quietly and gentlemanly dressed, his 
 face was wild — his eyes staring. At first 
 sight a looker-on w^ould have raised his eye- 
 browns, and muttered, ' Drunk 1 ' But a second 
 glance would have shown that the owner of 
 that bronzed face, handsome once, but now 
 disfigured by the great scar of a sabre-slash 
 passing obliquely from temple to jaw, w^as 
 suffering from some great emotion, one which 
 made his breast to heave, as his teeth grated 
 together, one hand tearing the while at his 
 handkerchief, as though he wanted air. 
 
 A few seconds, though, and the stranger 
 grew apparently calm, as the people began to 
 flock out, and the children excitedly grasped 
 handfuls of flowers ; while, though the new- 
 comer took a step forward, so as to be in
 
 38 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 front of the double line of children, through 
 which the bridal procession was to pass, he 
 was unnoticed ; for now the cry rose of 
 ' Here they come ! ' and the three bells struck 
 up their sonorous chime — sweet, though 
 wanting in proper cadence ; for the old bells 
 dated from days when the monks blessed, and 
 threw in their silver offering to the molten 
 metal. 
 
 ' Now, lads ! hooray ! ' piped one of the old 
 fellows, climbing, by his companion's aid, to 
 the tombstone, where he stood, bent of back, 
 feebly waving his stick. ' Hooray ! and long 
 life to Sir Murray and his lady ! ' 
 
 ' Hooray ! ' cheered the crowd, in broken 
 but hearty volleys. Handkerchiefs were 
 waved, flowers thrown, the buzz of excitement 
 was at its height when the proud bridegroom 
 strode forward with his blushing bride, bright, 
 almost radiant in her white draperv, as,
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 39 
 
 slightly flushed, she smiled and bowed in ac- 
 knowledgment of the greetings of the Httle 
 ones whom she had often taught, now cast- 
 ing their simple flowery ofierings at her feet ; 
 or with gentle glance thanked some old vil- 
 lager for the blessing invoked upon her head. 
 Progress was made but slowly : they had ad- 
 vanced but a couple of yards from the porch, 
 and Sir Murray, hat in hand, was intending 
 to wave it in response to the greeting he was 
 receiving, when he felt his wife's arm snatched 
 from his, and turned to see her with her 
 hands clasped together and raised to the 
 height of her face ; the smile gone ; a deadly 
 stony pallor overspreading her features ; her 
 eyes starting, lips apart — it w^as as though 
 death had smitten her in an instant ; for with 
 one stride the stranger had confronted her, 
 his hand was npon her breast, and he had 
 torn away the bunch of forget-me-nots, to
 
 40 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 dash them upon the ground, and crush them 
 beneath his heel. 
 
 There was no word spoken : the language 
 was of the eye ; and the crowd around, who 
 could see the incident, seemed paralyzed, as 
 was the bridegroom; but at that instant a 
 wild and piercing shriek rang out from the 
 porch, and there was a sharp movement in 
 the group. 
 
 But that cry was not from Lady Gernon, 
 who stood as if turned to stone ; for as Sir 
 Murray, recovering himself, had, pale with 
 rage and mortification, exclaimed, ' How dare 
 you ! ' Ada Lee had sprung forward, and 
 almost thrown herself upon the stranger's 
 breast, pressing him back from her cousin, as 
 she glided between them. 
 
 It was but in time ; for, mad with rage 
 and hatred, roused by his words, the new- 
 comer had half- turned now to Sir Murray; but
 
 THE HAPPY PAIR. 41 
 
 Ada clung to him tightly, her bridesmaid's 
 veil torn, her flowers crushed, but a bright 
 wild look of joy and eagerness in her coun- 
 tenance, as she exclaimed — 
 
 ' Back, Philip ! Are you mad ? '
 
 42 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 ^ ]YrOW just you put that back where you 
 took it from, Mr Impudence, or I'll 
 tell your master.' 
 
 ' There you are, then, my dear ; that's as 
 near the spot as I can recollect,' said the per- 
 son addressed, giving Jane Barker a hearty 
 smack on her rosy cheek, such a liberty being 
 a little excusable on a wedding-day. 
 
 ' Take your arai from round me, then ; 
 you can tell me without that, I'm sure,' 
 said Jane, shrinking back into the rectory 
 kitchen.
 
 TOO LATE. 43 
 
 ' No, I can't ; and how do I know but 
 what perhaps, after I've been loving you with 
 all my might, and saving up so as we may be 
 married, there mayn't come a foreign lover, a 
 currier, or something of that sort, and cut me 
 out?' 
 
 ' Don't be a fool, John ! ' exclaimed Jane, 
 ' and do adone there. I do declare — and 
 serve you right, too ! Such impudence ! ' 
 
 There was the sound of a smart slap re- 
 ceived upon his cheek by John Gurdon, from 
 the sole of one of the Hector's very broad old 
 slippers, a weapon held in Jane's hand at the 
 moment ; and now she stood arranging her 
 ruffled plumes, and gazing very defiantly at 
 the red-cheeked gentleman before her. 
 
 ' Well, that's pretty, certainly,' he said, 
 half in anger. ' What are you doing with 
 that shoe ? ' 
 
 ' It's to slap the other side of your face
 
 44 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 with, if you're saucy,' cried Jane, ' now then ; 
 and if you're not, it's to give to cook to throw^ 
 after the carriage when we go, for luck, you 
 know; and it's bad enough we need it, I'm 
 sure, for I never saw such a set-out. There's 
 young missus looking that stony and dreadful 
 and never speaking, it quite frightens me. I 
 wouldn't care if she would only cry ; but she 
 won't. But do tell me.' 
 
 ' Well, you won't let me,' said John Gur- 
 don. ' I didn't see it all ; but them two 
 nearly come to a fight, when Miss Lee jumped 
 forward and held Mr Norton, and master 
 carried her ladyship — ^you mustn't say " young 
 missus " now — on to the Rectory. Regular 
 row and confusion, you know. I do wish 
 they'd be off. All the company's gone ; and 
 there's that beautiful breakfast going a-beg- 
 ging, and all because two people want the same 
 woman. Just as if there weren't plenty of
 
 TOO LATE. 45 
 
 women in the world ready to jump at a hus- 
 band ! I never see such fools ! ' 
 
 ' Didn't you, Mr Greatgrand ? ' exclaimed 
 Jane, firing up. 'You're a nasty, unfeeling 
 good-for-nothing — there ! You're worse than 
 that Mr Norton himself, shamming dead all 
 these years on purpose to come back and 
 break that poor dear angel's heart. There, 
 it's no use ; I hate you ! that I do ; and if 
 I'm to sit in that rumble with you, hour after 
 hour, I shall be ill, that I shall, so now. 
 Keep your hands to yourself, for I have done 
 with you quite. There, go and answer that 
 beli; 
 
 Jane flounced out of the kitchen, and 
 John Gurdon, who was at the Rectory, to 
 help wait at the wedding-breakfast, hurried 
 into the hall, for there had come the loud 
 ringing of a bell, succeeded by a clamour of 
 voices.
 
 46 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' I tell you I will see her ! ' exclaimed 
 Philip Norton, angrily, as he stood in the hall, 
 with Ada clinging to his arm. 
 
 ' Come in here, pray ! — for Heaven's sake, 
 come in here, Norton,' cried the Rector, 
 opening the drawing-room door. ' This is 
 not seemly — we are all grieved ; but do not 
 insult my child.' 
 
 ' Insult, old man ! ' exclaimed Norton 
 angrily, as he followed him into the room ; 
 and then he uttered a cry of rage, for, un- 
 wittingly, the Rector had asked him into the 
 very room where, angry and mortified, his 
 newly-wedded wife up-stairs with her mother. 
 Sir Murray Gernon was striding up and 
 down. 
 
 In a moment the young men had each 
 other by the throat, and stood glaring into 
 each other's eyes, heedless that Ada and the 
 Rector clung to first one and then the other,
 
 TOO LATE. 47 
 
 in a vain attempt to separate them. 
 
 * Murray ! for my child's sake ! ' exclaimed 
 the Rector. 
 
 ' Philip ! oh, for Heaven's sake, stop this 
 madness ! ' whispered Ada. 
 
 Sir Murray Gernon cooled down in an 
 instant, though still retaining his grasp. 
 
 ' I am quite calm, Mr Elstree,' he said ; 
 * but this man must leave the house at once.' 
 
 ' Calm ! ' shouted PhiHp Norton, mad 
 almost with rage. ' Thief ! robber ! you have 
 stolen her from me. She is mine — my wife 
 — sworn to be mine ; and you, amongst you, 
 have made her false to her vows.' 
 
 ' Mr Norton,' said Sir Murray, ' are you a 
 gentleman ? ' 
 
 ' How dare you — you dog — ask me that ? ' 
 
 ' Leave this house, then ; and I will meet 
 you at any future time, should you, in your 
 cooler moments, wish it. I did intend to
 
 48 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 leave for the Continent this afternoon ; but I 
 will stay. I pity you — upon my soul, I do — 
 but you must know that no one is to blame. 
 You are, or ought to be, aware that the Gazette 
 published your death nearly four years ago, 
 and that you have been truly mourned for. 
 No one has been faithless, but your memory 
 has been respected as wtU as cherished. You 
 have come in a strange and mad way; but 
 we are ready to. overlook all that, as due to the 
 excitement and bitterness of your feelings. I 
 now ask you, as a gentleman, for the sake of 
 her parents, for your own sake — for the sake 
 oimy wife — to leave here quietly, and to try to 
 look calmly upon the present state of affairs. 
 I have done.' 
 
 As Sir Murray ceased speaking he suf- 
 fered his hand to fall from Norton's throat, 
 and stood calmly facing him, gazing into the 
 other's fierce, wild eyes unblenched, while, as
 
 TOO LATE. 49 
 
 if the calm words of reason had forced them- 
 selves to his heart, he, too, allowed his hands 
 to fall, and as the fierce rage seemed to fade 
 out of his countenance, a strange shiver passed 
 through his frame, and he looked in a pitiful, 
 pleading way from face to face, as if seeking 
 comfort, before speaking, in a cracked, hol- 
 low voice : 
 
 ' Too late ! — too late ! But no, not yet ! 
 You,' he exclaimed, turning to Sir Murray, 
 'you will be generous. You will waive this 
 claim. See here ! ' he cried excitedly, as with 
 outstretched hands he pleaded to the husband : 
 ' I was cut down, as you know, in hard fight, 
 and I woke to find myself a prisoner amongst 
 the hill tribes ; and ever since, for what has 
 seemed a life-time, I have been held a slave, a 
 captive — beaten, starved, ill-used in every con- 
 ceivable way ; but look here ! ' he cried, tear- 
 ing from his breast a little leather purse, and 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 opening it. ' See here ! ' he cried, taking out a 
 few dry flower-stalks : 'her flowers, given me 
 when, young and ardent, we plighted troth — 
 forget-me-nots; true blue — and we swore to 
 live one for the other. Man ! man ! those 
 few withered blossoms have been life to me 
 when, cut and bruised, I could have gladly 
 lain down beneath the hot Indian sun and 
 gasped out my last breath. I believe my 
 captors tried to kill me with ill-usage ; but I 
 said I would not die — I would live to look 
 once more upon her face, even though it were 
 to breathe my last at her feet. And now — 
 now, after hardships that would make your 
 blood run cold, I escape, and reach home, 
 what do I find? Her, worse than dead — 
 worse than dead ! But no ! it cannot be so. 
 You, sir — I ask you humbly — I ask you as a 
 supplicant — forgive my mad words, and tell 
 me that you waive your claim. You \^dll be
 
 TOO LATE. 51 
 
 generous towards us ; the law will do the rest. 
 You, sir,' he cried, turning to the Rector, 
 ' plead with me. I am no beggar. I come 
 back to find myself rich. Help me, for poor 
 Marion's sake ! Do not condemn her to a 
 life that must be only such a captivity as 
 mine ! Am I right ? You will both be 
 generous, and this horrid dream of despair is 
 at an end ! ' 
 
 He advanced a step nearer to Sir Mur- 
 ray ; but the latter turned from him. 
 
 ' Speak to him, sir,' he said to the Rector. 
 * It will be better that I should go.' 
 
 Sir Murray's head was bent as he left the 
 room, not daring to trust himself to gaze 
 again upon the wild, appealing face turned 
 towards him ; while, as the door closed, Philip 
 Norton turned to the Rector, who, poor man, 
 stood wringing his hands, hardly knowing 
 what to do or say. But the next moment, 
 
 LIBRARY "-—- ~
 
 52 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 with a groan of despair, Philip Norton let his 
 head drop upon his breast, for he read his 
 sentence in the old man's eyes. But again, 
 with an effort, he roused himself, and caught 
 Ada's hands in his, sending a wild thrill 
 through the poor girl's frame, as she averted 
 her head, and listened, with beating heart, to 
 his words. 
 
 ^ You turn from me too,' he said, bitterly ; 
 and he did not retract his words, though Ada 
 started as if stung, and met his gaze, her face 
 breathing, in every lineament, love and sym- 
 pathy, though he could not read it then. 
 * You know, young as you were then, how I 
 loved her. Plead for me. Ask her to come 
 to me, if but for a minute. But, no — no — 
 no ! ' he cried, despairingly, ' it is too late ! I 
 thought to have gained heaven, and the door 
 is shut in my face. Too late — too late ! ' and 
 then, with the same hopeless, groping, half-
 
 TOO LATE. 53 
 
 blind look in his countenance, he reeled to- 
 wards the door, seeing nothing, hearing no- 
 thing, but, mad with grief, striving blindly to 
 leave the house, his hopes crushed, his life 
 seeming blotted out by the blackness of de- 
 spair. He passed into the hall, and there 
 stood for a minute ; but only to mutter to 
 himself : ' Weak — weak — broken — too late ! ' 
 
 There was no one in the hall, and he 
 passed out on to the lawn, making his way 
 towards the little wicket-gate which led 
 into the churchyard, and, passing through, 
 he stumbled over grave after grave, till un- 
 seen, with a deep groan, he fell heavily, to He, 
 with his face buried in his hands, weeping 
 like a child, the strength of his nature crushed 
 out of him by the terrible blow he had re- 
 ceived, and for hours after he heard, felt, 
 saw, nothing external. 
 
 Meanwhile, struggling hard with herself,
 
 54 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Ada Lee had watched Phihp as he staggered 
 from the room, the tears welhng down her 
 cheeks, and a strange, wild feehng mingled 
 with the compassion she felt for his sufferings. 
 It was only by a violent effort that she re- 
 strained herself from running to his side, as 
 she saw his blind, hopeless exit ; but, as she 
 heard the door close, the place seemed to 
 swim round, and then, overcome by the ex- 
 citement of the past hour, she threw out her 
 hands and would have fallen, had not her 
 uncle caught her in his arms. 
 
 Two hours later, cold, pale, and without a 
 word in reply to her parents' farewell, Marion, 
 Lady Gernon, took her place in her husband's 
 carriage. 
 
 'It is still your wish, then?' said Sir 
 Murray to the Rector, as he stood upon the 
 doorstep.
 
 TOO LATE. 55 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! — for Heaven's sake, yes ! Go, 
 by all means.' 
 
 ' Give him that note, then, should he 
 make inquiry ? ' said Sir Murray. ' I have 
 your word for that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — yes ; indeed you have,' said the 
 Rector; 'but I have known Philip Norton 
 from a boy. He was my pupil ; and when 
 calm, I have no doubt I shall have some in- 
 fluence with him. That and time will do the 
 rest. Heaven bless you ! be gentle with her. 
 Marion, my child, good-bye ! ' 
 
 The wheels grated loudly over the gravel ; 
 but the h^art-broken man, lying prone in the 
 churchyard, heard them not ; and five minutes 
 after, when the old Rector had seen the car- 
 riage disappear at a turn of the road, he 
 turned to encounter the agitated countenance 
 of Ada Lee.
 
 56 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 
 
 ' p Oma out, my child ? ' said the Rector. 
 ' Where is your aunt ? ' 
 
 ' Gone to lie down/ said Ada ; ' she feels 
 this excitement/ 
 
 'No wonder — no wonder/ said the old 
 gentleman. * Pray Heaven that it may turn 
 out happily ! ' 
 
 The Rector's prayer was echoed by Ada 
 Lee, as she passed out into the garden and 
 stood thinking for a few minutes upon the 
 lawn. Where should she go ? she asked her-
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 57 
 
 self, for her mind was strangely agitated, and 
 it seemed to her that to be at rest she must 
 go right away from human habitation, and 
 seek for calm in solitude. The events of the 
 past four-and-twenty hours had been too 
 much for her, she said, and a long quiet walk 
 would restore her. 
 
 But, even to herself, Ada Lee could not 
 confess all. She knew that her heart seemed 
 at times to beat wildly, and that though she 
 crushed down such thoughts with all her 
 might, a strange feeling of elation would 
 strive to assert itself; and even while up- 
 braiding herself for her cruelty, she felt that 
 she did not grieve as she should for the suf- 
 ferings of her friends. She could stay no 
 longer in the house, though she felt that her 
 place should have been at her aunt's side; 
 and now, hastily crossing the garden, her 
 heart again commenced its tumultuous beat-
 
 58 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ing, as she passed over the very spot where 
 she had seen the dark figure the night before 
 — a figure which, she now felt convinced, 
 must have been that of Phihp Norton, who 
 had come over from the town too late to see 
 any of the family, while on his arrival at the 
 Rectory that morning he had learned the 
 news which had sent him, reehng, to the 
 church. 
 
 If Ada Lee's intention had been to escape 
 her thoughts by rapid walking, she soon 
 found that her efforts w^re useless. She 
 sought the wild open moorland where she had 
 walked the previous day with her cousin ; but 
 every step seemed to recall some portion of 
 their conversation. Philip Norton's name was 
 constantly repeating itself in her ears, even 
 out there in the free open waste where she 
 had told herself that she could find peace. 
 She hurried into the pine grove, walking
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 59 
 
 amidst the tall, sombre pillars of the great 
 natural temple, whose darkly interlacing roof 
 was far above, and where her footsteps were 
 silent amidst the pine needles. There was 
 the tree upon which they had rested when 
 they had talked of the past ; and had she not 
 there avowed her own love ? 
 
 It was cruel — most cruel, she told herself, 
 to feel as she did when two hearts were 
 breaking ; growing every moment more agi- 
 tated in her vain efforts to flee, as it were, 
 from self. She had wished for solitude, but 
 the silence of the wood, only broken now and 
 again by the faint whispering roar amidst the 
 pine tops, frightened her. There was a dread 
 solemnity in the place that she could not 
 bear, and hurrying once more to the edge of 
 the marsh, she stopped, gazing across it for a 
 few minutes, with the soft summer wind play- 
 ing pleasantly upon her heated cheeks, toying
 
 60 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 with her hair, and fluttering the light dress 
 which draped her form. Eor the wedding- 
 garments had been hurriedly put aside, and 
 at times it almost seemed that the sorrows of 
 the morning, her troubled night, and gloomy 
 forebodings were things of months ago, while 
 this hurried beating, this anxiety of mind, 
 were things only of the present. 
 
 She turned to hurry in another direction, 
 hoping that by thoroughly tiring herself sleep 
 would come to her early, bringing with it 
 calm, when her eyes fell to the ground, but 
 only to fill with tears, as once more the morn- 
 ing scene rushed through her mind ; for, with 
 her feet each crushing some of the simple blue 
 flowers, she was standing in the midst of the 
 forget-me-nots, and, recalling PhiHp Norton's 
 words, in spite of herself, she knelt down to 
 gather a bunch. 
 
 True blue ! the flowers that had seemed
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 61 
 
 to give him life in those sore perils ; the little 
 bunch that he had so treasured — and for 
 what ? To come back to find her wedded to 
 another. But then, had not she herself coun- 
 selled that Norton should be forgotten, since 
 they believed him dead ? 
 
 Ada Lee bent over the flowers she had 
 gathered, weeping bitterly — foolish, vain tears, 
 she said ; and then, hastily rising, she walked 
 towards the Rectory. 
 
 On reaching the village it seemed as if 
 deserted, for, in spite of the damp thrown 
 upon the morning's proceedings, there was 
 high revelling at the Castle. People could not 
 see why the sorrows of one man should inter- 
 fere with their pleasure : the Squire was mar- 
 ried, the feast had been prepared ; and, under 
 the management of a relative of Sir Murray, 
 the happy pair were toasted, and the morn- 
 ing's scene was about forgotten.
 
 62 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Ada reached the churchyard, where the 
 flowers scattered by the children lay wither- 
 ing in the hot sun. The blood rushed to her 
 cheeks as she recalled the scene in its every 
 detail ; and then, as if anxious to avoid the 
 place which brought back so much, she turned 
 off to reach the Rectory gate, when, right in her 
 path, rising from amidst the graves, she saw 
 Philip Norton. 
 
 More than once the question had arisen, 
 where had he gone ? A question that she 
 had tried to avoid, merely hoping that there 
 might be no further encounter between him 
 and Sir Murray Gernon. But now, so unex- 
 pected was the vision before her, that she 
 stopped short, trembling violently, and she 
 would have turned and fled, she knew not 
 why, had not her limbs refused their office. 
 
 But it soon became evident that he saw 
 her not, for groping along from amidst the
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 63 
 
 graves, he reached the path, and making his 
 way out into the road, turned in the direction 
 from which she had so lately come. 
 
 Ada stood for a few minutes, too agitated 
 to form a coherent plan ; but soon her 
 thoughts began to shape themselves, and it 
 seemed to her that it was not right for Philip 
 Norton to be left at such a time. Judmno: 
 from his acts, he did not seem to be master of 
 himself; and a shudder passed through her 
 frame, galvanizing her, as it were, into action, 
 as she thought of what men had done when 
 under the pressure of some great trouble. 
 Sorrowful and despairing, of what rashness 
 might not Philip Norton be guilty ? She 
 shuddered as she evaded the question, and 
 hurrying into the Rectory, she sought, with a 
 sensation as of a hand grasping her heart, for 
 her uncle. 
 
 He had gone up to the Castle half an
 
 64 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 hour ago, when a message had come for him, 
 she was told by one of the servants, while 
 Mrs Elstree was still in her bedroom. 
 
 Ada hurried out into the village, seeking 
 for help there, but not a soul was visible ; the 
 public-house even was closed; and of the 
 only person she could find, a bedridden old 
 crone, she learned that no one was left. 
 
 ' Only me, miss — only me. They wanted 
 to carry me up too, but I wouldn't let 'em.' 
 
 Ada was in despair. Judging from his 
 state of mind, Philip Norton could have taken 
 the direction of the marsh for no good purpose ; 
 he was not likely to have gone there at such a 
 time merely for the sake of the walk, and the 
 road soon became lost in dangerous, impass- 
 able quagmires, pits, and treacherous morasses, 
 thoroughly known only to the seekers for pine 
 roots and the diggers of peat. In the wild, 
 half-mad condition in which he then was, it
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 65 
 
 would be suicidal to take such a course ; and 
 feeling this, Ada's heart sank as she thought 
 of the dangers that would beset a man, reel- 
 ing blindly about amidst tuft and moss, rush- 
 bed, and black peaty hole full of amber water, 
 whose depths were unknown, save as being 
 the home of huge, slimy, serpent-like eels. 
 
 What should she do? — run up to the 
 Castle for aid ? It would take her a quarter 
 of an hour to get there, as long to return with 
 help, even if she found it directly ; and in 
 half an hour what might not have happened ? 
 
 ' Heaven grant me strength ! ' exclaimed 
 the agitated girl ; and fear lending her wings, 
 she darted along in the direction taken by 
 Norton but a few minutes before, her heart 
 beating wildly, and an undefined dread of 
 something about to happen increasing in 
 strength each moment. 
 
 The road wound about past the outlying
 
 66 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 cottages, so that it was some time before she 
 caught sight of Norton. Once she fancied 
 that he must have struck off to the right or 
 left, or else she must before this have over- 
 taken hira ; but at the end of another hundred 
 yards she could plainly see him, a good half 
 mile in advance, not reeling and staggering 
 along now, but walking swiftly, straight for- 
 ward towards the marsh, when, trembling 
 with dread, Ada hurried on, following rapidly 
 upon his track, pausing not to think of im- 
 prudence, but led ever by the feeling that she 
 might be able to avert some terrible impend- 
 ing danger. 
 
 Where could he be going? What was 
 his aim ? Ada paused and shuddered as she 
 saw him suddenly stop by one of the black 
 water-pits, the spots favoured by the shooting 
 fraternity in winter, as the resort of wild 
 goose, poachard, and divers of rapid flight.
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 67 
 
 Her breath came more easily, though, as she 
 saw that her horrible dread was without 
 foundation, for Norton struck off to the left at 
 a headlong rate, over heath and rush tuft, ap- 
 parently making for the wildest part of the 
 marsh, so that Ada's powers of endurance 
 were hardly tried as she struggled on, her 
 spirit rising with the difficulties she had to 
 encounter. 
 
 But now, as if moved by a fresh impulse, 
 Norton changed his course in a way that en- 
 abled Ada to gain ground, for he paid not the 
 slightest heed to his pursuer, making now for 
 the great pine grove, starting off into a run as 
 if to reach the goal he had in view, but falhng 
 heavily, twice over, upon the soft, trembhng 
 soil, which yielded more or less to every step. 
 
 Panting and almost exhausted, Ada 
 pressed on till she saw Norton reach the edge 
 of the pine wood, when, as he dashed in, be-
 
 68 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 coming in an instant lost to sight amidst the 
 tall, bare trunks, her heart for a few moments 
 failed her, and sinking upon her knees, with a 
 faint wail of misery, the hot tears coursed one 
 another down her cheeks. But the next 
 minute she was up again, and hurrying to the 
 edge of the wood, whose gloom cast a chill 
 upon her as she entered its precincts. 
 
 Peering anxiously in every direction, her 
 breath drawn in hysterical, laboured sobs, Ada 
 pressed on farther and farther into the great 
 dim, shadowy solitude, trembhng horribly the 
 while, and with her imagination picturing 
 some dreadful tragedy taking place. In the 
 vast wood she knew that it was by the merest 
 chance that she could find him, for he had 
 become lost to sight when he entered ; while, 
 even if she could discover him alone, mad 
 almost, and with no help at hand, how dared 
 she go near ? Her heart whispered, though,
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 69 
 
 that she must proceed, and she still panted 
 along, her eyes ever wandering amidst the 
 dim aisles spread out on every side, but in 
 vain — she could not see him ; and again the 
 weak, despairing tears forced themselves from 
 her eyes. 
 
 It was, then, useless : she had done every- 
 thing possible to a human being, and all that 
 was now left was for her to pray ; and sinking, 
 with clasped hands, to her knees, she again 
 gave way to the despair of her heart, when a 
 short, sharp snap on her right made her leap 
 to her feet and run hurriedly over the slippery 
 pine needles in the direction from which it 
 had come. For from that sound she felt that 
 her worst fears were realized, and that he had 
 indeed sought this solitude for the horrible 
 purpose she dreaded. But the pistol had 
 missed fire, and she might yet be in time, 
 though so dreadful was the feehng upon her
 
 70 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 that her energies felt frozen, and to her it 
 seemed that she was barely crawling over the 
 ground. There he stood, not fifty yards from 
 her, fitting a cap upon the pistol he held, and 
 then, every stroke jarring upon her heart, so 
 distinctly in the strained state of her faculties 
 was it heard, she could make out that he 
 was tapping the pistol that the powder might 
 ascend the nipple. But it was all like some 
 horrible nightmare : she could see every act 
 with almost a clairvoyant power — she could 
 hear with a fearful distinctness ; but she could 
 not shriek — she could not call to him to de- 
 sist. It was as though certain of her faculties 
 were chained, while others were goaded into 
 unnatural activity. 
 
 A few seconds longer, and she felt that 
 she would be too late — that the dread deed 
 would be accomplished, and she alone with 
 a still, dreadful corpse — when, panting, half-
 
 AMIDST THE PINES. 71 
 
 macl with fear and the horror which gave her 
 strength, she ran to Norton's side, grasped 
 at his arm, and then her powers of utterance 
 returned. As she seized his arm he turned 
 upon her fiercely, dashed her to the ground, 
 and raised his pistol ; but in an instant Ada 
 was again upon her feet, and grasped the fatal 
 weapon, when there was a bright, bhnding 
 flash, a loud report, and then, for Ada Lee, 
 the present became a blank.
 
 72 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 BALM. 
 
 TT seemed as though that report awakened 
 PhiHp Norton from the fit of mad de- 
 spair that had prompted him to seek in ob- 
 livion the rest he could not find here — 
 awakened him to the sense that he must be a 
 murderer ; for there, stretched at his feet, her 
 light muslin dress already deeply stained by 
 the blood flowing from her shoulder, lay the 
 brave girl who had struggled to his side to 
 suffer, almost with the loss of her own, for her 
 successful endeavour to save his life. For
 
 BALM. 73 
 
 some minutes, as he stood there in that dim 
 pine arcade, PhiHp Norton's brain was giddy ; 
 he felt as though awakening from some horri- 
 ble dream, and it was only by an effort that 
 he could recall the present ; when, throwing 
 the pistol aside, he knelt down by the fainting 
 girl, and by means of his handkerchief suc- 
 ceeded in staunching the blood flowing from 
 a long, jagged wound torn by the bullet in its 
 passage along her shoulder. 
 
 The sight of the w^ounded girl, as she lay 
 pale and insensible at his feet, and the know- 
 ledge that it was his work, seemed to drive 
 back the horrible thoughts of self, forcing him 
 into action ; and the next minute, trembling 
 in every limb with anxiety for her safety, he 
 was running to the nearest pit for water, 
 bringing it in his soft hat, a little at a time, 
 to sprinkle her stern marble face. Again and 
 again he ran to and fro, growing more and
 
 74 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 more excited, but with a healthy excitement 
 that moved his better impulses ; for, forgetting 
 his own pain, interest was excited in the de- 
 liverer whom he told himself that he had slain, 
 to recompense her for her bravery in his behalf. 
 But it was long before animation began to re- 
 appear, and the colour to return to Ada Lee's 
 face. Twice, though, Norton had been en- 
 couraged to persevere in his efforts by a sigh ; 
 and he had chafed her cold hands, torn off his 
 coat to fold and place beneath her head, seen 
 to, and tightened the bandage so that the blood 
 was staunched, and had at last determined to 
 bear her back into the village at all hazards. 
 Then her soft blue eyes slowly unclosed, as he 
 kneeled by her side, his arms gently support- 
 ing her against his breast, preparatory to 
 rising and carrying her over the treacherous 
 ground to the footpath. 
 
 But the sight of those soft eyes gazing
 
 BALM. 75 
 
 into his so wonderingly, arrested him, and for 
 a few minutes no word was spoken, till by 
 slow degrees, reahzing all that had passed, 
 Ada's eyes lost their strange wondering look, 
 a shudder ran through her frame, and the old 
 aspect of horror came back. 
 
 ' Are you hurt ? ' she gasped. 
 
 ' No,' he said, gently ; and there was pity 
 for her in his tones. 
 
 * Not hurt ? ' she gasped again. ' But the 
 pistol?' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' he said, sadly. ' You must not 
 speak. You are wounded, and I am a soldier, 
 and have seen and known many wounds. 
 You must be quiet imtil I can get you back 
 to the village.' 
 
 ' But you are safe — not hurt ? ' she said. 
 
 ' No — no ! ' he exclaimed, impetuously. 
 a— I—' 
 
 ' Yes — yes, I know. I remember all,' she
 
 76 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 said, eagerly. ' I startled you — the pistol 
 went off by accident — it struck me/ 
 
 She smiled in his face as she spoke, while, 
 burning with grief and shame, he cried : 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Lee, Miss Lee, has it come to 
 this ? Good Heaven ! am I fallen so low that 
 I must screen myself in this way ? I am a 
 coward — a pitiful — ' 
 
 ' Hush — hush ! ' she cried, and her little 
 hand was laid upon his lips. ' I know how 
 you suffered. 1 was in dread lest you should 
 do anything rashly, and I followed ; but it is 
 our — your secret. Let it be hidden for ever. 
 You may trust me.' 
 
 Philip Norton groaned. 
 
 ' Hidden ! How can it be hidden ? ' he 
 said, as he pointed to her wounded shoulder, 
 when, with the hot blood suffusing her face, 
 she dragged the scarf she wore over the deep
 
 BALM. 77 
 
 stain, and essayed to sit up, but fell back 
 weak, and half fainting. 
 
 Laying her gently down, he again fetched 
 water, and bathed her face, when, reviving 
 somewhat, she lay with her eyes half closed, 
 and lips moving gently. 
 
 ' Did you speak ? ' he said, as he bent 
 over her. 
 
 ' No,' she said, after a few moments. ' I 
 was praying. Will you try to lift me up ? ' 
 
 Phihp raised her a little, but she winced 
 from the sharp pain caused by the movement, 
 upon which he desisted ; but, with a smile, 
 she begged him to help her to her feet. A 
 few moments' trial, though, showed that she 
 was utterly incapable of walking, when, taking 
 her in his arms, Norton slowly and carefully 
 bore her amidst the pine trees to the edge of 
 the marsh, whence, after a brief rest, he again
 
 78 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 proceeded, bringing her over the soft, springy- 
 ground, till, during a longer rest, he said to 
 her, in sad tones : 
 
 ' I thought the age of miracles was past, 
 but an angel was sent to stay my hand/ 
 Then, heedless of her remonstrance, he con- 
 tinued : ' How am I ever to repay you for the 
 injury I have done ? ' 
 
 ' By acting as a man should,' she said, 
 softly ; * by ceasing to be a coward. You,' 
 she exclaimed excitedly, 'a soldier — a man 
 whom we loved — to fly from suffering like 
 that ! It was cruel to all — to Marion — to 
 yourself! How could — ' 
 
 ' Por Heaven's sake, spare me ! ' he 
 groaned. ' The sight of what I have done 
 seems to have brought me back to a life of 
 greater suffering. But you need not fear ; I 
 will bear it.'
 
 70 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED. 
 
 TT was an accident — so people said at Mer- 
 land, and from being a w^onder for a time, 
 it was soon forgotten ; and when, pale and 
 weak from many months of illness, Ada Lee 
 was seen out, with the tall bronzed soldier 
 pushing her invahd chair, or reading to her 
 from some book, the gossips of the village 
 used to prophesy. And yet no word of love 
 had passed between the invalid and her com- 
 panion. Ada's prolonged stay at the Rectory 
 had resulted in Mrs Elstree wishing her to
 
 80 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 make it her home, on the grounds of her 
 own lonehness, now that Sir Murray Gernon 
 had, on account of his wife's health, decided 
 to remain in Italy, where he had taken a re- 
 sidence on the shores of Como. While Ada, 
 continuing weak and ill, accepted Philip's at- 
 tentions with a smile of pleasure, though there 
 was sorrow at her heart, which bled daily for 
 the sufferings of her companion. 
 
 Tor time seemed to bring no healing to 
 the wounds of Philip Norton, who, apparently 
 disgusted with life, had sold out from the 
 army, to settle down at his own place, Mer- 
 land Hall, seeing no one, visiting nowhere 
 save at the Rectory. 
 
 But the result was what might have been 
 expected. Philip Norton awoke one day to 
 the fact that there was happiness for him yet 
 in this world, and he told himself it would be 
 his duty to devote his life to the suffering in-
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED. 81 
 
 valid — to the blighted woman who paid penalty 
 for his sin. And one evening, when the sun 
 was glowing ruddily in the west, Philip Nor- 
 ton rested his brown hand upon the thin 
 transparent fingers, and then, in the stillness 
 of the evening, he asked her, in low, earnest 
 tones, if she would take him as her protector. 
 
 ^Ada,' he said, calmly, 'I cannot love. 
 You know all ; but I owe you my life. Will 
 you take that life now, with such devotion as 
 I can attach to it, such tenderness as time 
 will enable me to w^eave Avith it ? I know I 
 am but a broken, disappointed man ; but you 
 know my weaknesses and sufferings ; you can 
 help me to get through my journey, and, 
 perhaps, in time you may learn to love me.' 
 
 Ere he had finished speaking another 
 trembling, fluttering hand was raised, to be 
 placed upon his strong arm, and then, leaning 
 forward, Ada's poor thin pale lips were
 
 82 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 pressed upon his hand, as one might salute a 
 king, and then softly whispering to herself the 
 words, ' At last ! At last ! Thank God ! ' 
 the invalid sank back in her chair, fainting 
 from the wild tumult of joyful feelings that, in 
 her then weak state, seemed almost more 
 than she could bear. 
 
 For Ada Lee was dying ; not, perhaps, in 
 the ordinary sense of the word, for she mi2:ht 
 have lived on for years ; but, none the less, 
 she was fading away. One disappointment 
 she had fought down ; but the news of Nor- 
 ton's death had preyed heavily upon her. 
 Then had come his return, the shock, the ad- 
 ventures of the wedding-day, and, lastly, the 
 wound. Her by no means strong constitution 
 had given way beneath this, when, in addition, 
 there liad ever been the pang of hope de- 
 ferred, and the sick heart finding no ease. 
 
 It was a strangely unimpassioned wooing,
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED. 83 
 
 that of Philip Norton ; but Ada was content ; 
 and at the end of five years, bright, happy of 
 face, and only slightly more matronly, she 
 came one day into her husband's study, to 
 find him stern and thoughtful — looks which 
 passed away as if by magic, as the sturdy 
 little fellow she led by the hand ran to him 
 and climbed upon his knee. 
 
 ' Is there anything the matter ? ' ex- 
 claimed Ada anxiously, as she leaned upon 
 her husband's shoulder. 
 
 ' Matter ! No, love ! ' said Norton, heartily 
 — another man now, his face lighting up with 
 pleasure as his child snatched first at pens, 
 then at paper, everything within reach — 
 ' unless it is with this young rebel ; but what 
 made you ask ? ' 
 
 ' Philip,' she said, softly, ' you keep no- 
 thing from me, dear : do not begin now.' 
 
 * Well, there,' he said, ' I won't ; ' and he
 
 84: THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 drew her nearer towards him. ' Heaven forbid 
 that I should from the woman to whom I owe 
 hfe and happiness such as no other man could 
 enjoy. But you see/ he said, shghtly hesi- 
 tating, ' I have been over to the Rectory this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Ada, anxiously. 
 
 ' And they have had a letter from Italy.' 
 
 ' Well, Philip ? ' she said, laying her head 
 against his cheek, as one arm drew her nearer 
 and nearer, while the other toyed with the 
 boy's curls. 
 
 ' Well, darling, it is nothing ; but I could 
 not help it : the news seemed to cause me a 
 vague feeling of uneasiness — nothing but a 
 passing cloud — for thoughts will go back- 
 wards sometimes. Not compUmentary, that,' 
 he said, laughing ; ' but I meant no more, 
 love, than a general reference to old troubles.' 
 
 'I know — I know/ she said, with un-
 
 WHAT FOLLOWED. So 
 
 ruffled countenance ; ' but what was the 
 news ? ' 
 
 ' Well, dear, it was that workmen are to be 
 sent up to the Castle directly ; and there's to 
 be painting, and paper-hanging, and re-fur- 
 nishing, and Heaven knows what beside ; and 
 I was thinking that Merland has done for 
 years past now uncommonly well with the 
 Castle in its present state, and that, if I had 
 my will, it should remain as it is/ 
 
 ^ And all this means, dear ? ' said Mrs 
 Norton, quietly. 
 
 ' Yes, of course,' laughed Norton. ' Now, 
 did you ever see anything like the dog ? Both 
 his fingers in the ink ! Yes, it means, of 
 course, that after five years of absence the 
 Gemons are coming home.'
 
 S6 
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 ADAS PROMISE. 
 
 rpHE old love of change and adventure, 
 which in earher hfe had led PhiHp Nor- 
 ton into seeking a commission in the Indian 
 army, clung to him still, and sometimes for 
 days — sometimes even for weeks together, he 
 would absent himself from home, journeying 
 north or south, or even going abroad without 
 making the shghtest preparation. He would 
 laugh on his return, and own that it was ec- 
 centric ; but, perhaps, before many weeks had 
 elapsed, he would again take his departure,
 
 Ada's promise. 87 
 
 while Ada never complained, for by constant 
 study of his character, she felt that to some 
 extent she now knew him well. He had 
 given up all his former pursuits ; ambition, 
 too, had been set aside, and he had buried 
 himself in the old Lincolnshire retreat, appar- 
 ently content with his wife's companionship — 
 for visitors seldom crossed the steps of Merland 
 Hall. ' I am not fit for society,' Norton used 
 to say, with a smile ; and seeing how at times 
 an unsettled, feverish fit would come upon 
 him, resulting in some far off, aimless journey, 
 from Avhich he would return happy and con- 
 tent, Ada quietly forbore all murmurings, 
 accepting her fate, thankful for the quiet, 
 tender affection he displayed towards her. 
 She used at last to laugh about his hurried 
 departures, and long, purposeless trips, telKng 
 him that they acted as safety-valves for letting 
 off the pent-up excitement of his nature, and
 
 88 THE SAPPHIEE CROSS. 
 
 he, taking her words in all seriousness, would 
 earnestly accept her definition. 
 
 ^ I know it seems strange and wild, and 
 even unkind to you, dear; but I think some- 
 times that if I were chained down entirely to 
 one place I should lose my reason. These 
 fits only come on at times ; perhaps during a 
 walk, and then the inclination is so strong 
 that I do not feel either the power or desire 
 to battle with it.' 
 
 Ada Norton felt no surprise, then, the 
 morning after that on which the news respect- 
 ing the Gernons had been received, when ask- 
 ing one of the servants if she had seen her 
 master, she learned that he had been driven 
 across to the town, and that the groom had 
 just come back with the dog-cart. 
 
 It was nothing new, but taken in con- 
 junction with the last night's conversation, it 
 caused no sHght uneasiness in her breast, and
 
 Ada's promise. 89 
 
 as she sat watching the gambols of their child, 
 the weak tears began to course one another 
 down her cheeks. For she felt that he was 
 unsettled by the tidings they had heard ; and 
 for a few moments her heart beat rapidly as 
 she recalled the past, trembling for her own 
 empire when thinking of Marion Gernon's 
 return. 
 
 Would not the old feeling of love come 
 back, and would they not both hate her ? 
 Marion, for her possession of him who should 
 have been her husband ; Philip, for her cease- 
 less efforts to enlace herself round his heart. 
 For, after all, he could not truly love her : he 
 had been gentle, tender, affectionate, ever 
 ready to yield to her every desire, almost wor- 
 shipping his boy. In short, upon reviewing 
 calmly her married life, with the sole excep- 
 tion of those occasional absences, she was 
 obhged to own that she had all that she could
 
 90 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 desire, and that, however wanting in the wild, 
 passionate, and romantic, Philip Norton's love 
 for her was imbued with that tender gentle- 
 ness, based on admiration, trust, and faith, 
 which was far more lasting and satisfying to 
 the soul — a love that would but increase with 
 years ; and at last, with an impatient stamp 
 of the foot, she wiped away her tears, up- 
 braiding herself for her want of trust and 
 faith in her noble husband, accusing herself 
 of misjudging him. Catching up her boy, 
 she covered him with kisses, her face light- 
 ing up with a joyful maternal pride in the 
 strong link which had been sent to bind them 
 together. 
 
 ' Heaven helping me,' she muttered, ' Til 
 never doubt him.' 
 
 It was a grave promise — a vow hard to 
 keep, as circumstances wove themselves in the 
 future ; and more than once Ada Norton had
 
 Ada's promise. 91 
 
 the excuse of sore temptation ; but how she 
 bore herself, how she kept faith in her hus- 
 band under circumstances that might well 
 raise doubts in the most trusting woman's 
 heart, will be seen in the sequel.
 
 92 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 
 
 rpHERE had been busy doings at the Castle, 
 and Merland village was in an intense 
 state of excitement. Old Chunt — Jonathan 
 Chunt, who kept the ' Black Bull ' — said that 
 there was to be some life in the place at last. 
 He knew, for he had it from Mr Gurdon — 
 old Gurdon's lad, but Mr Gurdon now, and 
 an awfully big man in his master's estimation. 
 He was butler now, and had come over to 
 superintend the getting in order of the place, 
 for Sir Murray was fond of company, and
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 93 
 
 there were to be no end of gaieties at the 
 Castle. Mr Gurdon was setting the old serv- 
 ants to rights and no mistake, for he'd got 
 full power, and they hadn't had such a wak- 
 ing up for long enough. Why, what with 
 company's servants coming down to the 
 *Bull/ and post-horses now and then, and 
 one thing and another, it would be a little 
 fortune to him, Chunt said. Time there was 
 a change, too : keeping a house like that shut 
 up for the rats to scamper across the floors, 
 was injuring the trade of the village, where 
 there was no one else but the old people at 
 the Rectory, and them Nortons, who might 
 just as well be a hundred miles off, shutting 
 themselves up as they did. 
 
 Chunt knew, and he imparted his know- 
 ledge, with no end of nods and winks, to his 
 fellow -tradesmen, as he termed them — to wit, 
 Huttoft, the saddler, who made nothing but
 
 94 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 harness, and Mouncey, the baker, when they 
 came in for a glass. 
 
 ' And if here ain't Mr Gurdon himself ! ' 
 exclaimed Chunt, one evening, when he had 
 been distilling information to a select knot of 
 customers. ' Take a chair, Mr Gurdon, sir. 
 Glad to see you this evening. Very curious 
 coincidence, sir : we were just talking about 
 you and your people ; ' which was indeed 
 most remarkable, considering that nothing 
 else had been talked of in the village for 
 weeks past. ' What'll you take, sir ? only 
 give it a name. Quite an honour to have you 
 distinguished furreners amongst us.' 
 
 Mr Gurdon smiled and rubbed his hands; 
 but, evidently considering that he had mis- 
 taken his position, he frowned the next 
 moment, and nodded condescendingly to the 
 tradesmen and little yeomen present. Cer- 
 tainly they had, several of them, known him
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 95 
 
 as a boy ; but then he had risen in the woricl, 
 and deserved then- respect ; besides which, 
 look at the patronage he could bestow. So 
 Mr Gurdon frowned, coughed, and looked 
 important ; but, finding that room was made 
 for him, and that incense in abundance was 
 being prepared in his behalf, he condescended 
 to take a seat, and gave w^hat he would take 
 the name of sherry, with which he smoked a 
 cigar, whose aroma whispered strongly of the 
 box from which it had been taken. 
 
 Mr Gurdon's presence, though, did not 
 tend to the increase of comfort in the party 
 assembled, for the gentleman's gentleman 
 seemed to have imbibed a considerable por- 
 tion of his master's dignity, sitting there very 
 haughty and reserved, while, the flow of con- 
 versation being stopped, the rest sat still, 
 smoked, breathed hard, and stared. 
 
 But Chunt was satisfied, and he winked
 
 96 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 and nodded, and whispered behind his hand 
 most mysteriously as he took orders from one 
 and another. He expected that Mr Gurdon 
 would thaw in time with a little management, 
 and, putting on his diplomatic cap, he set to 
 work by asking his advice. 
 
 ' That sherry's not much account, Mr 
 Gurdon, sir,' he said, in a whisper ; ' but it's 
 the best I've got to ofiPer you. The long and 
 short of it is, sir, we can't order enough, in a 
 little house like this, to make a wine-merchant 
 care about sending it good ; but I've got a 
 few gallons of brandy down now that I should 
 just like you to try, and give me your opinion. 
 You see, it isn't every day as one has a gent 
 in as understands such things ; but you, 
 being used to your cellar, and having good 
 stuff in your bins, yours is an opinion one 
 would like to have. There, sir, now just taste 
 that/ said Chunt, filling a liqueur-glass from
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 97 
 
 a big stone bottle ; ' that's, between ourselves, 
 just as it comes — untouched, you know. I'll 
 mix you a glass hot ; but just give me your 
 opinion on it as it is.' 
 
 Mr Gurdon was touched in a weak place, 
 for, though his cellar knowledge was almost 
 nil, it was not worth while to say so. Incense 
 w^as nice — almost as nice as brandy, so ac- 
 cepting Chunt's glass, and confidential wink, 
 he tasted the brandy — tasted it again, and 
 then agreed that it wasn't bad, only it wanted 
 age. 
 
 'The very words as my spirit-merchant 
 says to me, sir,' said Chunt. ' If that brandy 
 had age, sir, it wouldn't be surpassed any- 
 where.' 
 
 Mr Gurdon felt better, and agreed with 
 one of the visitors present that they wanted 
 rain. Then, after finishing the neat brandy, 
 he commenced the stiff" tumbler of hot grog 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 placed before him by Chunt, toyed with the 
 end of his cigar ; and, finding a general dis- 
 position to pay him respect, and to call him 
 ' sir,' he gradually unbent — more swiftly, per- 
 haps, than he would have done — under the 
 influence of the brandy and water, for which 
 he had a decided weakness, the potent spirit 
 unlocking, or, as Chunt told his wife, oihng 
 the butler's tongue, so that he gratified the 
 curiosity of the Merlandites that evening to a 
 considerable extent. And there was no lack 
 of brandy and water that night : every one 
 drank it, doing as Mr Gurdon did ; and there 
 was quite a struggle amongst the little traders 
 for the honour of ' standing ' Mr Gurdon's 
 next glass, the most eager of them, so as not 
 to be outdone, requesting Chunt to fill it 
 again, while it was yet but half empty. 
 
 ' And do you like furren parts, Mr Gur- 
 don, sir ? ' said Chunt, setting the ball roUing.
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 99 
 
 * Pretty well — pretty well/ said Gurdon. 
 ' On the whole, perhaps, better than England. 
 Society's higher there — more titles.' 
 
 ' I suppose Mr Gurdon ain't brought home 
 a Hightalian wife,' said Huttoft. 
 
 Mr Gurdon did not quite approve of this ; 
 and Huttoft had to suffer the frowns of the 
 whole company. 
 
 ' And so, after all these years, Mr Gurdon, 
 sir,' said Mouncey, who was in high spirits 
 with the prospect of bread supplying, 'you 
 haven't brought us home a heir to the Castle.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mr Gurdon ; ' and it's my 
 opinion as there'll never be one.' 
 
 ' Turned out a happy match, and all that 
 sort of thing, though, I suppose ? ' said 
 Mouncey. 
 
 'Happy! yes, I should think so. Sir 
 Murray worships her, and she's never happy 
 unless he's along with her, or else going hunt-
 
 100 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ing weeds and grass and moss in the hills. 
 Lor' bless you ! it's wonderful what a happy 
 pair they are. Awfully jealous man, though, 
 Sir Murray — nearly had a duel with a foreign 
 Count, who wanted to be too attentive to my 
 lady ; but when my gentleman found as mas- 
 ter meant fight, he cooled down, and made an 
 apology.' 
 
 ' Ladyship changed much ? ' said Chunt. 
 
 ' Well, no ; not much,' said Gurdon. 
 ' We all look older at the end of five years. 
 She always was pale, and perhaps she is a bit 
 thinner than when she went away. But there, 
 you'll see her safe enough before long ; they'll 
 be home to-morrow, and she'll be always out, 
 either riding or walking.' 
 
 ' I used to fancy that things wouldn't turn 
 out happily after that set-out at the church 
 door,' said Huttoft, venturing another remark. 
 ' Of course you know as Mr Norton's settled
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 101 
 
 down at the Hall? — married Miss Lee, you 
 know. Good customer of mine, too.' 
 
 * Ah, yes ; we know all about that,' said 
 Gurdon, sarcastically. 'Her ladyship was 
 frightened, of course ; and enough to frighten 
 any lady, to see a mad-brain fellow rush at her 
 like that. Boy and girl love afiPair, that's what 
 that was. Them sort of things never come to 
 nought ; and look how soon he got over it and 
 married. Her ladyship was upset about it, 
 though, when she got the new^s. She was fond 
 of her cousin, you know. Miss Lee, and you 
 may say what you like here, but we got the 
 right tale over abroad about that Captain Nor- 
 ton shooting her; while, when her ladyship 
 heard that her cousin had been foolish enough 
 to marry him, she had a brain fever, and was 
 bad for weeks. No wonder, neither. He 
 must be half-cracked with sunstroke or drink. 
 They do say them Indy officers drink hard.
 
 102 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Well, just one more, gents, and this must be 
 the last.' 
 
 Mr Mouncey could not help siding with the 
 butler, for he happened to know that Captain 
 Norton was a bit queer at times, as the serv- 
 ants had told him more than once, going 
 rushing off to all parts without saying a word 
 to anybody, not even to Mrs Norton ; and he 
 couldn't quite see through it, unless it was, as 
 Mr Gurdon said, the Captain was, after all, a 
 bit touched. 
 
 ' By the way, though,' said Chunt, ' isn't 
 he taking up with that Iron Company ? ' 
 
 ' Iron ! ' said Gurdon, thickly. ' No iron 
 about here.' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Huttoft ; ' they've found a 
 bed, and there's some talk of trying to work 
 it, bringing coal by canal, but I can't see as it 
 will answer.' 
 
 Soon after this the conversation became
 
 SIR Murray's gentleman. 103 
 
 general upon the future of the iron, the com- 
 pany being divided, some declaring for riches 
 to those who took shares in the company, 
 others prognosticating that the shareholders 
 would find the iron too hot to hold, and would 
 burn their fingers in a way not to be forgotten. 
 But, at last, remembrances of frowning wives 
 sitting up for absent lords brought the hour 
 into serious consideration, and, after glasses 
 round, the enthusiastic party insisted upon 
 seeing Mr Gurdon home, which they did to the 
 lodge gates, parting from him most affection- 
 ately, though it might have been better had 
 they continued their escort until he reached his 
 normal bed, the one he chose, when left to him- 
 self, being a bed of verbenas, where he was 
 found, covered v/ith dew, at early morning, by 
 Alexander M'Cray, one of the under-gardeners, 
 who did not fail to treasure up the circumstance 
 against the next time he might be snubbed.
 
 104 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES. 
 
 rpHE Gernons had returned to the Castle 
 for some days before PhiHp Norton came 
 home, his wife anxiously scanning his coun- 
 tenance, to find him apparently quite happy 
 and untroubled of mind. She had something 
 she wished to say to him, but she shrank from 
 her task, hardly knowing how to commence ; 
 her difficulty, though, was ended by Norton 
 himself, who, as they were seated at tea, 
 turned the conversation in the required di- 
 rection.
 
 / 
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES. 105 
 
 ' So the Castle folks are back/ he said, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Yes ; they arrived last Thursday,' said 
 Mrs Norton, uneasily. 
 
 ' Busy times there'll be there, then, I ex- 
 pect,' said Norton. ' Do the old place good.' 
 
 Mrs Norton looked searchingly at him, but 
 not a muscle of his countenance was moved. 
 
 ' Do you know, love, I've been thinking 
 over their retui'n,' he said, after a few mo- 
 ments' silence, ' and I fancy that, perhaps, it 
 would be better if the intimacy between you 
 and Lady Gernon were not resumed. Time 
 works wonders, we know, but I cannot think 
 that there could ever be the cordiality that 
 one would wish to feel towards one's friends.' 
 
 ' Can you read my thoughts, dear ? ' said 
 Mrs Norton, kneeling at his feet, so as to rest 
 her elbows on his knees, and gaze up in his 
 face.
 
 106 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Well, * not all,' he said, laughing. ' A 
 great many, though, for you are horribly 
 transparent. But why ? ' 
 
 ' Because you have been thoroughly ex- 
 pressing my wishes. Do not think me foolish, 
 but I do, indeed, think it would be better 
 that there should be no intimacy between the 
 families/ 
 
 ' Foolish ! ' he laughed. ' Why, that 
 would be like blaming myself. But there, I 
 don't think we need trouble ourselves ; for I 
 suppose they Avill be very grand, and take up 
 only with the coimty families and grandees 
 from London ; they will not want our society. 
 And do you know, dear, we shall have to 
 pinch and save no end, for I have been invest- 
 ing heaps of money in a speculation — one, 
 though, that is certain to pay. Iron mines, you 
 know, that were found last year at Blankes- 
 ley. Capital thing it is to be, so they tell me.'
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES. 107 
 
 * But was it not foolish? ' said Mrs Nor- 
 ton. ' Had we not enough, dear ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes/ he said, rather impatiently ; 
 * enough for ourselves, but we have the child 
 to think of. You do not suppose he will be 
 content to lead his father's dreary life.' 
 
 ' Dreary, Philip ? ' 
 
 'Well, no — not dreary. I don't mean 
 that ; but quiet, retired existence ; and be- 
 sides, a little to do with this iron affair — a 
 little occupation — will be the making of me. 
 I've grown so rusty,' he said, laughing, ' that 
 I have run to iron to polish it off.' 
 
 That same night a similar conversation 
 took place at the Castle, where, in quiet, well- 
 chosen words, Sir Murray expressed a wish 
 that there might be no communication held 
 with the inmates of the Hall. 
 
 ' Do you doubt me, Murray ? ' said Lady 
 Gernon, rising, and standing looking down
 
 108 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 upon her husband, as he leaned back in his 
 chair. 
 
 ' Doubt you ! ' he said, almost angrily. 
 ' My dear Lady Gernon, what a question ! ' 
 
 ' Then why should you ask me, now that 
 at your wish we have returned to the Castle, 
 to give up the love, sympathy, and com- 
 panionship of my cousin ? Why did we not 
 stay abroad, if such coldness is to be pre- 
 served. I ceased corresponding with her at 
 her marriage, but with what pain and cost 
 you only know. Do not ask more of me.' 
 
 ^ There — there,' he said, ' what a trouble 
 you are making of this trifle. It is my wish 
 that the old acquaintanceship should not be 
 renewed. No good can result from it ; but, 
 perhaps, for all parties a great deal of heart- 
 burning and pain. Be guided by me, 
 Marion.' 
 
 ' Not in this,' she said, firmly. ' Murray,
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES. 109 
 
 I never yet in anything opposed your wishes, 
 but in this I do. It is my intention to drive 
 over and call upon Ada to-morrow, and I ask 
 you to accompany me. To be distant now 
 would be like disinterring old griefs and sor- 
 rows that should before this have been forgot- 
 ten. Let the past be buried in the past, and 
 let us be, with these our nearest neighbours, 
 upon intimate terms. You do not know 
 Phihp and Ada as I know them ; and I love 
 them both too dearly to slight them even in 
 thought.' 
 
 ' As you will,' he said, with a shrug of the 
 shoulders. 
 
 ' And besides,' she continued, ' your wdsh 
 is almost an insult to your wife, Murray ; it is 
 cruel in tone, cruel in wording — harsh as it is 
 unjust — unfair.' 
 
 ' Do I not say,' he exclaimed, angrily, ' do 
 as you will ? I gave you my opinion as to
 
 110 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 what I thought would be best, and you differ. 
 Very well ; one of us must give way, and I 
 have yielded. What more would you have ? 
 Do I ever play the domestic tyrant ? Am I 
 ever unreasonable ? ' 
 
 Lady Gernon was silent, and stood pale 
 and motionless, looking at the table upon 
 which she rested her hand. She was still 
 very beautiful; but there was a sharpness 
 about her features that told of suffering, and 
 the workings of a troubled heart. It was 
 evident that she wished to speak, but the 
 words would not come, and at last, fearing to 
 display her agitation, she glided back to her 
 seat. 
 
 But she had gained her end : there was 
 to be reconciliation, and a friendly feeling 
 preserved between the two families. And 
 why not ? she asked herself. Were they to 
 be always enemies on account of the past ?
 
 HUSBANDS AND WIVES. Ill 
 
 Sinking thoughtfully back in her chair, 
 she rested her forehead upon her hand, 
 dreaming over the incidents of the past few 
 years, and even while feeling a dread of the 
 impending meeting, she felt a longing desire 
 to look once more upon her old lover —upon 
 the man who, upon her wedding-day, had 
 seemed, as it were, to cast a bhght upon her 
 future life, as he appeared like one rising from 
 the dead to upbraid her with her falling away. 
 
 Lady Gernon did not see the curious way 
 in which her husband sat and watched her, 
 marking every change in her countenance, 
 noting every sign. He had been startled by 
 the earnestness with which she had combated 
 his wishes. Her manner had been so new, 
 her eager words so unusual ; for during their 
 married life her actions had been of the most 
 subdued nature, and, as if resigning herself to 
 her fate, she had been the quiet, uncomplain-
 
 112 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ing wife, to whom his word had been law, 
 while, proud of her beauty and accomplish- 
 ments, he had been content. 
 
 But no words passed till, rousing herself, 
 Lady Gernon sought to remove any strange 
 impression her utterances might have made — 
 sought, but in vain, for she had unwittingly 
 sown seeds that had already begun to germ- 
 inate, striking root deeply in her husband's 
 breast, soon to flourish for ill in a way that 
 should defy her utmost efforts to uproot them.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 
 
 ' TT7H0 ? ' exclaimed Mrs Norton, aghast, 
 as her servant hurriedly made an an- 
 nouncement. 
 
 ' Sir Murray and Lady Gernon. I saw 
 the carriage come in at the lower gate. There 
 they are, ma'am/ said the girl, as the grating 
 of wheels upon the drive preceded a loud peal 
 at the bell. 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake be calm, Philip ! ' ex- 
 claimed Mrs Norton, as she saw him turn 
 ghastly pale, all save the great scar upon his 
 face, which seemed to glow and throb.
 
 114 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ^ Not at home ! We can't see them ! ' 
 he exclaimed hoarsely. 
 
 ' Too late/ she said, unwittingly giving 
 him another pang, as she quoted his despair- 
 ing words of the day when he had last seen 
 Marion. ' But, Philip, love, dear husband, 
 recollect yourself/ she whispered imploringly ; 
 and then, trying to recover her composure, 
 she rose as Sir Murray and Lady Gernon 
 entered the room — the former courtly and at 
 ease, the latter to run to Ada, throw her arms 
 round her neck, and kiss her fondly, holding 
 her for a few moments to her throbbing 
 breast, while, overcome by the warmth of the 
 greeting, Mrs Norton as lovingly returned the 
 embrace. 
 
 To her great delight, though, as she 
 raised her eyes from her cousin, it was to see 
 that, quite composed and courteously, Philip 
 Norton had advanced to meet his guest, they
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 115 
 
 had shaken hands, and Norton had now 
 turned to greet Marion. 
 
 Ada's heart palpitated, and she hardly dared 
 watch her husband, but turned to look at Sir 
 Murray, who was narrowly scanning every 
 glance and act. But Lady Gernon's greeting 
 of her old lover was graceful, kind, and yet 
 dignified ; her every word and look was un- 
 impeachable, and Ada Norton's agitation gave 
 place to a feeling of thankfulness as she saw 
 her husband take Marion's hand without a 
 shade crossing his countenance, press it 
 slightly in a frank greeting, and then place 
 for her a chair ; when, apparently himself re- 
 lieved. Sir Murray engaged his wife's cousin 
 in conversation, his old stiff, courtly manner 
 being more proud and polished than ever, as 
 he talked of their long absence, the changes 
 that had taken place, expressing, too, a hope 
 that he should see her often at the Castle.
 
 116 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Will you take me into the garden, Cap- 
 tain Norton ? ' said Lady Gernon, in a low- 
 tone. ^ I have something to say to you.' 
 Then aloud : ' Do you not find the weather 
 very oppressive? I am always longing for 
 the fresh air.' 
 
 The remark was too pointed to escape ob- 
 servation, for Lady Gernon was no way skilled 
 in subterfuge, while Norton hesitated for an 
 instant, and there was a slight change in his 
 countenance as he rose, saying : 
 
 ' You have probably not seen our poor 
 place. Lady Gernon ; will you walk round ? ' 
 
 She rose on the instant and took his arm, 
 and they passed through the IVench window 
 on to the lawn, while, half rising, Ada Norton 
 looked anxiously in Sir Murray's face. 
 
 ' No,' he replied calmly, as, with a bitter 
 smile on his lip, he read off her unspoken 
 words. ' I think we will stay. They will
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 117 
 
 probably return directly ; ' and then he 
 started, in a cool and indolent way, a fresh 
 topic of conversation, to which, in the agita- 
 tion she could not conceal, Ada could but 
 reply in monosyllables. 
 
 ^Well, Marion/ said Norton, calmly, as 
 they stood amidst the flower-beds of the little 
 parterre, ' you wish to speak to me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she said, eagerly. ' I know 
 that it may seem strange, but, Philip, I could 
 not rest till I had spoken to you. Heaven 
 willed that we should not be one, and I am 
 now another's. You loved me once ; will 
 you, for the sake of that old love, make me a 
 promise ? ' 
 
 ' Loved you once — promise ! ' said Nor- 
 ton, bitterly. 
 
 ' Yes,' she cried, eagerly ; ' promise me, 
 and then let the past be dead.' 
 
 ' What would you have me promise ? ' he
 
 118 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 said. ^ Though you fail with yours.' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' she said, imploringly ; ' do not 
 be cruel. Now, at once, promise for the sake 
 of our old dead love, that the past shall all be 
 forgotten, and that you will treat my husband 
 as a friend.' 
 
 ' The man who robbed me of all my 
 hopes ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, hush ! Do not speak so, Philip. 
 There was some talk, before we left England, 
 of a meeting — of angry words between you, 
 and it was for this that I fostered Sir Murray's 
 desire to live abroad. But you will promise 
 me, will you not — on your word — yours, 
 Philip — that there shall never be a quarrel 
 between vou ? ' 
 
 ' Lady Gernon,' said Philip, coldly, ' your 
 husband is safe from me. My madness is at 
 an end, and I am now your cousin's husband. 
 There, for Heaven's sake ! ' he cried, a change
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 119 
 
 coming over him, never let us refer to the 
 past, and let us meet but seldom. Come 
 back into the house. Forgive me if I speak 
 bitterly, but the sight of your happiness would 
 drive me to forget the duties I owe to others. 
 Why did you come ? ' 
 
 * For my husband's sake,' said Lady Ger- 
 non. * And now, from my soul, I thank you. 
 I know how worthless are my promises,' she 
 said, bitterly ; ' but I can confide in yours. 
 Now let us return.' 
 
 The blood was mantling in Philip Norton's 
 forehead, and he was about to speak, when an 
 end was put to the painful interview by the 
 merry, prattling voice of a child, and PhiHp's 
 bright little fellow came running up, but only 
 to draw back shyly on seeing the strange lady, 
 who sank upon her knees Avith outstretched 
 hands, as if hungering to clasp the child to 
 her breast.
 
 120 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Yours ? — your boy, Philip ? ' she said. 
 
 ' Mine, Lady Gernon,' said Norton, coldly, 
 for he had once more regained control of him- 
 self. Then, stooping over the child, ' Go to 
 that lady. Brace,' he said ; and in obedience 
 the child suffered himself to be caressed, Lady 
 Gernon kissing his bright little face eagerly, a 
 tear or two falling the while upon his sunny 
 hair. 
 
 Lady Gernon was still on her knees, hold- 
 ing the boy, who, forgetting his fear, was 
 playing with her watch-chain, when slowly, 
 and with courtly grace, conversing loudly the 
 while. Sir Murray led Ada Norton into the 
 garden, when the dread and undefined feelings 
 in the latter's heart were chased away, and a 
 happy light beamed in her eye as she caught 
 sight of the group before her ; but there was an 
 ill-concealed, angry glance directed at his wife 
 by Sir Murray, and another at the child — an
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 121 
 
 angry, jealous, envious look, but it was gone 
 in an instant, and, stooping down, he too 
 sought to take the child's hand, but only for 
 it to shrink from him hastily. 
 
 ' Oh, Ada ! ' exclaimed Lady Gernon, with 
 swimming eyes, as she laid her hand upon her 
 cousin's arm ; and in those two words there 
 seemed sufficient to disarm every doubt and 
 suspicion — to break off the points of the 
 thorns that had been ready to enter into her 
 soul ; and Ada, as much at rest as now seemed 
 Lady Gernon, turned to her smilingly, ready 
 to hsten to her praises of the child's beauty, 
 and her prayers that they might be as of old. 
 
 ' I have been so lonely abroad, Ada,' said 
 Lady Gernon, sadly. ' You will renew the 
 old days, will you not ? ' 
 
 Ada Norton paused for a moment before 
 she answered, looking steadfastly in her cou- 
 sin's face, to see there now a calm, sad
 
 122 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 serenity, that she could hardly understand, 
 when, the words being repeated almost im- 
 ploringly, the reply was, ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I am at your service. Lady Gernon,' said 
 Sir Murray at that moment, when, once more, 
 embracing the child. Lady Gernon kissed her 
 cousin with the same old tenderness as of yore, 
 turning the next moment to offer her hand, 
 with a sad, quiet smile, to Phihp Norton, who 
 led her to the carriage ; and then it all seemed 
 to him to have been a dream, while the sound 
 of the carriage-wheels, fast subsiding into a 
 murmur, were but a part of the imaginings of 
 his troubled brain. But the next instant he 
 had started back to the reality, for his wife 
 was gazing anxiously in his troubled face, 
 when, as his eyes met hers, his old quiet smile 
 came back, and, catching the boy in his arms, 
 he made the little fellow shout with glee as he 
 galloped him round the garden, to return with
 
 FOOD FOR SUSPICION. 123 
 
 flushed face and tumbled hair to his watching 
 wife. 
 
 ' PhiHp ? ' she said, looking up at him in- 
 quiringly. 
 
 ' My love/ he said, tenderly. 
 
 ' You have something to say to me, have 
 you not ? ' 
 
 ' No,' he said, quietly ; ' unless it is — 
 better friends than enemies.' 
 
 Mrs Norton said no more ; but there was 
 a pang at her heart, for she felt that her hus- 
 band was keeping something from her.
 
 124 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 BROODING. 
 
 T)EOPLE said that Lady Gernon had bene- 
 fited by the change — that Italy could not 
 have agreed with her — for day by day she 
 seemed to be casting off the dull, heavy lan- 
 guor that oppressed her. There was still a 
 quiet sadness pervading every movement ; but 
 Sir Murray, without hearing people's remarks, 
 noted for himself that she took more interest 
 in the affairs of daily life : in place of disHking 
 company, she now gladly met his wishes, con- 
 cerning dinner or breakfast party. In fact,
 
 BROODING. 125 
 
 there was a complete change ; but it gave no 
 pleasure to her husband, for he watched her 
 with jaundiced eyes, saying nothing, but fol- 
 lowed her every movement uneasily. Even the 
 apparent increase of affection she displayed 
 towards him was distasteful ; and he grew in 
 private moody and dissatisfied. But only in 
 private, for he told himself that he had a duty 
 to perform — one which demanded all watch- 
 fulness and care, and sternly he set himself to 
 that duty. 
 
 The intimacy with the Nortons grew 
 daily more close, and they dined several times 
 at the Castle, the old warm affection between 
 the two cousins growing stronger than ever. 
 Both Lady Gernon and Mrs Norton viewed 
 with satisfaction the quiet, unobtrusive cour- 
 tesy of Sir Murray; while Captain Norton 
 grew more and more dreamy, just waking up 
 into an animated smile when spoken to, and
 
 126 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 joining for a few minutes in the conversation ; 
 but only to subside again directly after. 
 
 No stranger could have imagined that 
 there had ever been more than the simplest of 
 friendly ties between the families, and Sir 
 Murray Gernon again and again owned to 
 himself that his wife's conduct was unim- 
 peachable ; but, at the same time, it troubled 
 him, that from the day of the visit to the Hall, 
 and Lady Gernon's unconcealed efforts to ob- 
 tain a few words with her old lover in private, 
 she had been an altered woman ; and he felt 
 that it was not on his account, else why had 
 not the change come during the past five 
 years. It troubled him, too, that there was 
 nothing that he could complain of ; and, as he 
 sat one day in his library, thoughtfully brood- 
 ing, he passed over in review the conduct of 
 those in whom he was most interested. Cap- 
 tain Norton called but seldom, and then with
 
 BROODING. 127 
 
 his wife; he was absent, too, a great deal, 
 report said, at the iron mines ; and when at 
 the Castle his attentions to Lady Gernon were 
 always of the most formal nature, while, after 
 rendering the duties incumbent on her towards 
 her guest. Lady Gernon seemed to avoid him. 
 Mrs Norton was evidently much attached to 
 her cousin, while Lady Gernon — yes, there 
 Avas the knot : Lady Gernon was another 
 woman, growing daily brighter and more elate, 
 while his spirit refused to let him believe that 
 it was all due to the change of scene and re- 
 turn to the society of parents and friends. 
 
 But he wanted some clue. He was, he 
 told himself, wandering in the dark, for, mus- 
 ing upon imaginary wrong, he had grown into 
 the belief that there was a plot against his 
 happiness — that there were matters in pro- 
 gress that perhaps all but Mrs Norton and 
 himself saw and mocked at. He was too
 
 128 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 proud to ask confidence, while a hint from 
 any one would have been repulsed with indig- 
 nation. He knew that others remarked the 
 change in his wife ; frequently, in fact, he had 
 grimly thanked friends who had congratulated 
 him. But all his brooding resulted in no- 
 thing, and at the end of six months he was 
 soured and angry to find that his labours had 
 been in vain. At times, he almost resented 
 the gentle advances of Marion, telHng himself 
 that they were not genuine, but nsed as a 
 blind ; and often and often Lady Gernon went 
 in tears to the Hall to ask her cousin's sym- 
 pathy — an act which only widened the breach 
 daily growing between husband and wife. 
 And this, too, at a time when Lady Gernon's 
 heart had begun to leap with new hopes — 
 hopes of that happiness which she had envied 
 in others; when the world gave promise to 
 her of a happier future, with fresh cares and
 
 BROODING. 129 
 
 interests ; so that, even now that this hopeful 
 state lent brightness to her eye, and colour to 
 her cheek, she had new cause for sorrow in 
 her husband's coldness. 
 
 Sir Murray Gernon persuaded himself that 
 his suspicions merely wanted confirmation, 
 and, waiting that confirmation, he shut him- 
 self up, as it were, within his cold, proud 
 hauteur, and waited — waited, for he would 
 not stir an inch to find proof of his suspicions ; 
 it should come to him, and blankly stare him 
 in the face before he would take step or speak 
 w^ord; and so the months glided on at the 
 Castle, company coming and going, parties 
 following one another rapidly, and Sir Murray 
 Gernon a very pattern of courtly politeness to 
 all. His greatest intimates congratulated 
 him upon his domestic happiness, and he 
 smiled his thanks, and then subsided again 
 into his saturnine gloom, waiting — waiting
 
 130 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 for what he told himself would some day 
 eome. 
 
 There was to be a grand party at the 
 Castle, at Sir Murray's wish, on the anniver- 
 sary of the marriage. The idea had proceeded 
 from Mrs Els tree, during a visit to the Rec- 
 tory, and Sir Murray had immediately taken 
 it up, though, upon receiving a meaning 
 glance from the Rector, who had seen a 
 shadow cross his daughter's brow, the pro- 
 poser would gladly have recalled her words. 
 
 Great preparations were in progress ; but 
 after making his decree that there should be 
 a grand affair, one that should do honour to 
 his name. Sir Murray Gernon took no further 
 interest in the matter. 
 
 He was seated, as was his wont, one 
 morning in his library, turning over his let- 
 ters, and thoughtfully brooding over his 
 wrongs. It was cruel, he said, that he, rich.
 
 BROODING. 131 
 
 powerful, and well endowed by nature, should 
 suffer in this way. But he could wait ; and 
 he turned to think of what he should do to 
 drive away the ennui which oppressed him. 
 Suddenly a thought came, and ringing sharply, 
 the summons was answered by a footman. 
 
 ' Send Gurdon here,' said the baronet ; 
 and then, adopting his most magisterial air, 
 he sat waiting the coming of the butler, upon 
 whom the thunders of his wrath were about 
 to descend. 
 
 j\Ir Gurdon, rather red of nose and pasty 
 of face, soon appeared, wearing on the whole 
 rather a limp expression. But John Gurdon 
 had not improved in appearance ; prosperity 
 had not agreed with him. He said that it 
 Avas his digestion ; but Jane Barker — Mrs 
 Barker now, my lady's maid — shook her head 
 at him and sighed, as she thought of the 
 smart young fellow who used to come court-
 
 132 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ing her at the Rectory, laughingly telling her 
 that he'd caught the complaint of his master. 
 
 ' I think, Gurdon,' said Sir Murray, ' that 
 this is the third time that I have sent for you 
 into the library.' 
 
 ' Yes — yes. Sir Murray,' said Gurdon, 
 with a cough behind his hand. 
 
 ' It is the last time, then. But for your 
 being an old servant, and son of an old tenant 
 of my late father, I should discharge you at 
 once ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, for Heaven's sake, don't. Sir Mur- 
 ray,' said the man piteously. ' It shall never 
 occur again ; it shan't, indeed ! ' 
 
 ' You had been drinking again, last 
 night ! ' 
 
 ' Only the least drop, Sir Murray — the least 
 drop. I v^as a little out of order yesterday.' 
 
 ' And you were not fit to come before her 
 ladyship, in the drawing-room ? '
 
 BROODING. 133 
 
 ' Perhaps not quite, Sir Murray — not 
 quite; but — but — ' 
 
 ' And mind this is the last time. No 
 servant of mine shall be a disgrace to my 
 establishment.' 
 
 ' I humbly beg your pardon, Sir Murray, 
 I do, indeed ; and it shall never occur again, 
 it shan't, indeed. I know your ways. Sir 
 Murray, and I should die, if you was to turn 
 me off. Please look over it this once.' 
 
 ' I have looked over it, Gurdon, or I 
 should have given you your wages when you 
 entered the room. Now go and ask her lady- 
 ship if she can see me for a few minutes.' 
 
 ' Her ladyship isn't in. Sir Murray.' 
 
 'Not in?' 
 
 ' No, Sir Murray ; I wanted to see her 
 about the blue-room chandelier, and went up, 
 but she was not there ; and Barker said, sir, 
 she had just put on her things and gone out.'
 
 134 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Did she order the pony-carriage ? ' 
 
 ' No, Sir Murray ; her ladyship often goes 
 out walking.' 
 
 In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon 
 started ; for after months of waiting, it 
 seemed to come to him with a sudden light 
 flashing in upon his mind that he had found 
 that which he had sought. He looked up the 
 next moment in his servant's face, trembling 
 for his pride. Did that sallow, shivering 
 creature who took his pay, and who had been 
 trembling for fear of his frown, read his 
 thoughts ? Did he share his suspicions ? 
 For a moment, as he caught his eye, Sir 
 Murray felt as if he could strangle him. It 
 seemed to him that this man would hence- 
 forth possess a hold upon him, and assert 
 himself upon the strength of his knowledge. 
 
 The baronet could hardly arrest a groan ; 
 but he sat there, stern and immovable, fight-
 
 BROODING. 135 
 
 ing behind his mask of pride, to regain his 
 composure before again speaking. 
 
 ' Let me know when her ladyship comes 
 in — at least,' he said, correcting himself, ' ask 
 her if she will see me upon her return.' 
 
 ' Yes, Sir Murray.' 
 
 ' That will do. You can go,' said the 
 baronet, for the man still lingered as if about 
 to speak ; but the next moment he made a 
 low bow and left the room. 
 
 As the door closed upon the servant, the 
 strength which had been sustained by Sir 
 Murray's pride collapsed, and letting his head 
 fall upon his hands, he groaned bitterly. The 
 lines in his. face grew more deeply marked; 
 his lips became parched ; and at last he rose 
 from his seat to pace the room with hasty 
 strides, as he turned over and over the 
 thoughts that had flashed upon him. 
 
 Yes, she was often out ; her old passion
 
 186 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 for botany had returned, and, it had never 
 struck him before, she did take long, very 
 long walks. And now it was all plain enough : 
 he was the laughing-stock even of his servants 
 — he had read it in that man's eye. True, 
 he might dismiss him, but it was sure to be 
 known throughout the house. But wait 
 awhile ; he would not be rash and hasty ; he 
 would think matters over. 
 
 He smiled as he took his seat once more, 
 but the smile faded into a look of the most 
 bitter misery, and, as he sat there hour after 
 hour awaiting Lady Gernon's return, years 
 seemed to have passed over his head, and not 
 Avithout leaving their marks.
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 MAN AND MAID. 
 
 ' riURSE him ! ' muttered Gurdon, as he 
 left the room ; * a purse-proud, haughty 
 brute ! looks upon a servant as if he were a 
 dog, I know him, though — read him like 
 a book — turn him inside out like a glove. 
 Waited on him, served him as I have all these 
 years, and yet, because a man can't help 
 giving way just a trifle to his weakness, he's 
 to be threatened always with the sack. He 
 won't send me away, though, not he — he 
 knows better. Read him like a book I can.
 
 138 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 and he knows it too. Pride must have a fall, 
 and he's full of it — running over with it. 
 Just as if one man wasn't as good as another. 
 Discharge me, will he ? Perhaps I'll dis- 
 charge myself before he has the chance. Sit- 
 ting and sulking there in his old library, day 
 after day. I haven't forgotten the old affair. 
 I ain't blind, and I'll tell him so as soon as 
 I look at him. Here, hi ! Jane ! ' 
 
 Mr Gurdon's legs had conveyed him, as he 
 went on muttering, as far as the housekeeper's 
 room, when, seeing the flutter of a garment 
 just turning a corner at the end of the pas- 
 sage, he called out, and Jane Barker, rather 
 red of eye, turned round and confronted him. 
 
 ' Here, come in here, Jenny, I want to 
 talk to you,' he said, catching her by the hand, 
 when, without a word, she followed him into 
 the housekeeper's room, and he closed the 
 door.
 
 MAN AND MAID. 139 
 
 ' I knew he hadn't,' said Jane, who had 
 been watching him from a distance, and had 
 seen him enter and leave the Hbrary, 'you 
 wouldn't have looked cross like that, John, if 
 he had.' 
 
 ' He don't dare ! ' said Gurdon, insolently. 
 ' It's all smoke, and he knows now that I'm 
 not blind. Discharge me, indeed ! I'll dis- 
 charge myself, and have something for holding 
 my tongue into the bargain ! Don't tell me : 
 I can read him like a book, and his pride will 
 humble itself before me like a schoolboy's. 
 Now, look here, Jenny : there's been enough 
 nonsense now. We've been courting years 
 enough, and you've saved up a bit of money. 
 Let's go at once. I've saved nothing ; but 
 I've had my eyes open, and if I don't leave 
 the Castle a hundred pounds in pocket it's a 
 strange thing to me. I'm sick of it, I am ; 
 and I know of a decent pubhc-house to let
 
 140 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 over at Blankesley, where the iron-pits are. 
 There'll be no end of trade to it, so let's get 
 married and take it. Now, what do you say ? ' 
 ' Say ? ' exclaimed Jane Barker, whose face 
 had been working, while her lips were nipped 
 together, and her arms crossed over her breast, 
 as if to keep down her emotion — ' say ? Why, 
 that sooner than marry you, and have my little 
 bit of money put in a public-house, for you to 
 be pouring it down your throat all day, I'd go 
 into the union ! I'll own that I did, and I 
 have, loved you very, very much ; but you've 
 half broke my heart with seeing you, day after 
 day, getting into such sotting ways. You 
 know you wouldn't have been here now if it 
 hadn't been for me going down on my knees 
 to my own dear, sweet lady, to ask her not 
 to complain, when you've gone up to her, time 
 after time, not fit to be seen, and smelling 
 that horrid that tap-rooms was flower-gardens
 
 MAN AND MAID. 141 
 
 compared to you ! And now, after all her 
 kindness and consideration, you talk like that ! 
 I'm ashamed of you — I'm ashamed of you ! ' 
 
 And Jane burst into tears. 
 
 ' Now, don't be a fool, Jenny ! What's 
 the good of being so squeamish, and talking 
 such nonsense ? We've both had enough of 
 this place, and, without anything to trouble 
 me, I should never touch a drop from month's 
 end to month's end.' 
 
 ' No, John — no, John,' she said, disengag- 
 ing herself from the arm that he had put 
 round her. ' I'll never marry a man who 
 drinks. I'd give you my bit of money if I 
 thought it would do you good ; but you've 
 drunk till it's made you hard, and cruel, and 
 suspicious, and wicked ; and, though I've 
 never said nothing?, I've thouoiht about all 
 your wicked hints and suspicions. And as to 
 being tied up to a man who was going to get
 
 142 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 money by telling lies of other people, I'd 
 sooner go clown and jump into the lake — that 
 I would ! ' 
 
 ''Tisn't lies,' said Gurdon, sulkily: 'it's 
 truth, and you know it is.' 
 
 ' It is not, you bad, wicked fellow ! ' cried 
 Jane, firing up, and stamping one foot upon 
 the floor. 
 
 ' 'Tis truth, and he knows it too, my fine, 
 fierce madam ! ' 
 
 ' What ! have you dared to say a word, or 
 drop one of your nasty, underhanded hints ? ' 
 cried Jane. 
 
 ' Never mind,' said Gurdon, maliciously. 
 * I've not studied him all these years for no- 
 thing. Perhaps I know something about 
 letters — perhaps I don't ; perhaps I've seen 
 somebody savage about somebody else taking 
 long walks, after being sulky and upset about 
 what's to happen now after all these years ;
 
 MAN AND MAID. 143 
 
 perhaps I haven't seen anythmg of the kind, 
 but I ain't bHnd. I haven't forgotten what 
 took place six years ago, and now we're going 
 — good luck to us ! — to have an anniversary. 
 I hope everybody will be there to keep it, 
 that's all I've got to say.' 
 
 ' Oh, you serpent ! ' cried Jane, pale with 
 rage. ' You bad, wicked fellow ! You're hke 
 the scorpion in the Holy Bible, you are, that 
 turns to rend the hand that fed it. Oh ! ' she 
 cried, growing gradually more and more furi- 
 ous, ' to think that I've wasted all my best 
 days about such a traitor — such a cruel, ma- 
 licious, spiteful, dirty story-teller ! Shame on 
 you ! How dare you, you villain, hint at such 
 wickedness about my poor dear sweet mis- 
 tress, whose dear heart is as pure as an angel's 
 — a sweet, suffering lamb ? ' 
 
 ' A sweet, suffering lamb, indeed ! ' cried 
 Gurdon, savagely. ' Yah ! There's a pair of
 
 144 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 you — she- wolves, more likely.' 
 
 'Then I'll be the wolf that shall shake 
 such a nasty lying cur as you ! ' cried Jane, 
 furiously. ' Go down on your knees, you 
 wicked — wicked — nasty — story-telling — vil- 
 lain — you, or I'll shake all the breath out of 
 your body ! ' 
 
 In effect, beside herself with rage, Jane 
 had caught the butler by the collar with both 
 hands, and at every word she had given him 
 a furious shake, till, utterly confounded at the 
 suddenness of the attack, he had really, to 
 avoid the onslaught, sunk upon his knees, 
 enabling her, though, to deliver the correction 
 more effectually. 
 
 ' Say it was all stories — say it was all 
 stories,' cried Jane. 
 
 'I won't: it's all as true as true, and 
 her—' 
 
 ' Take that, you wicked villain ! ' shrieked
 
 MAN AND MAID. 145 
 
 Jane ; and with the full force of her by no 
 means weak arm, she slapped him across the 
 mouth just as the door opened, and a knot of 
 eager, curious servants appeared. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' was the cry. 
 
 * Let him say a word if he dares/ cried 
 Jane, ending her punishment by a tremendous 
 box on the butler's ears, to the intense delight 
 of the lookers-on. 'He told lies about me, 
 and I hit him — there ! ' said Jane defiantly, 
 ^ and let him say it isn't true if he dares.' 
 
 Then, utterly exhausted by her efforts, 
 poor Jane threw herself, sobbing, into a 
 chair. 
 
 ' Oh, take me away ! — take me away ! ' 
 she cried; and two of the sympathizing 
 women ran to her, declaring that it was a 
 shame, that it was ; while the stout cook de- 
 livered her opinion that it Avould be a blessing 
 if there wasn't a man left on the face of the 
 
 VOL. T. 10
 
 146 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 earth, ' breaking poor women's hearts as was 
 faithful unto death.' 
 
 Whereupon one of the footmen winked at 
 a very smart and aspiring kitchen-maid, who 
 had whispered to him her suspicions respect- 
 ing cook's possessing a similar weakness to 
 Mr Gurdon's, and requiring stimulants for the 
 due invention of fresh dishes. 
 
 ' It's a pity that people don't know their 
 places,' said Gurdon, sulkily, ' and keep to the 
 kitchen and hall, instead of pushing them- 
 selves into the housekeeper's room, where 
 they're not wanted.' 
 
 But somehow, the butler's words had but 
 very little eflFect, for in spite of their know- 
 ledge of his engagement to Jane Barker, and 
 her great influence in domestic matters with 
 her mistress, John Gurdon's tenure at the 
 Castle was held to be in a very insecure state. 
 
 Nobodv therefore stirred — Mr Gurdon's
 
 MAN AND MAID. 147 
 
 hint evidently not being sufficiently potent ; 
 so, with a scowl at the sobbing woman, he 
 turned and left the room, to don a fresh cravat 
 — the present one being Hmp, crumpled, and 
 displaying very clearly the encounter in which 
 he had been engaged. 
 
 ' Let them look out, some of them/ he 
 cried, wrathfully, as soon as he was alone. 
 ' If I'm to be dragged down, I'll pull some- 
 body with me, so let them look out, that's all 
 I've got to say ; ' and with a savage scowl 
 upon his face, he brought down his fist with a 
 heavy blow upon the table by which he stood.
 
 148 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' TTOW well Marion looks/ said Ada Nor- 
 ton to her husband, as, seated in one 
 of the brilliantly-hghted drawing-rooms at 
 the Castle, they watched her receiving fresh 
 guests, on the night of the party. The Nor- 
 tons had dined there, and all had gone off, so 
 far, most successfully ; people coming from a 
 great distance just for an hour in the evening, 
 — an invitation to the Castle being something 
 not to be slighted. 
 
 ' Yes, she looks well,' said Norton, calmly.
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 149 
 
 ' The old weary air seems to have passed away 
 entirely. I used to think that Gernon did not 
 use her well, bat, thank Heaven, I beheve I 
 misjudged him.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I think so,' said Mrs Norton, 
 hastily. ' I am so much in her confidence 
 that I think something of the kind would 
 have oozed out, if such had been the case. 
 And yet I don't know/ she continued in a 
 tone of reproach ; ' Marion has, like other 
 people, her secrets.' 
 
 Norton turned sharply round ; but Lady 
 Gernon approaching, the conversation ceased. 
 
 ' Mamma says you have not spoken to her 
 to-night, Ada,' said Lady Gernon, whose face 
 was flushed with excitement ; and never had 
 Norton thought her beauty more regal than 
 now, as she stood before him with a brilKant 
 tiara of sapphires and diamonds in her hair, 
 w^hile the large cross of pure and costly gems
 
 150 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 rose and fell with the soft heaving of her 
 bosom. 
 
 ' You extravagant woman ! ' laughed Ada, 
 in reference to her cousin's jewels. ' If I had 
 those sapphires I should never dare to wear 
 them.' 
 
 ' Murray always likes me to wear them on 
 these particular occasions,' said Lady Gernon, 
 carelessly; and, after exchanging a pleasant 
 smile with Norton, she moved away towards 
 where Mrs Elstree was seated. 
 
 In spite of himself. Sir Murray Gernon 
 frowned at the sight of that smile; but he 
 turned away the next moment, to encounter 
 his butler, at whom he gazed for a moment, 
 and then, walking close up to him, he said, 
 severely, 
 
 ' I told you I should not look over the 
 next occasion, sir. Come to the library for 
 your wages at ten to-morrow morning.'
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 151 
 
 John Gurdon's face broke out into a pro- 
 fuse perspiration as he heard that sentence — 
 one from which he knew there was no appeal 
 — and he darted a scowling look of hatred at 
 his master as he turned away. For Gurdon 
 knew the justice of the decree : he had been 
 drinking again. He had fought with the 
 temptation, but the fine old wines, constantly 
 to his hand, had been too much for him ; and 
 he had again succumbed, so that, as he stood 
 there that moment beneath one of the brilHant 
 chandeliers, in the midst of wealth and splen- 
 dour, he saw himself beggared and wretched 
 — a poor, out-of-place servant, whom no one 
 would employ on account of his potent vice. 
 
 But a feeling of rage and hatred filled his 
 breast the next instant, as he turned to single 
 out his master ; but he had disappeared, and 
 with lowering brow the butler left the room 
 to attend to some call.
 
 152 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS, 
 
 Sir Murray Gernon had entered the blue- 
 room, one of the handsome suite of drawing- 
 rooms at the Castle, where he came upon a 
 knot of his male friends, amongst whom stood 
 Mr Elstree. He would have avoided them, 
 but for some earnest mention of Norton's 
 name, that was made in a low tone, and in 
 spite of himself he said hastily : 
 
 ' What's that about Captain Norton ? ' 
 
 * Ruined, I fear,' said Mr Elstree. ' Those 
 mines have collapsed — perfect crash — heavy 
 calls on the shareholders, I'm told. We were 
 remarking how calmly the poor fellow takes it. 
 Poor Ada cannot know, for she is laughing 
 happily with my wife.' 
 
 * These things are better kept from the 
 ladies, I think,' said a friend. ' I'm sorry for 
 them, though.' 
 
 ' Unworldly man ! ' — ' foolish speculation ! ' 
 — ' perfect madness ! ' were amongst the re-
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 153 
 
 marks Sir Murray then heard made, wluen he 
 turned to gaze at his stricken guest, who, ap- 
 parently quite cahxL and untroubled by a care, 
 had risen from his seat and crossed to where 
 Lady Gernon was standing. A minute after, 
 she had left Mrs Norton with her mother, 
 placed her arm in Captain Norton's, and with 
 him crossed towards the conservatory, where, 
 amidst the golden-fruited oranges, the heavily- 
 scented exotics, and the soft light diffused 
 from flower-encircled and shaded lamp, a few 
 of the guests were seated, or wandering in what 
 seemed to be a fragment of some tropic land. 
 It was hard work for Sir Murray to pre- 
 serve his calm and smihng aspect amidst his 
 guests when such thoughts as troubled him 
 were struggling in his breast. But he was 
 determined to show no anger, and, with the 
 intention of walking quietly into the conserv- 
 atory, he passed through the drawing-room,
 
 154 THE SAPPHIEE CROSS. 
 
 where Gurdon was handing tea to the party 
 conversing at one of the tables. 
 
 Just then a gentleman arrested him, and 
 kept him in conversation upon some political 
 matter for quite a quarter of an hour, his 
 courtly politeness even now preventing him 
 from hurrying away ; but at length, with a 
 sinking at his heart, he stepped into the con- 
 servatory to see several friends enjoying the 
 soft coolness of the flower-scented place ; but 
 those whom he sought were not there. 
 
 He turned to leave — a strange feeling of 
 excitement making his breast to throb, and 
 the blood to flush giddily to his head. He 
 passed through the different well-lit rooms, 
 but without seeing the pair of whom he was 
 in quest; and, scarcely in command of his 
 actions, he was about to make some eager 
 inquiry, when Gurdon approached, bearing a 
 small tray with tea.
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 155 
 
 ' Looking for my lady, Sir Murray ? ' he 
 said. ' She's at the back of the orangery with 
 Captain Norton.' 
 
 John Gurdon's eyes glittered as he spoke, 
 for he was sobered now by the former meeting 
 with his master, and the excitement of what 
 was in his mind. Sir Murray knew that 
 the man saw his emotion, but he could not 
 hide it then ; and with a muttered oath he 
 once more entered the conservatory, but had 
 not advanced more than a few paces when he 
 became aware that he was followed. 
 
 Turning upon the instant, he found that 
 Gurdon was close behind him with the tray. 
 
 ' Go back into the drawing-room ! ' he 
 said, sternly, though he repented his speech 
 the next minute, for, with a meaning smile, 
 the man met his eye, and then stopped short, 
 but made no movement to return. 
 
 G urdon was right ; for on turning a
 
 156 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 corner, Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lady 
 Gernon seated by Captain Norton's side. Her 
 head was bent, and the tears were faUing fast, 
 while he was speaking to her earnestly. There 
 was no one near : the voices from the crowded 
 rooms came only in a murmur. They, too, 
 were speaking in soft and subdued tones. 
 But one word fell upon Sir Murray's ear, and 
 that word was ' love' He heard neither the 
 preceding nor the concluding parts of the 
 sentence, but — his footsteps muffled by the 
 soft matting spread over the brightly-tiled 
 floor — he was standing by their side before 
 they were aware of his approach, when, with a 
 start of dread, Lady Gernon half rose from 
 her seat, but only to sink back, gazing at her 
 husband. 
 
 Tor a few moments Sir Murray stood, un- 
 able to speak in the calm tones he desired; 
 for even then he dreaded a scene and the
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 157 
 
 comments of his guests, when — approaching 
 quite unheard, so that he, too, was in the midst 
 of the group before his presence was noticed 
 — Gurdon appeared, to look full in his mas- 
 ter's face as he handed the tray he bore. 
 
 ' Tea, sir ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Stand back ! ' exclaimed Sir Murray, 
 fiercely, and with his raised hand he struck 
 the man heavily across the chest, causing him 
 to stagger back, and the tray fell with a crash 
 upon the floor. 
 
 ' You shall pay for this ! ' muttered the 
 man, rising, but only to drop on one knee, 
 napkin in hand, the next moment, and com- 
 mence gathering up the fragments. 
 
 ' Leave this place, sir, this instant ! ' ex- 
 claimed Sir Murray, fiercely ; and muttering 
 still, but with a supercilious leer at all present, 
 Gurdon slouched off, passing between the as- 
 sembled guests, who, alarmed by the crash and
 
 158 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 loud, angry words, were now inquiring the cause. 
 
 ' Nothing — nothing wrong,' exclaimed Sir 
 Murray, with a ghastly show of being at ease. 
 ' A drunken servant, that is all Lady Gemon, 
 let me take you into the drawing-room/ 
 
 Glances were exchanged ; but the sullen 
 countenance of Gurdon, the spilled tea, and 
 the broken cups and saucers, afforded suf- 
 ficient explanation, and the visitors slowly 
 filtered back into the different rooms, in one 
 of which another accident had taken place. 
 
 As Sir Murray, trembling with suppressed 
 anger, entered the inner drawing-room, known 
 as the blue-room, he saw Gurdon, napkin and 
 tray in hand, standing as if waiting his com- 
 ing, his face breaking into a mocking smile 
 upon his master's entrance, closely followed 
 by Captain Norton, who, so far, had not 
 spoken a word. 
 
 ' Go to your mother, Marion,' said Sir
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 1 59 
 
 Murray. 'I must have a few more words 
 with this man.' 
 
 ' With whom ? ' exclaimed Lady Gernoii. 
 
 ' With my servant, madam/ said Sir Mur- 
 ray, loudly. ' Not with Captain Norton now. 
 But where is your cross ? ' 
 
 ' My cross ! ' stammered Lady Gernon ; and 
 her hand involuntarily sought the place where 
 it had hung. ' I had it when I — when — ' 
 
 ' Yes, when you entered the conservatory,' 
 said Sir Murray, a suspicion crossing his 
 breast : ' but where is it now ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know ! ' exclaimed Lady Ger- 
 non, whose agitation became extreme. 
 
 The rumour of the failing mines ; Captain 
 Norton's poverty ; his own jealousy ; thought 
 after thought flashed across Sir Murray Ger- 
 non 's brain in an instant of time. 
 
 ' Go to your guests,' he said sternly. 
 ' There are people coming this way, and I
 
 160 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 wish to avoid a scene. James,' he said, beck- 
 oning to a footman, 'see that man, Gurdon, 
 into the Httle garden-room, lock him up, and 
 then fetch a constable.' 
 
 'What for — what for?' said Gurdon, 
 loudly. ' You don't think, do you, that I've 
 got the cross ? ' 
 
 ' Silence, sir ! Take him away ! ' ex- 
 claimed Sir Murray, sternly. Then, turning 
 to Captain Norton, he said in a whisper, 
 ' There are two things in this world, PhiKp 
 Norton, that I value : my honour and those 
 old family jewels.' 
 
 ' I am attending to your words,' said 
 Norton, coldly; for he had just met an im- 
 ploring look from Marion. 
 
 ' I told you, Lady Gernon, to go to your 
 guests ! ' said Sir Murray, in an angry whisper. 
 
 ' No, Murray,' she said. ' I shall stay ! ' 
 
 ' In Heaven's name, then, stay ! ' he said,
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 161 
 
 angrily, ' and hear what I would say. I value 
 my honour and those family jewels, Captain 
 Norton/ he continued, facing his guest ; ' and 
 the man who filches from me one or the other 
 does so at the risk of his life ! ' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Lady Gernon, with a 
 horrified aspect, ' do you for a moment sup- 
 pose, Murray, that Captain Norton — ' 
 
 ' Where is that sapphire cross ? ' exclaimed 
 Sir Murray. 
 
 ' Indeed — indeed — ' 
 
 ' Silence, madam ! I will have no scene ! ' 
 hissed Sir Murray, angrily. ' You, as my 
 wife, hold those jewels in trust for me ; and I 
 should hold him who took them, even as a 
 gift, as a robber of what is mine.' 
 
 ' Sir Murray Gernon, you are mad ! ' ex- 
 claimed Norton — ' you know not what you 
 say, and — Hush ! sir, no words. Lady 
 Gernon has fainted ! ' 
 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 162 
 
 CHAPTER XVL 
 
 AN ENCOUNTER. 
 
 qiR MURRAY GERNON had expressed a 
 desire that there should be no scene, but 
 his wish was of no avail, for in a few moments 
 an excited group had collected round his wife. 
 Salts, vinegar, and cold water were sought and 
 applied ; but, fortunately, one of the guests 
 was the medical adviser of the family. 
 
 ' Bed, Sir Murray — empty house — quiet 
 — and,' he said, meaningly, ' all going well, I 
 may be able to offer you congratulations before 
 morning.'
 
 AN ENCOUNTER. 163 
 
 Half an hour after, the house was vacated 
 by the last guest, and before morning had 
 dawned the tidings were borne to Sir Murray 
 Gernon that his lady had given birth to a 
 daughter, but that from her ladyship's critical 
 state Dr Challen wished for further advice, 
 and for a fellow-practitioner to share the bur- 
 den of his responsibility. 
 
 Messages were sent ; and in the course of 
 a few hours there was a consultation held re- 
 specting Lady Gernon's state — a consultation 
 over which the medical practitioners shook 
 their heads solemnly. The child was healthy ; 
 but its mother still existed, that was all. 
 
 Mrs Norton was at her side, where she 
 insisted upon staying for days, in spite of a 
 request from Sir Murray that she would leave ; 
 and now it was that for the first time she 
 heard of the loss of the jewels from Jane 
 Barker, who told her, with many sobs, that
 
 164 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 Gurdon had been suspected by Sir Murray, 
 who had sent for a constable ; but after having 
 him searched that morning, his wages had 
 been paid him, and he had been discharged, 
 ' threatening horrible things.' 
 
 ' And oh ! ma'am,' whispered Jane, ' you 
 were always like my dear lady's sister ; if you 
 should hear anything said about her, it isn't 
 true. You won't believe it, I'm sure.' 
 
 ' You know I should never believe words 
 uttered by an angry servant, Jane,' was the 
 reply ; ' and if you take my advice you will be 
 silent.' 
 
 ' I would, ma'am ; and I should not have 
 said a word now, only Gurdon went away full 
 of such threatenings, and talked so loudly, 
 that I was afraid it might come to your ears 
 without preparation, for he spoke of Captain 
 Norton, and — ' 
 
 ' Silence, woman !' exclaimed Ada, fiercely,
 
 AN ENCOUNTER. 165 
 
 as she cauglit the startled maid by the arm. 
 * How dare you bandy about such talk ! I 
 will not hear another word.' 
 
 Jane stopped, gazing aghast at her mis- 
 tress's cousin, as, with her hands pressed upon 
 her bosom, she seemed to be striving to keep 
 back the painful emotion which oppressed 
 her. 
 
 ' Don't be angry with me, ma'am, please,' 
 Jane whispered humbly. ' I would not have 
 spoken had I known.' 
 
 Mrs Norton made her a motion to be 
 silent ; and for awhile the girl stood watching 
 her agitated countenance, as she strove to 
 conquer her emotion. She was herself un- 
 suspicious to a degree. She had full faith in 
 her husband, but now thick and fast came 
 blow after blow. She found how calumny 
 was at work — how Sir Murray Gernon's name 
 was talked of in connection with her hus-
 
 166 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 band's, and at last she felt that for his sake, 
 much as she loved her cousin, her place was 
 at his side ; for once more in her life there 
 came the shuddering dread of a great evil, 
 and obtaining from Jane a promise that if her 
 mistress grew worse she should be informed, 
 she returned to the Hall. 
 
 It was evening when she reached home, to 
 find the servant looking excited, while, as 
 soon as she entered the house, the sound of a 
 loud and angry voice reached her ear. 
 
 ' Who is in the drawing-room ? ' she 
 hastily inquired of the servant. 
 
 ' Oh'm, I'm so glad you've come,' ejacu- 
 lated the girl. ' It's Sir Murray Gernon.' 
 
 For a moment Ada felt as if she could not 
 proceed. Her heart accused her of neglecting 
 home for the past few days, and she told her- 
 self that, with the rumours she knew of float- 
 ing around, she ought not to have stayed
 
 AN ENCOUNTER. 167 
 
 away. But at last, with an effort, she hurried 
 forward, opened the door, and entered the 
 room just as, with a cry of rage, Sir Murray 
 Gernon raised the hunting-whip he held in 
 his hand, and struck her husband furiously 
 across the face. 
 
 ' Dog ! ' he exclaimed. ' I gave you the 
 chance of meeting me as a gentleman, and 
 you refused, driving me to horsewhip you as 
 the scoundrel and thief you are. Ha I ' 
 
 He paused, for Ada Norton was clinging 
 to the arm that held the whip, while her hus- 
 band — 
 
 Was he a coward? Was that the man 
 of whose daring she had heard in India, per- 
 forming deeds of valour that had been chroni- 
 cled again and again in the despatches sent 
 home ? She was no lover of strife, but it was 
 with something akin to shame that she saw 
 her husband stand motionless, wdth one hand
 
 168 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 pressed to the red wale across his face. He 
 was very pale, and the old scar and the new 
 seemed to intersect one another, the latter like 
 a bar sinister across honourable quarterings. 
 He was trembling, too, but it was with a sigh 
 of relief that she heard him break the silence 
 at last. 
 
 ' Sir Murray Gernon,' he said, in a cracked 
 voice that she hardly knew, ' when your poor 
 dying wife came here with you, we Avalked 
 through that window into the garden, where, 
 in memory of our old love, she made me swear 
 that I would never injure you, a promise — I 
 hardly know why — that, though I made, I 
 never even mentioned to my wife.' 
 
 Sir Murray laughed scornfully. 
 
 ' I tell you now again, in the presence of 
 my wife here, that your suspicions are base- 
 less, that you wrong Lady Gernon most 
 cruelly; and that, but for the fact that you
 
 AX ENCOUNTER. 169 
 
 dared call me — a poor, but honourable soldier 
 — thief, your last charge is so contemptible 
 that it would not be worthy of an answer. 
 Go now and try to undo the wrong you have 
 done. Thief ! robber ! ' he exclaimed, ex- 
 citedly. ' Who was the thief of my love — of 
 my life ? But there ; I have done,' he said, 
 calmly. ' I thought,' he continued, tenderly, 
 ' that hope was crushed out of my existence ; 
 that there was to be no future for me. That 
 day, when I cast myself down in the church- 
 yard with the feeling of despair heavy upon 
 me, it seemed as if, with one harsh blow, my 
 life had been snapped in two. And it was 
 nearly so ; but Heaven sent his angel to save 
 me, and to prove that there was hope, and 
 rest, and happiness for me yet in this world.' 
 Ere he had finished speaking Ada had 
 thrown herself into his arms, and was looking 
 proudly in his scarred face.
 
 170 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Sir Murray Gernon/ he continued, after 
 an instant's pause, ' I refused to meet you, 
 and I have now told you the true reason for 
 my having done so. In this world we shall 
 probably never meet again. Our paths lie, 
 as they ought, in different directions. It is 
 fit they should. But once more, I swear be- 
 fore Heaven that your base charges are false. 
 Go, and by honest, manly confession, try and 
 win her back to life, and obtain her forgive- 
 ness. Tell her that I kept my word, even to 
 making myself for her sake a coward in the 
 eyes of the world.' 
 
 As he ceased speaking, he turned from 
 Sir Murray to gaze down in his wife's face. 
 There was a sad, despairing look in his coun- 
 tenance, though, that troubled her ; it w^as the 
 same drawn, haggard aspect that she had 
 looked on years before ; but as she clung to 
 him closer and closer, twining her arms more
 
 AN ENCOUNTER. 171 
 
 tightly round him, and trying to draw that 
 pale, scarred face to hers, the wild, scared 
 aspect slowly faded away, for from her eyes he 
 seemed to draw life and hope, and at last, with 
 a sigh that seemed torn from his breast's ut- 
 most depths, he pressed his lips upon her fore- 
 head, and then turned once more to confront 
 his accuser. 
 
 But they were alone ; for, after hstening 
 with conflicting thoughts to Norton's Avords, 
 Sir Murray Gernon had slowly turned upon 
 his heel, leaving the room, unnoticed.
 
 172 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 JANE S HEART. 
 
 ' f\ii, dear ! — oh, dear 1 what shall I do ? — 
 what shall I do ? ' sobbed Jane Barker. 
 ' What a wicked set we must all be for the 
 troubles to come bubbhng and rolling over us 
 like this in a great w^ater-flood. There's poor 
 Sir Murray half mad with grief, shutting him- 
 self up in his library, and never hardly so 
 much as eating or drinking a bit. There's 
 my own dear, sweet lady lying there day after 
 day, with the lids shut down over those poor 
 soft eyes of hers, never moving, and nobody
 
 jane's heart. 173 
 
 knowing whether she's living or dead, only 
 when she gives one of those little sobbing 
 sighs. And then there's the poor old Rector, 
 coming every day over and over again to see 
 how she is, and looking as if his heart would 
 break; and poor Mrs Elstree wandering up 
 and down the passages hke a ghost. Oh, 
 dear ! — oh, dear ! — oh, dear ! the place isn't 
 like the same, and I don't know what's to 
 become of us all. One didn't need to have 
 jewels missing, and poor servants suspected of 
 taking them, and sent away without a month's 
 warning, and not a bit of character. But oh, 
 John ! — John ! — John ! it wasn't a month's 
 warning you had, but many months' warning ; 
 and it wasn't you stole the cross, but let some- 
 thing steal away all your good heart and good 
 looks too.' 
 
 Here Jane Barker burst out into a passion- 
 ate fit of weeping, sobbing as though her heart
 
 174 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 would break. She was sitting by her open 
 window — one looking over a part of the 
 shrubbery which concealed the servants' 
 offices from the view of those who strolled 
 through the grounds. It was not the first 
 night by many that Jane had sat there be- 
 wailing her troubles, for it had become a 
 favourite custom with her to sit there, 
 thoughtful and silent, till her passionate grief 
 brought forth some such outburst as the 
 above. Busy the whole day at her work about 
 the sick-chamber of her lady, Jane told her- 
 self that at such times there was something 
 else for her to do beside sorrowing ; but when 
 at midnight all about was wrapped in silence, 
 the poor girl would sit or kneel at her win- 
 dow, mourning and crying for hour after hour. 
 ' Oh, my poor dear lady ! If it should 
 come to the worst, and her never to look upon 
 the little soft face of that sweet babe, sent to
 
 jane's heart. 175 
 
 be a comfort to her when she's been so 
 
 sohtary and unhappy all these years ; for she 
 
 has been. Oh ! these men — these men ! 
 
 They break our poor hearts, they do ! Why 
 
 didn't the Captain come back sooner and 
 
 make her happy ? or why didn't he die in 
 
 real earnest over in the hot Ingies, where they 
 
 said he was killed, and not come back just 
 
 then to make her heart sore, as I know^ it has 
 
 been ever since ? though, poor soul, she loves, 
 
 honours, and obeys her husband as she 
 
 should. There didn't never ought to be any 
 
 marrying at all, for it's always been an upset 
 
 to me ever since I thought about it ; and him 
 
 such a proper man, too, as he used to be — 
 
 such a nice red and white face, and always so 
 
 smart till he took to the drink ; as I told him, 
 
 he got to love it ever so much better than he 
 
 loved me, though he always coaxed me round 
 
 into forgiving him. I always knew it w^as
 
 176 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 weak ; but then I couldn't help it, and I 
 didn't make myself ; and if poor women are 
 made weak and helpless, what can they do ? 
 
 ' I always told him it would be his ruin, 
 and begged of him to give it up — and oh ! 
 the times he's kissed me and promised me he 
 would ! And then for it to come to this. 
 He'd never have said such cruel things about 
 my lady if it had not been for the drink ; and 
 though I'd forgive him almost anything, I 
 couldn't forgive him for speaking as he did. 
 I do think he likes me, and that it isn't all for 
 the sake of the bit of money, which he might 
 have and welcome if it would do him any 
 good. If he would only leave off writing to 
 me, and asking me to meet him when he 
 knows I daren't, and every letter breaking my 
 heart, and at a time, too, when I've got no- 
 where to go and sit down and cry. No ; let 
 him mend a bit, and show me that he's left off
 
 jane's heart. 177 
 
 the drink, and my poor dear lady get well first, 
 and I'll leave directly, as I told him I would, 
 and work and slave for him all my life, just 
 for the sake of a few kind words j for I know 
 I'm only a poor ignorant woman ; but I can 
 love him very — very much, and — ' 
 
 Jane stopped short, listening attentively, 
 for at that moment there was a faint rustling 
 sound beneath the window, and then, after a 
 few minutes' interval, another and another ; 
 a soft rustling sound as of something forcing 
 its way gently amongst the bushes and low 
 shrubs, for at times a step was audible 
 amongst the dead leaves, and once there came 
 a loud crack, as if a foot had been set upon a 
 dry twig which had snapped sharply. 
 
 Then there was utter silence again, and 
 the girl sat hstening with pale face, lips apart, 
 and her breath drawn with difficulty, as her 
 heart beat with a heavy throb, throb, throb, 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 at the unwonted sound. It could not be one 
 of the dogs, for they were all chained up ; and 
 if it had been a strange step she felt that they 
 would have barked, and given some alarm. 
 The deer never came near the house, and it 
 was extremely doubtful whether any of the 
 cattle in the great park could have strayed 
 into the private grounds through some gate 
 having been left open. Her heart told her 
 what the noise was, and accelerated its beats 
 with excitement, so that when, after a renewal 
 of the soft rustling, she heard a sound as of 
 hard breathing, and then a husky voice whis- 
 pering her name, she was in no wise sur- 
 prised. 
 
 ' Tst — tst, Jane ! ' seemed to come out 
 of the black darkness below — a darkness that 
 she in vain tried to penetrate. 
 
 ' Oh, why did you come — why did you 
 come ? ' sobbed Jane. Somebody will be
 
 jane's heart. 179 
 
 sure to hear you, and then you'll be in ^Yorse 
 trouble than ever, besides getting me turned 
 out of my place. Oh, John ! — oh, John ! 
 how can you be such a cruel fellow ! ' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, will you, and don't be 
 a fool,' was the husky reply. ' I'm going to 
 have you away from here, Jenny, in a few 
 days, and then his proudship shall have some 
 letters as shall make him pay me to hold my 
 tongue, or else have all his pride tumbling 
 about his ears.' 
 
 ' Oh, you wicked wretch ! ' muttered Jane 
 to herself, for his words roused her slumber- 
 ing resentment, and drove her troubles away 
 for the present. 
 
 ' Can you hear all I say ? ' whispered the 
 voice from below. 
 
 ' Yes,' whispered Jane again ; ' but what 
 do you want ? Oh, pray, pray go ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gurdon. ' I'll go when I've
 
 180 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 done ; but I want to talk to you first. Who's 
 at home ? Is he here ? ' 
 
 ' Who ? Master ? Yes,' whispered Jane, 
 ' and the doctor, and my lady's pa : they're 
 all here, for she's been very bad to-night.' 
 
 ' But are they all gone to bed ? ' whispered 
 Gurdon. 
 
 *Yes, all but Mrs Elstree, who's sitting 
 up in my lady's room.' 
 
 ' Come down then, softly, into the passage 
 and open the lobby door ; you can let me in 
 then, through the billiard-room.' 
 
 ' That I'm sure I'm not going to ! ' ex- 
 claimed Jane, indignantly, and you ought to 
 be ashamed of yourself for asking me such a 
 thing. It isn't like you, John.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue, will you ! ' he ex- 
 claimed, gruffly. ' Do you want to be heard, 
 and have me shot by one of the keepers, or 
 some one fire at me from one of the windows ? '
 
 jane's heart. 181 
 
 ^ N-n-no/ gasped Jane ; ' but pray do go ; 
 pray, dear John, go away ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, you're very anxious to get rid of me 
 now,' said Gurdon, sneeringly, for he could 
 hear that Jane was sobbing ; ' I may go now, 
 just because I made a slip, and you want to 
 see me no more. It's the way of the world.' 
 
 ' No — no ; don't talk like that,' cried 
 Jane, ' for you know I don't deserve it ; but 
 pray, for both our sakes, go away at once. 
 Write to me and say what you want.' 
 
 ' I shan't do nothing of the kind ! ' hissed 
 Gurdon, angrily. ' You do as I tell you : 
 com.e down and let me in, or it'll be the worse 
 for you. I want to talk to you so as I can't 
 talk here. I've got a deal to say about the 
 future.' 
 
 ' I don't care, and I won't ! ' said Jane, 
 excitedly, for anger roused in her anger in re- 
 turn. At such times she did not at all feel
 
 182 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 afraid of John Gurdon, nor of his threats, but 
 was ready to meet him with open resistance. 
 
 * I'm not going to do any such thing, so there 
 now ! It's more than my place is worth, and 
 you know it, John. And besides, it wouldn't 
 be seemly and modest.* 
 
 'Oh, you've grown very modest all at 
 once, you have,' sneered Gurdon, angrily. 
 
 * It's all make believe ; and if you don't do as 
 I tell you, I'll pay you out in a way as'll 
 startle you ! Come down this minute,' he 
 hissed, ' and do as I tell you ! I will speak 
 to you ! ' 
 
 ' You won't do nothing of the kind,' said 
 Jane, angrily; 'you've been drinking again, 
 or you wouldn't have come here to ask such a 
 thing, nor you wouldn't have thrown them 
 nasty, sneering, jeering words at one that no 
 one can say a word against, so there, now. 
 And now, good night, Mr Gurdon,' she said,
 
 jane's heart. 183 
 
 frigidly; and he heard the sash begin to 
 close. 
 
 ' Oh, Jane — Jane, darling ! please — please 
 stop, only a minute,' he whined, for he knew 
 that he had played a false card, and that it 
 was time to withdraw it. ' Don't be hard on 
 a poor fellow as is fallen, and who's put out of 
 temper by his troubles. I didn't think that 
 you'd turn your back upon me — I didn't, 
 indeed.' 
 
 John Gurdon paused, and gave vent to a 
 snuffle, and something that was either a hic- 
 cup or a sob. Jane Barker, too, paused in 
 her act of closing the window, for somehow 
 John Gurdon had wound his way so tightly 
 round her soft heart, that she was ready to 
 strike him one moment, and to go down on 
 her knees and beg forgiveness the next. 
 
 ' It's very hard,' sobbed Gurdon, in 
 maudHn tones. ' Even she has turned upon
 
 184 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 me now, even to closing the window, and 
 denying me a hearing — I didn't think it of 
 her. A woman that I've worshipped almost 
 — a woman as I'd have died for a dozen times 
 over ; but it isn't in her nature.' 
 
 Gurdon stopped and Hstened attentively. 
 
 ' She isn't a bad one at heart,' he con- 
 tinued, in the same whining, lachrymose 
 tones, ' but she's been set against me, and it's 
 all over now ; and I may as well make an end 
 of myself as try and live. I did think as 
 she'd have come down to listen to me ; but 
 no, and it's all over. The whole world now 
 has shut its doors and windows in my face ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, John — John, pray, pray don't talk 
 so I ' sobbed Jane. 
 
 ' What ! not gone ? ' he exclaimed, in 
 mock ecstasy. 
 
 ' No, no ! How could you think I should 
 be so cruel ? '
 
 jane's heart. 185 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know/ he whined. ' But 
 pray, pray come down : I want to have a few 
 words about what's to be done. I don't 
 want to take a public-house now, Jane, but to 
 go into the grocery and baking ; and there's 
 a chance before me, if I could only point it 
 out.' 
 
 ' Well, tell me now,' sobbed Jane. 
 
 ' No ; how can I ? ' said Gurdon — ' I 
 shall be heard. Ah ! Jenny, you don't care 
 for me as you used, or you wouldn't keep me 
 out here like this ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, what shall I do ? ' sobbed Jane. ' I 
 can't do as he asks, and he knows it ; and 
 yet he's trying to break my heart, he is ! ' 
 
 ' Now, then, are you going to listen to me, 
 Jenny?' whispered Gurdon, imploringly. 
 
 ' Oh, I can't— I can't : I daren't do it ! ' 
 sobbed poor Jane. 
 
 ' Oh, please, if you love me, don't drive
 
 186 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 me to desperation ! ' cried Gurdon. ' I — ' 
 ' Hush ! ' whispered Jane, in affrighted 
 tones, for at that moment there was a loud 
 knocking at her bedroom door, and the voice 
 of Mrs Elstree was heard. 
 
 ' Jane — Jane ! Quick ! Call Sir Mur- 
 ray ! My darling is dying ! '
 
 187 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 
 
 A S, muttering a savage oath, John Gurdon 
 crept through the yielding shrubs, Jane 
 Barker softly closed the window, and then 
 glided to the door. 
 
 ' Not gone to bed ? ' exclaimed Mrs 
 Elstree. * Thank Heaven ! Rouse Sir Mur- 
 ray and my husband while I run back/ 
 
 ' Have you called Dr Challen, ma'am ? ' 
 said Jane, in agitated tones. 
 
 ' Oh yes : he is in the bedroom,' sobbed 
 Mrs Elstree ; and she hurried back.
 
 188 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 In a few minutes husband and father were 
 by the bedside, watching with agitated coun- 
 tenances the struggle going on, for truly it 
 seemed that the long lethargy into which 
 Lady Gernon had been plunged was to be 
 terminated by the triumph of the dread shade. 
 As Mrs Elstree had sat watching her, she had 
 suddenly started up to talk in a wild, inco- 
 herent manner; and as Sir Murray Gernon 
 stood there in his long dressing-gown, with 
 brow knit, a shade that was not one of sorrow 
 crossed his brow upon hearing some of his 
 stricken wife's babblins-s. 
 
 ' Phihp,' she said — and as she spoke her 
 voice softened, and there was a yearning look 
 of gentleness in her countenance — ' Philip, the 
 cross : where is the cross ? Have you hid it ? 
 — have you taken it away ? Pray, pray restore 
 it ! He will be angry. They are favourite old 
 jewels, that I wear for his sake. You loved
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 189 
 
 me once ; for the sake of the old times give it 
 me back ! He will ask for it. Where is the 
 cross ? Do you see : blue sapphires, each 
 like a little forget-me-not peering up at you. 
 Your flowers — true blue, Philip. But the 
 cross — I must have the cross ! ' 
 
 She was silent for a few minutes, and then, 
 wildly turning to her husband, she caught his 
 hand in hers. 
 
 ' Philip,' she cried, addressing him, ' it is 
 all madness — something of the past. It was 
 not to be, and we have each our path to fol- 
 low. I heard the rumours : trouble — failure 
 — your income swept away — dearest Ada. 
 But you must not come to want. You will 
 give me back the cross, though ; not the 
 forget-me-nots. Keep them, though they are 
 withered and dry — withered and dry as our 
 old love — something of the past. Let me see,' 
 she said — and her eyes assumed a troubled,
 
 190 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 anxious expression — ' you cannot claim me 
 now. I am another's — his wife. How blue 
 the lake looks ! and how plainly it mirrors the 
 mountains ! Fair blue waters — blue — true 
 blue. If I could have died then — died when 
 you plucked the flowers from my breast — but 
 it was not to be. I have a duty to fulfil— a 
 burden — a cross ' — she said, dreamily — ' a 
 cross? Yes — yes — yes, the cross. You will 
 give it me back, Philip,' she whispered, with 
 a smile ; ' it lies, you see, where once your 
 forget-me-nots lay. I cannot wear them now, 
 but the colour is the same — true blue. But 
 you will find them for me, those bright gems, 
 and all will yet be well.' 
 
 She raised Sir Murray's hand to her lips, 
 and kissed it reverently, as she continued : 
 
 ' Always true and noble, Philip. You will 
 respect my husband for the sake of the old 
 days. It has been like a cloud always hover-
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 191 
 
 ing above my life : that great dread lest you 
 should ever meet in anger. Go now — let me 
 sleep — I am weak and weary. But remem- 
 ber your promise.' 
 
 Pride, misery, despair, shame, and grief, 
 seemed to have mingled for him a cup of bit- 
 terness, forcing him to drink it there in the 
 presence of those who were gathered round 
 the sick woman's couch ; and it was with a 
 step that tottered in spite of all his self-com- 
 mand, that when Lady Gernon loosed his 
 hand. Sir Murray strode slowly from the room, 
 to seek the solitude of the library, where, 
 alone through the rest of that night, he could 
 sit and brood upon his misery. She did not 
 love him — she had never loved him ; and he 
 told himself that he could not stay to hear her 
 words — to hold her hand, when her last sigh 
 was breathed. Had not that man risen, as it 
 were, from the dead to blast their wedding.
 
 192 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 she would have clung to him with a softened, 
 child-like affection ; but now — how could he 
 stay when her thoughts all seemed another's ? ' 
 
 The tearful eyes of father and mother met 
 across the bed, as Sir Murray left the room, 
 and then as the doctor sat silent and averted 
 of gaze by the bedside, the broken voice of 
 the father rose, as, sinking upon his knees, he 
 prayed long and earnestly that Heaven of its 
 goodness would grant the renewal of life to 
 his child, if but for a short time, that she 
 might prove to her husband that the words 
 he had that night heard were but the vain 
 babblings of her distempered brain. That 
 she might live for his, for her child's, for her 
 parents' sake, and during her life, however 
 short, sweep away the cruel mists of doubt 
 and suspicion that clung to her hearth. 
 
 Pervent and low did that prayer sound in 
 the silence of the sick-chamber, where all
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 193 
 
 that wealth could spread in profusion was 
 waitino- to minister to the owner's w^ants. 
 But to those present it seemed as if the splen- 
 dour were but a mockery ; and the story of 
 Lady Gernon's life, well known to all, pointed 
 ever to one great void — a void that no w^ealth 
 could supply. 
 
 Tervent and low grew that prayer in the 
 silence of that night, till, as the Rector's lips 
 parted to give utterance to those subHme 
 words of humility and resignation, ' Thy will 
 be done ! ' a sob choked his utterance, and, 
 save a low, weary wail from the stricken mo- 
 ther, all was for a long space still. 
 
 The shaded lamp made the hangings of 
 the bed to disport themselves in strange 
 shadows upon wall and carpet ; and at times, 
 when the night breeze softly swept round the 
 house, it w^as as though the spirits of air were 
 waiting in gathering levee to bear away the 
 
 YOL. I. 13
 
 194 .THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 newly-freed essence to a happier realm. No 
 >vord was spoken ; only at times the Doctor 
 bent over the bed to moisten his patient's lips 
 from a glass in his hand. The pendule ticked 
 softly upon the mantel-piece, every second 
 beaten off finding its echo in the listeners' 
 hearts, as it seemed to tell of the rapid flight 
 of time, and the few brief minutes left to the 
 wretched sufferer upon the bed. Her wan- 
 derings had long since ceased, and to those 
 who watched, it seemed many times over that 
 the last sigh had been breathed with those 
 softly -muttered words, which made them start 
 as a cold shudder ran through their frames. 
 But a w^arning glance from the doctor, as he 
 still kept on at intervals of every few minutes 
 moistening her lips, told that there was still 
 life, and they waited on. 
 
 More than once Mrs Elstree's head had 
 turned; full of expectancy, towards the door,
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 195 
 
 for she thought that Sir Murray would return ; 
 but he came not ; and at last, feelmg it to be 
 an act of duty to send for him, she turned 
 to speak to Jane, who, it seemed to her, had 
 been but a few minutes before sobbing si- 
 lently in a further corner of the room. It 
 excited no surprise though, then, when she 
 saw that the corner was vacant, for, dulled by 
 long familiarity with the grief before her, 
 other matters seemed to make no impression 
 on her mind. 
 
 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 
 chano^e. 
 
 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-
 
 196 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 light over the grand staircase, to give to every- 
 thing a chilly, forlorn, and strange look — she 
 descended the stairs, she encountered a serv- 
 ant 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 sum- 
 monses 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 anx- 
 iously : ' Have you seen Jane ? ' 
 
 * Went out, ma'am, with one of the gar- 
 deners, 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.
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 107 
 
 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 Mur- 
 ray, 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.
 
 198 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' 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.
 
 BENEATH THE SHADOW. 199 
 
 that sounded more like declaration than eager 
 demand, as it thrilled through the strained 
 nerves of all present, and that word was : 
 ' Dead ? '
 
 200 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 NOT YET. 
 
 A DA NORTON'S wild appeal was an- 
 swered 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 bed- 
 side, expecting moment by moment that the
 
 NOT YET. 201 
 
 grim shade would claim its prey, can imagine 
 the relief afforded to all by that simple sen- 
 tence. It told of hope and refreshing slum- 
 ber ; of a return to consciousness ; and, bent 
 of head, the old Rector left the chamber, feel- 
 ing 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, re- 
 lieved in spirit, she at length took her de- 
 parture, thanking Jane for hurrying over to 
 summon her as she had done. 
 
 Mrs Norton found her husband excitedly
 
 202 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 pacing the walk in front of the house, and he 
 made no scruple about displaying the oause of 
 his anxiety, for, hurrying to his ^Yife'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 1 ' 
 
 ' I fancy now that there is hope,' whis- 
 pered his wife, who, steadfast and true herself, 
 refused to harbour the slightest suspicion. 
 He was anxious respecting poor Marion Ger- 
 non'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 hus-
 
 NOT YET. 203 
 
 band's troubles, his words to Sir Murray Ger- 
 non, 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 up- 
 braiding. 
 
 Satisfied in her own mind that her cousin 
 was out of danger, she would visit her no 
 more. It would be Avrong, she felt, until the 
 clouds of suspicion that floated around were 
 driven away. Por 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
 
 204 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 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 gambolHng 
 forward, when, with swelling heart, she would 
 offer, mentally, a thanksgiving for that gift.
 
 NOT YET. 205 
 
 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 chansre — 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.
 
 206 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 This had pained her at first, but her good 
 sense told her that it was best for all con- 
 cerned ; 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 hap- 
 piness ; calling forth fortitude and determin- 
 ation to encounter sufferings more than or- 
 dinarily fall to the lot of woman to bear.
 
 207 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SIR MURRAY S LIBRARY 
 
 rnHERE 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 
 Avas 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—'
 
 208 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' You always were a fool, Thomas ! ' ex- 
 claimed 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 hap- 
 pened 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 w^as 
 no reply ; then more loudly, with the same
 
 siE Murray's library. 209 
 
 result ; and at last, thoroughly alarmed, she 
 beat fiercely upon the panels, calHng loudly 
 upon her master's 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 reso- 
 lutely 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. 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Fetch him at once ! ' exclaimed the Doc- 
 tor, 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 M'Cray, and during that 
 period of breathless expectation, not a soul 
 present thought of the possibility of an en- 
 trance being effected by the window. Thomas 
 had peered twice through the key-hole, look- 
 ing 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 Rec-
 
 SIR Murray's library. 211 
 
 tor, who, with a shuddering sensation oppress- 
 ing him, kept on, in spite of himself, watching 
 — as if his eyes were specially there attracted 
 — the narrow slit beneath the door, as if ex- 
 pecting 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, 
 Avhispering, 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, walk- 
 ing with the cumbersome gait of the men of 
 the scythe and spade — slow, as a rule, as the 
 growth of the plants they tend.
 
 212 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' 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 im- 
 patiently. 
 
 ' And have ye got authoughreety of Sir 
 Moorray to force it open ? ' said Alexander. 
 
 ' My good man, this is no time for au- 
 thority. Make haste, and break open the 
 door.' 
 
 'I'm no cheecan, gentlemen,' said Alex- 
 ander, 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'll take all responsibihty,' 
 exclaimed the Rector. ' Pray, be quick ! ' 
 
 'Weel, then, eef that's the case, gentle-
 
 SIR Murray's library. 213 
 
 men,' said Alexander, refreshing his high- 
 bridged nose with a pinch of snufiF — 'eef 
 that's the case, I'll just go and fetch my tools.' 
 Alexander M'Cray 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 crow- 
 bar, 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
 
 214 THE SAPPHIEE CROSS. 
 
 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 ehicida- 
 tion. 
 
 But before Sandy M'Cray 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
 
 SIR Murray's library. 215 
 
 carpet, lay the tall, proud form of Sir Murray 
 Gernon. 
 
 ' No, not that — not that, thank Heaven ! ' 
 exclaimed the Doctor, after a brief examina- 
 tion, 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 minis- 
 trations 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.
 
 216 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 * I don't know what people would do if it 
 were not for our profession/ said Dr Challen, 
 importantly, as lie 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 M'Cray, 
 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, pro- 
 gressing favourably.
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 
 
 Ql OME 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 manv
 
 218 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 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 pro- 
 ceeding 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 w^as 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.
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 219 
 
 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 re- 
 pented 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 Avord. 
 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
 
 220 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 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 con- 
 ceal, came the welcome sound from the dark- 
 ness 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 sig- 
 nal, one which he had to repeat before it 
 was responded to by a whispered ejacula- 
 tion. 
 
 ' 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 Td got to the ship that I couldn't
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 221 
 
 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 sob- 
 bing 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 senu- 
 ine 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
 
 222 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 a hole in the lake, and put myself out of my 
 misery ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, pray — pray don't, John 1 ' sobbed 
 poor Jane, whose feelings were stirred to their 
 deepest depth, and, believing in her old lover's 
 earnest repentance, she was all the weak wo- 
 man 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
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 223 
 
 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 ? ' whis- 
 pered Giu^don. 
 
 ' 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
 
 224 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 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. Good- 
 bye, 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,
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 225 
 
 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 Avhis- 
 pered from below, and there was a soft rust- 
 ling 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 good- 
 bye, 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 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 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
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 227 
 
 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 mo- 
 ments 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 w^ould repent, and had he 
 gone round to the glass door by the billiard- 
 room lobby ? 
 
 ' John ! ' she whispered again ; and then 
 more loudly, ' John ! '
 
 228 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ^ Is there anything the matter, my lassie ? ' 
 said a voice — one which made the heart of 
 Jane Barker to beat, for she recognized 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 M'Cray,' 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
 
 THE GENTLE PASSION. 229 
 
 lassie, ye'U be mine one of these days, I think.' 
 Alexander M'Cray stepped gingerly along 
 amongst the bushes, holding the rabbit he 
 had caught tightly in one pocket of his velvet- 
 eens, secure in his own mind from interrup- 
 tion, for even if he had now met a keeper he 
 was upon his own domain — the garden ; and 
 zeal for the protection of his master's fruit 
 would have been his excuse. So he stepped 
 softly along, pushing the shrubs aside, and 
 turning once to look at Jane's window, and 
 during those few moments, as he stood there, 
 looking very solemn, and relieving his feelings 
 by kissing his hand a few times to the dark- 
 ened window, Sandy M'Cray w^as in imminent 
 danger of having his brains knocked out. If 
 he had gone a foot more to the right, or a 
 yard more to the left, the result would have 
 been a fierce struggle ; but as it happened, 
 Sandy did neither, but strode safely, straight
 
 230 
 
 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 along, and made his way to his cottage, where 
 he regaled himself with half-a-dozen pinches 
 of snuff, and then turned in, to dream of the 
 fair face of Jane.
 
 231 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 jane's lovers. NO. I. 
 
 T)UT Sandy M' Cray was no sluggard: the 
 little Dutch clock in his room was only 
 striking five, and the dew was bright upon the 
 grass, as he stepped out, crossed the bit of 
 park between his cottage and the garden, and 
 then, taking a rake in his hand, walked 
 towards the shrubbery where he had stood 
 for a few minutes the night before. Tor 
 Sandy argued that, with all his care, he might 
 have left some footprints about, and that foot- 
 prints beneath the window of the lady of his
 
 232 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 love were things not to be thought of for a 
 moment, smce they were not tolerated else- 
 where. 
 
 ' Just as I thought/ muttered the Scot ; 
 and his rake erased a deep footmark and then 
 another upon the border, when, as he half- 
 smoothed over a third, he stopped short, and, 
 lifting his cap with one hand, he let the rake- 
 handle fall into the hollow of his arm, so that 
 he might indulge in a good scratch at his 
 rough, red head. 
 
 The scratching seemed to do no good, so 
 he refreshed his intellect with a pinch of snuff, 
 and then with another, when, his senses being 
 a little sharpened, he proceeded to very care- 
 fully fit his boot to the footprint, but as he 
 did so, standing upon one leg, he tottered a 
 little, and coming down upon the mark, 
 quite destroyed it as to possibihty of identifi- 
 cation, and ended by raking it over smoothly.
 
 jane's lovers. 233 
 
 But Sandy had not yet done, for, picking his 
 way carefully through the shrubs, he stopped 
 at last by two very plainly-marked footsteps, 
 and this time, slipping off one boot, he knelt 
 down beneath the shade of an arbutus, and 
 carefully tried the sole, to find that it was a 
 good three sizes larger than the boot that had 
 made the marks. Again the rake was brought 
 into requisition, and the marks obHterated, 
 J\Ir J\rCray looking very fierce the while, for 
 a few more steps brought him where the foot- 
 prints were plainer, and the test of the boot 
 showed that they wxre of more than one size. 
 He tried here, and he tried there, and had no 
 difficulty in finding his own traces. But those 
 others ? 
 
 Sandy M'Cray's face was a study as he 
 stood peering down, and fitting the boot first 
 in one and then another print, ending by re- 
 turning it to its proper service ; and then it
 
 234 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 was that, if he had looked upwards instead of 
 down, he would have seen that a pale, eager 
 face was watching his every motion, as it had 
 been for the last few minutes, and continued 
 so to do, while, as if struck by a sudden 
 thought, Sandy M'Cray laid his finger by the 
 side of his nose, grinned a very fierce and 
 savage grin, and then proceeded to erase the 
 marks of trampling. Pive minutes later he 
 did turn his head upwards, and stole a glance 
 at the window ; but the pale face was not 
 there, for Jane, who had never undressed, had 
 seated herself upon the floor, and now, trem- 
 bling and agitated, was having what she would 
 have called ' a good cry.' 
 
 There was not a footprint left when Jane 
 had finished her cry, and stole to the window 
 to peep. Neither was Sandy M'Cray there ; 
 but a little off to the right, upon a scrap of 
 grass sparkling in the morning sun with a
 
 jane's lovers. 235 
 
 heavy burden of dewdrops, and as Jane looked, 
 she saw the gardener sharpening his scythe 
 viciously before he began to shave away at the 
 grass, as if every daisy's head were an enemy's 
 that he was determined to take off. 
 
 Jane sighed, as well she might, and once 
 more she said aloud : 
 
 * Oh, what a happy world this would be if 
 there were no men ! ' 
 
 That was an anxious day for poor Jane, 
 whose thoughts at times made her shiver. 
 Little as she had noticed them before, she 
 could now recall scores of attentions on the 
 gardener's part, all of which evidently meant 
 love. The warm apples from his pockets ; 
 the bunches of grapes ; the peaches and nec- 
 tarines ; and the roses on Sundays ; besides 
 which, for months past it had been his habit 
 to grin at her very widely, so as to show the 
 whole of his teeth — loving smiles, no doubt,
 
 236 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 .while now that he had seen those footsteps 
 beneath her window, what would he do ? 
 
 She asked herself another question, with- 
 out trying to answer the former. What had 
 he been doing there himself ? 
 
 She told herself at last that he would lay 
 no information against her, but that he would 
 watch carefully, and then there would be per- 
 haps a fight between him and Gurdon, who 
 would be sure to come again, for he must 
 have known that she was about to give way 
 to his appeal. 
 
 It was plain enough now why Gurdon 
 and M'Cray had always been such bad friends, 
 quarrelling fiercely, till M'Cray would taunt- 
 ingly ask the butler when he meant to use the 
 flower-beds again, because he — the gardener 
 — never liked pigs to sleep in his beds with- 
 out straw. Jane had never troubled herself 
 about M'Cray before, but she felt that she
 
 jane's lovers. 237 
 
 must now — that she was bound to do so, 
 for most likely he would get help, and Gur- 
 don, if he came, would be seized for trespass- 
 ing. It was no use, she could not help it, she 
 declared, and as soon as she found herself at 
 liberty she determined to seek JVrCray, and 
 trust to her woman's wit for disarming him, 
 should his designs be inimical. 
 
 Then she shrank back from the task, for it 
 would be like putting herself in his power, 
 and for a long time poor Jane's mind was a 
 chaos of conflicting doubts. At last, though, 
 she felt determined, and she set oflp in the 
 direction of the gardener's cottage, telling her- 
 self that come what might Gurdon should get 
 into no further trouble. 
 
 There was no one at the cottage, and on 
 making inquiry of another of the gardeners, 
 she learned that M'Cray had gone with a cart 
 to the town to bring back some shrubs sent
 
 238 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 from some great nurseryman in London. 
 
 * But I'll tell him you've been looking 
 after him, Miss Jenny ; and he'll be ready to 
 jump out of his boots for joy.' 
 
 ' Don't talk nonsense, Johnson,' said Jane, 
 archly. ' Just as if there was anything be- 
 tween us ! ' 
 
 ' Of course there isn't — nothing at all,' 
 laughed the gardener. ' There's nothing at 
 all between you, and you'll come together be- 
 fore long. He's always talking about you, 
 and comparing you to the best flowers we 
 have under glass. But I'll tell him you've 
 been asking.' 
 
 'No, please don't do anything of the 
 kind,' said Jane ; and she tripped away, try- 
 ing to appear quite at her ease. But the 
 poor girl's heart was very sore, and though 
 she tried hard, she had no further, opportunity 
 during the day of seeking M'Cray.
 
 jane's lovers. 239 
 
 It was with a horrible fear, then, upon her 
 that night, that as soon as she could get away 
 from Lady Gernon's room she hurried to her 
 own, softly opened the window, and looked 
 out upon the darkness. For it was an in- 
 tensely dark night : the moon would not rise 
 for some hours, and, to make it more obscure, 
 there was a heavy bank of clouds to blot out 
 the stars. 
 
 Jane listened eagerly, but the soft sighing 
 of the wind through the trees was all she 
 could hear. There was not the faintest rustle 
 beneath her window, and she leaned out as 
 far as she dared, feeling that her only course 
 now was to hsten for his coming, and then to 
 whisper him to hurry round to the lobby, 
 where there would be no fear of his being 
 watched, while she spoke to him for a few 
 minutes. That is, if he were watched at 
 all, for a great deal of her alarm might,
 
 240 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 after all, be due to her own imagination. 
 
 Two hours of blank expectation passed, and 
 not a sound had she heard. The stillness was 
 at times even oppressive, and a shuddering 
 feeling of fear again and again made her in- 
 clined to close the window, and try to drive 
 away with sleep the troubles that paled her 
 face. Twice over she had ventured to whisper 
 softly his name — the name of the scoundrel 
 whom she was watching there to protect — but 
 there was no answer ; and yet she knew that 
 he would come — something seemed even to 
 warn her that he was at hand ; so that, when 
 at last she did hear a faint rustling amidst the 
 twigs, and the hard breathing as of some 
 animal, she was in no way startled, but, whis- 
 pering softly : 
 
 ' Round by the lobby,' she said — ' round 
 by the lobby, quick ! ' 
 
 'AH right,' w^as the whispered answer;
 
 jane's lovers. 241 
 
 and then, as Jane listened, there came ao-ain 
 the rusthng, when, with her heart wildly beat- 
 ing, she glided from the room, to stand out- 
 side, listening upon the landing. 
 
 16
 
 242 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIII. 
 
 A FALSE STEP. 
 
 TT was one o'clock ; the hall time-piece gave 
 a sharp ' ting/ to proclaim the hour, as 
 Jane looked down over the balustrade, vainly 
 trying to pierce the darkness below. Tor all 
 was dark in the house, and as far as she could 
 judge, every one was buried in slumber ; but 
 she trembled as she passed softly through the 
 corridors, past door after door, beyond each of 
 which some one was sleeping, and in spite of 
 her utmost efforts her dress seemed to rustle 
 loudly. Now and again, too, a board creaked
 
 A FALSE STEP. 243 
 
 sharply, with a sound that sent a chill through 
 her whole frame. But there was no help for 
 it now, and gliding at length down the grand 
 staircase, she paused by the damaged library 
 door to listen. 
 
 All still, but the wind was getting up and 
 beginning to moan round the house, sighing 
 in a Avay that in her excited state seemed to 
 reproach her, and she stopped, trembling 
 violently. 
 
 Why had she not told him to come to 
 the library window ? The door would have 
 yielded to her touch, and she could have 
 reached out to speak to him, while now she 
 had to slip bolts and bars, and to turn a key, 
 one and all of which gave forth sounds that 
 seemed to make her blood run cold. Once 
 more she stopped ; but summoning her reso- 
 lution, she proceeded, and the inner lobby door 
 was passed and closed behind her. She stood
 
 244 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 upon the floor-cloth, listening and trying to 
 pierce the gloom of the great billiard-room to 
 the right, but she could only make out the 
 table, covered with its loose, white dust-cloth. 
 The coats and hats, though, against the wall, 
 looked ghostly, and it was as much as she 
 could do to summon courage to proceed, till, 
 with many a choking sob, she told herself that 
 it was only for his love that she did it, and 
 that she would give him one kiss, and then 
 they would part till he could come back a 
 better man. For weren't they young even 
 yet? She was only twenty-four, and she 
 could wait, for she loved John, after all, with 
 all his failings. 
 
 Yes, she loved John ; and that thought 
 carried her to the door, and she placed her 
 hand upon the top bolt just as a faint tap 
 sounded upon the little sHp of a glass window 
 at the side, wdien there came a louder gust of
 
 A FALSE STEP. 245 
 
 wind, telling of the coming storm, and seem- 
 ing to her excited fancy like a warning. She 
 hesitated, and stood trembling hke one of the 
 leaves without, whose rustling she could 
 plainly hear. 
 
 It was only to say good-bye, though, per- 
 haps for many years, and it would be so cruel 
 to let him go without, and besides, it was not 
 wise to tarry, for there was the faint possibility 
 of M'Cray being on the watch, though this 
 coming round to the other side of the house 
 would, in such a case, perhaps, throw him off 
 the scent. 
 
 Again her hand was on the fastenings, 
 and again she paused, listening to the warn- 
 ing voice within her; but a second faint tap 
 roused her, bolt and lock were thrown back, 
 and, with a loud crack, as if remonstrating at 
 being opened at such unholy hours, the door 
 was thrown wide.
 
 246 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 The next instant Jane was in Gurdon's 
 arms ; her own, too, flung round his neck, and 
 her lips warmly meeting his kisses, as she 
 sobbed wildly and clung to him, thinking of 
 the parting soon to follow. 
 
 ' Let me shut the door, though,' she whis- 
 pered, disengaging herself after a few minutes. 
 
 ' No — no,' whispered Gurdon, hoarsely, 
 in reply, as he again folded her tightly in his 
 arms. ' Leave that as it is ; but, tell me, are 
 they all abed ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, hours ago,' she answered ; ' but 
 you must not stay a minute longer, for I be- 
 lieve M'Cray saw your footsteps last night, 
 and perhaps he's watching.' 
 
 ' Confound him — yes, he nearly kicked me 
 as he came by,' growled Gurdon. ' Lucky for 
 him, though, he didn't. But are you sure 
 you've got down unknown to all the girls ? ' 
 
 'Oh yes — certain,' was the whispered
 
 A FALSE STEP. 247 
 
 answer. 'And now, John, you'll try, won't 
 you ? You will try to keep away from the 
 drink and get on ? and — Please don't hold 
 me so tightly.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes — all right. I'll try,' he whis- 
 pered, excitedly — ' but be quiet ; don't strug- 
 gle. I'm not going to hurt you, you httle 
 fool. There, be quiet ! ' 
 
 Jane's heart beat more violently than ever, 
 and she panted as his arm grasped her more 
 tightly. There Avas a strange excitement 
 creeping through her frame, she knew not 
 why ; but she felt that something was wrong, 
 though no suspicion of what was impending 
 had yet flashed across her mind. 
 
 ' Tell me quickly,' he said now, ' has the 
 new butler come ? ' 
 
 ' No,' she answered, still panting heavily. 
 ' Master's been too ill to see about such 
 matters.'
 
 248 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Does any one sleep in the pantry ? ' 
 ' No/ said Jane ; ' but why do you ask ? ' 
 For response Gurdon gave utterance to a 
 low, sharp cough ; when, gazing wonderingly 
 at him, as if for explanation of his coldness, a 
 faint rustle fell upon Jane's ears ; there was a 
 step outside, and as she started to close the 
 door the blackened faces of two men ap- 
 peared. A half- uttered groan passed her 
 lips, and a horrible feeling of despair clutched 
 her heart, as at one glance she saw that she 
 had been betrayed, and that the man she 
 loved was a greater scoundrel than she could 
 have believed. It was all plain enough : she 
 had been deluded into admitting an enemy — 
 into playing false to her master; and these 
 men would plunder the house — perhaps mur- 
 der somebody before they got off with their 
 booty. She thought not of herself; her whole 
 aim now was to alarm the inmates, and as her
 
 A FALSE STEP. S49 
 
 lips parted she would have uttered a shriek, 
 but that it was too late, for Gurdon's hand 
 was over her mouth, pressing it tightly — 
 almost to suffocation, and the next instant she 
 was thrown upon the floor. 
 
 ^ Make so much as a sound, and one of 
 these men will make an end of you as soon as 
 look at you ! ' hissed Gurdon, tearing off her 
 apron and thrusting it into her mouth. ' Now, 
 then, you proud jade, I've got the better of 
 you this time, drat you ; and as soon as we've 
 done, you shall follow where I hke. Here, 
 Joe, stop with her, and if she moves, stun 
 her with your preserver. She's my property 
 now. Come along, Harry, this way.' 
 
 Por a few minutes Jane had struggled 
 fiercely, but in vain ; a piece of rope was tied 
 tightly round both arms and ankles, and every 
 effort to recover her freedom only resulted in 
 acute pain. There was only one thing open
 
 250 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 to her, and that was to get to her feet and 
 contrive to fall agahist the glass door, when 
 she hoped that the crash might alarm the 
 house, or at least be heard by some one. To 
 appeal to Gurdon was, she knew, useless, and 
 for awhile the despair engendered by the 
 thoughts of her misery crushed down every 
 other feeling, but only for a few short mo- 
 ments. Her whole thought directly after was 
 on duty to those whom she felt that she had 
 betrayed, and, taking advantage of her guard's 
 back being turned, she contrived — how, she 
 knew not — to get upon her feet. Another 
 moment, and she would have been at the 
 glass door, when, with a savage oath, the 
 more horrible for being hissed in a low tone, 
 Gurdon stepped back, caught her by her back 
 hair, and dragged her down, at the same time 
 striking her brutally across the face. 
 
 Jane moaned feebly, but it was not from
 
 A FALSE STEP. 251 
 
 pain, but despair at not being able to help 
 others. The despair, though, was driven 
 away, and her dark eyes flashed a fierce re- 
 sentment as they looked full in Gurdon's, 
 Avhich shrank from the encounter. 
 
 * Watch her this time, will you ! ' he said, 
 brutally. ' Hold a knife over her if you like, 
 while I go to the door ! ' 
 
 ' Hadn't you best fasten the other first ? ' 
 growled a companion. 
 
 ' What, and shut ofi* a way to bolt ! ' said 
 the other. ' No, thanky. Now, Gurdon, look 
 alive ; we're wasting time.' 
 
 ' HoM your tongue, will you, with names,' 
 growled Gurdon. ' Now then, mind the chairs 
 along this passage. No lights, mind — not 
 even a match.' 
 
 ' Here, stay a moment,' whispered the 
 other. ' This she-wolf will be loose. Drat 
 you — be quiet, will you ! '
 
 252 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 In effect, with a terrible effort, Jane had 
 freed one of her hands, and was struggHng to 
 tear the gag from her mouth, when, as her 
 guard struck at her savagely, there came a 
 dull, heavy crash, and he rolled over upon his 
 side.
 
 253 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 RESCUE. 
 
 ' T/'E marauclin' villin, take that ! And 
 there's for ye too, ye cleevil ! ' ex- 
 claimed a low, deep voice, and then another 
 heavy, flapping blow was struck ; there was a 
 crash, a scuffle, another blow or two, and then 
 came the sound of a heavy fall, succeeded by 
 another, and the crackle of breaking twigs. 
 
 ' Heaven save us ! ' ejaculated the new- 
 comer. 'There goes half the pots off the 
 stand, and, by all that's good, one of them's 
 gone right amongst the azaleas ! '
 
 2d4z the sapphire cross. 
 
 Then there was a perfect stillness, un- 
 broken even by the night wind, which had 
 lulled once more, when, after listening at the 
 door for a few moments, Alexander M'Cray, 
 smihng at his opportmie arrival and successful 
 exploit, closed the portal, and slipped one of 
 the bolts. Then, taking a box of matches 
 from his pocket, he lit one, and then applied 
 it to a candle in a sconce over the side- table. 
 
 ' Why, my puir, daft bairn ! ' he said, 
 tenderly, as he drew the gag from Jane's 
 teeth, and cut the rope which bound her feet. 
 ' It's cruel treatment of such a flower. I'd 
 have been here sooner, only I had to go to the 
 tool- shed for a weepun ; and it's lucky I did,' 
 he said J showing the spade with which he had 
 dealt his blows. 
 
 ' Oh, M'Cray ! ' sobbed Jane, ' I'm ruined 
 for ever, and undone ! ' 
 
 ' Not you, my wee blossom,' cried M'Cray,
 
 RESCUE. 255 
 
 stoutly. ' You know now what a villin he is, 
 so I won't be ragging his character, seeing 
 that he's done for for ever. An' I won't 
 blame ye a bit, not a wee bit, my sweet lassie,' 
 he continued, as he tenderly chafed her swoll- 
 en wrists. ' Ye made a mistake, and trusted 
 a rascal, and not the first poor daft chiel that 
 did, to her cost. But he won't forget the 
 spade of Alexander M'Cray, of Galashiels, in 
 a hurry, my lassie ; and it's all a gude act of 
 Providence that I — ' 
 
 Sandy stopped short, for he remembered 
 the rabbit. 
 
 ' It's all gude luck,' he continued, ' that 
 I happened to hear ye whisper out of the 
 lattice, and then came this morning to rake 
 out the footsteps. I've been watching sin' 
 ten, that I have, and had no chance of warn- 
 ing ye when I saw the rogue had two to help 
 him. And even then, my lassie, I thought
 
 256 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 they were only to take care of him, instead of 
 being midnight robbers. But I sune fun 
 them oot.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr M'Cray, it A^as a blessing you 
 came ! ' sobbed Jane. 
 
 ' Weel, yes, lassie, I just think it was. 
 But ye'll no foregather with the villin no 
 more, will ye? Ye'll ne'er speak to him 
 again ? ' 
 
 ' No, no — oh, never ! ' groaned Jane. 
 
 ' That's weel ; and I won't judge you for 
 greeting over it all a bit, lassie. Your puir 
 heart's sair now, but it will heal up again, 
 never fear. And now, I won't say ony mair 
 to ye, only recollect. Miss Jenny, I'm an 
 honest man, and I lo'e ye verra dearly.' 
 
 Mr M'Cray had been growing somewhat 
 excited as he spoke, and hence more broad in 
 his language ; but he cooled down into the 
 matter-of-fact gardener after delivering him-
 
 RESCUE. 257 
 
 self of the above, and took a pinch of snuff to 
 cahn his feelings ; for he felt that it would be 
 \Yrong to press his suit with the poor girl 
 while she was in such trouble, and his Scot- 
 tish dignity was roused. Here was a dam- 
 sel in distress — and were not the M'Crays 
 honourable men, from the time when thev all 
 wore plaid and wielded claymore, down to the 
 present day, when their representative fol- 
 lowed the pursuit of his forefather Adam ? 
 
 ' Oh, what is to become of me ? ' sobbed 
 Jane. 
 
 ' Just nothino; at all but an honest man's 
 wife one of these days,' said Sandy. 
 
 ' AYhat shall I do ? ' cried Jane. 
 
 ' Just wipe your bright eyes, and don't 
 talk quite so loud,' said Sandy. 
 
 ' Oh, they'll all be down directly,' cried 
 Jane. 
 
 ' Weel, I don't know that,' said Sandy. 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 'If any folk had been coming, they'd have 
 been here sooner ; so I think as no one 
 knows anything about it but we twain, my 
 lassie, why, ye'd better put oot the candle, 
 and lock the door, and then go up to bed.' 
 
 ' But do you think no one will know ? ' 
 sobbed Jane. 
 
 ' That's just what I do think, my lassie ; 
 and if ye'll promise me, like a good girl, 
 never to have word again with Mr Jock Gur- 
 don, I'll be up wi' the dawn, and put the 
 damage reet outside, and then nobody '11 be a 
 bit the wiser.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr M'Cray, how can I ever thank 
 you ? ' sobbed Jane, catching one of his great 
 hands in hers. ' I do promise you, indeed ! ' 
 And she tried to kiss it. 
 
 ' Nay — nay, my puir bairn, that's for me 
 to do.' And he drew her towards him, and 
 kissed her forehead gently and reverently.
 
 RESCUE. 259 
 
 ' I'm a great, awkward-looking chiel, Jenny 
 Barker, but I've got a man's heart in me. 
 Ye've been sair deceived, and I don't blame ye 
 a bit for being true and faithful to your jo ; 
 but, now that's all over, lassie, try and com- 
 fort vour heart with the thous^ht that there's 
 another man in the world who, while he loves 
 the ground ye tread on, loves ye, too, sae 
 weel, that he won't say word more till he can 
 see that it winna be distasteful to ye. And 
 now, good night, bairn. Let me get my 
 spade, and I'll be off. Keep yer ain counsel, 
 and I'll keep it too ; and ye may depend that 
 Jock Gurdon will never say word about it.' 
 
 With a pleasant, quiet smile upon his 
 broad, honest face, Sandy M'Cray took his 
 spade and turned to go, when Jane laid her 
 hand upon his arm to detain him. 
 
 ' What is it, bairn ? ' said Sandy. 
 
 ' I'm afraid — ' whispered Jane, earnestly.
 
 260 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 ' Afraid ? and why ? ' asked Sandy. 
 ' Afraid those bad men may be watching 
 for you/ Avhispered Jane. 
 
 ' Heaven bless ye for that, lassie ! ' cried 
 M'Cray, with the tears of pleasure starting 
 into his eyes, as, catching her in his arms, he 
 kissed her heartily. ' Ye'll send me away a 
 happier man than I've been for months, see- 
 ing that douce-tongued carl hanging round 
 ye. Go to your bed, lassie — go to your bed, 
 and sleep soundly ; and I should like to see 
 the face of either of them come within reach 
 of my spade ! ' 
 
 A minute later, and the gardener was 
 listening to the cautious fastening of the door ; 
 and then, boldly stepping out on to the lawn, 
 he looked around. But there was, as he had 
 felt, no danger at hand, and soon after he Avas 
 seated in his cottage, waiting patiently for the 
 dawn, not trusting himself to sleep ; and long
 
 RESCUE. 261 
 
 before another gardener appeared, the last 
 trace of disturbed flower-stand and bed had 
 been removed, so that not another soul 
 at Merland Castle knew of John Gurdon's 
 treachery. 
 
 ' But I'll e'en keep my eyes wide,' said 
 Alexander to himself ; ' for it strikes me that 
 the rascal may come again.' 
 
 ' Maybe I ought to tell the laird, and put 
 him on his guard, for the bit of siller in the 
 butler's pantry is a sair temptation to a rogue,' 
 muttered M'Cray, as he pondered about the 
 matter ; ' but I dinna see how I'm going to 
 tell a bit without telhng the whole, and get- 
 ting the lassie into grief. So I'll just say nae 
 word to a soul, but take a leuke round of a 
 neet, and have a peep at the lassie's window 
 as weel, lest the de'il should hang about to 
 try and tempt the puir daughter of Eve to 
 fresh sin. For though she means reet now,
 
 262 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 the lassie's weak ; and though she don't 
 know't, there may yet be a bit of the auld 
 weed in her heart not yet rooted oot ; but 
 wait a wee, and I'll have that sweet heart of 
 hers that clean and reet, that it shall blos- 
 som again beautifully, and I'd like to see the 
 weed then as would get in.'
 
 263 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 
 
 TT was now an acknowledged fact that there 
 could be no further intimacy between the 
 residents at Castle and Hall. The Norton s 
 led a more than ever secluded life, Mrs Nor- 
 ton finding it necessary to retrench in every 
 possible way to meet their altered circum- 
 stances, for the iron company's affairs were 
 worse and Avorse, and people loudly blamed 
 Norton for his folly. ' Why did he not be- 
 come bankrupt,' they said, ' as other people 
 would ? ' But Norton declined all such rehef,
 
 264 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 his brow grew wrinkled and his hair sHghtly 
 grizzled at the sides, bnt he was determined 
 to pay to the last penny he could muster, and 
 wait for the change that he trusted would 
 come, for his faith was perfect in his enter- 
 prise. 
 
 Mrs Norton never complained, but always 
 welcomed him with a smile when he returned 
 from his long absences. Cruel doubts would 
 come at times, brought up, perhaps, by some 
 silly village tattle, but she cast them out with 
 a shudder, as if they were something too 
 loathsome to be harboured even for an instant ; 
 and, after such battles with herself, she would 
 greet her husband with increased tenderness, 
 as she strove to chase away the settled melan- 
 choly which oppressed him. 
 
 Twice only during many months had he 
 encountered Sir Murray Gernon, to meet with 
 fierce, scowling looks of hatred ; but no word
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 265 
 
 was spoken, and Philip Norton never knew 
 the curses that were showered upon his head. 
 It was w^ell for him, too, that he did not know 
 that many a night, Marion Gernon, broken- 
 hearted and despairing, knelt by her solitary 
 pillow to say, almost in the words of the old 
 prophet, ' It is enough,' and to pray that she 
 might pass away. 
 
 It was only at times, though, that such 
 despairing thoughts oppressed her ; at others 
 she would bewail her wickedness, and pray 
 for strength, as she looked upon the tiny 
 slumbering face of her infant, and then bathed 
 it with tears. 
 
 For Lady Gernon's was now a sad and 
 solitary hfe ; Sir Murray seemed to be plunged 
 in some abstruse study, taking his daily ride 
 or walk, but spending the rest of his hours in 
 his library. To the world, and to that lesser 
 one, their household, they were a model
 
 266 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 €ouple, dining together regularly, and appear- 
 ing a little in society, but not much, on ac- 
 count of Lady Gernon's health — so it was 
 said; but Sir Murray, at heart, looked upon 
 Avife and child with a hatred that was almost 
 a loathing, and so Lady Gernon's return to 
 convalescence was very slow. 
 
 Once — nay, many times — she had clung 
 to her husband beseechingly, her eyes telling 
 her prayer ; but she had soon found that such 
 efforts merely irritated him. 
 
 ' Where is the cross ? ' he had asked her 
 peevishly, and, upon her Aveak protest reach- 
 ing his ears, he had laughed scornfully. 
 
 ' Lady Gernon,' he once said, ' had you 
 spoken to me on his behalf — had you told me 
 of his strait — I would have placed thousands 
 in your hands to relieve him. But you have 
 made my life a curse to me.' 
 
 ' But have you no faith ? — my words — my
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 2G7 
 
 solemn asseverations of innocence,' sobbed 
 Lady Gernon. 
 
 ' None ! ' he said, furiously — ' none ! I 
 would not believe you were you dying. You 
 have made me a madman, I believe ; you have 
 disgraced me in the eyes of the world ; and 
 I would have a divorce, but that I will not 
 have the scandal renewed, and in the hps of 
 every idler in the kingdom, the " Great Lin- 
 colnshire Scandal " for a newspaper heading, 
 and endless leading articles upon the gross 
 immorality of the upper classes. Once for all, 
 let this rest. You have gained your title, and 
 you have aided^ — There, I will say no more ; 
 I will not descend to coarseness. I was once 
 a man of refinement, and, I believe, generous. 
 Let the past be dead — dead between us for 
 ever. It should have been dead now, but 
 that you try to nurse it into life with your 
 tears. Now leave me. You know my com-
 
 268 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 mands ; I will have this subject brought up 
 no more 1 ' 
 
 'Murray Gernon/ said Marion, sadly, 
 ' you are in a dream. Some day you will 
 waken.' 
 
 He did not reply, and she left the room. 
 
 As Lady Gernon's strength returned, she 
 had, by slow degrees, taken to her old pur- 
 suit ; and often she might be seen, basket in 
 hand, laden with specimens, returning from 
 some field or woodland ramble. But, so far, 
 once, and once only, while alone, it had fallen 
 to her lot to encounter Philip Norton, when 
 he turned slowly out of the path, raised his 
 hat, and was gone. 
 
 She stood as if unable to proceed for a few 
 minutes, and then walked slowly on ; but be- 
 fore night. Sir Murray Gernon knew of the 
 encounter, and fed with it the smouldering 
 fire of his jealousy.
 
 SIR MURRArs THOUGHTS. 269 
 
 He had not stooped to the meanness be- 
 fore, but now, telHng himself it was his duty, 
 he had her watched, finding in one of the serv- 
 ants a wilhng tool ; but his news was always 
 of the most meagre ; and growing daily more 
 morose, Sir Murray now gave way to a fresh 
 belief — he felt snre that his wife corresponded 
 Avith some one at the Hall. At one time he 
 made np his mind to leave the neighbourhood 
 — to return to Como ; but he stubbornly de- 
 cided to the contrary, thinking that it would 
 turn attention to his family afiairs. Then he 
 decided to see ' that unhappy woman at the 
 Hall,' as he termed her, and to enlighten 
 her upon the state of affairs, while, if possible, 
 he would secure her as his coadjutor. He 
 even went so far, during one of Norton's ab- 
 sences, as to ride over ; but he repented, and 
 returned home more and more disposed for 
 solitude and misery ; for he had almost grown
 
 270 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 to love his sense of injury, pitying himself, 
 and feeling that he was a martyr, seeing no- 
 thing but the past, believing nothing but the 
 evidence of his own eyes, and resolutely shut- 
 ting himself out from the happiness that 
 might have been his portion. 
 
 Suspicion is a ravenous monster, devour- 
 ing all before it. Matters the most ill-suited 
 often become its food, as the simplest acts of 
 the suspected are magnified into guilt. The 
 feeling grew stronger and stronger every hour 
 that he was being cleverly tricked; but 
 though he waited day after day for the coming 
 enlightenment, it came not. 
 
 It must be, then^ by night that some ar- 
 rangement or correspondence was made ; and 
 his brow grew blacker, and his head sank 
 upon his breast, as he muttered the thought. 
 
 The months had glided by rapidly, when, 
 one night, after a long, gloomy day, he retired
 
 SIR MURRAY'S THOUGHTS. 271 
 
 to his bedroom — a different chamber to that 
 he had before used — but not to sleep ; for, 
 throwing himself upon a low couch, he lay 
 thinking of his present life, and asking his 
 heart what was to be the end? — whether it 
 was possible that a reconciliation would ever 
 take place, and something, if not of happiness, 
 of quiet esteem and smoothness of life-course 
 return ? 
 
 He could not conceive it possible; it 
 seemed to him then that death alone could be 
 the termination of such a state of being. 
 
 It was a gloomv introduction to his 
 thoughts, that word death, and he frowned 
 more heavily as it oppressed him. Should he 
 die himself? The distance was but short, he 
 knew, between here and eternity. But one 
 step, and all would be over : the wretchedness 
 and misery of his life, his torturing suspicions, 
 the great mistake of the past, all swept away
 
 272 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 in an instant ; but then afterwards ? 
 
 He paused, shuddering, as standing upon 
 the brink, he peered forward into that deep, 
 dark, mysterious, impenetrable gulf of the un- 
 known, shrinking from it, too, for his was not 
 the bold, reckless, daring spirit for such a 
 step. He knew it, too, and again began to 
 find sympathy for himself, condoling and pity- 
 ing, and telHng himself that no man had ever 
 before experienced such suffering as had fallen 
 to his lot. No, he ought not to die : the 
 world at his age ought to be still bright and 
 fair, and ready to offer some goal for his aim- 
 less life. He ought not to die, but — 
 
 The horrible thought that flashed across 
 his brain made him get up and pace the 
 room hastily, the cold, dank beads of fear 
 gathering themselves upon his brow. He 
 tried to chase out the thought; but he had 
 brooded so long, had given way to such wild
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 273 
 
 phantasms, that it seemed now as if some 
 potent devil were at his ear, whispering tempt- 
 ation, and driving him to the committal of 
 some horrible deed. So strong grew the feel- 
 ing to his distempered imagination that he 
 commenced muttering half aloud, as if in 
 answer to dictation from an evil prompter. 
 
 Xo, he would not be the first jealous hus- 
 band who had taken revenge for his wrongs ; 
 he had loved her, and been all that it was his 
 duty to be ; but he had been betrayed, tricked, 
 and cheated by the false-hearted woman whom 
 he thought he had won. Such a proceeding 
 would be but an act of justice ; but the law 
 said such acts should be done by the laAv 
 alone — that man, however injured, should not 
 arrogate to himself the right to punish, hence 
 it must be done secretly, by some cunning 
 device that should blind men's eyes to the 
 truth, and while amply bringing down rctri- 
 
 TOL. I. 18
 
 274 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 bution on the heads of the guilty, his honour 
 should be unstained, the family shield un- 
 tarnished. 
 
 But would not such a step be cold, black- 
 hearted, premeditated murder ? The question 
 seemed to flash across his brain as if prompted 
 by some better angel. 
 
 No : only justice, was whispered again to 
 his ear — only justice, and then he would be at 
 rest. It was not right that he should die, but 
 the destroyer of his happiness ; and then his 
 mind would be at ease — there would be peace 
 for him for many years to come. 
 
 • He smiled now : it was like comfort in a 
 dire hour of need ; and when the upbraidings 
 of conscience would have made themselves 
 heard, they were crushed down and stifled ; 
 for Sir Murray Gernon had been keeping his 
 house swept and garnished for the reception 
 of the wicked spirits, and they had now fully
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 275 
 
 seized upon the offered abode. He smiled, 
 for lie thought that he now saw a way out of 
 his difficulties, and that he had but to design 
 some means for removing his false wife from 
 his path to commence a new life. 
 
 How should it be ? he thought. Should 
 he contrive a boating party upon the great 
 lake? Boats had before now been upset, and 
 their occupants drowned. Such accidents 
 were not at all uncommon. Or there might 
 be some terrible catastrophe with the spirited 
 horses of the carriage ; the part of the Castle 
 where her ladyship slept might catch fire at a 
 time when a hampered lock and fastened win- 
 dow precluded escape ; or, better still, there 
 was poison ! 
 
 The evil spirit must at that time have had 
 full possession of the citadel, for it was with a 
 baleful glare in his eyes that Sir Murray Ger- 
 non strode up and down his room, stepping
 
 276 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 softly, as if fearing to interrupt the current of 
 his thoughts — thoughts that, in his madness, 
 seemed to refresh the thirsty aridity of his 
 soul. After all these months of misery, had at 
 last, then, come the solution of his difficulty ? 
 and he laughed^ — and laughed savagely — as 
 he sat down once more to plan. 
 
 Mercy ? What had he to do with mercy ? 
 What mercy had they had upon his life ? Had 
 they not bhghted it when he was a calm, trust- 
 ing, loving man, searing his spirit with some- 
 thing more burning and corroding than the 
 hottest iron — the sharpest acid ? Let them seek 
 for mercy elsewhere : his duty was to dispense 
 justice, and he would be just ! 
 
 Who could gainsay it? Was it not 
 written in the Book that the punishment for 
 the crime was death — that the sinners should 
 be stoned Avitli stones until they died ? Not 
 that he would stone them : his should be a
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 277 
 
 quiet, insidious vengeance — one that the 
 world should not suspect, and he would plot 
 it out in time. 
 
 But what if she were, after all, innocent ? 
 
 He tore that thought from his heart, ac- 
 cusing himself of cowardice, and of seeking a 
 way out of what would be the path to a new 
 life. No ; there was no innocence there. His 
 would be a crusade against guilt ; and he 
 vowed a fearful vow that he w^ould carry out 
 his vengeance to the end. 
 
 Should it be by poison ? 
 
 ' Tap ! tap ! tap! ' Three distinct, shar[) 
 touches as of a nail upon the window-pane 
 made Sir Murray start, shivering, from his 
 guilty reverie. 
 
 What was that ? Some ghostly warning 
 for or against his plots ? — or was he so dis- 
 tempered by his broodings that this was but 
 the coining of imagination ?
 
 278 THE SAPPHIRE CROSS. 
 
 'Tap! tap! tap!" 
 
 There it was again, and for a moment a 
 strange sense of terror pervaded him, and he 
 could not stir. But only for a moment ; the 
 next minute a feeling of grim satisfaction pre- 
 vailed. This, then, was to be a night of en- 
 lightenment — here was anew revelation — this, 
 then, was the means of communication ? Evi- 
 dently some mistake of the bearer, and he had 
 but to go to the window, stretch forth his 
 hand, and take a letter ; or — the thought sent 
 a thrill through him as he stepped forward — 
 was it the keeping of an assignation ? The 
 window was many feet above the ground, and 
 if he dashed back the ladder — 
 
 He paused, for there Avas the shght dark- 
 ening of the blind as if a shadow were passing 
 over it, and now^, half mad with rage, Sir 
 Murray Gernon felt that all his suspicions
 
 SIR Murray's thoughts. 279 
 
 were confirmed, as, springing forward, he tore 
 the blind aside, just as again, loudly and dis- 
 tinctly, came the blows upon the glass. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 JOHN CHILDS A^rD SO]Nr, PEIXTEKS.