The Sapphire Cross Part 11

BENEATH THE SHADOW.

As, 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 Murray 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.

In a few minutes husband and father were by the bedside, watching with agitated countenances 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, incoherent 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 babblings.

"Philip," 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 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 follow. 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 a.s.sumed a troubled, 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 n.o.ble, Philip. You will respect my husband for the sake of the old days. It has been like a cloud always hovering above my life: that great dread lest you should ever meet in anger. Go now--let me sleep--I am weak and weary. But remember your promise."

Pride, misery, despair, shame, and grief, seemed to have mingled for him a cup of bitterness, 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-command, 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, 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.

Fervent and low did that prayer sound in the silence of the sick-chamber, where all that wealth could spread in profusion was waiting to minister to the owner's wants. But to those present it seemed as if the splendour 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 wealth could supply.

Fervent and low grew that prayer in the silence of that night, till, as the Rectors lips parted to give utterance to those sublime words of humility and resignation, "Thy will be done!" a sob choked his utterance, and, save a low, weary wail from the stricken mother, all was for a long s.p.a.ce 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 was as though the spirits of air were waiting in gathering levee to bear away the newly-freed essence to a happier realm. No word was spoken; only at times the Doctor bent over the bed to moisten his patient's lips from a gla.s.s 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 wanderings 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 warning 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, for she thought that Sir Murray would return; but he came not; and at last, feeling 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 silently 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 change.

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 light over the grand staircase, to give to everything a chilly, forlorn, and strange look--she descended the stairs, she encountered a servant 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 summonses 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 anxiously: "Have you seen Jane?"

"Went out, ma'am, with one of the gardeners, 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.

Mrs Elstree slowly retraced her steps--slowly, though s.h.i.+vering 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 Murray, 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.

"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, that sounded more like declaration than eager demand, as it thrilled through the strained nerves of all present, and that word was: "Dead?"

Book 1, Chapter XIX.

NOT YET.

Ada Norton's wild appeal was answered by the Doctor's hand being held up to command silence, and, for many hours from that moment, as he tended his patient, he refused to answer all questions. At last, though, with a sigh almost of pleasure, he said:

"I'll lie down now for a few hours. Call me when she wakes."

Only those who have watched by a bedside, expecting moment by moment that the grim shade would claim its prey, can imagine the relief afforded to all by that simple sentence. It told of hope and refres.h.i.+ng slumber; of a return to consciousness; and, bent of head, the old Rector left the chamber, feeling that his prayer had been heard, hopeful too, now, that in all its plenitude the rest of his supplication would be granted.

The change from despair to hopefulness was so sudden that, again and again, Ada bent in doubt over her cousin's pillow, to press a gentle kiss upon her pale face, before she could feel satisfied respecting that faint, regular breathing, culminating now and then in a sigh of satisfaction, so faint that it was like the softest breath of summer.

But, relieved in spirit, she at length took her departure, thanking Jane for hurrying over to summon her as she had done.

Mrs Norton found her husband excitedly pacing the walk in front of the house, and he made no scruple about displaying the cause of his anxiety, for, hurrying to his wife's side, he caught her hands in his, exclaiming:

"What of poor Marion?" And then, reading in her countenance that his worst fears were not confirmed, he muttered a sigh of relief, "Thank Heaven!--thank Heaven!"

"I fancy now that there is hope," whispered his wife, who, steadfast and true herself, refused to harbour the slightest suspicion. He was anxious respecting poor Marion Gernon's fate, and why should he not be when all circ.u.mstances were taken into consideration? To say that his deep interest in her cousin caused her no pain would be false, for it did, and naturally; but that pain she concealed. In her thoughtful moments, when reviewing the scenes at the Castle, and considering the loss of the jewels in connection with her husband's troubles, his words to Sir Murray Gernon, and sufferance even of his cruel blow, she knew that either her husband was a thief, liar, and consummate villain, or else a man of true n.o.bility and the most refined honour. Was it likely that she should pause for a moment in the verdict, as, clinging daily more fondly to him, she tried, by her endearments, to soothe the perturbation of his spirit. He loved her she was sure, and she would not be mad enough to indulge in reproof or upbraiding.

Satisfied in her own mind that her cousin was out of danger, she would visit her no more. It would be wrong, she felt, until the clouds of suspicion that floated around were driven away. For she thought, with hot and burning cheeks, of those suspicions until she angrily drove them from her as unworthy of her notice. If her husband would but take her more fully into his confidence--talk with her freely, ask her counsel, and keep nothing back, she felt that she would be happy; but she thought that it would be an insult to him to broach such matters, and day after day she waited for the confidence that came not. He said nothing respecting his financial troubles, in spite of her eager desire to know his losses; but, to her great grief, he became day after day more sombre and thoughtful, going out but little, save to make one of his long, strange journeys, at a time, too, when her anxiety was at its greatest height.

All would yet be well, though, she told herself, and still crus.h.i.+ng 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 gambolling forward, when, with swelling heart, she would offer, mentally, a thanksgiving for that gift, and revel in the suns.h.i.+ne 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 change--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, lavis.h.i.+ng her love upon him, she lived on, hopefully waiting for the suns.h.i.+ne; 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 sc.r.a.p of information gleaned in visits to the Rectory, the doings of the Gernons were to her a sealed book.

This had pained her at first, but her good sense told her that it was best for all concerned; 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 happiness; calling forth fort.i.tude and determination to encounter sufferings more than ordinarily fall to the lot of woman to bear.

Book 1, Chapter XX.

SIR MURRAY'S LIBRARY.

There 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 was a look of intelligence pa.s.sed 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--"

"You always were a fool, Thomas!" exclaimed Jane, angrily. "Here, James, go and tell master at once."