The Sapphire Cross

“The dead! – influence!” said Ada, looking 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, unseen but by myself? Ada, do you believe in foresight – in a knowledge of what is to be?”

“No, certainly not, you foolish, 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 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.

A Glance at the Substance

The moon shone brightly through the window of Ada Lee’s bedroom 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 moonbeams 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 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 indistinct the moonlit scene; but when, approaching 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.

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 watching 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.

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, apostrophising 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 wonder 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, trembling 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.

The Happy Pair

People came from miles round to see that wedding, for the morning was bright and genial, and there were to be grand doings 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 throwing flowers in the bride’s path, and had picked them up again; the ringers were having a preliminary “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 Murray Gernon’s tenants, and the farmers’ daughters, were in an acute state of excitement, and dresses that had been in preparation for days past were being carefully fitted 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, I’m sure,” said Ada Lee, merrily, as she adjusted a fold here, 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 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, turning 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 arranged the bunch of forget-me-nots, culled the previous day in the fen, and utterly regardless of her cousin’s words, pinned them on her breast, with a sad smile. Then, turning to Ada, she said, gaily: “You must have that bouquet, Ada.”

“But there’s ever so many more downstairs, 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 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 darling!”

“Ah – ah! mustn’t touch! Oh, sir, please don’t!” exclaimed Ada and Jane in a breath; for the father was about to clasp his child to his breast.

“There! Bless my soul, I forgot!” exclaimed 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 churchyard, 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 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 they were upon a tombstone, patiently waiting 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?”

“Ay; and my Fan’s gal, Jenny, she’s going, you know – my grandchild as has been at parson’s. She’s going with her young missus; 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?”

The first old man shaded his eyes with his hands, as a tall figure, in a brown travelling 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 tombstone, 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 school children, flower-basket in hand, shrank back; for there was something startling in the strangers appearance. For though quietly and gentlemanly dressed, his face was wild – his eyes staring. At first sight a looker-on would have raised his eyebrows, and muttered, “Drunk!” 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, was 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.