The Sapphire Cross

“I do not understand you, Sir Murray,” was the calm, sad reply, as for a moment Norton’s eyes met Marion Gernon’s imploring glance.

“Indeed,” said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look interchanged. “I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you should have been an actor.”

The colour seemed to fade from Norton’s face at these galling words, and the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces’ distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger – the weapon was fully cocked – and even the slightest contraction of the angry man’s muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton’s breast. But he did not wince – not a muscle moved; the man who had before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.

But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.

Jane’s Suspicions

It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.

At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for – so they said – the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.

But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s – for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant – but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action – a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.

What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.

The servants said that no one could be more attentive than Sir Murray now was, and that it was quite pleasant to see the alteration. But Jane said nothing, she merely tightened her lips, making no confidant; for once – twice, four different times – she had encountered Sir Murray coming from her mistress’s dressing-room; and once, after such a visit, when she went to give Lady Gernon her daily medicine, the poor girl fainted away upon learning that her duty had been forestalled by Sir Murray himself.

Whatever might have been Jane Barkers suspicions, she felt that this could not go on for ever; and worn out, and sick at heart, she one day put on her bonnet, ordered McCray to act as her escort, and made her way to Merland Hall.

Mrs Norton welcomed her heartily, but almost in dread, not knowing what interpretation might be placed upon the visit, should it come to Sir Murray’s ears. But, to her great astonishment, Jane’s first act was to close the window, and then, crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock; when, coming back close to the astonished occupant of the room, she threw herself down upon her knees, sobbing wildly; and catching hold of Ada’s hand, she kissed it fiercely again and again.

“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Ada Norton, with a horrified look, for a dreadful fear had flashed across her mind.

“No, Miss Ada – I mean Mrs Norton —not yet – not yet! but unless some one interferes there soon will be! Oh, ’m! I didn’t care to go to the Rectory, for I knew that they wouldn’t believe me there! but I’m afraid something dreadful will happen to my poor dear lady! I have come to you because you are her cousin, and I know you loved her, though things have gone so crooked since. But what shall we do, ’m? for since that last time when my lady met Mr Norton in the wood, and Sir Murray caught them – ” Jane ceased, for Ada Norton leaped to her feet as if some galvanic shock had passed through her frame.

“Oh, what am I saying, ma’am? I didn’t think that you’d take it in that way, nor yet that you wouldn’t know of it. It was nothing, ma’am; only Sir Murray was telling my lady of it; and she said that they met by accident, and that almost all her words to him were to send her love to you, ma’am.”

“It was, then, upon that occasion?” said Ada Norton, in agitated tones.

“Yes, ’m; and I was in the dressing-room, and heard all. Not that Sir Murray spoke angrily, but in a curious, sneering tone that frightens my lady; and ever since then she’s been ill, and taking medicine; and – oh, ’m! – you would not get me into trouble for trying to do what’s right by my lady?”

“No – no,” said Ada, who was trying to recall her husband’s words when he had told her of his last meeting with Lady Gernon, for he had said nothing respecting the coming of Sir Murray.

“Well, ma’am,” sobbed Jane, “since then” – she sank her voice into a whisper, and sent a thrill of horror through Ada Norton as she spoke – “since then, ma’am, I’m sure Sir Murray has been trying to poison her!”

“Poison my cousin, Lady Gernon?” exclaimed Ada. “Nonsense! Absurd! Jane, you are mad!”

“I hope I am, ma’am, about that – indeed I do!” cried Jane, earnestly.

“But what have you seen? What do you know?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I haven’t seen anything, ma’am, except Sir Murray coming sometimes out of the dressing-room, where the medicine’s kept; and I don’t know anything except that my lady’s medicine always tastes different, and looks different, when it’s been in the dressing-room a day or two; and every week it turns a darker colour, and tastes stronger than it did the week before. And besides all that, though Sir Murray smiles, and pretends to talk pleasant to the poor dear, suffering angel, than whom a better woman never lived, he hates her dreadfully, and more and more every day.”

“And how long has this been going on?” said Mrs Norton, with a faint smile.

“Weeks now, ma’am,” said Jane. “But I see you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you to be a good, affectionate girl, Jane,” said Mrs Norton, “and that you love your mistress; but this seems to me to be a fearful and perfectly unfounded suspicion – one that I am glad, for every one’s sake, that you have hinted to no one else. Think of the absurdity of the thing. This has, you say, been going on for weeks; and yet, you see, your mistress is not poisoned yet.”

“No, ma’am, not yet,” said Jane, meaningly.

“Well, then, my good girl, how do you account for that?”

“Because, ma’am,” said Jane, in a whisper, “she’s never taken any of the medicine but once.”

“How? What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I’ve managed to get the stuff made up at two places, ma’am,” whispered Jane. “One lot’s fetched by the footman from one chemist’s, at Marshton, and I get the gardener to go to another chemist’s for the other. I only had to send the doctor’s paper, and the medicine comes just like what Sir Murray knows is sent for.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ada, impatiently.

“Well, ’m,” whispered Jane, “that which her ladyship takes I keep locked up, and that which stands on the dressing-table gets poured out of the window, a little at a time, upon the flower-beds.”

Ada Norton sat silently gazing at Jane for a few minutes before she spoke.

“Jane,” she said, “this is a fearful charge!” and she shuddered. “I must think about it, and before many hours I will come over to the Castle, and see either Sir Murray or Lady Gernon. Do not be afraid; I will not implicate you in any way. I must see Mr Elstree, and I will try to make some plan – to arrange something definite; but your words have confused me – almost taken away my breath. The thing seems so monstrous, and even now I cannot believe it true! But I should not feel that I had done my duty if, after what you have said, I did not take some steps; so rest assured that I will do something, and at once.”

Jane rose to go, and, trembling and excited, Ada Norton sat for some hours, pondering whether she should ask her husband’s advice, ending by putting it off till the next day, when it happened that it was out of her power.

Not at Home

“Did you see the laird?” said McCray, coming slowly forth from behind some bushes, after Jane had been standing some few minutes in the lane where she had left him to wait.

“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”

“No – no – no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear – oh dear! I’m undone!”

“Nay – nay, ye’re not, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”

“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”

“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”

The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.

The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?

She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.

“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door – a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.

“I think,” said Ada, “that my cousin would see me, even if she is confined to her room.”

“Sir Murray give orders, mum, that they were not at home to visitors from the Hall; and, besides, my lady ain’t in.”