The Sapphire Cross

“My good man,” cried the doctor, now thoroughly angry, “if you will be obstinate, and want her to have plenty of wrapping, go and fetch a lead coffin, and if she is to go in a carriage, send old McCray over to Marshton for Downing’s hearse. It will be the most sensible thing you can do; for she will be dead before she gets home, or soon after. What the deuce is the use of your talking? Do you think I want her to stay here, or that I take two straws’ worth of interest in your confounded affairs and squabbles? That child’s life is the first consideration. I won’t put up with it, Gernon – I won’t indeed. How dare you interfere and want to meddle with things which you don’t understand? That child’s constitution is not a political matter for you to meddle with. Why, confound you, sir, here we have just got her into as lovely a perspiration as ever I saw upon a human subject! There’s the threatened fever evaporating, as it were, from her system, and she sleeping gloriously, when you must come in with your family pride, and want to destroy all that I have done! I tell you what it is – ”

“My dear Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, “I don’t want to upset your arrangements. I only thought – ”

“Confound you, sir! how dare you to think, here, in a case of life and death? It’s a piece of consequential, confounded, titled presumption – that’s what it is!”

There was no mistaking, either, that Mr Challen was in a professional passion; for, as he said, “in matters of medicine he would give way to none,” while being, certainly, a very clever practitioner, and well knowing that fact, he was somewhat ready to leap upon his own little hill, and to crow loudly. He had just descended, proud and elate with the state in which he had left his patient, when, as he mentally termed it, this impertinent interference on the part of Sir Murray made him erect all his hackles, and give battle most furiously for his rights.

“There, there! Don’t be angry, Challen,” said the baronet. “I give way – I suppose I must bear it.”

“Bear it! Of course you must,” said the doctor. “I tell you what it is, Sir Murray Gernon: I was within a point of throwing up the case, and leaving you in the hands of that offensive wholesale killer at Marshton – that new man. I was only restrained by a feeling of respect for the poor child. But I’ll give up now, if you wish it.”

“My dear Challen,” cried Sir Murray, “pray don’t be so impetuous. I say no more. Have it all as you wish.”

“Say no more! Of course you will not!” grumbled the doctor, whose feathers were gradually subsiding to their natural smoothness.

“Only,” continued Sir Murray, “get her well, and let us have her home as soon as possible.”

“There you go again!” cried the doctor, bristling up once more. “The old story! I suppose you think I want to keep her ill, so as to swell the bill, with ‘One draught at bed-time,’ and ‘The mixture as before.’ Ugh! It’s a pity, Sir Murray Gernon, you have not a dozen people about you who are like me – not in the least afraid of you. What are you going to do now?”

“Going back,” said Sir Murray, who had just risen.

“Going back, indeed!” said the doctor, impatiently. “Better stay – stay, and see how she is when she wakes. Let’s have Norton in and Mrs Norton, and perhaps their son will join: he’s none the worse – used to water – salt, fresh, or marshy. A tumbler of punch and a rubber at whist would pass the time away comfortably. There, hang it, man, twenty years ought to be long enough to heal up these old wounds. They’ll have to be healed up when you journey to the great abroad. Take my advice – advice I shan’t charge you anything for. Norton’s boy has saved your girl’s life. Let this unlucky accident be the means of bringing you together – good out of evil, you know. Hold out the right hand of fellowship, and – trust me – I know Norton; it will be taken in a hearty grasp. Make friends at once, Gernon; you’ll be obliged to do it in heaven. Oh! there, then, I’ve done. Advice gratis is never valued at its true worth.”

“Let me know, Challen, how all goes on when you leave here,” said Sir Murray, sternly, as he strode towards the door; and five minutes after the doctor shrugged his shoulders and took another glass of port to console himself for the rejection of his good offices, as he listened to the wheels of the departing carriage.

“I’m afraid,” he said aloud, “contact with all sorts of people has robbed me of this refined sensibility – this keen appreciation of injury. I fancy if any one had done me a wrong, that I could forgive it in less than twenty years.”

“But there never was any wrong, Doctor,” said a low, sweet voice, when, turning, Dr Challen became aware that Mrs Norton had entered unperceived.

Mother and Son

“Mother,” said Brace Norton the next morning, as, none the worse for his immersion, he stood by her side, she holding his hand the while and gazing up into his face, – “mother, I went out yesterday with the full intention of dreaming no more of my foolish love; and what was the result? Strange, too,” he said, with affected gaiety; “one would have thought that an hour’s immersion would have quenched it. But there, you will, perhaps, laugh at me, and think me childish and full of folly; still, I cannot help it – I love her more dearly than ever, and feel no shame in owning it to you. How am I to give her up now, after holding her to my breast as I did for a whole hour yesterday, her arms clasped the while round my neck, and her poor head resting upon my shoulder? Mother, it was a mingling of misery, despair, and bliss; and when, at last, I had given up all hope of being saved – when I had struggled till I could struggle no more – when I had called till my voice failed in my throat – when I felt that my – our last hour was at hand, I broke faith even with myself.”

Brace paused for a few moments, for his voice was husky, but recovering himself, he went on:

“I dare say it was wrong; but I was under the impression that all was over. I could have saved my own life, perhaps; but I could not leave her to perish. The sun had sunk, and darkness was fast coming on; the evening breeze was sighing what seemed to my excited fancy a dirge amidst the rustling reeds; and again and again some curlew flew over us giving utterance to a loud wail. At one time it seemed so hard to die just in the spring of life; but the next instant, as I looked down at the poor head resting upon my breast, the sorrow was all for her, and with that sorrow there was a strange – an awful pleasure. It was, I should think, about ten minutes before help came that she raised her head, and her sweet beseeching eyes looked full in mine.

“‘Is there no hope?’ she whispered; and I feared to tell her the cruel truth.

“‘But you could save yourself,’ she faltered; ‘you struggled too hard before; why should you perish in trying to save me?’

“She spoke so earnestly, and with such a sweet resignation, that the tears came gushing from my eyes – weak, womanly tears, mother; for I am weak, very weak, I know, or I should not tell you all this.”

“Is it weak to confide all things to her who gave you birth, Brace?” whispered Mrs Norton.

“No – no!” he replied; and then, as if recalling the scene of the preceding evening, he continued:

“‘Try,’ she whispered to me – ‘try once more, and you may bring help.’

“As she spoke she unloosed her arms from my neck, and it was like adding despair to despair.

“‘Why do you tempt me?’ I said; for it seemed that now the time had come when I might speak. ‘Do you think that I could live without you? and do you not know that since the day when we first met my every thought has been of you, and that I have vainly struggled to free myself? You will believe me now – now that we are, perhaps, within a few minutes to stand in the presence of our Maker. Isa, I love you with a pure and holy love – a love that makes me, despairing as I am of ever possessing you in this life, look forward to the prospect of being with you in death,’ I whispered, as I held her more tightly. ‘You know little of me, but you know, perhaps, the sad misfortunes of our families, and how it seems that by some strange intervention of fate my heart has been led to you.’

“She was silent, but her arms once more rested upon my shoulder, and her sweet innocent, girlish face was close to mine, as there, chilled to the heart with the icy water, I asked her to forgive me my declaration, and kissed her pale lips again and again.

“It was then that – urged once more by the strong desire for life – I tried once more to utter a cry or two for help; and, five minutes after, that help was at hand.”

Brace Norton was silent now for a few minutes; and then, as if in answer to his mother’s look, he said:

“Must I, then, go?”

“Yes, Brace – yes. Your father leaves in an hour. It will be far better. Only for a few days, till she recovers and is removed.”

“But may I not see her first?” he pleaded.

“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, proudly, “would it be honourable to take advantage of her position here? Too much has already passed for your peace of mind. Go, now; and leave the house free to Sir Murray Gernon to come and go untouched in his sensitiveness. You must fight still, and bravely, too.”

Without another word the young man slowly left the room; and before an hour had elapsed Captain Norton and his son were on their way to Marshton.

A Discovery

Ten days elapsed before Dr Challen gave his consent for Isa to be removed, and during that time she had been carefully tended by Mrs Norton and Jane McCray, who had made her way to the Hall as soon as she heard of the accident. But two days would have been sufficient to have shown to Mrs Norton the character of the gentle, inartificial girl, whose gratitude was extreme for every act of attention she received. Hour after hour would Mrs Norton sit by her bedside watching her sleep; but once, and once only, came a dread suspicion that made her heart leap with agony.

She had driven that thought away, though, the next minute, as something too hateful to be nurtured even for an instant. Then, kneeling down, she prayed long and earnestly that, come what might, rest and happiness should be the lot of her son, as well as that of the gentle spirit whom she had already begun to love as a child of her own. For, irrespective of a sweet disposition and clinging ways to attract her when the poor motherless girl had been thrown, as it were, into her arms for protection, there was the recollection of the past – the old affection for her mother, and pity – shuddering pity – as she thought of her old friend’s mysterious fate and the sad position of her child.

Had she required more to interest her in Isa Gernon, Mrs Norton possessed it in the knowledge that Brace loved her, that he had confessed his love, and that Isa knew it. If such a thing could have been possible, how Mrs Norton would have rejoiced in the union! But, with many a sigh, she told herself that it could never be, and to the best of her ability she strove to avoid all reference to her son.

That was a hard task to the loving mother, whose every thought turned to the frank, handsome young fellow who was her pride – who had, year by year, won for her more and more her husband’s love, binding him tightly and more tightly to her, as time rolled on, till she owned to herself that, in spite of the stormy past, hers was a life of true happiness – of happiness greater than usually fell to the lot of mortals. For as time had softened the grief and despair in Philip Norton’s heart, he had learned to thank Heaven for the blessings that had, after all, fallen to his share, so that his feeling of friendly affection had gradually grown into a firm and lasting love for the woman so full of faith in him – a love that grew stronger as the years glided on.

Weak, and hardly yet recovered, Isa Gernon was, one day, lying sleeping gently. Sir Murray had paid his morning’s visit, and, meeting Dr Challen there, received another sharp snubbing for evincing a desire to remove the patient.

“I’ll tell you when she may go,” said the doctor; “but let me tell you that you ought to go down upon your knees and thank Mrs Norton for her motherly care. Like a mother to you, isn’t she, my child?” he said, turning to Isa.

The look of love directed by Isa at Mrs Norton was like gall and wormwood to Sir Murray, whose dark face grew more black; but he was too courteous to display his annoyance in his words; and besides, though he looked upon Mrs Norton as a weak, foolish woman, at heart he retained for her a profound feeling of respect; for he admired her faith and constancy under troubles that might have broken another’s heart. In spite of himself, too, he could not help noticing the respect that had been paid to his feelings, for he knew that the departure of Captain Norton and his son must have been on account of this unforeseen train of circumstances. He was glad of this, for he was troubled about Brace, from feeling an instinctive dread that he might presume to assert himself as a suitor for Isa’s hand.

Matters had gone very unfortunately; but as soon as he could get Isa home, he determined that Lord Maudlaine should press his suit, and that the wedding should shortly follow.

Sir Murray felt a confidence in Mrs Norton that was not misplaced, for hardly once had Brace’s name passed her lips till this morning, when some time after father and doctor had taken their departure, Mrs Norton entered the room to find Isa sleeping.

She stood watching the sleeper for some few minutes, tracing again the lineaments of Marion Elstree, when the likeness was completed by the unclosing of two soft, appealing eyes, which gazed full in hers for a few minutes, as a sweet smile of recognition swept over the countenance; then Mrs Norton bent down and kissed her, Isa’s arms being passed round her loving nurse’s neck, and there for a few moments she clung.

“So much better!” whispered Isa; and then, as her eyes fell upon a locket-brooch which Mrs Norton was wearing, she asked, in the course of conversation, whose countenance it contained.

“It was my son’s twelve years ago,” said Mrs Norton, softly, as she covered it, she knew not why, with one hand, watching keenly the face before her as she spoke, and in the change that came over it, she saw something that for the moment gave her she hardly knew which, pleasure or pain; for Isa’s pale face became gradually suffused with a deep crimson flush, she shrank away from Mrs Norton as if guilty, her eyes filled with tears, and then, casting her arms round the mother’s neck, she nestled there, weeping long and hysterically.

No word was spoken; but the mother’s thoughts required no further confirmation. She religiously refrained, though, from speaking, telling herself that a greater will than hers should be done, that her duty was rather to check than encourage, even while she tremblingly hoped that a happier future might be the result.

There was no need for interpretation of Isa Gernon’s tears: her heart spoke for itself; and it was not surprising that he, against whom she had been warned by a parent – now loving almost to doting, now fiercely morose – should form the object of her musing thoughts. She had met him frequently during her walks, at a time, too, when distasteful attentions were being paid her, and she felt that her heart was being treated as a piece of merchandise.