The Sapphire Cross

Preparations

The day before the wedding, and traces everywhere at Merland village of the grand doings to come, even a score of white-smocked navvies, with their rolled-up trousers, great laced boots, and huge stolid faces, stopping to stare about, after a morning’s freak, consisting of four hours’ neglect of work, and the consumption of endless pots of beer and pipes of tobacco in Chunt’s tap-room; but they were soon off to their work cutting the great drain through the peat, where the wind and horse mills were busy pumping out the water.

“Some people’s allus a’ enjoying o’ themselves, and having feasts,” growled one peat-stained giant.

“Ah!” said another, taking his pipe out of his mouth to spit. “I should just like to come back and spoil all their fun!” But half an hour after, like the rest of his fellows, he was delving away, cutting the soft peat in great bricks, and heaving them out of the cutting, as he worked off his superabundant beer.

But there was misery at Merland Castle, and more than once Jane McCray, sobbing, told her husband that she had thought it would have broken her heart when she saw poor dejected, wounded, pale John Gurdon, and gave him the money, and wished him a happy future, when he broke down, and cried like a child at receiving treatment he said he had never deserved; but it was nothing to this, seeing that poor wasted child waiting for the hours to pass before she was condemned to what would be like a death in life.

For half-hysterical at times, an impression seemed to have come upon Isa Gernon that she would be fetched away, that even against her own will she would be saved from the fate that awaited her, and she started up, and listened, and looked from her window again and again for what did not come. Dresses were tried on, trunks were packed, presents poured in, bouquets, jewels, everything to give éclat to the proceedings; but Isa seemed to see nothing but one upbraiding face ever before her, reproaching her for her cruelty – a cruelty which she nerved herself by saying was but duty.

Brace Norton knew all, even the time at which the wedding would take place; but he uttered no complaint, only wandered about hour after hour, telling himself that to-morrow all would be at an end, ending by reproaching himself for his inaction. Towards afternoon, he strolled out towards the marsh, and smiled bitterly a fierce, angry smile, as he saw the men busily cutting their way with the great drain towards the pit, from which he had saved the bride of the ensuing day.

“Would we had died there together,” he said, bitterly; and then he stooped, and picked a bunch of the forget-me-nots so abundant there, and tied them with one of the thin rushes from the mass at his feet. An hour after, enclosed in an envelope, they were laid on Isa’s dressing-table, where she found them, and as had wept of old her mother, she had wept, for she guessed from whence that simple bouquet had come. She kissed them, held them to her breast, and then sank upon her knees, sobbing hysterically for the love she felt that, in spite of all revelations, she could not crush down, for she thought she was alone. But it was not so, for Jane McCray had entered unperceived, and started and turned pale as she saw the tiny flowers and the envelope in which they had arrived.

“True-blue,” she said aloud, for her thoughts had reverted to the past; and then, trembling with superstitious dread, “Miss Isa,” she said, “throw those flowers away – they’re fatal, and bring nothing but misery and despair to those who wear them. All those long years ago, and it seems only yesterday that your poor mamma brought a bunch from the marsh. If he has sent you those, it was cruel and heartless of him, at such a time.”

And angry with the maid who must have brought them, Jane made as if to take them from her mistress’s hand; but she stopped half way, trembling more than ever, as she saw Isa press the simple blossoms to her breast with both hands, her head thrown back, her blue-veined eyelids closed, and her lips moving rapidly – for there, on her knees, she was invoking Heaven’s blessing on the sender, and praying for strength to carry her through her trials.

Jane’s anger had passed away, when, after a few minutes, she assisted Isa to a couch; for there was something in the poor girl’s face that troubled her, and kept her hovering round as from a strange kind of fascination.

Was she going to be ill? Had her poor nerves been drawn too tightly? And would they snap beneath the unfair tension? At one time it seemed to Jane McCray, when Isa started up as if listening, that there would be no wedding the next morning.

But the preparations went on, and Sir Murray entertained a select party at dinner. My lord, the Viscount, was in excellent spirits, and paid frequent visits to the decanters. Certainly, a week had passed since the money was due, but then he had written to Braham, telling him of the day of the wedding; and the money-lender had sent a congratulatory reply, to say that it was “all right,” and that he very much regretted his inability to attend himself.

The second course was on the table, and McCray was busy handing the wine to the various guests, when a footman, who had just entered the room, pulled him by the sleeve.

“Gude-sake, man!” he exclaimed, testily, “ye’ll make that wine as thick as mood!” when, hearing the man’s whisper, he set the decanter down upon the floor, and ran out.

Isa had sent to excuse herself, for she was, indeed, too ill with excitement; and, at Jane’s earnest solicitation, she had gone to lie down, to fall into a broken slumber, filled with troubled dreams, and all connected with the coming day. Again and again she was being led to the church, when Brace seemed to snatch her away and hold her to his breast: but when she tried to clasp him in return, he faded, as it were, away, and there was nothing there: then they were wandering together by the marsh, picking the true-blue forget-me-nots; but each flower seemed weeping for their sorrows; and at last the soft, treacherous earth seemed to give way, and they were plunged together in the black, strangling water, to sink lower, lower, lower, till all was blinding and dark; but his arms were tightly round her now, his lips were to hers, and he was breathing words of love – of love, and holy love – to her, telling her that they would part no more; that there should be no more misery, no more watching and weeping; but that their parents’ sorrows should be succeeded by the sunshine of their joy; and, returning his caresses from the depth of her heart, she shrieked aloud, for she was rudely awakened to the misery of the present; for, apparently wild with excitement, Jane rushed into the room, caught her for a moment in her arms, to kiss her, almost fiercely, and then throwing her rudely back upon the couch —

“Lie there, my child – lie there!” she exclaimed. “She gave you into my charge, and I have been faithful. Sleep, if you like, but let it be in peace, for there will be no wedding to-morrow!”

Was she mad? Was she crazy? Isa asked herself those questions, as she heard the door closed and locked upon her; then, unable to restrain her tears, she sank back weakly weeping.

“They’re Bringing My Lady Hame.”

Alexander McCray, in his excitement at being told that Brace Norton was in the hall, set down the decanter upon the carpet, where it was directly after kicked over by the under-butler. But McCray hurried out, lest Sir Murray should hear who had arrived – his dread being that there would be a fracas brought on by the young man’s imprudence. He looked for the visitor, though, in vain, and turned back to enter the dining-room, when the glass door looking out upon the carriage-drive was thrown open, and Brace, pale and wild-looking, appeared.

“Gude save us! and how can ye be sae foolish, laddie?” exclaimed McCray, hurrying to him. “Ye’ll mak’ sair wark of it a’, and do naebody any gude. If ye lo’e the puir bairn,” he said, with a touching simplicity, “gang yer gait, and let her be in peace, for ye’ll break her puir sair hairt if ye mak’ a dust noo!”

“What?” whispered Brace – “has she not told you?”

“Told me?” exclaimed McCray. “Ah! stop, then! Gude save us, the lassie’s mad! Jenny! wife! – here, stop!”

But Alexander McCray’s words might have been true, from the way in which the housekeeper rushed into the dining-room, exclaiming, “Sir Murray – Sir Murray!”

The pent-up excitement of years upon years was struggling for exit, and, heedless of all present – of the confusion her presence created as the baronet rose, glaring at her with a mingling of fear and anger – Jane darted towards him.

“Where is McCray? Take this woman out?”

“No – no,” she shrieked, excitedly. “Let no one dare to touch me! I knew the truth would out some day; and now it has come – come in time to stop this cruel wedding. It has been hidden from the eyes of man all these years, but Heaven would not suffer that it should rest longer. No!” she cried, as, clinging to Sir Murray, he tried to shake her off – “it has come home to you at last. I will not leave go. You know how I have kept my lips sealed; and now the time is come when they should be opened. Sir Murray – my poor lady – has – ”

Jane McCray’s words became inaudible, as, dizzy with excitement, she reeled and then fell, to lie insensible upon the carpet. The visitors looked from one to the other; some sought to assist the housekeeper, others made for the door; while, trembling himself, Lord Maudlaine hurried to Sir Murray’s side.

“In Heaven’s name, what does it all mean?” the Viscount whispered.

“I don’t know – I – I – What, you here?” exclaimed Sir Murray, as Brace Norton appeared in the doorway.

“Tell him, McCray,” said Brace, in a low voice. “Speak to him gently.”

Pale and scared-looking, his ruddy, open countenance speaking the sense of the painful duty he had to perform, McCray moved slowly towards Sir Murray.

“What is it?” the latter said, in a strangely incoherent way. “Is Miss Gernon ill or – or – in Heaven’s name, speak!” he cried, as if forcing the words to leave his lips – “has she fled?”

“No, Sir Mooray,” said the old Scot, in a low voice, as he spoke almost tenderly, watching the change in his master’s countenance the while, and catching him by the wrist; and, as if foreseeing what would happen, he placed his arm round him. “Sir Mooray,” he whispered now, as the baronet’s eyes assumed a fixed and ghastly expression, “they’re bringing my lady hame!”

McCray’s foresight was needed; for at those words – words that Sir Murray Gernon seemed to have expected – he raised one hand to his cravat, and then his knees gave way beneath him, and he would have fallen but for the stout supporting arm of his old servant.

“It’s apoplexy! Sir Mooray was seized so before. There, for Gude-sake, my laird, don’t stand glowering there like that, but rin and send a groom for the doctor. Fetch pillows, will ye? and, ladies and gentlemen, in Sir Mooray’s name I ask ye all to gang hame; for this is a sair nicht at the Castle!”

At the same moment there was seen through the darkness of the autumn evening the flashing of lights in the park avenue, then they slowly approached the bridge, passed over it, and a few minutes after there were steps upon the gravel drive, and, headed by Captain Norton, hat in hand, men bore softly into the great hall a hastily-contrived litter. Then, guided by McCray, the litter was borne into one of the nearest rooms, and slowly and in silence the men went out on tip-toe, leaving present only Brace Norton, his father, and the old major-domo.

No word was spoken, but McCray softly stole to the door and closed it, as, suddenly, Captain Norton fell upon his knees, resting his hands for a few moments upon the litter, covered as it was with a white sheet; and then, taking the hand stretched out to him by his son, he tottered from the room; and those who looked upon his pale face saw that great scar standing out plain and red, and that his eyes were wet with tears.

The weakness was but of a few minutes’ duration; and as they stood in the brightly-lighted hall once more, Captain Norton’s voice was sharp and short in its utterance, as he inquired of the state of Sir Murray Gernon.

“I left them bathing his face, sir,” said McCray; and he led the way into the nearly deserted dining-room, where, breathing stertorously, Sir Murray still lay; Jane McCray having been assisted to her own room.

“But ye no think there was foul play, sir?” whispered McCray to Brace Norton. And the young man shook his head, as, eagerly watching his fathers acts, he laid his hand upon the old steward’s lips.

For, going down upon one knee, Captain Norton threw more open the stricken man’s neck-band, raised his head slightly, and stayed for a few moments holding one of Sir Murray’s hands in his.

“Brace,” he said, in a low tone, as, alone now with the old steward, he looked up in his son’s face – “Brace, McCray, you know all from the first. Fate dealt hardly with us both; but at any time, I could have held out my hand to him, and said, you do me wrong. But, Heaven help him! for he has suffered much. He is more to be pitied than blamed!”

There was the sound of wheels upon the gravel once more, and Captain Norton rose to his feet, just as the door was hastily opened, and Dr Challen entered, raising his hands and eyes first to Captain Norton and then to Brace, as if exclaiming, “Good heavens, what a night!”

“The old seizure,” he said, after a few minutes; and then he beckoned to McCray to help him.

“Gude-sake, sir, it’s a sair nicht!” exclaimed the old steward, after a few minutes. “Ye maun let me go; for at the glint I got just noo through the open door, there’s something wrang wi’ my Laird Maudlaine and Mr Brace; and this is no time for mair troubles.”

“Go, in the name of all that’s sensible!” said the doctor, “and ask them if they are mad. Why, they’re scuffling already!”

Dr Challen was wrong; for though Lord Maudlaine had followed the young man and his father to the hall, and had gazed at Brace with a look in which bitterness, disappointment, and hatred struggled for mastery, he spoke no word, till suddenly the glass door was opened, and two men entered, one pressing right to the back, the other stepping in front of his lordship.

“Our orders were, my lord, to take you as you left the church to-morrow morning,” said the latter; “but as it seems there’ll be no church-work, why, we do it now, unless, of course, your lordship’s prepared with the stiff.”

With a fierce oath, Lord Maudlaine started back; but the man was as active.