The Sapphire Cross

He smiled as he took his seat once more, but the smile faded into a look of the most bitter misery, and, as he sat there hour after hour awaiting Lady Gernon’s return, years seemed to have passed over his head, and not without leaving their marks.

Man and Maid

“Curse him!” muttered Gurdon, as he left the room; “a purse-proud, haughty brute! looks upon a servant as if he were a dog. I know him, though – read him like a book – turn him inside out like a glove. Waited on him, served him as I have all these years, and yet, because a man can’t help giving way just a trifle to his weakness, he’s to be threatened always with the sack. He won’t send me away, though, not he – he knows better. Read him like a book I can, and he knows it too. Pride must have a fall, and he’s full of it – running over with it. Just as if one man wasn’t as good as another. Discharge me, will he? Perhaps I’ll discharge myself before he has the chance. Sitting and sulking there in his old library, day after day. I haven’t forgotten the old affair. I ain’t blind, and I’ll tell him so as soon as I look at him. Here, hi! Jane!”

Mr Gurdon’s legs had conveyed him, as he went on muttering, as far as the housekeeper’s room, when, seeing the flutter of a garment just turning a corner at the end of the passage, he called out, and Jane Barker, rather red of eye, turned round and confronted him.

“Here, come in here, Jenny, I want to talk to you,” he said, catching her by the hand, when, without a word, she followed him into the housekeeper’s room, and he closed the door.

“I knew he hadn’t,” said Jane, who had been watching him from a distance, and had seen him enter and leave the library, “you wouldn’t have looked cross like that, John, if he had.”

“He don’t dare!” said Gurdon, insolently. “It’s all smoke, and he knows now that I’m not blind. Discharge me, indeed! I’ll discharge myself, and have something for holding my tongue into the bargain! Don’t tell me: I can read him like a book, and his pride will humble itself before me like a schoolboy’s. Now, look here, Jenny: there’s been enough nonsense now. We’ve been courting years enough, and you’ve saved up a bit of money. Let’s go at once. I’ve saved nothing; but I’ve had my eyes open, and if I don’t leave the Castle a hundred pounds in pocket it’s a strange thing to me. I’m sick of it, I am; and I know of a decent public-house to let over at Blankesley, where the iron-pits are. There’ll be no end of trade to it, so let’s get married and take it. Now, what do you say?”

“Say?” exclaimed Jane Barker, whose face had been working, while her lips were nipped together, and her arms crossed over her breast, as if to keep down her emotion – “say? Why, that sooner than marry you, and have my little bit of money put in a public-house, for you to be pouring it down your throat all day, I’d go into the union! I’ll own that I did, and I have, loved you very, very much; but you’ve half broke my heart with seeing you, day after day, getting into such sotting ways. You know you wouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for me going down on my knees to my own dear, sweet lady, to ask her not to complain, when you’ve gone up to her, time after time, not fit to be seen, and smelling that horrid that tap-rooms was flower-gardens compared to you! And now, after all her kindness and consideration, you talk like that! I’m ashamed of you – I’m ashamed of you!”

And Jane burst into tears.

“Now, don’t be a fool, Jenny! What’s the good of being so squeamish, and talking such nonsense? We’ve both had enough of this place, and, without anything to trouble me, I should never touch a drop from month’s end to month’s end.”

“No, John – no, John,” she said, disengaging herself from the arm that he had put round her. “I’ll never marry a man who drinks. I’d give you my bit of money if I thought it would do you good; but you’ve drunk till it’s made you hard, and cruel, and suspicious, and wicked; and, though I’ve never said nothing, I’ve thought about all your wicked hints and suspicions. And as to being tied up to a man who was going to get money by telling lies of other people, I’d sooner go down and jump into the lake – that I would!”

“’Tisn’t lies,” said Gurdon, sulkily: “it’s truth, and you know it is.”

“It is not, you bad, wicked fellow!” cried Jane, firing up, and stamping one foot upon the floor.

“’Tis truth, and he knows it too, my fine, fierce madam!”

“What! have you dared to say a word, or drop one of your nasty, underhanded hints?” cried Jane.

“Never mind,” said Gurdon, maliciously. “I’ve not studied him all these years for nothing. Perhaps I know something about letters – perhaps I don’t; perhaps I’ve seen somebody savage about somebody else taking long walks, after being sulky and upset about what’s to happen now after all these years; perhaps I haven’t seen anything of the kind, but I ain’t blind. I haven’t forgotten what took place six years ago, and now we’re going – good luck to us! – to have an anniversary. I hope everybody will be there to keep it, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Oh, you serpent!” cried Jane, pale with rage. “You bad, wicked fellow! You’re like the scorpion in the Holy Bible, you are, that turns to rend the hand that fed it. Oh!” she cried, growing gradually more and more furious, “to think that I’ve wasted all my best days about such a traitor – such a cruel, malicious, spiteful, dirty story-teller! Shame on you! How dare you, you villain, hint at such wickedness about my poor dear sweet mistress, whose dear heart is as pure as an angel’s – a sweet, suffering lamb?”

“A sweet, suffering lamb, indeed!” cried Gurdon, savagely. “Yah! There’s a pair of you – she-wolves, more likely.”

“Then I’ll be the wolf that shall shake such a nasty lying cur as you!” cried Jane, furiously. “Go down on your knees, you wicked – wicked – nasty – story-telling – villain – you, or I’ll shake all the breath out of your body!”

In effect, beside herself with rage, Jane had caught the butler by the collar with both hands, and at every word she had given him a furious shake, till, utterly confounded at the suddenness of the attack, he had really, to avoid the onslaught, sunk upon his knees, enabling her, though, to deliver the correction more effectually.

“Say it was all stories – say it was all stories,” cried Jane.

“I won’t: it’s all as true as true, and her – ”

“Take that, you wicked villain!” shrieked Jane; and with the full force of her by no means weak arm, she slapped him across the mouth just as the door opened, and a knot of eager, curious servants appeared.

“What is the matter?” was the cry.

“Let him say a word if he dares,” cried Jane, ending her punishment by a tremendous box on the butler’s ears, to the intense delight of the lookers-on. “He told lies about me, and I hit him – there!” said Jane defiantly, “and let him say it isn’t true if he dares.”

Then, utterly exhausted by her efforts, poor Jane threw herself, sobbing, into a chair.

“Oh, take me away! – take me away!” she cried; and two of the sympathising women ran to her, declaring that it was a shame, that it was; while the stout cook delivered her opinion that it would be a blessing if there wasn’t a man left on the face of the earth, “breaking poor women’s hearts as was faithful unto death.”

Whereupon one of the footmen winked at a very smart and aspiring kitchen-maid, who had whispered to him her suspicions respecting cook’s possessing a similar weakness to Mr Gurdon’s, and requiring stimulants for the due invention of fresh dishes.

“It’s a pity that people don’t know their places,” said Gurdon, sulkily, “and keep to the kitchen and hall, instead of pushing themselves into the housekeeper’s room, where they’re not wanted.”

But somehow, the butler’s words had but very little effect, for in spite of their knowledge of his engagement to Jane Barker, and her great influence in domestic matters with her mistress, John Gurdon’s tenure at the Castle was held to be in a very insecure state.

Nobody therefore stirred – Mr Gurdon’s hint evidently not being sufficiently potent; so, with a scowl at the sobbing woman, he turned and left the room, to don a fresh cravat – the present one being limp, crumpled, and displaying very clearly the encounter in which he had been engaged.

“Let them look out, some of them,” he cried, wrathfully, as soon as he was alone. “If I’m to be dragged down, I’ll pull somebody with me, so let them look out, that’s all I’ve got to say;” and with a savage scowl upon his face, he brought down his fist with a heavy blow upon the table by which he stood.

The Sapphire Cross

“How well Marion looks,” said Ada Norton to her husband, as, seated in one of the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms at the Castle, they watched her receiving fresh guests, on the night of the party. The Nortons had dined there, and all had gone off, so far, most successfully; people coming from a great distance just for an hour in the evening, – an invitation to the Castle being something not to be slighted.

“Yes, she looks well,” said Norton, calmly. “The old weary air seems to have passed away entirely. I used to think that Gernon did not use her well, but, thank Heaven, I believe I misjudged him.”

“Oh yes, I think so,” said Mrs Norton, hastily. “I am so much in her confidence that I think something of the kind would have oozed out, if such had been the case. And yet I don’t know,” she continued in a tone of reproach; “Marion has, like other people, her secrets.”

Norton turned sharply round; but Lady Gernon approaching, the conversation ceased.

“Mamma says you have not spoken to her to-night, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, whose face was flushed with excitement; and never had Norton thought her beauty more regal than now, as she stood before him with a brilliant tiara of sapphires and diamonds in her hair, while the large cross of pure and costly gems rose and fell with the soft heaving of her bosom.

“You extravagant woman!” laughed Ada, in reference to her cousin’s jewels. “If I had those sapphires I should never dare to wear them.”

“Murray always likes me to wear them on these particular occasions,” said Lady Gernon, carelessly; and, after exchanging a pleasant smile with Norton, she moved away towards where Mrs Elstree was seated.

In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon frowned at the sight of that smile; but he turned away the next moment, to encounter his butler, at whom he gazed for a moment, and then, walking close up to him, he said, severely, “I told you I should not look over the next occasion, sir. Come to the library for your wages at ten to-morrow morning.”

John Gurdon’s face broke out into a profuse perspiration as he heard that sentence – one from which he knew there was no appeal – and he darted a scowling look of hatred at his master as he turned away. For Gurdon knew the justice of the decree: he had been drinking again. He had fought with the temptation, but the fine old wines, constantly to his hand, had been too much for him; and he had again succumbed, so that, as he stood there that moment beneath one of the brilliant chandeliers, in the midst of wealth and splendour, he saw himself beggared and wretched – a poor, out-of-place servant, whom no one would employ on account of his potent vice.

But a feeling of rage and hatred filled his breast the next instant, as he turned to single out his master; but he had disappeared, and with lowering brow the butler left the room to attend to some call.

Sir Murray Gernon had entered the blue-room, one of the handsome suite of drawing-rooms at the Castle, where he came upon a knot of his male friends, amongst whom stood Mr Elstree. He would have avoided them, but for some earnest mention of Norton’s name, that was made in a low tone, and in spite of himself he said hastily:

“What’s that about Captain Norton?”

“Ruined, I fear,” said Mr Elstree. “Those mines have collapsed – perfect crash – heavy calls on the shareholders, I’m told. We were remarking how calmly the poor fellow takes it. Poor Ada cannot know, for she is laughing happily with my wife.”

“These things are better kept from the ladies, I think,” said a friend. “I’m sorry for them, though.”

“Unworldly man!” – “foolish speculation!” – “perfect madness!” were amongst the remarks Sir Murray then heard made, when he turned to gaze at his stricken guest, who, apparently quite calm and untroubled by a care, had risen from his seat and crossed to where Lady Gernon was standing. A minute after, she had left Mrs Norton with her mother, placed her arm in Captain Norton’s, and with him crossed towards the conservatory, where, amidst the golden-fruited oranges, the heavily-scented exotics, and the soft light diffused from flower-encircled and shaded lamp, a few of the guests were seated, or wandering in what seemed to be a fragment of some tropic land.

It was hard work for Sir Murray to preserve his calm and smiling aspect amidst his guests when such thoughts as troubled him were struggling in his breast. But he was determined to show no anger, and, with the intention of walking quietly into the conservatory, he passed through the drawing-room, where Gurdon was handing tea to the party conversing at one of the tables.

Just then a gentleman arrested him, and kept him in conversation upon some political matter for quite a quarter of an hour, his courtly politeness even now preventing him from hurrying away; but at length, with a sinking at his heart, he stepped into the conservatory to see several friends enjoying the soft coolness of the flower-scented place; but those whom he sought were not there.