The Sapphire Cross

Fenn George Manville

The Sapphire Cross

In the Old Fen-Land

“Oh, how sweet the pines smell, Marion! I declare it’s quite bliss to get down here in these wilds, with the free wind blowing the London smoke out of your back hair, and no one to criticise and make remarks. I won’t go to the sea-side any more: pier and band, and esplanade and promenade; in pink to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next day in green; and then a bow here and a ‘de-do’ there; and ‘how’s mamma?’ and ‘nice day;’ and all the same sickening stuff over again. There! I won’t hear fault found with the Fen-land ever any more. I don’t wonder at that dear old Hereward the Wake loving it. Why, it’s beautiful! and I feel free – as free as the air itself; and could set off and run and jump and shout like a child?”

“Dangerous work, running and jumping here,” said a tall, pale girl, the speaker’s companion, as she picked her way from tuft to tuft of heath and rushes, now plucking a spray of white or creamy-pink moss, now some silky rush, and at last bending long over a cluster of forget-me-nots, peering up from the bright green water plants, like turquoise set in enamelled gold.

“What lovely forget-me-nots!” cried her blonde companion, hurrying to her side, the oozy ground bending beneath her weight, as she pressed forward. “True blue – true blue! I must have a bunch as well.”

“Poor Philip’s favourite flowers,” said the other, sadly. “I have the little dried bouquet at home now that he gave me – six years ago this spring, Ada. Forget-me-not!”

She stood, sad and thoughtful, with the flowers in her hand, the tears the while dropping slowly upon the little blue petals, that seemed like eyes peering up at her. They were standing together upon the edge of a wide stretch of uncultivated marsh, which commenced as soon as the grove of whispering pines through which they had come ceased to flourish; though here and there, just as they had been dragged forth from the boggy depths, lay, waiting for carriage, huge roots of pines, that had been growing, perhaps, two thousand years before, and now, probed for and dragged to the surface, proved to be sound – undecayed, and crystallised with the abundant turpentine, forming a fuel much sought after by the country people.

“Marion, darling,” whispered the fair girl, passing her arm round the other’s waist, and speaking in soft, deep tones – a perfect contrast to her gay accents of a few moments before – “try not to mourn now: it is hardly loyal, and it is of no avail. I too have wept for the dead, many and many a time.”

“Yes; we all weep for our passed away,” said Marion, sadly.

“Yes, true; I mourned, too, for poor Philip, Marion.”

“You, Ada?”

“Yes; why not? I feel no shame in owning that I loved him, too – warmly as ever you could, though I saw his preference and bore it in silence.”

“You, you – Ada?”

“Yes, dear, I. You think me light and frivolous, but may not that be merely on the surface? I wept long when I found that he loved and was engaged to you; but I hid my secret, for my only wish was to see him happy; and you cannot say that I ever failed in my friendship.”

“Never – never, dear,” said Marion, gazing with troubled eyes at her friend, but clinging to her the while; and then, making their way to the pine grove, they sat down amongst the soft shed needles to rest, dreamily pondering over the past, till, starting from her reverie, Ada Lee exclaimed lightly:

“There, this will not do. Poor Philip has gone to his soldier’s grave, honourably fighting for his country. May Heaven rest him! for he was a brave fellow; but life is not long enough for much time to be spent in weeping. There, Marion, darling, rouse your self; this is not a thing of yesterday. Come! we must get back. Think of the wooing and wedding, and be as merry and light-hearted as I am. Heigho! I wish, though, that some one would marry me, and bring me to live down here in these dear old solemn marshes. How nice for me to be always close to you, wouldn’t it? There’s a house across there amongst the trees that would do capitally. Who lives there?”

“No one, Ada,” said the other, sadly. “That is Merland Hall, where poor Philip should have dwelt.”

Ada started, and again her arm was pressed round her companion’s waist, when, almost in silence, they walked back to the parsonage, where Ada Lee was staying with her friend, having come down from London to fulfil the office of bridesmaid at Marion’s wedding.

But on reaching her bedroom Marion threw herself in a chair, letting the botanical specimens she had been gathering fall upon the carpet beside her, as she leaned her head upon her hand, and remained silent and thoughtful.

“Oh, come – come, darling; this will never do,” cried Ada. “Mrs Elstree said that I was to do all I could to cheer and enliven you, and here have I been making you worse with my ill-chosen chatter. Why, you ought to be as happy as the day is long: a fine, handsome husband, young as well as rich; a castle to live in, and he as devoted as possible. Why, I declare I’m almost in love with him myself. Look at the presents he has sent you. Why, one would think, to see that doleful face, that you did not like him!”

“But I do, Ada. I esteem and respect, and I think I love him.”

“Think, indeed! why, of course you do. Didn’t I see you give him a kiss last night when he asked you as he was going?”

“And I believe that I shall be very happy with him,” continued Marion, not heeding her companions words; “but, just now, as I am going to take this irrevocable step, the past all seems to come back, and it almost seems as if I were going to be faithless to poor Philip; and, in spite of all I can do, my poor heart is filled with forebodings.”

“Oh dear – oh dear! What a girl it is!” cried Ada. “This won’t do, you know. What am I to do with you? Oh! look here! Why, here’s a note on the dressing-table, and a case – a jewel-case, I’m sure! Why, it’s another present from that dear Sir Murray. Why, you happy, lucky darling! There, pray read your note, and do show me what’s in the case, there’s a dear sweet girl.”

As she spoke, she seized a note lying by a large morocco case upon the dressing-table, and eagerly placed it in her friend’s hand, laying the case in her lap, at the same time stroking the hair from her forehead, and kissing her tenderly, though a shade of care and anxiety was plainly visible upon the face she strove to make appear mirthful.

Marion read the note, the colour mantling faintly in her cheek the while.

“He is most kind and affectionate,” she said, sadly. “I would that he had chosen one more worthy of his love!”

“How can you talk like that?” cried Ada, reproachfully. “There, do pray chase away this horrible low-spiritedness! It is not right to Sir Murray, dear – it isn’t, indeed; and I’m sure you have no cause to blame yourself. But there, my own handsome darling, I know what it is: you feel the step you are going to take, and no wonder; but try – pray try – for his sake, to be brighter. He’s coming to dinner, you know; and he’s a dear, nice fellow, in spite of his pride and so much of the Spanish grandee. Think, too, how happy it makes Mr and Mrs Elstree to see you so well provided for! – and without going right away. They’re as proud as can be, and the dear old rector is making out that he is condescending wonderfully in letting Sir Murray have his darling. But all the time he’s reckoning upon your being Lady Gernon, and so is dear aunt. But come, you have not shown me your present; and, look here, if all your specimens are not lying upon the floor! I suppose you will give up botany now you are taking to husbandry.”

“The joke is old, Ada,” said Marion, smiling, and, making an effort, she rose from her chair, gathered together her flowers and mosses, and laid them on the table, before turning the handsome gilt key of the morocco case, to display, glittering in the light, a gorgeous suite of sapphires: necklet, bracelets, earrings; and a large cross, a mingling of the same gems with brilliants.

“Oh, what a lovely piece of vanity;” cried Ada, rapturously. “Oh, my darling, how proud I shall feel of my friend Lady Gernon – that is, if she does not grow too stilty for her old friend.”

“For shame, Ada!” cried Marion.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ada. “I have my forebodings, too, and I think I may as well say good-bye for good when you start to-morrow for your tour.”

“Do you wish to make me more unhappy?” said Marion, reproachfully.

“No, of course not,” said Ada, kissing her. “But, mark my words, it will be so,” she continued, dreamily, as she clasped the jewels upon her friend’s arms and neck. “There, I declare they are quite regal, and must have cost hundreds of pounds! I love sapphires; they are so much like forget-me-nots – true blue, you know. There, how stupid I am, setting you off again! But look, darling, are they not lovely? I never saw a more beautiful suite. That cross, too – it’s magnificent! But you must take care not to lose it. The ring is slight, and it might come detached. Now, then, bathe those eyes, while I put the present away. Really I’ve a great mind to let you wear them at dinner to-night.”

Marion said nothing, and Ada slowly replaced the gems, lingering long over the cross, little thinking it was to be the bane of her cousin’s life.

Under the Shadow

Ada Lee was right: there was a good deal of the Spanish grandee in the aspect of Sir Murray Gernon, who traced back his pedigree to the old Norman days, when, as a recompense for the service of the stout knight, Sir Piers Gernon, his squire, and so many men-at-arms, William gave him the pleasant lands whereon he built his castle, overlooking many an acre of Lincolnshire fen-land – a castle that gave place, in Tudor days, to the fine, square, massive, and roomy building, which still retained the name as well as the broad moat. Sir Murray entered the rectory drawing-room, tall, swarthy, and haughty of bearing, and was chatting graciously to the parents of his intended bride, when she entered the apartment.

To a careless observer the morning’s sadness had all departed, and courtly lover could not have been better satisfied with his greeting as Marion crossed the room to meet him, placing both her hands in his, and looking up in his proud face as much as to say, “I am soon to be yours – be gentle with me.”

Sir Murray took the hands with quite a protective air, smiling down upon the face, which he saluted with a lordly kiss upon the white forehead; and then, apparently well satisfied with the lady so soon to grace his table, he led her to a chair beside Ada, and in a somewhat cumbersome fashion began to chat about the morning’s proceedings.

“Studying dress I presume we should have been?” said Ada. “But we were away by the edge of the marsh, botanising, for half the day. Poor Marion has been taking a farewell of her favourite pursuit,” she added, laughingly.

“I don’t see that at all,” said Sir Murray. “I admire natural history, and shall hope that Lady Gernon will prove a kind and patient instructress.”

“I think it was reserved for us at our return to find our brightest specimens, though,” said Marion, turning her large, dreamy eyes upon the baronet. “I have to thank you for your present, Murray.”

“Oh, don’t talk about it – wear it,” was the response. “They are the old family jewels reset. I thought you would like them better modernised.”

The dinner passed off quietly. Sir Murray Gernon, who prided himself upon his birth, lineage, and wealth, taking matters in a courtly manner, considering that it would be unbecoming, even upon the evening preceding his marriage, to forget his dignity. Hence there was a something that seemed almost verging upon coldness in his farewell that night, even when he whispered the words, “Till to-morrow, dearest.” There was no apparent ardour, although he was, certainly, contented and proud; and he rode home that night at a very respectable hour, telling himself that he was one of the happiest men in the kingdom.

When Marion was once more alone with her cousin, the emotion, crushed down, hidden beneath a mask of cheerfulness, asserted itself in a way that alarmed even herself: sobs and hysterical cries seeming to tear themselves from her breast, to be succeeded, though, at last by a calm, as, evidently by a great effort, she overcame the weakness to which she had given way.

“Don’t be angry, Ada!” cried the agitated girl, as she clung to her friend. “I am very – very weak, I know; but to-morrow I must be strong, and put weakness aside. To-night, I feel that if I did not give way, my agony would be greater than I could bear. I cannot dissimulate!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I do not love this man as I should; he is cold and haughty, and does not try to make me love him. I have tried – tried hard, for they have set their mind upon it, and what can I do? But the old, old love will come back, and I seem to see poor Philip beckoning to me from the other side of the great black gulf, calling me, as it were, to him; and to go on with this – to keep faith to-morrow, is like being false, when I recall all my vows made before he went away.”

“But, Marion, darling,” exclaimed Ada, “does not death solve all those ties? Come, dear, be tranquil, and do not give way to all this weakness. You do not do Sir Murray justice: he is proud and haughty; but look at the pride he has in you. There!” she cried, “I shall be glad when to-morrow is here, and the wooing ended by the wedding. I will not say, fight back all these sad memories, because I know you have tried; but pray, pray think of duty, of what you owe to your betrothed, as well as to your parents. Come, to bed – to bed, or I shall be blamed for the sad, pale face that will be under the orange blossoms to-morrow.”

“Do you think the dead have power to influence us, Ada?” said Marion, who had sat with her hair pressed back from her temples, and had not apparently heard a word her cousin had said.

“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.