The Sapphire Cross

She heard his words, and her eyes unclosed, and rested upon his for an instant.

“That’s right!” he cried, joyfully. “Now, quick! loose your hold of me! Don’t cling, but take hold here of these reeds where my hand is, and hold there tightly for a few moments. I can, then, perhaps, get out, and draw you after me: I am quite powerless here. Can you hold on for half a minute?”

Isa’s pale lips parted, but no audible words came. She obeyed him, though, and he guided her cold, white hand to the sharp-edged leaves.

“Now, then, be brave! Keep a good heart, for the sake of all who love you!” he whispered; and loosing his hold, he paused for an instant or two, to find that she was striving gallantly to obey him. “Only a few moments!” he cried; and then, summoning all his strength, he left her, and by means of a desperate effort fought and plunged his way through the now clinging – now yielding mass, till – how he could not tell – he forced his way on, to lie panting, at full length, amongst the rushes. The next moment a cry of despair burst from his breast; for, as he drew himself along to where Isa Gernon clung, he saw that the tuft of reeds, disturbed by his frantic efforts, were parting from the edge, and directly after the poor girl’s head sank again beneath the black water.

A rush – a plunge – a fierce struggle, and Brace was nearly free of the mosses and water-weeds; but now they seemed to cling round him more than ever, hampering his efforts, and minutes seemed to have elapsed before he had shaken himself clear, and dived down into the depths of the pool, forcing his way lower and lower till half strangled, when, rising to the surface, he drew a long, gasping breath, and then again plunged down.

It was well for Brace Norton that many a time he had swum and dived for sport in far off tropic waters, till he had gained a mastery over the element which now stood him in good stead; for at this second plunge far down into the black depths his hand came in contact with Isa Gernon’s long, flowing hair, and the next instant he had risen to the surface and held her at the pool edge, with her lips well above water, he clinging the while to the reeds, as, with all the force he could muster from his panting breast, he once more shouted hoarsely for help.

Rescue

“I’ve done my part,” muttered Brace Norton, as, in spite of the despair of the moment, he yielded to his feelings, kissing fondly again and again the cold pale lips of the insensible girl. “I can do no more. Help must come from elsewhere, or – No, I will not give up, if only for her sake.” And once more he hoarsely shouted for the help that he could not think would come.

The loosening of one arm so that the burden might glide from him – a strong effort, and he could once more have been amongst the reeds and mosses; but it would have been like leaving the brighter portion of his life to death; and his eyes glared fiercely as he clutched the fair, slight figure more tightly to his breast. It was like fighting against a cruel temptation, one which whispered to him of the brightness of his young life that he was casting away for the sake of an enemy’s daughter – of his home, and his weeping mother.

The temptation was strong, but he could not play the coward’s part; and he held Isa to him more and more closely, gloating over the soft, regular features, as, with a pang hard to bear, he told himself the next moment that, even if help came, it would arrive too late.

That same afternoon Sir Murray Gernon strode out into the pleasure-grounds, thoughtfully crossed the lawn, avoiding, as it were, more by instinct than care, the various flower-beds, till he roused himself, with a start, on finding that he was standing at the very edge of the lake, gazing down into its deep waters, as if they possessed for him some horrible fascination.

He stood there for full ten minutes, his brow corrugated, his eyes staring, and his teeth clenched firmly upon his lower lip. Then with an effort he seemed to drag himself, shuddering, away, to walk slowly muttering to himself.

Fifty yards of winding amidst flower-beds and shrubs, and Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lord Maudlaine, his guest, seated upon a garden-chair, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, a newspaper at his feet, his mouth half open, and his aristocratic head resting upon his open palm.

It is quite possible that Sir Murray Gernon might have passed his visitor, who had already been for some days at the Castle, but for the fact that certain strange sounds arrested his attention. Had these sounds proceeded from Alexander McCray, there would have been no difficulty about the matter, and one would have immediately said that the ex-gardener was snoring loudly; but when a nobleman is concerned, a diffidence – an unwillingness is felt to use such a term. However, Lord Maudlaine was loudly trumpeting forth the announcement that he was devoting a spare hour to the service of Morpheus, and Sir Murray Gernon, hearing those sounds, was attracted thereby.

“You here, Maudlaine?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Eh? Why, what the deuce – Dear me! I suppose I was dozing,” said his lordship, lifting himself up a bit at a time, as he indulged in a most unmistakable yawn.

“Not with Isa?” said Sir Murray. “I thought you went out with her?”

“Ya-as – ya-as! no question of a doubt about it, I did,” drawled the Viscount; “and I’ve just been dreaming that I was boating with her on the lake – not your fish-pond here, but Como – same as we did before we came away.”

“But you went out walking with her?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.

“Ya-as. Not a question of a doubt about it! I did go out and walked a little way with her.”

“Did she turn back, then?”

“N-n-no!” said the Viscount; “point of fact, she as good as told me she didn’t want me, and went on by herself.”

“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, smiling, as he clapped his guest upon the shoulder, “I’m afraid that you are not half a lady’s man. It is a fine thing for you that you have no rival in the field.”

“Ya-as – just so – no doubt about that,” said his lordship laughing. “But a – a I began talking to her on indifferent subjects, and, point of fact, she didn’t seem to like indifferent subjects – seemed as if I bothered her, you know, and of course I didn’t want to do that; so seeing, as you say, that there was no one else in the field – regular walk over the course, you know – I didn’t bother her nor myself either. We’re getting on very nicely, though, Sir Murray – very nicely indeed. No question about that.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sir Murray, dryly.

“Ya-as; beginning to understand one another’s idio – what is it? – syncracies, don’t you call it? I think Isa likes me.”

“Oh! yes, of course – of course!” said Sir Murray. “By the way, Maudlaine,” he continued, taking the young man’s arm and walking slowly with him down a path, “I hope you will be particular about the place; for I dare say I shall give it up to you young folks. I mean to be pretty stringent, though, I can assure you: I won’t have a tree touched – no timber felled; there is none too much now. I should not like the lake drained either: I should particularly object to that. It might be said,” continued Sir Murray, hastily, “that it made the place damp; but I don’t think it – I don’t think it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything distasteful, of course,” said the Viscount. “Always be glad of your advice, of course, if I had any ideas of improving anything. By the way, though, Gernon, she’s mad after botany.”

“She? Who is?” said Sir Murray, starting.

“She is – Isa, you know. I shall have to work it up, for she don’t seem to like my not being able to enter into the names of weeds with her. Not a weedy man myself, you know, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” And he laughed at what he intended for a joke.

“Was she botanising to-day?” said Sir Murray, huskily.

“Ya-a-as! Said it was her mother’s favourite pursuit, though I don’t know why she should like it for that reason, eh?”

“Who told her that absurd nonsense?” exclaimed Sir Murray, angrily.

“Well, she did tell me,” said the lover; “but, a – a – really, you know, I can’t recollect. Don’t particularly want to know, I suppose?”

“Oh no – oh no!” exclaimed Sir Murray, impatiently. “But this place, Maudlaine – I should like it kept as it is: the timber, you know; and you would not drain the lake?”

“Oh no! of course not. But, I say, you know, I – a – a – a suppose it will be all right?”

“Right – all right?” said Sir Murray, whose face wore a cadaverous hue. “What do you mean by all right?”

“Well, you know, I mean about Isa. I haven’t said anything pointed to her yet, though we two have made it all right. She won’t refuse me, eh?”

“Refuse? No: absurd!”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that. I get thinking sometimes that she ain’t so very far gone with me. Snubs me, you know, – turns huffy, and that sort of thing.”

“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, with a sneering laugh, which there was no need of the other interpreting, “you are too timid – too diffident for a man of your years.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said his lordship, “I don’t think I am; but she’s a style of woman I’m not used to. Don’t seem dazzled, and all that sort of thing, you know. Some women would be ready to jump out of their skins to be a viscountess, and by-and-by an earl’s wife; but she don’t – not a bit – not that sort of woman; and if I never said a word about it, I don’t believe that she would, even if I went on visiting here for years.”

“Most likely not,” said Sir Murray, dryly; “but you see that it is as I say – you are too timid – too diffident.”

“I say, though, you know,” said his lordship, “was her mother that style of woman – quiet and fond of weed-hunting – botany, you know?”

“You will oblige me greatly by not referring to the late Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray, stiffly.

“Oh, beg pardon, you know. No offence meant.”

“It is granted,” said Sir Murray; and then, in a different tone: “There goes the dressing-bell.”

The gentlemen strolled up in silence to the entrance, where the major-domo – Mr Alexander McCray – who seemed to rule supreme at Merland, now stood waiting the arrival of his master.

“I’m thinking, Sir Mooray,” he said deferentially, “that ye’d like a pony-carriage sent to meet my young lady.”

“What – has she not returned?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.

“Nay, Sir Mooray, not yet awhile, and I should hae sent wi’oot saying a word, but that I thocht my laird here would tell us which road she gaed.”

“Towards the waste – the snipe ground, you know,” said his lordship, on being appealed to.

“Send at once, McCray. No: go yourself,” said Sir Murray.

“I’ll go with him,” said his lordship, who now seemed about wakening to the fact that he had grossly neglected his intended; and five minutes after the old Scot was driving briskly towards the village.

“Ye dinna ought to have left her, my laird,” said McCray, sturdily. “She’s ower young to be left all alone.”

“What? Were you speaking to me?” said his lordship, haughtily.

“Ay, that I was,” said McCray. “Ye mauna mind me, my laird, for I’m a’most like her foster-fairther, and nursed her on my knee mony’s the time.”

His lordship did not condescend to answer, and the lanes were traversed at a good rattling pace; but though McCray pulled up from time to time to make inquiries, the only news he learned was that Miss Gernon had been seen to go towards the marsh, but not to return; while one cottager volunteered the information that young Squire Norton, the sailor, went that way too in the morning time, and that neither of them had been seen to come back.

This news had no effect upon Lord George Maudlaine, but a close observer would have seen that the wrinkles upon Alexander McCray’s brow grew a little more deeply marked.

“He’s a douce laddie,” muttered McCray, as he drove on, “and warth a score sic birkies as this one; but it was ill-luck his meeting as they did that day, and it winna do – it winna do! We shall be having sair wark yet, I’m afraid. They’re kittlecattle these womenkind, and I nearly suffered shipwreck with them mysel’.”

“There’s no one here,” said his lordship, now condescending to speak, as they drove to where the road faded away into a faint track, which, in its turn, led to the pine-grove.

“We’ll get doon and hopple the ponies, my laird, and walk on to the pine-wood. My young leddie may be in there.”

“Confound his barbarous tongue! Why don’t he speak English?” muttered the Viscount. “I don’t understand one-half he says.”

But McCray’s acts were plain enough, even if his words were obscure; and, descending, he secured the ponies, and was about to start towards the wood, already looking black and gloomy, when one of Brace Norton’s cries for help smote his ear.

“Gude save me! Hearken to that, noo!” cried McCray, excitedly.

“Only a marsh bird,” said his lordship, contemptuously.

“Gude save us! Come alang; that’s a soul in sair peril, my laird,” And starting in the direction of the cry, as fast as the treacherous nature of the ground would allow, McCray soon came in sight of that which made him redouble his pace.

“Here! Help, here!” cried a voice from behind. “I’m sinking!” When, with a glance over his shoulder, McCray saw that his companion was already above his knees in a soft place.

“De’il help ye – ye ill-far’ed, handle-named loon!” muttered McCray, fiercely. “Why couldna ye walk like a Christian, and not get in that way? I’ve ither work in hand.”

Then hastening on, he stepped from tuft to tuft, with an agility not to have been expected in a man of his years, till well within reach of words:

“Haud oup, then,” he cried – “haud oup, my bra’e laddie, I’m with ye. There!” he cried, as he threw himself at full length upon the yielding moss, and reached to where, ghastly of face, Brace still clung, and held up his charge – “there! I ha’e yer hand. Loose the rushes, and grip it weel – grip it weel.”

“Her first – take her first,” sobbed Brace, hoarsely.

“That I will!” cried McCray, working himself forward. “Gude save us, though, it’s sair wet work here, and I’m a deal heavier than I thocht. Noo I ha’e her, and she’s leet as swansdoon aifter a’. The puir bairn, I ha’e her safe, but she’s half dead. Lie there, my pretty, while I pu’ out the laddie. Noo, my laddie; that’s reet – that’s reet; the ither hand. Noo again. Gude – gude! another pu’. Hech! laddie, mind, or I shall be in wi ye. Noo then, anither pu’! That’s weel! I ha’e ye noo. Puir lad, ye’re cauld indeed, but ye’re safe, and reet too, so lie there while I tak’ the lassie.”

In effect, with the exertion of his great strength, McCray, broad-shouldered and iron muscled, had drawn both Isa and Brace from what had so nearly been a watery grave, but not without clanger to himself. Twice over the moss gave way with the stress placed upon it; but at last he had both lying safe beside him, and not before it was time, for Brace was completely exhausted.

“Let me carry her,” said Brace, hoarsely, as he staggered to his feet; but only to sink down again, his numbed limbs refusing their office.

“Ye’re a bra’e laddie,” said the Scot; “but your sperrit’s stronger than your power. I’ll carry the lassie to the carriage, and be back for you in a minute.”

“Never mind me,” groaned Brace. “I’m only cold. For Heaven’s sake drive off with her, for she is nearly dead with her long immersion.”

But before Brace’s words were well uttered, McCray was sturdily trudging over the sinking way with his dripping burden, which he placed in the pony-carriage, covered with a rug, and then returned to help the young man, who was crawling towards him.

“Bra’e laddie, ye air,” muttered McCray. “Ye found and savit her, I ken, and noo, half dead yersel’, ready to help, while that loon stands stoock there shouting for succour, and afraid to move. Here, hi! my laird, move yersel’, man, and, Gude sake, get out of that!”

“Here, give me your hand, my good fellow,” cried his lordship: “I’m in a dangerous spot.”

McCray growled fiercely as he went first and helped Brace to the chaise. Then turning back, he reached out the asked-for hand to extricate his lordship, but in so rough a manner that he nearly brought him into a horizontal position.

“Why, ye micht ha’e done that yersel’, my laird,” said McCray, angrily. “And noo I must leave ye, and hurry hame wi’ those two puir bairns.”

His lordship began to offer expostulations as he began to scuffle out of the bog, but it was to deaf ears, for McCray had run back, and before the noble suitor was on terra firma the ponies were unloosed and being made to gallop over the rough roadway.

“They’ll be dead wi’ cauld before I can get them to the Castle,” muttered McCray, as he held Isa in his arm, and rattled the reins with the other, so that the ponies plunged along furiously. “Puir bairns – puir bairns!”

McCray’s words were muttered, but Brace caught their meaning.

“Drive to the Hall,” he said, hoarsely; “it is quite a couple of miles nearer.”

“Gude sake! I might just as weel commit a murder,” muttered the Scot. “But I shall commit one if I dinna get house-room for the lassie directly. I’ll e’en do as he says, if I dee for it. Get on wi’ ye!” he roared to the ponies, already speeding along like the wind, when, being no inexpert Jehu, he kept them at a sharp gallop, till a few minutes after, when he drew them up on their haunches at the door of Merland Hall.

End of Volume Two

How Doctors Rule

Pale and agitated, Mrs Norton hurried out, followed by the Captain, for Brace’s long absence had been causing them great uneasiness; but Mrs Norton’s agitation increased to a painful degree as soon as she saw in what company he had: returned. Isa’s state was the first consideration; and dismissing every other thought, the insensible girl was borne to a bed-room by Captain Norton, as reverently as if she had been something holy, his lip quivering as he marked in the sweet features the lineaments of the one whom he had so fondly loved. Whilst, with all a mother’s care, Mrs Norton tended her, taking the first steps towards insuring the poor girl’s recovery – steps but for which the services of Dr Challen, for whom McCray had directly galloped off, would have been in vain.

An hour after, when Isa had begun to show signs of returning animation, her wondering eyes ranging from face to face – letting them rest longest upon the soft, motherly countenance bent over her to kiss her so tenderly – there came the sound of wheels, and Dr Challen hurried up to the bedside, to express his approval of what had been done.

“And noo I must go and tell Sir Mooray,” said McCray to Captain Norton. “I thought I’d get the doctor first.”

“I sent a groom directly you had gone,” said the Captain.

“’Deed and you did weel,” said McCray; “but I must stay here and face him, sir, for he’ll be over directly with my laird, there, like twa roarin and rampagin’ lions.”

In effect, five minutes after, there was again the sound of rapid wheels, followed directly after by Sir Murray Gernon’s voice in the hall.

“How dared you to bring her here?” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, harsh voice, to his old retainer, who met him boldly on the step.

“’Deed, Sir Mooray, so as to save the dear bairn’s life, and not have to face ye wi’ a cauld dead bodie. It was a case of seconds, Sir Mooray, and I ken ye wadna ha’e likit for me to bring the puir laddie wha savit her from drownin’ to the Castle.”

“And who saved her?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Hoot! Sir Mooray, naebodie else but the douce sailor laddie ye passed camin’ hame, when the chaise was broke up.”

A bitter epithet was hissed from Sir Murray Gernon’s lips, as he listened to this announcement; for to his excited imagination it seemed as if Fate were struggling against him and striving to bring together two who, could he contrive it, should be through life as far removed, to all intents and purposes, one from the other, as the two poles.

Sir Murray ascended to the bed-room, and then descended to pace impatiently up and down, frowning and angry, till, after seeing his patient sink into a quiet slumber, Dr Challen gave a sigh of satisfaction, and then joined the baronet.

“What?” exclaimed the doctor, after listening to Sir Murray’s first remark.

“She must be taken home directly,” said Sir Murray.

“Quite out of the question, my dear Sir Murray,” said the doctor, pleasantly, as he partook of the glass of wine left upon the sideboard.

“But the carriage is waiting, Challen,” said Sir Murray. “I came over in the close carriage on purpose. Surely if she is lifted in and driven slowly it cannot hurt her.”

“Now look here, Gernon,” said the doctor, sturdily, “I brought that child into the world, and saved her life, sir – saved her life, when not half-a-dozen doctors in England could have done it. I’ve been your – Capital glass of port, by Jove! Try one. You won’t? Very good; I will. Let’s see – what was I saying? Ah! I’ve been your family medical attendant ever since I began to practise, and save and except such times as you chose to go abroad and put yourself into the hands of foreign poisoners, I’ve had your welfare at heart. Now, I’m a crotchety old fellow – better try a glass of Norton’s port: I’ll swear it’s ’20 vintage – crotchety old fellow – over professional matters; and if the Queen herself came meddling in a sick-room where I was engaged, I’d order her out as soon as look at her: ergo, I’m not at all afraid of a baronet.”

Sir Murray made a gesture of impatience.

“There, confound you, sir,” cried the doctor, testily, “I don’t care for your fuming – I’m not going to give way. Now, look here, Gernon: you ought to have more confidence in me, and in what I say. I don’t want to boast; but I saved your life; I saved your wife’s life; and, as aforesaid, I saved the life of that child up-stairs when it was a tiny spark that a breath would have destroyed. I’m proud of it, you see. Now you want to kill her, because she is here in the house of the people you most dislike in the world – out-and-out good sort of people, and good friends of mine, all the same. Can’t help it – I must speak plain. This is a case where plain speaking is necessary, so you need not fling about. You must sink all these family quarrels, and thank Heaven that the poor child was brought here, where there was a clever, sensible woman like Mrs Norton to take the first steps towards warding off fever.”

“But, surely, Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, deprecatingly now, “with plenty of wrapping, and the carriage!”

“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.