The Sapphire Cross Part 2

"And he's agoin' too--ain't he?"

"Ay, lad. He's Sir Murray's head man now, and he's to be butler when they come back; and butlers keep keys, and there'll be a rare taste or two--eh?"

"Ay; and my Fan's gal, Jenny, she's going, you know--my grandchild as has been at parson's. She's going with her young missus; and strikes me, neighbour, as young Jack Gurdon's thinking about her a good deal.

Jane's mother twitted her with it, and the gal laughed; and there might be more strange things come to pa.s.s than for they two to come to be butler and housekeeper up ta old place."

The old men chuckled and blinked at one another upon the tombstone, for a few minutes, and then one spoke:

"Ain't they a long time getting of it done?"

"Two parsons, lad," said the other. "Takes two to do these grand weddings. But they'll be a-coming out directly, for here's Miss Minson putting the bairns straight with the flowers. But who's yon?"

The first old man shaded his eyes with his hands, as a tall figure, in a brown travelling suit, crossed the churchyard hastily from the rectory garden-gate, hurried up to the chancel door, peered in, and then, as if struck a violent blow, he reeled back against a tombstone, to which he clung for a few moments, till, recovering himself, he made his way in a blind, groping fas.h.i.+on, towards the south door, close to whose porch sat the two old men. There was a fair gravel-path, but he saw it not; but walked straight forward, stumbling over the mounds of the dead in his way, and feeling with outstretched hands the tombs--pa.s.sing himself along, till, clear of the obstacles, he again pressed on to the great railed vault of the Gernon family, hard by the porch, where, holding by one hand to the iron rails, he tore off his broad soft felt hat, and stood gazing into the church.

The school children, flower-basket in hand, shrank back; for there was something startling in the strangers appearance. For though quietly and gentlemanly dressed, his face was wild--his eyes staring. At first sight a looker-on would have raised his eyebrows, and muttered, "Drunk!"

But a second glance would have shown that the owner of that bronzed face, handsome once, but now disfigured by the great scar of a sabre-slash pa.s.sing obliquely from temple to jaw, was suffering from some great emotion, one which made his breast to heave, as his teeth grated together, one hand tearing the while at his handkerchief, as though he wanted air.

A few seconds, though, and the stranger grew apparently calm, as the people began to flock out, and the children excitedly grasped handfuls of flowers; while, though the newcomer took a step forward, so as to be in front of the double line of children, through which the bridal procession was to pa.s.s, he was unnoticed; for now the cry rose of "Here they come!" and the three bells struck up their sonorous chime--sweet, though wanting in proper cadence; for the old bells dated from days when the monks blessed, and threw in their silver offering to the molten metal.

"Now, lads! hooray!" piped one of the old fellows, climbing, by his companion's aid, to the tombstone, where he stood, bent of back, feebly waving his stick. "Hooray! and long life to Sir Murray and his lady!"

"Hooray!" cheered the crowd, in broken but hearty volleys.

Handkerchiefs were waved, flowers thrown, the buzz of excitement was at its height when the proud bridegroom strode forward with his blus.h.i.+ng bride, bright, almost radiant in her white drapery, as, slightly flushed, she smiled and bowed in acknowledgment of the greetings of the little ones whom she had often taught, now casting their simple flowery offerings at her feet; or with gentle glance thanked some old villager for the blessing invoked upon her head. Progress was made but slowly: they had advanced but a couple of yards from the porch, and Sir Murray, hat in hand, was intending to wave it in response to the greeting he was receiving, when he felt his wife's arm s.n.a.t.c.hed from his, and turned to see her with her hands clasped together and raised to the height of her face; the smile gone; a deadly stony pallor overspreading her features; her eyes starting, lips apart--it was as though death had smitten her in an instant; for with one stride the stranger had confronted her, his hand was upon her breast, and he had torn away the bunch of forget-me-nots, to dash them upon the ground, and crush them beneath his heel.

There was no word spoken: the language was of the eye; and the crowd around, who could see the incident, seemed paralysed, as was the bridegroom; but at that instant a wild and piercing shriek rang out from the porch, and there was a sharp movement in the group.

But that cry was not from Lady Gernon, who stood as if turned to stone; for as Sir Murray, recovering himself, had, pale with rage and mortification, exclaimed, "How dare you!" Ada Lee had sprung forward, and almost thrown herself upon the stranger's breast, pressing him back from her cousin, as she glided between them.

It was but in time; for, mad with rage and hatred, roused by his words, the newcomer had half-turned now to Sir Murray; but Ada clung to him tightly, her bridesmaids veil torn, her flowers crushed, but a bright wild look of joy and eagerness in her countenance, as she exclaimed--

"Back, Philip! Are you mad?"

Book 1, Chapter V.

TOO LATE.

"Now just you put that back where you took it from, Mr Impudence, or I'll tell your master."

"There you are, then, my dear; that's as near the spot as I can recollect," said the person addressed, giving Jane Barker a hearty smack on her rosy cheek, such a liberty being a little excusable on a wedding-day.

"Take your arm from round me, then; you can tell me without that, I'm sure," said Jane, shrinking back into the rectory kitchen.

"No, I can't; and how do I know but what perhaps, after I've been loving you with all my might, and saving up so as we may be married, there mayn't come a foreign lover, a currier, or something of that sort, and cut me out?"

"Don't be a fool, John!" exclaimed Jane, "and do adone there. I do declare--and serve you right, too! Such impudence!"

There was the sound of a smart slap received upon his cheek by John Gurdon, from the sole of one of the Rector's very broad old slippers, a weapon held in Jane's hand at the moment; and now she stood arranging her ruffled plumes, and gazing very defiantly at the red-cheeked gentleman before her.

"Well, that's pretty, certainly," he said, half in anger. "What are you doing with that shoe?"

"It's to slap the other side of your face with, if you're saucy," cried Jane, "now then; and if you're not, it's to give to cook to throw after the carriage when we go, for luck, you know; and it's bad enough we need it, I'm sure, for I never saw such a set-out. There's young missus looking that stony and dreadful and never speaking, it quite frightens me. I wouldn't care if she would only cry; but she won't. But do tell me."

"Well, you won't let me," said John Gurdon. "I didn't see it all; but them two nearly come to a fight, when Miss Lee jumped forward and held Mr Norton, and master carried her ladys.h.i.+p--you mustn't say 'young missus' now--on to the Rectory. Regular row and confusion, you know. I do wish they'd be off. All the company's gone; and there's that beautiful breakfast going a-begging, and all because two people want the same woman. Just as if there weren't plenty of women in the world ready to jump at a husband! I never see such fools!"

"Didn't you, Mr Greatgrand?" exclaimed Jane, firing up. "You're a nasty, unfeeling good-for-nothing--there! You're worse than that Mr Norton himself, shamming dead all these years on purpose to come back and break that poor dear angel's heart. There, it's no use; I hate you!

that I do; and if I'm to sit in that rumble with you, hour after hour, I shall be ill, that I shall, so now. Keep your hands to yourself, for I have done with you quite. There, go and answer that bell."

Jane flounced out of the kitchen, and John Gurdon, who was at the Rectory, to help wait at the wedding-breakfast, hurried into the hall, for there had come the loud ringing of a bell, succeeded by a clamour of voices.

"I tell you I will see her!" exclaimed Philip Norton, angrily, as he stood in the hall, with Ada clinging to his arm.

"Come in here, pray!--for Heaven's sake, come in here, Norton," cried the Rector, opening the drawing-room door. "This is not seemly--we are all grieved; but do not insult my child."

"Insult, old man!" exclaimed Norton angrily, as he followed him into the room; and then he uttered a cry of rage, for, unwittingly, the Rector had asked him into the very room where, angry and mortified, his newly-wedded wife up-stairs with her mother, Sir Murray Gernon was striding up and down.

In a moment the young men had each other by the throat, and stood glaring into each other's eyes, heedless that Ada and the Rector clung to first one and then the other, in a vain attempt to separate them.

"Murray! for my child's sake!" exclaimed the Rector.

"Philip! oh, for Heaven's sake, stop this madness!" whispered Ada.

Sir Murray Gernon cooled down in an instant, though still retaining his grasp.

"I am quite calm, Mr Elstree," he said; "but this man must leave the house at once."

"Calm!" shouted Philip Norton, mad almost with rage. "Thief! robber!

you have stolen her from me. She is mine--my wife--sworn to be mine; and you, amongst you, have made her false to her vows."

"Mr Norton," said Sir Murray, "are you a gentleman?"

"How dare you--you dog--ask me that?"

"Leave this house, then; and I will meet you at any future time, should you, in your cooler moments, wish it. I did intend to leave for the Continent this afternoon; but I will stay. I pity you--upon my soul, I do--but you must know that no one is to blame. You are, or ought to be, aware that the _Gazette_ published your death nearly four years ago, and that you have been truly mourned for. No one has been faithless, but your memory has been respected as well as cherished. You have come in a strange and mad way; but we are ready to overlook all that, as due to the excitement and bitterness of your feelings. I now ask you, as a gentleman, for the sake of her parents, for your own sake--for the sake of _my wife_--to leave here quietly, and to try to look calmly upon the present state of affairs. I have done."

As Sir Murray ceased speaking he suffered his hand to fall from Norton's throat, and stood calmly facing him, gazing into the other's fierce, wild eyes unblenched, while, as if the calm words of reason had forced themselves to his heart, he, too, allowed his hands to fall, and as the fierce rage seemed to fade out of his countenance, a strange s.h.i.+ver pa.s.sed through his frame, and he looked in a pitiful, pleading way from face to face, as if seeking comfort, before speaking, in a cracked, hollow voice:

"Too late!--too late! But no, not yet! You," he exclaimed, turning to Sir Murray, "you will be generous. You will waive this claim. See here!" he cried excitedly, as with outstretched hands he pleaded to the husband: "I was cut down, as you know, in hard fight, and I woke to find myself a prisoner amongst the hill tribes; and ever since, for what has seemed a life-time, I have been held a slave, a captive--beaten, starved, ill-used in every conceivable way; but look here!" he cried, tearing from his breast a little leather purse, and opening it. "See here!" he cried, taking out a few dry flower-stalks: "her flowers, given me when, young and ardent, we plighted troth--forget-me-nots; true blue--and we swore to live one for the other. Man! man! those few withered blossoms have been life to me when, cut and bruised, I could have gladly lain down beneath the hot Indian sun and gasped out my last breath. I believe my captors tried to kill me with ill-usage; but I said I would not die--I would live to look once more upon her face, even though it were to breathe my last at her feet. And now--now, after hards.h.i.+ps that would make your blood run cold, I escape, and reach home, what do I find? Her, worse than dead--worse than dead! But no! it cannot be so. You, sir--I ask you humbly--I ask you as a supplicant-- forgive my mad words, and tell me that you waive your claim. You will be generous towards us; the law will do the rest. You, sir," he cried, turning to the Rector, "plead with me. I am no beggar. I come back to find myself rich. Help me, for poor Marion's sake! Do not condemn her to a life that must be only such a captivity as mine! Am I right? You will both be generous, and this horrid dream of despair is at an end!"

He advanced a step nearer to Sir Murray; but the latter turned from him.

"Speak to him, sir," he said to the Rector. "It will be better that I should go."

Sir Murray's head was bent as he left the room, not daring to trust himself to gaze again upon the wild, appealing face turned towards him; while, as the door closed, Philip Norton turned to the Rector, who, poor man, stood wringing his hands, hardly knowing what to do or say. But the next moment, with a groan of despair, Philip Norton let his head drop upon his breast, for he read his sentence in the old man's eyes.

But again, with an effort, he roused himself, and caught Ada's hands in his, sending a wild thrill through the poor girl's frame, as she averted her head, and listened, with beating heart, to his words.

"You turn from me too," he said, bitterly; and he did not retract his words, though Ada started as if stung, and met his gaze, her face breathing, in every lineament, love and sympathy, though he could not read it then. "You know, young as you were then, how I loved her.

Plead for me. Ask her to come to me, if but for a minute. But, no-- no--no!" he cried, despairingly, "it is too late! I thought to have gained heaven, and the door is shut in my face. Too late--too late!"

and then, with the same hopeless, groping, half-blind look in his countenance, he reeled towards the door, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but, mad with grief, striving blindly to leave the house, his hopes crushed, his life seeming blotted out by the blackness of despair.