The Sapphire Cross Part 49

"Be a man, Brace," said his father, in a low, earnest voice; and he stood for a few moments clasping his son's hands in his own. "I, too, have suffered, Brace!"

"I know it--I know it!" said Brace, in the same sad, listless way, "and I'll try and bear it; but oh! father, my heart feels desolate!"

"Come, I'm going to see how the works progress. You'll go with me: to-morrow we'll start early, and go away for a few days."

Brace allowed his father to take his arm, and he walked with him mile after mile, listening, apparently, to his descriptions of the progress of the drain, till, evening drawing on, they came round by the old pine grove, crossed it at one end, where the evening breeze was sighing with a low, murmuring noise amidst the boughs over head--a sound as of waters breaking upon a distant sh.o.r.e.

In spite of Captain Norton's efforts to be cheerful, he felt now that he had made a grievous mistake in the route he had chosen; for the solemn whisperings of the gloomy old pine wood had their influence even upon him; and, as his heart beat painfully, he shudderingly recalled the past. So strong were the impressions made by memory, that he had not a word to say in opposition when Brace gently disengaged his arm, and seated himself upon one of the fallen trunks, to bury his face in his hands. Captain Norton even felt that he could have followed his son's example, as, like spectres of the past, came trooping by the thoughts and scenes of the bygone, as the old pine wood grew more and more dim and sombre, for the sun had just dipped below the distant horizon.

There was the old scene at the church porch; the encounter at the rectory; the walk over the moor; his madman's acts; and, lastly, his awaking to the fact that the devoted woman who had followed him was lying bleeding at his feet--perhaps breathing her last sighs. Then came a change, and he saw again Marion, his old love, returned from abroad; the meeting in his own garden; the scene at the party; the disappearance of the cross; the blow stricken by Sir Murray Gernon; and, lastly, the news that Lady Gernon had, in one short hour, as it were, pa.s.sed from this life. And now, here was his son--apparently persecuted by the same sad fate--crouching before him, heart-broken and despairing. What was in the future for them both?

He asked himself the question; and then, as if electrified, he started, and stood listening.

"What was that, Brace?" he cried, excitedly.

"Nothing but the men leaving work," said the young man drearily.

"Nonsense!--rouse yourself!" cried the Captain, "and come on: there is something wrong. Hark at the hurried buzz of voices! The dam must have burst! Let us go."

"It is only the wind in the pine-tops sighing as if all the sad spirits of the air were there in debate," said Brace. "I like staying here, father; for it is as if one was once more at sea, with the heralds of the coming storm whispering through the rigging, and telling the news of the fierce winds, soon to shake spar and cord. Father," he said dreamily, "I ought not to have stayed at Merland so long."

"There is something going on out there!" cried the Captain, who had not heeded his son's words. "Come, Brace--once more be a man, and let us go and see."

The young man started up, and together they hurried to where the navvies had been at work, to find that, half-drunken, they had neglected to see to the security of a dam, beneath which they were working, and it had burst, sweeping all before it, tearing down and scooping out the sides of the drain; and Brace and his father arrived in time to save the lives of two of the men, whom the water had swept some distance down.

But no lives were lost, and soon, the water having pa.s.sed, the men collected where they had been at work, one angrily blaming the other as being the cause of the mischief.

"Are you all here?" exclaimed Captain Norton in his sharp, short, military way. "Count up!"

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Where's Joe Marks?" cried the ganger, counting.

"Here, all right!" growled a wet savage, who was vainly trying to ignite his pipe with some sodden matches.

"Where's Sol Dancer?" cried the ganger, after another spell at counting.

"Oh! he's over there," said another with a grin. "You couldn't drownd he, if you was to try."

"We're all right, sir!" said the ganger. "We was going to work another hour, as they lost a lot o' time this morning; but it's all over now for to-night. Nice job to get straight again in the mornin'. But, hallo!

what's that?"

He was about to step forward, through the soft peat mire, when he was pressed back by Captain Norton, to whom and to his son had come in one and the same instant, the revelation of the second part of the Merland mystery; and together they leaped down into the great cutting, to wade through up to their waists in the black, decayed bog vegetation. They needed no words for explanation; the tufts of little forget-me-nots and silky cotton rush growing around, and yet untouched by the navvies'

spades, told all; for there, in the side of the great drain, where the rush of water had, in its fierce eddy, scooped out a vast ma.s.s of peat, stood, perfectly upright, with hands clasped together as if in prayer, her head thrown back, as if to give the last glance upward, towards the haven of rest, the body of Marion Lady Gernon.

Foul play? Treachery there was none, save that of the deceitful moss spread over the soft peat--a verdant carpet over black relentless death from which there was no escape. Even yet, tightly clasped within her fingers, were the remains of the specimens she must have been gathering when the moss gave way, and she sank, apparently without a struggle, from the eyes of the world.

There was no horrible decay here--no frightful repelling change; the peat had the strange preservative character within it of holding unaltered that which it took to itself; and as the body of a poor Saxon woman was once found, after probably fifteen hundred years' immersion, so was found that of Marion Lady Gernon.

The truth at last--the dread truth, proclaiming itself, trumpet-tongued, for all men to hear--proclaiming innocence, and wronging suspicion, suffering, and death. The last veil was lifted from the past; and as the truth shone forth, clear and bright, foul suspicion and lying scandal shrank away abashed from the bright light to the dark shades where they had been engendered.

"The truth at last!" groaned Philip Norton, elderly and grey now, as he stood, with clasped hands, gazing at the silent dead--"the truth at last, and now he will believe."

The navvies shrank back in half dread at the strange sight for a few minutes; and when, recovering, they would have advanced, Brace motioned them back, and he alone heard his father's words.

"At last--at last! what I have prayed for so long. At last! Oh Heaven!

I loved her too well to have sullied her even in thought!"

He stood motionless for a few minutes, and then, by a fierce effort, he started back into life.

"Let no hand but ours rest upon her, Brace," he whispered; and then, of the woodwork near, a litter was hastily contrived, and on a bed of the heather and rush, amidst which she had loved to linger, the sleeping figure was slowly borne towards the village, till, as they neared the Park, Brace left his father to prepare those at the Castle for the awful visitation.

Book 2, Chapter x.x.xI.

AT ONE.

Two months elapsed, and Merland village had almost ceased talking about the grand funeral from the Castle--"the strange berryin'"--when, after twenty long years, Lady Gernon was borne to the family vault, with the Nortons, at Sir Murray's wish, for chief mourners. For he lay as he had been stricken down, a broken, helpless man, tended ever by his two old, faithful servants; McCray watching his every glance, and often and often sitting at his bedside, to read to him, in a strong Scottish tw.a.n.g, the news of the present and the future. But for a long while there was a strange, uneasy aspect in Sir Murray Gernon's face whenever Jane McCray was in the room. And that uneasy look was at last interpreted by the housekeeper, who, as she smoothed his pillow, asked him of his thoughts--for he had, as it were, questioned her with his eyes--while she held bottle and medicine-gla.s.s in her hand.

"She never but once tasted it," said Jane McCray, "I changed it every time."

His words came now only in broken utterances, so that only his regular attendants could comprehend his wishes, but that time, plainly and loudly came the words:

"Thank G.o.d!"

Few knew the bitter fight that took place in that proud man's breast, as, humbled now, he saw clearly the way in which he had taken suspicion to his breast, nurturing it and preparing the soil for its lasting stay, until the foul roots had laced and interlaced--until it was like tearing his heart to pieces to drag them forth. But it had to be done, and he did it manfully, in those long hours, when he lay helpless and alone.

How he could read now the past by another light; his own weakness, the bitter sufferings of the true-hearted woman who had striven to bear the cross that had fallen to her lot. How all his wealth and possessions had been but so much dust and ashes, and his life, so far, one dreary blank. But there was the future!--and for awhile his face brightened, and he looked elate; there was his child--there was Philip Norton's child. Should not they possess the happiness that had never been his?

But then his brow became overcast, as he thought of how he would have to humble himself before his old rival and enemy.

It was a bitter fight; but help came, as Isa glided into the room, and knelt beside his pillow, placing her little hands in his; and the weak tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks, as he prayed for strength to root out the last foul thread that seemed to canker his breast. He could see it all now--all so plainly, that with him rested the happiness of many around; and as he took those hands and held them to his brow, he prayed earnestly as man ever yet prayed, that the past might be forgiven, and a new heart granted to his suffering breast.

That prayer must have been heard, for the next day Brace Norton and his father were at the Castle, seated by the sick man's bed, till Sir Murray made a sign to McCray, who whispered in Brace Norton's ear, and they two left the room.

No eye saw--no ear heard what took place in that bed-chamber; but when, at last, alarmed at the long silence, Brace and Isa stole in, Sir Murray's eyes were closed, and Captain Norton's head was bowed down, while Brace felt his heart leap and the tears rush to his eyes, as he saw that their right hands were tightly clasped together.

Captain Norton started to his feet as the young couple entered, but it was no display of shame at his weakness, for he clasped Isa directly to his breast, and Brace saw that the hand his father had dropped was feebly held out to him. And then, though no words were spoken, a strange peace, hitherto unknown, stole upon every heart there present.

Book 2, Chapter x.x.xII.

AFTER A LAPSE.

"I ha'e been thinking, Jenny," said Alexander McCray, one afternoon, when, during intervals of taking pinches of snuff, he had mixed himself a tumbler of whisky and water, wherein floated the transparent discs of half a sliced lemon--"I ha'e been thinking, Jenny, if it wasna for Sir Mooray wanting my airm noo he's oop again, and liking it better than that three-wheeled chair thing, I'd give oop the stewards.h.i.+p, and go back to my gairden."

"Nonsense!" said Mrs McCray, smiling.

"Weel, la.s.sie, ye may ca' it nonsense, but I ca' it soun' sense, for it's quite hairt-breaking to see the way that man neglects the floor-beds. There's no floors noo in the gairden like there was in my day."

"Alexander!" exclaimed his wife, jumping up, and turning him round so that he could see through the low window out into the pleasure-grounds--"you are getting in the habit of talking nonsense!

Did you ever see such a flower as that in the grounds in your day?"

"Gude save us--no," said Sandy, putting on his gla.s.ses, and a smile dawning on his rugged face--"Gude save us--no, la.s.sie! Ye're reet, for she's a bonnie floor, indeed; and look at the sweet tendrils of the thing, and how she clings to the brae stake that's goin' to support her.