The Sapphire Cross. George Manville Fenn
in the hills. Lor’ bless you! it’s wonderful what a happy pair they are. Awfully jealous man, though, Sir Murray—nearly had a duel with a foreign Count, who wanted to be too attentive to my lady; but when my gentleman found as master meant fight, he cooled down, and made an apology.”
“Ladyship changed much?” said Chunt.
“Well, no; not much,” said Gurdon. “We all look older at the end of five years. She always was pale, and perhaps she is a bit thinner than when she went away. But there, you’ll see her safe enough before long; they’ll be home to-morrow, and she’ll be always out, either riding or walking.”
“I used to fancy that things wouldn’t turn out happily after that set-out at the church door,” said Huttoft, venturing another remark. “Of course you know as Mr. Norton’s settled down at the Hall?—married Miss Lee, you know. Good customer of mine, too.”
“Ah, yes; we know all about that,” said Gurdon, sarcastically. “Her ladyship was frightened, of course; and enough to frighten any lady, to see a mad-brain fellow rush at her like that. Boy and girl love affair, that’s what that was. Them sort of things never come to nought; and look how soon he got over it and married. Her ladyship was upset about it, though, when she got the news. She was fond of her cousin, you know, Miss Lee, and you may say what you like here, but we got the right tale over abroad about that Captain Norton shooting her; while, when her ladyship heard that her cousin had been foolish enough to marry him, she had a brain fever, and was bad for weeks. No wonder, neither. He must be half-cracked with sunstroke or drink. They do say them Indy officers drink hard. Well, just one more, gents, and this must be the last.”
Mr. Mouncey could not help siding with the butler, for he happened to know that Captain Norton was a bit queer at times, as the servants had told him more than once, going rushing off to all parts without saying a word to anybody, not even to Mrs. Norton; and he couldn’t quite see through it, unless it was, as Mr. Gurdon said, the Captain was, after all, a bit touched.
“By the way, though,” said Chunt, “isn’t he taking up with that Iron Company?”
“Iron!” said Gurdon, thickly. “No iron about here.”
“Oh yes,” said Huttoft; “they’ve found a bed, and there’s some talk of trying to work it, bringing coal by canal, but I can’t see as it will answer.”
Soon after this the conversation became general upon the future of the iron, the company being divided, some declaring for riches to those who took shares in the company, others prognosticating that the shareholders would find the iron too hot to hold, and would burn their fingers in a way not to be forgotten. But, at last, remembrances of frowning wives sitting up for absent lords brought the hour into serious consideration, and, after glasses round, the enthusiastic party insisted upon seeing Mr. Gurdon home, which they did to the lodge gates, parting from him most affectionately, though it might have been better had they continued their escort until he reached his normal bed, the one he chose, when left to himself, being a bed of verbenas, where he was found, covered with dew, at early morning, by Alexander McCray, one of the under-gardeners, who did not fail to treasure up the circumstance against the next time he might be snubbed.
Husbands and Wives.
The Gernons had returned to the Castle for some days before Philip Norton came home, his wife anxiously scanning his countenance, to find him apparently quite happy and untroubled of mind. She had something she wished to say to him, but she shrank from her task, hardly knowing how to commence; her difficulty, though, was ended by Norton himself, who, as they were seated at tea, turned the conversation in the required direction.
“So the Castle folks are back,” he said, quietly.
“Yes; they arrived last Thursday,” said Mrs. Norton, uneasily.
“Busy times there’ll be there, then, I expect,” said Norton. “Do the old place good.”
Mrs. Norton looked searchingly at him, but not a muscle of his countenance was moved.
“Do you know, love, I’ve been thinking over their return,” he said, after a few moments’ silence, “and I fancy that, perhaps, it would be better if the intimacy between you and Lady Gernon were not resumed. Time works wonders, we know, but I cannot think that there could ever be the cordiality that one would wish to feel towards one’s friends.”
“Can you read my thoughts, dear?” said Mrs. Norton, kneeling at his feet, so as to rest her elbows on his knees, and gaze up in his face.
“Well, not all,” he said, laughing. “A great many, though, for you are horribly transparent. But why?”
“Because you have been thoroughly expressing my wishes. Do not think me foolish, but I do, indeed, think it would be better that there should be no intimacy between the families.”
“Foolish!” he laughed. “Why, that would be like blaming myself. But there, I don’t think we need trouble ourselves; for I suppose they will be very grand, and take up only with the county families and grandees from London; they will not want our society. And do you know, dear, we shall have to pinch and save no end, for I have been investing heaps of money in a speculation—one, though, that is certain to pay. Iron mines, you know, that were found last year at Blankesley. Capital thing it is to be, so they tell me.”
“But was it not foolish?” said Mrs. Norton. “Had we not enough, dear?”
“Well, yes,” he said, rather impatiently; “enough for ourselves, but we have the child to think of. You do not suppose he will be content to lead his fathers dreary life.”
“Dreary, Philip?”
“Well, no—not dreary. I don’t mean that; but quiet, retired existence; and besides, a little to do with this iron affair—a little occupation—will be the making of me. I’ve grown so rusty,” he said, laughing, “that I have run to iron to polish it off.”
That same night a similar conversation took place at the Castle, where, in quiet, well-chosen words, Sir Murray expressed a wish that there might be no communication held with the inmates of the Hall.
“Do you doubt me, Murray?” said Lady Gernon, rising, and standing looking down upon her husband, as he leaned back in his chair.
“Doubt you!” he said, almost angrily. “My dear Lady Gernon, what a question!”
“Then why should you ask me, now that at your wish we have returned to the Castle, to give up the love, sympathy, and companionship of my cousin? Why did we not stay abroad, if such coldness is to be preserved. I ceased corresponding with her at her marriage, but with what pain and cost you only know. Do not ask more of me.”
“There—there,” he said, “what a trouble you are making of this trifle. It is my wish that the old acquaintanceship should not be renewed. No good can result from it; but, perhaps, for all parties a great deal of heartburning and pain. Be guided by me, Marion.”
“Not in this,” she said, firmly. “Murray, I never yet in anything opposed your wishes, but in this I do. It is my intention to drive over and call upon Ada to-morrow, and I ask you to accompany me. To be distant now would be like disinterring old griefs and sorrows that should before this have been forgotten. Let the past be buried in the past, and let us be, with these our nearest neighbours, upon intimate terms. You do not know Philip and Ada as I know them; and I love them both too dearly to slight them even in thought.”
“As you will,” he said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“And besides,” she continued, “your wish is almost an insult to your wife, Murray; it is cruel in tone, cruel in wording—harsh as it is unjust—unfair.”
“Do I not say,” he exclaimed, angrily, “do as you will? I gave you my opinion as to what I thought would be best, and you differ. Very well; one of us must give way, and I have yielded. What more would you have? Do I ever play the domestic tyrant? Am I ever