The Sapphire Cross. George Manville Fenn
pale with rage. “You bad, wicked fellow! You’re like the scorpion in the Holy Bible, you are, that turns to rend the hand that fed it. Oh!” she cried, growing gradually more and more furious, “to think that I’ve wasted all my best days about such a traitor—such a cruel, malicious, spiteful, dirty story-teller! Shame on you! How dare you, you villain, hint at such wickedness about my poor dear sweet mistress, whose dear heart is as pure as an angel’s—a sweet, suffering lamb?”
“A sweet, suffering lamb, indeed!” cried Gurdon, savagely. “Yah! There’s a pair of you—she-wolves, more likely.”
“Then I’ll be the wolf that shall shake such a nasty lying cur as you!” cried Jane, furiously. “Go down on your knees, you wicked—wicked—nasty—story-telling—villain—you, or I’ll shake all the breath out of your body!”
In effect, beside herself with rage, Jane had caught the butler by the collar with both hands, and at every word she had given him a furious shake, till, utterly confounded at the suddenness of the attack, he had really, to avoid the onslaught, sunk upon his knees, enabling her, though, to deliver the correction more effectually.
“Say it was all stories—say it was all stories,” cried Jane.
“I won’t: it’s all as true as true, and her—”
“Take that, you wicked villain!” shrieked Jane; and with the full force of her by no means weak arm, she slapped him across the mouth just as the door opened, and a knot of eager, curious servants appeared.
“What is the matter?” was the cry.
“Let him say a word if he dares,” cried Jane, ending her punishment by a tremendous box on the butler’s ears, to the intense delight of the lookers-on. “He told lies about me, and I hit him—there!” said Jane defiantly, “and let him say it isn’t true if he dares.”
Then, utterly exhausted by her efforts, poor Jane threw herself, sobbing, into a chair.
“Oh, take me away!—take me away!” she cried; and two of the sympathising women ran to her, declaring that it was a shame, that it was; while the stout cook delivered her opinion that it would be a blessing if there wasn’t a man left on the face of the earth, “breaking poor women’s hearts as was faithful unto death.”
Whereupon one of the footmen winked at a very smart and aspiring kitchen-maid, who had whispered to him her suspicions respecting cook’s possessing a similar weakness to Mr. Gurdon’s, and requiring stimulants for the due invention of fresh dishes.
“It’s a pity that people don’t know their places,” said Gurdon, sulkily, “and keep to the kitchen and hall, instead of pushing themselves into the housekeeper’s room, where they’re not wanted.”
But somehow, the butler’s words had but very little effect, for in spite of their knowledge of his engagement to Jane Barker, and her great influence in domestic matters with her mistress, John Gurdon’s tenure at the Castle was held to be in a very insecure state.
Nobody therefore stirred—Mr. Gurdon’s hint evidently not being sufficiently potent; so, with a scowl at the sobbing woman, he turned and left the room, to don a fresh cravat—the present one being limp, crumpled, and displaying very clearly the encounter in which he had been engaged.
“Let them look out, some of them,” he cried, wrathfully, as soon as he was alone. “If I’m to be dragged down, I’ll pull somebody with me, so let them look out, that’s all I’ve got to say;” and with a savage scowl upon his face, he brought down his fist with a heavy blow upon the table by which he stood.
The Sapphire Cross.
“How well Marion looks,” said Ada Norton to her husband, as, seated in one of the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms at the Castle, they watched her receiving fresh guests, on the night of the party. The Nortons had dined there, and all had gone off, so far, most successfully; people coming from a great distance just for an hour in the evening—an invitation to the Castle being something not to be slighted.
“Yes, she looks well,” said Norton, calmly. “The old weary air seems to have passed away entirely. I used to think that Gernon did not use her well, but, thank Heaven, I believe I misjudged him.”
“Oh yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Norton, hastily. “I am so much in her confidence that I think something of the kind would have oozed out, if such had been the case. And yet I don’t know,” she continued in a tone of reproach; “Marion has, like other people, her secrets.”
Norton turned sharply round; but Lady Gernon approaching, the conversation ceased.
“Mamma says you have not spoken to her to-night, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, whose face was flushed with excitement; and never had Norton thought her beauty more regal than now, as she stood before him with a brilliant tiara of sapphires and diamonds in her hair, while the large cross of pure and costly gems rose and fell with the soft heaving of her bosom.
“You extravagant woman!” laughed Ada, in reference to her cousin’s jewels. “If I had those sapphires I should never dare to wear them.”
“Murray always likes me to wear them on these particular occasions,” said Lady Gernon, carelessly; and, after exchanging a pleasant smile with Norton, she moved away towards where Mrs. Elstree was seated.
In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon frowned at the sight of that smile; but he turned away the next moment, to encounter his butler, at whom he gazed for a moment, and then, walking close up to him, he said, severely, “I told you I should not look over the next occasion, sir. Come to the library for your wages at ten to-morrow morning.”
John Gurdon’s face broke out into a profuse perspiration as he heard that sentence—one from which he knew there was no appeal—and he darted a scowling look of hatred at his master as he turned away. For Gurdon knew the justice of the decree: he had been drinking again. He had fought with the temptation, but the fine old wines, constantly to his hand, had been too much for him; and he had again succumbed, so that, as he stood there that moment beneath one of the brilliant chandeliers, in the midst of wealth and splendour, he saw himself beggared and wretched—a poor, out-of-place servant, whom no one would employ on account of his potent vice.
But a feeling of rage and hatred filled his breast the next instant, as he turned to single out his master; but he had disappeared, and with lowering brow the butler left the room to attend to some call.
Sir Murray Gernon had entered the blue-room, one of the handsome suite of drawing-rooms at the Castle, where he came upon a knot of his male friends, amongst whom stood Mr. Elstree. He would have avoided them, but for some earnest mention of Norton’s name, that was made in a low tone, and in spite of himself he said hastily:
“What’s that about Captain Norton?”
“Ruined, I fear,” said Mr. Elstree. “Those mines have collapsed—perfect crash—heavy calls on the shareholders, I’m told. We were remarking how calmly the poor fellow takes it. Poor Ada cannot know, for she is laughing happily with my wife.”
“These things are better kept from the ladies, I think,” said a friend. “I’m sorry for them, though.”
“Unworldly man!”—“foolish speculation!”—“perfect madness!” were amongst the remarks Sir Murray then heard made, when he turned to gaze at his stricken guest, who, apparently quite calm and untroubled by a care, had risen from his seat and crossed to where Lady Gernon was standing. A minute after, she had left Mrs. Norton with her mother, placed her arm in Captain Norton’s, and with him crossed towards the conservatory, where, amidst the golden-fruited oranges, the heavily-scented exotics, and the soft light diffused from flower-encircled and shaded lamp, a few of the guests were seated, or wandering in what seemed to be a fragment of some tropic land.
It was hard work for Sir Murray to preserve his calm and smiling aspect amidst his guests when such thoughts as troubled him were struggling