The Sapphire Cross. George Manville Fenn
the power or desire to battle with it.”
Ada Norton felt no surprise, then, the morning after that on which the news respecting the Gernons had been received, when asking one of the servants if she had seen her master, she learned that he had been driven across to the town, and that the groom had just come back with the dog-cart.
It was nothing new, but taken in conjunction with the last night’s conversation, it caused no slight uneasiness in her breast, and as she sat watching the gambols of their child, the weak tears began to course one another down her cheeks. For she felt that he was unsettled by the tidings they had heard; and for a few moments her heart beat rapidly as she recalled the past, trembling for her own empire when thinking of Marion Gernon’s return.
Would not the old feeling of love come back, and would they not both hate her? Marion, for her possession of him who should have been her husband; Philip, for her ceaseless efforts to enlace herself round his heart. For, after all, he could not truly love her: he had been gentle, tender, affectionate, ever ready to yield to her every desire, almost worshipping his boy. In short, upon reviewing calmly her married life, with the sole exception of those occasional absences, she was obliged to own that she had all that she could desire, and that, however wanting in the wild, passionate, and romantic, Philip Norton’s love for her was imbued with that tender gentleness, based on admiration, trust, and faith, which was far more lasting and satisfying to the soul—a love that would but increase with years; and at last, with an impatient stamp of the foot, she wiped away her tears, upbraiding herself for her want of trust and faith in her noble husband, accusing herself of misjudging him. Catching up her boy, she covered him with kisses, her face lighting up with a joyful maternal pride in the strong link which had been sent to bind them together.
“Heaven helping me,” she muttered, “I’ll never doubt him.”
It was a grave promise—a vow hard to keep, as circumstances wove themselves in the future; and more than once Ada Norton had the excuse of sore temptation; but how she bore herself, how she kept faith in her husband under circumstances that might well raise doubts in the most trusting woman’s heart, will be seen in the sequel.
Sir Murray’s Gentleman.
There had been busy doings at the Castle, and Merland village was in an intense state of excitement. Old Chunt—Jonathan Chunt, who kept the “Black Bull”—said that there was to be some life in the place at last. He knew, for he had it from Mr. Gurdon—old Gurdon’s lad, but Mr Gurdon now, and an awfully big man in his master’s estimation. He was butler now, and had come over to superintend the getting in order of the place, for Sir Murray was fond of company, and there were to be no end of gaieties at the Castle. Mr. Gurdon was setting the old servants to rights and no mistake, for he’d got full power, and they hadn’t had such a waking up for long enough. Why, what with company’s servants coming down to the “Bull,” and post-horses now and then, and one thing and another, it would be a little fortune to him, Chunt said. Time there was a change, too: keeping a house like that shut up for the rats to scamper across the floors, was injuring the trade of the village, where there was no one else but the old people at the Rectory, and them Nortons, who might just as well be a hundred miles off, shutting themselves up as they did.
Chunt knew, and he imparted his knowledge, with no end of nods and winks, to his fellow-tradesmen, as he termed them—to wit, Huttoft, the saddler, who made nothing but harness, and Mouncey, the baker, when they came in for a glass.
“And if here ain’t Mr. Gurdon himself!” exclaimed Chunt, one evening, when he had been distilling information to a select knot of customers. “Take a chair, Mr. Gurdon, sir. Glad to see you this evening. Very curious coincidence, sir: we were just talking about you and your people;” which was indeed most remarkable, considering that nothing else had been talked of in the village for weeks past. “What’ll you take, sir? only give it a name. Quite an honour to have you distinguished furreners amongst us.”
Mr. Gurdon smiled and rubbed his hands; but, evidently considering that he had mistaken his position, he frowned the next moment, and nodded condescendingly to the tradesmen and little yeomen present. Certainly they had, several of them, known him as a boy; but then he had risen in the world, and deserved their respect; besides which, look at the patronage he could bestow. So Mr. Gurdon frowned, coughed, and looked important; but, finding that room was made for him, and that incense in abundance was being prepared in his behalf, he condescended to take a seat, and gave what he would take the name of sherry, with which he smoked a cigar, whose aroma whispered strongly of the box from which it had been taken.
Mr. Gurdon’s presence, though, did not tend to the increase of comfort in the party assembled, for the gentleman’s gentleman seemed to have imbibed a considerable portion of his master’s dignity, sitting there very haughty and reserved, while, the flow of conversation being stopped, the rest sat still, smoked, breathed hard, and stared.
But Chunt was satisfied, and he winked and nodded, and whispered behind his hand most mysteriously as he took orders from one and another. He expected that Mr. Gurdon would thaw in time with a little management, and, putting on his diplomatic cap, he set to work by asking his advice.
“That sherry’s not much account, Mr. Gurdon, sir,” he said, in a whisper; “but it’s the best I’ve got to offer you. The long and short of it is, sir, we can’t order enough, in a little house like this, to make a wine-merchant care about sending it good; but I’ve got a few gallons of brandy down now that I should just like you to try, and give me your opinion. You see, it isn’t every day as one has a gent in as understands such things; but you, being used to your cellar, and having good stuff in your bins, yours is an opinion one would like to have. There, sir, now just taste that,” said Chunt, filling a liqueur-glass from a big stone bottle; “that’s, between ourselves, just as it comes—untouched, you know. I’ll mix you a glass hot; but just give me your opinion on it as it is.”
Mr. Gurdon was touched in a weak place, for, though his cellar knowledge was almost nil, it was not worth while to say so. Incense was nice—almost as nice as brandy, so accepting Chunt’s glass, and confidential wink, he tasted the brandy—tasted it again, and then agreed that it wasn’t bad, only it wanted age.
“The very words as my spirit-merchant says to me, sir,” said Chunt. “If that brandy had age, sir, it wouldn’t be surpassed anywhere.”
Mr. Gurdon felt better, and agreed with one of the visitors present that they wanted rain. Then, after finishing the neat brandy, he commenced the stiff tumbler of hot grog placed before him by Chunt, toyed with the end of his cigar; and, finding a general disposition to pay him respect, and to call him “sir,” he gradually unbent—more swiftly, perhaps, than he would have done—under the influence of the brandy and water, for which he had a decided weakness, the potent spirit unlocking, or, as Chunt told his wife, oiling the butlers tongue, so that he gratified the curiosity of the Merlandites that evening to a considerable extent. And there was no lack of brandy and water that night: every one drank it, doing as Mr. Gurdon did; and there was quite a struggle amongst the little traders for the honour of “standing” Mr. Gurdon’s next glass, the most eager of them, so as not to be outdone, requesting Chunt to fill it again, while it was yet but half empty.
“And do you like furren parts, Mr. Gurdon, sir?” said Chunt, setting the ball rolling.
“Pretty well—pretty well,” said Gurdon. “On the whole, perhaps, better than England. Society’s higher there—more titles.”
“I suppose Mr. Gurdon ain’t brought home a Hightalian wife,” said Huttoft.
Mr. Gurdon did not quite approve of this; and Huttoft had to suffer the frowns of the whole company.
“And so, after all these years, Mr. Gurdon, sir,” said Mouncey, who was in high spirits with the prospect of bread supplying, “you haven’t brought us home a heir to the Castle.”
“No,” said Mr. Gurdon; “and it’s my opinion as there’ll never be one.”
“Turned out a happy match, and all that sort of thing,