The Sapphire Cross.

by George Manville Fenn.

Book 1.

Chapter I.

IN THE OLD FEN-LAND.

"Oh, how sweet the pines smell, Marion! I declare it's quite bliss to get down here in these wilds, with the free wind blowing the London smoke out of your back hair, and no one to criticise and make remarks.

I won't go to the sea-side any more: pier and band, and esplanade and promenade; in pink to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next day in green; and then a bow here and a 'de-do' there; and 'how's mamma?' and 'nice day;' and all the same sickening stuff over again. There! I won't hear fault found with the Fen-land ever any more. I don't wonder at that dear old Hereward the Wake loving it. Why, it's beautiful! and I feel free--as free as the air itself; and could set off and run and jump and shout like a child?"

"Dangerous work, running and jumping here," said a tall, pale girl, the speaker's companion, as she picked her way from tuft to tuft of heath and rushes, now plucking a spray of white or creamy-pink moss, now some silky rush, and at last bending long over a cl.u.s.ter of forget-me-nots, peering up from the bright green water plants, like turquoise set in enamelled gold.

"What lovely forget-me-nots!" cried her blonde companion, hurrying to her side, the oozy ground bending beneath her weight, as she pressed forward. "True blue--true blue! I must have a bunch as well."

"Poor Philip's favourite flowers," said the other, sadly. "I have the little dried bouquet at home now that he gave me--six years ago this spring, Ada. Forget-me-not!"

She stood, sad and thoughtful, with the flowers in her hand, the tears the while dropping slowly upon the little blue petals, that seemed like eyes peering up at her. They were standing together upon the edge of a wide stretch of uncultivated marsh, which commenced as soon as the grove of whispering pines through which they had come ceased to flourish; though here and there, just as they had been dragged forth from the boggy depths, lay, waiting for carriage, huge roots of pines, that had been growing, perhaps, two thousand years before, and now, probed for and dragged to the surface, proved to be sound--undecayed, and crystallised with the abundant turpentine, forming a fuel much sought after by the country people.

"Marion, darling," whispered the fair girl, pa.s.sing her arm round the other's waist, and speaking in soft, deep tones--a perfect contrast to her gay accents of a few moments before--"try not to mourn now: it is hardly loyal, and it is of no avail. I too have wept for the dead, many and many a time."

"Yes; we all weep for our pa.s.sed away," said Marion, sadly.

"Yes, true; I mourned, too, for poor Philip, Marion."

"You, Ada?"

"Yes; why not? I feel no shame in owning that I loved him, too--warmly as ever you could, though I saw his preference and bore it in silence."

"You, you--Ada?"

"Yes, dear, I. You think me light and frivolous, but may not that be merely on the surface? I wept long when I found that he loved and was engaged to you; but I hid my secret, for my only wish was to see him happy; and you cannot say that I ever failed in my friendship."

"Never--never, dear," said Marion, gazing with troubled eyes at her friend, but clinging to her the while; and then, making their way to the pine grove, they sat down amongst the soft shed needles to rest, dreamily pondering over the past, till, starting from her reverie, Ada Lee exclaimed lightly:

"There, this will not do. Poor Philip has gone to his soldier's grave, honourably fighting for his country. May Heaven rest him! for he was a brave fellow; but life is not long enough for much time to be spent in weeping. There, Marion, darling, rouse your self; this is not a thing of yesterday. Come! we must get back. Think of the wooing and wedding, and be as merry and light-hearted as I am. Heigho! I wish, though, that some one would marry me, and bring me to live down here in these dear old solemn marshes. How nice for me to be always close to you, wouldn't it? There's a house across there amongst the trees that would do capitally. Who lives there?"

"No one, Ada," said the other, sadly. "That is Merland Hall, where poor Philip should have dwelt."

Ada started, and again her arm was pressed round her companion's waist, when, almost in silence, they walked back to the parsonage, where Ada Lee was staying with her friend, having come down from London to fulfil the office of bridesmaid at Marion's wedding.

But on reaching her bedroom Marion threw herself in a chair, letting the botanical specimens she had been gathering fall upon the carpet beside her, as she leaned her head upon her hand, and remained silent and thoughtful.

"Oh, come--come, darling; this will never do," cried Ada. "Mrs Elstree said that I was to do all I could to cheer and enliven you, and here have I been making you worse with my ill-chosen chatter. Why, you ought to be as happy as the day is long: a fine, handsome husband, young as well as rich; a castle to live in, and he as devoted as possible. Why, I declare I'm almost in love with him myself. Look at the presents he has sent you. Why, one would think, to see that doleful face, that you did not like him!"

"But I do, Ada. I esteem and respect, and I think I love him."

"Think, indeed! why, of course you do. Didn't I see you give him a kiss last night when he asked you as he was going?"

"And I believe that I shall be very happy with him," continued Marion, not heeding her companions words; "but, just now, as I am going to take this irrevocable step, the past all seems to come back, and it almost seems as if I were going to be faithless to poor Philip; and, in spite of all I can do, my poor heart is filled with forebodings."

"Oh dear--oh dear! What a girl it is!" cried Ada. "This won't do, you know. What am I to do with you? Oh! look here! Why, here's a note on the dressing-table, and a case--a jewel-case, I'm sure! Why, it's another present from that dear Sir Murray. Why, you happy, lucky darling! There, pray read your note, and do show me what's in the case, there's a dear sweet girl."

As she spoke, she seized a note lying by a large morocco case upon the dressing-table, and eagerly placed it in her friend's hand, laying the case in her lap, at the same time stroking the hair from her forehead, and kissing her tenderly, though a shade of care and anxiety was plainly visible upon the face she strove to make appear mirthful.

Marion read the note, the colour mantling faintly in her cheek the while.

"He is most kind and affectionate," she said, sadly. "I would that he had chosen one more worthy of his love!"

"How can you talk like that?" cried Ada, reproachfully. "There, do pray chase away this horrible low-spiritedness! It is not right to Sir Murray, dear--it isn't, indeed; and I'm sure you have no cause to blame yourself. But there, my own handsome darling, I know what it is: you feel the step you are going to take, and no wonder; but try--pray try-- for his sake, to be brighter. He's coming to dinner, you know; and he's a dear, nice fellow, in spite of his pride and so much of the Spanish grandee. Think, too, how happy it makes Mr and Mrs Elstree to see you so well provided for!--and without going right away. They're as proud as can be, and the dear old rector is making out that he is condescending wonderfully in letting Sir Murray have his darling. But all the time he's reckoning upon your being Lady Gernon, and so is dear aunt. But come, you have not shown me your present; and, look here, if all your specimens are not lying upon the floor! I suppose you will give up botany now you are taking to husbandry."

"The joke is old, Ada," said Marion, smiling, and, making an effort, she rose from her chair, gathered together her flowers and mosses, and laid them on the table, before turning the handsome gilt key of the morocco case, to display, glittering in the light, a gorgeous suite of sapphires: necklet, bracelets, earrings; and a large cross, a mingling of the same gems with brilliants.

"Oh, what a lovely piece of vanity;" cried Ada, rapturously. "Oh, my darling, how proud I shall feel of my friend Lady Gernon--that is, if she does not grow too stilty for her old friend."

"For shame, Ada!" cried Marion.

"Oh, I don't know," said Ada. "I have my forebodings, too, and I think I may as well say good-bye for good when you start to-morrow for your tour."

"Do you wish to make me more unhappy?" said Marion, reproachfully.

"No, of course not," said Ada, kissing her. "But, mark my words, it will be so," she continued, dreamily, as she clasped the jewels upon her friend's arms and neck. "There, I declare they are quite regal, and must have cost hundreds of pounds! I love sapphires; they are so much like forget-me-nots--true blue, you know. There, how stupid I am, setting you off again! But look, darling, are they not lovely? I never saw a more beautiful suite. That cross, too--it's magnificent! But you must take care not to lose it. The ring is slight, and it might come detached. Now, then, bathe those eyes, while I put the present away.

Really I've a great mind to let you wear them at dinner to-night."

Marion said nothing, and Ada slowly replaced the gems, lingering long over the cross, little thinking it was to be the bane of her cousin's life.

Book 1, Chapter II.

UNDER THE SHADOW.

Ada Lee was right: there was a good deal of the Spanish grandee in the aspect of Sir Murray Gernon, who traced back his pedigree to the old Norman days, when, as a recompense for the service of the stout knight, Sir Piers Gernon, his squire, and so many men-at-arms, William gave him the pleasant lands whereon he built his castle, overlooking many an acre of Lincolnshire fen-land--a castle that gave place, in Tudor days, to the fine, square, ma.s.sive, and roomy building, which still retained the name as well as the broad moat. Sir Murray entered the rectory drawing-room, tall, swarthy, and haughty of bearing, and was chatting graciously to the parents of his intended bride, when she entered the apartment.

To a careless observer the morning's sadness had all departed, and courtly lover could not have been better satisfied with his greeting as Marion crossed the room to meet him, placing both her hands in his, and looking up in his proud face as much as to say, "I am soon to be yours-- be gentle with me."

Sir Murray took the hands with quite a protective air, smiling down upon the face, which he saluted with a lordly kiss upon the white forehead; and then, apparently well satisfied with the lady so soon to grace his table, he led her to a chair beside Ada, and in a somewhat c.u.mbersome fashion began to chat about the morning's proceedings.

"Studying dress I presume we should have been?" said Ada. "But we were away by the edge of the marsh, botanising, for half the day. Poor Marion has been taking a farewell of her favourite pursuit," she added, laughingly.

"I don't see that at all," said Sir Murray. "I admire natural history, and shall hope that Lady Gernon will prove a kind and patient instructress."

"I think it was reserved for us at our return to find our brightest specimens, though," said Marion, turning her large, dreamy eyes upon the baronet. "I have to thank you for your present, Murray."

"Oh, don't talk about it--wear it," was the response. "They are the old family jewels reset. I thought you would like them better modernised."

The dinner pa.s.sed off quietly. Sir Murray Gernon, who prided himself upon his birth, lineage, and wealth, taking matters in a courtly manner, considering that it would be unbecoming, even upon the evening preceding his marriage, to forget his dignity. Hence there was a something that seemed almost verging upon coldness in his farewell that night, even when he whispered the words, "Till to-morrow, dearest." There was no apparent ardour, although he was, certainly, contented and proud; and he rode home that night at a very respectable hour, telling himself that he was one of the happiest men in the kingdom.