The Sapphire Cross

Against Hope

Father – mother? Whom could he fly to for advice at such a time? Brace Norton asked himself. To neither. He knew what his father’s counsel would be, and that his mother, while sympathising, could not help him. Reveal the words spoken to him by the baronet he could not. After the first few hours of agony – of bitter agony – that he had suffered, he would not even revert to them himself. He could not but think that Sir Murray had felt what he said to be true; but, for himself, he felt that it was monstrous. He believed that his mother had told him all she knew, and he was ready to cast his life upon the honour and truth of his father. There was no failing of confidence between them, and he reddened with shame at having, even for a moment, credited the baronet’s assertion. Give up Isa? No; not while he had life! His course was plainly enough marked out; he could see it now: it was to be his duty to clear up the mystery that had long hung over Merland Castle, and he would do it. Happiness might yet be the result for him; but even if it were not, there was in the eyes of many yet living a stain upon his fathers fair fame. That stain he would wipe away, even to the convincing of Sir Murray Gernon.

He must, he felt, keep every thought and act from those who were dear to him – the subject was too painful even to be broached in their hearing. Where, then, should he commence? – for his time was but short ere his vessel would be refitted, and he must join. The old steward, McCray? No; he had found him close and reserved. Jane – Mrs McCray: the woman of whom Isa always spoke so tenderly – who had nursed her from a child, and had been Lady Gernon’s confidential maid? She could help him, perhaps; but would she? He could try, without waiting for Isa.

Brace Norton pondered long as he strove to contrive a plan for seeing Jane, but only to decide at last that he must write.

He wrote a long, earnest appeal, such as he felt he could write in safety to so staunch a friend of Isa’s. He told, in frank, earnest terms, of his love, of his sorrow for the dense cloud that existed between the two houses, and of his determination to pierce it. His letter breathed throughout his firm faith in his father’s honour – words which, of course, to Jane McCray, would convey the young man’s faith in her mistress, though her name was not mentioned; and Brace concluded by imploring Jane to tell him all she knew, keeping back nothing that might aid him in his endeavours to find a clue that should bring to light the causes of the sorrows that had so long overshadowed the houses of Gernon and Norton.

He sent his letter, and waited one – two – three days; on each of which he had the misery of seeing Isa at a distance riding out, accompanied by Lord Maudlaine.

On the fourth day, though, an answer came, written in very guarded language, but all the same, whispering of pity and a plainly-expressed hope that for Isa’s sake Mr Brace Norton might be successful in his quest; but help, Mrs McCray said, she could give him none – she had nothing she could tell more than was known already by Mrs Norton. Simple facts, these; and with one exception – that of Jane’s suspicions – Brace was already well-informed, every word being treasured deeply in his heart.

Brace Norton’s brow knit as he thought over again and again the narrative of his mother. If his father would but take counsel with him, and they together tried to investigate the matter, he felt that all would be well; but he dared not broach the subject in his presence, and once more he turned to himself for aid.

There was the disappearance of that cross: what could have become of that? The answer was plain enough – his parents’ and his own suspicions must be correct: Gurdon, the old butler, must have stolen it. Sir Murray had accused him of it; and if proper search had been made, no doubt it would have been found. Twenty years transportation he was to suffer, and that period must be up now some time; was it possible that, upon a promise being given him that no further prosecution should follow, and a bribe were supplied, he would afford such information as should prove to the satisfaction of all what had become of the cross?

No doubt he would —if alive!

Brace determined to try and trace Gurdon – to see if he had returned to this country; and, leaving home, he sought out the proper official place at which to apply, and learned that John Gurdon had completed his term of servitude, and had then been set at liberty. That was all. He had been set at liberty twelve thousand miles from England; nothing further was known.

“I shall meet him, perhaps, during my cruises,” muttered Brace, bitterly; and he returned home utterly disheartened.

Then he turned his attention to the disappearance of Lady Gernon. What had become of her? Elopement was out of the question. Had she, moved thereto by Sir Murray’s harsh treatment and cruel suspicions, fled, to pass the rest of her life somewhere at peace? If so, without doubt, in the course of twenty years, she must have been heard of. That supposition was not likely, and he dismissed it, to give place to a dread fear that, sick of life, she might have sought rest in direct opposition to the divine canon. But Brace could not harbour that thought. Lady Gernon had always been painted to him as too pure-minded, patient, and suffering a woman to fly to such a refuge; she was rather one to suffer and pray for strength to bear it.

“Of what are you thinking, Brace?” said Mrs Norton, tenderly, as, entering his room, she found him brooding over a new suspicion that had entered his mind.

He started as she spoke to him, and tried to drive away his thoughts, and to speak to her cheerfully; but the same dire suspicion came again and again, and at last, as she urged him to speak – to confide in her – he said, almost in a whisper:

“Mother, I was wondering if it were possible that Lady Gernon was murdered!”

Mrs Norton shuddered as she recalled the visit of Jane McCray, and the disclosures she had made – every word of which, in spite of the great lapse of time, now seemed to occur to her as plainly as if they had been spoken but a few hours since.

“Hush, Brace!” she whispered, her face assuming an aspect of horror. “The idea is too dreadful. Think, too, of what it embraces.”

“Yes – yes, I know,” he exclaimed, impetuously; “but, mother, this must be cleared up. I will have all brought to light. I should have said nothing but for your questions, rather choosing to pursue my own course.”

“But think, Brace – think of Isa. Suppose such a revelation as you seek to make, how then? – consider how it would affect her. My son, had you not better suffer than bring such a charge against her father?”

“Her father – Sir Murray Gernon? I never suspected him of so foul a crime. Mother, you have something you keep back from me. You have suspected him of this, then, perhaps years ago.”

Mrs Norton said nothing, but her agitated countenance spoke volumes; and rising from his seat, Brace exclaimed, bitterly:

“Oh! mother – mother. Is there an evil fate hanging over us? Everything seems to militate against my prospects of happiness. If I had never seen her – if I had never seen her!” he groaned.

“Brace, my son, be a man!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, her eyes the while swimming with tears. “You are young yet, and women’s hearts are not so frail as novelists would paint them. Wait on and hope. Live in the happy thought that Isa loves you; and, if she be her mother’s child, no threat, no persuasion will tempt her to give her hand without her heart. You are young, very young yet, and time may prove all – may lay bare the secrets of the past. I did suspect him. Promise me that you will hold my words secret as the grave, and that you will make no use of them, for Isa’s sake, and I will tell you.”

“Mother,” said Brace, bitterly, “I would cut off my right hand sooner than speak a word that would injure any one belonging to her. Say what you will, you cannot alter what I see already. It is all plain enough. My hands are chained, and I must, as you say, live on and hope.”

“Yes,” he said, after Mrs Norton had told him of Jane’s visit, “it is possible that all may have been her hallucinations; and it is as possible that – there – no, it is impossible, and I will not harbour the thought. Mother dear, you must teach me your old resignation, that I may wait patiently for the good time when all shall be made plain; for I will wait, you helping, though,” – he said, with a sad and mournful smile – “that time may not be on this side of the grave!”

A Visitor to his Lordship

Lord George Maudlaine had been making rather a long stay at Merland; but things were, he told himself, going on very satisfactorily. Brace seemed to have been driven off, and in a few days would be at sea. Sir Murray was all that could be desired, and favoured more strongly than ever the matrimonial projects of his lordship, telling him, with a grim smile, that he need fear no rival now. In fact, at times, his lordship thought him almost too eager, and tried to make out whether, by any means, he was going to be what he called “taken in.” He was lying one morning about nine o’clock, indolently going over the matter in his not very logical mind. He had had a cup of coffee brought him by his valet, and had added to the dense odour he had already imparted to the pale blue satin hangings of his bed, by smoking a cigar, and spilling the ash about the delicate linen in which he lay.

“Let me see,” said his lordship, yawning, and going over the matter for the twentieth time. “I don’t think I can get anything more out of it. I can’t see how it can prove a ‘sell.’ She’s very pretty and lady-like, and well-bred, and all that sort of thing. Don’t much care for me, but then, that don’t matter. The Castle, and every penny the old man has, comes to her at his death, and he comes down handsome as to marriage settlements. Why, there can’t be anything wrong, though the more she hangs away, the more he pushes the matter forward. I’d run back in a moment if I thought I was being ‘done’; but, then, I don’t see how I can be; and, besides, it was my own seeking at first. It’s all right, and in a few months I shall be able to shake myself clear of those precious Hebrews. Come in! Well, Willis?”

“Gentleman wishes to see your lordship on important business.”

“Must be some one wants his little bill,” thought his lordship. “Tell him I’m particularly engaged,” he said, aloud. “What the deuce does he mean by coming at such an hour as this? Know who it is?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the valet, meaningly, for as his own salary was regularly paid, and his perquisites were many, he had a very profound contempt for all duns. “Think it’s Mr Braham, my lord.”

“What?” exclaimed his lordship, completely thrown off his equanimity, for he had judged the visitor to be one of the tradesmen of the little town – one of the unfortunates whom he had favoured with his orders. “You don’t mean to say – ”

“Come down to Marshton last night, m’ lord, and driven over this morning.”

“Has – has any one – has Sir Murray seen him, do you think?”

“Can’t say, m’ lord, but he drove up to the grand entrance quite cheeky, in as wretched an old gig as ever your lordship see – saw,” added the valet, correcting himself.

“You’d better show him up,” said his lordship, with a blank look of misery in his face, as he first threw off, and then replaced, his silken night-cap. “Say I’m ill, Willis.”

“Yes, m’ lord,” said the valet, and he went out with his tongue in his cheek. “I heered him say as he’d hold the string, that day he went away from us in town, and it strikes me as he’s come to pull it now. Step this way, sir, if you please,” he continued, entering the breakfast-room, where he found Mr Braham making himself perfectly at home with some coffee and “devilled” chicken, breakfast being a meal that strangers at the Castle took at their pleasure. The meal was prepared, and allowed to remain in the breakfast-room for a couple of hours, ready for those who liked to partake thereof. Hence, Mr Braham, being hungry from his early ride, judged himself to be one who would like to partake, and acted accordingly.

“I’ll have another cup of coffee first, my man,” he said, coolly. “Lordship quite well?”

“Well, no, sir,” said the valet; “but if you’ll step up, he’ll see you in his bed-room.”

And, for his own sake, having his lord’s future somewhat at heart, the servant could not refrain from displaying his eagerness to get the inopportune visitor away from the breakfast-room, lest Sir Murray or some guest should encounter him.

“It’s all right, my man – never mind me. I’m hungry, and if Sir Murray Gernon does come, I’m only his lordship’s confidential man of business, d’yer see?”

The valet nodded, and stood staring while the early visitor displayed his vigorous appetite.

“That the young lady I met in the hall?” said Mr Braham, coolly.

“Young lady, sir?” said the valet, inquiringly.

“Now, look here, my fine fellow,” said the money-lender: “take my advice. Keep friends with me, and, I think, it will be better for you in the long run. I might find it necessary to write and ask you a few questions, and I should expect satisfactory answers. I dare say you have a pencil – haven’t you?”

The valet nodded, while the visitor busied himself with his pocket-book.

“Look here, then! here’s a scrap of paper for you to make memorandums on, ready to tell me anything I want, specially keeping in mind any movements his lordship may make. You see, he’s forgetful, and don’t write to me, and a long journey like this, to find him gone, would be rather a nuisance, do you see? Ah! I see you understand; and, I dare say, when you’ve fairly worn out that piece of paper, I can find you another.”

Now, as the said piece of paper was a five-pound note, Mr Willis, his lordship’s valet, had no difficulty at all in promising to make the necessary memoranda. It was strange, too, how very much Mr Braham appeared to change in his sight. It would be a queer thing, thought the valet, if his lordship’s confidential man of business couldn’t have a bit of breakfast after his journey; so, requesting the visitor to ring when he was ready to go up to his lordship’s room, he prepared to leave.

“No, don’t go, my man,” said Braham, “I’ve just done. That was the young lady, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir; that’s her,” said Willis.

“Ah! Nice girl. Thanks – yes, you in ay open a bottle of claret. Fine place this, my man. If I were you, I should stick to his lordship. Money is tight in the city, sometimes – eh? Ha – ha – ha! We know – eh? But it will all come right; and if I were you, I should go in for the butlership. It’ll come to that by-and-by, I dare say.”

Mr Braham condescended to wink at the servant, and the valet made bold to wink in reply; and, at last rising, Mr Braham was ushered into Lord Maudlaine’s room.

“De do, Mr Braham?” said his lordship, languidly; and then, as the door closed on the valet: “Con-found you! what the deuce brought you here?”

“Customary conveyance, my lord,” said the Jew, coolly.

“But what could induce you to come down here and spoil all?” exclaimed the Viscount.

“Your honourable lordship’s extreme want of punctuality,” said the unwelcome visitor.

“Punctuality! – what do you mean?” said his lordship, fiercely.

“Nothing – nothing,” said the Jew, nonchalantly, as he lolled back in his chair, after helping himself to one of the cigars on the table, and preparing to smoke. “I see from your lordship’s freedom of conversation, that you possess the happy independent spirit given by money. I see you are quite prepared.”

“Prepared – prepared for what?” gasped the recumbent debtor.

“Oh! only to meet my demands! I did wait a week; but as I did not hear from you, I was obliged to come and remind you.”

“Remind me of what?” exclaimed the Viscount.

“Oh! only that time’s up!”

Lord Maudlaine sank back upon his pillow, half stupefied.

“Impossible,” he pondered: he had made no memorandum – he never did of these disagreeable transactions; but it was impossible that six months could have elapsed, and he said so.

“Six months, my lord? Why, what put it into your head that the paper had six months to run?”

“Why, I asked you to make it six months, and you said you would try.”

“Well, I did try, my clear lord. But you astonish me! Did you not read the bills over, when you put your name to them?”

“Confound you! you know I did not!” cried the Viscount, angrily. “They were only for three months, then?”

“That’s all, my lord. But there – what does it matter? Give me a cheque for the amount, and have done with it. There will be so much weight off your mind.”

Lord Maudlaine grinned in a manner that indicated how gladly he would have liked to wring his tormentor’s neck, but he crushed down his wrath.

“Well, what’s to be done? I can’t pay.”

“Very sorry, my lord – but you know the result, without Sir Murray Gernon would – ”

“Hang you, be quiet!” exclaimed the other, fiercely. “He knows that I am poor; but would you upset all, now that matters have gone so far? You must renew again.”

“But the cost to your lordship will be ruinous,” expostulated the Jew.

“What do you care for that? Look here, Braham: all is going on as well as possible – I only want time. If you clap me in a sponging-house now, you will not get a penny, for Sir Murray’s pride would never get over it. I could never show myself here again. You must renew.”

“Can’t,” said Braham, shaking his head – “can’t, indeed. Money is more and more valuable every day.”

“So is time to me,” said his lordship, grimly. “Now, look here, Braham: is such a chance as this to be played with?”

“Thousand pities to lose it.”

“Thousand pities – yes!” exclaimed the Viscount, excitedly. “Yes, I’d give a thousand pounds sooner than be thrown off now.”

“Well,” said the Jew, “I don’t want to be hard. On those terms – terms, mind, that you offer yourself – I’ll renew for another three months; but mind this: I’ll have the money to the day, or you know the consequences. If the money is not paid, you will be taken, even if it is at the church door.”

“Terms! – what terms?” stammered the Viscount. “I offered no terms.”

“Your lordship said that you would give a thousand pounds for three months’ reprieve,” said his visitor, coolly.

“Pooh! absurd! You are mad,” said the Viscount.

“Oh! I beg pardon,” said Braham, rising. “I understood you to say so. As your lordship pleases.”

“Sit down there, for Heaven’s sake, Braham. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing – nothing, my lord; but pray excuse me. Time is nothing to you; it is everything to me.”

“By George! what a position,” muttered the unhappy Viscount. “There, look here: you’d let me off for another three months, on the same terms as the last – eh?”

The Jew shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. His hand was already upon the door, he opened it, and had passed out, when, half mad with the prospect before him, the Viscount shrieked: