Kitabı oku: «The Sapphire Cross», sayfa 6
Jane’s Heart
“Oh, dear! – oh, dear! what shall I do? – what shall I do?” sobbed Jane Barker. “What a wicked set we must all be for the troubles to come bubbling and rolling over us like this in a great water-flood. There’s poor Sir Murray half-mad with grief, shutting himself up in his library, and never hardly so much as eating or drinking a bit. There’s my own dear, sweet lady lying there day after day, with the lids shut down over those poor soft eyes of hers, never moving, and nobody knowing whether she’s living or dead, only when she gives one of those little sobbing sighs. And then there’s the poor old Rector, coming every day over and over again to see how she is, and looking as if his heart would break; and poor Mrs Elstree wandering up and down the passages like a ghost. Oh, dear! – oh, dear! – oh, dear! the place isn’t like the same, and I don’t know what’s to become of us all. One didn’t need to have jewels missing, and poor servants suspected of taking them, and sent away without a month’s warning, and not a bit of character. But oh, John! – John! – John! it wasn’t a month’s warning you had, but many months’ warning; and it wasn’t you stole the cross, but let something steal away all your good heart and good looks too.”
Here Jane Barker burst out into a passionate fit of weeping, sobbing as though her heart would break. She was sitting by her open window – one looking over a part of the shrubbery which concealed the servants’ offices from the view of those who strolled through the grounds. It was not the first night by many that Jane had sat there bewailing her troubles, for it had become a favourite custom with her to sit there, thoughtful and silent, till her passionate grief brought forth some such outburst as the above. Busy the whole day at her work about the sick-chamber of her lady, Jane told herself that at such times there was something else for her to do beside sorrowing; but when at midnight all about was wrapped in silence, the poor girl would sit or kneel at her window, mourning and crying for hour after hour.
“Oh, my poor dear lady! If it should come to the worst, and her never to look upon the little soft face of that sweet babe, sent to be a comfort to her when she’s been so solitary and unhappy all these years; for she has been. Oh! these men – these men! They break our poor hearts, they do! Why didn’t the Captain come back sooner and make her happy? or why didn’t he die in real earnest over in the hot Ingies, where they said he was killed, and not come back just then to make her heart sore, as I know it has been ever since? though, poor soul, she loves, honours, and obeys her husband as she should. There didn’t never ought to be any marrying at all, for it’s always been an upset to me ever since I thought about it; and him such a proper man, too, as he used to be – such a nice red and white face, and always so smart till he took to the drink; as I told him, he got to love it ever so much better than he loved me, though he always coaxed me round into forgiving him. I always knew it was weak; but then I couldn’t help it, and I didn’t make myself; and if poor women are made weak and helpless, what can they do?
“I always told him it would be his ruin, and begged of him to give it up – and oh! the times he’s kissed me and promised me he would! And then for it to come to this. He’d never have said such cruel things about my lady if it had not been for the drink; and though I’d forgive him almost anything, I couldn’t forgive him for speaking as he did. I do think he likes me, and that it isn’t all for the sake of the bit of money, which he might have and welcome if it would do him any good. If he would only leave off writing to me, and asking me to meet him when he knows I daren’t, and every letter breaking my heart, and at a time, too, when I’ve got nowhere to go and sit down and cry. No; let him mend a bit, and show me that he’s left off the drink, and my poor dear lady get well first, and I’ll leave directly, as I told him I would, and work and slave for him all my life, just for the sake of a few kind words; for I know I’m only a poor ignorant woman; but I can love him very – very much, and – ”
Jane stopped short, listening attentively, for at that moment there was a faint rustling sound beneath the window, and then, after a few minutes’ interval, another and another; a soft rustling sound as of something forcing its way gently amongst the bushes and low shrubs, for at times a step was audible amongst the dead leaves, and once there came a loud crack, as if a foot had been set upon a dry twig which had snapped sharply.
Then there was utter silence again, and the girl sat listening with pale face, lips apart, and her breath drawn with difficulty, as her heart beat with a heavy throb, throb, throb, at the unwonted sound. It could not be one of the dogs, for they were all chained up; and if it had been a strange step she felt that they would have barked, and given some alarm. The deer never came near the house, and it was extremely doubtful whether any of the cattle in the great park could have strayed into the private grounds through some gate having been left open. Her heart told her what the noise was, and accelerated its beats with excitement, so that when, after a renewal of the soft rustling, she heard a sound as of hard breathing, and then a husky voice whispering her name, she was in no wise surprised.
“Tst – tst, Jane!” seemed to come out of the black darkness below – a darkness that she in vain tried to penetrate.
“Oh, why did you come – why did you come?” sobbed Jane. “Somebody will be sure to hear you, and then you’ll be in worse trouble than ever, besides getting me turned out of my place. Oh, John! – oh, John! how can you be such a cruel fellow!”
“Hold your tongue, will you, and don’t be a fool,” was the husky reply. “I’m going to have you away from here, Jenny, in a few days, and then his proudship shall have some letters as shall make him pay me to hold my tongue, or else have all his pride tumbling about his ears.”
“Oh, you wicked wretch!” muttered Jane to herself, for his words roused her slumbering resentment, and drove her troubles away for the present.
“Can you hear all I say?” whispered the voice from below.
“Yes,” whispered Jane again; “but what do you want? Oh, pray, pray go!”
“Yes,” said Gurdon. “I’ll go when I’ve done; but I want to talk to you first. Who’s at home? Is he here?”
“Who? Master? Yes,” whispered Jane, “and the doctor, and my lady’s pa: they’re all here, for she’s been very bad to-night.”
“But are they all gone to bed?” whispered Gurdon.
“Yes, all but Mrs Elstree, who’s sitting up in my lady’s room.”
“Come down then, softly, into the passage and open the lobby door; you can let me in then, through the billiard-room.”
“That I’m sure I’m not going to!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking me such a thing. It isn’t like you, John.”
“Hold your tongue, will you!” he exclaimed, gruffly. “Do you want to be heard, and have me shot by one of the keepers, or some one fire at me from one of the windows?”
“N-n-no,” gasped Jane; “but pray do go; pray, dear John, go away!”
“Ah, you’re very anxious to get rid of me now,” said Gurdon, sneeringly, for he could hear that Jane was sobbing; “I may go now, just because I made a slip, and you want to see me no more. It’s the way of the world.”
“No – no; don’t talk like that,” cried Jane, “for you know I don’t deserve it; but pray, for both our sakes, go away at once. Write to me and say what you want.”
“I shan’t do nothing of the kind!” hissed Gurdon, angrily. “You do as I tell you: come down and let me in, or it’ll be the worse for you. I want to talk to you so as I can’t talk here. I’ve got a deal to say about the future.”
“I don’t care, and I won’t!” said Jane, excitedly, for anger roused in her anger in return. At such times she did not at all feel afraid of John Gurdon, nor of his threats, but was ready to meet him with open resistance. “I’m not going to do any such thing, so there now! It’s more than my place is worth, and you know it, John. And besides, it wouldn’t be seemly and modest.”
“Oh, you’ve grown very modest all at once, you have,” sneered Gurdon, angrily. “It’s all make believe; and if you don’t do as I tell you, I’ll pay you out in a way as’ll startle you! Come down this minute,” he hissed, “and do as I tell you! I will speak to you!”
“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” said Jane, angrily; “you’ve been drinking again, or you wouldn’t have come here to ask such a thing, nor you wouldn’t have thrown them nasty, sneering, jeering words at one that no one can say a word against, so there, now. And now, good night, Mr Gurdon,” she said, frigidly; and he heard the sash begin to close.
“Oh, Jane – Jane, darling! please – please stop, only a minute,” he whined, for he knew that he had played a false card, and that it was time to withdraw it. “Don’t be hard on a poor fellow as is fallen, and who’s put out of temper by his troubles. I didn’t think that you’d turn your back upon me – I didn’t, indeed.”
John Gurdon paused, and gave vent to a snuffle, and something that was either a hiccup or a sob. Jane Barker, too, paused in her act of closing the window, for somehow John Gurdon had wound his way so tightly round her soft heart, that she was ready to strike him one moment, and to go down on her knees and beg forgiveness the next.
“It’s very hard,” sobbed Gurdon, in maudlin tones. “Even she has turned upon me now, even to closing the window, and denying me a hearing – I didn’t think it of her. A woman that I’ve worshipped almost – a woman as I’d have died for a dozen times over; but it isn’t in her nature.”
Gurdon stopped and listened attentively.
“She isn’t a bad one at heart,” he continued, in the same whining, lachrymose tones, “but she’s been set against me, and it’s all over now; and I may as well make an end of myself as try and live. I did think as she’d have come down to listen to me; but no, and it’s all over. The whole world now has shut its doors and windows in my face!”
“Oh, John – John, pray, pray don’t talk so!” sobbed Jane.
“What! not gone?” he exclaimed, in mock ecstasy.
“No, no! How could you think I should be so cruel?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he whined. “But pray, pray come down: I want to have a few words about what’s to be done. I don’t want to take a public-house now, Jane, but to go into the grocery and baking; and there’s a chance before me, if I could only point it out.”
“Well, tell me now,” sobbed Jane.
“No; how can I?” said Gurdon – “I shall be heard. Ah! Jenny, you don’t care for me as you used, or you wouldn’t keep me out here like this!”
“Oh, what shall I do?” sobbed Jane. “I can’t do as he asks, and he knows it; and yet he’s trying to break my heart, he is!”
“Now, then, are you going to listen to me, Jenny?” whispered Gurdon, imploringly.
“Oh, I can’t – I can’t: I daren’t do it!” sobbed poor Jane.
“Oh, please, if you love me, don’t drive me to desperation!” cried Gurdon. “I – ”
“Hush!” whispered Jane, in affrighted tones, for at that moment there was a loud knocking at her bedroom door, and the voice of Mrs Elstree was heard.
“Jane – Jane! Quick! Call Sir Murray! My darling is dying!”
Beneath the Shadow
As, muttering a savage oath, John Gurdon crept through the yielding shrubs, Jane Barker softly closed the window, and then glided to the door.
“Not gone to bed?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree. “Thank Heaven! Rouse Sir Murray and my husband while I run back.”
“Have you called Dr Challen, ma’am?” said Jane, in agitated tones.
“Oh yes: he is in the bedroom,” sobbed Mrs Elstree; and she hurried back.
In a few minutes husband and father were by the bedside, watching with agitated countenances the struggle going on, for truly it seemed that the long lethargy into which Lady Gernon had been plunged was to be terminated by the triumph of the dread shade. As Mrs Elstree had sat watching her, she had suddenly started up to talk in a wild, incoherent manner; and as Sir Murray Gernon stood there in his long dressing-gown, with brow knit, a shade that was not one of sorrow crossed his brow upon hearing some of his stricken wife’s babblings.
“Philip,” she said – and as she spoke her voice softened, and there was a yearning look of gentleness in her countenance – “Philip, the cross: where is the cross? Have you hid it? – have you taken it away? Pray, pray restore it! He will be angry. They are favourite old jewels, that I wear for his sake. You loved me once; for the sake of the old times give it me back! He will ask for it. Where is the cross? Do you see: blue sapphires, each like a little forget-me-not peering up at you. Your flowers – true blue, Philip. But the cross – I must have the cross!”
She was silent for a few minutes, and then, wildly turning to her husband, she caught his hand in hers.
“Philip,” she cried, addressing him, “it is all madness – something of the past. It was not to be, and we have each our path to follow. I heard the rumours: trouble – failure – your income swept away – dearest Ada. But you must not come to want. You will give me back the cross, though; not the forget-me-nots. Keep them, though they are withered and dry – withered and dry as our old love – something of the past. Let me see,” she said – and her eyes assumed a troubled, anxious expression – “you cannot claim me now. I am another’s – his wife. How blue the lake looks! and how plainly it mirrors the mountains! Fair blue waters – blue – true blue. If I could have died then – died when you plucked the flowers from my breast – but it was not to be. I have a duty to fulfil – a burden – a cross” – she said, dreamily – “a cross? Yes – yes – yes, the cross. You will give it me back, Philip,” she whispered, with a smile; “it lies, you see, where once your forget-me-nots lay. I cannot wear them now, but the colour is the same – true blue. But you will find them for me, those bright gems, and all will yet be well.”
She raised Sir Murray’s hand to her lips, and kissed it reverently, as she continued:
“Always true and noble, Philip. You will respect my husband for the sake of the old days. It has been like a cloud always hovering above my life: that great dread lest you should ever meet in anger. Go now – let me sleep – I am weak and weary. But remember your promise.”
Pride, misery, despair, shame, and grief, seemed to have mingled for him a cup of bitterness, forcing him to drink it there in the presence of those who were gathered round the sick woman’s couch; and it was with a step that tottered in spite of all his self-command, that when Lady Gernon loosed his hand, Sir Murray strode slowly from the room, to seek the solitude of the library, where, alone through the rest of that night, he could sit and brood upon his misery. She did not love him – she had never loved him; and he told himself that he could not stay to hear her words – to hold her hand, when her last sigh was breathed. Had not that man risen, as it were, from the dead to blast their wedding, she would have clung to him with a softened, child-like affection; but now – “how could he stay when her thoughts all seemed another’s?”
The tearful eyes of father and mother met across the bed, as Sir Murray left the room, and then as the doctor sat silent and averted of gaze by the bedside, the broken voice of the father rose, as, sinking upon his knees, he prayed long and earnestly that Heaven of its goodness would grant the renewal of life to his child, if but for a short time, that she might prove to her husband that the words he had that night heard were but the vain babblings of her distempered brain. That she might live for his, for her child’s, for her parents’ sake, and during her life, however short, sweep away the cruel mists of doubt and suspicion that clung to her hearth.
Fervent and low did that prayer sound in the silence of the sick-chamber, where all that wealth could spread in profusion was waiting to minister to the owner’s wants. But to those present it seemed as if the splendour were but a mockery; and the story of Lady Gernon’s life, well known to all, pointed ever to one great void – a void that no wealth could supply.
Fervent and low grew that prayer in the silence of that night, till, as the Rectors lips parted to give utterance to those sublime words of humility and resignation, “Thy will be done!” a sob choked his utterance, and, save a low, weary wail from the stricken mother, all was for a long space still.
The shaded lamp made the hangings of the bed to disport themselves in strange shadows upon wall and carpet; and at times, when the night breeze softly swept round the house, it was as though the spirits of air were waiting in gathering levée to bear away the newly-freed essence to a happier realm. No word was spoken; only at times the Doctor bent over the bed to moisten his patient’s lips from a glass in his hand. The pendule ticked softly upon the mantel-piece, every second beaten off finding its echo in the listeners’ hearts, as it seemed to tell of the rapid flight of time, and the few brief minutes left to the wretched sufferer upon the bed. Her wanderings had long since ceased, and to those who watched, it seemed many times over that the last sigh had been breathed with those softly-muttered words, which made them start as a cold shudder ran through their frames. But a warning glance from the doctor, as he still kept on at intervals of every few minutes moistening her lips, told that there was still life, and they waited on.
More than once Mrs Elstree’s head had turned, full of expectancy, towards the door, for she thought that Sir Murray would return; but he came not; and at last, feeling it to be an act of duty to send for him, she turned to speak to Jane, who, it seemed to her, had been but a few minutes before sobbing silently in a further corner of the room. It excited no surprise though, then, when she saw that the corner was vacant, for, dulled by long familiarity with the grief before her, other matters seemed to make no impression on her mind.
It was the same with the Rector, for as Mrs Elstree rose to leave the room, he did not remove his gaze from his daughter’s face, but still sat watching silently and sadly for the change.
Mrs Elstree sought Sir Murray in his room; but he was not there, and then, as, candle in hand – unnecessary then, for a cold, pale light seemed to creep through the sky light over the grand staircase, to give to everything a chilly, forlorn, and strange look – she descended the stairs, she encountered a servant who, with a scared face, told her that Sir Murray was in the library, and then stood watching her descent.
She reached the library door and knocked, to receive no answer, and her repeated summonses were without effect, when, with a sigh, she turned to retrace her steps.
“He will not come,” she said. Then, to the maid, who had been watching her anxiously: “Have you seen Jane?”
“Went out, ma’am, with one of the gardeners, ever so long ago, ma’am.”
“Do you know where?”
“No, ma’am. She never said a word to me about it;” and the girl, and another who had joined her, turned to gaze uneasily at the closed library door.
Mrs Elstree slowly retraced her steps – slowly, though shivering the while with anxiety – and returned to the bedroom, to find the scene there unchanged. But she had hardly retaken her place by the bedside when there was a rustling at the door, and she turned her head, thinking that it might be Sir Murray, but, to her surprise, Ada Norton, closely followed by Jane, entered the room.
Ada spoke no word, but, gliding to the bedside, stood, pale and anxious, gazing down upon her cousin’s shrunken face. Then, stooping softly, she pressed a long kiss upon her white lips, the doctor making no sign of rebuke.
“Where is her child?” said Ada then, in an anxious tone, for, as she had bent down, Lady Gernon’s eyes had opened, and her lips had parted in a faint whisper.
“May it be fetched?” said Mrs Elstree, softly, to the doctor.
“Yes – yes,” he whispered, in tones that seemed to imply, “all is over now.”
Jane hurried, sobbing, from the room, for the last moments seemed to have come. There was something awful in the strange light of recognition that had come into Lady Gernon’s eyes; but when, softly sleeping, the tiny fragile one was borne in and laid in her arms, its soft, downy cheek resting upon her breast, the faintest dawning of a smile played for an instant upon the mother’s lip, her eyes gazed straight upwards for a few moments, and then closed, when, as Dr Challen swiftly pressed forward, to lean with anxious mien over the pillow, Mrs Elstree sank fainting into weeping Jane’s arms, while, with a despairing wail, Ada Norton gave utterance to one word, that sounded more like declaration than eager demand, as it thrilled through the strained nerves of all present, and that word was: “Dead?”
