Читать книгу The Sapphire Cross - George Manville Fenn - Страница 20

“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!”