The Sapphire Cross

by George Manville Fenn

He had not stooped to the meanness before, but now, telling himself it was his duty, he had her watched, finding in one of the servants a willing tool; but his news was always of the most meagre; and growing daily more morose, Sir Murray now gave way to a fresh belief—he felt sure that his wife corresponded with some one at the Hall. At one time he made up his mind to leave the neighbourhood—to return to Como; but he stubbornly decided to the contrary, thinking that it would turn attention to his family affairs. Then he decided to see “that unhappy woman at the Hall,” as he termed her, and to enlighten her upon the state of affaire, while, if possible, he would secure her as his coadjutor. He even went so far, during one of Norton’s absences, as to ride over; but he repented, and returned home more and more disposed for solitude and misery; for he had almost grown to love his sense of injury, pitying himself, and feeling that he was a martyr, seeing nothing but the past, believing nothing but the evidence of his own eyes, and resolutely shutting himself out from the happiness that might have been his portion.

Suspicion is a ravenous monster, devouring all before it. Matters the most ill-suited often become its food, as the simplest acts of the suspected are magnified into guilt. The feeling grew stronger and stronger every hour that he was being cleverly tricked; but though he waited day after day for the coming enlightenment, it came not.

It must be, then, by night that some arrangement or correspondence was made; and his brow grew blacker, and his head sank upon his breast, as he muttered the thought.

The months had glided by rapidly, when, one night, after a long, gloomy day, he retired to his bedroom—a different chamber to that he had before used—but not to sleep; for, throwing himself upon a low couch, he lay thinking of his present life, and asking his heart what was to be the end?—whether it was possible that a reconciliation would ever take place, and something, if not of happiness, of quiet esteem and smoothness of life-course return?

He could not conceive it possible; it seemed to him then that death alone could be the termination of such a state of being.

It was a gloomy introduction to his thoughts, that word death, and he frowned more heavily as it oppressed him. Should he die himself? The distance was but short, he knew, between here and eternity. But one step, and all would be over: the wretchedness and misery of his life, his torturing suspicions, the great mistake of the past, all swept away in an instant; but then afterwards?

He paused, shuddering, as standing upon the brink, he peered forward into that deep, dark, mysterious, impenetrable gulf of the unknown, shrinking from it, too, for his was not the bold, reckless, daring spirit for such a step. He knew it, too, and again began to find sympathy for himself, condoling and pitying, and telling himself that no man had ever before experienced such suffering as had fallen to his lot. No, he ought not to die: the world at his age ought to be still bright and fair, and ready to offer some goal for his aimless life. He ought not to die, but—

The horrible thought that flashed across his brain made him get up and pace the room hastily, the cold, dank beads of fear gathering themselves upon his brow. He tried to chase out the thought; but he had brooded so long, had given way to such wild phantasms, that it seemed now as if some potent devil were at his ear, whispering temptation, and driving him to the committal of some horrible deed. So strong grew the feeling to his distempered imagination that he commenced muttering half aloud, as if in answer to dictation from an evil prompter.

No, he would not be the first jealous husband who had taken revenge for his wrongs; he had loved her, and been all that it was his duty to be; but he had been betrayed, tricked, and cheated by the false-hearted woman whom he thought he had won. Such a proceeding would be but an act of justice; but the law said such acts should be done by the law alone—that man, however injured, should not arrogate to himself the right to punish, hence it must be done secretly, by some cunning device that should blind men’s eyes to the truth, and while amply bringing down retribution on the heads of the guilty, his honour should be unstained, the family shield untarnished.

But would not such a step be cold, blackhearted, premeditated murder? The question seemed to flash across his brain as if prompted by some better angel.