The Meeting.When, pale and thoughtful, Lord Maudlaine strode across the lawn, his mind was agitated strangely by the feelings that oppressed him. He felt that matters had arrived at a pitch when, if he did not make some vigorous effort, he would lose even the partisanship of Sir Murray Gernon. The baronet’s language, and his dislike for the Norton family, were sufficient to insure his protection and favour, let what might befall; and with something of his old gamblers feelings, when about to make some grandcoup, or when he was backing largely some horse in a desperate venture, he pressed on.But his heart told him that never had he attempted so great a stroke as he meditated now.He was in no wise surprised when, half an hour after, he met Isa returning from a ride, ready to answer his bow with a slight inclination of her head; but he was not weak enough to imagine that, when he turned and saw her looking back, it was for any other reason than to see the direction he would take.Old experience told him what to do, if he wished to encounter Brace Norton; and taking a short cut, he found, as he expected, that the young man was sauntering along the lane in front; so that the Viscount had but to leap a gate, and wait a few minutes for his rival to come, slowly and thoughtfully, up to where he stood; when Brace gave quite a start, and then stopped short.Lord Maudlaine said nothing, but stood, for a moment, deadly pale, and hesitating. On one side there were ruin, exile, and bodily safety; on the other, wealth, position, and a beautiful wife. But there were also risk and treachery. He paused for awhile, and then nerved himself for the desperate plunge.Laying his hand upon his cheek, still slightly discoloured, he then touched his pockets in a meaning way; one well understood by Brace, who followed him without a word, until they had crossed a couple of fields, and leaping a ditch, entered a copse, where—an open glade, suitable to their purpose, being reached—the Viscount stopped. Then, for the first time, Brace spoke:“I have followed you, my lord, lest you should think I fear you; but, let me ask, have you well considered the step you are about to take? Of course, those are pistols you have with you; but without seconds—without a medical man present, people will be ungenerous enough to say that the survivor is a murderer. I am willing to meet you, if such an encounter must take place; but I must say it ought to be deferred.”“Heisafraid!” thought his lordship; and, speaking hoarsely, he said: “I give you still the option of withdrawal on the terms I named.”Brace laughed scornfully.“Then take your weapon,” said the Viscount, whose pallor was now fearful. “They are both loaded, and we can easily pace the ground.”Brace frowned as he advanced and took the pistol nearest to him, glancing down at it for a moment to see that it was capped, then drawing out the ramrod, he thrust it into the barrel to feel for the bullet.“My lord,” he said, “let me once more appeal to you—to your manly feeling—to ask whether this is necessary. Surely you must be aware that your pretensions are vain, and that even if you disable, or slay me, your presence will be more than ever distasteful. I am cool now, and, forgiving you the blow you struck me, I ask pardon for my passionate haste. Let us put aside these deadly weapons, and in her name let me ask you to be generous, to have pity on us both, for it lies in your power!”Brace ceased, for there was a sneer upon his rival’s face that was almost devilish. He had watched Brace’s actions, and seen him probe the pistol-barrel, when, apparently satisfied, the young man had let the weapon fall to his side.“Dog! coward! scoundrel!” exclaimed the Viscount, now half-beside himself with a passion that seemed fiendish. “Once more I give you a chance; give her up for ever, and write what I will dictate, or take your place.”For answer, Brace Norton’s lips moved as he slowly took his place opposite to his adversary, when, with a malignant look of hatred, that could hardly have been expected from a man of his character, Lord Maudlaine smiled triumphantly, as he too examined the cap of his pistol, and then drew the ramrod, to thrust it down the barrel. Then, as if stricken by paralysis, the look of hate and triumph faded from his face, to leave it of a sickly green hue, his jaw fell, his hand trembled visibly, and his knees shook beneath him; for, in spite of his management, Lord Maudlaine was at his opponent’s mercy: he had carefully charged one pistol only with ball, and, in his agitation, he had let that weapon pass into his rival’s hand, while his own contained but a blank charge.The Viscount’s aspect was truly pitiable, and for a moment it was in his heart to beg for mercy; but, as if mechanically, he faced his rival, and with the dread upon him that his treachery would be discovered, he prepared to fire.Guilt requires no accusers: he could not think then to say that his pistol was not fully charged—he could not see that he had a generous enemy to deal with. He measured his adversary by himself; and, feeling that his last hour had come, he prepared to fire.“Will your lordship give the signal—the dropping of a handkerchief?” said Brace. “We have no seconds to take the duty.”“No! You!” gasped the Viscount; and Brace gazed wonderingly at the pitiable fear evinced by his opponent, who had nerved himself into standing upright, and now retained his position in almost a cataleptic state.Brace drew forth a white handkerchief, and then with his pistol covered his adversary—the man whom his heart told him a careful aim would remove from his path for ever.“At the wordthree,” said Brace, calmly; and then, after a pause, “One—two—three!”One pistol only exploded, there was a faint puff of smoke, and Lord Maudlaine fell back in the woodland path; while with scorn, contempt, almost pity for the coward before him struggling for the mastery, Brace Norton, with his undischarged pistol in his hand, slowly walked up to where, pale, and with his face bathed in perspiration, Lord Maudlaine, who had fallen, half fainting with fear, gazed up at him with the most horrified aspect conceivable.“Would you murder me?” he gasped at last, as Brace, pistol in hand, stood over him.“Murder you!” said Brace scornfully. “No, my lord. You may rise. You challenged me to meet you, and I have received your fire. Your lordship is now probably content. I might try to make terms now, but I should be sorry to take so pitiful an advantage. There is your pistol, my lord. I wish you good day.”Lord Maudlaine had risen as Brace addressed him, and mad with shame and confusion, he stood listening to his rival’s words; but when Brace handed him the undischarged pistol by the butt, the old fiendish rage took possession of his soul, lending fire to his eye, and nerve to his arm. He took the weapon and held it to his side; but as Brace turned and walked down the path, he dashed after him.“Stop!” he cried, hoarsely; “not yet—you have not yet escaped!” when, as Brace turned, startled at the change that had come upon his rival, the young man’s heart quailed for a few moments, for he was standing within six paces of the Viscount, who was taking deadly aim at his breast.Another second, and the aim might have proved mortal; but, as the pistol exploded, a heavy body seemed to dart from the bushes beside the Viscount, who was thrust aside, and the bullet grazed the bark of a huge beech-tree a dozen yards in advance.“Weel done, Peter, my lad!” cried a voice—“that was weel jumpit. Why, ye murderin’ loon, to shute at an unairmed man like that; and is it the like of thee as is to have the Castle? Gude-sake, Maister Norton, dinna ye hold me. I could shock all the braith out of his coward’s bodie, I could. Oh! ye may weel go,” he cried, loudly, as the Viscount hurried away. “We saw it all, Mr Brace, Peter here and me; but not soon enow to stop the first shot. We saw him go doon, and for a wee my hairt was in my mooth, for I thocht ye’d kilt him. But that was a bonny leap of the lad’s here, and disarrangit his aim, or, sir, I believe he’d have hit ye. But Sir Mooray shall know what a viper he’s got under his roof before he’s an hour older.”“No, not a word—not a single hint of this must be given to him!” exclaimed Brace, firmly. “I will not win my way forward by such means. Mr McCray, I ask it as a favour: let this be all buried.”“And it was verra like that ye were to being buried yersel’,” grumbled the old Scot; but after a good deal of arguing, Brace carried the day by the use of Isa’s name, and for her sake it was settled that the proceedings should be kept as their own secret, unless Lord Maudlaine should think proper to give a garbled account, in which case, in his own defence, Brace might find it necessary to speak, when McCray promised that he would “bear witness to the truth.”“I’ll answer for the laddie here, sir,” said McCray; “and noo we must goo, for it winna do for us to be seen speaking to ye. Ye’re a proper lad, but I’m Sir Mooray’s sairvant, and we mustn’t foregather at all. I think I see how matters air; but I’m going to talk it ower with the gudewife, and then I shall have the scales cleart frae my een. Gude day, sir. Noo, Peter. Ah! laddie, ye shouldna ha’ ta’en that sovereign; but there, I dinna ken but what ye’re right. Ye savit the laddie’s life; and I think that its warth mair than a gowd sovereign to him.”The next minute Brace Norton, now almost giddy with excitement, strode away. He had had a most narrow escape of his life, but he told himself that he could afford to be generous, for had not Isa that morning owned how painful it was to pass a day without seeing him? He was more and more, too, in her confidence, and she had told him of her fathers morose looks, and of how she found that he knew of their interviews, although he had not spoken a word, but, as was his wont at times, shut himself up from all intercourse, leaving her entirely to the persecution of her detested suitor.“I cannot help leaving the house all I can,” she had said, naïvely. “If he would only go, see my dislike, or be generous, I would not care; but I believe he proposed to my father when we first encountered him in Italy, and my father acceded to his propositions.”Then they had talked about the future, and forgetting what he had since gone through, Brace recalled all: how he had whispered comfort to her, and told her to hope. Of how he fully expected that the day would come when the old enmity of her father would be swept away, and that in spite of all the black clouds around them now, the sun would shine forth at last.“This old mysterious story must have a solution,” he had said; “but there, I will not revert to it!” Then they parted, and thinking upon it all more deeply than ever, Brace’s musings were interrupted as we have seen by the coming of the man upon whom his thoughts had turned.
When, pale and thoughtful, Lord Maudlaine strode across the lawn, his mind was agitated strangely by the feelings that oppressed him. He felt that matters had arrived at a pitch when, if he did not make some vigorous effort, he would lose even the partisanship of Sir Murray Gernon. The baronet’s language, and his dislike for the Norton family, were sufficient to insure his protection and favour, let what might befall; and with something of his old gamblers feelings, when about to make some grandcoup, or when he was backing largely some horse in a desperate venture, he pressed on.
But his heart told him that never had he attempted so great a stroke as he meditated now.
He was in no wise surprised when, half an hour after, he met Isa returning from a ride, ready to answer his bow with a slight inclination of her head; but he was not weak enough to imagine that, when he turned and saw her looking back, it was for any other reason than to see the direction he would take.
Old experience told him what to do, if he wished to encounter Brace Norton; and taking a short cut, he found, as he expected, that the young man was sauntering along the lane in front; so that the Viscount had but to leap a gate, and wait a few minutes for his rival to come, slowly and thoughtfully, up to where he stood; when Brace gave quite a start, and then stopped short.
Lord Maudlaine said nothing, but stood, for a moment, deadly pale, and hesitating. On one side there were ruin, exile, and bodily safety; on the other, wealth, position, and a beautiful wife. But there were also risk and treachery. He paused for awhile, and then nerved himself for the desperate plunge.
Laying his hand upon his cheek, still slightly discoloured, he then touched his pockets in a meaning way; one well understood by Brace, who followed him without a word, until they had crossed a couple of fields, and leaping a ditch, entered a copse, where—an open glade, suitable to their purpose, being reached—the Viscount stopped. Then, for the first time, Brace spoke:
“I have followed you, my lord, lest you should think I fear you; but, let me ask, have you well considered the step you are about to take? Of course, those are pistols you have with you; but without seconds—without a medical man present, people will be ungenerous enough to say that the survivor is a murderer. I am willing to meet you, if such an encounter must take place; but I must say it ought to be deferred.”
“Heisafraid!” thought his lordship; and, speaking hoarsely, he said: “I give you still the option of withdrawal on the terms I named.”
Brace laughed scornfully.
“Then take your weapon,” said the Viscount, whose pallor was now fearful. “They are both loaded, and we can easily pace the ground.”
Brace frowned as he advanced and took the pistol nearest to him, glancing down at it for a moment to see that it was capped, then drawing out the ramrod, he thrust it into the barrel to feel for the bullet.
“My lord,” he said, “let me once more appeal to you—to your manly feeling—to ask whether this is necessary. Surely you must be aware that your pretensions are vain, and that even if you disable, or slay me, your presence will be more than ever distasteful. I am cool now, and, forgiving you the blow you struck me, I ask pardon for my passionate haste. Let us put aside these deadly weapons, and in her name let me ask you to be generous, to have pity on us both, for it lies in your power!”
Brace ceased, for there was a sneer upon his rival’s face that was almost devilish. He had watched Brace’s actions, and seen him probe the pistol-barrel, when, apparently satisfied, the young man had let the weapon fall to his side.
“Dog! coward! scoundrel!” exclaimed the Viscount, now half-beside himself with a passion that seemed fiendish. “Once more I give you a chance; give her up for ever, and write what I will dictate, or take your place.”
For answer, Brace Norton’s lips moved as he slowly took his place opposite to his adversary, when, with a malignant look of hatred, that could hardly have been expected from a man of his character, Lord Maudlaine smiled triumphantly, as he too examined the cap of his pistol, and then drew the ramrod, to thrust it down the barrel. Then, as if stricken by paralysis, the look of hate and triumph faded from his face, to leave it of a sickly green hue, his jaw fell, his hand trembled visibly, and his knees shook beneath him; for, in spite of his management, Lord Maudlaine was at his opponent’s mercy: he had carefully charged one pistol only with ball, and, in his agitation, he had let that weapon pass into his rival’s hand, while his own contained but a blank charge.
The Viscount’s aspect was truly pitiable, and for a moment it was in his heart to beg for mercy; but, as if mechanically, he faced his rival, and with the dread upon him that his treachery would be discovered, he prepared to fire.
Guilt requires no accusers: he could not think then to say that his pistol was not fully charged—he could not see that he had a generous enemy to deal with. He measured his adversary by himself; and, feeling that his last hour had come, he prepared to fire.
“Will your lordship give the signal—the dropping of a handkerchief?” said Brace. “We have no seconds to take the duty.”
“No! You!” gasped the Viscount; and Brace gazed wonderingly at the pitiable fear evinced by his opponent, who had nerved himself into standing upright, and now retained his position in almost a cataleptic state.
Brace drew forth a white handkerchief, and then with his pistol covered his adversary—the man whom his heart told him a careful aim would remove from his path for ever.
“At the wordthree,” said Brace, calmly; and then, after a pause, “One—two—three!”
One pistol only exploded, there was a faint puff of smoke, and Lord Maudlaine fell back in the woodland path; while with scorn, contempt, almost pity for the coward before him struggling for the mastery, Brace Norton, with his undischarged pistol in his hand, slowly walked up to where, pale, and with his face bathed in perspiration, Lord Maudlaine, who had fallen, half fainting with fear, gazed up at him with the most horrified aspect conceivable.
“Would you murder me?” he gasped at last, as Brace, pistol in hand, stood over him.
“Murder you!” said Brace scornfully. “No, my lord. You may rise. You challenged me to meet you, and I have received your fire. Your lordship is now probably content. I might try to make terms now, but I should be sorry to take so pitiful an advantage. There is your pistol, my lord. I wish you good day.”
Lord Maudlaine had risen as Brace addressed him, and mad with shame and confusion, he stood listening to his rival’s words; but when Brace handed him the undischarged pistol by the butt, the old fiendish rage took possession of his soul, lending fire to his eye, and nerve to his arm. He took the weapon and held it to his side; but as Brace turned and walked down the path, he dashed after him.
“Stop!” he cried, hoarsely; “not yet—you have not yet escaped!” when, as Brace turned, startled at the change that had come upon his rival, the young man’s heart quailed for a few moments, for he was standing within six paces of the Viscount, who was taking deadly aim at his breast.
Another second, and the aim might have proved mortal; but, as the pistol exploded, a heavy body seemed to dart from the bushes beside the Viscount, who was thrust aside, and the bullet grazed the bark of a huge beech-tree a dozen yards in advance.
“Weel done, Peter, my lad!” cried a voice—“that was weel jumpit. Why, ye murderin’ loon, to shute at an unairmed man like that; and is it the like of thee as is to have the Castle? Gude-sake, Maister Norton, dinna ye hold me. I could shock all the braith out of his coward’s bodie, I could. Oh! ye may weel go,” he cried, loudly, as the Viscount hurried away. “We saw it all, Mr Brace, Peter here and me; but not soon enow to stop the first shot. We saw him go doon, and for a wee my hairt was in my mooth, for I thocht ye’d kilt him. But that was a bonny leap of the lad’s here, and disarrangit his aim, or, sir, I believe he’d have hit ye. But Sir Mooray shall know what a viper he’s got under his roof before he’s an hour older.”
“No, not a word—not a single hint of this must be given to him!” exclaimed Brace, firmly. “I will not win my way forward by such means. Mr McCray, I ask it as a favour: let this be all buried.”
“And it was verra like that ye were to being buried yersel’,” grumbled the old Scot; but after a good deal of arguing, Brace carried the day by the use of Isa’s name, and for her sake it was settled that the proceedings should be kept as their own secret, unless Lord Maudlaine should think proper to give a garbled account, in which case, in his own defence, Brace might find it necessary to speak, when McCray promised that he would “bear witness to the truth.”
“I’ll answer for the laddie here, sir,” said McCray; “and noo we must goo, for it winna do for us to be seen speaking to ye. Ye’re a proper lad, but I’m Sir Mooray’s sairvant, and we mustn’t foregather at all. I think I see how matters air; but I’m going to talk it ower with the gudewife, and then I shall have the scales cleart frae my een. Gude day, sir. Noo, Peter. Ah! laddie, ye shouldna ha’ ta’en that sovereign; but there, I dinna ken but what ye’re right. Ye savit the laddie’s life; and I think that its warth mair than a gowd sovereign to him.”
The next minute Brace Norton, now almost giddy with excitement, strode away. He had had a most narrow escape of his life, but he told himself that he could afford to be generous, for had not Isa that morning owned how painful it was to pass a day without seeing him? He was more and more, too, in her confidence, and she had told him of her fathers morose looks, and of how she found that he knew of their interviews, although he had not spoken a word, but, as was his wont at times, shut himself up from all intercourse, leaving her entirely to the persecution of her detested suitor.
“I cannot help leaving the house all I can,” she had said, naïvely. “If he would only go, see my dislike, or be generous, I would not care; but I believe he proposed to my father when we first encountered him in Italy, and my father acceded to his propositions.”
Then they had talked about the future, and forgetting what he had since gone through, Brace recalled all: how he had whispered comfort to her, and told her to hope. Of how he fully expected that the day would come when the old enmity of her father would be swept away, and that in spite of all the black clouds around them now, the sun would shine forth at last.
“This old mysterious story must have a solution,” he had said; “but there, I will not revert to it!” Then they parted, and thinking upon it all more deeply than ever, Brace’s musings were interrupted as we have seen by the coming of the man upon whom his thoughts had turned.
Tangled.Two days—four days, and a week passed, and Brace did not see Isa. He sought all her favourite rides, and waited about for hours, but she did not come. He felt sure that something was wrong, and wondered again and again whether that something was connected with the meeting with Lord Maudlaine. As the days passed, Brace’s mind was incessantly tortured by imaginings of garbled accounts, of insidious attempts to poison the ear of Isa, and at length his anxiety became almost unbearable. If he had made some arrangement by which he might have sent a letter, he would not have cared, but, under the circumstances, he felt that to write would only be to insure the return of his note, and he dared not send.A fortnight had passed and no news, when Brace Norton’s heart leaped as, at breakfast, Captain Norton unlocked the letter-bag, and passed over a couple of letters to his son, one of which was in a handwriting he had never before seen, but whose authoress his heart told him, as, unable to control himself, he rose from the table and sought his room.The note was but short, and contained exactly what he had anticipated, but none the less it made him sink on a chair by his dressing-table, cover his face with his hands, and groan in the bitterness of his heart.It was precisely as he had conjectured. Sir Murray had angrily commanded his daughter to refrain from meeting the reader any more. He had told her that she must learn to school her heart, for such a union, for family reasons, was absolutely impossible; and, besides, he had passed his word that she should be the wife of Lord Maudlaine, who had, during the past fortnight, been most assiduous in his attentions, driving her, Isa said, to taking refuge in her own room for hours every day. She told him that they must meet no more; that she was very unhappy; but that Jane, the housekeeper, her old nurse, had spoken comforting words to her, telling her that perhaps, after all, the old troubles between the two houses might be swept away.“I would not, on any account, my child, advise you against your papa’s wishes,” Jane had said; “but you must not marry Lord Maudlaine while your poor little heart is another’s. I have seen too much misery amongst those you know for that to take place. You must wait, my child—you must wait—wait.”The letter concluded:—“But how can I wait, when papa insists? Do not be angry with me, for I am very, very unhappy, and very weak. I am no heroine of romance, and cannot see how all this will end; but I pray hourly for your happiness, for that will be the happiness of Isa Gernon.”He had never written a line to her, and this was her first letter to him, breathing in every word the simple, guileless love of her pure young heart. There were no passionate protestations—no vows of sincerity and faith—nothing but a fond belief in him, and his power to save her from the fate which threatened to be hers. And what could he do? How could he save her?These were questions that would take time to solve; and perhaps, he thought, bitterly, then he would be too late.There was one thing, though, that, in spite of his misery, he could not help remarking: the utter absence of any reference to the meeting; and it soon became evident that his lordship had thought good to keep all secret. But what a fate for that poor girl, to become the wife of a man so cowardly and devoid of honour!“It shall not be!” exclaimed Brace, excitedly. “She looks to me for help and protection, and I supinely sit and grieve when I should be up and doing!”He strode up and down the room, turning over in his mind a score of schemes, one and all useless, some even absurd; but all seemed to resolve in one idea, and at last he uttered his thoughts aloud, exclaiming:“That shall be the last resource—all failing, I will bear her off!”“No, Brace,” said the soft, gentle voice of Mrs Norton. “That would be as dishonourable as it is wild. You are half mad with disappointment. Why not wait wait patiently? I cannot but think that Isa, with all her gentleness, is too much of a true woman to give up, even under coercion. Wait and be hopeful.”“Mother,” said Brace, bitterly, “I have thought over the past till my brain has grown confused; and still I have gone on groping in the dark to try and find a way out of this difficulty. Time goes swiftly now, and before many days are past I must join my ship for a two years’ cruise. You tell me to be patient, and wait; but it makes me recall the sufferings of another, and I see myself coming back some morning to hear the chiming of old Merland’s bells, while there is nought left for me to exclaim but those two bitter words: ‘Too late!’”“Bitter, then, my son,” exclaimed a deep voice; “but time has happiness in store for us all.”Brace Norton turned hastily to see his mother sink sobbing in his father’s arms.
Two days—four days, and a week passed, and Brace did not see Isa. He sought all her favourite rides, and waited about for hours, but she did not come. He felt sure that something was wrong, and wondered again and again whether that something was connected with the meeting with Lord Maudlaine. As the days passed, Brace’s mind was incessantly tortured by imaginings of garbled accounts, of insidious attempts to poison the ear of Isa, and at length his anxiety became almost unbearable. If he had made some arrangement by which he might have sent a letter, he would not have cared, but, under the circumstances, he felt that to write would only be to insure the return of his note, and he dared not send.
A fortnight had passed and no news, when Brace Norton’s heart leaped as, at breakfast, Captain Norton unlocked the letter-bag, and passed over a couple of letters to his son, one of which was in a handwriting he had never before seen, but whose authoress his heart told him, as, unable to control himself, he rose from the table and sought his room.
The note was but short, and contained exactly what he had anticipated, but none the less it made him sink on a chair by his dressing-table, cover his face with his hands, and groan in the bitterness of his heart.
It was precisely as he had conjectured. Sir Murray had angrily commanded his daughter to refrain from meeting the reader any more. He had told her that she must learn to school her heart, for such a union, for family reasons, was absolutely impossible; and, besides, he had passed his word that she should be the wife of Lord Maudlaine, who had, during the past fortnight, been most assiduous in his attentions, driving her, Isa said, to taking refuge in her own room for hours every day. She told him that they must meet no more; that she was very unhappy; but that Jane, the housekeeper, her old nurse, had spoken comforting words to her, telling her that perhaps, after all, the old troubles between the two houses might be swept away.
“I would not, on any account, my child, advise you against your papa’s wishes,” Jane had said; “but you must not marry Lord Maudlaine while your poor little heart is another’s. I have seen too much misery amongst those you know for that to take place. You must wait, my child—you must wait—wait.”
The letter concluded:—
“But how can I wait, when papa insists? Do not be angry with me, for I am very, very unhappy, and very weak. I am no heroine of romance, and cannot see how all this will end; but I pray hourly for your happiness, for that will be the happiness of Isa Gernon.”
He had never written a line to her, and this was her first letter to him, breathing in every word the simple, guileless love of her pure young heart. There were no passionate protestations—no vows of sincerity and faith—nothing but a fond belief in him, and his power to save her from the fate which threatened to be hers. And what could he do? How could he save her?
These were questions that would take time to solve; and perhaps, he thought, bitterly, then he would be too late.
There was one thing, though, that, in spite of his misery, he could not help remarking: the utter absence of any reference to the meeting; and it soon became evident that his lordship had thought good to keep all secret. But what a fate for that poor girl, to become the wife of a man so cowardly and devoid of honour!
“It shall not be!” exclaimed Brace, excitedly. “She looks to me for help and protection, and I supinely sit and grieve when I should be up and doing!”
He strode up and down the room, turning over in his mind a score of schemes, one and all useless, some even absurd; but all seemed to resolve in one idea, and at last he uttered his thoughts aloud, exclaiming:
“That shall be the last resource—all failing, I will bear her off!”
“No, Brace,” said the soft, gentle voice of Mrs Norton. “That would be as dishonourable as it is wild. You are half mad with disappointment. Why not wait wait patiently? I cannot but think that Isa, with all her gentleness, is too much of a true woman to give up, even under coercion. Wait and be hopeful.”
“Mother,” said Brace, bitterly, “I have thought over the past till my brain has grown confused; and still I have gone on groping in the dark to try and find a way out of this difficulty. Time goes swiftly now, and before many days are past I must join my ship for a two years’ cruise. You tell me to be patient, and wait; but it makes me recall the sufferings of another, and I see myself coming back some morning to hear the chiming of old Merland’s bells, while there is nought left for me to exclaim but those two bitter words: ‘Too late!’”
“Bitter, then, my son,” exclaimed a deep voice; “but time has happiness in store for us all.”
Brace Norton turned hastily to see his mother sink sobbing in his father’s arms.
Lover and Father.“Noo, leuke here, young man, I wadna speake to ye at all but for your cloth, for my ain brither wore the true-blue, and was lost at sea in a Kirkcaldy herring-boat, and so I always feel disposed to foregather with ane who sails the ocean. Noo, ye’ve stoppit me oot here in the lane, speerin’ aboot the auld times. I was Sir Mooray’s gairdener then, fresh up frae the North Kintree—frae Galashiels, and spak the Scottish dialec then, only lang-dwelling in furren pairts has made quite a furrener o’ me. But I was gaun to say, Sir Mooray wud be sair angered wi’ me if he knew I so much as spak to ye, and I must do my duty by him.”“But just answer me a few questions!” cried Brace, eagerly.“Na, na!” said McCray, as he leaned against a gate and took snuff. “I’m sorry for ye—I am indeed, for I ken a’ aboot it. I had it frae the gudewife, who nursed the bairn oop yinder, ever sin’ she was a babe—at a time, too, when my ain hairt was sair. Ye lo’e the sweet flower weel, I’ve nae doot; but it canna be, young man—ye must goo awa’ and try and forget her. There’s a sair black pit atween ye twain, and I canna see that it will ever be filled up or bridged ower. Ye must try and bear it all as weel’s ye can.”“But do you believe the story, McCray?” exclaimed Brace.“I dinna ken—I winna say. All I can say is, I wush ye micht put a’ reet and win the sweet lassie; for yon loon wi’ the title—There, dinna say anither wurd to me, Meester Norton, for I’m forgetting whose sairvant I am. Tak’ my advice: join your ship, and go try and forget it a’; for it’s an awfu’ black affair a’thegither, and I’m sair afraid that the mair ye try to put it reet the waur ye’ll mak’ it.“He’d ha’e made her a bonnie jo,” muttered McCray, as he went off, shaking his grey head. “And he’s a fine, fair-spoken young fellow; but Sir Mooray hates him like poison, and it can never be.”He turned once, to see Brace Norton standing against the gate; and his heart swelled, as he thought of the days of old and his own misery.“Puir lad—puir lad!” said McCray, as he strode on. “There was a wee bit of hope for me, but it’s a sair case for him, and for her too—bless her bright e’en! for I fear she lo’es him weel!”Brace Norton never stirred for an hour, but leaned there, in one of the most secluded lanes round Merland, trying to form some plan of action, but in vain. He had determined to see McCray, and had long watched for the opportunity; while now, that he had had his interview, what had he gained? If he could obtain an interview with his wife, he might perhaps learn something of her; but how could he do it? Writing was such poor satisfaction. Could he do it by other means?—could he depute some one to question Jane McCray—one who would possess sufficient influence to gain from her some information? For he felt that it was only by constant search that the clue could be obtained—for that there was a clue, and that the mystery might yet be cleared up, he felt sure.The answer to his question came in a way he little expected, for just then he heard the sound of a horse’s feet, and his heart bounded, as slowly round a bend of the lane, the chequered sunshine playing upon her riding-habit, came Isa Gernon. Her head was bent, and her lithe, graceful form swayed in gentle undulations to the well-trained pace of her highly-broken mare.Would she pass him? Would she ride on without a word?It almost seemed that she would, for, buried in thought, Isa Gernon had not seen the figure by the green lane bank; when moved by an uncontrollable impulse, Brace darted to her side, to catch her gloved hand in his, and stand at her saddle-bow gazing up into her face.“There was the groom, some fifty yards behind, but he told himself it was no business of his. He knew Sir Murray disapproved of it all; but Sir Murray never asked him to put a stop to it; while, if he was a sailor, Mr Brace Norton was a thorough gent, and free with his ’arf-crowns as could be. It wasn’t for him to interfere with what my young missus did. All he—Peter Barlow, young lady’s groom—knew was, that if he’d been Miss Isa, he’d sooner have had Mr Brace Norton than a dozen Lord Maudlaines. Lord, indeed! as professed to ’unt, and to know so much about ’osses, and sat across one like a sack o’ chaff, while Mr Norton had as pretty a seat as ever he see a man have out of the profession—for, of course, you couldn’t expect gents to ride like a groom.“Don’t speak, Isa dear—Isa, my own sweet love!” whispered Brace, his voice growing soft, and his words trembling with tenderness—“do not say a word! I know all: that you are forbidden to see me; that there is a ban upon our family; and that the past reveals a sad—sad story of misery and broken hearts. But this meeting is not of your seeking—you cannot help yourself. See, dearest! I am holding this soft, gentle hand in mine—I am forcing you to listen to me; for, oh! Isa, sweet love, I am mad with grief and misery. You know the story of my father’s—your poor mother’s broken heart: is ours to be the same fate? Do not think me cruel in bringing up these tales of the past; but is it not our duty to try and clear away the mystery? My life upon it!” he exclaimed, excitedly, “there is a clue to be found, in spite of the time that has fleet; for do you for a moment think I will ever credit a word of the cruel calumnies that stain our family names? They are all false—false and unworthy! but they must be cleared away. And now listen, dearest: do not weep, for we must be up and doing; it is no time for tears. I love you too well, Isa, ever to give you up; Heaven giving me strength, I will fight with my last breath to win you, and you must help me! See Jane McCray, your housekeeper; question her closely—learn all you can; and if you can trace a fact worthy of attention, contrive to send me word. Your silence I will take to mean that your efforts are without avail. I will be honourable: I will not ask you to write to me—I will not write to you. While this stain is upon me, I feel that I am unworthy to stand even in your presence; but it is the last time, Isa, until I come, proudly, in the strength given me by the knowledge that those foul cobwebs are swept away from the shield. I do not ask you to bind yourself to me in any way; for, to me, your sweet, pure heart is too true—too generous to give me cause for doubt. Isa, I am yours—yours only, in this world, I hope, if not in another. A few days longer, and I shall be with my ship, on the blue sea, Isa, and I can do but little, save think and pray for the future; and I shall go without a dread—without a feeling that I shall be supplanted, even at your father’s command. Shall I tell you why?”“Yes,” said Isa; and her tears fell fast upon his upturned face, as she bent lower and lower.“Because I know that your hand will go with your heart, and that the heart is in my keeping. Watch and wait, dearest. Remember your mother’s—my mother’s words: ‘True-blue!’ It is the colour I sail beneath, darling, and under it I shall watch and wait.”Isa’s tears fell faster and faster. She would have spoken, but her emotion choked her utterance; and still she bent lower and lower towards the hand that held hers so tightly. The graceful palfrey she rode tossed its head and shook its curb impatiently, but moved no step forward. The groom had evidently made up his mind that utter ignorance of all that was passing would be pleasing to his mistress, and that some one else might reward him with five shillings; so having settled his saddle and girths to his satisfaction, he took to examining his horse’s mane and tail, such proceedings necessitating his back being turned, an attitude he meant to maintain until summoned.A glance had shown this to Brace Norton; and no doubt it was very wrong, but the lane was so retired and shady, Isa Gernon was so very beautiful, and she had laid bare the secret of her young, ingenuous heart to his gaze. He was too frank a sailor—unskilled in etiquette and formality. He only knew then—he could think of nothing else—that he loved the fair girl before him very dearly; that she was weeping bitterly for his sake; and that, but for untoward fate, she might have been his. Who, then, can be surprised that one hand should rest lightly upon the soft, handsome neck, crushing, as it did so, the massive braids of her glorious dark hair; that that head should, in obedience to Love’s command, bend lower and lower, without thought of resistance flashing across the gentle girl’s mind, until, for the first time in her life, her lips were pressed in a long, sweet kiss, that to her seemed given in token of farewell?“I must have you now, Isa,” said Brace, sadly, as with a deep blush she shrank from his embrace, though her hand was still tightly clasped in his. “I bind you by no promises, I ask nothing, but I go away contented, for the day shall come when all these sad obstacles shall be swept away, and—There, I can say no more,” he exclaimed passionately. “Go now; I am cruel to you in keeping you like this, placing you at the mercy of even your groom’s tattling tongue. I shall make you in your calmer moments almost to think meanly of me for this clandestine meeting; but what can I do, Isa, when my appearance at the Castle would only be the signal for rude expulsion? Once more Good-bye!”He gave the mare’s head a caress, and then shook the bridle as he spoke, forcing the interview to an end, as the graceful animal softly bounded forward in answer to his touch, its mistress’s head turned back till a bend of the lane hid her from Brace’s longing gaze, when, placing his hand in his pocket, he prepared to purchase the groom’s silence, but, to his surprise, that individual dashed past him at a smart canter, and on turning to seek the explanation of his strange conduct, Brace Norton’s eyes fell upon the fierce, wrinkled countenance of Sir Murray Gernon.He could not doubt for a moment that the baronet had witnessed, at least, the latter part of the interview, and Brace’s brow flushed as he recalled the scene so sweet to him, and full of solace to his aching heart. What should he do: turn and avoid the angry father? No, he could not do that; he would meet him boldly, and listen to all he had to say, giving for answer the sole reply that he loved Isa, and that the meeting was unpremeditated.Sir Murray’s lips were white with passion as he strode up to the young man, and the stick he carried quivered in his strong hand as he held it half raised, as if about to strike. He stopped short in front of Brace, glaring at him fiercely, but for a few moments, as he gazed in the young man’s calm, dispassionate face, he did not speak. At last, though in a voice choking with wrath, he exclaimed, as he pointed with his stick in the direction taken by Isa:“Like father—like son. You know, I do not doubt, the history of twenty years ago—a history that you, pitiful, contemptible slave that you are, compel me to revert to. You know how my happiness was blasted. You know that, urged by his necessities, your father dishonoured himself for ever, in the eyes of gentlemen, and became a thief.”“I know that to be utterly false, Sir Murray Gernon,” said Brace, calmly.“You know how, afterwards, he played upon the weakness of a fickle woman, till she fled with him,” continued the baronet, without seeming to hear the interruption.“I know, too, that that is false, Sir Murray,” said Brace still calmly; “and that my father is as pure-minded and honourable a man as ever breathed.”“Insult—robbery—disgrace!” continued Sir Murray, without heeding him. “Everything, in his revenge for my unhappy marriage, he heaped upon my head. Twice, for long spaces of time, I exiled myself; till now, when, after twenty years, I come back to spend the rest of my days in peace in my old home, I find my enemy’s son grown up and ready, the moment I plant foot upon the English shore, to waylay me, and accost Miss Gernon with his impertinent persecution. I warned you—I sought in every way to discourage you; your own heart must have told you that every word addressed to that girl was an insult to me, and that, even would I have stooped low enough to have permitted it, any union was impossible; and, still finding in her her mother’s weakness—the weakness your vile parent betrayed—you persevered. You knew, too, that she was engaged—that I had made arrangements for a suitable marriage; and, doubtless, you found in that a good lever for moving her—telling her that she was the victim of paternal persecution. Dishonour, dishonour, dishonour! in every step dishonour, trickery, and deceit; winning upon her, by clandestine meetings, till I find that she has stooped so low as to suffer, here in a public thoroughfare, in the presence even of a menial, a low groom, what I myself witnessed—what has, before now, become the ribald jest of the servants in the Castle. I do not ask you to refrain; that, I know, is useless. I do not ask you to plead the excuse you have ready—the paltry drivellings of yourlove, as you would doubtless call it. Son of a base and cowardly trickster, you inherit all your father’s villainy, and I would horsewhip you as I would some base groom, only that I look upon you as too low—too contemptible even for that!”He paused for a few minutes, as if for breath, scowling the while at Brace Norton, who, with flushed face and set teeth, stood bearing it all, whispering that one name again and again, as a talisman to guard him from forgetting himself, and, in some furious outburst of passion, striking down to his feet the lying denouncer of his family.“I know that it is in vain to appeal to you as I would to an honourable man,” continued Sir Murray, pale with rage, “and here you drive me to my last resource; for sooner than that weak, drivelling girl should be your wife, I would see her in her coffin! But I have no need for that: plastic as wax in your hands, she can be plastic as clay in mine. I can mould her to my wishes, in spite of all you have done. I can treat you in the same way, even to making you give her up—now, at once, before you leave this ground. I have kept this shaft for the last, wishing to try all else first; and had I had to deal with an honourable man—with an officer and gentleman,” he said sarcastically, “this shaft would never have been loosed.”“Look here, Sir Murray Gernon,” exclaimed Brace, now thoroughly roused, “I am a frank, plain-spoken sailor. The deck of a man-of-war is no school for polish and etiquette; but I tell you this to your teeth, that you know that what you have said to me this day is a base, calumnious tissue of cruelty, such as no gentleman should have uttered. Nay, it is my turn now; I listened to you in silence, you shall hear me. You know my father to be an honourable man; you know, too, that my love for your child has been the result of no plotting and planning, but of circumstances alone. You know how accident has thrown us together, and before Heaven I vow that man never loved woman with a purer—a holier love. I say it now before you, without shame, without fear, for I am proud of it—proud, too, of knowing that my love is returned. Do you, with all your pride, imagine that young hearts are to be directed here or there according to your wish or whim? You know better; and that we cannot govern ourselves in such matters. I leave here for sea in a few days’ time, and I tell you what I have told her; that I bind her by no promises, that I ask nothing, merely time—time to clear away these clouds that overshadow our youth—”“Have you nearly finished?” exclaimed Sir Murray, interrupting him; and his old mocking smile appeared upon his face.“Yes,” said Brace, sadly; “I have done, Sir Murray. I hope some day that you will know me better. But I tell you this: that so long as life is in me I’ll never give her up; and, what is more,” he added fiercely, “I know she will be true to me, even without the tie of promise or troth!”“I told you that this was my last arrow, and I fly it reluctantly,” hissed Sir Murray, as he leaned towards the young man; “before I loose the string, I ask you will you give up all pretension to the hand of that child?”“No!” exclaimed Brace.“It is an arrow whose flight will be sharp and aim sure, young man. I warn you that it will quiver in your heart, and its barbs will rankle there for life. Once more, will you give her up, and come here no more?”“No!”“Will you not for your mothers sake? But there, I know the baseness of your heart. Isa Gernon, and the prospect of Merland Castle and its many acres, are not to be given up so easily. I knew your answer; but, in a fit of madness, I thought I would give you, as you are young, one chance of playing the honourable man. You will not give her up, then?”“No—no! Are you a demon? Why do you tempt me like this?” cried Brace.“Yes,” said Sir Murray, leaning closer and closer towards the young man, whose hot words he did not seem to have heard, so drawn and strange was his aspect—“yes, you will give her up, and I will tell you why: I hate her—yes, bitterly as I hate you; but I have some feeling yet left in me, and I will not see this wrong done. Look here: your path is across the sea; go, and at once. Yours is an honourable calling; try and root out all the base, and be an honourable man. Do not come near Merland again for years; but before you go, write to Isa, and tell her that you give her up, that all is at an end, and that a union is impossible. You have influence with the weak child: tell her, then, as your wish, that she should raise no objection to the match I propose.”“Are you mad, sir?” exclaimed Brace.“No, young man,” said Sir Murray; “but I have suffered enough to make me so. Do as I tell you, since she never can be yours, for—”He leaned forward, laying one trembling hand upon Brace’s shoulder, his face the while drawn and distorted, as he whispered, for a few moments, in the young man’s ear.They were few words to which Sir Murray Gernon’s lips gave utterance; but they sent a flash of rage through Brace Norton’s heart, as, catching the baronet by the throat, he exclaimed:“How dare you utter so base—” He said no more; but his hands dropped to his sides, as he seemed to read in the baronet’s livid and distorted features the truth of his utterance. For a few moments the young man stood motionless, a sob of horror and despair rending his breast as he struggled for utterance; the next minute, with the same blind, groping pace—the same aspect of misery seen a quarter of a century before on his father’s face—an aspect that might have betokened the judgment for a father’s sin descending upon the son—Brace Norton, broken-hearted and half-stunned, hurried away.
“Noo, leuke here, young man, I wadna speake to ye at all but for your cloth, for my ain brither wore the true-blue, and was lost at sea in a Kirkcaldy herring-boat, and so I always feel disposed to foregather with ane who sails the ocean. Noo, ye’ve stoppit me oot here in the lane, speerin’ aboot the auld times. I was Sir Mooray’s gairdener then, fresh up frae the North Kintree—frae Galashiels, and spak the Scottish dialec then, only lang-dwelling in furren pairts has made quite a furrener o’ me. But I was gaun to say, Sir Mooray wud be sair angered wi’ me if he knew I so much as spak to ye, and I must do my duty by him.”
“But just answer me a few questions!” cried Brace, eagerly.
“Na, na!” said McCray, as he leaned against a gate and took snuff. “I’m sorry for ye—I am indeed, for I ken a’ aboot it. I had it frae the gudewife, who nursed the bairn oop yinder, ever sin’ she was a babe—at a time, too, when my ain hairt was sair. Ye lo’e the sweet flower weel, I’ve nae doot; but it canna be, young man—ye must goo awa’ and try and forget her. There’s a sair black pit atween ye twain, and I canna see that it will ever be filled up or bridged ower. Ye must try and bear it all as weel’s ye can.”
“But do you believe the story, McCray?” exclaimed Brace.
“I dinna ken—I winna say. All I can say is, I wush ye micht put a’ reet and win the sweet lassie; for yon loon wi’ the title—There, dinna say anither wurd to me, Meester Norton, for I’m forgetting whose sairvant I am. Tak’ my advice: join your ship, and go try and forget it a’; for it’s an awfu’ black affair a’thegither, and I’m sair afraid that the mair ye try to put it reet the waur ye’ll mak’ it.
“He’d ha’e made her a bonnie jo,” muttered McCray, as he went off, shaking his grey head. “And he’s a fine, fair-spoken young fellow; but Sir Mooray hates him like poison, and it can never be.”
He turned once, to see Brace Norton standing against the gate; and his heart swelled, as he thought of the days of old and his own misery.
“Puir lad—puir lad!” said McCray, as he strode on. “There was a wee bit of hope for me, but it’s a sair case for him, and for her too—bless her bright e’en! for I fear she lo’es him weel!”
Brace Norton never stirred for an hour, but leaned there, in one of the most secluded lanes round Merland, trying to form some plan of action, but in vain. He had determined to see McCray, and had long watched for the opportunity; while now, that he had had his interview, what had he gained? If he could obtain an interview with his wife, he might perhaps learn something of her; but how could he do it? Writing was such poor satisfaction. Could he do it by other means?—could he depute some one to question Jane McCray—one who would possess sufficient influence to gain from her some information? For he felt that it was only by constant search that the clue could be obtained—for that there was a clue, and that the mystery might yet be cleared up, he felt sure.
The answer to his question came in a way he little expected, for just then he heard the sound of a horse’s feet, and his heart bounded, as slowly round a bend of the lane, the chequered sunshine playing upon her riding-habit, came Isa Gernon. Her head was bent, and her lithe, graceful form swayed in gentle undulations to the well-trained pace of her highly-broken mare.
Would she pass him? Would she ride on without a word?
It almost seemed that she would, for, buried in thought, Isa Gernon had not seen the figure by the green lane bank; when moved by an uncontrollable impulse, Brace darted to her side, to catch her gloved hand in his, and stand at her saddle-bow gazing up into her face.
“There was the groom, some fifty yards behind, but he told himself it was no business of his. He knew Sir Murray disapproved of it all; but Sir Murray never asked him to put a stop to it; while, if he was a sailor, Mr Brace Norton was a thorough gent, and free with his ’arf-crowns as could be. It wasn’t for him to interfere with what my young missus did. All he—Peter Barlow, young lady’s groom—knew was, that if he’d been Miss Isa, he’d sooner have had Mr Brace Norton than a dozen Lord Maudlaines. Lord, indeed! as professed to ’unt, and to know so much about ’osses, and sat across one like a sack o’ chaff, while Mr Norton had as pretty a seat as ever he see a man have out of the profession—for, of course, you couldn’t expect gents to ride like a groom.
“Don’t speak, Isa dear—Isa, my own sweet love!” whispered Brace, his voice growing soft, and his words trembling with tenderness—“do not say a word! I know all: that you are forbidden to see me; that there is a ban upon our family; and that the past reveals a sad—sad story of misery and broken hearts. But this meeting is not of your seeking—you cannot help yourself. See, dearest! I am holding this soft, gentle hand in mine—I am forcing you to listen to me; for, oh! Isa, sweet love, I am mad with grief and misery. You know the story of my father’s—your poor mother’s broken heart: is ours to be the same fate? Do not think me cruel in bringing up these tales of the past; but is it not our duty to try and clear away the mystery? My life upon it!” he exclaimed, excitedly, “there is a clue to be found, in spite of the time that has fleet; for do you for a moment think I will ever credit a word of the cruel calumnies that stain our family names? They are all false—false and unworthy! but they must be cleared away. And now listen, dearest: do not weep, for we must be up and doing; it is no time for tears. I love you too well, Isa, ever to give you up; Heaven giving me strength, I will fight with my last breath to win you, and you must help me! See Jane McCray, your housekeeper; question her closely—learn all you can; and if you can trace a fact worthy of attention, contrive to send me word. Your silence I will take to mean that your efforts are without avail. I will be honourable: I will not ask you to write to me—I will not write to you. While this stain is upon me, I feel that I am unworthy to stand even in your presence; but it is the last time, Isa, until I come, proudly, in the strength given me by the knowledge that those foul cobwebs are swept away from the shield. I do not ask you to bind yourself to me in any way; for, to me, your sweet, pure heart is too true—too generous to give me cause for doubt. Isa, I am yours—yours only, in this world, I hope, if not in another. A few days longer, and I shall be with my ship, on the blue sea, Isa, and I can do but little, save think and pray for the future; and I shall go without a dread—without a feeling that I shall be supplanted, even at your father’s command. Shall I tell you why?”
“Yes,” said Isa; and her tears fell fast upon his upturned face, as she bent lower and lower.
“Because I know that your hand will go with your heart, and that the heart is in my keeping. Watch and wait, dearest. Remember your mother’s—my mother’s words: ‘True-blue!’ It is the colour I sail beneath, darling, and under it I shall watch and wait.”
Isa’s tears fell faster and faster. She would have spoken, but her emotion choked her utterance; and still she bent lower and lower towards the hand that held hers so tightly. The graceful palfrey she rode tossed its head and shook its curb impatiently, but moved no step forward. The groom had evidently made up his mind that utter ignorance of all that was passing would be pleasing to his mistress, and that some one else might reward him with five shillings; so having settled his saddle and girths to his satisfaction, he took to examining his horse’s mane and tail, such proceedings necessitating his back being turned, an attitude he meant to maintain until summoned.
A glance had shown this to Brace Norton; and no doubt it was very wrong, but the lane was so retired and shady, Isa Gernon was so very beautiful, and she had laid bare the secret of her young, ingenuous heart to his gaze. He was too frank a sailor—unskilled in etiquette and formality. He only knew then—he could think of nothing else—that he loved the fair girl before him very dearly; that she was weeping bitterly for his sake; and that, but for untoward fate, she might have been his. Who, then, can be surprised that one hand should rest lightly upon the soft, handsome neck, crushing, as it did so, the massive braids of her glorious dark hair; that that head should, in obedience to Love’s command, bend lower and lower, without thought of resistance flashing across the gentle girl’s mind, until, for the first time in her life, her lips were pressed in a long, sweet kiss, that to her seemed given in token of farewell?
“I must have you now, Isa,” said Brace, sadly, as with a deep blush she shrank from his embrace, though her hand was still tightly clasped in his. “I bind you by no promises, I ask nothing, but I go away contented, for the day shall come when all these sad obstacles shall be swept away, and—There, I can say no more,” he exclaimed passionately. “Go now; I am cruel to you in keeping you like this, placing you at the mercy of even your groom’s tattling tongue. I shall make you in your calmer moments almost to think meanly of me for this clandestine meeting; but what can I do, Isa, when my appearance at the Castle would only be the signal for rude expulsion? Once more Good-bye!”
He gave the mare’s head a caress, and then shook the bridle as he spoke, forcing the interview to an end, as the graceful animal softly bounded forward in answer to his touch, its mistress’s head turned back till a bend of the lane hid her from Brace’s longing gaze, when, placing his hand in his pocket, he prepared to purchase the groom’s silence, but, to his surprise, that individual dashed past him at a smart canter, and on turning to seek the explanation of his strange conduct, Brace Norton’s eyes fell upon the fierce, wrinkled countenance of Sir Murray Gernon.
He could not doubt for a moment that the baronet had witnessed, at least, the latter part of the interview, and Brace’s brow flushed as he recalled the scene so sweet to him, and full of solace to his aching heart. What should he do: turn and avoid the angry father? No, he could not do that; he would meet him boldly, and listen to all he had to say, giving for answer the sole reply that he loved Isa, and that the meeting was unpremeditated.
Sir Murray’s lips were white with passion as he strode up to the young man, and the stick he carried quivered in his strong hand as he held it half raised, as if about to strike. He stopped short in front of Brace, glaring at him fiercely, but for a few moments, as he gazed in the young man’s calm, dispassionate face, he did not speak. At last, though in a voice choking with wrath, he exclaimed, as he pointed with his stick in the direction taken by Isa:
“Like father—like son. You know, I do not doubt, the history of twenty years ago—a history that you, pitiful, contemptible slave that you are, compel me to revert to. You know how my happiness was blasted. You know that, urged by his necessities, your father dishonoured himself for ever, in the eyes of gentlemen, and became a thief.”
“I know that to be utterly false, Sir Murray Gernon,” said Brace, calmly.
“You know how, afterwards, he played upon the weakness of a fickle woman, till she fled with him,” continued the baronet, without seeming to hear the interruption.
“I know, too, that that is false, Sir Murray,” said Brace still calmly; “and that my father is as pure-minded and honourable a man as ever breathed.”
“Insult—robbery—disgrace!” continued Sir Murray, without heeding him. “Everything, in his revenge for my unhappy marriage, he heaped upon my head. Twice, for long spaces of time, I exiled myself; till now, when, after twenty years, I come back to spend the rest of my days in peace in my old home, I find my enemy’s son grown up and ready, the moment I plant foot upon the English shore, to waylay me, and accost Miss Gernon with his impertinent persecution. I warned you—I sought in every way to discourage you; your own heart must have told you that every word addressed to that girl was an insult to me, and that, even would I have stooped low enough to have permitted it, any union was impossible; and, still finding in her her mother’s weakness—the weakness your vile parent betrayed—you persevered. You knew, too, that she was engaged—that I had made arrangements for a suitable marriage; and, doubtless, you found in that a good lever for moving her—telling her that she was the victim of paternal persecution. Dishonour, dishonour, dishonour! in every step dishonour, trickery, and deceit; winning upon her, by clandestine meetings, till I find that she has stooped so low as to suffer, here in a public thoroughfare, in the presence even of a menial, a low groom, what I myself witnessed—what has, before now, become the ribald jest of the servants in the Castle. I do not ask you to refrain; that, I know, is useless. I do not ask you to plead the excuse you have ready—the paltry drivellings of yourlove, as you would doubtless call it. Son of a base and cowardly trickster, you inherit all your father’s villainy, and I would horsewhip you as I would some base groom, only that I look upon you as too low—too contemptible even for that!”
He paused for a few minutes, as if for breath, scowling the while at Brace Norton, who, with flushed face and set teeth, stood bearing it all, whispering that one name again and again, as a talisman to guard him from forgetting himself, and, in some furious outburst of passion, striking down to his feet the lying denouncer of his family.
“I know that it is in vain to appeal to you as I would to an honourable man,” continued Sir Murray, pale with rage, “and here you drive me to my last resource; for sooner than that weak, drivelling girl should be your wife, I would see her in her coffin! But I have no need for that: plastic as wax in your hands, she can be plastic as clay in mine. I can mould her to my wishes, in spite of all you have done. I can treat you in the same way, even to making you give her up—now, at once, before you leave this ground. I have kept this shaft for the last, wishing to try all else first; and had I had to deal with an honourable man—with an officer and gentleman,” he said sarcastically, “this shaft would never have been loosed.”
“Look here, Sir Murray Gernon,” exclaimed Brace, now thoroughly roused, “I am a frank, plain-spoken sailor. The deck of a man-of-war is no school for polish and etiquette; but I tell you this to your teeth, that you know that what you have said to me this day is a base, calumnious tissue of cruelty, such as no gentleman should have uttered. Nay, it is my turn now; I listened to you in silence, you shall hear me. You know my father to be an honourable man; you know, too, that my love for your child has been the result of no plotting and planning, but of circumstances alone. You know how accident has thrown us together, and before Heaven I vow that man never loved woman with a purer—a holier love. I say it now before you, without shame, without fear, for I am proud of it—proud, too, of knowing that my love is returned. Do you, with all your pride, imagine that young hearts are to be directed here or there according to your wish or whim? You know better; and that we cannot govern ourselves in such matters. I leave here for sea in a few days’ time, and I tell you what I have told her; that I bind her by no promises, that I ask nothing, merely time—time to clear away these clouds that overshadow our youth—”
“Have you nearly finished?” exclaimed Sir Murray, interrupting him; and his old mocking smile appeared upon his face.
“Yes,” said Brace, sadly; “I have done, Sir Murray. I hope some day that you will know me better. But I tell you this: that so long as life is in me I’ll never give her up; and, what is more,” he added fiercely, “I know she will be true to me, even without the tie of promise or troth!”
“I told you that this was my last arrow, and I fly it reluctantly,” hissed Sir Murray, as he leaned towards the young man; “before I loose the string, I ask you will you give up all pretension to the hand of that child?”
“No!” exclaimed Brace.
“It is an arrow whose flight will be sharp and aim sure, young man. I warn you that it will quiver in your heart, and its barbs will rankle there for life. Once more, will you give her up, and come here no more?”
“No!”
“Will you not for your mothers sake? But there, I know the baseness of your heart. Isa Gernon, and the prospect of Merland Castle and its many acres, are not to be given up so easily. I knew your answer; but, in a fit of madness, I thought I would give you, as you are young, one chance of playing the honourable man. You will not give her up, then?”
“No—no! Are you a demon? Why do you tempt me like this?” cried Brace.
“Yes,” said Sir Murray, leaning closer and closer towards the young man, whose hot words he did not seem to have heard, so drawn and strange was his aspect—“yes, you will give her up, and I will tell you why: I hate her—yes, bitterly as I hate you; but I have some feeling yet left in me, and I will not see this wrong done. Look here: your path is across the sea; go, and at once. Yours is an honourable calling; try and root out all the base, and be an honourable man. Do not come near Merland again for years; but before you go, write to Isa, and tell her that you give her up, that all is at an end, and that a union is impossible. You have influence with the weak child: tell her, then, as your wish, that she should raise no objection to the match I propose.”
“Are you mad, sir?” exclaimed Brace.
“No, young man,” said Sir Murray; “but I have suffered enough to make me so. Do as I tell you, since she never can be yours, for—”
He leaned forward, laying one trembling hand upon Brace’s shoulder, his face the while drawn and distorted, as he whispered, for a few moments, in the young man’s ear.
They were few words to which Sir Murray Gernon’s lips gave utterance; but they sent a flash of rage through Brace Norton’s heart, as, catching the baronet by the throat, he exclaimed:
“How dare you utter so base—” He said no more; but his hands dropped to his sides, as he seemed to read in the baronet’s livid and distorted features the truth of his utterance. For a few moments the young man stood motionless, a sob of horror and despair rending his breast as he struggled for utterance; the next minute, with the same blind, groping pace—the same aspect of misery seen a quarter of a century before on his father’s face—an aspect that might have betokened the judgment for a father’s sin descending upon the son—Brace Norton, broken-hearted and half-stunned, hurried away.
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!”
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:“Braham! Here! Stop! I agree;” and the Jew slowly re-entered the room.“No, my lord, I think it would be better not,” he said. “You are already too deeply in debt. My conscience would not allow me to make such terms.”“I can’t stand it—that cant, Braham,” said the Viscount, hoarsely. “You have the paper and stamps in your pocket—there are pens and ink; draw them up, and let me sign the bills, and let’s have an end to it. I’m not very clever, but it is plain enough to me how you pull the string, for you have me fast enough. Make much of it, though, for I would not consent but that you have me in a corner.”“Now, don’t be hard,” grinned Braham, as, without a minute’s loss of time, he drew out the requisite slips of paper, and held them, when ready, for the Viscount to sign. “Look at the risk I run,” he added, as he took a fresh clip of ink, and held the pen to his lordship, placing the writing-table by the bedside, ready to his hand.“Take them, and make much of them. You came down meaning to make a good bargain out of me, and I hope you are satisfied?”“Quite—thanks, my lord,” laughed the Jew, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. “Never mind, my lord; you will settle down soon, and cease kite-flying; but mind this: three months only, and then—no mercy!”“Good morning,” said the Viscount, shortly; and unwilling to display his rage, he turned round in bed, and dragged the clothes over his shoulders.“Good morning, my lord,” said the Jew, with a grin of triumph; but the hour of success had not yet arrived for either: incubation was proceeding apparently in the most satisfactory manner, but until Isa Gernon’s hand was his, Lord Maudlaine’s prospect of getting out of debt was small indeed.
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:
“Braham! Here! Stop! I agree;” and the Jew slowly re-entered the room.
“No, my lord, I think it would be better not,” he said. “You are already too deeply in debt. My conscience would not allow me to make such terms.”
“I can’t stand it—that cant, Braham,” said the Viscount, hoarsely. “You have the paper and stamps in your pocket—there are pens and ink; draw them up, and let me sign the bills, and let’s have an end to it. I’m not very clever, but it is plain enough to me how you pull the string, for you have me fast enough. Make much of it, though, for I would not consent but that you have me in a corner.”
“Now, don’t be hard,” grinned Braham, as, without a minute’s loss of time, he drew out the requisite slips of paper, and held them, when ready, for the Viscount to sign. “Look at the risk I run,” he added, as he took a fresh clip of ink, and held the pen to his lordship, placing the writing-table by the bedside, ready to his hand.
“Take them, and make much of them. You came down meaning to make a good bargain out of me, and I hope you are satisfied?”
“Quite—thanks, my lord,” laughed the Jew, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. “Never mind, my lord; you will settle down soon, and cease kite-flying; but mind this: three months only, and then—no mercy!”
“Good morning,” said the Viscount, shortly; and unwilling to display his rage, he turned round in bed, and dragged the clothes over his shoulders.
“Good morning, my lord,” said the Jew, with a grin of triumph; but the hour of success had not yet arrived for either: incubation was proceeding apparently in the most satisfactory manner, but until Isa Gernon’s hand was his, Lord Maudlaine’s prospect of getting out of debt was small indeed.