A Night’s Adventure.“Surely my heart would have told me, and the nature within me have revolted from such a sense of passionate love, had his cruel, his base words been true,” said Brace Norton, as he stood one evening by Merland Park palings, watching the lights fade one by one at the Castle; for the hour was late, and, reckless and wretched, the young man had strolled down from the Hall, to have his evening cigar, as he had told his anxious-eyed mother, but really to take a last farewell of the casket which contained his treasure.“I cannot give her up, mother,” he had said to her, sadly. “I am not ashamed to tell you how dearly I love her, and shall continue to love her, even while all hope is at an end for me. But I cannot help it. We do not make ourselves. They talk of schooling, or ruling, one’s heart, but what poor idiot could first have said that! He must have been heartless himself, and never have known what it is to love.”And what could Mrs Norton say? She could but recall the past, and the long bitter years she herself had had before she enjoyed the fruition of her love. She lamented, grieved for the unfortunate attachment, but her heart yearned towards the sweet girl. All the old affection of her nature which she had felt for the mother was now given freely to the child. But she had never been made the receptacle of her son’s full confidence; there was one thing, one bitter sentence whispered—nay, hissed in his ear, by Sir Murray Gernon, that the young man never again suffered to pass his lips, as, after long battling with self, he felt convinced it was untrue.And now he leaned lingeringly upon those park railings, watching the light, far distant as it was, that he believed to be that which shone from Isa’s chamber, till at last it was extinct, and it was like the crushing out of hope from his aching breast. For what was his fate? The next day must see him far away from Merland, leaving one whom he knew to love him, at the mercy of father and favoured suitor. True, there was the frequent sense of her sweet kiss, the dear confession of the love of her pure young heart, yet upon his lip; but what would they say to her—how would they impress her with the impossibility of a union? With no friend and adviser but that true-hearted Jane McCray, what could the poor girl do?Brace Norton sighed—a sigh that was almost a groan, as he felt what must be the end; and recalling the past—the old story told him by his mother—he seemed to see such another wedding scene as Merland church had once before witnessed. But no; he thought he would be far away, chained by duty to his vessel; and he should return at last, a broken-hearted, aimless man. He would not blame her, for she would, he knew, be forced into it, and there was no help—none!An hour must have passed away as he stood there that dark night, thinking of his journey on the morrow, and of his utter distaste now for the sea life he had loved so well. Promotion, the hope of commanding his own vessel, all the ambition of his nature, had given place to the passionate love which pervaded his soul; and at last, after an intense, longing gaze at the dark mass of buildings seen against the sky in front, he was about to turn and leave the shadow of the clump of trees that overhung the palings where he stood, when he started, and his heart began to beat heavily, he knew not why, at the unwonted sound of a heavy step coming down the lane. For this was but a by-way, and no one but a keeper, or a late-returning servant from the village, would be likely to take that path so late at night.“I had better not be seen,” thought Brace, and his face flushed with annoyance at having to play such a hiding rôle, as he drew farther back into the shade.The step came nearer, and then suddenly grew indistinct, as the new-comer stepped on to the turf at the lane side; but there was a faint rustling amongst the fallen leaves, which told of whoever it was coming nearer and nearer.“One of the servants,” muttered Brace; and then as his thoughts wandered to the morrow—“could I not prolong my stay? could I not get increased leave of absence? To torture myself more bitterly,” he muttered the next instant fiercely; and then he was brought back to the present by the footsteps becoming more audible, and at last stopping close by where he stood.Brace Norton remained motionless, as from the shade he could indistinctly make out the figure of a heavy-looking, muscular man, in rough clothes, pressing forward, as it were, and gazing right in his face.“Discovered watching here,” he thought, bitterly, “and all to be conveyed to the baronet and my lord, as a means of disparagement, in her hearing. Shall I bribe the scoundrel to be silent? No,” he thought, “I will not. Let him bear his pitiful news; and, if it comes to her ears that I was watching, like a thief at midnight, she will know why. Her poor heart will interpret my feelings, and give one beat for me.”Brace Norton’s thoughts, it must be owned, were of a romantic tendency, but, perhaps, it was excusable at such a time; and, nerving himself, he stood perfectly motionless, waiting for the man, whoever he was, to speak.But it was dark; and, had it been possible, Brace Norton, as he stood there, for some few minutes, with the new-comer apparently gazing full in his face, would have seen that the man’s gaze was vacant and strange, and that his eyes failed to pierce the gloom around.“At last!”Those two words seemed to be breathed, as it were, close to Brace Norton’s ear, as, almost brushing him, the figure came close to where he stood, listened, apparently, for a few moments, and then, drawing himself up, climbed the low oak palings, and began to thread his way amongst the trees.“At last!” What did that mean? Who was this? No servant or keeper, evidently. Was he poacher? He had no gun, and he was alone, which fact also militated against his being burglar.There is no concealing the fact: Brace Norton was glad of the excuse for getting once—even but for a few minutes—close to the house, with the hope of seeing if only her window; and, telling himself that this nocturnal visitor could mean no good towards the inhabitants of the Castle, he, too, softly climbed the palings, and tried to follow the figure.If he could only have some opportunity given him of showing his zeal—of rescuing somebody from danger! Or could it be—was this to be—an endeavour to carry off Isa? His heart beat swiftly, and his breath came thick and fast for a few seconds, till his better sense prevailed, and he smiled at the silly romance that, he told himself, he had allowed to obtain entrance to his breast.But, meanwhile, he had pressed cautiously on, peering anxiously before him, and trying hard to make out the direction the figure had taken. In vain, though: the dark shadow had passed amongst the trees, and was gone. He tried in different directions, but with only one result—ill-success; and, for a moment, as he stood upon the grass, listening eagerly, he felt disposed to place all to imagination. He knew, though, that it was not; and determining to go nearer to the house, he drew forth his watch, and tried to make out the hour.That, however, was impossible; so, opening it, he passed his fingers over the hands, to find that it was after one.Would they be sitting up for him at home? He could not help it. This was his last night, it might be, for years—as he should try, on a certain event happening, to avoid the place—perhaps for ever.Suddenly a thought struck him. If the man he had seen was some wrong-doer, and sought the house, he must, he knew, cross the bridge; for Brace had from a distance often studied the configuration of the grounds, and knew that from the side where he stood the bridge road was the only way up to the mansion.Young and active then, he started off over the short crisp turf at a sharp run, purposely making a slight circuit, and arrived cautiously at length by the bridge end, to find that he was too late to see the figure pass, for he was already on the bridge, his step sounding hollowly upon the old worn planks.What could it mean—at that hour, too? Brace Norton hesitated no longer; the thoughts of risk, and of being better on his way homeward, were dismissed, and using all the caution he could, he tried to follow the man.But in vain the darkness prevented him from even catching another glimpse; but that he was in the right track he knew, by coming suddenly upon a pair of boots upon the grass, against one of which he kicked.This seemed to point to the fact that it must be some one who well knew the grounds, or he would not have trusted to the finding again of his boots in the darkness. But what could it mean? Was there some nefarious design afloat?—a robbery, for instance—and was this man in league with more in the house?These, and many such questions, troubled Brace Norton, as, momentarily growing more and more excited, he strode on, avoiding flower-bed and rustic vase, cautiously leaping gravel paths; and, at last, after passing along two sides of the great square mansion, standing thoughtful and discomfited.On the side where he stood, there was on his left the old moat—the moat which, in the front, had been expanded into the lake, advantage having been taken of a low-lying tract of land by the baronet, to have it flooded. The water, then, except on one side, shut in the pleasure grounds, a wall enclosed them on the other; and, unless some door happened to be open—which was unlikely at such an hour—the stranger was either somewhere about the grounds, or had returned by way of the bridge.This last idea Brace dismissed at once, and determining that the stranger must be on the other side of the house, he began to retrace his steps, when his ear was saluted by a faint rustle, as of a body passing amongst dry twigs.Cautiously making his way in the required direction, Brace crept over the grass for perhaps twenty yards, and then he stopped, listening eagerly, but only to hear the loud, laboured beating of his own heart.It must have been something more than a simple desire to satisfy his curiosity, or to gaze up at some window which he might imagine was that of Isa Gernon. Had he been asked, he would have owned to a strange feeling of attraction, drawing him on and on to what proved the most exciting adventure of his life. He knew, though, that he ran great risks, and that, if seen, his visit was sure to be misinterpreted; but another minute had hardly elapsed ere, like his sire in bygone days, he could only yield to the intense desire of affording help where he believed others were in peril.For suddenly, from a corner of the house, where a dense mass of evergreens made more black the shade, came a strange, low, grating noise—a sound that he had never before heard, but which he attributed to the right cause upon the instant; and then, going down upon hands and knees, he tried to govern into regularity his laboured, panting breathing, as he crept cautiously towards the spot from whence the sound had arisen.
“Surely my heart would have told me, and the nature within me have revolted from such a sense of passionate love, had his cruel, his base words been true,” said Brace Norton, as he stood one evening by Merland Park palings, watching the lights fade one by one at the Castle; for the hour was late, and, reckless and wretched, the young man had strolled down from the Hall, to have his evening cigar, as he had told his anxious-eyed mother, but really to take a last farewell of the casket which contained his treasure.
“I cannot give her up, mother,” he had said to her, sadly. “I am not ashamed to tell you how dearly I love her, and shall continue to love her, even while all hope is at an end for me. But I cannot help it. We do not make ourselves. They talk of schooling, or ruling, one’s heart, but what poor idiot could first have said that! He must have been heartless himself, and never have known what it is to love.”
And what could Mrs Norton say? She could but recall the past, and the long bitter years she herself had had before she enjoyed the fruition of her love. She lamented, grieved for the unfortunate attachment, but her heart yearned towards the sweet girl. All the old affection of her nature which she had felt for the mother was now given freely to the child. But she had never been made the receptacle of her son’s full confidence; there was one thing, one bitter sentence whispered—nay, hissed in his ear, by Sir Murray Gernon, that the young man never again suffered to pass his lips, as, after long battling with self, he felt convinced it was untrue.
And now he leaned lingeringly upon those park railings, watching the light, far distant as it was, that he believed to be that which shone from Isa’s chamber, till at last it was extinct, and it was like the crushing out of hope from his aching breast. For what was his fate? The next day must see him far away from Merland, leaving one whom he knew to love him, at the mercy of father and favoured suitor. True, there was the frequent sense of her sweet kiss, the dear confession of the love of her pure young heart, yet upon his lip; but what would they say to her—how would they impress her with the impossibility of a union? With no friend and adviser but that true-hearted Jane McCray, what could the poor girl do?
Brace Norton sighed—a sigh that was almost a groan, as he felt what must be the end; and recalling the past—the old story told him by his mother—he seemed to see such another wedding scene as Merland church had once before witnessed. But no; he thought he would be far away, chained by duty to his vessel; and he should return at last, a broken-hearted, aimless man. He would not blame her, for she would, he knew, be forced into it, and there was no help—none!
An hour must have passed away as he stood there that dark night, thinking of his journey on the morrow, and of his utter distaste now for the sea life he had loved so well. Promotion, the hope of commanding his own vessel, all the ambition of his nature, had given place to the passionate love which pervaded his soul; and at last, after an intense, longing gaze at the dark mass of buildings seen against the sky in front, he was about to turn and leave the shadow of the clump of trees that overhung the palings where he stood, when he started, and his heart began to beat heavily, he knew not why, at the unwonted sound of a heavy step coming down the lane. For this was but a by-way, and no one but a keeper, or a late-returning servant from the village, would be likely to take that path so late at night.
“I had better not be seen,” thought Brace, and his face flushed with annoyance at having to play such a hiding rôle, as he drew farther back into the shade.
The step came nearer, and then suddenly grew indistinct, as the new-comer stepped on to the turf at the lane side; but there was a faint rustling amongst the fallen leaves, which told of whoever it was coming nearer and nearer.
“One of the servants,” muttered Brace; and then as his thoughts wandered to the morrow—“could I not prolong my stay? could I not get increased leave of absence? To torture myself more bitterly,” he muttered the next instant fiercely; and then he was brought back to the present by the footsteps becoming more audible, and at last stopping close by where he stood.
Brace Norton remained motionless, as from the shade he could indistinctly make out the figure of a heavy-looking, muscular man, in rough clothes, pressing forward, as it were, and gazing right in his face.
“Discovered watching here,” he thought, bitterly, “and all to be conveyed to the baronet and my lord, as a means of disparagement, in her hearing. Shall I bribe the scoundrel to be silent? No,” he thought, “I will not. Let him bear his pitiful news; and, if it comes to her ears that I was watching, like a thief at midnight, she will know why. Her poor heart will interpret my feelings, and give one beat for me.”
Brace Norton’s thoughts, it must be owned, were of a romantic tendency, but, perhaps, it was excusable at such a time; and, nerving himself, he stood perfectly motionless, waiting for the man, whoever he was, to speak.
But it was dark; and, had it been possible, Brace Norton, as he stood there, for some few minutes, with the new-comer apparently gazing full in his face, would have seen that the man’s gaze was vacant and strange, and that his eyes failed to pierce the gloom around.
“At last!”
Those two words seemed to be breathed, as it were, close to Brace Norton’s ear, as, almost brushing him, the figure came close to where he stood, listened, apparently, for a few moments, and then, drawing himself up, climbed the low oak palings, and began to thread his way amongst the trees.
“At last!” What did that mean? Who was this? No servant or keeper, evidently. Was he poacher? He had no gun, and he was alone, which fact also militated against his being burglar.
There is no concealing the fact: Brace Norton was glad of the excuse for getting once—even but for a few minutes—close to the house, with the hope of seeing if only her window; and, telling himself that this nocturnal visitor could mean no good towards the inhabitants of the Castle, he, too, softly climbed the palings, and tried to follow the figure.
If he could only have some opportunity given him of showing his zeal—of rescuing somebody from danger! Or could it be—was this to be—an endeavour to carry off Isa? His heart beat swiftly, and his breath came thick and fast for a few seconds, till his better sense prevailed, and he smiled at the silly romance that, he told himself, he had allowed to obtain entrance to his breast.
But, meanwhile, he had pressed cautiously on, peering anxiously before him, and trying hard to make out the direction the figure had taken. In vain, though: the dark shadow had passed amongst the trees, and was gone. He tried in different directions, but with only one result—ill-success; and, for a moment, as he stood upon the grass, listening eagerly, he felt disposed to place all to imagination. He knew, though, that it was not; and determining to go nearer to the house, he drew forth his watch, and tried to make out the hour.
That, however, was impossible; so, opening it, he passed his fingers over the hands, to find that it was after one.
Would they be sitting up for him at home? He could not help it. This was his last night, it might be, for years—as he should try, on a certain event happening, to avoid the place—perhaps for ever.
Suddenly a thought struck him. If the man he had seen was some wrong-doer, and sought the house, he must, he knew, cross the bridge; for Brace had from a distance often studied the configuration of the grounds, and knew that from the side where he stood the bridge road was the only way up to the mansion.
Young and active then, he started off over the short crisp turf at a sharp run, purposely making a slight circuit, and arrived cautiously at length by the bridge end, to find that he was too late to see the figure pass, for he was already on the bridge, his step sounding hollowly upon the old worn planks.
What could it mean—at that hour, too? Brace Norton hesitated no longer; the thoughts of risk, and of being better on his way homeward, were dismissed, and using all the caution he could, he tried to follow the man.
But in vain the darkness prevented him from even catching another glimpse; but that he was in the right track he knew, by coming suddenly upon a pair of boots upon the grass, against one of which he kicked.
This seemed to point to the fact that it must be some one who well knew the grounds, or he would not have trusted to the finding again of his boots in the darkness. But what could it mean? Was there some nefarious design afloat?—a robbery, for instance—and was this man in league with more in the house?
These, and many such questions, troubled Brace Norton, as, momentarily growing more and more excited, he strode on, avoiding flower-bed and rustic vase, cautiously leaping gravel paths; and, at last, after passing along two sides of the great square mansion, standing thoughtful and discomfited.
On the side where he stood, there was on his left the old moat—the moat which, in the front, had been expanded into the lake, advantage having been taken of a low-lying tract of land by the baronet, to have it flooded. The water, then, except on one side, shut in the pleasure grounds, a wall enclosed them on the other; and, unless some door happened to be open—which was unlikely at such an hour—the stranger was either somewhere about the grounds, or had returned by way of the bridge.
This last idea Brace dismissed at once, and determining that the stranger must be on the other side of the house, he began to retrace his steps, when his ear was saluted by a faint rustle, as of a body passing amongst dry twigs.
Cautiously making his way in the required direction, Brace crept over the grass for perhaps twenty yards, and then he stopped, listening eagerly, but only to hear the loud, laboured beating of his own heart.
It must have been something more than a simple desire to satisfy his curiosity, or to gaze up at some window which he might imagine was that of Isa Gernon. Had he been asked, he would have owned to a strange feeling of attraction, drawing him on and on to what proved the most exciting adventure of his life. He knew, though, that he ran great risks, and that, if seen, his visit was sure to be misinterpreted; but another minute had hardly elapsed ere, like his sire in bygone days, he could only yield to the intense desire of affording help where he believed others were in peril.
For suddenly, from a corner of the house, where a dense mass of evergreens made more black the shade, came a strange, low, grating noise—a sound that he had never before heard, but which he attributed to the right cause upon the instant; and then, going down upon hands and knees, he tried to govern into regularity his laboured, panting breathing, as he crept cautiously towards the spot from whence the sound had arisen.
“That’s it at Last.”Brace Norton’s heart told him truly: the noise was the grating of a diamond over glass, and it was repeated four times. Then there was a pause, ere at the end of a few minutes came a dull, snapping noise, and one faint tinkle as of falling glass upon the ledge of a window.He stopped, listening attentively, for he seemed by instinct to know what would follow; he almost seemed to pierce the black darkness ahead, and to see an arm passed through a cut-out pane of glass—a fastening thrust back. Yes, there was the dull snap, and now the raising of the sash. No, it could be no sash, for there was a dull creaking as of the rusty hinges of an old iron lattice casement. Then came a soft rustling. Yes, that was the stranger drawing himself up, and passing through the window.Would he fasten it after him?No; it was evidently left open, and all was still. It must be some one who knew the place. What should he do? try and alarm the house? No; he did not fear one man. There was some mystery here; and at the thought of that word mystery, as it seemed to come with a dull impact upon his heart, that heart throbbed and beat still more rapidly, for a strange influence connected mystery with mystery; and Brace Norton, mad almost with excitement, followed to where he had heard the sound, felt in the intense darkness for the window, found it as he had expected—open, and drawing himself up, he leaned in, and listened, half feeling that it was but to receive a fierce blow upon the head; but, no: all was still.“I’ll risk all,” muttered Brace. “My position as an officer, and my word of honour that I was impelled by good motives, must be sufficient to clear me from all blame.”The next minute he was in a small lobby—so he judged it to be—and feeling gently along the wall, he soon found the open door, and stood in what seemed to be a long stone passage—the passage, in fact, though he knew it not, which led from the servants’ offices to the grand entrance of the house.Should he turn to right or left? All was dark and silent; but that a robbery was in progress he felt now sure. If, he thought, he could seize the burglar at his work, there would be some claim again on Sir Murray Gernon’s generosity; but if he tried now to alarm the inmates, and the burglar took flight, there was nothing but his own word to clear him from what would look to suspicious eyes like a clandestine entry to the Castle for reasons of his own.Brace wavered for a few moments as he stood there listening in the black darkness; but directly after a strange impulse moved him to proceed; and cautiously feeling his way along, he stood at length at the foot of the grand staircase, irresolute as to the next direction he should take.For a few seconds he could hear nothing but the loud tick of a clock somewhere close at hand, but directly after came a slight grating, which he knew to be a key turning in a lock; and gliding in the direction, he found an open door, through which he passed in time to hear a faint ejaculation, as some one brushed against a light chair. Then came once more the sound of key in lock, and Brace suspected that he must be in a suite of rooms, leading one from the other.There was furniture all around, but by means of exercising great caution he was enabled to creep on slowly till his hand rested upon an open door, against the edge of which he nearly struck his forehead. On trying to the left, he found that his hand rested on a chiffonnière, his touch displacing a china cup and saucer standing upon the marble top. The sound was very slight, but it seemed to have alarmed the burglar, for as Brace stood motionless behind the door, there was a faint, very faint rustling sound, and a hard breathing coming nearer and nearer, till, as he shrank slightly back, he could hear the dull throb, throb of another beating heart, and he held his breath till the oppression was fearful.He had but to stretch forth his hand to seize this midnight visitor, but something restrained him, and after a few minutes’ pause, the rustling and gliding sound recommenced; then came the faint rattle of a door-handle, and this time the slight creaking of hinges.Brace crept round the door, and passed cautiously into another room, his every step measured with the greatest care, till, after traversing some distance of what seemed an endless journey amongst crowded furniture, he was almost in despair, regretting that he had not seized the man when within his reach, for he could find no door; but a minute later, and there was a soft rattle on his right—a sound as of some one lifting fire-irons from their place and laying them upon a soft rug; and, guided by the sound, Brace felt his way to another open door, and stood upon the long-piled carpet of another room, where he could again hear the hard breathing. There was a faint click, and what sounded like the fall of a standard, and then once more utter silence for full a quarter of an hour.But at the end of that time, measured out by a chiming pendule upon the chimney-piece, the rustling again commenced; and, as Brace cautiously stepped two paces nearer, he could, mentally, see all that took place, as, with nerves strained to their greatest tension, he eagerly drank in each sound.The rough visitor was upon his knees, moving the fender aside. Then there was the rustling, as of the removal of paper-shavings from the grate, and directly after the click, click of iron-work.What could that be? What did it mean? The man must be at work at the grate. Was he a workman, in a state of insanity or somnambulism? This could be no burglar.Yes, there it was again, the clicking rattle of the iron plate of a register-stove, followed by a faint puff of air, laden with that fine, impalpable soot from an unused chimney; and, as the excitement began to fade, Brace smiled bitterly, with something like contempt, for the pitiful conclusion of this romance. The man was, evidently, trying to ascend or reach up the chimney, for he could hear him groping about behind the iron-work; there was the rustle of little bits of falling mortar. The hard breathing had ceased, but there was the rustling noise of the man’s lower limbs, as he seemed to be straining hard to reach something, and at last came the sound as of his struggling down.Brace, on smiling at the pitiful termination of his knight-errant’s quest, had crept closer and closer, until now he stood guardedly upon one side of the fire-place, for there could be no doubt respecting the sounds he had heard. The rustling continued for a few moments, and then the hard panting noise recommenced, followed by an unmistakable stifled sneeze, and directly after a voice muttered:“Cuss the sut! But I’ve got it at last, though.”Got what? Brace’s heart began to increase its rate, and the excitement, he knew not why, rapidly returned, as there was the sound of an opening box, a scratching, and a faint line of light appeared upon the fender.“No go,” muttered the voice, and again there was the opening sound, and the scratch of a match upon the stone this time, for it commenced burning with its faint blue fluttering light before the splint caught fire.At the same moment there was the sharp blowing, as of some one puffing dust from some object—the sooty dust, light as air, being wafted right in Brace’s face. Then the splint caught fire, and blazed up for an instant, but only to be quenched the next, as there fell, upon the young man’s ears the softly-muttered words:“That’s it at last!”
Brace Norton’s heart told him truly: the noise was the grating of a diamond over glass, and it was repeated four times. Then there was a pause, ere at the end of a few minutes came a dull, snapping noise, and one faint tinkle as of falling glass upon the ledge of a window.
He stopped, listening attentively, for he seemed by instinct to know what would follow; he almost seemed to pierce the black darkness ahead, and to see an arm passed through a cut-out pane of glass—a fastening thrust back. Yes, there was the dull snap, and now the raising of the sash. No, it could be no sash, for there was a dull creaking as of the rusty hinges of an old iron lattice casement. Then came a soft rustling. Yes, that was the stranger drawing himself up, and passing through the window.
Would he fasten it after him?
No; it was evidently left open, and all was still. It must be some one who knew the place. What should he do? try and alarm the house? No; he did not fear one man. There was some mystery here; and at the thought of that word mystery, as it seemed to come with a dull impact upon his heart, that heart throbbed and beat still more rapidly, for a strange influence connected mystery with mystery; and Brace Norton, mad almost with excitement, followed to where he had heard the sound, felt in the intense darkness for the window, found it as he had expected—open, and drawing himself up, he leaned in, and listened, half feeling that it was but to receive a fierce blow upon the head; but, no: all was still.
“I’ll risk all,” muttered Brace. “My position as an officer, and my word of honour that I was impelled by good motives, must be sufficient to clear me from all blame.”
The next minute he was in a small lobby—so he judged it to be—and feeling gently along the wall, he soon found the open door, and stood in what seemed to be a long stone passage—the passage, in fact, though he knew it not, which led from the servants’ offices to the grand entrance of the house.
Should he turn to right or left? All was dark and silent; but that a robbery was in progress he felt now sure. If, he thought, he could seize the burglar at his work, there would be some claim again on Sir Murray Gernon’s generosity; but if he tried now to alarm the inmates, and the burglar took flight, there was nothing but his own word to clear him from what would look to suspicious eyes like a clandestine entry to the Castle for reasons of his own.
Brace wavered for a few moments as he stood there listening in the black darkness; but directly after a strange impulse moved him to proceed; and cautiously feeling his way along, he stood at length at the foot of the grand staircase, irresolute as to the next direction he should take.
For a few seconds he could hear nothing but the loud tick of a clock somewhere close at hand, but directly after came a slight grating, which he knew to be a key turning in a lock; and gliding in the direction, he found an open door, through which he passed in time to hear a faint ejaculation, as some one brushed against a light chair. Then came once more the sound of key in lock, and Brace suspected that he must be in a suite of rooms, leading one from the other.
There was furniture all around, but by means of exercising great caution he was enabled to creep on slowly till his hand rested upon an open door, against the edge of which he nearly struck his forehead. On trying to the left, he found that his hand rested on a chiffonnière, his touch displacing a china cup and saucer standing upon the marble top. The sound was very slight, but it seemed to have alarmed the burglar, for as Brace stood motionless behind the door, there was a faint, very faint rustling sound, and a hard breathing coming nearer and nearer, till, as he shrank slightly back, he could hear the dull throb, throb of another beating heart, and he held his breath till the oppression was fearful.
He had but to stretch forth his hand to seize this midnight visitor, but something restrained him, and after a few minutes’ pause, the rustling and gliding sound recommenced; then came the faint rattle of a door-handle, and this time the slight creaking of hinges.
Brace crept round the door, and passed cautiously into another room, his every step measured with the greatest care, till, after traversing some distance of what seemed an endless journey amongst crowded furniture, he was almost in despair, regretting that he had not seized the man when within his reach, for he could find no door; but a minute later, and there was a soft rattle on his right—a sound as of some one lifting fire-irons from their place and laying them upon a soft rug; and, guided by the sound, Brace felt his way to another open door, and stood upon the long-piled carpet of another room, where he could again hear the hard breathing. There was a faint click, and what sounded like the fall of a standard, and then once more utter silence for full a quarter of an hour.
But at the end of that time, measured out by a chiming pendule upon the chimney-piece, the rustling again commenced; and, as Brace cautiously stepped two paces nearer, he could, mentally, see all that took place, as, with nerves strained to their greatest tension, he eagerly drank in each sound.
The rough visitor was upon his knees, moving the fender aside. Then there was the rustling, as of the removal of paper-shavings from the grate, and directly after the click, click of iron-work.
What could that be? What did it mean? The man must be at work at the grate. Was he a workman, in a state of insanity or somnambulism? This could be no burglar.
Yes, there it was again, the clicking rattle of the iron plate of a register-stove, followed by a faint puff of air, laden with that fine, impalpable soot from an unused chimney; and, as the excitement began to fade, Brace smiled bitterly, with something like contempt, for the pitiful conclusion of this romance. The man was, evidently, trying to ascend or reach up the chimney, for he could hear him groping about behind the iron-work; there was the rustle of little bits of falling mortar. The hard breathing had ceased, but there was the rustling noise of the man’s lower limbs, as he seemed to be straining hard to reach something, and at last came the sound as of his struggling down.
Brace, on smiling at the pitiful termination of his knight-errant’s quest, had crept closer and closer, until now he stood guardedly upon one side of the fire-place, for there could be no doubt respecting the sounds he had heard. The rustling continued for a few moments, and then the hard panting noise recommenced, followed by an unmistakable stifled sneeze, and directly after a voice muttered:
“Cuss the sut! But I’ve got it at last, though.”
Got what? Brace’s heart began to increase its rate, and the excitement, he knew not why, rapidly returned, as there was the sound of an opening box, a scratching, and a faint line of light appeared upon the fender.
“No go,” muttered the voice, and again there was the opening sound, and the scratch of a match upon the stone this time, for it commenced burning with its faint blue fluttering light before the splint caught fire.
At the same moment there was the sharp blowing, as of some one puffing dust from some object—the sooty dust, light as air, being wafted right in Brace’s face. Then the splint caught fire, and blazed up for an instant, but only to be quenched the next, as there fell, upon the young man’s ears the softly-muttered words:
“That’s it at last!”
The Cross.That faint flash of light, instantaneous as it was, sufficed to pierce one of the veils that had for many years shrouded the mysteries of the past. Brace saw in that brief interval the meaning of the nocturnal visit, the caution observed, and as plainly as if the words had been uttered in his ears, he knew the man’s name. It was clear enough now: when that scoundrel had left the conservatory, he must have entered this room—the blue-room, it must be—the room which, for twenty long years, had held a secret unsuspected by a soul. And he, Brace Norton, had now at his mercy the cause of the long, cruel suspicions which rested upon Lady Gernon and his father. He had him at his mercy, with the proof of innocence in his hand—the proof which, after twice failing, he had, after twenty years’ transportation, returned to drag from its hiding-place. But not to establish the innocence of the living, or of her who had so mysteriously disappeared; it was for his own aggrandisement: Brace could feel that, as, with an intense desire upon him to strangle the cause of so much cruel misery and heart-burning, he leaned forward.For in that one brief flash—brief as the time that these thoughts had taken to dart through his mind—Brace Norton had seen lying, in a soot-grained hand, flashing in wondrous beauty, the magnificent true-blue sapphire cross described by Mrs Norton; and as the light was quenched, Brace had sprung forward, clutching glittering gems with one hand, and the marauder’s throat with the other.There was a howl of rage and astonishment from the man he clutched, as, with his impetuous bound, Brace Norton drove him backwards, but the next instant the struggle going on was fierce and desperate. Capture and escape were forgotten in the intense desire to hold the cross. On the one hand, there was the valuable object panted for during twenty long years of punishment. On the other, there was fair fame, and also the hope of reconciliation and future happiness; and, as Brace Norton nerved himself for the fight, he mentally vowed that he would die sooner than be conquered.It was time now to rouse the house, and as, for an instant, he struggled uppermost he uttered a long, loud cry for help, one which went echoing through the house, followed by the crashing of slight drawing-room furniture, the overturning and wrecking of what-nots laden with rare and curious china. The frail chairs were fallen over and snapped, and once the man, who fought so fiercely, fell over the fender that he had dragged from its place, but only to bound up again, and for the struggle to become more fierce than ever.It was the battle between youth and activity and the iron muscles of one who had lived a long and abstemious life of toil, and more than once Brace Norton could have groaned, as he felt himself gradually growing weaker and weaker. But he still clutched the cross tightly, in spite of the furious blows dealt him in the face by his adversary, whose hot breath came upon the young man’s flushed temples now, as, in a determined effort, he grasped him round both arms in a deadly hug that threatened to crush his ribs, whilst the next moment Brace felt himself lifted from the floor and hurled back, his foe falling upon him with all his weight.The sense was almost driven from his bruised body by this fierce onslaught; but in spite of his despair, Brace was still determined. He could not fight now, he was too much exhausted; but he could defend the treasure, which grew in value as he seemed to be about to lose it.So far he had grasped the cross with but one hand; now he placed over it the other, holding it to his breast, and pressing his chin upon his hands.“Leave go!” hissed his enemy, and blow after blow was rained upon poor Brace’s face, his foe now seating himself upon his chest, and by turns striving to unlace his fingers, and striking him brutally with his bony hands.“Will help never come?” thought Brace. “Am I to give up life and the cross as well?”The next moment he had exerted his little remaining strength, and with a fierce plunge partly dislodged his foe and turned himself half round upon his face, so that now he held the cross beneath him, gaining a few more minutes, in the hope that help might come, when, with a cry of rage, the man again struck him furiously.Then there was a moment’s reprieve, and half-stunned and totally helpless, Brace listened; but for a few seconds he could only hear a horrible singing in his ears. Then he shivered, for the man was doing something, and Brace’s sharpened senses told him that a knife was being opened by teeth grasping the blade; then he gave a faint, shuddering struggle, but only to lie passive, as a strange blow fell upon his unprotected shoulder—a hot, burning blow, accompanied by a deadly, sick sensation.It was his last effort, as, struggling round, a light flashed into the room, and in that one second he saw above his breast the upraised knife of his adversary. The next instant there was a loud report, followed by the noise as of thunder in his ears, and then all was blank.
That faint flash of light, instantaneous as it was, sufficed to pierce one of the veils that had for many years shrouded the mysteries of the past. Brace saw in that brief interval the meaning of the nocturnal visit, the caution observed, and as plainly as if the words had been uttered in his ears, he knew the man’s name. It was clear enough now: when that scoundrel had left the conservatory, he must have entered this room—the blue-room, it must be—the room which, for twenty long years, had held a secret unsuspected by a soul. And he, Brace Norton, had now at his mercy the cause of the long, cruel suspicions which rested upon Lady Gernon and his father. He had him at his mercy, with the proof of innocence in his hand—the proof which, after twice failing, he had, after twenty years’ transportation, returned to drag from its hiding-place. But not to establish the innocence of the living, or of her who had so mysteriously disappeared; it was for his own aggrandisement: Brace could feel that, as, with an intense desire upon him to strangle the cause of so much cruel misery and heart-burning, he leaned forward.
For in that one brief flash—brief as the time that these thoughts had taken to dart through his mind—Brace Norton had seen lying, in a soot-grained hand, flashing in wondrous beauty, the magnificent true-blue sapphire cross described by Mrs Norton; and as the light was quenched, Brace had sprung forward, clutching glittering gems with one hand, and the marauder’s throat with the other.
There was a howl of rage and astonishment from the man he clutched, as, with his impetuous bound, Brace Norton drove him backwards, but the next instant the struggle going on was fierce and desperate. Capture and escape were forgotten in the intense desire to hold the cross. On the one hand, there was the valuable object panted for during twenty long years of punishment. On the other, there was fair fame, and also the hope of reconciliation and future happiness; and, as Brace Norton nerved himself for the fight, he mentally vowed that he would die sooner than be conquered.
It was time now to rouse the house, and as, for an instant, he struggled uppermost he uttered a long, loud cry for help, one which went echoing through the house, followed by the crashing of slight drawing-room furniture, the overturning and wrecking of what-nots laden with rare and curious china. The frail chairs were fallen over and snapped, and once the man, who fought so fiercely, fell over the fender that he had dragged from its place, but only to bound up again, and for the struggle to become more fierce than ever.
It was the battle between youth and activity and the iron muscles of one who had lived a long and abstemious life of toil, and more than once Brace Norton could have groaned, as he felt himself gradually growing weaker and weaker. But he still clutched the cross tightly, in spite of the furious blows dealt him in the face by his adversary, whose hot breath came upon the young man’s flushed temples now, as, in a determined effort, he grasped him round both arms in a deadly hug that threatened to crush his ribs, whilst the next moment Brace felt himself lifted from the floor and hurled back, his foe falling upon him with all his weight.
The sense was almost driven from his bruised body by this fierce onslaught; but in spite of his despair, Brace was still determined. He could not fight now, he was too much exhausted; but he could defend the treasure, which grew in value as he seemed to be about to lose it.
So far he had grasped the cross with but one hand; now he placed over it the other, holding it to his breast, and pressing his chin upon his hands.
“Leave go!” hissed his enemy, and blow after blow was rained upon poor Brace’s face, his foe now seating himself upon his chest, and by turns striving to unlace his fingers, and striking him brutally with his bony hands.
“Will help never come?” thought Brace. “Am I to give up life and the cross as well?”
The next moment he had exerted his little remaining strength, and with a fierce plunge partly dislodged his foe and turned himself half round upon his face, so that now he held the cross beneath him, gaining a few more minutes, in the hope that help might come, when, with a cry of rage, the man again struck him furiously.
Then there was a moment’s reprieve, and half-stunned and totally helpless, Brace listened; but for a few seconds he could only hear a horrible singing in his ears. Then he shivered, for the man was doing something, and Brace’s sharpened senses told him that a knife was being opened by teeth grasping the blade; then he gave a faint, shuddering struggle, but only to lie passive, as a strange blow fell upon his unprotected shoulder—a hot, burning blow, accompanied by a deadly, sick sensation.
It was his last effort, as, struggling round, a light flashed into the room, and in that one second he saw above his breast the upraised knife of his adversary. The next instant there was a loud report, followed by the noise as of thunder in his ears, and then all was blank.
The Doctor’s Answer.It was with a sense of waking from a dream that Brace Norton opened his eyes to gaze upon lights and faces dancing around him; but it was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply to questions that were asked. By degrees, though, he could make out that it was Sir Murray Gernon who was speaking, and then there arose a loud, wailing woman’s cry, followed by a voice Brace recognised.“Ye’re reet, lassie—it is, sure enew. It’s Jock Gurdon come back to get his deserts.”“Blast you!—a doctor—I’m—I’m dy—Here, quick!—a doctor, or I shall bleed to death!” groaned the wretched man.“Has any one gone for a medical man?” said a stern voice.“Yes, Sir Mooray, I’ve sent for a doctor and the police, too. It’s gude for us that the loons were quarrelling over the spoil.”“Isa, my child, this is no place for you!” exclaimed Sir Murray.“That’s right,” cried Lord Maudlaine, who was also present; “I’ve been asking her to go. My dear Miss Gernon—Isa—what are you about? Don’t go near him!”Lord Maudlaine might well exclaim, for Isa Gernon, pale and scared, was slowly advancing towards where Brace Norton lay. The eyes of love were more piercing than those of the bystanders; and in those swollen and bleeding features Isa had recognised those of the man who had told her again and again of his love.“Brace!” she cried, in a low, husky voice, as, falling upon her knees at his side, heedless of all present, she laid her hands upon his; for this could be no burglar, as they had told her—there must be some horrible mystery here.“Isa!” he whispered, as his eyes met hers for an instant, ere they closed.“Quick!—quick!” cried the agitated girl. “Father—dear papa—oh, what is this? You have shot him, and he is dying. Oh, quick!—quick!—a doctor!”Her cries seemed to drive away the fainting sensation that oppressed Brace Norton; and as Sir Murray—astounded at his daughter’s words—hurried to her side, the young man’s eyes again unclosed, for his lips to part in a faint smile.“No, no,” he whispered—“not shot—that man—Gurdon—I followed him—stabbed, I fear—perhaps to death—the cross, Sir Murray; look! Lady Gernon’s—my father’s innocence—left for me to prove—I know—old story—take it, Isa, love—if I pass away, recollect—not—son—dishonoured man—saved—”“The brae laddie has fainted, and, Gude save us! it’s young Brace Norton. Here, quick!—some water, and don’t all stand staring like daft fules!” cried McCray. But, at the same moment, with his mind a chaos of wild thoughts, Sir Murray Gernon had sunk upon his knees by the young man, whose hands still clutched the sparkling cross, the jewels glittering brightly yet, though partly encrusted with soot. It was some few minutes, during which he had been striving to stanch the young man’s wound, before he could arrange his thoughts into something like their proper sequence.This man, then—this Gurdon—had, indeed, stolen the cross; picked it up the night of the great party—more than twenty years ago—and concealed it here, behind the stove; for it was plain enough from whence it had been taken. Here, then, was the key to Gurdon’s attempted burglaries—the man who, with the knowledge of a hidden treasure, had never been able to take it from the spot where it had been placed. Had he, then,—he, Sir Murray Gernon,—been wrong in his suspicions, and was this young man’s father, after all, innocent? No; impossible! he was clear of one foul stain, but the other mystery was unsolved.The unwonted feeling of gentleness that had come upon him, for a few minutes, as he knelt by the injured man, soon passed away, and the old, hard frown came fiercely back.There was no one there he could speak to, and say that he was glad the jewels were found, and that he hoped the other mystery might be cleared up; but he rose, with a half-shudder, from his knees, as Jane McCray came forward, pale and trembling, her eyes fixed on his; and as the recollection of the past came back, he would have turned and left the room. But Jane’s hand was on his arm, and, in a voice that was only heard by Isa, she said, beseechingly:“Oh, Sir Murray, don’t be hard upon your poor child, as you were on my own dear lady! I’ll never say a word—I’ll take all with me to the grave; only, now that it has pleased Heaven to make all this clear, and to show you what you would never believe, try and repent, and ask forgiveness of those you so cruelly wronged! You can’t do much now—it’s too late; but oh! Sir Murray—dear master—do something! Twenty years and more ago, now, since the wrongs were done; and yet, you see, how judgment comes at last for the wicked. You know now how cruelly wrong you were; there it all is. You thought, between them, there had been something done with that cross, and now you see. I hoped that man had died repenting, in a far-off land; but it was to be his fate to come and clear this up first—to show you how ill you treated my poor, sweet lady—to show you her innocence and—”“Loose your hold, woman!” whispered Sir Murray, hoarsely.“No,” she said, holding his arm tightly—“not yet. You know how I promised her, Sir Murray, that I’d be, as far as I could, a mother to that child; and I’ve tried to. Haven’t I, for her sake, sealed my lips, and kept hid a secret that has made the white come in my hair? Am I not an old and faithful servant? After what I have done, can you not trust me when I say that I will carry all I know to the grave? But, Sir Murray, you will try—you will make right what you can. Don’t break their hearts. Look at that brave boy. You know how he loves her; you know how you injured his father. Promise me that you will repent of it all, and try to make them happy.”“Confound the woman!” cried Sir Murray, angrily—“she is mad! Lord Maudlaine, this is no place for your betrothed; take her away. Ha! here is the doctor at last.”As Jane McCray covered her face with her hands, and fell back with a groan, Lord Maudlaine advanced to where Isa, who had heard all that had passed, still knelt by Brace Norton’s side.“Miss Gernon—Isa,” he said, anxiously; “let me lead you away. Sir Murray wisely says that this is no place for you.”“No place!” she cried, her soft eyes flashing into light. “Is it not a woman’s place beside the man she loves, when he is stricken down and helpless? Keep back, sir! I do not require your forced attentions!”The aspect of Lord Maudlaine’s face was a mingling of the ludicrous and the enraged; but no one seemed to heed it, for, evidently violently agitated, Sir Murray had left the room, while all eyes were now directed to the doctor, whose ministrations were rapid, and orders issued sharply, as if he meant to have them obeyed.“Gude-sake, sir!” said McCray, at last, unable to restrain his feelings, for he had read the anxiety in his young lady’s countenance—“Gude-sake, sir, tell’s how they all are!”“Burglar—bad shot through shoulder, but not dangerous; Mr Norton—serious stab, knife pierced the—”“Gude-sake, sir, never mind that!” exclaimed McCray. “Tell’s the warst at once: is he likely—”McCray did not finish his sentence in words, but with his eyes; while, with an anxious troubled look, the doctor glanced towards the figure of Isa Gernon, before he replied:“Well, McCray, I—There, I’ll give you my opinion to-morrow.”
It was with a sense of waking from a dream that Brace Norton opened his eyes to gaze upon lights and faces dancing around him; but it was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply to questions that were asked. By degrees, though, he could make out that it was Sir Murray Gernon who was speaking, and then there arose a loud, wailing woman’s cry, followed by a voice Brace recognised.
“Ye’re reet, lassie—it is, sure enew. It’s Jock Gurdon come back to get his deserts.”
“Blast you!—a doctor—I’m—I’m dy—Here, quick!—a doctor, or I shall bleed to death!” groaned the wretched man.
“Has any one gone for a medical man?” said a stern voice.
“Yes, Sir Mooray, I’ve sent for a doctor and the police, too. It’s gude for us that the loons were quarrelling over the spoil.”
“Isa, my child, this is no place for you!” exclaimed Sir Murray.
“That’s right,” cried Lord Maudlaine, who was also present; “I’ve been asking her to go. My dear Miss Gernon—Isa—what are you about? Don’t go near him!”
Lord Maudlaine might well exclaim, for Isa Gernon, pale and scared, was slowly advancing towards where Brace Norton lay. The eyes of love were more piercing than those of the bystanders; and in those swollen and bleeding features Isa had recognised those of the man who had told her again and again of his love.
“Brace!” she cried, in a low, husky voice, as, falling upon her knees at his side, heedless of all present, she laid her hands upon his; for this could be no burglar, as they had told her—there must be some horrible mystery here.
“Isa!” he whispered, as his eyes met hers for an instant, ere they closed.
“Quick!—quick!” cried the agitated girl. “Father—dear papa—oh, what is this? You have shot him, and he is dying. Oh, quick!—quick!—a doctor!”
Her cries seemed to drive away the fainting sensation that oppressed Brace Norton; and as Sir Murray—astounded at his daughter’s words—hurried to her side, the young man’s eyes again unclosed, for his lips to part in a faint smile.
“No, no,” he whispered—“not shot—that man—Gurdon—I followed him—stabbed, I fear—perhaps to death—the cross, Sir Murray; look! Lady Gernon’s—my father’s innocence—left for me to prove—I know—old story—take it, Isa, love—if I pass away, recollect—not—son—dishonoured man—saved—”
“The brae laddie has fainted, and, Gude save us! it’s young Brace Norton. Here, quick!—some water, and don’t all stand staring like daft fules!” cried McCray. But, at the same moment, with his mind a chaos of wild thoughts, Sir Murray Gernon had sunk upon his knees by the young man, whose hands still clutched the sparkling cross, the jewels glittering brightly yet, though partly encrusted with soot. It was some few minutes, during which he had been striving to stanch the young man’s wound, before he could arrange his thoughts into something like their proper sequence.
This man, then—this Gurdon—had, indeed, stolen the cross; picked it up the night of the great party—more than twenty years ago—and concealed it here, behind the stove; for it was plain enough from whence it had been taken. Here, then, was the key to Gurdon’s attempted burglaries—the man who, with the knowledge of a hidden treasure, had never been able to take it from the spot where it had been placed. Had he, then,—he, Sir Murray Gernon,—been wrong in his suspicions, and was this young man’s father, after all, innocent? No; impossible! he was clear of one foul stain, but the other mystery was unsolved.
The unwonted feeling of gentleness that had come upon him, for a few minutes, as he knelt by the injured man, soon passed away, and the old, hard frown came fiercely back.
There was no one there he could speak to, and say that he was glad the jewels were found, and that he hoped the other mystery might be cleared up; but he rose, with a half-shudder, from his knees, as Jane McCray came forward, pale and trembling, her eyes fixed on his; and as the recollection of the past came back, he would have turned and left the room. But Jane’s hand was on his arm, and, in a voice that was only heard by Isa, she said, beseechingly:
“Oh, Sir Murray, don’t be hard upon your poor child, as you were on my own dear lady! I’ll never say a word—I’ll take all with me to the grave; only, now that it has pleased Heaven to make all this clear, and to show you what you would never believe, try and repent, and ask forgiveness of those you so cruelly wronged! You can’t do much now—it’s too late; but oh! Sir Murray—dear master—do something! Twenty years and more ago, now, since the wrongs were done; and yet, you see, how judgment comes at last for the wicked. You know now how cruelly wrong you were; there it all is. You thought, between them, there had been something done with that cross, and now you see. I hoped that man had died repenting, in a far-off land; but it was to be his fate to come and clear this up first—to show you how ill you treated my poor, sweet lady—to show you her innocence and—”
“Loose your hold, woman!” whispered Sir Murray, hoarsely.
“No,” she said, holding his arm tightly—“not yet. You know how I promised her, Sir Murray, that I’d be, as far as I could, a mother to that child; and I’ve tried to. Haven’t I, for her sake, sealed my lips, and kept hid a secret that has made the white come in my hair? Am I not an old and faithful servant? After what I have done, can you not trust me when I say that I will carry all I know to the grave? But, Sir Murray, you will try—you will make right what you can. Don’t break their hearts. Look at that brave boy. You know how he loves her; you know how you injured his father. Promise me that you will repent of it all, and try to make them happy.”
“Confound the woman!” cried Sir Murray, angrily—“she is mad! Lord Maudlaine, this is no place for your betrothed; take her away. Ha! here is the doctor at last.”
As Jane McCray covered her face with her hands, and fell back with a groan, Lord Maudlaine advanced to where Isa, who had heard all that had passed, still knelt by Brace Norton’s side.
“Miss Gernon—Isa,” he said, anxiously; “let me lead you away. Sir Murray wisely says that this is no place for you.”
“No place!” she cried, her soft eyes flashing into light. “Is it not a woman’s place beside the man she loves, when he is stricken down and helpless? Keep back, sir! I do not require your forced attentions!”
The aspect of Lord Maudlaine’s face was a mingling of the ludicrous and the enraged; but no one seemed to heed it, for, evidently violently agitated, Sir Murray had left the room, while all eyes were now directed to the doctor, whose ministrations were rapid, and orders issued sharply, as if he meant to have them obeyed.
“Gude-sake, sir!” said McCray, at last, unable to restrain his feelings, for he had read the anxiety in his young lady’s countenance—“Gude-sake, sir, tell’s how they all are!”
“Burglar—bad shot through shoulder, but not dangerous; Mr Norton—serious stab, knife pierced the—”
“Gude-sake, sir, never mind that!” exclaimed McCray. “Tell’s the warst at once: is he likely—”
McCray did not finish his sentence in words, but with his eyes; while, with an anxious troubled look, the doctor glanced towards the figure of Isa Gernon, before he replied:
“Well, McCray, I—There, I’ll give you my opinion to-morrow.”
Crushed Down.Die? What, with those sweet imploring eyes bidding him live?—with hope telling him that now one part of the mystery was cleared the other must soon be swept away?—with his own heart whispering energy, and patience, and desire for life? No; his spirit had well-nigh been drained away by that cruel stab, but Brace Norton smiled at the pain he suffered, and fought back the black shade that bade him succumb.They bore him from the Castle to his own home; for as soon as the news spread of the late adventure, Captain and Mrs Norton, who had passed an anxious night, had themselves driven over to the Castle, and, in spite of the doctor’s remonstrance, insisted upon bringing their son away.“I cannot help it, Challen,” said Captain Norton—“the risk must be run. You must do your best to avert danger, for he cannot stay here.”“As you will,” said the doctor; and he proceeded to superintend the young man’s removal to the carriage.Sir Murray Gernon knew of their coming, but he did not meet them. He shut himself up in his study, and as Brace was being placed in the carriage, McCray came forward, and handed a note to Captain Norton, who started as he saw the cipher on the great seal.He tore it open and read the following lines:“Sir Murray Gernon feels it to be his duty to apologise to Captain Norton for having done himonegrievous wrong. The Sapphire Cross was stolen by Sir Murray’s butler, and is once more in its owner’s hands.“Sir Murray Gernon asks Captain Norton’s pardon.”Without a word, Captain Norton handed the note to his wife, who read it; and then, with the proud blood rushing to her temples, she handed it back, watching him to see what he would do.There was a look almost of passion in Captain Norton’s eye, and the great broad scar looked red and angry, as he stood there biting his lip for a few brief instants before he spoke.The library door was ajar, and every word of his sharp, military speech was plainly heard by the occupant, as, drawing himself up, Captain, Norton turned to McCray.“You are Sir Murray Gernon’s confidential servant,” he said. “I will not write, but tell him this from me: he asks my pardon for a wrong, and I have waited over twenty years till the truth should appear. I go now to wait for the fellow-letter to this; when he shall ask my forgiveness for another wrong, then I will send him my reply.”He turned and walked slowly and proudly down the great steps of the main entrance, while their owner cowered in his room, shrinking back into the far corner, as he watched and saw through the window that Isa was at the carriage-door, holding one of Brace’s hands in hers, as she looked appealingly in Dr Challen’s face. His brow darkened as he saw it, for it seemed as if his efforts were to be set at nought, and that the more he battled against the stream of events the more it swept him back. But he did not hear his child’s plaintive words, as she spoke to the doctor.“Pray—pray tell me!” she whispered: “Is he in danger?”“Danger? Well, yes, of course he is,” said the doctor, taking her in his arms and kissing her as he would one of his own children. “But there, bless your bright little face, go in, and don’t fidget and make those eyes dull with crying, and I’ll cure him right off for you. Now, Captain Norton,” he continued, lightly—“slow march for the horses—two miles an hour—with the windows all down, and I must ride inside.”Brace fainted as the carriage-door was closed, but it was with the sense of his hand being kissed by two soft, warm lips, ere all became misty and confused; and then it was that Dr Challen’s light, flippant manner gave place to a quiet, serious aspect, as he plied restoratives, and prepared for the battle that his experience told him was imminent.It was a long and fierce fight, but youth, with hope shining now in upon the young man’s heart, prevailed; and though no encouraging letter from Isa—no communication came from the Castle but a formal inquiry or two made on the part of Sir Murray—Brace daily grew stronger, telling himself that he would yet, perhaps, see the day when all would be made plain. There was a feeling of exultation that came upon the young man, when he saw the proud, happy bearing that seemed to have come upon his father? and more than once there was a fond blessing from her who had held faith when all the world disbelieved. This exultation did more than all Dr Challen’s medicaments, but the doctor took to himself the credit, all the same.Brace’s ship sailed without him, and he could not but rejoice at the time afforded him for further investigation, while he prayed earnestly that accident might again favour him, though at times his heart sank, as rumours came of the state of affairs at the Castle. For though he had dismissed them as impossible, utterly refusing them credence, at times charging Sir Murray Gernon with subterfuge, at others giving him the credit of believing the words he had whispered, they began now, as he approached convalescence, to make a deep and lasting impression upon him. He had not seen her—he had not heard from her, and the gap between the families seemed almost to have widened since the discovery of the cross; but there was no Lord Maudlaine at the Castle now: he had taken his departure, and Brace was hopeful that it was for good; when one day, when he had regained his strength, his heart leaped tumultuously, for he saw Isa approaching him, on her favourite mare, attended as usual by Peter Barlow.It might be wrong, but he could not help it, and he hurried forward to meet her, his hands outstretched, and face bright and eager, but to his utter despair she touched the mare with her whip, averted her head, and cantered by, leaving him, almost giddy with misery, by the road-side.
Die? What, with those sweet imploring eyes bidding him live?—with hope telling him that now one part of the mystery was cleared the other must soon be swept away?—with his own heart whispering energy, and patience, and desire for life? No; his spirit had well-nigh been drained away by that cruel stab, but Brace Norton smiled at the pain he suffered, and fought back the black shade that bade him succumb.
They bore him from the Castle to his own home; for as soon as the news spread of the late adventure, Captain and Mrs Norton, who had passed an anxious night, had themselves driven over to the Castle, and, in spite of the doctor’s remonstrance, insisted upon bringing their son away.
“I cannot help it, Challen,” said Captain Norton—“the risk must be run. You must do your best to avert danger, for he cannot stay here.”
“As you will,” said the doctor; and he proceeded to superintend the young man’s removal to the carriage.
Sir Murray Gernon knew of their coming, but he did not meet them. He shut himself up in his study, and as Brace was being placed in the carriage, McCray came forward, and handed a note to Captain Norton, who started as he saw the cipher on the great seal.
He tore it open and read the following lines:
“Sir Murray Gernon feels it to be his duty to apologise to Captain Norton for having done himonegrievous wrong. The Sapphire Cross was stolen by Sir Murray’s butler, and is once more in its owner’s hands.
“Sir Murray Gernon asks Captain Norton’s pardon.”
Without a word, Captain Norton handed the note to his wife, who read it; and then, with the proud blood rushing to her temples, she handed it back, watching him to see what he would do.
There was a look almost of passion in Captain Norton’s eye, and the great broad scar looked red and angry, as he stood there biting his lip for a few brief instants before he spoke.
The library door was ajar, and every word of his sharp, military speech was plainly heard by the occupant, as, drawing himself up, Captain, Norton turned to McCray.
“You are Sir Murray Gernon’s confidential servant,” he said. “I will not write, but tell him this from me: he asks my pardon for a wrong, and I have waited over twenty years till the truth should appear. I go now to wait for the fellow-letter to this; when he shall ask my forgiveness for another wrong, then I will send him my reply.”
He turned and walked slowly and proudly down the great steps of the main entrance, while their owner cowered in his room, shrinking back into the far corner, as he watched and saw through the window that Isa was at the carriage-door, holding one of Brace’s hands in hers, as she looked appealingly in Dr Challen’s face. His brow darkened as he saw it, for it seemed as if his efforts were to be set at nought, and that the more he battled against the stream of events the more it swept him back. But he did not hear his child’s plaintive words, as she spoke to the doctor.
“Pray—pray tell me!” she whispered: “Is he in danger?”
“Danger? Well, yes, of course he is,” said the doctor, taking her in his arms and kissing her as he would one of his own children. “But there, bless your bright little face, go in, and don’t fidget and make those eyes dull with crying, and I’ll cure him right off for you. Now, Captain Norton,” he continued, lightly—“slow march for the horses—two miles an hour—with the windows all down, and I must ride inside.”
Brace fainted as the carriage-door was closed, but it was with the sense of his hand being kissed by two soft, warm lips, ere all became misty and confused; and then it was that Dr Challen’s light, flippant manner gave place to a quiet, serious aspect, as he plied restoratives, and prepared for the battle that his experience told him was imminent.
It was a long and fierce fight, but youth, with hope shining now in upon the young man’s heart, prevailed; and though no encouraging letter from Isa—no communication came from the Castle but a formal inquiry or two made on the part of Sir Murray—Brace daily grew stronger, telling himself that he would yet, perhaps, see the day when all would be made plain. There was a feeling of exultation that came upon the young man, when he saw the proud, happy bearing that seemed to have come upon his father? and more than once there was a fond blessing from her who had held faith when all the world disbelieved. This exultation did more than all Dr Challen’s medicaments, but the doctor took to himself the credit, all the same.
Brace’s ship sailed without him, and he could not but rejoice at the time afforded him for further investigation, while he prayed earnestly that accident might again favour him, though at times his heart sank, as rumours came of the state of affairs at the Castle. For though he had dismissed them as impossible, utterly refusing them credence, at times charging Sir Murray Gernon with subterfuge, at others giving him the credit of believing the words he had whispered, they began now, as he approached convalescence, to make a deep and lasting impression upon him. He had not seen her—he had not heard from her, and the gap between the families seemed almost to have widened since the discovery of the cross; but there was no Lord Maudlaine at the Castle now: he had taken his departure, and Brace was hopeful that it was for good; when one day, when he had regained his strength, his heart leaped tumultuously, for he saw Isa approaching him, on her favourite mare, attended as usual by Peter Barlow.
It might be wrong, but he could not help it, and he hurried forward to meet her, his hands outstretched, and face bright and eager, but to his utter despair she touched the mare with her whip, averted her head, and cantered by, leaving him, almost giddy with misery, by the road-side.
Why Isa Gernon Avoided Brace.Lord Maudlaine had indeed left the Castle, but not for the reason Brace Norton had hoped. The time was getting on, and a hint or two to that effect from his friend in London had induced him to seek an opportunity for speaking to Isa alone.The opportunity was soon afforded him, for Sir Murray, guessing his wish, and himself anxious that the marriage should take place, left them one evening together in the drawing-room, while he sought his study, where, a quarter of an hour after, the Viscount came to him.“What! so soon?” said Sir Murray.“Utter refusal—appeal to my feelings—impossible to accept me—and all that sort of thing,” said the Viscount, angrily. “I’m being played with, Sir Murray Gernon,” he exclaimed, bitterly—“led on and trifled with!”“Are you willing to take her as she is—to risk all?” said Sir Murray, quietly.“Quite—yes, of course,” said his lordship.“Stay here, then, till I return,” said Sir Murray.He went to the drawing-room, where he found Isa, vainly striving to keep back her tears.“Come here and sit down, Isa,” he said, in quiet, measured tones. “There, don’t tremble,” he said, as he took her hand. “I’m not very angry with you, and I’m not going to scold and play the tyrant. You have just refused Lord Maudlaine, when you know that for months past it has been an understood thing that he was to be your husband. I do not ask you why you have done this, because I know. While we were in Italy there was no opposition shown upon your side; since we have returned you have often made me blush for the coldness—almost rudeness—with which you have treated him.”“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Isa, appealingly.“You must hear me out,” he said sternly. “I will tell you why you are cold to him: it is because you think that you love this Brace Norton; and, irrespective of the feeling between our houses, were he a man of honour, he would, after my words to him, have ceased his persecution.”“Your words!” faltered Isa.“My words,” he said sternly. “I saw him, and I have appealed to him in every way, but only to meet with an obstinate refusal. Then I brought to bear means that at the time I believed to be effectual. This is no silly romance of love, my child, but stern fact, that I have to deal with. I have chosen Lord Maudlaine to be your husband. You will be a titled lady, and some day wear a Countess’s coronet. You will both be wealthy, and let me tell you that it is an alliance to be proud of. Now, promise me that, if I send him in, you will accede to his proposals.”Isa was silent.“You hear me, Isa,” he said, gently—“why do you not reply? You will accede to his wishes, will you not?”“I cannot,” said Isa, in a whisper. “It would be a mockery!”“Absurd, silly, romantic nonsense, my child! You must accept him, and at once. I wish to have your marriage off my mind before I return to Italy; for I cannot stay in this place.”“Let us go, then, together!” said Isa, eagerly. “Why do you trouble about this matter at all?”“It is my wish to see you married, and to Lord Maudlaine,” he said, firmly. “I cannot live with the constant harass of this man’s pretensions. I tell you, on my honour as a gentleman—since you set at nought my word as your father—that a marriage between you and Brace Norton is an impossibility. I told him—lowering myself even to giving him the reasons; and the man’s character is such that—here, look, I have his letter to you, and which I refuse to let you read. I tell you, Isa, that in spite of my moroseness at times, I have a love for you from the way in which you recall your mother; but I would see you in your coffin sooner than the wife of this man!”“But, papa—dear papa,” sobbed Isa, “you are prejudiced—you are cruel! You do not know how good, and brave, and true he is, and I love him so—so dearly!”She threw herself, sobbing, upon his breast, hiding her burning cheeks; while, apparently softened, he held her to him—a sad, wild, pained look in his face, as he kissed and smoothed her long, dark tresses.“My child,” he said, sadly, “I own I hate father and son with a fierce, undying hatred; but it is not that alone which makes me tell you that Brace Norton can never be your husband. Can you not believe me when I tell you that every word I utter is solemn truth?”“Yes—oh yes!” sobbed Isa.“Then you will see Lord Maudlaine?”“Indeed—indeed, I cannot!” sobbed Isa. “I—”“Hush!” said Sir Murray, sternly, as, rising, he stood holding her hand. “In plain terms, you must. Hearken to me, Isa. You know me only as a cold, harsh, and bitter man; an unhappy life has made me what I am. Proud I was always: but I might have been amiable—loving and loved—but it was not to be. I have still some traces of better feeling left; and I ask you—I implore you—not to force me to make revelations that shall prove the impossibility of your wedding Brace Norton. I might look over his father having been the bane of my life, and, did I see that it was for your happiness, give way; but once again, I tell you that it is impossible. Will you take my word?”Isa looked up into his face with an aspect that was pitiable.“Can you feel no pity for me?” she whispered.“Yes,” he said, gently; “I am having pity on you, though you cannot see it, and are obliged blindly to take my word. And now I ask you, can you not have pity on me?”Isa sat as if stunned, while, throwing her hand from him, Sir Murray strode for awhile up and down the room. Then, returning to her, he again seated himself by her side.“Look here, Isa,” he said, “Lord Maudlaine wishes this affair to take place at the end of this month. I may tell him that you consent, may I not?”“No!” she said, her spirit rising at the thought of being forced into accepting a man she despised. “I will not consent.”“You are blind, Isa—blind!” he said, sadly; and then a groan seemed to tear itself from his breast, as he bent over her, speaking in low, hoarse tones.“I would have spared you,” he said; “for whatever you might have felt for this young man, Isa, you had the one good excuse, that you had obeyed me in accepting Lord Maudlaine. Time will not allow that the wedding should longer be deferred. It is his wish that it should take place at once—and mine; for my life is a burden to me here. I lead the life of one haunted by the past; and it was only when, moved by some strange impulse that I could not counteract, I returned, to find, what?—misery, and disappointment, and scenes that remind me of what should have been my happier days. But, once more, do you force me to this avowal? I ask you again to spare yourself and me, taking it for granted that what I tell you is right. May I refrain, and then tell Lord Maudlaine to come to you?”“I cannot—indeed I cannot!” imploringly exclaimed Isa.Sir Murray rose, his face working and his whole aspect speaking of the careworn, broken man. Then waiting a few moments, he stood with one hand shading his eyes, before again speaking.“Isa,” he said, “Jane McCray has acted the part of a mother to you, at your own mother’s wish; and I have ever kept her at your side. Go to her now, and ask her why I have never shown you a father’s love—a parent’s tender care; and though she will utter a strenuous defence of the dead, you may read in her words my reason for saying that Brace Norton can never be your husband. You will know yourself that it is impossible that such an union can take place; for, before Heaven, my child, I believe every word I utter to be true!”
Lord Maudlaine had indeed left the Castle, but not for the reason Brace Norton had hoped. The time was getting on, and a hint or two to that effect from his friend in London had induced him to seek an opportunity for speaking to Isa alone.
The opportunity was soon afforded him, for Sir Murray, guessing his wish, and himself anxious that the marriage should take place, left them one evening together in the drawing-room, while he sought his study, where, a quarter of an hour after, the Viscount came to him.
“What! so soon?” said Sir Murray.
“Utter refusal—appeal to my feelings—impossible to accept me—and all that sort of thing,” said the Viscount, angrily. “I’m being played with, Sir Murray Gernon,” he exclaimed, bitterly—“led on and trifled with!”
“Are you willing to take her as she is—to risk all?” said Sir Murray, quietly.
“Quite—yes, of course,” said his lordship.
“Stay here, then, till I return,” said Sir Murray.
He went to the drawing-room, where he found Isa, vainly striving to keep back her tears.
“Come here and sit down, Isa,” he said, in quiet, measured tones. “There, don’t tremble,” he said, as he took her hand. “I’m not very angry with you, and I’m not going to scold and play the tyrant. You have just refused Lord Maudlaine, when you know that for months past it has been an understood thing that he was to be your husband. I do not ask you why you have done this, because I know. While we were in Italy there was no opposition shown upon your side; since we have returned you have often made me blush for the coldness—almost rudeness—with which you have treated him.”
“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Isa, appealingly.
“You must hear me out,” he said sternly. “I will tell you why you are cold to him: it is because you think that you love this Brace Norton; and, irrespective of the feeling between our houses, were he a man of honour, he would, after my words to him, have ceased his persecution.”
“Your words!” faltered Isa.
“My words,” he said sternly. “I saw him, and I have appealed to him in every way, but only to meet with an obstinate refusal. Then I brought to bear means that at the time I believed to be effectual. This is no silly romance of love, my child, but stern fact, that I have to deal with. I have chosen Lord Maudlaine to be your husband. You will be a titled lady, and some day wear a Countess’s coronet. You will both be wealthy, and let me tell you that it is an alliance to be proud of. Now, promise me that, if I send him in, you will accede to his proposals.”
Isa was silent.
“You hear me, Isa,” he said, gently—“why do you not reply? You will accede to his wishes, will you not?”
“I cannot,” said Isa, in a whisper. “It would be a mockery!”
“Absurd, silly, romantic nonsense, my child! You must accept him, and at once. I wish to have your marriage off my mind before I return to Italy; for I cannot stay in this place.”
“Let us go, then, together!” said Isa, eagerly. “Why do you trouble about this matter at all?”
“It is my wish to see you married, and to Lord Maudlaine,” he said, firmly. “I cannot live with the constant harass of this man’s pretensions. I tell you, on my honour as a gentleman—since you set at nought my word as your father—that a marriage between you and Brace Norton is an impossibility. I told him—lowering myself even to giving him the reasons; and the man’s character is such that—here, look, I have his letter to you, and which I refuse to let you read. I tell you, Isa, that in spite of my moroseness at times, I have a love for you from the way in which you recall your mother; but I would see you in your coffin sooner than the wife of this man!”
“But, papa—dear papa,” sobbed Isa, “you are prejudiced—you are cruel! You do not know how good, and brave, and true he is, and I love him so—so dearly!”
She threw herself, sobbing, upon his breast, hiding her burning cheeks; while, apparently softened, he held her to him—a sad, wild, pained look in his face, as he kissed and smoothed her long, dark tresses.
“My child,” he said, sadly, “I own I hate father and son with a fierce, undying hatred; but it is not that alone which makes me tell you that Brace Norton can never be your husband. Can you not believe me when I tell you that every word I utter is solemn truth?”
“Yes—oh yes!” sobbed Isa.
“Then you will see Lord Maudlaine?”
“Indeed—indeed, I cannot!” sobbed Isa. “I—”
“Hush!” said Sir Murray, sternly, as, rising, he stood holding her hand. “In plain terms, you must. Hearken to me, Isa. You know me only as a cold, harsh, and bitter man; an unhappy life has made me what I am. Proud I was always: but I might have been amiable—loving and loved—but it was not to be. I have still some traces of better feeling left; and I ask you—I implore you—not to force me to make revelations that shall prove the impossibility of your wedding Brace Norton. I might look over his father having been the bane of my life, and, did I see that it was for your happiness, give way; but once again, I tell you that it is impossible. Will you take my word?”
Isa looked up into his face with an aspect that was pitiable.
“Can you feel no pity for me?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said, gently; “I am having pity on you, though you cannot see it, and are obliged blindly to take my word. And now I ask you, can you not have pity on me?”
Isa sat as if stunned, while, throwing her hand from him, Sir Murray strode for awhile up and down the room. Then, returning to her, he again seated himself by her side.
“Look here, Isa,” he said, “Lord Maudlaine wishes this affair to take place at the end of this month. I may tell him that you consent, may I not?”
“No!” she said, her spirit rising at the thought of being forced into accepting a man she despised. “I will not consent.”
“You are blind, Isa—blind!” he said, sadly; and then a groan seemed to tear itself from his breast, as he bent over her, speaking in low, hoarse tones.
“I would have spared you,” he said; “for whatever you might have felt for this young man, Isa, you had the one good excuse, that you had obeyed me in accepting Lord Maudlaine. Time will not allow that the wedding should longer be deferred. It is his wish that it should take place at once—and mine; for my life is a burden to me here. I lead the life of one haunted by the past; and it was only when, moved by some strange impulse that I could not counteract, I returned, to find, what?—misery, and disappointment, and scenes that remind me of what should have been my happier days. But, once more, do you force me to this avowal? I ask you again to spare yourself and me, taking it for granted that what I tell you is right. May I refrain, and then tell Lord Maudlaine to come to you?”
“I cannot—indeed I cannot!” imploringly exclaimed Isa.
Sir Murray rose, his face working and his whole aspect speaking of the careworn, broken man. Then waiting a few moments, he stood with one hand shading his eyes, before again speaking.
“Isa,” he said, “Jane McCray has acted the part of a mother to you, at your own mother’s wish; and I have ever kept her at your side. Go to her now, and ask her why I have never shown you a father’s love—a parent’s tender care; and though she will utter a strenuous defence of the dead, you may read in her words my reason for saying that Brace Norton can never be your husband. You will know yourself that it is impossible that such an union can take place; for, before Heaven, my child, I believe every word I utter to be true!”
With Trouble Looming.“Dinna be fashed with me, lassie, I ainly say what I think and feel, and I do believe that it is perhaps better things should tak’ their course. If ye could ha’ married the man ye chose, Jenny, first aff, I dinna think, my lassie, there’d ha’ been this nice, smooth auld face under your cap, and the grey ainly sprunk lightly among your hair, just like to set it aff. Why, your e’en are bright as ay they were, when I had a sair heart aboot Jock Gurdon, who’s got well again, and Sir Mooray is na gane to prosecute him; but, Jenny, lassie, he’s na sae bad a man, aifter all, Sir Mooray is na, for there, lassie—there they air, ten new crisp five-pound notes, and all for Jock Gurdon, to take him ower to America, and start life as a new man.”“Heaven bless Sir Murray for it!” said Jane, fervently.“Amen to that, lassie; and I hope Jock Gurdon will mend his ways. And I’ve been thinking, lassie, that if I tak’ the money, it will rise up some of the auld anger in the man, so ye shall e’en do it yer ainsel’, and give him a few words for his benefit; for ye’re a gude woman, Jane, and Heaven was verra kind to me when He gave me sic a wife.”Jane McCray did not speak, but her comely face was raised to her husband’s, and a few bright tears fell from her eyes as she returned his loving kiss.“I should be a happy woman if it were not for that poor bairn,” said Jane. “She believes it, though I scolded her, and told her how cruel and false it all was, and that my own dear, sweet lady—”“Hoot, lassie! ye’re getting excited. The puir child has said ‘yes’ to his lordship at last, and they’re to be married. Marriages air made in heaven, lassie, so let’s hope it’s all for the best.”“For the best!” sobbed Jane McCray, wringing her hands. “Oh! Alexander, dear husband! can’t we stop it, for I foresee all sorts of misery and unhappiness for them both in the days to come; and it’s cruel—cruel to force the poor child!”“Nay, my lassie, but it is na force. She is only giving way to Sir Mooray’s wishes, and if my laird here were a proper man, I wad na say a word. But there, he’s gane to town for some days—till the wedding time, noo—and the sooner its ower the better. Peter tells me that the puir bairn met young Norton, when they were oot laist, and he tried to speak to her, but she turned her head, and cantered on.”Jane groaned, and wrung her hands. “I wish I was in my grave, sooner than see it all come to pass,” she sobbed.“Weel, it’s perhaps a sair potion to swaller, Jenny; but be a woman. What does the puir bairn say?”“Say? Nothing; only goes about the place pale and wan, with her poor heart breaking,” said the housekeeper; “and when that creature—”“Hoot, lassie! what creature?” said McCray.“That popinjay lord,” said Jane scornfully. “When—”“Gude save us, lassie! dinna ye ken yer catechism: ‘order yersel’ lowly and reverently to a’ yer betters;’ and that’s na ordering yersel’ lowly and reverently.”“When I’ve seen him take hold of her, as if she was his property that he had bought, and stroke her hair and kiss her, the poor thing has shuddered; and once she struggled from him, and came to me to take care of her—for she only sees him with me in the room—and as soon as he’d gone she sobbed, as if her heart would break.”“Puir bairn,” said McCray; “but he’s gane noo, and she’ll ha’e a respite.”“Respite, indeed!” said his wife angrily. “It puts me in mind of the old time—over five-and-twenty years ago—when my poor dear lady was all low and desponding because, at the wish of old Master and Mrs Elstree, she had accepted Sir Murray; and there she was with her cousin, Mrs Norton, you know, sobbing her poor eyes—I mean heart—away. I declare, whether it’s wrong or right, Alexander, that if that poor young man—no! poor? nonsense: he’s better off a deal than my fine lord, and as brave as he’s high—”“That’s a true word, lassie,” said McCray, who was having his evening pipe and tumbler of whisky and water, his day’s duties being ended.“If that Mr Norton came to me and asked me to help him to run away with the child, I’d help him to the best of my power.”“Nay—nay—nay! your tongue’s gane wild, lassie.”“Wouldn’t you, then?” said Mrs McCray.“Weel, I’ll na say,” said the cautious Scot. “Ye see, lassie, there’s for and against; and in spite of a’ ye say about crule suspeeshons, I think, as I said before, that it’s our duty to all we know to haud our peace and let matters tak’ their course.”And matters were taking their course rapidly; for as time passed on, Brace Norton roamed the lanes like the ghost of his former self; but never once did he meet poor Isa.The wedding-day was fixed, and the dresses were ordered, and once more Merland was to be the scene of festivity and rejoicing. After the wedding Lord and Lady Maudlaine, people said, were to start for the Continent, and Sir Murray intended to go alone to Italy to reside, while the Castle was to be the home of my lord and my lady.“And you’ll have fine doings there, I suppose,” said one of two strange men who had come down to stay at old Chunt’s inn—surveyors they said they were, perhaps connected with the working on the marsh.“Yes,” said Chunt, who was stout now, and hardly ever left his chair; “the Castle will be again what it ought to be, for the new master, they say, can make the shiners fly. I see he’s come down again.”“Yes,” said one of the men, taking his pipe from his month; “I see he’s come down.”“Ah, you know him, do you?” said Chunt.“Know him? Well, so far as having him pointed out to me goes, I know him. Fine thing for him, they say.”“Bless you,” said Chunt, “I believe there’s no end to the money he’ll have; but I hope it’ll be a happy marriage, that’s all I’ve got for to say.” And in spite of people trying to draw Chunt out, thatwasall he had to say, and he tightened his lips for fear another word should escape. “Wanted, eh?” said Chunt—“I’m coming,” and he waddled out to speak to a new-comer.“How do, sir? Post-chaise and pair, sir. Oh, yes, sir; any time you like. You’ll give your orders? Thanky, sir.”Mr Chunt waddled back as his visitor departed, and one of the frequenters of the bar asked who that gentleman was.“That gent?” said Chunt. “Oh! that’s Master Brace Norton.”
“Dinna be fashed with me, lassie, I ainly say what I think and feel, and I do believe that it is perhaps better things should tak’ their course. If ye could ha’ married the man ye chose, Jenny, first aff, I dinna think, my lassie, there’d ha’ been this nice, smooth auld face under your cap, and the grey ainly sprunk lightly among your hair, just like to set it aff. Why, your e’en are bright as ay they were, when I had a sair heart aboot Jock Gurdon, who’s got well again, and Sir Mooray is na gane to prosecute him; but, Jenny, lassie, he’s na sae bad a man, aifter all, Sir Mooray is na, for there, lassie—there they air, ten new crisp five-pound notes, and all for Jock Gurdon, to take him ower to America, and start life as a new man.”
“Heaven bless Sir Murray for it!” said Jane, fervently.
“Amen to that, lassie; and I hope Jock Gurdon will mend his ways. And I’ve been thinking, lassie, that if I tak’ the money, it will rise up some of the auld anger in the man, so ye shall e’en do it yer ainsel’, and give him a few words for his benefit; for ye’re a gude woman, Jane, and Heaven was verra kind to me when He gave me sic a wife.”
Jane McCray did not speak, but her comely face was raised to her husband’s, and a few bright tears fell from her eyes as she returned his loving kiss.
“I should be a happy woman if it were not for that poor bairn,” said Jane. “She believes it, though I scolded her, and told her how cruel and false it all was, and that my own dear, sweet lady—”
“Hoot, lassie! ye’re getting excited. The puir child has said ‘yes’ to his lordship at last, and they’re to be married. Marriages air made in heaven, lassie, so let’s hope it’s all for the best.”
“For the best!” sobbed Jane McCray, wringing her hands. “Oh! Alexander, dear husband! can’t we stop it, for I foresee all sorts of misery and unhappiness for them both in the days to come; and it’s cruel—cruel to force the poor child!”
“Nay, my lassie, but it is na force. She is only giving way to Sir Mooray’s wishes, and if my laird here were a proper man, I wad na say a word. But there, he’s gane to town for some days—till the wedding time, noo—and the sooner its ower the better. Peter tells me that the puir bairn met young Norton, when they were oot laist, and he tried to speak to her, but she turned her head, and cantered on.”
Jane groaned, and wrung her hands. “I wish I was in my grave, sooner than see it all come to pass,” she sobbed.
“Weel, it’s perhaps a sair potion to swaller, Jenny; but be a woman. What does the puir bairn say?”
“Say? Nothing; only goes about the place pale and wan, with her poor heart breaking,” said the housekeeper; “and when that creature—”
“Hoot, lassie! what creature?” said McCray.
“That popinjay lord,” said Jane scornfully. “When—”
“Gude save us, lassie! dinna ye ken yer catechism: ‘order yersel’ lowly and reverently to a’ yer betters;’ and that’s na ordering yersel’ lowly and reverently.”
“When I’ve seen him take hold of her, as if she was his property that he had bought, and stroke her hair and kiss her, the poor thing has shuddered; and once she struggled from him, and came to me to take care of her—for she only sees him with me in the room—and as soon as he’d gone she sobbed, as if her heart would break.”
“Puir bairn,” said McCray; “but he’s gane noo, and she’ll ha’e a respite.”
“Respite, indeed!” said his wife angrily. “It puts me in mind of the old time—over five-and-twenty years ago—when my poor dear lady was all low and desponding because, at the wish of old Master and Mrs Elstree, she had accepted Sir Murray; and there she was with her cousin, Mrs Norton, you know, sobbing her poor eyes—I mean heart—away. I declare, whether it’s wrong or right, Alexander, that if that poor young man—no! poor? nonsense: he’s better off a deal than my fine lord, and as brave as he’s high—”
“That’s a true word, lassie,” said McCray, who was having his evening pipe and tumbler of whisky and water, his day’s duties being ended.
“If that Mr Norton came to me and asked me to help him to run away with the child, I’d help him to the best of my power.”
“Nay—nay—nay! your tongue’s gane wild, lassie.”
“Wouldn’t you, then?” said Mrs McCray.
“Weel, I’ll na say,” said the cautious Scot. “Ye see, lassie, there’s for and against; and in spite of a’ ye say about crule suspeeshons, I think, as I said before, that it’s our duty to all we know to haud our peace and let matters tak’ their course.”
And matters were taking their course rapidly; for as time passed on, Brace Norton roamed the lanes like the ghost of his former self; but never once did he meet poor Isa.
The wedding-day was fixed, and the dresses were ordered, and once more Merland was to be the scene of festivity and rejoicing. After the wedding Lord and Lady Maudlaine, people said, were to start for the Continent, and Sir Murray intended to go alone to Italy to reside, while the Castle was to be the home of my lord and my lady.
“And you’ll have fine doings there, I suppose,” said one of two strange men who had come down to stay at old Chunt’s inn—surveyors they said they were, perhaps connected with the working on the marsh.
“Yes,” said Chunt, who was stout now, and hardly ever left his chair; “the Castle will be again what it ought to be, for the new master, they say, can make the shiners fly. I see he’s come down again.”
“Yes,” said one of the men, taking his pipe from his month; “I see he’s come down.”
“Ah, you know him, do you?” said Chunt.
“Know him? Well, so far as having him pointed out to me goes, I know him. Fine thing for him, they say.”
“Bless you,” said Chunt, “I believe there’s no end to the money he’ll have; but I hope it’ll be a happy marriage, that’s all I’ve got for to say.” And in spite of people trying to draw Chunt out, thatwasall he had to say, and he tightened his lips for fear another word should escape. “Wanted, eh?” said Chunt—“I’m coming,” and he waddled out to speak to a new-comer.
“How do, sir? Post-chaise and pair, sir. Oh, yes, sir; any time you like. You’ll give your orders? Thanky, sir.”
Mr Chunt waddled back as his visitor departed, and one of the frequenters of the bar asked who that gentleman was.
“That gent?” said Chunt. “Oh! that’s Master Brace Norton.”