Changes at Hand.Everything that could be done in the way of searching was energetically carried out. The lake, every pond, and even many of the water-holes upon the moor were dragged; but no tidings—no trace of Lady Gernon was obtained. McCray had seen her walk across the lawn and disappear behind some shrubs, as he was at work, and that seemed to be the last trace. No one could be found who had seen her pass in any direction; and the topic of conversation in Merland village and the neighbourhood began to change its tone, as people learned how Sir Murray had, for a short time, made inquiries respecting the route taken by Captain Norton, pursuing him, too, for some distance, until he seemed to have disappeared, the information he obtained being of a very vague nature.But it was very plain to those who took an interest in the affair that Sir Murray Gernon’s endeavours to trace his lady were made in a half-hearted manner. The search in the neighbourhood of the Castle was strenuous enough, but that was due to the exertions of McCray; and when, at the end of a week, people learned that Sir Murray had shut himself up, after discharging half the servants with liberal wages, they raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads, and wondered whether Captain Norton would ever show himself again at the Hall.As for Jane, she was nearly having a rupture with McCray, upon his giving in his adhesion to the popular feeling; but the matter blew over, and whatever might be her thoughts, she said no more, waiting in expectation of the battle that she felt to be in store for her when, rousing himself once more, Sir Murray should recall her words, and wish to discharge her.But the day she dreaded did not come; while, to the great disgust of the servants, McCray seemed to be more and more in the confidence of Sir Murray.“Why don’t he keep to his ‘gairden,’ as he calls it?” said the footman, indignantly; for he felt himself much ill-used, since he had to wear his livery, eat his food, and do nothing at all in return, for the baronet’s simple meals were taken into his room by McCray. Williams, the other footman—Sir Murray’s spy, as Jane indignantly called him—had been amongst the servants first discharged.“The poor gairden’s going to rack and ruin, lassie,” said McCray; “and just as I was going to make such improvements and alterations! But Sir Mooray says I’m not to let either of the ither sairvants go to him; and I believe he frightened that loon in the breeches, because he would take in the letters.”“But he sha’n’t frighten me,” said Jane, firmly. “I’ll never leave the child, come what may.”“Dinna fash yersel’, darling,” said McCray, tenderly. “I’ve got the wages and orders of six more that are to be sent away at once, but ye’re nae one of them. Sir Mooray winna discharge ye till he packs me off.”“Indeed!” said Jane. “And how do you know?”“Why, we’ve been talking aboot ye, lassie; and Sir Mooray said he had made up his mind to go abroad again, and asked me if I’d gang wi’ him; and though it cut me to the heart to leave my fruit and flowers, lassie, I thocht I’d see new sorts in the far countree, and I said I’d gang.”“It didn’t fret you, then, to think of leaving me?” said Jane, bitterly.“Hoot, lassie! and who’s aboot to gang and leave ye?” exclaimed McCray. “Sir Mooray said I was to see and get a good nurse to tak’ charge of the bairn—one as would go abroad; and I telled him he couldna do better than keep ye, when I thocht he was going to fly at me. But I telled him, quite still like, that we’d promised to marry, and that if he didna tak’ ye, lassie, he wadna tak’ me; and that seemed to make him mad for a bit, till I telled him that ye lo’ed weel the bairn, and that ye were a gude girl at heart. But he wadna listen.”“Was it to be a good place, Alexander?” said Jane.“Ay, lassie; I was to have a fair bit o’ siller.”“Then you mustn’t give it up for me.”“I didna mean to, lassie,” said McCray, coolly.Jane was piqued, and said nothing.“There, lassie, I winna beat aboot the bush any more. It was settled at last that we twain are to gang thegither; and I agreed for both, and Sir Mooray starts next week for the Lake Como.”“And like you!” said Jane, with asperity. “How could you know that I’d go?”“Why, didn’t I ken that ye’d gang for my sake?” said McCray.“No, indeed!” exclaimed Jane.“That’s just what I thocht,” said McCray, with a twinkle in his eye; “but I was quite sure ye would on account of the bairn.”Jane smiled, in spite of herself, as McCray’s arm was passed round her: but her eyes filled with tears directly after, as she placed the child upon a chair, and then went down upon her knees before it, kissing it again and again.“It was good, and kind, and thoughtful of you, Alexander,” she said, turning to the gardener; “and I know you’ve been having a hard battle for me.”“Weel, lassie, he did want a deal o’ pruning, certainly,” said McCray.“But I’m very—very grateful!” sobbed Jane, “for the poor child seems all one has to live for now!”“All, lassie?” said McCray, dryly.“Well, no; not all,” said Jane. “But I’m not worthy of you, and I never ought to have made you the promise I did, for I can’t love you as much as you ought to be loved.”“Hoot, lassie!” cried McCray, kneeling by her side, and drawing her to him, “gin ye try like that, I’m quite satisfied, for what more need a man wush for, than for his couthie wee bodie to try and love him with all her heart?”
Everything that could be done in the way of searching was energetically carried out. The lake, every pond, and even many of the water-holes upon the moor were dragged; but no tidings—no trace of Lady Gernon was obtained. McCray had seen her walk across the lawn and disappear behind some shrubs, as he was at work, and that seemed to be the last trace. No one could be found who had seen her pass in any direction; and the topic of conversation in Merland village and the neighbourhood began to change its tone, as people learned how Sir Murray had, for a short time, made inquiries respecting the route taken by Captain Norton, pursuing him, too, for some distance, until he seemed to have disappeared, the information he obtained being of a very vague nature.
But it was very plain to those who took an interest in the affair that Sir Murray Gernon’s endeavours to trace his lady were made in a half-hearted manner. The search in the neighbourhood of the Castle was strenuous enough, but that was due to the exertions of McCray; and when, at the end of a week, people learned that Sir Murray had shut himself up, after discharging half the servants with liberal wages, they raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads, and wondered whether Captain Norton would ever show himself again at the Hall.
As for Jane, she was nearly having a rupture with McCray, upon his giving in his adhesion to the popular feeling; but the matter blew over, and whatever might be her thoughts, she said no more, waiting in expectation of the battle that she felt to be in store for her when, rousing himself once more, Sir Murray should recall her words, and wish to discharge her.
But the day she dreaded did not come; while, to the great disgust of the servants, McCray seemed to be more and more in the confidence of Sir Murray.
“Why don’t he keep to his ‘gairden,’ as he calls it?” said the footman, indignantly; for he felt himself much ill-used, since he had to wear his livery, eat his food, and do nothing at all in return, for the baronet’s simple meals were taken into his room by McCray. Williams, the other footman—Sir Murray’s spy, as Jane indignantly called him—had been amongst the servants first discharged.
“The poor gairden’s going to rack and ruin, lassie,” said McCray; “and just as I was going to make such improvements and alterations! But Sir Mooray says I’m not to let either of the ither sairvants go to him; and I believe he frightened that loon in the breeches, because he would take in the letters.”
“But he sha’n’t frighten me,” said Jane, firmly. “I’ll never leave the child, come what may.”
“Dinna fash yersel’, darling,” said McCray, tenderly. “I’ve got the wages and orders of six more that are to be sent away at once, but ye’re nae one of them. Sir Mooray winna discharge ye till he packs me off.”
“Indeed!” said Jane. “And how do you know?”
“Why, we’ve been talking aboot ye, lassie; and Sir Mooray said he had made up his mind to go abroad again, and asked me if I’d gang wi’ him; and though it cut me to the heart to leave my fruit and flowers, lassie, I thocht I’d see new sorts in the far countree, and I said I’d gang.”
“It didn’t fret you, then, to think of leaving me?” said Jane, bitterly.
“Hoot, lassie! and who’s aboot to gang and leave ye?” exclaimed McCray. “Sir Mooray said I was to see and get a good nurse to tak’ charge of the bairn—one as would go abroad; and I telled him he couldna do better than keep ye, when I thocht he was going to fly at me. But I telled him, quite still like, that we’d promised to marry, and that if he didna tak’ ye, lassie, he wadna tak’ me; and that seemed to make him mad for a bit, till I telled him that ye lo’ed weel the bairn, and that ye were a gude girl at heart. But he wadna listen.”
“Was it to be a good place, Alexander?” said Jane.
“Ay, lassie; I was to have a fair bit o’ siller.”
“Then you mustn’t give it up for me.”
“I didna mean to, lassie,” said McCray, coolly.
Jane was piqued, and said nothing.
“There, lassie, I winna beat aboot the bush any more. It was settled at last that we twain are to gang thegither; and I agreed for both, and Sir Mooray starts next week for the Lake Como.”
“And like you!” said Jane, with asperity. “How could you know that I’d go?”
“Why, didn’t I ken that ye’d gang for my sake?” said McCray.
“No, indeed!” exclaimed Jane.
“That’s just what I thocht,” said McCray, with a twinkle in his eye; “but I was quite sure ye would on account of the bairn.”
Jane smiled, in spite of herself, as McCray’s arm was passed round her: but her eyes filled with tears directly after, as she placed the child upon a chair, and then went down upon her knees before it, kissing it again and again.
“It was good, and kind, and thoughtful of you, Alexander,” she said, turning to the gardener; “and I know you’ve been having a hard battle for me.”
“Weel, lassie, he did want a deal o’ pruning, certainly,” said McCray.
“But I’m very—very grateful!” sobbed Jane, “for the poor child seems all one has to live for now!”
“All, lassie?” said McCray, dryly.
“Well, no; not all,” said Jane. “But I’m not worthy of you, and I never ought to have made you the promise I did, for I can’t love you as much as you ought to be loved.”
“Hoot, lassie!” cried McCray, kneeling by her side, and drawing her to him, “gin ye try like that, I’m quite satisfied, for what more need a man wush for, than for his couthie wee bodie to try and love him with all her heart?”
Mr Chunt’s Toast.Mr Chunt presided over a good many discussions in his parlour, where farmer and tradesman met to talk over the course of events during the first few weeks. The subject of Lady Gernon’s disappearance was tabooed by general consent. It was not the first event of the kind that had happened through badly-assorted marriages, and wouldn’t be the last, said the baker, sententiously; and then it was acknowledged by general consent that money didn’t make happiness, and that there was a deal of wickedness in this world.Upon another night Mr Chunt took to bewailing in public the injury done to his trade, by the shutting up of the Castle.“Looks a reg’lar devastation, gentlemen,” he said; “things all in holland, shutters closed, stables locked up, and all just as if it didn’t belong to nobody.”“Oh, Sir Murray will be back one of these days,” said a small farmer, cheerfully, “and then trade will brighten up again; meanwhile, you must be contented with our custom, Chunt. He’ll tire of foreign parts, you’ll see.”“Don’t hear any likelihood of Mrs Norton going, I suppose?” said one.“Not she, poor little woman; she even looks quite cheerful, and is always out with that little boy of hers. Noble little chap he grows!”“Ah!” said another, “he played his cards well, the Captain did. He hadn’t been gone long before there was two couples down to arrest him—two parties, one after the other. Stopped here, they did. Post-chaises: come down in style. Didn’t they, Chunt?” The landlord nodded in confirmation. “Just got away in time. Pity, though. He’d have been a bonny man if it hadn’t been for his disappointment, and those iron shares. It was on account of his being director, and answerable for a good deal, I suppose, that the bailiffs wanted him.”A week passed, and then Chunt, who had been waiting to have a good full audience, brought out a large auctioneer’s posting bill, and laid it before his customers as a surprise.“What d’yer think of that, gentlemen, eh?” he said. “Merland will be another place soon. There’s poor old Gurdon and poor old Barker both dead within the last four-and-twenty hours, and now that’s been sent to me to stick up in the bar. Read it out, Mr Mouncey.”The baker put on his spectacles, and read aloud the list of the “elegant and superior household furniture and effects, to be sold by auction, without reserve, at Merland Rectory, by direction of the Reverend Henry Elstree, who was leaving the place.”“Chunt’s about right,” said Huttoft, the saddler: “the place won’t be the same, soon. The old people at the Rectory ain’t looked the same, since I saw them coming back that day from the Hall—the day after Lady Gernon elop—disappeared.”“Well, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “I believe I’m as sorry as any one present; but it’s no use to fret for other folks’ troubles. I propose that we have glasses round of brandy hot, gentlemen, for I feel quite sinking.”“Do you pay, Chunt?” said Mouncey, jocosely.“There ain’t a man present as would be more free, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “if I could; but, I put it to the company, with the present fall off in my trade, am I able?”“No—no!” was chorused; and, the glasses being filled, Jonathan Chunt proposed a toast which was drunk with acclamation, and the landlord’s toast was:“Gentlemen, here’s to happier times!”End of Book I.
Mr Chunt presided over a good many discussions in his parlour, where farmer and tradesman met to talk over the course of events during the first few weeks. The subject of Lady Gernon’s disappearance was tabooed by general consent. It was not the first event of the kind that had happened through badly-assorted marriages, and wouldn’t be the last, said the baker, sententiously; and then it was acknowledged by general consent that money didn’t make happiness, and that there was a deal of wickedness in this world.
Upon another night Mr Chunt took to bewailing in public the injury done to his trade, by the shutting up of the Castle.
“Looks a reg’lar devastation, gentlemen,” he said; “things all in holland, shutters closed, stables locked up, and all just as if it didn’t belong to nobody.”
“Oh, Sir Murray will be back one of these days,” said a small farmer, cheerfully, “and then trade will brighten up again; meanwhile, you must be contented with our custom, Chunt. He’ll tire of foreign parts, you’ll see.”
“Don’t hear any likelihood of Mrs Norton going, I suppose?” said one.
“Not she, poor little woman; she even looks quite cheerful, and is always out with that little boy of hers. Noble little chap he grows!”
“Ah!” said another, “he played his cards well, the Captain did. He hadn’t been gone long before there was two couples down to arrest him—two parties, one after the other. Stopped here, they did. Post-chaises: come down in style. Didn’t they, Chunt?” The landlord nodded in confirmation. “Just got away in time. Pity, though. He’d have been a bonny man if it hadn’t been for his disappointment, and those iron shares. It was on account of his being director, and answerable for a good deal, I suppose, that the bailiffs wanted him.”
A week passed, and then Chunt, who had been waiting to have a good full audience, brought out a large auctioneer’s posting bill, and laid it before his customers as a surprise.
“What d’yer think of that, gentlemen, eh?” he said. “Merland will be another place soon. There’s poor old Gurdon and poor old Barker both dead within the last four-and-twenty hours, and now that’s been sent to me to stick up in the bar. Read it out, Mr Mouncey.”
The baker put on his spectacles, and read aloud the list of the “elegant and superior household furniture and effects, to be sold by auction, without reserve, at Merland Rectory, by direction of the Reverend Henry Elstree, who was leaving the place.”
“Chunt’s about right,” said Huttoft, the saddler: “the place won’t be the same, soon. The old people at the Rectory ain’t looked the same, since I saw them coming back that day from the Hall—the day after Lady Gernon elop—disappeared.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “I believe I’m as sorry as any one present; but it’s no use to fret for other folks’ troubles. I propose that we have glasses round of brandy hot, gentlemen, for I feel quite sinking.”
“Do you pay, Chunt?” said Mouncey, jocosely.
“There ain’t a man present as would be more free, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “if I could; but, I put it to the company, with the present fall off in my trade, am I able?”
“No—no!” was chorused; and, the glasses being filled, Jonathan Chunt proposed a toast which was drunk with acclamation, and the landlord’s toast was:
“Gentlemen, here’s to happier times!”
End of Book I.
After Twenty Years.“You dog! you confounded lubber! Drive on, or you’ll have them out of sight!” shouted a frank, opened-faced young fellow of some three or four and twenty, as he leaned out of the front window of a post-chaise, and urged his post-boy to increase of speed.“An’ how can I get another mile an hour out on such bastes, yer honner?” said the post-boy in answer. “The crayture I’m riding takes no more heed of the spur than the grate baste the levvyathan of Howly Scripture; and as to the blind mare there, the more I larrup her the more she hangs back out ov the collar.”“Gammon!—nonsense!” cried the young man: “you can catch them if you like.”“Shure, sor, I’d catch ’em if it was me. The spirit of me’s been close alongside this last quarter of an hour; but the bastes here ’ave got skins like a rhinosros.”“Half a guinea if you catch them and go by in the next two miles,” shouted the traveller.“An why didn’t ye spake sooner, sor? It’s meself’s the boy to get it out of the bastes if it’s to be done at all;” and the effect of the golden spur was soon visible in the way in which the mire of the cross-country road flew up from the whirling wheels.For a couple of hours now, with the present and the preceding post-boy, had this chase been carried on,—now one chaise, now the other, being to the fore; the explanation of this being of the simplest character.Lieutenant Brace Norton, of H.M.S. “Icarus,” had just arrived in port, and was, as he put it, homeward bound after his first voyage with the rank of lieutenant. In fact, he took so much pride in his epaulette, won after no end of midshipman’s adventures, that, until better sense prevailed, he had had some thought of wearing it home. He had travelled as far as the county town by rail, and now, having a rather large idea of his own importance, was finishing his journey in one of the post-chaises—scarce things then—left upon the road. At the railway station he had twice encountered a fair young face, small, dark, oval, and with a pair of sad-looking, lustrous eyes, their owner leaning upon the arm of a tall, grey-haired gentleman; and after making his way to the hotel and ordering his conveyance, spending the time consumed in getting it ready by smoking a cigar, he was startled, upon going to the door to lounge about the steps, by seeing the same travellers take their places in a chaise which had been prepared before his own.“Do you know who that gentleman is?” he had said to the landlord, who had bowed his visitors to the door.“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” was the reply. “Please excuse me, sir—I’m wanted.”“Here waiter, my chaise; look sharp!” exclaimed the young lieutenant, slipping a shilling into the man’s hand, on seeing the direction the first chaise had taken. “Hurry them on, there’s a good fellow, and tell them to put in the best pair of horses.”“Best pair’s gone, sir, with number one chaise, but I’ll get them to look alive.”In spite of his stamping with impatience, and conducting himself in a most unreasonable manner, even to going into the yard himself, and hoisting the sluggish post-boy—a youth of about sixty—into his jacket, a full quarter of an hour elapsed before the chaise began to rattle out of the yard with the traveller in it.“Here—hi! stop!” shouted a voice, as they turned down the main street.“What the deuce now?” exclaimed the traveller, as the post-boy pulled up, after nearly running into a flock of sheep, and the waiter came panting up.“Please, sir, you ain’t paid for the cigar, and sherry and biscuit,” exclaimed the man, in injured tones.“Confound it, no!” cried the young man. “And—I say, I haven’t got my portmanteau! There, my man, look sharp, whatever you do!”Five minutes more elapsed, but at length the bill was paid, the portmanteau secured to the front, and the crazy vehicle was once more well under weigh, the young sailor fuming the while with impatience. But as soon as the town was passed, liberal promises sent the shabby cattle scuffling along at a pretty good pace; and when the traveller had about given up all hopes of again seeing the face that had attracted his attention, the first post-chaise became visible, slowly crawling up one of the hills about half-way between Lincoln and Marshton, when again urging on the post-boy, the vehicle was at length overtaken, and whilst passing it the young man’s heart leaped as he again caught sight of the fair traveller, leaning forward to see who was passing, but withdrawing instantly upon seeing that she was the object of attention.Twice did Brace Norton find the opportunities for a short glance at the now averted face: once during the stages, and again when they changed horses at Marshton; but now, to his disgust, it seemed that he had been favoured with worse cattle than before; and in spite of his urging the fresh post-boy—a native of “Sorrey,” as he took an opportunity of assuring his employer—it seemed that he was to be left entirely at the rear, to see the face no more.But the golden spur prevailed; and as the young lieutenant saw that they were gaining rapidly, he threw himself back, muttering, “What a thing it is that there are no women at sea! It only wants their presence to make it perfect. I wonder who those can be, though? On a visit somewhere. Jove! What luck if it’s anywhere near us!”His reverie was interrupted by the broadly-speaking post-boy yoho-ing to the one in front, and the next minute they passed the first chaise in an easy canter; but Brace Norton obtained no view, for, to his great chagrin, the window on this side—the side occupied by the gentleman—had the blind drawn down.“Didn’t I do it in style, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, turning in his saddle to grin.“Yes—yes; but easy now. Let them pass you.” And then to himself the traveller muttered, “I shall be right next time.”“Is that to be included in the half-guinea, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, with a leer; but he obtained no answer, save a fierce gesture not to look back; for now the passing was to be performed by the other chaise, which in a few moments had again left them behind, while this time again the susceptible sailor had been doomed to disappointment, for as the chaise passed, the momentary glance showed him that the lady occupants head was averted, and that she was talking to her companion.“But what a neck!” muttered the young man; “and what glorious hair! What a cluster of braids! Why, she could sit on it, I’d swear, if it were down. Confound you! will you go on?” he shouted, thrusting his head from the window. “What are you crawling like that for?”“Did yer honner want me to be always passing them, widout ever letting them get first again?” said the post-boy.“You blundering idiot!” muttered the young man, laughing in spite of himself. “Drive on, Pat,” he said, aloud, “and pass them again.”“Me name’s Jeames, yer honner, av ye please,” said the post-boy, with dignity, and for a short distance he drove sulkily on at a very moderate pace, till the thought that he had not yet obtained the promised half-guinea prompted him to try and keep his employer in a good temper; and once more he passed the foremost chaise at a canter, slackening again in obedience to orders received soon afterwards.Now every one who has been much upon the road must be fully aware that there is a feeling existent amply shared by man and horse, which, however strange the comparison may seem, is fully expressed in the old saying, that most people like to play first fiddle. Be driving, and pass the sorriest old jaded brute that was ever verging upon the cat’s-meat barrow, and see if the poor beast does not, for a few minutes, prick up his ears, and break into a trot to regain his place. Generally the driver is ready enough to urge him on, and if you slacken pace for a few minutes, ten to one but you are passed in your turn.It was so here with the post-boy and horses of the other chaise: to be passed here on the road again and again by a rival was not to be borne; and the slackening under Brace Norton’s instructions being taken as a signal of defeat, there soon came a shout from behind to the Irish boy to draw aside, one which, being rather sulky at having had a mistake made in his country, the post-boy refused to heed; and just as Brace was hopefully gazing from his window for another glance, there came the crash of wheel against wheel, the swerving aside of the horses, and in less time than it can be written, to Brace Norton’s horror, he saw the vehicle of his companions of the road overturned—the off-wheels in the ditch, and one horse kicking and plunging in a way that threatened death to the occupants of the carriage.
“You dog! you confounded lubber! Drive on, or you’ll have them out of sight!” shouted a frank, opened-faced young fellow of some three or four and twenty, as he leaned out of the front window of a post-chaise, and urged his post-boy to increase of speed.
“An’ how can I get another mile an hour out on such bastes, yer honner?” said the post-boy in answer. “The crayture I’m riding takes no more heed of the spur than the grate baste the levvyathan of Howly Scripture; and as to the blind mare there, the more I larrup her the more she hangs back out ov the collar.”
“Gammon!—nonsense!” cried the young man: “you can catch them if you like.”
“Shure, sor, I’d catch ’em if it was me. The spirit of me’s been close alongside this last quarter of an hour; but the bastes here ’ave got skins like a rhinosros.”
“Half a guinea if you catch them and go by in the next two miles,” shouted the traveller.
“An why didn’t ye spake sooner, sor? It’s meself’s the boy to get it out of the bastes if it’s to be done at all;” and the effect of the golden spur was soon visible in the way in which the mire of the cross-country road flew up from the whirling wheels.
For a couple of hours now, with the present and the preceding post-boy, had this chase been carried on,—now one chaise, now the other, being to the fore; the explanation of this being of the simplest character.
Lieutenant Brace Norton, of H.M.S. “Icarus,” had just arrived in port, and was, as he put it, homeward bound after his first voyage with the rank of lieutenant. In fact, he took so much pride in his epaulette, won after no end of midshipman’s adventures, that, until better sense prevailed, he had had some thought of wearing it home. He had travelled as far as the county town by rail, and now, having a rather large idea of his own importance, was finishing his journey in one of the post-chaises—scarce things then—left upon the road. At the railway station he had twice encountered a fair young face, small, dark, oval, and with a pair of sad-looking, lustrous eyes, their owner leaning upon the arm of a tall, grey-haired gentleman; and after making his way to the hotel and ordering his conveyance, spending the time consumed in getting it ready by smoking a cigar, he was startled, upon going to the door to lounge about the steps, by seeing the same travellers take their places in a chaise which had been prepared before his own.
“Do you know who that gentleman is?” he had said to the landlord, who had bowed his visitors to the door.
“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” was the reply. “Please excuse me, sir—I’m wanted.”
“Here waiter, my chaise; look sharp!” exclaimed the young lieutenant, slipping a shilling into the man’s hand, on seeing the direction the first chaise had taken. “Hurry them on, there’s a good fellow, and tell them to put in the best pair of horses.”
“Best pair’s gone, sir, with number one chaise, but I’ll get them to look alive.”
In spite of his stamping with impatience, and conducting himself in a most unreasonable manner, even to going into the yard himself, and hoisting the sluggish post-boy—a youth of about sixty—into his jacket, a full quarter of an hour elapsed before the chaise began to rattle out of the yard with the traveller in it.
“Here—hi! stop!” shouted a voice, as they turned down the main street.
“What the deuce now?” exclaimed the traveller, as the post-boy pulled up, after nearly running into a flock of sheep, and the waiter came panting up.
“Please, sir, you ain’t paid for the cigar, and sherry and biscuit,” exclaimed the man, in injured tones.
“Confound it, no!” cried the young man. “And—I say, I haven’t got my portmanteau! There, my man, look sharp, whatever you do!”
Five minutes more elapsed, but at length the bill was paid, the portmanteau secured to the front, and the crazy vehicle was once more well under weigh, the young sailor fuming the while with impatience. But as soon as the town was passed, liberal promises sent the shabby cattle scuffling along at a pretty good pace; and when the traveller had about given up all hopes of again seeing the face that had attracted his attention, the first post-chaise became visible, slowly crawling up one of the hills about half-way between Lincoln and Marshton, when again urging on the post-boy, the vehicle was at length overtaken, and whilst passing it the young man’s heart leaped as he again caught sight of the fair traveller, leaning forward to see who was passing, but withdrawing instantly upon seeing that she was the object of attention.
Twice did Brace Norton find the opportunities for a short glance at the now averted face: once during the stages, and again when they changed horses at Marshton; but now, to his disgust, it seemed that he had been favoured with worse cattle than before; and in spite of his urging the fresh post-boy—a native of “Sorrey,” as he took an opportunity of assuring his employer—it seemed that he was to be left entirely at the rear, to see the face no more.
But the golden spur prevailed; and as the young lieutenant saw that they were gaining rapidly, he threw himself back, muttering, “What a thing it is that there are no women at sea! It only wants their presence to make it perfect. I wonder who those can be, though? On a visit somewhere. Jove! What luck if it’s anywhere near us!”
His reverie was interrupted by the broadly-speaking post-boy yoho-ing to the one in front, and the next minute they passed the first chaise in an easy canter; but Brace Norton obtained no view, for, to his great chagrin, the window on this side—the side occupied by the gentleman—had the blind drawn down.
“Didn’t I do it in style, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, turning in his saddle to grin.
“Yes—yes; but easy now. Let them pass you.” And then to himself the traveller muttered, “I shall be right next time.”
“Is that to be included in the half-guinea, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, with a leer; but he obtained no answer, save a fierce gesture not to look back; for now the passing was to be performed by the other chaise, which in a few moments had again left them behind, while this time again the susceptible sailor had been doomed to disappointment, for as the chaise passed, the momentary glance showed him that the lady occupants head was averted, and that she was talking to her companion.
“But what a neck!” muttered the young man; “and what glorious hair! What a cluster of braids! Why, she could sit on it, I’d swear, if it were down. Confound you! will you go on?” he shouted, thrusting his head from the window. “What are you crawling like that for?”
“Did yer honner want me to be always passing them, widout ever letting them get first again?” said the post-boy.
“You blundering idiot!” muttered the young man, laughing in spite of himself. “Drive on, Pat,” he said, aloud, “and pass them again.”
“Me name’s Jeames, yer honner, av ye please,” said the post-boy, with dignity, and for a short distance he drove sulkily on at a very moderate pace, till the thought that he had not yet obtained the promised half-guinea prompted him to try and keep his employer in a good temper; and once more he passed the foremost chaise at a canter, slackening again in obedience to orders received soon afterwards.
Now every one who has been much upon the road must be fully aware that there is a feeling existent amply shared by man and horse, which, however strange the comparison may seem, is fully expressed in the old saying, that most people like to play first fiddle. Be driving, and pass the sorriest old jaded brute that was ever verging upon the cat’s-meat barrow, and see if the poor beast does not, for a few minutes, prick up his ears, and break into a trot to regain his place. Generally the driver is ready enough to urge him on, and if you slacken pace for a few minutes, ten to one but you are passed in your turn.
It was so here with the post-boy and horses of the other chaise: to be passed here on the road again and again by a rival was not to be borne; and the slackening under Brace Norton’s instructions being taken as a signal of defeat, there soon came a shout from behind to the Irish boy to draw aside, one which, being rather sulky at having had a mistake made in his country, the post-boy refused to heed; and just as Brace was hopefully gazing from his window for another glance, there came the crash of wheel against wheel, the swerving aside of the horses, and in less time than it can be written, to Brace Norton’s horror, he saw the vehicle of his companions of the road overturned—the off-wheels in the ditch, and one horse kicking and plunging in a way that threatened death to the occupants of the carriage.
The Wreck Ashore.“’E’ve done it now, sor, an’ I hope ye’re satisfied!” said James, sitting complacently on his saddle, and looking at the plunging horses, his fellow-servant with one leg entangled in the harness, and the havoc made at each plunge of the uppermost beast.“You scoundrel!” exclaimed Brace, furiously, as he leaped down. “Why didn’t you give more room? Here, come and help!”“Can’t lave me bastes, sor, or they’d take fright, they’re so full of sperrit,” said the youth, coolly, as, running to the prostrate chaise, Brace contrived to drag open the door, feeling, as he did so, that he was alone to blame for the accident.“Here, quick! my child! help her first,” exclaimed the gentleman, but most needlessly, for the young man had neither look nor thought for him, but was striving to lift the insensible and bleeding form of the wounded girl from the wreck. For at the first crash of the overturning chaise the window had been driven in, and one of the splinters of glass had gashed her temple.“Good Heavens! what have I done?” muttered Brace, as he succeeded in passing his arms round the senseless form, lifted it by main force from the door, and then bore it to the grass a few yards further on, where, laying it down, he proceeded to press his handkerchief to the wound.“Let me come, young man,” said a harsh voice at his elbow, and, starting with surprise, Brace saw that the gentleman, till now forgotten, had climbed from the chaise, and now made no scruple in thrusting him aside to take his place.“What can I do? Had I not better gallop off for a doctor?”“Thank you, no,” was the cold reply, as the gentleman, for an instant, looked the tenderer of service full in the face. “This is no scene from a romance, sir. You need trouble yourself no further. My daughter is more frightened than hurt, I dare say.”“A cold-hearted, unfeeling brute,” muttered Brace to himself, for he was greatly excited, and felt at that moment as if he would have given the world to have been allowed to kneel there and support the inanimate form. For a moment he felt ready to make confession that he had been the cause of the accident, but that he felt would be folly; and once more, heedless of the cold reception his offers met with, he proposed that a doctor should be fetched.“If I required a medical man, sir,” said the gentleman, “there is the post-boy, my paid servant, that I could send for one: unless,” he said, tauntingly, “you, sir, wish to earn something more than my thanks.”The colour rose to the young man’s cheek as he met the cold, glittering eye turned to him for a moment; but he smothered the resentment he could not avoid feeling, and, without a word, turned away to a clear part of the ditch, returning, in a few minutes, with his navy cloth cap half full of water.The gentleman frowned as he saw this favour forced upon him as he thought, and unwillingly accepting it, he sprinkled the white face, and bathed the forehead, wiping away the ruddy stains, and binding a handkerchief tightly across the wound. But for awhile there were no signs of returning animation, and once more, in spite of the scowl upon the fathers face, Brace Norton hurried away to bring more water.“There is a faint shade of colour returning now,” exclaimed Brace, eagerly.“Then perhaps you will have the goodness to retire, sir,” said the gentleman, haughtily. “My daughter is not accustomed to the society of strangers; and, at such a time, your presence would be a fresh shock.”“But this is a lonely place, sir. You are miles away from any aid. Pray let me endeavour to be of some service. Surely I can help you.”“I thank you, no,” was the cold reply.“But for the lady’s sake, sir,” exclaimed Brace, almost indignantly. “You will take my chaise, and continue your journey?”“Young man,” was the rude answer, “I am not in the habit of placing myself under obligations to strangers. I shall not require your chaise: I have no doubt, with the help of some of the labourers about, our own vehicle can be set right in a very short time.”“Sure, sor, the short time will be a month,” said Brace’s post-boy; “the hint wheel’s off intirely, and Jerry Stone siz as the harness is all to tatthers, an’ he wants to know if aither of ye gentlemen have got a drop of brandy wid ye, for the poor boy feels faint.”In effect, the other post-boy was seated upon a bank beside his now extricated horses—set free by the liberal use of a knife amongst the harness; and it was evident, from the way in which the poor fellow was rocking himself to and fro, that he was in great pain; while a glance at the wretched chaise showed the impossibility of making use of it for further proceeding upon that day.But Brace Norton possessed something of the irrepressible in his composition, and, speaking gently, he said, addressing the late speaker: “I am aware, sir, that it is unpleasant to have favours forced upon you by a complete stranger, but let me beg of you not to let the little I offer be looked upon in the light of a favour. For the young lady’s sake, pray make use of my chaise, and leave me to take my chance. I dare not presume to offer you advice, but would not a reference to some medical man be advisable? This long-continued swoon—”Brace Norton said no more, for, glancing from father to daughter as he spoke, he became aware that sensibility had returned, and that a pair of soft, sad, dreamy eyes were fixed upon him, but only for their lids to be lowered, and a faint blush to overspread the pallid cheeks upon her seeing that her gaze was observed.“Do you feel in pain?” said the gentleman, bending over her, but paying no heed to Brace Norton’s remarks.“No, papa; only a little faint. But you are not hurt?”“No, no; not at all.” Then, in an undertone: “How very unfortunate!” and he frowned at the shattered chaise as he would have done at its driver.Brace Norton was wise enough in his generation to see that the less he said the less likely he would be to give offence; but a bitter feeling of disappointment came over him as he found how completely his presence was ignored.“If it were not for that sweet girl he might walk,” muttered the young man; but the next moment his heart leaped with pleasure, when, after standing thoughtfully for a few moments, and then glancing from his daughter to the wreck and back again, the gentleman spoke somewhat more courteously.“Necessity forces me, sir, to accept the offer of your chaise for my—for reasons of my own,” he added, hastily. “I will make use of it on condition that you allow me to pay any—”“Good heavens, sir!” exclaimed Brace, as haughtily now as the stranger, “give me credit for wishing to act as should one gentleman towards another whom he sees with his jibboom—absurd!—whom he encounters in distress—I beg pardon, I mean in—in a strait,” exclaimed Brace, desperately, for his nautical imagery did not find much favour. “I am only a simple officer in the navy, and no doubt a sea life makes me somewhat rude, but my offers of service are genuine, not mercenary.”The stranger bowed, and turned to his daughter, who was now standing at his side.“Take down that portmanteau,” exclaimed Brace to the post-boy.“Yes, sor!” And after a good deal of grunting, unbuckling, and lifting it was placed by the road side.“If you will allow me,” said Brace, “I will see that the damaged chaise is sent back to its owner.”He turned then to hand the lady into the vehicle, but he was motioned back: not, though, without receiving from her a faint smile of thanks.“My daughter needs no assistance further than I can render,” was the stern response to Brace’s offer. “Your handkerchief, sir!”Brace took the handkerchief handed to him, as if the donor were about to strike him down. Then he drew back as father and daughter entered the chaise, so that he did not catch the order given to the post-boy. Then there was a stiff salutation from the gentleman; a slight bow from the lady; and the horses had started, leaving Brace, bareheaded, handsome, and flushed, standing in the road, till, suddenly the front windows were dashed down, the door partly opened, and, evidently suffering from some strong emotion, the face of the gentleman appeared to be turned the next moment towards the post-boy, as he roared, in a voice of thunder: “Stop!”
“’E’ve done it now, sor, an’ I hope ye’re satisfied!” said James, sitting complacently on his saddle, and looking at the plunging horses, his fellow-servant with one leg entangled in the harness, and the havoc made at each plunge of the uppermost beast.
“You scoundrel!” exclaimed Brace, furiously, as he leaped down. “Why didn’t you give more room? Here, come and help!”
“Can’t lave me bastes, sor, or they’d take fright, they’re so full of sperrit,” said the youth, coolly, as, running to the prostrate chaise, Brace contrived to drag open the door, feeling, as he did so, that he was alone to blame for the accident.
“Here, quick! my child! help her first,” exclaimed the gentleman, but most needlessly, for the young man had neither look nor thought for him, but was striving to lift the insensible and bleeding form of the wounded girl from the wreck. For at the first crash of the overturning chaise the window had been driven in, and one of the splinters of glass had gashed her temple.
“Good Heavens! what have I done?” muttered Brace, as he succeeded in passing his arms round the senseless form, lifted it by main force from the door, and then bore it to the grass a few yards further on, where, laying it down, he proceeded to press his handkerchief to the wound.
“Let me come, young man,” said a harsh voice at his elbow, and, starting with surprise, Brace saw that the gentleman, till now forgotten, had climbed from the chaise, and now made no scruple in thrusting him aside to take his place.
“What can I do? Had I not better gallop off for a doctor?”
“Thank you, no,” was the cold reply, as the gentleman, for an instant, looked the tenderer of service full in the face. “This is no scene from a romance, sir. You need trouble yourself no further. My daughter is more frightened than hurt, I dare say.”
“A cold-hearted, unfeeling brute,” muttered Brace to himself, for he was greatly excited, and felt at that moment as if he would have given the world to have been allowed to kneel there and support the inanimate form. For a moment he felt ready to make confession that he had been the cause of the accident, but that he felt would be folly; and once more, heedless of the cold reception his offers met with, he proposed that a doctor should be fetched.
“If I required a medical man, sir,” said the gentleman, “there is the post-boy, my paid servant, that I could send for one: unless,” he said, tauntingly, “you, sir, wish to earn something more than my thanks.”
The colour rose to the young man’s cheek as he met the cold, glittering eye turned to him for a moment; but he smothered the resentment he could not avoid feeling, and, without a word, turned away to a clear part of the ditch, returning, in a few minutes, with his navy cloth cap half full of water.
The gentleman frowned as he saw this favour forced upon him as he thought, and unwillingly accepting it, he sprinkled the white face, and bathed the forehead, wiping away the ruddy stains, and binding a handkerchief tightly across the wound. But for awhile there were no signs of returning animation, and once more, in spite of the scowl upon the fathers face, Brace Norton hurried away to bring more water.
“There is a faint shade of colour returning now,” exclaimed Brace, eagerly.
“Then perhaps you will have the goodness to retire, sir,” said the gentleman, haughtily. “My daughter is not accustomed to the society of strangers; and, at such a time, your presence would be a fresh shock.”
“But this is a lonely place, sir. You are miles away from any aid. Pray let me endeavour to be of some service. Surely I can help you.”
“I thank you, no,” was the cold reply.
“But for the lady’s sake, sir,” exclaimed Brace, almost indignantly. “You will take my chaise, and continue your journey?”
“Young man,” was the rude answer, “I am not in the habit of placing myself under obligations to strangers. I shall not require your chaise: I have no doubt, with the help of some of the labourers about, our own vehicle can be set right in a very short time.”
“Sure, sor, the short time will be a month,” said Brace’s post-boy; “the hint wheel’s off intirely, and Jerry Stone siz as the harness is all to tatthers, an’ he wants to know if aither of ye gentlemen have got a drop of brandy wid ye, for the poor boy feels faint.”
In effect, the other post-boy was seated upon a bank beside his now extricated horses—set free by the liberal use of a knife amongst the harness; and it was evident, from the way in which the poor fellow was rocking himself to and fro, that he was in great pain; while a glance at the wretched chaise showed the impossibility of making use of it for further proceeding upon that day.
But Brace Norton possessed something of the irrepressible in his composition, and, speaking gently, he said, addressing the late speaker: “I am aware, sir, that it is unpleasant to have favours forced upon you by a complete stranger, but let me beg of you not to let the little I offer be looked upon in the light of a favour. For the young lady’s sake, pray make use of my chaise, and leave me to take my chance. I dare not presume to offer you advice, but would not a reference to some medical man be advisable? This long-continued swoon—”
Brace Norton said no more, for, glancing from father to daughter as he spoke, he became aware that sensibility had returned, and that a pair of soft, sad, dreamy eyes were fixed upon him, but only for their lids to be lowered, and a faint blush to overspread the pallid cheeks upon her seeing that her gaze was observed.
“Do you feel in pain?” said the gentleman, bending over her, but paying no heed to Brace Norton’s remarks.
“No, papa; only a little faint. But you are not hurt?”
“No, no; not at all.” Then, in an undertone: “How very unfortunate!” and he frowned at the shattered chaise as he would have done at its driver.
Brace Norton was wise enough in his generation to see that the less he said the less likely he would be to give offence; but a bitter feeling of disappointment came over him as he found how completely his presence was ignored.
“If it were not for that sweet girl he might walk,” muttered the young man; but the next moment his heart leaped with pleasure, when, after standing thoughtfully for a few moments, and then glancing from his daughter to the wreck and back again, the gentleman spoke somewhat more courteously.
“Necessity forces me, sir, to accept the offer of your chaise for my—for reasons of my own,” he added, hastily. “I will make use of it on condition that you allow me to pay any—”
“Good heavens, sir!” exclaimed Brace, as haughtily now as the stranger, “give me credit for wishing to act as should one gentleman towards another whom he sees with his jibboom—absurd!—whom he encounters in distress—I beg pardon, I mean in—in a strait,” exclaimed Brace, desperately, for his nautical imagery did not find much favour. “I am only a simple officer in the navy, and no doubt a sea life makes me somewhat rude, but my offers of service are genuine, not mercenary.”
The stranger bowed, and turned to his daughter, who was now standing at his side.
“Take down that portmanteau,” exclaimed Brace to the post-boy.
“Yes, sor!” And after a good deal of grunting, unbuckling, and lifting it was placed by the road side.
“If you will allow me,” said Brace, “I will see that the damaged chaise is sent back to its owner.”
He turned then to hand the lady into the vehicle, but he was motioned back: not, though, without receiving from her a faint smile of thanks.
“My daughter needs no assistance further than I can render,” was the stern response to Brace’s offer. “Your handkerchief, sir!”
Brace took the handkerchief handed to him, as if the donor were about to strike him down. Then he drew back as father and daughter entered the chaise, so that he did not catch the order given to the post-boy. Then there was a stiff salutation from the gentleman; a slight bow from the lady; and the horses had started, leaving Brace, bareheaded, handsome, and flushed, standing in the road, till, suddenly the front windows were dashed down, the door partly opened, and, evidently suffering from some strong emotion, the face of the gentleman appeared to be turned the next moment towards the post-boy, as he roared, in a voice of thunder: “Stop!”
Another Encounter.“What now?” grumbled the post-boy, as he turned in his saddle, and then, in obedience to the gesticulations directed at him, pulled up very slowly, and not until he had traversed nearly a hundred yards of road. Flinging down the steps, the gentleman alighted, half dragged his daughter from her seat, so rudely, indeed, that she nearly fell. Then drawing her arm tightly through his own, he walked back to the injured post-boy and gave some order, his forehead netted the while with the swelling veins, and his face now pale and flushed by the passion that agitated his breast.He seemed to quite ignore the presence of Brace, and before the young man could recover from his astonishment, father and daughter were hurriedly walking away.“Is there anything wrong?—is—that is, can I be of no assistance?” stammered Brace, as he ran after and overtook them—speaking to the father, but gazing the while in the daughter’s pale and frightened face, as if his eyes were riveted there; but only to meet with a strange, imploring look, half horror—half dread.The stranger tried to speak, as he raised one trembling hand, pointing towards the carriage, but no words passed his lips; and motioning the young man fiercely, he hurriedly led his trembling charge away.“Is he mad?” said Brace to himself. “And to drag that poor girl away like that! What more can I do?” he muttered, as the post-boy drew up alongside of where he stood.“I’ve put the portmanty back in the front, sor, as them two ain’t agoing.”But Brace Norton did not seem to hear him, as, seeking for some clue to this strange alteration in the old man’s behaviour, his eyes fell upon the seat of the chaise the travellers had so lately occupied, where, forgotten for the time, lay his travelling writing-case, with its brass-plate bearing his name and that of his ship.Well, yes, he had forgotten that, but what was there in his name to make the old man leap from the chaise as if half mad, unless—There was a faint suspicion in his mind—a dim and confused mingling of fragments of old stories that had never made any impression upon him before; but now he struggled hard to recall in their entirety these shadowy memories of the past. In vain, though; he only grew more mystified than ever. The strangers were already at a turn of the road, and it was in his mind to run after them and ask for some explanation, when his eyes fell upon the handkerchief that the gentleman had placed within his hands—a handkerchief that now for the first time he saw was not the one he had applied to the injured temple, and his heart throbbed as he thought that it was his that she now held; but the next instant a feeling of trouble and pleasure mingled, as it were, came upon him, and he looked eagerly in the corner of the piece of cambric, to find there, in faint but still legible characters, the two words, “Isa Gernon.”An old quarrel—some unpleasantry between the two families—some feeling of bitterness on the part of Sir Murray Gernon, who, with his daughter, had been resident in Italy for some twenty years. That must be it, for he could evoke nothing from the past—nothing tangible. Sir Murray had seen, then, the name of Norton in the chaise, and he refused to accept service from any one bearing that patronymic. It was absurd, too, after all these years; but it would only be an insult to a man of such pride of speech and mien to follow and press upon him what he would look upon as a favour. A little gentle advance or two upon the part of those at the Hall might put all right; for if that was Sir Murray Gernon returned unexpectedly after all these years to dwell at the Castle, there must be no enmity now. And this, then, was his daughter!So mused Brace Norton as he mentally smoothed away all difficulties ahead, rejoicing, too, he knew not why, at the prospect of possessing such neighbours. He must, he felt, question them at home about the past, and try to adopt means for a reconciliation.Here he stopped short, roused by the sight of the wrecked chaise, and recalling the position of those from whom he had but now parted. If that were Sir Murray Gernon, he was a good six miles from the Castle, to which place it seemed impossible that he could walk. What could be done, then, to help them without its being known from whence the help arrived? He had at last determined upon being taken back to the town, and informing the hotel-keeper of the state of affairs, when a heavily-laden fly was driven up, the roof and the driver’s box being filled with luggage, when, seeing the state of the post-boy and the injured chaise, the fly-man pulled up, and began to make inquiries.“No bones broke, Tommy,” said the post-boy, in reply; “but I shall be precious glad to get back.”“An’ was that the chay Sir Mooray Jairnon was in?” exclaimed a voice; and a massive-looking grizzled head was thrust out of the fly-window.“Was it your master,” said the post-boy: “grey gent with a young lady?”“Yes—yes! Where are they?” exclaimed an eager female voice. “Pray get out, McCray, and see.”“Dinna fash yersel’, lassie,” said the first speaker. “There’s naebodie hurt, I ken. But where’s Sir Mooray, my lad?”“Walked on,” said the post-boy.“You are, then, that gentleman’s servant?” exclaimed Brace Norton, now eagerly joining in the conversation.“And wha may ye be that ask sic a question?”“Only a traveller on the road,” said Brace, smiling, as he glanced at the comely, pleasant-faced female who had just stepped out of the fly; “but your master and the young lady have just walked on. You have arrived in capital time, for I fear that she is much shaken. It was a very rude fall.”“Gudeness save us, Jenny! jump in again, and let’s drive on. I’m verra grateful for your information, sir, and I thank ye.”“Pray make haste, McCray!” cried the pleasant-faced dame, smoothing back the grey-streaked bands of hair from her forehead.And the next minute, with the satisfaction of knowing that he had sent help where it was needed, Brace Norton was standing alone in the road.He was very thoughtful and serious as he stood there, once more trying to bring back something of the old history from the past days of his parents’ life; but he soon gave it up as an impossible task, and one most unsuited for his present place of study. So, assisting the injured post-boy to mount, upon his reiterated assurance that he could easily reach home alone, Brace once more stepped up to his own conveyance, and, very thoughtful and dreamy, slowly continued his journey.Four miles further on, having purposely kept the post-boy at a slow rate, Brace overtook the late occupants of the fly, arm-in-arm, and sturdily trudging on towards Merland, when, rightly concluding that their places had been taken by Sir Murray and his daughter, Brace stopped the post-boy, and invited the old Scot and his companion to share the conveyance.“Na, na, sir; ye’re verra kind, but I’d raither not, and the gudewife here is of the same opinion. I wish ye a gude day, sir—a gude day. Ye’ll excuse our hurrying on.”There was a something in the man’s manner that whispered of exclusiveness, and a desire to avoid strangers, which checked Brace Norton in his desire to press his offers of service. He had the good sense to feel, too, that, with the master so determinedly distant, any advances toward the servant might be looked upon as an insult. So, reluctantly giving the order to proceed, the wheels of the chaise spun round, and the next moment, at a turn of the road, Brace caught a glimpse of the couple trudging along; when, throwing himself back in the vehicle, the young man began to ponder upon what was the cause, his thoughts, too, often being occupied by the faces of his mother and Isa Gernon.
“What now?” grumbled the post-boy, as he turned in his saddle, and then, in obedience to the gesticulations directed at him, pulled up very slowly, and not until he had traversed nearly a hundred yards of road. Flinging down the steps, the gentleman alighted, half dragged his daughter from her seat, so rudely, indeed, that she nearly fell. Then drawing her arm tightly through his own, he walked back to the injured post-boy and gave some order, his forehead netted the while with the swelling veins, and his face now pale and flushed by the passion that agitated his breast.
He seemed to quite ignore the presence of Brace, and before the young man could recover from his astonishment, father and daughter were hurriedly walking away.
“Is there anything wrong?—is—that is, can I be of no assistance?” stammered Brace, as he ran after and overtook them—speaking to the father, but gazing the while in the daughter’s pale and frightened face, as if his eyes were riveted there; but only to meet with a strange, imploring look, half horror—half dread.
The stranger tried to speak, as he raised one trembling hand, pointing towards the carriage, but no words passed his lips; and motioning the young man fiercely, he hurriedly led his trembling charge away.
“Is he mad?” said Brace to himself. “And to drag that poor girl away like that! What more can I do?” he muttered, as the post-boy drew up alongside of where he stood.
“I’ve put the portmanty back in the front, sor, as them two ain’t agoing.”
But Brace Norton did not seem to hear him, as, seeking for some clue to this strange alteration in the old man’s behaviour, his eyes fell upon the seat of the chaise the travellers had so lately occupied, where, forgotten for the time, lay his travelling writing-case, with its brass-plate bearing his name and that of his ship.
Well, yes, he had forgotten that, but what was there in his name to make the old man leap from the chaise as if half mad, unless—
There was a faint suspicion in his mind—a dim and confused mingling of fragments of old stories that had never made any impression upon him before; but now he struggled hard to recall in their entirety these shadowy memories of the past. In vain, though; he only grew more mystified than ever. The strangers were already at a turn of the road, and it was in his mind to run after them and ask for some explanation, when his eyes fell upon the handkerchief that the gentleman had placed within his hands—a handkerchief that now for the first time he saw was not the one he had applied to the injured temple, and his heart throbbed as he thought that it was his that she now held; but the next instant a feeling of trouble and pleasure mingled, as it were, came upon him, and he looked eagerly in the corner of the piece of cambric, to find there, in faint but still legible characters, the two words, “Isa Gernon.”
An old quarrel—some unpleasantry between the two families—some feeling of bitterness on the part of Sir Murray Gernon, who, with his daughter, had been resident in Italy for some twenty years. That must be it, for he could evoke nothing from the past—nothing tangible. Sir Murray had seen, then, the name of Norton in the chaise, and he refused to accept service from any one bearing that patronymic. It was absurd, too, after all these years; but it would only be an insult to a man of such pride of speech and mien to follow and press upon him what he would look upon as a favour. A little gentle advance or two upon the part of those at the Hall might put all right; for if that was Sir Murray Gernon returned unexpectedly after all these years to dwell at the Castle, there must be no enmity now. And this, then, was his daughter!
So mused Brace Norton as he mentally smoothed away all difficulties ahead, rejoicing, too, he knew not why, at the prospect of possessing such neighbours. He must, he felt, question them at home about the past, and try to adopt means for a reconciliation.
Here he stopped short, roused by the sight of the wrecked chaise, and recalling the position of those from whom he had but now parted. If that were Sir Murray Gernon, he was a good six miles from the Castle, to which place it seemed impossible that he could walk. What could be done, then, to help them without its being known from whence the help arrived? He had at last determined upon being taken back to the town, and informing the hotel-keeper of the state of affairs, when a heavily-laden fly was driven up, the roof and the driver’s box being filled with luggage, when, seeing the state of the post-boy and the injured chaise, the fly-man pulled up, and began to make inquiries.
“No bones broke, Tommy,” said the post-boy, in reply; “but I shall be precious glad to get back.”
“An’ was that the chay Sir Mooray Jairnon was in?” exclaimed a voice; and a massive-looking grizzled head was thrust out of the fly-window.
“Was it your master,” said the post-boy: “grey gent with a young lady?”
“Yes—yes! Where are they?” exclaimed an eager female voice. “Pray get out, McCray, and see.”
“Dinna fash yersel’, lassie,” said the first speaker. “There’s naebodie hurt, I ken. But where’s Sir Mooray, my lad?”
“Walked on,” said the post-boy.
“You are, then, that gentleman’s servant?” exclaimed Brace Norton, now eagerly joining in the conversation.
“And wha may ye be that ask sic a question?”
“Only a traveller on the road,” said Brace, smiling, as he glanced at the comely, pleasant-faced female who had just stepped out of the fly; “but your master and the young lady have just walked on. You have arrived in capital time, for I fear that she is much shaken. It was a very rude fall.”
“Gudeness save us, Jenny! jump in again, and let’s drive on. I’m verra grateful for your information, sir, and I thank ye.”
“Pray make haste, McCray!” cried the pleasant-faced dame, smoothing back the grey-streaked bands of hair from her forehead.
And the next minute, with the satisfaction of knowing that he had sent help where it was needed, Brace Norton was standing alone in the road.
He was very thoughtful and serious as he stood there, once more trying to bring back something of the old history from the past days of his parents’ life; but he soon gave it up as an impossible task, and one most unsuited for his present place of study. So, assisting the injured post-boy to mount, upon his reiterated assurance that he could easily reach home alone, Brace once more stepped up to his own conveyance, and, very thoughtful and dreamy, slowly continued his journey.
Four miles further on, having purposely kept the post-boy at a slow rate, Brace overtook the late occupants of the fly, arm-in-arm, and sturdily trudging on towards Merland, when, rightly concluding that their places had been taken by Sir Murray and his daughter, Brace stopped the post-boy, and invited the old Scot and his companion to share the conveyance.
“Na, na, sir; ye’re verra kind, but I’d raither not, and the gudewife here is of the same opinion. I wish ye a gude day, sir—a gude day. Ye’ll excuse our hurrying on.”
There was a something in the man’s manner that whispered of exclusiveness, and a desire to avoid strangers, which checked Brace Norton in his desire to press his offers of service. He had the good sense to feel, too, that, with the master so determinedly distant, any advances toward the servant might be looked upon as an insult. So, reluctantly giving the order to proceed, the wheels of the chaise spun round, and the next moment, at a turn of the road, Brace caught a glimpse of the couple trudging along; when, throwing himself back in the vehicle, the young man began to ponder upon what was the cause, his thoughts, too, often being occupied by the faces of his mother and Isa Gernon.
Dread.Twenty winters had not come and passed away without leaving traces of their frosty rime upon the heads of Captain Norton and his wife; but as they stood in the Hall dining-room, hand clasping hand, and gazing into each others face, it was evident that, whatever might have been the past, there was peace, content, and happiness there.“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, now grown into a pleasant matronly dame, “he has come back. The whole village rings with the news. So unexpected, too.”“Poor fellow!” said Captain Norton, after a few minutes’ quiet thought. “Heaven grant that he may be more happy! I am sorry, though, Ada—very sorry; for his coming seems to open old wounds. But come—come, darling!” he exclaimed, as he drew her towards his breast. “Don’t wear that troubled face. Surely, after all these years—”“Pray forgive me!” said Mrs Norton, nestling closer to him; and she smiled happily in reply to his caresses. “As you say, Philip, Heaven help him, and clear up the dark mystery of his life! I do not see why we should trouble ourselves about his coming back.”“Well—no,” said Captain Norton, uneasily; “but one cannot help recalling how events shaped themselves after his last return. But there, let us dismiss it all, for I cannot trust myself even now to dwell upon all these old matters. I would make up my mind to leave, and at once, in spite of the inconvenience, only that it would be like a tacit acknowledgment that I was afraid to meet him; and you know how charitable people can be.”“Oh no; we could not think of leaving,” said Mrs Norton, hastily; “but I think—nay, I feel sure that with him the past will be buried entirely; for, Philip,” she added, solemnly, “may Heaven forgive me if I am uncharitable, but I believe that the man who could so cruelly malign my husband must have had his own ends to serve. I could not refrain from saying this, as the subject was brought up; but whatever evil—whatever wrong-doing was connected with poor Marion’s disappearance, must some day or other be brought out into the light of day. Twenty years—twenty long years—has the matter slumbered, and it may slumber twenty more; and, in spite now of my utter indifference to public opinion, I cannot help longing for the mystery to be cleared up in our day. But, whether or no, promise me this, dearest, that it shall not be allowed to trouble you—that you will not brood over it; and that, come what may, you will avoid all encounter with that bad, proud man, whose coming seems like a cloud sent over dear old Merland. I almost feel thankful that poor Mr and Mrs Elstree are now far away from trouble and care. There was that dread suspicion, though, in both their hearts; I feel sure, however, they struggled to the last to keep it back. But there: let us dismiss it all; and you promise me, do you not?”Captain Norton’s calm, quiet smile was enough to reassure his wife; and as he took his seat at a side-table, covered with correspondence, she stood behind him, leaning her hands upon his shoulder.“We are going on at a famous rate, Ada,” he said, after a busy pause, in short, sharp, decisive tones, that smacked of the man of business—“returns increasing every month. Some of the prophetic old wiseacres would give their ears now for shares in our rusty old iron company. By the way, though, Brace has not written for any money lately. Is it not time we heard from him?”“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, with anxiety in her tones; “and—”“Now, don’t be an old fidget,” said the Captain, laughingly, as once more he drew her towards him. “That poor old head of yours is as full of shipwrecks and disasters at sea as one of the wreck-charts or Lloyd’s ledgers. What a pity it is that we did not have half-a-dozen boys for you to share that weak old heart of yours amongst, so that you need not have had to worry yourself to death about one!”“But surely we ought to have had a letter a month since.”“Certainly, my love, if the poor boy had had a post-office close at hand into which he could pop it. Don’t be so unreasonable. You don’t know how even an adverse wind will keep a vessel away from port for weeks together. You must study statistics, so as to ease that heart of yours, by learning how seldom a mishap befalls a ship. We shall be hearing from him before long, and—There, bless my soul, I must keep a clerk; I’ve forgotten to answer Harrison and Son’s letter.”“What was that about?” said Mrs Norton, as, pleased to see how happy her husband was in his business pursuits—upon which, in spite of adversity at the outset, fortune had of late smiled in full sunshine—she tried to enter into each matter, knowing full well how his busy life had been the cure for a mind diseased.“What was it about?” said Captain Norton, dreamily. “Oh, about the marsh—the warping, you know. I am to have two thousand acres.”“But I don’t know,” said Mrs Norton, smiling; “you promised to explain.”“To be sure; so I did!” he exclaimed, eagerly reaching down a rolled-up plan, and spreading it upon the table. “Now look here, Ada; this will be an expensive affair, and we shall reap no benefit from it ourselves, for it is a matter of years and years; but that young dog will have an estate which will make him hold up his head as high as he likes. Now, see here—this is my side. I’ve bought these two thousand acres of worthless marshland—worthless save for peat-digging and wild-duck shooting. This is the piece, Ada, love,” he said, solemnly, as he laid a finger upon the plan. “I chose this so that I might preserve the pine-wood untouched.”He stopped to gaze up in his wife’s face, and as she recalled the past, she bent over him until her cheek touched his forehead.“Well, love,” he said, raising himself and speaking cheerfully, “we—that is to say, the other purchasers and myself—dig a large drain, or canal, through our marsh pieces right to the Trent, and fit our drain with sluice-gates, so that at every high tide we flood our low tract of marsh with the thick, muddy waters loaded with the alluvial soil of Yorkshire and our own county, brought down by many a river and stream, which, after the fashion of the hill floods, by slow and almost imperceptible degrees, is deposited upon our peat and rushes, in a heavy, unctuous, wondrously rich mud, or warp, till, in the course of time, we have it two, three, and in places even four feet deep. Then comes the change: we cease flooding, and give all our attention to thoroughly draining our warp land, which now becomes, in place of marsh, fit only to grow water-plants, a rich and fertile soil. Nature has converted it for us; and twenty years hence, instead of marsh, Master Brace will have a couple of thousand acres of the best soil in England. That is all I can do for him, and after all I don’t think that it will be such a very mean heritage. Now, love, what do you say to that?”Mrs Norton’s answer was a cry of joy: for at that moment, free of step, bright and happy, in came Brace Norton, to be strained again and again to his mother’s breast.There was a grim smile of pride and pleasure upon Captain Norton’s scarred face, as, after hastily rolling up his plans, he caught at his son’s disengaged hand.“My dear Brace, how well and hearty you look!” he exclaimed, as he scanned the broad chest and muscular limbs of his son.“I Well? Ay! father, never better,” was the reply. “And I don’t know that I ever saw you look better.”“Oh! I’m well enough,” said Captain Norton. “But, my dear boy, what a pity it is that you did not join our service! With that build of yours, you would have drilled as upright as a dart.”“And broken my heart over the pipe-clay, eh, father?” laughed the young man. “I’m right enough—make a tolerable sailor, perhaps, but I should have been a poor soldier. But, I say,” said Brace, after half-an-hour’s questioning and answering, “I have had quite an adventure coming over: came across a fine, fierce, grey old fellow, with—oh! mamma, the most lovely girl you ever saw in your life!”“Pooh!” laughed the Captain, “the sailor’s Poll. What asses you boys do make of yourselves!”“All right, father; only let me bray in peace.”“Fell in love at first sight, and would have eloped, only the fierce, grey old fellow was watchful as a dragon, eh, Brace?” said Captain Norton, smiling.“Belay, there, will you!” cried Brace. “How can I go on with my story? Not quite so fast as that. But there, sir, we can spare you for the present. I’m talking to some one here who can sympathise. Really, you know,” he continued, passing his arm round his mother’s waist, as she gazed at him fondly, and drawing her to the window, “she was about the sweetest girl I ever set eyes on. Quite an adventure: chaises passing; theirs overset; sweet girl’s temple cut; insensible; offering aid; received very haughtily by the old gentleman—quite a Spanish grandee!”Ada Norton started, as those words seemed to carry her back five-and-twenty years, and the smile upon her lips slowly faded away.“Well,” continued Brace, lightly, “I spoiled my cap by fetching water in it from a pool, like a true knight-errant would have done with his casque, and bound up the bleeding temple with my handkerchief. Then, after a great deal of snubbing from the old gentleman, I was rewarded by a sweet smile of thanks from the lady as I prevailed upon the Don to take my chaise and come on. Got them in at last, after a great deal of ceremonious fencing, and they drove off, but only to stop directly. Old gentleman leaps out, drags sweet girl after him, and goes raging off; and all, I suppose, because he had seen my name upon my leather writing-case; while, for explanation, I have the young lady’s handkerchief, bearing the sweet name of Isa Gernon. But, good heavens, my dear mother, how pale you look! Father, what is the matter?”Captain Norton had risen from his seat and advanced to his wife, who, pale as death, stood gazing at him with a terrified expression upon her countenance.“My dear father, what does all this mean?” exclaimed Brace, with real anxiety in his tones. “What mystery is there here? Of course I concluded that the elderly gentleman was Sir Murray Gernon; and I have some misty recollections of an old family quarrel, and Lady Gernon running away. There, I have arrived at my cable’s end. What is it all? I trust nothing wrong.”“Speak to him, Ada!” cried Captain Norton, hoarsely. “There must be no more of this!”And without another word he hurried from the room; while, perfectly astounded, Brace turned to his mother for some explanation of what was to him a profound mystery.
Twenty winters had not come and passed away without leaving traces of their frosty rime upon the heads of Captain Norton and his wife; but as they stood in the Hall dining-room, hand clasping hand, and gazing into each others face, it was evident that, whatever might have been the past, there was peace, content, and happiness there.
“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, now grown into a pleasant matronly dame, “he has come back. The whole village rings with the news. So unexpected, too.”
“Poor fellow!” said Captain Norton, after a few minutes’ quiet thought. “Heaven grant that he may be more happy! I am sorry, though, Ada—very sorry; for his coming seems to open old wounds. But come—come, darling!” he exclaimed, as he drew her towards his breast. “Don’t wear that troubled face. Surely, after all these years—”
“Pray forgive me!” said Mrs Norton, nestling closer to him; and she smiled happily in reply to his caresses. “As you say, Philip, Heaven help him, and clear up the dark mystery of his life! I do not see why we should trouble ourselves about his coming back.”
“Well—no,” said Captain Norton, uneasily; “but one cannot help recalling how events shaped themselves after his last return. But there, let us dismiss it all, for I cannot trust myself even now to dwell upon all these old matters. I would make up my mind to leave, and at once, in spite of the inconvenience, only that it would be like a tacit acknowledgment that I was afraid to meet him; and you know how charitable people can be.”
“Oh no; we could not think of leaving,” said Mrs Norton, hastily; “but I think—nay, I feel sure that with him the past will be buried entirely; for, Philip,” she added, solemnly, “may Heaven forgive me if I am uncharitable, but I believe that the man who could so cruelly malign my husband must have had his own ends to serve. I could not refrain from saying this, as the subject was brought up; but whatever evil—whatever wrong-doing was connected with poor Marion’s disappearance, must some day or other be brought out into the light of day. Twenty years—twenty long years—has the matter slumbered, and it may slumber twenty more; and, in spite now of my utter indifference to public opinion, I cannot help longing for the mystery to be cleared up in our day. But, whether or no, promise me this, dearest, that it shall not be allowed to trouble you—that you will not brood over it; and that, come what may, you will avoid all encounter with that bad, proud man, whose coming seems like a cloud sent over dear old Merland. I almost feel thankful that poor Mr and Mrs Elstree are now far away from trouble and care. There was that dread suspicion, though, in both their hearts; I feel sure, however, they struggled to the last to keep it back. But there: let us dismiss it all; and you promise me, do you not?”
Captain Norton’s calm, quiet smile was enough to reassure his wife; and as he took his seat at a side-table, covered with correspondence, she stood behind him, leaning her hands upon his shoulder.
“We are going on at a famous rate, Ada,” he said, after a busy pause, in short, sharp, decisive tones, that smacked of the man of business—“returns increasing every month. Some of the prophetic old wiseacres would give their ears now for shares in our rusty old iron company. By the way, though, Brace has not written for any money lately. Is it not time we heard from him?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, with anxiety in her tones; “and—”
“Now, don’t be an old fidget,” said the Captain, laughingly, as once more he drew her towards him. “That poor old head of yours is as full of shipwrecks and disasters at sea as one of the wreck-charts or Lloyd’s ledgers. What a pity it is that we did not have half-a-dozen boys for you to share that weak old heart of yours amongst, so that you need not have had to worry yourself to death about one!”
“But surely we ought to have had a letter a month since.”
“Certainly, my love, if the poor boy had had a post-office close at hand into which he could pop it. Don’t be so unreasonable. You don’t know how even an adverse wind will keep a vessel away from port for weeks together. You must study statistics, so as to ease that heart of yours, by learning how seldom a mishap befalls a ship. We shall be hearing from him before long, and—There, bless my soul, I must keep a clerk; I’ve forgotten to answer Harrison and Son’s letter.”
“What was that about?” said Mrs Norton, as, pleased to see how happy her husband was in his business pursuits—upon which, in spite of adversity at the outset, fortune had of late smiled in full sunshine—she tried to enter into each matter, knowing full well how his busy life had been the cure for a mind diseased.
“What was it about?” said Captain Norton, dreamily. “Oh, about the marsh—the warping, you know. I am to have two thousand acres.”
“But I don’t know,” said Mrs Norton, smiling; “you promised to explain.”
“To be sure; so I did!” he exclaimed, eagerly reaching down a rolled-up plan, and spreading it upon the table. “Now look here, Ada; this will be an expensive affair, and we shall reap no benefit from it ourselves, for it is a matter of years and years; but that young dog will have an estate which will make him hold up his head as high as he likes. Now, see here—this is my side. I’ve bought these two thousand acres of worthless marshland—worthless save for peat-digging and wild-duck shooting. This is the piece, Ada, love,” he said, solemnly, as he laid a finger upon the plan. “I chose this so that I might preserve the pine-wood untouched.”
He stopped to gaze up in his wife’s face, and as she recalled the past, she bent over him until her cheek touched his forehead.
“Well, love,” he said, raising himself and speaking cheerfully, “we—that is to say, the other purchasers and myself—dig a large drain, or canal, through our marsh pieces right to the Trent, and fit our drain with sluice-gates, so that at every high tide we flood our low tract of marsh with the thick, muddy waters loaded with the alluvial soil of Yorkshire and our own county, brought down by many a river and stream, which, after the fashion of the hill floods, by slow and almost imperceptible degrees, is deposited upon our peat and rushes, in a heavy, unctuous, wondrously rich mud, or warp, till, in the course of time, we have it two, three, and in places even four feet deep. Then comes the change: we cease flooding, and give all our attention to thoroughly draining our warp land, which now becomes, in place of marsh, fit only to grow water-plants, a rich and fertile soil. Nature has converted it for us; and twenty years hence, instead of marsh, Master Brace will have a couple of thousand acres of the best soil in England. That is all I can do for him, and after all I don’t think that it will be such a very mean heritage. Now, love, what do you say to that?”
Mrs Norton’s answer was a cry of joy: for at that moment, free of step, bright and happy, in came Brace Norton, to be strained again and again to his mother’s breast.
There was a grim smile of pride and pleasure upon Captain Norton’s scarred face, as, after hastily rolling up his plans, he caught at his son’s disengaged hand.
“My dear Brace, how well and hearty you look!” he exclaimed, as he scanned the broad chest and muscular limbs of his son.
“I Well? Ay! father, never better,” was the reply. “And I don’t know that I ever saw you look better.”
“Oh! I’m well enough,” said Captain Norton. “But, my dear boy, what a pity it is that you did not join our service! With that build of yours, you would have drilled as upright as a dart.”
“And broken my heart over the pipe-clay, eh, father?” laughed the young man. “I’m right enough—make a tolerable sailor, perhaps, but I should have been a poor soldier. But, I say,” said Brace, after half-an-hour’s questioning and answering, “I have had quite an adventure coming over: came across a fine, fierce, grey old fellow, with—oh! mamma, the most lovely girl you ever saw in your life!”
“Pooh!” laughed the Captain, “the sailor’s Poll. What asses you boys do make of yourselves!”
“All right, father; only let me bray in peace.”
“Fell in love at first sight, and would have eloped, only the fierce, grey old fellow was watchful as a dragon, eh, Brace?” said Captain Norton, smiling.
“Belay, there, will you!” cried Brace. “How can I go on with my story? Not quite so fast as that. But there, sir, we can spare you for the present. I’m talking to some one here who can sympathise. Really, you know,” he continued, passing his arm round his mother’s waist, as she gazed at him fondly, and drawing her to the window, “she was about the sweetest girl I ever set eyes on. Quite an adventure: chaises passing; theirs overset; sweet girl’s temple cut; insensible; offering aid; received very haughtily by the old gentleman—quite a Spanish grandee!”
Ada Norton started, as those words seemed to carry her back five-and-twenty years, and the smile upon her lips slowly faded away.
“Well,” continued Brace, lightly, “I spoiled my cap by fetching water in it from a pool, like a true knight-errant would have done with his casque, and bound up the bleeding temple with my handkerchief. Then, after a great deal of snubbing from the old gentleman, I was rewarded by a sweet smile of thanks from the lady as I prevailed upon the Don to take my chaise and come on. Got them in at last, after a great deal of ceremonious fencing, and they drove off, but only to stop directly. Old gentleman leaps out, drags sweet girl after him, and goes raging off; and all, I suppose, because he had seen my name upon my leather writing-case; while, for explanation, I have the young lady’s handkerchief, bearing the sweet name of Isa Gernon. But, good heavens, my dear mother, how pale you look! Father, what is the matter?”
Captain Norton had risen from his seat and advanced to his wife, who, pale as death, stood gazing at him with a terrified expression upon her countenance.
“My dear father, what does all this mean?” exclaimed Brace, with real anxiety in his tones. “What mystery is there here? Of course I concluded that the elderly gentleman was Sir Murray Gernon; and I have some misty recollections of an old family quarrel, and Lady Gernon running away. There, I have arrived at my cable’s end. What is it all? I trust nothing wrong.”
“Speak to him, Ada!” cried Captain Norton, hoarsely. “There must be no more of this!”
And without another word he hurried from the room; while, perfectly astounded, Brace turned to his mother for some explanation of what was to him a profound mystery.
On the Bygone.“And where had my father been at the time?” said Brace Norton, after sitting with knitted brows listening to his mother’s narrative of the past.“France—abroad—to avoid arrest; for his affairs in connection with the mine were then in a sad state. It was his absence which made matters wear so suspicious an aspect.”“Suspicious? Yes,” said Brace, angrily, “suspicious enough to base minds! How long was he away?”“Five, nearly six, months,” said Mrs Norton.“But you never believed this charge, mother? You never thought my father guilty?”“Guilty? No!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, proudly. “Your father, Brace, is the soul of honour, and above suspicion; but matters shaped themselves most cruelly against him.”“That Gurdon must have had the cross,” said Brace, after a thoughtful pause; “and you say that he obtained his deserts—transported?”Mrs Norton nodded her head.“But Lady Gernon’s disappearance—what could have become of her? Was it possible that she was deluded away out of revenge—perhaps with the cross for a bait—by some one or other of Gurdon’s associates, so that she fell into some trap?”“My son—my dear boy, pray do not talk of it any more,” said Mrs Norton, sadly. “It is a rock upon which our happiness was nearly wrecked; but avoid it now. It was right that you should know all after the strange meeting of to-day; but you see now the reason for your father’s—for my agitation, and for the strong emotion displayed by Sir Murray Gernon. It is quite impossible, as you must see, that the old intimacy should be renewed. Your fathers—my peace of mind depends upon our keeping at a distance—upon the past, Brace, being deeply buried. You see that I am speaking freely—that I am keeping nothing back, in order that you may be upon your guard, and do nothing to endanger the happiness of what, my child, has been these many years a happy home.”“But,” exclaimed Brace, impetuously, “if the mystery could be cleared up! I do not like that, even with Sir Murray Gernon, there should be a doubt of my father’s honour.”“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, “let the past rest; it is a subject that has brought white hairs into more than one head. It has been thought upon till left in despair. I pray to be forgiven if I am unjust, but I do not think that Sir Murray Gernon entertains a single suspicion against your father, whatever he may once have felt. Time must have removed old impressions; but for his own black conduct—There, I dare not say what I think, even to you, Brace!”There was a contraction of the young man’s features, as an inkling of the meaning of his mother’s hastily-spoken words flashed across his mind. Then, rising, he began to pace the room with impatient strides, for there was a sense of disappointment at his heart which he could not overcome; and in spite of his efforts, there seemed to be continually before him the sweet, timid face and the reclining figure that he had for a few minutes supported; while, as he pondered upon his mothers words, again piecing together her long narrative, it seemed to him that he was every minute being removed further and further from one who had made what in another case he would have called an impression upon a susceptible nature. It was as though each moment a deep, black gulf was opening wider and wider between them—a gulf that it would be impossible for him ever to pass. Then, as Mrs Norton watched him anxiously, he stood gazing from the window, telling himself that it was absurd to treat matters in such a light; that he had seen Isa Gernon but for a few minutes; that he had barely spoken to her; that she might be engaged to another; that she might be in disposition unamiable, and in tastes utterly opposed to his; that, in short, he was making an utter ass of himself. But, all the same, there were those two large, sad eyes ever before him, gazing reproachfully in his face from beyond that great gulf—ever widening more and more, more and more, till, impatiently stamping upon the floor, he made an angry effort to cast the “folly” from him, and went and knelt down by his mother’s side.“I am sorry, Brace,” she said, as her hand played, with all a proud mother’s tenderness, amongst his fair, crisply-curling hair—“I am grieved that my words should have made so troublous an impression.”“It is not that—it is not that! There, what am I saying?” he exclaimed, with assumed cheerfulness. “I’ve come home in high spirits, brimful of happiness, and ready to enjoy myself; so, dear mother, don’t let us trouble about the past—let it be buried.”“Yes, better so—far better so!” exclaimed Mrs Norton. “For our sakes, Brace, never refer to it before your father in any wise; for those incidents were so many shoals in the way of his happiness; but, Brace, I set myself to try and make his life happy, and sometimes I cannot help thinking that I have succeeded.”“Indeed, no happier home than this could ever have existed, I’m sure,” cried Brace, smiling in his mother’s pleasant face. “But,” he added, as he kissed her, laughing, “it does seem hard that when you have cured a husband of a roving disposition, you should have a son turn out far worse.”Mrs Norton smiled, but a grave, sad expression swept the next moment over her face.“Save for his business transactions, Brace, that was your father’s last long absence from me—for I suffered deeply then. I think that on his return from France, when he had had some arrangements made by which he gained time to pay off every demand, he saw how I had felt his absence, and made a resolve to leave me no more, and he has kept to that determination.”“The mines nearly ruined him, then, in the first place?” said Brace.“Very nearly; but he had such faith in them that for five years we lived almost in poverty that we might pay off debts; when, as his last creditor was satisfied, your father’s faith met with its reward, and ever since the mines have gone on increasing their returns year by year. But let us go to him now. You will be careful, though, Brace; you see now how necessary it is that not even a reference should be made to the bygone?”“Yes—yes, mother—yes!” said Brace, with a troubled sigh; and they rose to leave the room, when, with the traces of his former emotion quite passed away, Captain Norton entered, looking inquiringly at mother and son, and then entering into conversation upon indifferent topics, as if nothing had happened.
“And where had my father been at the time?” said Brace Norton, after sitting with knitted brows listening to his mother’s narrative of the past.
“France—abroad—to avoid arrest; for his affairs in connection with the mine were then in a sad state. It was his absence which made matters wear so suspicious an aspect.”
“Suspicious? Yes,” said Brace, angrily, “suspicious enough to base minds! How long was he away?”
“Five, nearly six, months,” said Mrs Norton.
“But you never believed this charge, mother? You never thought my father guilty?”
“Guilty? No!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, proudly. “Your father, Brace, is the soul of honour, and above suspicion; but matters shaped themselves most cruelly against him.”
“That Gurdon must have had the cross,” said Brace, after a thoughtful pause; “and you say that he obtained his deserts—transported?”
Mrs Norton nodded her head.
“But Lady Gernon’s disappearance—what could have become of her? Was it possible that she was deluded away out of revenge—perhaps with the cross for a bait—by some one or other of Gurdon’s associates, so that she fell into some trap?”
“My son—my dear boy, pray do not talk of it any more,” said Mrs Norton, sadly. “It is a rock upon which our happiness was nearly wrecked; but avoid it now. It was right that you should know all after the strange meeting of to-day; but you see now the reason for your father’s—for my agitation, and for the strong emotion displayed by Sir Murray Gernon. It is quite impossible, as you must see, that the old intimacy should be renewed. Your fathers—my peace of mind depends upon our keeping at a distance—upon the past, Brace, being deeply buried. You see that I am speaking freely—that I am keeping nothing back, in order that you may be upon your guard, and do nothing to endanger the happiness of what, my child, has been these many years a happy home.”
“But,” exclaimed Brace, impetuously, “if the mystery could be cleared up! I do not like that, even with Sir Murray Gernon, there should be a doubt of my father’s honour.”
“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, “let the past rest; it is a subject that has brought white hairs into more than one head. It has been thought upon till left in despair. I pray to be forgiven if I am unjust, but I do not think that Sir Murray Gernon entertains a single suspicion against your father, whatever he may once have felt. Time must have removed old impressions; but for his own black conduct—There, I dare not say what I think, even to you, Brace!”
There was a contraction of the young man’s features, as an inkling of the meaning of his mother’s hastily-spoken words flashed across his mind. Then, rising, he began to pace the room with impatient strides, for there was a sense of disappointment at his heart which he could not overcome; and in spite of his efforts, there seemed to be continually before him the sweet, timid face and the reclining figure that he had for a few minutes supported; while, as he pondered upon his mothers words, again piecing together her long narrative, it seemed to him that he was every minute being removed further and further from one who had made what in another case he would have called an impression upon a susceptible nature. It was as though each moment a deep, black gulf was opening wider and wider between them—a gulf that it would be impossible for him ever to pass. Then, as Mrs Norton watched him anxiously, he stood gazing from the window, telling himself that it was absurd to treat matters in such a light; that he had seen Isa Gernon but for a few minutes; that he had barely spoken to her; that she might be engaged to another; that she might be in disposition unamiable, and in tastes utterly opposed to his; that, in short, he was making an utter ass of himself. But, all the same, there were those two large, sad eyes ever before him, gazing reproachfully in his face from beyond that great gulf—ever widening more and more, more and more, till, impatiently stamping upon the floor, he made an angry effort to cast the “folly” from him, and went and knelt down by his mother’s side.
“I am sorry, Brace,” she said, as her hand played, with all a proud mother’s tenderness, amongst his fair, crisply-curling hair—“I am grieved that my words should have made so troublous an impression.”
“It is not that—it is not that! There, what am I saying?” he exclaimed, with assumed cheerfulness. “I’ve come home in high spirits, brimful of happiness, and ready to enjoy myself; so, dear mother, don’t let us trouble about the past—let it be buried.”
“Yes, better so—far better so!” exclaimed Mrs Norton. “For our sakes, Brace, never refer to it before your father in any wise; for those incidents were so many shoals in the way of his happiness; but, Brace, I set myself to try and make his life happy, and sometimes I cannot help thinking that I have succeeded.”
“Indeed, no happier home than this could ever have existed, I’m sure,” cried Brace, smiling in his mother’s pleasant face. “But,” he added, as he kissed her, laughing, “it does seem hard that when you have cured a husband of a roving disposition, you should have a son turn out far worse.”
Mrs Norton smiled, but a grave, sad expression swept the next moment over her face.
“Save for his business transactions, Brace, that was your father’s last long absence from me—for I suffered deeply then. I think that on his return from France, when he had had some arrangements made by which he gained time to pay off every demand, he saw how I had felt his absence, and made a resolve to leave me no more, and he has kept to that determination.”
“The mines nearly ruined him, then, in the first place?” said Brace.
“Very nearly; but he had such faith in them that for five years we lived almost in poverty that we might pay off debts; when, as his last creditor was satisfied, your father’s faith met with its reward, and ever since the mines have gone on increasing their returns year by year. But let us go to him now. You will be careful, though, Brace; you see now how necessary it is that not even a reference should be made to the bygone?”
“Yes—yes, mother—yes!” said Brace, with a troubled sigh; and they rose to leave the room, when, with the traces of his former emotion quite passed away, Captain Norton entered, looking inquiringly at mother and son, and then entering into conversation upon indifferent topics, as if nothing had happened.