Right Honourable.“Now look here, Josh: it’s of no use for you to come bothering me like this. Here have I been back from Italy only a few days, and you’re down upon me like a leech—I mean like a hawk!”“If your lordship had condescended to tell me that you were going abroad, and consulted me about the meeting of those little bills when they fell due, it would have been a different thing.”The scene was a heavily-furnished room in a fashionable London hotel, and the speakers were George Viscount Maudlaine, son and heir to the hampered estates and somewhat tarnished title of the Right Honourable Valentine, twentieth Earl of Chiltern; and Joshua Braham, Esq., solicitor, of Drury Chambers, St Alban’s Place, Regent Street. The former, as he lounged back in his purple dressing-gown, appeared to be a tall, well-made young man, with a somewhat dreamy or tobacco-contemplative cast of countenance, more remarkable for bone, and the prominence of the well-known Chiltern features, than anything particularly definite; the latter was a gentleman, very smooth, very swarthy, possessing a ruddy and Eastern development of lip, aquiline of—nose, hair short—black—spiky—of a texture, in short, that threatened, should a lock be sent for, to fly off in dangerous blinding showers of capillary stubble.“You see, I don’t recollect these sort of things,” said his lordship.“Only when your lordship requires a fresh supply of money,” said Mr Braham, smiling like a shark, and rubbing his hands together so that his rings rattled.“There, don’t make a bother: sit down and have some breakfast, Braham,” said the younger man. “These sort of things are so dooced unpleasant.”“Unpleasant? There’s nothing further from my thoughts, my lord, than making things unpleasant. I only came, after writing twice to remind your lordship that three bills, which fell due a month since, were all returned, and now lie in my hands, with interest and expenses attached. Unpleasant? Why, I give you my word, that Moss, or Peterson, or Barcohen, would have had your lordship arrested and in Bream’s Buildings or Cursitor Street days ago. But I don’t do business like that. I only accommodate gentlemen of position, and then, in return, I expect to get the treatment one meets with from gentlemen of position.”“You Israelitish hound!” muttered his lordship, “I’d pitch you out of the window if I dared!”“Did your lordship speak?” said the visitor, bending his head aside in an attitude of attention.“Speak? No! Only I’ve such a confounded headache this morning, I’m not fit for business matters. Richmond last night with some friends.”“Yes; I heard so,” said the visitor, softly. “Mad’moiselle Duval was of the party, I think?”“How the dooce did you know that?” exclaimed his lordship, uneasily.“Oh! really I hardly know. It is one of the troubles of position, my lord, that every one hears of your movements.”“I’ll lay twenty to one that you’ve had some hook-beaked, unshaven dog watching me ever since I’ve been back!” exclaimed his lordship, impetuously.“He, he, he!” laughed the Jew. “Your lordship may have a headache, but you are really most keen and business-like this morning.”His lordship growled.“Youare,” he said, after a pause.“Exactly so,” said the money-lender. “And now, perhaps, your lordship will give your attention to the matter in hand?”“Well, I am attending!” grumbled his lordship.“Then, perhaps, your lordship will give me a cheque on your banker for the total of the bills, interest and expenses. Let me see,” continued the visitor, drawing a large bill-case from his pocket.“There, keep that confounded thing out of my sight! My head aches quite badly enough without having that thrown in my teeth. Now, look here: I haven’t fifty pounds at the banker’s, and what there is I want for present expenses.”“Then what does your lordship propose doing?”“Nothing at all,” said his lordship sulkily.“Does your lordship wish me to ask payment of the Earl, your father?”“If you like,” said his lordship, with a grin; “but while he has this fit of the gout on, I should not advise you to get within his reach. He holds to the fine old idea of his Norman ancestors, that knocking a Jew on the head was meritorious. But there! he won’t pay—he can’t, even if he felt ever so disposed. Now, look here, Braham: you must stick some more interest on, and renew the bills.”“Renew, my lord?” exclaimed the money-lender, expressing with eyebrows and hands the greatest of surprise. “Impossible! I’ve renewed till I’m as sick of it as of your broken faith.”“No, you’re not; so don’t be a humbug!” said the Viscount. “I’m not very sharp, I know; but I’m keen enough to see through that. You’ve milked me pretty well, and worked me nicely with all your professional cant. I don’t recollect how much I’ve had in cash—I did put it down on old envelopes, but they’re lost—but I know that those pictures and the wines were horrible stuff; and one way and another you’ve made those bills grow till now they amount to—”“Four thou—”“There—there, that’ll do; I can’t pay it, so what’s the good of bothering one about how much it is? I’ve got it down somewhere, I tell you, and perhaps I can find it when I want to know, and I don’t now. Well, as I was going to say, you’ve made the bills grow to that size, now make them grow a little bigger.”His lordship yawned, stretched himself, and then poured some pale brandy into a coffee-cup, before filling it with the rich fluid in the biggin.“Totally impossible, my lord,” said the money-lender, rising. “I’m very sorry, my lord, but I must set the law to work. I have, as you well know, always been most desirous of aiding you during pressing necessities; and when unable to help you myself, I have always introduced you to some one who would. But, to speak plainly, this trip of yours to Italy, without a word to me first—”“Why, confound it all! was I to come and ask you if I might go abroad?” exclaimed his lordship, furiously.“Oh, dear me, no! Of course not, my lord; but as I was saying, this trip to Italy looks so much like trying to bilk me, that I must, for my own sake—”“And that of the gentleman in the City,” sneered his lordship.“No, my lord, I don’t do business with men in the City,” said the Jew, in injured tones; “and for my own sake alone I must take strenuous measures for the recovery of the debt.”“’Tisn’t a debt: it’s only a money-lending affair,” growled his lordship.“Well—well, we won’t argue upon that point, my lord. The Sheriff of Middlesex has his ideas upon these matters—ideas in which I have implicit confidence.”“Here, Braham; I say; come, no nonsense. Don’t be a fool, you know. Don’t be hard on a fellow because he’s bilious and put out!” exclaimed his lordship, who, with the immediate prospect of a sponging-house before him, displayed an unwonted degree of perturbation. “But, I say, you can’t—you know you can’t do any thing yet;” and his lordship’s face brightened.The Jew laughed.“Your lordship forgets. Hyman has a little affair out against you, which will just work in well with mine. I shouldn’t be surprised if some one is already waiting for you!”“Oh! come, I say—you know; I can’t stand this. You mustn’t do anything, Braham; and you must stop Hyman, because I’ve come home—come over—come on purpose—that is, I have something good on my book.”The money-lender watched him narrowly.“Have indeed—matter of great importance—case of thousands, in fact—clear me of all my little unpleasantries.”“Pooh!” ejaculated the money-lender, dropping the servile now that his client began to implore. “Something on the Heath, or the Derby, or Oaks. I never knew one of your family yet withnousenough to do anything but lose. Now, look here, my lord: are you prepared to pay me four thousand three hun—”“No; not a penny!” exclaimed his lordship, earnestly; “but, look here, Braham,” he cried, catching his visitor by the button; “I’ve got something in hand—I have indeed: not betting. Something safe and paying; but you must give me time, and let me have a few hundreds to carry on with.”“Bah!” exclaimed the Jew fiercely, “I’m not going to be shilly-shallied with any more. Now, look here, my lord; I’ve given you time, and I’ve been patient. You’ve had documents served upon you; but even to the last I wouldn’t be hard. I said to myself, I’ll give him every chance; and I’ve done it; but you only turn round upon me like all the rest, friend as I’ve been to you. And now it has come to this—I’ve asked you to pay me, and you won’t.”“I can’t, I tell you—’pon my word I can’t,” exclaimed his lordship, following his visitor to the door, and pressing it back, as the other tried to get it open.“Very well. Then I must have my pound of flesh!” said the Jew, with a bitter grin. “Only, you see, my lord, we are wiser than our old ancestor, Shylock: we do not bargain for exact weight, and, to avoid the punishment awarded to the shedder of blood, we take the whole body. Your lordship weighs twelve stone, I should think?”“Fourteen stone,” said the Viscount, complacently.“Plenty of weight, and to spare, then,” said the Jew, laughing.“But you don’t mean what you say, Braham?” said his lordship, anxiously.“I never joke on money matters, my lord; I’ve a couple of sheriff’s officers and a cab across the road, my lord. If you will take the trouble to walk across to the window you can see them.”Lord Maudlaine took a step across towards the window; but he was back in an instant.“But I say, Braham,” he exclaimed, “this is getting serious—it is, indeed—and you mustn’t, you know; ’pon my word, you mustn’t. Think of the scandal and the expense; and you won’t do yourself any good, besides ruining me.”“What do you mean by ruining you?” said the Jew, for the young nobleman’s earnestness was such as no dread of a spunging-house, pure and simple, would have evoked—“what’s in the wind?—what do you mean?”“Well, I tell you, don’t I? I’ve got something in hand—something good, you know.”“What is it?”There was a few minutes’ silence as, driven to bay by his necessities, the scion of the not very noble house stood frowning and biting his lips.“Just as you like,” said the Jew, coolly. “I don’t want you to tell me.” And he again tried to leave, but his lordship stayed him.“Now, look here,” said the Jew again. “I’ve always been a friend to you, Lord Maudlaine, and I’ll give you one more chance. What did you go to Italy for?”There was no answer; and as his lordship stood with his back to the door, the visitor walked across to the window, as if to signal to one of the men waiting with the cab.“Well, there,” exclaimed his lordship, “to get out of your way.”The Jew smiled.“I expected as much. And now, why did you come back?”“To—because—Well, there; it’s connected with the—with the—the good thing I told you of.”“Now, look here, young man,” said Abraham, without the “A,” “are we to be friends or enemies?”“Friends, of course,” said the young nobleman, scowling.“Then, look here: I must have perfect openness. Just show me that this is something genuine—something worth waiting for, and I’ll wait—of course, for a consideration.”He waited for some response to his words, but none was forthcoming.“I’m not going to be treated like this!” exclaimed the visitor, with mock anger. “I’ll soon—”“There, there—stop, and I’ll tell you all about it. It is worth waiting for.”His lordship stopped short again, and his by no means intellectual countenance displayed strongly the shame and humiliation he felt.“Well?” said the Jew.“It’s about a marriage—a matrimonial affair.”The Jew looked at him as if he would read his every thought.“Plenty of money?” he said, at last.“One of the richest heiresses in England.”“Are you sure of that?” said Braham; “or has some foreign countess got hold of you again?”“Sure? Yes!” cried Maudlaine, excitedly. “The father has been living out of England for years past at the rate of a couple of thousand a year, and his income’s at least twenty. All been increasing and piling up ever since.”The Jew again looked piercingly at the young man; but it was plain enough that the ability was not in him to invent this as a fiction upon the spur of the moment.“Well,” said the interlocutor, “go on. Have you any chance?”“Yes; of course I have,” said Maudlaine.“Father agreeable?”“Yes!”“Lady?”“Well, yes—pretty well; but that’s all right, I tell you.”“Meet them abroad?”“Yes.”“Have they come back to town?”“To England—not town.”“Humph!” ejaculated the visitor, still narrowly scanning his victim. “And that’s why you came back?”“Of course.”“Now, look here, Maudlaine,” said the Jew, fiercely, “I’m not a man to be trifled with. I was your slave once, and you did not forget to show it. You are mine now, and you must not be surprised at my turn, now it has come, being brought strongly before your attention. But I’ll be frank with you: I lend money for interest. Well and good: I’d rather wait and let you pay me that money and that interest than have to arrest you. I don’t want to get a bad name amongst your class. Now I’ve not much confidence in you as to promises to pay; but I’ll believe your word of honour. Is all this true?”“On my word of honour, yes!” said Maudlaine, angrily.“Who is the lady, then?” The Viscount flushed deeply, bit his lips, and was silent; for to answer this question seemed to him too great a humiliation. “Who is the lady?” was asked again. There was no answer. “I suppose you don’t want my help, then?” said the Jew. “Just as you like. Prove to me that this is worth my while to wait—say six or twelve months—and I’ll lend you a few hundreds to go on with. But, there, I’m not anxious; just as you like. Shall I call up the men?”“Confound you, no!” exclaimed the young man, angrily. “She is the daughter of a wealthy baronet, of Lincolnshire. Now are you satisfied?”“No,” said the Jew, taking out pencil and pocket-book; “I want his name.”“Good old family,” said the Viscount, hastily. “Only child. I am invited down there, and the baronet is quite willing. Will that do?”“Name—name—name!” exclaimed the creditor, impatiently.“Sir Murray Gernon. There, then!” cried the young man, furiously.“Sir Murray Gernon,” said the Jew, quietly, as he tapped his teeth with his large gold pencil-case—“Sir Murray Gernon. Ah! let me see; there was a screw loose there, if I recollect right, years ago. Rich family, though—very. Young lady’s mamma bolted, I think; but that don’t matter to you. Yes, that will do, Viscount—that will do. I think I’ll wait.”“And you will advance me what I require?” said his lordship, eagerly, forgetting all humiliation in his brightened prospects.“In reason, yes,” said the Jew, with a mocking smile once more overspreading his face; “but I shall not do it for nothing, my Lord Viscount Maudlaine—I shall not do it for nothing.”“No,” muttered the young man, “I know that.”“It’s quite possible that I may go so far as to make my own terms,” said the Jew, with a grin. “But I’ll leave you, now, to think over the matter; and if you want any little help, of course you’ll come to my chambers, where we can renew one of the bills.”“Confound the bills!” cried the young man, angrily; “I must have a cheque for some hard cash to go on with.”“Very good. Come to me, then, my lord,” said the Jew, all suavity once more. “Excuse me for hurrying away, but it is for your sake. It is not seemly to have Sheriffs’ officers waiting opposite to an hotel. Good morning, my lord!”“Good morning!” said the Viscount, sulkily.“You shall fly a little longer, my fine bird—just a little longer!” said Mr Joshua Braham, as he went out; “but it shall be just as long as I like, and with a string tied to your leg—a string, my fine fellow, of which I hold the end?”
“Now look here, Josh: it’s of no use for you to come bothering me like this. Here have I been back from Italy only a few days, and you’re down upon me like a leech—I mean like a hawk!”
“If your lordship had condescended to tell me that you were going abroad, and consulted me about the meeting of those little bills when they fell due, it would have been a different thing.”
The scene was a heavily-furnished room in a fashionable London hotel, and the speakers were George Viscount Maudlaine, son and heir to the hampered estates and somewhat tarnished title of the Right Honourable Valentine, twentieth Earl of Chiltern; and Joshua Braham, Esq., solicitor, of Drury Chambers, St Alban’s Place, Regent Street. The former, as he lounged back in his purple dressing-gown, appeared to be a tall, well-made young man, with a somewhat dreamy or tobacco-contemplative cast of countenance, more remarkable for bone, and the prominence of the well-known Chiltern features, than anything particularly definite; the latter was a gentleman, very smooth, very swarthy, possessing a ruddy and Eastern development of lip, aquiline of—nose, hair short—black—spiky—of a texture, in short, that threatened, should a lock be sent for, to fly off in dangerous blinding showers of capillary stubble.
“You see, I don’t recollect these sort of things,” said his lordship.
“Only when your lordship requires a fresh supply of money,” said Mr Braham, smiling like a shark, and rubbing his hands together so that his rings rattled.
“There, don’t make a bother: sit down and have some breakfast, Braham,” said the younger man. “These sort of things are so dooced unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant? There’s nothing further from my thoughts, my lord, than making things unpleasant. I only came, after writing twice to remind your lordship that three bills, which fell due a month since, were all returned, and now lie in my hands, with interest and expenses attached. Unpleasant? Why, I give you my word, that Moss, or Peterson, or Barcohen, would have had your lordship arrested and in Bream’s Buildings or Cursitor Street days ago. But I don’t do business like that. I only accommodate gentlemen of position, and then, in return, I expect to get the treatment one meets with from gentlemen of position.”
“You Israelitish hound!” muttered his lordship, “I’d pitch you out of the window if I dared!”
“Did your lordship speak?” said the visitor, bending his head aside in an attitude of attention.
“Speak? No! Only I’ve such a confounded headache this morning, I’m not fit for business matters. Richmond last night with some friends.”
“Yes; I heard so,” said the visitor, softly. “Mad’moiselle Duval was of the party, I think?”
“How the dooce did you know that?” exclaimed his lordship, uneasily.
“Oh! really I hardly know. It is one of the troubles of position, my lord, that every one hears of your movements.”
“I’ll lay twenty to one that you’ve had some hook-beaked, unshaven dog watching me ever since I’ve been back!” exclaimed his lordship, impetuously.
“He, he, he!” laughed the Jew. “Your lordship may have a headache, but you are really most keen and business-like this morning.”
His lordship growled.
“Youare,” he said, after a pause.
“Exactly so,” said the money-lender. “And now, perhaps, your lordship will give your attention to the matter in hand?”
“Well, I am attending!” grumbled his lordship.
“Then, perhaps, your lordship will give me a cheque on your banker for the total of the bills, interest and expenses. Let me see,” continued the visitor, drawing a large bill-case from his pocket.
“There, keep that confounded thing out of my sight! My head aches quite badly enough without having that thrown in my teeth. Now, look here: I haven’t fifty pounds at the banker’s, and what there is I want for present expenses.”
“Then what does your lordship propose doing?”
“Nothing at all,” said his lordship sulkily.
“Does your lordship wish me to ask payment of the Earl, your father?”
“If you like,” said his lordship, with a grin; “but while he has this fit of the gout on, I should not advise you to get within his reach. He holds to the fine old idea of his Norman ancestors, that knocking a Jew on the head was meritorious. But there! he won’t pay—he can’t, even if he felt ever so disposed. Now, look here, Braham: you must stick some more interest on, and renew the bills.”
“Renew, my lord?” exclaimed the money-lender, expressing with eyebrows and hands the greatest of surprise. “Impossible! I’ve renewed till I’m as sick of it as of your broken faith.”
“No, you’re not; so don’t be a humbug!” said the Viscount. “I’m not very sharp, I know; but I’m keen enough to see through that. You’ve milked me pretty well, and worked me nicely with all your professional cant. I don’t recollect how much I’ve had in cash—I did put it down on old envelopes, but they’re lost—but I know that those pictures and the wines were horrible stuff; and one way and another you’ve made those bills grow till now they amount to—”
“Four thou—”
“There—there, that’ll do; I can’t pay it, so what’s the good of bothering one about how much it is? I’ve got it down somewhere, I tell you, and perhaps I can find it when I want to know, and I don’t now. Well, as I was going to say, you’ve made the bills grow to that size, now make them grow a little bigger.”
His lordship yawned, stretched himself, and then poured some pale brandy into a coffee-cup, before filling it with the rich fluid in the biggin.
“Totally impossible, my lord,” said the money-lender, rising. “I’m very sorry, my lord, but I must set the law to work. I have, as you well know, always been most desirous of aiding you during pressing necessities; and when unable to help you myself, I have always introduced you to some one who would. But, to speak plainly, this trip of yours to Italy, without a word to me first—”
“Why, confound it all! was I to come and ask you if I might go abroad?” exclaimed his lordship, furiously.
“Oh, dear me, no! Of course not, my lord; but as I was saying, this trip to Italy looks so much like trying to bilk me, that I must, for my own sake—”
“And that of the gentleman in the City,” sneered his lordship.
“No, my lord, I don’t do business with men in the City,” said the Jew, in injured tones; “and for my own sake alone I must take strenuous measures for the recovery of the debt.”
“’Tisn’t a debt: it’s only a money-lending affair,” growled his lordship.
“Well—well, we won’t argue upon that point, my lord. The Sheriff of Middlesex has his ideas upon these matters—ideas in which I have implicit confidence.”
“Here, Braham; I say; come, no nonsense. Don’t be a fool, you know. Don’t be hard on a fellow because he’s bilious and put out!” exclaimed his lordship, who, with the immediate prospect of a sponging-house before him, displayed an unwonted degree of perturbation. “But, I say, you can’t—you know you can’t do any thing yet;” and his lordship’s face brightened.
The Jew laughed.
“Your lordship forgets. Hyman has a little affair out against you, which will just work in well with mine. I shouldn’t be surprised if some one is already waiting for you!”
“Oh! come, I say—you know; I can’t stand this. You mustn’t do anything, Braham; and you must stop Hyman, because I’ve come home—come over—come on purpose—that is, I have something good on my book.”
The money-lender watched him narrowly.
“Have indeed—matter of great importance—case of thousands, in fact—clear me of all my little unpleasantries.”
“Pooh!” ejaculated the money-lender, dropping the servile now that his client began to implore. “Something on the Heath, or the Derby, or Oaks. I never knew one of your family yet withnousenough to do anything but lose. Now, look here, my lord: are you prepared to pay me four thousand three hun—”
“No; not a penny!” exclaimed his lordship, earnestly; “but, look here, Braham,” he cried, catching his visitor by the button; “I’ve got something in hand—I have indeed: not betting. Something safe and paying; but you must give me time, and let me have a few hundreds to carry on with.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the Jew fiercely, “I’m not going to be shilly-shallied with any more. Now, look here, my lord; I’ve given you time, and I’ve been patient. You’ve had documents served upon you; but even to the last I wouldn’t be hard. I said to myself, I’ll give him every chance; and I’ve done it; but you only turn round upon me like all the rest, friend as I’ve been to you. And now it has come to this—I’ve asked you to pay me, and you won’t.”
“I can’t, I tell you—’pon my word I can’t,” exclaimed his lordship, following his visitor to the door, and pressing it back, as the other tried to get it open.
“Very well. Then I must have my pound of flesh!” said the Jew, with a bitter grin. “Only, you see, my lord, we are wiser than our old ancestor, Shylock: we do not bargain for exact weight, and, to avoid the punishment awarded to the shedder of blood, we take the whole body. Your lordship weighs twelve stone, I should think?”
“Fourteen stone,” said the Viscount, complacently.
“Plenty of weight, and to spare, then,” said the Jew, laughing.
“But you don’t mean what you say, Braham?” said his lordship, anxiously.
“I never joke on money matters, my lord; I’ve a couple of sheriff’s officers and a cab across the road, my lord. If you will take the trouble to walk across to the window you can see them.”
Lord Maudlaine took a step across towards the window; but he was back in an instant.
“But I say, Braham,” he exclaimed, “this is getting serious—it is, indeed—and you mustn’t, you know; ’pon my word, you mustn’t. Think of the scandal and the expense; and you won’t do yourself any good, besides ruining me.”
“What do you mean by ruining you?” said the Jew, for the young nobleman’s earnestness was such as no dread of a spunging-house, pure and simple, would have evoked—“what’s in the wind?—what do you mean?”
“Well, I tell you, don’t I? I’ve got something in hand—something good, you know.”
“What is it?”
There was a few minutes’ silence as, driven to bay by his necessities, the scion of the not very noble house stood frowning and biting his lips.
“Just as you like,” said the Jew, coolly. “I don’t want you to tell me.” And he again tried to leave, but his lordship stayed him.
“Now, look here,” said the Jew again. “I’ve always been a friend to you, Lord Maudlaine, and I’ll give you one more chance. What did you go to Italy for?”
There was no answer; and as his lordship stood with his back to the door, the visitor walked across to the window, as if to signal to one of the men waiting with the cab.
“Well, there,” exclaimed his lordship, “to get out of your way.”
The Jew smiled.
“I expected as much. And now, why did you come back?”
“To—because—Well, there; it’s connected with the—with the—the good thing I told you of.”
“Now, look here, young man,” said Abraham, without the “A,” “are we to be friends or enemies?”
“Friends, of course,” said the young nobleman, scowling.
“Then, look here: I must have perfect openness. Just show me that this is something genuine—something worth waiting for, and I’ll wait—of course, for a consideration.”
He waited for some response to his words, but none was forthcoming.
“I’m not going to be treated like this!” exclaimed the visitor, with mock anger. “I’ll soon—”
“There, there—stop, and I’ll tell you all about it. It is worth waiting for.”
His lordship stopped short again, and his by no means intellectual countenance displayed strongly the shame and humiliation he felt.
“Well?” said the Jew.
“It’s about a marriage—a matrimonial affair.”
The Jew looked at him as if he would read his every thought.
“Plenty of money?” he said, at last.
“One of the richest heiresses in England.”
“Are you sure of that?” said Braham; “or has some foreign countess got hold of you again?”
“Sure? Yes!” cried Maudlaine, excitedly. “The father has been living out of England for years past at the rate of a couple of thousand a year, and his income’s at least twenty. All been increasing and piling up ever since.”
The Jew again looked piercingly at the young man; but it was plain enough that the ability was not in him to invent this as a fiction upon the spur of the moment.
“Well,” said the interlocutor, “go on. Have you any chance?”
“Yes; of course I have,” said Maudlaine.
“Father agreeable?”
“Yes!”
“Lady?”
“Well, yes—pretty well; but that’s all right, I tell you.”
“Meet them abroad?”
“Yes.”
“Have they come back to town?”
“To England—not town.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the visitor, still narrowly scanning his victim. “And that’s why you came back?”
“Of course.”
“Now, look here, Maudlaine,” said the Jew, fiercely, “I’m not a man to be trifled with. I was your slave once, and you did not forget to show it. You are mine now, and you must not be surprised at my turn, now it has come, being brought strongly before your attention. But I’ll be frank with you: I lend money for interest. Well and good: I’d rather wait and let you pay me that money and that interest than have to arrest you. I don’t want to get a bad name amongst your class. Now I’ve not much confidence in you as to promises to pay; but I’ll believe your word of honour. Is all this true?”
“On my word of honour, yes!” said Maudlaine, angrily.
“Who is the lady, then?” The Viscount flushed deeply, bit his lips, and was silent; for to answer this question seemed to him too great a humiliation. “Who is the lady?” was asked again. There was no answer. “I suppose you don’t want my help, then?” said the Jew. “Just as you like. Prove to me that this is worth my while to wait—say six or twelve months—and I’ll lend you a few hundreds to go on with. But, there, I’m not anxious; just as you like. Shall I call up the men?”
“Confound you, no!” exclaimed the young man, angrily. “She is the daughter of a wealthy baronet, of Lincolnshire. Now are you satisfied?”
“No,” said the Jew, taking out pencil and pocket-book; “I want his name.”
“Good old family,” said the Viscount, hastily. “Only child. I am invited down there, and the baronet is quite willing. Will that do?”
“Name—name—name!” exclaimed the creditor, impatiently.
“Sir Murray Gernon. There, then!” cried the young man, furiously.
“Sir Murray Gernon,” said the Jew, quietly, as he tapped his teeth with his large gold pencil-case—“Sir Murray Gernon. Ah! let me see; there was a screw loose there, if I recollect right, years ago. Rich family, though—very. Young lady’s mamma bolted, I think; but that don’t matter to you. Yes, that will do, Viscount—that will do. I think I’ll wait.”
“And you will advance me what I require?” said his lordship, eagerly, forgetting all humiliation in his brightened prospects.
“In reason, yes,” said the Jew, with a mocking smile once more overspreading his face; “but I shall not do it for nothing, my Lord Viscount Maudlaine—I shall not do it for nothing.”
“No,” muttered the young man, “I know that.”
“It’s quite possible that I may go so far as to make my own terms,” said the Jew, with a grin. “But I’ll leave you, now, to think over the matter; and if you want any little help, of course you’ll come to my chambers, where we can renew one of the bills.”
“Confound the bills!” cried the young man, angrily; “I must have a cheque for some hard cash to go on with.”
“Very good. Come to me, then, my lord,” said the Jew, all suavity once more. “Excuse me for hurrying away, but it is for your sake. It is not seemly to have Sheriffs’ officers waiting opposite to an hotel. Good morning, my lord!”
“Good morning!” said the Viscount, sulkily.
“You shall fly a little longer, my fine bird—just a little longer!” said Mr Joshua Braham, as he went out; “but it shall be just as long as I like, and with a string tied to your leg—a string, my fine fellow, of which I hold the end?”
In Peril.“It is of no use,” said Brace Norton, one day, when he had been home about a month, “I can’t fight against fate. I vowed that I’d think no more about her, and I’ve thought about nothing else ever since. I go out very seldom, but when I do, I always seem to meet her. I’ve heard a good deal of milk-and-sugar talk about love; and if this is what is called love, all I can say is that it’s worse than mast-heading. I can’t help it—I can’t keep free of it! What in the world did I get looking at her for, as I did, that day coming home? Brace Norton—Brace Norton, I’m afraid that you are a great ass!”He sat thinking for awhile, trying to be light-hearted, and to sweep his troubles away, but he soon owned to himself that it was no laughing matter.“Heaven help me!” he groaned, “for a miserable, unhappy wretch—one who seems fated to make those about him suffer! It seems almost as if I were to endure the same torments as my poor father, without the alleviation of some other gentle hand to heal my wounds. Wounds! Pooh! stuff! What romantic twaddle I am talking! It is time I was off back to sea. But, there, I’ve fought against it, all for their sakes, till it has been enough to drive me mad. I suppose men were meant to be butterflies, and to burn their wings in the light of some particular star; so the sooner I get mine singed off, and get on board ship, the better. There’s no romance there. Anything’s better than this state of torment. Here am I, making myself disagreeable to the best of fathers and the tenderest of mothers; and because things run in a rut different from that which suits me, I go sulking about like a spoiled child in love with a jam-pot; and after making everybody miserable at home, go sneaking and wandering about after the fashion of a confounded tramp poaching somebody’s goslings. I expect I shall be locked up one of these days. Seriously, though, I wish I had not come back,” he said, dreamily; “I wish that a reconciliation were possible; I wish I had never seen her; I wish—I wish—There, what is the good of wishing? What a wretched life this is, and how things do contrive to get in a state of tangle! I don’t think I ever tried to meet her, and yet how often, day after day, we seem to encounter! Even the thought of the old past sorrows seems to bring her closer and closer. Why, then, should not this be the means of bringing old sorrows to an end, and linking together the two families?”Brace Norton brought his ponderings to a close, as, bit by bit, he recalled the past; and then he groaned in spirit, as his reason told him how impossible was a reconciliation.“I must dismiss it all,” he at last said, bitterly. “They have had their sufferings; I will not be so cowardly as to shrink from mine. I’ll take an interest in the governor’s pursuits; and here goes to begin. I’ll run over to the Marsh, and see where they are pegging out the drain; but I may as well take a gun, and see if I cannot bag a couple or two of ducks.”Brace Norton’s reverie had been in his own room; and with this determination fresh upon him, he walked, cheery of aspect, into the room where Captain and Mrs Norton had been discussing the unsatisfactory turn matters had taken, when the young man’s bright look, and apparently buoyant spirits, came upon them like a burst of sunshine.“Gun? Yes, my dear boy!” exclaimed the Captain, delighted at the change that seemed to have come over his son. “Here you are,” he said, opening a case—“everything to your hand. You’ll be back to dinner?”“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Brace, strengthened in his resolve, on seeing the pleasure his high spirits seemed to impart to his elders. “I am going to see where they are marking out the drain.”“To be sure. Quite right, Brace—quite right. I should like, above all things, to go with you.”“Well, why not?” said Brace, heartily.Captain Norton smiled, and shook his head, as he pointed to his writing-table, covered with correspondence.“Too much engaged, my boy—too many letters to write. I’ll go over with you one day, though, if you will.”“To be sure,” said Brace.And then he saluted his mother, who held his hands tightly, as if unwilling to part from him, as she gazed fondly in his face. Then having secured the gun and ammunition, he started off, with a bold, elastic step, apparently as free from care as if no cloud had crossed his young career.He had not gone far before again and again came the longing desire to sit down beneath some shady tree, and picture the soft sweet face that his heart whispered him he loved—the face that seemed to be so impressed upon his brain, that, sleeping or waking, asked for or uncalled, it was always there vividly before his gaze; though, beyond a distant salute and its response, since the day of the accident, he had never held the slightest intercourse with Isa Gernon. He might have laughed at another for being so impressionable; but, none the less, he felt himself to be greatly moved, and hour by hour he felt that the task he had imposed upon himself was greater than he could ever expect to master.But that day Brace would not yield to the sweet temptation, striving manfully and trying hard to tire himself out. He visited the portions of the great marsh where arrangements were being made for forming the drain; he tramped to and fro over the boggy land with his gun, hour after hour; and at last, utterly weary, he entered the pine-wood on the marsh edge, having unwittingly wandered to the spot where, years before, his father had, in his wild despair, so nearly cast away his life.It was with a sigh of satisfaction that he leaned his gun against a tree, and seated himself upon the fallen trunk of a large fir; for there was something soothing to his feelings in the solemn silence of this vast nature-temple. There was a soft, warm glow cast aslant amidst the tall smooth pillars by the descending sun, and but for the soft sigh of a gentle gale, and the sharply-repeated tap of the woodpecker sounded at intervals, there was nothing to break the stillness, which to another might have seemed oppressive.And now, with a fierce rush, the dammed-back thoughts made at him. Now was the time for reverie—here in this solitary place. But no—he would not weakly succumb. It was not to be: he had made a resolution, and he would keep it. He boldly set himself to fight with a power stronger than himself, blindly thinking that he might succeed.How had he succeeded with his gun?He smiled as he looked at the result of his many hours’ tramp—one solitary teal; and then for a few moments he was dwelling musingly upon the great subject that had filled his mind during the past month, but only to dismiss it angrily. He sighed, though, the next moment, and the soft breeze bore away the word “Isa”; and then romance faded as Brace sought solace in the small case he drew from his pocket, from which he selected a very foreign-looking cigar, lit it, and leaning back, began to emit cloud after cloud of thin blue vapour, till the tobacco roll was smoked to the very end, when Brace rose, calm and refreshed, ready to journey homeward.“A sonnet to his mistress’s eyebrow,” said Brace, as he moved over the pine-needles. “Not so bad as that, though, after all.”He had not proceeded a dozen yards, though, before he remembered that he had left his gun behind, leaning against a tree; and hurrying back, he was in the act of taking it, when a distant cry came floating through the trees.“Hullo!” exclaimed Brace, as he caught up his gun. “Curlew? No, it was not a curlew; but I’ve grown so used to the wail of the sea birds, that I don’t know those of my native place. Ha! there it is again.”For once more the cry came ringing faintly by—a long, low, prolonged scream, as of some one in peril; when, roused by the exciting promise of adventure, he ran swiftly in the direction from whence the cry seemed to have come.In a few minutes he was at the edge of the grove, gazing over the open marsh, to see nothing; when, fancying that he must have come in the wrong direction, he stood listening intently for another cry.A full minute elapsed—a minute during which he could hear his heart beating heavily—and then once more came the loud wail, plainly enough now, and forming the appealing word that goes home to every heart:“Help!”The next moment Brace Norton was dashing over the treacherous bog, leaping from tuft to tuft of the silky cotton rush, avoiding verdant patches of moss, which concealed watery, muddy pools, and finding foothold where the heather grew thickly. Twice he sank in to his knees, but he dashed on to where, at the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the pine-wood, he had made out a figure struggling in one of the profound holes filled with deep amber-coloured water, while, as he rushed on, at times floundering and splashing in the soft peat, it seemed to him that his aid would arrive too late.A light muslin dress, a portion of which, still undrenched, buoyed up its wearer; a little straw hat, fallen off to float on the dark waters; a pale, upturned, agonised face; long clusters of hair rippling with the troubled element; and two dark, wild, appealing eyes, seeming to ask his aid. Brace Norton saw all this in the few moments ere he reached the side of the pit; but as he recognised the features, a cry of anguish tore from his heart, as, falling heavily, it was some little time before he could regain his feet. Then, with a rush and a plunge, he sent the water foaming in great waves to the green and deceptive sides of the moor-pit, still trembling with the weight that had lately passed over them. Another minute, and with the energy of a stout swimmer he had forced himself through the dozen yards of water that intervened, to reach at and grasp an arm, just as the water was bubbling up above a fair, white forehead, and playing amidst the long tresses floating around. Another instant, and Brace’s arm was supporting the drowning girl, as he swam stoutly towards the side.The distance was short, but unfortunately the side he reached was but a semi-fluid collection of bog vegetation, half floating upon the water, and which broke away from the arm he threw over it again and again.He swam off after two or three essays, laboriously now, with his burden, to another part of the pool, but that was worse; the moss breaking away at a touch. He looked towards the other side, some forty yards away, but with his precious load he dared not try to swim the distance.To make matters worse, the sides of the pool were not perpendicular, but the loose vegetation grew out a couple of feet or so over the water, as if, in the course of years, to cover it with the treacherous green carpet, spread in so many other places over deep black pits; and thus any attempt to gain foothold and climb out was vain; while, for aught he could tell, the pool might have been fifty feet deep beneath his feet.To stay where he was seemed impossible, so, swimming a few yards, he made to where—partly to rest, partly to think upon the best plan of procedure—he could tightly grasp a tuft of rushes with his disengaged hand. But even this was no safeguard, for he could feel that a very slight effort would be required to draw the tuft from its hold. And now, for the first time, he turned to gaze earnestly in the pallid face so close to his, to find the eyes dilate and horror-stricken, while two little hands were tightly clasped round his neck.“Do not be alarmed, Miss Gernon,” he whispered, his heart throbbing almost painfully the while. “Give me a few moments to recover breath, and then I will draw you ashore—or rather,” he said, with an encouraging smile, “on to this treacherous moss.”The smile was intended to chase away the dread of there being imminent danger, and it had its effect.“I am not very—very much frightened,” she half sobbed, though, unable to conceal her agitation, she clung to him tightly. “I was picking marsh flowers when the rushes suddenly gave way beneath my feet.”“The place is very dangerous,” said Brace; and then, in an earnest voice—“Thank Heaven, though, that I was so near at hand.”He paused for a few moments to gaze in her face, and in that brief space of time danger—the water—all was forgotten as their eyes met, for hers to fall directly before his loving, earnest look. For there, in spite of what he had said, in great peril, but with her heart beating against his, so that he could feel its pulsations, all Brace Norton’s resolutions faded away; and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be to die thus—to loose his hold of the rushes, to clasp his other arm round her, and then, with an end to all the sorrow and heart-burning of this life, with her clinging to him as she might never cling again, to let the water close above their heads, and then—“What a romantic fool I am,” thought Brace. “Here, a month ago, I thought life one of the jolliest things in the world; and now I’m thinking in this love-sick, unhealthy, French, charcoal-and-brimstone style of suicide.”The reaction gave his mind tone; for directly after, Brace Norton was thinking how sweet it would be to live, perhaps earning Isa Gernon’s love as well as her gratitude, for saving her sweet life; and with a flush upon his cheek for his weak thoughts, Brace nerved himself for the effort he was about to make.With his right hand tightly clutching the rush tuft, he tried to thrust his feet into the bank beneath; but in spite of a tremendous and exhausting effort, the sole result was, that the portion of the edge he clung to came away in his hand, and with the plunge, they were the next instant both beneath the water. A few vigorous strokes, though, and Brace was once more at the side with the half-fainting girl well supported, as a bunch of rushes once more supplied him with a hold for his clinging fingers.“Oh, pray—pray save me!” murmured Isa, faintly, as a cold chill shot through her, and her pale face grew almost ghastly.“With Heaven’s help I will!” exclaimed Brace, thickly, “or I’ll die with you!”The words seemed to be forced from his lips by his strong emotion, and he could perceive that she heard them. He knew, too, that she had recognised him at the first. The words took their impassioned tone, in spite of himself; and he repented, as he saw a faint flush of colour—it might have been from indignation—rise to her cheeks.But there was no time for dallying with thoughts of such engendering, for he knew that every moment only robbed him of so much power, and he prepared for another effort.“Hold me tightly,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; only let me have both hands at liberty, so that I may be able to drag myself out.”She did as he wished, and he struggled hard; but the weight clinging to him frustrated every effort, and after five minutes’ vain expenditure of strength, Brace had great difficulty in finding firm hold for his grasp; while his heart sank, as he found that what at first had seemed but a trifling mishap, and an opportunity for displaying his knight-errantry, now began to loom forth in proportions ominous to them both.He looked in every direction now, where the tall reeds did not shut out the view, for he was beginning to mistrust his own power; but there was not a soul within sight. And now, for the first time, he raised his voice, to cry loudly for help—despairingly, though, for he could not think it possible that aid could be near. He called again and again; but his voice seemed to be lost in the vast space, and sounded faint, adding to the chill of despair creeping to his heart; till, rousing himself, after regaining his breath, he adopted the plan that he should have tried at first.“Miss Gernon!—Isa! For Heaven’s sake, speak!” he cried, earnestly, as he gazed at the half-closed eyes and the drooping head. “Try and rouse yourself for one more effort!”She heard his words, and her eyes unclosed, and rested upon his for an instant.“That’s right!” he cried, joyfully. “Now, quick! loose your hold of me! Don’t cling, but take hold here of these reeds where my hand is, and hold there tightly for a few moments. I can, then, perhaps, get out, and draw you after me: I am quite powerless here. Can you hold on for half a minute?”Isa’s pale lips parted, but no audible words came. She obeyed him, though, and he guided her cold, white hand to the sharp-edged leaves.“Now, then, be brave! Keep a good heart, for the sake of all who love you!” he whispered; and loosing his hold, he paused for an instant or two, to find that she was striving gallantly to obey him. “Only a few moments!” he cried; and then, summoning all his strength, he left her, and by means of a desperate effort fought and plunged his way through the now clinging—now yielding mass, till—how he could not tell—he forced his way on, to lie panting, at full length, amongst the rushes. The next moment a cry of despair burst from his breast; for, as he drew himself along to where Isa Gernon clung, he saw that the tuft of reeds, disturbed by his frantic efforts, were parting from the edge, and directly after the poor girl’s head sank again beneath the black water.A rush—a plunge—a fierce struggle, and Brace was nearly free of the mosses and water-weeds; but now they seemed to cling round him more than ever, hampering his efforts, and minutes seemed to have elapsed before he had shaken himself clear, and dived down into the depths of the pool, forcing his way lower and lower till half strangled, when, rising to the surface, he drew a long, gasping breath, and then again plunged down.It was well for Brace Norton that many a time he had swum and dived for sport in far off tropic waters, till he had gained a mastery over the element which now stood him in good stead; for at this second plunge far down into the black depths his hand came in contact with Isa Gernon’s long, flowing hair, and the next instant he had risen to the surface and held her at the pool edge, with her lips well above water, he clinging the while to the reeds, as, with all the force he could muster from his panting breast, he once more shouted hoarsely for help.
“It is of no use,” said Brace Norton, one day, when he had been home about a month, “I can’t fight against fate. I vowed that I’d think no more about her, and I’ve thought about nothing else ever since. I go out very seldom, but when I do, I always seem to meet her. I’ve heard a good deal of milk-and-sugar talk about love; and if this is what is called love, all I can say is that it’s worse than mast-heading. I can’t help it—I can’t keep free of it! What in the world did I get looking at her for, as I did, that day coming home? Brace Norton—Brace Norton, I’m afraid that you are a great ass!”
He sat thinking for awhile, trying to be light-hearted, and to sweep his troubles away, but he soon owned to himself that it was no laughing matter.
“Heaven help me!” he groaned, “for a miserable, unhappy wretch—one who seems fated to make those about him suffer! It seems almost as if I were to endure the same torments as my poor father, without the alleviation of some other gentle hand to heal my wounds. Wounds! Pooh! stuff! What romantic twaddle I am talking! It is time I was off back to sea. But, there, I’ve fought against it, all for their sakes, till it has been enough to drive me mad. I suppose men were meant to be butterflies, and to burn their wings in the light of some particular star; so the sooner I get mine singed off, and get on board ship, the better. There’s no romance there. Anything’s better than this state of torment. Here am I, making myself disagreeable to the best of fathers and the tenderest of mothers; and because things run in a rut different from that which suits me, I go sulking about like a spoiled child in love with a jam-pot; and after making everybody miserable at home, go sneaking and wandering about after the fashion of a confounded tramp poaching somebody’s goslings. I expect I shall be locked up one of these days. Seriously, though, I wish I had not come back,” he said, dreamily; “I wish that a reconciliation were possible; I wish I had never seen her; I wish—I wish—There, what is the good of wishing? What a wretched life this is, and how things do contrive to get in a state of tangle! I don’t think I ever tried to meet her, and yet how often, day after day, we seem to encounter! Even the thought of the old past sorrows seems to bring her closer and closer. Why, then, should not this be the means of bringing old sorrows to an end, and linking together the two families?”
Brace Norton brought his ponderings to a close, as, bit by bit, he recalled the past; and then he groaned in spirit, as his reason told him how impossible was a reconciliation.
“I must dismiss it all,” he at last said, bitterly. “They have had their sufferings; I will not be so cowardly as to shrink from mine. I’ll take an interest in the governor’s pursuits; and here goes to begin. I’ll run over to the Marsh, and see where they are pegging out the drain; but I may as well take a gun, and see if I cannot bag a couple or two of ducks.”
Brace Norton’s reverie had been in his own room; and with this determination fresh upon him, he walked, cheery of aspect, into the room where Captain and Mrs Norton had been discussing the unsatisfactory turn matters had taken, when the young man’s bright look, and apparently buoyant spirits, came upon them like a burst of sunshine.
“Gun? Yes, my dear boy!” exclaimed the Captain, delighted at the change that seemed to have come over his son. “Here you are,” he said, opening a case—“everything to your hand. You’ll be back to dinner?”
“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Brace, strengthened in his resolve, on seeing the pleasure his high spirits seemed to impart to his elders. “I am going to see where they are marking out the drain.”
“To be sure. Quite right, Brace—quite right. I should like, above all things, to go with you.”
“Well, why not?” said Brace, heartily.
Captain Norton smiled, and shook his head, as he pointed to his writing-table, covered with correspondence.
“Too much engaged, my boy—too many letters to write. I’ll go over with you one day, though, if you will.”
“To be sure,” said Brace.
And then he saluted his mother, who held his hands tightly, as if unwilling to part from him, as she gazed fondly in his face. Then having secured the gun and ammunition, he started off, with a bold, elastic step, apparently as free from care as if no cloud had crossed his young career.
He had not gone far before again and again came the longing desire to sit down beneath some shady tree, and picture the soft sweet face that his heart whispered him he loved—the face that seemed to be so impressed upon his brain, that, sleeping or waking, asked for or uncalled, it was always there vividly before his gaze; though, beyond a distant salute and its response, since the day of the accident, he had never held the slightest intercourse with Isa Gernon. He might have laughed at another for being so impressionable; but, none the less, he felt himself to be greatly moved, and hour by hour he felt that the task he had imposed upon himself was greater than he could ever expect to master.
But that day Brace would not yield to the sweet temptation, striving manfully and trying hard to tire himself out. He visited the portions of the great marsh where arrangements were being made for forming the drain; he tramped to and fro over the boggy land with his gun, hour after hour; and at last, utterly weary, he entered the pine-wood on the marsh edge, having unwittingly wandered to the spot where, years before, his father had, in his wild despair, so nearly cast away his life.
It was with a sigh of satisfaction that he leaned his gun against a tree, and seated himself upon the fallen trunk of a large fir; for there was something soothing to his feelings in the solemn silence of this vast nature-temple. There was a soft, warm glow cast aslant amidst the tall smooth pillars by the descending sun, and but for the soft sigh of a gentle gale, and the sharply-repeated tap of the woodpecker sounded at intervals, there was nothing to break the stillness, which to another might have seemed oppressive.
And now, with a fierce rush, the dammed-back thoughts made at him. Now was the time for reverie—here in this solitary place. But no—he would not weakly succumb. It was not to be: he had made a resolution, and he would keep it. He boldly set himself to fight with a power stronger than himself, blindly thinking that he might succeed.
How had he succeeded with his gun?
He smiled as he looked at the result of his many hours’ tramp—one solitary teal; and then for a few moments he was dwelling musingly upon the great subject that had filled his mind during the past month, but only to dismiss it angrily. He sighed, though, the next moment, and the soft breeze bore away the word “Isa”; and then romance faded as Brace sought solace in the small case he drew from his pocket, from which he selected a very foreign-looking cigar, lit it, and leaning back, began to emit cloud after cloud of thin blue vapour, till the tobacco roll was smoked to the very end, when Brace rose, calm and refreshed, ready to journey homeward.
“A sonnet to his mistress’s eyebrow,” said Brace, as he moved over the pine-needles. “Not so bad as that, though, after all.”
He had not proceeded a dozen yards, though, before he remembered that he had left his gun behind, leaning against a tree; and hurrying back, he was in the act of taking it, when a distant cry came floating through the trees.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Brace, as he caught up his gun. “Curlew? No, it was not a curlew; but I’ve grown so used to the wail of the sea birds, that I don’t know those of my native place. Ha! there it is again.”
For once more the cry came ringing faintly by—a long, low, prolonged scream, as of some one in peril; when, roused by the exciting promise of adventure, he ran swiftly in the direction from whence the cry seemed to have come.
In a few minutes he was at the edge of the grove, gazing over the open marsh, to see nothing; when, fancying that he must have come in the wrong direction, he stood listening intently for another cry.
A full minute elapsed—a minute during which he could hear his heart beating heavily—and then once more came the loud wail, plainly enough now, and forming the appealing word that goes home to every heart:
“Help!”
The next moment Brace Norton was dashing over the treacherous bog, leaping from tuft to tuft of the silky cotton rush, avoiding verdant patches of moss, which concealed watery, muddy pools, and finding foothold where the heather grew thickly. Twice he sank in to his knees, but he dashed on to where, at the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the pine-wood, he had made out a figure struggling in one of the profound holes filled with deep amber-coloured water, while, as he rushed on, at times floundering and splashing in the soft peat, it seemed to him that his aid would arrive too late.
A light muslin dress, a portion of which, still undrenched, buoyed up its wearer; a little straw hat, fallen off to float on the dark waters; a pale, upturned, agonised face; long clusters of hair rippling with the troubled element; and two dark, wild, appealing eyes, seeming to ask his aid. Brace Norton saw all this in the few moments ere he reached the side of the pit; but as he recognised the features, a cry of anguish tore from his heart, as, falling heavily, it was some little time before he could regain his feet. Then, with a rush and a plunge, he sent the water foaming in great waves to the green and deceptive sides of the moor-pit, still trembling with the weight that had lately passed over them. Another minute, and with the energy of a stout swimmer he had forced himself through the dozen yards of water that intervened, to reach at and grasp an arm, just as the water was bubbling up above a fair, white forehead, and playing amidst the long tresses floating around. Another instant, and Brace’s arm was supporting the drowning girl, as he swam stoutly towards the side.
The distance was short, but unfortunately the side he reached was but a semi-fluid collection of bog vegetation, half floating upon the water, and which broke away from the arm he threw over it again and again.
He swam off after two or three essays, laboriously now, with his burden, to another part of the pool, but that was worse; the moss breaking away at a touch. He looked towards the other side, some forty yards away, but with his precious load he dared not try to swim the distance.
To make matters worse, the sides of the pool were not perpendicular, but the loose vegetation grew out a couple of feet or so over the water, as if, in the course of years, to cover it with the treacherous green carpet, spread in so many other places over deep black pits; and thus any attempt to gain foothold and climb out was vain; while, for aught he could tell, the pool might have been fifty feet deep beneath his feet.
To stay where he was seemed impossible, so, swimming a few yards, he made to where—partly to rest, partly to think upon the best plan of procedure—he could tightly grasp a tuft of rushes with his disengaged hand. But even this was no safeguard, for he could feel that a very slight effort would be required to draw the tuft from its hold. And now, for the first time, he turned to gaze earnestly in the pallid face so close to his, to find the eyes dilate and horror-stricken, while two little hands were tightly clasped round his neck.
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Gernon,” he whispered, his heart throbbing almost painfully the while. “Give me a few moments to recover breath, and then I will draw you ashore—or rather,” he said, with an encouraging smile, “on to this treacherous moss.”
The smile was intended to chase away the dread of there being imminent danger, and it had its effect.
“I am not very—very much frightened,” she half sobbed, though, unable to conceal her agitation, she clung to him tightly. “I was picking marsh flowers when the rushes suddenly gave way beneath my feet.”
“The place is very dangerous,” said Brace; and then, in an earnest voice—“Thank Heaven, though, that I was so near at hand.”
He paused for a few moments to gaze in her face, and in that brief space of time danger—the water—all was forgotten as their eyes met, for hers to fall directly before his loving, earnest look. For there, in spite of what he had said, in great peril, but with her heart beating against his, so that he could feel its pulsations, all Brace Norton’s resolutions faded away; and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be to die thus—to loose his hold of the rushes, to clasp his other arm round her, and then, with an end to all the sorrow and heart-burning of this life, with her clinging to him as she might never cling again, to let the water close above their heads, and then—
“What a romantic fool I am,” thought Brace. “Here, a month ago, I thought life one of the jolliest things in the world; and now I’m thinking in this love-sick, unhealthy, French, charcoal-and-brimstone style of suicide.”
The reaction gave his mind tone; for directly after, Brace Norton was thinking how sweet it would be to live, perhaps earning Isa Gernon’s love as well as her gratitude, for saving her sweet life; and with a flush upon his cheek for his weak thoughts, Brace nerved himself for the effort he was about to make.
With his right hand tightly clutching the rush tuft, he tried to thrust his feet into the bank beneath; but in spite of a tremendous and exhausting effort, the sole result was, that the portion of the edge he clung to came away in his hand, and with the plunge, they were the next instant both beneath the water. A few vigorous strokes, though, and Brace was once more at the side with the half-fainting girl well supported, as a bunch of rushes once more supplied him with a hold for his clinging fingers.
“Oh, pray—pray save me!” murmured Isa, faintly, as a cold chill shot through her, and her pale face grew almost ghastly.
“With Heaven’s help I will!” exclaimed Brace, thickly, “or I’ll die with you!”
The words seemed to be forced from his lips by his strong emotion, and he could perceive that she heard them. He knew, too, that she had recognised him at the first. The words took their impassioned tone, in spite of himself; and he repented, as he saw a faint flush of colour—it might have been from indignation—rise to her cheeks.
But there was no time for dallying with thoughts of such engendering, for he knew that every moment only robbed him of so much power, and he prepared for another effort.
“Hold me tightly,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; only let me have both hands at liberty, so that I may be able to drag myself out.”
She did as he wished, and he struggled hard; but the weight clinging to him frustrated every effort, and after five minutes’ vain expenditure of strength, Brace had great difficulty in finding firm hold for his grasp; while his heart sank, as he found that what at first had seemed but a trifling mishap, and an opportunity for displaying his knight-errantry, now began to loom forth in proportions ominous to them both.
He looked in every direction now, where the tall reeds did not shut out the view, for he was beginning to mistrust his own power; but there was not a soul within sight. And now, for the first time, he raised his voice, to cry loudly for help—despairingly, though, for he could not think it possible that aid could be near. He called again and again; but his voice seemed to be lost in the vast space, and sounded faint, adding to the chill of despair creeping to his heart; till, rousing himself, after regaining his breath, he adopted the plan that he should have tried at first.
“Miss Gernon!—Isa! For Heaven’s sake, speak!” he cried, earnestly, as he gazed at the half-closed eyes and the drooping head. “Try and rouse yourself for one more effort!”
She heard his words, and her eyes unclosed, and rested upon his for an instant.
“That’s right!” he cried, joyfully. “Now, quick! loose your hold of me! Don’t cling, but take hold here of these reeds where my hand is, and hold there tightly for a few moments. I can, then, perhaps, get out, and draw you after me: I am quite powerless here. Can you hold on for half a minute?”
Isa’s pale lips parted, but no audible words came. She obeyed him, though, and he guided her cold, white hand to the sharp-edged leaves.
“Now, then, be brave! Keep a good heart, for the sake of all who love you!” he whispered; and loosing his hold, he paused for an instant or two, to find that she was striving gallantly to obey him. “Only a few moments!” he cried; and then, summoning all his strength, he left her, and by means of a desperate effort fought and plunged his way through the now clinging—now yielding mass, till—how he could not tell—he forced his way on, to lie panting, at full length, amongst the rushes. The next moment a cry of despair burst from his breast; for, as he drew himself along to where Isa Gernon clung, he saw that the tuft of reeds, disturbed by his frantic efforts, were parting from the edge, and directly after the poor girl’s head sank again beneath the black water.
A rush—a plunge—a fierce struggle, and Brace was nearly free of the mosses and water-weeds; but now they seemed to cling round him more than ever, hampering his efforts, and minutes seemed to have elapsed before he had shaken himself clear, and dived down into the depths of the pool, forcing his way lower and lower till half strangled, when, rising to the surface, he drew a long, gasping breath, and then again plunged down.
It was well for Brace Norton that many a time he had swum and dived for sport in far off tropic waters, till he had gained a mastery over the element which now stood him in good stead; for at this second plunge far down into the black depths his hand came in contact with Isa Gernon’s long, flowing hair, and the next instant he had risen to the surface and held her at the pool edge, with her lips well above water, he clinging the while to the reeds, as, with all the force he could muster from his panting breast, he once more shouted hoarsely for help.
Rescue.“I’ve done my part,” muttered Brace Norton, as, in spite of the despair of the moment, he yielded to his feelings, kissing fondly again and again the cold pale lips of the insensible girl. “I can do no more. Help must come from elsewhere, or—No, I will not give up, if only for her sake.” And once more he hoarsely shouted for the help that he could not think would come.The loosening of one arm so that the burden might glide from him—a strong effort, and he could once more have been amongst the reeds and mosses; but it would have been like leaving the brighter portion of his life to death; and his eyes glared fiercely as he clutched the fair, slight figure more tightly to his breast. It was like fighting against a cruel temptation, one which whispered to him of the brightness of his young life that he was casting away for the sake of an enemy’s daughter—of his home, and his weeping mother.The temptation was strong, but he could not play the coward’s part; and he held Isa to him more and more closely, gloating over the soft, regular features, as, with a pang hard to bear, he told himself the next moment that, even if help came, it would arrive too late.That same afternoon Sir Murray Gernon strode out into the pleasure-grounds, thoughtfully crossed the lawn, avoiding, as it were, more by instinct than care, the various flower-beds, till he roused himself, with a start, on finding that he was standing at the very edge of the lake, gazing down into its deep waters, as if they possessed for him some horrible fascination.He stood there for full ten minutes, his brow corrugated, his eyes staring, and his teeth clenched firmly upon his lower lip. Then with an effort he seemed to drag himself, shuddering, away, to walk slowly muttering to himself.Fifty yards of winding amidst flower-beds and shrubs, and Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lord Maudlaine, his guest, seated upon a garden-chair, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, a newspaper at his feet, his mouth half open, and his aristocratic head resting upon his open palm.It is quite possible that Sir Murray Gernon might have passed his visitor, who had already been for some days at the Castle, but for the fact that certain strange sounds arrested his attention. Had these sounds proceeded from Alexander McCray, there would have been no difficulty about the matter, and one would have immediately said that the ex-gardener was snoring loudly; but when a nobleman is concerned, a diffidence—an unwillingness is felt to use such a term. However, Lord Maudlaine was loudly trumpeting forth the announcement that he was devoting a spare hour to the service of Morpheus, and Sir Murray Gernon, hearing those sounds, was attracted thereby.“You here, Maudlaine?” exclaimed Sir Murray.“Eh? Why, what the deuce—Dear me! I suppose I was dozing,” said his lordship, lifting himself up a bit at a time, as he indulged in a most unmistakable yawn.“Not with Isa?” said Sir Murray. “I thought you went out with her?”“Ya-as—ya-as! no question of a doubt about it, I did,” drawled the Viscount; “and I’ve just been dreaming that I was boating with her on the lake—not your fish-pond here, but Como—same as we did before we came away.”“But you went out walking with her?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.“Ya-as. Not a question of a doubt about it! I did go out and walked a little way with her.”“Did she turn back, then?”“N-n-no!” said the Viscount; “point of fact, she as good as told me she didn’t want me, and went on by herself.”“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, smiling, as he clapped his guest upon the shoulder, “I’m afraid that you are not half a lady’s man. It is a fine thing for you that you have no rival in the field.”“Ya-as—just so—no doubt about that,” said his lordship laughing. “But a—a I began talking to her on indifferent subjects, and, point of fact, she didn’t seem to like indifferent subjects—seemed as if I bothered her, you know, and of course I didn’t want to do that; so seeing, as you say, that there was no one else in the field—regular walk over the course, you know—I didn’t bother her nor myself either. We’re getting on very nicely, though, Sir Murray—very nicely indeed. No question about that.”“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sir Murray, dryly.“Ya-as; beginning to understand one another’s idio—what is it?—syncracies, don’t you call it? I think Isa likes me.”“Oh! yes, of course—of course!” said Sir Murray. “By the way, Maudlaine,” he continued, taking the young man’s arm and walking slowly with him down a path, “I hope you will be particular about the place; for I dare say I shall give it up to you young folks. I mean to be pretty stringent, though, I can assure you: I won’t have a tree touched—no timber felled; there is none too much now. I should not like the lake drained either: I should particularly object to that. It might be said,” continued Sir Murray, hastily, “that it made the place damp; but I don’t think it—I don’t think it.”“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything distasteful, of course,” said the Viscount. “Always be glad of your advice, of course, if I had any ideas of improving anything. By the way, though, Gernon, she’s mad after botany.”“She? Who is?” said Sir Murray, starting.“She is—Isa, you know. I shall have to work it up, for she don’t seem to like my not being able to enter into the names of weeds with her. Not a weedy man myself, you know, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” And he laughed at what he intended for a joke.“Was she botanising to-day?” said Sir Murray, huskily.“Ya-a-as! Said it was her mother’s favourite pursuit, though I don’t know why she should like it for that reason, eh?”“Who told her that absurd nonsense?” exclaimed Sir Murray, angrily.“Well, she did tell me,” said the lover; “but, a—a—really, you know, I can’t recollect. Don’t particularly want to know, I suppose?”“Oh no—oh no!” exclaimed Sir Murray, impatiently. “But this place, Maudlaine—I should like it kept as it is: the timber, you know; and you would not drain the lake?”“Oh no! of course not. But, I say, you know, I—a—a—a suppose it will be all right?”“Right—all right?” said Sir Murray, whose face wore a cadaverous hue. “What do you mean by all right?”“Well, you know, I mean about Isa. I haven’t said anything pointed to her yet, though we two have made it all right. She won’t refuse me, eh?”“Refuse? No: absurd!”“Well, I don’t know so much about that. I get thinking sometimes that she ain’t so very far gone with me. Snubs me, you know,—turns huffy, and that sort of thing.”“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, with a sneering laugh, which there was no need of the other interpreting, “you are too timid—too diffident for a man of your years.”“Well, I don’t know,” said his lordship, “I don’t think I am; but she’s a style of woman I’m not used to. Don’t seem dazzled, and all that sort of thing, you know. Some women would be ready to jump out of their skins to be a viscountess, and by-and-by an earl’s wife; but she don’t—not a bit—not that sort of woman; and if I never said a word about it, I don’t believe that she would, even if I went on visiting here for years.”“Most likely not,” said Sir Murray, dryly; “but you see that it is as I say—you are too timid—too diffident.”“I say, though, you know,” said his lordship, “was her mother that style of woman—quiet and fond of weed-hunting—botany, you know?”“You will oblige me greatly by not referring to the late Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray, stiffly.“Oh, beg pardon, you know. No offence meant.”“It is granted,” said Sir Murray; and then, in a different tone: “There goes the dressing-bell.”The gentlemen strolled up in silence to the entrance, where the major-domo—Mr Alexander McCray—who seemed to rule supreme at Merland, now stood waiting the arrival of his master.“I’m thinking, Sir Mooray,” he said deferentially, “that ye’d like a pony-carriage sent to meet my young lady.”“What—has she not returned?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.“Nay, Sir Mooray, not yet awhile, and I should hae sent wi’oot saying a word, but that I thocht my laird here would tell us which road she gaed.”“Towards the waste—the snipe ground, you know,” said his lordship, on being appealed to.“Send at once, McCray. No: go yourself,” said Sir Murray.“I’ll go with him,” said his lordship, who now seemed about wakening to the fact that he had grossly neglected his intended; and five minutes after the old Scot was driving briskly towards the village.“Ye dinna ought to have left her, my laird,” said McCray, sturdily. “She’s ower young to be left all alone.”“What? Were you speaking to me?” said his lordship, haughtily.“Ay, that I was,” said McCray. “Ye mauna mind me, my laird, for I’m a’most like her foster-fairther, and nursed her on my knee mony’s the time.”His lordship did not condescend to answer, and the lanes were traversed at a good rattling pace; but though McCray pulled up from time to time to make inquiries, the only news he learned was that Miss Gernon had been seen to go towards the marsh, but not to return; while one cottager volunteered the information that young Squire Norton, the sailor, went that way too in the morning time, and that neither of them had been seen to come back.This news had no effect upon Lord George Maudlaine, but a close observer would have seen that the wrinkles upon Alexander McCray’s brow grew a little more deeply marked.“He’s a douce laddie,” muttered McCray, as he drove on, “and warth a score sic birkies as this one; but it was ill-luck his meeting as they did that day, and it winna do—it winna do! We shall be having sair wark yet, I’m afraid. They’re kittlecattle these womenkind, and I nearly suffered shipwreck with them mysel’.”“There’s no one here,” said his lordship, now condescending to speak, as they drove to where the road faded away into a faint track, which, in its turn, led to the pine-grove.“We’ll get doon and hopple the ponies, my laird, and walk on to the pine-wood. My young leddie may be in there.”“Confound his barbarous tongue! Why don’t he speak English?” muttered the Viscount. “I don’t understand one-half he says.”But McCray’s acts were plain enough, even if his words were obscure; and, descending, he secured the ponies, and was about to start towards the wood, already looking black and gloomy, when one of Brace Norton’s cries for help smote his ear.“Gude save me! Hearken to that, noo!” cried McCray, excitedly.“Only a marsh bird,” said his lordship, contemptuously.“Gude save us! Come alang; that’s a soul in sair peril, my laird,” And starting in the direction of the cry, as fast as the treacherous nature of the ground would allow, McCray soon came in sight of that which made him redouble his pace.“Here! Help, here!” cried a voice from behind. “I’m sinking!” When, with a glance over his shoulder, McCray saw that his companion was already above his knees in a soft place.“De’il help ye—ye ill-far’ed, handle-named loon!” muttered McCray, fiercely. “Why couldna ye walk like a Christian, and not get in that way? I’ve ither work in hand.”Then hastening on, he stepped from tuft to tuft, with an agility not to have been expected in a man of his years, till well within reach of words:“Haud oup, then,” he cried—“haud oup, my bra’e laddie, I’m with ye. There!” he cried, as he threw himself at full length upon the yielding moss, and reached to where, ghastly of face, Brace still clung, and held up his charge—“there! I ha’e yer hand. Loose the rushes, and grip it weel—grip it weel.”“Her first—take her first,” sobbed Brace, hoarsely.“That I will!” cried McCray, working himself forward. “Gude save us, though, it’s sair wet work here, and I’m a deal heavier than I thocht. Noo I ha’e her, and she’s leet as swansdoon aifter a’. The puir bairn, I ha’e her safe, but she’s half dead. Lie there, my pretty, while I pu’ out the laddie. Noo, my laddie; that’s reet—that’s reet; the ither hand. Noo again. Gude—gude! another pu’. Hech! laddie, mind, or I shall be in wi ye. Noo then, anither pu’! That’s weel! I ha’e ye noo. Puir lad, ye’re cauld indeed, but ye’re safe, and reet too, so lie there while I tak’ the lassie.”In effect, with the exertion of his great strength, McCray, broad-shouldered and iron muscled, had drawn both Isa and Brace from what had so nearly been a watery grave, but not without clanger to himself. Twice over the moss gave way with the stress placed upon it; but at last he had both lying safe beside him, and not before it was time, for Brace was completely exhausted.“Let me carry her,” said Brace, hoarsely, as he staggered to his feet; but only to sink down again, his numbed limbs refusing their office.“Ye’re a bra’e laddie,” said the Scot; “but your sperrit’s stronger than your power. I’ll carry the lassie to the carriage, and be back for you in a minute.”“Never mind me,” groaned Brace. “I’m only cold. For Heaven’s sake drive off with her, for she is nearly dead with her long immersion.”But before Brace’s words were well uttered, McCray was sturdily trudging over the sinking way with his dripping burden, which he placed in the pony-carriage, covered with a rug, and then returned to help the young man, who was crawling towards him.“Bra’e laddie, ye air,” muttered McCray. “Ye found and savit her, I ken, and noo, half dead yersel’, ready to help, while that loon stands stoock there shouting for succour, and afraid to move. Here, hi! my laird, move yersel’, man, and, Gude sake, get out of that!”“Here, give me your hand, my good fellow,” cried his lordship: “I’m in a dangerous spot.”McCray growled fiercely as he went first and helped Brace to the chaise. Then turning back, he reached out the asked-for hand to extricate his lordship, but in so rough a manner that he nearly brought him into a horizontal position.“Why, ye micht ha’e done that yersel’, my laird,” said McCray, angrily. “And noo I must leave ye, and hurry hame wi’ those two puir bairns.”His lordship began to offer expostulations as he began to scuffle out of the bog, but it was to deaf ears, for McCray had run back, and before the noble suitor was onterra firmathe ponies were unloosed and being made to gallop over the rough roadway.“They’ll be dead wi’ cauld before I can get them to the Castle,” muttered McCray, as he held Isa in his arm, and rattled the reins with the other, so that the ponies plunged along furiously. “Puir bairns—puir bairns!”McCray’s words were muttered, but Brace caught their meaning.“Drive to the Hall,” he said, hoarsely; “it is quite a couple of miles nearer.”“Gude sake! I might just as weel commit a murder,” muttered the Scot. “But I shall commit one if I dinna get house-room for the lassie directly. I’ll e’en do as he says, if I dee for it. Get on wi’ ye!” he roared to the ponies, already speeding along like the wind, when, being no inexpert Jehu, he kept them at a sharp gallop, till a few minutes after, when he drew them up on their haunches at the door of Merland Hall.End of Volume Two.
“I’ve done my part,” muttered Brace Norton, as, in spite of the despair of the moment, he yielded to his feelings, kissing fondly again and again the cold pale lips of the insensible girl. “I can do no more. Help must come from elsewhere, or—No, I will not give up, if only for her sake.” And once more he hoarsely shouted for the help that he could not think would come.
The loosening of one arm so that the burden might glide from him—a strong effort, and he could once more have been amongst the reeds and mosses; but it would have been like leaving the brighter portion of his life to death; and his eyes glared fiercely as he clutched the fair, slight figure more tightly to his breast. It was like fighting against a cruel temptation, one which whispered to him of the brightness of his young life that he was casting away for the sake of an enemy’s daughter—of his home, and his weeping mother.
The temptation was strong, but he could not play the coward’s part; and he held Isa to him more and more closely, gloating over the soft, regular features, as, with a pang hard to bear, he told himself the next moment that, even if help came, it would arrive too late.
That same afternoon Sir Murray Gernon strode out into the pleasure-grounds, thoughtfully crossed the lawn, avoiding, as it were, more by instinct than care, the various flower-beds, till he roused himself, with a start, on finding that he was standing at the very edge of the lake, gazing down into its deep waters, as if they possessed for him some horrible fascination.
He stood there for full ten minutes, his brow corrugated, his eyes staring, and his teeth clenched firmly upon his lower lip. Then with an effort he seemed to drag himself, shuddering, away, to walk slowly muttering to himself.
Fifty yards of winding amidst flower-beds and shrubs, and Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lord Maudlaine, his guest, seated upon a garden-chair, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, a newspaper at his feet, his mouth half open, and his aristocratic head resting upon his open palm.
It is quite possible that Sir Murray Gernon might have passed his visitor, who had already been for some days at the Castle, but for the fact that certain strange sounds arrested his attention. Had these sounds proceeded from Alexander McCray, there would have been no difficulty about the matter, and one would have immediately said that the ex-gardener was snoring loudly; but when a nobleman is concerned, a diffidence—an unwillingness is felt to use such a term. However, Lord Maudlaine was loudly trumpeting forth the announcement that he was devoting a spare hour to the service of Morpheus, and Sir Murray Gernon, hearing those sounds, was attracted thereby.
“You here, Maudlaine?” exclaimed Sir Murray.
“Eh? Why, what the deuce—Dear me! I suppose I was dozing,” said his lordship, lifting himself up a bit at a time, as he indulged in a most unmistakable yawn.
“Not with Isa?” said Sir Murray. “I thought you went out with her?”
“Ya-as—ya-as! no question of a doubt about it, I did,” drawled the Viscount; “and I’ve just been dreaming that I was boating with her on the lake—not your fish-pond here, but Como—same as we did before we came away.”
“But you went out walking with her?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.
“Ya-as. Not a question of a doubt about it! I did go out and walked a little way with her.”
“Did she turn back, then?”
“N-n-no!” said the Viscount; “point of fact, she as good as told me she didn’t want me, and went on by herself.”
“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, smiling, as he clapped his guest upon the shoulder, “I’m afraid that you are not half a lady’s man. It is a fine thing for you that you have no rival in the field.”
“Ya-as—just so—no doubt about that,” said his lordship laughing. “But a—a I began talking to her on indifferent subjects, and, point of fact, she didn’t seem to like indifferent subjects—seemed as if I bothered her, you know, and of course I didn’t want to do that; so seeing, as you say, that there was no one else in the field—regular walk over the course, you know—I didn’t bother her nor myself either. We’re getting on very nicely, though, Sir Murray—very nicely indeed. No question about that.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sir Murray, dryly.
“Ya-as; beginning to understand one another’s idio—what is it?—syncracies, don’t you call it? I think Isa likes me.”
“Oh! yes, of course—of course!” said Sir Murray. “By the way, Maudlaine,” he continued, taking the young man’s arm and walking slowly with him down a path, “I hope you will be particular about the place; for I dare say I shall give it up to you young folks. I mean to be pretty stringent, though, I can assure you: I won’t have a tree touched—no timber felled; there is none too much now. I should not like the lake drained either: I should particularly object to that. It might be said,” continued Sir Murray, hastily, “that it made the place damp; but I don’t think it—I don’t think it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything distasteful, of course,” said the Viscount. “Always be glad of your advice, of course, if I had any ideas of improving anything. By the way, though, Gernon, she’s mad after botany.”
“She? Who is?” said Sir Murray, starting.
“She is—Isa, you know. I shall have to work it up, for she don’t seem to like my not being able to enter into the names of weeds with her. Not a weedy man myself, you know, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” And he laughed at what he intended for a joke.
“Was she botanising to-day?” said Sir Murray, huskily.
“Ya-a-as! Said it was her mother’s favourite pursuit, though I don’t know why she should like it for that reason, eh?”
“Who told her that absurd nonsense?” exclaimed Sir Murray, angrily.
“Well, she did tell me,” said the lover; “but, a—a—really, you know, I can’t recollect. Don’t particularly want to know, I suppose?”
“Oh no—oh no!” exclaimed Sir Murray, impatiently. “But this place, Maudlaine—I should like it kept as it is: the timber, you know; and you would not drain the lake?”
“Oh no! of course not. But, I say, you know, I—a—a—a suppose it will be all right?”
“Right—all right?” said Sir Murray, whose face wore a cadaverous hue. “What do you mean by all right?”
“Well, you know, I mean about Isa. I haven’t said anything pointed to her yet, though we two have made it all right. She won’t refuse me, eh?”
“Refuse? No: absurd!”
“Well, I don’t know so much about that. I get thinking sometimes that she ain’t so very far gone with me. Snubs me, you know,—turns huffy, and that sort of thing.”
“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, with a sneering laugh, which there was no need of the other interpreting, “you are too timid—too diffident for a man of your years.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said his lordship, “I don’t think I am; but she’s a style of woman I’m not used to. Don’t seem dazzled, and all that sort of thing, you know. Some women would be ready to jump out of their skins to be a viscountess, and by-and-by an earl’s wife; but she don’t—not a bit—not that sort of woman; and if I never said a word about it, I don’t believe that she would, even if I went on visiting here for years.”
“Most likely not,” said Sir Murray, dryly; “but you see that it is as I say—you are too timid—too diffident.”
“I say, though, you know,” said his lordship, “was her mother that style of woman—quiet and fond of weed-hunting—botany, you know?”
“You will oblige me greatly by not referring to the late Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray, stiffly.
“Oh, beg pardon, you know. No offence meant.”
“It is granted,” said Sir Murray; and then, in a different tone: “There goes the dressing-bell.”
The gentlemen strolled up in silence to the entrance, where the major-domo—Mr Alexander McCray—who seemed to rule supreme at Merland, now stood waiting the arrival of his master.
“I’m thinking, Sir Mooray,” he said deferentially, “that ye’d like a pony-carriage sent to meet my young lady.”
“What—has she not returned?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.
“Nay, Sir Mooray, not yet awhile, and I should hae sent wi’oot saying a word, but that I thocht my laird here would tell us which road she gaed.”
“Towards the waste—the snipe ground, you know,” said his lordship, on being appealed to.
“Send at once, McCray. No: go yourself,” said Sir Murray.
“I’ll go with him,” said his lordship, who now seemed about wakening to the fact that he had grossly neglected his intended; and five minutes after the old Scot was driving briskly towards the village.
“Ye dinna ought to have left her, my laird,” said McCray, sturdily. “She’s ower young to be left all alone.”
“What? Were you speaking to me?” said his lordship, haughtily.
“Ay, that I was,” said McCray. “Ye mauna mind me, my laird, for I’m a’most like her foster-fairther, and nursed her on my knee mony’s the time.”
His lordship did not condescend to answer, and the lanes were traversed at a good rattling pace; but though McCray pulled up from time to time to make inquiries, the only news he learned was that Miss Gernon had been seen to go towards the marsh, but not to return; while one cottager volunteered the information that young Squire Norton, the sailor, went that way too in the morning time, and that neither of them had been seen to come back.
This news had no effect upon Lord George Maudlaine, but a close observer would have seen that the wrinkles upon Alexander McCray’s brow grew a little more deeply marked.
“He’s a douce laddie,” muttered McCray, as he drove on, “and warth a score sic birkies as this one; but it was ill-luck his meeting as they did that day, and it winna do—it winna do! We shall be having sair wark yet, I’m afraid. They’re kittlecattle these womenkind, and I nearly suffered shipwreck with them mysel’.”
“There’s no one here,” said his lordship, now condescending to speak, as they drove to where the road faded away into a faint track, which, in its turn, led to the pine-grove.
“We’ll get doon and hopple the ponies, my laird, and walk on to the pine-wood. My young leddie may be in there.”
“Confound his barbarous tongue! Why don’t he speak English?” muttered the Viscount. “I don’t understand one-half he says.”
But McCray’s acts were plain enough, even if his words were obscure; and, descending, he secured the ponies, and was about to start towards the wood, already looking black and gloomy, when one of Brace Norton’s cries for help smote his ear.
“Gude save me! Hearken to that, noo!” cried McCray, excitedly.
“Only a marsh bird,” said his lordship, contemptuously.
“Gude save us! Come alang; that’s a soul in sair peril, my laird,” And starting in the direction of the cry, as fast as the treacherous nature of the ground would allow, McCray soon came in sight of that which made him redouble his pace.
“Here! Help, here!” cried a voice from behind. “I’m sinking!” When, with a glance over his shoulder, McCray saw that his companion was already above his knees in a soft place.
“De’il help ye—ye ill-far’ed, handle-named loon!” muttered McCray, fiercely. “Why couldna ye walk like a Christian, and not get in that way? I’ve ither work in hand.”
Then hastening on, he stepped from tuft to tuft, with an agility not to have been expected in a man of his years, till well within reach of words:
“Haud oup, then,” he cried—“haud oup, my bra’e laddie, I’m with ye. There!” he cried, as he threw himself at full length upon the yielding moss, and reached to where, ghastly of face, Brace still clung, and held up his charge—“there! I ha’e yer hand. Loose the rushes, and grip it weel—grip it weel.”
“Her first—take her first,” sobbed Brace, hoarsely.
“That I will!” cried McCray, working himself forward. “Gude save us, though, it’s sair wet work here, and I’m a deal heavier than I thocht. Noo I ha’e her, and she’s leet as swansdoon aifter a’. The puir bairn, I ha’e her safe, but she’s half dead. Lie there, my pretty, while I pu’ out the laddie. Noo, my laddie; that’s reet—that’s reet; the ither hand. Noo again. Gude—gude! another pu’. Hech! laddie, mind, or I shall be in wi ye. Noo then, anither pu’! That’s weel! I ha’e ye noo. Puir lad, ye’re cauld indeed, but ye’re safe, and reet too, so lie there while I tak’ the lassie.”
In effect, with the exertion of his great strength, McCray, broad-shouldered and iron muscled, had drawn both Isa and Brace from what had so nearly been a watery grave, but not without clanger to himself. Twice over the moss gave way with the stress placed upon it; but at last he had both lying safe beside him, and not before it was time, for Brace was completely exhausted.
“Let me carry her,” said Brace, hoarsely, as he staggered to his feet; but only to sink down again, his numbed limbs refusing their office.
“Ye’re a bra’e laddie,” said the Scot; “but your sperrit’s stronger than your power. I’ll carry the lassie to the carriage, and be back for you in a minute.”
“Never mind me,” groaned Brace. “I’m only cold. For Heaven’s sake drive off with her, for she is nearly dead with her long immersion.”
But before Brace’s words were well uttered, McCray was sturdily trudging over the sinking way with his dripping burden, which he placed in the pony-carriage, covered with a rug, and then returned to help the young man, who was crawling towards him.
“Bra’e laddie, ye air,” muttered McCray. “Ye found and savit her, I ken, and noo, half dead yersel’, ready to help, while that loon stands stoock there shouting for succour, and afraid to move. Here, hi! my laird, move yersel’, man, and, Gude sake, get out of that!”
“Here, give me your hand, my good fellow,” cried his lordship: “I’m in a dangerous spot.”
McCray growled fiercely as he went first and helped Brace to the chaise. Then turning back, he reached out the asked-for hand to extricate his lordship, but in so rough a manner that he nearly brought him into a horizontal position.
“Why, ye micht ha’e done that yersel’, my laird,” said McCray, angrily. “And noo I must leave ye, and hurry hame wi’ those two puir bairns.”
His lordship began to offer expostulations as he began to scuffle out of the bog, but it was to deaf ears, for McCray had run back, and before the noble suitor was onterra firmathe ponies were unloosed and being made to gallop over the rough roadway.
“They’ll be dead wi’ cauld before I can get them to the Castle,” muttered McCray, as he held Isa in his arm, and rattled the reins with the other, so that the ponies plunged along furiously. “Puir bairns—puir bairns!”
McCray’s words were muttered, but Brace caught their meaning.
“Drive to the Hall,” he said, hoarsely; “it is quite a couple of miles nearer.”
“Gude sake! I might just as weel commit a murder,” muttered the Scot. “But I shall commit one if I dinna get house-room for the lassie directly. I’ll e’en do as he says, if I dee for it. Get on wi’ ye!” he roared to the ponies, already speeding along like the wind, when, being no inexpert Jehu, he kept them at a sharp gallop, till a few minutes after, when he drew them up on their haunches at the door of Merland Hall.
End of Volume Two.