Chapter 9

How Doctors Rule.Pale and agitated, Mrs Norton hurried out, followed by the Captain, for Brace’s long absence had been causing them great uneasiness; but Mrs Norton’s agitation increased to a painful degree as soon as she saw in what company he had: returned. Isa’s state was the first consideration; and dismissing every other thought, the insensible girl was borne to a bed-room by Captain Norton, as reverently as if she had been something holy, his lip quivering as he marked in the sweet features the lineaments of the one whom he had so fondly loved. Whilst, with all a mother’s care, Mrs Norton tended her, taking the first steps towards insuring the poor girl’s recovery—steps but for which the services of Dr Challen, for whom McCray had directly galloped off, would have been in vain.An hour after, when Isa had begun to show signs of returning animation, her wondering eyes ranging from face to face—letting them rest longest upon the soft, motherly countenance bent over her to kiss her so tenderly—there came the sound of wheels, and Dr Challen hurried up to the bedside, to express his approval of what had been done.“And noo I must go and tell Sir Mooray,” said McCray to Captain Norton. “I thought I’d get the doctor first.”“I sent a groom directly you had gone,” said the Captain.“’Deed and you did weel,” said McCray; “but I must stay here and face him, sir, for he’ll be over directly with my laird, there, like twa roarin and rampagin’ lions.”In effect, five minutes after, there was again the sound of rapid wheels, followed directly after by Sir Murray Gernon’s voice in the hall.“How dared you to bring her here?” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, harsh voice, to his old retainer, who met him boldly on the step.“’Deed, Sir Mooray, so as to save the dear bairn’s life, and not have to face ye wi’ a cauld dead bodie. It was a case of seconds, Sir Mooray, and I ken ye wadna ha’e likit for me to bring the puir laddie wha savit her from drownin’ to the Castle.”“And who saved her?” exclaimed Sir Murray.“Hoot! Sir Mooray, naebodie else but the douce sailor laddie ye passed camin’ hame, when the chaise was broke up.”A bitter epithet was hissed from Sir Murray Gernon’s lips, as he listened to this announcement; for to his excited imagination it seemed as if Fate were struggling against him and striving to bring together two who, could he contrive it, should be through life as far removed, to all intents and purposes, one from the other, as the two poles.Sir Murray ascended to the bed-room, and then descended to pace impatiently up and down, frowning and angry, till, after seeing his patient sink into a quiet slumber, Dr Challen gave a sigh of satisfaction, and then joined the baronet.“What?” exclaimed the doctor, after listening to Sir Murray’s first remark.“She must be taken home directly,” said Sir Murray.“Quite out of the question, my dear Sir Murray,” said the doctor, pleasantly, as he partook of the glass of wine left upon the sideboard.“But the carriage is waiting, Challen,” said Sir Murray. “I came over in the close carriage on purpose. Surely if she is lifted in and driven slowly it cannot hurt her.”“Now look here, Gernon,” said the doctor, sturdily, “I brought that child into the world, and saved her life, sir—saved her life, when not half-a-dozen doctors in England could have done it. I’ve been your—Capital glass of port, by Jove! Try one. You won’t? Very good; I will. Let’s see—what was I saying? Ah! I’ve been your family medical attendant ever since I began to practise, and save and except such times as you chose to go abroad and put yourself into the hands of foreign poisoners, I’ve had your welfare at heart. Now, I’m a crotchety old fellow—better try a glass of Norton’s port: I’ll swear it’s ’20 vintage—crotchety old fellow—over professional matters; and if the Queen herself came meddling in a sick-room where I was engaged, I’d order her out as soon as look at her: ergo, I’m not at all afraid of a baronet.”Sir Murray made a gesture of impatience.“There, confound you, sir,” cried the doctor, testily, “I don’t care for your fuming—I’m not going to give way. Now, look here, Gernon: you ought to have more confidence in me, and in what I say. I don’t want to boast; but I saved your life; I saved your wife’s life; and, as aforesaid, I saved the life of that child up-stairs when it was a tiny spark that a breath would have destroyed. I’m proud of it, you see. Now you want to kill her, because she is here in the house of the people you most dislike in the world—out-and-out good sort of people, and good friends of mine, all the same. Can’t help it—I must speak plain. This is a case where plain speaking is necessary, so you need not fling about. You must sink all these family quarrels, and thank Heaven that the poor child was brought here, where there was a clever, sensible woman like Mrs Norton to take the first steps towards warding off fever.”“But, surely, Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, deprecatingly now, “with plenty of wrapping, and the carriage!”“My good man,” cried the doctor, now thoroughly angry, “if you will be obstinate, and want her to have plenty of wrapping, go and fetch a lead coffin, and if she is to go in a carriage, send old McCray over to Marshton for Downing’s hearse. It will be the most sensible thing you can do; for she will be dead before she gets home, or soon after. What the deuce is the use of your talking? Do you think I want her to stay here, or that I take two straws’ worth of interest in your confounded affairs and squabbles? That child’s life is the first consideration. I won’t put up with it, Gernon—I won’t indeed. How dare you interfere and want to meddle with things which you don’t understand? That child’s constitution is not a political matter for you to meddle with. Why, confound you, sir, here we have just got her into as lovely a perspiration as ever I saw upon a human subject! There’s the threatened fever evaporating, as it were, from her system, and she sleeping gloriously, when you must come in with your family pride, and want to destroy all that I have done! I tell you what it is—”“My dear Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, “I don’t want to upset your arrangements. I only thought—”“Confound you, sir! how dare you to think, here, in a case of life and death? It’s a piece of consequential, confounded, titled presumption—that’s what it is!”There was no mistaking, either, that Mr Challen was in a professional passion; for, as he said, “in matters of medicine he would give way to none,” while being, certainly, a very clever practitioner, and well knowing that fact, he was somewhat ready to leap upon his own little hill, and to crow loudly. He had just descended, proud and elate with the state in which he had left his patient, when, as he mentally termed it, this impertinent interference on the part of Sir Murray made him erect all his hackles, and give battle most furiously for his rights.“There, there! Don’t be angry, Challen,” said the baronet. “I give way—I suppose I must bear it.”“Bear it! Of course you must,” said the doctor. “I tell you what it is, Sir Murray Gernon: I was within a point of throwing up the case, and leaving you in the hands of that offensive wholesale killer at Marshton—that new man. I was only restrained by a feeling of respect for the poor child. But I’ll give up now, if you wish it.”“My dear Challen,” cried Sir Murray, “pray don’t be so impetuous. I say no more. Have it all as you wish.”“Say no more! Of course you will not!” grumbled the doctor, whose feathers were gradually subsiding to their natural smoothness.“Only,” continued Sir Murray, “get her well, and let us have her home as soon as possible.”“There you go again!” cried the doctor, bristling up once more. “The old story! I suppose you think I want to keep her ill, so as to swell the bill, with ‘One draught at bed-time,’ and ‘The mixture as before.’ Ugh! It’s a pity, Sir Murray Gernon, you have not a dozen people about you who are like me—not in the least afraid of you. What are you going to do now?”“Going back,” said Sir Murray, who had just risen.“Going back, indeed!” said the doctor, impatiently. “Better stay—stay, and see how she is when she wakes. Let’s have Norton in and Mrs Norton, and perhaps their son will join: he’s none the worse—used to water—salt, fresh, or marshy. A tumbler of punch and a rubber at whist would pass the time away comfortably. There, hang it, man, twenty years ought to be long enough to heal up these old wounds. They’ll have to be healed up when you journey to the great abroad. Take my advice—advice I shan’t charge you anything for. Norton’s boy has saved your girl’s life. Let this unlucky accident be the means of bringing you together—good out of evil, you know. Hold out the right hand of fellowship, and—trust me—I know Norton; it will be taken in a hearty grasp. Make friends at once, Gernon; you’ll be obliged to do it in heaven. Oh! there, then, I’ve done. Advice gratis is never valued at its true worth.”“Let me know, Challen, how all goes on when you leave here,” said Sir Murray, sternly, as he strode towards the door; and five minutes after the doctor shrugged his shoulders and took another glass of port to console himself for the rejection of his good offices, as he listened to the wheels of the departing carriage.“I’m afraid,” he said aloud, “contact with all sorts of people has robbed me of this refined sensibility—this keen appreciation of injury. I fancy if any one had done me a wrong, that I could forgive it in less than twenty years.”“But there never was any wrong, Doctor,” said a low, sweet voice, when, turning, Dr Challen became aware that Mrs Norton had entered unperceived.

Pale and agitated, Mrs Norton hurried out, followed by the Captain, for Brace’s long absence had been causing them great uneasiness; but Mrs Norton’s agitation increased to a painful degree as soon as she saw in what company he had: returned. Isa’s state was the first consideration; and dismissing every other thought, the insensible girl was borne to a bed-room by Captain Norton, as reverently as if she had been something holy, his lip quivering as he marked in the sweet features the lineaments of the one whom he had so fondly loved. Whilst, with all a mother’s care, Mrs Norton tended her, taking the first steps towards insuring the poor girl’s recovery—steps but for which the services of Dr Challen, for whom McCray had directly galloped off, would have been in vain.

An hour after, when Isa had begun to show signs of returning animation, her wondering eyes ranging from face to face—letting them rest longest upon the soft, motherly countenance bent over her to kiss her so tenderly—there came the sound of wheels, and Dr Challen hurried up to the bedside, to express his approval of what had been done.

“And noo I must go and tell Sir Mooray,” said McCray to Captain Norton. “I thought I’d get the doctor first.”

“I sent a groom directly you had gone,” said the Captain.

“’Deed and you did weel,” said McCray; “but I must stay here and face him, sir, for he’ll be over directly with my laird, there, like twa roarin and rampagin’ lions.”

In effect, five minutes after, there was again the sound of rapid wheels, followed directly after by Sir Murray Gernon’s voice in the hall.

“How dared you to bring her here?” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, harsh voice, to his old retainer, who met him boldly on the step.

“’Deed, Sir Mooray, so as to save the dear bairn’s life, and not have to face ye wi’ a cauld dead bodie. It was a case of seconds, Sir Mooray, and I ken ye wadna ha’e likit for me to bring the puir laddie wha savit her from drownin’ to the Castle.”

“And who saved her?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Hoot! Sir Mooray, naebodie else but the douce sailor laddie ye passed camin’ hame, when the chaise was broke up.”

A bitter epithet was hissed from Sir Murray Gernon’s lips, as he listened to this announcement; for to his excited imagination it seemed as if Fate were struggling against him and striving to bring together two who, could he contrive it, should be through life as far removed, to all intents and purposes, one from the other, as the two poles.

Sir Murray ascended to the bed-room, and then descended to pace impatiently up and down, frowning and angry, till, after seeing his patient sink into a quiet slumber, Dr Challen gave a sigh of satisfaction, and then joined the baronet.

“What?” exclaimed the doctor, after listening to Sir Murray’s first remark.

“She must be taken home directly,” said Sir Murray.

“Quite out of the question, my dear Sir Murray,” said the doctor, pleasantly, as he partook of the glass of wine left upon the sideboard.

“But the carriage is waiting, Challen,” said Sir Murray. “I came over in the close carriage on purpose. Surely if she is lifted in and driven slowly it cannot hurt her.”

“Now look here, Gernon,” said the doctor, sturdily, “I brought that child into the world, and saved her life, sir—saved her life, when not half-a-dozen doctors in England could have done it. I’ve been your—Capital glass of port, by Jove! Try one. You won’t? Very good; I will. Let’s see—what was I saying? Ah! I’ve been your family medical attendant ever since I began to practise, and save and except such times as you chose to go abroad and put yourself into the hands of foreign poisoners, I’ve had your welfare at heart. Now, I’m a crotchety old fellow—better try a glass of Norton’s port: I’ll swear it’s ’20 vintage—crotchety old fellow—over professional matters; and if the Queen herself came meddling in a sick-room where I was engaged, I’d order her out as soon as look at her: ergo, I’m not at all afraid of a baronet.”

Sir Murray made a gesture of impatience.

“There, confound you, sir,” cried the doctor, testily, “I don’t care for your fuming—I’m not going to give way. Now, look here, Gernon: you ought to have more confidence in me, and in what I say. I don’t want to boast; but I saved your life; I saved your wife’s life; and, as aforesaid, I saved the life of that child up-stairs when it was a tiny spark that a breath would have destroyed. I’m proud of it, you see. Now you want to kill her, because she is here in the house of the people you most dislike in the world—out-and-out good sort of people, and good friends of mine, all the same. Can’t help it—I must speak plain. This is a case where plain speaking is necessary, so you need not fling about. You must sink all these family quarrels, and thank Heaven that the poor child was brought here, where there was a clever, sensible woman like Mrs Norton to take the first steps towards warding off fever.”

“But, surely, Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, deprecatingly now, “with plenty of wrapping, and the carriage!”

“My good man,” cried the doctor, now thoroughly angry, “if you will be obstinate, and want her to have plenty of wrapping, go and fetch a lead coffin, and if she is to go in a carriage, send old McCray over to Marshton for Downing’s hearse. It will be the most sensible thing you can do; for she will be dead before she gets home, or soon after. What the deuce is the use of your talking? Do you think I want her to stay here, or that I take two straws’ worth of interest in your confounded affairs and squabbles? That child’s life is the first consideration. I won’t put up with it, Gernon—I won’t indeed. How dare you interfere and want to meddle with things which you don’t understand? That child’s constitution is not a political matter for you to meddle with. Why, confound you, sir, here we have just got her into as lovely a perspiration as ever I saw upon a human subject! There’s the threatened fever evaporating, as it were, from her system, and she sleeping gloriously, when you must come in with your family pride, and want to destroy all that I have done! I tell you what it is—”

“My dear Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, “I don’t want to upset your arrangements. I only thought—”

“Confound you, sir! how dare you to think, here, in a case of life and death? It’s a piece of consequential, confounded, titled presumption—that’s what it is!”

There was no mistaking, either, that Mr Challen was in a professional passion; for, as he said, “in matters of medicine he would give way to none,” while being, certainly, a very clever practitioner, and well knowing that fact, he was somewhat ready to leap upon his own little hill, and to crow loudly. He had just descended, proud and elate with the state in which he had left his patient, when, as he mentally termed it, this impertinent interference on the part of Sir Murray made him erect all his hackles, and give battle most furiously for his rights.

“There, there! Don’t be angry, Challen,” said the baronet. “I give way—I suppose I must bear it.”

“Bear it! Of course you must,” said the doctor. “I tell you what it is, Sir Murray Gernon: I was within a point of throwing up the case, and leaving you in the hands of that offensive wholesale killer at Marshton—that new man. I was only restrained by a feeling of respect for the poor child. But I’ll give up now, if you wish it.”

“My dear Challen,” cried Sir Murray, “pray don’t be so impetuous. I say no more. Have it all as you wish.”

“Say no more! Of course you will not!” grumbled the doctor, whose feathers were gradually subsiding to their natural smoothness.

“Only,” continued Sir Murray, “get her well, and let us have her home as soon as possible.”

“There you go again!” cried the doctor, bristling up once more. “The old story! I suppose you think I want to keep her ill, so as to swell the bill, with ‘One draught at bed-time,’ and ‘The mixture as before.’ Ugh! It’s a pity, Sir Murray Gernon, you have not a dozen people about you who are like me—not in the least afraid of you. What are you going to do now?”

“Going back,” said Sir Murray, who had just risen.

“Going back, indeed!” said the doctor, impatiently. “Better stay—stay, and see how she is when she wakes. Let’s have Norton in and Mrs Norton, and perhaps their son will join: he’s none the worse—used to water—salt, fresh, or marshy. A tumbler of punch and a rubber at whist would pass the time away comfortably. There, hang it, man, twenty years ought to be long enough to heal up these old wounds. They’ll have to be healed up when you journey to the great abroad. Take my advice—advice I shan’t charge you anything for. Norton’s boy has saved your girl’s life. Let this unlucky accident be the means of bringing you together—good out of evil, you know. Hold out the right hand of fellowship, and—trust me—I know Norton; it will be taken in a hearty grasp. Make friends at once, Gernon; you’ll be obliged to do it in heaven. Oh! there, then, I’ve done. Advice gratis is never valued at its true worth.”

“Let me know, Challen, how all goes on when you leave here,” said Sir Murray, sternly, as he strode towards the door; and five minutes after the doctor shrugged his shoulders and took another glass of port to console himself for the rejection of his good offices, as he listened to the wheels of the departing carriage.

“I’m afraid,” he said aloud, “contact with all sorts of people has robbed me of this refined sensibility—this keen appreciation of injury. I fancy if any one had done me a wrong, that I could forgive it in less than twenty years.”

“But there never was any wrong, Doctor,” said a low, sweet voice, when, turning, Dr Challen became aware that Mrs Norton had entered unperceived.

Mother and Son.“Mother,” said Brace Norton the next morning, as, none the worse for his immersion, he stood by her side, she holding his hand the while and gazing up into his face,—“mother, I went out yesterday with the full intention of dreaming no more of my foolish love; and what was the result? Strange, too,” he said, with affected gaiety; “one would have thought that an hour’s immersion would have quenched it. But there, you will, perhaps, laugh at me, and think me childish and full of folly; still, I cannot help it—I love her more dearly than ever, and feel no shame in owning it to you. How am I to give her up now, after holding her to my breast as I did for a whole hour yesterday, her arms clasped the while round my neck, and her poor head resting upon my shoulder? Mother, it was a mingling of misery, despair, and bliss; and when, at last, I had given up all hope of being saved—when I had struggled till I could struggle no more—when I had called till my voice failed in my throat—when I felt that my—our last hour was at hand, I broke faith even with myself.”Brace paused for a few moments, for his voice was husky, but recovering himself, he went on:“I dare say it was wrong; but I was under the impression that all was over. I could have saved my own life, perhaps; but I could not leave her to perish. The sun had sunk, and darkness was fast coming on; the evening breeze was sighing what seemed to my excited fancy a dirge amidst the rustling reeds; and again and again some curlew flew over us giving utterance to a loud wail. At one time it seemed so hard to die just in the spring of life; but the next instant, as I looked down at the poor head resting upon my breast, the sorrow was all for her, and with that sorrow there was a strange—an awful pleasure. It was, I should think, about ten minutes before help came that she raised her head, and her sweet beseeching eyes looked full in mine.“‘Is there no hope?’ she whispered; and I feared to tell her the cruel truth.“‘But you could save yourself,’ she faltered; ‘you struggled too hard before; why should you perish in trying to save me?’“She spoke so earnestly, and with such a sweet resignation, that the tears came gushing from my eyes—weak, womanly tears, mother; for I am weak, very weak, I know, or I should not tell you all this.”“Is it weak to confide all things to her who gave you birth, Brace?” whispered Mrs Norton.“No—no!” he replied; and then, as if recalling the scene of the preceding evening, he continued:“‘Try,’ she whispered to me—‘try once more, and you may bring help.’“As she spoke she unloosed her arms from my neck, and it was like adding despair to despair.“‘Why do you tempt me?’ I said; for it seemed that now the time had come when I might speak. ‘Do you think that I could live without you? and do you not know that since the day when we first met my every thought has been of you, and that I have vainly struggled to free myself? You will believe me now—now that we are, perhaps, within a few minutes to stand in the presence of our Maker. Isa, I love you with a pure and holy love—a love that makes me, despairing as I am of ever possessing you in this life, look forward to the prospect of being with you in death,’ I whispered, as I held her more tightly. ‘You know little of me, but you know, perhaps, the sad misfortunes of our families, and how it seems that by some strange intervention of fate my heart has been led to you.’“She was silent, but her arms once more rested upon my shoulder, and her sweet innocent, girlish face was close to mine, as there, chilled to the heart with the icy water, I asked her to forgive me my declaration, and kissed her pale lips again and again.“It was then that—urged once more by the strong desire for life—I tried once more to utter a cry or two for help; and, five minutes after, that help was at hand.”Brace Norton was silent now for a few minutes; and then, as if in answer to his mother’s look, he said:“Must I, then, go?”“Yes, Brace—yes. Your father leaves in an hour. It will be far better. Only for a few days, till she recovers and is removed.”“But may I not see her first?” he pleaded.“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, proudly, “would it be honourable to take advantage of her position here? Too much has already passed for your peace of mind. Go, now; and leave the house free to Sir Murray Gernon to come and go untouched in his sensitiveness. You must fight still, and bravely, too.”Without another word the young man slowly left the room; and before an hour had elapsed Captain Norton and his son were on their way to Marshton.

“Mother,” said Brace Norton the next morning, as, none the worse for his immersion, he stood by her side, she holding his hand the while and gazing up into his face,—“mother, I went out yesterday with the full intention of dreaming no more of my foolish love; and what was the result? Strange, too,” he said, with affected gaiety; “one would have thought that an hour’s immersion would have quenched it. But there, you will, perhaps, laugh at me, and think me childish and full of folly; still, I cannot help it—I love her more dearly than ever, and feel no shame in owning it to you. How am I to give her up now, after holding her to my breast as I did for a whole hour yesterday, her arms clasped the while round my neck, and her poor head resting upon my shoulder? Mother, it was a mingling of misery, despair, and bliss; and when, at last, I had given up all hope of being saved—when I had struggled till I could struggle no more—when I had called till my voice failed in my throat—when I felt that my—our last hour was at hand, I broke faith even with myself.”

Brace paused for a few moments, for his voice was husky, but recovering himself, he went on:

“I dare say it was wrong; but I was under the impression that all was over. I could have saved my own life, perhaps; but I could not leave her to perish. The sun had sunk, and darkness was fast coming on; the evening breeze was sighing what seemed to my excited fancy a dirge amidst the rustling reeds; and again and again some curlew flew over us giving utterance to a loud wail. At one time it seemed so hard to die just in the spring of life; but the next instant, as I looked down at the poor head resting upon my breast, the sorrow was all for her, and with that sorrow there was a strange—an awful pleasure. It was, I should think, about ten minutes before help came that she raised her head, and her sweet beseeching eyes looked full in mine.

“‘Is there no hope?’ she whispered; and I feared to tell her the cruel truth.

“‘But you could save yourself,’ she faltered; ‘you struggled too hard before; why should you perish in trying to save me?’

“She spoke so earnestly, and with such a sweet resignation, that the tears came gushing from my eyes—weak, womanly tears, mother; for I am weak, very weak, I know, or I should not tell you all this.”

“Is it weak to confide all things to her who gave you birth, Brace?” whispered Mrs Norton.

“No—no!” he replied; and then, as if recalling the scene of the preceding evening, he continued:

“‘Try,’ she whispered to me—‘try once more, and you may bring help.’

“As she spoke she unloosed her arms from my neck, and it was like adding despair to despair.

“‘Why do you tempt me?’ I said; for it seemed that now the time had come when I might speak. ‘Do you think that I could live without you? and do you not know that since the day when we first met my every thought has been of you, and that I have vainly struggled to free myself? You will believe me now—now that we are, perhaps, within a few minutes to stand in the presence of our Maker. Isa, I love you with a pure and holy love—a love that makes me, despairing as I am of ever possessing you in this life, look forward to the prospect of being with you in death,’ I whispered, as I held her more tightly. ‘You know little of me, but you know, perhaps, the sad misfortunes of our families, and how it seems that by some strange intervention of fate my heart has been led to you.’

“She was silent, but her arms once more rested upon my shoulder, and her sweet innocent, girlish face was close to mine, as there, chilled to the heart with the icy water, I asked her to forgive me my declaration, and kissed her pale lips again and again.

“It was then that—urged once more by the strong desire for life—I tried once more to utter a cry or two for help; and, five minutes after, that help was at hand.”

Brace Norton was silent now for a few minutes; and then, as if in answer to his mother’s look, he said:

“Must I, then, go?”

“Yes, Brace—yes. Your father leaves in an hour. It will be far better. Only for a few days, till she recovers and is removed.”

“But may I not see her first?” he pleaded.

“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, proudly, “would it be honourable to take advantage of her position here? Too much has already passed for your peace of mind. Go, now; and leave the house free to Sir Murray Gernon to come and go untouched in his sensitiveness. You must fight still, and bravely, too.”

Without another word the young man slowly left the room; and before an hour had elapsed Captain Norton and his son were on their way to Marshton.

A Discovery.Ten days elapsed before Dr Challen gave his consent for Isa to be removed, and during that time she had been carefully tended by Mrs Norton and Jane McCray, who had made her way to the Hall as soon as she heard of the accident. But two days would have been sufficient to have shown to Mrs Norton the character of the gentle, inartificial girl, whose gratitude was extreme for every act of attention she received. Hour after hour would Mrs Norton sit by her bedside watching her sleep; but once, and once only, came a dread suspicion that made her heart leap with agony.She had driven that thought away, though, the next minute, as something too hateful to be nurtured even for an instant. Then, kneeling down, she prayed long and earnestly that, come what might, rest and happiness should be the lot of her son, as well as that of the gentle spirit whom she had already begun to love as a child of her own. For, irrespective of a sweet disposition and clinging ways to attract her when the poor motherless girl had been thrown, as it were, into her arms for protection, there was the recollection of the past—the old affection for her mother, and pity—shuddering pity—as she thought of her old friend’s mysterious fate and the sad position of her child.Had she required more to interest her in Isa Gernon, Mrs Norton possessed it in the knowledge that Brace loved her, that he had confessed his love, and that Isa knew it. If such a thing could have been possible, how Mrs Norton would have rejoiced in the union! But, with many a sigh, she told herself that it could never be, and to the best of her ability she strove to avoid all reference to her son.That was a hard task to the loving mother, whose every thought turned to the frank, handsome young fellow who was her pride—who had, year by year, won for her more and more her husband’s love, binding him tightly and more tightly to her, as time rolled on, till she owned to herself that, in spite of the stormy past, hers was a life of true happiness—of happiness greater than usually fell to the lot of mortals. For as time had softened the grief and despair in Philip Norton’s heart, he had learned to thank Heaven for the blessings that had, after all, fallen to his share, so that his feeling of friendly affection had gradually grown into a firm and lasting love for the woman so full of faith in him—a love that grew stronger as the years glided on.Weak, and hardly yet recovered, Isa Gernon was, one day, lying sleeping gently. Sir Murray had paid his morning’s visit, and, meeting Dr Challen there, received another sharp snubbing for evincing a desire to remove the patient.“I’ll tell you when she may go,” said the doctor; “but let me tell you that you ought to go down upon your knees and thank Mrs Norton for her motherly care. Like a mother to you, isn’t she, my child?” he said, turning to Isa.The look of love directed by Isa at Mrs Norton was like gall and wormwood to Sir Murray, whose dark face grew more black; but he was too courteous to display his annoyance in his words; and besides, though he looked upon Mrs Norton as a weak, foolish woman, at heart he retained for her a profound feeling of respect; for he admired her faith and constancy under troubles that might have broken another’s heart. In spite of himself, too, he could not help noticing the respect that had been paid to his feelings, for he knew that the departure of Captain Norton and his son must have been on account of this unforeseen train of circumstances. He was glad of this, for he was troubled about Brace, from feeling an instinctive dread that he might presume to assert himself as a suitor for Isa’s hand.Matters had gone very unfortunately; but as soon as he could get Isa home, he determined that Lord Maudlaine should press his suit, and that the wedding should shortly follow.Sir Murray felt a confidence in Mrs Norton that was not misplaced, for hardly once had Brace’s name passed her lips till this morning, when some time after father and doctor had taken their departure, Mrs Norton entered the room to find Isa sleeping.She stood watching the sleeper for some few minutes, tracing again the lineaments of Marion Elstree, when the likeness was completed by the unclosing of two soft, appealing eyes, which gazed full in hers for a few minutes, as a sweet smile of recognition swept over the countenance; then Mrs Norton bent down and kissed her, Isa’s arms being passed round her loving nurse’s neck, and there for a few moments she clung.“So much better!” whispered Isa; and then, as her eyes fell upon a locket-brooch which Mrs Norton was wearing, she asked, in the course of conversation, whose countenance it contained.“It was my son’s twelve years ago,” said Mrs Norton, softly, as she covered it, she knew not why, with one hand, watching keenly the face before her as she spoke, and in the change that came over it, she saw something that for the moment gave her she hardly knew which, pleasure or pain; for Isa’s pale face became gradually suffused with a deep crimson flush, she shrank away from Mrs Norton as if guilty, her eyes filled with tears, and then, casting her arms round the mother’s neck, she nestled there, weeping long and hysterically.No word was spoken; but the mother’s thoughts required no further confirmation. She religiously refrained, though, from speaking, telling herself that a greater will than hers should be done, that her duty was rather to check than encourage, even while she tremblingly hoped that a happier future might be the result.There was no need for interpretation of Isa Gernon’s tears: her heart spoke for itself; and it was not surprising that he, against whom she had been warned by a parent—now loving almost to doting, now fiercely morose—should form the object of her musing thoughts. She had met him frequently during her walks, at a time, too, when distasteful attentions were being paid her, and she felt that her heart was being treated as a piece of merchandise.There was something winning and frank in Brace Norton that had attracted her in spite of the chiding she gave her wandering thoughts; and young, ardent, unused to the ways of the world, she had allowed herself to dwell upon the face of the young sailor more often than was right for her peace of mind. Then came the ramble by the marsh, the leaning over the black pool-side to pluck a blossom, and her narrow escape from poor Ophelia’s fate. Was it, then, strange that when he appeared rushing to her rescue, and after his many vain struggles, told her, as he promised to die by her side, how he loved her—told her what her heart had before whispered—was it, then, strange that this should be the hour which should, in spite of her efforts, sweep away the impression of all warnings and forbidding words, and that she should yield up the heart only partly hers?

Ten days elapsed before Dr Challen gave his consent for Isa to be removed, and during that time she had been carefully tended by Mrs Norton and Jane McCray, who had made her way to the Hall as soon as she heard of the accident. But two days would have been sufficient to have shown to Mrs Norton the character of the gentle, inartificial girl, whose gratitude was extreme for every act of attention she received. Hour after hour would Mrs Norton sit by her bedside watching her sleep; but once, and once only, came a dread suspicion that made her heart leap with agony.

She had driven that thought away, though, the next minute, as something too hateful to be nurtured even for an instant. Then, kneeling down, she prayed long and earnestly that, come what might, rest and happiness should be the lot of her son, as well as that of the gentle spirit whom she had already begun to love as a child of her own. For, irrespective of a sweet disposition and clinging ways to attract her when the poor motherless girl had been thrown, as it were, into her arms for protection, there was the recollection of the past—the old affection for her mother, and pity—shuddering pity—as she thought of her old friend’s mysterious fate and the sad position of her child.

Had she required more to interest her in Isa Gernon, Mrs Norton possessed it in the knowledge that Brace loved her, that he had confessed his love, and that Isa knew it. If such a thing could have been possible, how Mrs Norton would have rejoiced in the union! But, with many a sigh, she told herself that it could never be, and to the best of her ability she strove to avoid all reference to her son.

That was a hard task to the loving mother, whose every thought turned to the frank, handsome young fellow who was her pride—who had, year by year, won for her more and more her husband’s love, binding him tightly and more tightly to her, as time rolled on, till she owned to herself that, in spite of the stormy past, hers was a life of true happiness—of happiness greater than usually fell to the lot of mortals. For as time had softened the grief and despair in Philip Norton’s heart, he had learned to thank Heaven for the blessings that had, after all, fallen to his share, so that his feeling of friendly affection had gradually grown into a firm and lasting love for the woman so full of faith in him—a love that grew stronger as the years glided on.

Weak, and hardly yet recovered, Isa Gernon was, one day, lying sleeping gently. Sir Murray had paid his morning’s visit, and, meeting Dr Challen there, received another sharp snubbing for evincing a desire to remove the patient.

“I’ll tell you when she may go,” said the doctor; “but let me tell you that you ought to go down upon your knees and thank Mrs Norton for her motherly care. Like a mother to you, isn’t she, my child?” he said, turning to Isa.

The look of love directed by Isa at Mrs Norton was like gall and wormwood to Sir Murray, whose dark face grew more black; but he was too courteous to display his annoyance in his words; and besides, though he looked upon Mrs Norton as a weak, foolish woman, at heart he retained for her a profound feeling of respect; for he admired her faith and constancy under troubles that might have broken another’s heart. In spite of himself, too, he could not help noticing the respect that had been paid to his feelings, for he knew that the departure of Captain Norton and his son must have been on account of this unforeseen train of circumstances. He was glad of this, for he was troubled about Brace, from feeling an instinctive dread that he might presume to assert himself as a suitor for Isa’s hand.

Matters had gone very unfortunately; but as soon as he could get Isa home, he determined that Lord Maudlaine should press his suit, and that the wedding should shortly follow.

Sir Murray felt a confidence in Mrs Norton that was not misplaced, for hardly once had Brace’s name passed her lips till this morning, when some time after father and doctor had taken their departure, Mrs Norton entered the room to find Isa sleeping.

She stood watching the sleeper for some few minutes, tracing again the lineaments of Marion Elstree, when the likeness was completed by the unclosing of two soft, appealing eyes, which gazed full in hers for a few minutes, as a sweet smile of recognition swept over the countenance; then Mrs Norton bent down and kissed her, Isa’s arms being passed round her loving nurse’s neck, and there for a few moments she clung.

“So much better!” whispered Isa; and then, as her eyes fell upon a locket-brooch which Mrs Norton was wearing, she asked, in the course of conversation, whose countenance it contained.

“It was my son’s twelve years ago,” said Mrs Norton, softly, as she covered it, she knew not why, with one hand, watching keenly the face before her as she spoke, and in the change that came over it, she saw something that for the moment gave her she hardly knew which, pleasure or pain; for Isa’s pale face became gradually suffused with a deep crimson flush, she shrank away from Mrs Norton as if guilty, her eyes filled with tears, and then, casting her arms round the mother’s neck, she nestled there, weeping long and hysterically.

No word was spoken; but the mother’s thoughts required no further confirmation. She religiously refrained, though, from speaking, telling herself that a greater will than hers should be done, that her duty was rather to check than encourage, even while she tremblingly hoped that a happier future might be the result.

There was no need for interpretation of Isa Gernon’s tears: her heart spoke for itself; and it was not surprising that he, against whom she had been warned by a parent—now loving almost to doting, now fiercely morose—should form the object of her musing thoughts. She had met him frequently during her walks, at a time, too, when distasteful attentions were being paid her, and she felt that her heart was being treated as a piece of merchandise.

There was something winning and frank in Brace Norton that had attracted her in spite of the chiding she gave her wandering thoughts; and young, ardent, unused to the ways of the world, she had allowed herself to dwell upon the face of the young sailor more often than was right for her peace of mind. Then came the ramble by the marsh, the leaning over the black pool-side to pluck a blossom, and her narrow escape from poor Ophelia’s fate. Was it, then, strange that when he appeared rushing to her rescue, and after his many vain struggles, told her, as he promised to die by her side, how he loved her—told her what her heart had before whispered—was it, then, strange that this should be the hour which should, in spite of her efforts, sweep away the impression of all warnings and forbidding words, and that she should yield up the heart only partly hers?

Rivalry.Dr Challen’s permission at last, and after many formal, courteous thanks, Sir Murray Gernon had come over to the Hall to fetch his child.“You will often come over and see us,” whispered Isa, as she clung to Mrs Norton; and then she trembled as she saw the tear in her hostess’s face and the slight shake of her head.“Come, Isa!” exclaimed Sir Murray, almost harshly; for the sight of the affectionate parting was bitterness to him.At the same moment Lord Maudlaine, hitherto an unnoticed member of the party, had advanced to hand Isa to the carriage.“The Castle has been like a dungeon ever since you left us,” he whispered; and Mrs Norton noted the parting of his lips. She also observed, too, that Isa did not touch his hand, but stepped unaided into the carriage; and the mother’s heart gave a throb of joy. But only for an instant: the gleam of sunshine that had seemed in those trifles to shine forth for her son was shrouded directly after by the clouds of the past, and she re-entered the house, tearful and sad, as the sound of the departing carriage seemed to fade away in the distance.For the house seemed sad now and desolate. It was as though a sweet spirit that had pervaded the place had passed away; and it was only by an effort that she composed herself so as to write to Captain Norton, and inform him that there was no longer need for his absence.There were no long conversations between Mr and Mrs Norton on the former’s return to Merland Hall; but they read each others thoughts, and avoided all reference to their son’s acts. At times Captain Norton was for expostulating with Brace, but he always came to the conclusion that matters must take their course, and that he would leave all speaking to his wife, trusting to her to point out to Brace the folly of his hopes, and then looking forward to the time for his return to sea, when, long before the cruise had come to an end, Isa Gernon would, without doubt, have become Lady Maudlaine.Brace, upon his return, was restless and excitable; his father ready to plunge into business to drown his thoughts; while the mother anxiously watched the actions of her son, longing, in her indulgent love, to whisper hope, but feeling all the while that it was a thing she dared not attempt.The second day after his return home, Brace’s heart sank, as, turning into a lane, he came suddenly upon Isa, side by side with Lord Maudlaine. They were mounted, and a groom rode at a short distance behind. He already knew by rumour that Isa was supposed to be engaged to the Viscount, and, bitter and angry, his hand was raised to his hat, in order to pass with a cold salute; but Brace’s resentment was in an instant disarmed, for Isa reined in her horse, and with a quiet, earnest smile, held out her hand, which he took in his for a moment, and then, with her companion, she was gone.A couple of days of mingled hope and fear passed before he encountered her again, when Brace Norton’s brow flushed and his pulses beat rapidly, for Isa was alone, save that a groom followed at a distance, with difficulty restraining his highly-bred steed, while his mistress’s little jennet gently ambled along.It was to both like a dream, that meeting; as, walking slowly beside her horse, his hand resting upon the saddle, Brace listened to Isa’s faltered thanks, turning from time to time to gaze in the sweet, gentle face bent towards him—a face whose eyes met his with a soft, trusting look, that made his heart swell within his breast, till a rapid step from behind told of an intruder, and Lord Maudlaine made his appearance; when, with a sigh of regret, Isa held out her hand to be taken by Brace, who retained it within his own, while he unflinchingly encountered the fierce, haughty look of contempt and pride cast upon him by the Viscount.The next minute Isa had withdrawn her hand, and, attended by Lord Maudlaine, gone towards the park, leaving Brace, as he strolled slowly home, to recall a score of things which he wished to have said.Another meeting, and once more Brace was walking with her side by side, the hand which held her little whip not being withdrawn when he laid upon it his own, to stand at last gazing up in her face, and peering into her soft, sad eyes.He tried to speak twice, but the words did not come; but he felt that time was passing, and with an effort he broke the silence.“Isa,” he said, in deep, earnest tones, “I am going to be very bold. I have a question to ask—one whose answer shall make me happy, or send me wretched away. That gentleman—Lord Maudlaine—you know what rumour says: is the rumour true?”She returned his gaze for a few moments by one as earnest, and in that brief space she saw once more the scene in the marsh—felt, too, the icy water, and the chill as of coming death stealing over her, even while those brave arms held her so tightly; and, as she thought on, it seemed to her that the life he had won from the black pit should by right be his; and her look, as she gazed on unflinchingly in his face, was even, though abstracted, loving, trusting enough to have sent him away at peace. It was an answer to his question; but not yet content, he whispered, softly: “Isa—dear Isa, may I, then, hope?” “Miss Gernon, Sir Murray has requested me to see you back in safety,” said a harsh voice at their side; and, on turning, Brace became aware of the presence of Lord Maudlaine, who must have approached upon the grass by which the lane was bordered for his coming to have been unperceived. “Sir Murray understands,” continued the Viscount, “that you are often encountered during your rides, and thinks it better that you should not be alone.”“And, pray, who was his informant?” exclaimed Brace, fiercely.“I was,” said his lordship, in cold, meaning tones. “If you have any more to say you know my address.”Brace Norton felt that he had, indeed, much more to say, but a glance at Isa Gernon’s troubled face restrained him, and in silence he allowed them to pass away; but not without his seeing that Lord Maudlaine was talking earnestly to what seemed unwilling ears.The next day, after a sleepless night, Brace Norton rode over to the Castle, sent in his card, and asked to see Sir Murray Gernon.In five minutes the answer came back that Sir Murray Gernon was engaged.Feeling the slight deeply, but all the same nothing daunted, Brace called again and again, nerved by his strong, honest love, and determined to avow boldly that love, so as not to be accused of clandestine acts. Had he gained an interview, he would have earnestly pleaded his cause with the father, and have asked his sanction; but it was evident to Brace from the very first that Sir Murray would not see him, so he wrote a long appealing letter, the blood burning in his cheeks as he indited each line, asking favour towards his suit, but not with shame—his love was too honest for that.Restless and impatient, Brace Norton awaited the reply, till he seemed almost in a state of fever. Both Captain and Mrs Norton knew the cause, but they were silent from the impression that it would be better for their son to find out for himself the hopelessness of his suit. Now Brace thought that the letter had miscarried, and wrote another, but paused before sending it, as he recalled the short space of time that had elapsed since the first was written.But at last came Sir Murray’s answer, written in a cool, formal, gentlemanly spirit, exceedingly courteous, but with every sentence bearing a cold, despairing feeling to Brace Norton’s heart as it requested that he, as an officer and a gentleman, would refrain from seeking further intimacy with Sir Murray Gernon’s family. Intercourse even of the most formal nature was quite out of the question. In conclusion, Sir Murray thanked Mr Norton for the services he had rendered to his family, and left it to Mr Brace Norton’s good sense to see that no further advances could be countenanced. Did Mr Brace Norton wish to know more—always supposing him ignorant, as his behaviour led Sir Murray Gernon to imagine—Mrs Norton would doubtless supply certain links, such as would show to her son the truth of Sir Murray’s assertion—that intercourse between the families was out of the question.Every word of that letter was so much molten misery, so much bitterness, that Brace Norton felt himself forced to drain to the dregs. He had no occasion to refer to his mother for confirmation of Sir Murray’s words; and yet why could not reconciliation come? Despair was his answer, and he hurried out to walk for hours, seeking the spots where he had encountered her, when at last he saw her riding slowly along a lane, followed at some little distance by Lord Maudlaine.For a few moments Brace stood irresolute. What should he do? Resign himself to his fate, and, waiting what time would bring forth, be patient? Had Isa been alone, perhaps he might have so acted; but there was the suitor favoured by the father dodging her like a shadow, and he smiled as he thought of the madness of waiting, when, as to what time would bring forth, there was the answer in the shape of the Viscount. It was of no avail: the heart, he told himself, was ungovernable; and, forgetting Sir Murray’s letter and all else in his love, he strode forward, and the next minute was at Isa’s side.

Dr Challen’s permission at last, and after many formal, courteous thanks, Sir Murray Gernon had come over to the Hall to fetch his child.

“You will often come over and see us,” whispered Isa, as she clung to Mrs Norton; and then she trembled as she saw the tear in her hostess’s face and the slight shake of her head.

“Come, Isa!” exclaimed Sir Murray, almost harshly; for the sight of the affectionate parting was bitterness to him.

At the same moment Lord Maudlaine, hitherto an unnoticed member of the party, had advanced to hand Isa to the carriage.

“The Castle has been like a dungeon ever since you left us,” he whispered; and Mrs Norton noted the parting of his lips. She also observed, too, that Isa did not touch his hand, but stepped unaided into the carriage; and the mother’s heart gave a throb of joy. But only for an instant: the gleam of sunshine that had seemed in those trifles to shine forth for her son was shrouded directly after by the clouds of the past, and she re-entered the house, tearful and sad, as the sound of the departing carriage seemed to fade away in the distance.

For the house seemed sad now and desolate. It was as though a sweet spirit that had pervaded the place had passed away; and it was only by an effort that she composed herself so as to write to Captain Norton, and inform him that there was no longer need for his absence.

There were no long conversations between Mr and Mrs Norton on the former’s return to Merland Hall; but they read each others thoughts, and avoided all reference to their son’s acts. At times Captain Norton was for expostulating with Brace, but he always came to the conclusion that matters must take their course, and that he would leave all speaking to his wife, trusting to her to point out to Brace the folly of his hopes, and then looking forward to the time for his return to sea, when, long before the cruise had come to an end, Isa Gernon would, without doubt, have become Lady Maudlaine.

Brace, upon his return, was restless and excitable; his father ready to plunge into business to drown his thoughts; while the mother anxiously watched the actions of her son, longing, in her indulgent love, to whisper hope, but feeling all the while that it was a thing she dared not attempt.

The second day after his return home, Brace’s heart sank, as, turning into a lane, he came suddenly upon Isa, side by side with Lord Maudlaine. They were mounted, and a groom rode at a short distance behind. He already knew by rumour that Isa was supposed to be engaged to the Viscount, and, bitter and angry, his hand was raised to his hat, in order to pass with a cold salute; but Brace’s resentment was in an instant disarmed, for Isa reined in her horse, and with a quiet, earnest smile, held out her hand, which he took in his for a moment, and then, with her companion, she was gone.

A couple of days of mingled hope and fear passed before he encountered her again, when Brace Norton’s brow flushed and his pulses beat rapidly, for Isa was alone, save that a groom followed at a distance, with difficulty restraining his highly-bred steed, while his mistress’s little jennet gently ambled along.

It was to both like a dream, that meeting; as, walking slowly beside her horse, his hand resting upon the saddle, Brace listened to Isa’s faltered thanks, turning from time to time to gaze in the sweet, gentle face bent towards him—a face whose eyes met his with a soft, trusting look, that made his heart swell within his breast, till a rapid step from behind told of an intruder, and Lord Maudlaine made his appearance; when, with a sigh of regret, Isa held out her hand to be taken by Brace, who retained it within his own, while he unflinchingly encountered the fierce, haughty look of contempt and pride cast upon him by the Viscount.

The next minute Isa had withdrawn her hand, and, attended by Lord Maudlaine, gone towards the park, leaving Brace, as he strolled slowly home, to recall a score of things which he wished to have said.

Another meeting, and once more Brace was walking with her side by side, the hand which held her little whip not being withdrawn when he laid upon it his own, to stand at last gazing up in her face, and peering into her soft, sad eyes.

He tried to speak twice, but the words did not come; but he felt that time was passing, and with an effort he broke the silence.

“Isa,” he said, in deep, earnest tones, “I am going to be very bold. I have a question to ask—one whose answer shall make me happy, or send me wretched away. That gentleman—Lord Maudlaine—you know what rumour says: is the rumour true?”

She returned his gaze for a few moments by one as earnest, and in that brief space she saw once more the scene in the marsh—felt, too, the icy water, and the chill as of coming death stealing over her, even while those brave arms held her so tightly; and, as she thought on, it seemed to her that the life he had won from the black pit should by right be his; and her look, as she gazed on unflinchingly in his face, was even, though abstracted, loving, trusting enough to have sent him away at peace. It was an answer to his question; but not yet content, he whispered, softly: “Isa—dear Isa, may I, then, hope?” “Miss Gernon, Sir Murray has requested me to see you back in safety,” said a harsh voice at their side; and, on turning, Brace became aware of the presence of Lord Maudlaine, who must have approached upon the grass by which the lane was bordered for his coming to have been unperceived. “Sir Murray understands,” continued the Viscount, “that you are often encountered during your rides, and thinks it better that you should not be alone.”

“And, pray, who was his informant?” exclaimed Brace, fiercely.

“I was,” said his lordship, in cold, meaning tones. “If you have any more to say you know my address.”

Brace Norton felt that he had, indeed, much more to say, but a glance at Isa Gernon’s troubled face restrained him, and in silence he allowed them to pass away; but not without his seeing that Lord Maudlaine was talking earnestly to what seemed unwilling ears.

The next day, after a sleepless night, Brace Norton rode over to the Castle, sent in his card, and asked to see Sir Murray Gernon.

In five minutes the answer came back that Sir Murray Gernon was engaged.

Feeling the slight deeply, but all the same nothing daunted, Brace called again and again, nerved by his strong, honest love, and determined to avow boldly that love, so as not to be accused of clandestine acts. Had he gained an interview, he would have earnestly pleaded his cause with the father, and have asked his sanction; but it was evident to Brace from the very first that Sir Murray would not see him, so he wrote a long appealing letter, the blood burning in his cheeks as he indited each line, asking favour towards his suit, but not with shame—his love was too honest for that.

Restless and impatient, Brace Norton awaited the reply, till he seemed almost in a state of fever. Both Captain and Mrs Norton knew the cause, but they were silent from the impression that it would be better for their son to find out for himself the hopelessness of his suit. Now Brace thought that the letter had miscarried, and wrote another, but paused before sending it, as he recalled the short space of time that had elapsed since the first was written.

But at last came Sir Murray’s answer, written in a cool, formal, gentlemanly spirit, exceedingly courteous, but with every sentence bearing a cold, despairing feeling to Brace Norton’s heart as it requested that he, as an officer and a gentleman, would refrain from seeking further intimacy with Sir Murray Gernon’s family. Intercourse even of the most formal nature was quite out of the question. In conclusion, Sir Murray thanked Mr Norton for the services he had rendered to his family, and left it to Mr Brace Norton’s good sense to see that no further advances could be countenanced. Did Mr Brace Norton wish to know more—always supposing him ignorant, as his behaviour led Sir Murray Gernon to imagine—Mrs Norton would doubtless supply certain links, such as would show to her son the truth of Sir Murray’s assertion—that intercourse between the families was out of the question.

Every word of that letter was so much molten misery, so much bitterness, that Brace Norton felt himself forced to drain to the dregs. He had no occasion to refer to his mother for confirmation of Sir Murray’s words; and yet why could not reconciliation come? Despair was his answer, and he hurried out to walk for hours, seeking the spots where he had encountered her, when at last he saw her riding slowly along a lane, followed at some little distance by Lord Maudlaine.

For a few moments Brace stood irresolute. What should he do? Resign himself to his fate, and, waiting what time would bring forth, be patient? Had Isa been alone, perhaps he might have so acted; but there was the suitor favoured by the father dodging her like a shadow, and he smiled as he thought of the madness of waiting, when, as to what time would bring forth, there was the answer in the shape of the Viscount. It was of no avail: the heart, he told himself, was ungovernable; and, forgetting Sir Murray’s letter and all else in his love, he strode forward, and the next minute was at Isa’s side.

“One-Two!”It is said that money has little to do with love. Be that as it may, the more often Lord Maudlaine’s thoughts reverted to his friend Mr Braham, the more he increased his attentions to Isa Gernon. At first he attributed her indifference and coolness to the innate shyness of a young girl who had passed the greater part of her life in absolute retirement; thinking, too, that as Sir Murray had all along shown himself in favour of the connection, all he had to do was to go on quietly for a few months, when the day would be fixed, the wedding take place, and he, possessed of the handsome dowry brought by his wife in exchange for an empty title, would be free from the unpleasant visits and reminders of his money-lending acquaintances.But of late matters had assumed an aspect that troubled him. This appearance of, to him, an entirely new character upon the stage, was a something for which he had not bargained. At first it was too ridiculous; the idea was preposterous that a young naval lieutenant should compete with him—should come between his nobility and the object upon which he had set his choice: he—Lord Maudlaine—son of an Earl, with the said Earl’s coronet looming for him in no very distant part of the future’s horizon.But there was the mishap in the marsh. Deuced unfortunate thing, you know. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been himself, and he had dived in after her; but for this impertinent fellow to be on the marsh, and run and jump in after Miss Gernon, it was too bad, you know—a deal too bad—and he couldn’t stand much more of it.“Horsewhip him!” said Sir Murray, with a fierce snarl, when, after a good deal of circumlocution, his lordship complained of the coolness of his intended, and her frequent encounters with Brace Norton.“But—a—a don’t you think—wouldn’t it be better if you spoke to her upon the subject—forbade her, you know, to see him any more?” said his lordship.“Horsewhip him, I tell you!” snarled Sir Murray. “Or, would your lordship like to wake up some morning to the fact that she had disgraced us by a foolish escapade—gone off, for instance, with this vagabond?” said Sir Murray, fiercely.“No! By Jove, no!” exclaimed the Viscount, turning pale at the very thought, and suffering from incipient symptoms of Braham on the brain.“Because,” said Sir Murray, giving an involuntary shudder, as he thought of the past—“because any anger on my part, any undue influence, would militate against your prospects—drive her, as it were, into the scoundrel’s arms!”“Don’t put it in that light, please,” said his lordship, faintly.“You are young, strong, and active,” continued Sir Murray. “Pay more attention to her; and, as for this man, if he will not take notice of the letter I have sent him, horsewhip him—shoot him, if needs be; for he is a cowardly hound, the son of a coward father!”Sir Murray Gernon’s eyes flashed, and his dark face grew darker, as he angrily hissed the latter words, before turning with clenched teeth, and walking up and down hastily.“Think he is?” said the Viscount, in a low voice.“Think!” echoed the baronet, with a world of scorn in his utterance of that one word.“I won’t stand any more of his nonsense, then!” exclaimed his lordship, nodding very fiercely. “It’s quite time it was stopped, and I’ll stop it!”Sir Murray gave him a short, sharp look—half assent, half contempt—and then turned upon his heel, leaving his proposed son-in-law alone.“What a savage bear he grows!” muttered his lordship, as soon as he was alone; but the next instant his harsh opinion was softened down by the recollection of Sir Murray’s wealth; and he stood gazing for an instant from the open window over the lake at the line stretch of park land, with its noble timber, and recalled the last quiet conversation he had had with the baronet, when he was requested—in words which told most plainly of the owners intentions—not to cut down any of the timber, nor yet to drain the lake.Five minutes after, his lordship walked into the drawing-rooms, and went through the whole suite, expecting every moment to see Isa reading on some lounge; but she was not there. He then walked into the breakfast and dining-rooms, the conservatory, and Lady Gernon’s boudoir, ending by taking a turn in the garden; but Isa was still invisible.“Seen Miss Gernon?” he said at last to the major-domo, whom he encountered in the hall.“Me young lady went oot for her morning ride a gude half-hoor ago, my lord,” said McCray; when, taking a hunting-crop from a stand close by, his lordship walked hurriedly away.“Jenny, my gude lassie,” said the old Scot, as he entered the housekeeper’s room some five minutes after, when returning from watching his lordship across the lawn—“Jenny, my gude lassie, here’s the auld coorse of true love rinning rougher than iver, and our wee pet bairn, I fear, going to be made unhappy. The ways of the world are very crooked, and I canna help thinking it wondrous strange that young Norton should be thrown in our darling’s way as he is. I’m pitying him, too, lassie, for he’s a bra’e lad, and my heart wairmed to him for the way he saved the child; and he puts me in mind, too, of ane Alexander McCray twenty year agane, whose heart was sair as this laddie’s is, I ken. But it all came reet for mine, Jenny. Will it come reet for the Nortons’ boy?”The housekeeper shook her head.“What’s to be done, lassie?”“Nothing,” said Jane his wife, quietly, but with a sad look; “these things are beyond us, McCray, and must take their course.”“I’ll put a stop to it, that I will!” muttered Lord Maudlaine, as he strode off across the lawn, and disappeared from McCray’s sight. “Only let me see him hanging after her again!”If his lordship’s wish to see Brace Norton with Isa Gernon again were genuine, his gratification was quick in coming; for, at the end of half an hour’s sharp walk, he caught sight of Isa and Brace almost at the same moment—just; in fact, as the latter hurried up, so as to reach the young girl before his favoured rival.“Shall I horsewhip him before her, or shall I wait till he comes away?” muttered his lordship. “He didn’t take any notice of what I said last time, though I half thought that I should have heard from him.”His lordship stood irresolute for a few moments, but the way in which Brace was received forced him into action, and he strode past the groom, who stood at a respectful distance, and up to the pair.“Look here, you!” he exclaimed to Brace, coarsely. “This sort of thing won’t do! You’ve been told that you’re not to follow Miss Gernon about. Do you hear?”“Isa,” said Brace, in a whisper to the trembling girl, “will you ride on?”“No,” she answered, in the same tone, as she bent down towards him. “Please—my first request—for my sake, Mr Norton, do not let there be any quarrel.”“I will do my best to avoid it,” said Brace, with a quiet, re-assuring smile; when, apparently enraged by the understanding which appeared to exist, but really nerved thereto by the words let fall that morning by Sir Murray, Lord Maudlaine strode fiercely in front of Brace, who, however, stood coolly and unflinchingly before him.“Look here!” exclaimed his lordship. “Once more I say this sort of thing won’t do! Are you listening to what I say?”“Yes,” said Brace, quietly. “I am listening.”“Then, look here: you’ve been warned times enough, and I shall put up with no more of it! Now go; and I warn you that if ever again you dare to speak to Miss Gernon, or to intrude upon her with your insolent attentions, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll horsewhip you!”These last words seemed to be forced from him by an effort; when, pale with anger at being so addressed in the presence of Isa, Brace took a step towards the Viscount, with his fists clenched, and his teeth set upon his upper lip. But at that instant, when a collision seemed imminent, an ejaculation of fear took Brace again to Isa’s side.“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, with the anger fading out of his countenance. “Forgive me for my thoughtless passion.” He laid his hand upon hers, pressing it upon the pommel of the saddle, as he gazed up in her face. “This is rather hard to bear; but I will try.”“Confound you! are words of no use whatever?” exclaimed his lordship angrily. And at the same moment the hunting-crop was raised, whistled through the air, and descended heavily upon Brace Norton’s shoulders, causing him to start as if stung by some venomous reptile.That which followed seemed to take place in an instant, for as Lord Maudlaine’s hand was raised to repeat the blow, something darted through the air, striking him full upon the cheek, and he rolled over in the dusty road, felled by a blow that would have shaken the equanimity of a bullock.“You dog—you cowardly miscreant!” hissed Brace between his teeth, as, beside himself with passion, he stood with clenched fists over his fallen adversary, till, recalling his promise, he once more hurried to the side of the trembling girl.“I forgot myself,” he exclaimed, hastily; “I thought that I had more self-control.” Then seeing the working features and agitation the fracas had caused, he added, hastily: “Dear Isa, I know I deserve your anger—your contempt; but I have only one excuse to offer: it was something new to me, and evoked passion of whose existence I was in ignorance.”Isa could not speak; but as she listened to his pleading words, poor girl!—perhaps she was very weak and foolish—she thought that she had never seen Brace Norton look so brave and handsome before, and her eyes betokened more love than anger as they returned the young man’s gaze.Meanwhile, foaming with rage, and covered with the chalky dust in which he had involuntarily rolled, Lord Maudlaine stood, looking anything but a hero, as the dismounted groom grinned to himself and dusted his master’s guest, rubbing him down with a gorgeous orange-and-white silk handkerchief, all hot from out of his livery; but polishing away, and accompanying the task with the hissing noise generally accorded to horses.His lordship did not speak, but turned his back upon the group; and but for sundry recollections of his embarrassments which at the present moment intruded themselves painfully upon him, it is most probable that my lord the Viscount and prospective Earl and peer of the realm, would have hurriedly taken his departure from the neighbourhood of Merland. As it was, he submitted to the cleansing process so liberally bestowed upon him by the groom. Then, holding his handkerchief to his cheek, he turned to face Norton, to find that he was already a hundred yards off, walking by the side of Isa’s mare; and soon after they disappeared at a turn of the road.“Curse him!” exclaimed his lordship, with a fierce and bitter imprecation.“Ketched yer unaweers, my lord, didn’t he?” said the groom, who, with his bridle over his arm, still kept up his hissing and rubbing process. “If you’d ha’ throwed up your left arm sharp, my lord, and then let go with your right, I don’t know but what you might ha stopped him, and planted one for yourself. But per’aps, arter all, it was very doubtful, for that was as sharp a cutter as ever I did see.”His lordship did not seem to heed the friendly counsel, for, turning upon his heel, he strode hastily away in the opposite direction to that taken by Isa Gernon, muttering angrily, and evidently smarting with pain.“I’m blest if I don’t think,” muttered Peter, the groom, as he slowly inducted a foot to its stirrup, and then lazily threw a leg over the horse’s back, and began to put on his gloves—“I’m blest if I don’t think as the higher yer gets up in serciety, the shabbier yer grows. Now, if that ’ere had been, say, a working man, or a lab’rer, and I’d set him upon his pins, and rubbed him down, he’d per’aps not ha’ said, ‘Here’s the price of a pint, mate,’ but he’d ha’ stood a pint, safe; and if it had been a plain gent, such as that young Squire Norton, he’d ha’ give a shilling, per’aps ’arf a crown, or one o’ them duffing two-bob bits; but as for my fine lord here, he don’t so much as say thanky, let alone show you the colour of his money; while, getting up higher still, if it had been a Juke, blow me if I don’t think he’d ha’ kicked me for what I did. Well, just as they like, and it’s all one a hundred years to come. All I can say, though, is, as it served his grand lordship jolly well right, and it was as neat and prettily-planted a blow as ever I did see put in. One—two! one—two! one—two! that was about it,” he continued; as, tucking his whip under his saddle-flap, and laying the reins upon the pommel, he began to square with his fists in imitation of the blow he had seen delivered. “He’s learned the noble art of self-defence, safe. One—two! one—two! one—two! Hold up, will yer!” he shouted, for in his excitement he had rammed one spur against his horse’s side, and the poor animal had plunged sharply so as to nearly unseat his rider, who now gathered up his reins, and cantered after his mistress.He had not ridden far before he came upon Brace Norton, apparently watching for him, in the middle of the road, and ready to slip a crown-piece into his hand.“I think, my man,” said Brace, quietly, “that it would be as well if the little unpleasantly you saw between Lord Maudlaine and me were not talked about up there at the Castle.”“Dumb as a jockey, sir,” said the groom, striking himself over the mouth as he spoke; “but—you won’t be affronted, sir?”“Affronted!—no. What is it?” said Brace, smiling.“If you’d—if you’d take that crown back, sir—” hesitated the man.“Take it back? Nonsense! Keep it, my lad.”“And just show me how to give that blow, sir. ’Pon my word, sir, I’d rather know that than have half-a-dozen crowns. I never did see such a settler!”Brace laughed, and strode on hurriedly, shaking his head.“Ride on, my man,” he said. “Your mistress is a long way ahead.”“That’s true enough,” said the groom to himself, as he looked after the retiring figure; “but he put him down just like a sack o’ chaff, that he did; and my lord didn’t like it, neither. I’m blest!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, and checking his horse suddenly. “Don’t say nothing up at the Castle, which I won’t; but if there don’t come coffee and pistols out of this job, I’m a Dutchman!”

It is said that money has little to do with love. Be that as it may, the more often Lord Maudlaine’s thoughts reverted to his friend Mr Braham, the more he increased his attentions to Isa Gernon. At first he attributed her indifference and coolness to the innate shyness of a young girl who had passed the greater part of her life in absolute retirement; thinking, too, that as Sir Murray had all along shown himself in favour of the connection, all he had to do was to go on quietly for a few months, when the day would be fixed, the wedding take place, and he, possessed of the handsome dowry brought by his wife in exchange for an empty title, would be free from the unpleasant visits and reminders of his money-lending acquaintances.

But of late matters had assumed an aspect that troubled him. This appearance of, to him, an entirely new character upon the stage, was a something for which he had not bargained. At first it was too ridiculous; the idea was preposterous that a young naval lieutenant should compete with him—should come between his nobility and the object upon which he had set his choice: he—Lord Maudlaine—son of an Earl, with the said Earl’s coronet looming for him in no very distant part of the future’s horizon.

But there was the mishap in the marsh. Deuced unfortunate thing, you know. It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been himself, and he had dived in after her; but for this impertinent fellow to be on the marsh, and run and jump in after Miss Gernon, it was too bad, you know—a deal too bad—and he couldn’t stand much more of it.

“Horsewhip him!” said Sir Murray, with a fierce snarl, when, after a good deal of circumlocution, his lordship complained of the coolness of his intended, and her frequent encounters with Brace Norton.

“But—a—a don’t you think—wouldn’t it be better if you spoke to her upon the subject—forbade her, you know, to see him any more?” said his lordship.

“Horsewhip him, I tell you!” snarled Sir Murray. “Or, would your lordship like to wake up some morning to the fact that she had disgraced us by a foolish escapade—gone off, for instance, with this vagabond?” said Sir Murray, fiercely.

“No! By Jove, no!” exclaimed the Viscount, turning pale at the very thought, and suffering from incipient symptoms of Braham on the brain.

“Because,” said Sir Murray, giving an involuntary shudder, as he thought of the past—“because any anger on my part, any undue influence, would militate against your prospects—drive her, as it were, into the scoundrel’s arms!”

“Don’t put it in that light, please,” said his lordship, faintly.

“You are young, strong, and active,” continued Sir Murray. “Pay more attention to her; and, as for this man, if he will not take notice of the letter I have sent him, horsewhip him—shoot him, if needs be; for he is a cowardly hound, the son of a coward father!”

Sir Murray Gernon’s eyes flashed, and his dark face grew darker, as he angrily hissed the latter words, before turning with clenched teeth, and walking up and down hastily.

“Think he is?” said the Viscount, in a low voice.

“Think!” echoed the baronet, with a world of scorn in his utterance of that one word.

“I won’t stand any more of his nonsense, then!” exclaimed his lordship, nodding very fiercely. “It’s quite time it was stopped, and I’ll stop it!”

Sir Murray gave him a short, sharp look—half assent, half contempt—and then turned upon his heel, leaving his proposed son-in-law alone.

“What a savage bear he grows!” muttered his lordship, as soon as he was alone; but the next instant his harsh opinion was softened down by the recollection of Sir Murray’s wealth; and he stood gazing for an instant from the open window over the lake at the line stretch of park land, with its noble timber, and recalled the last quiet conversation he had had with the baronet, when he was requested—in words which told most plainly of the owners intentions—not to cut down any of the timber, nor yet to drain the lake.

Five minutes after, his lordship walked into the drawing-rooms, and went through the whole suite, expecting every moment to see Isa reading on some lounge; but she was not there. He then walked into the breakfast and dining-rooms, the conservatory, and Lady Gernon’s boudoir, ending by taking a turn in the garden; but Isa was still invisible.

“Seen Miss Gernon?” he said at last to the major-domo, whom he encountered in the hall.

“Me young lady went oot for her morning ride a gude half-hoor ago, my lord,” said McCray; when, taking a hunting-crop from a stand close by, his lordship walked hurriedly away.

“Jenny, my gude lassie,” said the old Scot, as he entered the housekeeper’s room some five minutes after, when returning from watching his lordship across the lawn—“Jenny, my gude lassie, here’s the auld coorse of true love rinning rougher than iver, and our wee pet bairn, I fear, going to be made unhappy. The ways of the world are very crooked, and I canna help thinking it wondrous strange that young Norton should be thrown in our darling’s way as he is. I’m pitying him, too, lassie, for he’s a bra’e lad, and my heart wairmed to him for the way he saved the child; and he puts me in mind, too, of ane Alexander McCray twenty year agane, whose heart was sair as this laddie’s is, I ken. But it all came reet for mine, Jenny. Will it come reet for the Nortons’ boy?”

The housekeeper shook her head.

“What’s to be done, lassie?”

“Nothing,” said Jane his wife, quietly, but with a sad look; “these things are beyond us, McCray, and must take their course.”

“I’ll put a stop to it, that I will!” muttered Lord Maudlaine, as he strode off across the lawn, and disappeared from McCray’s sight. “Only let me see him hanging after her again!”

If his lordship’s wish to see Brace Norton with Isa Gernon again were genuine, his gratification was quick in coming; for, at the end of half an hour’s sharp walk, he caught sight of Isa and Brace almost at the same moment—just; in fact, as the latter hurried up, so as to reach the young girl before his favoured rival.

“Shall I horsewhip him before her, or shall I wait till he comes away?” muttered his lordship. “He didn’t take any notice of what I said last time, though I half thought that I should have heard from him.”

His lordship stood irresolute for a few moments, but the way in which Brace was received forced him into action, and he strode past the groom, who stood at a respectful distance, and up to the pair.

“Look here, you!” he exclaimed to Brace, coarsely. “This sort of thing won’t do! You’ve been told that you’re not to follow Miss Gernon about. Do you hear?”

“Isa,” said Brace, in a whisper to the trembling girl, “will you ride on?”

“No,” she answered, in the same tone, as she bent down towards him. “Please—my first request—for my sake, Mr Norton, do not let there be any quarrel.”

“I will do my best to avoid it,” said Brace, with a quiet, re-assuring smile; when, apparently enraged by the understanding which appeared to exist, but really nerved thereto by the words let fall that morning by Sir Murray, Lord Maudlaine strode fiercely in front of Brace, who, however, stood coolly and unflinchingly before him.

“Look here!” exclaimed his lordship. “Once more I say this sort of thing won’t do! Are you listening to what I say?”

“Yes,” said Brace, quietly. “I am listening.”

“Then, look here: you’ve been warned times enough, and I shall put up with no more of it! Now go; and I warn you that if ever again you dare to speak to Miss Gernon, or to intrude upon her with your insolent attentions, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll horsewhip you!”

These last words seemed to be forced from him by an effort; when, pale with anger at being so addressed in the presence of Isa, Brace took a step towards the Viscount, with his fists clenched, and his teeth set upon his upper lip. But at that instant, when a collision seemed imminent, an ejaculation of fear took Brace again to Isa’s side.

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, with the anger fading out of his countenance. “Forgive me for my thoughtless passion.” He laid his hand upon hers, pressing it upon the pommel of the saddle, as he gazed up in her face. “This is rather hard to bear; but I will try.”

“Confound you! are words of no use whatever?” exclaimed his lordship angrily. And at the same moment the hunting-crop was raised, whistled through the air, and descended heavily upon Brace Norton’s shoulders, causing him to start as if stung by some venomous reptile.

That which followed seemed to take place in an instant, for as Lord Maudlaine’s hand was raised to repeat the blow, something darted through the air, striking him full upon the cheek, and he rolled over in the dusty road, felled by a blow that would have shaken the equanimity of a bullock.

“You dog—you cowardly miscreant!” hissed Brace between his teeth, as, beside himself with passion, he stood with clenched fists over his fallen adversary, till, recalling his promise, he once more hurried to the side of the trembling girl.

“I forgot myself,” he exclaimed, hastily; “I thought that I had more self-control.” Then seeing the working features and agitation the fracas had caused, he added, hastily: “Dear Isa, I know I deserve your anger—your contempt; but I have only one excuse to offer: it was something new to me, and evoked passion of whose existence I was in ignorance.”

Isa could not speak; but as she listened to his pleading words, poor girl!—perhaps she was very weak and foolish—she thought that she had never seen Brace Norton look so brave and handsome before, and her eyes betokened more love than anger as they returned the young man’s gaze.

Meanwhile, foaming with rage, and covered with the chalky dust in which he had involuntarily rolled, Lord Maudlaine stood, looking anything but a hero, as the dismounted groom grinned to himself and dusted his master’s guest, rubbing him down with a gorgeous orange-and-white silk handkerchief, all hot from out of his livery; but polishing away, and accompanying the task with the hissing noise generally accorded to horses.

His lordship did not speak, but turned his back upon the group; and but for sundry recollections of his embarrassments which at the present moment intruded themselves painfully upon him, it is most probable that my lord the Viscount and prospective Earl and peer of the realm, would have hurriedly taken his departure from the neighbourhood of Merland. As it was, he submitted to the cleansing process so liberally bestowed upon him by the groom. Then, holding his handkerchief to his cheek, he turned to face Norton, to find that he was already a hundred yards off, walking by the side of Isa’s mare; and soon after they disappeared at a turn of the road.

“Curse him!” exclaimed his lordship, with a fierce and bitter imprecation.

“Ketched yer unaweers, my lord, didn’t he?” said the groom, who, with his bridle over his arm, still kept up his hissing and rubbing process. “If you’d ha’ throwed up your left arm sharp, my lord, and then let go with your right, I don’t know but what you might ha stopped him, and planted one for yourself. But per’aps, arter all, it was very doubtful, for that was as sharp a cutter as ever I did see.”

His lordship did not seem to heed the friendly counsel, for, turning upon his heel, he strode hastily away in the opposite direction to that taken by Isa Gernon, muttering angrily, and evidently smarting with pain.

“I’m blest if I don’t think,” muttered Peter, the groom, as he slowly inducted a foot to its stirrup, and then lazily threw a leg over the horse’s back, and began to put on his gloves—“I’m blest if I don’t think as the higher yer gets up in serciety, the shabbier yer grows. Now, if that ’ere had been, say, a working man, or a lab’rer, and I’d set him upon his pins, and rubbed him down, he’d per’aps not ha’ said, ‘Here’s the price of a pint, mate,’ but he’d ha’ stood a pint, safe; and if it had been a plain gent, such as that young Squire Norton, he’d ha’ give a shilling, per’aps ’arf a crown, or one o’ them duffing two-bob bits; but as for my fine lord here, he don’t so much as say thanky, let alone show you the colour of his money; while, getting up higher still, if it had been a Juke, blow me if I don’t think he’d ha’ kicked me for what I did. Well, just as they like, and it’s all one a hundred years to come. All I can say, though, is, as it served his grand lordship jolly well right, and it was as neat and prettily-planted a blow as ever I did see put in. One—two! one—two! one—two! that was about it,” he continued; as, tucking his whip under his saddle-flap, and laying the reins upon the pommel, he began to square with his fists in imitation of the blow he had seen delivered. “He’s learned the noble art of self-defence, safe. One—two! one—two! one—two! Hold up, will yer!” he shouted, for in his excitement he had rammed one spur against his horse’s side, and the poor animal had plunged sharply so as to nearly unseat his rider, who now gathered up his reins, and cantered after his mistress.

He had not ridden far before he came upon Brace Norton, apparently watching for him, in the middle of the road, and ready to slip a crown-piece into his hand.

“I think, my man,” said Brace, quietly, “that it would be as well if the little unpleasantly you saw between Lord Maudlaine and me were not talked about up there at the Castle.”

“Dumb as a jockey, sir,” said the groom, striking himself over the mouth as he spoke; “but—you won’t be affronted, sir?”

“Affronted!—no. What is it?” said Brace, smiling.

“If you’d—if you’d take that crown back, sir—” hesitated the man.

“Take it back? Nonsense! Keep it, my lad.”

“And just show me how to give that blow, sir. ’Pon my word, sir, I’d rather know that than have half-a-dozen crowns. I never did see such a settler!”

Brace laughed, and strode on hurriedly, shaking his head.

“Ride on, my man,” he said. “Your mistress is a long way ahead.”

“That’s true enough,” said the groom to himself, as he looked after the retiring figure; “but he put him down just like a sack o’ chaff, that he did; and my lord didn’t like it, neither. I’m blest!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh, and checking his horse suddenly. “Don’t say nothing up at the Castle, which I won’t; but if there don’t come coffee and pistols out of this job, I’m a Dutchman!”

Magnanimity.“Lord Maudlaine presents his compliments to Lieutenant Norton, and begs to say, that although Lieutenant Norton’s behaviour has been such that the meeting in such cases necessitated by wounded honour may seem absolutely imperative, yet, feeling compassion for his youth and inexperience, Lord Maudlaine is willing to forego the customary arrangement on one condition—namely, that Lieutenant Norton immediately quit Merland, and in no way, previous to his departure, trespass against the wishes of Sir Murray Gernon.”“He will understand that,” said his lordship, who, after many hours of sheer hard work, contrived the above magnanimous epistle, and despatched it by a special messenger to Merland Hall, where it was read by Brace, with a quiet, scornful smile.“When a man’s fate leads him in one direction,” he muttered, “it takes something stronger than such a letter as that to turn him out of the way.”The result was that Brace tore up the letter with an impatient “pish!” and cast the fragments away, Lord Maudlaine the while nervously looking for the reply that did not come, even when two days had elapsed, during which time both Sir Murray and he learned that Isa had been seen twice with Brace Norton, and the former angrily asked him how much longer he intended “that boy” to stand in his way.“I should have thought,” said his lordship, sulkily, “that I might have counted upon your help, and that you would, at least, have ordered Miss Gernon to confine herself to the house.”“Did I not give you my reasons,” said Sir Murray, angrily. “Any coercion on my part would be snatched at by this Norton as an occasion for persuading the silly child to fly with him. I had more faith in you, Maudlaine; I thought that you would have striven harder to undermine his influence, instead of which, you turned tail in her presence—he struck you! I saw it all!”“I struck him first,” said his lordship, sulkily.“Look here, Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, haughtily, “when I was a young man such an insult would have been followed by something more than words. You will stand and have her stolen from you.”“Perhaps this will go further yet,” exclaimed the Viscount, firing up; for the thought of losing the prize he had looked upon as gained stung him to the quick, and without another word he hurried from the room, leaving Sir Murray thoughtful and frowning as he recalled the past. At times, though, his face softened, as the remembrance of Isa’s gentle features crossed his imagination, and he dwelt for awhile upon her resemblance to her mother; but soon morose and bitter feelings prevailed, and for no reason, save that it seemed an eligible match, with a title, to which the name of Gernon would be allied, he cast aside all thoughts of affection as childish, and determined to take some steps himself for assisting his proposed son-in-law in his pretensions.

“Lord Maudlaine presents his compliments to Lieutenant Norton, and begs to say, that although Lieutenant Norton’s behaviour has been such that the meeting in such cases necessitated by wounded honour may seem absolutely imperative, yet, feeling compassion for his youth and inexperience, Lord Maudlaine is willing to forego the customary arrangement on one condition—namely, that Lieutenant Norton immediately quit Merland, and in no way, previous to his departure, trespass against the wishes of Sir Murray Gernon.”

“He will understand that,” said his lordship, who, after many hours of sheer hard work, contrived the above magnanimous epistle, and despatched it by a special messenger to Merland Hall, where it was read by Brace, with a quiet, scornful smile.

“When a man’s fate leads him in one direction,” he muttered, “it takes something stronger than such a letter as that to turn him out of the way.”

The result was that Brace tore up the letter with an impatient “pish!” and cast the fragments away, Lord Maudlaine the while nervously looking for the reply that did not come, even when two days had elapsed, during which time both Sir Murray and he learned that Isa had been seen twice with Brace Norton, and the former angrily asked him how much longer he intended “that boy” to stand in his way.

“I should have thought,” said his lordship, sulkily, “that I might have counted upon your help, and that you would, at least, have ordered Miss Gernon to confine herself to the house.”

“Did I not give you my reasons,” said Sir Murray, angrily. “Any coercion on my part would be snatched at by this Norton as an occasion for persuading the silly child to fly with him. I had more faith in you, Maudlaine; I thought that you would have striven harder to undermine his influence, instead of which, you turned tail in her presence—he struck you! I saw it all!”

“I struck him first,” said his lordship, sulkily.

“Look here, Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, haughtily, “when I was a young man such an insult would have been followed by something more than words. You will stand and have her stolen from you.”

“Perhaps this will go further yet,” exclaimed the Viscount, firing up; for the thought of losing the prize he had looked upon as gained stung him to the quick, and without another word he hurried from the room, leaving Sir Murray thoughtful and frowning as he recalled the past. At times, though, his face softened, as the remembrance of Isa’s gentle features crossed his imagination, and he dwelt for awhile upon her resemblance to her mother; but soon morose and bitter feelings prevailed, and for no reason, save that it seemed an eligible match, with a title, to which the name of Gernon would be allied, he cast aside all thoughts of affection as childish, and determined to take some steps himself for assisting his proposed son-in-law in his pretensions.

McCray Scents Mischief.On leaving Sir Murray Gernon, the energy which Lord Maudlaine had displayed seemed to disappear, and he entered his own room, pale and drawn of countenance. His hand, too, trembled, as, taking up a small silver flask which lay upon a side-table, he drained it to the last drop.The brandy seemed to supply him with the nerve he required; and with a renewed energy, that wore something of the air of desperation, he opened a drawer in the bottom of his dressing-case, and took from it a pair of small, handsomely-mounted pistols. But his hands trembled as he turned them over and over, and the hue of his countenance became more and more sallow, while dark lines showed themselves beneath his eyes.For strange thoughts were intruding themselves upon his mind, and it seemed to him that unless Brace Norton were out of his way he might just as well apply one of those pistols to his own forehead, and draw the trigger. This was not Italy, where he had first made the acquaintance of the Gernons, or how easily he might have been rid of his rival. But rid of him he must be, or ruin stared him in the face. Gambling and betting had taken his last shilling, and now, supplied with cash for the prosecution of his matrimonial project by one of the money-lending fraternity, he knew what his fate must be should he fail. Confound this Norton!—he was always starting up in his path; and he knew in his heart that he was afraid of him; and, but for the recollection of the fierce blow dealt him—a blow whose smart he still seemed to feel—the Viscount dared not have prosecuted the intent for which he was now preparing.The age of duelling was long past, and he gave Brace Norton the credit for sending a note of challenge to the police, the result probably being a summons before the bench of magistrates at Marshton, and his being bound over to keep the peace towards Brace Norton and all her Majesty’s liege servants. So, in accordance with the plan he had laid down, he proceeded to carefully load both pistols: powder and bullet, cap, and one was ready; powder, wad, cap, and another was ready; and then—perhaps by accident—his lordship took up a pen, dipped it in the silver inkstand close by, and let it fall, so that one pistol-butt was slightly marked with the black fluid. Then he sat, pen in hand, thoughtful and silent for some time, but he did not write; and at last, still very pale and anxious of mien, he took up the pistols, sounded the barrels one by one with the ramrods, and then placed one in each pocket of his coat, and slowly left the room, encountering, as he did so, the quiet, thoughtful countenance of shrewd old Sandy McCray, who watched him out into the pleasure-grounds, and then, having seen that his lordship’s valet was in the housekeeper’s room, walked swiftly up-stairs, and into the bed-room the Viscount had just vacated.“He’s been writing, seemingly,” said the old Scot; “but he looked woondrous bad. But what ha’e we here, spillit a’ ower the table-cover? Gude presairve us! if it isn’t poother; and whaat would he be wanting with poother?”Sandy McCray’s pondering was arrested by the sight of the dressing-case drawer partly opened; and pulling it out, and gazing within it for a few moments, he hurriedly closed it again, and hastened down-stairs, and out into the stable yard, where he was not long before he found Peter, his young lady’s groom. Peter had coat and vest off, his braces tied round his waist, and his shirt sleeves rolled-up to the elbows, squaring away at a corn-sack stuffed full of hay, and stood up on a bin in the large stable.“One, two—one, two!” he kept on repeating; and, after a slight feint each time, he delivered a most tremendous blow, at the height of a man’s face, right in the tightly-stuffed sack. “One, two, thud—one, two, thud!” went the blows, as the active little fellow sparred away, perspiring profusely the while, till he became aware of the old major-domo’s presence, when he stopped short, abashed.“So ye’re practising boxing, my lad, air ye? Gude-sake! gi’e up that, and lairne to wrastle and throw the caber and put the stane. But leuke here, my laddie: does it ever happen that my young leddy meets Mr Norton when she’s oot? There—there, I dinna wush ye to betray ony one, laddie; but ye lo’e her weel, like we all do, and I hae a soospeeshun that a’ isn’t reet. Noo, I’ve been a gude friend to ye always, Peter, and eef there’s iver been anything wrang, I’ve been like Sir Murray himsel’ to all ye sairvants, and paid yer wage, and seen ye raised, and that no ane put upon ye; so now tell me, like a gude laddie, has there been any clishmaclaver with Maister Norton and my laird here?”Peter nodded shortly.“Gude lad; it’s for the gude of all I ask ye, sae tell me all. Did they come to blows?”“Lordship hit Mr Norton with his whip,” said Peter.“Weel, laddie?” said McCray, for the groom paused.“Mr Norton turns round like a shot; and ‘one, two’—that’s the blow; and my lord goes over just like that sack—that’s the cut, sir!”As he spoke, the groom rushed at the sack, and with one of his vigorous blows struck it right from the corn-bin to the ground.“Gude, lad—gude, lad, and weel planted!” said McCray. “But noo, keep yer ain counsel, and put on yer duds, and come wi’ me.” Then, slowly making his way from the stable, McCray muttered: “And that accoonts for the poother.”

On leaving Sir Murray Gernon, the energy which Lord Maudlaine had displayed seemed to disappear, and he entered his own room, pale and drawn of countenance. His hand, too, trembled, as, taking up a small silver flask which lay upon a side-table, he drained it to the last drop.

The brandy seemed to supply him with the nerve he required; and with a renewed energy, that wore something of the air of desperation, he opened a drawer in the bottom of his dressing-case, and took from it a pair of small, handsomely-mounted pistols. But his hands trembled as he turned them over and over, and the hue of his countenance became more and more sallow, while dark lines showed themselves beneath his eyes.

For strange thoughts were intruding themselves upon his mind, and it seemed to him that unless Brace Norton were out of his way he might just as well apply one of those pistols to his own forehead, and draw the trigger. This was not Italy, where he had first made the acquaintance of the Gernons, or how easily he might have been rid of his rival. But rid of him he must be, or ruin stared him in the face. Gambling and betting had taken his last shilling, and now, supplied with cash for the prosecution of his matrimonial project by one of the money-lending fraternity, he knew what his fate must be should he fail. Confound this Norton!—he was always starting up in his path; and he knew in his heart that he was afraid of him; and, but for the recollection of the fierce blow dealt him—a blow whose smart he still seemed to feel—the Viscount dared not have prosecuted the intent for which he was now preparing.

The age of duelling was long past, and he gave Brace Norton the credit for sending a note of challenge to the police, the result probably being a summons before the bench of magistrates at Marshton, and his being bound over to keep the peace towards Brace Norton and all her Majesty’s liege servants. So, in accordance with the plan he had laid down, he proceeded to carefully load both pistols: powder and bullet, cap, and one was ready; powder, wad, cap, and another was ready; and then—perhaps by accident—his lordship took up a pen, dipped it in the silver inkstand close by, and let it fall, so that one pistol-butt was slightly marked with the black fluid. Then he sat, pen in hand, thoughtful and silent for some time, but he did not write; and at last, still very pale and anxious of mien, he took up the pistols, sounded the barrels one by one with the ramrods, and then placed one in each pocket of his coat, and slowly left the room, encountering, as he did so, the quiet, thoughtful countenance of shrewd old Sandy McCray, who watched him out into the pleasure-grounds, and then, having seen that his lordship’s valet was in the housekeeper’s room, walked swiftly up-stairs, and into the bed-room the Viscount had just vacated.

“He’s been writing, seemingly,” said the old Scot; “but he looked woondrous bad. But what ha’e we here, spillit a’ ower the table-cover? Gude presairve us! if it isn’t poother; and whaat would he be wanting with poother?”

Sandy McCray’s pondering was arrested by the sight of the dressing-case drawer partly opened; and pulling it out, and gazing within it for a few moments, he hurriedly closed it again, and hastened down-stairs, and out into the stable yard, where he was not long before he found Peter, his young lady’s groom. Peter had coat and vest off, his braces tied round his waist, and his shirt sleeves rolled-up to the elbows, squaring away at a corn-sack stuffed full of hay, and stood up on a bin in the large stable.

“One, two—one, two!” he kept on repeating; and, after a slight feint each time, he delivered a most tremendous blow, at the height of a man’s face, right in the tightly-stuffed sack. “One, two, thud—one, two, thud!” went the blows, as the active little fellow sparred away, perspiring profusely the while, till he became aware of the old major-domo’s presence, when he stopped short, abashed.

“So ye’re practising boxing, my lad, air ye? Gude-sake! gi’e up that, and lairne to wrastle and throw the caber and put the stane. But leuke here, my laddie: does it ever happen that my young leddy meets Mr Norton when she’s oot? There—there, I dinna wush ye to betray ony one, laddie; but ye lo’e her weel, like we all do, and I hae a soospeeshun that a’ isn’t reet. Noo, I’ve been a gude friend to ye always, Peter, and eef there’s iver been anything wrang, I’ve been like Sir Murray himsel’ to all ye sairvants, and paid yer wage, and seen ye raised, and that no ane put upon ye; so now tell me, like a gude laddie, has there been any clishmaclaver with Maister Norton and my laird here?”

Peter nodded shortly.

“Gude lad; it’s for the gude of all I ask ye, sae tell me all. Did they come to blows?”

“Lordship hit Mr Norton with his whip,” said Peter.

“Weel, laddie?” said McCray, for the groom paused.

“Mr Norton turns round like a shot; and ‘one, two’—that’s the blow; and my lord goes over just like that sack—that’s the cut, sir!”

As he spoke, the groom rushed at the sack, and with one of his vigorous blows struck it right from the corn-bin to the ground.

“Gude, lad—gude, lad, and weel planted!” said McCray. “But noo, keep yer ain counsel, and put on yer duds, and come wi’ me.” Then, slowly making his way from the stable, McCray muttered: “And that accoonts for the poother.”

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