Lover and Father.
“Noo, leuke here, young man, I wadna speake to ye at all but for your cloth, for my ain brither wore the true-blue, and was lost at sea in a Kirkcaldy herring-boat, and so I always feel disposed to foregather with ane who sails the ocean. Noo, ye’ve stoppit me oot here in the lane, speerin’ aboot the auld times. I was Sir Mooray’s gairdener then, fresh up frae the North Kintree—frae Galashiels, and spak the Scottish dialec then, only lang-dwelling in furren pairts has made quite a furrener o’ me. But I was gaun to say, Sir Mooray wud be sair angered wi’ me if he knew I so much as spak to ye, and I must do my duty by him.”
“But just answer me a few questions!” cried Brace, eagerly.
“Na, na!” said McCray, as he leaned against a gate and took snuff. “I’m sorry for ye—I am indeed, for I ken a’ aboot it. I had it frae the gudewife, who nursed the bairn oop yinder, ever sin’ she was a babe—at a time, too, when my ain hairt was sair. Ye lo’e the sweet flower weel, I’ve nae doot; but it canna be, young man—ye must goo awa’ and try and forget her. There’s a sair black pit atween ye twain, and I canna see that it will ever be filled up or bridged ower. Ye must try and bear it all as weel’s ye can.”
“But do you believe the story, McCray?” exclaimed Brace.
“I dinna ken—I winna say. All I can say is, I wush ye micht put a’ reet and win the sweet lassie; for yon loon wi’ the title—There, dinna say anither wurd to me, Meester Norton, for I’m forgetting whose sairvant I am. Tak’ my advice: join your ship, and go try and forget it a’; for it’s an awfu’ black affair a’thegither, and I’m sair afraid that the mair ye try to put it reet the waur ye’ll mak’ it.
“He’d ha’e made her a bonnie jo,” muttered McCray, as he went off, shaking his grey head. “And he’s a fine, fair-spoken young fellow; but Sir Mooray hates him like poison, and it can never be.”
He turned once, to see Brace Norton standing against the gate; and his heart swelled, as he thought of the days of old and his own misery.
“Puir lad—puir lad!” said McCray, as he strode on. “There was a wee bit of hope for me, but it’s a sair case for him, and for her too—bless her bright e’en! for I fear she lo’es him weel!”
Brace Norton never stirred for an hour, but leaned there, in one of the most secluded lanes round Merland, trying to form some plan of action, but in vain. He had determined to see McCray, and had long watched for the opportunity; while now, that he had had his interview, what had he gained? If he could obtain an interview with his wife, he might perhaps learn something of her; but how could he do it? Writing was such poor satisfaction. Could he do it by other means?—could he depute some one to question Jane McCray—one who would possess sufficient influence to gain from her some information? For he felt that it was only by constant search that the clue could be obtained—for that there was a clue, and that the mystery might yet be cleared up, he felt sure.
The answer to his question came in a way he little expected, for just then he heard the sound of a horse’s feet, and his heart bounded, as slowly round a bend of the lane, the chequered sunshine playing upon her riding-habit, came Isa Gernon. Her head was bent, and her lithe, graceful form swayed in gentle undulations to the well-trained pace of her highly-broken mare.
Would she pass him? Would she ride on without a word?
It almost seemed that she would, for, buried in thought, Isa Gernon had not seen the figure by the green lane bank; when moved by an uncontrollable impulse, Brace darted to her side, to catch her gloved hand in his, and stand at her saddle-bow gazing up into her face.
“There was the groom, some fifty yards behind, but he told himself it was no business of his. He knew Sir Murray disapproved of it all; but Sir Murray never asked him to put a stop to it; while, if he was a sailor, Mr Brace Norton was a thorough gent, and free with his ’arf-crowns as could be. It wasn’t for him to interfere with what my young missus did. All he—Peter Barlow, young lady’s groom—knew was, that if he’d been Miss Isa, he’d sooner have had Mr Brace Norton than a dozen Lord Maudlaines. Lord, indeed! as professed to ’unt, and to know so much about ’osses, and sat across one like a sack o’ chaff, while Mr Norton had as pretty a seat as ever he see a man have out of the profession—for, of course, you couldn’t expect gents to ride like a groom.
“Don’t speak, Isa dear—Isa, my own sweet love!” whispered Brace, his voice growing soft, and his words trembling with tenderness—“do not say a word! I know all: that you are forbidden to see me; that there is a ban upon our family; and that the past reveals a sad—sad story of misery and broken hearts. But this meeting is not of your seeking—you cannot help yourself. See, dearest! I am holding this soft, gentle hand in mine—I am forcing you to listen to me; for, oh! Isa, sweet love, I am mad with grief and misery. You know the story of my father’s—your poor mother’s broken heart: is ours to be the same fate? Do not think me cruel in bringing up these tales of the past; but is it not our duty to try and clear away the mystery? My life upon it!” he exclaimed, excitedly, “there is a clue to be found, in spite of the time that has fleet; for do you for a moment think I will ever credit a word of the cruel calumnies that stain our family names? They are all false—false and unworthy! but they must be cleared away. And now listen, dearest: do not weep, for we must be up and doing; it is no time for tears. I love you too well, Isa, ever to give you up; Heaven giving me strength, I will fight with my last breath to win you, and you must help me! See Jane McCray, your housekeeper; question her closely—learn all you can; and if you can trace a fact worthy of attention, contrive to send me word. Your silence I will take to mean that your efforts are without avail. I will be honourable: I will not ask you to write to me—I will not write to you. While this stain is upon me, I feel that I am unworthy to stand even in your presence; but it is the last time, Isa, until I come, proudly, in the strength given me by the knowledge that those foul cobwebs are swept away from the shield. I do not ask you to bind yourself to me in any way; for, to me, your sweet, pure heart is too true—too generous to give me cause for doubt. Isa, I am yours—yours only, in this world, I hope, if not in another. A few days longer, and I shall be with my ship, on the blue sea, Isa, and I can do but little, save think and pray for the future; and I shall go without a dread—without a feeling that I shall be supplanted, even at your father’s command. Shall I tell you why?”
“Yes,” said Isa; and her tears fell fast upon his upturned face, as she bent lower and lower.
“Because I know that your hand will go with your heart, and that the heart is in my keeping. Watch and wait, dearest. Remember your mother’s—my mother’s words: ‘True-blue!’ It is the colour I sail beneath, darling, and under it I shall watch and wait.”
Isa’s tears fell faster and faster. She would have spoken, but her emotion choked her utterance; and still she bent lower and lower towards the hand that held hers so tightly. The graceful palfrey she rode tossed its head and shook its curb impatiently, but moved no step forward. The groom had evidently made up his mind that utter ignorance of all that was passing would be pleasing to his mistress, and that some one else might reward him with five shillings; so having settled his saddle and girths to his satisfaction, he took to examining his horse’s mane and tail, such proceedings necessitating his back being turned, an attitude he meant to maintain until summoned.
A glance had shown this to Brace Norton; and no doubt it was very wrong, but the lane was so retired and shady, Isa Gernon was so very beautiful, and she had laid bare the secret of her young, ingenuous heart to his gaze. He was too frank a sailor—unskilled in etiquette and formality. He only knew then—he could think of nothing else—that he loved the fair girl before him very dearly; that she was weeping bitterly for his sake; and that, but for untoward fate, she might have been his. Who, then, can be surprised that one hand should rest lightly upon the soft, handsome neck, crushing, as it did so, the massive braids of her glorious dark hair; that that head should, in obedience to Love’s command, bend lower and lower, without thought of resistance flashing across the gentle girl’s mind, until, for the first time in her life, her lips were pressed in a long, sweet kiss, that to her seemed given in token of farewell?
“I must have you now, Isa,” said Brace, sadly, as with a deep blush she shrank from his embrace, though her hand was still tightly clasped in his. “I bind you by no promises, I ask nothing, but I go away contented, for the day shall come when all these sad obstacles shall be swept away, and—There, I can say no more,” he exclaimed passionately. “Go now; I am cruel to you in keeping you like this, placing you at the mercy of even your groom’s tattling tongue. I shall make you in your calmer moments almost to think meanly of me for this clandestine meeting; but what can I do, Isa, when my appearance at the Castle would only be the signal for rude expulsion? Once more Good-bye!”
He gave the mare’s head a caress, and then shook the bridle as he spoke, forcing the interview to an end, as the graceful animal softly bounded forward in answer to his touch, its mistress’s head turned back till a bend of the lane hid her from Brace’s longing gaze, when, placing his hand in his pocket, he prepared to purchase the groom’s silence, but, to his surprise, that individual dashed past him at a smart canter, and on turning to seek the explanation of his strange conduct, Brace Norton’s eyes fell upon the fierce, wrinkled countenance of Sir Murray Gernon.
He could not doubt for a moment that the baronet had witnessed, at least, the latter part of the interview, and Brace’s brow flushed as he recalled the scene so sweet to him, and full of solace to his aching heart. What should he do: turn and avoid the angry father? No, he could not do that; he would meet him boldly, and listen to all he had to say, giving for answer the sole reply that he loved Isa, and that the meeting was unpremeditated.
Sir Murray’s lips were white with passion as he strode up to the young man, and the stick he carried quivered in his strong hand as he held it half raised, as if about to strike. He stopped short in front of Brace, glaring at him fiercely, but for a few moments, as he gazed in the young man’s calm, dispassionate face, he did not speak. At last, though in a voice choking with wrath, he exclaimed, as he pointed with his stick in the direction taken by Isa:
“Like father—like son. You know, I do not doubt, the history of twenty years ago—a history that you, pitiful, contemptible slave that you are, compel me to revert to. You know how my happiness was blasted. You know that, urged by his necessities, your father dishonoured himself for ever, in the eyes of gentlemen, and became a thief.”
“I know that to be utterly false, Sir Murray Gernon,” said Brace, calmly.
“You know how, afterwards, he played upon the weakness of a fickle woman, till she fled with him,” continued the baronet, without seeming to hear the interruption.
“I know, too, that that is false, Sir Murray,” said Brace still calmly; “and that my father is as pure-minded and honourable a man as ever breathed.”
“Insult—robbery—disgrace!” continued Sir Murray, without heeding him. “Everything, in his revenge for my unhappy marriage, he heaped upon my head. Twice, for long spaces of time, I exiled myself; till now, when, after twenty years, I come back to spend the rest of my days in peace in my old home, I find my enemy’s son grown up and ready, the moment I plant foot upon the English shore, to waylay me, and accost Miss Gernon with his impertinent persecution. I warned you—I sought in every way to discourage you; your own heart must have told you that every word addressed to that girl was an insult to me, and that, even would I have stooped low enough to have permitted it, any union was impossible; and, still finding in her her mother’s weakness—the weakness your vile parent betrayed—you persevered. You knew, too, that she was engaged—that I had made arrangements for a suitable marriage; and, doubtless, you found in that a good lever for moving her—telling her that she was the victim of paternal persecution. Dishonour, dishonour, dishonour! in every step dishonour, trickery, and deceit; winning upon her, by clandestine meetings, till I find that she has stooped so low as to suffer, here in a public thoroughfare, in the presence even of a menial, a low groom, what I myself witnessed—what has, before now, become the ribald jest of the servants in the Castle. I do not ask you to refrain; that, I know, is useless. I do not ask you to plead the excuse you have ready—the paltry drivellings of your love, as you would doubtless call it. Son of a base and cowardly trickster, you inherit all your father’s villainy, and I would horsewhip you as I would some base groom, only that I look upon you as too low—too contemptible even for that!”
He paused for a few minutes, as if for breath, scowling the while at Brace Norton, who, with flushed face and set teeth, stood bearing it all, whispering that one name again and again, as a talisman to guard him from forgetting himself, and, in some furious outburst of passion, striking down to his feet the lying denouncer of his family.
“I know that it is in vain to appeal to you as I would to an honourable man,” continued Sir Murray, pale with rage, “and here you drive me to my last resource; for sooner than that weak, drivelling girl should be your wife, I would see her in her coffin! But I have no need for that: plastic as wax in your hands, she can be plastic as clay in mine. I can mould her to my wishes, in spite of all you have done. I can treat you in the same way, even to making you give her up—now, at once, before you leave this ground. I have kept this shaft for the last, wishing to try all else first; and had I had to deal with an honourable man—with an officer and gentleman,” he said sarcastically, “this shaft would never have been loosed.”
“Look here, Sir Murray Gernon,” exclaimed Brace, now thoroughly roused, “I am a frank, plain-spoken sailor. The deck of a man-of-war is no school for polish and etiquette; but I tell you this to your teeth, that you know that what you have said to me this day is a base, calumnious tissue of cruelty, such as no gentleman should have uttered. Nay, it is my turn now; I listened to you in silence, you shall hear me. You know my father to be an honourable man; you know, too, that my love for your child has been the result of no plotting and planning, but of circumstances alone. You know how accident has thrown us together, and before Heaven I vow that man never loved woman with a purer—a holier love. I say it now before you, without shame, without fear, for I am proud of it—proud, too, of knowing that my love is returned. Do you, with all your pride, imagine that young hearts are to be directed here or there according to your wish or whim? You know better; and that we cannot govern ourselves in such matters. I leave here for sea in a few days’ time, and I tell you what I have told her; that I bind her by no promises, that I ask nothing, merely time—time to clear away these clouds that overshadow our youth—”
“Have you nearly finished?” exclaimed Sir Murray, interrupting him; and his old mocking smile appeared upon his face.
“Yes,” said Brace, sadly; “I have done, Sir Murray. I hope some day that you will know me better. But I tell you this: that so long as life is in me I’ll never give her up; and, what is more,” he added fiercely, “I know she will be true to me, even without the tie of promise or troth!”
“I told you that this was my last arrow, and I fly it reluctantly,” hissed Sir Murray, as he leaned towards the young man; “before I loose the string, I ask you will you give up all pretension to the hand of that child?”
“No!” exclaimed Brace.
“It is an arrow whose flight will be sharp and aim sure, young man. I warn you that it will quiver in your heart, and its barbs will rankle there for life. Once more, will you give her up, and come here no more?”
“No!”
“Will you not for your mothers sake? But there, I know the baseness of your heart. Isa Gernon, and the prospect of Merland Castle and its many acres, are not to be given up so easily. I knew your answer; but, in a fit of madness, I thought I would give you, as you are young, one chance of playing the honourable man. You will not give her up, then?”
“No—no! Are you a demon? Why do you tempt me like this?” cried Brace.
“Yes,” said Sir Murray, leaning closer and closer towards the young man, whose hot words he did not seem to have heard, so drawn and strange was his aspect—“yes, you will give her up, and I will tell you why: I hate her—yes, bitterly as I hate you; but I have some feeling yet left in me, and I will not see this wrong done. Look here: your path is across the sea; go, and at once. Yours is an honourable calling; try and root out all the base, and be an honourable man. Do not come near Merland again for years; but before you go, write to Isa, and tell her that you give her up, that all is at an end, and that a union is impossible. You have influence with the weak child: tell her, then, as your wish, that she should raise no objection to the match I propose.”
“Are you mad, sir?” exclaimed Brace.
“No, young man,” said Sir Murray; “but I have suffered enough to make me so. Do as I tell you, since she never can be yours, for—”
He leaned forward, laying one trembling hand upon Brace’s shoulder, his face the while drawn and distorted, as he whispered, for a few moments, in the young man’s ear.
They were few words to which Sir Murray Gernon’s lips gave utterance; but they sent a flash of rage through Brace Norton’s heart, as, catching the baronet by the throat, he exclaimed:
“How dare you utter so base—” He said no more; but his hands dropped to his sides, as he seemed to read in the baronet’s livid and distorted features the truth of his utterance. For a few moments the young man stood motionless, a sob of horror and despair rending his breast as he struggled for utterance; the next minute, with the same blind, groping pace—the same aspect of misery seen a quarter of a century before on his father’s face—an aspect that might have betokened the judgment for a father’s sin descending upon the son—Brace Norton, broken-hearted and half-stunned, hurried away.