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?