“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.