“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.
Against Hope.
Father—mother? Whom could he fly to for advice at such a time? Brace Norton asked himself. To neither. He knew what his father’s counsel would be, and that his mother, while sympathising, could not help him. Reveal the words spoken to him by the baronet he could not. After the first few hours of agony—of bitter agony—that he had suffered, he would not even revert to them himself. He could not but think that Sir Murray had felt what he said to be true; but, for himself, he felt that it was monstrous. He believed that his mother had told him all she knew, and he was ready to cast his life upon the honour and truth of his father. There was no failing of confidence between them, and he reddened with shame at having, even for a moment, credited the baronet’s assertion. Give up Isa? No; not while he had life! His course was plainly enough marked out; he could see it now: it was to be his duty to clear up the mystery that had long hung over Merland Castle, and he would do it. Happiness might yet be the result for him; but even if it were not, there was in the eyes of many yet living a stain upon his fathers fair fame. That stain he would wipe away, even to the convincing of Sir Murray Gernon.
He must, he felt, keep every thought and act from those who were dear to him—the subject was too painful even to be broached in their hearing. Where, then, should he commence?—for his time was but short ere his vessel would be refitted, and he must join. The old steward, McCray? No; he had found him close and reserved. Jane—Mrs McCray: the woman of whom Isa always spoke so tenderly—who had nursed her from a child, and had been Lady Gernon’s confidential maid? She could help him, perhaps; but would she? He could try, without waiting for Isa.