“Of what are you thinking, Brace?” said Mrs Norton, tenderly, as, entering his room, she found him brooding over a new suspicion that had entered his mind.
He started as she spoke to him, and tried to drive away his thoughts, and to speak to her cheerfully; but the same dire suspicion came again and again, and at last, as she urged him to speak—to confide in her—he said, almost in a whisper:
“Mother, I was wondering if it were possible that Lady Gernon was murdered!”
Mrs Norton shuddered as she recalled the visit of Jane McCray, and the disclosures she had made—every word of which, in spite of the great lapse of time, now seemed to occur to her as plainly as if they had been spoken but a few hours since.
“Hush, Brace!” she whispered, her face assuming an aspect of horror. “The idea is too dreadful. Think, too, of what it embraces.”
“Yes—yes, I know,” he exclaimed, impetuously; “but, mother, this must be cleared up. I will have all brought to light. I should have said nothing but for your questions, rather choosing to pursue my own course.”
“But think, Brace—think of Isa. Suppose such a revelation as you seek to make, how then?—consider how it would affect her. My son, had you not better suffer than bring such a charge against her father?”
“Her father—Sir Murray Gernon? I never suspected him of so foul a crime. Mother, you have something you keep back from me. You have suspected him of this, then, perhaps years ago.”
Mrs Norton said nothing, but her agitated countenance spoke volumes; and rising from his seat, Brace exclaimed, bitterly:
“Oh! mother—mother. Is there an evil fate hanging over us? Everything seems to militate against my prospects of happiness. If I had never seen her—if I had never seen her!” he groaned.