George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Well,” continued Brace, lightly, “I spoiled my cap by fetching water in it from a pool, like a true knight-errant would have done with his casque, and bound up the bleeding temple with my handkerchief. Then, after a great deal of snubbing from the old gentleman, I was rewarded by a sweet smile of thanks from the lady as I prevailed upon the Don to take my chaise and come on. Got them in at last, after a great deal of ceremonious fencing, and they drove off, but only to stop directly. Old gentleman leaps out, drags sweet girl after him, and goes raging off; and all, I suppose, because he had seen my name upon my leather writing-case; while, for explanation, I have the young lady’s handkerchief, bearing the sweet name of Isa Gernon. But, good heavens, my dear mother, how pale you look! Father, what is the matter?”

Captain Norton had risen from his seat and advanced to his wife, who, pale as death, stood gazing at him with a terrified expression upon her countenance.

“My dear father, what does all this mean?” exclaimed Brace, with real anxiety in his tones. “What mystery is there here? Of course I concluded that the elderly gentleman was Sir Murray Gernon; and I have some misty recollections of an old family quarrel, and Lady Gernon running away. There, I have arrived at my cable’s end. What is it all? I trust nothing wrong.”

“Speak to him, Ada!” cried Captain Norton, hoarsely. “There must be no more of this!”

And without another word he hurried from the room; while, perfectly astounded, Brace turned to his mother for some explanation of what was to him a profound mystery.

On the Bygone.

“And where had my father been at the time?” said Brace Norton, after sitting with knitted brows listening to his mother’s narrative of the past.

“France—abroad—to avoid arrest; for his affairs in connection with the mine were then in a sad state. It was his absence which made matters wear so suspicious an aspect.”

“Suspicious? Yes,” said Brace, angrily, “suspicious enough to base minds! How long was he away?”

“Five, nearly six, months,” said Mrs Norton.

“But you never believed this charge, mother? You never thought my father guilty?”

“Guilty? No!” exclaimed Mrs Norton, proudly. “Your father, Brace, is the soul of honour, and above suspicion; but matters shaped themselves most cruelly against him.”

“That Gurdon must have had the cross,” said Brace, after a thoughtful pause; “and you say that he obtained his deserts—transported?”

Mrs Norton nodded her head.

“But Lady Gernon’s disappearance—what could have become of her? Was it possible that she was deluded away out of revenge—perhaps with the cross for a bait—by some one or other of Gurdon’s associates, so that she fell into some trap?”

“My son—my dear boy, pray do not talk of it any more,” said Mrs Norton, sadly. “It is a rock upon which our happiness was nearly wrecked; but avoid it now. It was right that you should know all after the strange meeting of to-day; but you see now the reason for your father’s—for my agitation, and for the strong emotion displayed by Sir Murray Gernon. It is quite impossible, as you must see, that the old intimacy should be renewed. Your fathers—my peace of mind depends upon our keeping at a distance—upon the past, Brace, being deeply buried. You see that I am speaking freely—that I am keeping nothing back, in order that you may be upon your guard, and do nothing to endanger the happiness of what, my child, has been these many years a happy home.”

“But,” exclaimed Brace, impetuously, “if the mystery could be cleared up! I do not like that, even with Sir Murray Gernon, there should be a doubt of my father’s honour.”

“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, laying her hand upon the young man’s arm, “let the past rest; it is a subject that has brought white hairs into more than one head. It has been thought upon till left in despair. I pray to be forgiven if I am unjust, but I do not think that Sir Murray Gernon entertains a single suspicion against your father, whatever he may once have felt. Time must have removed old impressions; but for his own black conduct—There, I dare not say what I think, even to you, Brace!”

There was a contraction of the young man’s features, as an inkling of the meaning of his mother’s hastily-spoken words flashed across his mind. Then, rising, he began to pace the room with impatient strides, for there was a sense of disappointment at his heart which he could not overcome; and in spite of his efforts, there seemed to be continually before him the sweet, timid face and the reclining figure that he had for a few minutes supported; while, as he pondered upon his mothers words, again piecing together her long narrative, it seemed to him that he was every minute being removed further and further from one who had made what in another case he would have called an impression upon a susceptible nature. It was as though each moment a deep, black gulf was opening wider and wider between them—a gulf that it would be impossible for him ever to pass. Then, as Mrs Norton watched him anxiously, he stood gazing from the window, telling himself that it was absurd to treat matters in such a light; that he had seen Isa Gernon but for a few minutes; that he had barely spoken to her; that she might be engaged to another; that she might be in disposition unamiable, and in tastes utterly opposed to his; that, in short, he was making an utter ass of himself. But, all the same, there were those two large, sad eyes ever before him, gazing reproachfully in his face from beyond that great gulf—ever widening more and more, more and more, till, impatiently stamping upon the floor, he made an angry effort to cast the “folly” from him, and went and knelt down by his mother’s side.

“I am sorry, Brace,” she said, as her hand played, with all a proud mother’s tenderness, amongst his fair, crisply-curling hair—“I am grieved that my words should have made so troublous an impression.”

“It is not that—it is not that! There, what am I saying?” he exclaimed, with assumed cheerfulness. “I’ve come home in high spirits, brimful of happiness, and ready to enjoy myself; so, dear mother, don’t let us trouble about the past—let it be buried.”

“Yes, better so—far better so!” exclaimed Mrs Norton. “For our sakes, Brace, never refer to it before your father in any wise; for those incidents were so many shoals in the way of his happiness; but, Brace, I set myself to try and make his life happy, and sometimes I cannot help thinking that I have succeeded.”

“Indeed, no happier home than this could ever have existed, I’m sure,” cried Brace, smiling in his mother’s pleasant face. “But,” he added, as he kissed her, laughing, “it does seem hard that when you have cured a husband of a roving disposition, you should have a son turn out far worse.”

Mrs Norton smiled, but a grave, sad expression swept the next moment over her face.

“Save for his business transactions, Brace, that was your father’s last long absence from me—for I suffered deeply then. I think that on his return from France, when he had had some arrangements made by which he gained time to pay off every demand, he saw how I had felt his absence, and made a resolve to leave me no more, and he has kept to that determination.”

“The mines nearly ruined him, then, in the first place?” said Brace.

“Very nearly; but he had such faith in them that for five years we lived almost in poverty that we might pay off debts; when, as his last creditor was satisfied, your father’s faith met with its reward, and ever since the mines have gone on increasing their returns year by year. But let us go to him now. You will be careful, though, Brace; you see now how necessary it is that not even a reference should be made to the bygone?”

“Yes—yes, mother—yes!” said Brace, with a troubled sigh; and they rose to leave the room, when, with the traces of his former emotion quite passed away, Captain Norton entered, looking inquiringly at mother and son, and then entering into conversation upon indifferent topics, as if nothing had happened.

Right Honourable.

“Now look here, Josh: it’s of no use for you to come bothering me like this. Here have I been back from Italy only a few days, and you’re down upon me like a leech—I mean like a hawk!”

“If your lordship had condescended to tell me that you were going abroad, and consulted me about the meeting of those little bills when they fell due, it would have been a different thing.”

The scene was a heavily-furnished room in a fashionable London hotel, and the speakers were George Viscount Maudlaine, son and heir to the hampered estates and somewhat tarnished title of the Right Honourable Valentine, twentieth Earl of Chiltern; and Joshua Braham, Esq., solicitor, of Drury Chambers, St Alban’s Place, Regent Street. The former, as he lounged back in his purple dressing-gown, appeared to be a tall, well-made young man, with a somewhat dreamy or tobacco-contemplative cast of countenance, more remarkable for bone, and the prominence of the well-known Chiltern features, than anything particularly definite; the latter was a gentleman, very smooth, very swarthy, possessing a ruddy and Eastern development of lip, aquiline of—nose, hair short—black—spiky—of a texture, in short, that threatened, should a lock be sent for, to fly off in dangerous blinding showers of capillary stubble.

“You see, I don’t recollect these sort of things,” said his lordship.

“Only when your lordship requires a fresh supply of money,” said Mr Braham, smiling like a shark, and rubbing his hands together so that his rings rattled.

“There, don’t make a bother: sit down and have some breakfast, Braham,” said the younger man. “These sort of things are so dooced unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant? There’s nothing further from my thoughts, my lord, than making things unpleasant. I only came, after writing twice to remind your lordship that three bills, which fell due a month since, were all returned, and now lie in my hands, with interest and expenses attached. Unpleasant? Why, I give you my word, that Moss, or Peterson, or Barcohen, would have had your lordship arrested and in Bream’s Buildings or Cursitor Street days ago. But I don’t do business like that. I only accommodate gentlemen of position, and then, in return, I expect to get the treatment one meets with from gentlemen of position.”

“You Israelitish hound!” muttered his lordship, “I’d pitch you out of the window if I dared!”

“Did your lordship speak?” said the visitor, bending his head aside in an attitude of attention.

“Speak? No! Only I’ve such a confounded headache this morning, I’m not fit for business matters. Richmond last night with some friends.”

“Yes; I heard so,” said the visitor, softly. “Mad’moiselle Duval was of the party, I think?”

“How the dooce did you know that?” exclaimed his lordship, uneasily.

“Oh! really I hardly know. It is one of the troubles of position, my lord, that every one hears of your movements.”

“I’ll lay twenty to one that you’ve had some hook-beaked, unshaven dog watching me ever since I’ve been back!” exclaimed his lordship, impetuously.

“He, he, he!” laughed the Jew. “Your lordship may have a headache, but you are really most keen and business-like this morning.”

His lordship growled.

“You are,” he said, after a pause.

“Exactly so,” said the money-lender. “And now, perhaps, your lordship will give your attention to the matter in hand?”

“Well, I am attending!” grumbled his lordship.

“Then, perhaps, your lordship will give me a cheque on your banker for the total of the bills, interest and expenses. Let me see,” continued the visitor, drawing a large bill-case from his pocket.

“There, keep that confounded thing out of my sight! My head aches quite badly enough without having that thrown in my teeth. Now, look here: I haven’t fifty pounds at the banker’s, and what there is I want for present expenses.”

“Then what does your lordship propose doing?”

“Nothing at all,” said his lordship sulkily.

“Does your lordship wish me to ask payment of the Earl, your father?”

“If you like,” said his lordship, with a grin; “but while he has this fit of the gout on, I should not advise you to get within his reach. He holds to the fine old idea of his Norman ancestors, that knocking a Jew on the head was meritorious. But there! he won’t pay—he can’t, even if he felt ever so disposed. Now, look here, Braham: you must stick some more interest on, and renew the bills.”

“Renew, my lord?” exclaimed the money-lender, expressing with eyebrows and hands the greatest of surprise. “Impossible! I’ve renewed till I’m as sick of it as of your broken faith.”

“No, you’re not; so don’t be a humbug!” said the Viscount. “I’m not very sharp, I know; but I’m keen enough to see through that. You’ve milked me pretty well, and worked me nicely with all your professional cant. I don’t recollect how much I’ve had in cash—I did put it down on old envelopes, but they’re lost—but I know that those pictures and the wines were horrible stuff; and one way and another you’ve made those bills grow till now they amount to—”

“Four thou—”

“There—there, that’ll do; I can’t pay it, so what’s the good of bothering one about how much it is? I’ve got it down somewhere, I tell you, and perhaps I can find it when I want to know, and I don’t now. Well, as I was going to say, you’ve made the bills grow to that size, now make them grow a little bigger.”

His lordship yawned, stretched himself, and then poured some pale brandy into a coffee-cup, before filling it with the rich fluid in the biggin.

“Totally impossible, my lord,” said the money-lender, rising. “I’m very sorry, my lord, but I must set the law to work. I have, as you well know, always been most desirous of aiding you during pressing necessities; and when unable to help you myself, I have always introduced you to some one who would. But, to speak plainly, this trip of yours to Italy, without a word to me first—”

“Why, confound it all! was I to come and ask you if I might go abroad?” exclaimed his lordship, furiously.

“Oh, dear me, no! Of course not, my lord; but as I was saying, this trip to Italy looks so much like trying to bilk me, that I must, for my own sake—”

“And that of the gentleman in the City,” sneered his lordship.

“No, my lord, I don’t do business with men in the City,” said the Jew, in injured tones; “and for my own sake alone I must take strenuous measures for the recovery of the debt.”

“’Tisn’t a debt: it’s only a money-lending affair,” growled his lordship.

“Well—well, we won’t argue upon that point, my lord. The Sheriff of Middlesex has his ideas upon these matters—ideas in which I have implicit confidence.”

“Here, Braham; I say; come, no nonsense. Don’t be a fool, you know. Don’t be hard on a fellow because he’s bilious and put out!” exclaimed his lordship, who, with the immediate prospect of a sponging-house before him, displayed an unwonted degree of perturbation. “But, I say, you can’t—you know you can’t do any thing yet;” and his lordship’s face brightened.

The Jew laughed.

“Your lordship forgets. Hyman has a little affair out against you, which will just work in well with mine. I shouldn’t be surprised if some one is already waiting for you!”

“Oh! come, I say—you know; I can’t stand this. You mustn’t do anything, Braham; and you must stop Hyman, because I’ve come home—come over—come on purpose—that is, I have something good on my book.”

The money-lender watched him narrowly.

“Have indeed—matter of great importance—case of thousands, in fact—clear me of all my little unpleasantries.”

“Pooh!” ejaculated the money-lender, dropping the servile now that his client began to implore. “Something on the Heath, or the Derby, or Oaks. I never knew one of your family yet with nous enough to do anything but lose. Now, look here, my lord: are you prepared to pay me four thousand three hun—”

“No; not a penny!” exclaimed his lordship, earnestly; “but, look here, Braham,” he cried, catching his visitor by the button; “I’ve got something in hand—I have indeed: not betting. Something safe and paying; but you must give me time, and let me have a few hundreds to carry on with.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the Jew fiercely, “I’m not going to be shilly-shallied with any more. Now, look here, my lord; I’ve given you time, and I’ve been patient. You’ve had documents served upon you; but even to the last I wouldn’t be hard. I said to myself, I’ll give him every chance; and I’ve done it; but you only turn round upon me like all the rest, friend as I’ve been to you. And now it has come to this—I’ve asked you to pay me, and you won’t.”

“I can’t, I tell you—’pon my word I can’t,” exclaimed his lordship, following his visitor to the door, and pressing it back, as the other tried to get it open.

“Very well. Then I must have my pound of flesh!” said the Jew, with a bitter grin. “Only, you see, my lord, we are wiser than our old ancestor, Shylock: we do not bargain for exact weight, and, to avoid the punishment awarded to the shedder of blood, we take the whole body. Your lordship weighs twelve stone, I should think?”

“Fourteen stone,” said the Viscount, complacently.

“Plenty of weight, and to spare, then,” said the Jew, laughing.

“But you don’t mean what you say, Braham?” said his lordship, anxiously.

“I never joke on money matters, my lord; I’ve a couple of sheriff’s officers and a cab across the road, my lord. If you will take the trouble to walk across to the window you can see them.”

Lord Maudlaine took a step across towards the window; but he was back in an instant.

“But I say, Braham,” he exclaimed, “this is getting serious—it is, indeed—and you mustn’t, you know; ’pon my word, you mustn’t. Think of the scandal and the expense; and you won’t do yourself any good, besides ruining me.”

“What do you mean by ruining you?” said the Jew, for the young nobleman’s earnestness was such as no dread of a spunging-house, pure and simple, would have evoked—“what’s in the wind?—what do you mean?”

“Well, I tell you, don’t I? I’ve got something in hand—something good, you know.”

“What is it?”

There was a few minutes’ silence as, driven to bay by his necessities, the scion of the not very noble house stood frowning and biting his lips.

“Just as you like,” said the Jew, coolly. “I don’t want you to tell me.” And he again tried to leave, but his lordship stayed him.

“Now, look here,” said the Jew again. “I’ve always been a friend to you, Lord Maudlaine, and I’ll give you one more chance. What did you go to Italy for?”

There was no answer; and as his lordship stood with his back to the door, the visitor walked across to the window, as if to signal to one of the men waiting with the cab.

“Well, there,” exclaimed his lordship, “to get out of your way.”

The Jew smiled.

“I expected as much. And now, why did you come back?”

“To—because—Well, there; it’s connected with the—with the—the good thing I told you of.”

“Now, look here, young man,” said Abraham, without the “A,” “are we to be friends or enemies?”

“Friends, of course,” said the young nobleman, scowling.

“Then, look here: I must have perfect openness. Just show me that this is something genuine—something worth waiting for, and I’ll wait—of course, for a consideration.”

He waited for some response to his words, but none was forthcoming.

“I’m not going to be treated like this!” exclaimed the visitor, with mock anger. “I’ll soon—”

“There, there—stop, and I’ll tell you all about it. It is worth waiting for.”

His lordship stopped short again, and his by no means intellectual countenance displayed strongly the shame and humiliation he felt.

“Well?” said the Jew.

“It’s about a marriage—a matrimonial affair.”

The Jew looked at him as if he would read his every thought.

“Plenty of money?” he said, at last.

“One of the richest heiresses in England.”

“Are you sure of that?” said Braham; “or has some foreign countess got hold of you again?”

“Sure? Yes!” cried Maudlaine, excitedly. “The father has been living out of England for years past at the rate of a couple of thousand a year, and his income’s at least twenty. All been increasing and piling up ever since.”

The Jew again looked piercingly at the young man; but it was plain enough that the ability was not in him to invent this as a fiction upon the spur of the moment.

“Well,” said the interlocutor, “go on. Have you any chance?”

“Yes; of course I have,” said Maudlaine.

“Father agreeable?”

“Yes!”

“Lady?”

“Well, yes—pretty well; but that’s all right, I tell you.”

“Meet them abroad?”

“Yes.”

“Have they come back to town?”

“To England—not town.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the visitor, still narrowly scanning his victim. “And that’s why you came back?”

“Of course.”

“Now, look here, Maudlaine,” said the Jew, fiercely, “I’m not a man to be trifled with. I was your slave once, and you did not forget to show it. You are mine now, and you must not be surprised at my turn, now it has come, being brought strongly before your attention. But I’ll be frank with you: I lend money for interest. Well and good: I’d rather wait and let you pay me that money and that interest than have to arrest you. I don’t want to get a bad name amongst your class. Now I’ve not much confidence in you as to promises to pay; but I’ll believe your word of honour. Is all this true?”

“On my word of honour, yes!” said Maudlaine, angrily.

“Who is the lady, then?” The Viscount flushed deeply, bit his lips, and was silent; for to answer this question seemed to him too great a humiliation. “Who is the lady?” was asked again. There was no answer. “I suppose you don’t want my help, then?” said the Jew. “Just as you like. Prove to me that this is worth my while to wait—say six or twelve months—and I’ll lend you a few hundreds to go on with. But, there, I’m not anxious; just as you like. Shall I call up the men?”

“Confound you, no!” exclaimed the young man, angrily. “She is the daughter of a wealthy baronet, of Lincolnshire. Now are you satisfied?”

“No,” said the Jew, taking out pencil and pocket-book; “I want his name.”

“Good old family,” said the Viscount, hastily. “Only child. I am invited down there, and the baronet is quite willing. Will that do?”

“Name—name—name!” exclaimed the creditor, impatiently.

“Sir Murray Gernon. There, then!” cried the young man, furiously.

“Sir Murray Gernon,” said the Jew, quietly, as he tapped his teeth with his large gold pencil-case—“Sir Murray Gernon. Ah! let me see; there was a screw loose there, if I recollect right, years ago. Rich family, though—very. Young lady’s mamma bolted, I think; but that don’t matter to you. Yes, that will do, Viscount—that will do. I think I’ll wait.”

“And you will advance me what I require?” said his lordship, eagerly, forgetting all humiliation in his brightened prospects.

“In reason, yes,” said the Jew, with a mocking smile once more overspreading his face; “but I shall not do it for nothing, my Lord Viscount Maudlaine—I shall not do it for nothing.”

“No,” muttered the young man, “I know that.”

“It’s quite possible that I may go so far as to make my own terms,” said the Jew, with a grin. “But I’ll leave you, now, to think over the matter; and if you want any little help, of course you’ll come to my chambers, where we can renew one of the bills.”

“Confound the bills!” cried the young man, angrily; “I must have a cheque for some hard cash to go on with.”

“Very good. Come to me, then, my lord,” said the Jew, all suavity once more. “Excuse me for hurrying away, but it is for your sake. It is not seemly to have Sheriffs’ officers waiting opposite to an hotel. Good morning, my lord!”

“Good morning!” said the Viscount, sulkily.

“You shall fly a little longer, my fine bird—just a little longer!” said Mr Joshua Braham, as he went out; “but it shall be just as long as I like, and with a string tied to your leg—a string, my fine fellow, of which I hold the end?”

In Peril.

“It is of no use,” said Brace Norton, one day, when he had been home about a month, “I can’t fight against fate. I vowed that I’d think no more about her, and I’ve thought about nothing else ever since. I go out very seldom, but when I do, I always seem to meet her. I’ve heard a good deal of milk-and-sugar talk about love; and if this is what is called love, all I can say is that it’s worse than mast-heading. I can’t help it—I can’t keep free of it! What in the world did I get looking at her for, as I did, that day coming home? Brace Norton—Brace Norton, I’m afraid that you are a great ass!”

He sat thinking for awhile, trying to be light-hearted, and to sweep his troubles away, but he soon owned to himself that it was no laughing matter.

“Heaven help me!” he groaned, “for a miserable, unhappy wretch—one who seems fated to make those about him suffer! It seems almost as if I were to endure the same torments as my poor father, without the alleviation of some other gentle hand to heal my wounds. Wounds! Pooh! stuff! What romantic twaddle I am talking! It is time I was off back to sea. But, there, I’ve fought against it, all for their sakes, till it has been enough to drive me mad. I suppose men were meant to be butterflies, and to burn their wings in the light of some particular star; so the sooner I get mine singed off, and get on board ship, the better. There’s no romance there. Anything’s better than this state of torment. Here am I, making myself disagreeable to the best of fathers and the tenderest of mothers; and because things run in a rut different from that which suits me, I go sulking about like a spoiled child in love with a jam-pot; and after making everybody miserable at home, go sneaking and wandering about after the fashion of a confounded tramp poaching somebody’s goslings. I expect I shall be locked up one of these days. Seriously, though, I wish I had not come back,” he said, dreamily; “I wish that a reconciliation were possible; I wish I had never seen her; I wish—I wish—There, what is the good of wishing? What a wretched life this is, and how things do contrive to get in a state of tangle! I don’t think I ever tried to meet her, and yet how often, day after day, we seem to encounter! Even the thought of the old past sorrows seems to bring her closer and closer. Why, then, should not this be the means of bringing old sorrows to an end, and linking together the two families?”

Brace Norton brought his ponderings to a close, as, bit by bit, he recalled the past; and then he groaned in spirit, as his reason told him how impossible was a reconciliation.

“I must dismiss it all,” he at last said, bitterly. “They have had their sufferings; I will not be so cowardly as to shrink from mine. I’ll take an interest in the governor’s pursuits; and here goes to begin. I’ll run over to the Marsh, and see where they are pegging out the drain; but I may as well take a gun, and see if I cannot bag a couple or two of ducks.”

Brace Norton’s reverie had been in his own room; and with this determination fresh upon him, he walked, cheery of aspect, into the room where Captain and Mrs Norton had been discussing the unsatisfactory turn matters had taken, when the young man’s bright look, and apparently buoyant spirits, came upon them like a burst of sunshine.

“Gun? Yes, my dear boy!” exclaimed the Captain, delighted at the change that seemed to have come over his son. “Here you are,” he said, opening a case—“everything to your hand. You’ll be back to dinner?”

“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Brace, strengthened in his resolve, on seeing the pleasure his high spirits seemed to impart to his elders. “I am going to see where they are marking out the drain.”

“To be sure. Quite right, Brace—quite right. I should like, above all things, to go with you.”

“Well, why not?” said Brace, heartily.

Captain Norton smiled, and shook his head, as he pointed to his writing-table, covered with correspondence.

“Too much engaged, my boy—too many letters to write. I’ll go over with you one day, though, if you will.”

“To be sure,” said Brace.

And then he saluted his mother, who held his hands tightly, as if unwilling to part from him, as she gazed fondly in his face. Then having secured the gun and ammunition, he started off, with a bold, elastic step, apparently as free from care as if no cloud had crossed his young career.

He had not gone far before again and again came the longing desire to sit down beneath some shady tree, and picture the soft sweet face that his heart whispered him he loved—the face that seemed to be so impressed upon his brain, that, sleeping or waking, asked for or uncalled, it was always there vividly before his gaze; though, beyond a distant salute and its response, since the day of the accident, he had never held the slightest intercourse with Isa Gernon. He might have laughed at another for being so impressionable; but, none the less, he felt himself to be greatly moved, and hour by hour he felt that the task he had imposed upon himself was greater than he could ever expect to master.

But that day Brace would not yield to the sweet temptation, striving manfully and trying hard to tire himself out. He visited the portions of the great marsh where arrangements were being made for forming the drain; he tramped to and fro over the boggy land with his gun, hour after hour; and at last, utterly weary, he entered the pine-wood on the marsh edge, having unwittingly wandered to the spot where, years before, his father had, in his wild despair, so nearly cast away his life.

It was with a sigh of satisfaction that he leaned his gun against a tree, and seated himself upon the fallen trunk of a large fir; for there was something soothing to his feelings in the solemn silence of this vast nature-temple. There was a soft, warm glow cast aslant amidst the tall smooth pillars by the descending sun, and but for the soft sigh of a gentle gale, and the sharply-repeated tap of the woodpecker sounded at intervals, there was nothing to break the stillness, which to another might have seemed oppressive.

And now, with a fierce rush, the dammed-back thoughts made at him. Now was the time for reverie—here in this solitary place. But no—he would not weakly succumb. It was not to be: he had made a resolution, and he would keep it. He boldly set himself to fight with a power stronger than himself, blindly thinking that he might succeed.

How had he succeeded with his gun?

He smiled as he looked at the result of his many hours’ tramp—one solitary teal; and then for a few moments he was dwelling musingly upon the great subject that had filled his mind during the past month, but only to dismiss it angrily. He sighed, though, the next moment, and the soft breeze bore away the word “Isa”; and then romance faded as Brace sought solace in the small case he drew from his pocket, from which he selected a very foreign-looking cigar, lit it, and leaning back, began to emit cloud after cloud of thin blue vapour, till the tobacco roll was smoked to the very end, when Brace rose, calm and refreshed, ready to journey homeward.

“A sonnet to his mistress’s eyebrow,” said Brace, as he moved over the pine-needles. “Not so bad as that, though, after all.”

He had not proceeded a dozen yards, though, before he remembered that he had left his gun behind, leaning against a tree; and hurrying back, he was in the act of taking it, when a distant cry came floating through the trees.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Brace, as he caught up his gun. “Curlew? No, it was not a curlew; but I’ve grown so used to the wail of the sea birds, that I don’t know those of my native place. Ha! there it is again.”

For once more the cry came ringing faintly by—a long, low, prolonged scream, as of some one in peril; when, roused by the exciting promise of adventure, he ran swiftly in the direction from whence the cry seemed to have come.

In a few minutes he was at the edge of the grove, gazing over the open marsh, to see nothing; when, fancying that he must have come in the wrong direction, he stood listening intently for another cry.

A full minute elapsed—a minute during which he could hear his heart beating heavily—and then once more came the loud wail, plainly enough now, and forming the appealing word that goes home to every heart:

“Help!”

The next moment Brace Norton was dashing over the treacherous bog, leaping from tuft to tuft of the silky cotton rush, avoiding verdant patches of moss, which concealed watery, muddy pools, and finding foothold where the heather grew thickly. Twice he sank in to his knees, but he dashed on to where, at the distance of some three or four hundred yards from the pine-wood, he had made out a figure struggling in one of the profound holes filled with deep amber-coloured water, while, as he rushed on, at times floundering and splashing in the soft peat, it seemed to him that his aid would arrive too late.

A light muslin dress, a portion of which, still undrenched, buoyed up its wearer; a little straw hat, fallen off to float on the dark waters; a pale, upturned, agonised face; long clusters of hair rippling with the troubled element; and two dark, wild, appealing eyes, seeming to ask his aid. Brace Norton saw all this in the few moments ere he reached the side of the pit; but as he recognised the features, a cry of anguish tore from his heart, as, falling heavily, it was some little time before he could regain his feet. Then, with a rush and a plunge, he sent the water foaming in great waves to the green and deceptive sides of the moor-pit, still trembling with the weight that had lately passed over them. Another minute, and with the energy of a stout swimmer he had forced himself through the dozen yards of water that intervened, to reach at and grasp an arm, just as the water was bubbling up above a fair, white forehead, and playing amidst the long tresses floating around. Another instant, and Brace’s arm was supporting the drowning girl, as he swam stoutly towards the side.

The distance was short, but unfortunately the side he reached was but a semi-fluid collection of bog vegetation, half floating upon the water, and which broke away from the arm he threw over it again and again.

He swam off after two or three essays, laboriously now, with his burden, to another part of the pool, but that was worse; the moss breaking away at a touch. He looked towards the other side, some forty yards away, but with his precious load he dared not try to swim the distance.

To make matters worse, the sides of the pool were not perpendicular, but the loose vegetation grew out a couple of feet or so over the water, as if, in the course of years, to cover it with the treacherous green carpet, spread in so many other places over deep black pits; and thus any attempt to gain foothold and climb out was vain; while, for aught he could tell, the pool might have been fifty feet deep beneath his feet.

To stay where he was seemed impossible, so, swimming a few yards, he made to where—partly to rest, partly to think upon the best plan of procedure—he could tightly grasp a tuft of rushes with his disengaged hand. But even this was no safeguard, for he could feel that a very slight effort would be required to draw the tuft from its hold. And now, for the first time, he turned to gaze earnestly in the pallid face so close to his, to find the eyes dilate and horror-stricken, while two little hands were tightly clasped round his neck.

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Gernon,” he whispered, his heart throbbing almost painfully the while. “Give me a few moments to recover breath, and then I will draw you ashore—or rather,” he said, with an encouraging smile, “on to this treacherous moss.”

The smile was intended to chase away the dread of there being imminent danger, and it had its effect.

“I am not very—very much frightened,” she half sobbed, though, unable to conceal her agitation, she clung to him tightly. “I was picking marsh flowers when the rushes suddenly gave way beneath my feet.”

“The place is very dangerous,” said Brace; and then, in an earnest voice—“Thank Heaven, though, that I was so near at hand.”

He paused for a few moments to gaze in her face, and in that brief space of time danger—the water—all was forgotten as their eyes met, for hers to fall directly before his loving, earnest look. For there, in spite of what he had said, in great peril, but with her heart beating against his, so that he could feel its pulsations, all Brace Norton’s resolutions faded away; and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be to die thus—to loose his hold of the rushes, to clasp his other arm round her, and then, with an end to all the sorrow and heart-burning of this life, with her clinging to him as she might never cling again, to let the water close above their heads, and then—

“What a romantic fool I am,” thought Brace. “Here, a month ago, I thought life one of the jolliest things in the world; and now I’m thinking in this love-sick, unhealthy, French, charcoal-and-brimstone style of suicide.”

The reaction gave his mind tone; for directly after, Brace Norton was thinking how sweet it would be to live, perhaps earning Isa Gernon’s love as well as her gratitude, for saving her sweet life; and with a flush upon his cheek for his weak thoughts, Brace nerved himself for the effort he was about to make.

With his right hand tightly clutching the rush tuft, he tried to thrust his feet into the bank beneath; but in spite of a tremendous and exhausting effort, the sole result was, that the portion of the edge he clung to came away in his hand, and with the plunge, they were the next instant both beneath the water. A few vigorous strokes, though, and Brace was once more at the side with the half-fainting girl well supported, as a bunch of rushes once more supplied him with a hold for his clinging fingers.

“Oh, pray—pray save me!” murmured Isa, faintly, as a cold chill shot through her, and her pale face grew almost ghastly.

“With Heaven’s help I will!” exclaimed Brace, thickly, “or I’ll die with you!”

The words seemed to be forced from his lips by his strong emotion, and he could perceive that she heard them. He knew, too, that she had recognised him at the first. The words took their impassioned tone, in spite of himself; and he repented, as he saw a faint flush of colour—it might have been from indignation—rise to her cheeks.

But there was no time for dallying with thoughts of such engendering, for he knew that every moment only robbed him of so much power, and he prepared for another effort.

“Hold me tightly,” he said. “Don’t be afraid; only let me have both hands at liberty, so that I may be able to drag myself out.”

She did as he wished, and he struggled hard; but the weight clinging to him frustrated every effort, and after five minutes’ vain expenditure of strength, Brace had great difficulty in finding firm hold for his grasp; while his heart sank, as he found that what at first had seemed but a trifling mishap, and an opportunity for displaying his knight-errantry, now began to loom forth in proportions ominous to them both.

He looked in every direction now, where the tall reeds did not shut out the view, for he was beginning to mistrust his own power; but there was not a soul within sight. And now, for the first time, he raised his voice, to cry loudly for help—despairingly, though, for he could not think it possible that aid could be near. He called again and again; but his voice seemed to be lost in the vast space, and sounded faint, adding to the chill of despair creeping to his heart; till, rousing himself, after regaining his breath, he adopted the plan that he should have tried at first.

“Miss Gernon!—Isa! For Heaven’s sake, speak!” he cried, earnestly, as he gazed at the half-closed eyes and the drooping head. “Try and rouse yourself for one more effort!”

She heard his words, and her eyes unclosed, and rested upon his for an instant.

“That’s right!” he cried, joyfully. “Now, quick! loose your hold of me! Don’t cling, but take hold here of these reeds where my hand is, and hold there tightly for a few moments. I can, then, perhaps, get out, and draw you after me: I am quite powerless here. Can you hold on for half a minute?”

Isa’s pale lips parted, but no audible words came. She obeyed him, though, and he guided her cold, white hand to the sharp-edged leaves.

“Now, then, be brave! Keep a good heart, for the sake of all who love you!” he whispered; and loosing his hold, he paused for an instant or two, to find that she was striving gallantly to obey him. “Only a few moments!” he cried; and then, summoning all his strength, he left her, and by means of a desperate effort fought and plunged his way through the now clinging—now yielding mass, till—how he could not tell—he forced his way on, to lie panting, at full length, amongst the rushes. The next moment a cry of despair burst from his breast; for, as he drew himself along to where Isa Gernon clung, he saw that the tuft of reeds, disturbed by his frantic efforts, were parting from the edge, and directly after the poor girl’s head sank again beneath the black water.

A rush—a plunge—a fierce struggle, and Brace was nearly free of the mosses and water-weeds; but now they seemed to cling round him more than ever, hampering his efforts, and minutes seemed to have elapsed before he had shaken himself clear, and dived down into the depths of the pool, forcing his way lower and lower till half strangled, when, rising to the surface, he drew a long, gasping breath, and then again plunged down.

It was well for Brace Norton that many a time he had swum and dived for sport in far off tropic waters, till he had gained a mastery over the element which now stood him in good stead; for at this second plunge far down into the black depths his hand came in contact with Isa Gernon’s long, flowing hair, and the next instant he had risen to the surface and held her at the pool edge, with her lips well above water, he clinging the while to the reeds, as, with all the force he could muster from his panting breast, he once more shouted hoarsely for help.

Rescue.

“I’ve done my part,” muttered Brace Norton, as, in spite of the despair of the moment, he yielded to his feelings, kissing fondly again and again the cold pale lips of the insensible girl. “I can do no more. Help must come from elsewhere, or—No, I will not give up, if only for her sake.” And once more he hoarsely shouted for the help that he could not think would come.

The loosening of one arm so that the burden might glide from him—a strong effort, and he could once more have been amongst the reeds and mosses; but it would have been like leaving the brighter portion of his life to death; and his eyes glared fiercely as he clutched the fair, slight figure more tightly to his breast. It was like fighting against a cruel temptation, one which whispered to him of the brightness of his young life that he was casting away for the sake of an enemy’s daughter—of his home, and his weeping mother.

The temptation was strong, but he could not play the coward’s part; and he held Isa to him more and more closely, gloating over the soft, regular features, as, with a pang hard to bear, he told himself the next moment that, even if help came, it would arrive too late.

That same afternoon Sir Murray Gernon strode out into the pleasure-grounds, thoughtfully crossed the lawn, avoiding, as it were, more by instinct than care, the various flower-beds, till he roused himself, with a start, on finding that he was standing at the very edge of the lake, gazing down into its deep waters, as if they possessed for him some horrible fascination.

He stood there for full ten minutes, his brow corrugated, his eyes staring, and his teeth clenched firmly upon his lower lip. Then with an effort he seemed to drag himself, shuddering, away, to walk slowly muttering to himself.

Fifty yards of winding amidst flower-beds and shrubs, and Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lord Maudlaine, his guest, seated upon a garden-chair, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, a newspaper at his feet, his mouth half open, and his aristocratic head resting upon his open palm.

It is quite possible that Sir Murray Gernon might have passed his visitor, who had already been for some days at the Castle, but for the fact that certain strange sounds arrested his attention. Had these sounds proceeded from Alexander McCray, there would have been no difficulty about the matter, and one would have immediately said that the ex-gardener was snoring loudly; but when a nobleman is concerned, a diffidence—an unwillingness is felt to use such a term. However, Lord Maudlaine was loudly trumpeting forth the announcement that he was devoting a spare hour to the service of Morpheus, and Sir Murray Gernon, hearing those sounds, was attracted thereby.

“You here, Maudlaine?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Eh? Why, what the deuce—Dear me! I suppose I was dozing,” said his lordship, lifting himself up a bit at a time, as he indulged in a most unmistakable yawn.

“Not with Isa?” said Sir Murray. “I thought you went out with her?”

“Ya-as—ya-as! no question of a doubt about it, I did,” drawled the Viscount; “and I’ve just been dreaming that I was boating with her on the lake—not your fish-pond here, but Como—same as we did before we came away.”

“But you went out walking with her?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.

“Ya-as. Not a question of a doubt about it! I did go out and walked a little way with her.”

“Did she turn back, then?”

“N-n-no!” said the Viscount; “point of fact, she as good as told me she didn’t want me, and went on by herself.”

“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, smiling, as he clapped his guest upon the shoulder, “I’m afraid that you are not half a lady’s man. It is a fine thing for you that you have no rival in the field.”

“Ya-as—just so—no doubt about that,” said his lordship laughing. “But a—a I began talking to her on indifferent subjects, and, point of fact, she didn’t seem to like indifferent subjects—seemed as if I bothered her, you know, and of course I didn’t want to do that; so seeing, as you say, that there was no one else in the field—regular walk over the course, you know—I didn’t bother her nor myself either. We’re getting on very nicely, though, Sir Murray—very nicely indeed. No question about that.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sir Murray, dryly.

“Ya-as; beginning to understand one another’s idio—what is it?—syncracies, don’t you call it? I think Isa likes me.”

“Oh! yes, of course—of course!” said Sir Murray. “By the way, Maudlaine,” he continued, taking the young man’s arm and walking slowly with him down a path, “I hope you will be particular about the place; for I dare say I shall give it up to you young folks. I mean to be pretty stringent, though, I can assure you: I won’t have a tree touched—no timber felled; there is none too much now. I should not like the lake drained either: I should particularly object to that. It might be said,” continued Sir Murray, hastily, “that it made the place damp; but I don’t think it—I don’t think it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything distasteful, of course,” said the Viscount. “Always be glad of your advice, of course, if I had any ideas of improving anything. By the way, though, Gernon, she’s mad after botany.”

“She? Who is?” said Sir Murray, starting.

“She is—Isa, you know. I shall have to work it up, for she don’t seem to like my not being able to enter into the names of weeds with her. Not a weedy man myself, you know, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” And he laughed at what he intended for a joke.

“Was she botanising to-day?” said Sir Murray, huskily.

“Ya-a-as! Said it was her mother’s favourite pursuit, though I don’t know why she should like it for that reason, eh?”

“Who told her that absurd nonsense?” exclaimed Sir Murray, angrily.

“Well, she did tell me,” said the lover; “but, a—a—really, you know, I can’t recollect. Don’t particularly want to know, I suppose?”

“Oh no—oh no!” exclaimed Sir Murray, impatiently. “But this place, Maudlaine—I should like it kept as it is: the timber, you know; and you would not drain the lake?”

“Oh no! of course not. But, I say, you know, I—a—a—a suppose it will be all right?”

“Right—all right?” said Sir Murray, whose face wore a cadaverous hue. “What do you mean by all right?”

“Well, you know, I mean about Isa. I haven’t said anything pointed to her yet, though we two have made it all right. She won’t refuse me, eh?”

“Refuse? No: absurd!”

“Well, I don’t know so much about that. I get thinking sometimes that she ain’t so very far gone with me. Snubs me, you know,—turns huffy, and that sort of thing.”

“My dear Maudlaine,” said Sir Murray, with a sneering laugh, which there was no need of the other interpreting, “you are too timid—too diffident for a man of your years.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said his lordship, “I don’t think I am; but she’s a style of woman I’m not used to. Don’t seem dazzled, and all that sort of thing, you know. Some women would be ready to jump out of their skins to be a viscountess, and by-and-by an earl’s wife; but she don’t—not a bit—not that sort of woman; and if I never said a word about it, I don’t believe that she would, even if I went on visiting here for years.”

“Most likely not,” said Sir Murray, dryly; “but you see that it is as I say—you are too timid—too diffident.”

“I say, though, you know,” said his lordship, “was her mother that style of woman—quiet and fond of weed-hunting—botany, you know?”

“You will oblige me greatly by not referring to the late Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray, stiffly.

“Oh, beg pardon, you know. No offence meant.”

“It is granted,” said Sir Murray; and then, in a different tone: “There goes the dressing-bell.”

The gentlemen strolled up in silence to the entrance, where the major-domo—Mr Alexander McCray—who seemed to rule supreme at Merland, now stood waiting the arrival of his master.

“I’m thinking, Sir Mooray,” he said deferentially, “that ye’d like a pony-carriage sent to meet my young lady.”

“What—has she not returned?” said Sir Murray, anxiously.

“Nay, Sir Mooray, not yet awhile, and I should hae sent wi’oot saying a word, but that I thocht my laird here would tell us which road she gaed.”

“Towards the waste—the snipe ground, you know,” said his lordship, on being appealed to.

“Send at once, McCray. No: go yourself,” said Sir Murray.

“I’ll go with him,” said his lordship, who now seemed about wakening to the fact that he had grossly neglected his intended; and five minutes after the old Scot was driving briskly towards the village.

“Ye dinna ought to have left her, my laird,” said McCray, sturdily. “She’s ower young to be left all alone.”

“What? Were you speaking to me?” said his lordship, haughtily.

“Ay, that I was,” said McCray. “Ye mauna mind me, my laird, for I’m a’most like her foster-fairther, and nursed her on my knee mony’s the time.”

His lordship did not condescend to answer, and the lanes were traversed at a good rattling pace; but though McCray pulled up from time to time to make inquiries, the only news he learned was that Miss Gernon had been seen to go towards the marsh, but not to return; while one cottager volunteered the information that young Squire Norton, the sailor, went that way too in the morning time, and that neither of them had been seen to come back.

This news had no effect upon Lord George Maudlaine, but a close observer would have seen that the wrinkles upon Alexander McCray’s brow grew a little more deeply marked.

“He’s a douce laddie,” muttered McCray, as he drove on, “and warth a score sic birkies as this one; but it was ill-luck his meeting as they did that day, and it winna do—it winna do! We shall be having sair wark yet, I’m afraid. They’re kittlecattle these womenkind, and I nearly suffered shipwreck with them mysel’.”

“There’s no one here,” said his lordship, now condescending to speak, as they drove to where the road faded away into a faint track, which, in its turn, led to the pine-grove.

“We’ll get doon and hopple the ponies, my laird, and walk on to the pine-wood. My young leddie may be in there.”

“Confound his barbarous tongue! Why don’t he speak English?” muttered the Viscount. “I don’t understand one-half he says.”

But McCray’s acts were plain enough, even if his words were obscure; and, descending, he secured the ponies, and was about to start towards the wood, already looking black and gloomy, when one of Brace Norton’s cries for help smote his ear.

“Gude save me! Hearken to that, noo!” cried McCray, excitedly.

“Only a marsh bird,” said his lordship, contemptuously.

“Gude save us! Come alang; that’s a soul in sair peril, my laird,” And starting in the direction of the cry, as fast as the treacherous nature of the ground would allow, McCray soon came in sight of that which made him redouble his pace.

“Here! Help, here!” cried a voice from behind. “I’m sinking!” When, with a glance over his shoulder, McCray saw that his companion was already above his knees in a soft place.

“De’il help ye—ye ill-far’ed, handle-named loon!” muttered McCray, fiercely. “Why couldna ye walk like a Christian, and not get in that way? I’ve ither work in hand.”

Then hastening on, he stepped from tuft to tuft, with an agility not to have been expected in a man of his years, till well within reach of words:

“Haud oup, then,” he cried—“haud oup, my bra’e laddie, I’m with ye. There!” he cried, as he threw himself at full length upon the yielding moss, and reached to where, ghastly of face, Brace still clung, and held up his charge—“there! I ha’e yer hand. Loose the rushes, and grip it weel—grip it weel.”

“Her first—take her first,” sobbed Brace, hoarsely.

“That I will!” cried McCray, working himself forward. “Gude save us, though, it’s sair wet work here, and I’m a deal heavier than I thocht. Noo I ha’e her, and she’s leet as swansdoon aifter a’. The puir bairn, I ha’e her safe, but she’s half dead. Lie there, my pretty, while I pu’ out the laddie. Noo, my laddie; that’s reet—that’s reet; the ither hand. Noo again. Gude—gude! another pu’. Hech! laddie, mind, or I shall be in wi ye. Noo then, anither pu’! That’s weel! I ha’e ye noo. Puir lad, ye’re cauld indeed, but ye’re safe, and reet too, so lie there while I tak’ the lassie.”

In effect, with the exertion of his great strength, McCray, broad-shouldered and iron muscled, had drawn both Isa and Brace from what had so nearly been a watery grave, but not without clanger to himself. Twice over the moss gave way with the stress placed upon it; but at last he had both lying safe beside him, and not before it was time, for Brace was completely exhausted.

“Let me carry her,” said Brace, hoarsely, as he staggered to his feet; but only to sink down again, his numbed limbs refusing their office.

“Ye’re a bra’e laddie,” said the Scot; “but your sperrit’s stronger than your power. I’ll carry the lassie to the carriage, and be back for you in a minute.”

“Never mind me,” groaned Brace. “I’m only cold. For Heaven’s sake drive off with her, for she is nearly dead with her long immersion.”

But before Brace’s words were well uttered, McCray was sturdily trudging over the sinking way with his dripping burden, which he placed in the pony-carriage, covered with a rug, and then returned to help the young man, who was crawling towards him.

“Bra’e laddie, ye air,” muttered McCray. “Ye found and savit her, I ken, and noo, half dead yersel’, ready to help, while that loon stands stoock there shouting for succour, and afraid to move. Here, hi! my laird, move yersel’, man, and, Gude sake, get out of that!”

“Here, give me your hand, my good fellow,” cried his lordship: “I’m in a dangerous spot.”

McCray growled fiercely as he went first and helped Brace to the chaise. Then turning back, he reached out the asked-for hand to extricate his lordship, but in so rough a manner that he nearly brought him into a horizontal position.

“Why, ye micht ha’e done that yersel’, my laird,” said McCray, angrily. “And noo I must leave ye, and hurry hame wi’ those two puir bairns.”

His lordship began to offer expostulations as he began to scuffle out of the bog, but it was to deaf ears, for McCray had run back, and before the noble suitor was on terra firma the ponies were unloosed and being made to gallop over the rough roadway.

“They’ll be dead wi’ cauld before I can get them to the Castle,” muttered McCray, as he held Isa in his arm, and rattled the reins with the other, so that the ponies plunged along furiously. “Puir bairns—puir bairns!”

McCray’s words were muttered, but Brace caught their meaning.

“Drive to the Hall,” he said, hoarsely; “it is quite a couple of miles nearer.”

“Gude sake! I might just as weel commit a murder,” muttered the Scot. “But I shall commit one if I dinna get house-room for the lassie directly. I’ll e’en do as he says, if I dee for it. Get on wi’ ye!” he roared to the ponies, already speeding along like the wind, when, being no inexpert Jehu, he kept them at a sharp gallop, till a few minutes after, when he drew them up on their haunches at the door of Merland Hall.

End of Volume Two.

How Doctors Rule.

Pale and agitated, Mrs Norton hurried out, followed by the Captain, for Brace’s long absence had been causing them great uneasiness; but Mrs Norton’s agitation increased to a painful degree as soon as she saw in what company he had: returned. Isa’s state was the first consideration; and dismissing every other thought, the insensible girl was borne to a bed-room by Captain Norton, as reverently as if she had been something holy, his lip quivering as he marked in the sweet features the lineaments of the one whom he had so fondly loved. Whilst, with all a mother’s care, Mrs Norton tended her, taking the first steps towards insuring the poor girl’s recovery—steps but for which the services of Dr Challen, for whom McCray had directly galloped off, would have been in vain.

An hour after, when Isa had begun to show signs of returning animation, her wondering eyes ranging from face to face—letting them rest longest upon the soft, motherly countenance bent over her to kiss her so tenderly—there came the sound of wheels, and Dr Challen hurried up to the bedside, to express his approval of what had been done.

“And noo I must go and tell Sir Mooray,” said McCray to Captain Norton. “I thought I’d get the doctor first.”

“I sent a groom directly you had gone,” said the Captain.

“’Deed and you did weel,” said McCray; “but I must stay here and face him, sir, for he’ll be over directly with my laird, there, like twa roarin and rampagin’ lions.”

In effect, five minutes after, there was again the sound of rapid wheels, followed directly after by Sir Murray Gernon’s voice in the hall.

“How dared you to bring her here?” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, harsh voice, to his old retainer, who met him boldly on the step.

“’Deed, Sir Mooray, so as to save the dear bairn’s life, and not have to face ye wi’ a cauld dead bodie. It was a case of seconds, Sir Mooray, and I ken ye wadna ha’e likit for me to bring the puir laddie wha savit her from drownin’ to the Castle.”

“And who saved her?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Hoot! Sir Mooray, naebodie else but the douce sailor laddie ye passed camin’ hame, when the chaise was broke up.”

A bitter epithet was hissed from Sir Murray Gernon’s lips, as he listened to this announcement; for to his excited imagination it seemed as if Fate were struggling against him and striving to bring together two who, could he contrive it, should be through life as far removed, to all intents and purposes, one from the other, as the two poles.

Sir Murray ascended to the bed-room, and then descended to pace impatiently up and down, frowning and angry, till, after seeing his patient sink into a quiet slumber, Dr Challen gave a sigh of satisfaction, and then joined the baronet.

“What?” exclaimed the doctor, after listening to Sir Murray’s first remark.

“She must be taken home directly,” said Sir Murray.

“Quite out of the question, my dear Sir Murray,” said the doctor, pleasantly, as he partook of the glass of wine left upon the sideboard.

“But the carriage is waiting, Challen,” said Sir Murray. “I came over in the close carriage on purpose. Surely if she is lifted in and driven slowly it cannot hurt her.”

“Now look here, Gernon,” said the doctor, sturdily, “I brought that child into the world, and saved her life, sir—saved her life, when not half-a-dozen doctors in England could have done it. I’ve been your—Capital glass of port, by Jove! Try one. You won’t? Very good; I will. Let’s see—what was I saying? Ah! I’ve been your family medical attendant ever since I began to practise, and save and except such times as you chose to go abroad and put yourself into the hands of foreign poisoners, I’ve had your welfare at heart. Now, I’m a crotchety old fellow—better try a glass of Norton’s port: I’ll swear it’s ’20 vintage—crotchety old fellow—over professional matters; and if the Queen herself came meddling in a sick-room where I was engaged, I’d order her out as soon as look at her: ergo, I’m not at all afraid of a baronet.”

Sir Murray made a gesture of impatience.

“There, confound you, sir,” cried the doctor, testily, “I don’t care for your fuming—I’m not going to give way. Now, look here, Gernon: you ought to have more confidence in me, and in what I say. I don’t want to boast; but I saved your life; I saved your wife’s life; and, as aforesaid, I saved the life of that child up-stairs when it was a tiny spark that a breath would have destroyed. I’m proud of it, you see. Now you want to kill her, because she is here in the house of the people you most dislike in the world—out-and-out good sort of people, and good friends of mine, all the same. Can’t help it—I must speak plain. This is a case where plain speaking is necessary, so you need not fling about. You must sink all these family quarrels, and thank Heaven that the poor child was brought here, where there was a clever, sensible woman like Mrs Norton to take the first steps towards warding off fever.”

“But, surely, Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, deprecatingly now, “with plenty of wrapping, and the carriage!”

“My good man,” cried the doctor, now thoroughly angry, “if you will be obstinate, and want her to have plenty of wrapping, go and fetch a lead coffin, and if she is to go in a carriage, send old McCray over to Marshton for Downing’s hearse. It will be the most sensible thing you can do; for she will be dead before she gets home, or soon after. What the deuce is the use of your talking? Do you think I want her to stay here, or that I take two straws’ worth of interest in your confounded affairs and squabbles? That child’s life is the first consideration. I won’t put up with it, Gernon—I won’t indeed. How dare you interfere and want to meddle with things which you don’t understand? That child’s constitution is not a political matter for you to meddle with. Why, confound you, sir, here we have just got her into as lovely a perspiration as ever I saw upon a human subject! There’s the threatened fever evaporating, as it were, from her system, and she sleeping gloriously, when you must come in with your family pride, and want to destroy all that I have done! I tell you what it is—”

“My dear Challen,” exclaimed Sir Murray, “I don’t want to upset your arrangements. I only thought—”

“Confound you, sir! how dare you to think, here, in a case of life and death? It’s a piece of consequential, confounded, titled presumption—that’s what it is!”

There was no mistaking, either, that Mr Challen was in a professional passion; for, as he said, “in matters of medicine he would give way to none,” while being, certainly, a very clever practitioner, and well knowing that fact, he was somewhat ready to leap upon his own little hill, and to crow loudly. He had just descended, proud and elate with the state in which he had left his patient, when, as he mentally termed it, this impertinent interference on the part of Sir Murray made him erect all his hackles, and give battle most furiously for his rights.

“There, there! Don’t be angry, Challen,” said the baronet. “I give way—I suppose I must bear it.”

“Bear it! Of course you must,” said the doctor. “I tell you what it is, Sir Murray Gernon: I was within a point of throwing up the case, and leaving you in the hands of that offensive wholesale killer at Marshton—that new man. I was only restrained by a feeling of respect for the poor child. But I’ll give up now, if you wish it.”

“My dear Challen,” cried Sir Murray, “pray don’t be so impetuous. I say no more. Have it all as you wish.”

“Say no more! Of course you will not!” grumbled the doctor, whose feathers were gradually subsiding to their natural smoothness.

“Only,” continued Sir Murray, “get her well, and let us have her home as soon as possible.”

“There you go again!” cried the doctor, bristling up once more. “The old story! I suppose you think I want to keep her ill, so as to swell the bill, with ‘One draught at bed-time,’ and ‘The mixture as before.’ Ugh! It’s a pity, Sir Murray Gernon, you have not a dozen people about you who are like me—not in the least afraid of you. What are you going to do now?”

“Going back,” said Sir Murray, who had just risen.

“Going back, indeed!” said the doctor, impatiently. “Better stay—stay, and see how she is when she wakes. Let’s have Norton in and Mrs Norton, and perhaps their son will join: he’s none the worse—used to water—salt, fresh, or marshy. A tumbler of punch and a rubber at whist would pass the time away comfortably. There, hang it, man, twenty years ought to be long enough to heal up these old wounds. They’ll have to be healed up when you journey to the great abroad. Take my advice—advice I shan’t charge you anything for. Norton’s boy has saved your girl’s life. Let this unlucky accident be the means of bringing you together—good out of evil, you know. Hold out the right hand of fellowship, and—trust me—I know Norton; it will be taken in a hearty grasp. Make friends at once, Gernon; you’ll be obliged to do it in heaven. Oh! there, then, I’ve done. Advice gratis is never valued at its true worth.”

“Let me know, Challen, how all goes on when you leave here,” said Sir Murray, sternly, as he strode towards the door; and five minutes after the doctor shrugged his shoulders and took another glass of port to console himself for the rejection of his good offices, as he listened to the wheels of the departing carriage.

“I’m afraid,” he said aloud, “contact with all sorts of people has robbed me of this refined sensibility—this keen appreciation of injury. I fancy if any one had done me a wrong, that I could forgive it in less than twenty years.”

“But there never was any wrong, Doctor,” said a low, sweet voice, when, turning, Dr Challen became aware that Mrs Norton had entered unperceived.

Mother and Son.

“Mother,” said Brace Norton the next morning, as, none the worse for his immersion, he stood by her side, she holding his hand the while and gazing up into his face,—“mother, I went out yesterday with the full intention of dreaming no more of my foolish love; and what was the result? Strange, too,” he said, with affected gaiety; “one would have thought that an hour’s immersion would have quenched it. But there, you will, perhaps, laugh at me, and think me childish and full of folly; still, I cannot help it—I love her more dearly than ever, and feel no shame in owning it to you. How am I to give her up now, after holding her to my breast as I did for a whole hour yesterday, her arms clasped the while round my neck, and her poor head resting upon my shoulder? Mother, it was a mingling of misery, despair, and bliss; and when, at last, I had given up all hope of being saved—when I had struggled till I could struggle no more—when I had called till my voice failed in my throat—when I felt that my—our last hour was at hand, I broke faith even with myself.”

Brace paused for a few moments, for his voice was husky, but recovering himself, he went on:

“I dare say it was wrong; but I was under the impression that all was over. I could have saved my own life, perhaps; but I could not leave her to perish. The sun had sunk, and darkness was fast coming on; the evening breeze was sighing what seemed to my excited fancy a dirge amidst the rustling reeds; and again and again some curlew flew over us giving utterance to a loud wail. At one time it seemed so hard to die just in the spring of life; but the next instant, as I looked down at the poor head resting upon my breast, the sorrow was all for her, and with that sorrow there was a strange—an awful pleasure. It was, I should think, about ten minutes before help came that she raised her head, and her sweet beseeching eyes looked full in mine.

“‘Is there no hope?’ she whispered; and I feared to tell her the cruel truth.

“‘But you could save yourself,’ she faltered; ‘you struggled too hard before; why should you perish in trying to save me?’

“She spoke so earnestly, and with such a sweet resignation, that the tears came gushing from my eyes—weak, womanly tears, mother; for I am weak, very weak, I know, or I should not tell you all this.”

“Is it weak to confide all things to her who gave you birth, Brace?” whispered Mrs Norton.

“No—no!” he replied; and then, as if recalling the scene of the preceding evening, he continued:

“‘Try,’ she whispered to me—‘try once more, and you may bring help.’

“As she spoke she unloosed her arms from my neck, and it was like adding despair to despair.

“‘Why do you tempt me?’ I said; for it seemed that now the time had come when I might speak. ‘Do you think that I could live without you? and do you not know that since the day when we first met my every thought has been of you, and that I have vainly struggled to free myself? You will believe me now—now that we are, perhaps, within a few minutes to stand in the presence of our Maker. Isa, I love you with a pure and holy love—a love that makes me, despairing as I am of ever possessing you in this life, look forward to the prospect of being with you in death,’ I whispered, as I held her more tightly. ‘You know little of me, but you know, perhaps, the sad misfortunes of our families, and how it seems that by some strange intervention of fate my heart has been led to you.’

“She was silent, but her arms once more rested upon my shoulder, and her sweet innocent, girlish face was close to mine, as there, chilled to the heart with the icy water, I asked her to forgive me my declaration, and kissed her pale lips again and again.

“It was then that—urged once more by the strong desire for life—I tried once more to utter a cry or two for help; and, five minutes after, that help was at hand.”

Brace Norton was silent now for a few minutes; and then, as if in answer to his mother’s look, he said:

“Must I, then, go?”

“Yes, Brace—yes. Your father leaves in an hour. It will be far better. Only for a few days, till she recovers and is removed.”

“But may I not see her first?” he pleaded.

“Brace, my dear boy,” said Mrs Norton, proudly, “would it be honourable to take advantage of her position here? Too much has already passed for your peace of mind. Go, now; and leave the house free to Sir Murray Gernon to come and go untouched in his sensitiveness. You must fight still, and bravely, too.”

Without another word the young man slowly left the room; and before an hour had elapsed Captain Norton and his son were on their way to Marshton.

A Discovery.

Ten days elapsed before Dr Challen gave his consent for Isa to be removed, and during that time she had been carefully tended by Mrs Norton and Jane McCray, who had made her way to the Hall as soon as she heard of the accident. But two days would have been sufficient to have shown to Mrs Norton the character of the gentle, inartificial girl, whose gratitude was extreme for every act of attention she received. Hour after hour would Mrs Norton sit by her bedside watching her sleep; but once, and once only, came a dread suspicion that made her heart leap with agony.

She had driven that thought away, though, the next minute, as something too hateful to be nurtured even for an instant. Then, kneeling down, she prayed long and earnestly that, come what might, rest and happiness should be the lot of her son, as well as that of the gentle spirit whom she had already begun to love as a child of her own. For, irrespective of a sweet disposition and clinging ways to attract her when the poor motherless girl had been thrown, as it were, into her arms for protection, there was the recollection of the past—the old affection for her mother, and pity—shuddering pity—as she thought of her old friend’s mysterious fate and the sad position of her child.

Had she required more to interest her in Isa Gernon, Mrs Norton possessed it in the knowledge that Brace loved her, that he had confessed his love, and that Isa knew it. If such a thing could have been possible, how Mrs Norton would have rejoiced in the union! But, with many a sigh, she told herself that it could never be, and to the best of her ability she strove to avoid all reference to her son.

That was a hard task to the loving mother, whose every thought turned to the frank, handsome young fellow who was her pride—who had, year by year, won for her more and more her husband’s love, binding him tightly and more tightly to her, as time rolled on, till she owned to herself that, in spite of the stormy past, hers was a life of true happiness—of happiness greater than usually fell to the lot of mortals. For as time had softened the grief and despair in Philip Norton’s heart, he had learned to thank Heaven for the blessings that had, after all, fallen to his share, so that his feeling of friendly affection had gradually grown into a firm and lasting love for the woman so full of faith in him—a love that grew stronger as the years glided on.

Weak, and hardly yet recovered, Isa Gernon was, one day, lying sleeping gently. Sir Murray had paid his morning’s visit, and, meeting Dr Challen there, received another sharp snubbing for evincing a desire to remove the patient.

“I’ll tell you when she may go,” said the doctor; “but let me tell you that you ought to go down upon your knees and thank Mrs Norton for her motherly care. Like a mother to you, isn’t she, my child?” he said, turning to Isa.

The look of love directed by Isa at Mrs Norton was like gall and wormwood to Sir Murray, whose dark face grew more black; but he was too courteous to display his annoyance in his words; and besides, though he looked upon Mrs Norton as a weak, foolish woman, at heart he retained for her a profound feeling of respect; for he admired her faith and constancy under troubles that might have broken another’s heart. In spite of himself, too, he could not help noticing the respect that had been paid to his feelings, for he knew that the departure of Captain Norton and his son must have been on account of this unforeseen train of circumstances. He was glad of this, for he was troubled about Brace, from feeling an instinctive dread that he might presume to assert himself as a suitor for Isa’s hand.

Matters had gone very unfortunately; but as soon as he could get Isa home, he determined that Lord Maudlaine should press his suit, and that the wedding should shortly follow.

Sir Murray felt a confidence in Mrs Norton that was not misplaced, for hardly once had Brace’s name passed her lips till this morning, when some time after father and doctor had taken their departure, Mrs Norton entered the room to find Isa sleeping.

She stood watching the sleeper for some few minutes, tracing again the lineaments of Marion Elstree, when the likeness was completed by the unclosing of two soft, appealing eyes, which gazed full in hers for a few minutes, as a sweet smile of recognition swept over the countenance; then Mrs Norton bent down and kissed her, Isa’s arms being passed round her loving nurse’s neck, and there for a few moments she clung.

“So much better!” whispered Isa; and then, as her eyes fell upon a locket-brooch which Mrs Norton was wearing, she asked, in the course of conversation, whose countenance it contained.

“It was my son’s twelve years ago,” said Mrs Norton, softly, as she covered it, she knew not why, with one hand, watching keenly the face before her as she spoke, and in the change that came over it, she saw something that for the moment gave her she hardly knew which, pleasure or pain; for Isa’s pale face became gradually suffused with a deep crimson flush, she shrank away from Mrs Norton as if guilty, her eyes filled with tears, and then, casting her arms round the mother’s neck, she nestled there, weeping long and hysterically.

No word was spoken; but the mother’s thoughts required no further confirmation. She religiously refrained, though, from speaking, telling herself that a greater will than hers should be done, that her duty was rather to check than encourage, even while she tremblingly hoped that a happier future might be the result.

There was no need for interpretation of Isa Gernon’s tears: her heart spoke for itself; and it was not surprising that he, against whom she had been warned by a parent—now loving almost to doting, now fiercely morose—should form the object of her musing thoughts. She had met him frequently during her walks, at a time, too, when distasteful attentions were being paid her, and she felt that her heart was being treated as a piece of merchandise.

There was something winning and frank in Brace Norton that had attracted her in spite of the chiding she gave her wandering thoughts; and young, ardent, unused to the ways of the world, she had allowed herself to dwell upon the face of the young sailor more often than was right for her peace of mind. Then came the ramble by the marsh, the leaning over the black pool-side to pluck a blossom, and her narrow escape from poor Ophelia’s fate. Was it, then, strange that when he appeared rushing to her rescue, and after his many vain struggles, told her, as he promised to die by her side, how he loved her—told her what her heart had before whispered—was it, then, strange that this should be the hour which should, in spite of her efforts, sweep away the impression of all warnings and forbidding words, and that she should yield up the heart only partly hers?

Rivalry.

Dr Challen’s permission at last, and after many formal, courteous thanks, Sir Murray Gernon had come over to the Hall to fetch his child.

“You will often come over and see us,” whispered Isa, as she clung to Mrs Norton; and then she trembled as she saw the tear in her hostess’s face and the slight shake of her head.

“Come, Isa!” exclaimed Sir Murray, almost harshly; for the sight of the affectionate parting was bitterness to him.

At the same moment Lord Maudlaine, hitherto an unnoticed member of the party, had advanced to hand Isa to the carriage.

“The Castle has been like a dungeon ever since you left us,” he whispered; and Mrs Norton noted the parting of his lips. She also observed, too, that Isa did not touch his hand, but stepped unaided into the carriage; and the mother’s heart gave a throb of joy. But only for an instant: the gleam of sunshine that had seemed in those trifles to shine forth for her son was shrouded directly after by the clouds of the past, and she re-entered the house, tearful and sad, as the sound of the departing carriage seemed to fade away in the distance.

For the house seemed sad now and desolate. It was as though a sweet spirit that had pervaded the place had passed away; and it was only by an effort that she composed herself so as to write to Captain Norton, and inform him that there was no longer need for his absence.

There were no long conversations between Mr and Mrs Norton on the former’s return to Merland Hall; but they read each others thoughts, and avoided all reference to their son’s acts. At times Captain Norton was for expostulating with Brace, but he always came to the conclusion that matters must take their course, and that he would leave all speaking to his wife, trusting to her to point out to Brace the folly of his hopes, and then looking forward to the time for his return to sea, when, long before the cruise had come to an end, Isa Gernon would, without doubt, have become Lady Maudlaine.

Brace, upon his return, was restless and excitable; his father ready to plunge into business to drown his thoughts; while the mother anxiously watched the actions of her son, longing, in her indulgent love, to whisper hope, but feeling all the while that it was a thing she dared not attempt.

The second day after his return home, Brace’s heart sank, as, turning into a lane, he came suddenly upon Isa, side by side with Lord Maudlaine. They were mounted, and a groom rode at a short distance behind. He already knew by rumour that Isa was supposed to be engaged to the Viscount, and, bitter and angry, his hand was raised to his hat, in order to pass with a cold salute; but Brace’s resentment was in an instant disarmed, for Isa reined in her horse, and with a quiet, earnest smile, held out her hand, which he took in his for a moment, and then, with her companion, she was gone.

A couple of days of mingled hope and fear passed before he encountered her again, when Brace Norton’s brow flushed and his pulses beat rapidly, for Isa was alone, save that a groom followed at a distance, with difficulty restraining his highly-bred steed, while his mistress’s little jennet gently ambled along.

It was to both like a dream, that meeting; as, walking slowly beside her horse, his hand resting upon the saddle, Brace listened to Isa’s faltered thanks, turning from time to time to gaze in the sweet, gentle face bent towards him—a face whose eyes met his with a soft, trusting look, that made his heart swell within his breast, till a rapid step from behind told of an intruder, and Lord Maudlaine made his appearance; when, with a sigh of regret, Isa held out her hand to be taken by Brace, who retained it within his own, while he unflinchingly encountered the fierce, haughty look of contempt and pride cast upon him by the Viscount.

The next minute Isa had withdrawn her hand, and, attended by Lord Maudlaine, gone towards the park, leaving Brace, as he strolled slowly home, to recall a score of things which he wished to have said.

Another meeting, and once more Brace was walking with her side by side, the hand which held her little whip not being withdrawn when he laid upon it his own, to stand at last gazing up in her face, and peering into her soft, sad eyes.

He tried to speak twice, but the words did not come; but he felt that time was passing, and with an effort he broke the silence.

“Isa,” he said, in deep, earnest tones, “I am going to be very bold. I have a question to ask—one whose answer shall make me happy, or send me wretched away. That gentleman—Lord Maudlaine—you know what rumour says: is the rumour true?”

She returned his gaze for a few moments by one as earnest, and in that brief space she saw once more the scene in the marsh—felt, too, the icy water, and the chill as of coming death stealing over her, even while those brave arms held her so tightly; and, as she thought on, it seemed to her that the life he had won from the black pit should by right be his; and her look, as she gazed on unflinchingly in his face, was even, though abstracted, loving, trusting enough to have sent him away at peace. It was an answer to his question; but not yet content, he whispered, softly: “Isa—dear Isa, may I, then, hope?” “Miss Gernon, Sir Murray has requested me to see you back in safety,” said a harsh voice at their side; and, on turning, Brace became aware of the presence of Lord Maudlaine, who must have approached upon the grass by which the lane was bordered for his coming to have been unperceived. “Sir Murray understands,” continued the Viscount, “that you are often encountered during your rides, and thinks it better that you should not be alone.”

“And, pray, who was his informant?” exclaimed Brace, fiercely.

“I was,” said his lordship, in cold, meaning tones. “If you have any more to say you know my address.”

Brace Norton felt that he had, indeed, much more to say, but a glance at Isa Gernon’s troubled face restrained him, and in silence he allowed them to pass away; but not without his seeing that Lord Maudlaine was talking earnestly to what seemed unwilling ears.

The next day, after a sleepless night, Brace Norton rode over to the Castle, sent in his card, and asked to see Sir Murray Gernon.

In five minutes the answer came back that Sir Murray Gernon was engaged.

Feeling the slight deeply, but all the same nothing daunted, Brace called again and again, nerved by his strong, honest love, and determined to avow boldly that love, so as not to be accused of clandestine acts. Had he gained an interview, he would have earnestly pleaded his cause with the father, and have asked his sanction; but it was evident to Brace from the very first that Sir Murray would not see him, so he wrote a long appealing letter, the blood burning in his cheeks as he indited each line, asking favour towards his suit, but not with shame—his love was too honest for that.

Restless and impatient, Brace Norton awaited the reply, till he seemed almost in a state of fever. Both Captain and Mrs Norton knew the cause, but they were silent from the impression that it would be better for their son to find out for himself the hopelessness of his suit. Now Brace thought that the letter had miscarried, and wrote another, but paused before sending it, as he recalled the short space of time that had elapsed since the first was written.

But at last came Sir Murray’s answer, written in a cool, formal, gentlemanly spirit, exceedingly courteous, but with every sentence bearing a cold, despairing feeling to Brace Norton’s heart as it requested that he, as an officer and a gentleman, would refrain from seeking further intimacy with Sir Murray Gernon’s family. Intercourse even of the most formal nature was quite out of the question. In conclusion, Sir Murray thanked Mr Norton for the services he had rendered to his family, and left it to Mr Brace Norton’s good sense to see that no further advances could be countenanced. Did Mr Brace Norton wish to know more—always supposing him ignorant, as his behaviour led Sir Murray Gernon to imagine—Mrs Norton would doubtless supply certain links, such as would show to her son the truth of Sir Murray’s assertion—that intercourse between the families was out of the question.

Every word of that letter was so much molten misery, so much bitterness, that Brace Norton felt himself forced to drain to the dregs. He had no occasion to refer to his mother for confirmation of Sir Murray’s words; and yet why could not reconciliation come? Despair was his answer, and he hurried out to walk for hours, seeking the spots where he had encountered her, when at last he saw her riding slowly along a lane, followed at some little distance by Lord Maudlaine.

For a few moments Brace stood irresolute. What should he do? Resign himself to his fate, and, waiting what time would bring forth, be patient? Had Isa been alone, perhaps he might have so acted; but there was the suitor favoured by the father dodging her like a shadow, and he smiled as he thought of the madness of waiting, when, as to what time would bring forth, there was the answer in the shape of the Viscount. It was of no avail: the heart, he told himself, was ungovernable; and, forgetting Sir Murray’s letter and all else in his love, he strode forward, and the next minute was at Isa’s side.

“One-Two!”

It is said that money has little to do with love. Be that as it may, the more often Lord Maudlaine’s thoughts reverted to his friend Mr Braham, the more he increased his attentions to Isa Gernon. At first he attributed her indifference and coolness to the innate shyness of a young girl who had passed the greater part of her life in absolute retirement; thinking, too, that as Sir Murray had all along shown himself in favour of the connection, all he had to do was to go on quietly for a few months, when the day would be fixed, the wedding take place, and he, possessed of the handsome dowry brought by his wife in exchange for an empty title, would be free from the unpleasant visits and reminders of his money-lending acquaintances.

But of late matters had assumed an aspect that troubled him. This appearance of, to him, an entirely new character upon the stage, was a something for which he had not bargained. At first it was too ridiculous; the idea was preposterous that a young naval lieutenant should compete with him—should come between his nobility and the object upon which he had set his choice: he—Lord Maudlaine—son of an Earl, with the said Earl’s coronet looming for him in no very distant part of the future’s horizon.