George Manville Fenn (continued 7)

“That’s it at Last.”

Brace Norton’s heart told him truly: the noise was the grating of a diamond over glass, and it was repeated four times. Then there was a pause, ere at the end of a few minutes came a dull, snapping noise, and one faint tinkle as of falling glass upon the ledge of a window.

He stopped, listening attentively, for he seemed by instinct to know what would follow; he almost seemed to pierce the black darkness ahead, and to see an arm passed through a cut-out pane of glass—a fastening thrust back. Yes, there was the dull snap, and now the raising of the sash. No, it could be no sash, for there was a dull creaking as of the rusty hinges of an old iron lattice casement. Then came a soft rustling. Yes, that was the stranger drawing himself up, and passing through the window.

Would he fasten it after him?

No; it was evidently left open, and all was still. It must be some one who knew the place. What should he do? try and alarm the house? No; he did not fear one man. There was some mystery here; and at the thought of that word mystery, as it seemed to come with a dull impact upon his heart, that heart throbbed and beat still more rapidly, for a strange influence connected mystery with mystery; and Brace Norton, mad almost with excitement, followed to where he had heard the sound, felt in the intense darkness for the window, found it as he had expected—open, and drawing himself up, he leaned in, and listened, half feeling that it was but to receive a fierce blow upon the head; but, no: all was still.

“I’ll risk all,” muttered Brace. “My position as an officer, and my word of honour that I was impelled by good motives, must be sufficient to clear me from all blame.”

The next minute he was in a small lobby—so he judged it to be—and feeling gently along the wall, he soon found the open door, and stood in what seemed to be a long stone passage—the passage, in fact, though he knew it not, which led from the servants’ offices to the grand entrance of the house.

Should he turn to right or left? All was dark and silent; but that a robbery was in progress he felt now sure. If, he thought, he could seize the burglar at his work, there would be some claim again on Sir Murray Gernon’s generosity; but if he tried now to alarm the inmates, and the burglar took flight, there was nothing but his own word to clear him from what would look to suspicious eyes like a clandestine entry to the Castle for reasons of his own.

Brace wavered for a few moments as he stood there listening in the black darkness; but directly after a strange impulse moved him to proceed; and cautiously feeling his way along, he stood at length at the foot of the grand staircase, irresolute as to the next direction he should take.

For a few seconds he could hear nothing but the loud tick of a clock somewhere close at hand, but directly after came a slight grating, which he knew to be a key turning in a lock; and gliding in the direction, he found an open door, through which he passed in time to hear a faint ejaculation, as some one brushed against a light chair. Then came once more the sound of key in lock, and Brace suspected that he must be in a suite of rooms, leading one from the other.

There was furniture all around, but by means of exercising great caution he was enabled to creep on slowly till his hand rested upon an open door, against the edge of which he nearly struck his forehead. On trying to the left, he found that his hand rested on a chiffonnière, his touch displacing a china cup and saucer standing upon the marble top. The sound was very slight, but it seemed to have alarmed the burglar, for as Brace stood motionless behind the door, there was a faint, very faint rustling sound, and a hard breathing coming nearer and nearer, till, as he shrank slightly back, he could hear the dull throb, throb of another beating heart, and he held his breath till the oppression was fearful.

He had but to stretch forth his hand to seize this midnight visitor, but something restrained him, and after a few minutes’ pause, the rustling and gliding sound recommenced; then came the faint rattle of a door-handle, and this time the slight creaking of hinges.

Brace crept round the door, and passed cautiously into another room, his every step measured with the greatest care, till, after traversing some distance of what seemed an endless journey amongst crowded furniture, he was almost in despair, regretting that he had not seized the man when within his reach, for he could find no door; but a minute later, and there was a soft rattle on his right—a sound as of some one lifting fire-irons from their place and laying them upon a soft rug; and, guided by the sound, Brace felt his way to another open door, and stood upon the long-piled carpet of another room, where he could again hear the hard breathing. There was a faint click, and what sounded like the fall of a standard, and then once more utter silence for full a quarter of an hour.

But at the end of that time, measured out by a chiming pendule upon the chimney-piece, the rustling again commenced; and, as Brace cautiously stepped two paces nearer, he could, mentally, see all that took place, as, with nerves strained to their greatest tension, he eagerly drank in each sound.

The rough visitor was upon his knees, moving the fender aside. Then there was the rustling, as of the removal of paper-shavings from the grate, and directly after the click, click of iron-work.

What could that be? What did it mean? The man must be at work at the grate. Was he a workman, in a state of insanity or somnambulism? This could be no burglar.

Yes, there it was again, the clicking rattle of the iron plate of a register-stove, followed by a faint puff of air, laden with that fine, impalpable soot from an unused chimney; and, as the excitement began to fade, Brace smiled bitterly, with something like contempt, for the pitiful conclusion of this romance. The man was, evidently, trying to ascend or reach up the chimney, for he could hear him groping about behind the iron-work; there was the rustle of little bits of falling mortar. The hard breathing had ceased, but there was the rustling noise of the man’s lower limbs, as he seemed to be straining hard to reach something, and at last came the sound as of his struggling down.

Brace, on smiling at the pitiful termination of his knight-errant’s quest, had crept closer and closer, until now he stood guardedly upon one side of the fire-place, for there could be no doubt respecting the sounds he had heard. The rustling continued for a few moments, and then the hard panting noise recommenced, followed by an unmistakable stifled sneeze, and directly after a voice muttered:

“Cuss the sut! But I’ve got it at last, though.”

Got what? Brace’s heart began to increase its rate, and the excitement, he knew not why, rapidly returned, as there was the sound of an opening box, a scratching, and a faint line of light appeared upon the fender.

“No go,” muttered the voice, and again there was the opening sound, and the scratch of a match upon the stone this time, for it commenced burning with its faint blue fluttering light before the splint caught fire.

At the same moment there was the sharp blowing, as of some one puffing dust from some object—the sooty dust, light as air, being wafted right in Brace’s face. Then the splint caught fire, and blazed up for an instant, but only to be quenched the next, as there fell, upon the young man’s ears the softly-muttered words:

“That’s it at last!”

The Cross.

That faint flash of light, instantaneous as it was, sufficed to pierce one of the veils that had for many years shrouded the mysteries of the past. Brace saw in that brief interval the meaning of the nocturnal visit, the caution observed, and as plainly as if the words had been uttered in his ears, he knew the man’s name. It was clear enough now: when that scoundrel had left the conservatory, he must have entered this room—the blue-room, it must be—the room which, for twenty long years, had held a secret unsuspected by a soul. And he, Brace Norton, had now at his mercy the cause of the long, cruel suspicions which rested upon Lady Gernon and his father. He had him at his mercy, with the proof of innocence in his hand—the proof which, after twice failing, he had, after twenty years’ transportation, returned to drag from its hiding-place. But not to establish the innocence of the living, or of her who had so mysteriously disappeared; it was for his own aggrandisement: Brace could feel that, as, with an intense desire upon him to strangle the cause of so much cruel misery and heart-burning, he leaned forward.

For in that one brief flash—brief as the time that these thoughts had taken to dart through his mind—Brace Norton had seen lying, in a soot-grained hand, flashing in wondrous beauty, the magnificent true-blue sapphire cross described by Mrs Norton; and as the light was quenched, Brace had sprung forward, clutching glittering gems with one hand, and the marauder’s throat with the other.

There was a howl of rage and astonishment from the man he clutched, as, with his impetuous bound, Brace Norton drove him backwards, but the next instant the struggle going on was fierce and desperate. Capture and escape were forgotten in the intense desire to hold the cross. On the one hand, there was the valuable object panted for during twenty long years of punishment. On the other, there was fair fame, and also the hope of reconciliation and future happiness; and, as Brace Norton nerved himself for the fight, he mentally vowed that he would die sooner than be conquered.

It was time now to rouse the house, and as, for an instant, he struggled uppermost he uttered a long, loud cry for help, one which went echoing through the house, followed by the crashing of slight drawing-room furniture, the overturning and wrecking of what-nots laden with rare and curious china. The frail chairs were fallen over and snapped, and once the man, who fought so fiercely, fell over the fender that he had dragged from its place, but only to bound up again, and for the struggle to become more fierce than ever.

It was the battle between youth and activity and the iron muscles of one who had lived a long and abstemious life of toil, and more than once Brace Norton could have groaned, as he felt himself gradually growing weaker and weaker. But he still clutched the cross tightly, in spite of the furious blows dealt him in the face by his adversary, whose hot breath came upon the young man’s flushed temples now, as, in a determined effort, he grasped him round both arms in a deadly hug that threatened to crush his ribs, whilst the next moment Brace felt himself lifted from the floor and hurled back, his foe falling upon him with all his weight.

The sense was almost driven from his bruised body by this fierce onslaught; but in spite of his despair, Brace was still determined. He could not fight now, he was too much exhausted; but he could defend the treasure, which grew in value as he seemed to be about to lose it.

So far he had grasped the cross with but one hand; now he placed over it the other, holding it to his breast, and pressing his chin upon his hands.

“Leave go!” hissed his enemy, and blow after blow was rained upon poor Brace’s face, his foe now seating himself upon his chest, and by turns striving to unlace his fingers, and striking him brutally with his bony hands.

“Will help never come?” thought Brace. “Am I to give up life and the cross as well?”

The next moment he had exerted his little remaining strength, and with a fierce plunge partly dislodged his foe and turned himself half round upon his face, so that now he held the cross beneath him, gaining a few more minutes, in the hope that help might come, when, with a cry of rage, the man again struck him furiously.

Then there was a moment’s reprieve, and half-stunned and totally helpless, Brace listened; but for a few seconds he could only hear a horrible singing in his ears. Then he shivered, for the man was doing something, and Brace’s sharpened senses told him that a knife was being opened by teeth grasping the blade; then he gave a faint, shuddering struggle, but only to lie passive, as a strange blow fell upon his unprotected shoulder—a hot, burning blow, accompanied by a deadly, sick sensation.

It was his last effort, as, struggling round, a light flashed into the room, and in that one second he saw above his breast the upraised knife of his adversary. The next instant there was a loud report, followed by the noise as of thunder in his ears, and then all was blank.

The Doctor’s Answer.

It was with a sense of waking from a dream that Brace Norton opened his eyes to gaze upon lights and faces dancing around him; but it was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to reply to questions that were asked. By degrees, though, he could make out that it was Sir Murray Gernon who was speaking, and then there arose a loud, wailing woman’s cry, followed by a voice Brace recognised.

“Ye’re reet, lassie—it is, sure enew. It’s Jock Gurdon come back to get his deserts.”

“Blast you!—a doctor—I’m—I’m dy—Here, quick!—a doctor, or I shall bleed to death!” groaned the wretched man.

“Has any one gone for a medical man?” said a stern voice.

“Yes, Sir Mooray, I’ve sent for a doctor and the police, too. It’s gude for us that the loons were quarrelling over the spoil.”

“Isa, my child, this is no place for you!” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“That’s right,” cried Lord Maudlaine, who was also present; “I’ve been asking her to go. My dear Miss Gernon—Isa—what are you about? Don’t go near him!”

Lord Maudlaine might well exclaim, for Isa Gernon, pale and scared, was slowly advancing towards where Brace Norton lay. The eyes of love were more piercing than those of the bystanders; and in those swollen and bleeding features Isa had recognised those of the man who had told her again and again of his love.

“Brace!” she cried, in a low, husky voice, as, falling upon her knees at his side, heedless of all present, she laid her hands upon his; for this could be no burglar, as they had told her—there must be some horrible mystery here.

“Isa!” he whispered, as his eyes met hers for an instant, ere they closed.

“Quick!—quick!” cried the agitated girl. “Father—dear papa—oh, what is this? You have shot him, and he is dying. Oh, quick!—quick!—a doctor!”

Her cries seemed to drive away the fainting sensation that oppressed Brace Norton; and as Sir Murray—astounded at his daughter’s words—hurried to her side, the young man’s eyes again unclosed, for his lips to part in a faint smile.

“No, no,” he whispered—“not shot—that man—Gurdon—I followed him—stabbed, I fear—perhaps to death—the cross, Sir Murray; look! Lady Gernon’s—my father’s innocence—left for me to prove—I know—old story—take it, Isa, love—if I pass away, recollect—not—son—dishonoured man—saved—”

“The brae laddie has fainted, and, Gude save us! it’s young Brace Norton. Here, quick!—some water, and don’t all stand staring like daft fules!” cried McCray. But, at the same moment, with his mind a chaos of wild thoughts, Sir Murray Gernon had sunk upon his knees by the young man, whose hands still clutched the sparkling cross, the jewels glittering brightly yet, though partly encrusted with soot. It was some few minutes, during which he had been striving to stanch the young man’s wound, before he could arrange his thoughts into something like their proper sequence.

This man, then—this Gurdon—had, indeed, stolen the cross; picked it up the night of the great party—more than twenty years ago—and concealed it here, behind the stove; for it was plain enough from whence it had been taken. Here, then, was the key to Gurdon’s attempted burglaries—the man who, with the knowledge of a hidden treasure, had never been able to take it from the spot where it had been placed. Had he, then,—he, Sir Murray Gernon,—been wrong in his suspicions, and was this young man’s father, after all, innocent? No; impossible! he was clear of one foul stain, but the other mystery was unsolved.

The unwonted feeling of gentleness that had come upon him, for a few minutes, as he knelt by the injured man, soon passed away, and the old, hard frown came fiercely back.

There was no one there he could speak to, and say that he was glad the jewels were found, and that he hoped the other mystery might be cleared up; but he rose, with a half-shudder, from his knees, as Jane McCray came forward, pale and trembling, her eyes fixed on his; and as the recollection of the past came back, he would have turned and left the room. But Jane’s hand was on his arm, and, in a voice that was only heard by Isa, she said, beseechingly:

“Oh, Sir Murray, don’t be hard upon your poor child, as you were on my own dear lady! I’ll never say a word—I’ll take all with me to the grave; only, now that it has pleased Heaven to make all this clear, and to show you what you would never believe, try and repent, and ask forgiveness of those you so cruelly wronged! You can’t do much now—it’s too late; but oh! Sir Murray—dear master—do something! Twenty years and more ago, now, since the wrongs were done; and yet, you see, how judgment comes at last for the wicked. You know now how cruelly wrong you were; there it all is. You thought, between them, there had been something done with that cross, and now you see. I hoped that man had died repenting, in a far-off land; but it was to be his fate to come and clear this up first—to show you how ill you treated my poor, sweet lady—to show you her innocence and—”

“Loose your hold, woman!” whispered Sir Murray, hoarsely.

“No,” she said, holding his arm tightly—“not yet. You know how I promised her, Sir Murray, that I’d be, as far as I could, a mother to that child; and I’ve tried to. Haven’t I, for her sake, sealed my lips, and kept hid a secret that has made the white come in my hair? Am I not an old and faithful servant? After what I have done, can you not trust me when I say that I will carry all I know to the grave? But, Sir Murray, you will try—you will make right what you can. Don’t break their hearts. Look at that brave boy. You know how he loves her; you know how you injured his father. Promise me that you will repent of it all, and try to make them happy.”

“Confound the woman!” cried Sir Murray, angrily—“she is mad! Lord Maudlaine, this is no place for your betrothed; take her away. Ha! here is the doctor at last.”

As Jane McCray covered her face with her hands, and fell back with a groan, Lord Maudlaine advanced to where Isa, who had heard all that had passed, still knelt by Brace Norton’s side.

“Miss Gernon—Isa,” he said, anxiously; “let me lead you away. Sir Murray wisely says that this is no place for you.”

“No place!” she cried, her soft eyes flashing into light. “Is it not a woman’s place beside the man she loves, when he is stricken down and helpless? Keep back, sir! I do not require your forced attentions!”

The aspect of Lord Maudlaine’s face was a mingling of the ludicrous and the enraged; but no one seemed to heed it, for, evidently violently agitated, Sir Murray had left the room, while all eyes were now directed to the doctor, whose ministrations were rapid, and orders issued sharply, as if he meant to have them obeyed.

“Gude-sake, sir!” said McCray, at last, unable to restrain his feelings, for he had read the anxiety in his young lady’s countenance—“Gude-sake, sir, tell’s how they all are!”

“Burglar—bad shot through shoulder, but not dangerous; Mr Norton—serious stab, knife pierced the—”

“Gude-sake, sir, never mind that!” exclaimed McCray. “Tell’s the warst at once: is he likely—”

McCray did not finish his sentence in words, but with his eyes; while, with an anxious troubled look, the doctor glanced towards the figure of Isa Gernon, before he replied:

“Well, McCray, I—There, I’ll give you my opinion to-morrow.”

Crushed Down.

Die? What, with those sweet imploring eyes bidding him live?—with hope telling him that now one part of the mystery was cleared the other must soon be swept away?—with his own heart whispering energy, and patience, and desire for life? No; his spirit had well-nigh been drained away by that cruel stab, but Brace Norton smiled at the pain he suffered, and fought back the black shade that bade him succumb.

They bore him from the Castle to his own home; for as soon as the news spread of the late adventure, Captain and Mrs Norton, who had passed an anxious night, had themselves driven over to the Castle, and, in spite of the doctor’s remonstrance, insisted upon bringing their son away.

“I cannot help it, Challen,” said Captain Norton—“the risk must be run. You must do your best to avert danger, for he cannot stay here.”

“As you will,” said the doctor; and he proceeded to superintend the young man’s removal to the carriage.

Sir Murray Gernon knew of their coming, but he did not meet them. He shut himself up in his study, and as Brace was being placed in the carriage, McCray came forward, and handed a note to Captain Norton, who started as he saw the cipher on the great seal.

He tore it open and read the following lines:

“Sir Murray Gernon feels it to be his duty to apologise to Captain Norton for having done him one grievous wrong. The Sapphire Cross was stolen by Sir Murray’s butler, and is once more in its owner’s hands.

“Sir Murray Gernon asks Captain Norton’s pardon.”

Without a word, Captain Norton handed the note to his wife, who read it; and then, with the proud blood rushing to her temples, she handed it back, watching him to see what he would do.

There was a look almost of passion in Captain Norton’s eye, and the great broad scar looked red and angry, as he stood there biting his lip for a few brief instants before he spoke.

The library door was ajar, and every word of his sharp, military speech was plainly heard by the occupant, as, drawing himself up, Captain, Norton turned to McCray.

“You are Sir Murray Gernon’s confidential servant,” he said. “I will not write, but tell him this from me: he asks my pardon for a wrong, and I have waited over twenty years till the truth should appear. I go now to wait for the fellow-letter to this; when he shall ask my forgiveness for another wrong, then I will send him my reply.”

He turned and walked slowly and proudly down the great steps of the main entrance, while their owner cowered in his room, shrinking back into the far corner, as he watched and saw through the window that Isa was at the carriage-door, holding one of Brace’s hands in hers, as she looked appealingly in Dr Challen’s face. His brow darkened as he saw it, for it seemed as if his efforts were to be set at nought, and that the more he battled against the stream of events the more it swept him back. But he did not hear his child’s plaintive words, as she spoke to the doctor.

“Pray—pray tell me!” she whispered: “Is he in danger?”

“Danger? Well, yes, of course he is,” said the doctor, taking her in his arms and kissing her as he would one of his own children. “But there, bless your bright little face, go in, and don’t fidget and make those eyes dull with crying, and I’ll cure him right off for you. Now, Captain Norton,” he continued, lightly—“slow march for the horses—two miles an hour—with the windows all down, and I must ride inside.”

Brace fainted as the carriage-door was closed, but it was with the sense of his hand being kissed by two soft, warm lips, ere all became misty and confused; and then it was that Dr Challen’s light, flippant manner gave place to a quiet, serious aspect, as he plied restoratives, and prepared for the battle that his experience told him was imminent.

It was a long and fierce fight, but youth, with hope shining now in upon the young man’s heart, prevailed; and though no encouraging letter from Isa—no communication came from the Castle but a formal inquiry or two made on the part of Sir Murray—Brace daily grew stronger, telling himself that he would yet, perhaps, see the day when all would be made plain. There was a feeling of exultation that came upon the young man, when he saw the proud, happy bearing that seemed to have come upon his father? and more than once there was a fond blessing from her who had held faith when all the world disbelieved. This exultation did more than all Dr Challen’s medicaments, but the doctor took to himself the credit, all the same.

Brace’s ship sailed without him, and he could not but rejoice at the time afforded him for further investigation, while he prayed earnestly that accident might again favour him, though at times his heart sank, as rumours came of the state of affairs at the Castle. For though he had dismissed them as impossible, utterly refusing them credence, at times charging Sir Murray Gernon with subterfuge, at others giving him the credit of believing the words he had whispered, they began now, as he approached convalescence, to make a deep and lasting impression upon him. He had not seen her—he had not heard from her, and the gap between the families seemed almost to have widened since the discovery of the cross; but there was no Lord Maudlaine at the Castle now: he had taken his departure, and Brace was hopeful that it was for good; when one day, when he had regained his strength, his heart leaped tumultuously, for he saw Isa approaching him, on her favourite mare, attended as usual by Peter Barlow.

It might be wrong, but he could not help it, and he hurried forward to meet her, his hands outstretched, and face bright and eager, but to his utter despair she touched the mare with her whip, averted her head, and cantered by, leaving him, almost giddy with misery, by the road-side.

Why Isa Gernon Avoided Brace.

Lord Maudlaine had indeed left the Castle, but not for the reason Brace Norton had hoped. The time was getting on, and a hint or two to that effect from his friend in London had induced him to seek an opportunity for speaking to Isa alone.

The opportunity was soon afforded him, for Sir Murray, guessing his wish, and himself anxious that the marriage should take place, left them one evening together in the drawing-room, while he sought his study, where, a quarter of an hour after, the Viscount came to him.

“What! so soon?” said Sir Murray.

“Utter refusal—appeal to my feelings—impossible to accept me—and all that sort of thing,” said the Viscount, angrily. “I’m being played with, Sir Murray Gernon,” he exclaimed, bitterly—“led on and trifled with!”

“Are you willing to take her as she is—to risk all?” said Sir Murray, quietly.

“Quite—yes, of course,” said his lordship.

“Stay here, then, till I return,” said Sir Murray.

He went to the drawing-room, where he found Isa, vainly striving to keep back her tears.

“Come here and sit down, Isa,” he said, in quiet, measured tones. “There, don’t tremble,” he said, as he took her hand. “I’m not very angry with you, and I’m not going to scold and play the tyrant. You have just refused Lord Maudlaine, when you know that for months past it has been an understood thing that he was to be your husband. I do not ask you why you have done this, because I know. While we were in Italy there was no opposition shown upon your side; since we have returned you have often made me blush for the coldness—almost rudeness—with which you have treated him.”

“Oh, papa!” exclaimed Isa, appealingly.

“You must hear me out,” he said sternly. “I will tell you why you are cold to him: it is because you think that you love this Brace Norton; and, irrespective of the feeling between our houses, were he a man of honour, he would, after my words to him, have ceased his persecution.”

“Your words!” faltered Isa.

“My words,” he said sternly. “I saw him, and I have appealed to him in every way, but only to meet with an obstinate refusal. Then I brought to bear means that at the time I believed to be effectual. This is no silly romance of love, my child, but stern fact, that I have to deal with. I have chosen Lord Maudlaine to be your husband. You will be a titled lady, and some day wear a Countess’s coronet. You will both be wealthy, and let me tell you that it is an alliance to be proud of. Now, promise me that, if I send him in, you will accede to his proposals.”

Isa was silent.

“You hear me, Isa,” he said, gently—“why do you not reply? You will accede to his wishes, will you not?”

“I cannot,” said Isa, in a whisper. “It would be a mockery!”

“Absurd, silly, romantic nonsense, my child! You must accept him, and at once. I wish to have your marriage off my mind before I return to Italy; for I cannot stay in this place.”

“Let us go, then, together!” said Isa, eagerly. “Why do you trouble about this matter at all?”

“It is my wish to see you married, and to Lord Maudlaine,” he said, firmly. “I cannot live with the constant harass of this man’s pretensions. I tell you, on my honour as a gentleman—since you set at nought my word as your father—that a marriage between you and Brace Norton is an impossibility. I told him—lowering myself even to giving him the reasons; and the man’s character is such that—here, look, I have his letter to you, and which I refuse to let you read. I tell you, Isa, that in spite of my moroseness at times, I have a love for you from the way in which you recall your mother; but I would see you in your coffin sooner than the wife of this man!”

“But, papa—dear papa,” sobbed Isa, “you are prejudiced—you are cruel! You do not know how good, and brave, and true he is, and I love him so—so dearly!”

She threw herself, sobbing, upon his breast, hiding her burning cheeks; while, apparently softened, he held her to him—a sad, wild, pained look in his face, as he kissed and smoothed her long, dark tresses.

“My child,” he said, sadly, “I own I hate father and son with a fierce, undying hatred; but it is not that alone which makes me tell you that Brace Norton can never be your husband. Can you not believe me when I tell you that every word I utter is solemn truth?”

“Yes—oh yes!” sobbed Isa.

“Then you will see Lord Maudlaine?”

“Indeed—indeed, I cannot!” sobbed Isa. “I—”

“Hush!” said Sir Murray, sternly, as, rising, he stood holding her hand. “In plain terms, you must. Hearken to me, Isa. You know me only as a cold, harsh, and bitter man; an unhappy life has made me what I am. Proud I was always: but I might have been amiable—loving and loved—but it was not to be. I have still some traces of better feeling left; and I ask you—I implore you—not to force me to make revelations that shall prove the impossibility of your wedding Brace Norton. I might look over his father having been the bane of my life, and, did I see that it was for your happiness, give way; but once again, I tell you that it is impossible. Will you take my word?”

Isa looked up into his face with an aspect that was pitiable.

“Can you feel no pity for me?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, gently; “I am having pity on you, though you cannot see it, and are obliged blindly to take my word. And now I ask you, can you not have pity on me?”

Isa sat as if stunned, while, throwing her hand from him, Sir Murray strode for awhile up and down the room. Then, returning to her, he again seated himself by her side.

“Look here, Isa,” he said, “Lord Maudlaine wishes this affair to take place at the end of this month. I may tell him that you consent, may I not?”

“No!” she said, her spirit rising at the thought of being forced into accepting a man she despised. “I will not consent.”

“You are blind, Isa—blind!” he said, sadly; and then a groan seemed to tear itself from his breast, as he bent over her, speaking in low, hoarse tones.

“I would have spared you,” he said; “for whatever you might have felt for this young man, Isa, you had the one good excuse, that you had obeyed me in accepting Lord Maudlaine. Time will not allow that the wedding should longer be deferred. It is his wish that it should take place at once—and mine; for my life is a burden to me here. I lead the life of one haunted by the past; and it was only when, moved by some strange impulse that I could not counteract, I returned, to find, what?—misery, and disappointment, and scenes that remind me of what should have been my happier days. But, once more, do you force me to this avowal? I ask you again to spare yourself and me, taking it for granted that what I tell you is right. May I refrain, and then tell Lord Maudlaine to come to you?”

“I cannot—indeed I cannot!” imploringly exclaimed Isa.

Sir Murray rose, his face working and his whole aspect speaking of the careworn, broken man. Then waiting a few moments, he stood with one hand shading his eyes, before again speaking.

“Isa,” he said, “Jane McCray has acted the part of a mother to you, at your own mother’s wish; and I have ever kept her at your side. Go to her now, and ask her why I have never shown you a father’s love—a parent’s tender care; and though she will utter a strenuous defence of the dead, you may read in her words my reason for saying that Brace Norton can never be your husband. You will know yourself that it is impossible that such an union can take place; for, before Heaven, my child, I believe every word I utter to be true!”

With Trouble Looming.

“Dinna be fashed with me, lassie, I ainly say what I think and feel, and I do believe that it is perhaps better things should tak’ their course. If ye could ha’ married the man ye chose, Jenny, first aff, I dinna think, my lassie, there’d ha’ been this nice, smooth auld face under your cap, and the grey ainly sprunk lightly among your hair, just like to set it aff. Why, your e’en are bright as ay they were, when I had a sair heart aboot Jock Gurdon, who’s got well again, and Sir Mooray is na gane to prosecute him; but, Jenny, lassie, he’s na sae bad a man, aifter all, Sir Mooray is na, for there, lassie—there they air, ten new crisp five-pound notes, and all for Jock Gurdon, to take him ower to America, and start life as a new man.”

“Heaven bless Sir Murray for it!” said Jane, fervently.

“Amen to that, lassie; and I hope Jock Gurdon will mend his ways. And I’ve been thinking, lassie, that if I tak’ the money, it will rise up some of the auld anger in the man, so ye shall e’en do it yer ainsel’, and give him a few words for his benefit; for ye’re a gude woman, Jane, and Heaven was verra kind to me when He gave me sic a wife.”

Jane McCray did not speak, but her comely face was raised to her husband’s, and a few bright tears fell from her eyes as she returned his loving kiss.

“I should be a happy woman if it were not for that poor bairn,” said Jane. “She believes it, though I scolded her, and told her how cruel and false it all was, and that my own dear, sweet lady—”

“Hoot, lassie! ye’re getting excited. The puir child has said ‘yes’ to his lordship at last, and they’re to be married. Marriages air made in heaven, lassie, so let’s hope it’s all for the best.”

“For the best!” sobbed Jane McCray, wringing her hands. “Oh! Alexander, dear husband! can’t we stop it, for I foresee all sorts of misery and unhappiness for them both in the days to come; and it’s cruel—cruel to force the poor child!”

“Nay, my lassie, but it is na force. She is only giving way to Sir Mooray’s wishes, and if my laird here were a proper man, I wad na say a word. But there, he’s gane to town for some days—till the wedding time, noo—and the sooner its ower the better. Peter tells me that the puir bairn met young Norton, when they were oot laist, and he tried to speak to her, but she turned her head, and cantered on.”

Jane groaned, and wrung her hands. “I wish I was in my grave, sooner than see it all come to pass,” she sobbed.

“Weel, it’s perhaps a sair potion to swaller, Jenny; but be a woman. What does the puir bairn say?”

“Say? Nothing; only goes about the place pale and wan, with her poor heart breaking,” said the housekeeper; “and when that creature—”

“Hoot, lassie! what creature?” said McCray.

“That popinjay lord,” said Jane scornfully. “When—”

“Gude save us, lassie! dinna ye ken yer catechism: ‘order yersel’ lowly and reverently to a’ yer betters;’ and that’s na ordering yersel’ lowly and reverently.”

“When I’ve seen him take hold of her, as if she was his property that he had bought, and stroke her hair and kiss her, the poor thing has shuddered; and once she struggled from him, and came to me to take care of her—for she only sees him with me in the room—and as soon as he’d gone she sobbed, as if her heart would break.”

“Puir bairn,” said McCray; “but he’s gane noo, and she’ll ha’e a respite.”

“Respite, indeed!” said his wife angrily. “It puts me in mind of the old time—over five-and-twenty years ago—when my poor dear lady was all low and desponding because, at the wish of old Master and Mrs Elstree, she had accepted Sir Murray; and there she was with her cousin, Mrs Norton, you know, sobbing her poor eyes—I mean heart—away. I declare, whether it’s wrong or right, Alexander, that if that poor young man—no! poor? nonsense: he’s better off a deal than my fine lord, and as brave as he’s high—”

“That’s a true word, lassie,” said McCray, who was having his evening pipe and tumbler of whisky and water, his day’s duties being ended.

“If that Mr Norton came to me and asked me to help him to run away with the child, I’d help him to the best of my power.”

“Nay—nay—nay! your tongue’s gane wild, lassie.”

“Wouldn’t you, then?” said Mrs McCray.

“Weel, I’ll na say,” said the cautious Scot. “Ye see, lassie, there’s for and against; and in spite of a’ ye say about crule suspeeshons, I think, as I said before, that it’s our duty to all we know to haud our peace and let matters tak’ their course.”

And matters were taking their course rapidly; for as time passed on, Brace Norton roamed the lanes like the ghost of his former self; but never once did he meet poor Isa.

The wedding-day was fixed, and the dresses were ordered, and once more Merland was to be the scene of festivity and rejoicing. After the wedding Lord and Lady Maudlaine, people said, were to start for the Continent, and Sir Murray intended to go alone to Italy to reside, while the Castle was to be the home of my lord and my lady.

“And you’ll have fine doings there, I suppose,” said one of two strange men who had come down to stay at old Chunt’s inn—surveyors they said they were, perhaps connected with the working on the marsh.

“Yes,” said Chunt, who was stout now, and hardly ever left his chair; “the Castle will be again what it ought to be, for the new master, they say, can make the shiners fly. I see he’s come down again.”

“Yes,” said one of the men, taking his pipe from his month; “I see he’s come down.”

“Ah, you know him, do you?” said Chunt.

“Know him? Well, so far as having him pointed out to me goes, I know him. Fine thing for him, they say.”

“Bless you,” said Chunt, “I believe there’s no end to the money he’ll have; but I hope it’ll be a happy marriage, that’s all I’ve got for to say.” And in spite of people trying to draw Chunt out, that was all he had to say, and he tightened his lips for fear another word should escape. “Wanted, eh?” said Chunt—“I’m coming,” and he waddled out to speak to a new-comer.

“How do, sir? Post-chaise and pair, sir. Oh, yes, sir; any time you like. You’ll give your orders? Thanky, sir.”

Mr Chunt waddled back as his visitor departed, and one of the frequenters of the bar asked who that gentleman was.

“That gent?” said Chunt. “Oh! that’s Master Brace Norton.”

Preparations.

The day before the wedding, and traces everywhere at Merland village of the grand doings to come, even a score of white-smocked navvies, with their rolled-up trousers, great laced boots, and huge stolid faces, stopping to stare about, after a morning’s freak, consisting of four hours’ neglect of work, and the consumption of endless pots of beer and pipes of tobacco in Chunt’s tap-room; but they were soon off to their work cutting the great drain through the peat, where the wind and horse mills were busy pumping out the water.

“Some people’s allus a’ enjoying o’ themselves, and having feasts,” growled one peat-stained giant.

“Ah!” said another, taking his pipe out of his mouth to spit. “I should just like to come back and spoil all their fun!” But half an hour after, like the rest of his fellows, he was delving away, cutting the soft peat in great bricks, and heaving them out of the cutting, as he worked off his superabundant beer.

But there was misery at Merland Castle, and more than once Jane McCray, sobbing, told her husband that she had thought it would have broken her heart when she saw poor dejected, wounded, pale John Gurdon, and gave him the money, and wished him a happy future, when he broke down, and cried like a child at receiving treatment he said he had never deserved; but it was nothing to this, seeing that poor wasted child waiting for the hours to pass before she was condemned to what would be like a death in life.

For half-hysterical at times, an impression seemed to have come upon Isa Gernon that she would be fetched away, that even against her own will she would be saved from the fate that awaited her, and she started up, and listened, and looked from her window again and again for what did not come. Dresses were tried on, trunks were packed, presents poured in, bouquets, jewels, everything to give éclat to the proceedings; but Isa seemed to see nothing but one upbraiding face ever before her, reproaching her for her cruelty—a cruelty which she nerved herself by saying was but duty.

Brace Norton knew all, even the time at which the wedding would take place; but he uttered no complaint, only wandered about hour after hour, telling himself that to-morrow all would be at an end, ending by reproaching himself for his inaction. Towards afternoon, he strolled out towards the marsh, and smiled bitterly a fierce, angry smile, as he saw the men busily cutting their way with the great drain towards the pit, from which he had saved the bride of the ensuing day.

“Would we had died there together,” he said, bitterly; and then he stooped, and picked a bunch of the forget-me-nots so abundant there, and tied them with one of the thin rushes from the mass at his feet. An hour after, enclosed in an envelope, they were laid on Isa’s dressing-table, where she found them, and as had wept of old her mother, she had wept, for she guessed from whence that simple bouquet had come. She kissed them, held them to her breast, and then sank upon her knees, sobbing hysterically for the love she felt that, in spite of all revelations, she could not crush down, for she thought she was alone. But it was not so, for Jane McCray had entered unperceived, and started and turned pale as she saw the tiny flowers and the envelope in which they had arrived.

“True-blue,” she said aloud, for her thoughts had reverted to the past; and then, trembling with superstitious dread, “Miss Isa,” she said, “throw those flowers away—they’re fatal, and bring nothing but misery and despair to those who wear them. All those long years ago, and it seems only yesterday that your poor mamma brought a bunch from the marsh. If he has sent you those, it was cruel and heartless of him, at such a time.”

And angry with the maid who must have brought them, Jane made as if to take them from her mistress’s hand; but she stopped half way, trembling more than ever, as she saw Isa press the simple blossoms to her breast with both hands, her head thrown back, her blue-veined eyelids closed, and her lips moving rapidly—for there, on her knees, she was invoking Heaven’s blessing on the sender, and praying for strength to carry her through her trials.

Jane’s anger had passed away, when, after a few minutes, she assisted Isa to a couch; for there was something in the poor girl’s face that troubled her, and kept her hovering round as from a strange kind of fascination.

Was she going to be ill? Had her poor nerves been drawn too tightly? And would they snap beneath the unfair tension? At one time it seemed to Jane McCray, when Isa started up as if listening, that there would be no wedding the next morning.

But the preparations went on, and Sir Murray entertained a select party at dinner. My lord, the Viscount, was in excellent spirits, and paid frequent visits to the decanters. Certainly, a week had passed since the money was due, but then he had written to Braham, telling him of the day of the wedding; and the money-lender had sent a congratulatory reply, to say that it was “all right,” and that he very much regretted his inability to attend himself.

The second course was on the table, and McCray was busy handing the wine to the various guests, when a footman, who had just entered the room, pulled him by the sleeve.

“Gude-sake, man!” he exclaimed, testily, “ye’ll make that wine as thick as mood!” when, hearing the man’s whisper, he set the decanter down upon the floor, and ran out.

Isa had sent to excuse herself, for she was, indeed, too ill with excitement; and, at Jane’s earnest solicitation, she had gone to lie down, to fall into a broken slumber, filled with troubled dreams, and all connected with the coming day. Again and again she was being led to the church, when Brace seemed to snatch her away and hold her to his breast: but when she tried to clasp him in return, he faded, as it were, away, and there was nothing there: then they were wandering together by the marsh, picking the true-blue forget-me-nots; but each flower seemed weeping for their sorrows; and at last the soft, treacherous earth seemed to give way, and they were plunged together in the black, strangling water, to sink lower, lower, lower, till all was blinding and dark; but his arms were tightly round her now, his lips were to hers, and he was breathing words of love—of love, and holy love—to her, telling her that they would part no more; that there should be no more misery, no more watching and weeping; but that their parents’ sorrows should be succeeded by the sunshine of their joy; and, returning his caresses from the depth of her heart, she shrieked aloud, for she was rudely awakened to the misery of the present; for, apparently wild with excitement, Jane rushed into the room, caught her for a moment in her arms, to kiss her, almost fiercely, and then throwing her rudely back upon the couch—

“Lie there, my child—lie there!” she exclaimed. “She gave you into my charge, and I have been faithful. Sleep, if you like, but let it be in peace, for there will be no wedding to-morrow!”

Was she mad? Was she crazy? Isa asked herself those questions, as she heard the door closed and locked upon her; then, unable to restrain her tears, she sank back weakly weeping.

“They’re Bringing My Lady Hame.”

Alexander McCray, in his excitement at being told that Brace Norton was in the hall, set down the decanter upon the carpet, where it was directly after kicked over by the under-butler. But McCray hurried out, lest Sir Murray should hear who had arrived—his dread being that there would be a fracas brought on by the young man’s imprudence. He looked for the visitor, though, in vain, and turned back to enter the dining-room, when the glass door looking out upon the carriage-drive was thrown open, and Brace, pale and wild-looking, appeared.

“Gude save us! and how can ye be sae foolish, laddie?” exclaimed McCray, hurrying to him. “Ye’ll mak’ sair wark of it a’, and do naebody any gude. If ye lo’e the puir bairn,” he said, with a touching simplicity, “gang yer gait, and let her be in peace, for ye’ll break her puir sair hairt if ye mak’ a dust noo!”

“What?” whispered Brace—“has she not told you?”

“Told me?” exclaimed McCray. “Ah! stop, then! Gude save us, the lassie’s mad! Jenny! wife!—here, stop!”

But Alexander McCray’s words might have been true, from the way in which the housekeeper rushed into the dining-room, exclaiming, “Sir Murray—Sir Murray!”

The pent-up excitement of years upon years was struggling for exit, and, heedless of all present—of the confusion her presence created as the baronet rose, glaring at her with a mingling of fear and anger—Jane darted towards him.

“Where is McCray? Take this woman out?”

“No—no,” she shrieked, excitedly. “Let no one dare to touch me! I knew the truth would out some day; and now it has come—come in time to stop this cruel wedding. It has been hidden from the eyes of man all these years, but Heaven would not suffer that it should rest longer. No!” she cried, as, clinging to Sir Murray, he tried to shake her off—“it has come home to you at last. I will not leave go. You know how I have kept my lips sealed; and now the time is come when they should be opened. Sir Murray—my poor lady—has—”

Jane McCray’s words became inaudible, as, dizzy with excitement, she reeled and then fell, to lie insensible upon the carpet. The visitors looked from one to the other; some sought to assist the housekeeper, others made for the door; while, trembling himself, Lord Maudlaine hurried to Sir Murray’s side.

“In Heaven’s name, what does it all mean?” the Viscount whispered.

“I don’t know—I—I—What, you here?” exclaimed Sir Murray, as Brace Norton appeared in the doorway.

“Tell him, McCray,” said Brace, in a low voice. “Speak to him gently.”

Pale and scared-looking, his ruddy, open countenance speaking the sense of the painful duty he had to perform, McCray moved slowly towards Sir Murray.

“What is it?” the latter said, in a strangely incoherent way. “Is Miss Gernon ill or—or—in Heaven’s name, speak!” he cried, as if forcing the words to leave his lips—“has she fled?”

“No, Sir Mooray,” said the old Scot, in a low voice, as he spoke almost tenderly, watching the change in his master’s countenance the while, and catching him by the wrist; and, as if foreseeing what would happen, he placed his arm round him. “Sir Mooray,” he whispered now, as the baronet’s eyes assumed a fixed and ghastly expression, “they’re bringing my lady hame!”

McCray’s foresight was needed; for at those words—words that Sir Murray Gernon seemed to have expected—he raised one hand to his cravat, and then his knees gave way beneath him, and he would have fallen but for the stout supporting arm of his old servant.

“It’s apoplexy! Sir Mooray was seized so before. There, for Gude-sake, my laird, don’t stand glowering there like that, but rin and send a groom for the doctor. Fetch pillows, will ye? and, ladies and gentlemen, in Sir Mooray’s name I ask ye all to gang hame; for this is a sair nicht at the Castle!”

At the same moment there was seen through the darkness of the autumn evening the flashing of lights in the park avenue, then they slowly approached the bridge, passed over it, and a few minutes after there were steps upon the gravel drive, and, headed by Captain Norton, hat in hand, men bore softly into the great hall a hastily-contrived litter. Then, guided by McCray, the litter was borne into one of the nearest rooms, and slowly and in silence the men went out on tip-toe, leaving present only Brace Norton, his father, and the old major-domo.

No word was spoken, but McCray softly stole to the door and closed it, as, suddenly, Captain Norton fell upon his knees, resting his hands for a few moments upon the litter, covered as it was with a white sheet; and then, taking the hand stretched out to him by his son, he tottered from the room; and those who looked upon his pale face saw that great scar standing out plain and red, and that his eyes were wet with tears.

The weakness was but of a few minutes’ duration; and as they stood in the brightly-lighted hall once more, Captain Norton’s voice was sharp and short in its utterance, as he inquired of the state of Sir Murray Gernon.

“I left them bathing his face, sir,” said McCray; and he led the way into the nearly deserted dining-room, where, breathing stertorously, Sir Murray still lay; Jane McCray having been assisted to her own room.

“But ye no think there was foul play, sir?” whispered McCray to Brace Norton. And the young man shook his head, as, eagerly watching his fathers acts, he laid his hand upon the old steward’s lips.

For, going down upon one knee, Captain Norton threw more open the stricken man’s neck-band, raised his head slightly, and stayed for a few moments holding one of Sir Murray’s hands in his.

“Brace,” he said, in a low tone, as, alone now with the old steward, he looked up in his son’s face—“Brace, McCray, you know all from the first. Fate dealt hardly with us both; but at any time, I could have held out my hand to him, and said, you do me wrong. But, Heaven help him! for he has suffered much. He is more to be pitied than blamed!”

There was the sound of wheels upon the gravel once more, and Captain Norton rose to his feet, just as the door was hastily opened, and Dr Challen entered, raising his hands and eyes first to Captain Norton and then to Brace, as if exclaiming, “Good heavens, what a night!”

“The old seizure,” he said, after a few minutes; and then he beckoned to McCray to help him.

“Gude-sake, sir, it’s a sair nicht!” exclaimed the old steward, after a few minutes. “Ye maun let me go; for at the glint I got just noo through the open door, there’s something wrang wi’ my Laird Maudlaine and Mr Brace; and this is no time for mair troubles.”

“Go, in the name of all that’s sensible!” said the doctor, “and ask them if they are mad. Why, they’re scuffling already!”

Dr Challen was wrong; for though Lord Maudlaine had followed the young man and his father to the hall, and had gazed at Brace with a look in which bitterness, disappointment, and hatred struggled for mastery, he spoke no word, till suddenly the glass door was opened, and two men entered, one pressing right to the back, the other stepping in front of his lordship.

“Our orders were, my lord, to take you as you left the church to-morrow morning,” said the latter; “but as it seems there’ll be no church-work, why, we do it now, unless, of course, your lordship’s prepared with the stiff.”

With a fierce oath, Lord Maudlaine started back; but the man was as active.

“Suit of Lewis Braham, m’ lord, as I dare say you know—eight thousand four hundred and forty-five pounds six and eightpence. Does your lordship pay?”

“Surely this is not necessary on a night like this!” exclaimed Brace, indignantly; and taking the sheriff’s officer by the arm, he swung him away.

“Don’t resist the law, sir,” exclaimed the man, in the well-known words; and the next minute the two officers had hurried their capture to a fly waiting at the door; and the next morning Viscount Maudlaine was on his way to durance vile.

At Last.

Brace Norton, on his return from the marsh, had been wandering about in a strange, restless fashion; which troubled those who, unknown to himself, had been watching him keenly day after day. For the eyes of father and mother had met, for each to read the other’s thoughts, as they recalled a scene which took place in a pine wood directly after a wedding, many years ago.

“I don’t fear it of him,” said Captain Norton, quietly; “but if you wish it—”

“How can you read my thought so well?” said Mrs Norton, sadly. “It is indeed my wish. He has now just taken the direction of the marsh again.”

“I will not leave him again until he seems calm and resigned to his fate,” said Captain Norton.

“Calm—resigned,” said Mrs Norton, mournfully. “Then there is no hope for him, poor boy?”

“Hope? Not in that direction, I fear,” said the Captain; and he strode after his son.

It required no great exertion to overtake the young man; and, ready to suspect danger, Captain Norton viewed with anxious heart the strange, vacant look in his son’s face.

“Off for another walk, Brace?” he said, cheerfully, as he clapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes,” said Brace, drearily.

“Be a man, Brace,” said his father, in a low, earnest voice; and he stood for a few moments clasping his son’s hands in his own. “I, too, have suffered, Brace!”

“I know it—I know it!” said Brace, in the same sad, listless way, “and I’ll try and bear it; but oh! father, my heart feels desolate!”

“Come, I’m going to see how the works progress. You’ll go with me: to-morrow we’ll start early, and go away for a few days.”

Brace allowed his father to take his arm, and he walked with him mile after mile, listening, apparently, to his descriptions of the progress of the drain, till, evening drawing on, they came round by the old pine grove, crossed it at one end, where the evening breeze was sighing with a low, murmuring noise amidst the boughs over head—a sound as of waters breaking upon a distant shore.

In spite of Captain Norton’s efforts to be cheerful, he felt now that he had made a grievous mistake in the route he had chosen; for the solemn whisperings of the gloomy old pine wood had their influence even upon him; and, as his heart beat painfully, he shudderingly recalled the past. So strong were the impressions made by memory, that he had not a word to say in opposition when Brace gently disengaged his arm, and seated himself upon one of the fallen trunks, to bury his face in his hands. Captain Norton even felt that he could have followed his son’s example, as, like spectres of the past, came trooping by the thoughts and scenes of the bygone, as the old pine wood grew more and more dim and sombre, for the sun had just dipped below the distant horizon.

There was the old scene at the church porch; the encounter at the rectory; the walk over the moor; his madman’s acts; and, lastly, his awaking to the fact that the devoted woman who had followed him was lying bleeding at his feet—perhaps breathing her last sighs. Then came a change, and he saw again Marion, his old love, returned from abroad; the meeting in his own garden; the scene at the party; the disappearance of the cross; the blow stricken by Sir Murray Gernon; and, lastly, the news that Lady Gernon had, in one short hour, as it were, passed from this life. And now, here was his son—apparently persecuted by the same sad fate—crouching before him, heart-broken and despairing. What was in the future for them both?

He asked himself the question; and then, as if electrified, he started, and stood listening.

“What was that, Brace?” he cried, excitedly.

“Nothing but the men leaving work,” said the young man drearily.

“Nonsense!—rouse yourself!” cried the Captain, “and come on: there is something wrong. Hark at the hurried buzz of voices! The dam must have burst! Let us go.”

“It is only the wind in the pine-tops sighing as if all the sad spirits of the air were there in debate,” said Brace. “I like staying here, father; for it is as if one was once more at sea, with the heralds of the coming storm whispering through the rigging, and telling the news of the fierce winds, soon to shake spar and cord. Father,” he said dreamily, “I ought not to have stayed at Merland so long.”

“There is something going on out there!” cried the Captain, who had not heeded his son’s words. “Come, Brace—once more be a man, and let us go and see.”

The young man started up, and together they hurried to where the navvies had been at work, to find that, half-drunken, they had neglected to see to the security of a dam, beneath which they were working, and it had burst, sweeping all before it, tearing down and scooping out the sides of the drain; and Brace and his father arrived in time to save the lives of two of the men, whom the water had swept some distance down.

But no lives were lost, and soon, the water having passed, the men collected where they had been at work, one angrily blaming the other as being the cause of the mischief.

“Are you all here?” exclaimed Captain Norton in his sharp, short, military way. “Count up!”

“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. Where’s Joe Marks?” cried the ganger, counting.

“Here, all right!” growled a wet savage, who was vainly trying to ignite his pipe with some sodden matches.

“Where’s Sol Dancer?” cried the ganger, after another spell at counting.

“Oh! he’s over there,” said another with a grin. “You couldn’t drownd he, if you was to try.”

“We’re all right, sir!” said the ganger. “We was going to work another hour, as they lost a lot o’ time this morning; but it’s all over now for to-night. Nice job to get straight again in the mornin’. But, hallo! what’s that?”

He was about to step forward, through the soft peat mire, when he was pressed back by Captain Norton, to whom and to his son had come in one and the same instant, the revelation of the second part of the Merland mystery; and together they leaped down into the great cutting, to wade through up to their waists in the black, decayed bog vegetation. They needed no words for explanation; the tufts of little forget-me-nots and silky cotton rush growing around, and yet untouched by the navvies’ spades, told all; for there, in the side of the great drain, where the rush of water had, in its fierce eddy, scooped out a vast mass of peat, stood, perfectly upright, with hands clasped together as if in prayer, her head thrown back, as if to give the last glance upward, towards the haven of rest, the body of Marion Lady Gernon.

Foul play? Treachery there was none, save that of the deceitful moss spread over the soft peat—a verdant carpet over black relentless death from which there was no escape. Even yet, tightly clasped within her fingers, were the remains of the specimens she must have been gathering when the moss gave way, and she sank, apparently without a struggle, from the eyes of the world.

There was no horrible decay here—no frightful repelling change; the peat had the strange preservative character within it of holding unaltered that which it took to itself; and as the body of a poor Saxon woman was once found, after probably fifteen hundred years’ immersion, so was found that of Marion Lady Gernon.

The truth at last—the dread truth, proclaiming itself, trumpet-tongued, for all men to hear—proclaiming innocence, and wronging suspicion, suffering, and death. The last veil was lifted from the past; and as the truth shone forth, clear and bright, foul suspicion and lying scandal shrank away abashed from the bright light to the dark shades where they had been engendered.

“The truth at last!” groaned Philip Norton, elderly and grey now, as he stood, with clasped hands, gazing at the silent dead—“the truth at last, and now he will believe.”

The navvies shrank back in half dread at the strange sight for a few minutes; and when, recovering, they would have advanced, Brace motioned them back, and he alone heard his father’s words.

“At last—at last! what I have prayed for so long. At last! Oh Heaven! I loved her too well to have sullied her even in thought!”

He stood motionless for a few minutes, and then, by a fierce effort, he started back into life.

“Let no hand but ours rest upon her, Brace,” he whispered; and then, of the woodwork near, a litter was hastily contrived, and on a bed of the heather and rush, amidst which she had loved to linger, the sleeping figure was slowly borne towards the village, till, as they neared the Park, Brace left his father to prepare those at the Castle for the awful visitation.

At One.

Two months elapsed, and Merland village had almost ceased talking about the grand funeral from the Castle—“the strange berryin’”—when, after twenty long years, Lady Gernon was borne to the family vault, with the Nortons, at Sir Murray’s wish, for chief mourners. For he lay as he had been stricken down, a broken, helpless man, tended ever by his two old, faithful servants; McCray watching his every glance, and often and often sitting at his bedside, to read to him, in a strong Scottish twang, the news of the present and the future. But for a long while there was a strange, uneasy aspect in Sir Murray Gernon’s face whenever Jane McCray was in the room. And that uneasy look was at last interpreted by the housekeeper, who, as she smoothed his pillow, asked him of his thoughts—for he had, as it were, questioned her with his eyes—while she held bottle and medicine-glass in her hand.

“She never but once tasted it,” said Jane McCray, “I changed it every time.”

His words came now only in broken utterances, so that only his regular attendants could comprehend his wishes, but that time, plainly and loudly came the words:

“Thank God!”

Few knew the bitter fight that took place in that proud man’s breast, as, humbled now, he saw clearly the way in which he had taken suspicion to his breast, nurturing it and preparing the soil for its lasting stay, until the foul roots had laced and interlaced—until it was like tearing his heart to pieces to drag them forth. But it had to be done, and he did it manfully, in those long hours, when he lay helpless and alone. How he could read now the past by another light; his own weakness, the bitter sufferings of the true-hearted woman who had striven to bear the cross that had fallen to her lot. How all his wealth and possessions had been but so much dust and ashes, and his life, so far, one dreary blank. But there was the future!—and for awhile his face brightened, and he looked elate; there was his child—there was Philip Norton’s child. Should not they possess the happiness that had never been his? But then his brow became overcast, as he thought of how he would have to humble himself before his old rival and enemy.

It was a bitter fight; but help came, as Isa glided into the room, and knelt beside his pillow, placing her little hands in his; and the weak tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks, as he prayed for strength to root out the last foul thread that seemed to canker his breast. He could see it all now—all so plainly, that with him rested the happiness of many around; and as he took those hands and held them to his brow, he prayed earnestly as man ever yet prayed, that the past might be forgiven, and a new heart granted to his suffering breast.

That prayer must have been heard, for the next day Brace Norton and his father were at the Castle, seated by the sick man’s bed, till Sir Murray made a sign to McCray, who whispered in Brace Norton’s ear, and they two left the room.

No eye saw—no ear heard what took place in that bed-chamber; but when, at last, alarmed at the long silence, Brace and Isa stole in, Sir Murray’s eyes were closed, and Captain Norton’s head was bowed down, while Brace felt his heart leap and the tears rush to his eyes, as he saw that their right hands were tightly clasped together.

Captain Norton started to his feet as the young couple entered, but it was no display of shame at his weakness, for he clasped Isa directly to his breast, and Brace saw that the hand his father had dropped was feebly held out to him. And then, though no words were spoken, a strange peace, hitherto unknown, stole upon every heart there present.

After a Lapse.

“I ha’e been thinking, Jenny,” said Alexander McCray, one afternoon, when, during intervals of taking pinches of snuff, he had mixed himself a tumbler of whisky and water, wherein floated the transparent discs of half a sliced lemon—“I ha’e been thinking, Jenny, if it wasna for Sir Mooray wanting my airm noo he’s oop again, and liking it better than that three-wheeled chair thing, I’d give oop the stewardship, and go back to my gairden.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs McCray, smiling.

“Weel, lassie, ye may ca’ it nonsense, but I ca’ it soun’ sense, for it’s quite hairt-breaking to see the way that man neglects the floor-beds. There’s no floors noo in the gairden like there was in my day.”

“Alexander!” exclaimed his wife, jumping up, and turning him round so that he could see through the low window out into the pleasure-grounds—“you are getting in the habit of talking nonsense! Did you ever see such a flower as that in the grounds in your day?”

“Gude save us—no,” said Sandy, putting on his glasses, and a smile dawning on his rugged face—“Gude save us—no, lassie! Ye’re reet, for she’s a bonnie floor, indeed; and look at the sweet tendrils of the thing, and how she clings to the brae stake that’s goin’ to support her. Eh, lassie! but they’re a brae couple, and Heaven be gracious to them!”

“Amen!” said Jane, softly, as, with dewy eyes, she rested upon her husband’s shoulder, and continued to gaze at the sight before them.

“They say it’s a vale o’ sorrows, this warld, Jenny lassie,” said McCray, taking off and wiping his spectacles; “but to my way of thinking, it’s a verra beautiful gairden, full of bright floors and sweet rich fruits. But ye ken, lassie, that there’s that de’il—muckle sorrow to him—a’ways pitching his tares and his bad seeds ower the wall, for them to come oop in weeds; and gif ye no keep the hoe busy at wark, and bend your prood neck and stiff back to keep tearing them oop by the roots, Auld Sootie’s rubbing those hands of his at the way in which his warks run on. Perhaps ye’ll just put the whusky near by my haund. I thank ye, lassie. Winna ye tak’ a wee soopie?”

Mrs McCray declined; and after refreshing himself with a goodly draught, the old Scot continued:

“Ye’re reet, lassie; the gairden has got its breet floors aifter all; and I think I’ll e’en stay as I am. Heaven bless them! And there’s that gudely vine of the Captain’s coming to them, leuking as she desairves. Gude-sake, Jenny, I believe gif there’s a better woman on this airth than thee, it’s Mrs Norton; but she’s na ye’re equal in soom things, lassie. She mak’s a gudely lady, but she wad ne’er ha’ fitted in your station.”

There was another sip of “whusky” before McCray spoke again, when, as two fresh figures passed slowly by the window:

“Eh, lassie!” cried Sandy; “but leuk there—that’s the thing that wairms my hairt better than e’en the whusky or the glint o’ yer twa e’en. It mak’s me think o’ whaat Dauvid says aboot brethren living together in unity. Leuk hoo the puir laird hangs on the Captain’s airm, and hoo he listens to his wards. They’re like brithers indeed noo; and the Captain’s always reading to him. Boot—eh, lassie?—it strikes me they’re gaun doon to the church again.”

McCray was right, for, arm in arm—Captain Norton, upright of bearing, Sir Murray Gernon bent and feeble, walking with the shuffling step induced by his last seizure—they were bound on the frequent pilgrimage they made, a visit never paid by either alone—a pilgrimage to a shrine most holy in their eyes—for it was to the grave of the woman they had both loved.

The stormy epoch was past; and a gentle time of calm had come. Brace Norton had just returned from a two years’ cruise, an impatient time, but one which he had passed in peace, for at every station he knew that long and loving letters awaited him. But now he was returned, and but few days more were to elapse before words were to be pronounced that should make two hearts one.

But Merland village was greatly dissatisfied; the couple, they said, were capitally matched, and young Lieutenant Norton would be ’most as wealthy as Sir Murray himself; but it did seem hard on the poor lord, who was said to be picking up a living anyhow at the foreign gaming-tables. Then, too, there were no grand preparations, and the wedding was to be quiet as quiet, and no open house at the Castle; and the general opinion seemed to be that times were not as they used to be—a declaration to which old Chunt cordially assented.

Still, people were more lenient, and many a blessing was showered on the blushing girl, who was led—nay, who led herself, feeble, broken Sir Murray Gernon—into the church, while, when the service was over, a deep hush fell upon all, and people held back with reverence; hats were doffed, and words were spoken in whispers, for when, leaning upon her husband’s arm, Isa Norton came slowly through the porch, it was seen that she bore a wreath of tiny flowers, and, to the surprise of all, she stopped.

There was no fierce hand, though, to pluck them from her; and people whispered more and more as they saw the tears standing brightly in her eyes—tears of sorrow and happiness—thankfulness, too, for the bliss that was theirs. The bells would have struck up, but whispered words stayed the ringers; children would have flung flowers in the bride’s path, but, for a few moments, their little hands were arrested; for, leaning upon Captain Norton’s arm, both suffering strongly from the emotion evoked from the past, Sir Murray Gernon now appeared, to stand by his daughter’s side; and the halt was by Lady Gernon’s resting-place, the family vault of the old family—the spot where, years before, broken-hearted, mad almost, Philip Norton stood waiting the coming of the bridal party.

Even the whispers now were stayed, for the Merland people felt that something unusual was about to take place, and they were right; and for long years after it was talked of, and handed down: for, with trembling hand, Isa raised the wreath—the forget-me-not wreath—she held, and laid it, her simple offering, upon the grave of the dead, where they stood awhile, with bended heads, and then passed on. Then came the silver chiming of the old—old bells; the children cast their flowers; and long and hearty cheers rang out for the bridal pair; there was the hurrying of footsteps, the trampling of horses, and the rush of wheels, and the wedding procession swept away; but the simple wreath remained where it had been placed—remained for people to say, again and again, that the act was strange; but it was the token that Marion Gernon’s memory was fresh in every heart, and the colour of that wreath, wet with her child’s tears, was True-blue!

The End.