"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.
Book 2, Chapter IX.