"Hang you, be quiet!" exclaimed the other, fiercely. "He knows that I am poor; but would you upset all, now that matters have gone so far?

You must renew again."

"But the cost to your lordship will be ruinous," expostulated the Jew.

"What do you care for that? Look here, Braham: all is going on as well as possible--I only want time. If you clap me in a sponging-house now, you will not get a penny, for Sir Murray's pride would never get over it. I could never show myself here again. You must renew."

"Can't," said Braham, shaking his head--"can't, indeed. Money is more and more valuable every day."

"So is time to me," said his lordship, grimly. "Now, look here, Braham: is such a chance as this to be played with?"

"Thousand pities to lose it."

"Thousand pities--yes!" exclaimed the Viscount, excitedly. "Yes, I'd give a thousand pounds sooner than be thrown off now."

"Well," said the Jew, "I don't want to be hard. On those terms--terms, mind, that you offer yourself--I'll renew for another three months; but mind this: I'll have the money to the day, or you know the consequences.

If the money is not paid, you will be taken, even if it is at the church door."

"Terms!--what terms?" stammered the Viscount. "I offered no terms."

"Your lordship said that you would give a thousand pounds for three months' reprieve," said his visitor, coolly.

"Pooh! absurd! You are mad," said the Viscount.

"Oh! I beg pardon," said Braham, rising. "I understood you to say so.

As your lordship pleases."

"Sit down there, for Heaven's sake, Braham. What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing--nothing, my lord; but pray excuse me. Time is nothing to you; it is everything to me."

"By George! what a position," muttered the unhappy Viscount. "There, look here: you'd let me off for another three months, on the same terms as the last--eh?"

The Jew shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. His hand was already upon the door, he opened it, and had pa.s.sed out, when, half mad with the prospect before him, the Viscount shrieked:

"Braham! Here! Stop! I agree;" and the Jew slowly re-entered the room.

"No, my lord, I think it would be better not," he said. "You are already too deeply in debt. My conscience would not allow me to make such terms."

"I can't stand it--that cant, Braham," said the Viscount, hoa.r.s.ely.

"You have the paper and stamps in your pocket--there are pens and ink; draw them up, and let me sign the bills, and let's have an end to it.

I'm not very clever, but it is plain enough to me how you pull the string, for you have me fast enough. Make much of it, though, for I would not consent but that you have me in a corner."

"Now, don't be hard," grinned Braham, as, without a minute's loss of time, he drew out the requisite slips of paper, and held them, when ready, for the Viscount to sign. "Look at the risk I run," he added, as he took a fresh clip of ink, and held the pen to his lordship, placing the writing-table by the bedside, ready to his hand.

"Take them, and make much of them. You came down meaning to make a good bargain out of me, and I hope you are satisfied?"

"Quite--thanks, my lord," laughed the Jew, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. "Never mind, my lord; you will settle down soon, and cease kite-flying; but mind this: three months only, and then--no mercy!"

"Good morning," said the Viscount, shortly; and unwilling to display his rage, he turned round in bed, and dragged the clothes over his shoulders.

"Good morning, my lord," said the Jew, with a grin of triumph; but the hour of success had not yet arrived for either: incubation was proceeding apparently in the most satisfactory manner, but until Isa Gernon's hand was his, Lord Maudlaine's prospect of getting out of debt was small indeed.

Book 2, Chapter XXI.

A NIGHT'S ADVENTURE.

"Surely my heart would have told me, and the nature within me have revolted from such a sense of pa.s.sionate love, had his cruel, his base words been true," said Brace Norton, as he stood one evening by Merland Park palings, watching the lights fade one by one at the Castle; for the hour was late, and, reckless and wretched, the young man had strolled down from the Hall, to have his evening cigar, as he had told his anxious-eyed mother, but really to take a last farewell of the casket which contained his treasure.

"I cannot give her up, mother," he had said to her, sadly. "I am not ashamed to tell you how dearly I love her, and shall continue to love her, even while all hope is at an end for me. But I cannot help it. We do not make ourselves. They talk of schooling, or ruling, one's heart, but what poor idiot could first have said that! He must have been heartless himself, and never have known what it is to love."

And what could Mrs Norton say? She could but recall the past, and the long bitter years she herself had had before she enjoyed the fruition of her love. She lamented, grieved for the unfortunate attachment, but her heart yearned towards the sweet girl. All the old affection of her nature which she had felt for the mother was now given freely to the child. But she had never been made the receptacle of her son's full confidence; there was one thing, one bitter sentence whispered--nay, hissed in his ear, by Sir Murray Gernon, that the young man never again suffered to pa.s.s his lips, as, after long battling with self, he felt convinced it was untrue.

And now he leaned lingeringly upon those park railings, watching the light, far distant as it was, that he believed to be that which shone from Isa's chamber, till at last it was extinct, and it was like the crushing out of hope from his aching breast. For what was his fate?

The next day must see him far away from Merland, leaving one whom he knew to love him, at the mercy of father and favoured suitor. True, there was the frequent sense of her sweet kiss, the dear confession of the love of her pure young heart, yet upon his lip; but what would they say to her--how would they impress her with the impossibility of a union? With no friend and adviser but that true-hearted Jane McCray, what could the poor girl do?

Brace Norton sighed--a sigh that was almost a groan, as he felt what must be the end; and recalling the past--the old story told him by his mother--he seemed to see such another wedding scene as Merland church had once before witnessed. But no; he thought he would be far away, chained by duty to his vessel; and he should return at last, a broken-hearted, aimless man. He would not blame her, for she would, he knew, be forced into it, and there was no help--none!

An hour must have pa.s.sed away as he stood there that dark night, thinking of his journey on the morrow, and of his utter distaste now for the sea life he had loved so well. Promotion, the hope of commanding his own vessel, all the ambition of his nature, had given place to the pa.s.sionate love which pervaded his soul; and at last, after an intense, longing gaze at the dark ma.s.s of buildings seen against the sky in front, he was about to turn and leave the shadow of the clump of trees that overhung the palings where he stood, when he started, and his heart began to beat heavily, he knew not why, at the unwonted sound of a heavy step coming down the lane. For this was but a by-way, and no one but a keeper, or a late-returning servant from the village, would be likely to take that path so late at night.

"I had better not be seen," thought Brace, and his face flushed with annoyance at having to play such a hiding role, as he drew farther back into the shade.

The step came nearer, and then suddenly grew indistinct, as the new-comer stepped on to the turf at the lane side; but there was a faint rustling amongst the fallen leaves, which told of whoever it was coming nearer and nearer.

"One of the servants," muttered Brace; and then as his thoughts wandered to the morrow--"could I not prolong my stay? could I not get increased leave of absence? To torture myself more bitterly," he muttered the next instant fiercely; and then he was brought back to the present by the footsteps becoming more audible, and at last stopping close by where he stood.

Brace Norton remained motionless, as from the shade he could indistinctly make out the figure of a heavy-looking, muscular man, in rough clothes, pressing forward, as it were, and gazing right in his face.

"Discovered watching here," he thought, bitterly, "and all to be conveyed to the baronet and my lord, as a means of disparagement, in her hearing. Shall I bribe the scoundrel to be silent? No," he thought, "I will not. Let him bear his pitiful news; and, if it comes to her ears that I was watching, like a thief at midnight, she will know why. Her poor heart will interpret my feelings, and give one beat for me."

Brace Norton's thoughts, it must be owned, were of a romantic tendency, but, perhaps, it was excusable at such a time; and, nerving himself, he stood perfectly motionless, waiting for the man, whoever he was, to speak.

But it was dark; and, had it been possible, Brace Norton, as he stood there, for some few minutes, with the new-comer apparently gazing full in his face, would have seen that the man's gaze was vacant and strange, and that his eyes failed to pierce the gloom around.

"At last!"

Those two words seemed to be breathed, as it were, close to Brace Norton's ear, as, almost brushing him, the figure came close to where he stood, listened, apparently, for a few moments, and then, drawing himself up, climbed the low oak palings, and began to thread his way amongst the trees.

"At last!" What did that mean? Who was this? No servant or keeper, evidently. Was he poacher? He had no gun, and he was alone, which fact also militated against his being burglar.

There is no concealing the fact: Brace Norton was glad of the excuse for getting once--even but for a few minutes--close to the house, with the hope of seeing if only her window; and, telling himself that this nocturnal visitor could mean no good towards the inhabitants of the Castle, he, too, softly climbed the palings, and tried to follow the figure.

If he could only have some opportunity given him of showing his zeal--of rescuing somebody from danger! Or could it be--was this to be--an endeavour to carry off Isa? His heart beat swiftly, and his breath came thick and fast for a few seconds, till his better sense prevailed, and he smiled at the silly romance that, he told himself, he had allowed to obtain entrance to his breast.

But, meanwhile, he had pressed cautiously on, peering anxiously before him, and trying hard to make out the direction the figure had taken. In vain, though: the dark shadow had pa.s.sed amongst the trees, and was gone. He tried in different directions, but with only one result-- ill-success; and, for a moment, as he stood upon the gra.s.s, listening eagerly, he felt disposed to place all to imagination. He knew, though, that it was not; and determining to go nearer to the house, he drew forth his watch, and tried to make out the hour.

That, however, was impossible; so, opening it, he pa.s.sed his fingers over the hands, to find that it was after one.

Would they be sitting up for him at home? He could not help it. This was his last night, it might be, for years--as he should try, on a certain event happening, to avoid the place--perhaps for ever.