Under Orders.Andy McCray, in spite of his dignity as head “gairdner,” was not above working hard himself, and he was busy enough when, slowly and gloomily, Sir Murray made his appearance, looking anxiously about the grounds, as if in search of something he could not see. He went first in one direction, then in another, and at last he returned to where Sandy was busy.“Has her ladyship passed this way, gardener?” he said.“Yes, Sir Mooray, a quarter of an hour syne. She took the path for the north gate.”Sir Murray Gernon bent his head by way of thanks, and walked slowly down the path till he had passed round the house, when he started off walking swiftly, making for the north gate, through which he passed, and then walked hurriedly on.There was the wife of one of the under-gardeners at the lodge ready to drop him a courtesy, and from her he could, no doubt, have learned in a moment which direction her ladyship had taken, but he refrained from asking; and, evidently with an idea that he knew the place to which she would resort, he took a narrow path leading off towards a wood, one of the few old forests yet left in England; but, after walking quite half an hour, always anxiously peering to right or left, he seemed to be at fault, and turned sharply back to go in another direction, this time almost at a run.That he was much agitated was plain enough, for though his face, and even his lips, were white, the veins in his forehead stood out in a perfect network, his pulses, too, throbbing fiercely. Twice over a heavy bead of perspiration trickled down his face, but he heeded it not, but, evidently now settled upon the point he sought, he passed rapidly along a by-path which led into one of the inner recesses of the wood.Sir Murray had not left the garden ten minutes when, rising from his work for an instant, McCray became aware of the flutter of a dress in the distance, and the next instant made out that the wearer was Jane Barker, who now signalled him to come to her.“And me so busy, too,” muttered the gardener. “I did say that all my bit of courting should be done of an evening; and here’s a temptation, coming in the middle of the day. But there, gude save us, I must go when she calls, if I lose my place.”“And there ye are, then,” he said, as he reached the place where Jane was anxiously awaiting him, “the brightest flower in the garden, lassie.”“Oh, Alexander!” ejaculated Jane.“Bless ye for that, my bairn! Ye’ve taken, then, to ca’ me by my name at last.”“Pray—pray make haste and help me. What shall I do?”“Do, lassie,” exclaimed the downright Scot. “Why, tell me what’s the matter.”“Yes, yes,” cried the agitated girl. “You know my lady went out a little while since.”“Ay, I saw her go.”“And then Sir Murray came down.”“To be sure, and he askit me the which way she’d gone.”“Yes, yes,” cried Jane, “and I went up on to the top of the house on the leads, and I’ve been watching him, and he’s followed her.”“To be sure, lassie; and wadna I ha’e done the same if ye’d gone the same gait?”“Oh yes—no,—I don’t know,” said Jane; “but I don’t like it, and I want you to follow them.”“Me? Follow? What, go after Sir Mooray and my lady?” exclaimed McCray. “Hoot, lassie, and have ye gone daft?”“Daft! no!” cried Jane, angrily. “You must—indeed, you must go after them. He came to me quite angry when he found that her ladyship had gone out, and asked me where I thought she’d be; and I told him, like the fool that I was; and I don’t like things—I don’t, indeed; and I’m afraid there’s mischief on the way.”“My dear bairn,” said the thoughtful Scot, “I’m afraid ye’ve been letting your fancy run away with ye full galop. Once you women get an idea into your poor little heads ye go racing after it full tear. Now, let me ask ye what is there strange in my lady going out to pick specimens, as she’s done hundreds o’ times before? and, now that they’re making it up, for Sir Mooray to go after her?”“Nothing—nothing,” said Jane, earnestly, “if it were all genuine; but, Alexander—dear Alexander, there’s Judas kisses as well as true ones, and I know he did not mean what you saw. I’m troubled about it all, and I come to you for help: don’t fail me, please, now this first time.”“Nay, nay,” cried the Scot, eagerly. “I’ll not fail thee, lassie. But what am I to do? Where am I to go?”“Follow them and watch them, never leaving them for an instant, and always being ready to give help.”“Yes, yes; I’ll do it, lassie.”“I knew you would,” cried Jane, pressing his great hand between both of hers; “and now run—run all the way, for he went to his room after he left me, and came out pushing a pistol into his pocket. And, oh! Alexander, if you love me, make haste, for I’m sure that there’s something wrong!”
Andy McCray, in spite of his dignity as head “gairdner,” was not above working hard himself, and he was busy enough when, slowly and gloomily, Sir Murray made his appearance, looking anxiously about the grounds, as if in search of something he could not see. He went first in one direction, then in another, and at last he returned to where Sandy was busy.
“Has her ladyship passed this way, gardener?” he said.
“Yes, Sir Mooray, a quarter of an hour syne. She took the path for the north gate.”
Sir Murray Gernon bent his head by way of thanks, and walked slowly down the path till he had passed round the house, when he started off walking swiftly, making for the north gate, through which he passed, and then walked hurriedly on.
There was the wife of one of the under-gardeners at the lodge ready to drop him a courtesy, and from her he could, no doubt, have learned in a moment which direction her ladyship had taken, but he refrained from asking; and, evidently with an idea that he knew the place to which she would resort, he took a narrow path leading off towards a wood, one of the few old forests yet left in England; but, after walking quite half an hour, always anxiously peering to right or left, he seemed to be at fault, and turned sharply back to go in another direction, this time almost at a run.
That he was much agitated was plain enough, for though his face, and even his lips, were white, the veins in his forehead stood out in a perfect network, his pulses, too, throbbing fiercely. Twice over a heavy bead of perspiration trickled down his face, but he heeded it not, but, evidently now settled upon the point he sought, he passed rapidly along a by-path which led into one of the inner recesses of the wood.
Sir Murray had not left the garden ten minutes when, rising from his work for an instant, McCray became aware of the flutter of a dress in the distance, and the next instant made out that the wearer was Jane Barker, who now signalled him to come to her.
“And me so busy, too,” muttered the gardener. “I did say that all my bit of courting should be done of an evening; and here’s a temptation, coming in the middle of the day. But there, gude save us, I must go when she calls, if I lose my place.”
“And there ye are, then,” he said, as he reached the place where Jane was anxiously awaiting him, “the brightest flower in the garden, lassie.”
“Oh, Alexander!” ejaculated Jane.
“Bless ye for that, my bairn! Ye’ve taken, then, to ca’ me by my name at last.”
“Pray—pray make haste and help me. What shall I do?”
“Do, lassie,” exclaimed the downright Scot. “Why, tell me what’s the matter.”
“Yes, yes,” cried the agitated girl. “You know my lady went out a little while since.”
“Ay, I saw her go.”
“And then Sir Murray came down.”
“To be sure, and he askit me the which way she’d gone.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Jane, “and I went up on to the top of the house on the leads, and I’ve been watching him, and he’s followed her.”
“To be sure, lassie; and wadna I ha’e done the same if ye’d gone the same gait?”
“Oh yes—no,—I don’t know,” said Jane; “but I don’t like it, and I want you to follow them.”
“Me? Follow? What, go after Sir Mooray and my lady?” exclaimed McCray. “Hoot, lassie, and have ye gone daft?”
“Daft! no!” cried Jane, angrily. “You must—indeed, you must go after them. He came to me quite angry when he found that her ladyship had gone out, and asked me where I thought she’d be; and I told him, like the fool that I was; and I don’t like things—I don’t, indeed; and I’m afraid there’s mischief on the way.”
“My dear bairn,” said the thoughtful Scot, “I’m afraid ye’ve been letting your fancy run away with ye full galop. Once you women get an idea into your poor little heads ye go racing after it full tear. Now, let me ask ye what is there strange in my lady going out to pick specimens, as she’s done hundreds o’ times before? and, now that they’re making it up, for Sir Mooray to go after her?”
“Nothing—nothing,” said Jane, earnestly, “if it were all genuine; but, Alexander—dear Alexander, there’s Judas kisses as well as true ones, and I know he did not mean what you saw. I’m troubled about it all, and I come to you for help: don’t fail me, please, now this first time.”
“Nay, nay,” cried the Scot, eagerly. “I’ll not fail thee, lassie. But what am I to do? Where am I to go?”
“Follow them and watch them, never leaving them for an instant, and always being ready to give help.”
“Yes, yes; I’ll do it, lassie.”
“I knew you would,” cried Jane, pressing his great hand between both of hers; “and now run—run all the way, for he went to his room after he left me, and came out pushing a pistol into his pocket. And, oh! Alexander, if you love me, make haste, for I’m sure that there’s something wrong!”
What Sandy did not See.“Gude save us!” muttered McCray, as he set off round the house at a sharp trot—“Gude save us and ha’e maircy! Here’s a pretty pickle for an upper gairdner. Only just got my promotion, and I shall be brought down again as sure as my name’s Sandy McCray. Trust the lassies for getting ye into a mess. Only foregather with one of the pretty things, and ye’ll be in a mess before long. Gude save us! what shall I do? He’ll be savage with me as a dog-otter. Nay, I ken what I’ll do.”A bright thought had evidently crossed Sandy’s mind, for, turning suddenly, he dodged into the kitchen-garden, and round by the tool-house, heralding his coming, a minute after, by a loud rattle, as he appeared, trundling a wheel-barrow, in which he had hastily thrown a basket and a three-pronged fork.“I’m after ferns for the new rockery, to be sure!” he said, with a grin; and then away he spun at a tremendous rate, dashing along to the north gate, and bringing the woman out to see whether he had gone mad.“Don’t go that way, Mr McCray!” cried the woman after him, as she saw him turn down the path which led to the wood. “Sir Murray and my lady have gone that way.”“Gude save us, that’s the right news!” muttered Sandy; and the barrow rattled more loudly than ever, as he dashed along till he came to an alley, down which, a good quarter of a mile from where he stood, he could see Sir Murray and Lady Gernon.“There they are, then,” he muttered; and running the barrow aside, he took out basket and fork, and began to thread his way amongst the trees, so as to approach unseen close to where his master and Lady Gernon were walking.But Sandy McCray was a cautious man, and before he had gone many yards he had stooped to dig up half-a-dozen hart’s-tongue ferns, which he placed, with a fair quantity of leaf-mould, in his basket.“There’s my answer to whatever they speer,” he muttered; and then, creeping cautiously forward, he made his way to where, by holding aside the hazel boughs, he could peer out into the alley, where in a few minutes he saw the couple he watched pass by within a couple of yards of where he stood, silently and without hardly a rustle of the leaves amongst which they passed.But just as they had gone by they stopped short, Lady Gernon holding tightly by Sir Murray’s arm, as she gazed, with a wild, eager stare in his face.“We had better make haste back, Lady Gernon,” he said, quietly, and with a peculiar smile; and then they walked on.“There, now! What could be better than that?” said McCray, as soon as he was alone. “She looks pale, but they were quiet enow. But what did he mean by showing his teeth to her when he smilt?”Sandy McCray shook his head, and then, in obedience to his instructions, he followed slowly, contriving from time to time to keep the couple in sight, but ever and anon shaking his head as if something troubled him. At last he said, half aloud:“The lassie is richt, after a’. There’s your gude, sweet kiss, and your Judas kiss, and I think perhaps she did richt in sending me; but it’s a sail job to leave one’s work i’ the daytime, and after a’ there was not much to come for.”Had Sandy McCray been there five—nay, four—minutes sooner, he would have been of a different opinion, for Sir Murray Gernon, led, perhaps, by some tricksy sprite of the woods—some Puck of modern times—had hurried on and on, each moment growing more and more angry and excited at having missed the object of his search. For days past she had never left the Castle unwatched, but this time she had gone out suddenly, and at an hour when he had believed her to be in her bedroom. That there was some definite object for her walk he felt convinced, and when, after hurrying up and down several alleys of the wood, he at length caught sight of Lady Gernon, he felt no surprise—there was no great feeling of mad anger in his breast, but something like a bitter sense of satisfaction, such as might be that of any one who, after a long and arduous search, comes upon the object of his quest.He uttered no exclamation, made no excited movement; but, with such a smile as McCray had described, he stood gazing down a woodland arcade, to where, some fifty yards in advance—framed, as it were, in the autumn-tinted leaves—stood Lady Gernon and the man to whom she had first given her love.They were, perhaps, a yard apart—Lady Gernon, with her head bent, resting with one hand against a tree-trunk; Philip Norton—his hands upon the stick he held—gazing at her, it seemed, sadly and earnestly; but, as far as Sir Murray could tell, no word was spoken.The next moment, quietly, and still smiling, Sir Murray slowly advanced down the arcade, half of which he had traversed before he was perceived; but even then there was no start—no guilty confusion—only Lady Gernon turned deadly pale, and a shade of trouble crossed Captain Norton’s face.Sir Murray, with the same strange smile, advanced to where they stood, raising his hat in answer to Norton’s salute; and then, with the most courteous air, he said:“Lady Gernon, you look pale.”“I believe, Sir Murray,” said Norton, “Lady Gernon was startled and troubled at our sudden encounter.”“Exactly,” said Sir Murray, quietly.“You misunderstand me,” said Norton, gravely, the shadow deepening upon his face. “I alluded to her encounter with me. Five minutes since, I met her by accident.”“Most accurate,” said Sir Murray, smiling.“And after the past—after the misunderstanding between our families, Sir Murray,” continued Norton, not heeding the taunt.“Exactly?” said Sir Murray.“I was sorry that the meeting should have taken place. Lady Gernon,” he said, turning to her, as he raised his hat, “I will deliver your message. It is, I know, both pain and sorrow to dear Ada that you should be apart. Still, I think it is for the best. Rest assured, though, that the love you sent her is yours in return. Heaven bless you! Good-bye, Sir Murray Gernon!” he said, turning to the smiling baronet—who stood with one hand buried in his breast-pocket—“I am sorry for the past; but it is irrevocable, and I still repeat that I am sorry for this encounter. Lady Gernon seems pale and ill. Good day.”He held out his hand quietly and frankly to the baronet, though he had forborne to do so to his lady, and there was an air of calm innocence in his aspect, that should have carried with it conviction; but Sir Murray never stirred; his hand was still buried in his breast, as, with a mocking smile, he said:“Captain Norton, the army was never your vocation, any more than the losing office of mine-director.”“I do not understand you, Sir Murray,” was the calm, sad reply, as for a moment Norton’s eyes met Marion Gernon’s imploring glance.“Indeed,” said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look interchanged. “I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you should have been an actor.”The colour seemed to fade from Norton’s face at these galling words, and the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces’ distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger—the weapon was fully cocked—and even the slightest contraction of the angry man’s muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton’s breast. But he did not wince—not a muscle moved; the man who had before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.
“Gude save us!” muttered McCray, as he set off round the house at a sharp trot—“Gude save us and ha’e maircy! Here’s a pretty pickle for an upper gairdner. Only just got my promotion, and I shall be brought down again as sure as my name’s Sandy McCray. Trust the lassies for getting ye into a mess. Only foregather with one of the pretty things, and ye’ll be in a mess before long. Gude save us! what shall I do? He’ll be savage with me as a dog-otter. Nay, I ken what I’ll do.”
A bright thought had evidently crossed Sandy’s mind, for, turning suddenly, he dodged into the kitchen-garden, and round by the tool-house, heralding his coming, a minute after, by a loud rattle, as he appeared, trundling a wheel-barrow, in which he had hastily thrown a basket and a three-pronged fork.
“I’m after ferns for the new rockery, to be sure!” he said, with a grin; and then away he spun at a tremendous rate, dashing along to the north gate, and bringing the woman out to see whether he had gone mad.
“Don’t go that way, Mr McCray!” cried the woman after him, as she saw him turn down the path which led to the wood. “Sir Murray and my lady have gone that way.”
“Gude save us, that’s the right news!” muttered Sandy; and the barrow rattled more loudly than ever, as he dashed along till he came to an alley, down which, a good quarter of a mile from where he stood, he could see Sir Murray and Lady Gernon.
“There they are, then,” he muttered; and running the barrow aside, he took out basket and fork, and began to thread his way amongst the trees, so as to approach unseen close to where his master and Lady Gernon were walking.
But Sandy McCray was a cautious man, and before he had gone many yards he had stooped to dig up half-a-dozen hart’s-tongue ferns, which he placed, with a fair quantity of leaf-mould, in his basket.
“There’s my answer to whatever they speer,” he muttered; and then, creeping cautiously forward, he made his way to where, by holding aside the hazel boughs, he could peer out into the alley, where in a few minutes he saw the couple he watched pass by within a couple of yards of where he stood, silently and without hardly a rustle of the leaves amongst which they passed.
But just as they had gone by they stopped short, Lady Gernon holding tightly by Sir Murray’s arm, as she gazed, with a wild, eager stare in his face.
“We had better make haste back, Lady Gernon,” he said, quietly, and with a peculiar smile; and then they walked on.
“There, now! What could be better than that?” said McCray, as soon as he was alone. “She looks pale, but they were quiet enow. But what did he mean by showing his teeth to her when he smilt?”
Sandy McCray shook his head, and then, in obedience to his instructions, he followed slowly, contriving from time to time to keep the couple in sight, but ever and anon shaking his head as if something troubled him. At last he said, half aloud:
“The lassie is richt, after a’. There’s your gude, sweet kiss, and your Judas kiss, and I think perhaps she did richt in sending me; but it’s a sail job to leave one’s work i’ the daytime, and after a’ there was not much to come for.”
Had Sandy McCray been there five—nay, four—minutes sooner, he would have been of a different opinion, for Sir Murray Gernon, led, perhaps, by some tricksy sprite of the woods—some Puck of modern times—had hurried on and on, each moment growing more and more angry and excited at having missed the object of his search. For days past she had never left the Castle unwatched, but this time she had gone out suddenly, and at an hour when he had believed her to be in her bedroom. That there was some definite object for her walk he felt convinced, and when, after hurrying up and down several alleys of the wood, he at length caught sight of Lady Gernon, he felt no surprise—there was no great feeling of mad anger in his breast, but something like a bitter sense of satisfaction, such as might be that of any one who, after a long and arduous search, comes upon the object of his quest.
He uttered no exclamation, made no excited movement; but, with such a smile as McCray had described, he stood gazing down a woodland arcade, to where, some fifty yards in advance—framed, as it were, in the autumn-tinted leaves—stood Lady Gernon and the man to whom she had first given her love.
They were, perhaps, a yard apart—Lady Gernon, with her head bent, resting with one hand against a tree-trunk; Philip Norton—his hands upon the stick he held—gazing at her, it seemed, sadly and earnestly; but, as far as Sir Murray could tell, no word was spoken.
The next moment, quietly, and still smiling, Sir Murray slowly advanced down the arcade, half of which he had traversed before he was perceived; but even then there was no start—no guilty confusion—only Lady Gernon turned deadly pale, and a shade of trouble crossed Captain Norton’s face.
Sir Murray, with the same strange smile, advanced to where they stood, raising his hat in answer to Norton’s salute; and then, with the most courteous air, he said:
“Lady Gernon, you look pale.”
“I believe, Sir Murray,” said Norton, “Lady Gernon was startled and troubled at our sudden encounter.”
“Exactly,” said Sir Murray, quietly.
“You misunderstand me,” said Norton, gravely, the shadow deepening upon his face. “I alluded to her encounter with me. Five minutes since, I met her by accident.”
“Most accurate,” said Sir Murray, smiling.
“And after the past—after the misunderstanding between our families, Sir Murray,” continued Norton, not heeding the taunt.
“Exactly?” said Sir Murray.
“I was sorry that the meeting should have taken place. Lady Gernon,” he said, turning to her, as he raised his hat, “I will deliver your message. It is, I know, both pain and sorrow to dear Ada that you should be apart. Still, I think it is for the best. Rest assured, though, that the love you sent her is yours in return. Heaven bless you! Good-bye, Sir Murray Gernon!” he said, turning to the smiling baronet—who stood with one hand buried in his breast-pocket—“I am sorry for the past; but it is irrevocable, and I still repeat that I am sorry for this encounter. Lady Gernon seems pale and ill. Good day.”
He held out his hand quietly and frankly to the baronet, though he had forborne to do so to his lady, and there was an air of calm innocence in his aspect, that should have carried with it conviction; but Sir Murray never stirred; his hand was still buried in his breast, as, with a mocking smile, he said:
“Captain Norton, the army was never your vocation, any more than the losing office of mine-director.”
“I do not understand you, Sir Murray,” was the calm, sad reply, as for a moment Norton’s eyes met Marion Gernon’s imploring glance.
“Indeed,” said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look interchanged. “I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you should have been an actor.”
The colour seemed to fade from Norton’s face at these galling words, and the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces’ distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger—the weapon was fully cocked—and even the slightest contraction of the angry man’s muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton’s breast. But he did not wince—not a muscle moved; the man who had before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.
But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.
Jane’s Suspicions.It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for—so they said—the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s—for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant—but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action—a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.The servants said that no one could be more attentive than Sir Murray now was, and that it was quite pleasant to see the alteration. But Jane said nothing, she merely tightened her lips, making no confidant; for once—twice, four different times—she had encountered Sir Murray coming from her mistress’s dressing-room; and once, after such a visit, when she went to give Lady Gernon her daily medicine, the poor girl fainted away upon learning that her duty had been forestalled by Sir Murray himself.Whatever might have been Jane Barkers suspicions, she felt that this could not go on for ever; and worn out, and sick at heart, she one day put on her bonnet, ordered McCray to act as her escort, and made her way to Merland Hall.Mrs Norton welcomed her heartily, but almost in dread, not knowing what interpretation might be placed upon the visit, should it come to Sir Murray’s ears. But, to her great astonishment, Jane’s first act was to close the window, and then, crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock; when, coming back close to the astonished occupant of the room, she threw herself down upon her knees, sobbing wildly; and catching hold of Ada’s hand, she kissed it fiercely again and again.“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Ada Norton, with a horrified look, for a dreadful fear had flashed across her mind.“No, Miss Ada—I mean Mrs Norton—not yet—not yet! but unless some one interferes there soon will be! Oh, ’m! I didn’t care to go to the Rectory, for I knew that they wouldn’t believe me there! but I’m afraid something dreadful will happen to my poor dear lady! I have come to you because you are her cousin, and I know you loved her, though things have gone so crooked since. But what shall we do, ’m? for since that last time when my lady met Mr Norton in the wood, and Sir Murray caught them—” Jane ceased, for Ada Norton leaped to her feet as if some galvanic shock had passed through her frame.“Oh, what am I saying, ma’am? I didn’t think that you’d take it in that way, nor yet that you wouldn’t know of it. It was nothing, ma’am; only Sir Murray was telling my lady of it; and she said that they met by accident, and that almost all her words to him were to send her love to you, ma’am.”“It was, then, upon that occasion?” said Ada Norton, in agitated tones.“Yes, ’m; and I was in the dressing-room, and heard all. Not that Sir Murray spoke angrily, but in a curious, sneering tone that frightens my lady; and ever since then she’s been ill, and taking medicine; and—oh, ’m!—you would not get me into trouble for trying to do what’s right by my lady?”“No—no,” said Ada, who was trying to recall her husband’s words when he had told her of his last meeting with Lady Gernon, for he had said nothing respecting the coming of Sir Murray.“Well, ma’am,” sobbed Jane, “since then”—she sank her voice into a whisper, and sent a thrill of horror through Ada Norton as she spoke—“since then, ma’am, I’m sure Sir Murray has been trying to poison her!”“Poison my cousin, Lady Gernon?” exclaimed Ada. “Nonsense! Absurd! Jane, you are mad!”“I hope I am, ma’am, about that—indeed I do!” cried Jane, earnestly.“But what have you seen? What do you know?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.“I haven’t seen anything, ma’am, except Sir Murray coming sometimes out of the dressing-room, where the medicine’s kept; and I don’t know anything except that my lady’s medicine always tastes different, and looks different, when it’s been in the dressing-room a day or two; and every week it turns a darker colour, and tastes stronger than it did the week before. And besides all that, though Sir Murray smiles, and pretends to talk pleasant to the poor dear, suffering angel, than whom a better woman never lived, he hates her dreadfully, and more and more every day.”“And how long has this been going on?” said Mrs Norton, with a faint smile.“Weeks now, ma’am,” said Jane. “But I see you don’t believe me.”“I believe you to be a good, affectionate girl, Jane,” said Mrs Norton, “and that you love your mistress; but this seems to me to be a fearful and perfectly unfounded suspicion—one that I am glad, for every one’s sake, that you have hinted to no one else. Think of the absurdity of the thing. This has, you say, been going on for weeks; and yet, you see, your mistress is not poisoned yet.”“No, ma’am, not yet,” said Jane, meaningly.“Well, then, my good girl, how do you account for that?”“Because, ma’am,” said Jane, in a whisper, “she’s never taken any of the medicine but once.”“How? What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.“I’ve managed to get the stuff made up at two places, ma’am,” whispered Jane. “One lot’s fetched by the footman from one chemist’s, at Marshton, and I get the gardener to go to another chemist’s for the other. I only had to send the doctor’s paper, and the medicine comes just like what Sir Murray knows is sent for.”“Well,” exclaimed Ada, impatiently.“Well, ’m,” whispered Jane, “that which her ladyship takes I keep locked up, and that which stands on the dressing-table gets poured out of the window, a little at a time, upon the flower-beds.”Ada Norton sat silently gazing at Jane for a few minutes before she spoke.“Jane,” she said, “this is a fearful charge!” and she shuddered. “I must think about it, and before many hours I will come over to the Castle, and see either Sir Murray or Lady Gernon. Do not be afraid; I will not implicate you in any way. I must see Mr Elstree, and I will try to make some plan—to arrange something definite; but your words have confused me—almost taken away my breath. The thing seems so monstrous, and even now I cannot believe it true! But I should not feel that I had done my duty if, after what you have said, I did not take some steps; so rest assured that I will do something, and at once.”Jane rose to go, and, trembling and excited, Ada Norton sat for some hours, pondering whether she should ask her husband’s advice, ending by putting it off till the next day, when it happened that it was out of her power.
It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.
At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for—so they said—the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.
But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s—for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant—but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action—a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.
What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.
The servants said that no one could be more attentive than Sir Murray now was, and that it was quite pleasant to see the alteration. But Jane said nothing, she merely tightened her lips, making no confidant; for once—twice, four different times—she had encountered Sir Murray coming from her mistress’s dressing-room; and once, after such a visit, when she went to give Lady Gernon her daily medicine, the poor girl fainted away upon learning that her duty had been forestalled by Sir Murray himself.
Whatever might have been Jane Barkers suspicions, she felt that this could not go on for ever; and worn out, and sick at heart, she one day put on her bonnet, ordered McCray to act as her escort, and made her way to Merland Hall.
Mrs Norton welcomed her heartily, but almost in dread, not knowing what interpretation might be placed upon the visit, should it come to Sir Murray’s ears. But, to her great astonishment, Jane’s first act was to close the window, and then, crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock; when, coming back close to the astonished occupant of the room, she threw herself down upon her knees, sobbing wildly; and catching hold of Ada’s hand, she kissed it fiercely again and again.
“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Ada Norton, with a horrified look, for a dreadful fear had flashed across her mind.
“No, Miss Ada—I mean Mrs Norton—not yet—not yet! but unless some one interferes there soon will be! Oh, ’m! I didn’t care to go to the Rectory, for I knew that they wouldn’t believe me there! but I’m afraid something dreadful will happen to my poor dear lady! I have come to you because you are her cousin, and I know you loved her, though things have gone so crooked since. But what shall we do, ’m? for since that last time when my lady met Mr Norton in the wood, and Sir Murray caught them—” Jane ceased, for Ada Norton leaped to her feet as if some galvanic shock had passed through her frame.
“Oh, what am I saying, ma’am? I didn’t think that you’d take it in that way, nor yet that you wouldn’t know of it. It was nothing, ma’am; only Sir Murray was telling my lady of it; and she said that they met by accident, and that almost all her words to him were to send her love to you, ma’am.”
“It was, then, upon that occasion?” said Ada Norton, in agitated tones.
“Yes, ’m; and I was in the dressing-room, and heard all. Not that Sir Murray spoke angrily, but in a curious, sneering tone that frightens my lady; and ever since then she’s been ill, and taking medicine; and—oh, ’m!—you would not get me into trouble for trying to do what’s right by my lady?”
“No—no,” said Ada, who was trying to recall her husband’s words when he had told her of his last meeting with Lady Gernon, for he had said nothing respecting the coming of Sir Murray.
“Well, ma’am,” sobbed Jane, “since then”—she sank her voice into a whisper, and sent a thrill of horror through Ada Norton as she spoke—“since then, ma’am, I’m sure Sir Murray has been trying to poison her!”
“Poison my cousin, Lady Gernon?” exclaimed Ada. “Nonsense! Absurd! Jane, you are mad!”
“I hope I am, ma’am, about that—indeed I do!” cried Jane, earnestly.
“But what have you seen? What do you know?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.
“I haven’t seen anything, ma’am, except Sir Murray coming sometimes out of the dressing-room, where the medicine’s kept; and I don’t know anything except that my lady’s medicine always tastes different, and looks different, when it’s been in the dressing-room a day or two; and every week it turns a darker colour, and tastes stronger than it did the week before. And besides all that, though Sir Murray smiles, and pretends to talk pleasant to the poor dear, suffering angel, than whom a better woman never lived, he hates her dreadfully, and more and more every day.”
“And how long has this been going on?” said Mrs Norton, with a faint smile.
“Weeks now, ma’am,” said Jane. “But I see you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you to be a good, affectionate girl, Jane,” said Mrs Norton, “and that you love your mistress; but this seems to me to be a fearful and perfectly unfounded suspicion—one that I am glad, for every one’s sake, that you have hinted to no one else. Think of the absurdity of the thing. This has, you say, been going on for weeks; and yet, you see, your mistress is not poisoned yet.”
“No, ma’am, not yet,” said Jane, meaningly.
“Well, then, my good girl, how do you account for that?”
“Because, ma’am,” said Jane, in a whisper, “she’s never taken any of the medicine but once.”
“How? What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.
“I’ve managed to get the stuff made up at two places, ma’am,” whispered Jane. “One lot’s fetched by the footman from one chemist’s, at Marshton, and I get the gardener to go to another chemist’s for the other. I only had to send the doctor’s paper, and the medicine comes just like what Sir Murray knows is sent for.”
“Well,” exclaimed Ada, impatiently.
“Well, ’m,” whispered Jane, “that which her ladyship takes I keep locked up, and that which stands on the dressing-table gets poured out of the window, a little at a time, upon the flower-beds.”
Ada Norton sat silently gazing at Jane for a few minutes before she spoke.
“Jane,” she said, “this is a fearful charge!” and she shuddered. “I must think about it, and before many hours I will come over to the Castle, and see either Sir Murray or Lady Gernon. Do not be afraid; I will not implicate you in any way. I must see Mr Elstree, and I will try to make some plan—to arrange something definite; but your words have confused me—almost taken away my breath. The thing seems so monstrous, and even now I cannot believe it true! But I should not feel that I had done my duty if, after what you have said, I did not take some steps; so rest assured that I will do something, and at once.”
Jane rose to go, and, trembling and excited, Ada Norton sat for some hours, pondering whether she should ask her husband’s advice, ending by putting it off till the next day, when it happened that it was out of her power.
Not at Home.“Did you see the laird?” said McCray, coming slowly forth from behind some bushes, after Jane had been standing some few minutes in the lane where she had left him to wait.“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”“No—no—no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear—oh dear! I’m undone!”“Nay—nay,ye’renot, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door—a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.“I think,” said Ada, “that my cousin would see me, even if she is confined to her room.”“Sir Murray give orders, mum, that they were not at home to visitors from the Hall; and, besides, my lady ain’t in.”Ada Norton felt that it was cowardly, but it was with a sense of relief that she sank back against the cushions, and began to turn over in her mind what course she ought to pursue. She dreaded the exciting effect it might have upon her husband, if she revealed to him the words she had heard from Jane; and, trembling with an anxiety she could not drive away, she returned to the Hall, to find that Captain Norton had gone out.“Packed a carpet bag, ma’am,” said the servant, “and then wrote a note for you, after sending for Master Brace, and kissing him.”The note was on the table, and snatching it up, Ada Norton read as follows:—“Dearest Ada,“Do not think hardly of me. I could not help myself; but I know you will not judge me harshly. More when I write again; butgive no information of my movements to a soul. I shall be away some time, but I have made full arrangements with Garland and Son about you. Philip.”Abrupt, enigmatical, and strange; but it was like him. There was a vein of affection, though, running through it all. He had made arrangements for her; but the tears dimmed Ada Norton’s eyes as she stood with the letter in her hands. What could it all mean? she thought. Had it anything to do with the mining transaction? Should she drive over to Marshton the next day, and ask Messrs Garland and Son, her husband’s solicitors? No, she would not do that; it would be like prying into his affairs. She had always had faith in him, so far, and that faith should continue to the end.She dashed away the tears heroically, little thinking how soon and how sorely she was to be tried. It was nothing new for Norton to absent himself, and she could wait patiently for his return. “Like a good wife,” she said, smilingly; and then, sitting down, she took her work, but only for it to fall into her lap, as she tried to divine what would be her best plan to adopt in connection with the strange information which had the day before been imparted to her.
“Did you see the laird?” said McCray, coming slowly forth from behind some bushes, after Jane had been standing some few minutes in the lane where she had left him to wait.
“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”
“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”
“No—no—no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear—oh dear! I’m undone!”
“Nay—nay,ye’renot, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”
“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”
“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”
The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.
The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?
She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.
“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door—a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.
“I think,” said Ada, “that my cousin would see me, even if she is confined to her room.”
“Sir Murray give orders, mum, that they were not at home to visitors from the Hall; and, besides, my lady ain’t in.”
Ada Norton felt that it was cowardly, but it was with a sense of relief that she sank back against the cushions, and began to turn over in her mind what course she ought to pursue. She dreaded the exciting effect it might have upon her husband, if she revealed to him the words she had heard from Jane; and, trembling with an anxiety she could not drive away, she returned to the Hall, to find that Captain Norton had gone out.
“Packed a carpet bag, ma’am,” said the servant, “and then wrote a note for you, after sending for Master Brace, and kissing him.”
The note was on the table, and snatching it up, Ada Norton read as follows:—
“Dearest Ada,
“Do not think hardly of me. I could not help myself; but I know you will not judge me harshly. More when I write again; butgive no information of my movements to a soul. I shall be away some time, but I have made full arrangements with Garland and Son about you. Philip.”
Abrupt, enigmatical, and strange; but it was like him. There was a vein of affection, though, running through it all. He had made arrangements for her; but the tears dimmed Ada Norton’s eyes as she stood with the letter in her hands. What could it all mean? she thought. Had it anything to do with the mining transaction? Should she drive over to Marshton the next day, and ask Messrs Garland and Son, her husband’s solicitors? No, she would not do that; it would be like prying into his affairs. She had always had faith in him, so far, and that faith should continue to the end.
She dashed away the tears heroically, little thinking how soon and how sorely she was to be tried. It was nothing new for Norton to absent himself, and she could wait patiently for his return. “Like a good wife,” she said, smilingly; and then, sitting down, she took her work, but only for it to fall into her lap, as she tried to divine what would be her best plan to adopt in connection with the strange information which had the day before been imparted to her.
A Storm at Merland.Sir Murray Gernon had, during the past few weeks, made a good deal of use of his horses—another sign, the stablemen observed, of a returning good state of things, for they were growing quite tired of doing nothing but taking the horses out for exercise. But Sir Murray’s rides were only round and about his own estate: he never went far, though he was out for hours at a time; and the day before there was again a fierce look upon his face, as he caught sight of Jane Barker hurriedly leaving Merland Hall.“Of course!” he said; he might have known that before. Time proved all things, and here, at length, was before his eyes the arrangement by which letters and messages had been conveyed.But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn’t been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and shivered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.About an hour after Ada Norton’s visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.“Stand aside a few minutes, William,” said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. “Well, what now?” he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman’s face told of tidings.“I thought I’d better tell you, Sir Murray,” said the man, “her ladyship—”“Not—?” ejaculated Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. “Has the doctor been sent for?”“No, Sir Murray,” said the man; “her ladyship ain’t worse, only she went out this afternoon.”“Well?” said the baronet. “That’s all, Sir Murray,” said the man, timidly. “I was called away, and didn’t see her go. I didn’t know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on.”“She has not come back, then?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.“You have not said a word of all this?” said the baronet, in a low tone.“Not a word, Sir Murray!” exclaimed the man, with an injured air. “You can trust me, sir.”Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon’s return.An hour elapsed, and then he rang.“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship has not returned.”Another hour passed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rushing crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but theavant-garde. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.“Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?” asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.“Yes,” said Sir Murray, “and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too.”McCray, who had been trying to console Jane, who was greatly agitated, soon made his appearance before Sir Murray.“McCray, take one of the horses, and go round from cottage to cottage till you find where her ladyship has taken refuge. Williams, you go south with the pony-carriage, and I shall ride east.”The gardener saluted, and ten minutes after, heedless of the storm—though he had hard work with his frightened beast—he was mounted, amidst the sneers of the grooms, who looked upon such missions as within their province, and resented the coming of the interloper accordingly.“The puir weak body! But I’ll soon find her,” muttered McCray, as he cantered on out at the park gates; and then going from cottage to cottage, and at last entering the forest, and riding between the dripping trees, and along the slippery clay paths to the different keepers’ houses, but without avail; so that, at last, thoroughly soaked and disheartened, he turned back, feeling sure that, before that time, her ladyship must have returned.“Not come back,” whispered one of the grooms to him, as he entered the yard. “Williams got back an hour agone, and Sir Murray has been in and gone out again.”Just at that moment, with his horse in a foam, Sir Murray galloped up.“Well?” he said, eagerly.“No one has even seen her leddyship, Sir Mooray,” said the gardener, curtly.“The same answer everywhere!” exclaimed the baronet. “Let every man mount and set off. Tell the keepers to search the wood. You, McCray, come with me, unless Williams has returned.”“Williams is so wet, sir, he’s gone to bed,” said a man.“Quick, then, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray; “and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!”“Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray,” said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.The storm had by this time passed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.“Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day—this afternoon?” said Sir Murray.McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.“Good evening, Sir Murray,” he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet’s countenance. “I’ve been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing’s gone but the dog-cart as Cap’en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn’t wait for a man to bring the car back; said he’d drive himself, and leave it at ‘The Chequers,’ at Marshton, Sir Murray.”The mud from the horse’s hoofs was splashed in Chunt’s face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray—not the best of horsemen—could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.“Chunt’s dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir,” the boy said.So spake “The Chequers” hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.“What boy, sir? Can’t say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir.”Without another word, Sir Murray Gernon turned his horse’s head, and rode out of the yard, followed by McCray, who clung to him as if he had been his shadow; but the horses were now tired, unused as they were to much exertion, and it was getting close upon midnight when the baronet and his servant rode into the stable-yard at Merland Castle.Sir Murray asked no questions. It was plain enough, from the silence, that there was no news; so throwing his bridle to a groom, his act was closely imitated by McCray, who followed him into the library.“I’m sorry for the puir body, wherever she is,” muttered McCray; “but, perhaps, after all, there’s naething the matter. Onyhow, such a ride, and such a wetting, desarves a drappie of toddy, and perhaps Sir Mooray may ask me to take it. I’ll follow him, anyhow, for how do I know whether he’s done wi’ me?”
Sir Murray Gernon had, during the past few weeks, made a good deal of use of his horses—another sign, the stablemen observed, of a returning good state of things, for they were growing quite tired of doing nothing but taking the horses out for exercise. But Sir Murray’s rides were only round and about his own estate: he never went far, though he was out for hours at a time; and the day before there was again a fierce look upon his face, as he caught sight of Jane Barker hurriedly leaving Merland Hall.
“Of course!” he said; he might have known that before. Time proved all things, and here, at length, was before his eyes the arrangement by which letters and messages had been conveyed.
But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn’t been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and shivered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.
Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.
About an hour after Ada Norton’s visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.
“Stand aside a few minutes, William,” said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. “Well, what now?” he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman’s face told of tidings.
“I thought I’d better tell you, Sir Murray,” said the man, “her ladyship—”
“Not—?” ejaculated Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. “Has the doctor been sent for?”
“No, Sir Murray,” said the man; “her ladyship ain’t worse, only she went out this afternoon.”
“Well?” said the baronet. “That’s all, Sir Murray,” said the man, timidly. “I was called away, and didn’t see her go. I didn’t know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on.”
“She has not come back, then?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.
“You have not said a word of all this?” said the baronet, in a low tone.
“Not a word, Sir Murray!” exclaimed the man, with an injured air. “You can trust me, sir.”
Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon’s return.
An hour elapsed, and then he rang.
“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship has not returned.”
Another hour passed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rushing crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but theavant-garde. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.
“Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?” asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.
“Yes,” said Sir Murray, “and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too.”
McCray, who had been trying to console Jane, who was greatly agitated, soon made his appearance before Sir Murray.
“McCray, take one of the horses, and go round from cottage to cottage till you find where her ladyship has taken refuge. Williams, you go south with the pony-carriage, and I shall ride east.”
The gardener saluted, and ten minutes after, heedless of the storm—though he had hard work with his frightened beast—he was mounted, amidst the sneers of the grooms, who looked upon such missions as within their province, and resented the coming of the interloper accordingly.
“The puir weak body! But I’ll soon find her,” muttered McCray, as he cantered on out at the park gates; and then going from cottage to cottage, and at last entering the forest, and riding between the dripping trees, and along the slippery clay paths to the different keepers’ houses, but without avail; so that, at last, thoroughly soaked and disheartened, he turned back, feeling sure that, before that time, her ladyship must have returned.
“Not come back,” whispered one of the grooms to him, as he entered the yard. “Williams got back an hour agone, and Sir Murray has been in and gone out again.”
Just at that moment, with his horse in a foam, Sir Murray galloped up.
“Well?” he said, eagerly.
“No one has even seen her leddyship, Sir Mooray,” said the gardener, curtly.
“The same answer everywhere!” exclaimed the baronet. “Let every man mount and set off. Tell the keepers to search the wood. You, McCray, come with me, unless Williams has returned.”
“Williams is so wet, sir, he’s gone to bed,” said a man.
“Quick, then, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray; “and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!”
“Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray,” said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.
The storm had by this time passed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.
“Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day—this afternoon?” said Sir Murray.
McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.
“Good evening, Sir Murray,” he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet’s countenance. “I’ve been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing’s gone but the dog-cart as Cap’en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn’t wait for a man to bring the car back; said he’d drive himself, and leave it at ‘The Chequers,’ at Marshton, Sir Murray.”
The mud from the horse’s hoofs was splashed in Chunt’s face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray—not the best of horsemen—could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.
“Chunt’s dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir,” the boy said.
So spake “The Chequers” hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.
“What boy, sir? Can’t say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir.”
Without another word, Sir Murray Gernon turned his horse’s head, and rode out of the yard, followed by McCray, who clung to him as if he had been his shadow; but the horses were now tired, unused as they were to much exertion, and it was getting close upon midnight when the baronet and his servant rode into the stable-yard at Merland Castle.
Sir Murray asked no questions. It was plain enough, from the silence, that there was no news; so throwing his bridle to a groom, his act was closely imitated by McCray, who followed him into the library.
“I’m sorry for the puir body, wherever she is,” muttered McCray; “but, perhaps, after all, there’s naething the matter. Onyhow, such a ride, and such a wetting, desarves a drappie of toddy, and perhaps Sir Mooray may ask me to take it. I’ll follow him, anyhow, for how do I know whether he’s done wi’ me?”
Jane Declares.McCray stood watching his master with attentive eye, as, apparently ignorant of his presence, the baronet—drenched as he was with rain and perspiration—threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.The gardener stood on one leg, then on the other, then leaned on a chair-back, putting himself into every posture that would give him a little ease, for he was well-nigh exhausted. But no notice took Sir Murray. He was apparently buried in himself; and, at last, unable to draw his attention by coughing and shuffling about, Sandy McCray prepared to speak.“He’s greeting aboot her, puir laddie,” he muttered to himself; “but, a’ the same, he might ha’ brought out the whuskee. We’re mair free with the wee drappie up north.” Then, aloud: “Hoot, then, Sir Mooray, it’s a bad habit to sit in wet clouts. Hadna ye better tak’ just a wet o’ some kind o’ sperrits? I think a little whuskee wad do ye nae hairm.”“You here still?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, angrily, as a hand was laid upon the handle of the door: “Who’s that? I am engaged.”But the door opened, and, to Sandy McCray’s astonishment, Jane crept in, white as a sheet, as if from some great horror; but, all the same, carrying tenderly, as she hushed it to sleep, the little child that, after five years, had been born to Sir Murray.“Hoot, lassie! and what do ye do here?”“What do I do?” exclaimed Jane, fiercely, her half-frightened aspect giving place to a look of rage. “I have come to ask that man what he has done with my dear lady!”“Hoot, lassie! do ye ken it’s the laird?” exclaimed the alarmed gardener; and then, stooping over her, he put his face close to hers, and muttered to himself: “There isna a smell of the stuff on her mooth, or I’d say she’d been at the whuskee.”“Stand aside, McCray!” she said hoarsely. “I want to ask him, I tell you, what he has done with my dear lady.”After the manner of a woman of her class, she raised her voice as she spoke; when, in alarm, the Scot darted to and closed the door, turning the little inside bolt, and then hurrying back to his betrothed’s side; for there was something threatening in the baronet’s looks, as he rose from his chair, glaring the while at his wife’s maid.“Stand back, McCray!” cried Jane, hoarsely, as he laid his hand upon her arm. “I’ve been silent all these months, but I’ll speak now. Let him strike me if he dares, but he dare not! See here!” she cried, “I’ve brought your little one down to you, to see if it will do anything towards melting your hard, proud, cruel heart, and making you tell the truth! Tell me now, and at once, what you have done with my dear lady!”“Take her away, and this instant!” hissed Sir Murray. “The woman’s mad!”“Mad! No, I am not mad! Keep back, McCray; I won’t go! Touch me again, and I’ll scream so as to alarm the house; and then all the servants shall hear what I mean to say to you alone. I’m not afraid, I tell you, and I will be answered. But, oh, Sir Murray!” she cried, softening for a moment, “tell me where the poor thing is! What have you done with her?”“You Scotch wolf!” exclaimed Sir Murray, in a rage, to the gardener, “why do you not take the mad fool from my sight?”McCray placed his arm round Jane, and tried to lead her off; but she struggled from him, and uttered a wild, piercing scream that made him start aside, as if the shrill sound had pierced him like a sword.“I will not go!” cried the girl, stamping with fury. “I will know first! Do you think I am to be cheated and blinded by all this pretended hunting to find my poor darling, ill-used lady? Why did you come, with your pride and your money, to her happy home, and take her away to be your miserable wife? Why did you ever come near the poor, sweet innocent? And then, after all her suffering, to insult her with your cruel, base suspicions, so unmanly—so false!”“Curse the woman! Am I to strike her in the mouth?” raged Sir Murray, in a hoarse whisper; for there were voices to be heard outside—evidently those of the servants, alarmed by the wild shriek, and once the door was softly tried.“Na—na, Sir Mooray!” said McCray; “nae blows to a woman. The puir thing’s daft wi’ grief and passion, and greeting after her lady; but she’ll be better therectly. Whush, then, Jenny, let’s gang our gait, and leave the laird to himsel’.”“If you touch me again, McCray, I’ll alarm the house!” cried Jane; and the great Scot fell back once more, as going closer to Sir Murray Gernon, she continued, hoarsely:“You’ve been making your plans for long enough, and this is a part of them! It will blind some people, but it won’t me. I’ve been watching, as well as you; for my heart bled to see the poor, ill-used, neglected, tortured thing pining away, day after day! But Heaven will judge you for this, and bring down punishment upon you! She knew it was coming: she shuddered, and talked of dying, and begged of me to be a mother to her poor little one, and I swore I would; and I will, poor humble servant as I am! But right makes me strong, while wrong makes you weak and a coward, so that you are afraid, and obliged to listen to me. I’m not afraid of your fierce looks, for it shall all out, if I go to the magistrates myself. Hunting round, looking for her, you false, cruel traitor! Do you think you could deceive me? You listened for some purpose to the cruel lies of that wretch Gurdon, who ought to have had his tongue cut out; and now that you have planned and plotted, you think we are all cheated, but you are wrong. I don’t care who hears me, I will speak, and I say it now. Look at him, McCray: you are a bold, honest man, before whom he cowers—this great baronet, with his title—like a beaten hound! I tell you that for weeks past he has been trying to poison—”With an exclamation of rage Sir Murray rushed at her; but she never flinched.“To poison my dear lady!” exclaimed Jane.“Hush—hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush, woman!” cried Sir Murray; and in an instant he had placed his hand over her mouth.But it was only for an instant; McCray had dragged him from her, as, reeling as she spoke, Jane gasped:“Keep him from me; his hands are yet red! I tell you, as I will tell the world, if I live, my lady is not lost, but murdered!”
McCray stood watching his master with attentive eye, as, apparently ignorant of his presence, the baronet—drenched as he was with rain and perspiration—threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.
The gardener stood on one leg, then on the other, then leaned on a chair-back, putting himself into every posture that would give him a little ease, for he was well-nigh exhausted. But no notice took Sir Murray. He was apparently buried in himself; and, at last, unable to draw his attention by coughing and shuffling about, Sandy McCray prepared to speak.
“He’s greeting aboot her, puir laddie,” he muttered to himself; “but, a’ the same, he might ha’ brought out the whuskee. We’re mair free with the wee drappie up north.” Then, aloud: “Hoot, then, Sir Mooray, it’s a bad habit to sit in wet clouts. Hadna ye better tak’ just a wet o’ some kind o’ sperrits? I think a little whuskee wad do ye nae hairm.”
“You here still?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, angrily, as a hand was laid upon the handle of the door: “Who’s that? I am engaged.”
But the door opened, and, to Sandy McCray’s astonishment, Jane crept in, white as a sheet, as if from some great horror; but, all the same, carrying tenderly, as she hushed it to sleep, the little child that, after five years, had been born to Sir Murray.
“Hoot, lassie! and what do ye do here?”
“What do I do?” exclaimed Jane, fiercely, her half-frightened aspect giving place to a look of rage. “I have come to ask that man what he has done with my dear lady!”
“Hoot, lassie! do ye ken it’s the laird?” exclaimed the alarmed gardener; and then, stooping over her, he put his face close to hers, and muttered to himself: “There isna a smell of the stuff on her mooth, or I’d say she’d been at the whuskee.”
“Stand aside, McCray!” she said hoarsely. “I want to ask him, I tell you, what he has done with my dear lady.”
After the manner of a woman of her class, she raised her voice as she spoke; when, in alarm, the Scot darted to and closed the door, turning the little inside bolt, and then hurrying back to his betrothed’s side; for there was something threatening in the baronet’s looks, as he rose from his chair, glaring the while at his wife’s maid.
“Stand back, McCray!” cried Jane, hoarsely, as he laid his hand upon her arm. “I’ve been silent all these months, but I’ll speak now. Let him strike me if he dares, but he dare not! See here!” she cried, “I’ve brought your little one down to you, to see if it will do anything towards melting your hard, proud, cruel heart, and making you tell the truth! Tell me now, and at once, what you have done with my dear lady!”
“Take her away, and this instant!” hissed Sir Murray. “The woman’s mad!”
“Mad! No, I am not mad! Keep back, McCray; I won’t go! Touch me again, and I’ll scream so as to alarm the house; and then all the servants shall hear what I mean to say to you alone. I’m not afraid, I tell you, and I will be answered. But, oh, Sir Murray!” she cried, softening for a moment, “tell me where the poor thing is! What have you done with her?”
“You Scotch wolf!” exclaimed Sir Murray, in a rage, to the gardener, “why do you not take the mad fool from my sight?”
McCray placed his arm round Jane, and tried to lead her off; but she struggled from him, and uttered a wild, piercing scream that made him start aside, as if the shrill sound had pierced him like a sword.
“I will not go!” cried the girl, stamping with fury. “I will know first! Do you think I am to be cheated and blinded by all this pretended hunting to find my poor darling, ill-used lady? Why did you come, with your pride and your money, to her happy home, and take her away to be your miserable wife? Why did you ever come near the poor, sweet innocent? And then, after all her suffering, to insult her with your cruel, base suspicions, so unmanly—so false!”
“Curse the woman! Am I to strike her in the mouth?” raged Sir Murray, in a hoarse whisper; for there were voices to be heard outside—evidently those of the servants, alarmed by the wild shriek, and once the door was softly tried.
“Na—na, Sir Mooray!” said McCray; “nae blows to a woman. The puir thing’s daft wi’ grief and passion, and greeting after her lady; but she’ll be better therectly. Whush, then, Jenny, let’s gang our gait, and leave the laird to himsel’.”
“If you touch me again, McCray, I’ll alarm the house!” cried Jane; and the great Scot fell back once more, as going closer to Sir Murray Gernon, she continued, hoarsely:
“You’ve been making your plans for long enough, and this is a part of them! It will blind some people, but it won’t me. I’ve been watching, as well as you; for my heart bled to see the poor, ill-used, neglected, tortured thing pining away, day after day! But Heaven will judge you for this, and bring down punishment upon you! She knew it was coming: she shuddered, and talked of dying, and begged of me to be a mother to her poor little one, and I swore I would; and I will, poor humble servant as I am! But right makes me strong, while wrong makes you weak and a coward, so that you are afraid, and obliged to listen to me. I’m not afraid of your fierce looks, for it shall all out, if I go to the magistrates myself. Hunting round, looking for her, you false, cruel traitor! Do you think you could deceive me? You listened for some purpose to the cruel lies of that wretch Gurdon, who ought to have had his tongue cut out; and now that you have planned and plotted, you think we are all cheated, but you are wrong. I don’t care who hears me, I will speak, and I say it now. Look at him, McCray: you are a bold, honest man, before whom he cowers—this great baronet, with his title—like a beaten hound! I tell you that for weeks past he has been trying to poison—”
With an exclamation of rage Sir Murray rushed at her; but she never flinched.
“To poison my dear lady!” exclaimed Jane.
“Hush—hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush, woman!” cried Sir Murray; and in an instant he had placed his hand over her mouth.
But it was only for an instant; McCray had dragged him from her, as, reeling as she spoke, Jane gasped:
“Keep him from me; his hands are yet red! I tell you, as I will tell the world, if I live, my lady is not lost, but murdered!”
Sir Murray Declares.“Send those people away from the door! Make her be silent; the woman’s mad!” exclaimed Sir Murray excitedly, as, shrinking back, he stood, trembling and haggard, before McCray. “It’s all nonsense—folly—that she has said. No; keep her here till those people have gone.”“Ye’ll be quiet noo, lassie, winna ye?” said McCray soothingly, as he held Jane in his arms, and then placed her in a chair, when the mad excitement that had kept her up so far seemed to desert her; and bowing down over the frightened child, she kissed and hushed it to sleep, sobbing over it hysterically, and every now and then breaking into a wail of misery. She took no further notice of her master, who gazed at her with an aspect of alarm, fearing, apparently, to speak, lest he might bring forth another such outbreak as the last. But he had no cause for fear; Jane was now tractable as a child, as McCray soon found; and going close to Sir Murray, he whispered:“That’s an ower thick door, Sir Mooray, as I fun oot when I brak’ it open. They didna hear what was said by the puir thing, half daft with grief; and gin ye’ll trust me, I’ll see that she doesna talk ony more sic stuff.”Sir Murray did not answer,—he merely bowed his head; for there was a battle going on in his breast—a strife between dread and mortification at having to humble himself before his own servants. It was hard work to arrest the groan that struggled for exit, and when the door closed on Sandy McCray and Jane, he sank back in his chair as if stunned.McCray felt that Sir Murray’s silence gave consent, and that he was trusted. The trust, too, was not misplaced; for the Scot had obtained sufficient influence over Jane to reason her, in her calmer moments, into silence.“Supposing, even, that you’re right, lassie, ye ken that the puir bodie we’ve lost wadna have wished ye to bring Sir Mooray to the gallows. But dinna ye fash yourself aboot it; it will all reet itself in time. Ye’re sure o’ naething, and ye’ve got your trust in hand; sae mind it weel, and leave the rest to me.”Jane responded to this advice by weeping bitterly over the child, pressing it convulsively to her breast; and in that condition, the next morning, McCray left her, and sought the baronet, to find that he had never left the library.“The puir lassie was half daft last neet, Sir Mooray; but it’s a’ owre noo, and she’s tending the bairn.”“I wanted you, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray, the coming of the staunch servitor seeming to rouse him into life. “I am going to search in one direction: you arrange the men in parties, and leave no place unscoured. Give orders, too, that the great nets be brought out, and let the lake be dragged.”He shuddered as he spoke these last words, and the gardener turned to go.“What time is it now?” inquired Sir Murray.“Just seven of the clock, Sir Mooray,” was the reply; and then McCray took his departure, heedless of the supercilious looks bestowed upon him by one of the footmen, who could not understand what Sir Murray could be thinking about to have that great coarse gardener in the house, and treat him as an equal.But Sir Murray had placed matters in the right hands. Before half an hour had elapsed parties were organised, consisting of the servants and labourers from the farm close at hand; and a regular search was instituted, the land being methodically gone over—field and forest, bush and ditch. The lake was dragged in every direction, and hour after hour spent, but always with the same result—failure.There were not wanting those who asserted that my lady must have wandered right away, and the bounds of the search were extended, but still in vain; and at mid-day the parties rested for refreshment, and to determine upon some new plan of action.Meanwhile, a horse had been brought to the door; and mounting, Sir Murray rode hastily over to the Hall, where, for form’s sake, he asked to see Captain Norton, and upon being told of his absence, requested to be shown in to Mrs Norton.She met him without rising, but sat trembling visibly, as she drew her boy closer to her; for a sense of dread seemed to rob her of the power to move. But a few hours since, and it had been declared to her that this man had tried to poison her cousin, and now he was here. She could not speak, but motioned him to a chair, trying to overcome her weakness, and to meet with fortitude the new misfortune she felt certain was impending.Sir Murray saw her motion, but he remained standing; and for full five minutes he watched her, with a look mingled of curiosity and compassion.“Mrs Norton,” he said at last, “I have come to inflict pain, but I cannot help it. You must judge me leniently when I am gone.”Ada bowed, and gazed at him with starting eyes.“One of the Castle servants was here the day before yesterday. Did you see her?”“I did,” said Ada, huskily.“She brought a note, did she not, from Lady Gernon?”“No, Sir Murray.”“A message?”“No.”“She saw Captain Norton?”“My husband was from home, Sir Murray Gernon.”“She left a message for him?”“No.”“Are you sure?”“Quite. Your servant came to see me, as your wife’s old friend and relative; and, saving the housemaid who admitted her, I alone saw her.”“Have you any objection to tell me the object of her visit?”Ada was silent.“Did she come at the wish of Lady Gernon?”“No,” said Ada, for she hardly knew what to reply.“Then you will tell me why she came?”Ada was still silent.“Then I will tell you,” said Sir Murray, in a calm voice. “She came to tell you of some absurd suspicions that she had nursed—to try and convince you that Lady Gernon’s life was in danger; for, like the rest of us, she had been blinded by the treason of a false woman. I see that the news has not yet reached your ears. Mrs Norton, your cousin has fled!”“Fled!” exclaimed Ada, starting to her feet.“Yes, fled,” he continued, in measured tones, as if he were forcing each word from his lips. “She left the Castle during my absence, yesterday afternoon, and she has not returned. Captain Norton engaged a conveyance yesterday afternoon, and drove away; Captain Norton has not returned.”Ada Norton stood, pale as a statue, gazing at him with lips apart, as she realised his words, and thought of her husband’s absence, his note, his strange behaviour, and Jane Barker’s words respecting the last meeting in the wood. Her brain reeled, as the thoughts flashed rapidly through, and for a moment she felt that she was ready to fall; but she recovered herself, to hear that her visitor was still speaking.“I had a last hope that she might be here—that, overtaken by the storm, this might have been her refuge; but my hope was faint. Mrs Norton, I might, perhaps, have kept the truth from you for a few hours; but you must have known it, sooner or later. You have judged me, I believe, very harshly, so far; now, perhaps, I shall command your pity, as I pity you.”“Judge you harshly! Pity you! You pity me!” exclaimed Ada, flashing into a rage, which lit up her whole countenance, as, with one hand she clutched her boy more tightly to her, and held out the other threateningly at Sir Murray. “You cold-blooded, cowardly miscreant—you destroyer of the hope and happiness, perhaps the life, of that sweet, suffering woman! how dare you confront me with your base, clumsily built-up reasoning, as if every woman upon earth possessed your vile, suspicious nature! You dare to come here with your base subterfuges—your dastardly insinuations—to try and make me believe that Lady Gernon, my pure-hearted cousin, and confidante from a child, has fled with my noble, true, and faithful husband! You lie, you false-hearted dastard—you insidious, courtly, smooth villain—you lie, and you know it! Heaven forgive me my passion, but it is enough to madden me! Go! leave here this instant; for you pollute the place, and you tempt me to believe that you have murdered her! Yes, you may start! But my husband! as true-hearted and honourable a man as ever breathed! How dare you?”“Woman, where is your husband?” cried Sir Murray, fiercely.“I do not know. He is from home. How dare you question me?”“Poor, weak, self-deceiving creature!” he said, contemptuously, “I do not question you! I have noticed—Nay, stay here!” he exclaimed, catching her by the wrist. “You shall hear me! They have been planning long enough now! It was a cursed day when I returned to the Castle; and I soon found that out, though you blinded yourself to the truth. But sooner than have any scandal—than have my name dragged through the Divorce Court, and sneered at by every contemptible fool—I have borne all in silence—suffered, as man never before suffered; and, rejoicing in my weakness, they have corresponded and met! Fool that I was, when I found them last in the wood, and covered the villain—the serpent, the robber of my jewels and of my honour—when I covered him with my pistol, that I did not shoot him down as one would a common thief and burglar! But, no; I would not have a scandal afloat, even though I was becoming the laughingstock and by-word of my servants! But, there, go! I pity and admire you; for I can feel—you teach me to feel—that, there may be yet women worthy of faith!”As he spoke he threw her hand roughly from him just as the door opened, and Mr and Mrs Elstree entered the room.“You are here, then!” exclaimed the Rector, in agonised tones. “We have been to the Castle. In Heaven’s name, Murray—Ada—what does all this mean? We hear that Marion is missing! Can you form no idea where she is?”“Yes!” said Sir Murray, bitterly; “abroad by this time!”“What, in Heaven’s name, does it all mean?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree, pitifully.“Mean, madam!” exclaimed Sir Murray, as he strode to the door, and turned to gaze fiercely at all present—“mean? That I married a harlot!”
“Send those people away from the door! Make her be silent; the woman’s mad!” exclaimed Sir Murray excitedly, as, shrinking back, he stood, trembling and haggard, before McCray. “It’s all nonsense—folly—that she has said. No; keep her here till those people have gone.”
“Ye’ll be quiet noo, lassie, winna ye?” said McCray soothingly, as he held Jane in his arms, and then placed her in a chair, when the mad excitement that had kept her up so far seemed to desert her; and bowing down over the frightened child, she kissed and hushed it to sleep, sobbing over it hysterically, and every now and then breaking into a wail of misery. She took no further notice of her master, who gazed at her with an aspect of alarm, fearing, apparently, to speak, lest he might bring forth another such outbreak as the last. But he had no cause for fear; Jane was now tractable as a child, as McCray soon found; and going close to Sir Murray, he whispered:
“That’s an ower thick door, Sir Mooray, as I fun oot when I brak’ it open. They didna hear what was said by the puir thing, half daft with grief; and gin ye’ll trust me, I’ll see that she doesna talk ony more sic stuff.”
Sir Murray did not answer,—he merely bowed his head; for there was a battle going on in his breast—a strife between dread and mortification at having to humble himself before his own servants. It was hard work to arrest the groan that struggled for exit, and when the door closed on Sandy McCray and Jane, he sank back in his chair as if stunned.
McCray felt that Sir Murray’s silence gave consent, and that he was trusted. The trust, too, was not misplaced; for the Scot had obtained sufficient influence over Jane to reason her, in her calmer moments, into silence.
“Supposing, even, that you’re right, lassie, ye ken that the puir bodie we’ve lost wadna have wished ye to bring Sir Mooray to the gallows. But dinna ye fash yourself aboot it; it will all reet itself in time. Ye’re sure o’ naething, and ye’ve got your trust in hand; sae mind it weel, and leave the rest to me.”
Jane responded to this advice by weeping bitterly over the child, pressing it convulsively to her breast; and in that condition, the next morning, McCray left her, and sought the baronet, to find that he had never left the library.
“The puir lassie was half daft last neet, Sir Mooray; but it’s a’ owre noo, and she’s tending the bairn.”
“I wanted you, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray, the coming of the staunch servitor seeming to rouse him into life. “I am going to search in one direction: you arrange the men in parties, and leave no place unscoured. Give orders, too, that the great nets be brought out, and let the lake be dragged.”
He shuddered as he spoke these last words, and the gardener turned to go.
“What time is it now?” inquired Sir Murray.
“Just seven of the clock, Sir Mooray,” was the reply; and then McCray took his departure, heedless of the supercilious looks bestowed upon him by one of the footmen, who could not understand what Sir Murray could be thinking about to have that great coarse gardener in the house, and treat him as an equal.
But Sir Murray had placed matters in the right hands. Before half an hour had elapsed parties were organised, consisting of the servants and labourers from the farm close at hand; and a regular search was instituted, the land being methodically gone over—field and forest, bush and ditch. The lake was dragged in every direction, and hour after hour spent, but always with the same result—failure.
There were not wanting those who asserted that my lady must have wandered right away, and the bounds of the search were extended, but still in vain; and at mid-day the parties rested for refreshment, and to determine upon some new plan of action.
Meanwhile, a horse had been brought to the door; and mounting, Sir Murray rode hastily over to the Hall, where, for form’s sake, he asked to see Captain Norton, and upon being told of his absence, requested to be shown in to Mrs Norton.
She met him without rising, but sat trembling visibly, as she drew her boy closer to her; for a sense of dread seemed to rob her of the power to move. But a few hours since, and it had been declared to her that this man had tried to poison her cousin, and now he was here. She could not speak, but motioned him to a chair, trying to overcome her weakness, and to meet with fortitude the new misfortune she felt certain was impending.
Sir Murray saw her motion, but he remained standing; and for full five minutes he watched her, with a look mingled of curiosity and compassion.
“Mrs Norton,” he said at last, “I have come to inflict pain, but I cannot help it. You must judge me leniently when I am gone.”
Ada bowed, and gazed at him with starting eyes.
“One of the Castle servants was here the day before yesterday. Did you see her?”
“I did,” said Ada, huskily.
“She brought a note, did she not, from Lady Gernon?”
“No, Sir Murray.”
“A message?”
“No.”
“She saw Captain Norton?”
“My husband was from home, Sir Murray Gernon.”
“She left a message for him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite. Your servant came to see me, as your wife’s old friend and relative; and, saving the housemaid who admitted her, I alone saw her.”
“Have you any objection to tell me the object of her visit?”
Ada was silent.
“Did she come at the wish of Lady Gernon?”
“No,” said Ada, for she hardly knew what to reply.
“Then you will tell me why she came?”
Ada was still silent.
“Then I will tell you,” said Sir Murray, in a calm voice. “She came to tell you of some absurd suspicions that she had nursed—to try and convince you that Lady Gernon’s life was in danger; for, like the rest of us, she had been blinded by the treason of a false woman. I see that the news has not yet reached your ears. Mrs Norton, your cousin has fled!”
“Fled!” exclaimed Ada, starting to her feet.
“Yes, fled,” he continued, in measured tones, as if he were forcing each word from his lips. “She left the Castle during my absence, yesterday afternoon, and she has not returned. Captain Norton engaged a conveyance yesterday afternoon, and drove away; Captain Norton has not returned.”
Ada Norton stood, pale as a statue, gazing at him with lips apart, as she realised his words, and thought of her husband’s absence, his note, his strange behaviour, and Jane Barker’s words respecting the last meeting in the wood. Her brain reeled, as the thoughts flashed rapidly through, and for a moment she felt that she was ready to fall; but she recovered herself, to hear that her visitor was still speaking.
“I had a last hope that she might be here—that, overtaken by the storm, this might have been her refuge; but my hope was faint. Mrs Norton, I might, perhaps, have kept the truth from you for a few hours; but you must have known it, sooner or later. You have judged me, I believe, very harshly, so far; now, perhaps, I shall command your pity, as I pity you.”
“Judge you harshly! Pity you! You pity me!” exclaimed Ada, flashing into a rage, which lit up her whole countenance, as, with one hand she clutched her boy more tightly to her, and held out the other threateningly at Sir Murray. “You cold-blooded, cowardly miscreant—you destroyer of the hope and happiness, perhaps the life, of that sweet, suffering woman! how dare you confront me with your base, clumsily built-up reasoning, as if every woman upon earth possessed your vile, suspicious nature! You dare to come here with your base subterfuges—your dastardly insinuations—to try and make me believe that Lady Gernon, my pure-hearted cousin, and confidante from a child, has fled with my noble, true, and faithful husband! You lie, you false-hearted dastard—you insidious, courtly, smooth villain—you lie, and you know it! Heaven forgive me my passion, but it is enough to madden me! Go! leave here this instant; for you pollute the place, and you tempt me to believe that you have murdered her! Yes, you may start! But my husband! as true-hearted and honourable a man as ever breathed! How dare you?”
“Woman, where is your husband?” cried Sir Murray, fiercely.
“I do not know. He is from home. How dare you question me?”
“Poor, weak, self-deceiving creature!” he said, contemptuously, “I do not question you! I have noticed—Nay, stay here!” he exclaimed, catching her by the wrist. “You shall hear me! They have been planning long enough now! It was a cursed day when I returned to the Castle; and I soon found that out, though you blinded yourself to the truth. But sooner than have any scandal—than have my name dragged through the Divorce Court, and sneered at by every contemptible fool—I have borne all in silence—suffered, as man never before suffered; and, rejoicing in my weakness, they have corresponded and met! Fool that I was, when I found them last in the wood, and covered the villain—the serpent, the robber of my jewels and of my honour—when I covered him with my pistol, that I did not shoot him down as one would a common thief and burglar! But, no; I would not have a scandal afloat, even though I was becoming the laughingstock and by-word of my servants! But, there, go! I pity and admire you; for I can feel—you teach me to feel—that, there may be yet women worthy of faith!”
As he spoke he threw her hand roughly from him just as the door opened, and Mr and Mrs Elstree entered the room.
“You are here, then!” exclaimed the Rector, in agonised tones. “We have been to the Castle. In Heaven’s name, Murray—Ada—what does all this mean? We hear that Marion is missing! Can you form no idea where she is?”
“Yes!” said Sir Murray, bitterly; “abroad by this time!”
“What, in Heaven’s name, does it all mean?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree, pitifully.
“Mean, madam!” exclaimed Sir Murray, as he strode to the door, and turned to gaze fiercely at all present—“mean? That I married a harlot!”