For a few moments a strange sense of mingled exultation and horror oppressed the baronet, and he stood staring vacantly in the faces of his servants.
Would he like them to go and try again? though, as the water was so deep, there was not much chance of finding the poor fellow till morning.
Yes, he would like them to go; and he would come with them himself; and, entering the boat, Sir Murray made the weary men row on and on, backwards and forwards, through the two openings of the wooden bridge, as, armed himself with the weed-grapnel in the prow, he dragged it over the same ground again and again, expecting at each check it received that it was hooked in the body of the man whom he looked upon as the blight of his existence.
At length, the men being completely worn out, the search was given up till daylight, and Sir Murray returned to the Castle, to find McCray sitting up in bed with a blanket round him, sipping whisky and water, hot and strong.
“Gude sake, Sir Mooray!” he exclaimed, as his master entered. “We won the day. I ken a’ aboot it – how ye shot one and took the ither; and Jock Gurdon’s coming round – the villin! – and no more dead than I am. But it had got verra close to the end, Sir Mooray.”
“My brave fellow!” exclaimed his master – “you did nobly.”
“Hoot! just naething at a’, Sir Mooray. But winna ye try the whuskee?”
“No, my good fellow. But I don’t know how I am to reward you.”
“Hoot! then, Sir Mooray, I’ll just tell ye,” said the Scot, whose eye was even now on the main chance. “Tam Wilkins is a gude servant, but he’s auld, and past the gairden. Suppose ye mak’ me head-gairdener, and give Jenny Barker a hint that she’d better marry me as soon as we’ve transported Jock Gurdon.”
“My good fellow, I’ll stand your friend, depend upon it,” said the baronet, smiling in spite of himself. But the next moment he frowned heavily, as he said, in a low voice: “Do you know who it was that saved you?”
“No, Sir Mooray, unless it was one of the lads in the bit skiff. But this is rare whuskee, Sir Mooray!”
Sir Murray frowned more deeply before speaking again.
“Did you see any one with the villain you so nobly captured? Though how you came to suspect the attack I don’t know.”
“Not a soul; only the two ye’ve taken, Sir Mooray,” said Sandy, reddening, perhaps from the effect of the whisky. “And as to suspecting, I have no suspicion in me; but I jist like to see of a night that naebody’s after the grapes or bit of wall-fruit, for Tam Wilkins is getting past minding it.”
There was nothing more to be learned here, and, day breaking soon after, Sir Murray summoned two more of his men – a couple who had not been so harassed – and proceeded once more to drag the lake, more assistance and better implements being at the same time sent for.
But first he had himself rowed carefully over the water, peering down as he went, but the dragging had fouled the lake, so that this was soon given up as useless, and Sir Murray was about once more to lower the grapnel, when one of the men pointed out, with scared face, what appeared to be the body of a man floating at a short distance.
To reach the spot took but a few moments, and one of the men reached over to draw in a coat and vest, saturated, so that it was a wonder they could have floated.
“His clothes, Sir Murray,” said the man, lifting up the coat, when, from the breast, a packet of letters fell out, the directions blurred with the action of the water; but on two of them plainly enough could still be read:
Captain Norton,
Merland Hall.
Gurdon’s Lot
“Let the lake be dragged until the body is found,” said Sir Murray Gernon, “and set me ashore.”
The men obeyed, and watched their master with wondering eyes as he strode off towards the house, his brow knit, and head bent, for he wanted to be alone and to think.
Here was, he told himself, an awful confirmation of his suspicions; and now, rid of one enemy to his peace, he wanted to consider what should be his next step.
All that day he kept himself shut in his own room, merely giving a few instructions to his servants respecting the course to be taken with the prisoners, who were soon handed over into the custody of the police.
But, as might have been expected, Sir Murray Gernon could not fit together the pieces of the puzzle: he could not in his heart conclude that Norton had been associated with the burglarious party, and he was still brooding over the matter, when a note was placed in his hands – one which made him start as if stung by some venomous beast, and sit staring, with dilated eyes, till rage and disappointment got the better of surprise.
The note was very short, too, and merely to the effect that Captain Norton, while passing the park palings on the previous night, had heard an appeal for help, and had taken the liberty of trespassing that he might render some aid; but in the darkness and haste to get home and change his wet things, he had lost a portion of his clothes, containing letters of importance. Would Sir Murray Gernon kindly give orders that, if found, they might be restored?
Sir Murray Gernon sat for some minutes staring blankly at the paper as he mastered its contents. Here, then, was proof in the man’s own handwriting that he had trespassed upon the Castle grounds on the previous night – but for what?
Reason gave the answer at once, but suspicion refused the explanation. There must have been some underhanded motive. Lady Gernon was dressed: she had not been to bed. Could it be that an evasion had been planned and interrupted by the fortuitous visit of the burglars? It must be so; and, feeling that he was now upon the right scent, Sir Murray determined to double his precautions, and acting on that determination, he stooped more and more to the meanness of acting the part of spy.
He would have challenged Norton to meet him again and again, but he told himself, with a grim smile, that he was a poltroon – as great a coward as ever breathed – and he felt more bitter than ever against him. It seemed to Sir Murray that he had been hoaxed – that he had been made the object of a trick that should for a few hours make him believe in Norton’s death. He could not see that the acting of such a purposeless part would have been insensate to a degree, and that it was all due to the strength of his own imagination – an imagination now ever running riot in its wild theorising.
Norton might have smiled could he have read Sir Murray’s heart, in spite of the anger and pain he would have felt. For his own part, he had, on reaching the footway of the bridge, stood thoughtful for a few moments, and then, hearing Sir Murray’s voice, had come to the conclusion that the better plan would be to hurry away, and so avoid an encounter, feeling sure that his acts would be, in some way or other, misconstrued. He trusted that it would be supposed he had made his way to a place of safety; but, at all events, he was determined not to meet the baronet, and therefore proceeded quickly homewards, little thinking of the conclusions that would be arrived at, till towards the evening of the day following, when he recalled the fact that his recognition was certain in consequence of the clothes he had lost, the result being that he sent the note above alluded to. The writing of this note involved a full account to Mrs Norton of the night’s adventure, to her great discomfort, for beyond a bare outline given in explanation of the wet clothes, Mrs Norton had known little of the state of affairs. By degrees, though, that day the news of the attempted burglary had reached the Hall, and Norton comprehended the cause of the cry for help to which he had so opportunely responded. At the same time, though, he could not but regret that he had been the instrument called upon to save the men’s lives, the uneasiness brought upon him by the incident being excessive – an uneasiness fully shared, though in silence, by his wife.
Events in the life of Mr John Gurdon about this time began to succeed each other with great rapidity. An examination before the county magistrates resulted in his committal, and the assizes coming on within a month, the ex-butler stood his trial. The evidence was too strong against him; he had been, as it were, taken red-handed, and, with his companions, was condemned to cross the seas to a land where there should be fewer temptations for him. The judge, taking all things into consideration, seemed to think that Gurdon’s crime was more heinous even than that of his companions, and visited it accordingly; for, while the other two men were sentenced to transportation for fourteen years, John Gurdon’s sentence was almost equivalent to condemnation for life, inasmuch as he was to be exiled for twenty years.
“All right, gentlemen – all right,” he said, coolly; “but I shall come back again. And as for you, Sir Murray Gernon, I’ll bear you in mind till my return; for I’ve not done with you and yours.”
“Remove him at once!” said the judge, and a couple of officers seized the prisoner, and hurried him from the dock.
“And now, don’t be too hard on me, lassie,” said McCray, the day after the trial – for he had managed to encounter Jane in one of the passages – “don’t be hard upon me, lassie, for I only did my duty.”
“I know – I know,” said Jane, sadly; “but please don’t talk to me now.”
“Weel, weel, I know that your puir heart’s sair yet, lassie, and I won’t talk aboot sic things; but talk to ye I must, aboot something.”
“You’re as bad as a woman, Mr McCray,” said Jane, pettishly.
“I only wish I was half as good as one woman I ken,” said Sandy, gallantly. “But hoot, lassie, I’m glad to see the Squire’s coming round. He brought her leddyship with him into the garden yestreen, and told her he’d make me the head-gairdener, and the puir thing leuked as bright and happy as could be; and, dye ken, lassie, I think we’re going to hae bright times again at the Castle, and I’m aboot setting things reet, and I’ll be as busy as busy, day after day; but ye’ll see me a bit o’ nichts?”
“Did Sir Murray speak kindly to her ladyship?” said Jane anxiously.
“Kind! ay,” said Sandy; “and she turned to him directly, and laid her hand upon his arm, and they strolled off together behind the bushes, and he passed his arm round her – so, Jenny – and stooped him down, and kissed her – just as I’m showing of ye – there, just on her bonnie cheek, like that; for they didna ken I could see.”
As Sandy McCray gave his description with illustrations, Jane started angrily away.
“Nay, lassie, gude save us, she didna do so, for she turned her bonnie face up to his, and looked sae loving and airnest in his e’e, that it was quite a sight. And, Jenny, lassie, ain’t ye glad I’m head-gairdener noo. I dinna care myself, but I thought ye’d be glad.”
“McCray,” exclaimed Jane, earnestly, as she came once more closer to him, “you’re a good and true-hearted man, and I’m not worthy of you.”
“Hoot – hoot! lassie; haud that clap.”
“But,” continued Jane, “I’ve no one else to talk to and confide in. You are thoughtful and wise, and see a great deal, and then say nothing about it. You know how Sir Murray and my lady have been of late, and how he has behaved.”
“Yes – yes,” said Sandy; “he’s been feeling just as I used to feel when – ”
“Don’t, please – don’t say any more about that.”
“Not I, lassie,” said Sandy, caressingly.
“But this soft way of his, now, I don’t like it,” said Jane. “My life on it, he’s never had any cause for his jealousy. I believe now it was all due to that wicked wretch saying things of my dear lady, and Sir Murray getting to hear of them.”
“Hoot, not so fast, lassie. What wicked wretch?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Jane, with pained face. “You know who I mean.”
“So I do, lassie – so I do,” said Sandy, smiling, and softly rubbing his hands. “But he’ll do nae mair mischief.”
“Well,” said Jane, eagerly, “I saw Sir Murray only this morning talking gently to my lady, and as soon as he left her, he was looking that evil, and muttering so, that it was horrible. I don’t believe in him, and there’s something wrong. She has offended him, and he hasn’t forgiven her. You know how I love my lady.”
“Gude sake, yes, lassie, and I love ye for’t.”
“And that dear, sweet babe! I don’t think she loves it better herself. And only a night or two since she was down on her knees, crying fit to break her heart, by its side; and she said to me, ‘Jane – Jane, when something happens to me, be a mother to it; never leave her side, come what may.’”
“And ye promised her?” said Sandy, earnestly.
“Of course,” exclaimed Jane, as she wiped her eyes.
“Gude lass – gude lass; and it’s not me that will ask ye to. Ye shall watch over the little thing, Jenny, and I’ll help ye. But what’s she mean aboot when something happens her?”
“Oh, it’s her low way, and I think she’s afraid of Sir Murray; and now all this change in him isn’t natural. I tell you, Alexander – ”
“Gude; I like that,” muttered the Scot, as, in her earnestness, Jane laid her hand upon his arm.
“I tell you, that if anything happens to my dear lady, I shall think it’s his doing.”
“Hoot – tut – tut! lassie, ye’re giving way to strange thoughts, such as oughtn’t to be in a Christian woman’s heart. And now, lassie, I winna bother ye, but ye’ll always talk to me like this, and come to me for counsel. I’m nae Solomon, Jenny, but I’ll always tell ye the most I know. And there, there, little one, ye’ll be my ain wife some day, winna ye?”
There must have been something very satisfactory in Jane’s reply, for, after a few moment’s silence, Alexander McCray went softly away upon the points of his boots, making his way into the garden, where he was soon busy superintending the improvement of flower-beds, and making alterations in spots that had long been an eyesore to him, inasmuch as they had been favourite whims of the now pensioned off, prejudiced old man, who had hitherto ruled the grounds.
“Gude sake, she’s a real woman,” muttered Sandy, as he raised his cap to Lady Gernon, who, basket in hand, passed him on her way to the gates. “I like to see a woman with a lo’e for flowers, even if they be the wild wee bits o’ things she picks. But here comes the laird.”
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!”
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.”
