“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!”
Changes at Hand
Everything that could be done in the way of searching was energetically carried out. The lake, every pond, and even many of the water-holes upon the moor were dragged; but no tidings – no trace of Lady Gernon was obtained. McCray had seen her walk across the lawn and disappear behind some shrubs, as he was at work, and that seemed to be the last trace. No one could be found who had seen her pass in any direction; and the topic of conversation in Merland village and the neighbourhood began to change its tone, as people learned how Sir Murray had, for a short time, made inquiries respecting the route taken by Captain Norton, pursuing him, too, for some distance, until he seemed to have disappeared, the information he obtained being of a very vague nature.
But it was very plain to those who took an interest in the affair that Sir Murray Gernon’s endeavours to trace his lady were made in a half-hearted manner. The search in the neighbourhood of the Castle was strenuous enough, but that was due to the exertions of McCray; and when, at the end of a week, people learned that Sir Murray had shut himself up, after discharging half the servants with liberal wages, they raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads, and wondered whether Captain Norton would ever show himself again at the Hall.
As for Jane, she was nearly having a rupture with McCray, upon his giving in his adhesion to the popular feeling; but the matter blew over, and whatever might be her thoughts, she said no more, waiting in expectation of the battle that she felt to be in store for her when, rousing himself once more, Sir Murray should recall her words, and wish to discharge her.
But the day she dreaded did not come; while, to the great disgust of the servants, McCray seemed to be more and more in the confidence of Sir Murray.
“Why don’t he keep to his ‘gairden,’ as he calls it?” said the footman, indignantly; for he felt himself much ill-used, since he had to wear his livery, eat his food, and do nothing at all in return, for the baronet’s simple meals were taken into his room by McCray. Williams, the other footman – Sir Murray’s spy, as Jane indignantly called him – had been amongst the servants first discharged.
“The poor gairden’s going to rack and ruin, lassie,” said McCray; “and just as I was going to make such improvements and alterations! But Sir Mooray says I’m not to let either of the ither sairvants go to him; and I believe he frightened that loon in the breeches, because he would take in the letters.”
“But he sha’n’t frighten me,” said Jane, firmly. “I’ll never leave the child, come what may.”
“Dinna fash yersel’, darling,” said McCray, tenderly. “I’ve got the wages and orders of six more that are to be sent away at once, but ye’re nae one of them. Sir Mooray winna discharge ye till he packs me off.”
“Indeed!” said Jane. “And how do you know?”
“Why, we’ve been talking aboot ye, lassie; and Sir Mooray said he had made up his mind to go abroad again, and asked me if I’d gang wi’ him; and though it cut me to the heart to leave my fruit and flowers, lassie, I thocht I’d see new sorts in the far countree, and I said I’d gang.”
“It didn’t fret you, then, to think of leaving me?” said Jane, bitterly.
“Hoot, lassie! and who’s aboot to gang and leave ye?” exclaimed McCray. “Sir Mooray said I was to see and get a good nurse to tak’ charge of the bairn – one as would go abroad; and I telled him he couldna do better than keep ye, when I thocht he was going to fly at me. But I telled him, quite still like, that we’d promised to marry, and that if he didna tak’ ye, lassie, he wadna tak’ me; and that seemed to make him mad for a bit, till I telled him that ye lo’ed weel the bairn, and that ye were a gude girl at heart. But he wadna listen.”
“Was it to be a good place, Alexander?” said Jane.
“Ay, lassie; I was to have a fair bit o’ siller.”
“Then you mustn’t give it up for me.”
“I didna mean to, lassie,” said McCray, coolly.
Jane was piqued, and said nothing.
“There, lassie, I winna beat aboot the bush any more. It was settled at last that we twain are to gang thegither; and I agreed for both, and Sir Mooray starts next week for the Lake Como.”
“And like you!” said Jane, with asperity. “How could you know that I’d go?”
“Why, didn’t I ken that ye’d gang for my sake?” said McCray.
“No, indeed!” exclaimed Jane.
“That’s just what I thocht,” said McCray, with a twinkle in his eye; “but I was quite sure ye would on account of the bairn.”
Jane smiled, in spite of herself, as McCray’s arm was passed round her: but her eyes filled with tears directly after, as she placed the child upon a chair, and then went down upon her knees before it, kissing it again and again.
“It was good, and kind, and thoughtful of you, Alexander,” she said, turning to the gardener; “and I know you’ve been having a hard battle for me.”
“Weel, lassie, he did want a deal o’ pruning, certainly,” said McCray.
“But I’m very – very grateful!” sobbed Jane, “for the poor child seems all one has to live for now!”
“All, lassie?” said McCray, dryly.
“Well, no; not all,” said Jane. “But I’m not worthy of you, and I never ought to have made you the promise I did, for I can’t love you as much as you ought to be loved.”
“Hoot, lassie!” cried McCray, kneeling by her side, and drawing her to him, “gin ye try like that, I’m quite satisfied, for what more need a man wush for, than for his couthie wee bodie to try and love him with all her heart?”
Mr Chunt’s Toast
Mr Chunt presided over a good many discussions in his parlour, where farmer and tradesman met to talk over the course of events during the first few weeks. The subject of Lady Gernon’s disappearance was tabooed by general consent. It was not the first event of the kind that had happened through badly-assorted marriages, and wouldn’t be the last, said the baker, sententiously; and then it was acknowledged by general consent that money didn’t make happiness, and that there was a deal of wickedness in this world.
Upon another night Mr Chunt took to bewailing in public the injury done to his trade, by the shutting up of the Castle.
“Looks a reg’lar devastation, gentlemen,” he said; “things all in holland, shutters closed, stables locked up, and all just as if it didn’t belong to nobody.”
“Oh, Sir Murray will be back one of these days,” said a small farmer, cheerfully, “and then trade will brighten up again; meanwhile, you must be contented with our custom, Chunt. He’ll tire of foreign parts, you’ll see.”
“Don’t hear any likelihood of Mrs Norton going, I suppose?” said one.
“Not she, poor little woman; she even looks quite cheerful, and is always out with that little boy of hers. Noble little chap he grows!”
“Ah!” said another, “he played his cards well, the Captain did. He hadn’t been gone long before there was two couples down to arrest him – two parties, one after the other. Stopped here, they did. Post-chaises: come down in style. Didn’t they, Chunt?” The landlord nodded in confirmation. “Just got away in time. Pity, though. He’d have been a bonny man if it hadn’t been for his disappointment, and those iron shares. It was on account of his being director, and answerable for a good deal, I suppose, that the bailiffs wanted him.”
A week passed, and then Chunt, who had been waiting to have a good full audience, brought out a large auctioneer’s posting bill, and laid it before his customers as a surprise.
“What d’yer think of that, gentlemen, eh?” he said. “Merland will be another place soon. There’s poor old Gurdon and poor old Barker both dead within the last four-and-twenty hours, and now that’s been sent to me to stick up in the bar. Read it out, Mr Mouncey.”
The baker put on his spectacles, and read aloud the list of the “elegant and superior household furniture and effects, to be sold by auction, without reserve, at Merland Rectory, by direction of the Reverend Henry Elstree, who was leaving the place.”
“Chunt’s about right,” said Huttoft, the saddler: “the place won’t be the same, soon. The old people at the Rectory ain’t looked the same, since I saw them coming back that day from the Hall – the day after Lady Gernon elop – disappeared.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “I believe I’m as sorry as any one present; but it’s no use to fret for other folks’ troubles. I propose that we have glasses round of brandy hot, gentlemen, for I feel quite sinking.”
“Do you pay, Chunt?” said Mouncey, jocosely.
“There ain’t a man present as would be more free, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “if I could; but, I put it to the company, with the present fall off in my trade, am I able?”
“No – no!” was chorused; and, the glasses being filled, Jonathan Chunt proposed a toast which was drunk with acclamation, and the landlord’s toast was:
