Some days had passed, and the Doctor had taken his departure, confining
himself now to a couple of calls per diem. Lady Gernon was progressing
fast towards recovery, and Sir Murray, very quiet and staid, was again
up; but, so far as the servants knew, and did not omit to tattle about,
he had had no interview with her ladyship. But the heads of the
establishment were not the only ones in that house sore at heart, for
Jane Barker, in her times of retirement, shed many a bitter tear. She
never asked about him, but there were those amongst the domestics who
heard the news, and soon bore it to her, that John Gurdon had left the
neighbouring town where he had been staying, and was gone to Liverpool,
with the intention of proceeding to Australia: in which announcement
there was some little truth and a good deal of fiction, the shade of
truth being that John Gurdon was going abroad, though not in the way he
had published.
"And never to write and ask me to see him again," sobbed Jane--"never to
say `good-bye.' Oh, what a blessing life would be if there was no
courting in it! as is a curse to everybody, as I've seen enough to my
cost, without counting my own sufferings."
Jane was bewailing her fate at the open window one night when these
thoughts passed through her breast for the hundredth time. Certainly,
there was a pleasant coolness in the night air, but it is open to doubt
whether poor Jane had not nourished a hope that, wrong as it was on her
part, besides being unbecoming, John might by chance have repented and
turned back just to say a few words of parting. She confessed once that
she wished he would, and then she would wish him God-speed, and if he
wanted ten or twenty pounds, she would give notice at the savings' bank,
draw it out, and send it to him by letter. But not one word would she
say to stop him from going--no, not _one_ word. He should go, and no
doubt it would do him good, and break him of all his bad habits, and
"perhaps," she said, with a sob, "he may come back a good man, and we
may be--"
"Tst, Jane!--tst!"
For a few moments she could not move, the sound was so unexpected. She
had hoped that he might come back, but for days past she had given it
up, when now, making her heart leap with a joy she could not conceal,
came the welcome sound from the darkness beneath where she leaned.
She had not heard him come, for the reason that Mr John Gurdon had been
there for an hour before she had leaned out, and he had been stayed from
announcing his presence sooner by a light in a neighbouring window; but
now, that apparently all was still in the place, he gave utterance to
the above signal, one which he had to repeat before it was responded to
by a whispered ejaculation.
"How could I come, you cruel woman!" said Gurdon--"how can you ask me?
Hadn't you driven me by your hard-heartedness to make up my mind to go
abroad? but only to find when I'd got to the ship that I couldn't go
without saying one long `good-bye.' Oh, Jane!--Jane!--Jane!"
The remaining words were lost to Jane's ear, but she could make out that
he was sobbing and groaning softly, and it seemed to her, from the
muffled sounds, that Gurdon had thrown himself down upon his face, and
was trying to stifle the agony of his spirit, lest he should be heard,
and so get her into trouble.
Poor Jane! her heart yearned with genuine pity towards the erring man,
and her hands involuntarily stretched themselves out as if to take him
to her breast, which heaved with sobs of an affection as sincere as was
ever felt by the most cultivated of her sex.
"Oh, John!" she sobbed, "don't--don't!--please don't do that!"
"How can I help it?" he groaned. "Why am I such a coward that I don't
go and make a hole in the lake, and put myself out of my misery?"
"Oh, pray--pray don't, John!" sobbed poor Jane, whose feelings were
stirred to their deepest depth, and, believing in her old lovers earnest
repentance, she was all the weak woman now. "I'm 'most heart-broken,
dear, without more troubles. You don't know what has been happening
lately."
"No," groaned Gurdon, "I don't know. My troubles have been enough for
me."
"What with my lady nearly dying, and Sir Murray being locked up in the
library, and the door being broken open to find him in a fit, the place
is dreadful, without you going on as you do."
"Don't, please, be hard on me, dear," groaned Gurdon; "and if they did
break open the library door, they mended it again, I suppose, for Sir
Murray's got plenty of money, ain't he?"
"No, they didn't stop for no mending," sobbed Jane. "It's enough to do
to mend poor people's sorrows here as is all driving us mad. Money's no
use where you're miserable."
"And are you miserable, dear?" whispered Gurdon.
"Oh, how can you ask?" sobbed Jane.
"Don't seem like it," said Gurdon, softly, "or you'd come down and say a
few words to me before I go away, perhaps for ever; for when once the
great seas are rolling between us, Jane, there's, perhaps, no chance of
our seeing one another no more."
"Oh, how can you ask me? You know I can't!" exclaimed Jane, angrily.
"I thought as much," whined Gurdon, in a deep, husky voice, and as if
speaking only to himself; "but I thought I'd put her to the proof--just
give her one more trial."
"You cruel--cruel--cruel fellow! how can you torture me so?" sobbed
Jane, who had heard every word. "It's wicked of you, it is, when you
know it's more than my place is worth to do it."
"Ah," said Gurdon, huskily, "I did think once, that a place in my heart
was all that you wanted, and that I had but to say `Come and take it,
Jenny,' and you'd have come. But I was a different man, then, and
hadn't gone wrong, and I'm rightly punished now. Goodbye, Heaven bless
you!--bless you! and may you be happy!"
"But stop--stop a moment, John! Oh, pray don't go yet! I've something
to tell you."
"I dursen't stop no longer," said John, huskily. "People will be sure
to hear us; and bad as I am, Jenny, I wouldn't do you any harm. No--no,
I'd suffer anything--die for you, though I've been wrong, and taken a
glass too much. Good--goo-oo-ood-bye!"
"But stop a moment, John, pray!" sobbed Jane.
"No--no; it's better not."
"Oh dear, what shall I do--what shall I do?" sobbed Jane.
"Won't you say good-bye?" was whispered from below, and there was a soft
rustling amongst the bushes beneath the tree.
"Oh, stop--stop!" cried Jane, hoarsely. "Don't leave me like that.
What do you want me to do?"
"Oh, nothing--nothing, only to say goodbye, Jane. I did think that I
should have liked to hold you in my arms for a moment, and have one
parting kiss. I seemed to fancy it would make me a stronger and a
better man, so that I could go and fight my way again in a foreign
world, and make myself fit to come back and ask you to be my wife."
"But John, dear John, don't ask me," sobbed Jane. "How can I?"
"No--no," he said, sadly; "you can't. Don't do anything of the sort. I
only thought you might have come down and let me in through the
billiard-room. But don't do it, Jane; you might get into trouble about
it, and one of us is enough to be in that way. Bless you, Jane! Think
of me sometimes when I'm far away."
Jane did not answer, but with the sobs tearing one after the other from
her breast, she stood, listening and thinking. It was too hard upon
her; she felt that she could not bear it. How, with all his faults, he
still loved her, and should she--could she turn her back upon him when
he was in such trouble? There was a hot burning flush, too, in her
cheeks as she leaned, with beating heart, further from the window,
determined to risk all for his sake.
"John!--John!" she whispered, "Don't go yet; I'll do what you want."
No answer.
"Oh, John!--John! Pray don't leave me like that. I'll come down just
for a few moments to say good-bye."
Still no answer, only a faint rustle amongst the bushes.
Had he then gone?--left her while she was silent for those few minutes,
thinking her to be hard, and cruel, and indifferent? or did he hope that
she would repent, and had he gone round to the glass door by the
billiard-room lobby?
"John!" she whispered again; and then more loudly, "John!"
"Is there anything the matter, my lassie?" said a voice--one which made
the heart of Jane Barker to beat, for she recognised in it that of the
Scotch gardener, who, it now struck her, had been very attentive to her
of late.
"Matter! No," said Jane; "I was only looking out at the stars, Mr
McCray," and she closed the window.
"Ye're in luck to-neet, Sandy, laddie," muttered the gardener. "Ye've
got your rabbit, and reset your trap without so much as a single
spiteful keeper being a bit the wiser; and now, taking a fancy to look
at her window, ye've seen the little blossom hersel. But she's a neat
little flower, and when she's done greeting after that dirty loon of a
butler, she'll come round. He was a bad one--a bad one, and as jealous
as a Moor; but he's out of the way now, and Jeanie, my sousie lassie,
ye'll be mine one of these days, I think."
Alexander McCray stepped gingerly along amongst the bushes, holding the
rabbit he had caught tightly in one pocket of his velveteens, secure in
his own mind from interruption, for even if he had now met a keeper he
was upon his own domain--the garden; and zeal for the protection of his
master's fruit would have been his excuse. So he stepped softly along,
pushing the shrubs aside, and turning once to look at Jane's window, and
during those few moments, as he stood there, looking very solemn, and
relieving his feelings by kissing his hand a few times to the darkened
window, Sandy McCray was in imminent danger of having his brains knocked
out. If he had gone a foot more to the right, or a yard more to the
left, the result would have been a fierce struggle; but as it happened,
Sandy did neither, but strode safely, straight along, and made his way
to his cottage, where he regaled himself with half-a-dozen pinches of
snuff, and then turned in, to dream of the fair face of Jane.
Book 1, Chapter XXII.