But Sandy McCray was no sluggard: the little Dutch clock in his room was
only striking five, and the dew was bright upon the grass, as he stepped
out, crossed the bit of park between his cottage and the garden, and
then, taking a rake in his hand, walked towards the shrubbery where he
had stood for a few minutes the night before. For Sandy argued that,
with all his care, he might have left some footprints about, and that
footprints beneath the window of the lady of his love were things not to
be thought of for a moment, since they were not tolerated elsewhere.
"Just as I thought," muttered the Scot; and his rake erased a deep
footmark and then another upon the border, when, as he half-smoothed
over a third, he stopped short, and, lifting his cap with one hand, he
let the rake-handle fall into the hollow of his arm, so that he might
indulge in a good scratch at his rough, red head.
The scratching seemed to do no good, so he refreshed his intellect with
a pinch of snuff, and then with another, when, his senses being a little
sharpened, he proceeded to very carefully fit his boot to the footprint,
but as he did so, standing upon one leg, he tottered a little, and
coming down upon the mark, quite destroyed it as to possibility of
identification, and ended by raking it over smoothly. But Sandy had not
yet done, for, picking his way carefully through the shrubs, he stopped
at last by two very plainly-marked footsteps, and this time, slipping
off one boot, he knelt down beneath the shade of an arbutus, and
carefully tried the sole, to find that it was a good three sizes larger
than the boot that had made the marks. Again the rake was brought into
requisition, and the marks obliterated, Mr McCray looking very fierce
the while, for a few more steps brought him where the footprints were
plainer, and the test of the boot showed that they were of more than one
size. He tried here, and he tried there, and had no difficulty in
finding his own traces. But those others?
Sandy McCray's face was a study as he stood peering down, and fitting
the boot first in one and then another print, ending by returning it to
its proper service; and then it was that, if he had looked upwards
instead of down, he would have seen that a pale, eager face was watching
his every motion, as it had been for the last few minutes, and continued
so to do, while, as if struck by a sudden thought, Sandy McCray laid his
finger by the side of his nose, grinned a very fierce and savage grin,
and then proceeded to erase the marks of trampling. Five minutes later
he did turn his head upwards, and stole a glance at the window; but the
pale face was not there, for Jane, who had never undressed, had seated
herself upon the floor, and now, trembling and agitated, was having what
she would have called "a good cry."
There was not a footprint left when Jane had finished her cry, and stole
to the window to peep. Neither was Sandy McCray there; but a little off
to the right, upon a scrap of grass sparkling in the morning sun with a
heavy burden of dewdrops, and as Jane looked, she saw the gardener
sharpening his scythe viciously before he began to shave away at the
grass, as if every daisy's head were an enemy's that he was determined
to take off.
Jane sighed, as well she might, and once more she said aloud:
"Oh, what a happy world this would be if there were no men!"
That was an anxious day for poor Jane, whose thoughts at times made her
shiver. Little as she had noticed them before, she could now recall
scores of attentions on the gardener's part, all of which evidently
meant love. The warm apples from his pockets; the bunches of grapes;
the peaches and nectarines; and the roses on Sundays; besides which, for
months past it had been his habit to grin at her very widely, so as to
show the whole of his teeth--loving smiles, no doubt, while now that he
had seen those footsteps beneath her window, what would he do?
She asked herself another question, without trying to answer the former.
What had he been doing there himself?
She told herself at last that he would lay no information against her,
but that he would watch carefully, and then there would be perhaps a
fight between him and Gurdon, who would be sure to come again, for he
must have known that she was about to give way to his appeal.
It was plain enough now why Gurdon and McCray had always been such bad
friends, quarrelling fiercely, till McCray would tauntingly ask the
butler when he meant to use the flower-beds again, because he--the
gardener--never liked pigs to sleep in his beds without straw. Jane had
never troubled herself about McCray before, but she felt that she must
now--that she was bound to do so, for most likely he would get help, and
Gurdon, if he came, would be seized for trespassing. It was no use, she
could not help it, she declared, and as soon as she found herself at
liberty she determined to seek McCray, and trust to her woman's wit for
disarming him, should his designs be inimical.
Then she shrank back from the task, for it would be like putting herself
in his power, and for a long time poor Jane's mind was a chaos of
conflicting doubts. At last, though, she felt determined, and she set
off in the direction of the gardener's cottage, telling herself that
come what might Gurdon should get into no further trouble.
There was no one at the cottage, and on making inquiry of another of the
gardeners, she learned that McCray had gone with a cart to the town to
bring back some shrubs sent from some great nurseryman in London.
"But I'll tell him you've been looking after him, Miss Jenny; and he'll
be ready to jump out of his boots for joy."
"Don't talk nonsense, Johnson," said Jane, archly. "Just as if there
was anything between us!"
"Of course there isn't--nothing at all," laughed the gardener. "There's
nothing at all between you, and you'll come together before long. He's
always talking about you, and comparing you to the best flowers we have
under glass. But I'll tell him you've been asking."
"No, please don't do anything of the kind," said Jane; and she tripped
away, trying to appear quite at her ease. But the poor girl's heart was
very sore, and though she tried hard, she had no further opportunity
during the day of seeking McCray.
It was with a horrible fear, then, upon her that night, that as soon as
she could get away from Lady Gernon's room she hurried to her own,
softly opened the window, and looked out upon the darkness. For it was
an intensely dark night: the moon would not rise for some hours, and, to
make it more obscure, there was a heavy bank of clouds to blot out the
stars.
Jane listened eagerly, but the soft sighing of the wind through the
trees was all she could hear. There was not the faintest rustle beneath
her window, and she leaned out as far as she dared, feeling that her
only course now was to listen for his coming, and then to whisper him to
hurry round to the lobby, where there would be no fear of his being
watched, while she spoke to him for a few minutes. That is, if he were
watched at all, for a great deal of her alarm might, after all, be due
to her own imagination.
Two hours of blank expectation passed, and not a sound had she heard.
The stillness was at times even oppressive, and a shuddering feeling of
fear again and again made her inclined to close the window, and try to
drive away with sleep the troubles that paled her face. Twice over she
had ventured to whisper softly his name--the name of the scoundrel whom
she was watching there to protect--but there was no answer; and yet she
knew that he would come--something seemed even to warn her that he was
at hand; so that, when at last she did hear a faint rustling amidst the
twigs, and the hard breathing as of some animal, she was in no way
startled, but, whispering softly:
"Round by the lobby," she said--"round by the lobby, quick!"
"All right," was the whispered answer; and then, as Jane listened, there
came again the rustling, when, with her heart wildly beating, she glided
from the room, to stand outside, listening upon the landing.
Book 1, Chapter XXIII.