"Perhaps, after all, it's just as weel that he did not come," mused
Alexander McCray, as he stood one morning upon the long wooden bridge
which connected, at the narrowest part, the two shores of the fine piece
of water lying between the park of Merland Castle and the
pleasure-grounds. He was leaning over the rail, and gazing down into
the clear depths below, where, screened by the broad leaves of the
water-lilies, which here and there bore some sweet white chalice, the
huge carp were floating lazily, now and then giving a flip with their
broad tails to send themselves a few feet through the limpid medium in
which they dwelt.
"Perhaps, after all, it's just as weel that he did not come any more,
but if he had, I would have pitched him in here as freely as have looked
at him, and he wouldn't have hurt neither--a bad chiel. Them that's
born to be hanged will never be drowned, and he'll come to the gallows
sure enough, and deserves it, too, for ill-using that poor bairn as he
did."
"Weel, this winna do," he said, starting from his reverie, and
shouldering the broom with which he had been sweeping the bridge. "I'll
just e'en go and do the paths under the bedroom windows; the lassie
might happen to give a look out."
The gardener walked on, thoughtfully gazing up at the windows, and
thinking the while of the nights when he had watchfully made his way,
stealthy as a burglar, from bush to bush, or crouched beneath the
shrubs. Few nights had passed without his seeing Jane Barker's light
extinguished, but there had been no further visit from John Gurdon.
"He didn't like the flat of my spade," said McCray, with a grin, and
this seemed to be the case--the ex-butler never from that night having
been heard of. Still, more now from habit than anything, the gardener
continued his nocturnal rounds, telling himself that he could not sleep
without one peep at the lassie's window before going to bed.
But Alexander McCray seemed to make but little progress in his love
affairs. Whenever he met Jane she had always a pleasant smile for him,
but he knew in his heart that it was not the smile he wished to see.
"But bide a wee," he said. "Her puir heart's sair. Wait awhile and it
will all come reet."
The gardener was favoured that morning, for as he applied his broom
lightly here and there to the wandering leaves, the early ones of
autumn, he heard a window, above his head, thrown open, and as he looked
up, there was Jane leaning out, ready to smile and nod down to him.
"Company coming, lassie?" said McCray, leaning upon his broom.
"Company? No, Mr McCray," said Jane; "why did you think so?"
"Because ye're getting ready the best bedroom," said the gardener.
"Oh dear, no," said Jane; "we shall never have company here again, I
think. I'm only having this put ready for Sir Murray himself, because
some of the old plaster ceiling of his own room's come down."
"Puir lad! he looks bad," said McCray.
"And serve him right, too," said Jane, defiantly. "I haven't patience
with him."
"Nay, lassie, perhaps not," said McCray. "But ye've plenty of patience
with them as is waur."
"Please don't talk about that," said Jane, pleadingly.
"Nay, lassie, then I winna," said McCray, sadly; "but be patient mysel',
if it's for twenty long years ere ye turn to me."
Jane leaned out, giving the gardener one long earnest gaze, such a one
as made his heart beat more freely, but the coming steps of some one
along a neighbouring path sent Jane to her work, and McCray's broom
rustling over gravel and leaf.
Before many seconds had passed Lady Gernon came by, very pale and
thoughtful. She had a basket in her hand, and, evidently bent upon some
expedition, she made her way through the ring fence, and away across the
park, neither looking to the right nor left.
"Siller and titles are nice things," mused McCray; "but they don't seem
to make yon puir creature happy."
McCray swept as he thought, and thought as he swept. Jane did not again
appear at the window, and if she had done so, the opening of one in the
lower range would have kept him from speaking to her, while, as he swept
on and on, hunting out errant leaves from the hiding-places where they
were waiting for a bit of fun with the wind, he became conscious of the
dark, lowering face of Sir Murray, apparently watching the progress of
his lady from the side of the house where he now was.
"He's a puir, miserable sort of chiel," muttered the gardener; "he seems
to want a rousing up. It's my belief that a few hours' trenching a day
wi' a good broad spade wad do him a world of good. He eats too much,
and he drinks too much; but I'm sorry for him, puir lad--I'm sorry for
him!"
That night Alexander McCray sat in his little room, thoroughly enjoying
himself, for he was so elated with the glance Jane had that morning
bestowed upon him, that he had treated himself to a pipe and a small
tumbler of whisky and water, over which he sat smiling and happy, for it
struck him that he had at last got in the thin edge of the wedge, and
that the future would all be plain sailing.
"And she's as good a woman as ever the sun shone on," said Sandy at
last, as, after draining the last drop from his tumbler of whisky and
water, and trying in vain to ignite the ashes at the bottom of his pipe,
he tapped the bowl upon the bar, and then stood up to think.
Should he?--shouldn't he? The night was dark and gusty, and he had sat
thinking till it was long past twelve. There was nothing to go for, and
the lassie's light might be out, and she fast asleep in bed long enough
before; but then he would have the satisfaction of knowing that all was
right, and for months past now he had not missed a night. He did not
think he would go, though, for it was evident now that Jane was
beginning to think a little of his words, and no doubt matters would
soon brighten up and be settled. No, he would not go to-night--there
was no need; and upon the strength of that resolution he took off his
coat, and methodically hung it behind the door. Then out came his
snuff-box, when a pinch or two seemed to drive away the happy ease
engendered by the whisky and water, clearing his brain, and forcing him
to think of the realities of life.
"No," he thought now, "it would not be right to give up what he had
taught himself was a duty. How did he know but what, after all, that
John Gurdon might come back that very night, and put back in a few
moments what it had taken him months to erase?"
"I'll go," said Sandy, "if its only for the name of the thing. I mean
to win the lassie if leaving no stone unturned will do it; and now,
here's a little wee bit of crag lying in my way, and I'm too idle to
touch it. Sandy McCray, take your cap, mon, and go and do your duty.
It's the little tiny cracks that open out into big splits, so stop them
up when they're small. Keep your trees pruned back, my lad, or they'll
grow wild and ragged; and whenever ye feel a weed coming up in your
nature, pull him up direct. This bit of wanting to stop away is a weed,
lad, so pull it up at once."
Sandy McCray must have taken it out by the very roots, for the next
minute he had closed his door, and was stealthily walking over the grass
towards the pleasure-grounds.
There was not a step of the way that was not familiar, and on the
darkest night he could have avoided every flower-bed, as if by instinct,
or even have made his way blindfold; hence he had soon crossed the
bridge, and walked softly on towards the great lawn, noting, as he went,
that there was not a single light visible in the great mansion.
"I'll just go the length of the place, and then stop for a moment by the
lassie's window, and home again," muttered McCray, and then he stopped
short, for a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice whispered in
his ear:
"Stay here a few minutes, Joe. He's gone to have a look up at the back
windows, and I'll go this side. Don't move, because it's so
confoundedly dark!"
McCray felt the next minute, rather than saw, that he was alone. His
breath came thickly, and his heart beat fast, as, wiping the sweat from
his forehead, he bent down and ran softly over the grass to the edge of
the lawn, leaped the gravel walk so as to land upon the other side, and
then, softly creeping amongst the bushes, he hurried towards where
Jane's window looked down, a strange beating at his temples, and an
aching void at his heart.
"And only to think," he muttered, "me sitting drinking mysel' drunk, and
all the while the spoiler coming after my little ewe lamb."
But Sandy's spirits rose as he cautiously crept up, to find that Jane's
window was closed; he could just distinguish that from the faint
glimmering of the glass. The robbers would gain no entrance, then,
there; upon that point he could feel happy, and, with a weight removed
from his mind, he stood thinking of what he should do.
He did not for a moment entertain a doubt but that it was Gurdon and his
friends come back at last, perhaps ready to force an entrance, and open
to murder as well as to rob. But Sandy's heart was glad within him--his
lassie was free of all complicity; and if they got at her now, it should
only be over his strong body. But he felt that there was no fear of
Jane being again deceived; the last occasion had been too plain an
unveiling of John Gurdon's character; so, hastily making up his mind as
to his proceedings, he crept from amongst the bushes on his hands and
knees, and set himself to try and discover where the nocturnal visitors
now were, previously to taking further steps to baffle their plot.
The gardener had not long to seek, for before he had advanced far, a
faint whispering told him where the enemy lay, while at the same moment
the snap of a fastening and the gliding up of a window told him that an
entrance had been effected.
Book 1, Chapter XXVII.