"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."
Book 1, Chapter XXXI.