"Gude save us!" muttered McCray, as he set off round the house at a
sharp trot--"Gude save us and ha'e maircy! Here's a pretty pickle for
an upper gairdner. Only just got my promotion, and I shall be brought
down again as sure as my name's Sandy McCray. Trust the lassies for
getting ye into a mess. Only foregather with one of the pretty things,
and ye'll be in a mess before long. Gude save us! what shall I do?
He'll be savage with me as a dog-otter. Nay, I ken what I'll do."
A bright thought had evidently crossed Sandy's mind, for, turning
suddenly, he dodged into the kitchen-garden, and round by the
tool-house, heralding his coming, a minute after, by a loud rattle, as
he appeared, trundling a wheel-barrow, in which he had hastily thrown a
basket and a three-pronged fork.
"I'm after ferns for the new rockery, to be sure!" he said, with a grin;
and then away he spun at a tremendous rate, dashing along to the north
gate, and bringing the woman out to see whether he had gone mad.
"Don't go that way, Mr McCray!" cried the woman after him, as she saw
him turn down the path which led to the wood. "Sir Murray and my lady
have gone that way."
"Gude save us, that's the right news!" muttered Sandy; and the barrow
rattled more loudly than ever, as he dashed along till he came to an
alley, down which, a good quarter of a mile from where he stood, he
could see Sir Murray and Lady Gernon.
"There they are, then," he muttered; and running the barrow aside, he
took out basket and fork, and began to thread his way amongst the trees,
so as to approach unseen close to where his master and Lady Gernon were
walking.
But Sandy McCray was a cautious man, and before he had gone many yards
he had stooped to dig up half-a-dozen hart's-tongue ferns, which he
placed, with a fair quantity of leaf-mould, in his basket.
"There's my answer to whatever they speer," he muttered; and then,
creeping cautiously forward, he made his way to where, by holding aside
the hazel boughs, he could peer out into the alley, where in a few
minutes he saw the couple he watched pass by within a couple of yards of
where he stood, silently and without hardly a rustle of the leaves
amongst which they passed.
But just as they had gone by they stopped short, Lady Gernon holding
tightly by Sir Murray's arm, as she gazed, with a wild, eager stare in
his face.
"We had better make haste back, Lady Gernon," he said, quietly, and with
a peculiar smile; and then they walked on.
"There, now! What could be better than that?" said McCray, as soon as
he was alone. "She looks pale, but they were quiet enow. But what did
he mean by showing his teeth to her when he smilt?"
Sandy McCray shook his head, and then, in obedience to his instructions,
he followed slowly, contriving from time to time to keep the couple in
sight, but ever and anon shaking his head as if something troubled him.
At last he said, half aloud:
"The lassie is richt, after a'. There's your gude, sweet kiss, and your
Judas kiss, and I think perhaps she did richt in sending me; but it's a
sail job to leave one's work i' the daytime, and after a' there was not
much to come for."
Had Sandy McCray been there five--nay, four--minutes sooner, he would
have been of a different opinion, for Sir Murray Gernon, led, perhaps,
by some tricksy sprite of the woods--some Puck of modern times--had
hurried on and on, each moment growing more and more angry and excited
at having missed the object of his search. For days past she had never
left the Castle unwatched, but this time she had gone out suddenly, and
at an hour when he had believed her to be in her bedroom. That there
was some definite object for her walk he felt convinced, and when, after
hurrying up and down several alleys of the wood, he at length caught
sight of Lady Gernon, he felt no surprise--there was no great feeling of
mad anger in his breast, but something like a bitter sense of
satisfaction, such as might be that of any one who, after a long and
arduous search, comes upon the object of his quest.
He uttered no exclamation, made no excited movement; but, with such a
smile as McCray had described, he stood gazing down a woodland arcade,
to where, some fifty yards in advance--framed, as it were, in the
autumn-tinted leaves--stood Lady Gernon and the man to whom she had
first given her love.
They were, perhaps, a yard apart--Lady Gernon, with her head bent,
resting with one hand against a tree-trunk; Philip Norton--his hands
upon the stick he held--gazing at her, it seemed, sadly and earnestly;
but, as far as Sir Murray could tell, no word was spoken.
The next moment, quietly, and still smiling, Sir Murray slowly advanced
down the arcade, half of which he had traversed before he was perceived;
but even then there was no start--no guilty confusion--only Lady Gernon
turned deadly pale, and a shade of trouble crossed Captain Norton's
face.
Sir Murray, with the same strange smile, advanced to where they stood,
raising his hat in answer to Norton's salute; and then, with the most
courteous air, he said:
"Lady Gernon, you look pale."
"I believe, Sir Murray," said Norton, "Lady Gernon was startled and
troubled at our sudden encounter."
"Exactly," said Sir Murray, quietly.
"You misunderstand me," said Norton, gravely, the shadow deepening upon
his face. "I alluded to her encounter with me. Five minutes since, I
met her by accident."
"Most accurate," said Sir Murray, smiling.
"And after the past--after the misunderstanding between our families,
Sir Murray," continued Norton, not heeding the taunt.
"Exactly?" said Sir Murray.
"I was sorry that the meeting should have taken place. Lady Gernon," he
said, turning to her, as he raised his hat, "I will deliver your
message. It is, I know, both pain and sorrow to dear Ada that you
should be apart. Still, I think it is for the best. Rest assured,
though, that the love you sent her is yours in return. Heaven bless
you! Good-bye, Sir Murray Gernon!" he said, turning to the smiling
baronet--who stood with one hand buried in his breast-pocket--"I am
sorry for the past; but it is irrevocable, and I still repeat that I am
sorry for this encounter. Lady Gernon seems pale and ill. Good day."
He held out his hand quietly and frankly to the baronet, though he had
forborne to do so to his lady, and there was an air of calm innocence in
his aspect, that should have carried with it conviction; but Sir Murray
never stirred; his hand was still buried in his breast, as, with a
mocking smile, he said:
"Captain Norton, the army was never your vocation, any more than the
losing office of mine-director."
"I do not understand you, Sir Murray," was the calm, sad reply, as for a
moment Norton's eyes met Marion Gernon's imploring glance.
"Indeed," said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look
interchanged. "I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you
should have been an actor."
The colour seemed to fade from Norton's face at these galling words, and
the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next
moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion
with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing
in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir
Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces'
distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger--
the weapon was fully cocked--and even the slightest contraction of the
angry man's muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton's
breast. But he did not wince--not a muscle moved; the man who had
before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray
hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.
But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his
lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the
same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.
Book 1, Chapter XXXIII.