George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

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.

A False Step.

It was one o’clock; the hall time-piece gave a sharp “ting,” to proclaim the hour, as Jane looked down over the balustrade, vainly trying to pierce the darkness below. For all was dark in the house, and as far as she could judge, every one was buried in slumber; but she trembled as she passed softly through the corridors, past door after door, beyond each of which some one was sleeping, and in spite of her utmost efforts her dress seemed to rustle loudly. Now and again, too, a board creaked sharply, with a sound that sent a chill through her whole frame. But there was no help for it now, and gliding at length down the grand staircase, she paused by the damaged library door to listen.

All still, but the wind was getting up and beginning to moan round the house, sighing in a way that in her excited state seemed to reproach her, and she stopped, trembling violently.

Why had she not told him to come to the library window? The door would have yielded to her touch, and she could have reached out to speak to him, while now she had to slip bolts and bars, and to turn a key, one and all of which gave forth sounds that seemed to make her blood run cold. Once more she stopped; but summoning her resolution, she proceeded, and the inner lobby door was passed and closed behind her. She stood upon the floor-cloth, listening and trying to pierce the gloom of the great billiard-room to the right, but she could only make out the table, covered with its loose, white dust-cloth. The coats and hats, though, against the wall, looked ghostly, and it was as much as she could do to summon courage to proceed, till, with many a choking sob, she told herself that it was only for his love that she did it, and that she would give him one kiss, and then they would part till he could come back a better man. For weren’t they young even yet? She was only twenty-four, and she could wait, for she loved John, after all, with all his failings.

Yes, she loved John; and that thought carried her to the door, and she placed her hand upon the top bolt just as a faint tap sounded upon the little slip of a glass window at the side, when there came a louder gust of wind, telling of the coming storm, and seeming to her excited fancy like a warning. She hesitated, and stood trembling like one of the leaves without, whose rustling she could plainly hear.

It was only to say good-bye, though, perhaps for many years, and it would be so cruel to let him go without, and besides, it was not wise to tarry, for there was the faint possibility of McCray being on the watch, though this coming round to the other side of the house would, in such a case, perhaps, throw him off the scent.

Again her hand was on the fastenings, and again she paused, listening to the warning voice within her; but a second faint tap roused her, bolt and lock were thrown back, and, with a loud crack, as if remonstrating at being opened at such unholy hours, the door was thrown wide.

The next instant Jane was in Gurdon’s arms; her own, too, flung round his neck, and her lips warmly meeting his kisses, as she sobbed wildly and clung to him, thinking of the parting soon to follow.

“Let me shut the door, though,” she whispered, disengaging herself after a few minutes.

“No—no,” whispered Gurdon, hoarsely, in reply, as he again folded her tightly in his arms. “Leave that as it is; but, tell me, are they all abed?”

“Oh yes, hours ago,” she answered; “but you must not stay a minute longer, for I believe McCray saw your footsteps last night, and perhaps he’s watching.”

“Confound him—yes, he nearly kicked me as he came by,” growled Gurdon. “Lucky for him, though, he didn’t. But are you sure you’ve got down unknown to all the girls?”

“Oh yes—certain,” was the whispered answer. “And now, John, you’ll try, won’t you? You will try to keep away from the drink and get on? and—Please don’t hold me so tightly.”

“Yes, yes—all right. I’ll try,” he whispered, excitedly—“but be quiet; don’t struggle. I’m not going to hurt you, you little fool. There, be quiet!”

Jane’s heart beat more violently than ever, and she panted as his arm grasped her more tightly. There was a strange excitement creeping through her frame, she knew not why; but she felt that something was wrong, though no suspicion of what was impending had yet flashed across her mind.

“Tell me quickly,” he said now, “has the new butler come?”

“No,” she answered, still panting heavily. “Master’s been too ill to see about such matters.”

“Does any one sleep in the pantry?”

“No,” said Jane; “but why do you ask?”

For response Gurdon gave utterance to a low, sharp cough; when, gazing wonderingly at him, as if for explanation of his coldness, a faint rustle fell upon Jane’s ears; there was a step outside, and as she started to close the door the blackened faces of two men appeared. A half-uttered groan passed her lips, and a horrible feeling of despair clutched her heart, as at one glance she saw that she had been betrayed, and that the man she loved was a greater scoundrel than she could have believed. It was all plain enough: she had been deluded into admitting an enemy—into playing false to her master; and these men would plunder the house—perhaps murder somebody before they got off with their booty. She thought not of herself; her whole aim now was to alarm the inmates, and as her lips parted she would have uttered a shriek, but that it was too late, for Gurdon’s hand was over her mouth, pressing it tightly—almost to suffocation, and the next instant she was thrown upon the floor.

“Make so much as a sound, and one of these men will make an end of you as soon as look at you!” hissed Gurdon, tearing off her apron and thrusting it into her mouth. “Now, then, you proud jade, I’ve got the better of you this time, drat you; and as soon as we’ve done, you shall follow where I like. Here, Joe, stop with her, and if she moves, stun her with your preserver. She’s my property now. Come along, Harry, this way.”

For a few minutes Jane had struggled fiercely, but in vain; a piece of rope was tied tightly round both arms and ankles, and every effort to recover her freedom only resulted in acute pain. There was only one thing open to her, and that was to get to her feet and contrive to fall against the glass door, when she hoped that the crash might alarm the house, or at least be heard by some one. To appeal to Gurdon was, she knew, useless, and for awhile the despair engendered by the thoughts of her misery crushed down every other feeling, but only for a few short moments. Her whole thought directly after was on duty to those whom she felt that she had betrayed, and, taking advantage of her guard’s back being turned, she contrived—how, she knew not—to get upon her feet. Another moment, and she would have been at the glass door, when, with a savage oath, the more horrible for being hissed in a low tone, Gurdon stepped back, caught her by her back hair, and dragged her down, at the same time striking her brutally across the face.

Jane moaned feebly, but it was not from pain, but despair at not being able to help others. The despair, though, was driven away, and her dark eyes flashed a fierce resentment as they looked full in Gurdon’s, which shrank from the encounter.

“Watch her this time, will you!” he said, brutally. “Hold a knife over her if you like, while I go to the door!”

“Hadn’t you best fasten the other first?” growled a companion.

“What, and shut off a way to bolt!” said the other. “No, thanky. Now, Gurdon, look alive; we’re wasting time.”

“Hold your tongue, will you, with names,” growled Gurdon. “Now then, mind the chairs along this passage. No lights, mind—not even a match.”

“Here, stay a moment,” whispered the other. “This she-wolf will be loose. Drat you—be quiet, will you!”

In effect, with a terrible effort, Jane had freed one of her hands, and was struggling to tear the gag from her mouth, when, as her guard struck at her savagely, there came a dull, heavy crash, and he rolled over upon his side.

Rescue.

“Ye maraudin’ villin, take that! And there’s for ye too, ye deevil!” exclaimed a low, deep voice, and then another heavy, flapping blow was struck; there was a crash, a scuffle, another blow or two, and then came the sound of a heavy fall, succeeded by another, and the crackle of breaking twigs.

“Heaven save us!” ejaculated the newcomer. “There goes half the pots off the stand, and, by all that’s good, one of them’s gone right amongst the azaleas!”

Then there was a perfect stillness, unbroken even by the night wind, which had lulled once more, when, after listening at the door for a few moments, Alexander McCray, smiling at his opportune arrival and successful exploit, closed the portal, and slipped one of the bolts. Then, taking a box of matches from his pocket, he lit one, and then applied it to a candle in a sconce over the side-table.

“Why, my puir, daft bairn!” he said, tenderly, as he drew the gag from Jane’s teeth, and cut the rope which bound her feet. “It’s cruel treatment of such a flower. I’d have been here sooner, only I had to go to the tool-shed for a weepun; and it’s lucky I did,” he said, showing the spade with which he had dealt his blows.

“Oh, McCray!” sobbed Jane, “I’m ruined for ever, and undone!”

“Not you, my wee blossom,” cried McCray, stoutly. “You know now what a villin he is, so I won’t be ragging his character, seeing that he’s done for for ever. An’ I won’t blame ye a bit, not a wee bit, my sweet lassie,” he continued, as he tenderly chafed her swollen wrists. “Ye made a mistake, and trusted a rascal, and not the first poor daft chiel that did, to her cost. But he won’t forget the spade of Alexander McCray, of Galashiels, in a hurry, my lassie; and it’s all a gude act of Providence that I—”

Sandy stopped short, for he remembered the rabbit.

“It’s all gude luck,” he continued, “that I happened to hear ye whisper out of the lattice, and then came this morning to rake out the footsteps. I’ve been watching sin’ ten, that I have, and had no chance of warning ye when I saw the rogue had two to help him. And even then, my lassie, I thought they were only to take care of him, instead of being midnight robbers. But I sune fun them oot.”

“Oh, Mr McCray, it was a blessing you came!” sobbed Jane.

“Weel, yes, lassie, I just think it was. But ye’ll no foregather with the villin no more, will ye? Ye’ll ne’er speak to him again?”

“No, no—oh, never!” groaned Jane.

“That’s weel; and I won’t judge you for greeting over it all a bit, lassie. Your puir heart’s sair now, but it will heal up again, never fear. And now, I won’t say ony mair to ye, only recollect, Miss Jenny, I’m an honest man, and I lo’e ye verra dearly.”

Mr McCray had been growing somewhat excited as he spoke, and hence more broad in his language; but he cooled down into the matter-of-fact gardener after delivering himself of the above, and took a pinch of snuff to calm his feelings; for he felt that it would be wrong to press his suit with the poor girl while she was in such trouble, and his Scottish dignity was roused. Here was a damsel in distress—and were not the McCrays honourable men, from the time when they all wore plaid and wielded claymore, down to the present day, when their representative followed the pursuit of his forefather Adam?

“Oh, what is to become of me?” sobbed Jane.

“Just nothing at all but an honest man’s wife one of these days,” said Sandy.

“What shall I do?” cried Jane.

“Just wipe your bright eyes, and don’t talk quite so loud,” said Sandy.

“Oh, they’ll all be down directly,” cried Jane.

“Weel, I don’t know that,” said Sandy. “If any folk had been coming, they’d have been here sooner; so I think as no one knows anything about it but we twain, my lassie, why, ye’d better put oot the candle, and lock the door, and then go up to bed.”

“But do you think no one will know?” sobbed Jane.

“That’s just what I do think, my lassie; and if ye’ll promise me, like a good girl, never to have word again with Mr Jock Gurdon, I’ll be up wi’ the dawn, and put the damage reet outside, and then nobody’ll be a bit the wiser.”

“Oh, Mr McCray, how can I ever thank you?” sobbed Jane, catching one of his great hands in hers. “I do promise you, indeed!” And she tried to kiss it.

“Nay—nay, my puir bairn, that’s for me to do.” And he drew her towards him, and kissed her forehead gently and reverently.

“I’m a great, awkward-looking chid, Jenny Barker, but I’ve got a man’s heart in me. Ye’ve been sair deceived, and I don’t blame ye a bit for being true and faithful to your jo; but, now that’s all over, lassie, try and comfort your heart with the thought that there’s another man in the world who, while he loves the ground ye tread on, loves ye, too, sae weel, that he won’t say word more till he can see that it winna be distasteful to ye. And now, good night, bairn. Let me get my spade, and I’ll be off. Keep yer ain counsel, and I’ll keep it too; and ye may depend that Jock Gurdon will never say word about it.”

With a pleasant, quiet smile upon his broad, honest face, Sandy McCray took his spade and turned to go, when Jane laid her hand upon his arm to detain him.

“What is it, bairn?” said Sandy.

“I’m afraid—” whispered Jane, earnestly.

“Afraid? and why?” asked Sandy.

“Afraid those bad men may be watching for you,” whispered Jane.

“Heaven bless ye for that, lassie!” cried McCray, with the tears of pleasure starting into his eyes, as, catching her in his arms, he kissed her heartily. “Ye’ll send me away a happier man than I’ve been for months, seeing that douce-tongued carl hanging round ye. Go to your bed, lassie—go to your bed, and sleep soundly; and I should like to see the face of either of them come within reach of my spade!”

A minute later, and the gardener was listening to the cautious fastening of the door; and then, boldly stepping out on to the lawn, he looked around. But there was, as he had felt, no danger at hand, and soon after he was seated in his cottage, waiting patiently for the dawn, not trusting himself to sleep; and long before another gardener appeared, the last trace of disturbed flower-stand and bed had been removed, so that not another soul at Merland Castle knew of John Gurdon’s treachery.

“But I’ll e’en keep my eyes wide,” said Alexander to himself; “for it strikes me that the rascal may come again.”

“Maybe I ought to tell the laird, and put him on his guard, for the bit of siller in the butler’s pantry is a sair temptation to a rogue,” muttered McCray, as he pondered about the matter; “but I dinna see how I’m going to tell a bit without telling the whole, and getting the lassie into grief. So I’ll just say nae word to a soul, but take a leuke round of a neet, and have a peep at the lassie’s window as weel, lest the de’il should hang about to try and tempt the puir daughter of Eve to fresh sin. For though she means reet now, the lassie’s weak; and though she don’t know’t, there may yet be a bit of the auld weed in her heart not yet rooted oot; but wait a wee, and I’ll have that sweet heart of hers that clean and reet, that it shall blossom again beautifully, and I’d like to see the weed then as would get in.”

Sir Murray’s Thoughts.

It was now an acknowledged fact that there could be no further intimacy between the residents at Castle and Hall. The Nortons led a more than ever secluded life, Mrs Norton finding it necessary to retrench in every possible way to meet their altered circumstances, for the iron company’s affairs were worse and worse, and people loudly blamed Norton for his folly. “Why did he not become bankrupt,” they said, “as other people would?” But Norton declined all such relief, his brow grew wrinkled and his hair slightly grizzled at the sides, but he was determined to pay to the last penny he could muster, and wait for the change that he trusted would come, for his faith was perfect in his enterprise.

Mrs Norton never complained, but always welcomed him with a smile when he returned from his long absences. Cruel doubts would come at times, brought up, perhaps, by some silly village tattle, but she cast them out with a shudder, as if they were something too loathsome to be harboured even for an instant; and, after such battles with herself, she would greet her husband with increased tenderness, as she strove to chase away the settled melancholy which oppressed him.

Twice only during many months had he encountered Sir Murray Gernon, to meet with fierce, scowling looks of hatred; but no word was spoken, and Philip Norton never knew the curses that were showered upon his head. It was well for him, too, that he did not know that many a night, Marion Gernon, brokenhearted and despairing, knelt by her solitary pillow to say, almost in the words of the old prophet, “It is enough,” and to pray that she might pass away.

It was only at times, though, that such despairing thoughts oppressed her; at others she would bewail her wickedness, and pray for strength, as she looked upon the tiny slumbering face of her infant, and then bathed it with tears.

For Lady Gernon’s was now a sad and solitary life; Sir Murray seemed to be plunged in some abstruse study, taking his daily ride or walk, but spending the rest of his hours in his library. To the world, and to that lesser one, their household, they were a model couple, dining together regularly, and appearing a little in society, but not much, on account of Lady Gernon’s health—so it was said; but Sir Murray, at heart, looked upon wife and child with a hatred that was almost a loathing, and so Lady Gernon’s return to convalescence was very slow.

Once—nay, many times—she had clung to her husband beseechingly, her eyes telling her prayer; but she had soon found that such efforts merely irritated him.

“Where is the cross?” he had asked her peevishly, and, upon her weak protest reaching his ears, he had laughed scornfully.

“Lady Gernon,” he once said, “had you spoken to me on his behalf—had you told me of his strait—I would have placed thousands in your hands to relieve him. But you have made my life a curse to me.”

“But have you no faith?—my words—my solemn asseverations of innocence,” sobbed Lady Gernon.

“None!” he said, furiously—“none! I would not believe you were you dying. You have made me a madman, I believe; you have disgraced me in the eyes of the world; and I would have a divorce, but that I will not have the scandal renewed, and in the lips of every idler in the kingdom, the ‘Great Lincolnshire Scandal’ for a newspaper heading, and endless leading articles upon the gross immorality of the upper classes. Once for all, let this rest. You have gained your title, and you have aided—There, I will say no more; I will not descend to coarseness. I was once a man of refinement, and, I believe, generous. Let the past be dead—dead between us for ever. It should have been dead now, but that you try to nurse it into life with your tears. Now leave me. You know my commands; I will have this subject brought up no more!”

“Murray Gernon,” said Marion, sadly, “you are in a dream. Some day you will waken.”

He did not reply, and she left the room.

As Lady Gernon’s strength returned, she had, by slow degrees, taken to her old pursuit; and often she might be seen, basket in hand, laden with specimens, returning from some field or woodland ramble. But, so far, once, and once only, while alone, it had fallen to her lot to encounter Philip Norton, when he turned slowly out of the path, raised his hat, and was gone.

She stood as if unable to proceed for a few minutes, and then walked slowly on; but before night, Sir Murray Gernon knew of the encounter, and fed with it the smouldering fire of his jealousy.

He had not stooped to the meanness before, but now, telling himself it was his duty, he had her watched, finding in one of the servants a willing tool; but his news was always of the most meagre; and growing daily more morose, Sir Murray now gave way to a fresh belief—he felt sure that his wife corresponded with some one at the Hall. At one time he made up his mind to leave the neighbourhood—to return to Como; but he stubbornly decided to the contrary, thinking that it would turn attention to his family affairs. Then he decided to see “that unhappy woman at the Hall,” as he termed her, and to enlighten her upon the state of affaire, while, if possible, he would secure her as his coadjutor. He even went so far, during one of Norton’s absences, as to ride over; but he repented, and returned home more and more disposed for solitude and misery; for he had almost grown to love his sense of injury, pitying himself, and feeling that he was a martyr, seeing nothing but the past, believing nothing but the evidence of his own eyes, and resolutely shutting himself out from the happiness that might have been his portion.

Suspicion is a ravenous monster, devouring all before it. Matters the most ill-suited often become its food, as the simplest acts of the suspected are magnified into guilt. The feeling grew stronger and stronger every hour that he was being cleverly tricked; but though he waited day after day for the coming enlightenment, it came not.

It must be, then, by night that some arrangement or correspondence was made; and his brow grew blacker, and his head sank upon his breast, as he muttered the thought.

The months had glided by rapidly, when, one night, after a long, gloomy day, he retired to his bedroom—a different chamber to that he had before used—but not to sleep; for, throwing himself upon a low couch, he lay thinking of his present life, and asking his heart what was to be the end?—whether it was possible that a reconciliation would ever take place, and something, if not of happiness, of quiet esteem and smoothness of life-course return?

He could not conceive it possible; it seemed to him then that death alone could be the termination of such a state of being.

It was a gloomy introduction to his thoughts, that word death, and he frowned more heavily as it oppressed him. Should he die himself? The distance was but short, he knew, between here and eternity. But one step, and all would be over: the wretchedness and misery of his life, his torturing suspicions, the great mistake of the past, all swept away in an instant; but then afterwards?

He paused, shuddering, as standing upon the brink, he peered forward into that deep, dark, mysterious, impenetrable gulf of the unknown, shrinking from it, too, for his was not the bold, reckless, daring spirit for such a step. He knew it, too, and again began to find sympathy for himself, condoling and pitying, and telling himself that no man had ever before experienced such suffering as had fallen to his lot. No, he ought not to die: the world at his age ought to be still bright and fair, and ready to offer some goal for his aimless life. He ought not to die, but—

The horrible thought that flashed across his brain made him get up and pace the room hastily, the cold, dank beads of fear gathering themselves upon his brow. He tried to chase out the thought; but he had brooded so long, had given way to such wild phantasms, that it seemed now as if some potent devil were at his ear, whispering temptation, and driving him to the committal of some horrible deed. So strong grew the feeling to his distempered imagination that he commenced muttering half aloud, as if in answer to dictation from an evil prompter.

No, he would not be the first jealous husband who had taken revenge for his wrongs; he had loved her, and been all that it was his duty to be; but he had been betrayed, tricked, and cheated by the false-hearted woman whom he thought he had won. Such a proceeding would be but an act of justice; but the law said such acts should be done by the law alone—that man, however injured, should not arrogate to himself the right to punish, hence it must be done secretly, by some cunning device that should blind men’s eyes to the truth, and while amply bringing down retribution on the heads of the guilty, his honour should be unstained, the family shield untarnished.

But would not such a step be cold, blackhearted, premeditated murder? The question seemed to flash across his brain as if prompted by some better angel.

No: only justice, was whispered again to his ear—only justice, and then he would be at rest. It was not right that he should die, but the destroyer of his happiness; and then his mind would be at ease—there would be peace for him for many years to come.

He smiled now: it was like comfort in a dire hour of need; and when the upbraidings of conscience would have made themselves heard, they were crushed down and stifled; for Sir Murray Gernon had been keeping his house swept and garnished for the reception of the wicked spirits, and they had now fully seized upon the offered abode. He smiled, for he thought that he now saw a way out of his difficulties, and that he had but to design some means for removing his false wife from his path to commence a new life.

How should it be? he thought. Should he contrive a boating party upon the great lake? Boats had before now been upset, and their occupants drowned. Such accidents were not at all uncommon. Or there might be some terrible catastrophe with the spirited horses of the carriage; the part of the Castle where her ladyship slept might catch fire at a time when a hampered lock and fastened window precluded escape; or, better still, there was poison!

The evil spirit must at that time have had full possession of the citadel, for it was with a baleful glare in his eyes that Sir Murray Gernon strode up and down his room, stepping softly, as if fearing to interrupt the current of his thoughts—thoughts that, in his madness, seemed to refresh the thirsty aridity of his soul. After all these months of misery, had at last, then, come the solution of his difficulty? and he laughed—and laughed savagely—as he sat down once more to plan.

Mercy? What had he to do with mercy? What mercy had they had upon his life? Had they not blighted it when he was a calm, trusting, loving man, searing his spirit with something more burning and corroding than the hottest iron—the sharpest acid? Let them seek for mercy elsewhere: his duty was to dispense justice, and he would be just!

Who could gainsay it? Was it not written in the Book that the punishment for the crime was death—that the sinners should be stoned with stones until they died? Not that he would stone them: his should be a quiet, insidious vengeance—one that the world should not suspect, and he would plot it out in time.

But what if she were, after all, innocent?

He tore that thought from his heart, accusing himself of cowardice, and of seeking a way out of what would be the path to a new life. No; there was no innocence there. His would be a crusade against guilt; and he vowed a fearful vow that he would carry out his vengeance to the end.

Should it be by poison?

“Tap! tap! tap!” Three distinct, sharp touches as of a nail upon the window-pane made Sir Murray start, shivering, from his guilty reverie.

What was that? Some ghostly warning for or against his plots?—or was he so distempered by his broodings that this was but the coining of imagination?

“Tap! tap! tap!”

There it was again, and for a moment a strange sense of terror pervaded him, and he could not stir. But only for a moment; the next minute a feeling of grim satisfaction prevailed. This, then, was to be a night of enlightenment—here was a new revelation—this, then, was the means of communication? Evidently some mistake of the bearer, and he had but to go to the window, stretch forth his hand, and take a letter; or—the thought sent a thrill through him as he stepped forward—was it the keeping of an assignation? The window was many feet above the ground, and if he dashed back the ladder—

He paused, for there was the slight darkening of the blind as if a shadow were passing over it, and now, half-mad with rage, Sir Murray Gernon felt that all his suspicions were confirmed, as, springing forward, he tore the blind aside, just as again, loudly and distinctly, came the blows upon the glass.

End of Volume I.

Nocturnal.

“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.

The Burglary.

“The de’ils ha been quick about it,” muttered Sandy; “and they’ve gone through the libr’y window, while, if that door I broke open has been mended again, it’s a strange thing to me. What shall I do?—ring them all up? No,” he said, after a pause; “then perhaps we shouldn’t catch them, for before I could get round again from the bell, they’d have slipped out of the window. No, we must catch them, for it strikes me verra strongly that if this is Mr Jock Gurdon, I should like to see him transported to the other side of the watter.”

For a few moments Sandy McCray stood thoughtful and puzzling what to do. He could easily have alarmed the burglars, for such they evidently were; but then that was not sufficient—there must be a capture made. But suddenly a bright thought struck him—he would run round to the butler’s pantry, and try and rouse whoever slept there. But did any one sleep there? Gurdon’s place had never been filled up, and it was most likely that the footman and under-butler still kept their places in the hall.

“I have it,” muttered Sandy, at last; and setting off across the lawn at a brisk trot, he made his way to the kitchen-garden, but what he sought was not there, of course not: it was round by the potting shed, he recollected then; and on cautiously proceeding there, he picked up from where it lay beside a wall a twenty-round light garden ladder, and set off with it to the front of the house, where he had spoken to Jane that morning.

“One—two—three—four; that’s the window,” muttered Sandy, and the next instant, exerting his great strength, he raised the ladder and rested the top against the window sill.

Fortunately, the window entered so quickly by the burglars was on the other side of the house, and the gardener was able to take his steps for giving an alarm unheard by them.

“Gude save us!” he muttered, climbing up. “I hope he winna shute me!”

The next minute he listened attentively, and then gave three sharp taps upon one pane, followed by two other similar signals, ere the blind was dragged back, the window thrown open, and Sir Murray’s hands were tightly grasping his throat.

“Hoot awa’ Sir Mooray, and tak’ awa’ ye’re hands from a man’s weam.”

“Hand over the letter, you scoundrel, or I’ll hurl you down!” exclaimed Sir Murray, through his teeth.

“The duel’s been sleeping in his clothes, and gone half daft,” muttered Sandy. And then, in a whisper: “Let me in, Sir Mooray, and look sharp, for there are burglars in the house!”

The gardener’s announcement seemed to bring his master to his right senses, and, loosing his hold, Sandy stepped lightly into the chamber.

“You’ll just have a pair of pistols, or dirk, or something, Sir Mooray,” said the man.

His master stepped to a drawer, and drew out a small double-barrelled pair, examined the nipples to see if they were capped, and then handed one to his servant, but the latter shook his head.

“Na—na,” he said; “I might be blowing his brains out with the thing, and I dinna wush that. I’ll take the poker, Sir Mooray; and now, if ye’re ready, the sooner we’re at them the better.”

“Ring the alarm-bell!” said Murray.

“Nay, nay, gude sir; let’s take them ourselves. Stop the hole up where they come in, and then we can ring if ye like; but while we’re ringing bells they’ll be off, and only to come again.”

Giving up the leadership to his servant, Sir Murray followed him into the corridor, and from thence to the grand staircase, but all was still. Hastily descending to the library, the unrepaired door was found—like the window—wide open, when Sandy’s first step was to close both carefully, and then rejoin his master.

“Heard anything, sir?” he whispered.

“Not a sound,” said Sir Murray, hoarsely; “but, do you think they are burglars? Stay here an instant, while I ascend to her ladyship’s room,” he said, hurriedly, as a thought—a base, suspicious thought of a meditated elopement—crossed his mind. “They may have gone that way.”

“Hoot, mon, stay where ye are,” whispered Sandy. “D’ye hear that? They’re packing up the plate, and—hist! look there,” he said, in a low tone, as a faint light shone in the distance on their right, making plain the face of a man standing in the second of the suite of drawing-rooms, the doors of which had been set wide open.

Sandy recognised the face at the same instant as Sir Murray, and the same name rose to their lips, McCray muttering fiercely:

“Stop ye here, Sir Mooray, and lay hold of the de’ils taking the plate. They winna face yer pistols. I’ll deal with this one.”

Thrusting his master aside, McCray stepped lightly over the soft carpets, followed for a few seconds by the baronet’s eyes, but the light then faded away, and as Sir Murray stood, now breathing hard and excited, as he felt that it was indeed a burglary in progress, he heard a muttered oath, the crashing over of a set of fire-irons, the heavy sounds of blows, and knocking down of furniture, followed directly after by a rapid rush, and he felt himself dashed to the ground, one pistol exploding as he fell; but he was up again the next moment, to be knocked down with greater violence than before, as a Scotch oath rang in his ear; and then, at the same instant, there was a crash and splintering of glass, and as he rose to his feet, he became aware that those who had knocked him down had gone through the library and leapt boldly through the closed window, the night wind now coming with a loud sigh through the shivered panes.

“The scoundrel has escaped, and the other gone in pursuit,” muttered Sir Murray, just as loud shrieks for help were heard from above-stairs, followed by the loud ringing of the alarm-bell.

The next minute lights were held over the balustrade, and timid faces were seen, gazing down; but the lights also revealed to Sir Murray’s gaze the crape-veiled features of two men, each bearing a bag, which now, upon finding that they were discovered, they dropped, with a loud, jingling noise, upon the stone floor—a sound which told plainly enough of their contents.

“Stand!” cried Sir Murray, as they turned to flee down the long passage up which they had come—a passage leading to the pantry—“stand, or I fire! I cannot miss you at this distance!”

One of the men uttered an oath, in his rage, for now a light appeared at the other end of the passage, showing a footman, armed with a blunderbuss, which seemed to alarm him as much as it did the burglars.

“It’s no go,” muttered one of the men. “Stow that, gov’nor, and I’ll give up. Come on, Joe.”

“Not I,” exclaimed the other, making a spring to get by Sir Murray, but in vain: true to his word, the baronet fired, and with a shriek of agony, the man sprang into the air, and then fell heavily upon the stone floor, which was soon stained with his blood.

“Why didn’t you give up, then, like a man?” whined his sympathising companion, who was now hastily secured by two of the men-servants. “The gent wouldn’t have hurt yer, if yer had only give up when he arst. There, don’t pull a cove about like that, and yer needn’t tie so tight. I ain’t agoin’ to run away so as to get shot, I can tell you.”

“Lift the other up,” said Sir Murray, hoarsely; when the man was found to be bleeding profusely, though evidently not wounded in a vital spot.

“You are not hurt, Murray?” whispered a voice at his ear just then, and the baronet turned to find Lady Gernon anxiously scanning his face.

“No; not dead yet,” he said, brutally. “Go to your own room.”

Lady Gernon turned away with a weary sigh, and Sir Murray stood guard over his prisoners, when a shudder of terror ran through the party assembled; for, faintly heard, apparently from somewhere in the grounds, came what sounded like a wild appeal for help.

A Rival Embrace.

Sir Murray Gernon was right in his surmise, for when McCray, eager to secure the person of his supposed rival, hurried across the drawing-room, and in the darkness made a bound to where he had seen the lighted match fade out, his enemy had made a slight movement, so that he failed to obtain a good hold; and in the brief struggle which ensued close to the fireplace, McCray was thrown heavily upon the floor, and his adversary dashed through the drawing-room out into the hall, striking down Sir Murray in his effort to reach the library. But McCray was after him directly, and had no hesitation in leaving his master where he, too, had knocked him down; while, following the burglars example, he leaped, in his excitement, right through the broken window.

“Oh, my best pelargoniums!” groaned the gardener, as he picked himself up, after coming down crash into a flower-bed beneath the window. “Ye shall pay for this, though, Maister Gurdon, or my name’s not Sandy McCray!” And then, favoured by a break in the clouds, he caught sight of Gurdon running rapidly towards the bridge.

“Ye’ll not get there first, laddie,” muttered the Scot, as, exerting all his powers, he dashed over the lawn, to cut off his quarry’s retreat in that direction; and being the lustier man of the two, he soon had the satisfaction of seeing his foe double, and run along the brink of the lake, as if to get round the house; for it was growing each moment lighter, the wind springing up, and sweeping the heavy curtain of clouds from the face of the heavens.

“If ye think I canna rin ye doon, Jock Gurdon,” muttered McCray, “ye’re making a meestake. I’ll have ye, if I rin for a week!”

He pressed on, gaining so fast upon the burglar, that he once more doubled, and dodging round a thick plantation of shrubs, McCray was, for a minute, thrown off the scent; but his shrewd Scottish nature stood him in good stead.

“He’ll make again for the bridge,” he thought; and with a grim smile of determination upon his face, he ran in that direction; but, to his great disappointment, he seemed to be at fault, for there was no sign anywhere of the fugitive. But, for all that, Sandy’s idea was correct, as he found, after harking backwards and forwards two or three times. Gurdon—for it was indeed he who had, with his companions, attempted the burglary—had been making his way for the bridge, when his ear, sharpened by fright, told him that his enemy was coming in the same direction, and he directly crouched amidst a bed of laurels, to wait, panting, for an opportunity to escape. He knew that transportation must be his fate if taken; and that if, in revenge, he said anything respecting the character of Lady Gernon, it would merely be taken as the calumny of a discharged servant. No, he thought, he must not be taken—he could not afford yet to give up his liberty.

His breath came more freely at the end of a minute, for his heart had been labouring heavily. Wasted by drink and debauchery, he was in no training for such violent effort; and he was beginning to hope that an opportunity might yet offer for his reaching the bridge, and escaping through the park—the other way by the village he dared not try—when, with a rush, McCray came right through the thicket where he crouched; and, like a hare roused from its form, away he darted, and the pursuit commenced anew.

There was no hiding now: there was too much light, and pursuer and pursued were too close together. Making almost frantic efforts to get away, after dodging and doubling again and again, to the great injury of McCray’s long legs, which, when at speed, carried him again and again past his foe, Gurdon made a feint or two and then dashed fiercely for the bridge once more.

“If I’d only got one of those powdered loons to stop his gait there,” muttered McCray; and he made a furious effort, nearly catching his prey, and completely cutting off his retreat, for as the Scot shot by him, Gurdon doubled again, and ran along the lake, but only for a little way. There was a bend there, and the water was on both sides of him as he ran along the tongue of land: he must either face his enemy in another rush for the bridge, or take to the black water, gleaming below him.

But Gurdon had, to his cost, always been a hater of the limpid element, and, turning now like a beast at bay, he dashed, with clenched fists, at the gardener, intending to fell him, and then rush on for liberty. But he did not know his man: as he came down, with a fierce charge, McCray merely leaned a little on one side so as to avoid the blow, and the next instant his arms were wreathed tightly round the ex-butler’s body, and the two were struggling furiously upon the turf, rolling over and over, their muttered ejaculations and execrations mingling in a fierce growl as of two savage beasts of prey.

“Ah! would ye?” exclaimed McCray, at last. “Ye murderous-minded villin, would ye use a knife? Take that—and that, and—Save us, we shall be—”

McCray’s ejaculation was suddenly brought to an end, for in the fierce struggle made for the possession of the knife Gurdon had managed to draw and open, at a time when the gardener thought him about to succumb, they had, unnoticed, drawn nearer and nearer to the edge of the lake, and, perhaps to the saving then of the Scotchman’s life, suddenly plunged together into one of the deepest parts.

Gurdon dropped the knife as he rose to the surface, and, loosing his grasp of his pursuer, he struggled furiously to reach the bank; but McCray’s northern blood was up to a heat so fierce, that the water seemed only to make it hiss furiously instead of quenching his ardour, and he held on to his adversary like a bull-dog, when, with the fear of drowning before him, Gurdon uttered the wild appealing cry for help that had been heard at the Castle, and turned once more to struggle with his foe.

Once again only, as his head was above water, did Gurdon shriek, giving utterance to a yell of horror that was hardly human, for the feeling was strong upon him now, as they struggled farther and farther from the shore, that the gardener was trying to drown him. But no such thought was in McCray’s breast: his determination was to make a capture, and, unlike his enemy, a capital swimmer, the water had no terrors for him. Every one of Gurdon’s efforts was interpreted to mean escape, and, heedless of the peril and suffocation, the struggle was continued, the water being lashed into foam, till, at last, McCray, as they rose to the surface after a long immersion, awoke to the fact that his quarry was nearly exhausted, and that they were in deadly peril; for Gurdon’s arms were clutched round him in a deadly grip that there was no undoing. They were far from the bank, and, in the rapid glance he took around, he knew that they were in about twelve feet of water.

“There’ll be something for the big pike to go at, if it does come to it,” thought McCray, with a grim feeling of despair; “but, anyhow, he’ll trouble the puir lassie nae mair.”

The water, bubbling round his lips, checked McCray’s thoughts for a few moments, or rather gave them a new direction; but rising once more to the surface, with one arm at liberty, he struck out fiercely, to keep himself afloat.

“If I could get to the bridge-piles!” he thought, as through the darkness he could dimly make out the little green, slimy pier, not many yards from him. “Gude help me! I dinna want to die yet!”

He fought on for his life, beating the strangling water from his lips, and tearing furiously to reach the pile, where, perhaps, he might be able to hold on till help came. Once, through the darkness, he heard voices, and caught a glimpse of a light dancing about; but the next moment the water was thundering in his ears, and its blackness seemed to blot out all vision.

Another few moments of strangling horror, and he had once more fought his way to the surface; but he was yards away from the bridge-piles, and a feeling now of despair came upon him, dulling his tired faculties, and seeming to warn him that all was over. There was no help that he could see near at hand, for the servants with Sir Murray Gernon did not seem to know which direction to take. It seemed so hard, too, just as he had begun to feel hopeful about his love, to be dragged down by their common enemy to the depths of the lake; and at last, as he felt the water closing over him, he gave another fierce struggle, forcing himself up an instant, till he had uttered the hoarse, harsh, despairing cry of a dying man—dying in the hour of his full strength—and then there were a few bubbles and rings upon the surface of the water, where, locked still in their deadly embrace, the rivals had gone down.

The Helping Hand.

Mrs Norton had gone to her rest that night in tears, for her husband had been absent for some days. His restlessness seemed of late to have been largely on the increase, so that when he was at home she was kept upon a tremble of expectation lest at any time he might be gone. True, he was always quiet and gentle, and proud as ever of his boy; but the proximity of the Gernons was like a cloud over him, and as she determinedly drove away the suspicions that would try to fasten upon her, Ada Norton could not but own to herself that while the Gernons were at the Castle, or they themselves stayed at the Hall, there could be no real happiness for her. She knew well enough how it preyed upon her husband’s spirits, when, from time to time, rumours of the state of affairs reached them. She had hoped that a reconciliation would long ere this have taken place—that is to say, between husband and wife; but the fact of their complete estrangement, taken in connection with Sir Murray’s character, and Captain Norton’s strange, reserved behaviour, always seemed to be the hold by which doubt tried again and again to fasten upon her.

Philip Norton came not that night, and Mrs Norton lay weakly weeping, determined in her own mind that, in spite of their poverty, she would try and persuade him to leave the Hall—to go anywhere, so that they might but keep together. She knew that, on account of his connection with the mines, it would be useless to endeavour to get him to move to a distance; but even a few miles farther away would, she felt, bring them more peace; of that she felt assured, telling herself that her husband’s frequent absences now were caused by a desire to be away from the place.

But Ada Norton was wrong when, in despair, she gave herself up that night to tears, for her husband was on his way back—at least, he had determined upon sleeping that night at home. He had reached the town rather late, low-spirited and disheartened at the state of his affairs, and had walked towards the primitive inn, meaning to hire a dog-cart and drive over, for months had elapsed since he had sold his own horses, dismissed his groom, and made other reductions in his little establishment. He hired no dog-cart, however, for the state of his finances struck him; and, sturdily preparing himself for the task, he set off to walk the ten miles between him and Merland Hall.

The lonely road seemed well fitted for contemplation, and the thoughts which passed through his breast were many, but none so serious as those which oppressed him when, tired with his long journey, he approached the palings which skirted the park of Merland Castle, stopping at length, in spite of himself, to look over at the nearest point to the house, and gaze long and earnestly at the windows, when suddenly a wild, appealing cry for help smote his ear.

For a moment he paused. Then the cry rang out again, apparently from the direction of the lake—a cry that there was no mistaking, telling, as it did, of a soul in mortal peril; and, heedless of consequence, of the trespass he was committing, and of the relations existing between Sir Murray and himself, he leaped over the palings, and ran in the direction of the sounds.

Naturally his was too generous a spirit to refuse help in need, while now his senses were disturbed by an undefined state of dread, for in some way it seemed that this cry must be connected with Lady Gernon, and once a fearful idea flashed across his mind.

What and if, in utter despair, she had—

He could not finish the thought, but shudderingly dashed on, in a headlong career, till he reached the lake, when he could just make out the splashing and panting in the water.

All was plain enough now: some one was drowning near to the bridge, but more towards the side next the house, while he was in the park.

He would have dashed in upon the instant, but his good sense told him that his plan should be to run along the brink to the bridge, which he did with all the speed he could command, when, divesting himself of coat, vest, and hat, he threw them on the railing, tearing his sleeve, as he hurriedly dragged it off, his every nerve stirred, as from beneath him arose McCray’s wild and despairing cry. The next instant, though, Norton had climbed the railing, heedless that he swept his garments into the lake, and then, standing upon a portion of the woodwork, he gazed down at the black water for a few moments, striving to make out the centre of the fast-fading rings, before, with a plunge, he cut the air, divided the waters, and disappeared.

In a few moments he was again on the surface, swimming round, and preparing to dive again, feeling that he had come too late, and that in the darkness it was impossible to render aid, when, within a yard of where he was swimming, and seen but for an instant, the fingers and a portion of a clutching hand were visible above the surface, and ere they could sink far, Norton had grasped them in his hand. The next minute he had avoided a dangerous embrace, and was striking out for the nearest point, the slippery piles of the bridge, where, if he could swim so far with his burden, he could, perhaps, hold up the drowning man till assistance came.

It was a hard task, but Norton was a bold and strong swimmer, and before long he was grasping at the slimy woodwork, to slip back again and again; but, at last, he managed to get one arm over a cross-piece, and his legs twined round an upright, while with his disengaged arm he did all that he could under the circumstances—held the heads of the men above water.

To his great joy he now heard voices, and saw a light moving about in the grounds, when, shouting loudly, he saw a hurried movement of the light, and two or three more cries brought the seekers in the right direction.

“Quick, men—quick!” he cried, as some one ran up, and held down the light, while others clustered round on the bank.

“Fetch the boat up,” cried Sir Murray; and his voice sent a thrill through Norton’s frame, as he felt that he would have to face him. But he was too much exhausted by his exertions to think much of the threatened encounter. He knew he could hold out but a few minutes longer, and he once more called to them to hasten.

“Who is it? What have you got there?” cried the man with the light.

“Two drowning men,” was the hoarse reply; “and I can hold on but a few minutes longer.”

But now came the plash plash of oars, and in a very short time the boat was by the bridge—a small pleasure-boat, into which, with great difficulty, the two men, still tightly locked together, were dragged.

“We can’t take you this time very well,” said one of the grooms, who was in the boat.

“Yes—yes,” said another, “we must manage him somehow.”

“I can wait till you return,” said Norton quietly, for, relieved of his burden, he was able to stretch first one, and then another, cramped limb, and besides, now that he had a little time for thought, the peculiarity of his position struck him. From the scattered words let fall by the servants, he had learned that an attempt had been made to rob the Castle, and that one, if not both the men he had rescued must be connected with the attempt. But, while setting aside as absurd the idea that he could in any way be connected with the matter, he was troubled about the light in which Sir Murray’s distempered mind would view his presence in the park at such an hour, and he watched, with no little anxiety, the putting off of the boat.

The man with the lanthorn still kept to the bank, and the bridge remained deserted; so, after a few moments’ thought, Philip Norton took a firm hold of one of the cross-pieces of wood, drew himself safely up from the water, and then, all dripping as he was, he climbed the pier till he could reach the railings, and step over. Then, after a little search, he found his hat, but his coat and vest, which he had left hanging upon the rail, were, as we have seen, floating below, upon the surface of the lake.

Meanwhile, his suspicious nature charged, as it were, with so much inflammable matter, ready to blaze up at the contact of the slightest spark, Sir Murray Gernon stood on the bank, waiting the return of the boat. He had heard plainly enough the voice calling for help, and felt sure that he recognised it. Hence, then, he watched eagerly the return of the little skiff, from out of which were lifted the apparently lifeless bodies of McCray and Gurdon.

“The villain! I half suspected him,” exclaimed Sir Murray, as he had the lanthorn held down, and recognised in the first the lineaments of his late butler. “But quick—back, and bring off the other. Who was it, do you know?”

“Couldn’t tell, Sir Murray,” said the groom in the boat. “Seemed to know the voice, too.”

“Back at once, then,” said the baronet, his brow knitting as he tried to solve this new riddle; for if it were, as he so strongly suspected, Captain Norton, what was he doing in the park at that time of night? Lady Gernon had made her appearance, dressed, when there was the alarm in the house.

For a few moments the rush of blood to his head seemed to blind him, and his knees shook, for he fancied that he was about to have another seizure. But he recovered himself in a few moments, and again took up the train of thought. John Gurdon—burglarious entry—Norton apparently in league with him, and ready to try and save his life. What did it all mean? Was Norton a greater scoundrel even than he had given him the credit of being, and was this some new plot for aggrandising himself at the weak husband’s expense? If so, who were mixed up in it?

He staggered again, as the blood flew to his head, in his vain endeavours to piece together the scraps of the puzzle, so as to make a defined whole. But once more, with an effort, he shook off the weakness, and, stooping down, he scooped up some water in the hollow of his hand, and bathed his face, for he was now alone, the servants who had accompanied him having borne the two insensible men to the house.

The next minute the boat returned, and her prow struck the bank.

“Well?” said Sir Murray, eagerly, for the men were alone.

“He’s gone, sir,” said the groom, solemnly. “The piles are very slippery, and the poor fellow, whoever he was, could hold on no longer. We’ve been feeling about with the sculls, but we can’t find him.”

Again that rushing of blood to the head and the choking sensation, and Sir Murray Gernon gasped for air, as he staggered about like a drunken man.

Could it be possible? Was it Norton, and was he removed from his path?—removed by his own act while engaged in some nefarious scheme?

For a few moments a strange sense of mingled exultation and horror oppressed the baronet, and he stood staring vacantly in the faces of his servants.

Would he like them to go and try again? though, as the water was so deep, there was not much chance of finding the poor fellow till morning.

Yes, he would like them to go; and he would come with them himself; and, entering the boat, Sir Murray made the weary men row on and on, backwards and forwards, through the two openings of the wooden bridge, as, armed himself with the weed-grapnel in the prow, he dragged it over the same ground again and again, expecting at each check it received that it was hooked in the body of the man whom he looked upon as the blight of his existence.

At length, the men being completely worn out, the search was given up till daylight, and Sir Murray returned to the Castle, to find McCray sitting up in bed with a blanket round him, sipping whisky and water, hot and strong.

“Gude sake, Sir Mooray!” he exclaimed, as his master entered. “We won the day. I ken a’ aboot it—how ye shot one and took the ither; and Jock Gurdon’s coming round—the villin!—and no more dead than I am. But it had got verra close to the end, Sir Mooray.”

“My brave fellow!” exclaimed his master—“you did nobly.”

“Hoot! just naething at a’, Sir Mooray. But winna ye try the whuskee?”

“No, my good fellow. But I don’t know how I am to reward you.”

“Hoot! then, Sir Mooray, I’ll just tell ye,” said the Scot, whose eye was even now on the main chance. “Tam Wilkins is a gude servant, but he’s auld, and past the gairden. Suppose ye mak’ me head-gairdener, and give Jenny Barker a hint that she’d better marry me as soon as we’ve transported Jock Gurdon.”

“My good fellow, I’ll stand your friend, depend upon it,” said the baronet, smiling in spite of himself. But the next moment he frowned heavily, as he said, in a low voice: “Do you know who it was that saved you?”

“No, Sir Mooray, unless it was one of the lads in the bit skiff. But this is rare whuskee, Sir Mooray!”

Sir Murray frowned more deeply before speaking again.

“Did you see any one with the villain you so nobly captured? Though how you came to suspect the attack I don’t know.”

“Not a soul; only the two ye’ve taken, Sir Mooray,” said Sandy, reddening, perhaps from the effect of the whisky. “And as to suspecting, I have no suspicion in me; but I jist like to see of a night that naebody’s after the grapes or bit of wall-fruit, for Tam Wilkins is getting past minding it.”

There was nothing more to be learned here, and, day breaking soon after, Sir Murray summoned two more of his men—a couple who had not been so harassed—and proceeded once more to drag the lake, more assistance and better implements being at the same time sent for.

But first he had himself rowed carefully over the water, peering down as he went, but the dragging had fouled the lake, so that this was soon given up as useless, and Sir Murray was about once more to lower the grapnel, when one of the men pointed out, with scared face, what appeared to be the body of a man floating at a short distance.

To reach the spot took but a few moments, and one of the men reached over to draw in a coat and vest, saturated, so that it was a wonder they could have floated.

“His clothes, Sir Murray,” said the man, lifting up the coat, when, from the breast, a packet of letters fell out, the directions blurred with the action of the water; but on two of them plainly enough could still be read:

Captain Norton, Merland Hall.

Gurdon’s Lot.

“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.”

Under Orders.

Andy McCray, in spite of his dignity as head “gairdner,” was not above working hard himself, and he was busy enough when, slowly and gloomily, Sir Murray made his appearance, looking anxiously about the grounds, as if in search of something he could not see. He went first in one direction, then in another, and at last he returned to where Sandy was busy.

“Has her ladyship passed this way, gardener?” he said.

“Yes, Sir Mooray, a quarter of an hour syne. She took the path for the north gate.”

Sir Murray Gernon bent his head by way of thanks, and walked slowly down the path till he had passed round the house, when he started off walking swiftly, making for the north gate, through which he passed, and then walked hurriedly on.

There was the wife of one of the under-gardeners at the lodge ready to drop him a courtesy, and from her he could, no doubt, have learned in a moment which direction her ladyship had taken, but he refrained from asking; and, evidently with an idea that he knew the place to which she would resort, he took a narrow path leading off towards a wood, one of the few old forests yet left in England; but, after walking quite half an hour, always anxiously peering to right or left, he seemed to be at fault, and turned sharply back to go in another direction, this time almost at a run.

That he was much agitated was plain enough, for though his face, and even his lips, were white, the veins in his forehead stood out in a perfect network, his pulses, too, throbbing fiercely. Twice over a heavy bead of perspiration trickled down his face, but he heeded it not, but, evidently now settled upon the point he sought, he passed rapidly along a by-path which led into one of the inner recesses of the wood.

Sir Murray had not left the garden ten minutes when, rising from his work for an instant, McCray became aware of the flutter of a dress in the distance, and the next instant made out that the wearer was Jane Barker, who now signalled him to come to her.

“And me so busy, too,” muttered the gardener. “I did say that all my bit of courting should be done of an evening; and here’s a temptation, coming in the middle of the day. But there, gude save us, I must go when she calls, if I lose my place.”

“And there ye are, then,” he said, as he reached the place where Jane was anxiously awaiting him, “the brightest flower in the garden, lassie.”

“Oh, Alexander!” ejaculated Jane.

“Bless ye for that, my bairn! Ye’ve taken, then, to ca’ me by my name at last.”

“Pray—pray make haste and help me. What shall I do?”

“Do, lassie,” exclaimed the downright Scot. “Why, tell me what’s the matter.”

“Yes, yes,” cried the agitated girl. “You know my lady went out a little while since.”

“Ay, I saw her go.”

“And then Sir Murray came down.”

“To be sure, and he askit me the which way she’d gone.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Jane, “and I went up on to the top of the house on the leads, and I’ve been watching him, and he’s followed her.”

“To be sure, lassie; and wadna I ha’e done the same if ye’d gone the same gait?”

“Oh yes—no,—I don’t know,” said Jane; “but I don’t like it, and I want you to follow them.”

“Me? Follow? What, go after Sir Mooray and my lady?” exclaimed McCray. “Hoot, lassie, and have ye gone daft?”

“Daft! no!” cried Jane, angrily. “You must—indeed, you must go after them. He came to me quite angry when he found that her ladyship had gone out, and asked me where I thought she’d be; and I told him, like the fool that I was; and I don’t like things—I don’t, indeed; and I’m afraid there’s mischief on the way.”

“My dear bairn,” said the thoughtful Scot, “I’m afraid ye’ve been letting your fancy run away with ye full galop. Once you women get an idea into your poor little heads ye go racing after it full tear. Now, let me ask ye what is there strange in my lady going out to pick specimens, as she’s done hundreds o’ times before? and, now that they’re making it up, for Sir Mooray to go after her?”