The Sapphire Cross

“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?”

“Nothing – nothing,” said Jane, earnestly, “if it were all genuine; but, Alexander – dear Alexander, there’s Judas kisses as well as true ones, and I know he did not mean what you saw. I’m troubled about it all, and I come to you for help: don’t fail me, please, now this first time.”

“Nay, nay,” cried the Scot, eagerly. “I’ll not fail thee, lassie. But what am I to do? Where am I to go?”

“Follow them and watch them, never leaving them for an instant, and always being ready to give help.”

“Yes, yes; I’ll do it, lassie.”

“I knew you would,” cried Jane, pressing his great hand between both of hers; “and now run – run all the way, for he went to his room after he left me, and came out pushing a pistol into his pocket. And, oh! Alexander, if you love me, make haste, for I’m sure that there’s something wrong!”

What Sandy did not See

“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.”