The Sapphire Cross Part 23

But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn't been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and s.h.i.+vered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.

Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.

About an hour after Ada Norton's visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.

"Stand aside a few minutes, William," said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. "Well, what now?" he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman's face told of tidings.

"I thought I'd better tell you, Sir Murray," said the man, "her ladys.h.i.+p--"

"Not--?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. "Has the doctor been sent for?"

"No, Sir Murray," said the man; "her ladys.h.i.+p ain't worse, only she went out this afternoon."

"Well?" said the baronet. "That's all, Sir Murray," said the man, timidly. "I was called away, and didn't see her go. I didn't know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on."

"She has not come back, then?" exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.

"You have not said a word of all this?" said the baronet, in a low tone.

"Not a word, Sir Murray!" exclaimed the man, with an injured air. "You can trust me, sir."

Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon's return.

An hour elapsed, and then he rang.

"No, Sir Murray; her ladys.h.i.+p has not returned."

Another hour pa.s.sed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rus.h.i.+ng crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but the _avant-garde_. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.

"Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?" asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.

"Yes," said Sir Murray, "and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too."

McCray, who had been trying to console Jane, who was greatly agitated, soon made his appearance before Sir Murray.

"McCray, take one of the horses, and go round from cottage to cottage till you find where her ladys.h.i.+p has taken refuge. Williams, you go south with the pony-carriage, and I shall ride east."

The gardener saluted, and ten minutes after, heedless of the storm-- though he had hard work with his frightened beast--he was mounted, amidst the sneers of the grooms, who looked upon such missions as within their province, and resented the coming of the interloper accordingly.

"The puir weak body! But I'll soon find her," muttered McCray, as he cantered on out at the park gates; and then going from cottage to cottage, and at last entering the forest, and riding between the dripping trees, and along the slippery clay paths to the different keepers' houses, but without avail; so that, at last, thoroughly soaked and disheartened, he turned back, feeling sure that, before that time, her ladys.h.i.+p must have returned.

"Not come back," whispered one of the grooms to him, as he entered the yard. "Williams got back an hour agone, and Sir Murray has been in and gone out again."

Just at that moment, with his horse in a foam, Sir Murray galloped up.

"Well?" he said, eagerly.

"No one has even seen her leddys.h.i.+p, Sir Mooray," said the gardener, curtly.

"The same answer everywhere!" exclaimed the baronet. "Let every man mount and set off. Tell the keepers to search the wood. You, McCray, come with me, unless Williams has returned."

"Williams is so wet, sir, he's gone to bed," said a man.

"Quick, then, McCray!" exclaimed Sir Murray; "and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!"

"Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray," said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.

The storm had by this time pa.s.sed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.

"Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day--this afternoon?" said Sir Murray.

McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.

"Good evening, Sir Murray," he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet's countenance. "I've been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing's gone but the dog-cart as Cap'en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn't wait for a man to bring the car back; said he'd drive himself, and leave it at 'The Chequers,'

at Marshton, Sir Murray."

The mud from the horse's hoofs was splashed in Chunt's face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray--not the best of hors.e.m.e.n--could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.

"Chunt's dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir," the boy said.

So spake "The Chequers" hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.

"What boy, sir? Can't say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir."

Without another word, Sir Murray Gernon turned his horse's head, and rode out of the yard, followed by McCray, who clung to him as if he had been his shadow; but the horses were now tired, unused as they were to much exertion, and it was getting close upon midnight when the baronet and his servant rode into the stable-yard at Merland Castle.

Sir Murray asked no questions. It was plain enough, from the silence, that there was no news; so throwing his bridle to a groom, his act was closely imitated by McCray, who followed him into the library.

"I'm sorry for the puir body, wherever she is," muttered McCray; "but, perhaps, after all, there's naething the matter. Onyhow, such a ride, and such a wetting, desarves a drappie of toddy, and perhaps Sir Mooray may ask me to take it. I'll follow him, anyhow, for how do I know whether he's done wi' me?"

Book 1, Chapter x.x.xVI.

JANE DECLARES.

McCray stood watching his master with attentive eye, as, apparently ignorant of his presence, the baronet--drenched as he was with rain and perspiration--threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

The gardener stood on one leg, then on the other, then leaned on a chair-back, putting himself into every posture that would give him a little ease, for he was well-nigh exhausted. But no notice took Sir Murray. He was apparently buried in himself; and, at last, unable to draw his attention by coughing and shuffling about, Sandy McCray prepared to speak.

"He's greeting aboot her, puir laddie," he muttered to himself; "but, a'

the same, he might ha' brought out the whuskee. We're mair free with the wee drappie up north." Then, aloud: "Hoot, then, Sir Mooray, it's a bad habit to sit in wet clouts. Hadna ye better tak' just a wet o' some kind o' sperrits? I think a little whuskee wad do ye nae hairm."

"You here still?" exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, angrily, as a hand was laid upon the handle of the door: "Who's that? I am engaged."

But the door opened, and, to Sandy McCray's astonishment, Jane crept in, white as a sheet, as if from some great horror; but, all the same, carrying tenderly, as she hushed it to sleep, the little child that, after five years, had been born to Sir Murray.

"Hoot, la.s.sie! and what do ye do here?"

"What do I do?" exclaimed Jane, fiercely, her half-frightened aspect giving place to a look of rage. "I have come to ask that man what he has done with my dear lady!"