Sir Murray Declares.
“Send those people away from the door! Make her be silent; the woman’s mad!” exclaimed Sir Murray excitedly, as, shrinking back, he stood, trembling and haggard, before McCray. “It’s all nonsense—folly—that she has said. No; keep her here till those people have gone.”
“Ye’ll be quiet noo, lassie, winna ye?” said McCray soothingly, as he held Jane in his arms, and then placed her in a chair, when the mad excitement that had kept her up so far seemed to desert her; and bowing down over the frightened child, she kissed and hushed it to sleep, sobbing over it hysterically, and every now and then breaking into a wail of misery. She took no further notice of her master, who gazed at her with an aspect of alarm, fearing, apparently, to speak, lest he might bring forth another such outbreak as the last. But he had no cause for fear; Jane was now tractable as a child, as McCray soon found; and going close to Sir Murray, he whispered:
“That’s an ower thick door, Sir Mooray, as I fun oot when I brak’ it open. They didna hear what was said by the puir thing, half daft with grief; and gin ye’ll trust me, I’ll see that she doesna talk ony more sic stuff.”
Sir Murray did not answer,—he merely bowed his head; for there was a battle going on in his breast—a strife between dread and mortification at having to humble himself before his own servants. It was hard work to arrest the groan that struggled for exit, and when the door closed on Sandy McCray and Jane, he sank back in his chair as if stunned.
McCray felt that Sir Murray’s silence gave consent, and that he was trusted. The trust, too, was not misplaced; for the Scot had obtained sufficient influence over Jane to reason her, in her calmer moments, into silence.
“Supposing, even, that you’re right, lassie, ye ken that the puir bodie we’ve lost wadna have wished ye to bring Sir Mooray to the gallows. But dinna ye fash yourself aboot it; it will all reet itself in time. Ye’re sure o’ naething, and ye’ve got your trust in hand; sae mind it weel, and leave the rest to me.”
Jane responded to this advice by weeping bitterly over the child, pressing it convulsively to her breast; and in that condition, the next morning, McCray left her, and sought the baronet, to find that he had never left the library.
“The puir lassie was half daft last neet, Sir Mooray; but it’s a’ owre noo, and she’s tending the bairn.”
“I wanted you, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray, the coming of the staunch servitor seeming to rouse him into life. “I am going to search in one direction: you arrange the men in parties, and leave no place unscoured. Give orders, too, that the great nets be brought out, and let the lake be dragged.”
He shuddered as he spoke these last words, and the gardener turned to go.
“What time is it now?” inquired Sir Murray.
“Just seven of the clock, Sir Mooray,” was the reply; and then McCray took his departure, heedless of the supercilious looks bestowed upon him by one of the footmen, who could not understand what Sir Murray could be thinking about to have that great coarse gardener in the house, and treat him as an equal.
But Sir Murray had placed matters in the right hands. Before half an hour had elapsed parties were organised, consisting of the servants and labourers from the farm close at hand; and a regular search was instituted, the land being methodically gone over—field and forest, bush and ditch. The lake was dragged in every direction, and hour after hour spent, but always with the same result—failure.
There were not wanting those who asserted that my lady must have wandered right away, and the bounds of the search were extended, but still in vain; and at mid-day the parties rested for refreshment, and to determine upon some new plan of action.
Meanwhile, a horse had been brought to the door; and mounting, Sir Murray rode hastily over to the Hall, where, for form’s sake, he asked to see Captain Norton, and upon being told of his absence, requested to be shown in to Mrs Norton.
She met him without rising, but sat trembling visibly, as she drew her boy closer to her; for a sense of dread seemed to rob her of the power to move. But a few hours since, and it had been declared to her that this man had tried to poison her cousin, and now he was here. She could not speak, but motioned him to a chair, trying to overcome her weakness, and to meet with fortitude the new misfortune she felt certain was impending.
Sir Murray saw her motion, but he remained standing; and for full five minutes he watched her, with a look mingled of curiosity and compassion.
“Mrs Norton,” he said at last, “I have come to inflict pain, but I cannot help it. You must judge me leniently when I am gone.”
Ada bowed, and gazed at him with starting eyes.
“One of the Castle servants was here the day before yesterday. Did you see her?”
“I did,” said Ada, huskily.
“She brought a note, did she not, from Lady Gernon?”
“No, Sir Murray.”
“A message?”
“No.”
“She saw Captain Norton?”
“My husband was from home, Sir Murray Gernon.”
“She left a message for him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite. Your servant came to see me, as your wife’s old friend and relative; and, saving the housemaid who admitted her, I alone saw her.”
“Have you any objection to tell me the object of her visit?”
Ada was silent.
“Did she come at the wish of Lady Gernon?”
“No,” said Ada, for she hardly knew what to reply.
“Then you will tell me why she came?”
Ada was still silent.
“Then I will tell you,” said Sir Murray, in a calm voice. “She came to tell you of some absurd suspicions that she had nursed—to try and convince you that Lady Gernon’s life was in danger; for, like the rest of us, she had been blinded by the treason of a false woman. I see that the news has not yet reached your ears. Mrs Norton, your cousin has fled!”
“Fled!” exclaimed Ada, starting to her feet.
“Yes, fled,” he continued, in measured tones, as if he were forcing each word from his lips. “She left the Castle during my absence, yesterday afternoon, and she has not returned. Captain Norton engaged a conveyance yesterday afternoon, and drove away; Captain Norton has not returned.”
Ada Norton stood, pale as a statue, gazing at him with lips apart, as she realised his words, and thought of her husband’s absence, his note, his strange behaviour, and Jane Barker’s words respecting the last meeting in the wood. Her brain reeled, as the thoughts flashed rapidly through, and for a moment she felt that she was ready to fall; but she recovered herself, to hear that her visitor was still speaking.
“I had a last hope that she might be here—that, overtaken by the storm, this might have been her refuge; but my hope was faint. Mrs Norton, I might, perhaps, have kept the truth from you for a few hours; but you must have known it, sooner or later. You have judged me, I believe, very harshly, so far; now, perhaps, I shall command your pity, as I pity you.”
“Judge you harshly! Pity you! You pity me!” exclaimed Ada, flashing into a rage, which lit up her whole countenance, as, with one hand she clutched her boy more tightly to her, and held out the other threateningly at Sir Murray. “You cold-blooded, cowardly miscreant—you destroyer of the hope and happiness, perhaps the life, of that sweet, suffering woman! how dare you confront me with your base, clumsily built-up reasoning, as if every woman upon earth possessed your vile, suspicious nature! You dare to come here with your base subterfuges—your dastardly insinuations—to try and make me believe that Lady Gernon, my pure-hearted cousin, and confidante from a child, has fled with my noble, true, and faithful husband! You lie, you false-hearted dastard—you insidious, courtly, smooth villain—you lie, and you know it! Heaven forgive me my passion, but it is enough to madden me! Go! leave here this instant; for you pollute the place, and you tempt me to believe that you have murdered her! Yes, you may start! But my husband! as true-hearted and honourable a man as ever breathed! How dare you?”
“Woman, where is your husband?” cried Sir Murray, fiercely.
“I do not know. He is from home. How dare you question me?”
“Poor, weak, self-deceiving creature!” he said, contemptuously, “I do not question you! I have noticed—Nay, stay here!” he exclaimed, catching her by the wrist. “You shall hear me! They have been planning long enough now! It was a cursed day when I returned to the Castle; and I soon found that out, though you blinded yourself to the truth. But sooner than have any scandal—than have my name dragged through the Divorce Court, and sneered at by every contemptible fool—I have borne all in silence—suffered, as man never before suffered; and, rejoicing in my weakness, they have corresponded and met! Fool that I was, when I found them last in the wood, and covered the villain—the serpent, the robber of my jewels and of my honour—when I covered him with my pistol, that I did not shoot him down as one would a common thief and burglar! But, no; I would not have a scandal afloat, even though I was becoming the laughingstock and by-word of my servants! But, there, go! I pity and admire you; for I can feel—you teach me to feel—that, there may be yet women worthy of faith!”
As he spoke he threw her hand roughly from him just as the door opened, and Mr and Mrs Elstree entered the room.
“You are here, then!” exclaimed the Rector, in agonised tones. “We have been to the Castle. In Heaven’s name, Murray—Ada—what does all this mean? We hear that Marion is missing! Can you form no idea where she is?”
“Yes!” said Sir Murray, bitterly; “abroad by this time!”
“What, in Heaven’s name, does it all mean?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree, pitifully.
“Mean, madam!” exclaimed Sir Murray, as he strode to the door, and turned to gaze fiercely at all present—“mean? That I married a harlot!”