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: