“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”
“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”
“No—no—no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear—oh dear! I’m undone!”
“Nay—nay, ye’re not, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”
“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”
“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”
The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.
The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?
She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.
“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door—a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.