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 ladyship 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 ladyship 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 leddyship, 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.