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?”
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.