The gardener walked on, thoughtfully gazing up at the windows, and thinking the while of the nights when he had watchfully made his way, stealthy as a burglar, from bush to bush, or crouched beneath the shrubs. Few nights had passed without his seeing Jane Barker’s light extinguished, but there had been no further visit from John Gurdon.
“He didn’t like the flat of my spade,” said McCray, with a grin, and this seemed to be the case—the ex-butler never from that night having been heard of. Still, more now from habit than anything, the gardener continued his nocturnal rounds, telling himself that he could not sleep without one peep at the lassie’s window before going to bed.
But Alexander McCray seemed to make but little progress in his love affairs. Whenever he met Jane she had always a pleasant smile for him, but he knew in his heart that it was not the smile he wished to see.
“But bide a wee,” he said. “Her puir heart’s sair. Wait awhile and it will all come reet.”
The gardener was favoured that morning, for as he applied his broom lightly here and there to the wandering leaves, the early ones of autumn, he heard a window, above his head, thrown open, and as he looked up, there was Jane leaning out, ready to smile and nod down to him.
“Company coming, lassie?” said McCray, leaning upon his broom.
“Company? No, Mr McCray,” said Jane; “why did you think so?”
“Because ye’re getting ready the best bedroom,” said the gardener.
“Oh dear, no,” said Jane; “we shall never have company here again, I think. I’m only having this put ready for Sir Murray himself, because some of the old plaster ceiling of his own room’s come down.”
“Puir lad! he looks bad,” said McCray.