The hour was now fast verging upon eleven, and she anxiously noted every sentence that was spoken, hoping it was to be the last; and then she trembled to think that John, regardless of the danger, might be lurking near, and indiscreetly expose himself. And still the talkers discoursed as if they meant to sit up all night. It was a delicious, cool hour, after a sultry day, and there was luxury in the breeze; but as the minutes were counted over by the maiden, in their slow passage, her fears increased. At length, far off, as if it were a mile away, the clear notes of one whistling an old tune were heard. Mary involuntarily started from her seat, and moved along the little pathway towards the gate, her heart beating against her bosom as if it would have "overbourne its continents." The signal notes freshened upon the air, and the tune came forth blithely and boldly, showing that the wayfarer was trudging, with a light heart, down the main road towards the mill. The party in the porch, however, were too much engrossed in their colloquy to notice the incident. The whistling came still nearer, until, at last, it seemed to be scarce a gunshot from the house. Beyond this point it did not advance; but here indicated that the person from whom it proceeded had halted. If Mary's cheek could have been brought to the light, it would have shown how the blood had deserted it from very fear: her whole frame shook with this emotion. To exhibit her unconcern, which, in truth, was most sadly affected, she mingled amongst the company in the porch, and leant against the door-post. Still the whistling continued, with no symptom of retreat, and Mary impatiently walked towards the further end of the house. "John Ramsay makes a fool of himself," she muttered peevishly. "Hasn't he the sense to see I cannot get out? What keeps the simple man dallying shilly-shally at the fence, as if he actually wanted them to take him? I don't believe in the mighty sense and wisdom of these men! If John had half an eye he would see that I couldn't get away to-night."
As the maiden grew fretful, her fears had less mastery over her; and now, taking heart of grace, she returned to the porch.
"Sergeant," said Macdonald, calling to one of his men, "take two files and patrole the road until you ascertain who that fellow is who makes himself so merry to-night. I thought it some fool," he continued, addressing himself to Allen Musgrove, "who, as the poet says, 'whistled as he went for want of thought,' but he seems to have a hankering after these premises that is not exactly to my mind. Perhaps, after all, Mary," he added privately in the maiden's ear; "it is the lad I was telling you of; and as he is a bashful youth, we will bring him in by force. You know, he can't help that; and old dad here can never blame you if I should make the fellow come to see you against your will. Sergeant, treat the man civilly, you understand."
"It is not worth your while to be sending after Adam Gordon," said Mary, with some slight confusion in her accent; "he is only half-witted; and almost the only thing he does for a living, is to come down of nights here to the mill-dam, to bob for eels. If it wasn't for that, his mother would go many a day without a meal."
"No matter, we will bring Adam in," replied the lieutenant, "and if he is good at his sport, why we will go and join him."
"He is shy of company," said Mary, still faltering in her speech, "and will not come amongst strangers."
Partly from a spirit of resignation, partly to avoid further exposure of her feelings, and in part too, perhaps, from some slight feeling of remorse, such as is natural to a virtuous and youthful mind at being obliged to practise a deceit however lawful (as I contend it was in this case), the maiden withdrew into the parlor, where, unseen by any, she offered up a short and earnest prayer for direction and forgiveness.
Meantime the patrole had set out, and, after the lapse of a short time, returned, when the officer reported that before his arrival, the person they had gone in quest of had left the place, and, in the darkness of the night, they had no clue to follow him. This was scarcely announced before the same whistle was heard, at the same remote point where it had first attracted Mary's notice.
"It is as our young mistress has said," muttered Macdonald, "some bumpkin, too shy to be caught, and not worth the catching. We have sat it out to-night long enough, friend Musgrove, so let's to bed."
In a few moments the party betook themselves to their several places of rest.