Any human figures that might be moving around the house could be seen by the naked eye. It would be time enough to use the magnifying lens should there be a difficulty of identifying them.
For some moments after she had taken her stand no one made appearance near or around the dwelling. A complete tranquillity reigned over the spot. A pet axis deer skipping over the lawn, some pea-fowl moving amidst the shrubbery of the parterre—their purple gorgets gaily glittering in the sun—were the only objects animate that could be seen near the house.
Farther off in the fields gangs of negroes were at work among the cane, with what appeared to be a white overseer moving in their midst. These had no interest for the observer upon the rock; and her eye, scarce resting on them for a second, returned to scan the inclosed space approximate to the dwelling, in the hope of there seeing something—form, incident, or scene—that might give her some clue to the mystery of the morning.
In respect to the former, she was not disappointed. Forms, scenes, and incidents were all offered in succession; and though they did but little to elucidate the enigma which had carried her to that aerial post of observation, they had the effect of calming, to some extent, the jealous thought that was distressing her.
First she saw a gentleman and lady step out from the house and take their stand among the statues. At the sight she felt a slight flutter of uneasiness; until through the lorgnette she looked upon hay-coloured hair and whiskers, enabling her to identify the owner as Smythje. This gave her a species of contentment; and her jealous spirit was still further tranquillised when the glass revealed to her the features of Kate Vaughan overspread with an expression of extreme sadness.
“Good!” muttered the delighted spy; “that tells a tale. She cannot have seen him? Surely not, or she would not be looking so woe-begone?”
At this moment another figure was seen approaching across the parterre towards the two who stood among the statues. It was that of a man in a dark dress. Herbert Vaughan wore that colour.
With a fresh flutter of uneasiness, the lorgnette was carried back to the eye.
“Bah! it is not he. A fellow with a common face—a servant, I suppose. Very likely the valet I’ve heard of! He has brought some message from the house. Ha! they’re going in again. No, only the master. She stays. Odd enough he should leave her alone! So much for your politeness, Mr Montagu Smeithjay!”
And, with a sneering laugh as she pronounced the name, the fair spy again took the glass from her eye, and appeared for a moment to give way to the gratification which she had drawn from what she had succeeded in observing.