These circumstances considered, it was clear to Scarthe, that the desired interview must be brought about by stratagem, and appear the result of simple accident.
In pursuance of this idea, about half-an-hour before sunset, he sallied forth from his room, and commenced strolling through the grounds; here stopping to examine a flower; there standing to scrutinise a statue—as if the science of botany, and the art of sculpture, were the only subjects in which, at that particular moment, he felt any interest.
One near enough to note the expression upon his features, might easily have told that neither a love of art, nor an admiration of nature, was there indicated. On the contrary, while apparently occupied with the flower or the statue, his eyes were turned towards the house, wandering in furtive glance from window to window.
In order not to compromise his character for good breeding, he kept at some distance from the walls, along the outer edge of the shrubbery. In this way he proceeded past the front of the mansion, until he had reached that side, facing to the west.
Here his stealthy reconnoissance was carried on with increased earnestness; for, although not certain what part of the house was occupied by the female members of the family, he had surmised that it was the western wing. The pleasant exposure on this side—with the more careful cultivation of the flower beds and turf sward—plainly proclaimed it to be the sacred precinct.
One by one he examined the windows—endeavouring to pierce the interior of the apartments into which they opened; but after spending a full quarter of an hour in this fantastic scrutiny, he discovered nothing to repay him for his pains—not the face of a living creature.
Once only he caught sight of a figure inside one of the rooms upon the ground-floor; but the dress was dark, and the glimpse he had of it told it to be that of a man. Sir Marmaduke it was, moving about in his library.
“The women don’t appear to be inside at all,” muttered he, with an air of discontent. “By Phoebus! what if they should have gone for a stroll through the park? Fine evening—charming sunset. I’faith, I shouldn’t wonder but that they’re out enjoying it. If I could only find her outside that would be just the thing. I’ll try a stroll myself. Perhaps I may meet her? ’Tis possible?”
So saying, he turned away from the statue—which he had been so long criticising—and faced to the footbridge that spanned the fosse.
As he laid his hand upon the wicket gate—with the intention of opening it—an object came under his eyes—that caused the blood to leap into his cheeks, and mantle upward upon his pale forehead.