"Don't, please, be hard on me, dear," groaned Gurdon; "and if they did break open the library door, they mended it again, I suppose, for Sir Murray's got plenty of money, ain't he?"

"No, they didn't stop for no mending," sobbed Jane. "It's enough to do to mend poor people's sorrows here as is all driving us mad. Money's no use where you're miserable."

"And are you miserable, dear?" whispered Gurdon.

"Oh, how can you ask?" sobbed Jane.

"Don't seem like it," said Gurdon, softly, "or you'd come down and say a few words to me before I go away, perhaps for ever; for when once the great seas are rolling between us, Jane, there's, perhaps, no chance of our seeing one another no more."

"Oh, how can you ask me? You know I can't!" exclaimed Jane, angrily.

"I thought as much," whined Gurdon, in a deep, husky voice, and as if speaking only to himself; "but I thought I'd put her to the proof--just give her one more trial."

"You cruel--cruel--cruel fellow! how can you torture me so?" sobbed Jane, who had heard every word. "It's wicked of you, it is, when you know it's more than my place is worth to do it."

"Ah," said Gurdon, huskily, "I did think once, that a place in my heart was all that you wanted, and that I had but to say 'Come and take it, Jenny,' and you'd have come. But I was a different man, then, and hadn't gone wrong, and I'm rightly punished now. Goodbye, Heaven bless you!--bless you! and may you be happy!"

"But stop--stop a moment, John! Oh, pray don't go yet! I've something to tell you."

"I dursen't stop no longer," said John, huskily. "People will be sure to hear us; and bad as I am, Jenny, I wouldn't do you any harm. No--no, I'd suffer anything--die for you, though I've been wrong, and taken a gla.s.s too much. Good--goo-oo-ood-bye!"

"But stop a moment, John, pray!" sobbed Jane.

"No--no; it's better not."

"Oh dear, what shall I do--what shall I do?" sobbed Jane.

"Won't you say good-bye?" was whispered from below, and there was a soft rustling amongst the bushes beneath the tree.

"Oh, stop--stop!" cried Jane, hoa.r.s.ely. "Don't leave me like that.

What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing, only to say goodbye, Jane. I did think that I should have liked to hold you in my arms for a moment, and have one parting kiss. I seemed to fancy it would make me a stronger and a better man, so that I could go and fight my way again in a foreign world, and make myself fit to come back and ask you to be my wife."

"But John, dear John, don't ask me," sobbed Jane. "How can I?"

"No--no," he said, sadly; "you can't. Don't do anything of the sort. I only thought you might have come down and let me in through the billiard-room. But don't do it, Jane; you might get into trouble about it, and one of us is enough to be in that way. Bless you, Jane! Think of me sometimes when I'm far away."

Jane did not answer, but with the sobs tearing one after the other from her breast, she stood, listening and thinking. It was too hard upon her; she felt that she could not bear it. How, with all his faults, he still loved her, and should she--could she turn her back upon him when he was in such trouble? There was a hot burning flush, too, in her cheeks as she leaned, with beating heart, further from the window, determined to risk all for his sake.

"John!--John!" she whispered, "Don't go yet; I'll do what you want."

No answer.

"Oh, John!--John! Pray don't leave me like that. I'll come down just for a few moments to say good-bye."

Still no answer, only a faint rustle amongst the bushes.

Had he then gone?--left her while she was silent for those few minutes, thinking her to be hard, and cruel, and indifferent? or did he hope that she would repent, and had he gone round to the gla.s.s door by the billiard-room lobby?

"John!" she whispered again; and then more loudly, "John!"

"Is there anything the matter, my la.s.sie?" said a voice--one which made the heart of Jane Barker to beat, for she recognised in it that of the Scotch gardener, who, it now struck her, had been very attentive to her of late.

"Matter! No," said Jane; "I was only looking out at the stars, Mr McCray," and she closed the window.

"Ye're in luck to-neet, Sandy, laddie," muttered the gardener. "Ye've got your rabbit, and reset your trap without so much as a single spiteful keeper being a bit the wiser; and now, taking a fancy to look at her window, ye've seen the little blossom hersel. But she's a neat little flower, and when she's done greeting after that dirty loon of a butler, she'll come round. He was a bad one--a bad one, and as jealous as a Moor; but he's out of the way now, and Jeanie, my sousie la.s.sie, ye'll be mine one of these days, I think."

Alexander McCray stepped gingerly along amongst the bushes, holding the rabbit he had caught tightly in one pocket of his velveteens, secure in his own mind from interruption, for even if he had now met a keeper he was upon his own domain--the garden; and zeal for the protection of his master's fruit would have been his excuse. So he stepped softly along, pushing the shrubs aside, and turning once to look at Jane's window, and during those few moments, as he stood there, looking very solemn, and relieving his feelings by kissing his hand a few times to the darkened window, Sandy McCray was in imminent danger of having his brains knocked out. If he had gone a foot more to the right, or a yard more to the left, the result would have been a fierce struggle; but as it happened, Sandy did neither, but strode safely, straight along, and made his way to his cottage, where he regaled himself with half-a-dozen pinches of snuff, and then turned in, to dream of the fair face of Jane.

Book 1, Chapter XXII.

JANE'S LOVERS--NUMBER 1.

But Sandy McCray was no sluggard: the little Dutch clock in his room was only striking five, and the dew was bright upon the gra.s.s, as he stepped out, crossed the bit of park between his cottage and the garden, and then, taking a rake in his hand, walked towards the shrubbery where he had stood for a few minutes the night before. For Sandy argued that, with all his care, he might have left some footprints about, and that footprints beneath the window of the lady of his love were things not to be thought of for a moment, since they were not tolerated elsewhere.

"Just as I thought," muttered the Scot; and his rake erased a deep footmark and then another upon the border, when, as he half-smoothed over a third, he stopped short, and, lifting his cap with one hand, he let the rake-handle fall into the hollow of his arm, so that he might indulge in a good scratch at his rough, red head.

The scratching seemed to do no good, so he refreshed his intellect with a pinch of snuff, and then with another, when, his senses being a little sharpened, he proceeded to very carefully fit his boot to the footprint, but as he did so, standing upon one leg, he tottered a little, and coming down upon the mark, quite destroyed it as to possibility of identification, and ended by raking it over smoothly. But Sandy had not yet done, for, picking his way carefully through the shrubs, he stopped at last by two very plainly-marked footsteps, and this time, slipping off one boot, he knelt down beneath the shade of an arbutus, and carefully tried the sole, to find that it was a good three sizes larger than the boot that had made the marks. Again the rake was brought into requisition, and the marks obliterated, Mr McCray looking very fierce the while, for a few more steps brought him where the footprints were plainer, and the test of the boot showed that they were of more than one size. He tried here, and he tried there, and had no difficulty in finding his own traces. But those others?

Sandy McCray's face was a study as he stood peering down, and fitting the boot first in one and then another print, ending by returning it to its proper service; and then it was that, if he had looked upwards instead of down, he would have seen that a pale, eager face was watching his every motion, as it had been for the last few minutes, and continued so to do, while, as if struck by a sudden thought, Sandy McCray laid his finger by the side of his nose, grinned a very fierce and savage grin, and then proceeded to erase the marks of trampling. Five minutes later he did turn his head upwards, and stole a glance at the window; but the pale face was not there, for Jane, who had never undressed, had seated herself upon the floor, and now, trembling and agitated, was having what she would have called "a good cry."

There was not a footprint left when Jane had finished her cry, and stole to the window to peep. Neither was Sandy McCray there; but a little off to the right, upon a sc.r.a.p of gra.s.s sparkling in the morning sun with a heavy burden of dewdrops, and as Jane looked, she saw the gardener sharpening his scythe viciously before he began to shave away at the gra.s.s, as if every daisy's head were an enemy's that he was determined to take off.

Jane sighed, as well she might, and once more she said aloud:

"Oh, what a happy world this would be if there were no men!"

That was an anxious day for poor Jane, whose thoughts at times made her shiver. Little as she had noticed them before, she could now recall scores of attentions on the gardener's part, all of which evidently meant love. The warm apples from his pockets; the bunches of grapes; the peaches and nectarines; and the roses on Sundays; besides which, for months past it had been his habit to grin at her very widely, so as to show the whole of his teeth--loving smiles, no doubt, while now that he had seen those footsteps beneath her window, what would he do?

She asked herself another question, without trying to answer the former.

What had he been doing there himself?

She told herself at last that he would lay no information against her, but that he would watch carefully, and then there would be perhaps a fight between him and Gurdon, who would be sure to come again, for he must have known that she was about to give way to his appeal.

It was plain enough now why Gurdon and McCray had always been such bad friends, quarrelling fiercely, till McCray would tauntingly ask the butler when he meant to use the flower-beds again, because he--the gardener--never liked pigs to sleep in his beds without straw. Jane had never troubled herself about McCray before, but she felt that she must now--that she was bound to do so, for most likely he would get help, and Gurdon, if he came, would be seized for trespa.s.sing. It was no use, she could not help it, she declared, and as soon as she found herself at liberty she determined to seek McCray, and trust to her woman's wit for disarming him, should his designs be inimical.

Then she shrank back from the task, for it would be like putting herself in his power, and for a long time poor Jane's mind was a chaos of conflicting doubts. At last, though, she felt determined, and she set off in the direction of the gardener's cottage, telling herself that come what might Gurdon should get into no further trouble.

There was no one at the cottage, and on making inquiry of another of the gardeners, she learned that McCray had gone with a cart to the town to bring back some shrubs sent from some great nurseryman in London.

"But I'll tell him you've been looking after him, Miss Jenny; and he'll be ready to jump out of his boots for joy."

"Don't talk nonsense, Johnson," said Jane, archly. "Just as if there was anything between us!"

"Of course there isn't--nothing at all," laughed the gardener. "There's nothing at all between you, and you'll come together before long. He's always talking about you, and comparing you to the best flowers we have under gla.s.s. But I'll tell him you've been asking."

"No, please don't do anything of the kind," said Jane; and she tripped away, trying to appear quite at her ease. But the poor girl's heart was very sore, and though she tried hard, she had no further opportunity during the day of seeking McCray.