Dinah stood in the chamber holding the gun, motionless and with a cold perspiration bedewing her face as she breathed the dank, clinging, hydrogenous fumes of the burnt powder. Every sense was on the strain, and her fingers rested now upon the second trigger as she waited, firm and determined to fire again in her defence should her would-be assailant climb up.
It was for Clive’s sake. She was his now – his very own; and in her excited, nerve-strung state she was ready to defend herself to the last, and die sooner than that man, her horror and despair, should again clasp her in his arms.
But no fresh sound arose as she waited in the black darkness grasping everything now. How that Sturgess must have deeply laid his plans, and in revenge for a savage seizure made by the dog, as she remembered with a shudder, first poisoned the poor brute, and then somehow have contrived to drug the tea of which Martha had partaken that evening.
She shivered again, as she thought of how closely this man must have watched everything that went on at the cottage, and how often he must have been near at hand at times when she knew it not. Then he must, in the knowledge of her father’s absence, have selected the Major’s chamber as a place where he could obtain entrance unheard, little thinking that Fate would inspire his child to select that as a place of safety.
And all the while Dinah stood there motionless, a yard farther from the open window, drawing her breath at intervals, her heart beating, and every sense still upon the strain, as she waited ready to repel the next attack.
Twice over a pang shot through her, and she felt that the time had come, for there was a rustling sound below, and in imagination she saw the dark opening grow more dark. But the sound died away again, and she knew that it was only a sudden gust of wind sweeping the rain-drops before it. And at last a new horror assailed her. That man – Sturgess, she was sure – had been in the act of climbing to the room and she had fired.
Of course she knew all that, but somehow in her excitement – her exaltation of spirit in her defence of all that was dear to her in life – it seemed part of a horrible dream, a something which could not have been true.
But it was true! She had fired and heard the cry of agony, the crushing of the thatch, and the heavy fall, and writhing on the stones beneath, followed by that awful silence during which she had waited in expectation for it to be broken by his coming on again.
But it had not been broken, and she knew why now. The thought came to her like a revelation – Michael Sturgess was lying there, beneath that window, either grievously wounded or dead.
A vertigo seized her, and she nearly dropped the gun. But Dinah’s nerves had been too tightly strung to give way now; and once more mastering her weakness, she walked bravely to the window, hesitated and then leaned out, starting back in horror, for she was touched.
But it was only the edge of the iron frame of the casement swung to by the wind; and as she leaned out and looked down, she held her breath and listened, expecting to hear some movement – some slight stir. But there below in the dense darkness all was perfectly still; no movement, no hard-drawn breath as of one in agony, but a silence so horrible that she staggered back to throw the gun upon the bed, and press her hand down to try and allay the laboured breathing of her heart.
She could bear it no longer. She felt that she must go down and see. Evil as the man was, he might be still alive, and she might save him. If not, she must know whether he was dead, for the suspense was infinitely worse than the knowledge could possibly be.
In a state of maddening excitement now, she unfastened the door, and went down the dark stairs, pausing for a brief moment in the kitchen, where a heavy breathing told her that Martha still slept her drugged sleep; and then going to the front door she softly and quickly drew back the bolts, and turned the key, when the door yielded, as she grasped the handle, with a faint cracking sound.
Then, nerved by her excitement, she stepped through the porch into the outer darkness, stooping down and peering before her in her endeavour to make out the prostrate body she expected to see lying prone.
But nothing was visible, and gathering courage and calmness she went farther, walking to and fro over the spot where he must have fallen, without result, till, satisfied that the worst had not happened, and full of hope that he had fled after the shot, she hurried back to re-enter the house, stepping quickly over the stones to the little porch, and right into a pair of arms.
With a wild cry of horror she struck at the man with all her might, with the result that there arose a yell of rage and pain. A brief struggle followed, and in her frantic efforts to free herself, Dinah tore herself away. Then turned and fled blindly, anywhere, so as to escape.
But Sturgess was close behind.
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely. “It’s of no use now, little one. Hah, I have you at last.”
She was rushing up the rocky garden, and he was close behind and caught her by the shoulders, but with a cry of despair she flung herself side-wise, and he stumbled past her, and fell heavily, uttering an angry oath.
She turned and fled downward toward the river, tripping again and again over the scattered stones and bushes, and making such bad progress that Sturgess had time to gather himself up, hear where she was forcing her way along, and followed wildly in pursuit.
But, mad now with fear and horror, weak too from her exertions and the enervation caused by the dread of being overtaken, Dinah sped on, meaning to run to left or right, along the river edge, but taking neither way; for in her despair, she ran straight into the river, wading right out, so as to try and gain the shelter of the rocks on the further side.
It was shallow where she waded, but she knew that beneath the rocks there were deep holes, where the great trout lay; and she felt that she might step right into one of these. But the cold clinging embraces of the water were better than the clasp of this ruffian, and without a moment’s hesitation she pressed on to gain her haven of safety, and then stopped short with the water nearly to her waist, and pressing softly against her, to bear her away: for she heard a loud ejaculation from the path she had left, and then her pursuer’s heavy steps, as he ran for a few yards downwards, and then came back and ran upward, and returned.
“Curse her! Which way has she gone?” came plainly to her ears, followed by the rippling sound of the river, as it ran swiftly on.
She knew that Sturgess could not see her, for he was evidently listening, and the slightest movement would have betrayed the fact that she was standing there only a few yards away.
Two or three times the force of the river was so great that she felt as if she must yield to it; but she stood firm and then felt a fresh chill, for the man snarled out an oath, and the lapping and splashing sound made her turn and wade a little farther, for she felt that her enemy had made her out, and was wading in. But in another moment a savage ejaculation of pain made the truth known, for Sturgess was kneeling down and bathing the wound he had received.
She grasped it all plainly enough now, for from time to time he uttered a low groan, and then rose up and staggered away over the stones, while her heart leaped for joy, as she knew that he was growing weak and faint from exertion.
From this moment everything became plain to her – made known in the darkness by the sounds. She could see nothing, but she knew as well as if she had been by his side that the man was painfully staggering up the stony slope along by the river edge, as if making for the mine. But she dared not move, only try to stand firm against the pressure of the water, and wait till the last sound had reached her ear. Then, and then only, did she stir, but only to wade upward a little into shallower water, where the pressure was not so great. For the river was her protector, and she knew that Sturgess might come back.
A full hour must have passed before, stiff and chilled, she waded slowly out, and crept up the path to the cottage, the water streaming from her as she walked, till she reached the porch, crept in trembling and secured the door, and then did not rest till she had reached her own room to throw herself upon her knees in thankfulness for her escape.
But there was no rest that night. Just at daybreak she went down to find that Martha still slept, and shuddering, lest the events of the night should be known, she went into her father’s chamber and replaced the gun in its old corner; looked out in the cold grey morning, and saw that it was possible for the absent pane of glass to be attributed to the work of the wind blowing about a loosened casement. Lastly, there was something else for which she sought in the cold grey light of morning – traces of the gun-shot wound.
There were none visible. If there had been, a sufficiency of rain had fallen to wash all away, and leaving the window ajar, Dinah was in the act of turning back, pondering upon her position and shrinking from telling her father more than ever. She determined that Martha must know nothing, when she caught a glimpse of her pale, troubled face in the glass, and then uttered a faint cry of horror, for her light dress was horribly stained about the breast and shoulder, showing plainly that Sturgess must have received a severe wound, whose traces had been transferred to her when he had seized her in his arms.
“How can I speak! – how can I tell all!” she moaned, as she hurried guiltily back to her own room to remove the still damp and draggled garments. “It is too horrible. Oh,” she cried, fiercely now in her desperation, “if he would but die!”
“Oh, my dear, how pale and white you do look,” said Martha at breakfast-time; and Dinah gazed at her wildly, as if in dread lest she knew all. “I feel as sure as sure that we both had something that didn’t agree with us yesterday, though I can’t say for the moment what. Yes, my dear, I didn’t really know how it was, but I felt poorly all day yesterday, and grew so drowsy at last that I went off fast asleep. Did you come and find me then?”
“Yes, I came and found you,” said Dinah dreamily, as the whole scene of the previous night came back.
“Of course it was very strange, but it was so kind of you not to wake me. But I’m better now – all but a headache. Does yours ache too?”
“Yes, Martha, badly,” said Dinah, with a sigh, as for a moment she pondered about taking the old woman into her confidence.
“I thought it did. There; have a good cup of tea. You’ll be better then. Will master be back to-day?”
“I hope so, Martha,” said Dinah, with a sigh; and then hope came to revive her once more. For he would come and bring news of Clive, who must know all, and then there would be safety – protection, and no more of this abject fear.
In the afternoon news reached the cottage that there had been an accident at the mine, where early that morning Mr Sturgess, the foreman, had fallen down one of the lower shafts, and severely cut and injured his left shoulder.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
A New Horror
Letters reached the cottage at frequent intervals after the Major’s return, in which as he breathed in every line his intense affection, Clive fretted at the chain which still bound him to London.
For, as he explained at length, a heavy blow had been struck at the mining company, bringing ruin upon those who had shown a want of faith, though the stability of the property was not really stirred. The rumour which had so rapidly spread had had its influence though, and time would be needed before many people would believe in the truth, and it was for the protection of the property, and to save other shareholders from following the panic-stricken party, that Clive felt compelled to be in town.
Then, too, he sent a shiver through Dinah, as he wrote to her about his troubles at the mine.
“Misfortunes never come singly,” he said. “As I daresay you have heard, my foreman Sturgess has met with a nasty accident, and Robson, my clerk, sends me word that he has been delirious and wandering a good deal. He fell down one of the inner shafts where he could have no business, and ought to be thankful that he escaped with his life. Now I do not want to be exacting, darling, but if you could do any little thing to soften the man’s misfortune, I should be glad. He is an ill-conditioned fellow, but he is my employé, and I want to do my duty by him as far as I can.”
Dinah, in her agony of spirit, wanted to rush off to her own room and hide herself from the sight of all. For this appeal seemed more than she could bear; but the Major was present, and at that moment spoke about the contents of his own letter.
“Reed wants us to see and help his foreman, who is lying at one of the cottages ill from a fall. We must do all we can, my dear. He’s a good fellow, is Clive. Very thoughtful of others. Dear, dear, if I had only been a little more strong-minded.”
“Have you suffered so very heavily, father?” said Dinah, who forced herself to be calm and speak.
“Suffered! Oh, yes, my dear, in mind as well as pocket. You were right, my child; he is all that is honourable and true. But it is very humiliating – very lowering to the spirit of an old soldier.”
“To find that you have mistrusted him, father?”
“Er – er – yes, my dear; but – but – there I will be frank with you. I did not mean that.”
“Father, you are keeping something from me.”
“Yes, my dear, I am,” said the Major hurriedly; “but Dinah, my dear, I have not accepted yet. The fact is, I have lost all, my dear – at least all but a beggarly pittance saved out of the wreck; and Clive – God bless him for a true gentleman!”
Dinah’s arms were round her father’s neck, as the love-light shone in her eyes, and she laid her cheek upon his shoulder.
“Well, yes, my dear, he is; and I suppose with all his simplicity and want of ostentation he is very rich. His house in town is – ah, well, never mind that! He insists upon giving me as many shares in the mine as I fooled away.”
“But you cannot accept them from him, dear father,” cried Dinah, raising her head, and looking at him anxiously.
“No, my darling, I told him so; that it would be a cruel humiliation; and that I would never accept them.”
“Yes; that was quite right, dearest,” said Dinah, with her eyes flashing.
“But he said – ”
“Yes, what did he say?”
“That I was foolishly punctilious, that I was going to give him something of more value than all the riches in the world, and that I refused to take a fitting present from him.”
The warm blood glowed in Dinah’s cheeks, and there was a look of pride and happiness in her eyes which were gradually softened by the gathering tears.
“Yes, but you cannot take this, father dear!” she said softly. “It would be humiliation to us both. If we are very poor, and Clive loves me, he will love my dear father too. You must not take this, dear. It would be doubly painful after mistrusting him as you did.”
“Then I have done right,” cried the Major cheerfully.
“You have refused.”
“Yes. I was sorely tempted, my darling, for I felt how I was bringing you down to poverty; that I was no longer in a position to – to – Oh, hang it, Dinah,” cried the old man, with the tears in his eyes, “I would sooner march through a storm of bullets than go through this.”
“Clive loves me for myself, dearest father,” said Dinah, drawing his convulsed face down upon her bosom, to hide the weak tears of bitterness; “and it is not as if you were living in London. Our wants are so few here, and there are the few hundred pounds which you have often told me came from my dearest mother.”
“No, no; that could not be touched,” cried the Major, very firmly now. “That was to be your wedding portion, child.”
“There is no question of money between us, father,” said Dinah proudly. “I tell you again Clive loves me for myself, and there is a wedding portion here within my heart that can never fail. No, dearest, you cannot take this gift from my husband. You are rich in yourself as an English gentleman, and with your honourable name.”
A spasm shot through the Major, and his face contracted and looked older.
“There,” continued Dinah, “that is all at an end. Only we will economise, and live more simply, dear. But tell me I am right.”
“Always right, my darling,” cried the Major. “There, you have taken a heavy load from my breast. Hang it, yes, pet. We have our home and garden, and there is my preserve. A bit of bread of old Martha’s best, and a dish of trout of my own catching, or a bird or two. Bah! who says we’re poor?”
“Who would not envy us for being so rich?” cried Dinah, smiling.
“To be sure. And when my lord of the mines comes down,” cried the Major merrily, “we’ll be haughty with him, and let him see that it is a favour to be allowed to partake of our hermitage fare, eh?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Dinah, with childlike glee, though her eyes were still wet with tears. “But, father dear,” she faltered, “there is one thing I want to say.”
“Yes, my darling?”
“This man who is lying ill.”
“Yes, yes. We must do all we can.”
“No, father,” she said, speaking more firmly now. “We cannot go to him.”
“Eh! Why not?”
“Because – because,” faltered Dinah, with her voice sounding husky. Then growing strong, and her eyes looking hard and glittering, “Soon after he came down here, he began to follow me about.”
“What! The scoundrel!” roared the Major.
“And one day he spoke to me – and insulted me.”
“The dog – the miserable hound. But – here, Dinah – why was I not told of this?”
“Because, dear – I thought it better – I felt that I could not speak – I – ”
“Ah, but Clive shall know of this. But you have told him? Why has he not dismissed the hound?”
“No, I have not told Clive, father – not any one. Some day I must tell him – but not now.”
“Really, my darling!” cried the Major, whose face was flushed, and the veins were starting in his forehead.
“Father, this is very, very painful to me, your child,” she pleaded; “and I beg – I pray that you will say no more.”
“What! not have him punished?”
“No; not now. He is punished, dearest. But we cannot go to his help.”
“Help,” cried the Major furiously. “I should kill him.”
Dinah laid her hands upon his breast, and at last he bent down and kissed her.
“May I tell Clive when he comes?”
“No, dearest,” said Dinah, in quite a whisper, and with her face very pale now, while her voice was almost inaudible; “that must come from me.”
The Major frowned, and kissed his child’s pale face, prior to making another grievous mistake in his troubled life.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
The Explosion
There was joy in the little cottage by the swiftly running river one day about a fortnight later, when a shadow was cast across the window; and with a cry of delight Dinah looked up from her work and saw that Clive Reed had approached silently, and was gazing in.
The next moment she was nestling in his strong arms, responding to his kisses, and feeling once more safe, protected, and that there was nothing more to fear or wish for in life.
“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered, as she drew him farther in with the blood flushing in her cheeks, and her hands trembling, lest her abandonment in her ecstasy of delight had been seen.
“Why not?” cried Clive. “I feel as if I could melt away into smiles and laughter – there’s a beautiful idea, pet – in the joy I feel at being back – at holding you in these great rough arms, at feeling safe, and that you had not forgotten me and run away with some fine handsome fellow while I was gone.”
“Clive!”
“Well, I do. I’m quite boyish – childish – oh, my darling, have I got you here in my arms once more?”
There was no doubt of it, for timid and shrinking now, Dinah kissed him gravely upon the forehead, and then gently and firmly shrank from his strong embrace.
“Where is the Major?” he cried.
“He has taken his satchel and geological hammer, and gone for a long walk.”
“Without you?”
“Yes; that is why I said, don’t laugh at me, and you stopped me from saying more. Clive – I felt that you would come this morning.”
“Ah, and how much sooner I should have been, but for the miserable worry of the company’s affairs. There, I will not worry you about that, and I am glad to say that I found Sturgess rapidly getting well. But he had a nasty accident. And how’s dear old Martha?”
“Quite well. She has been talking about you and longing to see you every day.”
“Bless her. And you. Oh, my darling, you look more beautiful than ever!”
“Clive!”
“You do. More sweet, more lovable. Oh, Dinah, there was never such a happy fellow before. This place is a paradise after grimy old London, and – oh, here is the Major, I can hear his step.”
Dinah turned pale.
“That is not his step,” she said, as she looked excitedly toward the window.
Clive rose, went to it, and looked out.
“Why, it’s Robson,” he cried. “Hang it! I hope there is nothing wrong. I’ll go and meet him.” Before he was outside Dinah was after him, and she hurriedly placed her hand upon his arm.
“Eh? Well, come with me then, pet. I have no secrets from you. – Well, Robson, what’s the matter? Sturgess worse?”
“No, sir, but you are wanted over yonder directly.”
“Wanted?”
“Yes, sir, there’s a party of gentlemen come down.”
“What – visitors? Oh, hang them; they want to see the mine, I suppose?”
“No, sir. They say they’ve come to take possession.”
“What?”
“I suppose they’re bailiffs, sir.”
“And I suppose you’re a confounded fool!” cried Clive angrily. “That mine does not owe a penny!”
“One of the gentlemen said he was a shareholder, sir, the principal shareholder, and he gave me his card.”
Clive snatched it, and Dinah read the name thereon —
“Mr Wrigley, New Inn, Strand.”
“Wrigley?” cried Clive excitedly.
“Yes, sir; and he said he must see you at once.”
“All right; I’ll come. Wait for me yonder at the corner, Robson; and I beg your pardon for speaking so roughly just now.”
“That’s nothing, sir. You were cross,” said the clerk, smiling; and he walked back down the garden to go and stand watching the trout in the river.
“Don’t look so scared, dearest,” said Clive tenderly; “there is nothing wrong. I’ll tell you briefly what it is. You know there was a scare about the mine – a panic.”
“Yes, dear.”
“Well, a lot of foolish old friends were frightened – oh, dear me! I’m accusing the Major. Well, there, I can’t help it. He did act foolishly. A lot of them, I say, instead of coming to me went and sold their shares, and these were bought up by speculators who have since then been interfering at our board meetings, and wanting to meddle over the management of things. In fact, I was so wroth that I would not go to yesterday’s meeting, but determined to come down here and see how things were, and – you know why I came. Now I must go on. I suppose they had their meeting yesterday, and passed some resolution or another; but I’m too big a shareholder to be trifled with, and I’m going to meet these people now and have a row. For they shall have their big dividends, but I’m not going to have any meddlesome fools down here.”
“But you will keep your temper, dear, and be calm.”
“I’ll take your sweet face with me, love, and – why, here’s the Major. Ah, my dear old dad, how are you? Good-bye, Dinah. Come over to the mine with me, sir, and help me to keep my temper; well talk as we go.”
“Of course,” cried the Major. “But look here, my boy – so glad to see you down – I saw a party going to the mine, and I hurried back trusting that one of them might be you.”
“Come along,” cried Clive; and after a quick, tender farewell, he hurried away along the path to the mine, explaining matters to the Major as he went.
On reaching the gate in the hill side, and entering the busy little hive of industry, it was plain that something important was on the way; for the men were all up from the workings, and were evidently listening to one of a party of well-dressed men, who was addressing them, and a buzz of voices arose as Clive, looking very stern now, walked up to the front of the office with his two companions.
