The White Virgin

Chapter Forty.

The Telegram

“Go on, Doctor, say what you like. I cannot defend myself.”

“I will go on, sir; I will say what I like, and I will risk its hurting you, for I feel towards you as a father, and it maddens me to see my old friend Grantham’s son behaving like a scoundrel towards as sweet and lovable a girl as ever lived.”

Clive drew a deep breath as they walked slowly along the shelf path towards the mine.

“Yes, sir, you may well shrink. I brought you out here for a walk to make you wince. I can talk to you, and say what I like out here without expecting the poor girl and her father to come back and interrupt. Look here, Clive; I’m a cleverish sort of old fellow in my way, and experience has put me up to a good many wrinkles in the treatment of disease, but I tell you frankly it was not I, but Dinah Gurdon, who saved your life by her nursing.”

“I suppose so,” said Clive, with a sigh.

“Then why the deuce, sir, do you go on like this and break the poor girl’s heart?”

“I cannot explain matters,” said Clive sadly. “You saw for yourself that Miss Gurdon accepted the position.”

“Of course she did, sir; so would any girl of spirit if she found a man playing fast and loose with her. Now look here, Clive, my boy, surely you are not throwing her over because you have lost all this money? Hang it, man! she would be just as happy if you hadn’t a penny. Now, then, out with it; was it because of the money?”

“The money! Absurd!” cried Clive, with an angry gesture.

“Then it must be due to some silly love quarrel. Look here, Clive, my boy, for your honour and your father’s honour, I’m going to take you back to the cottage, and when they return this evening, you will have to show them by your apology that if there is a scoundrel in the Reed family his name is not Clive. What do you say to that?”

“Impossible, sir. Doctor, you do not know, and I cannot tell you, the reasons why I act as I do.”

“You’re mad; that’s what’s the matter with you.”

“I wish your words were true, sir,” said Clive despondently, and stretching out his hand, he rested against the rock, and then let himself down to sit upon a rough stone. “I’m very weak, I find,” he continued apologetically; and then he shuddered as he noted that they were in the spot where Dinah had turned upon him and handed him the paper which he struck from her hand.

“Yes, my boy, you are weak, and I oughtn’t to press you; but I cannot stand it. Come, be frank to me. What have you done to make that poor girl throw you over?”

“I? nothing,” said Clive sternly.

“What! then you accuse her? Hang it, I won’t believe a word of it, sir. That girl could no more do anything to justify your conduct than an angel could out of heaven. Look here, sir, I constitute myself her champion. – What’s that noise?”

“I don’t know. I heard it twice before. Some shepherd calling his sheep, I suppose.”

The Doctor looked up at the bold precipitous bulwark of rock above their heads, and then downward toward the far-stretching vale below the shelf-like path, where a flock of sheep dotting the bottom by the river, endorsed the suggestion that the sound might be a call.

“Never mind that,” said the Doctor. “Come, I say that Dinah has given you no reason for behaving as you have.”

“Doctor, I resent all this,” cried Clive angrily. “I make no charge against Miss Gurdon, and I tell you that you have no right to attack me as you do. A man is helpless in such a case. Hush! No more. – Major Gurdon.”

For the old officer came round an angle of the steeply-scarped rock above them, walking fast, and descended agilely to where they stood.

“You here, gentlemen?” he said; “have you seen my daughter?”

“No, but we have been no farther than this,” said the Doctor.

“I’m growing uneasy about her,” said the Major; and a curious sensation of mingled dread and jealousy attacked Clive.

“Did she go out – come this way?” said the Doctor.

“Yes. Martha told me she struck off over the mountain in this direction.”

He looked sharply about him, but the path curved suddenly before toward the mine, and backward in the direction of the river, forming out there a natural terrace in the huge rampart of limestone.

“Perhaps you have missed her,” said the Doctor. “She may have returned home another way, without she has gone on toward the mine.”

A spasm shot through Clive, who stood up firmly now, nerved by the bitter thoughts which suggested to his jealous mind Dinah seeking his brother once more.

“She would not go there,” cried the Major angrily. “Ah, what’s that?”

For at that moment the cry they had before heard came faintly to their ears.

The Major stepped quickly to the edge of the path, protected only by a rough parapet of loose stones, looked over, and then, leaping back, threw off his coat, leaped over the rough protection, and began to lower himself down the steep precipice.

For a moment or two Clive could not stir; then, weak, trembling, and with his mouth hot and dry, he walked to the edge, and looked down to see, quite two hundred feet below, a portion of a woman’s dress, and directly after, as she clung there desperately, Dinah Gurdons white upturned face; and he knew now whence came the wailing sound.

“Clive! what are you going to do?”

“Get down to help,” he said hoarsely.

“Madness! You have no strength. You could not hold on for a minute.”

Clive groaned, for even as he stood there a sensation of faintness came over him, to teach him that he was helpless as an infant.

“Good heavens! what a place!” cried the Doctor. “I cannot – I dare not go down. It would be madness at my age.”

Then he stood speechless as his companion; and they craned over, and watched the Major, active still as a young man from his mountain life, descending quickly from block to block, making use of the rough growth of heather for hand hold, and now quite fifty feet below where they knelt, while the look of agony in Dinah’s eyes as she clung there, apparently unnerved and helpless, was as plain through the clear air as if she were close at hand.

“Your work, Clive,” cried the Doctor furiously, but in a low whisper. “The poor girl in her misery and despair has thrown herself over, and lodged where she is. Thank God, I am down here. I can be of use when we get her home. If we get her home alive,” he added to himself.

Clive made no reply, but knelt down panting and enraged against the weakness which kept him there supine, when, in spite of all, he would have given a dozen years of his life to have been able to descend and bear the poor girl up to a place of safety.

But he could only gaze down giddily with heart beating as he watched the Major slowly and carefully descending, now making good progress, now slipping or sending down a loose stone. Once they saw him hanging only by his hands, again losing his footing and seeming to be gone. The next minute, though, he was still descending, and in the silence of the mountain side, they could hear his words, short, sharp, and decisive, as he called to his child, bidding her be of good heart, for he would be with her directly; and that she would be safe.

Then, to Clive’s horror and despair, he saw the starting eyes which had looked up so wildly, gradually close, and the sun gleamed on them no more. He knew only too well what it meant; that Dinah was turning faint and weak; and once more unable to bear the agony, he made a rapid movement to descend.

“Madman!” cried the Doctor, and he flung himself upon Clive, mastering him directly, for the sudden strength flickered away at once. “Don’t you see,” he panted, “you cannot do it, and your fall would be destruction to them both. Keep still and silent. The Major will reach her directly. Yes: look: he is as active as a goat. Ah! great God! No: saved – he has her!”

The Doctor shrank away unable to bear it, for as they stared below with dilated eyes they saw Dinah begin to glide downward just as her father was steadying himself, holding on by one hand to a tough root. Then he seemed to make a dart with the other, and his child suddenly became stationary while he shifted his position, got his feet against a piece of rock, and they saw him draw her up to his side and hold her there.

The rest of that scene was dreamlike to Clive, as he lay with his breast over the edge looking down, till nerved and urged on by her father’s strong will, Dinah seemed to recover, and began to climb up under his directions and with his help, step by step, and inch by inch, till at last she was so close that Clive stretched out his hands to help her, while the Major supported her from below. But their eyes met, and she did not touch those hands, but gave her wet and bleeding fingers to the Doctor, who drew her into safety on the path, where she rose now to stand shivering while the Major sprang to her side.

“I did not think I could have done it,” he panted. “Oh, Dinah, my child, don’t say you threw yourself down there.”

“No,” she said, giving him a piteous look, and then turning slowly to face Clive. “I went down to fetch this – to give to Clive Reed before he left us for ever. I thought it must be there.”

She took from her breast, where it had evidently been thrust, a stained scrap of reddish paper, made more ruddy where she held it, for her fingers bled freely.

“A telegram,” cried the Doctor.

“Yes. Take it, Clive,” said Dinah slowly, but evidently rapidly recovering her strength. “It is the message I received from you that day.”

“I sent no message,” he cried, as he hastily read the stained slip, and caught the words “come” – “meet me” – some figures “P.M.,” and his name in full – “Clive Reed.”

“A forgery!” he cried wildly, as the truth flashed upon him. “There is no postal mark upon it. I did not send this lie.”

“No?” said Dinah faintly, as the look of despair grew more marked in her eyes. “I have thought since that I had been deceived, but I felt that I would sooner die than you should not know the truth.” Then she turned pale and shrank to her father’s side, as a spasm of rage shot through Clive Reed.

“Jessop again!” he whispered hoarsely to the Doctor; and his fingers crooked, and he held out his hands as if about to spring at another’s throat. Then he reeled, but recovered himself with an exultant cry, for a voice came loudly to their ears from round the buttress toward the mine.

“Curse you! I will. The police shall stop that.”

“No; you don’t get away,” cried another voice; and Dinah turned of a sickly white. “Stop, you! and let’s have it out, or I’ll heave you down below. Blast you! I tell you she was my lass – before you and your cursed brother came in the way. Mine, I tell you. – Ah! just in time!”

Sturgess uttered a savage laugh, and he stopped short facing the little group upon the shelf, and holding on by Jessop’s collar, in spite of the latter’s struggles to get free.

“Look here, all of you. This man, my servant – you are witnesses – he has threatened my life. I go in fear of him. I’ll have him in charge. I go in fear, I tell you.”

“Yes, so much,” cried Sturgess, with a mocking laugh, “that he was off down again to the cottage to see pretty little Miss Gurdon here, only I stopped him, for I’ve had enough of it. Master or no, he don’t go poaching on my estate. I’d sooner break his cursed neck.”

“Silence, sir!” roared the Major.

“Silence yourself!” cried Sturgess savagely. “Who are you?”

“The father of the lady you insulted, and but for her sake you would have been sent to gaol.”

“For courting a pretty girl,” cried Sturgess, with a mocking laugh. “But I’ll have no more of it. Do you hear, both of you – you too, Clive Reed? You call yourselves my masters. I’m yours. Keep off, both of you, if you value your necks. I tell you she’s my girl – my lass – my very own to marry or leave as I please.”

Dinah uttered a piteous moan, and turned her agonised face to Clive, who stood there with jaw dropped and the paper trembling in his hand.

“Yes. You see. She don’t deny it.”

“Dinah!” cried Clive wildly, and there was so agonising an appeal in his voice, that his cry thrilled her, and sent the blood flushing into her pale cheeks, as she now stood up unsupported.

“Yes, all of you; it’s all right. I used to meet her on the hill side, and we used to go courting among the heather before these white-faced hounds came down. She don’t deny it. She daren’t. Dinah, my lass, come here.”

Clive made a movement to fling himself upon the ruffian, but the Doctor passed a hand across his chest.

“Too weak, boy,” he whispered. “Give the scoundrel rope.”

“I do deny it,” said Dinah at last, as she drew herself up, a true woman now, her honour at stake, and all listening for her refutation of her pursuer’s words.

“There, what’s the good of lying, little one,” cried Sturgess, with a mocking laugh. “It’s all nature, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of in a strong man’s love.”

“I do deny it,” said Dinah again, more firmly now. “Father, dear – Clive Reed – this man lies. It is not true.”

“What!” cried Sturgess. “There, what’s the good of hiding it all, pussy? I’m an honest man, and I love you. I’ll marry you to-morrow if you like.”

“Must I speak again?” said Dinah proudly, as she looked round, letting her eyes rest last on Clive’s deadly white face; and then she uttered a gasp, for she saw his cheeks flush, and his eyes brighten, as they met hers, for she knew that she was believed. “It is an insult, father, and a lie.”

“What!” cried Sturgess, as the Major caught her to his breast; “didn’t you meet me that afternoon yonder, and go with me down the mine gap? Before there was any one there but me, gentlemen all.”

“Yes – wretch!” cried Dinah fiercely, “coward! You did pursue me down there; I, a poor defenceless girl – you, a strong, savage man. I must speak now, father, Clive; God, who is my judge, hear me too. Faint and exhausted, he seized me at last, and I was at his mercy, till my poor old faithful Rollo came and set me free.”

“Yah, nonsense!” cried Sturgess triumphantly. “Perhaps you will say I did not come to your window night after night. What about that time when your father had gone up to town?”

“The wound upon your shoulder is my answer, my witness to the truth. Father, my only protector lay helpless in a drugged sleep. Poor Rollo was poisoned by this miscreant’s hand. I was alone, and at his mercy, till I fired!”

“What, this?” cried Sturgess mockingly; “this was a fall.”

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “when the shot had entered in. Major, it was a gun-shot wound, and the marks of the dog’s teeth are in his leg. I’ll swear to that.”

“Liar and hound,” cried the Major, dashing at him, but he was too late, for, nerving himself for one blow, Clive Reed threw himself upon the ruffian, and the next moment he lay quivering on the ground, with the young man’s foot upon his chest.

“Dinah, my child,” cried the Major reproachfully, “why was I not told all this?”

“Because I was a woman, and shame closed my lips,” she said softly. “Take me home, father. Silence has been my only sin.”

“One word before you rise, my good fellow,” said Doctor Praed, as he drew his patient from where Sturgess lay; “whether the law deals with you or no is not my affair; but I, as a doctor, tell you this: mad or only enraged there’s sometimes a deadly poison in the tooth of a dog. You have had a long taste of delirium from that gun-shot wound. Mind what you’re about, or I wouldn’t give sixpence for your life; and if you’re bad again you may die before I’ll run a step to save you. Here, Jessop. Those of a feather flock together; take this bird of prey back to his cage. You’re not wanted here.”

He stood watching as Sturgess rose and staggered away like a drunken man, while Jessop, after a vain effort to speak, walked rapidly off in turn.

Then the Doctor turned to where the Major stood with Dinah in his arms, her face buried in his breast.

“You will not fear to be alone, Major?” he said quietly.

“Afraid, sir,” said the Major, with an angry look. “No.”

“Then I will leave you now, and take my patient back to town. Good day, my dear sir, and God bless you. I must come and see you again. Dinah, an old man wants to say good-bye.”

She turned her wild eyes to his, and his look was sufficient. She left her father and the next moment rested in his arms.

“Good-bye, and I need not say God bless you, my darling,” said the Doctor, with his voice quivering a little. “There, au revoir. Clive will ask your pardon another time. Not now.”

The next morning Clive Reed had to be helped up the steps into Doctor Praed’s house in Russell Square, a relapse having prostrated him; and by the time he was about again the ‘White Virgin’ mine was a solitude once more. It was waiting for orders to go forth about the sale of the valuable engines and other machinery, Robson now having the property in charge, and going over four or five times a week to see that the place was uninjured, though the weather had already begun to make its mark.

One day he met the Major, and was ready enough to become communicative, and tell how Sturgess had been taken bad the day he returned to the mine, and how he had been fetched at last by friends who came all the way from Cornwall.

“Death’s mark was on him, safe enough, sir. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that he had gone.”

“And those gentlemen?” said the Major, clearing his throat, and speaking still huskily, for he did not like his task.

“Mr Jessop Reed and Mr Wrigley, sir? Oh, they haven’t been down again. Don’t suppose they will come, for the poor mine’s played out.”

Two months more had passed away before Clive Reed visited those parts again. He was thin and worn, but there was a bright look in his eyes, as he breasted the hills from Blinkdale and plunged down into the deep, chasm-like vales. For he knew that the past, with its cruel doubting, was forgiven, and that the woman he loved more than life was ready to take him to her breast.

It was down the deep valley by the side of the rushing river that Dinah did take him to her throbbing heart, and hold him as tightly as his arms grasped her; for in that solitary place, where the glancing sunbeams shot from the silver river, there were only the trout to tell tales, and the tales they told never reached the air.

She had gone to meet him, and when they had sauntered on another half mile there was the Major whipping a dark pool under the shadow of the rocks.

“Ah, Clive, my boy,” he cried, winding in his line and speaking as if they had only parted the previous day, after a glance at Dinah’s eyes where the love-light burned brightly. “Glad to see you down again. Why didn’t you bring the Doctor?”

“He is rather in trouble about his daughter?”

“Ill?”

“Well, mentally more than bodily, sir. She is back home, and he will hardly leave her for a moment.”

“Home, eh? And her husband?”

“He is in New Zealand, and not likely to return.”

“So much the better for old England, my boy. Come along, you must be like me, hungry.”

They walked through the old wild garden, which looked more beautiful than ever; and Martha was ready to smile a welcome; while to Clive, as he let himself sink back in his old seat, it was as if he had at last found rest.

It was during a walk next morning with the Major, who took Clive round by the ‘White Virgin’ mine, that the old officer suddenly turned to him and said —

“Clive, my lad, the machinery here is to be sold next week.”

“I know it,” said the young man, frowning slightly.

“You must buy it, and start afresh. I can’t have you turn rusty for want of work.”

“No, sir, it is useless. The chances are too great against the old lode being found again.”

“Not at all, boy; it is found close to the surface.”

“What!” cried Clive excitedly. “Where?”

“On the patch of old waste of limestone that I bought all those years ago, when, for a fault I never committed, I had to exile myself and come to live down here – to rot in despair, as I thought, but to find a lasting peace.”

“Oh, impossible!” cried Clive. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as a man can be who has dabbled over minerals for twenty years. There it is – a foot beneath the surface, and as rich as it was in the ‘White Virgin’ mine. The White Virgin – my dearest child – gives it to you as her dowry, the day you call her wife.”

The Major held out his hands; and as they were taken a white dress was seen fluttering on the hill side a few hundred yards away, and the Major said softly —

“She does not know it. I have left the news for you to tell. One moment: I have a stipulation to make.”

“That you never leave us, sir.”

“No; but you may throw that in, boy, and not rob me of all. Let the new vein still be called the ‘White Virgin’ mine.”