The White Virgin

Chapter Twenty Six.

At Bay

Dinah Gurdon stood for a time grasping the back of a chair, battling with a fit of trembling and the strange sense of dread, which rapidly increased till in the enervation it produced, her eyes half-closed, the light upon the table grew dull, and a soft, many-hued halo spread round the flame as she was about to sink helpless upon the floor.

Then mind mastered matter, and with an effort she drew a long catching breath, her eyes opened widely with the pupils dilated in the now clear light. Then she looked wildly at the door and window, whose panes seen against the darkness merely reflected the comfortable kitchen interior, where she stood. But all the same she felt sure that there was a face looking in at her – a face she knew only too well.

Then, tearing away her eyes from where they had rested upon the lower corner, fascinated and held for a time in spite of her will, she turned and gazed at the door, which she now saw was unfastened, while the bolts at top and bottom showed plainly in the light, waiting to be shot into their sockets.

Four steps would have taken her there; but that face was watching her, and she felt fixed to the spot, her heart beating with heavy throbs, and something seeming to force the conviction upon her that the moment she stirred to go to that door, her watcher would spring to it, fling it open, and seize her.

So strong was this feeling upon her that for minutes she could not stir. Then fresh imaginings crowded in upon her brain, and she saw that the face she had conjured up was no longer there at the window, but there was a faint rustling outside, and a low sighing, whistling noise, and a regular pat – pat – pat as of footsteps.

The feeling of enervation came back, and the light grew dim and obscured by dancing rays, while the latch of the door appeared to quiver, slowly rise up and up, to stop at the highest point, and the door slowly moved towards her.

“Imagination!” she exclaimed, and in an instant she had darted to the door, thrust in both bolts, and then drawn down the window-blind, to stand now breathing heavily but feeling master of herself, and ready to act again in any way which she might find necessary.

The pallor had gone now from her cheeks, which became flushed by a couple of red spots, as she felt irritated and indignant at her childish fears. But all the same she could not conceal from herself the fact that there was peril; and now, full of energy, she went quickly from room to room and made sure that every window and door was really secure, before hurrying up to the different chambers and examining the casement fastenings. She then descended to the lower floor of the little fortress to stand and think, asking herself whether her alarms were childish and only the effect of imagination after all.

But she was fain to confess that they were not. She had too strong grounds in fact for her dread, and the incidents of the previous night and that evening showed her that the man she dreaded was as unscrupulous as he was daring.

At last came bitter repentance for her weakness. Had she summoned up the courage to speak, and told all to her father, he would have taken steps to guard her from future danger.

She shuddered at the thought, and the colour in her cheeks deepened as she conjured up scenes such as she had heard of in the past.

Too late now; and she felt this, but that if the trouble were repeated she could not have acted otherwise. And now it was of the present that she had to think. There was no help to be expected from Martha, but, in the energy of despair, she went to the woman’s side, shook her, and spoke loudly with lips close to her ear. Then fetching water, she bathed the sleeper’s temples, for, rid of the sensation that her acts were watched, she worked with spirit.

But all was in vain; Martha slept heavily, her breathing sounding regular and deep.

Two or three times over Dinah ceased her efforts, and stood listening, startled by the different sounds of the storm gathering in the mountains. But she grew firmer now minute by minute, and quietly analysed each sound she heard. This was only the drip of the rain from the eaves on the stones below, although it resembled wonderfully the fall of feet. That was no rustling of a body forcing a way through the shrubs, but the work of a gust of wind bending down the little cypress, and making the clematis stream out upon the black darkness.

There was every token of a rough night in the hills, for ever and anon after a lull, the wind hissed and whistled at the windows, and rumbled in the chimneys after the fashion familiar in winter. But as she told herself, there was nothing in this to fear.

Feeling that Martha must be left to finish her heavy sleep, and after seeing that she could not injure herself if alone, Dinah went back with the light to the little drawing-room, where, after an uneasy glance at the window, she satisfied herself that she could not, by any possibility, be watched, and sat down to read.

The effort was vain: not a line of the page was understood, but scenes and faces were called up. Clive’s looking lovingly into her eyes, with that frank, manly gaze, before which her own fell and her cheeks reddened. Then that meeting on the mountain path, when on her way home and alone, for the dog had left her and gone off in pursuit of a hare.

She shuddered as she recalled it all, and hurriedly forced herself to think of her father and his anger that morning against Clive, who was, of course, all that was true and just – her lover – her protector – to whom some day she could tell everything – some day when safe in his arms and quite at rest. It was impossible now.

Her thoughts went to him more and more persistently, as she wondered where he then was – whether he was thinking about her – when he would be back.

The book fell into her lap and glided to the carpet with a loud rap, and quick as thought her hand was extended to the lamp. The next moment she sat in darkness, listening, and half repentant of her act. For though she had sought the enveloping cloak of darkness, she shivered as it closed her in.

For that was not wind or rain, neither was it the effect of imagination. She could not be deceived this time. The latch of the kitchen door had been raised, and had given forth that click with which she had been familiar from childhood. True, it had sounded faintly, but it was unmistakable. The room door was open, so was that leading from the little passage into the kitchen, for she had left both wide, that she might hear if Martha stirred.

She drew a breath of relief the next moment, for she felt that she had not heard their servant stir, but all the same she must have risen, and gone to try whether the door was fast.

Quickly and silently she stole into the kitchen, and felt the way to the table. “Martha!” was on her lips, but she did not utter the word, only extending her hand as she heard a deep, low, sighing breath. The next instant her fingers rested upon the woman’s shoulder, and she knew that there had been no change in position. A feeling of suffocation attacked her, as she held her breath, and listened to a repetition of the sound, for the latch was softly raised now, and the door creaked as it was evidently pressed from outside.

This was repeated, and then all was black darkness and silence once more, while poor Rollo, who would only a few hours before have loudly given warning of danger and torn at his chain to come to the protection of his mistress, lay sleeping his last beneath the newly-turned earth.

Would he dare to break in?

She was alone.

A question and answer which sent a chill through her: but despair gave her courage, and she stood there pondering as the door creaked heavily once more.

Where would he try to force an entrance? she asked herself, and then, feeling how frail were the fastenings, she silently made for the foot of the staircase, closed the door, bolted it, and ascended to the little landing.

The next moment, her hand was upon her bedroom latch, but altering her mind she passed into her father’s room, and closed and locked the door, to stand listening, her mind fixed upon the drawing-room window beneath where she stood.

It would be there, beneath the little verandah, she thought; and extending her hand to touch the wall and guide herself to the window, her fingers encountered something which sent a thrill through her, for she touched the Major’s double gun standing in the corner formed by a little cabinet, where he had stood and forgotten it; and in the drawer of that cabinet there were cartridges, for she had seen him place them there only a week or two before.

Continuing her way, she crept to the window to listen, feeling sure that she would hear if any attempt was made below in the verandah, but clinging to the hope that the nocturnal visitor would go on finding that his plan was checkmated.

She was not long left in doubt, for a rustling sound told her that the clematis was being torn away from one of the rough fir-posts which supported the verandah roof; and the next minute she was conscious by the sound that some one had reached the thatch, and was drawing himself up the yielding slope.

For a moment Dinah was giddy once more with dread and despair. The next she was strong again in the wild desire to protect herself – for her own, and for Clive Reed’s sake; and stepping softly back, she drew out the drawer of the cabinet and felt that the cartridges were there. Then catching up the gun, she rapidly opened the breech and inserted a couple of the charges, closed it, and fully cocked the piece, to stand with it at the ready, its muzzle directed to the window, which showed darker in the middle where a grating sound was heard.

She knew it at once; a knife was forcing back the leadwork, so that a diamond-shaped pane might be taken out by the man who believed this room to be empty.

She could see nothing, but it was all plain enough; the grating ceased, the pane was eased out by the knife, a rustling told that there was a hand being thrust in, and she heard the fastening yield, and the iron frame of the casement creak as it was drawn outward. Then followed a heavy breath, the sound of some one drawing himself up, and strong now, at bay in her own defence, Dinah Gurdon’s finger pressed the trigger, as she still held the gun at the ready with its butt beneath her arm.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

For Clive’s Sake

“For Clive’s sake,” she said to herself, as the charge exploded, and the recoil of the loosely held gun rent the bodice of her dress and jerked her violently backward.

There was a savage snarl, mingled with the report of the piece, and followed instantly by the tinkling of falling glass, a crushing sound of a gliding body, and then a dull concussion upon the stones beneath, where there was a panting and struggling, accompanied by a hissing as of breath drawn in agony; and then the rushing of the wind as it tore round the house, while within all was silence, as if of the dead.

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.