The White Virgin

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?”