The White Virgin

Dinah’s face clouded over again.

“Nothing to mind, my dear. I saw Robson this morning, and he told me that Jessop and that black scoundrel went up to town to the meeting the same day as Clive. I suppose they didn’t meet in the train. If they did, I hope my dear boy turned them both out in the first tunnel they went through. There, I’m off.”

The autumn evenings were upon them, and the sun dipped behind the crags of the millstone grit earlier now; and that evening, to prove the truth of the Major’s prophecy, Clive Reed trudged over the hill track leading from Blinkdale past the ‘White Virgin’ mine, where the roadway had been widened and fresh tram-lines laid, to meet the necessities of the vastly increased traffic. He frowned when he saw all this, for it jarred upon him that so much advance should have been made under other management; but the cloud passed away, for he met a group of men returning from their work, to the cottages down in the valley – men for whom there was not room in the new buildings, or who preferred their old homes. These were for the most part known to him, and they greeted him with a friendly smile or touch of the cap as they passed.

Clive longed to stop them and ask questions, but he felt that he could not stoop to a meanness, and he went on in the soft evening glow watching the golden-edged purple clouds in the west, across which the boldly marked rays of the sun struck up, growing fainter till they died away high up towards the zenith. There was a pleasant scent of dry thyme from the banks, and the familiar odour of the bracken as he crushed it beneath his feet, or brushed through it and the heather and gorse. Only a couple of miles farther and he would be passing the spoil bank, and going along the rock shelf in the tunnel-like cutting, along by the perpendicular buttress which stood out from the lead hills like a bold fortification. Then half a mile down and down to the river, where the lights from the cottage would strike out suddenly from the ravine garden, and he could steal up, and announce his coming.

He knew he would see the light, for it would be dark before he passed the spoil bank, almost before he reached the entrance to the gap – the natural gateway to the ‘White Virgin’ mine.

And how prosperous the place had proved! How correct the dear old dad had been! But how bitterly he would have resented Jessop’s interference!

Clive laughed almost mockingly, as he thought of the vote of thanks to Mr Jessop Reed, carried at the meeting with acclaim, for the vast improvements he had made, and the increasing prosperity, all of which were, of course, the natural growth of his own beginnings.

“Never mind,” he said directly after; “let the poor wretch enjoy the satisfaction of having tricked me. Better be Esau than Jacob, after all. But I knew that lode must prove of enormous value, and I get my share of the prosperity.”

He walked on more rapidly, but with a free, easy swing, enjoying the fresh mountain air, so bracing after the stuffy heat of the sun-baked London streets. The heavens had grown grey in the west, and it was as if a soft dark veil were being drawn over the sky, where from time to time a pale star twinkled, disappeared, and came into sight again.

Then the gap was reached, and a strong desire came over him to go down and look about to see how the place appeared, for the chances were that he would not be heeded. But no: he resisted the desire. His brother and Sturgess might be back, and staying late at the office, when a meeting would probably lead to a fierce quarrel.

“Just when I want to be calm and happy, ready to take my darling in my arms,” he said softly. “Poor Janet! I thought I loved you very dearly, but I did not know then that my fancy for the poor, weak, unhappy girl was not love.”

He walked faster, for it was as if there was a magnet at the cottage, and its attractive power was growing stronger as he went along the shelf path, round by the spoil bank, and on in the darkness to the path notched in the perpendicular side of the rugged hill.

“Just the time for a cigarette,” he said; and he took one, replaced his case, and then taking advantage of the sheltered tunnel close by the cavernous part where Sturgess had watched and waited for his return, he prepared to light up in the still calm air away from the brisk breeze outside.

The box was in his hand; he had taken out a little wax match to strike, when he stopped short as if turned to stone, for there, close by him, he heard in a low murmur —

“Yes, I knew that you would come.”

Dinah’s voice; and as he struck the match and it flashed out into a vivid glare, there, within two yards, she stood clasped tightly in his brother Jessop’s arms.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Divided

Jessop started aside in abject fear, and made a rush to escape by passing his brother in the narrow path, but, with a cry of rage, Clive struck at him.

The blow was ineffective to a certain extent, but was sufficient to make Jessop stumble and fall forward heavily. Before, however, his brother could seize him, he had scrambled up and ran along that shelf-like path as if for his life, while, as Clive started in pursuit, mad almost with despair and rage, a low, piteous, sobbing cry arrested him, and he turned back into the dark tunnel with his temples throbbing, his eyes feeling as if on fire, and a strange mad desire to kill thrilling every nerve.

“Clive, Clive! what have I done!” came out of the darkness; and quick as lightning his arms went out, and he caught the speaker savagely by the shoulders, his hands closing violently upon the soft yielding muscles, and then falling helplessly to his sides, as if that touch had discharged every particle of force with which he was throbbing.

“Clive,” she cried; “I thought – your message – oh, speak to me.”

“Silence!” he cried, in a low harsh voice, which made her tremble. But the next moment, wild with excitement – and as they stood there in the darkness, face to face, but invisible one to the other – she stepped towards him, and caught his arm in turn.

“Clive, dear,” she cried wildly. “Oh, for God’s sake, speak to me! You don’t think – ”

“Think!” he cried, with a furious, mocking laugh. “Yes, I think all women are alike – a curse to the man who is idiot enough to believe.”

She drew a long, sobbing breath as she shrank from him now, the words of explanation which had leaped to her lips checked on the instant by the shame and indignation with which she was filled; and the next moment she was like stone in her despair.

“I am sorry that I returned so soon,” he said, in a bitter, sneering tone; “but I have some respect for the poor old Major – even now. Come back.”

She did not speak, but he could hear her breath come in a short, quick, catching way.

“You hear me?” he said harshly. “Come back to your father now; but don’t speak to me, or the mad feeling may rise again. I cannot answer for myself.”

“Take me home,” she said, in tones that he did not recognise as hers, and once more the furious rage within him flashed up like fire, as in his wild, jealous indignation he cried —

“And him of all men. Quick! Back to the cottage first.”

He caught her wrist now so fiercely that the pain was almost unbearable, but she did not shrink. The suffering seemed to clear her brain, and in a flash she saw a horror that made her tremble.

“Clive,” she cried excitedly, “what are you going to do?”

He laughed bitterly.

“Perhaps what you think,” he said. “Likely enough. What should the man do to one who robs him twice. Why not? There is not room for two such brothers upon earth.”

She panted to speak, but no words came for a time, as with her wrist prisoned with a grasp of iron, she let him lead her back toward the cottage half a mile away – out now from the rock cutting, to where the stars shone down upon them with their calm, peaceful glimmer, as if there were no such thing as human passion upon earth.

At last she spoke.

“Clive, you will not hear me,” she pleaded now, as her womanly indignation was swept away by the great horror she saw looming up before her.

“No,” he said, “I will not hear you. I know enough. Are you trembling for your lover’s life?”

“Oh!” she ejaculated, and she made an effort to snatch away her wrist; but the ring around it grew tighter as they walked on now in silence, till in her dread, as the icy perspiration gathered upon her forehead, she stopped short and faced him.

“I would not speak,” she said, in a low hurried voice. “You should go on thinking me everything that was false and bad. I would not say a word to show how you are misjudging me.”

He laughed scornfully.

“But I will not have you go in your mad anger and ignorance to commit some act for which you would repent to your dying day.”

“Only a short time of suffering, perhaps,” he said mockingly.

“Oh, Clive! you of all men to misjudge me so,” she moaned. “Let me tell you all.”

“Hah!” he ejaculated, as he fiercely swung her round and continued his walk, half dragging her beside him as if she were a prisoner.

“You do not know, dear – there: I call you dear,” she whispered, in her sweet, soft, caressing voice. “You are hurting me terribly with your cruel grasp, but it is nothing to the agony you make me suffer by believing I could be so deceitful and base.”

He laughed mockingly again, and she drew in her breath with a low sigh, as a wave of hot indignation mastered her once more, and closed her lips.

But love prevailed once more. She stopped, and tried to fling herself upon his breast, clinging wildly to him with the arm that was free.

“No, no; Clive, my own love, my hero, I would rather that you killed me than believed all this.”

He repulsed her with a cry of disgust, and again there was the low sighing sound of her breath, but she went on again —

“I forgive you, dear,” she said hurriedly. “You are my own; I am yours. I gave myself heart and soul to you, Clive, and you shall hear me.”

He tried to drag her onward along the path, but she would not stir, and nothing but the most cruel violence would have moved her then, as she went on.

“Something tries to make me say ‘Go on in your disbelief, for you are cruel, and do not deserve my love!’ but I must, I will speak. Kill me, then, if you will not believe. It would be so easy. There,” she cried; and she took a step before him right to the edge of the path where the precipice went perpendicularly down to the rough stones among which the river gurgled three hundred feet below.

He made a snatch to drag her back, but she resisted him and stood firm.

“I was sitting at home – alone,” she said hurriedly, “when the man brought your message.”

“My message!” he cried, with a mocking laugh.

“Yes; your telegram with its few words which sent joy to my weary heart, as I waited for news of him I loved.”

“My telegram!” he said, with the same low, harsh laugh. “There, back home to your father, woman. I believed, but I am awake now, and can be fooled no more.”

She struggled with herself again, and panted wildly.

“You must, you shall believe me, dear. I forgive you all this because I know it is your great love for me, and you think I have deceived you. Yes; I know what you must feel, dear, and so I beat down all my cruel anger, and humble myself like this in my pity for you and despair. I read your dear words.”

“My words! I sent no telegram. I came down hurrying to be once more at the side of the woman who in my folly I believed to be a saint. I come and I find her clasped in the arms of my greatest enemy – my own brother – and you talk to me like this.”

She uttered a low, piteous wail, and the struggle within her was intense.

“Yes, it is true; you sent me that message – ‘Coming down by the three six train to Blinkdale. Meet me along the high path.’”

“It is false,” he cried hastily.

“No, no,” she cried, as her hand went to the bosom of her dress, and she snatched out a crumpled-up piece of paper. “Take it and read.”

He made a fierce clutch at the paper she held out in the darkness, half to take it, half to strike it from her hand, as only part of some miserable deceit, and the latter act was successful, for it fell down the side of the precipice – down toward the river surging on its way.

She muttered a wild cry, and then went on quickly.

“It was late – my father had gone out, but I would not disappoint you, Clive; and I came on, shivering as I found it would soon be dark; but I knew that your strong arms would soon be round me to protect me, and I hurried on, till there in the darkest part I felt that you were waiting for me, and – that is all.”

Her hurried, passionate words ceased, and she ended her explanation with those three feeble, lame, to him inconclusive, words. Then yielding herself to his pressure, she walked on by his side, broken, exhausted by her emotion, dumb now, as she waited for him to speak. She waited in vain till the river side was reached, and from lower down in the darkness there came a cheery whistle as the Major was returning from the long walk into which he had been drawn by his ill success.

Clive Reed’s nerves twitched, but he turned rapidly through the garden with Dinah half fainting, and ready to cling to one of the supports of the porch as he at last set her free.

“What – Clive – dearest,” she whispered faintly – “tell me – what are you going to do?”

He bent down with his lips close to her ear, and whispered sharply —

“Kill him – or he shall me.”

Then, with a hurried step he sprang up through the higher part of the garden in and out among the shrubs and bushes, climbed on to the very top, and struck out over the mountain slopes.

Dinah listened till the rustling sounds he made died away, and then, hot and trembling, she went up slowly to her room, and sat down with her face buried in her hands; but there was no relief – the source of her tears was dry.

Clive took a short cut across the rugged moorland, and twice over he narrowly escaped death. The first time he was pulled up short by coming violently in the darkness against the rough, unmortared wall built up round an ancient shaft on the mine land; and as he checked himself by grasping the loose stones, one of them fell over and went down and down, striking once against the side, and sending a chill through him as a reverberating roar came up, followed at a short interval by a dull echoing splash, after which he could hear the water hiss and suck against the sides, sending up strange whisperings, which sounded to his disturbed imagination like demoniacal confidences about Dinah Gurdon and his brother.

He hurried away, as another stone was dislodged, and the sullen plunge came to his ear when he was yards distant, tearing along in the most reckless way, to trip at last over a stone and fall headlong down one of the deep gully-like ravines with which the mountain land was scored.

He caught at a rough projection, against which he struck, and held on while a little avalanche of stones continued falling; then half-stunned and trembling from the shock, crept back again to proceed more cautiously along the edge of the gully, making for the path once more, fully awake now to the fact that it was utter madness to attempt to cross that region in the darkness.

“Not yet,” he muttered, with a savage laugh, “I must square accounts with brother Jessop first.”

Then he laughed as he wiped away the blood which had trickled down like perspiration from a cut in the forehead, and which came like a blessing in disguise, relieving, as it bled freely, the tension upon his overcharged brain; for if ever man was on the border-line which stretches between sanity and utter madness, Clive Reed was then.

“Of course,” he said, “I am a fool, a pitiful, childlike fool, ever to imagine that a light-hearted girl would care for such a dreamy student as I – a man whose whole conversation is about mines and shares, and money. I had my lesson with Janet, who tolerated me, as long as she could, for her father’s sake; but I would not take it, and went on in my folly once more. Jessop again! Of course: the good-looking, well-dressed, plausible scoundrel. They always said he was a ladies’ man, and the more infidelities proved against such a one, the more attractive he becomes, I suppose.”

“Ah!” he ejaculated savagely, “what is it to me? It shall not be for that, but for the money. If I want an idol, it shall be gold, and he is trying to rob me of it.”

He struggled on, stumbling in the darkness over stones and tufts of heather, till he reached a rift which led sloping to the pathway close by the tunnel-like notch, and as he let himself down on to the firm, level way, he ran through the dark part with his hands holding his head as if to keep it from bursting with the agonising memories of what he had witnessed that night, a scene photographed upon his brain by that sharp flash of light before all was black darkness – a darkness which now enshrouded his soul.

“But I must be cool and strong,” he muttered, as he subsided into a walk once more, and went steadily on toward the entrance to the mine gap with a confused idea in his head that he would hunt down his brother, bring him to bay, and then —

Yes – and then? His brain carried him no farther. Something was to happen then to one of them; and he only muttered an insane, mocking laugh, and either could not or would not try to plunge into the future.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Another Stroke

“Where’s your mistress, Martha?” said the Major, as he entered the cottage, and handed the old servant the creel. “What – has Mr Reed come?”

“No, sir,” said the old woman, shaking her head, as she opened the basket, and looked at the three brace of handsome trout lying in a bed of freshly-plucked heather. “Poor girl! she has been wandering about in the garden and in the path this hour past, and only came in when it was quite dark. I heard her go up into her bedroom and lock the door, and I could hear her sobbing as if her heart would break.”

“Tut – tut – tut!” ejaculated the Major, as he glanced at his watch. “Humph, too late for him to get here this evening.”

“Shall I cook the trout, sir?” asked Martha.

“Cook them? Yes, two, woman, of course. I’m starving. I’ve been miles and miles to get them. I want some supper as soon as you can. Dear, dear!” he said softly, as the servant went out, “what a nuisance this love is! I shall be glad when they’re married.”

“No, I shall not,” he said to himself after a pause. “Poor child! She was reckoning so on seeing him to-night.”

He took a turn up and down his little room, and then sought for and filled his pipe.

“Finest lot of trout I’ve caught for months. I should have liked the boy to be here. – Poor little lassie!” he sighed, “how she loves him. Well, he’s a fine fellow and worthy of her.”

He struck the match, raised it to his pipe, and threw it down again, placed his newly-filled pipe on the chimneypiece, and went softly into the passage and upstairs to the door of Dinah’s room, where he tapped, and again before his child answered.

“Coming down, my darling? Supper will be ready directly.”

“Don’t ask me, dear,” she said. “I am so unwell to-night.”

“Her voice is quite changed,” thought the Major. “She must have been crying bitterly.” Then aloud —

“But, Dinah, my dear, don’t, pray don’t take on like this. Come, come, be a dear, strong-minded little woman. Business has stopped him. He’ll be here to-morrow I daresay. Come, I say. I shall be so lonely without your dear face at the table.”

The door was opened softly, a little white hand stole out through the narrow crack, and played about his face for a few minutes caressingly before it was withdrawn.

“I cannot – indeed I cannot come down,” she whispered tenderly; and the hand stole out again, and its back was laid against his lips, for him to kiss it lovingly. “Indeed I am unwell and must lie down again. My head is unbearable.”

“Very well, my dear,” said the Major sadly. “But, Dinah, my little one, don’t – try not to give way like this. Silly girl,” he continued, as he kissed the little white cold hand he held, and laughed. “I’ve a good mind to tell him what a love-sick little goose it is.”

The Major did not hear the piteous, broken-hearted sob which followed his words, for the door was closed, but went down and ate his supper alone: nor did he know of the sleepless night his child passed as she went over the events of the evening again and again till her head grew confused, her brain wild, and as she sank upon her knees with uplifted hands it was in a rebellious spirit, to ask what had she done that the love time of her young life should be turned to one of misery and despair.

Dinah’s pale drawn face and the dark rings about her eyes when she appeared at breakfast the next morning raised a feeling akin to resentment in the Major’s heart; but he said nothing, only kissed her tenderly, and making an effort to rouse her from her state of despondency, chatted pleasantly about his fishing adventures on the previous evening, and the cunning displayed by trout at that time of the year.

“I declare, my dear, that I was ready to give up over and over again. Their eyes are as sharp as a needle, and it was not until it was almost dark that I could get them to look at a fly, and then it was only at the very smallest gnat I could put on. Come,” he cried, as he tapped the plate upon which he had placed one of the broiled trout, “don’t let my poor fish spoil. They’re good for nervous headache, puss, and Master Clive has missed a treat.”

It was hard work to preserve her composure and gratify the old man by eating a little, but Dinah tried, and succeeded, saying to herself the while – “He will come soon and ask me to forgive him for all his cruel thoughts and words, and I ought to hold back and refuse, but I cannot. For, poor love, what he must have suffered. I should have been as mad and cruel had I seen him holding another to his heart. I could not bear it – I should die.”

She brightened up a little then, as the Major chatted on, but she did not hear a word, for she was fighting a feeling of resentment against her betrothed and beating it down, her eyes losing their dull, filmy look as she thought of that meeting to come when he would be asking her to forgive him, and she told him that she had never had a thought of love that was not his, never could have one that was not loyal and true to the man who had first increased the beating of her pulses.

Then, all at once, she gave a violent start, and dropped the cup she held into its saucer.

“Why, what is the matter now, darling?” cried the Major, as he saw her eyes half close and her pale face flush to the very temples.

She made a quick gesture toward the open window.

“Well, what does that mean?” cried the Major. “You are as nervous as an old woman. There is nothing there. By George, there is. What ears you have! How has he managed it? Here, quick! Ring and tell Martha to bring a cup and saucer, and to broil another trout. He’ll be as hungry as a hunter after his morning’s walk.”

For steps were perfectly audible now coming along the stony path; but Dinah did not spring from her chair to hurry out and meet their visitor, but sank back, with the flush dying out once more, leaving her face almost ghastly, as her heart told her that Clive was not coming to ask her forgiveness. It was not his quick, impatient step; and the endorsement of her thoughts came directly from just outside the window, through which the Major had hurriedly stepped.

“Morning, Mr Robson,” he cried. “I thought it was Mr Reed. Good heavens, man, what’s wrong?”

“I hardly know, sir,” said the young man hastily. “Two of our men coming to work this morning found him in a cleft, bruised and bleeding from a cut on the head.”

“A fall?” cried the Major.

“No, sir. Been set upon and half murdered, I’m afraid. Ah, Miss Gurdon! I’m very sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

For Dinah had just made her appearance at the window, having heard every word.

Chapter Thirty Five.

With their own Petard

“Go on,” cried the Major excitedly; “she must hear it now. Hold up, my child, only an accident – a slip: trying to make some short cut in the dark. Now, then,” he continued, with military promptitude, “when did they find him?”

Dinah listened with her head held forward, lips white and trembling, and her nostrils dilated, hearing her father’s words, and all the time picturing, in imagination, a desperate encounter between two brothers on the dark hillside. Then the one misjudging, bitter, and mad about her, struck down, to lie through the night half dead, with upbraidings against her upon his lips.