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white hand stole out through the narrow crack, and played about his face for a few minutes caressingly before it was withdrawn.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