Chapter Twenty One.
Alarm Notes.
Dinah Gurdon sat near the shaded lamp with her eyes directed toward the open window, and her face transformed by the thoughts within her breast. For the love-light burned brilliantly in those softened eyes, and the happy, satisfied look of one restful and content was there.
The Major sat back watching her, with his brow wrinkled and perplexed by his troubled thoughts as the clouds floated by, now shadowing the sunshine of his life, now making it look the brighter as they passed away and left it clear.
For there were thoughts within that were quite new. Naturally he had felt that the time would some day come when a man would step between them and take away his child’s love; but this had seemed to be something belonging to the future, and when the new manager of the mine crossed his path, and the friendly feeling had increased, he, the father, had gone on blindly, never thinking of the possible result, or, at most, giving the idea but a passing thought as something too absurd to retain. And now the true facts of the case had come upon him like a thunder-clap, and he sat thinking over the events of the evening and watching his child. Now he was happy, rejoicing and satisfied that her choice should have fallen upon so frank and manly a fellow; now his selfish feelings were aroused and mingled with a kind of petty jealousy that made him sigh with discontent, and then task himself mentally in his annoyance that he could be so unfair.
He spoke at last, after waiting to see whether Dinah would awaken from her pleasant dream to the present, and it was in a teasing, half-malicious strain that he said—
“I hope that fellow will not go making short cuts to-night, and break his neck down one of the old shafts.—Dinah, my own darling! Don’t, pray, look like that,” he cried, as he sprang from his seat and caught her in his arms. For she had started up with her hands to her heart, pale as death, her eyes wild and strange, and her lips apart and blanched.
“There, there!” he whispered, as he held her to his breast. “I was only teasing you. It was all nonsense. No, no; don’t sob like that. Why, my pet, you are weak still, and as nervous as can be. It was only a joke. He is too keen and clever to make a mistake.”
She clung to him, fighting hard to suppress her hysterical sobs, till she grew calmer, but she clung to him still.
“Ah! that’s better,” he said tenderly, as he stroked her face and kissed her forehead. “That’s right. It was very brutal of me, but I never thought you would take my idle words amiss.”
He held her tightly to him, and felt the throbbing heart and heaving breast gradually calm down.
“Then you love him very dearly, Dinah?”
She raised her pale face, and looked full in his eyes, gazing at him in silence for a few minutes before she replied simply—
“Yes, father, I love him very dearly.”
The Major drew a long breath as he nodded his head slowly.
“Yes,” he said, “and it is a different love to that of a child for her father. It will not make any difference, dear? I know; you need not tell me. I shall not grow to be a lonely, desolate old man.” Dinah’s arms stole round his neck, and she laid her cheek to his.
“You know that, dear,” she whispered. “How could it make any difference to us?”
“No; it can make no difference, my darling, save make me the happier. But only to think of it. Which of us could have said a few months ago that our quiet life here would be changed as it has been, I turning into a greedy speculator and holder of mining shares, the most ephemeral of property, and you giving your treasure to this base intruder—no, no, I mean this prince in disguise, who came to the castle to ask for my hospitality. Ah! we can’t see into the future.”
“Why did you buy those shares, dear?” asked Dinah, as she rested her head upon his shoulder.
“Hang the shares! they are an excitement and worry. No, no, they are not. It’s quite right. I’ll tell you: I bought them because I wanted my darling to be independent and far above want when I go away on the long journey!”
“Father!” cried Dinah wildly.
“Hush, my pet. Nervous again: I can feel your heart beating. Why, of course I must go some day. And now this Clive Reed has somehow got hold of my confidence as well as yours. I trust him, you see, just as you do, my darling, and—and, Dinah, he’s a fine fellow, a fine, true-hearted, manly fellow, and—and I won’t be a miserable, selfish old man, but happy and contented, and glad that my darling’s choice has fallen upon so genuine a man. There! do you hear, my pet? I am heartily glad, for I like him. God bless him! God bless you both!”
The arms clung more tightly round the Major’s neck, and a shower of kisses fell upon his cheeks and lips.
“It’s quite right, Di—quite right. You are growing strong and well again. He has done you good. There is no reason whatever why you should not love him, and make him the best of wives.”
Dinah’s arms relaxed a little, and her cheeks, which had begun to flush, once more turned deadly pale.
“There is no just cause or impediment why you should not love him and be loved. But not yet, Di, not yet.”
The Major did not see the frightened look at that moment as it intensified in his daughter’s eyes, but he did directly after as the dog’s chain was heard to rattle and it burst into a furious baying.
“Confound it! there must be some one about,” said the Major angrily. “There, there! don’t turn white like that.”
“No, no, don’t, don’t go,” whispered Dinah, clinging to him.
“Not go? Why, you little coward, I must go. Where’s my stick? It’s one of those mining scamps.” Dinah shuddered.
“After eggs or chickens, for a sovereign.”
“Don’t—don’t go, father,” whispered Dinah again, as she clung to him tightly.
“Not go? Why, what has come to you, Dinah? This will not do, little one. I have only to hurry out and scare anybody who is there into fits. Guilty conscience, you know.”
She stared at him wildly.
“Why, my darling, I thought you were getting over this nervousness,” he said tenderly. “You used not to be like this. Well, I will not go; but I must do something to scare him, whoever it is.” She made no answer, but clung to him half fainting, and he helped her to a chair, noticing the while that she was gazing excitedly towards the open window.
The dog was silent now, but as the Major went and shouted a few angry words it responded with a sharp, clear bark or two, and its master returned.
“Scared away without my help,” said the Major, coming back again, and speaking lightly. “Come, come, this will not do! I shall have to tell Reed what a little coward you have grown. Why, you look as if you had seen a ghost. It’s all right now. Whoever it was has gone, or the dog would not have calmed down. Nothing stolen this time, I’ll venture to swear. There,” he cried, as he shut the window and closed the shutters before turning to where Dinah sat fighting hard to be calm, and noticing that she uttered a sigh as if of relief, “if you turn like this, my dear, I shall begin to think that we are living in a lonely spot too secluded for you, and look out for a place in town.”
“No, no, I’m better now,” she said, turning to her father with a smile.
“Of course you are, my dear. There’s a sturdy protector, too, for us now, eh? There, there,” he cried, bending down to kiss her. “Go to bed; you’re a bit overdone, my darling; this has been an exciting evening—enough to upset any one’s nerves. I’m off my balance too. First, I have had to deal with one marauder who comes to steal my little ewe lamb, and I get rid of him to be permitted to keep her a little longer; and then comes another would-be thief. Dinah! my darling child!” he cried, as she rose to fling herself into his arms and cling to him more agitated and overcome than ever. “There, there, I must play doctor. Dose for soothing the nerves; eight hours’ sound sleep. The medicine to be taken instantly. Off with you. Good-night.”
Dinah passionately returned his embrace, and hurried to her room, but not to sleep. The nervous excitement kept her wakeful hour after hour, with the intense longing to shelter herself in her lover’s arms; and all the time a fierce lurid pair of eyes seemed to be watching her, and, as plainly as if the words had been spoken by her ear, she heard a rough, deep voice whispering, “It’s no use, little one. No one is coming betwixt us two.”
As she lay in her bed, too, she fancied she could hear the man’s firm step patrolling the paths about the place.
But Michael Sturgess was a couple of miles away, though he had been down to the cottage, and so close that he could look in and see that his chief was not there still. For there were bounds to the man’s patient doggedness, and he had grown wearied out at last, when Clive Reed had taken a short cut over the mountain, home, and did not return by the spoil bank and the shelf-like path.
Still Dinah Gurdon could not know this as she lay there, torn by the mental fever which made her temples throb.
Loved—loved by one who idolised her, and who had made her heart awaken and unfold to the true meaning of the great passion of human life. He loved her as she loved him, and she had let him press her in his arms; she had thrilled beneath his kisses, and all as in a dream of joy and delight. Safe, too, with him near to cherish and protect. Then he had left her, and the old cloud of horror and dread had come back, and with it the still small voice of conscience out of the darkness of her heart. Ought she not to have spoken? Ought she not to have whispered to her father, or failing him, to have confided in their old servant—the only woman near—the terror of that day, and how she had been haunted since?
Always the same reply as her woman’s heart rebelled and shrank from the confession. How could she? She dared not. She would sooner have died than made the avowal, while there before her, looming up, the precursors of a storm, were the black clouds of the future, and Michael Sturgess’s words vibrating always in her ears.