GATHERING CLOUDS
The following afternoon Sir John went for a walk in the plantation alone. He was in a very perturbed and anxious condition of mind. Lord Probus had taken his advice, and refused to accept Dorothy's "No" as final; but that by no means settled the matter. He feared that at best it had only postponed the evil day for a few weeks. What if she continued in the same frame of mind? What if she had conceived any kind of romantic attachment for young Penlogan, into whose arms she had been thrown more than once?
Of course, Dorothy would never dream of any alliance with a Penlogan. She was too well bred for that, and had too much regard for the social order. But all the same, such an attachment would put an end to Lord Probus's hopes. She would be eternally contrasting the two men, and she would elect to remain a spinster until time had cured her of her love-sickness. In the meanwhile he would be upon the rocks financially, or in some position even worse than that.
"It is most annoying," he said to himself, with knitted brows and clenched hands, "most confoundedly annoying, and all because of that young scoundrel Penlogan. If I could only wring his neck or get him clear out of the district it would be some satisfaction."
The next moment the sound of snapping twigs fell distinctly on his ear. He turned suddenly and caught a momentary glimpse of a white face peering over a hedge.
"By Heaven, it's that scoundrel Penlogan!" was the thought that darted suddenly through his mind. The next moment there was a flash, a report, a stinging pain in his left arm and cheek, and then a moment of utter mental confusion.
He recovered himself in a moment or two and took to his heels. He had been shot, he knew, but with what effect he could not tell. His left arm hung limply by his side and felt like a burning coal. His cheek was smarting intolerably, but the extent of the damage he had no means of ascertaining. He might be fatally hurt for all he knew. Any moment he might fall dead in the road, and the young villain who had shot him might go unpunished.
"I must prevent that if possible," he said to himself, as he kept running at the top of his speed. "I must hold out till I get home. Oh, I do hope my strength will not fail me! It's a terrible thing to be done to death in this way."
The perspiration was running in streams down his face. His breath came and went in gasps, but he never slackened his pace for a moment; and still as he ran the conviction grew and deepened in his mind that a deliberate attempt had been made to murder him.
He came within sight of the house at length, and began to shout at the top of his voice—
"Help! help! Murder! Be quick——"
The coachman and the stable boy, who happened to be discussing politics in the yard at the moment, took to their heels and both ran in the same direction. They came upon their master, hatless and exhausted, and were just in time to catch him in their arms before he sank to the ground.
"Oh, I've been murdered!" he gasped. "Think of it, murdered in my own plantation! Carry me home, and then go for the doctor and the police. That young Penlogan shall swing for this."
"But you can't be murdered, master," the coachman said soothingly, "for you're alive and able to talk."
"But I'm nearly done for," he groaned. "I feel my life ebbing away fast. Get me home as quickly as you can. I hope I'll live till the policeman comes."
The two men locked hands, and made a kind of chair for their master, and then marched away towards the house.
Sir John talked incessantly all the distance.
"If I die before I get home," he said, "don't forget what I am telling you. Justice must be done in a case like this. Won't there be a sensation in the county when people learn that I was deliberately murdered in my own plantation!"
"But why should Ralph Penlogan want to murder you?" the coachman queried.
"Why? Don't ask me. He came to the house the day his father died and threatened me. I saw murder in his eyes then. I believe he would have murdered me in my own library if he had had the chance. But make haste, for my strength is ebbing out rapidly."
"I don't think you are going to die yet, sir," the coachman said cheerfully.
"Oh, I don't know! I feel very strange. I keep praying that I may live to get home and give evidence before the proper authorities. It seems very strange that I should come to my end this way."
"But you may recover, sir," the stable boy interposed. "There's never no knowing what may happen in this world."
"Please don't talk to me," he said petulantly. "You are wasting time while you talk. I want to compose my mind. It's an awfully solemn thing to be murdered, but he shall swing for it as sure as I'm living at this moment! Don't you think you can hurry a little faster?"
Sir John had considerably recovered by the time they reached the house, and was able to walk upstairs and even to undress with assistance.
While waiting for the doctor, Dorothy came and sat by his side. She was very pale, but quite composed. Hers was one of those natures that seemed to gather strength in proportion to the demands made upon it. She never fainted or lost her wits or became hysterical. She met the need of the moment with a courage that rarely failed her.
"Ah, Dorothy," he said, in impressive tones, "I never thought I should come to this, and at the hands of a dastardly assassin."
"But are you sure it was not an accident, father?" she questioned gently.
"Accident?" he said, and his eyes blazed with anger. "Has it come to this, that you would screen the man who has murdered your father?"
"Let us not use such a word until we are compelled," she replied, in the same gentle tones. "You may not be hurt as much as you fear."
"Whether I am hurt much or little," he said, "the intention was there. If I am not dead, the fault is not his."
"But are you sure it was he who fired at you?"
"As sure as I can be of anything in this world. Besides, who else would do it? He threatened me the day his father died."
"Threatened to murder you?"
"Not in so many words, but he had murder in his eyes."
"But why should he want to do you any harm? You never did any harm to him."
For a moment or two Sir John hesitated. Should he clench his argument by supplying the motive? He would never have a better opportunity for destroying at a single blow any romantic attachment that she may have cherished. Destroy her faith in Ralph Penlogan—the handsome youth with pleasant manners—and her heart might turn again to Lord Probus.
But while he hesitated the door opened, and Dr. Barrow came hurriedly into the room, followed by a nurse.
Dorothy raised a pair of appealing eyes to the doctor's face, and then stole sadly down to the drawing-room to await the verdict.
As yet her faith in Ralph Penlogan remained unshaken. She had seen a good deal of him during the last few weeks, and the more she had seen of him the more she had admired him. His affection for his mother and sister, his solicitude for their comfort and welfare, his anxiety to take from their shoulders every burden, his impatience to get well so that he might step into his dead father's place and be the bread-winner of the family, had touched her heart irresistibly. She felt that a man could not be bad who was so good to his mother and so kind and chivalrous to his sister.
Whether or no she had done wisely in going to the Penlogans' cottage was a question she was not quite able to answer. Ostensibly she had gone to see Mrs. Penlogan, who had not yet recovered from the shock caused by her husband's death, and yet she was conscious of a very real sense of disappointment if Ralph was not visible.
That she should be interested in him was the most natural thing in the world. They had been thrown together in no ordinary way. They had succoured each other in times of very real peril—had each been the other's good angel. Hence it would be folly to pretend the indifference of absolute strangers. Socially, their lives lay wide as the poles asunder, and yet there might be a very true kinship between them. The only drawback to any sort of friendship was the confession she had unwittingly listened to while he lay dazed and unconscious in the plantation.
How much it amounted to she did not know. Probably nothing. It was said that people in delirium spoke the exact opposite of what they meant. Ralph had reiterated that he hated her father. Probably he did nothing of the kind. Why should he hate him? At any rate, since he began to get better he had said nothing, as far as she was aware, that would convey the remotest impression of such a feeling. His words respecting herself probably had no more meaning or value, and she made an honest effort to forget them.
She had questioned him as to what he could remember after the branch of the tree struck him. But he remembered nothing till the following day. For twenty-four hours his mind was a complete blank, and he was quite unsuspicious that he had spoken a single word to anyone. And yet, try as she would, whenever she was in his presence, his words kept recurring to her. There might be a worse tragedy in his life than that which had already occurred.
These thoughts kept chasing each other like lightning through her brain, as she sat waiting for the verdict of the doctor.
He came at length, and she rose at once to meet him.
"Well, doctor?" she questioned. "Let me know the worst."
She saw that there was a perplexed and even troubled look in his eyes, and she feared that her father was more seriously hurt than she had imagined.
"There is no immediate danger," he said, taking her hands and leading her back to her seat. They were great friends, and she trusted him implicitly.
She gave a little sigh of relief and waited for him to speak again.
"The main volume of the charge just missed him," he went on, after a pause. "Had he been an inch or two farther to the left, the chances are he would never have spoken again."
"But you think that he will get better?"
"Well, yes. I see no cause for apprehension. His left shoulder and arm are badly speckled, no doubt, but I don't think any vital part has been touched."
Dorothy sighed again, and for a moment or two there was silence. Then she said, with evident effort—
"But what about—about—young Penlogan?"
"Ah, that I fear is a more serious matter," he answered, with averted eyes. "I sincerely trust that your father is mistaken."
"You are not sure that he is?"
"It seems as if one can be sure of nothing in this world," he answered slowly and evasively, "and yet I could have trusted Ralph Penlogan with my life."
"Does father still persist that it was he?"
"He is quite positive, and almost gets angry if one suggests that he may have been mistaken."
"Well, doctor, and what will all this lead to?" she questioned, making a strong effort to keep her voice steady.
"For the moment I fear it must lead to young Penlogan's arrest. There seems no way of escaping that. Your father's depositions will be taken as soon as Mr. Tregonning arrives. Then, of course, a warrant will be issued, and most likely Penlogan will spend to-night in the police-station—unless——" Then he paused suddenly and looked out of the window.
"Unless what, doctor?"
"Well, unless he has tried to get away somewhere. It will be dark directly, and under cover of darkness he might get a long distance."
"But that would imply that he is guilty?"
"Well—yes. I am assuming, of course, that he deliberately shot at your father."
"Which I am quite sure he did not do."
"I have the same conviction myself, and yet he made no secret of the fact that he hated your father."
"But why should he hate my father?"
"You surely know——" Then he hesitated.
"I know nothing," she answered. "What is the ground of his dislike?"
"Ah, here is Mr. Tregonning's carriage," he said, in a tone of relief. "Now I must run away. Keep your heart up, and don't worry any more than you can help."
For several moments she walked up and down the room with a restless yet undecided step. Then she made suddenly for the door, and three minutes later she might have been seen hurrying along the drive in the swiftly gathering darkness as fast as her feet could carry her.
"I'll see him for myself," she said, with a resolute light in her eyes. "I'll get the truth from his own lips. I'm sure he will not lie to me."
It was quite dark when she reached the village, save for the twinkling lights in cottage windows.
She met a few people, but no one recognised her, enveloped as she was in a heavy cloak. For a moment or two she paused before the door of the Penlogans' cottage. Her heart was beating very fast, and she felt like a bird of evil omen. If Ralph was innocent, then he knew nothing of the trouble that was looming ahead, and she would be the petrel to announce the coming storm.
She gave a timid rat-tat at the door, and after a moment or two it was opened by Ruth.
"Why, Miss Dorothy!" And Ruth started back in surprise.
"Is your brother at home?" Dorothy questioned, with a little gasp.
"Why, yes. Won't you come in?"
"Would you mind asking him to come to the door. I have only a moment or two to spare."
"You had better come into the passage," Ruth said, "and I will go at once and tell him you are here."
Dorothy stepped over the threshold and stood under the small lamp that lighted the tiny hall.
In a few moments Ralph stood before her, his cheeks flushed, and an eager, questioning light in his eyes.
She looked at him eagerly for a moment before she spoke, and could not help thinking how handsome he looked.
"I have come on a strange errand," she said, speaking rapidly, "and I fear there is more trouble in store for you. But tell me first, have you ever lifted a finger against my father?"
"Never, Miss Dorothy! Why do you ask?"
"And you have never planned, or purposed, or attempted to do him harm?"
"Why, no, Miss Dorothy. Why should you think of such a thing?"
"My father was shot this afternoon in Treliskey Plantation. He saw a face for a moment peering over a hedge; the next moment there was a flash and a report, and a part of the charge entered his left arm and shoulder. He is in bed now, and Mr. Tregonning is taking his depositions. He vows that it was your face that he saw peering over the hedge—that it was you who shot him."
Ralph's face grew ashen while she was speaking, and a look almost of terror crept into his eyes. The difficulty and peril of his position revealed themselves in a moment. How could he prove that Sir John Hamblyn was mistaken?
"But you do not believe it, Miss Dorothy?" he questioned.
"You tell me that you are innocent?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
"I am as innocent as you are," he said; and he looked frankly and appealingly into her eyes.
For a moment or two she looked at him in silence, then she said in the same low tone—
"I believe you." And she held out her hand to him, and then turned towards the door.
He had a hundred things to say to her, but somehow the words would not come. He watched her cross the threshold and pass out into the darkness, and he stood still and had not the courage to follow her. It would have been at least a neighbourly thing to see her to the lodge gates, for the night was unillumined by even a star, but his lips refused to move. He stood stock-still, as if riveted to the ground.
How long he remained there staring into the darkness he did not know. Time and place were swallowed up and lost. He was conscious only of the steady approach of an overwhelming calamity. It was gathering from every point of the compass at the same time. It was wrapping him round like a sable pall. It was obliterating one by one every star of hope and promise.
Ruth came to look for him at length, and she uttered a little cry when she saw him, for his face was like the face of the dead.