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.