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?"