The Squire's Daughter Part 22

"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 kins.h.i.+p between them. The only drawback to any sort of friends.h.i.+p 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 a.s.suming, 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.