Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Eighteen.Some one in Eden.“Jessop!” cried Clive, in a voice full of astonishment and anger.“Yes, old fellow, Jessop. How are you? Quite a coincidence; Miss—Miss Gurdon, I think?” said the visitor, turning to Dinah. “I called here by accident on my way to find my brother, and he comes to me. Clive, old fellow, will you introduce me to this gentleman?”“Major Gurdon—my brother,” said Clive coldly.“Gurdon? Then you are papa,” cried Jessop boisterously.“Yes, sir, I am papa,” said the Major coldly.“Then I have to thank you, sir, as well as this young lady, for your kindly hospitality to a tired traveller. I had no idea that it was so far across from Matlock to the mine, or I would not have attempted to walk.”“Mr Clive Reed’s brother is quite welcome to any hospitality I can afford him,” said the Major, rather stiffly. “Pray make this your home during your stay.”Clive winced, and noticed as he changed his position that Dinah’s eyes were fixed upon him.“Oh, thank you. It is very good of you,” cried Jessop. “You see my brother is so much down here, that one can’t get a glimpse of him in town; so having a little business matter to settle with him, and wanting a bit of change, I thought I would run down for a day or two.”“A very wise proceeding,” said the Major quietly. “Our Derbyshire hills and dales are worth a good look. Dinah, my dear, these gentlemen have a little business to transact. The drawing-room is at your disposal. After you have done, we can have our chat, Mr Reed.”“Eh?” said Jessop.“I meant your brother,” said the Major, smiling; and, taking Dinah’s arm, he went slowly into the house, with Jessop watching them till they were out of sight.“By George, Clive, old fellow, you have good taste,” he said, with an unpleasant little laugh and a peculiar look.“You said that you had business with me, which brought you down. What is it?” cried Clive sternly.“Oh, come, that will do,” said Jessop. “Recollect that we’re brothers. What’s the good of your cutting up rough?”“What is your business?”“I’ll tell you directly. But look here, old fellow, aren’t you a bit greedy? You can’t have everything, you know. You’ve got all the old man’s money, and I knew that you were to have it, so wasn’t it natural that I should play for Janet?”“Will you state your business, sir?”“Sir? Oh, come, I say, isn’t it time to forget and forgive? I wanted Janet, and I won. You didn’t care much, or you wouldn’t have so jolly soon consoled yourself with another girl. I say, though, do they grow many wenches like that here?”Clive’s eyes blazed, and he felt as if he could strike his brother down where he stood; for he fancied him going back to his young wife, and sneeringly telling her of what he had seen. The thought of this made Clive’s blood boil; and his looks were so ominous that Jessop glanced covertly toward the door where the Major had entered.“Now, sir, if you please,” said Clive, in low and angry tones, “your business—what is it?”“Why, you know, old fellow,” cried Jessop, “Janet and I have been talking it over, and she is upset and shocked that we two, with our father only just cold in his grave, should be at enmity. She agreed that I ought to come down and make it up with you, so that we could meet like brothers again.”“Leave Janet’s name out of everything which you have to say to me,” said Clive, in a husky voice which betrayed how he was moved. “Man, have you no respect for your wife?”“Respect! Of course I have. Come, I say, when a fellow acts like a brother and comes down on purpose to make it up—”“You lie, sir,” said Clive, in a hoarse whisper, as he moved closer to his brother. “I have known you from a boy, Jessop, and I never found you suffer from pangs of fraternal affection. You have come down here for some purpose of your own—as a spy; but you will get no information from me, and under pain of dismissal no man will give you the information you seek.”“Well, of all—” began Jessop in an injured tone; but he said no more.“That will do, and I warn you that if you get speculating in any way over the shares of this company, it will be on your own knowledge. Take my advice, Jessop: leave me and my affairs alone, and, above all, leave this place to-morrow. If you do not, I shall be compelled to tell Major Gurdon that he is harbouring a treacherous scoundrel beneath his roof.”“Two can play at that game, Master Clive. What if I give the Major a few words of warning concerning his daughter?”“As many as you please, sir. He will choose between us,” said Clive sternly.“Not gammoning the poor old man into taking shares, are you?”Clive, gave so sudden a look that his brother laughed.“All right! I thought as much, my lad. Then you won’t shake hands?”Clive turned his back and walked into the cottage, gazing at Dinah with a newly awakened interest aroused by his brother’s words.Yes, she was very beautiful—it was the sad, pensive beauty of one who had known trouble, and a curious sensation attacked Clive as he listened to the Major, and then felt angry and ready to oppose. For the Major said—“Go and talk to our visitor, my dear. Show him the garden while Mr Clive Reed and I settle a little business.”Dinah smiled and went out. The next minute she walked by the window with Jessop, making the blood flush up into Clive’s face, as he now felt a shrinking regarding the taking of the money for the shares.It was all like a dream. The Major kept on talking, and Clive took the cheque given to him and placed it dreamily in his pocket, wondering the while whether his brother would try to depreciate the mine in his new friend’s eyes.And all the time he was listening for voices in the garden, and suffering agony at his brother’s presence near Dinah, till, making a savage effort over self, he forced himself to finish the business, and mastered the intense desire to go and watch the pair.“From what?” he asked himself. “Her father can protect her, and she is nothing to me.”Then he was seated, as if in a continuance of his dream, at the pleasant evening meal, noting his brother’s conversation as he tried to make himself agreeable, Dinah listening the while. But she met his eyes from time to time with a sweet, pleasant look of innocency; and it was only after making a fresh effort that he said good-night, and then suffered from a fresh pang. For the Major said he would walk half a mile with him, and did.“Dinah alone with my brother!” thought Clive, as he tried to grasp what the Major said, but did not comprehend a word.Then at parting—“I have been very rude to your brother,” said the Major. “Let me have my shares as soon as you can.”“Yes; he shall have his shares, and they shall double his income,” thought Clive.Walking as swiftly as he could, he soon reached the mine, and found Sturgess standing by the new cottage he occupied in his capacity of foreman and guardian of the place.The man seemed to be scowling savagely at him, or else it was the shadow cast by the porch as he stood listening to his chief’s words, nodding from time to time.“You understand: no one is to inspect the mine without my permission. No one is to have any information given to him whatever.”“Yes, I understand,” growled Sturgess.“I shall hold you accountable.”The man made no reply, and Clive continued his walk of two miles more over the hills, to the farmhouse where he lodged temporarily.“Hold me accountable, eh?” muttered Sturgess; and he went in and shut the door, to throw himself into a chair and sit gnawing portions of his thick beard.That night, when the mine gap was dark and still, a lanthorn was visible swinging here and there as it was borne towards the mouth of the pit, where it disappeared in the cage, and a dark shadowy figure followed it.“Sit fast!”“Stop!” came in a husky whisper; “how are we to get back?”“I can manage that. Not afraid, are you?”“Afraid!” was the scornful reply.“All right, then. Now, down.”The ingenious mechanism was started, and the two men, with their lanthorn, descended swiftly into the bowels of the earth, while a perfectly-balanced empty cage rose to take its fellow’s place.“Any one likely to come and surprise us?” said the man who had been told to sit fast.“Not likely. There! you shall see for yourself. But that’s it. You can’t better it. A blind lead.”

“Jessop!” cried Clive, in a voice full of astonishment and anger.

“Yes, old fellow, Jessop. How are you? Quite a coincidence; Miss—Miss Gurdon, I think?” said the visitor, turning to Dinah. “I called here by accident on my way to find my brother, and he comes to me. Clive, old fellow, will you introduce me to this gentleman?”

“Major Gurdon—my brother,” said Clive coldly.

“Gurdon? Then you are papa,” cried Jessop boisterously.

“Yes, sir, I am papa,” said the Major coldly.

“Then I have to thank you, sir, as well as this young lady, for your kindly hospitality to a tired traveller. I had no idea that it was so far across from Matlock to the mine, or I would not have attempted to walk.”

“Mr Clive Reed’s brother is quite welcome to any hospitality I can afford him,” said the Major, rather stiffly. “Pray make this your home during your stay.”

Clive winced, and noticed as he changed his position that Dinah’s eyes were fixed upon him.

“Oh, thank you. It is very good of you,” cried Jessop. “You see my brother is so much down here, that one can’t get a glimpse of him in town; so having a little business matter to settle with him, and wanting a bit of change, I thought I would run down for a day or two.”

“A very wise proceeding,” said the Major quietly. “Our Derbyshire hills and dales are worth a good look. Dinah, my dear, these gentlemen have a little business to transact. The drawing-room is at your disposal. After you have done, we can have our chat, Mr Reed.”

“Eh?” said Jessop.

“I meant your brother,” said the Major, smiling; and, taking Dinah’s arm, he went slowly into the house, with Jessop watching them till they were out of sight.

“By George, Clive, old fellow, you have good taste,” he said, with an unpleasant little laugh and a peculiar look.

“You said that you had business with me, which brought you down. What is it?” cried Clive sternly.

“Oh, come, that will do,” said Jessop. “Recollect that we’re brothers. What’s the good of your cutting up rough?”

“What is your business?”

“I’ll tell you directly. But look here, old fellow, aren’t you a bit greedy? You can’t have everything, you know. You’ve got all the old man’s money, and I knew that you were to have it, so wasn’t it natural that I should play for Janet?”

“Will you state your business, sir?”

“Sir? Oh, come, I say, isn’t it time to forget and forgive? I wanted Janet, and I won. You didn’t care much, or you wouldn’t have so jolly soon consoled yourself with another girl. I say, though, do they grow many wenches like that here?”

Clive’s eyes blazed, and he felt as if he could strike his brother down where he stood; for he fancied him going back to his young wife, and sneeringly telling her of what he had seen. The thought of this made Clive’s blood boil; and his looks were so ominous that Jessop glanced covertly toward the door where the Major had entered.

“Now, sir, if you please,” said Clive, in low and angry tones, “your business—what is it?”

“Why, you know, old fellow,” cried Jessop, “Janet and I have been talking it over, and she is upset and shocked that we two, with our father only just cold in his grave, should be at enmity. She agreed that I ought to come down and make it up with you, so that we could meet like brothers again.”

“Leave Janet’s name out of everything which you have to say to me,” said Clive, in a husky voice which betrayed how he was moved. “Man, have you no respect for your wife?”

“Respect! Of course I have. Come, I say, when a fellow acts like a brother and comes down on purpose to make it up—”

“You lie, sir,” said Clive, in a hoarse whisper, as he moved closer to his brother. “I have known you from a boy, Jessop, and I never found you suffer from pangs of fraternal affection. You have come down here for some purpose of your own—as a spy; but you will get no information from me, and under pain of dismissal no man will give you the information you seek.”

“Well, of all—” began Jessop in an injured tone; but he said no more.

“That will do, and I warn you that if you get speculating in any way over the shares of this company, it will be on your own knowledge. Take my advice, Jessop: leave me and my affairs alone, and, above all, leave this place to-morrow. If you do not, I shall be compelled to tell Major Gurdon that he is harbouring a treacherous scoundrel beneath his roof.”

“Two can play at that game, Master Clive. What if I give the Major a few words of warning concerning his daughter?”

“As many as you please, sir. He will choose between us,” said Clive sternly.

“Not gammoning the poor old man into taking shares, are you?”

Clive, gave so sudden a look that his brother laughed.

“All right! I thought as much, my lad. Then you won’t shake hands?”

Clive turned his back and walked into the cottage, gazing at Dinah with a newly awakened interest aroused by his brother’s words.

Yes, she was very beautiful—it was the sad, pensive beauty of one who had known trouble, and a curious sensation attacked Clive as he listened to the Major, and then felt angry and ready to oppose. For the Major said—

“Go and talk to our visitor, my dear. Show him the garden while Mr Clive Reed and I settle a little business.”

Dinah smiled and went out. The next minute she walked by the window with Jessop, making the blood flush up into Clive’s face, as he now felt a shrinking regarding the taking of the money for the shares.

It was all like a dream. The Major kept on talking, and Clive took the cheque given to him and placed it dreamily in his pocket, wondering the while whether his brother would try to depreciate the mine in his new friend’s eyes.

And all the time he was listening for voices in the garden, and suffering agony at his brother’s presence near Dinah, till, making a savage effort over self, he forced himself to finish the business, and mastered the intense desire to go and watch the pair.

“From what?” he asked himself. “Her father can protect her, and she is nothing to me.”

Then he was seated, as if in a continuance of his dream, at the pleasant evening meal, noting his brother’s conversation as he tried to make himself agreeable, Dinah listening the while. But she met his eyes from time to time with a sweet, pleasant look of innocency; and it was only after making a fresh effort that he said good-night, and then suffered from a fresh pang. For the Major said he would walk half a mile with him, and did.

“Dinah alone with my brother!” thought Clive, as he tried to grasp what the Major said, but did not comprehend a word.

Then at parting—

“I have been very rude to your brother,” said the Major. “Let me have my shares as soon as you can.”

“Yes; he shall have his shares, and they shall double his income,” thought Clive.

Walking as swiftly as he could, he soon reached the mine, and found Sturgess standing by the new cottage he occupied in his capacity of foreman and guardian of the place.

The man seemed to be scowling savagely at him, or else it was the shadow cast by the porch as he stood listening to his chief’s words, nodding from time to time.

“You understand: no one is to inspect the mine without my permission. No one is to have any information given to him whatever.”

“Yes, I understand,” growled Sturgess.

“I shall hold you accountable.”

The man made no reply, and Clive continued his walk of two miles more over the hills, to the farmhouse where he lodged temporarily.

“Hold me accountable, eh?” muttered Sturgess; and he went in and shut the door, to throw himself into a chair and sit gnawing portions of his thick beard.

That night, when the mine gap was dark and still, a lanthorn was visible swinging here and there as it was borne towards the mouth of the pit, where it disappeared in the cage, and a dark shadowy figure followed it.

“Sit fast!”

“Stop!” came in a husky whisper; “how are we to get back?”

“I can manage that. Not afraid, are you?”

“Afraid!” was the scornful reply.

“All right, then. Now, down.”

The ingenious mechanism was started, and the two men, with their lanthorn, descended swiftly into the bowels of the earth, while a perfectly-balanced empty cage rose to take its fellow’s place.

“Any one likely to come and surprise us?” said the man who had been told to sit fast.

“Not likely. There! you shall see for yourself. But that’s it. You can’t better it. A blind lead.”

Chapter Nineteen.Jessop and Co. at Home.“No, my dear, I’m not going to play the tragedy parent and talk about cursing and all that sort of thing. I’m only a plain matter-of-fact Englishman, leading too busy a life to be bothered. You write to me, and call me my dear father and talk of affection—my affectionate daughter; but how do I know that you are not still under the influence of the man whom you have chosen for your husband? How do I know that he has not said to you that you had better try and make it up with the old man, because the old man’s money may be useful one of these days? Mind, I don’t say that you have so base and sordid an idea; but I give him the credit of being moved in this spirit. I am glad to hear that you are well, and of course I wish you to be perfectly happy; but you proved to me that you thought you could run alone, so I feel that my responsibility as a father has ceased. I can’t reproach myself with any lapses. I did my duty by you; with your liking to the front. I chose you a husband—a good fellow, who would have made you happy; but you chose to flirt with a scoundrel and let him delude you even to making a disgraceful elopement, so you must take your course. Let him see this letter by all means, and thoroughly gauge my opinion of him. If he amends, and behaves well to you, perhaps some day I may accede to what you propose, and receive you both here. But he will have to alter a good deal first. I have no enmity against you, Heaven forbid! for I do not forget that you are my child; but, once for all, I will not have him here, and you may let him know at once that, as to what little money I have, that goes to my hospital, unless Clive Reed happens to want it, and that will alter the case.“There; this is a very long letter, but as it is the first I have written to you since your marriage, I may as well say in it all I have to say, and this is one very particular part, so keep it in mind. If in the future Jessop Reed behaves badly to you—that is to say, more badly than you can bear, come home. There is your bedroom, and your little drawing-room, too, just as you left them. They shall be kept so, ready for you, and I shall cut all the past out of our lives again as of old; but mind this, Jessop Reed does not have you back again, lord or no lord. I’ll buy a yacht first and live upon the high seas.“There! that is all I have to say as your father.”Janet let the letter fall in her lap, and sat in her commonly-furnished room at Norwood, hot and red of eye. No tears came to her relief, for their source seemed to have long been dried-up. Every word had combined with its fellows to form for her the old saying in the ballad: “As you have made your bed, so on it you must lie.”Her father had been correct enough. She had fought against making any advances in her great despair; but Jessop had insisted, and actually brutally used the very words about the old man’s money, with the addition that he had been trapped into marrying a beggar, and he must make the best of it.“I must have been mad,” she sighed, as she laid the letter on the table and looked at the clock on the chimney-piece; but it was a cheap French affair under a glass shade, and one which doubtless considered that so long as it looked attractive its duty was done. The hour hand pointed to six, and the minute hand to three.Janet sighed, and looked at her watch, but she had not wound it up.At that moment a sleepy-looking servant-girl entered the room.“Want me to sit up any longer, ma’am?”“No; you can go to bed.”“I don’t think master means to come home to-night, ma’am, again. He took his best clothes with him o’ Chewsday.”“I’m afraid not,” said Janet quietly. “He is very busy now.”“I’ll sit up if you like, mum. I don’t think it’s no use for both to sit up again to-night.”“No. Go and get a good long night’s rest, Mary.”“Yes, mum, thankye, mum,” said the girl, with a yawn. “But won’t you come, too?”“Presently. I’ll sit up till twelve.”“Twelve, mum?” said the girl, staring. “Why, it’s ’most one now.”“Then go to bed. I’ll come soon.”“Don’t ketch me gettin’ married and settin’ up for no husbands,” muttered the girl. “I’d soon let my gentleman know what the key of the street meant.”Left alone, Janet again read the letter she had received from her father, though she hardly needed this, for she pretty well knew it by heart. Then, laying it on the table again for her husband to see, she sat thinking of what might have been, and contrasted the brothers, her brow wrinkling up as she felt that day by day she was sounding some deeper depth, and finding but a fresh meanness in Jessop’s nature.“But it was only right after all,” she told herself; and she went over again the scene in Guildford Street, the hot jealous blood rising to her cheeks, as she thought of Lyddy and her acts and words.“I could never have forgiven that. Poor father does not believe he was guilty, or else looks upon the offence with the eyes of a man.”She started up listening, for a cab had stopped at the gate, and her first impulse was to go to the door; but she sank back wearily, and listened for the clang of the gate and the rattle of the latch-key in the door.She had not long to wait, and she was preparing herself for her husband’s coming, when the door was shut loudly. There was a scuffling sound in the little hall, and as she turned pale with alarm, dreading some new trouble, there was a strange voice. The door was flung open, and, supported by his friend Wrigley, Jessop Reed staggered into the room.Both men were in evening dress, Wrigley’s faultless, his glass in his eye, and the flower in his button-hole unfaded, while Jessop’s shirt front was crumpled and wine-stained, and his flushed face told of the number of times the glass had been raised to his lips. As he entered the little drawing-room he made a staggering lurch towards a chair, and would have fallen, as his hat did, but for the tight hold which Wrigley kept of his arm.“Now, then,” he cried resentfully; “what’s the matter? Don’t get hauling a man all over the room like that.”“Really I am very sorry,” said Wrigley, guiding Jessop into the chair and taking off his hat, “but the fact is, Mrs Reed, Jessop here was quite out of order when I met him this evening to attend a dinner at the Crystal Palace.”“Yes. Dinner at Crystal Palace. But that’ll do. You leave my wife alone, Mr Solicitor.”“Yes, yes, dear boy. Let me get you up to bed.”“What for? I’m all right.”“You will be after a night’s rest, my dear Jessop. There’s nothing much the matter, Mrs Reed. Pray don’t be alarmed. The wine was rather bad, too. I really think I drank more of it than he did.”Janet was standing looking from one to the other with her eyes full of the misery and despair in her breast. Miserable as her life had been, full of bickering and quarrel, reproach and neglect, she had never yet seen her husband like this; and for a few moments she was ready to believe in his companion’s words.“Have you a little soda-water in the house?” said Wrigley.“Yes; bring some soda-water and the brandy,” cried Jessop, with an idiotic laugh which contradicted all that his friend had said.Janet’s anger was rising now.“We have no soda-water or brandy,” she replied.“Never mind, Mrs Reed. Let me get him up to his room.”“You sit down and hold your tongue,” cried Jessop, with tipsy sternness. “I’m master of my own house.”“Of course, dear boy. I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”“Granted! I’ll let you see I’m not going to be dictated to by haughty, ill-tempered women. Madam, my friend wants some soda and brandy. Get it at once.”Wrigley gave Janet a nod and a smile, as if to say, “Better humour him.”“All right, dear boy,” he said; “I won’t have any now.”“I say you shall, sir. Sit down. Think I’m going to let her show her airs to you.”“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!”“Hold your tongue. I know what I’m talking about. She’s got Clive on the brain. Always throwing my brother at me. Scoundrel about poor Lyddy Milsom, but she can’t let him drop.”“Mr Wrigley, I will see to my husband,” said Janet coldly. “You will excuse me; it is getting late.”“Really, I beg your pardon,” said Wrigley, speaking with gentlemanly deference. “Yes, it will be better. Good-night, Mrs Reed. I am very sorry he should have been so affected, but it is really nothing. Believe me.”“Hold your tongue, will you? Mind your own business,” cried Jessop sharply. “I know what you’re saying.”“All right, old fellow. Get up to bed now. Good-night.”Jessop made a dash at his wrist and held it fast.“Sit down. Not going yet. I’m master here. Won’t go and fetch the soda and brandy, won’t she? Very well; then she shall hear something she won’t like. Look here, madam, what do you say to our dear brother now? On the stilts, is he? Well, then, he has got to come down.”“Here, that will do, my dear Jessop,” said Wrigley, with a hurried laugh. “Don’t take any notice, Mrs Reed.”“You hold your tongue, I say again,” cried Jessop, gripping Wrigley’s wrist so tightly that, without a struggle, there was no escape. “She has to hear it.”“Nonsense, nonsense!”“Is it?” cried Jessop, sitting bolt upright now.“We shall see about that. She’s always at me about him.”“Now, my dear old Jessop, friend of all these years, do you think I want you to insult Mrs Reed before me?”“Insult, is it? You should hear how she insults me.”“And I daresay you deserve it, just as you do now.”“No, you don’t. Want to make friends at court, do you?”“There, there! let me help you to bed, old fellow.”“I’m going up to bed when I like, and when you’re gone.”“All right, then, I’ll go now. I should have been rattling off to town in the cab if you hadn’t stopped me. There! good-night.”“Sit down. She’s got to hear it. Do you hear, you Janet? He’s a fine boy, our Clive. Sort of Abel, he is, and I’m a kind of Cain, am I? But we shall see. Cries about him, she does, and before her lawful husband. Jealous of him. Do you hear, Janet?”“Mr Wrigley, pray go,” she cried indignantly.“My dear madam, I really am trying to go, but you see.”“A blackguard with his pretty mistress down in Derbyshire. Nice saint!”Janet turned and her eyes flashed, while Jessop burst into a jeering laugh.“That bites her. Nobody must look at a pretty girl. She’s everybody, Wrigley. Do you hear? Old Bob Wrigley—I say, wasn’t it Ridley, though?”“Yes, all the same; but come now, be a good boy, and go to bed. You’re hurting my wrist.”“Serve you right.”“But you’re driving the sleeve-links into the flesh.”“Serve you right. You’ve driven sleeve-links into plenty of people’s flesh. Sit still. And you, Madam Janet, do you hear? We’re going to ruin him.”“Reed! Don’t make an ass of yourself. He doesn’t know what he is saying, Mrs Reed.”“Ha, ha! Don’t I? Ruined, I tell you. Play Jacob to me, would he? Down upon his knees he comes.”Janet looked sharply from one to the other, and Wrigley, who made no effort to go now, uttered an uneasy laugh.“I’ve been down and found out all about him and his nice little ways. Do you hear, madam? Pretty mistress. Beats you all to fits. Dark. Large eyes. Juno sort of a girl. He’s got fine taste, our Clive. He knows a pretty girl when he sees one. This isn’t a white-faced Lyddy, but dark, I tell you; skin like cream, teeth of pearls, and a red, full, upturned lip. A beauty!”“’Pon my word, my dear Jessop, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Wrigley.“I am, to be here, and not down there, trying—bah! it wouldn’t want any trying—cutting the blackguard out.”“Really, Mrs Reed, I feel quite ashamed to be here listening to such nonsense, but pray don’t take any notice; it is all said in a teasing spirit, and to-morrow morning he will not know what occurred.”Janet looked at him searchingly, but she made no reply. In fact, she had no time, for Jessop chuckled.“Won’t I?” he cried. “Don’t you make any mistake, lawyer. Sharper fellow than you think for. I’m drunk, am I? Only my legs, old man. Head’s sober as a judge. You think you are making me your tool, do you? All right: perhaps so; but I’m a very sharp tool, old man, and if you don’t use me properly I may cut your fingers.” Wrigley coughed.“There!” he said; “you have had a good long talk, and you can let me go.”“Wait a minute. You hear, madam—bring him to the dogs if I like. Schemed against me. Time I schemed against him.”“So you shall, my dear boy,” said Wrigley. “Now am I to see you to bed?”“I don’t want you for a valet,” said Jessop. “I want you to do my dirty work.”Wrigley gave him an angry look, but turned the spiteful remark off with a laugh.“All right, old fellow; you shall. Now may I go?”“Yes, be off.”“Good-night, then.”“No: stop and help me up to bed.”“I will, with pleasure,” said Wrigley, giving Janet an encouraging look. “Now then.”Jessop rose, took his friend’s arm, offered with a smile, and suffered himself to be led to the door.“Which room, Mrs Reed?” said Wrigley.“Come along, I know,” snarled Jessop.“All right, dear boy. You shall show me, then. Good-night, Mrs Reed. The cabman is waiting; and as soon as I’ve seen him in bed, I’ll slip off.”“Thank you,” said Janet coldly, as she gazed searchingly at the smooth, well-dressed, polished man, and felt a strong repellent force at work.Then the door closed, and she sank in a chair, helpless, hopeless, listening to the steps upon the stairs, and thinking of her husband’s words.“And I let myself be led to believe that this man loved me,” she thought, in her bitterness,—“this man, who could degrade me as he has to-night before his companion.”But her thoughts changed from her own misery to Jessop’s threats against his brother.“What does he mean?” she asked herself. “Ruin him?”She sat gazing before her wildly, her heart throbbing at the thought of the man she had told herself she loved coming to harm; but directly after Jessop’s other utterances flooded her mind, and swept the thought of trouble befalling Clive right away.For was this true? So soon after his fathers death! Was there some one whom he had met, some one beautiful—fair to see?“What is it to me?” she said scornfully. “He is not worthy of a second thought. Better Jessop’s wife, even if he sinks lower still.”She listened and heard steps, then the front door closed, and lastly the sound of wheels. Then lying back in the chair, she prepared to rest there for the night, while Jessop sat up in bed, waiting for her to come, thoroughly sobered now.For as soon as Wrigley had helped him up to and across the chamber, Jessop had felt two nervous hands seize him by the throat, and he was flung quickly and silently back on the bed.“Look here, you miserable, brainless idiot!” whispered Wrigley savagely, as he held him down.“Here, what are you doing?”“Silence, fool! or I’ll choke the miserable life out of you. Now are you sober enough to understand? Mind this; if by any words of yours—any of your cursed blabbings, this business comes to grief, I warn you to run for your life.”“What?”“For there are those in it now who would not scruple much about making you pay.”“Pay?” faltered Jessop, as he gazed in the fierce face so close to his.“Yes, my dear friend, and so that the world would be none the wiser when you were dead.”

“No, my dear, I’m not going to play the tragedy parent and talk about cursing and all that sort of thing. I’m only a plain matter-of-fact Englishman, leading too busy a life to be bothered. You write to me, and call me my dear father and talk of affection—my affectionate daughter; but how do I know that you are not still under the influence of the man whom you have chosen for your husband? How do I know that he has not said to you that you had better try and make it up with the old man, because the old man’s money may be useful one of these days? Mind, I don’t say that you have so base and sordid an idea; but I give him the credit of being moved in this spirit. I am glad to hear that you are well, and of course I wish you to be perfectly happy; but you proved to me that you thought you could run alone, so I feel that my responsibility as a father has ceased. I can’t reproach myself with any lapses. I did my duty by you; with your liking to the front. I chose you a husband—a good fellow, who would have made you happy; but you chose to flirt with a scoundrel and let him delude you even to making a disgraceful elopement, so you must take your course. Let him see this letter by all means, and thoroughly gauge my opinion of him. If he amends, and behaves well to you, perhaps some day I may accede to what you propose, and receive you both here. But he will have to alter a good deal first. I have no enmity against you, Heaven forbid! for I do not forget that you are my child; but, once for all, I will not have him here, and you may let him know at once that, as to what little money I have, that goes to my hospital, unless Clive Reed happens to want it, and that will alter the case.

“There; this is a very long letter, but as it is the first I have written to you since your marriage, I may as well say in it all I have to say, and this is one very particular part, so keep it in mind. If in the future Jessop Reed behaves badly to you—that is to say, more badly than you can bear, come home. There is your bedroom, and your little drawing-room, too, just as you left them. They shall be kept so, ready for you, and I shall cut all the past out of our lives again as of old; but mind this, Jessop Reed does not have you back again, lord or no lord. I’ll buy a yacht first and live upon the high seas.

“There! that is all I have to say as your father.”

Janet let the letter fall in her lap, and sat in her commonly-furnished room at Norwood, hot and red of eye. No tears came to her relief, for their source seemed to have long been dried-up. Every word had combined with its fellows to form for her the old saying in the ballad: “As you have made your bed, so on it you must lie.”

Her father had been correct enough. She had fought against making any advances in her great despair; but Jessop had insisted, and actually brutally used the very words about the old man’s money, with the addition that he had been trapped into marrying a beggar, and he must make the best of it.

“I must have been mad,” she sighed, as she laid the letter on the table and looked at the clock on the chimney-piece; but it was a cheap French affair under a glass shade, and one which doubtless considered that so long as it looked attractive its duty was done. The hour hand pointed to six, and the minute hand to three.

Janet sighed, and looked at her watch, but she had not wound it up.

At that moment a sleepy-looking servant-girl entered the room.

“Want me to sit up any longer, ma’am?”

“No; you can go to bed.”

“I don’t think master means to come home to-night, ma’am, again. He took his best clothes with him o’ Chewsday.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Janet quietly. “He is very busy now.”

“I’ll sit up if you like, mum. I don’t think it’s no use for both to sit up again to-night.”

“No. Go and get a good long night’s rest, Mary.”

“Yes, mum, thankye, mum,” said the girl, with a yawn. “But won’t you come, too?”

“Presently. I’ll sit up till twelve.”

“Twelve, mum?” said the girl, staring. “Why, it’s ’most one now.”

“Then go to bed. I’ll come soon.”

“Don’t ketch me gettin’ married and settin’ up for no husbands,” muttered the girl. “I’d soon let my gentleman know what the key of the street meant.”

Left alone, Janet again read the letter she had received from her father, though she hardly needed this, for she pretty well knew it by heart. Then, laying it on the table again for her husband to see, she sat thinking of what might have been, and contrasted the brothers, her brow wrinkling up as she felt that day by day she was sounding some deeper depth, and finding but a fresh meanness in Jessop’s nature.

“But it was only right after all,” she told herself; and she went over again the scene in Guildford Street, the hot jealous blood rising to her cheeks, as she thought of Lyddy and her acts and words.

“I could never have forgiven that. Poor father does not believe he was guilty, or else looks upon the offence with the eyes of a man.”

She started up listening, for a cab had stopped at the gate, and her first impulse was to go to the door; but she sank back wearily, and listened for the clang of the gate and the rattle of the latch-key in the door.

She had not long to wait, and she was preparing herself for her husband’s coming, when the door was shut loudly. There was a scuffling sound in the little hall, and as she turned pale with alarm, dreading some new trouble, there was a strange voice. The door was flung open, and, supported by his friend Wrigley, Jessop Reed staggered into the room.

Both men were in evening dress, Wrigley’s faultless, his glass in his eye, and the flower in his button-hole unfaded, while Jessop’s shirt front was crumpled and wine-stained, and his flushed face told of the number of times the glass had been raised to his lips. As he entered the little drawing-room he made a staggering lurch towards a chair, and would have fallen, as his hat did, but for the tight hold which Wrigley kept of his arm.

“Now, then,” he cried resentfully; “what’s the matter? Don’t get hauling a man all over the room like that.”

“Really I am very sorry,” said Wrigley, guiding Jessop into the chair and taking off his hat, “but the fact is, Mrs Reed, Jessop here was quite out of order when I met him this evening to attend a dinner at the Crystal Palace.”

“Yes. Dinner at Crystal Palace. But that’ll do. You leave my wife alone, Mr Solicitor.”

“Yes, yes, dear boy. Let me get you up to bed.”

“What for? I’m all right.”

“You will be after a night’s rest, my dear Jessop. There’s nothing much the matter, Mrs Reed. Pray don’t be alarmed. The wine was rather bad, too. I really think I drank more of it than he did.”

Janet was standing looking from one to the other with her eyes full of the misery and despair in her breast. Miserable as her life had been, full of bickering and quarrel, reproach and neglect, she had never yet seen her husband like this; and for a few moments she was ready to believe in his companion’s words.

“Have you a little soda-water in the house?” said Wrigley.

“Yes; bring some soda-water and the brandy,” cried Jessop, with an idiotic laugh which contradicted all that his friend had said.

Janet’s anger was rising now.

“We have no soda-water or brandy,” she replied.

“Never mind, Mrs Reed. Let me get him up to his room.”

“You sit down and hold your tongue,” cried Jessop, with tipsy sternness. “I’m master of my own house.”

“Of course, dear boy. I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”

“Granted! I’ll let you see I’m not going to be dictated to by haughty, ill-tempered women. Madam, my friend wants some soda and brandy. Get it at once.”

Wrigley gave Janet a nod and a smile, as if to say, “Better humour him.”

“All right, dear boy,” he said; “I won’t have any now.”

“I say you shall, sir. Sit down. Think I’m going to let her show her airs to you.”

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!”

“Hold your tongue. I know what I’m talking about. She’s got Clive on the brain. Always throwing my brother at me. Scoundrel about poor Lyddy Milsom, but she can’t let him drop.”

“Mr Wrigley, I will see to my husband,” said Janet coldly. “You will excuse me; it is getting late.”

“Really, I beg your pardon,” said Wrigley, speaking with gentlemanly deference. “Yes, it will be better. Good-night, Mrs Reed. I am very sorry he should have been so affected, but it is really nothing. Believe me.”

“Hold your tongue, will you? Mind your own business,” cried Jessop sharply. “I know what you’re saying.”

“All right, old fellow. Get up to bed now. Good-night.”

Jessop made a dash at his wrist and held it fast.

“Sit down. Not going yet. I’m master here. Won’t go and fetch the soda and brandy, won’t she? Very well; then she shall hear something she won’t like. Look here, madam, what do you say to our dear brother now? On the stilts, is he? Well, then, he has got to come down.”

“Here, that will do, my dear Jessop,” said Wrigley, with a hurried laugh. “Don’t take any notice, Mrs Reed.”

“You hold your tongue, I say again,” cried Jessop, gripping Wrigley’s wrist so tightly that, without a struggle, there was no escape. “She has to hear it.”

“Nonsense, nonsense!”

“Is it?” cried Jessop, sitting bolt upright now.

“We shall see about that. She’s always at me about him.”

“Now, my dear old Jessop, friend of all these years, do you think I want you to insult Mrs Reed before me?”

“Insult, is it? You should hear how she insults me.”

“And I daresay you deserve it, just as you do now.”

“No, you don’t. Want to make friends at court, do you?”

“There, there! let me help you to bed, old fellow.”

“I’m going up to bed when I like, and when you’re gone.”

“All right, then, I’ll go now. I should have been rattling off to town in the cab if you hadn’t stopped me. There! good-night.”

“Sit down. She’s got to hear it. Do you hear, you Janet? He’s a fine boy, our Clive. Sort of Abel, he is, and I’m a kind of Cain, am I? But we shall see. Cries about him, she does, and before her lawful husband. Jealous of him. Do you hear, Janet?”

“Mr Wrigley, pray go,” she cried indignantly.

“My dear madam, I really am trying to go, but you see.”

“A blackguard with his pretty mistress down in Derbyshire. Nice saint!”

Janet turned and her eyes flashed, while Jessop burst into a jeering laugh.

“That bites her. Nobody must look at a pretty girl. She’s everybody, Wrigley. Do you hear? Old Bob Wrigley—I say, wasn’t it Ridley, though?”

“Yes, all the same; but come now, be a good boy, and go to bed. You’re hurting my wrist.”

“Serve you right.”

“But you’re driving the sleeve-links into the flesh.”

“Serve you right. You’ve driven sleeve-links into plenty of people’s flesh. Sit still. And you, Madam Janet, do you hear? We’re going to ruin him.”

“Reed! Don’t make an ass of yourself. He doesn’t know what he is saying, Mrs Reed.”

“Ha, ha! Don’t I? Ruined, I tell you. Play Jacob to me, would he? Down upon his knees he comes.”

Janet looked sharply from one to the other, and Wrigley, who made no effort to go now, uttered an uneasy laugh.

“I’ve been down and found out all about him and his nice little ways. Do you hear, madam? Pretty mistress. Beats you all to fits. Dark. Large eyes. Juno sort of a girl. He’s got fine taste, our Clive. He knows a pretty girl when he sees one. This isn’t a white-faced Lyddy, but dark, I tell you; skin like cream, teeth of pearls, and a red, full, upturned lip. A beauty!”

“’Pon my word, my dear Jessop, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said Wrigley.

“I am, to be here, and not down there, trying—bah! it wouldn’t want any trying—cutting the blackguard out.”

“Really, Mrs Reed, I feel quite ashamed to be here listening to such nonsense, but pray don’t take any notice; it is all said in a teasing spirit, and to-morrow morning he will not know what occurred.”

Janet looked at him searchingly, but she made no reply. In fact, she had no time, for Jessop chuckled.

“Won’t I?” he cried. “Don’t you make any mistake, lawyer. Sharper fellow than you think for. I’m drunk, am I? Only my legs, old man. Head’s sober as a judge. You think you are making me your tool, do you? All right: perhaps so; but I’m a very sharp tool, old man, and if you don’t use me properly I may cut your fingers.” Wrigley coughed.

“There!” he said; “you have had a good long talk, and you can let me go.”

“Wait a minute. You hear, madam—bring him to the dogs if I like. Schemed against me. Time I schemed against him.”

“So you shall, my dear boy,” said Wrigley. “Now am I to see you to bed?”

“I don’t want you for a valet,” said Jessop. “I want you to do my dirty work.”

Wrigley gave him an angry look, but turned the spiteful remark off with a laugh.

“All right, old fellow; you shall. Now may I go?”

“Yes, be off.”

“Good-night, then.”

“No: stop and help me up to bed.”

“I will, with pleasure,” said Wrigley, giving Janet an encouraging look. “Now then.”

Jessop rose, took his friend’s arm, offered with a smile, and suffered himself to be led to the door.

“Which room, Mrs Reed?” said Wrigley.

“Come along, I know,” snarled Jessop.

“All right, dear boy. You shall show me, then. Good-night, Mrs Reed. The cabman is waiting; and as soon as I’ve seen him in bed, I’ll slip off.”

“Thank you,” said Janet coldly, as she gazed searchingly at the smooth, well-dressed, polished man, and felt a strong repellent force at work.

Then the door closed, and she sank in a chair, helpless, hopeless, listening to the steps upon the stairs, and thinking of her husband’s words.

“And I let myself be led to believe that this man loved me,” she thought, in her bitterness,—“this man, who could degrade me as he has to-night before his companion.”

But her thoughts changed from her own misery to Jessop’s threats against his brother.

“What does he mean?” she asked herself. “Ruin him?”

She sat gazing before her wildly, her heart throbbing at the thought of the man she had told herself she loved coming to harm; but directly after Jessop’s other utterances flooded her mind, and swept the thought of trouble befalling Clive right away.

For was this true? So soon after his fathers death! Was there some one whom he had met, some one beautiful—fair to see?

“What is it to me?” she said scornfully. “He is not worthy of a second thought. Better Jessop’s wife, even if he sinks lower still.”

She listened and heard steps, then the front door closed, and lastly the sound of wheels. Then lying back in the chair, she prepared to rest there for the night, while Jessop sat up in bed, waiting for her to come, thoroughly sobered now.

For as soon as Wrigley had helped him up to and across the chamber, Jessop had felt two nervous hands seize him by the throat, and he was flung quickly and silently back on the bed.

“Look here, you miserable, brainless idiot!” whispered Wrigley savagely, as he held him down.

“Here, what are you doing?”

“Silence, fool! or I’ll choke the miserable life out of you. Now are you sober enough to understand? Mind this; if by any words of yours—any of your cursed blabbings, this business comes to grief, I warn you to run for your life.”

“What?”

“For there are those in it now who would not scruple much about making you pay.”

“Pay?” faltered Jessop, as he gazed in the fierce face so close to his.

“Yes, my dear friend, and so that the world would be none the wiser when you were dead.”

Chapter Twenty.Dinah Seeks Safety.Clive Reed crossed the spoil bank one evening after a busy day at the mine, leaving a black cloud of smoke still rising where the furnaces were hard at work, turning the grey stone ore into light silvery metal, which was run off into the moulds ready for stamping there as ordinary soft lead; then, after several purifyings, as hard solid ingots of silver.For the place had rapidly developed, gang after gang of men had been set on, miners, artificers, smelters; and in the eyes of the mining world the far-seeing man now sleeping calmly in his grave was loudly praised, and his son and the shareholders envied for their good fortune over a property that a couple of years before no one would have touched; even when Grantham Reed had acquired it, they had been ready to ask whether he was mad.And now, day by day, the new lode which Clive had discovered was giving up such great wealth that the shares were of almost fabulous value, and not to be had at any price.For the original scheme of continuing the old working and profiting by the clumsy way of production in the past, with its immense waste, had as yet not been touched. The “White Virgin” was rendering up her hidden treasures contained in the new lode, and it looked as if these were inexhaustible.It had been a long, harassing experience for Clive to get everything in perfect going order, for the work—administrative and executive—had all fallen upon his shoulders. But it had been a labour which had brought him rest and ease of mind. When the hours of toil, too, were over, a sweet feeling of peace had gradually grown up, till the wild moorland had become to him a place of beauty; the river deep down in its narrow valley a home of enchantment, from which he tore himself at the rare times when he was compelled to visit London and attend the board meetings of his company.At first he did not know why it was that his father’s death and the discovery of Janet’s weakness had grown to seem so far back in the past. When he first came down to the ruined mine, he felt old and careworn; he walked with his head bent, his eyes fixed upon the ground, but their mental gaze turned inward upon the misery in his heart. Now, after these few months, he was himself again, and Janet, his brother, and all that agony and despair, were misty and fading fast away.“It’s the work,” he used to say, “the work. Nothing like action for a diseased mind.” Then by slow degrees after his brother’s visit the truth began to dawn upon him. At first he doubted, and ridiculed the idea; then he began to wonder, and lastly to ask himself what manner of man he really was. He had believed himself to be strong and determined of purpose, and now he told himself that he must be weak as water, and that, in spite of the past, he had never thoroughly felt a strong man’s genuine love.“Yes,” he said, as he walked slowly along that narrow shelf-like path towards the Major’s house, “it is the truth—the simple truth.”The evening was closing in, and the darkness gathered fast in the shadowy valley where the river rippled, so that by the time he reached the spot where the perpendicular side of the mountain had been cut away, forming the sides of a tunnel, with here and there a gap forming a cavernous niche, it was quite obscure for some fifty yards. But the thoughtful man was so wrapped up in the mission he had on hand, that he did not notice the faint odour of a cigar, as if some one had lately passed there smoking; neither did he turn his head to the right and look up when a small stone came rattling down from above; but, as if Fate was leading him into a temptation, he suddenly stopped and stood gazing off to his left at where, in the south-east, a bright star was rising out of the mists.Had he turned and looked up, he would have seen a man’s face peering over a rugged block of stone which effectually hid the watcher’s body, and that between the face and him a piece of rock was balanced and held by two hands, either occupied in retaining it, or ready to send it crashing down.It would have been a perilous position for a man to have walked close under that stone where the track was most worn, for the other part skirted the edge of the precipice, which fell sheer two hundred feet, and hence was bad for those who had not a steady nerve.But Clive Reed’s nerve was once again steady, and he had chosen to walk to the edge and then to stop and gaze down into the gathering darkness.For a few moments he did think of how easily any one might fall there, and what a fate it would be if the stones which had been left roof-like by the old workers who had made that path should come crumbling down. But the thought passed away, thrust out by others, some pleasant and full of delight, others serious of import, and connected with the purpose of that night.He passed on directly after, and a faint rustling sound was heard from the narrow rift which led upward behind the loosened stone. The face had disappeared, but a bright light flashed up from behind the rock, and once more the odour of tobacco began to be diffused in the cavernous gloom of the place.But it was bright and clear where Clive Reed walked on, and his mind too was quite clear, his purpose determined, as he strode on now at a rapid pace till he reached the path down by the river, and then turned up suddenly in front of the cottage, where he stopped short once more to look up at the light shining out of the little drawing-room window.It was open, and he could see that Dinah was seated at work; and, as if irresistibly attracted by her, he advanced quickly two or three steps to enter by the window; but he suddenly turned off by the path leading to the door.“Yes; far better, Reed,” said a low voice at his elbow.“Major Gurdon!”“Yes. It was cool and pleasant out here. How plainly a man’s features sometimes show his intentions. Will you have a cigar? I am going to smoke another.”“Not now,” said Clive huskily, as he followed his host up the garden to some seats. “You are right, sir, and it was an unwarrantable liberty. I am glad I did not take it.”“So am I,” said the Major drily. “But I thought it possible that you might come over this evening.”“And I have come, sir, for I have grave news to communicate.”“Great heavens!” cried the Major, starting from his garden-seat in a nook of the ferny rocks, “don’t tell me, sir, that there is anything wrong about the mine.”Clive was silent for a few moments as he gazed at the dimly seen, agitated face before him, and saw that the Major hurriedly wiped his brow.“Tell me, then,” he said hoarsely, “the worst.”“I have no worst to tell, sir,” said Clive quietly. “You have been anxious, then, about the mine?”“Yes; I couldn’t help it, my dear sir,” said the Major nervously. “This sort of thing is new to me, and it means so much. But there is something wrong about it.”“Nothing whatever, sir.”“Thank God,” muttered the Major.“So far from there being anything wrong, sir, I had a letter this evening announcing, on the basis of our success here, that in a few days the shareholders will receive an interim dividend of twenty per cent, which means, sir, one-fifth of your investment returned already.”“My dear Reed, you amaze me. It is marvellous. But never mind that now. You said you came upon grave business.”“Yes, sir,” said Clive, after a pause, “very grave business to me.”“Yes. Pray speak. You are in want of a little money?”“No, sir, I do not want money; I want time.”“What is the matter, then? Your voice is quite changed.”Clive was silent again for a few moments, and then, after glancing at the window, he said in a low voice—“Major Gurdon, the time has come for me to know whether I am to visit here again.”“Come here again? I do not quite understand you, sir. Pray speak out.”“I will, sir,” said Clive earnestly. “I love your child.”“We all do, sir,” said the Major coldly. “Who could help it?”“Yes, who could help it?” said Clive, in a tone of voice which told how deeply he was moved. “And now, as an honourable man, I ask you, sir, whether I am still to visit here, or my visits are to cease?”“Have you told Dinah what you have told me?”“Not a word, sir.”“That’s right!”“How could I without your leave?”“True! Well, Mr Reed, I will be frank with you. A short time back I had not thought of such a thing. I welcomed you here selfishly, as a visitor who would relieve some of the monotony of my existence. Then, sir, I began to like you, and then by slow degrees I began to see that I had either made a great error, or else fate was working, as she always does, silently. I have been much exercised in my mind as to what I should do, and ended by acting on the defensive, leaving the enemy to declare his plans.”“And am I the enemy of your peace, sir?”“Mr Reed, you are, I fear, the enemy of my daughter’s peace, and I say to you, sir, as one who has shown himself to be a man of honour, if there is anything likely to militate against my child’s happiness, for heaven’s sake, sir, speak out, and let this end at once.”“You say you will be frank with me, sir; I will be frank with you. Not many months back I was engaged to be married.”“And broke it off?” said the Major sharply.“No, sir; I was a poor weak lover, I suppose. Too much immersed in business. The lady chose again, or, poor girl, was tricked into another engagement, and is married. I came down here, half mad with despair, to forget my cares in work; and instead I have awakened to the fact there is still happiness for me if I can win it.”“Ah!” said the Major. “In plain English, then, sir, you wish to speak to Dinah?”“Yes.”“You are aware, I suppose, that she has nothing but her own sweet nature with which to endow a man.”“I never asked myself that question, sir.”“Of course, at my death she will have a few thousands, upon whose interest we live.”“Will she?” said Clive quietly.“Yes; and you, Mr Reed, it is my duty as a father to ask you a question or two. Will your position as manager of this mine enable you to keep her, not in affluence, but modest comfort?”“I think so, sir,” said Clive, smiling.“That’s well. But there, if—I say if this goes on, she shall have half my shares at once. A fair white virgin shall go to the altar with so many ‘White Virgins’ in her train.”“My dear Major Gurdon,” said Clive, grasping the old officer’s hand, “don’t you know?”“Know—know, sir! What?”“That exactly one-third of the ‘White Virgin’ shares are mine, beside a great deal of property my father left. I suppose I am what people call a very rich man.”“What!” cried the Major, literally dazed, “and you work like you do?”“And why not? It is for myself—for the shareholders—for you. It was my father’s wish, sir, that this mine should prove to be a great success, and it is my sacred duty to make it so.”“But—but, my dear Reed, you must be a millionaire!”“I suppose so,” said Clive quietly.“Then it will be impossible. My poor child could not marry so wealthy a man.”“Then I must make myself poor,” said Clive. “Bah! what has money to do with it? Major Gurdon, I came down here to find rest and peace; let me find happiness as well, and that the world is not all base.”“I hardly dare give consent,” faltered the Major. “You are the first, sir, who has ever approached her in this way, and I could not help seeing how day by day she has brightened and seemed to grow more restful and content. It has been as if she felt that with you near she could be at rest, that you were at hand to protect her, and that the poor old father was growing to be nobody now. Ah! Reed, she has ceased to care for me as she used.”“Father!”“You there, Dinah? You heard what we said?”“I heard you tell Mr Reed something that you cannot mean.”“You heard no more?”“No, dear; but why?”She stopped short, with the colour flushing to her cheeks, and her heart beating heavily, for Clive gently took her hand. His voice was very low, and there, in the soft darkness of the autumnal evening, he said earnestly—“Miss Gurdon—Dinah—I have dared to tell your father that I love you with all my heart, and begged him to let me speak to you. Not as a dramatic lover, but as an earnest man, who would have but one thought, dear, if you gave him the right, to make your life peaceful and happy to the end. Dinah—my own love—can you give me that right?”Her hand struggled in its prison for a moment, and then lay trembling there, as if too firmly held by the strong fingers which formed its cage.“I—I fear—I ought not—I—”She faltered these words painfully; and then, with an hysterical cry, she nestled to him.“Yes, yes,” she cried; “take me, and protect me, Clive. I do love you, and will love you to the end.”“My darling!” he whispered, as he clasped her passionately to his heart, just as the dog burst out into a furious volley of growls and barks, mingled with sounds as if he were struggling hard to tear away his chain.Dinah nestled to him more closely, and the start she had given at the dog’s barking gave place to a feeling of safety in those two strong arms.“Are you content, sir?” said Clive, turning at last, as he drew Dinah’s arm through his with a sense of possession which made his heart beat against it heavily.But there was no reply, for the Major had gone off to see what had alarmed the dog.“Nothing that I can see,” he said, upon his return. “Why, of course! Clever dog! He scented a thief.”“A thief?”“Yes, my dear, a scoundrel come to try and steal away my darling girl.”“Ah!”A low sigh and a shiver of horror, as Dinah shrank away to flee into the house; but as she felt Clive’s arm tighten about her, she clung to him once more.“Why, you silly child, don’t you understand a joke?” cried the Major. “I mean this fellow who is holding you fast; and you not shrinking in the least. But there! it is a time to be serious now. God bless you, Clive Reed! You have solved one difficulty in a declining life. I have often said to myself, ‘What is to become of my darling when I go?’ Now I know, and can go in peace.”Two hours later, with the kisses of love moist upon his lips, Clive Reed started for his lonely walk back over the mountain-side.End of Volume One.

Clive Reed crossed the spoil bank one evening after a busy day at the mine, leaving a black cloud of smoke still rising where the furnaces were hard at work, turning the grey stone ore into light silvery metal, which was run off into the moulds ready for stamping there as ordinary soft lead; then, after several purifyings, as hard solid ingots of silver.

For the place had rapidly developed, gang after gang of men had been set on, miners, artificers, smelters; and in the eyes of the mining world the far-seeing man now sleeping calmly in his grave was loudly praised, and his son and the shareholders envied for their good fortune over a property that a couple of years before no one would have touched; even when Grantham Reed had acquired it, they had been ready to ask whether he was mad.

And now, day by day, the new lode which Clive had discovered was giving up such great wealth that the shares were of almost fabulous value, and not to be had at any price.

For the original scheme of continuing the old working and profiting by the clumsy way of production in the past, with its immense waste, had as yet not been touched. The “White Virgin” was rendering up her hidden treasures contained in the new lode, and it looked as if these were inexhaustible.

It had been a long, harassing experience for Clive to get everything in perfect going order, for the work—administrative and executive—had all fallen upon his shoulders. But it had been a labour which had brought him rest and ease of mind. When the hours of toil, too, were over, a sweet feeling of peace had gradually grown up, till the wild moorland had become to him a place of beauty; the river deep down in its narrow valley a home of enchantment, from which he tore himself at the rare times when he was compelled to visit London and attend the board meetings of his company.

At first he did not know why it was that his father’s death and the discovery of Janet’s weakness had grown to seem so far back in the past. When he first came down to the ruined mine, he felt old and careworn; he walked with his head bent, his eyes fixed upon the ground, but their mental gaze turned inward upon the misery in his heart. Now, after these few months, he was himself again, and Janet, his brother, and all that agony and despair, were misty and fading fast away.

“It’s the work,” he used to say, “the work. Nothing like action for a diseased mind.” Then by slow degrees after his brother’s visit the truth began to dawn upon him. At first he doubted, and ridiculed the idea; then he began to wonder, and lastly to ask himself what manner of man he really was. He had believed himself to be strong and determined of purpose, and now he told himself that he must be weak as water, and that, in spite of the past, he had never thoroughly felt a strong man’s genuine love.

“Yes,” he said, as he walked slowly along that narrow shelf-like path towards the Major’s house, “it is the truth—the simple truth.”

The evening was closing in, and the darkness gathered fast in the shadowy valley where the river rippled, so that by the time he reached the spot where the perpendicular side of the mountain had been cut away, forming the sides of a tunnel, with here and there a gap forming a cavernous niche, it was quite obscure for some fifty yards. But the thoughtful man was so wrapped up in the mission he had on hand, that he did not notice the faint odour of a cigar, as if some one had lately passed there smoking; neither did he turn his head to the right and look up when a small stone came rattling down from above; but, as if Fate was leading him into a temptation, he suddenly stopped and stood gazing off to his left at where, in the south-east, a bright star was rising out of the mists.

Had he turned and looked up, he would have seen a man’s face peering over a rugged block of stone which effectually hid the watcher’s body, and that between the face and him a piece of rock was balanced and held by two hands, either occupied in retaining it, or ready to send it crashing down.

It would have been a perilous position for a man to have walked close under that stone where the track was most worn, for the other part skirted the edge of the precipice, which fell sheer two hundred feet, and hence was bad for those who had not a steady nerve.

But Clive Reed’s nerve was once again steady, and he had chosen to walk to the edge and then to stop and gaze down into the gathering darkness.

For a few moments he did think of how easily any one might fall there, and what a fate it would be if the stones which had been left roof-like by the old workers who had made that path should come crumbling down. But the thought passed away, thrust out by others, some pleasant and full of delight, others serious of import, and connected with the purpose of that night.

He passed on directly after, and a faint rustling sound was heard from the narrow rift which led upward behind the loosened stone. The face had disappeared, but a bright light flashed up from behind the rock, and once more the odour of tobacco began to be diffused in the cavernous gloom of the place.

But it was bright and clear where Clive Reed walked on, and his mind too was quite clear, his purpose determined, as he strode on now at a rapid pace till he reached the path down by the river, and then turned up suddenly in front of the cottage, where he stopped short once more to look up at the light shining out of the little drawing-room window.

It was open, and he could see that Dinah was seated at work; and, as if irresistibly attracted by her, he advanced quickly two or three steps to enter by the window; but he suddenly turned off by the path leading to the door.

“Yes; far better, Reed,” said a low voice at his elbow.

“Major Gurdon!”

“Yes. It was cool and pleasant out here. How plainly a man’s features sometimes show his intentions. Will you have a cigar? I am going to smoke another.”

“Not now,” said Clive huskily, as he followed his host up the garden to some seats. “You are right, sir, and it was an unwarrantable liberty. I am glad I did not take it.”

“So am I,” said the Major drily. “But I thought it possible that you might come over this evening.”

“And I have come, sir, for I have grave news to communicate.”

“Great heavens!” cried the Major, starting from his garden-seat in a nook of the ferny rocks, “don’t tell me, sir, that there is anything wrong about the mine.”

Clive was silent for a few moments as he gazed at the dimly seen, agitated face before him, and saw that the Major hurriedly wiped his brow.

“Tell me, then,” he said hoarsely, “the worst.”

“I have no worst to tell, sir,” said Clive quietly. “You have been anxious, then, about the mine?”

“Yes; I couldn’t help it, my dear sir,” said the Major nervously. “This sort of thing is new to me, and it means so much. But there is something wrong about it.”

“Nothing whatever, sir.”

“Thank God,” muttered the Major.

“So far from there being anything wrong, sir, I had a letter this evening announcing, on the basis of our success here, that in a few days the shareholders will receive an interim dividend of twenty per cent, which means, sir, one-fifth of your investment returned already.”

“My dear Reed, you amaze me. It is marvellous. But never mind that now. You said you came upon grave business.”

“Yes, sir,” said Clive, after a pause, “very grave business to me.”

“Yes. Pray speak. You are in want of a little money?”

“No, sir, I do not want money; I want time.”

“What is the matter, then? Your voice is quite changed.”

Clive was silent again for a few moments, and then, after glancing at the window, he said in a low voice—

“Major Gurdon, the time has come for me to know whether I am to visit here again.”

“Come here again? I do not quite understand you, sir. Pray speak out.”

“I will, sir,” said Clive earnestly. “I love your child.”

“We all do, sir,” said the Major coldly. “Who could help it?”

“Yes, who could help it?” said Clive, in a tone of voice which told how deeply he was moved. “And now, as an honourable man, I ask you, sir, whether I am still to visit here, or my visits are to cease?”

“Have you told Dinah what you have told me?”

“Not a word, sir.”

“That’s right!”

“How could I without your leave?”

“True! Well, Mr Reed, I will be frank with you. A short time back I had not thought of such a thing. I welcomed you here selfishly, as a visitor who would relieve some of the monotony of my existence. Then, sir, I began to like you, and then by slow degrees I began to see that I had either made a great error, or else fate was working, as she always does, silently. I have been much exercised in my mind as to what I should do, and ended by acting on the defensive, leaving the enemy to declare his plans.”

“And am I the enemy of your peace, sir?”

“Mr Reed, you are, I fear, the enemy of my daughter’s peace, and I say to you, sir, as one who has shown himself to be a man of honour, if there is anything likely to militate against my child’s happiness, for heaven’s sake, sir, speak out, and let this end at once.”

“You say you will be frank with me, sir; I will be frank with you. Not many months back I was engaged to be married.”

“And broke it off?” said the Major sharply.

“No, sir; I was a poor weak lover, I suppose. Too much immersed in business. The lady chose again, or, poor girl, was tricked into another engagement, and is married. I came down here, half mad with despair, to forget my cares in work; and instead I have awakened to the fact there is still happiness for me if I can win it.”

“Ah!” said the Major. “In plain English, then, sir, you wish to speak to Dinah?”

“Yes.”

“You are aware, I suppose, that she has nothing but her own sweet nature with which to endow a man.”

“I never asked myself that question, sir.”

“Of course, at my death she will have a few thousands, upon whose interest we live.”

“Will she?” said Clive quietly.

“Yes; and you, Mr Reed, it is my duty as a father to ask you a question or two. Will your position as manager of this mine enable you to keep her, not in affluence, but modest comfort?”

“I think so, sir,” said Clive, smiling.

“That’s well. But there, if—I say if this goes on, she shall have half my shares at once. A fair white virgin shall go to the altar with so many ‘White Virgins’ in her train.”

“My dear Major Gurdon,” said Clive, grasping the old officer’s hand, “don’t you know?”

“Know—know, sir! What?”

“That exactly one-third of the ‘White Virgin’ shares are mine, beside a great deal of property my father left. I suppose I am what people call a very rich man.”

“What!” cried the Major, literally dazed, “and you work like you do?”

“And why not? It is for myself—for the shareholders—for you. It was my father’s wish, sir, that this mine should prove to be a great success, and it is my sacred duty to make it so.”

“But—but, my dear Reed, you must be a millionaire!”

“I suppose so,” said Clive quietly.

“Then it will be impossible. My poor child could not marry so wealthy a man.”

“Then I must make myself poor,” said Clive. “Bah! what has money to do with it? Major Gurdon, I came down here to find rest and peace; let me find happiness as well, and that the world is not all base.”

“I hardly dare give consent,” faltered the Major. “You are the first, sir, who has ever approached her in this way, and I could not help seeing how day by day she has brightened and seemed to grow more restful and content. It has been as if she felt that with you near she could be at rest, that you were at hand to protect her, and that the poor old father was growing to be nobody now. Ah! Reed, she has ceased to care for me as she used.”

“Father!”

“You there, Dinah? You heard what we said?”

“I heard you tell Mr Reed something that you cannot mean.”

“You heard no more?”

“No, dear; but why?”

She stopped short, with the colour flushing to her cheeks, and her heart beating heavily, for Clive gently took her hand. His voice was very low, and there, in the soft darkness of the autumnal evening, he said earnestly—

“Miss Gurdon—Dinah—I have dared to tell your father that I love you with all my heart, and begged him to let me speak to you. Not as a dramatic lover, but as an earnest man, who would have but one thought, dear, if you gave him the right, to make your life peaceful and happy to the end. Dinah—my own love—can you give me that right?”

Her hand struggled in its prison for a moment, and then lay trembling there, as if too firmly held by the strong fingers which formed its cage.

“I—I fear—I ought not—I—”

She faltered these words painfully; and then, with an hysterical cry, she nestled to him.

“Yes, yes,” she cried; “take me, and protect me, Clive. I do love you, and will love you to the end.”

“My darling!” he whispered, as he clasped her passionately to his heart, just as the dog burst out into a furious volley of growls and barks, mingled with sounds as if he were struggling hard to tear away his chain.

Dinah nestled to him more closely, and the start she had given at the dog’s barking gave place to a feeling of safety in those two strong arms.

“Are you content, sir?” said Clive, turning at last, as he drew Dinah’s arm through his with a sense of possession which made his heart beat against it heavily.

But there was no reply, for the Major had gone off to see what had alarmed the dog.

“Nothing that I can see,” he said, upon his return. “Why, of course! Clever dog! He scented a thief.”

“A thief?”

“Yes, my dear, a scoundrel come to try and steal away my darling girl.”

“Ah!”

A low sigh and a shiver of horror, as Dinah shrank away to flee into the house; but as she felt Clive’s arm tighten about her, she clung to him once more.

“Why, you silly child, don’t you understand a joke?” cried the Major. “I mean this fellow who is holding you fast; and you not shrinking in the least. But there! it is a time to be serious now. God bless you, Clive Reed! You have solved one difficulty in a declining life. I have often said to myself, ‘What is to become of my darling when I go?’ Now I know, and can go in peace.”

Two hours later, with the kisses of love moist upon his lips, Clive Reed started for his lonely walk back over the mountain-side.

End of Volume One.

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.

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.

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