Chapter Fifteen.The Undercurrent.“Hah! I nearly had you that time, my fine fellow,” said Major Gurdon, as he stood deep in the shade, where twilight was falling fast, and ever and anon he deftly threw a fly with his lissome rod right across to the edge of the black water, where the deep suddenly grew shallow, and a sharp rippling was made by the swiftly flowing stream.“Feel it chilly, my dear?” he said, as he made the brass winch chirrup as he drew out more line.“No, dear,” said Dinah, with her pale, troubled face lighting up, as she stood there holding a landing-net. “It is very beautiful and cool and pleasant now.”“Ah! that sounds better,” said the Major, as he made his fine line whish through the air and sent the fly far away down-stream. “You have been fidgeting me, my dear.”“I, papa?” said the girl hurriedly.“Yes. You haven’t seemed the same since you had that fall.”“Oh, it was nothing much, dear.”“But it was a good deal to make you look so white and upset ever since.—Missed him!—Do you know, my dear,” continued the Major, making another throw, “I lay awake half last night thinking that I ought to take you up to London to see some clever physician.”“Oh, no, no, no,” said the girl hurriedly. “You shouldn’t fidget about that. I am better. I am, indeed.”“Then impossibilities have come to pass, and your little face is deceitful.”“You take too much notice of things, dear,” said Dinah, shrinking a little behind her father, so as to hide the fresh shade of trouble in her countenance.“Oh no, I don’t,” said the Major, as he threw his fly again. “I have not studied your face since you were a baby, Diny, for nothing. Do you know, my dear,” he continued, as his child stood with her lips pressed so firmly together that they formed a thin white line, “I really think that fish have more gumption than we give them credit for. They really do get to be educated and know when they are being fished for.”“Well, what wonder that they should refuse to take a tiny patch of hair and feathers hiding a hook?”“But it’s a lovely black gnat I am trying, my dear. I couldn’t tell it in the water from the real; and there: look at that,” he cried, in a tone full of vexation, as a big trout suddenly sucked down an unfortunate fly floating close by the Major’s cunningly made lure. “I knew that fellow was there, and I hereby register a vow that I mean to have him wrapped in buttered writing-paper and grilled for my breakfast before I have done. What a—ah! that’s a good throw, right above him. That ought to tempt any natural fish. Got him!—Be ready with the net,” he cried. “Not yet,” as there was a wallow, a boil in the water, a splash, and an ejaculation as the Major’s rod, which had bent nearly double, became straight again.“Lost him, papa?”“Lost him! Of course. My usual luck. Lightly hooked in the lip.—Eh?—No. A badly-tempered hook snapped short off. I wish the scoundrel who made it—Dinah, my dear, would you mind walking just out of hearing. There are a few good old trooper’s oaths just suitable to this occasion, and I should like to let them off.”Dinah did not stir, but a sad smile crossed her features, and she stood waiting while her father selected a fresh fly, straightened the gut, and began to fasten it to the collar of his line.“Such a pity! Just as I had hooked him too. I wonder whether he will try again. I was going to say what a deal of trouble one does take, and what an amount of time one does waste in fishing. And so you think that I need not take you up to town?”“Oh, no, no,” cried Dinah quickly. “I am quite well.”“Ahem!”“Well, nearly well again, dear. Don’t fidget about me, pray.”“Oh, no. You are of no consequence whatever, not the slightest; and I am to take no interest in you of any kind. Ah! you are a strange girl, Di, but you make my life bearable, only it seems brutally selfish to keep you down here in this wilderness.”“You know I am very happy here.”“No, I do not,” said the Major, whipping the stream rather viciously. “You have looked miserable for a month past.”“No, no, dear, you exaggerate,” said Dinah, with a smile that was piteous. “There! I am going to be as cheerful as can be now, and you shall hear me singing about the place again.”“Hah! at last!” cried the Major, striking sharply. “Home this time, Di. I believe it’s that big trout with the distorted tail-fin. That’s right, my fine fellow; run, but I think I have you. No more lovely May-flies to be sucked down your capacious gullet. I have you, my tyrant of the waters. I’ll bring him in ten yards lower down, my dear. Mind and get your net well under him, and don’t touch him with the ring.”There followed five minutes’ playing of the gallant fish, which leaped twice out of the water in its desperate efforts to escape, and then it was gently reeled in and lifted out on the stones.“Best this season, my dear. A beauty,” said the Major, transferring the speckled beauty to his creel, and preparing for another throw. It was suppertime with the trout in the twilight, and they were feeding eagerly now, as the Major began once more—casting his line, and chatting the while to his child, who stood just beside him on his left.“They’re pretty busy bringing the machinery over to the mine, I see.”“Indeed?”“Yes; and the men told me that Mr What’s-his-name, Reed, is down again.”Dinah drew a faint breath and exhaled it in something like a sigh.“Reed—bad name for a man of trust. I say, Dinah, I don’t like that other fellow, that man Sturgess, at all.”Dinah’s hands grasped the landing-net handle convulsively.“He is offensive. A coarse, overbearing, brutal sort of fellow. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I suppose in his eyes a man living down here in a cottage cannot be a gentleman. I shall have to give him a setting down. He is not coming to lord it over us. I saw him fishing below here the other day.”“No, no, don’t speak to him,” cried Dinah hastily.“Nonsense! I have commanded bigger and uglier fellows than he, my dear. The fellow’s insolent, and I saw him twice over clambering round the rocks and staring into the garden. I won’t have it. He shall respect my boundaries, and—Ah! good evening, Mr Reed. Down again, then! What is the last news in London?”Clive Reed had come upon them suddenly from behind one of the angles of the perpendicular rock which rose up from the narrow pathway beside the river, and was quite unnoticed until he was close at hand.Dinah turned pale as death as she uttered a low gasp, and for the moment looked as if she were about to turn and run.“Good evening, Miss Gurdon,” said Clive.He took off his hat to the Major’s daughter as he spoke; and then, as the fisherman released the hand which had been warmly grasped, the young man stood hesitating; but as Dinah made no sign, he let it fall to his side.“I have been expecting to see something of you,” continued the Major. “Have you been to the cottage?”“No,” said Clive, in a quiet, constrained tone, and to Dinah’s great relief he did not look her way, but seemed to stare about him strangely. “I did not call. I did not expect to meet you here.”“Ah! well, never mind; we are glad to see you, but—Good heavens!—Mr Reed! You’ve been ill or something. My dear sir, have you had some accident up at the mine?”“No,” said Clive, smiling faintly. “The trouble is past. I have lost my father, Major Gurdon, since I was here. He died suddenly.”“God bless me!” cried the Major, in a tone full of sympathy, as he threw his rod aside, and laid his hand with a sympathetic movement upon the young man’s arm. “And I was thoughtlessly amusing myself here while you were in trouble. In the midst of life—dear, dear me! I am deeply grieved, sir—we are deeply grieved. Mr Reed, you have suffered much. Dinah, my child, I am sure Mr Reed will give us his company to-night.”Dinah bent her head, and, in spite of herself, gave their companion a commiserating glance, their eyes meeting, and his resting upon hers with a sad, wistful look as if he were grateful for their kindly sympathy. Then he turned to the Major.“I thank you warmly,” he said, “but not this evening. I have been down in the mine all day, and chose this path for the sake of the cool, sweet, moist air.”“The more need for a little rest and quiet communion with others, my dear young friend,” said the Major. “You will give us pain if you do refuse, Mr Reed. I too have known trouble, perhaps greater than yours. Don’t say no, sir. You will come?” Dinah stood with her lips apart, listening, as she mentally prayed that her father’s hospitality might be refused.“You wish it?” said Clive.“My dear sir,” paid the Major, speaking rather stiffly, “I very rarely ask a visitor to my little hermitage. I have many failings, but my daughter here will endorse my words when I tell you that insincerity is not one.”“I beg your pardon, Major Gurdon,” said Clive, more warmly, “I beg Miss Gurdon’s. I am not a society man, and—and trouble and anxiety have made me rather boorish, I am afraid.”“Suppose we set aside attack and defence, my dear sir,” said the Major gravely. “I too am no society man, a mere hermit living in this desolate—no, not desolate spot. Dinah here makes my home a place of happiness and rest.”It was on Clive Reed’s lips to say coldly that he was sure that was the case, but he was in no mood for passing empty compliments, and he remained silent.“Let me be frank, Mr Reed. I look back upon the time you spent with us, sir, as a bright little spot in rather a dark existence. You impressed me favourably, sir. This is a very unconventional admission, but I am eccentric. Let me tell you openly that you impressed me very favourably, and when you do have a leisure evening, you will be conferring a kindness upon me by coming across to the cottage, where we will do our best to make your stay such as would be acceptable to a busy man—restful and calm. There, Dinah, what do you say to that for a long complimentary speech.”Dinah murmured something, but her eyes did not endorse her father’s words, for they fell, and the nerves about the corners of her lips twitched slightly as she listened to their visitor’s reply.“This is very good and kind of you, Major Gurdon,” he said; “and I should be ungrateful if I did not accept your hospitality. Let me be frank, though, with you, sir. I came down here to try and forget my troubles in hard work. My mission is to make this mine a successful venture for the sake of those who have embarked in the scheme, and my thoughts run upon the work, and that alone. I shall prove to be a very dreary guest.”“Let me have my opinion about that,” said the Major, smiling. “You have done wisely, sir. Hard work in these solitudes will restore your tone. I came down years ago in despair, to die forgotten; but I soon found out that ‘there is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.’ I was not to die, sir. Life began to have attractions once more. I found that there was something to live for besides self. Here we are, then, and, Mr Reed, you are very welcome.”He drew back for his guest to enter, and he in turn made place for Dinah, who raised her eyes to thank him in silence for his courtesy, when he saw a sudden change come over her countenance, which in an instant was full of a painful look of utter despair, as she seemed to have caught sight of something over his shoulder.The next moment she had hurried in, and Clive Reed followed, feeling a new interest in his host’s child, and at the same moment asking himself whether she were not suffering from some mental trouble, which was eating away the hopefulness of a life so young as hers.There was something very restful and calm about that evening at the cottage. Dinah hardly spoke a word, but after the pleasant meal sat engaged upon some piece of work, over which her white fingers passed hastily to and fro, as the guest sat back in his chair and watched them, while the Major smoked his cigar at the window, and chatted at times about London and India, where he had gone through some service at the time of the Mutiny.But there were many lapses into silence, and the whole tone of the evening was grave and still, according wonderfully with Clive Reed’s state of mind, as he felt a kind of sympathy for the lady before him, and found himself working out her career, without female companionship, saving that of the stern-looking elderly servant. Dinah Gurdon, he thought, must have gone through some terrible time of anguish to wear such an aspect as he had noticed more than once, and he pitied her, as he saw the busy hands, utterly devoid of any ornament but their natural beauty of form and whiteness, still going to and fro the needlework in the light cast upon them by the shaded lamp.And then all at once it was late, and time for him to go; but he did not care to stir—all was truly calm, there was such a sweet repose about the place that life had suddenly grown dreamy, and he lay back in his chair listening to the Major, and still watching those hands that were as beautiful as—more beautiful than—Janet’s.Her face came into his mind with that, like a painful jarring discord in the midst of some soft, dreamy symphony, and he started up.“Eh? What is the matter?” cried the Major suddenly.“It is late, sir. I am keeping you up far beyond your usual time, I am sure.”“Yes, and thank you for doing so,” said the Major. “It is a pleasant change. Early to bed is good, but not too early. Why, you do not suppose, Mr Reed, that we are going to let you tramp across the bleak mountain-side to-night, and have inquiries made for you in the morning, because you have not gone to the mine.”“But really, Major Gurdon,” protested Reed.“My dear sir, after all these years in this solitude, I know the place by heart, and there are dozens of spots—old shafts and the like—where a man may lose his life.”“But indeed—”“You are a new-comer. Yes, my dear sir, and we must take care of you. See how dark it is. Look, Dinah, my child. Go and see what the night is like.”Dinah trembled as she went to the open French window, stepped into the verandah, and came back looking ghastly, just as the dog began to bark fiercely from somewhere at the back.“Poachers after the grouse,” said the Major decisively. “I hope, Mr Reed, you will use your influence to keep your men from trespassing and going after the game—and my trout.”“Of course, sir, but—”“Well, Dinah?” said the Major, without noticing her agitated face.“It is very dark,” she said huskily.“Exactly! Too dark for you to go, my dear sir. Stay! We will have an early breakfast, and you can walk across to the mine. I will not have my peace of mind destroyed by being summoned to sit on a jury at an inquest upon my late guest.”There was a mingling of mirth and seriousness in the Major’s words, and Reed hesitated.“Well, sir,” he said, involuntarily glancing across at Dinah, and meeting her troubled gaze.“I insist,” cried the Major. “What do you say, my dear?”Dinah started, and her voice sounded strange as she said hurriedly—“It would be very imprudent of Mr Reed to go back—on so dark a walk.”“Exactly! There, my dear sir, you are a prisoner for to-night.”“Mr Reed will excuse me now,” said Dinah quietly. “Good-night,” and she held out her hand.“Good-night,” he replied, with a grave sympathy in his tone; and he stood gazing at the door through which she had passed with the touch of her cold, moist, trembling hand still lingering in his, till the Major spoke again, after walking to the window, and shouting to the dog to lie down.“Been madness to have gone,” he said. “Why, even in broad daylight the way across the mountain needs care. My poor darling there had that nasty slip some little time ago, and she has not been the same since. You noticed, perhaps, that she looks pale and quite hysterical?”“I had noticed—I did on my first visit too—that Miss Gurdon looked very pale and ill.”“Exactly! She gives me a great deal of concern about her health. I shall be obliged to take her up to town for good advice. But come, sit down; I will not trouble you about my cares.”“It is very late, sir.”“It is. But only a few minutes, Mr Reed. I wish to say something to you.”Reed seated himself.“Only a few words, sir, and I shall begin by asking you to pardon a much older man for his frankness.”“Pray speak, sir.”“Well, Mr Reed, I like you, and therefore I say, as a man whose life and hopes were blasted when he was young, and who would see with pain another suffer a defeat, be careful.”“Over what, sir?” said Clive sadly.“That mine. Don’t think me impertinent; but I would say to you, as a young man to whom the income you receive as engineer or manager may be of importance, don’t put too much faith in that ‘venture.’”“May I ask why, sir?”“Because mining is very treacherous, and you might be bitterly disappointed. I have seen so many failures. There, my dear sir, that is all. To put it in plain English, don’t put all your hopes or eggs into one basket. I don’t believe in that ‘White Virgin’ at all. There! forgive me:—good-night.”“I forgive you, sir,” said Clive warmly, as he clasped the hand extended to him, “and thank you, too. Good-night.”Half-an-hour later Clive Reed was lying in the pretty little bedroom, thinking again how restful and calm it all was, and that instead of lying mentally feverish, and tossing restlessly in turn, a pleasant drowsiness was coming over him.Then he was wide awake and attent, for, from somewhere close at hand, he could hear the sound of a woman sobbing gently, evidently in her despair, and after a time it came to him that the wall on one side of his room was merely a papered over partition, and the sobs that came so faintly to his ears must be those of Dinah Gurdon, suffering from some terrible mental burden of which her father was possibly not aware.The sobbing ceased, but in spite of the peacefulness of the place, Clive Reed did not drop off to sleep, but lay thinking of the mine. Then came thoughts of Janet and of his brother—his father’s wishes—of the Doctor, and then, by a natural sequence, of the Major and his child.What was the Major? Of course his name would be in old Army Lists, but why was he down there leading so retired a life? He had hinted at some trouble. Then there was his child! Sweet, ladylike, with a charm and dignity that were strange in such a cottage as that. What was her great trouble? It was evidently mental, and her father was in ignorance, and attributed it to bodily infirmity; and that being so, she must have some secret hidden from him, possibly too from her father.So restful the minute before, now Clive Reed felt as if a hot iron had seared him, and he turned angrily on his couch.“What is it to me?” he said to himself. “She is like the rest of them—pleasant to the eye and good for food, but once plucked, no more paradise. The old story! Pater in profound ignorance, and there is a lover. Well, I did not come here to play the spy upon Mademoiselle’s love affairs. I have had my stab, and it has been sharp. I suppose now that I ought to turn cynic and look on. No; I am too busy even for that. I have my betrothed—my ‘White Virgin’—to whom I must be faithful. Hang the girl! why couldn’t she go and cry at the bottom of the garden—top, I ought to say—or down by the river, and not where I could hear her? Mademoiselle Dinah Gurdon, you and I will never be friends, but I like the old man, and I should like to know what his secret has been. Has no faith in the mine, hasn’t he? ‘Don’t trust it, young man’—‘Don’t place all your eggs in one basket.’ I suppose he thinks I am a regular employé. Well, I look it, coming fresh out of it covered with limestone mud. Well meant, old gentleman, and I like you all the better for it. I know that you are not civil to me because I happen to be well off, and don’t ask me here because I might prove to be an eligible party for your daughter.”“Rubbish!” he muttered; “don’t be an idiot. If I thought that, I’d stay away. But it is not that. The old man is a thorough gentleman, and the girl is ladylike and nice enough.”She proved to be nice enough to make Clive Reed lie wakeful still, with his mind running upon her pale, care-marked face, and begin to wonder who the man might be who troubled her rest.“Some one at a distance,” he thought; “and the fellow doesn’t write. That’s it. Poor lassie! These women do not monopolise all the deception. It is on the other side here. Little Phyllis is left neglected in this out-of-the-way place, quite forgotten perhaps, while Corydon has gone up to London, and plunged into all the gaieties of life—and so the world runs on.”Suddenly it struck him that there was a photograph over the mantelpiece of a fine, handsome fellow in undress uniform. He noted it when he came into the room, but thought no more of it. Now it came strongly to his mind, and suggested a fresh train of thought.That was it! The portrait of the gentleman. The father was an old soldier: the more likely for the lover to be military, and he was either away on foreign service, or leading a giddy life in some barrack town.“Why, by Jove!” thought Clive, raising himself upon his elbow. “This is a tiny cot of a place, without a spare room, I should say. The old man would be too Spartan and military to have anything but the simplest of accommodation, and the best is given to the guest. I am in my lady’s chamber. Of course. The place is feminine and full of knick-knacks. So that is the cavalier’s portrait, and I have the key to the Pandora’s box of troubles. Poor girl! But what a shame for me to turn her out. What’s that?”The endorsement of one set of Clive Reed’s musings, the overturning of others, and a glimpse into Dinah Gurdon’s secret care. For, sharp and clear, there was the rattle of a few shot against the lattice panes of the window.Then in the stillness that instantly followed there was a movement on the other side of the partition, and directly after the ringing, echoing report of a gun fired from a room on the other side of the cottage.
“Hah! I nearly had you that time, my fine fellow,” said Major Gurdon, as he stood deep in the shade, where twilight was falling fast, and ever and anon he deftly threw a fly with his lissome rod right across to the edge of the black water, where the deep suddenly grew shallow, and a sharp rippling was made by the swiftly flowing stream.
“Feel it chilly, my dear?” he said, as he made the brass winch chirrup as he drew out more line.
“No, dear,” said Dinah, with her pale, troubled face lighting up, as she stood there holding a landing-net. “It is very beautiful and cool and pleasant now.”
“Ah! that sounds better,” said the Major, as he made his fine line whish through the air and sent the fly far away down-stream. “You have been fidgeting me, my dear.”
“I, papa?” said the girl hurriedly.
“Yes. You haven’t seemed the same since you had that fall.”
“Oh, it was nothing much, dear.”
“But it was a good deal to make you look so white and upset ever since.—Missed him!—Do you know, my dear,” continued the Major, making another throw, “I lay awake half last night thinking that I ought to take you up to London to see some clever physician.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” said the girl hurriedly. “You shouldn’t fidget about that. I am better. I am, indeed.”
“Then impossibilities have come to pass, and your little face is deceitful.”
“You take too much notice of things, dear,” said Dinah, shrinking a little behind her father, so as to hide the fresh shade of trouble in her countenance.
“Oh no, I don’t,” said the Major, as he threw his fly again. “I have not studied your face since you were a baby, Diny, for nothing. Do you know, my dear,” he continued, as his child stood with her lips pressed so firmly together that they formed a thin white line, “I really think that fish have more gumption than we give them credit for. They really do get to be educated and know when they are being fished for.”
“Well, what wonder that they should refuse to take a tiny patch of hair and feathers hiding a hook?”
“But it’s a lovely black gnat I am trying, my dear. I couldn’t tell it in the water from the real; and there: look at that,” he cried, in a tone full of vexation, as a big trout suddenly sucked down an unfortunate fly floating close by the Major’s cunningly made lure. “I knew that fellow was there, and I hereby register a vow that I mean to have him wrapped in buttered writing-paper and grilled for my breakfast before I have done. What a—ah! that’s a good throw, right above him. That ought to tempt any natural fish. Got him!—Be ready with the net,” he cried. “Not yet,” as there was a wallow, a boil in the water, a splash, and an ejaculation as the Major’s rod, which had bent nearly double, became straight again.
“Lost him, papa?”
“Lost him! Of course. My usual luck. Lightly hooked in the lip.—Eh?—No. A badly-tempered hook snapped short off. I wish the scoundrel who made it—Dinah, my dear, would you mind walking just out of hearing. There are a few good old trooper’s oaths just suitable to this occasion, and I should like to let them off.”
Dinah did not stir, but a sad smile crossed her features, and she stood waiting while her father selected a fresh fly, straightened the gut, and began to fasten it to the collar of his line.
“Such a pity! Just as I had hooked him too. I wonder whether he will try again. I was going to say what a deal of trouble one does take, and what an amount of time one does waste in fishing. And so you think that I need not take you up to town?”
“Oh, no, no,” cried Dinah quickly. “I am quite well.”
“Ahem!”
“Well, nearly well again, dear. Don’t fidget about me, pray.”
“Oh, no. You are of no consequence whatever, not the slightest; and I am to take no interest in you of any kind. Ah! you are a strange girl, Di, but you make my life bearable, only it seems brutally selfish to keep you down here in this wilderness.”
“You know I am very happy here.”
“No, I do not,” said the Major, whipping the stream rather viciously. “You have looked miserable for a month past.”
“No, no, dear, you exaggerate,” said Dinah, with a smile that was piteous. “There! I am going to be as cheerful as can be now, and you shall hear me singing about the place again.”
“Hah! at last!” cried the Major, striking sharply. “Home this time, Di. I believe it’s that big trout with the distorted tail-fin. That’s right, my fine fellow; run, but I think I have you. No more lovely May-flies to be sucked down your capacious gullet. I have you, my tyrant of the waters. I’ll bring him in ten yards lower down, my dear. Mind and get your net well under him, and don’t touch him with the ring.”
There followed five minutes’ playing of the gallant fish, which leaped twice out of the water in its desperate efforts to escape, and then it was gently reeled in and lifted out on the stones.
“Best this season, my dear. A beauty,” said the Major, transferring the speckled beauty to his creel, and preparing for another throw. It was suppertime with the trout in the twilight, and they were feeding eagerly now, as the Major began once more—casting his line, and chatting the while to his child, who stood just beside him on his left.
“They’re pretty busy bringing the machinery over to the mine, I see.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes; and the men told me that Mr What’s-his-name, Reed, is down again.”
Dinah drew a faint breath and exhaled it in something like a sigh.
“Reed—bad name for a man of trust. I say, Dinah, I don’t like that other fellow, that man Sturgess, at all.”
Dinah’s hands grasped the landing-net handle convulsively.
“He is offensive. A coarse, overbearing, brutal sort of fellow. I don’t like the way he looks at me. I suppose in his eyes a man living down here in a cottage cannot be a gentleman. I shall have to give him a setting down. He is not coming to lord it over us. I saw him fishing below here the other day.”
“No, no, don’t speak to him,” cried Dinah hastily.
“Nonsense! I have commanded bigger and uglier fellows than he, my dear. The fellow’s insolent, and I saw him twice over clambering round the rocks and staring into the garden. I won’t have it. He shall respect my boundaries, and—Ah! good evening, Mr Reed. Down again, then! What is the last news in London?”
Clive Reed had come upon them suddenly from behind one of the angles of the perpendicular rock which rose up from the narrow pathway beside the river, and was quite unnoticed until he was close at hand.
Dinah turned pale as death as she uttered a low gasp, and for the moment looked as if she were about to turn and run.
“Good evening, Miss Gurdon,” said Clive.
He took off his hat to the Major’s daughter as he spoke; and then, as the fisherman released the hand which had been warmly grasped, the young man stood hesitating; but as Dinah made no sign, he let it fall to his side.
“I have been expecting to see something of you,” continued the Major. “Have you been to the cottage?”
“No,” said Clive, in a quiet, constrained tone, and to Dinah’s great relief he did not look her way, but seemed to stare about him strangely. “I did not call. I did not expect to meet you here.”
“Ah! well, never mind; we are glad to see you, but—Good heavens!—Mr Reed! You’ve been ill or something. My dear sir, have you had some accident up at the mine?”
“No,” said Clive, smiling faintly. “The trouble is past. I have lost my father, Major Gurdon, since I was here. He died suddenly.”
“God bless me!” cried the Major, in a tone full of sympathy, as he threw his rod aside, and laid his hand with a sympathetic movement upon the young man’s arm. “And I was thoughtlessly amusing myself here while you were in trouble. In the midst of life—dear, dear me! I am deeply grieved, sir—we are deeply grieved. Mr Reed, you have suffered much. Dinah, my child, I am sure Mr Reed will give us his company to-night.”
Dinah bent her head, and, in spite of herself, gave their companion a commiserating glance, their eyes meeting, and his resting upon hers with a sad, wistful look as if he were grateful for their kindly sympathy. Then he turned to the Major.
“I thank you warmly,” he said, “but not this evening. I have been down in the mine all day, and chose this path for the sake of the cool, sweet, moist air.”
“The more need for a little rest and quiet communion with others, my dear young friend,” said the Major. “You will give us pain if you do refuse, Mr Reed. I too have known trouble, perhaps greater than yours. Don’t say no, sir. You will come?” Dinah stood with her lips apart, listening, as she mentally prayed that her father’s hospitality might be refused.
“You wish it?” said Clive.
“My dear sir,” paid the Major, speaking rather stiffly, “I very rarely ask a visitor to my little hermitage. I have many failings, but my daughter here will endorse my words when I tell you that insincerity is not one.”
“I beg your pardon, Major Gurdon,” said Clive, more warmly, “I beg Miss Gurdon’s. I am not a society man, and—and trouble and anxiety have made me rather boorish, I am afraid.”
“Suppose we set aside attack and defence, my dear sir,” said the Major gravely. “I too am no society man, a mere hermit living in this desolate—no, not desolate spot. Dinah here makes my home a place of happiness and rest.”
It was on Clive Reed’s lips to say coldly that he was sure that was the case, but he was in no mood for passing empty compliments, and he remained silent.
“Let me be frank, Mr Reed. I look back upon the time you spent with us, sir, as a bright little spot in rather a dark existence. You impressed me favourably, sir. This is a very unconventional admission, but I am eccentric. Let me tell you openly that you impressed me very favourably, and when you do have a leisure evening, you will be conferring a kindness upon me by coming across to the cottage, where we will do our best to make your stay such as would be acceptable to a busy man—restful and calm. There, Dinah, what do you say to that for a long complimentary speech.”
Dinah murmured something, but her eyes did not endorse her father’s words, for they fell, and the nerves about the corners of her lips twitched slightly as she listened to their visitor’s reply.
“This is very good and kind of you, Major Gurdon,” he said; “and I should be ungrateful if I did not accept your hospitality. Let me be frank, though, with you, sir. I came down here to try and forget my troubles in hard work. My mission is to make this mine a successful venture for the sake of those who have embarked in the scheme, and my thoughts run upon the work, and that alone. I shall prove to be a very dreary guest.”
“Let me have my opinion about that,” said the Major, smiling. “You have done wisely, sir. Hard work in these solitudes will restore your tone. I came down years ago in despair, to die forgotten; but I soon found out that ‘there is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.’ I was not to die, sir. Life began to have attractions once more. I found that there was something to live for besides self. Here we are, then, and, Mr Reed, you are very welcome.”
He drew back for his guest to enter, and he in turn made place for Dinah, who raised her eyes to thank him in silence for his courtesy, when he saw a sudden change come over her countenance, which in an instant was full of a painful look of utter despair, as she seemed to have caught sight of something over his shoulder.
The next moment she had hurried in, and Clive Reed followed, feeling a new interest in his host’s child, and at the same moment asking himself whether she were not suffering from some mental trouble, which was eating away the hopefulness of a life so young as hers.
There was something very restful and calm about that evening at the cottage. Dinah hardly spoke a word, but after the pleasant meal sat engaged upon some piece of work, over which her white fingers passed hastily to and fro, as the guest sat back in his chair and watched them, while the Major smoked his cigar at the window, and chatted at times about London and India, where he had gone through some service at the time of the Mutiny.
But there were many lapses into silence, and the whole tone of the evening was grave and still, according wonderfully with Clive Reed’s state of mind, as he felt a kind of sympathy for the lady before him, and found himself working out her career, without female companionship, saving that of the stern-looking elderly servant. Dinah Gurdon, he thought, must have gone through some terrible time of anguish to wear such an aspect as he had noticed more than once, and he pitied her, as he saw the busy hands, utterly devoid of any ornament but their natural beauty of form and whiteness, still going to and fro the needlework in the light cast upon them by the shaded lamp.
And then all at once it was late, and time for him to go; but he did not care to stir—all was truly calm, there was such a sweet repose about the place that life had suddenly grown dreamy, and he lay back in his chair listening to the Major, and still watching those hands that were as beautiful as—more beautiful than—Janet’s.
Her face came into his mind with that, like a painful jarring discord in the midst of some soft, dreamy symphony, and he started up.
“Eh? What is the matter?” cried the Major suddenly.
“It is late, sir. I am keeping you up far beyond your usual time, I am sure.”
“Yes, and thank you for doing so,” said the Major. “It is a pleasant change. Early to bed is good, but not too early. Why, you do not suppose, Mr Reed, that we are going to let you tramp across the bleak mountain-side to-night, and have inquiries made for you in the morning, because you have not gone to the mine.”
“But really, Major Gurdon,” protested Reed.
“My dear sir, after all these years in this solitude, I know the place by heart, and there are dozens of spots—old shafts and the like—where a man may lose his life.”
“But indeed—”
“You are a new-comer. Yes, my dear sir, and we must take care of you. See how dark it is. Look, Dinah, my child. Go and see what the night is like.”
Dinah trembled as she went to the open French window, stepped into the verandah, and came back looking ghastly, just as the dog began to bark fiercely from somewhere at the back.
“Poachers after the grouse,” said the Major decisively. “I hope, Mr Reed, you will use your influence to keep your men from trespassing and going after the game—and my trout.”
“Of course, sir, but—”
“Well, Dinah?” said the Major, without noticing her agitated face.
“It is very dark,” she said huskily.
“Exactly! Too dark for you to go, my dear sir. Stay! We will have an early breakfast, and you can walk across to the mine. I will not have my peace of mind destroyed by being summoned to sit on a jury at an inquest upon my late guest.”
There was a mingling of mirth and seriousness in the Major’s words, and Reed hesitated.
“Well, sir,” he said, involuntarily glancing across at Dinah, and meeting her troubled gaze.
“I insist,” cried the Major. “What do you say, my dear?”
Dinah started, and her voice sounded strange as she said hurriedly—
“It would be very imprudent of Mr Reed to go back—on so dark a walk.”
“Exactly! There, my dear sir, you are a prisoner for to-night.”
“Mr Reed will excuse me now,” said Dinah quietly. “Good-night,” and she held out her hand.
“Good-night,” he replied, with a grave sympathy in his tone; and he stood gazing at the door through which she had passed with the touch of her cold, moist, trembling hand still lingering in his, till the Major spoke again, after walking to the window, and shouting to the dog to lie down.
“Been madness to have gone,” he said. “Why, even in broad daylight the way across the mountain needs care. My poor darling there had that nasty slip some little time ago, and she has not been the same since. You noticed, perhaps, that she looks pale and quite hysterical?”
“I had noticed—I did on my first visit too—that Miss Gurdon looked very pale and ill.”
“Exactly! She gives me a great deal of concern about her health. I shall be obliged to take her up to town for good advice. But come, sit down; I will not trouble you about my cares.”
“It is very late, sir.”
“It is. But only a few minutes, Mr Reed. I wish to say something to you.”
Reed seated himself.
“Only a few words, sir, and I shall begin by asking you to pardon a much older man for his frankness.”
“Pray speak, sir.”
“Well, Mr Reed, I like you, and therefore I say, as a man whose life and hopes were blasted when he was young, and who would see with pain another suffer a defeat, be careful.”
“Over what, sir?” said Clive sadly.
“That mine. Don’t think me impertinent; but I would say to you, as a young man to whom the income you receive as engineer or manager may be of importance, don’t put too much faith in that ‘venture.’”
“May I ask why, sir?”
“Because mining is very treacherous, and you might be bitterly disappointed. I have seen so many failures. There, my dear sir, that is all. To put it in plain English, don’t put all your hopes or eggs into one basket. I don’t believe in that ‘White Virgin’ at all. There! forgive me:—good-night.”
“I forgive you, sir,” said Clive warmly, as he clasped the hand extended to him, “and thank you, too. Good-night.”
Half-an-hour later Clive Reed was lying in the pretty little bedroom, thinking again how restful and calm it all was, and that instead of lying mentally feverish, and tossing restlessly in turn, a pleasant drowsiness was coming over him.
Then he was wide awake and attent, for, from somewhere close at hand, he could hear the sound of a woman sobbing gently, evidently in her despair, and after a time it came to him that the wall on one side of his room was merely a papered over partition, and the sobs that came so faintly to his ears must be those of Dinah Gurdon, suffering from some terrible mental burden of which her father was possibly not aware.
The sobbing ceased, but in spite of the peacefulness of the place, Clive Reed did not drop off to sleep, but lay thinking of the mine. Then came thoughts of Janet and of his brother—his father’s wishes—of the Doctor, and then, by a natural sequence, of the Major and his child.
What was the Major? Of course his name would be in old Army Lists, but why was he down there leading so retired a life? He had hinted at some trouble. Then there was his child! Sweet, ladylike, with a charm and dignity that were strange in such a cottage as that. What was her great trouble? It was evidently mental, and her father was in ignorance, and attributed it to bodily infirmity; and that being so, she must have some secret hidden from him, possibly too from her father.
So restful the minute before, now Clive Reed felt as if a hot iron had seared him, and he turned angrily on his couch.
“What is it to me?” he said to himself. “She is like the rest of them—pleasant to the eye and good for food, but once plucked, no more paradise. The old story! Pater in profound ignorance, and there is a lover. Well, I did not come here to play the spy upon Mademoiselle’s love affairs. I have had my stab, and it has been sharp. I suppose now that I ought to turn cynic and look on. No; I am too busy even for that. I have my betrothed—my ‘White Virgin’—to whom I must be faithful. Hang the girl! why couldn’t she go and cry at the bottom of the garden—top, I ought to say—or down by the river, and not where I could hear her? Mademoiselle Dinah Gurdon, you and I will never be friends, but I like the old man, and I should like to know what his secret has been. Has no faith in the mine, hasn’t he? ‘Don’t trust it, young man’—‘Don’t place all your eggs in one basket.’ I suppose he thinks I am a regular employé. Well, I look it, coming fresh out of it covered with limestone mud. Well meant, old gentleman, and I like you all the better for it. I know that you are not civil to me because I happen to be well off, and don’t ask me here because I might prove to be an eligible party for your daughter.”
“Rubbish!” he muttered; “don’t be an idiot. If I thought that, I’d stay away. But it is not that. The old man is a thorough gentleman, and the girl is ladylike and nice enough.”
She proved to be nice enough to make Clive Reed lie wakeful still, with his mind running upon her pale, care-marked face, and begin to wonder who the man might be who troubled her rest.
“Some one at a distance,” he thought; “and the fellow doesn’t write. That’s it. Poor lassie! These women do not monopolise all the deception. It is on the other side here. Little Phyllis is left neglected in this out-of-the-way place, quite forgotten perhaps, while Corydon has gone up to London, and plunged into all the gaieties of life—and so the world runs on.”
Suddenly it struck him that there was a photograph over the mantelpiece of a fine, handsome fellow in undress uniform. He noted it when he came into the room, but thought no more of it. Now it came strongly to his mind, and suggested a fresh train of thought.
That was it! The portrait of the gentleman. The father was an old soldier: the more likely for the lover to be military, and he was either away on foreign service, or leading a giddy life in some barrack town.
“Why, by Jove!” thought Clive, raising himself upon his elbow. “This is a tiny cot of a place, without a spare room, I should say. The old man would be too Spartan and military to have anything but the simplest of accommodation, and the best is given to the guest. I am in my lady’s chamber. Of course. The place is feminine and full of knick-knacks. So that is the cavalier’s portrait, and I have the key to the Pandora’s box of troubles. Poor girl! But what a shame for me to turn her out. What’s that?”
The endorsement of one set of Clive Reed’s musings, the overturning of others, and a glimpse into Dinah Gurdon’s secret care. For, sharp and clear, there was the rattle of a few shot against the lattice panes of the window.
Then in the stillness that instantly followed there was a movement on the other side of the partition, and directly after the ringing, echoing report of a gun fired from a room on the other side of the cottage.
Chapter Sixteen.Sturgess Shows his Teeth.The loud barking of a dog followed the shot, and directly after Reed heard a sharp, light tap on a neighbouring door, and the Major’s voice—“Don’t be alarmed, my dear. I thought I heard steps in the garden; my window was open. Some prowling tramp, I expect. Lie down and go to sleep.”“Rather a military order,” thought Reed; “as if the poor girl could go to sleep under the circumstances, with her lover being shot at—Yes!”“Don’t be startled, Mr Reed,” said the Major, who had tapped at his door. “We don’t have policemen here to go their rounds. Some scoundrel was after my chickens, I expect; and the dog was asleep, so I just fired a cartridge at random as a warning to my visitor. Good-night.”“Shall I get up and go round with you?” said Reed.“My dear sir, no. He’s over the hills and far away by now. Good-night.”“Good-night, sir,” said Reed, who was half-dressed; and once more stillness reigned in the mountain solitude.“No business of mine,” he thought, as he quietly returned to bed; “I’ve enough to do to-morrow, and want rest. Chickens, eh? Poor old fellow! for chickens read little ewe lamb. Who’d have thought it of the pretty, ladylike girl? And I might have married, and eighteen or twenty years hence have had a daughter like these two in the narrow circle of my acquaintance—a child whom I had tenderly nursed in infancy, trained as she grew up, believed in, trusted, and fancied that I shared her inmost thoughts. Then the revelation would probably have come. No; I don’t think I shall marry now; and—well, how strange! I feel as if I can sleep—that engine ought to be fixed in a week, and we’ll begin at once. I’ll have the smelting-house where I settled, and the furnaces here shall be utilised for supplying additional steam. I must send a telegram off to-morrow to hurry on that tubing. Bah! I’ll let all that go to-night, and—”“Would you like a little hot water, sir?”Clive Reed started up.“Eh? No, thanks. I don’t shave. Can I have a canful of cold, fresh from the river?”“I have brought one up, sir. Breakfast in half an hour.”Clive Reed was dressed and out in half that space of time, to find the Major busily tying up some beautiful carnations, one of which he cut and presented, dew wet, to his guest.“The most aromatic of our plants, Mr Reed,” he said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you in the night, but it was no false alarm. Look! I would not rake them out till you had seen them.”He pointed to the couple of heavy footprints in the soft soil, and to one of his carnations crushed by a boot heel.“Nothing missing,” continued the Major. “Our friend was startled; but don’t say anything about the footprints at breakfast.”“Certainly not. But are you much troubled in this way?”“Well, no,” replied the Major, smiling grimly.“The fact is, never. I’m afraid the news of the reopening of the mine has brought some roughs down into the neighbourhood. When you get your men all at work, they’ll be too tired of a night to go wandering about.”“I am very sorry,” said Reed.“Oh, don’t say a word about it, my dear sir. I am not blaming you. I cannot expect to have Derbyshire reserved to me. There! those are smoothed out, and a man who finds that there are firearms upon premises, with people who mean to use them, will think twice before he comes again.”“Yes, of course,” said Reed, looking thoughtfully at the fine old soldierly fellow as he ceased raking his bed. “How will Mademoiselle look this morning? Paler and more startled. A deceitful little minx!”“We’ve ten minutes yet,” said the Major. “Care to walk up to the top of the garden? I can show you where my boundary runs, and yours touches it. Fair play, Mr Engineer. Keep your own side, and don’t come burrowing under me. Hang your rooting and mining! I don’t want to have my garden under-drained and my cottage come toppling about my ears.”“Don’t be alarmed, sir. I shall keep rigorously within the limits of the mapped-out estate.”“Of course you will, my dear sir. I have no fear. It is fascinating work, that mining, though. If I were a young man I might be tempted to begin myself. As you saw indoors, I do dabble a bit in mineralogy and metallurgy. Dinah, too, is quite an expert.”“Indeed! I was noticing your collection of ores. Some of them very rich.”“Yes; bits I have chipped here and there during the long years of my stay. There we are. Your estate runs—”A shrill whistle arrested him as he stood on the top of a rugged mass of stone, high above the cottage, where luxuriant ferns clustered in every niche; and placing a little silver call which hung by his watch-chain to his lips, he blew an answer.“One is obliged to have something of this kind,” he said smilingly, “to keep our Martha from going mad. That was the breakfast-bell, or answers for it. Fine place this for your appetite, Mr Reed.”“Yes, one does get ready for one’s meals,” replied the guest, as he walked slowly back down the glen-like garden, toward the open window of the room in which they had been seated on the previous evening, and from which Dinah, simply dressed, but looking, with her large eyes and pale creamy cheeks, ten times as interesting as on the previous night, came out to meet them.“A guilty conscience needs no accuser,” thought Reed, as they drew near, but to his intense surprise she held out her hand to him with a sweet, winning frankness, and bade him good morning. Then turning to the Major, a sensation as of a sob rising in his throat affected Reed at the tender affection that seemed to exist between the pair, as Dinah raised her lips to her father’s while he embraced her.“What a brute I am!” thought Clive; and in spite of the sharp rattle of the shot seeming to ring in his ears, he told himself that he must have been wrong.“A girl like that could not be deceitful,” he thought; and when a few minutes later they were seated at the table, and Martha came in, bearing a dish of fried ham, he looked hard at the stern robust woman, and wondered whether she was responsible for the nocturnal visitor.“Impossible!” he said to himself one moment, and the next he owned that it might be so. “Fifty if she’s a day,” he said mentally. “Well, perhaps so, and the lover has come at last.”Two hours later Clive Reed was back in the great shallow gap, where a couple of teams of horses had just dragged up heavy loads of machinery and materials, Sturgess looking morose and speaking in a surly voice, busy ordering the men about the shaft to look sharp and help to unload. The click of hammer and pick was making the place echo. Masons were busy erecting a stone building; and already the place was beginning to look business-like, and as if waking up from its long, long sleep of years.The cottage and its occupants were soon as if they were non-existent to Clive, who went at once into the temporary office which he had had erected, wrote and sent off two telegrams to the nearest town for despatch, several letters, and then, after changing his clothes, went out to descend the mine.He had accidentally arranged his time so that he met Sturgess, who had just ascended.“Ah! Sturgess,” he said, “I wanted to see you. Those rails ought to have been taken down first thing this morning, so that a line might be begun for the small trucks.”“Oh, yes, I know,” said the man roughly.The engineer looked at him wonderingly.“Then see about it at once.”“Plenty of time, sir; plenty of time,” said Sturgess insolently.“There is not plenty of time, sir,” said Clive, in a tone of voice which rather startled the man; “and have the goodness to understand this:—My late father engaged you on the strength of your recommendations, but I am in supreme authority here, and I submit to insolence from no person in my employ.”“I didn’t mean to be insolent,” grumbled the man.“Then please understand that you were, and don’t venture upon it again, or we part at once. Now go and see that those rails are taken down directly, and that a gang of men begin to lay them at once toward the opening to the great cavern where the water flows.”“No use to lay ’em down there,” grumbled Sturgess.“You heard my orders, sir. I shall be in that direction before long.”Sturgess went out without a word, but with an ugly look upon his countenance.“All right!” he muttered. “Make much of it. People who get up very high have the farther to fall. Curse him! I’ll let him see.”“He must have been drinking,” thought Clive, as soon as he was alone.The next minute he was wrapt in the management of the mine, and giving orders to different men, ending by going to the bucket to be let down, and noting that Sturgess was looking at him searchingly as he rose from bending over the labourers who were lifting the rails.
The loud barking of a dog followed the shot, and directly after Reed heard a sharp, light tap on a neighbouring door, and the Major’s voice—
“Don’t be alarmed, my dear. I thought I heard steps in the garden; my window was open. Some prowling tramp, I expect. Lie down and go to sleep.”
“Rather a military order,” thought Reed; “as if the poor girl could go to sleep under the circumstances, with her lover being shot at—Yes!”
“Don’t be startled, Mr Reed,” said the Major, who had tapped at his door. “We don’t have policemen here to go their rounds. Some scoundrel was after my chickens, I expect; and the dog was asleep, so I just fired a cartridge at random as a warning to my visitor. Good-night.”
“Shall I get up and go round with you?” said Reed.
“My dear sir, no. He’s over the hills and far away by now. Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” said Reed, who was half-dressed; and once more stillness reigned in the mountain solitude.
“No business of mine,” he thought, as he quietly returned to bed; “I’ve enough to do to-morrow, and want rest. Chickens, eh? Poor old fellow! for chickens read little ewe lamb. Who’d have thought it of the pretty, ladylike girl? And I might have married, and eighteen or twenty years hence have had a daughter like these two in the narrow circle of my acquaintance—a child whom I had tenderly nursed in infancy, trained as she grew up, believed in, trusted, and fancied that I shared her inmost thoughts. Then the revelation would probably have come. No; I don’t think I shall marry now; and—well, how strange! I feel as if I can sleep—that engine ought to be fixed in a week, and we’ll begin at once. I’ll have the smelting-house where I settled, and the furnaces here shall be utilised for supplying additional steam. I must send a telegram off to-morrow to hurry on that tubing. Bah! I’ll let all that go to-night, and—”
“Would you like a little hot water, sir?”
Clive Reed started up.
“Eh? No, thanks. I don’t shave. Can I have a canful of cold, fresh from the river?”
“I have brought one up, sir. Breakfast in half an hour.”
Clive Reed was dressed and out in half that space of time, to find the Major busily tying up some beautiful carnations, one of which he cut and presented, dew wet, to his guest.
“The most aromatic of our plants, Mr Reed,” he said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you in the night, but it was no false alarm. Look! I would not rake them out till you had seen them.”
He pointed to the couple of heavy footprints in the soft soil, and to one of his carnations crushed by a boot heel.
“Nothing missing,” continued the Major. “Our friend was startled; but don’t say anything about the footprints at breakfast.”
“Certainly not. But are you much troubled in this way?”
“Well, no,” replied the Major, smiling grimly.
“The fact is, never. I’m afraid the news of the reopening of the mine has brought some roughs down into the neighbourhood. When you get your men all at work, they’ll be too tired of a night to go wandering about.”
“I am very sorry,” said Reed.
“Oh, don’t say a word about it, my dear sir. I am not blaming you. I cannot expect to have Derbyshire reserved to me. There! those are smoothed out, and a man who finds that there are firearms upon premises, with people who mean to use them, will think twice before he comes again.”
“Yes, of course,” said Reed, looking thoughtfully at the fine old soldierly fellow as he ceased raking his bed. “How will Mademoiselle look this morning? Paler and more startled. A deceitful little minx!”
“We’ve ten minutes yet,” said the Major. “Care to walk up to the top of the garden? I can show you where my boundary runs, and yours touches it. Fair play, Mr Engineer. Keep your own side, and don’t come burrowing under me. Hang your rooting and mining! I don’t want to have my garden under-drained and my cottage come toppling about my ears.”
“Don’t be alarmed, sir. I shall keep rigorously within the limits of the mapped-out estate.”
“Of course you will, my dear sir. I have no fear. It is fascinating work, that mining, though. If I were a young man I might be tempted to begin myself. As you saw indoors, I do dabble a bit in mineralogy and metallurgy. Dinah, too, is quite an expert.”
“Indeed! I was noticing your collection of ores. Some of them very rich.”
“Yes; bits I have chipped here and there during the long years of my stay. There we are. Your estate runs—”
A shrill whistle arrested him as he stood on the top of a rugged mass of stone, high above the cottage, where luxuriant ferns clustered in every niche; and placing a little silver call which hung by his watch-chain to his lips, he blew an answer.
“One is obliged to have something of this kind,” he said smilingly, “to keep our Martha from going mad. That was the breakfast-bell, or answers for it. Fine place this for your appetite, Mr Reed.”
“Yes, one does get ready for one’s meals,” replied the guest, as he walked slowly back down the glen-like garden, toward the open window of the room in which they had been seated on the previous evening, and from which Dinah, simply dressed, but looking, with her large eyes and pale creamy cheeks, ten times as interesting as on the previous night, came out to meet them.
“A guilty conscience needs no accuser,” thought Reed, as they drew near, but to his intense surprise she held out her hand to him with a sweet, winning frankness, and bade him good morning. Then turning to the Major, a sensation as of a sob rising in his throat affected Reed at the tender affection that seemed to exist between the pair, as Dinah raised her lips to her father’s while he embraced her.
“What a brute I am!” thought Clive; and in spite of the sharp rattle of the shot seeming to ring in his ears, he told himself that he must have been wrong.
“A girl like that could not be deceitful,” he thought; and when a few minutes later they were seated at the table, and Martha came in, bearing a dish of fried ham, he looked hard at the stern robust woman, and wondered whether she was responsible for the nocturnal visitor.
“Impossible!” he said to himself one moment, and the next he owned that it might be so. “Fifty if she’s a day,” he said mentally. “Well, perhaps so, and the lover has come at last.”
Two hours later Clive Reed was back in the great shallow gap, where a couple of teams of horses had just dragged up heavy loads of machinery and materials, Sturgess looking morose and speaking in a surly voice, busy ordering the men about the shaft to look sharp and help to unload. The click of hammer and pick was making the place echo. Masons were busy erecting a stone building; and already the place was beginning to look business-like, and as if waking up from its long, long sleep of years.
The cottage and its occupants were soon as if they were non-existent to Clive, who went at once into the temporary office which he had had erected, wrote and sent off two telegrams to the nearest town for despatch, several letters, and then, after changing his clothes, went out to descend the mine.
He had accidentally arranged his time so that he met Sturgess, who had just ascended.
“Ah! Sturgess,” he said, “I wanted to see you. Those rails ought to have been taken down first thing this morning, so that a line might be begun for the small trucks.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said the man roughly.
The engineer looked at him wonderingly.
“Then see about it at once.”
“Plenty of time, sir; plenty of time,” said Sturgess insolently.
“There is not plenty of time, sir,” said Clive, in a tone of voice which rather startled the man; “and have the goodness to understand this:—My late father engaged you on the strength of your recommendations, but I am in supreme authority here, and I submit to insolence from no person in my employ.”
“I didn’t mean to be insolent,” grumbled the man.
“Then please understand that you were, and don’t venture upon it again, or we part at once. Now go and see that those rails are taken down directly, and that a gang of men begin to lay them at once toward the opening to the great cavern where the water flows.”
“No use to lay ’em down there,” grumbled Sturgess.
“You heard my orders, sir. I shall be in that direction before long.”
Sturgess went out without a word, but with an ugly look upon his countenance.
“All right!” he muttered. “Make much of it. People who get up very high have the farther to fall. Curse him! I’ll let him see.”
“He must have been drinking,” thought Clive, as soon as he was alone.
The next minute he was wrapt in the management of the mine, and giving orders to different men, ending by going to the bucket to be let down, and noting that Sturgess was looking at him searchingly as he rose from bending over the labourers who were lifting the rails.
Chapter Seventeen.Major Gurdon’s Venture.“My dear boy, you are quite a glutton at work,” said the Major one day when a miner had shown him into Clive’s office.“Ah! Major,” cried the engineer, looking up from a plan he was making, “glad to see you;” and he shook hands. “Hope Miss Gurdon is better.”“Who is to believe that, when you never come near us. Eh? My daughter! Yes, thank heaven, I think that she is a little better. She is gradually losing that scared, frightened look. Nerves growing stronger.”“I am very glad, sir. You must forgive my neglect. You know what calls are made upon my time. If I am absent, the work stands still, and I have been forced to run up to town four times since I saw you, to hunt up the machinists. I am coming some day for a few hours’ rest and a bit of trout-fishing.”“Do. Pray come. I shall be delighted. But, my dear sir, what a change you have made here in a month. It is wonderful. You have turned a desert into a beehive.”“Well, we are progressing,” said Clive, with a smile of pride, as he let his eyes follow the Major’s over engine and boiler houses, furnace, and smelting sheds; tramway and lifting machinery finished and in progress. “We shall begin raising ore very shortly.”“And making money for your shareholders, I hope.”“Oh, yes, I hope so,” said Clive, with a confident smile.“I see you are sanguine,” said the Major.“Oh, yes, fairly so, my dear sir.”“I sincerely hope that you will not be disappointed, Mr Reed; but you, as an experienced mining engineer, know what mines are. Don’t burn your fingers.”“Oh, no, sir, I’ll take care. Have you any money to invest? Would you like a few shares?”“I! No, no, Mr Reed. I have my little income, and I will be content. Too old to speculate, sir.”“There is no speculation in it, Major. The matter is a certainty, and you might double your income easily,” said Clive.“No, sir, I have enough,” said the Major shortly.“Pray forgive me,” cried Clive hastily. “I thought perhaps for Miss Gurdon’s sake—”“Ah! there you touch me to the quick,” cried the Major. “But no, no! Avaunt, tempter: I will run no risks.”“I will not tempt you,” said Clive, smiling. “That’s right. But, my dear sir, you must not deprive yourself of all rest. This struggle to grow rich is one of the evils of the day.”“But I am not struggling to grow rich,” said Clive quietly, “only to make others who have trusted me wealthy.”“Then I beg your pardon; but really I think you are over-doing it.”“Don’t be afraid for me. I am better and happier with my mind fully occupied. But would you like to look round?”“Very much indeed,” said the Major.“And go down?”“Of course. You will take care of me, I know.”“Oh, yes; you shall come ‘back to grass,’ as we say, safe and sound. Not much grass, though, by the way.”He touched a gong, and upon a boy answering it, sent a message for Mr Sturgess to come to the office.In a few minutes the foreman presented himself, and receiving the manager’s orders, he led the way to the entrance to the mouth, newly fitted with a strong engine-house and wire rope, with a cage which ran down the nearly perpendicular slope into the depths of the mine, where a trolly bore them along with their lights for half a mile.Then followed a walk, made easy now by the levelling which had gone on through the passages that ran maze-like through the mine. Finally, when the Major was growing weary, Clive led him into the natural cavernous part, and along over the falling water, to stop at length at the bottom of a slope, newly cut, with a platform in front of the discovery made on the day when the lanthorn fell.“You were asking me,” he said, “whether the old workings would pay, and I told you yes. But here is my mainstay: this great vein of ore. I have tested fair specimens of this, and found that not only is it very rich in lead, but the lead, in turn, is rich in silver.”The Major turned from inspecting the dull bluish-looking stone against which Sturgess held up a lanthorn.“You amaze me,” he said. “This is indeed a find. I had no idea that our hills contained anything so good. Yes; I know enough of metallurgy to see that what you say is correct. I congratulate you, Mr Reed. And to think that this mine should have been lying barren all these years for want of a little enterprise and money!”“There, you have seen enough for to-day, I think,” said Clive, smiling; and they returned to the daylight, Sturgess leaving them at the mouth of the shaft.“Your foreman?” said the Major, as they walked to the office.“Yes; a very useful man. Not polished or refined.”“Well, no; I—But there; I’m prejudiced.”“Think so?” said Clive, with a grave smile. “He does not impress you favourably?”“To be frank, no, he does not. I had a great deal to do with men in the army, and as a rule I was pretty good at the study of physiognomy.”“Indeed!” said Clive, smiling.“Yes, sir. I should say that man was sensual, of a violent temper, and not to be trusted.”“It may be you are about right,” said Clive, “but the man is a good worker, has special knowledge, and is very useful. He wants driving with the curb, and with a strong hand at the rein. Now, then, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. But you would like to wash your hands.”“Yes, yes,” said the Major, as he discussed his biscuit and sherry, “it is quite absurd for me, an old waif cast aside by the stream of busy life, to try and teach a keen business man like you. Of course, you know how to manage these people, and yes, yes, there was a time when mine was a smart regiment, Mr Reed, and—Ah! that’s past. I am out of the world now. But that really is a very fine glass of sherry, Mr Reed. Old East India brown. One does not often taste such wine now-a-days.”“I am glad you like it,” said Clive, filling a wine-glass and pouring it into a tumbler, and then brimming it with cold water from a carafe. “It is some of my late father’s wine. I am glad to see it appreciated.”“It is remarkably fine, my dear sir,” said the Major, making a grimace; “but you’ll pardon me: really, my dear Mr Reed, it is sacrilege to pour water into wine like this.”“You think so?” said Clive, smiling. “My walk underground has made me thirsty. I am no connoisseur of wine.”The Major sat sipping from his glass, looking thoughtful and frowning, while Clive began to wish that he would go, for the afternoon was gliding by, and he felt that he had a dozen things to do.But the visitor did not budge, and readily accepted a second glass of sherry.“Very shocking, my dear sir, and at such a time, but I have not tasted wine like that for years.”The Major sipped and sipped again, and in despair Clive forced himself to think of the hospitality he had received from his new friend, and giving up all thought of work for the day, unlocked a cupboard and took out a broad flattish cigar-box.“Try one, sir,” he said, as he opened the box, and displayed a row of spindle-shaped rolls carefully wrapped in foil.“Well, really,” said the Major, with his eyes glistening as he glanced at the brand and the box, “I—I cannot refuse, Mr Reed. Dear me, I cannot offer you hospitality like this—the finest of wine, the choicest brand of cigars. Hah!” he sighed, after lighting up, and exhaling a few whiffs of thick smoke, “exquisite! Mr Reed, one has always been taught to be suspicious of strangers. I believe I have been of you—you of me. But somehow you impressed me very favourably as a plain straightforward English gentleman; and I hope—there, I find a difficulty in expressing myself.”“You hope, Major Gurdon, that I was as favourably impressed. I proved it, sir, when I offered to procure for you some shares in this mine.”“Ah! I was coming to that, for I have repented, Mr Reed.”“Then you would like to be a holder, sir?”“One moment, Mr Reed,” said the Major warmly. “You have been my guest; you have seen my child. Mr Reed, my one thought in life is to be ready to feel at death that I have left her modestly independent of the world, single, married, according to her wishes. I ask you, then, as an English gentleman—a man of honour, shall I be safe in taking up some shares pretty largely in this venture?”“My dear sir,” said Clive quietly, “no man can be perfectly certain about a mine. It may grow richer, it may fail, but this was my father’s pet scheme; he was a man of great insight and experience, and I believe in the mine to such an extent, that I am ready to trust it and recommend it to my friends.”“Then you think it will pay large dividends?”“After what you have seen to-day, can you doubt it?”“No,” said the Major, after a few moments’ thought, “I cannot doubt either you or the mine, Mr Reed, and this evening I shall write to my broker to get me—a—a—few—”Clive Reed smiled.“You will write in vain, sir. I doubt very much whether you could get any.”“Indeed! Too late?”“They never went upon the market, sir, but were distributed amongst a few friends of my father. You might get some, but only at an exorbitant price, which I would not advise you to give; but I could let you have some of mine.”“At what price?” said the Major, with a searching look which was not lost by Clive, and he smiled slightly.“At par, of course.”“My dear sir, this is very good of you. I—I should much like to hold five hundred shares.”“So many, sir?”“Yes. You think it a good venture?”“I believe in it perfectly, sir, and I would not have suggested the matter if I had not possessed perfect faith.”“That is enough, Mr Reed, and I thank you warmly, sir, and beg you to forgive the slightest shade of distrust. Now will you confer one more favour upon me?”“Certainly, if I can.”“Let the shares be transferred at once, so that I may get the matter off my mind.”“I will,” said Clive, smiling. “Is that all?”“No; I want you to come back with me, and let me give you a cheque.”“You could send it,” said Clive, hesitating.“Ah! yes. You business men who deal with large sums, what a little you think of a few thousands. Can’t you favour me, Mr Reed? You have had a long spell of work: a few hours’ rest will do you good.”“I’ll come,” said the young man, rising; but he did not add, “You have broken my day, so I may as well finish it in idleness.”“That’s right,” cried the Major; “and of course you will stay till morning.”“And turn Miss Gurdon out of her room?”The Major laughed.“Oh, dear, no. That is not her room. She occupies it sometimes for—I don’t much understand these things—airing purposes, I believe; sometimes our old maid Martha. Don’t let that idea get into your head, my dear sir. There! you will come?”“Yes, I’ll come,” said Reed again; and, after summoning Sturgess, and giving him a few instructions, which the man received with scowling brow and a surly “Yes,” Clive walked away along the tram-rails toward the gateway of the mine gap, turning once to see that Sturgess was watching them off the road; but he forgot the incident directly, and they turned out on the shelf-like path under a projecting rock, which gave a cavern-like aspect to the place; then round the bastion-like spoil heap, to which Clive pointed.“There, brother shareholder,” he said, with a smile, “I believe there is enough ore in that to keep us working for years, and pay a modest dividend.”“I believe there is,” said the Major frankly; and then they went chatting on, descending toward the track by the river, with the view increasing in beauty as they passed down toward the vale.“I believe you are right,” said Reed suddenly. “I have been working rather too closely. This walk does one good. The air is invigorating, like champagne, and one’s spirits rise.”“Yes, it is not good to give all one’s thoughts to making money. What do you say to having a try for the trout this evening?”“No,” said Clive thoughtfully; “another time. I must, after all, be back this evening.”“Mr Reed!”“Yes; excuse me, I must plead business. Let me come for an hour or two’s chat in the garden, a cup of tea, and then let me return.”“Of course, if you really wish it.”“I do, this time, sir. We can easily finish the little bit of business first.”“My dear Mr Reed, I wish to treat you as a welcome guest,” said the Major; and they went on till he struck out away from the path.“A short cut,” he said, with a nod and a smile; and five minutes later he pointed, smiling, to a figure standing by one of the high masses of grit. “Expected, you see,” he said.“Did she know I was coming back?” thought Clive; and, quick as light, thought after thought of his last visit came to him, with the adventure in the night, and his unworthy suspicions about the summons at the window, thoroughly cleared up now by the Major’s words.Two minutes later he was shaking hands, and noting that the object of his thoughts was not so pale. The scared, painful look was gone, and a faint blush rose to her cheeks as she endorsed her father’s words that they were glad to see their guest.“But Mr Reed will not stay the night, my dear, and—What?”“There is a gentleman here,” said Dinah, rather hurriedly.“A gentleman to see me?”“No, a stranger. He was crossing the mountain. He has walked from Matlock, and he came up and asked if he might rest and have some refreshment.”The Major laughed.“Come,” he cried, “you are opening up the country, Mr Reed. A visitor to you, I should say. Well, he has had a long walk. You let Martha take in tea, I suppose.”“Yes, dear. Here he is,” whispered Dinah, as the visitor came slowly out of the porch, lighting a cigar, and looking round as though in search of something.The something of which he was in search was within a dozen yards, but not alone, and Clive gave a violent start, for the visitor was slowly approaching him, and now held out his hand.
“My dear boy, you are quite a glutton at work,” said the Major one day when a miner had shown him into Clive’s office.
“Ah! Major,” cried the engineer, looking up from a plan he was making, “glad to see you;” and he shook hands. “Hope Miss Gurdon is better.”
“Who is to believe that, when you never come near us. Eh? My daughter! Yes, thank heaven, I think that she is a little better. She is gradually losing that scared, frightened look. Nerves growing stronger.”
“I am very glad, sir. You must forgive my neglect. You know what calls are made upon my time. If I am absent, the work stands still, and I have been forced to run up to town four times since I saw you, to hunt up the machinists. I am coming some day for a few hours’ rest and a bit of trout-fishing.”
“Do. Pray come. I shall be delighted. But, my dear sir, what a change you have made here in a month. It is wonderful. You have turned a desert into a beehive.”
“Well, we are progressing,” said Clive, with a smile of pride, as he let his eyes follow the Major’s over engine and boiler houses, furnace, and smelting sheds; tramway and lifting machinery finished and in progress. “We shall begin raising ore very shortly.”
“And making money for your shareholders, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, I hope so,” said Clive, with a confident smile.
“I see you are sanguine,” said the Major.
“Oh, yes, fairly so, my dear sir.”
“I sincerely hope that you will not be disappointed, Mr Reed; but you, as an experienced mining engineer, know what mines are. Don’t burn your fingers.”
“Oh, no, sir, I’ll take care. Have you any money to invest? Would you like a few shares?”
“I! No, no, Mr Reed. I have my little income, and I will be content. Too old to speculate, sir.”
“There is no speculation in it, Major. The matter is a certainty, and you might double your income easily,” said Clive.
“No, sir, I have enough,” said the Major shortly.
“Pray forgive me,” cried Clive hastily. “I thought perhaps for Miss Gurdon’s sake—”
“Ah! there you touch me to the quick,” cried the Major. “But no, no! Avaunt, tempter: I will run no risks.”
“I will not tempt you,” said Clive, smiling. “That’s right. But, my dear sir, you must not deprive yourself of all rest. This struggle to grow rich is one of the evils of the day.”
“But I am not struggling to grow rich,” said Clive quietly, “only to make others who have trusted me wealthy.”
“Then I beg your pardon; but really I think you are over-doing it.”
“Don’t be afraid for me. I am better and happier with my mind fully occupied. But would you like to look round?”
“Very much indeed,” said the Major.
“And go down?”
“Of course. You will take care of me, I know.”
“Oh, yes; you shall come ‘back to grass,’ as we say, safe and sound. Not much grass, though, by the way.”
He touched a gong, and upon a boy answering it, sent a message for Mr Sturgess to come to the office.
In a few minutes the foreman presented himself, and receiving the manager’s orders, he led the way to the entrance to the mouth, newly fitted with a strong engine-house and wire rope, with a cage which ran down the nearly perpendicular slope into the depths of the mine, where a trolly bore them along with their lights for half a mile.
Then followed a walk, made easy now by the levelling which had gone on through the passages that ran maze-like through the mine. Finally, when the Major was growing weary, Clive led him into the natural cavernous part, and along over the falling water, to stop at length at the bottom of a slope, newly cut, with a platform in front of the discovery made on the day when the lanthorn fell.
“You were asking me,” he said, “whether the old workings would pay, and I told you yes. But here is my mainstay: this great vein of ore. I have tested fair specimens of this, and found that not only is it very rich in lead, but the lead, in turn, is rich in silver.”
The Major turned from inspecting the dull bluish-looking stone against which Sturgess held up a lanthorn.
“You amaze me,” he said. “This is indeed a find. I had no idea that our hills contained anything so good. Yes; I know enough of metallurgy to see that what you say is correct. I congratulate you, Mr Reed. And to think that this mine should have been lying barren all these years for want of a little enterprise and money!”
“There, you have seen enough for to-day, I think,” said Clive, smiling; and they returned to the daylight, Sturgess leaving them at the mouth of the shaft.
“Your foreman?” said the Major, as they walked to the office.
“Yes; a very useful man. Not polished or refined.”
“Well, no; I—But there; I’m prejudiced.”
“Think so?” said Clive, with a grave smile. “He does not impress you favourably?”
“To be frank, no, he does not. I had a great deal to do with men in the army, and as a rule I was pretty good at the study of physiognomy.”
“Indeed!” said Clive, smiling.
“Yes, sir. I should say that man was sensual, of a violent temper, and not to be trusted.”
“It may be you are about right,” said Clive, “but the man is a good worker, has special knowledge, and is very useful. He wants driving with the curb, and with a strong hand at the rein. Now, then, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. But you would like to wash your hands.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Major, as he discussed his biscuit and sherry, “it is quite absurd for me, an old waif cast aside by the stream of busy life, to try and teach a keen business man like you. Of course, you know how to manage these people, and yes, yes, there was a time when mine was a smart regiment, Mr Reed, and—Ah! that’s past. I am out of the world now. But that really is a very fine glass of sherry, Mr Reed. Old East India brown. One does not often taste such wine now-a-days.”
“I am glad you like it,” said Clive, filling a wine-glass and pouring it into a tumbler, and then brimming it with cold water from a carafe. “It is some of my late father’s wine. I am glad to see it appreciated.”
“It is remarkably fine, my dear sir,” said the Major, making a grimace; “but you’ll pardon me: really, my dear Mr Reed, it is sacrilege to pour water into wine like this.”
“You think so?” said Clive, smiling. “My walk underground has made me thirsty. I am no connoisseur of wine.”
The Major sat sipping from his glass, looking thoughtful and frowning, while Clive began to wish that he would go, for the afternoon was gliding by, and he felt that he had a dozen things to do.
But the visitor did not budge, and readily accepted a second glass of sherry.
“Very shocking, my dear sir, and at such a time, but I have not tasted wine like that for years.”
The Major sipped and sipped again, and in despair Clive forced himself to think of the hospitality he had received from his new friend, and giving up all thought of work for the day, unlocked a cupboard and took out a broad flattish cigar-box.
“Try one, sir,” he said, as he opened the box, and displayed a row of spindle-shaped rolls carefully wrapped in foil.
“Well, really,” said the Major, with his eyes glistening as he glanced at the brand and the box, “I—I cannot refuse, Mr Reed. Dear me, I cannot offer you hospitality like this—the finest of wine, the choicest brand of cigars. Hah!” he sighed, after lighting up, and exhaling a few whiffs of thick smoke, “exquisite! Mr Reed, one has always been taught to be suspicious of strangers. I believe I have been of you—you of me. But somehow you impressed me very favourably as a plain straightforward English gentleman; and I hope—there, I find a difficulty in expressing myself.”
“You hope, Major Gurdon, that I was as favourably impressed. I proved it, sir, when I offered to procure for you some shares in this mine.”
“Ah! I was coming to that, for I have repented, Mr Reed.”
“Then you would like to be a holder, sir?”
“One moment, Mr Reed,” said the Major warmly. “You have been my guest; you have seen my child. Mr Reed, my one thought in life is to be ready to feel at death that I have left her modestly independent of the world, single, married, according to her wishes. I ask you, then, as an English gentleman—a man of honour, shall I be safe in taking up some shares pretty largely in this venture?”
“My dear sir,” said Clive quietly, “no man can be perfectly certain about a mine. It may grow richer, it may fail, but this was my father’s pet scheme; he was a man of great insight and experience, and I believe in the mine to such an extent, that I am ready to trust it and recommend it to my friends.”
“Then you think it will pay large dividends?”
“After what you have seen to-day, can you doubt it?”
“No,” said the Major, after a few moments’ thought, “I cannot doubt either you or the mine, Mr Reed, and this evening I shall write to my broker to get me—a—a—few—”
Clive Reed smiled.
“You will write in vain, sir. I doubt very much whether you could get any.”
“Indeed! Too late?”
“They never went upon the market, sir, but were distributed amongst a few friends of my father. You might get some, but only at an exorbitant price, which I would not advise you to give; but I could let you have some of mine.”
“At what price?” said the Major, with a searching look which was not lost by Clive, and he smiled slightly.
“At par, of course.”
“My dear sir, this is very good of you. I—I should much like to hold five hundred shares.”
“So many, sir?”
“Yes. You think it a good venture?”
“I believe in it perfectly, sir, and I would not have suggested the matter if I had not possessed perfect faith.”
“That is enough, Mr Reed, and I thank you warmly, sir, and beg you to forgive the slightest shade of distrust. Now will you confer one more favour upon me?”
“Certainly, if I can.”
“Let the shares be transferred at once, so that I may get the matter off my mind.”
“I will,” said Clive, smiling. “Is that all?”
“No; I want you to come back with me, and let me give you a cheque.”
“You could send it,” said Clive, hesitating.
“Ah! yes. You business men who deal with large sums, what a little you think of a few thousands. Can’t you favour me, Mr Reed? You have had a long spell of work: a few hours’ rest will do you good.”
“I’ll come,” said the young man, rising; but he did not add, “You have broken my day, so I may as well finish it in idleness.”
“That’s right,” cried the Major; “and of course you will stay till morning.”
“And turn Miss Gurdon out of her room?”
The Major laughed.
“Oh, dear, no. That is not her room. She occupies it sometimes for—I don’t much understand these things—airing purposes, I believe; sometimes our old maid Martha. Don’t let that idea get into your head, my dear sir. There! you will come?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” said Reed again; and, after summoning Sturgess, and giving him a few instructions, which the man received with scowling brow and a surly “Yes,” Clive walked away along the tram-rails toward the gateway of the mine gap, turning once to see that Sturgess was watching them off the road; but he forgot the incident directly, and they turned out on the shelf-like path under a projecting rock, which gave a cavern-like aspect to the place; then round the bastion-like spoil heap, to which Clive pointed.
“There, brother shareholder,” he said, with a smile, “I believe there is enough ore in that to keep us working for years, and pay a modest dividend.”
“I believe there is,” said the Major frankly; and then they went chatting on, descending toward the track by the river, with the view increasing in beauty as they passed down toward the vale.
“I believe you are right,” said Reed suddenly. “I have been working rather too closely. This walk does one good. The air is invigorating, like champagne, and one’s spirits rise.”
“Yes, it is not good to give all one’s thoughts to making money. What do you say to having a try for the trout this evening?”
“No,” said Clive thoughtfully; “another time. I must, after all, be back this evening.”
“Mr Reed!”
“Yes; excuse me, I must plead business. Let me come for an hour or two’s chat in the garden, a cup of tea, and then let me return.”
“Of course, if you really wish it.”
“I do, this time, sir. We can easily finish the little bit of business first.”
“My dear Mr Reed, I wish to treat you as a welcome guest,” said the Major; and they went on till he struck out away from the path.
“A short cut,” he said, with a nod and a smile; and five minutes later he pointed, smiling, to a figure standing by one of the high masses of grit. “Expected, you see,” he said.
“Did she know I was coming back?” thought Clive; and, quick as light, thought after thought of his last visit came to him, with the adventure in the night, and his unworthy suspicions about the summons at the window, thoroughly cleared up now by the Major’s words.
Two minutes later he was shaking hands, and noting that the object of his thoughts was not so pale. The scared, painful look was gone, and a faint blush rose to her cheeks as she endorsed her father’s words that they were glad to see their guest.
“But Mr Reed will not stay the night, my dear, and—What?”
“There is a gentleman here,” said Dinah, rather hurriedly.
“A gentleman to see me?”
“No, a stranger. He was crossing the mountain. He has walked from Matlock, and he came up and asked if he might rest and have some refreshment.”
The Major laughed.
“Come,” he cried, “you are opening up the country, Mr Reed. A visitor to you, I should say. Well, he has had a long walk. You let Martha take in tea, I suppose.”
“Yes, dear. Here he is,” whispered Dinah, as the visitor came slowly out of the porch, lighting a cigar, and looking round as though in search of something.
The something of which he was in search was within a dozen yards, but not alone, and Clive gave a violent start, for the visitor was slowly approaching him, and now held out his hand.