Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.The Lead of Lead.“Ahoy there! Sturgess! Are you hurt?”“Hurt, sir? No.”“Then don’t make that noise, man. Any one would think you were a child, frightened at the dark.”“But where are you, sir?”“Down here, of course.”“I thought you were killed, sir, and—and—”“That you were left alone in the dark, man. There, wait till I get a light.”Michael Sturgess muttered an oath, and leaned forward over the sharp slope, as he wiped the great drops of fear-born perspiration from his face. “Child, am I?” he muttered. “I’ll let him see. Enough to scare anybody—place like this.”He gazed downward as Reed, after a little manipulation of the damaged lanthorn, struck a light, which gleamed out some sixty feet below. Then the candle was relit, giving the man a faint glimpse of the horrible-looking slope, and lastly Reed began to climb up, slowly talking the while. “Of course it’s an ugly-looking place,” he said; “these underground limestone caverns always are, but it’s of no use to lose your nerve at the first emergency.”There was a good-humoured contempt in the young engineer’s tones which enraged the big strong man above him as he stood looking down at the light.“Like to scare him!” he muttered, as Reed climbed higher, rested when about half-way up, and raised the lanthorn above his head to gaze at the rock face before him, as if seeking for a good hand or foot hold.“I daresay this place goes down for far enough,” he said, as he continued his climb, and kept on talking as if to take his companion’s attention; “it would be interesting to try and plumb the depth.”“Shall I take the lanthorn?” said Sturgess, a minute or two later.“No, thanks, I’ll carry it,” replied Reed, as he made his way to where Sturgess stood. “I shall want to look at the walls here and there as we go back. There! might have been worse. A bit scratched, and my clothes a little torn. I will go back to the regular old workings now. There has evidently never been anything done here.”“No, sir; what I told you. No good here.”“No good!” said Reed, with a laugh. “I think there’s a great deal of good.”“What, workable stuff, sir?” said the man sharply. “Perhaps; but what I meant was this tremendous hole and the water. Why, Sturgess, man, it’s worth thousands.”“Don’t see it, sir,” said the man roughly.“I do. A natural drainage of the mine. No expenditure for keeping the workings dry.”“Oh, yes, that’s right enough, sir,” said the man, with a laugh, “if you’ve got anything to work.”“I’m afraid Mr Sturgess and I will not get on together,” said Reed to himself, as he led the way on, examining the wall from time to time, and now and then chipping off a piece for a specimen.“If this cockney jockey’s going to be over me,” muttered Sturgess, “he’s got to be tough; but he don’t know everything.”They reached the entrance to the grotto-like portion of the mine, where Reed halted, took out a sandwich-box and flask, and began to refresh himself, handing both to his companion first; and as Reed ate, he lifted the lanthorn from time to time, and examined the neighbouring walls, roof, and floor.“All pretty well cleared out, sir,” said Sturgess, with a grin.“Yes—clean,” replied Reed quietly; and soon after they resumed their exploration, following the track of the old veins here and there through an almost interminable maze of passages, and going farther and farther into the depths of the mountain. But it was always the same, passage after passage through the limestone, following the old lode of lead ore which had been diligently quarried and picked out any time during, probably, the past two thousand years, and there was no plan, no special arrangement in driving the various tunnels. Where nature had run her mineral in veins, there the old miners had followed; and, as Reed had noticed before, there was scarcely a passage that had water lying about, the drippings from the roof and cracks in the walls having worn for themselves little channels, which found their way into others, and then by degrees went to swell the fall by whose side he had stood some hours before.At last, with his bag growing heavy with specimens, and the supply of candles getting less, and after the termination of the workings had been found and examined in several places, Reed stopped.“Back now,” he said.“Satisfied, sir?”“Oh yes, for to-day. I shall follow the other leads, of course, till I have well examined all, and mapped it out.”“And settled where you shall begin work, sir,” said the man, with a grin.“Oh, I have settled that,” replied Reed.Sturgess stared.“Been a lot of good stuff got out of here, sir, no doubt.”“Evidently.”“More than there ever will be again.”“That’s more than we can say, Sturgess. Take the lanthorn now, and lead on straight for the mouth. Good heavens! Why, it’s five o’clock.”“Yes, sir, I thought it must be,” said the man.“Time goes when one is interested. There, have a cigar. Light up. We have not done a bad’s day work. Can you lead back pretty straight?”“Oh yes, sir, I can manage that,” said the man confidently; but he had been trudging along, sending his and the young man’s shadows grotesquely dancing upon the roof for quite an hour and a half before the end of the main artery of the mine was reached, with the sloping shaft up to the daylight—“to grass,” Sturgess termed it—but here there was no response to their hails for nearly an hour, the men having gone.“The scoundrels!” Reed cried at last. “Well, it’s risky work, but we can’t stop down here. We must either go back into the mine, try for the other shaft, which may be climbable, or you or I must go up that rope.”“Who’s to climb a rope like that, sir?” growled Sturgess; “and how do we know that the end’s properly fastened?—There they are!”For a faint murmur of voices was heard from far above, and now an answer came to their hail, and a minute later a voice shouted—“All right below?”“Yes,” cried Reed. “Get in the loop, my man.—Ahoy there! haul up.”The rope tightened and Sturgess was raised from his feet and went up slowly, leaving Reed below in the darkness.But it was all light to the young engineer, whose tired face shone with joy and excitement.“The blind cavern lizards,” he said, half aloud. “I knew it. God bless the old dad, what a brain he has! He’ll be delighted with my report; and Janet, my darling, you shall have a home that will be the envy of all we know, and make the old Doctor proud of us. My darling!” he said softly, as, with his eyes half closed, he raised up her fair young face before him. “Hah! poor old Jessop, too. He must have a bit of the luck. I’ll tell the old man bygones must be bygones. We’ll have a clean slate. Jess isn’t a bad fellow after all. I might have gone down the wrong road a bit if it hadn’t been for Janet. Hang it all! the love of a dear sweet girl does keep a weak fellow straight.”He glanced down at his hands and tweed suit, daubed with limestone mud, and showing a couple of tears in the stout cloth.“Delightful party for a drawing-room, and—hullo! here’s the loop.”He secured the rope, which came dangling down, felt that his specimens and tools were safe, and then slipped the loop over his head, sat in it as nonchalantly as if it had been a swing, uttered a loud “All right,” and the next minute he was being steadily hauled up towards the surface.

“Ahoy there! Sturgess! Are you hurt?”

“Hurt, sir? No.”

“Then don’t make that noise, man. Any one would think you were a child, frightened at the dark.”

“But where are you, sir?”

“Down here, of course.”

“I thought you were killed, sir, and—and—”

“That you were left alone in the dark, man. There, wait till I get a light.”

Michael Sturgess muttered an oath, and leaned forward over the sharp slope, as he wiped the great drops of fear-born perspiration from his face. “Child, am I?” he muttered. “I’ll let him see. Enough to scare anybody—place like this.”

He gazed downward as Reed, after a little manipulation of the damaged lanthorn, struck a light, which gleamed out some sixty feet below. Then the candle was relit, giving the man a faint glimpse of the horrible-looking slope, and lastly Reed began to climb up, slowly talking the while. “Of course it’s an ugly-looking place,” he said; “these underground limestone caverns always are, but it’s of no use to lose your nerve at the first emergency.”

There was a good-humoured contempt in the young engineer’s tones which enraged the big strong man above him as he stood looking down at the light.

“Like to scare him!” he muttered, as Reed climbed higher, rested when about half-way up, and raised the lanthorn above his head to gaze at the rock face before him, as if seeking for a good hand or foot hold.

“I daresay this place goes down for far enough,” he said, as he continued his climb, and kept on talking as if to take his companion’s attention; “it would be interesting to try and plumb the depth.”

“Shall I take the lanthorn?” said Sturgess, a minute or two later.

“No, thanks, I’ll carry it,” replied Reed, as he made his way to where Sturgess stood. “I shall want to look at the walls here and there as we go back. There! might have been worse. A bit scratched, and my clothes a little torn. I will go back to the regular old workings now. There has evidently never been anything done here.”

“No, sir; what I told you. No good here.”

“No good!” said Reed, with a laugh. “I think there’s a great deal of good.”

“What, workable stuff, sir?” said the man sharply. “Perhaps; but what I meant was this tremendous hole and the water. Why, Sturgess, man, it’s worth thousands.”

“Don’t see it, sir,” said the man roughly.

“I do. A natural drainage of the mine. No expenditure for keeping the workings dry.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right enough, sir,” said the man, with a laugh, “if you’ve got anything to work.”

“I’m afraid Mr Sturgess and I will not get on together,” said Reed to himself, as he led the way on, examining the wall from time to time, and now and then chipping off a piece for a specimen.

“If this cockney jockey’s going to be over me,” muttered Sturgess, “he’s got to be tough; but he don’t know everything.”

They reached the entrance to the grotto-like portion of the mine, where Reed halted, took out a sandwich-box and flask, and began to refresh himself, handing both to his companion first; and as Reed ate, he lifted the lanthorn from time to time, and examined the neighbouring walls, roof, and floor.

“All pretty well cleared out, sir,” said Sturgess, with a grin.

“Yes—clean,” replied Reed quietly; and soon after they resumed their exploration, following the track of the old veins here and there through an almost interminable maze of passages, and going farther and farther into the depths of the mountain. But it was always the same, passage after passage through the limestone, following the old lode of lead ore which had been diligently quarried and picked out any time during, probably, the past two thousand years, and there was no plan, no special arrangement in driving the various tunnels. Where nature had run her mineral in veins, there the old miners had followed; and, as Reed had noticed before, there was scarcely a passage that had water lying about, the drippings from the roof and cracks in the walls having worn for themselves little channels, which found their way into others, and then by degrees went to swell the fall by whose side he had stood some hours before.

At last, with his bag growing heavy with specimens, and the supply of candles getting less, and after the termination of the workings had been found and examined in several places, Reed stopped.

“Back now,” he said.

“Satisfied, sir?”

“Oh yes, for to-day. I shall follow the other leads, of course, till I have well examined all, and mapped it out.”

“And settled where you shall begin work, sir,” said the man, with a grin.

“Oh, I have settled that,” replied Reed.

Sturgess stared.

“Been a lot of good stuff got out of here, sir, no doubt.”

“Evidently.”

“More than there ever will be again.”

“That’s more than we can say, Sturgess. Take the lanthorn now, and lead on straight for the mouth. Good heavens! Why, it’s five o’clock.”

“Yes, sir, I thought it must be,” said the man.

“Time goes when one is interested. There, have a cigar. Light up. We have not done a bad’s day work. Can you lead back pretty straight?”

“Oh yes, sir, I can manage that,” said the man confidently; but he had been trudging along, sending his and the young man’s shadows grotesquely dancing upon the roof for quite an hour and a half before the end of the main artery of the mine was reached, with the sloping shaft up to the daylight—“to grass,” Sturgess termed it—but here there was no response to their hails for nearly an hour, the men having gone.

“The scoundrels!” Reed cried at last. “Well, it’s risky work, but we can’t stop down here. We must either go back into the mine, try for the other shaft, which may be climbable, or you or I must go up that rope.”

“Who’s to climb a rope like that, sir?” growled Sturgess; “and how do we know that the end’s properly fastened?—There they are!”

For a faint murmur of voices was heard from far above, and now an answer came to their hail, and a minute later a voice shouted—

“All right below?”

“Yes,” cried Reed. “Get in the loop, my man.—Ahoy there! haul up.”

The rope tightened and Sturgess was raised from his feet and went up slowly, leaving Reed below in the darkness.

But it was all light to the young engineer, whose tired face shone with joy and excitement.

“The blind cavern lizards,” he said, half aloud. “I knew it. God bless the old dad, what a brain he has! He’ll be delighted with my report; and Janet, my darling, you shall have a home that will be the envy of all we know, and make the old Doctor proud of us. My darling!” he said softly, as, with his eyes half closed, he raised up her fair young face before him. “Hah! poor old Jessop, too. He must have a bit of the luck. I’ll tell the old man bygones must be bygones. We’ll have a clean slate. Jess isn’t a bad fellow after all. I might have gone down the wrong road a bit if it hadn’t been for Janet. Hang it all! the love of a dear sweet girl does keep a weak fellow straight.”

He glanced down at his hands and tweed suit, daubed with limestone mud, and showing a couple of tears in the stout cloth.

“Delightful party for a drawing-room, and—hullo! here’s the loop.”

He secured the rope, which came dangling down, felt that his specimens and tools were safe, and then slipped the loop over his head, sat in it as nonchalantly as if it had been a swing, uttered a loud “All right,” and the next minute he was being steadily hauled up towards the surface.

Chapter Seven.Making Friends.“Hallo, my lads!” cried Reed, as he reached terra firma and gazed around. “I didn’t know there was a public-house handy.”“No, no, don’t blame the poor lads,” said a well-dressed, elderly man, smiling. “They were alarmed at your long absence, sir, and came on to me for help. We came round, and picked up these two brave fellows, and were ready for a search, but, thank heaven, it was a false alarm.”“Oh, that was it?” cried Reed; “then I beg your pardon, my lads, and thank you, sir, heartily. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”“Major Gurdon, at your service, sir,” and there was a swift military drawing up of the spare figure, the soft dark eyes brightened up, and the speaker threw back his grey head and gave his long white beard a shake to settle it upon his breast.“Mr Reed, I believe, the new engineer of the mine?”“Yes, sir, but at this present moment more like one of the miners,” said Reed, with a deprecating glance at his besmirched garments. “Excuse me one moment.”He turned to the men with his hand in his pocket—a hand that did not come back empty, and the new-comers went off slowly, smiling as Reed turned now to the Major, who had stepped forward, eager to speak.“You look thoroughly exhausted,” he said quickly. “I live quite a cottage life out here with my garden and fishing-rod, but if you will accept my hospitality, such as it is—”“Really, I could not trouble you—and in this condition,” began Reed, as Sturgess changed colour, and an unpleasant scowl came upon his face.“You will be conferring a favour, my dear sir,” said the Major. “One does not often have the society of a gentleman out in this wild place; and,” he added laughingly, “the hospitality will embrace soap and water and a clothes-brush.”“Then I accept willingly,” said Reed, holding out his hand, but withdrawing it directly as he noted its condition, covered with dried limestone mud, and streaked in two places with blood.“Nonsense!” said the Major, taking the hand. “I understand these things, my dear sir. I often go prowling about with a geologist’s hammer, and have gone home like this. Come along. My high tea will be about ready.”“Well, this is most unexpected,” said Reed warmly. “Here, Sturgess, I shall come over again to-morrow about eleven. Be here with the men, and you had better bring a couple of lanthorns.”“Hadn’t I better come on to put you in the right road?”“What! Oh, no! I shall manage. That will do.” The man turned away with the look upon his countenance intensifying; but it was not observed, for Reed walked off in company with his new acquaintance, the pair chatting away as if they had known each other for years.“Quite gave me a scare,” said the Major. “Life here is so uneventful. Very beautiful, but lonely, especially in the winter.”“But you do not stay here in the winter?”“Oh yes; I have lived here ten years now.”“No accounting for taste,” thought Reed; and he glanced sidewise at his companion, but learned nothing. He only saw a quiet-looking country gentleman, whose sun-browned face told of an open-air life.Sturgess followed them to the great natural gateway at the end of the chasm, where he had stood some days before, but not alone; and he now remained watching them as they went on westward along the narrow path, and round by the huge buttress formed by the refuse of the mine, carried and cast down there for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Then as they passed on out of sight, the man raised one of his fingers to his lips, and began gnawing roughly at the side of the nail, till he seemed to make up his mind, and took a step or two forward after them, next stopped short again, for a hail came from behind.“Coming on down to the village, Mr Sturgess?”He turned and faced one of the two men, and nodded, walking away with him in the other direction, taciturn and strange, answering his companion in monosyllables, and with his thoughts evidently far away. Not so very, though, for they were with Clive Reed, and promised him no good.“So you have been examining the old ‘White Virgin’ mine, eh?” said Major Gurdon. “I heard it was sold. A new company, eh?”“Yes,” said Reed, smiling; “a new company—a solid one.”“Eh? I hope so. But if I had to go in for a mining adventure, I think I should begin here with the material the old miners cast away as rubbish.” He pointed to the great buttress they were skirting. “There it is, already extracted from the mountain, and though poor, rich enough, I should say, to pay a company if worked with modern appliances.”“You understand these things?” said Reed, looking at his elderly companion searchingly, and noting how deeply lined his brow seemed, and that care and sorrow more than age had given him his hollow-cheeked, anxious air.“A man who likes geology, mineralogy, and who always lives among these hills, cannot help picking up a little mining lore,” said the Major, with a smile. “I have searched and toiled, my dear sir—much loss and little gain. I hope yours may prove to be a successful venture.”“Let’s hope so,” said Reed quietly. “All mining is speculative, and in speculative matters there must be losses as well as gains.”“And after all, what does it amount to, my young friend? The chase of a will o’ the wisp who bears a golden lamp not worth the winning, you will say when you grow as old as I. But there, I shall bore you with this twaddle. What do you say to that for a view? Derbyshire in front; broad, honest, hardworking old Yorkshire away to your right; at your feet the Swirl—my river, I call it.”“A lovely prospect, but rather wild,” said Reed, smiling.“Say savage, and you will be nearer the truth; but I can show you something a little less stern;” and, chatting away pleasantly, he led on along first one slope and then another, till at last they came down upon a narrow track beside a rippling stream, shut in between two perpendicular walls of rock, draped with ivy, and with every cleft and crevice green and bright with trailing birch, moss, and clustering fern.The water of the little river ran swiftly babbling here among the rocks, there swirling round, eddying and forming whirlpools, one of which, across the river where it washed the perpendicular rock, was evidently very deep, for the water gradually subsided there and grew still and glassy, reflecting the ivy-curtained walls as it slowly glided round.“Ah! this is delightful,” cried Reed, as he stopped to gaze at the glancing waters, where the sun made the ripples dazzling to the eye, and then turned to the deep shadows. “Eden may have been lovely, but this would be good enough for a poor commonplace nineteenth-century fellow like myself.”“You like it?” said the Major, smiling.“It’s glorious. Is there much of it like this?”“About a mile. I call it my river here, and the mining men respect my rights generally—that is, unless the trout they catch sight of in some pool is a very fat one indeed.”He said this with a peculiar smile, as he met Reed’s eye.“Not bad fellows, the miners, but I don’t quite take to your guardian of the mine.”“I suppose not,” said Reed. “He is rather a rough customer, but he was recommended to my father for his knowledge of underground work.—You have plenty of trout here, I suppose?”“Oh yes, and I take toll of them all along this stretch of river. Possession is nine points of the law, but I really have only my right on one side as far as my bit of property extends.”“Ah! you have an estate along here?”“Yes, and I am glad to meet my neighbours, sir. My rough piece of mountain is bounded by the river along here from the corner we just passed, and on another side by the mine land of your Company—the old ‘White Virgin’ estate. A worthless stretch of barren rock and ravine; but I bought it for the sake of this piece of river fifteen years ago. A place to retire to, my dear sir, suitable for a man weary of the world, and one of whom the world had had enough.”His face was overcast as he spoke, and he frowned heavily, while Reed noticed the sad, careworn aspect of the man, who looked as if he had suffered from some terrible trouble—that which had so deeply lined his face. But it brightened up again directly, as Reed hung back to admire the lovely meandering stream.“You do like it?” said the Major.“Like it, my dear sir! If I were not a busy man, bound to go on carving my way, it is just the place where I should like to come and dream away my days.”“Do you care for fishing?”“Oh yes.”“Then, as we are neighbours, if you come much to the mine, I shall at any time be glad to show you a few good places where you can throw a fly.”“Some day I shall certainly ask you,” said Reed frankly; “not often, I have no time.”“Whenever you like, and you will be welcome, Mr Reed; for—excuse me—I like you.”“So soon,” said Reed, raising his eyebrows.“The liking of one man for another comes at once, sir, I think, and seldom errs,” said the Major gravely. “You will be welcome if you can content yourself with cottage fare and our simplicity. This is my little home.”Reed stopped short astonished, for they had turned a sharp corner of the rugged wall of rock which towered up, and came suddenly upon a sheltered nook, which ran from the river-side right up into the mountains. There was but one level space of about half an acre; the rest was knoll, crag, mound, and rift, a natural garden full of waving birch, shrubs, evergreens, and flowers all growing in wild luxuriance, with myrtle, fuchsia, hydrangea, and geranium, developing into trees more than plants, showing how sheltered the place must be, how warm and suited to their lives. There was no ugly fence, but moss and ivy covered walls of rugged stone, placed here and there as a protection from wandering sheep, while on the level patch, quaintly built of limestone, thatched, porched with rugged wood, its windows embayed, and the whole covered with wistaria, myrtle, and creeping plants, which fought for a hold upon the walls, stood a cottage, out of whose porch Dinah Gurdon, pale of face, anxious-looking, and troubled, came slowly down.“Welcome to the wilderness, Mr Reed,” said the Major, smiling sadly, as he noted the young man’s enthusiastic look of admiration; and then frowning slightly as he saw a wondering look when the figure in white came toward them from the porch. “My daughter, sir. Dinah, my child, I bring a guest to partake of our poor hospitality this evening. Don’t look so pale and frightened, my dear. Mr Reed is, I am glad to say, a deceiver. There was no cause for alarm, and his aspect is only due to a long journey underground. He is not hurt.”“I—I am very glad,” said Dinah, holding out her hand, which was eagerly taken, and then shrinking as she encountered Clive Reed’s eager look. “The men brought such startling news.”“That we were prepared to turn your bedroom into a cottage hospital, Mr Reed, and send off twelve miles for a doctor,” said the Major, as he saw his child’s large dark eyes sink beneath their visitor’s gaze, and a couple of red spots begin to glow in her pale cheeks. “Now, Dinah, my child, Mr Reed must be shown to his room, and let’s have your colour back. My daughter is a little unwell, Mr Reed. She was crossing the mountain the other day, coming back from Bedale, and as she passed over one of the ragged pieces by your mine, she had an ugly fall.”“Not serious, I hope?” said Reed, with a look of interest, and his searching eyes once more met those of the pale, intense countenance before them, eyes so full of shrinking horror and fear, that though he could not read them, Clive Reed wondered at their expression, as a flow of crimson suffused the cheeks, rising right up to the forehead, and then died out, leaving the girl deadly pale.The Major waited, as if expecting that his child would speak, but as she remained silent, he said gravely—“No; she assures me that it was not serious, but she came back looking horribly startled. It was quite a shock to the system, from which she has not quite recovered yet. Now, Mr Reed, Martha will show you your room.”Reed took a step forward, to find Martha, the hardest-looking, harshest-faced woman of forty he had ever seen, waiting to lead the way.“A fall,” he said, as he stood alone in the prettily furnished bedroom: “alone in the mountains, and no one by to help. I wish I had been there—with Janet, too, of course.”Dinah Gurdon was at that moment indulging in similar thoughts—naturally omitting Janet—and as she stood nearly opposite a glass, she became aware of her face reflected there, when she turned away with a shiver.

“Hallo, my lads!” cried Reed, as he reached terra firma and gazed around. “I didn’t know there was a public-house handy.”

“No, no, don’t blame the poor lads,” said a well-dressed, elderly man, smiling. “They were alarmed at your long absence, sir, and came on to me for help. We came round, and picked up these two brave fellows, and were ready for a search, but, thank heaven, it was a false alarm.”

“Oh, that was it?” cried Reed; “then I beg your pardon, my lads, and thank you, sir, heartily. Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?”

“Major Gurdon, at your service, sir,” and there was a swift military drawing up of the spare figure, the soft dark eyes brightened up, and the speaker threw back his grey head and gave his long white beard a shake to settle it upon his breast.

“Mr Reed, I believe, the new engineer of the mine?”

“Yes, sir, but at this present moment more like one of the miners,” said Reed, with a deprecating glance at his besmirched garments. “Excuse me one moment.”

He turned to the men with his hand in his pocket—a hand that did not come back empty, and the new-comers went off slowly, smiling as Reed turned now to the Major, who had stepped forward, eager to speak.

“You look thoroughly exhausted,” he said quickly. “I live quite a cottage life out here with my garden and fishing-rod, but if you will accept my hospitality, such as it is—”

“Really, I could not trouble you—and in this condition,” began Reed, as Sturgess changed colour, and an unpleasant scowl came upon his face.

“You will be conferring a favour, my dear sir,” said the Major. “One does not often have the society of a gentleman out in this wild place; and,” he added laughingly, “the hospitality will embrace soap and water and a clothes-brush.”

“Then I accept willingly,” said Reed, holding out his hand, but withdrawing it directly as he noted its condition, covered with dried limestone mud, and streaked in two places with blood.

“Nonsense!” said the Major, taking the hand. “I understand these things, my dear sir. I often go prowling about with a geologist’s hammer, and have gone home like this. Come along. My high tea will be about ready.”

“Well, this is most unexpected,” said Reed warmly. “Here, Sturgess, I shall come over again to-morrow about eleven. Be here with the men, and you had better bring a couple of lanthorns.”

“Hadn’t I better come on to put you in the right road?”

“What! Oh, no! I shall manage. That will do.” The man turned away with the look upon his countenance intensifying; but it was not observed, for Reed walked off in company with his new acquaintance, the pair chatting away as if they had known each other for years.

“Quite gave me a scare,” said the Major. “Life here is so uneventful. Very beautiful, but lonely, especially in the winter.”

“But you do not stay here in the winter?”

“Oh yes; I have lived here ten years now.”

“No accounting for taste,” thought Reed; and he glanced sidewise at his companion, but learned nothing. He only saw a quiet-looking country gentleman, whose sun-browned face told of an open-air life.

Sturgess followed them to the great natural gateway at the end of the chasm, where he had stood some days before, but not alone; and he now remained watching them as they went on westward along the narrow path, and round by the huge buttress formed by the refuse of the mine, carried and cast down there for hundreds upon hundreds of years. Then as they passed on out of sight, the man raised one of his fingers to his lips, and began gnawing roughly at the side of the nail, till he seemed to make up his mind, and took a step or two forward after them, next stopped short again, for a hail came from behind.

“Coming on down to the village, Mr Sturgess?”

He turned and faced one of the two men, and nodded, walking away with him in the other direction, taciturn and strange, answering his companion in monosyllables, and with his thoughts evidently far away. Not so very, though, for they were with Clive Reed, and promised him no good.

“So you have been examining the old ‘White Virgin’ mine, eh?” said Major Gurdon. “I heard it was sold. A new company, eh?”

“Yes,” said Reed, smiling; “a new company—a solid one.”

“Eh? I hope so. But if I had to go in for a mining adventure, I think I should begin here with the material the old miners cast away as rubbish.” He pointed to the great buttress they were skirting. “There it is, already extracted from the mountain, and though poor, rich enough, I should say, to pay a company if worked with modern appliances.”

“You understand these things?” said Reed, looking at his elderly companion searchingly, and noting how deeply lined his brow seemed, and that care and sorrow more than age had given him his hollow-cheeked, anxious air.

“A man who likes geology, mineralogy, and who always lives among these hills, cannot help picking up a little mining lore,” said the Major, with a smile. “I have searched and toiled, my dear sir—much loss and little gain. I hope yours may prove to be a successful venture.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Reed quietly. “All mining is speculative, and in speculative matters there must be losses as well as gains.”

“And after all, what does it amount to, my young friend? The chase of a will o’ the wisp who bears a golden lamp not worth the winning, you will say when you grow as old as I. But there, I shall bore you with this twaddle. What do you say to that for a view? Derbyshire in front; broad, honest, hardworking old Yorkshire away to your right; at your feet the Swirl—my river, I call it.”

“A lovely prospect, but rather wild,” said Reed, smiling.

“Say savage, and you will be nearer the truth; but I can show you something a little less stern;” and, chatting away pleasantly, he led on along first one slope and then another, till at last they came down upon a narrow track beside a rippling stream, shut in between two perpendicular walls of rock, draped with ivy, and with every cleft and crevice green and bright with trailing birch, moss, and clustering fern.

The water of the little river ran swiftly babbling here among the rocks, there swirling round, eddying and forming whirlpools, one of which, across the river where it washed the perpendicular rock, was evidently very deep, for the water gradually subsided there and grew still and glassy, reflecting the ivy-curtained walls as it slowly glided round.

“Ah! this is delightful,” cried Reed, as he stopped to gaze at the glancing waters, where the sun made the ripples dazzling to the eye, and then turned to the deep shadows. “Eden may have been lovely, but this would be good enough for a poor commonplace nineteenth-century fellow like myself.”

“You like it?” said the Major, smiling.

“It’s glorious. Is there much of it like this?”

“About a mile. I call it my river here, and the mining men respect my rights generally—that is, unless the trout they catch sight of in some pool is a very fat one indeed.”

He said this with a peculiar smile, as he met Reed’s eye.

“Not bad fellows, the miners, but I don’t quite take to your guardian of the mine.”

“I suppose not,” said Reed. “He is rather a rough customer, but he was recommended to my father for his knowledge of underground work.—You have plenty of trout here, I suppose?”

“Oh yes, and I take toll of them all along this stretch of river. Possession is nine points of the law, but I really have only my right on one side as far as my bit of property extends.”

“Ah! you have an estate along here?”

“Yes, and I am glad to meet my neighbours, sir. My rough piece of mountain is bounded by the river along here from the corner we just passed, and on another side by the mine land of your Company—the old ‘White Virgin’ estate. A worthless stretch of barren rock and ravine; but I bought it for the sake of this piece of river fifteen years ago. A place to retire to, my dear sir, suitable for a man weary of the world, and one of whom the world had had enough.”

His face was overcast as he spoke, and he frowned heavily, while Reed noticed the sad, careworn aspect of the man, who looked as if he had suffered from some terrible trouble—that which had so deeply lined his face. But it brightened up again directly, as Reed hung back to admire the lovely meandering stream.

“You do like it?” said the Major.

“Like it, my dear sir! If I were not a busy man, bound to go on carving my way, it is just the place where I should like to come and dream away my days.”

“Do you care for fishing?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then, as we are neighbours, if you come much to the mine, I shall at any time be glad to show you a few good places where you can throw a fly.”

“Some day I shall certainly ask you,” said Reed frankly; “not often, I have no time.”

“Whenever you like, and you will be welcome, Mr Reed; for—excuse me—I like you.”

“So soon,” said Reed, raising his eyebrows.

“The liking of one man for another comes at once, sir, I think, and seldom errs,” said the Major gravely. “You will be welcome if you can content yourself with cottage fare and our simplicity. This is my little home.”

Reed stopped short astonished, for they had turned a sharp corner of the rugged wall of rock which towered up, and came suddenly upon a sheltered nook, which ran from the river-side right up into the mountains. There was but one level space of about half an acre; the rest was knoll, crag, mound, and rift, a natural garden full of waving birch, shrubs, evergreens, and flowers all growing in wild luxuriance, with myrtle, fuchsia, hydrangea, and geranium, developing into trees more than plants, showing how sheltered the place must be, how warm and suited to their lives. There was no ugly fence, but moss and ivy covered walls of rugged stone, placed here and there as a protection from wandering sheep, while on the level patch, quaintly built of limestone, thatched, porched with rugged wood, its windows embayed, and the whole covered with wistaria, myrtle, and creeping plants, which fought for a hold upon the walls, stood a cottage, out of whose porch Dinah Gurdon, pale of face, anxious-looking, and troubled, came slowly down.

“Welcome to the wilderness, Mr Reed,” said the Major, smiling sadly, as he noted the young man’s enthusiastic look of admiration; and then frowning slightly as he saw a wondering look when the figure in white came toward them from the porch. “My daughter, sir. Dinah, my child, I bring a guest to partake of our poor hospitality this evening. Don’t look so pale and frightened, my dear. Mr Reed is, I am glad to say, a deceiver. There was no cause for alarm, and his aspect is only due to a long journey underground. He is not hurt.”

“I—I am very glad,” said Dinah, holding out her hand, which was eagerly taken, and then shrinking as she encountered Clive Reed’s eager look. “The men brought such startling news.”

“That we were prepared to turn your bedroom into a cottage hospital, Mr Reed, and send off twelve miles for a doctor,” said the Major, as he saw his child’s large dark eyes sink beneath their visitor’s gaze, and a couple of red spots begin to glow in her pale cheeks. “Now, Dinah, my child, Mr Reed must be shown to his room, and let’s have your colour back. My daughter is a little unwell, Mr Reed. She was crossing the mountain the other day, coming back from Bedale, and as she passed over one of the ragged pieces by your mine, she had an ugly fall.”

“Not serious, I hope?” said Reed, with a look of interest, and his searching eyes once more met those of the pale, intense countenance before them, eyes so full of shrinking horror and fear, that though he could not read them, Clive Reed wondered at their expression, as a flow of crimson suffused the cheeks, rising right up to the forehead, and then died out, leaving the girl deadly pale.

The Major waited, as if expecting that his child would speak, but as she remained silent, he said gravely—

“No; she assures me that it was not serious, but she came back looking horribly startled. It was quite a shock to the system, from which she has not quite recovered yet. Now, Mr Reed, Martha will show you your room.”

Reed took a step forward, to find Martha, the hardest-looking, harshest-faced woman of forty he had ever seen, waiting to lead the way.

“A fall,” he said, as he stood alone in the prettily furnished bedroom: “alone in the mountains, and no one by to help. I wish I had been there—with Janet, too, of course.”

Dinah Gurdon was at that moment indulging in similar thoughts—naturally omitting Janet—and as she stood nearly opposite a glass, she became aware of her face reflected there, when she turned away with a shiver.

Chapter Eight.Undermining.“Hallo, Jess, you here?” cried Clive, as he suddenly encountered his brother at Dr Praed’s door in Russell Square.Jessop Reed started, and in spite of his man-about-town confidence, he looked for the moment confused, but recovered himself directly.“Might say the same to you,” he retorted. “I thought you were down some hole in the Midlands.”“But I’ve come up again. Just got here from St. Pancras now. I say, though, what is it? Out of sorts—been to see the Doctor?”“Eh? Oh no. I’m all right. But I’m in a hurry. See you at dinner.”“Why, what’s the matter with him?” thought Clive, as his brother hurried away. “Fast life, I suppose. I’ll run in and ask the Doctor before I go up.”He rang; the Doctor’s confidential man opened the door, and stood back for him to enter.“Patient with the Doctor, Morgan?”“No, sir; past his time. Gone on to the hospital. Back soon.”Clive stared.“Miss Praed’s in the drawing-room, sir.”“Oh, all right. I’ll go up,” said Clive; and he began to ascend two steps at a time. “I hope Jess isn’t ill. Disappointed, I suppose, at finding the old man out.”—“Ah, Janet, darling,” he cried, as he entered the drawing-room, to find his fiancée standing with a bouquet in her hand, looking dreamy and thoughtful.She flushed up as he caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, and then frowned slightly, and put on the pouting look of a spoiled child.“Why, what a bonnie bunch of roses!” he cried. “Let’s have one for a button-hole.”“No, no,” she said hastily, and a pained look of perplexity crossed Clive’s countenance as she held the bouquet from him. Then with forced playfulness, “Mustn’t be touched.”“All right,” he cried merrily. “I came round this way so as to see you first, pet. Raced up by the early train this morning.”“Indeed!” said Janet, raising her eyebrows; “been in Derbyshire, have you not?”“My darling!”“Well, one knows so little of your movements now.”“Oh, I say, Janet dear, don’t be hard upon a poor busy fellow. You know why I am away so much. All for your sake, pet,” he whispered earnestly; “to make ourselves thoroughly independent, and you a home of which you may be proud.”There was a slight catching in Janet Praed’s breath, as she said jerkily, and with a show of flippancy, to hide the emotion from which she suffered, for self-accusation was busy with her just then, and a pang or two shot through her as she contrasted the frank, honest manner of her betrothed, and his words, so full of simple honest affection, with others to which she had in a foolish, half-jealous spirit listened again and again—“Oh yes, I know,” she said, curling up her pretty lip, and speaking hastily to hide her feelings; “but you might have called.”“Now, Janet, love, don’t tease me. How could I, dear?”“Well, then, you might have written. A whole week away and not a line.”“Gently, my own darling, judge, guide, and counsellor in one,” he cried warmly. “I might have written, and ought to have written, but I have been, oh so busy all day, and when I got back to quarters, there was the Major to talk to me, and I could not slight Miss Gurdon.”“The Major—Miss Gurdon? May I ask who these people are?”“Oh, a very jolly old sort of fellow, who lives close to the mine, with an only daughter. He insisted upon my staying there while I was down, and I wasn’t sorry; for—O Janet! let me whisper it in your lovely little shell of an ear,” he continued playfully—“the miner’s cottage I slept at one night was not comfortable; it was grubby, and oh, those fleas! If it had not been for my stout walking-stick—”“What sort of a person is Miss Gurdon?” said Janet, interrupting him quickly.“Oh, very nice and ladylike.”“Pretty?”“Pretty! Well, you would hardly call it pretty. A sad, pensive face, very sweet and delicate, and with the look of one who had known trouble. There seemed to be some secret about father and daughter.”“Oh!” said Janet softly, and the colour came into her cheeks very warmly. “And you were very comfortable there?”“Yes, very,” said Clive emphatically.“Too comfortable to remember me and write, of course.”“O Janet, my darling!” he said tenderly, as he passed his arm about her waist, “how can you be such a jealous little thing! As if I could think of any one but you. You were with me night and day. It was always what is Janet doing? how does she look? and is she thinking of me? Whether I was scrambling about down in the mine like a mud-lark, or more decent and talking to Miss Gurdon of an evening in their tiny drawing-room.”“About me, of course,” said Janet coldly.“No, dear,” said Clive innocently, “I never mentioned your name. I dared not, pet, for fear they should laugh at me, and think what a great goose I was. For I am, pet. Once I begin talking to any one about you, I can’t leave off.”“Indeed!” she said sarcastically.“Why, Janet, dear,” he said earnestly, and he tried to take her hand, “what have I said or done? Surely you don’t think—Oh, my love, my dear love!” he cried, with his voice growing deep and earnest, “how can you be so ready to take pique over such trifles! Janet, I love you with all my heart, dear. I have not a thought that is not for my own darling.”“No, no; don’t touch me,” she panted, as he drew her towards him.“I will—I will, darling wifie to be; but you must master these little bits of uncalled-for jealousy, dear. They are not fair to me, and next time I am away I will at any cost write to you, even if the business fails, and—”“Scoundrel! ruffian! how dare you put your arm around my daughter, sir? She is not your wife yet.”The words came so fiercely and suddenly that Clive started away, and Janet hurriedly escaped to the other side of the chair. For the Doctor had bustled in just as Clive was trying to take the kiss withheld from him, and now stood there with a terrific frown upon his heavy grey brow.The next moment he had burst into a hearty roar of laughter.“Nice guilty pair you look,” he cried. “Ah! you may well turn red, you unblushing puss! Eh? No, that won’t do, it’s a bull. And you, sir, how dare—Well, how are you, Clive, my boy? Came round here first, eh? I called at Guildford Street as I went to the hospital, and they hadn’t heard of you.”“Yes, I was obliged to come here first,” said Clive.“Of course. That’s right. Janet has been looking pale since you went. Come and dine to-night, and don’t let me come in here and catch you behaving in that rude way again.”“Papa, for shame!” cried Janet, and she hurried out of the room.The Doctor laughed.“Well,” he cried eagerly, “what about the mine?—is it good?”“For your ears only, Doctor,” said Clive, “in confidence?”“On my honour, my dear boy,” said Dr Praed gravely.“Then you may invest as much as you like, sir.”“Not a company dodge?”“The mine teems with ore, sir. I have thoroughly examined it, and found out a new, enormously rich lode.”“Then it’s quite safe?”“Safe as the Bank of England, sir, and the dad will be a millionaire.”“Ah! I wish he would be a healthy man, instead of a wealthy,” said the Doctor.“Oh, you don’t think—you have not found him worse?”“I don’t like his looks, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor; “and I beg that you will try to save him from all emotion. This great accession of wealth will do him no good, and—yes; what?—I didn’t ring.”“Messenger, sir,” said the Doctor’s man, with grave earnestness and a sharp glance at Clive. “From Mr Reed’s, sir—sudden attack, and will you come at once.” Then in a hurried whisper, “Dying!”But it sounded in trumpet-tones in Clive Reed’s ear, as with a sharp cry he sprang to his feet.“Good heavens!” he said, “and I came on here!”“Hush!” said the Doctor sternly. “Here, Morgan, the carriage?”“At the door, sir.”The Doctor nodded as he drew Clive’s arm through his own.“Do not fear the worst,” he whispered; “I may save him yet.”

“Hallo, Jess, you here?” cried Clive, as he suddenly encountered his brother at Dr Praed’s door in Russell Square.

Jessop Reed started, and in spite of his man-about-town confidence, he looked for the moment confused, but recovered himself directly.

“Might say the same to you,” he retorted. “I thought you were down some hole in the Midlands.”

“But I’ve come up again. Just got here from St. Pancras now. I say, though, what is it? Out of sorts—been to see the Doctor?”

“Eh? Oh no. I’m all right. But I’m in a hurry. See you at dinner.”

“Why, what’s the matter with him?” thought Clive, as his brother hurried away. “Fast life, I suppose. I’ll run in and ask the Doctor before I go up.”

He rang; the Doctor’s confidential man opened the door, and stood back for him to enter.

“Patient with the Doctor, Morgan?”

“No, sir; past his time. Gone on to the hospital. Back soon.”

Clive stared.

“Miss Praed’s in the drawing-room, sir.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll go up,” said Clive; and he began to ascend two steps at a time. “I hope Jess isn’t ill. Disappointed, I suppose, at finding the old man out.”—“Ah, Janet, darling,” he cried, as he entered the drawing-room, to find his fiancée standing with a bouquet in her hand, looking dreamy and thoughtful.

She flushed up as he caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, and then frowned slightly, and put on the pouting look of a spoiled child.

“Why, what a bonnie bunch of roses!” he cried. “Let’s have one for a button-hole.”

“No, no,” she said hastily, and a pained look of perplexity crossed Clive’s countenance as she held the bouquet from him. Then with forced playfulness, “Mustn’t be touched.”

“All right,” he cried merrily. “I came round this way so as to see you first, pet. Raced up by the early train this morning.”

“Indeed!” said Janet, raising her eyebrows; “been in Derbyshire, have you not?”

“My darling!”

“Well, one knows so little of your movements now.”

“Oh, I say, Janet dear, don’t be hard upon a poor busy fellow. You know why I am away so much. All for your sake, pet,” he whispered earnestly; “to make ourselves thoroughly independent, and you a home of which you may be proud.”

There was a slight catching in Janet Praed’s breath, as she said jerkily, and with a show of flippancy, to hide the emotion from which she suffered, for self-accusation was busy with her just then, and a pang or two shot through her as she contrasted the frank, honest manner of her betrothed, and his words, so full of simple honest affection, with others to which she had in a foolish, half-jealous spirit listened again and again—

“Oh yes, I know,” she said, curling up her pretty lip, and speaking hastily to hide her feelings; “but you might have called.”

“Now, Janet, love, don’t tease me. How could I, dear?”

“Well, then, you might have written. A whole week away and not a line.”

“Gently, my own darling, judge, guide, and counsellor in one,” he cried warmly. “I might have written, and ought to have written, but I have been, oh so busy all day, and when I got back to quarters, there was the Major to talk to me, and I could not slight Miss Gurdon.”

“The Major—Miss Gurdon? May I ask who these people are?”

“Oh, a very jolly old sort of fellow, who lives close to the mine, with an only daughter. He insisted upon my staying there while I was down, and I wasn’t sorry; for—O Janet! let me whisper it in your lovely little shell of an ear,” he continued playfully—“the miner’s cottage I slept at one night was not comfortable; it was grubby, and oh, those fleas! If it had not been for my stout walking-stick—”

“What sort of a person is Miss Gurdon?” said Janet, interrupting him quickly.

“Oh, very nice and ladylike.”

“Pretty?”

“Pretty! Well, you would hardly call it pretty. A sad, pensive face, very sweet and delicate, and with the look of one who had known trouble. There seemed to be some secret about father and daughter.”

“Oh!” said Janet softly, and the colour came into her cheeks very warmly. “And you were very comfortable there?”

“Yes, very,” said Clive emphatically.

“Too comfortable to remember me and write, of course.”

“O Janet, my darling!” he said tenderly, as he passed his arm about her waist, “how can you be such a jealous little thing! As if I could think of any one but you. You were with me night and day. It was always what is Janet doing? how does she look? and is she thinking of me? Whether I was scrambling about down in the mine like a mud-lark, or more decent and talking to Miss Gurdon of an evening in their tiny drawing-room.”

“About me, of course,” said Janet coldly.

“No, dear,” said Clive innocently, “I never mentioned your name. I dared not, pet, for fear they should laugh at me, and think what a great goose I was. For I am, pet. Once I begin talking to any one about you, I can’t leave off.”

“Indeed!” she said sarcastically.

“Why, Janet, dear,” he said earnestly, and he tried to take her hand, “what have I said or done? Surely you don’t think—Oh, my love, my dear love!” he cried, with his voice growing deep and earnest, “how can you be so ready to take pique over such trifles! Janet, I love you with all my heart, dear. I have not a thought that is not for my own darling.”

“No, no; don’t touch me,” she panted, as he drew her towards him.

“I will—I will, darling wifie to be; but you must master these little bits of uncalled-for jealousy, dear. They are not fair to me, and next time I am away I will at any cost write to you, even if the business fails, and—”

“Scoundrel! ruffian! how dare you put your arm around my daughter, sir? She is not your wife yet.”

The words came so fiercely and suddenly that Clive started away, and Janet hurriedly escaped to the other side of the chair. For the Doctor had bustled in just as Clive was trying to take the kiss withheld from him, and now stood there with a terrific frown upon his heavy grey brow.

The next moment he had burst into a hearty roar of laughter.

“Nice guilty pair you look,” he cried. “Ah! you may well turn red, you unblushing puss! Eh? No, that won’t do, it’s a bull. And you, sir, how dare—Well, how are you, Clive, my boy? Came round here first, eh? I called at Guildford Street as I went to the hospital, and they hadn’t heard of you.”

“Yes, I was obliged to come here first,” said Clive.

“Of course. That’s right. Janet has been looking pale since you went. Come and dine to-night, and don’t let me come in here and catch you behaving in that rude way again.”

“Papa, for shame!” cried Janet, and she hurried out of the room.

The Doctor laughed.

“Well,” he cried eagerly, “what about the mine?—is it good?”

“For your ears only, Doctor,” said Clive, “in confidence?”

“On my honour, my dear boy,” said Dr Praed gravely.

“Then you may invest as much as you like, sir.”

“Not a company dodge?”

“The mine teems with ore, sir. I have thoroughly examined it, and found out a new, enormously rich lode.”

“Then it’s quite safe?”

“Safe as the Bank of England, sir, and the dad will be a millionaire.”

“Ah! I wish he would be a healthy man, instead of a wealthy,” said the Doctor.

“Oh, you don’t think—you have not found him worse?”

“I don’t like his looks, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor; “and I beg that you will try to save him from all emotion. This great accession of wealth will do him no good, and—yes; what?—I didn’t ring.”

“Messenger, sir,” said the Doctor’s man, with grave earnestness and a sharp glance at Clive. “From Mr Reed’s, sir—sudden attack, and will you come at once.” Then in a hurried whisper, “Dying!”

But it sounded in trumpet-tones in Clive Reed’s ear, as with a sharp cry he sprang to his feet.

“Good heavens!” he said, “and I came on here!”

“Hush!” said the Doctor sternly. “Here, Morgan, the carriage?”

“At the door, sir.”

The Doctor nodded as he drew Clive’s arm through his own.

“Do not fear the worst,” he whispered; “I may save him yet.”

Chapter Nine.Two Days Earlier.“Well, what news?” said Wrigley, as Jessop Reed entered his gloomy office. “Bah! what a dandy you are! Why, you spend enough on barbers and buttonholes to keep you from borrowing money.”“And you spend enough on ballet-girls to keep you from making profits by lending,” retorted Jessop. “All right, my Jonathan,” said Wrigley.“All right, my David,” replied Jessop. “Let me see: David was a Jew.”“Whilst I am not,” said Wrigley sharply.“Oh, of course not. No one would suppose Wrigley to be an Israelitish name. There, don’t set up all your feathers, man, and look so indignant because I suggested that you belonged to the chosen race. There are good Jews.”“And precious bad Christians,” said Wrigley sourly.“Awfully! But I say, don’t be so ruffled, man. Lucky I didn’t come for some hard coin this morning.”“It is; and hang me if I ever lend you money again if I’ve to have blood thrown in my face.”“Bah! you shouldn’t be so sensitive about it. I don’t mind about your descent.”“Enough to make any man sensitive. Gad, sir, any one would think we were lepers, seeing the treatment we receive.”“Yes, it’s too bad,” said Jessop soothingly; “but you do have your recompense, old man. Nice refined revenge your people have had for the insult and contempt they have met with. There, let’s talk business.”“Yes, let’s talk business. Now, then, what about the hole in the earth down which people throw their money?”“Well, it’s a big hole.”“Yes, I know that, but is it a big do after all?”“No. As I told you, the old man wouldn’t have gone in for it if it hadn’t been right.”“Then he really does hold a great deal in it?”“More than half, that I know of.”“You’ve carefully made sure of that.”“Yes, carefully. It’s all right, I tell you.”“Good! And what about the dear brother?”“He’s still down there.”“Surveying the mine?”“Surveying? He has been down it every day for nearly a week, examining every crack and corner—adit, winze, shaft, driving, all the whole lot of it.”“Well?”“He sends reports to the old man every night.”“And what does he say? Do you know?”“Yes; the old man reads them to me.”“Fudge! Flams to rig the market. Chatter for you to spread on the Stock Exchange and make the shares go up.”“No,” said Jessop quietly, as he sat on a corner of the lawyer’s table, and swung his cane and one leg to and fro. “The dad and I don’t hit it, and we’ve had more quarrels than I can count about money and—other little matters; but he’s always straightforward with me over business, and I’d trust his word sooner than any man’s in London.”“Good son.”“Ah! you needn’t sneer; you’d only be too glad to get his name to a bit of paper.”“True, O king! He is a model that way. But then he is pretty warm, and can afford to lose.”“Yes; but it would be the same if he were hard up. The old man’s dead square.”“Then you believe your brother’s reports are all that are read to you?”“Implicitly.”“No garbling, you think?”“I’m sure there isn’t. No, old fellow, I hate my fortunate brother most bitterly, and I don’t love my father; but I’d sooner take their word than that of any one I know.”“Humph!” ejaculated the lawyer. “Well, then, the mine is not quite played out!”“Played out! Pish! It has never been worked properly. Only scratched and scraped. There’s plenty of ore to pay by following on the old workings with modern tackle, and a little fortune in re-smelting the old refuse that has been accumulating for fifteen hundred or two thousand years.”“Yes, it is very old,” said Wrigley thoughtfully.“Old! Why, no one knows how old it is. The Romans worked it, and I daresay the Phoenicians had a finger in it before them.”“Go on, old fellow,” said Wrigley, laughing. “Can you prove that pigs of lead were got from it to ballast the ark?”“Well, you needn’t believe it without you like.”“But I do believe a great deal of it. There’ll be quite enough for us, if you mean business.”“If I mean business! Why, of course I do. Do you suppose I am going to sit still and let my brother have all the cream of life? He’ll get all the old man’s money. Plenty without that. I’m not blind. Precious little for me there.”“Then what is going to be done?”“They are going to set to work directly. My brother has laid his reports before the board. I did not tell you that he has discovered a new untouched lode that promises to yield wonderfully.”“Indeed!” said Wrigley—“a new lode?” and he looked searchingly at his companion.“Yes; an important vein of ore that promises to be of immense value.”“Hah! that sounds well,” said Wrigley.“For the shareholders?”“No; for us. Have you forgotten?”“No,” said Jessop gloomily, “but will it work?”“Work? You, an old hand, and ask that. My dear Jessop, if we cannot work that between us it is strange.”“Yes, but the money necessary. It will be enormous.”“Pretty well, my dear boy,” said Wrigley, with quiet confidence; “but don’t you fidget about that. Millions are to be had for a safe thing, so we need not be scared about thousands. Yes; that new vein will do. Jessop, my lad, you and I must work that vein. The idea of the great lode is glorious and makes our task easy in that direction; but there is a stumbling-block elsewhere—a difficulty in the way.”“I don’t understand you,” said Jessop testily. “Hang it, man! Don’t be so mysterious. Now then, please, what do you mean?”“Let me take my own pace, my dear Jessop, as the inventor of our fortune.”“Anyhow you like, but let me see how we are going.”“Well, then, you shall. Now, then, we want an enemy. Clive Reed’s or your father’s enemy. Has your brother any?”“Yes; here he is, confound him!”“And you will not do, my dear boy! Besides, it would not be your work. I meant some man who dislikes him so consumedly that he would not stick at trifles for the sake of revenge—and hard cash. What is more,” continued Wrigley, as Jessop shook his head, “it must be some one connected with the mine.”“Bah! How can it be, when the mine is not started?”“Then it must be as soon as possible after the mine has been started. Some workman under him in a position of trust, whom he has injured: struck him, taken his wife or sweetheart, mortally injured in some way.”Jessop burst into a coarse laugh, and Wrigley looked at him inquiringly.“My dear boy,” said the stockbroker, “I thought this was to be a matter of finessing and making a few thousands.”“It is, and of making a good many thousands.”“And you talk as if it were a plot for an Adelphi drama. My dear fellow, my brother Clive is a sort of nineteenth-century saint—not the cad in a play. Clive doesn’t drink, bet, nor gamble in any way. He is a good boy, who is engaged, and goes to church regularly with the lady.”“Oh, yes; that’s as far as you know now.”“I do know,” cried Jessop. “Clive has never run away with any one’s wife, nor bullied men, nor gone to the—your friends for coin. If you can’t hit out a better way than that, we may pitch the thing up.”“At the first difficulty?” said Wrigley, smiling. “No, my boy. We want such a man as I have described—a man whose opinion about the mine will be worth taking. He must, as I say, hate your brother sufficiently to give that opinion when we want it, so as to say check to your brother and be believed.”“Well, then, there isn’t such a man,” said Jessop sourly.“Indeed! When do you expect your brother back?”“At any time now. To-morrow or next day, to meet the directors at the board and report again upon his inspection.”“Again?”“Yes; he has been down twice before.”“Who is down there?”“Only the man in charge of the mine.”“Who is he?”“Some fellow my father got hold of in connection with other mine speculations.”“Well, wouldn’t he do?”“Pooh! He is, I should say, out of the question.”“At a price?”“At a price!” Jessop started and looked keenly at the solicitor.“Every man they say has his price, my dear Jessop. We want the kind of man I describe. You say there is no such man. I say there are in the market, and I should say this is the very chap.”“But surely you would not bribe him to—”“Don’t use ugly terms. If I saw my way to make a hundred thousand pounds I should not shrink from giving a man five hundred to help me make it.”“No, nor a thousand,” said Jessop.“My dear boy, I would get him for five hundred if I could, but if I could not, I would go higher than you say; in fact, I would go up to ninety-five thousand sooner than lose five. Do you understand?”“Yes, I understand. Anything to turn an honest penny.”“Exactly! So now then, as soon as possible, we must begin to feel our way, so as to secure our man.”“But if there is not such a man to be had?”“Then we must make one.”“Wrigley, I thought I was sharp,” said Jessop, with a peculiar smile.“But you find there is always a sharper.”“Was that alapsus linguae, Wrigley?”“If you like to call it so,” said the lawyer coldly. “But to business. Let me know the moment your brother gets back.”“Yes, but why?”“I am going down to see what I think of the mine.”

“Well, what news?” said Wrigley, as Jessop Reed entered his gloomy office. “Bah! what a dandy you are! Why, you spend enough on barbers and buttonholes to keep you from borrowing money.”

“And you spend enough on ballet-girls to keep you from making profits by lending,” retorted Jessop. “All right, my Jonathan,” said Wrigley.

“All right, my David,” replied Jessop. “Let me see: David was a Jew.”

“Whilst I am not,” said Wrigley sharply.

“Oh, of course not. No one would suppose Wrigley to be an Israelitish name. There, don’t set up all your feathers, man, and look so indignant because I suggested that you belonged to the chosen race. There are good Jews.”

“And precious bad Christians,” said Wrigley sourly.

“Awfully! But I say, don’t be so ruffled, man. Lucky I didn’t come for some hard coin this morning.”

“It is; and hang me if I ever lend you money again if I’ve to have blood thrown in my face.”

“Bah! you shouldn’t be so sensitive about it. I don’t mind about your descent.”

“Enough to make any man sensitive. Gad, sir, any one would think we were lepers, seeing the treatment we receive.”

“Yes, it’s too bad,” said Jessop soothingly; “but you do have your recompense, old man. Nice refined revenge your people have had for the insult and contempt they have met with. There, let’s talk business.”

“Yes, let’s talk business. Now, then, what about the hole in the earth down which people throw their money?”

“Well, it’s a big hole.”

“Yes, I know that, but is it a big do after all?”

“No. As I told you, the old man wouldn’t have gone in for it if it hadn’t been right.”

“Then he really does hold a great deal in it?”

“More than half, that I know of.”

“You’ve carefully made sure of that.”

“Yes, carefully. It’s all right, I tell you.”

“Good! And what about the dear brother?”

“He’s still down there.”

“Surveying the mine?”

“Surveying? He has been down it every day for nearly a week, examining every crack and corner—adit, winze, shaft, driving, all the whole lot of it.”

“Well?”

“He sends reports to the old man every night.”

“And what does he say? Do you know?”

“Yes; the old man reads them to me.”

“Fudge! Flams to rig the market. Chatter for you to spread on the Stock Exchange and make the shares go up.”

“No,” said Jessop quietly, as he sat on a corner of the lawyer’s table, and swung his cane and one leg to and fro. “The dad and I don’t hit it, and we’ve had more quarrels than I can count about money and—other little matters; but he’s always straightforward with me over business, and I’d trust his word sooner than any man’s in London.”

“Good son.”

“Ah! you needn’t sneer; you’d only be too glad to get his name to a bit of paper.”

“True, O king! He is a model that way. But then he is pretty warm, and can afford to lose.”

“Yes; but it would be the same if he were hard up. The old man’s dead square.”

“Then you believe your brother’s reports are all that are read to you?”

“Implicitly.”

“No garbling, you think?”

“I’m sure there isn’t. No, old fellow, I hate my fortunate brother most bitterly, and I don’t love my father; but I’d sooner take their word than that of any one I know.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the lawyer. “Well, then, the mine is not quite played out!”

“Played out! Pish! It has never been worked properly. Only scratched and scraped. There’s plenty of ore to pay by following on the old workings with modern tackle, and a little fortune in re-smelting the old refuse that has been accumulating for fifteen hundred or two thousand years.”

“Yes, it is very old,” said Wrigley thoughtfully.

“Old! Why, no one knows how old it is. The Romans worked it, and I daresay the Phoenicians had a finger in it before them.”

“Go on, old fellow,” said Wrigley, laughing. “Can you prove that pigs of lead were got from it to ballast the ark?”

“Well, you needn’t believe it without you like.”

“But I do believe a great deal of it. There’ll be quite enough for us, if you mean business.”

“If I mean business! Why, of course I do. Do you suppose I am going to sit still and let my brother have all the cream of life? He’ll get all the old man’s money. Plenty without that. I’m not blind. Precious little for me there.”

“Then what is going to be done?”

“They are going to set to work directly. My brother has laid his reports before the board. I did not tell you that he has discovered a new untouched lode that promises to yield wonderfully.”

“Indeed!” said Wrigley—“a new lode?” and he looked searchingly at his companion.

“Yes; an important vein of ore that promises to be of immense value.”

“Hah! that sounds well,” said Wrigley.

“For the shareholders?”

“No; for us. Have you forgotten?”

“No,” said Jessop gloomily, “but will it work?”

“Work? You, an old hand, and ask that. My dear Jessop, if we cannot work that between us it is strange.”

“Yes, but the money necessary. It will be enormous.”

“Pretty well, my dear boy,” said Wrigley, with quiet confidence; “but don’t you fidget about that. Millions are to be had for a safe thing, so we need not be scared about thousands. Yes; that new vein will do. Jessop, my lad, you and I must work that vein. The idea of the great lode is glorious and makes our task easy in that direction; but there is a stumbling-block elsewhere—a difficulty in the way.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Jessop testily. “Hang it, man! Don’t be so mysterious. Now then, please, what do you mean?”

“Let me take my own pace, my dear Jessop, as the inventor of our fortune.”

“Anyhow you like, but let me see how we are going.”

“Well, then, you shall. Now, then, we want an enemy. Clive Reed’s or your father’s enemy. Has your brother any?”

“Yes; here he is, confound him!”

“And you will not do, my dear boy! Besides, it would not be your work. I meant some man who dislikes him so consumedly that he would not stick at trifles for the sake of revenge—and hard cash. What is more,” continued Wrigley, as Jessop shook his head, “it must be some one connected with the mine.”

“Bah! How can it be, when the mine is not started?”

“Then it must be as soon as possible after the mine has been started. Some workman under him in a position of trust, whom he has injured: struck him, taken his wife or sweetheart, mortally injured in some way.”

Jessop burst into a coarse laugh, and Wrigley looked at him inquiringly.

“My dear boy,” said the stockbroker, “I thought this was to be a matter of finessing and making a few thousands.”

“It is, and of making a good many thousands.”

“And you talk as if it were a plot for an Adelphi drama. My dear fellow, my brother Clive is a sort of nineteenth-century saint—not the cad in a play. Clive doesn’t drink, bet, nor gamble in any way. He is a good boy, who is engaged, and goes to church regularly with the lady.”

“Oh, yes; that’s as far as you know now.”

“I do know,” cried Jessop. “Clive has never run away with any one’s wife, nor bullied men, nor gone to the—your friends for coin. If you can’t hit out a better way than that, we may pitch the thing up.”

“At the first difficulty?” said Wrigley, smiling. “No, my boy. We want such a man as I have described—a man whose opinion about the mine will be worth taking. He must, as I say, hate your brother sufficiently to give that opinion when we want it, so as to say check to your brother and be believed.”

“Well, then, there isn’t such a man,” said Jessop sourly.

“Indeed! When do you expect your brother back?”

“At any time now. To-morrow or next day, to meet the directors at the board and report again upon his inspection.”

“Again?”

“Yes; he has been down twice before.”

“Who is down there?”

“Only the man in charge of the mine.”

“Who is he?”

“Some fellow my father got hold of in connection with other mine speculations.”

“Well, wouldn’t he do?”

“Pooh! He is, I should say, out of the question.”

“At a price?”

“At a price!” Jessop started and looked keenly at the solicitor.

“Every man they say has his price, my dear Jessop. We want the kind of man I describe. You say there is no such man. I say there are in the market, and I should say this is the very chap.”

“But surely you would not bribe him to—”

“Don’t use ugly terms. If I saw my way to make a hundred thousand pounds I should not shrink from giving a man five hundred to help me make it.”

“No, nor a thousand,” said Jessop.

“My dear boy, I would get him for five hundred if I could, but if I could not, I would go higher than you say; in fact, I would go up to ninety-five thousand sooner than lose five. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Anything to turn an honest penny.”

“Exactly! So now then, as soon as possible, we must begin to feel our way, so as to secure our man.”

“But if there is not such a man to be had?”

“Then we must make one.”

“Wrigley, I thought I was sharp,” said Jessop, with a peculiar smile.

“But you find there is always a sharper.”

“Was that alapsus linguae, Wrigley?”

“If you like to call it so,” said the lawyer coldly. “But to business. Let me know the moment your brother gets back.”

“Yes, but why?”

“I am going down to see what I think of the mine.”

Chapter Ten.The Grim Visitor.“The game’s up, then, Doctor, eh? There, man, don’t shuffle. This isn’t whist, but the game of life, and nature wins.”The Doctor stood holding his old friend’s hand, and gazing sadly down in the fine manly face, which looked wonderfully calm and peaceful as he lay back on the white pillow.“That’s right; don’t say medical things to me—clap-trap: you never did. We always understand each other, and I shouldn’t like it now I’m dying. For that’s it, Praed; the game’s up. I haven’t read so plainly how many trumps you held in your hand for all these years, old man, without being able to judge your face now.”“Reed, old fellow,” said the Doctor, in a voice full of emotion, “God knows I have done my best. Let me send for—”“Tchah! What for?” said the old man. “You know more than he does. It’s of no use fighting against it. Nature says the works must stop soon. Very well; I shall meet it as I have met other losses in my time. Do you hear, Clive—Jessop?”A murmur came from the other side of the bed, where the two young men were standing, and then all was still again, save the rumble of a vehicle in the street.“It’s disappointing just now, when I had made thecoupof my life, and meant to settle down in peace; but it wasn’t to be, and I’m going to meet it like a man. Clive, boy, come here.”The young man came to the bedside and knelt down.“Ah! I like that,” said the old father. “Good lad!” and he laid his hand gently upon his son’s head. “I’m not a grand old patriarch,” he sighed. “What, Doctor?—not talk? Yes, I must have my say now, while there’s time. Not a good old patriarch, Clive—not a religious man; made too much of a god of money; but I said my wife and sons should never know the poverty from which I had suffered, and I think it was right; but I overdid it, boy. Don’t follow my example; there’s no need. There—my blessing for what it’s worth, boy. Now go: I want Jessop.”Clive rose, and his brother came and stood where he had knelt.“Well,” said the dying man, in a firm voice, “I have little to say to you, Jessop. Shake hands, my boy, and God forgive you, as I do—everything.” Jessop was silent, and after a few moments the old man went on—“I have settled everything, my lad. The Doctor here is one of my executors, and he will see that Clive does his duty by you; though he would without.”Jessop winced, for these words were very pregnant of meaning, and showed only too well the place he would take after his father’s death.“There,” said his father, pressing his hand, “that is all. I know your nature, boy, so I will not ask you to promise things which you cannot perform. Go now.”“Not stay with you, father?” said the young man, speaking for the first time.“No; go now. I’ve done my duty by you, boy; now go and do yours by your brother. Good-bye, Jessop.” There was dead silence, and the old man spoke again as he grasped his son’s hand, “Good-bye, Jessop, for the last time.”“Good-bye, father,” was the reply; and then, with head bent, the young man walked slowly out.“Hah! that’s over!” sighed the dying man. “He will not break his heart, Doctor; and if I had left him double, it would do him no good. Now then, Praed, I want to see little Janet. Where is she?”“Downstairs in the drawing-room.”“That’s right. Go and fetch her. Tell her not to be frightened. She shan’t see me die, for it won’t be yet.”The Doctor left the bedroom, and the old man was alone with his younger son.“Take hold of my hand, Clive. Sit down, my lad. That’s right. There, don’t look so cut up, my boy. I’m only going to sleep like a man should. It’s simply nature; not the horror fanatics teach us. Now I want to talk business to you for a few minutes, and then business and money will be dead to me for ever.”“You wish me to do something, father?”“Yes, boy. You will find everything in my will—you and the Doctor. He’s a good old friend, and his counsel is worth taking. Marry Janet, and make her a happy wife. She has some weaknesses, but you can mould her, my lad; and it will make her happy, and the Doctor too, for he loves you like a son.”“Yes, father.”“That’s good. You’re a fine, strong, clever man, Clive, but that was the dear, good, affectionate boy of twenty years ago speaking. Now then, about money matters. You’ll be enormously rich over that mine, so for heaven’s sake be a true, just man with it, and do your duty by all the shareholders. Stick to it through thick and thin. I remember all you told me when I recovered from my fit. I could repeat your report. But I was convinced before, when all the London world thought I was getting up a swindle. There! that’s enough about the mine—save this. You’ll be thinking of sharing with your brother. I forbid it. Keep to your portion as I have left it to you, and do good with it. To give to Jessop is to do evil. I am sorry, but it is the truth. He cannot help it perhaps, but he is not to be trusted, and you are not to league yourself with him in any way. You understand?”“Yes, father!”“I have made him a sufficiently rich man. Let him be content. You are not to trust him. I know Jessop by heart, and I can go from here feeling that I have done my duty by him.”At that moment the Doctor returned with his daughter, and the old speculator’s face lit up with pleasure.“Come here, Pussy,” he said. “I’m not very dreadful yet, my dear.”“Dear Mr Reed—dear Mr Reed!” cried Janet, running sobbing to his side; “don’t, pray, talk like that.”The old man smiled with content as the girl fell upon her knees by the bed, and embraced him tenderly, “Ah! that’s right. That’s like my little darling,” he said, and he stroked her cheek. “Don’t cry any more, my dear. There! you two go farther away; Janet and I have a few words to say together.”Clive and the Doctor moved to the window and stood with their backs to the bed, the old man watching them intently for a few moments, and then smiling at Janet as he held and fondled her hand.“There!” he said, “you are not to fret and be miserable about it, and when I’m gone it is not to interfere with your marriage.”“Oh, Mr Reed!” she cried passionately.“No, no, no,” he continued quietly; “not a bit. Life is short, my dear; enjoy it, and do your work in it while you can. And mind, there is to be no silly parade of mourning for me. I’m not going to have your pretty face spoiled with black crape, and all that nonsense. Mourn for me in your dear little heart, Janet: not sadly, but with pleasant, happy memories of one who held you when you were a baby, and who has always looked upon you as his little daughter.” Janet’s face went down on the old man’s hands with the tears flowing silently.“Now, just a few more words, my dear,” he almost whispered. “Your father and I have rather spoiled you by indulgence.”“Yes, yes,” she whispered quickly. “I have not deserved so much.”“Never mind; you are going to be a dear good girl now, and make Clive a true, loving wife.”“Yes, I’ll try so hard.”“It will not take much trying, Janet, for he loves you very dearly.”She raised her head sharply, and there was an angry look in her eyes.“No, no, you are wrong,” said the old man. “Always the same, my pet. I can read you with these little jealous fits and fancies. I tell you, he loves you very dearly, and I’m going to say something else, my pet, my last little bit of scolding, for I’ve always watched you very keenly for my boy’s sake.”“Mr Reed!” she whispered, shrinking from him and glancing towards the window; but he held her hands tightly.“They cannot hear us, little one,” he said, “and I want you to listen. For your own happiness, Janet, my child. It is poor Clive who ought to have been jealous and complained.”Janet hid her burning face.“It was not all your fault, little one, but I saw a great deal. Innocent enough with you; but Jacob has always been trying to win Esau’s heritage, and even his promised wife.”The girl sobbed bitterly now, and laid her burning face close to the old man’s, hiding it in the pillow.“Oh, don’t, don’t,” she whispered. “I never liked him, but he was always flattering me and saying nice things.”“Poison with sugar round them, my dear. But that’s all past. You are to be Clive’s dear honoured wife. No more silly, girlish little bits of flirtation. You are not spoiled, my dear, only petted a little too much. That’s all to be put behind us now, is it not?”“Yes, dear—yes, dear Mr Reed,” she whispered, with her arms about his neck; and it was as if years had dropped away, and it was the little child the old man had petted and scolded a hundred times, asking forgiveness, as she whispered, “I will be good now, and love him very dearly.”“That’s like my own child,” said the old man. “Now let’s hear the true woman speak.”“And do always what you wish,” she said, looking him full in the eyes.“That’s right—try,” he said, drawing her down to kiss her, and then signing to her to go.“I’m tired,” he said wearily. “Clive, take your little wife downstairs for a bit. Your hand, my boy. God bless you! Now, Doctor, I’ll have an hour’s sleep.”The Doctor signed for the young people to go down; and as he took a chair by the bed’s head, Grantham Reed turned his head away from the light, and went off into the great sleep as calmly as a tired child.

“The game’s up, then, Doctor, eh? There, man, don’t shuffle. This isn’t whist, but the game of life, and nature wins.”

The Doctor stood holding his old friend’s hand, and gazing sadly down in the fine manly face, which looked wonderfully calm and peaceful as he lay back on the white pillow.

“That’s right; don’t say medical things to me—clap-trap: you never did. We always understand each other, and I shouldn’t like it now I’m dying. For that’s it, Praed; the game’s up. I haven’t read so plainly how many trumps you held in your hand for all these years, old man, without being able to judge your face now.”

“Reed, old fellow,” said the Doctor, in a voice full of emotion, “God knows I have done my best. Let me send for—”

“Tchah! What for?” said the old man. “You know more than he does. It’s of no use fighting against it. Nature says the works must stop soon. Very well; I shall meet it as I have met other losses in my time. Do you hear, Clive—Jessop?”

A murmur came from the other side of the bed, where the two young men were standing, and then all was still again, save the rumble of a vehicle in the street.

“It’s disappointing just now, when I had made thecoupof my life, and meant to settle down in peace; but it wasn’t to be, and I’m going to meet it like a man. Clive, boy, come here.”

The young man came to the bedside and knelt down.

“Ah! I like that,” said the old father. “Good lad!” and he laid his hand gently upon his son’s head. “I’m not a grand old patriarch,” he sighed. “What, Doctor?—not talk? Yes, I must have my say now, while there’s time. Not a good old patriarch, Clive—not a religious man; made too much of a god of money; but I said my wife and sons should never know the poverty from which I had suffered, and I think it was right; but I overdid it, boy. Don’t follow my example; there’s no need. There—my blessing for what it’s worth, boy. Now go: I want Jessop.”

Clive rose, and his brother came and stood where he had knelt.

“Well,” said the dying man, in a firm voice, “I have little to say to you, Jessop. Shake hands, my boy, and God forgive you, as I do—everything.” Jessop was silent, and after a few moments the old man went on—

“I have settled everything, my lad. The Doctor here is one of my executors, and he will see that Clive does his duty by you; though he would without.”

Jessop winced, for these words were very pregnant of meaning, and showed only too well the place he would take after his father’s death.

“There,” said his father, pressing his hand, “that is all. I know your nature, boy, so I will not ask you to promise things which you cannot perform. Go now.”

“Not stay with you, father?” said the young man, speaking for the first time.

“No; go now. I’ve done my duty by you, boy; now go and do yours by your brother. Good-bye, Jessop.” There was dead silence, and the old man spoke again as he grasped his son’s hand, “Good-bye, Jessop, for the last time.”

“Good-bye, father,” was the reply; and then, with head bent, the young man walked slowly out.

“Hah! that’s over!” sighed the dying man. “He will not break his heart, Doctor; and if I had left him double, it would do him no good. Now then, Praed, I want to see little Janet. Where is she?”

“Downstairs in the drawing-room.”

“That’s right. Go and fetch her. Tell her not to be frightened. She shan’t see me die, for it won’t be yet.”

The Doctor left the bedroom, and the old man was alone with his younger son.

“Take hold of my hand, Clive. Sit down, my lad. That’s right. There, don’t look so cut up, my boy. I’m only going to sleep like a man should. It’s simply nature; not the horror fanatics teach us. Now I want to talk business to you for a few minutes, and then business and money will be dead to me for ever.”

“You wish me to do something, father?”

“Yes, boy. You will find everything in my will—you and the Doctor. He’s a good old friend, and his counsel is worth taking. Marry Janet, and make her a happy wife. She has some weaknesses, but you can mould her, my lad; and it will make her happy, and the Doctor too, for he loves you like a son.”

“Yes, father.”

“That’s good. You’re a fine, strong, clever man, Clive, but that was the dear, good, affectionate boy of twenty years ago speaking. Now then, about money matters. You’ll be enormously rich over that mine, so for heaven’s sake be a true, just man with it, and do your duty by all the shareholders. Stick to it through thick and thin. I remember all you told me when I recovered from my fit. I could repeat your report. But I was convinced before, when all the London world thought I was getting up a swindle. There! that’s enough about the mine—save this. You’ll be thinking of sharing with your brother. I forbid it. Keep to your portion as I have left it to you, and do good with it. To give to Jessop is to do evil. I am sorry, but it is the truth. He cannot help it perhaps, but he is not to be trusted, and you are not to league yourself with him in any way. You understand?”

“Yes, father!”

“I have made him a sufficiently rich man. Let him be content. You are not to trust him. I know Jessop by heart, and I can go from here feeling that I have done my duty by him.”

At that moment the Doctor returned with his daughter, and the old speculator’s face lit up with pleasure.

“Come here, Pussy,” he said. “I’m not very dreadful yet, my dear.”

“Dear Mr Reed—dear Mr Reed!” cried Janet, running sobbing to his side; “don’t, pray, talk like that.”

The old man smiled with content as the girl fell upon her knees by the bed, and embraced him tenderly, “Ah! that’s right. That’s like my little darling,” he said, and he stroked her cheek. “Don’t cry any more, my dear. There! you two go farther away; Janet and I have a few words to say together.”

Clive and the Doctor moved to the window and stood with their backs to the bed, the old man watching them intently for a few moments, and then smiling at Janet as he held and fondled her hand.

“There!” he said, “you are not to fret and be miserable about it, and when I’m gone it is not to interfere with your marriage.”

“Oh, Mr Reed!” she cried passionately.

“No, no, no,” he continued quietly; “not a bit. Life is short, my dear; enjoy it, and do your work in it while you can. And mind, there is to be no silly parade of mourning for me. I’m not going to have your pretty face spoiled with black crape, and all that nonsense. Mourn for me in your dear little heart, Janet: not sadly, but with pleasant, happy memories of one who held you when you were a baby, and who has always looked upon you as his little daughter.” Janet’s face went down on the old man’s hands with the tears flowing silently.

“Now, just a few more words, my dear,” he almost whispered. “Your father and I have rather spoiled you by indulgence.”

“Yes, yes,” she whispered quickly. “I have not deserved so much.”

“Never mind; you are going to be a dear good girl now, and make Clive a true, loving wife.”

“Yes, I’ll try so hard.”

“It will not take much trying, Janet, for he loves you very dearly.”

She raised her head sharply, and there was an angry look in her eyes.

“No, no, you are wrong,” said the old man. “Always the same, my pet. I can read you with these little jealous fits and fancies. I tell you, he loves you very dearly, and I’m going to say something else, my pet, my last little bit of scolding, for I’ve always watched you very keenly for my boy’s sake.”

“Mr Reed!” she whispered, shrinking from him and glancing towards the window; but he held her hands tightly.

“They cannot hear us, little one,” he said, “and I want you to listen. For your own happiness, Janet, my child. It is poor Clive who ought to have been jealous and complained.”

Janet hid her burning face.

“It was not all your fault, little one, but I saw a great deal. Innocent enough with you; but Jacob has always been trying to win Esau’s heritage, and even his promised wife.”

The girl sobbed bitterly now, and laid her burning face close to the old man’s, hiding it in the pillow.

“Oh, don’t, don’t,” she whispered. “I never liked him, but he was always flattering me and saying nice things.”

“Poison with sugar round them, my dear. But that’s all past. You are to be Clive’s dear honoured wife. No more silly, girlish little bits of flirtation. You are not spoiled, my dear, only petted a little too much. That’s all to be put behind us now, is it not?”

“Yes, dear—yes, dear Mr Reed,” she whispered, with her arms about his neck; and it was as if years had dropped away, and it was the little child the old man had petted and scolded a hundred times, asking forgiveness, as she whispered, “I will be good now, and love him very dearly.”

“That’s like my own child,” said the old man. “Now let’s hear the true woman speak.”

“And do always what you wish,” she said, looking him full in the eyes.

“That’s right—try,” he said, drawing her down to kiss her, and then signing to her to go.

“I’m tired,” he said wearily. “Clive, take your little wife downstairs for a bit. Your hand, my boy. God bless you! Now, Doctor, I’ll have an hour’s sleep.”

The Doctor signed for the young people to go down; and as he took a chair by the bed’s head, Grantham Reed turned his head away from the light, and went off into the great sleep as calmly as a tired child.

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