Chapter Twenty Five.Another Pigeon Plucked.“Major Gurdon? Show him in.”The Major was shown in to the business-like-looking little grey man in his office at Drapers Buildings, but he did not take the seat offered.“Now then, Mr Caley, I’ve come up. It is all a scare, is it not?”The stockbroker shrugged his shoulders.“Scare, sir? Perhaps; but everybody who holds these shares is realising for anything he can get.”“But I heard such excellent reasons for buying them on the best authority,” cried the Major. “It promised to be almost a fortune.”“My dear sir,” said the stockbroker; “most people who invest in mining shares do so on the best authority, and anticipate fortunes.”“Yes, yes, but—”“And then, to use the old simile, sir, find that they have cast their money down a deep hole.”“Tut-tut-tut-tut!” ejaculated the Major. “But the latest news of the mine?”“The latest news on ’Change, sir, is worse than that which we wired to you. It is disastrous, and seems to me like the bursting of a bubble. But it may not be so bad. We are quiet men, Major Gurdon, and deal with old-fashioned investors in government and corporation stocks. Two and a half, three, three and a half, and debentures. We do nothing with speculative business.”“No, I know. You advised me strongly against what I did.”“Yes, sir. We felt it our duty. But this, as I have before said, may only be a scare.”“But money means so much to me, Mr Caley. Now tell me this: what would you do if you were in my place?”“You wish for my advice, Major Gurdon?”“Of course.”Mr Caley touched the table gong and a clerk appeared.“My compliments to Mr Bland, and ask him to step here.”“I think he’s out, sir,” said the man. “I’ll see.” He left the office, and a minute later a thin, dark, anxious-looking man entered.“Major Gurdon, I think? We met once before.”“Bland, Major Gurdon wants our advice about ‘White Virgin’ shares. What would you do if you held any?”“Give them away at once if they are not fully paid up.”“Only a pound a share on call,” said Mr Caley. “What would you do?”“Sell them at once for anything they would fetch; but there would be no buyers.”“Thank you,” said Mr Caley. “You hear, Major Gurdon? I quite endorse my partner’s views.”“But they may recover,” said the Major piteously. Mr Caley shrugged his shoulders. “Things could not look worse, sir; but as you cannot lose much more, and the call that will follow will not be heavy, you might speculate a little and hold on.”“But I cannot afford to pay the call, gentlemen,” cried the Major. “It is ruin to me.”“Then sell, sir,” said Mr Bland, “and get what you can out of the fire.”“Sell? When?”“At once, sir.”“I—I think I will see the gentleman first through whom I bought them.”“As you will, sir, but time is money,” said Mr Bland. “We might be able to place them to-day, as I hear rumours of some one buying up a few. In a couple of hours’ time it may be too late.”“But surely, gentlemen, they will be saleable at some price?” cried the Major.The partners shook their heads. And in a fit of desperation, the Major decided to sell, and was shown into a room, to wait while the preliminary business went on, Mr Caley himself going out to dispose of the shares.Hours passed, during which the Major sat vainly trying to compose himself to read the papers on the table, but they seemed to be full of nothing else save adverse money market news; and at last he could do nothing but pace the room.The door opened at last and the stockbroker entered, followed by his partner.“I have done the best I could for you, sir,” said Mr Caley. “Here is an open cheque, which I would advise you to cash at once. There will be the necessary signature required by-and-by for the transference of the shares to the buyer, but that will occupy some days. Shall we send and get the cheque cashed?”“Yes,” said the Major, as he caught up a pen, and glanced at the amount and signature. “Not a tenth of what I paid for them. Humph, ‘R. Wrigley.’”“Yes, sir, a gentleman who has bought two or three lots, I believe.—Thank you.”The Major threw himself back in his chair, and waited while the cheque was cashed, and then, shaking hands with his brokers, he took a cab and ordered the man to drive to Guildford Street.“I hope we have given him good advice, Bland.”“The best we could give. It was a chance of chances to get rid of them at all.”“Let me see: that scheme was floated by old Grantham Reed, wasn’t it?”“Yes, and he did very wisely in dying and getting out of the way. What a vast amount of money has been thrown down mines.”Yes: Mr Clive Reed was in, and the Major entered, and felt a little staggered at the solid, wealthy look of his prospective son-in-law’s house, as he was shown into the library, where Clive was busy writing.“Ah, Major,” he cried, “then you had my telegram?”“Your telegram, sir, no.”“Tut-tut-tut! I’m sorry. But I need not ask you any questions. Your face shows that you have heard the rumour.”“Heard the cursed rumour? Yes, sir,” cried the Major indignantly. “How can you have the heart to take the matter so lightly?”“Lightly? Why not? I am only sorry that it should worry my friends.”“Clive Reed!” cried the Major, bringing his fist down so heavily upon the table that the pens leaped out of the tray; “this may be a slight matter to a mining adventurer who lives by gambling, but do you grasp the fact that it is utter ruin to me and my child?”“My dear sir, no, I do not; and as soon as I found out what was the matter, I sent off a telegram, and paid for a horse messenger to ride over and set you at your ease.”“Set me at my ease!” cried the Major, tugging the end of his great moustache into his mouth and gnawing it. “How can a man, sir, be at his ease who has lost his all—who sees his child brought to penury?”“My dear sir,” began Clive.“Silence, sir!” cried the Major, giving vent to the pent-up wrath which had been gathering. “Silence! Hear what I have to say. I received you at my home, believing you to be an honourable man—a gentleman. I did not draw back when I found that my poor child had been won over by your insidious ways, and I was weak enough to let you draw me into this cursed whirlpool, and persuade me to embark my little capital to be swept down to destruction.”“Did I, sir?” said Clive quietly.“No: I will be just, even in my despair. That was my own doing, for I was blinded by your representations of wealth to come. I know: I was a fool and a madman, and I am justly punished: but I did think, sir, that you would have met me differently to this. It is a trifle perhaps to you speculators, you mining gamblers. Your way of living here in this house shows that a few thousands more or less are not of much consequence to you.”There was a look of grave sympathy in Clive’s face as he listened patiently to the angry visitor’s words: and twice over he made an effort to speak, but the Major furiously silenced him.“Let me finish, sir,” he cried, speaking now almost incoherently, his face flushed, and the veins in his temples knotted. “I came here, sir, meaning to speak a few grave words of reproach—to tell you of the contempt with which you have inspired me; but—but—I—but I—oh, curse it all, sir, how could you let me fall into this pit—how could you come to me and win my confidence—my poor child’s confidence, and behave like a scoundrel to one who met you from the beginning as a friend?”He ceased, and Clive rose from his chair, crossed to where he had thrown himself down, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.“Major Gurdon—father,—what have I ever done to make you think me such a scoundrel?”“Don’t—don’t speak to me,” cried the Major hoarsely.“I must,—I shall,” said Clive quietly. “You are terribly upset by this news; but did I not send you a message—have I not told you that there is no cause for anxiety?”“What, sir, when all London is ringing with the collapse of your scheme, and people are selling right and left for anything they can get.”“Poor fools! yes,” said Clive calmly. “They will smart for it afterwards.”“What!” cried the Major, trying to rise from his seat, but Clive pressed him back. “I tell you all London is ringing with the bursting of the bubble.”Clive smiled.“With the miserable, contemptible rumour put about by some scheming scoundrel to make money out of the fears of investors.”“What! There, sir, it is of no use. I know what you will say—that the shares will recover shortly. Bah! Nonsense! Some of you have made your money by your speculation; and poor, weak, trusting fools like me, as you say, must smart for it.”“Major Gurdon,” said Clive sadly, “you ought to have had more confidence in the man you made your friend.”“Confidence! I gave you all my confidence, and you have ruined me.”“No.”“Then stood by calmly and seen me ruined.”“No.”“What, sir?”“My dear Major, life among the Derby Dales has made you extremely unbusiness-like.”“Yes, sir, an easy victim,” cried the Major angrily. “To panic: yes. There, let us end this painful business.”“Yes, sir, I understand,” cried the Major, springing up; “let us end this painful business. I understand, and I am going. God forgive you, Clive Reed, for I never can.”“You have nothing to forgive,” said Clive gravely, as he met the Major’s angry gaze with his clear, penetrating eyes. “Once for all, believe me; this is a rumour set about by schemers. The ‘White Virgin’ is immaculate and growing richer day by day.”“But my brokers assured me that the case was hopeless.”“Your brokers, sir, derived their information on ’Change. I, who speak to you from my own experience, and from that of my dear dead father, give you my opinion based upon something tangible—the mine itself. Does poor Dinah know of all this?”“Sir, I have no secrets from my child.”“What did she say?”“Say? What would a weak woman say?” cried the Major contemptuously. “You have done your work well there.”“She trusted me and told you to believe?”The Major’s brows knitted tightly.“God bless her!” cried Clive, with his face lighting up, and his eyes softening. “I knew she would; and come, sir, you will trust me too. I am so sorry. One of my dearest old friends has ruined himself over the wretched business.”“You are right, sir,” said the Major. “I have.”“I did not mean you,” said Clive, smiling; “but Doctor Praed. He actually accepted the news as true, let himself be swept along on the flood of the panic, and sold out to some scheming scoundrel who, for aught I know, may be at the bottom of all this.” The angry flush began to die out of the Major’s face, leaving it in patches of a clayey white.“If I could only bring it home to the scoundrel—but it would be impossible. I hear that he has been buying heavily and for a mere nothing. But I’m glad you came to me first. Stop—you said you had heard from your brokers.”“Yes, sir; I went to my brokers at once.”“Major!” cried Clive excitedly, as a sadden thought flashed through his brain. “Good Heavens! Surely you have not sold your shares?”The Major was silent, for at last the younger man’s tones had carried conviction.“You have?”The Major nodded, and looked ghastly now.“Then you have thrown away thousands,” cried Clive angrily. “There was not a share to be had when you bought. They were mine—my very own, that no other man in England should have had at any price. Why didn’t you come to me? How could you be so mad?”“Then—then it really is a false report?” faltered the Major.“False as hell,” cried Clive, who now strode up and down the room in turn, his brow knit, and eyes flashing. “How could you be so weak—how could you be so mad? The scoundrels! The cowardly villains. Oh, Major, Major, you should have trusted me.”There was a tap at the door, and the Major took out his handkerchief, and made a feint to blow his nose loudly, as he surreptitiously wiped the great drops from his brow.“Come in,” cried Clive; and the servant entered with a number of newspapers.“The evening papers, sir.”Clive caught them up one by one, and pointed out letter and advertisement denying the truth of the rumour, and denouncing it as a financial trick to depreciate the value of the shares.“But it will not stop the panic,” said Clive sadly. “People will believe the lie, and turn away from the truth. I have given instructions to buy up every share that is offered, but I find that a Mr Wrigley is buying up all he can get.”“Yes,” said the Major faintly. “I believe he is the man who bought mine.”“Tchah!” ejaculated Clive. “Yes, it is a conspiracy for certain. There: write a message and send off at once to Dinah. Tell her it is as she believed, only a rumour, and that everything is right.”“Everything wrong, you mean,” groaned the Major. “How can I write that?”“Because everything will be all right, sir. You do not think I am going to let my dearest wife’s father suffer for an error of judgment?”“No, no,” groaned the Major, “I cannot lower—I cannot—God in Heaven! how could I have been such a fool.”“Because, my dear sir,” said Clive, patting his shoulder affectionately, “you are not quite perfect. There, send the message at once. Poor darling! She must be in agony.”The Major’s face went down upon his hands.“Send it—you—you can write—”“It shall be in your name then,” said Clive, and he dashed off the missive. “There.” Turning to the Major, he took his hands. “Come, sir, look me in the eyes, and tell me you believe now that I am an honest man.”“I—I cannot look you in the face, Clive,” murmured the Major huskily. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t humble me any more.”“Humble you, sir? not I. There, that is all past. Never mind the shares. Why, my dear sir, I have never made any boast of it, but my poor father left me immensely rich, and my tastes are very simple. I am obliged to work for others, and, as I told you, it was his wish that the mine should stand high, and stand high it shall. There, our darling will soon be at rest. You and I will have dinner together here, and enjoy a bottle of the father’s claret. To-morrow morning you shall go down home again.—Yes, what is it?”“Mr Belton, sir.”“Show him in directly.”“A moment. Let me go,” cried the Major.“No, no, I want you to know Mr Belton, my father’s old solicitor and friend.”“Here I am, Clive, my boy,” cried the old gentleman, entering mopping his face. “Oh, I thought you were alone.”“Better than being alone,” said Clive; “this is a very dear friend of mine—Major Gurdon. I want you to know each other.”“Any friend of Clive Reed’s, sir, is my friend,” said the old lawyer rather stiffly; but there was a look of pleasure in his eyes, as he shook hands with the Major, who greeted him with this touch, for he could not trust himself to speak.“Sit down, Belton,” said Clive eagerly now. “What news?”“Shall I—er—”“Yes, of course. I have no secrets from Major Gurdon.”The old lawyer passed his silk handkerchief over his forehead, glanced keenly at the Major, and then went on.“Well, there is no doubt about one thing: a Mr Wrigley, a scheming, money-lending solicitor—rather shady in reputation, but a man who can command plenty of capital—has been buying up every share he could get hold of.”“Then it is a conspiracy,” cried Clive.“Not a doubt about it.”“Then, what to do next. Surely we can have a prosecution.”“Humph! What for? Sort of thing often going on in the money market, I believe. What have you got to prosecute about?”“I?”“Yes; you haven’t lost. Poor old Praed now, he has something to shout about.”“But scandal, libel, defamation of the property.”“Let those who have lost risk a prosecution if they like. So long as I am your legal adviser, my dear boy, I shall devote myself to keeping you out of litigation.”“But surely you would advise something.”“Yes. Go back to your mine and make all you can, and be careful not to get into trouble over any underground trespassing.”“Well, if I go to the west, here is my neighbour. You’ll forgive me, sir?”“Of course, of course, my boy,” said the Major hurriedly.Mr Belton looked at him searchingly as he went on.“The shares will recover their position in time, and the sellers will be pretty angry then, of course. There’s no doubt about the conspiracy, my boy, but don’t you meddle in the matter. We have done all that was necessary to restore confidence. You saw, I suppose, that the letters and advertisements were in the evening papers?”“Oh yes.”“They’ll be in all the morning papers, of course.”“And how long will it be before confidence is restored?”“Not for long enough, but that will not affect your returns from the mine. But the poor old Doctor; I am sorry that he should have let himself be bitten.”“A great pity,” said Clive drily; “but never mind that. You will continue to make inquiries.”“Eh? about the conspiracy? Of course. I have a good man at work—a man who is pretty intimate with the stockbroking set, and I daresay I shall hear more yet.”“There: now let’s change the subject. You will dine with us to-night, Belton?”“Well, you see, my dear boy, I—er—”“You must,” said Clive decisively. “I go back into the country again directly. I have some letters to write now. Seven punctually.”“Seven punctually,” said the old lawyer, rising. He was punctual to the minute, and he and the Major got on famously as they chatted over old times, but somehow or other the old gentleman would keep reverting to the losses over the shares sustained by Doctor Praed, with the result that the Major did not enjoy his dinner.
“Major Gurdon? Show him in.”
The Major was shown in to the business-like-looking little grey man in his office at Drapers Buildings, but he did not take the seat offered.
“Now then, Mr Caley, I’ve come up. It is all a scare, is it not?”
The stockbroker shrugged his shoulders.
“Scare, sir? Perhaps; but everybody who holds these shares is realising for anything he can get.”
“But I heard such excellent reasons for buying them on the best authority,” cried the Major. “It promised to be almost a fortune.”
“My dear sir,” said the stockbroker; “most people who invest in mining shares do so on the best authority, and anticipate fortunes.”
“Yes, yes, but—”
“And then, to use the old simile, sir, find that they have cast their money down a deep hole.”
“Tut-tut-tut-tut!” ejaculated the Major. “But the latest news of the mine?”
“The latest news on ’Change, sir, is worse than that which we wired to you. It is disastrous, and seems to me like the bursting of a bubble. But it may not be so bad. We are quiet men, Major Gurdon, and deal with old-fashioned investors in government and corporation stocks. Two and a half, three, three and a half, and debentures. We do nothing with speculative business.”
“No, I know. You advised me strongly against what I did.”
“Yes, sir. We felt it our duty. But this, as I have before said, may only be a scare.”
“But money means so much to me, Mr Caley. Now tell me this: what would you do if you were in my place?”
“You wish for my advice, Major Gurdon?”
“Of course.”
Mr Caley touched the table gong and a clerk appeared.
“My compliments to Mr Bland, and ask him to step here.”
“I think he’s out, sir,” said the man. “I’ll see.” He left the office, and a minute later a thin, dark, anxious-looking man entered.
“Major Gurdon, I think? We met once before.”
“Bland, Major Gurdon wants our advice about ‘White Virgin’ shares. What would you do if you held any?”
“Give them away at once if they are not fully paid up.”
“Only a pound a share on call,” said Mr Caley. “What would you do?”
“Sell them at once for anything they would fetch; but there would be no buyers.”
“Thank you,” said Mr Caley. “You hear, Major Gurdon? I quite endorse my partner’s views.”
“But they may recover,” said the Major piteously. Mr Caley shrugged his shoulders. “Things could not look worse, sir; but as you cannot lose much more, and the call that will follow will not be heavy, you might speculate a little and hold on.”
“But I cannot afford to pay the call, gentlemen,” cried the Major. “It is ruin to me.”
“Then sell, sir,” said Mr Bland, “and get what you can out of the fire.”
“Sell? When?”
“At once, sir.”
“I—I think I will see the gentleman first through whom I bought them.”
“As you will, sir, but time is money,” said Mr Bland. “We might be able to place them to-day, as I hear rumours of some one buying up a few. In a couple of hours’ time it may be too late.”
“But surely, gentlemen, they will be saleable at some price?” cried the Major.
The partners shook their heads. And in a fit of desperation, the Major decided to sell, and was shown into a room, to wait while the preliminary business went on, Mr Caley himself going out to dispose of the shares.
Hours passed, during which the Major sat vainly trying to compose himself to read the papers on the table, but they seemed to be full of nothing else save adverse money market news; and at last he could do nothing but pace the room.
The door opened at last and the stockbroker entered, followed by his partner.
“I have done the best I could for you, sir,” said Mr Caley. “Here is an open cheque, which I would advise you to cash at once. There will be the necessary signature required by-and-by for the transference of the shares to the buyer, but that will occupy some days. Shall we send and get the cheque cashed?”
“Yes,” said the Major, as he caught up a pen, and glanced at the amount and signature. “Not a tenth of what I paid for them. Humph, ‘R. Wrigley.’”
“Yes, sir, a gentleman who has bought two or three lots, I believe.—Thank you.”
The Major threw himself back in his chair, and waited while the cheque was cashed, and then, shaking hands with his brokers, he took a cab and ordered the man to drive to Guildford Street.
“I hope we have given him good advice, Bland.”
“The best we could give. It was a chance of chances to get rid of them at all.”
“Let me see: that scheme was floated by old Grantham Reed, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, and he did very wisely in dying and getting out of the way. What a vast amount of money has been thrown down mines.”
Yes: Mr Clive Reed was in, and the Major entered, and felt a little staggered at the solid, wealthy look of his prospective son-in-law’s house, as he was shown into the library, where Clive was busy writing.
“Ah, Major,” he cried, “then you had my telegram?”
“Your telegram, sir, no.”
“Tut-tut-tut! I’m sorry. But I need not ask you any questions. Your face shows that you have heard the rumour.”
“Heard the cursed rumour? Yes, sir,” cried the Major indignantly. “How can you have the heart to take the matter so lightly?”
“Lightly? Why not? I am only sorry that it should worry my friends.”
“Clive Reed!” cried the Major, bringing his fist down so heavily upon the table that the pens leaped out of the tray; “this may be a slight matter to a mining adventurer who lives by gambling, but do you grasp the fact that it is utter ruin to me and my child?”
“My dear sir, no, I do not; and as soon as I found out what was the matter, I sent off a telegram, and paid for a horse messenger to ride over and set you at your ease.”
“Set me at my ease!” cried the Major, tugging the end of his great moustache into his mouth and gnawing it. “How can a man, sir, be at his ease who has lost his all—who sees his child brought to penury?”
“My dear sir,” began Clive.
“Silence, sir!” cried the Major, giving vent to the pent-up wrath which had been gathering. “Silence! Hear what I have to say. I received you at my home, believing you to be an honourable man—a gentleman. I did not draw back when I found that my poor child had been won over by your insidious ways, and I was weak enough to let you draw me into this cursed whirlpool, and persuade me to embark my little capital to be swept down to destruction.”
“Did I, sir?” said Clive quietly.
“No: I will be just, even in my despair. That was my own doing, for I was blinded by your representations of wealth to come. I know: I was a fool and a madman, and I am justly punished: but I did think, sir, that you would have met me differently to this. It is a trifle perhaps to you speculators, you mining gamblers. Your way of living here in this house shows that a few thousands more or less are not of much consequence to you.”
There was a look of grave sympathy in Clive’s face as he listened patiently to the angry visitor’s words: and twice over he made an effort to speak, but the Major furiously silenced him.
“Let me finish, sir,” he cried, speaking now almost incoherently, his face flushed, and the veins in his temples knotted. “I came here, sir, meaning to speak a few grave words of reproach—to tell you of the contempt with which you have inspired me; but—but—I—but I—oh, curse it all, sir, how could you let me fall into this pit—how could you come to me and win my confidence—my poor child’s confidence, and behave like a scoundrel to one who met you from the beginning as a friend?”
He ceased, and Clive rose from his chair, crossed to where he had thrown himself down, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Major Gurdon—father,—what have I ever done to make you think me such a scoundrel?”
“Don’t—don’t speak to me,” cried the Major hoarsely.
“I must,—I shall,” said Clive quietly. “You are terribly upset by this news; but did I not send you a message—have I not told you that there is no cause for anxiety?”
“What, sir, when all London is ringing with the collapse of your scheme, and people are selling right and left for anything they can get.”
“Poor fools! yes,” said Clive calmly. “They will smart for it afterwards.”
“What!” cried the Major, trying to rise from his seat, but Clive pressed him back. “I tell you all London is ringing with the bursting of the bubble.”
Clive smiled.
“With the miserable, contemptible rumour put about by some scheming scoundrel to make money out of the fears of investors.”
“What! There, sir, it is of no use. I know what you will say—that the shares will recover shortly. Bah! Nonsense! Some of you have made your money by your speculation; and poor, weak, trusting fools like me, as you say, must smart for it.”
“Major Gurdon,” said Clive sadly, “you ought to have had more confidence in the man you made your friend.”
“Confidence! I gave you all my confidence, and you have ruined me.”
“No.”
“Then stood by calmly and seen me ruined.”
“No.”
“What, sir?”
“My dear Major, life among the Derby Dales has made you extremely unbusiness-like.”
“Yes, sir, an easy victim,” cried the Major angrily. “To panic: yes. There, let us end this painful business.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” cried the Major, springing up; “let us end this painful business. I understand, and I am going. God forgive you, Clive Reed, for I never can.”
“You have nothing to forgive,” said Clive gravely, as he met the Major’s angry gaze with his clear, penetrating eyes. “Once for all, believe me; this is a rumour set about by schemers. The ‘White Virgin’ is immaculate and growing richer day by day.”
“But my brokers assured me that the case was hopeless.”
“Your brokers, sir, derived their information on ’Change. I, who speak to you from my own experience, and from that of my dear dead father, give you my opinion based upon something tangible—the mine itself. Does poor Dinah know of all this?”
“Sir, I have no secrets from my child.”
“What did she say?”
“Say? What would a weak woman say?” cried the Major contemptuously. “You have done your work well there.”
“She trusted me and told you to believe?”
The Major’s brows knitted tightly.
“God bless her!” cried Clive, with his face lighting up, and his eyes softening. “I knew she would; and come, sir, you will trust me too. I am so sorry. One of my dearest old friends has ruined himself over the wretched business.”
“You are right, sir,” said the Major. “I have.”
“I did not mean you,” said Clive, smiling; “but Doctor Praed. He actually accepted the news as true, let himself be swept along on the flood of the panic, and sold out to some scheming scoundrel who, for aught I know, may be at the bottom of all this.” The angry flush began to die out of the Major’s face, leaving it in patches of a clayey white.
“If I could only bring it home to the scoundrel—but it would be impossible. I hear that he has been buying heavily and for a mere nothing. But I’m glad you came to me first. Stop—you said you had heard from your brokers.”
“Yes, sir; I went to my brokers at once.”
“Major!” cried Clive excitedly, as a sadden thought flashed through his brain. “Good Heavens! Surely you have not sold your shares?”
The Major was silent, for at last the younger man’s tones had carried conviction.
“You have?”
The Major nodded, and looked ghastly now.
“Then you have thrown away thousands,” cried Clive angrily. “There was not a share to be had when you bought. They were mine—my very own, that no other man in England should have had at any price. Why didn’t you come to me? How could you be so mad?”
“Then—then it really is a false report?” faltered the Major.
“False as hell,” cried Clive, who now strode up and down the room in turn, his brow knit, and eyes flashing. “How could you be so weak—how could you be so mad? The scoundrels! The cowardly villains. Oh, Major, Major, you should have trusted me.”
There was a tap at the door, and the Major took out his handkerchief, and made a feint to blow his nose loudly, as he surreptitiously wiped the great drops from his brow.
“Come in,” cried Clive; and the servant entered with a number of newspapers.
“The evening papers, sir.”
Clive caught them up one by one, and pointed out letter and advertisement denying the truth of the rumour, and denouncing it as a financial trick to depreciate the value of the shares.
“But it will not stop the panic,” said Clive sadly. “People will believe the lie, and turn away from the truth. I have given instructions to buy up every share that is offered, but I find that a Mr Wrigley is buying up all he can get.”
“Yes,” said the Major faintly. “I believe he is the man who bought mine.”
“Tchah!” ejaculated Clive. “Yes, it is a conspiracy for certain. There: write a message and send off at once to Dinah. Tell her it is as she believed, only a rumour, and that everything is right.”
“Everything wrong, you mean,” groaned the Major. “How can I write that?”
“Because everything will be all right, sir. You do not think I am going to let my dearest wife’s father suffer for an error of judgment?”
“No, no,” groaned the Major, “I cannot lower—I cannot—God in Heaven! how could I have been such a fool.”
“Because, my dear sir,” said Clive, patting his shoulder affectionately, “you are not quite perfect. There, send the message at once. Poor darling! She must be in agony.”
The Major’s face went down upon his hands.
“Send it—you—you can write—”
“It shall be in your name then,” said Clive, and he dashed off the missive. “There.” Turning to the Major, he took his hands. “Come, sir, look me in the eyes, and tell me you believe now that I am an honest man.”
“I—I cannot look you in the face, Clive,” murmured the Major huskily. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t humble me any more.”
“Humble you, sir? not I. There, that is all past. Never mind the shares. Why, my dear sir, I have never made any boast of it, but my poor father left me immensely rich, and my tastes are very simple. I am obliged to work for others, and, as I told you, it was his wish that the mine should stand high, and stand high it shall. There, our darling will soon be at rest. You and I will have dinner together here, and enjoy a bottle of the father’s claret. To-morrow morning you shall go down home again.—Yes, what is it?”
“Mr Belton, sir.”
“Show him in directly.”
“A moment. Let me go,” cried the Major.
“No, no, I want you to know Mr Belton, my father’s old solicitor and friend.”
“Here I am, Clive, my boy,” cried the old gentleman, entering mopping his face. “Oh, I thought you were alone.”
“Better than being alone,” said Clive; “this is a very dear friend of mine—Major Gurdon. I want you to know each other.”
“Any friend of Clive Reed’s, sir, is my friend,” said the old lawyer rather stiffly; but there was a look of pleasure in his eyes, as he shook hands with the Major, who greeted him with this touch, for he could not trust himself to speak.
“Sit down, Belton,” said Clive eagerly now. “What news?”
“Shall I—er—”
“Yes, of course. I have no secrets from Major Gurdon.”
The old lawyer passed his silk handkerchief over his forehead, glanced keenly at the Major, and then went on.
“Well, there is no doubt about one thing: a Mr Wrigley, a scheming, money-lending solicitor—rather shady in reputation, but a man who can command plenty of capital—has been buying up every share he could get hold of.”
“Then it is a conspiracy,” cried Clive.
“Not a doubt about it.”
“Then, what to do next. Surely we can have a prosecution.”
“Humph! What for? Sort of thing often going on in the money market, I believe. What have you got to prosecute about?”
“I?”
“Yes; you haven’t lost. Poor old Praed now, he has something to shout about.”
“But scandal, libel, defamation of the property.”
“Let those who have lost risk a prosecution if they like. So long as I am your legal adviser, my dear boy, I shall devote myself to keeping you out of litigation.”
“But surely you would advise something.”
“Yes. Go back to your mine and make all you can, and be careful not to get into trouble over any underground trespassing.”
“Well, if I go to the west, here is my neighbour. You’ll forgive me, sir?”
“Of course, of course, my boy,” said the Major hurriedly.
Mr Belton looked at him searchingly as he went on.
“The shares will recover their position in time, and the sellers will be pretty angry then, of course. There’s no doubt about the conspiracy, my boy, but don’t you meddle in the matter. We have done all that was necessary to restore confidence. You saw, I suppose, that the letters and advertisements were in the evening papers?”
“Oh yes.”
“They’ll be in all the morning papers, of course.”
“And how long will it be before confidence is restored?”
“Not for long enough, but that will not affect your returns from the mine. But the poor old Doctor; I am sorry that he should have let himself be bitten.”
“A great pity,” said Clive drily; “but never mind that. You will continue to make inquiries.”
“Eh? about the conspiracy? Of course. I have a good man at work—a man who is pretty intimate with the stockbroking set, and I daresay I shall hear more yet.”
“There: now let’s change the subject. You will dine with us to-night, Belton?”
“Well, you see, my dear boy, I—er—”
“You must,” said Clive decisively. “I go back into the country again directly. I have some letters to write now. Seven punctually.”
“Seven punctually,” said the old lawyer, rising. He was punctual to the minute, and he and the Major got on famously as they chatted over old times, but somehow or other the old gentleman would keep reverting to the losses over the shares sustained by Doctor Praed, with the result that the Major did not enjoy his dinner.
Chapter Twenty Six.At Bay.Dinah Gurdon stood for a time grasping the back of a chair, battling with a fit of trembling and the strange sense of dread, which rapidly increased till in the enervation it produced, her eyes half-closed, the light upon the table grew dull, and a soft, many-hued halo spread round the flame as she was about to sink helpless upon the floor.Then mind mastered matter, and with an effort she drew a long catching breath, her eyes opened widely with the pupils dilated in the now clear light. Then she looked wildly at the door and window, whose panes seen against the darkness merely reflected the comfortable kitchen interior, where she stood. But all the same she felt sure that there was a face looking in at her—a face she knew only too well.Then, tearing away her eyes from where they had rested upon the lower corner, fascinated and held for a time in spite of her will, she turned and gazed at the door, which she now saw was unfastened, while the bolts at top and bottom showed plainly in the light, waiting to be shot into their sockets.Four steps would have taken her there; but that face was watching her, and she felt fixed to the spot, her heart beating with heavy throbs, and something seeming to force the conviction upon her that the moment she stirred to go to that door, her watcher would spring to it, fling it open, and seize her.So strong was this feeling upon her that for minutes she could not stir. Then fresh imaginings crowded in upon her brain, and she saw that the face she had conjured up was no longer there at the window, but there was a faint rustling outside, and a low sighing, whistling noise, and a regular pat—pat—pat as of footsteps.The feeling of enervation came back, and the light grew dim and obscured by dancing rays, while the latch of the door appeared to quiver, slowly rise up and up, to stop at the highest point, and the door slowly moved towards her.“Imagination!” she exclaimed, and in an instant she had darted to the door, thrust in both bolts, and then drawn down the window-blind, to stand now breathing heavily but feeling master of herself, and ready to act again in any way which she might find necessary.The pallor had gone now from her cheeks, which became flushed by a couple of red spots, as she felt irritated and indignant at her childish fears. But all the same she could not conceal from herself the fact that there was peril; and now, full of energy, she went quickly from room to room and made sure that every window and door was really secure, before hurrying up to the different chambers and examining the casement fastenings. She then descended to the lower floor of the little fortress to stand and think, asking herself whether her alarms were childish and only the effect of imagination after all.But she was fain to confess that they were not. She had too strong grounds in fact for her dread, and the incidents of the previous night and that evening showed her that the man she dreaded was as unscrupulous as he was daring.At last came bitter repentance for her weakness. Had she summoned up the courage to speak, and told all to her father, he would have taken steps to guard her from future danger.She shuddered at the thought, and the colour in her cheeks deepened as she conjured up scenes such as she had heard of in the past.Too late now; and she felt this, but that if the trouble were repeated she could not have acted otherwise. And now it was of the present that she had to think. There was no help to be expected from Martha, but, in the energy of despair, she went to the woman’s side, shook her, and spoke loudly with lips close to her ear. Then fetching water, she bathed the sleeper’s temples, for, rid of the sensation that her acts were watched, she worked with spirit.But all was in vain; Martha slept heavily, her breathing sounding regular and deep.Two or three times over Dinah ceased her efforts, and stood listening, startled by the different sounds of the storm gathering in the mountains. But she grew firmer now minute by minute, and quietly analysed each sound she heard. This was only the drip of the rain from the eaves on the stones below, although it resembled wonderfully the fall of feet. That was no rustling of a body forcing a way through the shrubs, but the work of a gust of wind bending down the little cypress, and making the clematis stream out upon the black darkness.There was every token of a rough night in the hills, for ever and anon after a lull, the wind hissed and whistled at the windows, and rumbled in the chimneys after the fashion familiar in winter. But as she told herself, there was nothing in this to fear.Feeling that Martha must be left to finish her heavy sleep, and after seeing that she could not injure herself if alone, Dinah went back with the light to the little drawing-room, where, after an uneasy glance at the window, she satisfied herself that she could not, by any possibility, be watched, and sat down to read.The effort was vain: not a line of the page was understood, but scenes and faces were called up. Clive’s looking lovingly into her eyes, with that frank, manly gaze, before which her own fell and her cheeks reddened. Then that meeting on the mountain path, when on her way home and alone, for the dog had left her and gone off in pursuit of a hare.She shuddered as she recalled it all, and hurriedly forced herself to think of her father and his anger that morning against Clive, who was, of course, all that was true and just—her lover—her protector—to whom some day she could tell everything—some day when safe in his arms and quite at rest. It was impossible now.Her thoughts went to him more and more persistently, as she wondered where he then was—whether he was thinking about her—when he would be back.The book fell into her lap and glided to the carpet with a loud rap, and quick as thought her hand was extended to the lamp. The next moment she sat in darkness, listening, and half repentant of her act. For though she had sought the enveloping cloak of darkness, she shivered as it closed her in.For that was not wind or rain, neither was it the effect of imagination. She could not be deceived this time. The latch of the kitchen door had been raised, and had given forth that click with which she had been familiar from childhood. True, it had sounded faintly, but it was unmistakable. The room door was open, so was that leading from the little passage into the kitchen, for she had left both wide, that she might hear if Martha stirred.She drew a breath of relief the next moment, for she felt that she had not heard their servant stir, but all the same she must have risen, and gone to try whether the door was fast.Quickly and silently she stole into the kitchen, and felt the way to the table. “Martha!” was on her lips, but she did not utter the word, only extending her hand as she heard a deep, low, sighing breath. The next instant her fingers rested upon the woman’s shoulder, and she knew that there had been no change in position. A feeling of suffocation attacked her, as she held her breath, and listened to a repetition of the sound, for the latch was softly raised now, and the door creaked as it was evidently pressed from outside.This was repeated, and then all was black darkness and silence once more, while poor Rollo, who would only a few hours before have loudly given warning of danger and torn at his chain to come to the protection of his mistress, lay sleeping his last beneath the newly-turned earth.Would he dare to break in?She was alone.A question and answer which sent a chill through her: but despair gave her courage, and she stood there pondering as the door creaked heavily once more.Where would he try to force an entrance? she asked herself, and then, feeling how frail were the fastenings, she silently made for the foot of the staircase, closed the door, bolted it, and ascended to the little landing.The next moment, her hand was upon her bedroom latch, but altering her mind she passed into her father’s room, and closed and locked the door, to stand listening, her mind fixed upon the drawing-room window beneath where she stood.It would be there, beneath the little verandah, she thought; and extending her hand to touch the wall and guide herself to the window, her fingers encountered something which sent a thrill through her, for she touched the Major’s double gun standing in the corner formed by a little cabinet, where he had stood and forgotten it; and in the drawer of that cabinet there were cartridges, for she had seen him place them there only a week or two before.Continuing her way, she crept to the window to listen, feeling sure that she would hear if any attempt was made below in the verandah, but clinging to the hope that the nocturnal visitor would go on finding that his plan was checkmated.She was not long left in doubt, for a rustling sound told her that the clematis was being torn away from one of the rough fir-posts which supported the verandah roof; and the next minute she was conscious by the sound that some one had reached the thatch, and was drawing himself up the yielding slope.For a moment Dinah was giddy once more with dread and despair. The next she was strong again in the wild desire to protect herself—for her own, and for Clive Reed’s sake; and stepping softly back, she drew out the drawer of the cabinet and felt that the cartridges were there. Then catching up the gun, she rapidly opened the breech and inserted a couple of the charges, closed it, and fully cocked the piece, to stand with it at the ready, its muzzle directed to the window, which showed darker in the middle where a grating sound was heard.She knew it at once; a knife was forcing back the leadwork, so that a diamond-shaped pane might be taken out by the man who believed this room to be empty.She could see nothing, but it was all plain enough; the grating ceased, the pane was eased out by the knife, a rustling told that there was a hand being thrust in, and she heard the fastening yield, and the iron frame of the casement creak as it was drawn outward. Then followed a heavy breath, the sound of some one drawing himself up, and strong now, at bay in her own defence, Dinah Gurdon’s finger pressed the trigger, as she still held the gun at the ready with its butt beneath her arm.
Dinah Gurdon stood for a time grasping the back of a chair, battling with a fit of trembling and the strange sense of dread, which rapidly increased till in the enervation it produced, her eyes half-closed, the light upon the table grew dull, and a soft, many-hued halo spread round the flame as she was about to sink helpless upon the floor.
Then mind mastered matter, and with an effort she drew a long catching breath, her eyes opened widely with the pupils dilated in the now clear light. Then she looked wildly at the door and window, whose panes seen against the darkness merely reflected the comfortable kitchen interior, where she stood. But all the same she felt sure that there was a face looking in at her—a face she knew only too well.
Then, tearing away her eyes from where they had rested upon the lower corner, fascinated and held for a time in spite of her will, she turned and gazed at the door, which she now saw was unfastened, while the bolts at top and bottom showed plainly in the light, waiting to be shot into their sockets.
Four steps would have taken her there; but that face was watching her, and she felt fixed to the spot, her heart beating with heavy throbs, and something seeming to force the conviction upon her that the moment she stirred to go to that door, her watcher would spring to it, fling it open, and seize her.
So strong was this feeling upon her that for minutes she could not stir. Then fresh imaginings crowded in upon her brain, and she saw that the face she had conjured up was no longer there at the window, but there was a faint rustling outside, and a low sighing, whistling noise, and a regular pat—pat—pat as of footsteps.
The feeling of enervation came back, and the light grew dim and obscured by dancing rays, while the latch of the door appeared to quiver, slowly rise up and up, to stop at the highest point, and the door slowly moved towards her.
“Imagination!” she exclaimed, and in an instant she had darted to the door, thrust in both bolts, and then drawn down the window-blind, to stand now breathing heavily but feeling master of herself, and ready to act again in any way which she might find necessary.
The pallor had gone now from her cheeks, which became flushed by a couple of red spots, as she felt irritated and indignant at her childish fears. But all the same she could not conceal from herself the fact that there was peril; and now, full of energy, she went quickly from room to room and made sure that every window and door was really secure, before hurrying up to the different chambers and examining the casement fastenings. She then descended to the lower floor of the little fortress to stand and think, asking herself whether her alarms were childish and only the effect of imagination after all.
But she was fain to confess that they were not. She had too strong grounds in fact for her dread, and the incidents of the previous night and that evening showed her that the man she dreaded was as unscrupulous as he was daring.
At last came bitter repentance for her weakness. Had she summoned up the courage to speak, and told all to her father, he would have taken steps to guard her from future danger.
She shuddered at the thought, and the colour in her cheeks deepened as she conjured up scenes such as she had heard of in the past.
Too late now; and she felt this, but that if the trouble were repeated she could not have acted otherwise. And now it was of the present that she had to think. There was no help to be expected from Martha, but, in the energy of despair, she went to the woman’s side, shook her, and spoke loudly with lips close to her ear. Then fetching water, she bathed the sleeper’s temples, for, rid of the sensation that her acts were watched, she worked with spirit.
But all was in vain; Martha slept heavily, her breathing sounding regular and deep.
Two or three times over Dinah ceased her efforts, and stood listening, startled by the different sounds of the storm gathering in the mountains. But she grew firmer now minute by minute, and quietly analysed each sound she heard. This was only the drip of the rain from the eaves on the stones below, although it resembled wonderfully the fall of feet. That was no rustling of a body forcing a way through the shrubs, but the work of a gust of wind bending down the little cypress, and making the clematis stream out upon the black darkness.
There was every token of a rough night in the hills, for ever and anon after a lull, the wind hissed and whistled at the windows, and rumbled in the chimneys after the fashion familiar in winter. But as she told herself, there was nothing in this to fear.
Feeling that Martha must be left to finish her heavy sleep, and after seeing that she could not injure herself if alone, Dinah went back with the light to the little drawing-room, where, after an uneasy glance at the window, she satisfied herself that she could not, by any possibility, be watched, and sat down to read.
The effort was vain: not a line of the page was understood, but scenes and faces were called up. Clive’s looking lovingly into her eyes, with that frank, manly gaze, before which her own fell and her cheeks reddened. Then that meeting on the mountain path, when on her way home and alone, for the dog had left her and gone off in pursuit of a hare.
She shuddered as she recalled it all, and hurriedly forced herself to think of her father and his anger that morning against Clive, who was, of course, all that was true and just—her lover—her protector—to whom some day she could tell everything—some day when safe in his arms and quite at rest. It was impossible now.
Her thoughts went to him more and more persistently, as she wondered where he then was—whether he was thinking about her—when he would be back.
The book fell into her lap and glided to the carpet with a loud rap, and quick as thought her hand was extended to the lamp. The next moment she sat in darkness, listening, and half repentant of her act. For though she had sought the enveloping cloak of darkness, she shivered as it closed her in.
For that was not wind or rain, neither was it the effect of imagination. She could not be deceived this time. The latch of the kitchen door had been raised, and had given forth that click with which she had been familiar from childhood. True, it had sounded faintly, but it was unmistakable. The room door was open, so was that leading from the little passage into the kitchen, for she had left both wide, that she might hear if Martha stirred.
She drew a breath of relief the next moment, for she felt that she had not heard their servant stir, but all the same she must have risen, and gone to try whether the door was fast.
Quickly and silently she stole into the kitchen, and felt the way to the table. “Martha!” was on her lips, but she did not utter the word, only extending her hand as she heard a deep, low, sighing breath. The next instant her fingers rested upon the woman’s shoulder, and she knew that there had been no change in position. A feeling of suffocation attacked her, as she held her breath, and listened to a repetition of the sound, for the latch was softly raised now, and the door creaked as it was evidently pressed from outside.
This was repeated, and then all was black darkness and silence once more, while poor Rollo, who would only a few hours before have loudly given warning of danger and torn at his chain to come to the protection of his mistress, lay sleeping his last beneath the newly-turned earth.
Would he dare to break in?
She was alone.
A question and answer which sent a chill through her: but despair gave her courage, and she stood there pondering as the door creaked heavily once more.
Where would he try to force an entrance? she asked herself, and then, feeling how frail were the fastenings, she silently made for the foot of the staircase, closed the door, bolted it, and ascended to the little landing.
The next moment, her hand was upon her bedroom latch, but altering her mind she passed into her father’s room, and closed and locked the door, to stand listening, her mind fixed upon the drawing-room window beneath where she stood.
It would be there, beneath the little verandah, she thought; and extending her hand to touch the wall and guide herself to the window, her fingers encountered something which sent a thrill through her, for she touched the Major’s double gun standing in the corner formed by a little cabinet, where he had stood and forgotten it; and in the drawer of that cabinet there were cartridges, for she had seen him place them there only a week or two before.
Continuing her way, she crept to the window to listen, feeling sure that she would hear if any attempt was made below in the verandah, but clinging to the hope that the nocturnal visitor would go on finding that his plan was checkmated.
She was not long left in doubt, for a rustling sound told her that the clematis was being torn away from one of the rough fir-posts which supported the verandah roof; and the next minute she was conscious by the sound that some one had reached the thatch, and was drawing himself up the yielding slope.
For a moment Dinah was giddy once more with dread and despair. The next she was strong again in the wild desire to protect herself—for her own, and for Clive Reed’s sake; and stepping softly back, she drew out the drawer of the cabinet and felt that the cartridges were there. Then catching up the gun, she rapidly opened the breech and inserted a couple of the charges, closed it, and fully cocked the piece, to stand with it at the ready, its muzzle directed to the window, which showed darker in the middle where a grating sound was heard.
She knew it at once; a knife was forcing back the leadwork, so that a diamond-shaped pane might be taken out by the man who believed this room to be empty.
She could see nothing, but it was all plain enough; the grating ceased, the pane was eased out by the knife, a rustling told that there was a hand being thrust in, and she heard the fastening yield, and the iron frame of the casement creak as it was drawn outward. Then followed a heavy breath, the sound of some one drawing himself up, and strong now, at bay in her own defence, Dinah Gurdon’s finger pressed the trigger, as she still held the gun at the ready with its butt beneath her arm.
Chapter Twenty Seven.For Clive’s Sake.“For Clive’s sake,” she said to herself, as the charge exploded, and the recoil of the loosely held gun rent the bodice of her dress and jerked her violently backward.There was a savage snarl, mingled with the report of the piece, and followed instantly by the tinkling of falling glass, a crushing sound of a gliding body, and then a dull concussion upon the stones beneath, where there was a panting and struggling, accompanied by a hissing as of breath drawn in agony; and then the rushing of the wind as it tore round the house, while within all was silence, as if of the dead.Dinah stood in the chamber holding the gun, motionless and with a cold perspiration bedewing her face as she breathed the dank, clinging, hydrogenous fumes of the burnt powder. Every sense was on the strain, and her fingers rested now upon the second trigger as she waited, firm and determined to fire again in her defence should her would-be assailant climb up.It was for Clive’s sake. She was his now—his very own; and in her excited, nerve-strung state she was ready to defend herself to the last, and die sooner than that man, her horror and despair, should again clasp her in his arms.But no fresh sound arose as she waited in the black darkness grasping everything now. How that Sturgess must have deeply laid his plans, and in revenge for a savage seizure made by the dog, as she remembered with a shudder, first poisoned the poor brute, and then somehow have contrived to drug the tea of which Martha had partaken that evening.She shivered again, as she thought of how closely this man must have watched everything that went on at the cottage, and how often he must have been near at hand at times when she knew it not. Then he must, in the knowledge of her father’s absence, have selected the Major’s chamber as a place where he could obtain entrance unheard, little thinking that Fate would inspire his child to select that as a place of safety.And all the while Dinah stood there motionless, a yard farther from the open window, drawing her breath at intervals, her heart beating, and every sense still upon the strain, as she waited ready to repel the next attack.Twice over a pang shot through her, and she felt that the time had come, for there was a rustling sound below, and in imagination she saw the dark opening grow more dark. But the sound died away again, and she knew that it was only a sudden gust of wind sweeping the rain-drops before it. And at last a new horror assailed her. That man—Sturgess, she was sure—had been in the act of climbing to the room and she had fired.Of course she knew all that, but somehow in her excitement—her exaltation of spirit in her defence of all that was dear to her in life—it seemed part of a horrible dream, a something which could not have been true.But it was true! She had fired and heard the cry of agony, the crushing of the thatch, and the heavy fall, and writhing on the stones beneath, followed by that awful silence during which she had waited in expectation for it to be broken by his coming on again.But it had not been broken, and she knew why now. The thought came to her like a revelation—Michael Sturgess was lying there, beneath that window, either grievously wounded or dead.A vertigo seized her, and she nearly dropped the gun. But Dinah’s nerves had been too tightly strung to give way now; and once more mastering her weakness, she walked bravely to the window, hesitated and then leaned out, starting back in horror, for she was touched.But it was only the edge of the iron frame of the casement swung to by the wind; and as she leaned out and looked down, she held her breath and listened, expecting to hear some movement—some slight stir. But there below in the dense darkness all was perfectly still; no movement, no hard-drawn breath as of one in agony, but a silence so horrible that she staggered back to throw the gun upon the bed, and press her hand down to try and allay the laboured breathing of her heart.She could bear it no longer. She felt that she must go down and see. Evil as the man was, he might be still alive, and she might save him. If not, she must know whether he was dead, for the suspense was infinitely worse than the knowledge could possibly be.In a state of maddening excitement now, she unfastened the door, and went down the dark stairs, pausing for a brief moment in the kitchen, where a heavy breathing told her that Martha still slept her drugged sleep; and then going to the front door she softly and quickly drew back the bolts, and turned the key, when the door yielded, as she grasped the handle, with a faint cracking sound.Then, nerved by her excitement, she stepped through the porch into the outer darkness, stooping down and peering before her in her endeavour to make out the prostrate body she expected to see lying prone.But nothing was visible, and gathering courage and calmness she went farther, walking to and fro over the spot where he must have fallen, without result, till, satisfied that the worst had not happened, and full of hope that he had fled after the shot, she hurried back to re-enter the house, stepping quickly over the stones to the little porch, and right into a pair of arms.With a wild cry of horror she struck at the man with all her might, with the result that there arose a yell of rage and pain. A brief struggle followed, and in her frantic efforts to free herself, Dinah tore herself away. Then turned and fled blindly, anywhere, so as to escape.But Sturgess was close behind.“Stop!” he cried hoarsely. “It’s of no use now, little one. Hah, I have you at last.”She was rushing up the rocky garden, and he was close behind and caught her by the shoulders, but with a cry of despair she flung herself side-wise, and he stumbled past her, and fell heavily, uttering an angry oath.She turned and fled downward toward the river, tripping again and again over the scattered stones and bushes, and making such bad progress that Sturgess had time to gather himself up, hear where she was forcing her way along, and followed wildly in pursuit.But, mad now with fear and horror, weak too from her exertions and the enervation caused by the dread of being overtaken, Dinah sped on, meaning to run to left or right, along the river edge, but taking neither way; for in her despair, she ran straight into the river, wading right out, so as to try and gain the shelter of the rocks on the further side.It was shallow where she waded, but she knew that beneath the rocks there were deep holes, where the great trout lay; and she felt that she might step right into one of these. But the cold clinging embraces of the water were better than the clasp of this ruffian, and without a moment’s hesitation she pressed on to gain her haven of safety, and then stopped short with the water nearly to her waist, and pressing softly against her, to bear her away: for she heard a loud ejaculation from the path she had left, and then her pursuer’s heavy steps, as he ran for a few yards downwards, and then came back and ran upward, and returned.“Curse her! Which way has she gone?” came plainly to her ears, followed by the rippling sound of the river, as it ran swiftly on.She knew that Sturgess could not see her, for he was evidently listening, and the slightest movement would have betrayed the fact that she was standing there only a few yards away.Two or three times the force of the river was so great that she felt as if she must yield to it; but she stood firm and then felt a fresh chill, for the man snarled out an oath, and the lapping and splashing sound made her turn and wade a little farther, for she felt that her enemy had made her out, and was wading in. But in another moment a savage ejaculation of pain made the truth known, for Sturgess was kneeling down and bathing the wound he had received.She grasped it all plainly enough now, for from time to time he uttered a low groan, and then rose up and staggered away over the stones, while her heart leaped for joy, as she knew that he was growing weak and faint from exertion.From this moment everything became plain to her—made known in the darkness by the sounds. She could see nothing, but she knew as well as if she had been by his side that the man was painfully staggering up the stony slope along by the river edge, as if making for the mine. But she dared not move, only try to stand firm against the pressure of the water, and wait till the last sound had reached her ear. Then, and then only, did she stir, but only to wade upward a little into shallower water, where the pressure was not so great. For the river was her protector, and she knew that Sturgess might come back.A full hour must have passed before, stiff and chilled, she waded slowly out, and crept up the path to the cottage, the water streaming from her as she walked, till she reached the porch, crept in trembling and secured the door, and then did not rest till she had reached her own room to throw herself upon her knees in thankfulness for her escape.But there was no rest that night. Just at daybreak she went down to find that Martha still slept, and shuddering, lest the events of the night should be known, she went into her father’s chamber and replaced the gun in its old corner; looked out in the cold grey morning, and saw that it was possible for the absent pane of glass to be attributed to the work of the wind blowing about a loosened casement. Lastly, there was something else for which she sought in the cold grey light of morning—traces of the gun-shot wound.There were none visible. If there had been, a sufficiency of rain had fallen to wash all away, and leaving the window ajar, Dinah was in the act of turning back, pondering upon her position and shrinking from telling her father more than ever. She determined that Martha must know nothing, when she caught a glimpse of her pale, troubled face in the glass, and then uttered a faint cry of horror, for her light dress was horribly stained about the breast and shoulder, showing plainly that Sturgess must have received a severe wound, whose traces had been transferred to her when he had seized her in his arms.“How can I speak!—how can I tell all!” she moaned, as she hurried guiltily back to her own room to remove the still damp and draggled garments. “It is too horrible. Oh,” she cried, fiercely now in her desperation, “if he would but die!”“Oh, my dear, how pale and white you do look,” said Martha at breakfast-time; and Dinah gazed at her wildly, as if in dread lest she knew all. “I feel as sure as sure that we both had something that didn’t agree with us yesterday, though I can’t say for the moment what. Yes, my dear, I didn’t really know how it was, but I felt poorly all day yesterday, and grew so drowsy at last that I went off fast asleep. Did you come and find me then?”“Yes, I came and found you,” said Dinah dreamily, as the whole scene of the previous night came back.“Of course it was very strange, but it was so kind of you not to wake me. But I’m better now—all but a headache. Does yours ache too?”“Yes, Martha, badly,” said Dinah, with a sigh, as for a moment she pondered about taking the old woman into her confidence.“I thought it did. There; have a good cup of tea. You’ll be better then. Will master be back to-day?”“I hope so, Martha,” said Dinah, with a sigh; and then hope came to revive her once more. For he would come and bring news of Clive, who must know all, and then there would be safety—protection, and no more of this abject fear.In the afternoon news reached the cottage that there had been an accident at the mine, where early that morning Mr Sturgess, the foreman, had fallen down one of the lower shafts, and severely cut and injured his left shoulder.
“For Clive’s sake,” she said to herself, as the charge exploded, and the recoil of the loosely held gun rent the bodice of her dress and jerked her violently backward.
There was a savage snarl, mingled with the report of the piece, and followed instantly by the tinkling of falling glass, a crushing sound of a gliding body, and then a dull concussion upon the stones beneath, where there was a panting and struggling, accompanied by a hissing as of breath drawn in agony; and then the rushing of the wind as it tore round the house, while within all was silence, as if of the dead.
Dinah stood in the chamber holding the gun, motionless and with a cold perspiration bedewing her face as she breathed the dank, clinging, hydrogenous fumes of the burnt powder. Every sense was on the strain, and her fingers rested now upon the second trigger as she waited, firm and determined to fire again in her defence should her would-be assailant climb up.
It was for Clive’s sake. She was his now—his very own; and in her excited, nerve-strung state she was ready to defend herself to the last, and die sooner than that man, her horror and despair, should again clasp her in his arms.
But no fresh sound arose as she waited in the black darkness grasping everything now. How that Sturgess must have deeply laid his plans, and in revenge for a savage seizure made by the dog, as she remembered with a shudder, first poisoned the poor brute, and then somehow have contrived to drug the tea of which Martha had partaken that evening.
She shivered again, as she thought of how closely this man must have watched everything that went on at the cottage, and how often he must have been near at hand at times when she knew it not. Then he must, in the knowledge of her father’s absence, have selected the Major’s chamber as a place where he could obtain entrance unheard, little thinking that Fate would inspire his child to select that as a place of safety.
And all the while Dinah stood there motionless, a yard farther from the open window, drawing her breath at intervals, her heart beating, and every sense still upon the strain, as she waited ready to repel the next attack.
Twice over a pang shot through her, and she felt that the time had come, for there was a rustling sound below, and in imagination she saw the dark opening grow more dark. But the sound died away again, and she knew that it was only a sudden gust of wind sweeping the rain-drops before it. And at last a new horror assailed her. That man—Sturgess, she was sure—had been in the act of climbing to the room and she had fired.
Of course she knew all that, but somehow in her excitement—her exaltation of spirit in her defence of all that was dear to her in life—it seemed part of a horrible dream, a something which could not have been true.
But it was true! She had fired and heard the cry of agony, the crushing of the thatch, and the heavy fall, and writhing on the stones beneath, followed by that awful silence during which she had waited in expectation for it to be broken by his coming on again.
But it had not been broken, and she knew why now. The thought came to her like a revelation—Michael Sturgess was lying there, beneath that window, either grievously wounded or dead.
A vertigo seized her, and she nearly dropped the gun. But Dinah’s nerves had been too tightly strung to give way now; and once more mastering her weakness, she walked bravely to the window, hesitated and then leaned out, starting back in horror, for she was touched.
But it was only the edge of the iron frame of the casement swung to by the wind; and as she leaned out and looked down, she held her breath and listened, expecting to hear some movement—some slight stir. But there below in the dense darkness all was perfectly still; no movement, no hard-drawn breath as of one in agony, but a silence so horrible that she staggered back to throw the gun upon the bed, and press her hand down to try and allay the laboured breathing of her heart.
She could bear it no longer. She felt that she must go down and see. Evil as the man was, he might be still alive, and she might save him. If not, she must know whether he was dead, for the suspense was infinitely worse than the knowledge could possibly be.
In a state of maddening excitement now, she unfastened the door, and went down the dark stairs, pausing for a brief moment in the kitchen, where a heavy breathing told her that Martha still slept her drugged sleep; and then going to the front door she softly and quickly drew back the bolts, and turned the key, when the door yielded, as she grasped the handle, with a faint cracking sound.
Then, nerved by her excitement, she stepped through the porch into the outer darkness, stooping down and peering before her in her endeavour to make out the prostrate body she expected to see lying prone.
But nothing was visible, and gathering courage and calmness she went farther, walking to and fro over the spot where he must have fallen, without result, till, satisfied that the worst had not happened, and full of hope that he had fled after the shot, she hurried back to re-enter the house, stepping quickly over the stones to the little porch, and right into a pair of arms.
With a wild cry of horror she struck at the man with all her might, with the result that there arose a yell of rage and pain. A brief struggle followed, and in her frantic efforts to free herself, Dinah tore herself away. Then turned and fled blindly, anywhere, so as to escape.
But Sturgess was close behind.
“Stop!” he cried hoarsely. “It’s of no use now, little one. Hah, I have you at last.”
She was rushing up the rocky garden, and he was close behind and caught her by the shoulders, but with a cry of despair she flung herself side-wise, and he stumbled past her, and fell heavily, uttering an angry oath.
She turned and fled downward toward the river, tripping again and again over the scattered stones and bushes, and making such bad progress that Sturgess had time to gather himself up, hear where she was forcing her way along, and followed wildly in pursuit.
But, mad now with fear and horror, weak too from her exertions and the enervation caused by the dread of being overtaken, Dinah sped on, meaning to run to left or right, along the river edge, but taking neither way; for in her despair, she ran straight into the river, wading right out, so as to try and gain the shelter of the rocks on the further side.
It was shallow where she waded, but she knew that beneath the rocks there were deep holes, where the great trout lay; and she felt that she might step right into one of these. But the cold clinging embraces of the water were better than the clasp of this ruffian, and without a moment’s hesitation she pressed on to gain her haven of safety, and then stopped short with the water nearly to her waist, and pressing softly against her, to bear her away: for she heard a loud ejaculation from the path she had left, and then her pursuer’s heavy steps, as he ran for a few yards downwards, and then came back and ran upward, and returned.
“Curse her! Which way has she gone?” came plainly to her ears, followed by the rippling sound of the river, as it ran swiftly on.
She knew that Sturgess could not see her, for he was evidently listening, and the slightest movement would have betrayed the fact that she was standing there only a few yards away.
Two or three times the force of the river was so great that she felt as if she must yield to it; but she stood firm and then felt a fresh chill, for the man snarled out an oath, and the lapping and splashing sound made her turn and wade a little farther, for she felt that her enemy had made her out, and was wading in. But in another moment a savage ejaculation of pain made the truth known, for Sturgess was kneeling down and bathing the wound he had received.
She grasped it all plainly enough now, for from time to time he uttered a low groan, and then rose up and staggered away over the stones, while her heart leaped for joy, as she knew that he was growing weak and faint from exertion.
From this moment everything became plain to her—made known in the darkness by the sounds. She could see nothing, but she knew as well as if she had been by his side that the man was painfully staggering up the stony slope along by the river edge, as if making for the mine. But she dared not move, only try to stand firm against the pressure of the water, and wait till the last sound had reached her ear. Then, and then only, did she stir, but only to wade upward a little into shallower water, where the pressure was not so great. For the river was her protector, and she knew that Sturgess might come back.
A full hour must have passed before, stiff and chilled, she waded slowly out, and crept up the path to the cottage, the water streaming from her as she walked, till she reached the porch, crept in trembling and secured the door, and then did not rest till she had reached her own room to throw herself upon her knees in thankfulness for her escape.
But there was no rest that night. Just at daybreak she went down to find that Martha still slept, and shuddering, lest the events of the night should be known, she went into her father’s chamber and replaced the gun in its old corner; looked out in the cold grey morning, and saw that it was possible for the absent pane of glass to be attributed to the work of the wind blowing about a loosened casement. Lastly, there was something else for which she sought in the cold grey light of morning—traces of the gun-shot wound.
There were none visible. If there had been, a sufficiency of rain had fallen to wash all away, and leaving the window ajar, Dinah was in the act of turning back, pondering upon her position and shrinking from telling her father more than ever. She determined that Martha must know nothing, when she caught a glimpse of her pale, troubled face in the glass, and then uttered a faint cry of horror, for her light dress was horribly stained about the breast and shoulder, showing plainly that Sturgess must have received a severe wound, whose traces had been transferred to her when he had seized her in his arms.
“How can I speak!—how can I tell all!” she moaned, as she hurried guiltily back to her own room to remove the still damp and draggled garments. “It is too horrible. Oh,” she cried, fiercely now in her desperation, “if he would but die!”
“Oh, my dear, how pale and white you do look,” said Martha at breakfast-time; and Dinah gazed at her wildly, as if in dread lest she knew all. “I feel as sure as sure that we both had something that didn’t agree with us yesterday, though I can’t say for the moment what. Yes, my dear, I didn’t really know how it was, but I felt poorly all day yesterday, and grew so drowsy at last that I went off fast asleep. Did you come and find me then?”
“Yes, I came and found you,” said Dinah dreamily, as the whole scene of the previous night came back.
“Of course it was very strange, but it was so kind of you not to wake me. But I’m better now—all but a headache. Does yours ache too?”
“Yes, Martha, badly,” said Dinah, with a sigh, as for a moment she pondered about taking the old woman into her confidence.
“I thought it did. There; have a good cup of tea. You’ll be better then. Will master be back to-day?”
“I hope so, Martha,” said Dinah, with a sigh; and then hope came to revive her once more. For he would come and bring news of Clive, who must know all, and then there would be safety—protection, and no more of this abject fear.
In the afternoon news reached the cottage that there had been an accident at the mine, where early that morning Mr Sturgess, the foreman, had fallen down one of the lower shafts, and severely cut and injured his left shoulder.
Chapter Twenty Eight.A New Horror.Letters reached the cottage at frequent intervals after the Major’s return, in which as he breathed in every line his intense affection, Clive fretted at the chain which still bound him to London.For, as he explained at length, a heavy blow had been struck at the mining company, bringing ruin upon those who had shown a want of faith, though the stability of the property was not really stirred. The rumour which had so rapidly spread had had its influence though, and time would be needed before many people would believe in the truth, and it was for the protection of the property, and to save other shareholders from following the panic-stricken party, that Clive felt compelled to be in town.Then, too, he sent a shiver through Dinah, as he wrote to her about his troubles at the mine.“Misfortunes never come singly,” he said. “As I daresay you have heard, my foreman Sturgess has met with a nasty accident, and Robson, my clerk, sends me word that he has been delirious and wandering a good deal. He fell down one of the inner shafts where he could have no business, and ought to be thankful that he escaped with his life. Now I do not want to be exacting, darling, but if you could do any little thing to soften the man’s misfortune, I should be glad. He is an ill-conditioned fellow, but he is my employé, and I want to do my duty by him as far as I can.”Dinah, in her agony of spirit, wanted to rush off to her own room and hide herself from the sight of all. For this appeal seemed more than she could bear; but the Major was present, and at that moment spoke about the contents of his own letter.“Reed wants us to see and help his foreman, who is lying at one of the cottages ill from a fall. We must do all we can, my dear. He’s a good fellow, is Clive. Very thoughtful of others. Dear, dear, if I had only been a little more strong-minded.”“Have you suffered so very heavily, father?” said Dinah, who forced herself to be calm and speak.“Suffered! Oh, yes, my dear, in mind as well as pocket. You were right, my child; he is all that is honourable and true. But it is very humiliating—very lowering to the spirit of an old soldier.”“To find that you have mistrusted him, father?”“Er—er—yes, my dear; but—but—there I will be frank with you. I did not mean that.”“Father, you are keeping something from me.”“Yes, my dear, I am,” said the Major hurriedly; “but Dinah, my dear, I have not accepted yet. The fact is, I have lost all, my dear—at least all but a beggarly pittance saved out of the wreck; and Clive—God bless him for a true gentleman!”Dinah’s arms were round her father’s neck, as the love-light shone in her eyes, and she laid her cheek upon his shoulder.“Well, yes, my dear, he is; and I suppose with all his simplicity and want of ostentation he is very rich. His house in town is—ah, well, never mind that! He insists upon giving me as many shares in the mine as I fooled away.”“But you cannot accept them from him, dear father,” cried Dinah, raising her head, and looking at him anxiously.“No, my darling, I told him so; that it would be a cruel humiliation; and that I would never accept them.”“Yes; that was quite right, dearest,” said Dinah, with her eyes flashing.“But he said—”“Yes, what did he say?”“That I was foolishly punctilious, that I was going to give him something of more value than all the riches in the world, and that I refused to take a fitting present from him.”The warm blood glowed in Dinah’s cheeks, and there was a look of pride and happiness in her eyes which were gradually softened by the gathering tears.“Yes, but you cannot take this, father dear!” she said softly. “It would be humiliation to us both. If we are very poor, and Clive loves me, he will love my dear father too. You must not take this, dear. It would be doubly painful after mistrusting him as you did.”“Then I have done right,” cried the Major cheerfully.“You have refused.”“Yes. I was sorely tempted, my darling, for I felt how I was bringing you down to poverty; that I was no longer in a position to—to—Oh, hang it, Dinah,” cried the old man, with the tears in his eyes, “I would sooner march through a storm of bullets than go through this.”“Clive loves me for myself, dearest father,” said Dinah, drawing his convulsed face down upon her bosom, to hide the weak tears of bitterness; “and it is not as if you were living in London. Our wants are so few here, and there are the few hundred pounds which you have often told me came from my dearest mother.”“No, no; that could not be touched,” cried the Major, very firmly now. “That was to be your wedding portion, child.”“There is no question of money between us, father,” said Dinah proudly. “I tell you again Clive loves me for myself, and there is a wedding portion here within my heart that can never fail. No, dearest, you cannot take this gift from my husband. You are rich in yourself as an English gentleman, and with your honourable name.”A spasm shot through the Major, and his face contracted and looked older.“There,” continued Dinah, “that is all at an end. Only we will economise, and live more simply, dear. But tell me I am right.”“Always right, my darling,” cried the Major. “There, you have taken a heavy load from my breast. Hang it, yes, pet. We have our home and garden, and there is my preserve. A bit of bread of old Martha’s best, and a dish of trout of my own catching, or a bird or two. Bah! who says we’re poor?”“Who would not envy us for being so rich?” cried Dinah, smiling.“To be sure. And when my lord of the mines comes down,” cried the Major merrily, “we’ll be haughty with him, and let him see that it is a favour to be allowed to partake of our hermitage fare, eh?”“Yes, yes,” cried Dinah, with childlike glee, though her eyes were still wet with tears. “But, father dear,” she faltered, “there is one thing I want to say.”“Yes, my darling?”“This man who is lying ill.”“Yes, yes. We must do all we can.”“No, father,” she said, speaking more firmly now. “We cannot go to him.”“Eh! Why not?”“Because—because,” faltered Dinah, with her voice sounding husky. Then growing strong, and her eyes looking hard and glittering, “Soon after he came down here, he began to follow me about.”“What! The scoundrel!” roared the Major.“And one day he spoke to me—and insulted me.”“The dog—the miserable hound. But—here, Dinah—why was I not told of this?”“Because, dear—I thought it better—I felt that I could not speak—I—”“Ah, but Clive shall know of this. But you have told him? Why has he not dismissed the hound?”“No, I have not told Clive, father—not any one. Some day I must tell him—but not now.”“Really, my darling!” cried the Major, whose face was flushed, and the veins were starting in his forehead.“Father, this is very, very painful to me, your child,” she pleaded; “and I beg—I pray that you will say no more.”“What! not have him punished?”“No; not now. He is punished, dearest. But we cannot go to his help.”“Help,” cried the Major furiously. “I should kill him.”Dinah laid her hands upon his breast, and at last he bent down and kissed her.“May I tell Clive when he comes?”“No, dearest,” said Dinah, in quite a whisper, and with her face very pale now, while her voice was almost inaudible; “that must come from me.”The Major frowned, and kissed his child’s pale face, prior to making another grievous mistake in his troubled life.
Letters reached the cottage at frequent intervals after the Major’s return, in which as he breathed in every line his intense affection, Clive fretted at the chain which still bound him to London.
For, as he explained at length, a heavy blow had been struck at the mining company, bringing ruin upon those who had shown a want of faith, though the stability of the property was not really stirred. The rumour which had so rapidly spread had had its influence though, and time would be needed before many people would believe in the truth, and it was for the protection of the property, and to save other shareholders from following the panic-stricken party, that Clive felt compelled to be in town.
Then, too, he sent a shiver through Dinah, as he wrote to her about his troubles at the mine.
“Misfortunes never come singly,” he said. “As I daresay you have heard, my foreman Sturgess has met with a nasty accident, and Robson, my clerk, sends me word that he has been delirious and wandering a good deal. He fell down one of the inner shafts where he could have no business, and ought to be thankful that he escaped with his life. Now I do not want to be exacting, darling, but if you could do any little thing to soften the man’s misfortune, I should be glad. He is an ill-conditioned fellow, but he is my employé, and I want to do my duty by him as far as I can.”
Dinah, in her agony of spirit, wanted to rush off to her own room and hide herself from the sight of all. For this appeal seemed more than she could bear; but the Major was present, and at that moment spoke about the contents of his own letter.
“Reed wants us to see and help his foreman, who is lying at one of the cottages ill from a fall. We must do all we can, my dear. He’s a good fellow, is Clive. Very thoughtful of others. Dear, dear, if I had only been a little more strong-minded.”
“Have you suffered so very heavily, father?” said Dinah, who forced herself to be calm and speak.
“Suffered! Oh, yes, my dear, in mind as well as pocket. You were right, my child; he is all that is honourable and true. But it is very humiliating—very lowering to the spirit of an old soldier.”
“To find that you have mistrusted him, father?”
“Er—er—yes, my dear; but—but—there I will be frank with you. I did not mean that.”
“Father, you are keeping something from me.”
“Yes, my dear, I am,” said the Major hurriedly; “but Dinah, my dear, I have not accepted yet. The fact is, I have lost all, my dear—at least all but a beggarly pittance saved out of the wreck; and Clive—God bless him for a true gentleman!”
Dinah’s arms were round her father’s neck, as the love-light shone in her eyes, and she laid her cheek upon his shoulder.
“Well, yes, my dear, he is; and I suppose with all his simplicity and want of ostentation he is very rich. His house in town is—ah, well, never mind that! He insists upon giving me as many shares in the mine as I fooled away.”
“But you cannot accept them from him, dear father,” cried Dinah, raising her head, and looking at him anxiously.
“No, my darling, I told him so; that it would be a cruel humiliation; and that I would never accept them.”
“Yes; that was quite right, dearest,” said Dinah, with her eyes flashing.
“But he said—”
“Yes, what did he say?”
“That I was foolishly punctilious, that I was going to give him something of more value than all the riches in the world, and that I refused to take a fitting present from him.”
The warm blood glowed in Dinah’s cheeks, and there was a look of pride and happiness in her eyes which were gradually softened by the gathering tears.
“Yes, but you cannot take this, father dear!” she said softly. “It would be humiliation to us both. If we are very poor, and Clive loves me, he will love my dear father too. You must not take this, dear. It would be doubly painful after mistrusting him as you did.”
“Then I have done right,” cried the Major cheerfully.
“You have refused.”
“Yes. I was sorely tempted, my darling, for I felt how I was bringing you down to poverty; that I was no longer in a position to—to—Oh, hang it, Dinah,” cried the old man, with the tears in his eyes, “I would sooner march through a storm of bullets than go through this.”
“Clive loves me for myself, dearest father,” said Dinah, drawing his convulsed face down upon her bosom, to hide the weak tears of bitterness; “and it is not as if you were living in London. Our wants are so few here, and there are the few hundred pounds which you have often told me came from my dearest mother.”
“No, no; that could not be touched,” cried the Major, very firmly now. “That was to be your wedding portion, child.”
“There is no question of money between us, father,” said Dinah proudly. “I tell you again Clive loves me for myself, and there is a wedding portion here within my heart that can never fail. No, dearest, you cannot take this gift from my husband. You are rich in yourself as an English gentleman, and with your honourable name.”
A spasm shot through the Major, and his face contracted and looked older.
“There,” continued Dinah, “that is all at an end. Only we will economise, and live more simply, dear. But tell me I am right.”
“Always right, my darling,” cried the Major. “There, you have taken a heavy load from my breast. Hang it, yes, pet. We have our home and garden, and there is my preserve. A bit of bread of old Martha’s best, and a dish of trout of my own catching, or a bird or two. Bah! who says we’re poor?”
“Who would not envy us for being so rich?” cried Dinah, smiling.
“To be sure. And when my lord of the mines comes down,” cried the Major merrily, “we’ll be haughty with him, and let him see that it is a favour to be allowed to partake of our hermitage fare, eh?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Dinah, with childlike glee, though her eyes were still wet with tears. “But, father dear,” she faltered, “there is one thing I want to say.”
“Yes, my darling?”
“This man who is lying ill.”
“Yes, yes. We must do all we can.”
“No, father,” she said, speaking more firmly now. “We cannot go to him.”
“Eh! Why not?”
“Because—because,” faltered Dinah, with her voice sounding husky. Then growing strong, and her eyes looking hard and glittering, “Soon after he came down here, he began to follow me about.”
“What! The scoundrel!” roared the Major.
“And one day he spoke to me—and insulted me.”
“The dog—the miserable hound. But—here, Dinah—why was I not told of this?”
“Because, dear—I thought it better—I felt that I could not speak—I—”
“Ah, but Clive shall know of this. But you have told him? Why has he not dismissed the hound?”
“No, I have not told Clive, father—not any one. Some day I must tell him—but not now.”
“Really, my darling!” cried the Major, whose face was flushed, and the veins were starting in his forehead.
“Father, this is very, very painful to me, your child,” she pleaded; “and I beg—I pray that you will say no more.”
“What! not have him punished?”
“No; not now. He is punished, dearest. But we cannot go to his help.”
“Help,” cried the Major furiously. “I should kill him.”
Dinah laid her hands upon his breast, and at last he bent down and kissed her.
“May I tell Clive when he comes?”
“No, dearest,” said Dinah, in quite a whisper, and with her face very pale now, while her voice was almost inaudible; “that must come from me.”
The Major frowned, and kissed his child’s pale face, prior to making another grievous mistake in his troubled life.