Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Two.Bad Omens.“No insolence, sir!”“What?”“I say no insolence, sir. I am aware of the fact that you are an excellent workman and valuable to me here, but you are presuming on those facts, and I warn you that if ever you dare to answer me in that way again, we part on the instant.”“What way?”“As you addressed me a short time back. Michael Sturgess, I have long noticed your insolent, overbearing ways with the men. They are beginning to resent it. I have had several complaints from them, and all this must end, if you are to stay here.”“If I’m to stay here, eh? I daresay if the company is tired of the way in which I have made this old mine pay, I can soon get another engagement.”“My good man,” said Clive Reed coldly and dispassionately, “prosperity is making you lose your head, and it is an act of kindness to disillusionise you before you go too far and lose a valuable appointment.”The man glared at him as they stood together in one of the dark passages of the mine, close to an old shaft which descended to a lower line of workings.“Let me tell you, once for all, that, though you have worked well, you are in no wise answerable for the success of the mine, and that it would have been quite as prosperous if Michael Sturgess had not been here.”“Oh, indeed!” said the man insolently; and Reed flushed angrily, but controlled his rising temper, and went on calmly enough.“Secondly, let me disabuse your mind of the idea that it is open to you to appeal to the company against any decision of mine. Understand this, sir: my power here is supreme, and, though I should be reluctant to exercise that power against a good workman, the trouble of obtaining a successor in your post would not be great, and I should exercise that power sharply and firmly, if I had just cause.”“Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mr Reed. You are chief here at the mines.”“And at the board in town, my man. You are insolent and angry still. Go about your work, and when you are calm and have had an opportunity for thinking all this over, come to me and apologise as a straightforward man should.”“Oh, there’s no time like the present,” said the man roughly.“Yes, there is, and I decline to quarrel with you, sir. That will do now. I leave you to think over what has passed, as I don’t wish to be angry and do anything to injure an honest man’s prospects.”“But—”“I said that will do,” said Reed firmly; and turning his back, he began to walk away without seeing the ominous shadow cast by the lanthorn he carried, as Michael Sturgess took a step forward with his hands cramped like a bird’s claws.It would have been so easy, too; a sharp side-wise thrust and nothing could have saved the man who was touched. There was a slight rail by the side of that old shaft, but a man who slipped must have been precipitated headlong down the stony pit seventy or eighty feet, to the rocky floor below, and mutilation was certain—death more than a probable event.But the man did not stir, and the shadow grew more and more faint, as Clive Reed strode along the gallery till he passed round a corner and disappeared.Michael Sturgess stood listening to his chief’s steps till they died out, and then taking out a box of matches, he struck one and lit a lanthorn which he took from a niche in the wall, the glow lighting up his savage features.He muttered an oath as he stood closing the lanthorn door. Then he burst out into a strange laugh. “Make much of it, my lad, while it lasts. It’s hard to bear, but I don’t want to be hung for the sake of a lass, specially when there’s another way.”He went off in the other direction, and Clive Reed made his way to the cage and ascended to daylight and his books in the office, where he busied himself till evening, fully expecting a visit from his foreman; but the day passed, and at last he left the place, and made his way to the cottage over the mountain side where Dinah stood waiting, flushed and hopeful; and as his eyes met hers, the mine with its petty troubles and anxieties passed away, and he was in the land of love and hope and joy.There was the usual walk among the flowers; and how bright those blossoms were! then the pleasant evening meal, and the adjournment to the tiny drawing-room, where, after a little music, to Clive’s disgust, the Major turned the conversation to the very subject the visitor wished to avoid. He asked him questions about the output, and the likeliness of increased yield, all of which questions Reed good-humouredly answered, feeling vexed, but at the same time amused by the love of money the Major had of late developed; while Dinah sat and listened, meeting her betrothed’s eyes from time to time.“Capital—capital!” said the Major, rubbing his hands. “I feel as if I am quite a mine proprietor. Dinah, my dear, this does me good, and makes me feel as if I had been a slug all these years. I wish I had begun sooner.”“Congratulate yourself, my dear sir, that you did not. You are gaining here, but this mine is one in ten thousand. You might have ruined yourself.”“True; so I might, my boy, without your clear head to put me right. But the shares, how do they stand?”“They are up ten since last week, sir, and steadily rising.”“Then I ought to sell now and realise a big profit, oughtn’t I?”Clive was silent, for he was hearing the Major’s words, and listening still to the echoes of Dinah’s sweet voice, and repeating to himself the lines of the songs she sang, as she now sat in the shadow, silent and waiting till her lover spoke again.And how jarring the Major’s words were. Clive had come over that evening weary with the noise and worry of the mine, and annoyed by Sturgess’s insolent manner. All he wanted was peace and rest, not the talk about money and shares.The Major spoke again.“Eh! oughtn’t I to realise?”“What, sell for the sake of a little present profit that which will go on, in all probability, yielding you an increasing income, sir. Surely that would be short-sighted.”“Of course. But all this is so new to me, my dear boy. There! I shall leave myself in your hands; and trust to you to know what is best. You see what a child I am over money matters. Really there are times when I almost wish that I had not begun to dabble in these shares.”“Why fidget about them, sir?” said Reed, smiling. “The amount is not large.”“Not large? Do you hear him, my dear? He says the amount is not large when it is my poor all. One can see that you have been accustomed to deal with pretty heavy amounts, and—There, I will not continue this hateful topic. Let’s have something else to think about. Dinah, shall I be selfish if I challenge this man to a game of chess?”For answer she rose and fetched the board and men, set out the pieces, and then took her seat by Clive and watched the game, which proved to be a long one, ending at last in the Major checkmating his adversary, who was quite a knight stronger, but he had been simply on his defence all through, listening the while to the soft breathing from the lips by his side, as from time to time it caressed his hand, or sounded like a suppressed sigh. No words passed between them, but they were needless. It was enough that they could be side by side, feeling each other’s presence, happy yet saddened by an indescribable portent of something coming to ruffle the placid stream of their existence.As for the Major, he was happy and triumphant. It was a genuine pleasure to him, a man who had exiled himself from the world, to live in seclusion, to find that he was a match for this clever, keen man of business, and he showed his delight in many ways.“What!” he cried, as his visitor rose to go. “You are not going to run off without your revenge. Eh! What?” he said, as Reed quietly took out his watch, and held the face toward him. “Oh, absurd! That thing must be wrong! Eh! No. Mine says the same. Eleven; and I thought it was not near ten. But you will stay now?”“Don’t tempt me, sir. I have a busy day to-morrow.”“But you could leave here early.”“Not so early as I could wish, sir. There is a special reason, too, for my being at the mine early. I have a sort of quarrel on the way with my principal man, Sturgess.”Dinah turned pale, while there was a strange, fixed look in her eyes.“The man has been very strange of late, and I had to take him severely to task to-day. I want to meet him when he first comes to the mine. There cannot be two masters there.”He looked smilingly at Dinah, and saw the trouble in her face.“Nothing to alarm you,” he said, taking her hand to hold in his, while the Major suddenly recollected that he had a letter he should like to send, so that one of the men could take it on in the morning.“You are nervous again about my crossing the hills so late. Why should you be, dearest?”He drew her toward him, and she yielded to his embrace.“It was not that,” she said faintly. “You talked of a quarrel with—with—”“My foreman, Sturgess. Hardly a quarrel, but the sharp talking to, necessary to be given by a master.” At that moment the dog began to bark violently, and Dinah caught Clive’s arm and clung to him in dread lest he should go possibly into danger.“It is nothing, dearest,” he whispered, proud of the way in which she clung to him for protection, while she listened with her eyes dilated, as there was the sound of the window in the Major’s den being opened, and his voice challenging.“Is Mr Reed here, sir?” came from the garden.“My clerk—Robson, from the mine,” said Reed, rather excitedly. “Whatever brings him here?”“Your man, my dear boy,” said the Major, entering. “He has brought you a despatch.”“It must be important,” said Reed quickly; and he passed his hand across his forehead. “I was half afraid there was some accident. Come in, Robson,” he continued, as he stepped into the little passage. “What is it?”“A telegram, sir, from London. The postmaster sent it over at once by special messenger.”Reed took the missive and went back into the little drawing-room, where Dinah stood pale and anxious, while the Major sat writing his letter there.“Come, little wifie to be,” whispered Reed tenderly, “I have no secrets from you. This cannot be business, and you must share my troubles as well as joys.”The Major glanced at them with a sigh full of regrets for the past, and smiled sadly as he saw his child pass her arm through Reed’s, and lean on him while he opened the envelope, and held it so that she could peruse the telegram at the same time. It was very brief:—“For heaven’s sake, come at once and help me. I am half mad.—Praed.”Dinah looked up in her lover’s anxious face, as it clouded over, her own full of eagerness and sympathy.“From Janet Praed’s father, dearest,” he said softly. “You know everything—my brother’s wife. There must be some terrible trouble on the way.—Major, I must go up to town at once. Here is a telegram from my dear old godfather, Doctor Praed. You will take care of my darling till I return?”“Not—not dead?” said the Major anxiously.Clive Reed started, as a spasm shot through him.“I pray God, no,” he said hoarsely, as for a moment he turned ghastly and wild-looking. Then he was the prompt man of business decision again.“We must not jump at conclusions,” he said gravely. “Good-bye, dearest. I will telegraph the news as soon as I know it. God bless you, darling,” he whispered, as he embraced her. “Let’s hope for the best.—Good-bye, sir.”“One moment, my boy, would it not be better to sleep here, and go on from Chapel in the morning?”“My dear sir, I must be in London in the morning. If I run to the mine and get one of the horses, there will be just time to gallop over to Blinkdale and catch the up mail. Good-bye.”The next minute, with the dog barking loudly, the Major and his daughter stood in the garden, listening to the regular beat-beat of feet as the two men went along the stony path, the sounds growing fainter and fainter, dying away, coming again, and finally dying out for good.“Poor lad! I hope it is nothing very serious,” said the Major. “Good heavens! what is the matter with the dog?”For suddenly as they stood there, the animal gave vent to a piteous, heartrending cry, which sent a thrill through the hearers. It was followed by another less wild and strange, and then came a quick scuffling sound, and the noise of the rattling of the chain.“Back directly, my dear,” said the Major, and he hurried round to the other side of the cottage, leaving Dinah standing on the little lawn.She took a step to follow, but at that moment there was a slight rustling sound from the bushes close at hand, and she stood as if petrified.But only for a few moments, for directly after her father’s voice came loudly—“Dinah! Quick! Bring a light.”Before she could reach the little drawing-room a light flashed out from the door, and Martha, who had heard the words, appeared bringing a lamp.“Don’t be frightened, Miss Dinah,” she said, as her arm was caught, and they hurried on together to where the dog’s piteous whines could be heard; “the poor thing must be in a fit.”She was quite right, but it was a fit of agony—the last, for as they reached the kennel where the Major knelt on one knee, the poor dog uttered one short gasping bark, as it stretched itself out more and more, and then there was a sudden snatching, quivering motion, and it seemed to be drawn backward till it formed a curve.“Father! Oh, poor Rollo!” cried Dinah, going down upon her knees by her old companion’s side; “he is dying.”“No, my child,” said the Major sternly; and he drew in his breath with a low hiss, and bent down and softly patted the poor beast’s head, smoothing the long silky ears, “he is dead.”“Dead!” cried Dinah wildly, as she sank upon her knees, and lifted the dog’s head into her lap. “Impossible!”But the heavy, motionless weight endorsed the Major’s words. There was no joyous movement, no nestling toward her, no gladsome, whining bark; Rollo had had his last gambol over the mountain side, and lay slowly stiffening out, with eyes glazing and seeming to gaze mournfully up at her he had loved so well.“Oh, sir,” cried Martha piteously, “I have been so careful, but he would take them. I always felt sure he would be choked by some bone.”“Choked!” cried the Major angrily; “the poor brute has been poisoned for doing his duty too well.”“Poisoned!” cried Martha, as Dinah looked up wildly at her father. “Impossible, sir. I’ve kept it in a bottle tied down and locked up where no one could find it but myself.”“Kept what?” cried the Major.“The arsenic for the rats, sir.”“But this is something worse, woman. There is no doubt about it. There are the signs. Some scoundrel has given him strychnia, and it must be one of those ruffians from the mine.”A low, piteous sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, as she softly laid the dog’s head on the stones, and then with a quick glance of apprehension, she rose and took hold of her father’s arm.“Yes, my dear,” he said. “Poor Rollo was too true a servant, and watched for the pitiful purloiner. Now let him beware of my gun, for, by Jove, if I find any marauding scoundrel within shot, he shall certainly have the contents.”Dinah said no word, but as Martha stood there holding the lamp, the light shone upon her dilated eyes, and lit up her white, contracted face, which seemed to have grown suddenly hard and stern. It was as if her father’s words had sent a sense of satisfaction through her, and she was looking out into the darkness of the night for the cowardly wretch who had robbed her of another friend, that he might come on once more and meet his fate.She shivered the next moment, and clung to her father’s arm.“I mean it,” he said fiercely. “I am a peaceful, quiet man, but I can be roused to action, and then—”He looked at Martha with his eyes flashing, and a fierce glow in his face that transformed him at once into the old man of war.“Master!” whispered the old servant, with a low sob, and there was an appeal in her tones which seemed to calm him.“Yes,” he said, as he gazed straight away into the darkness. “Whoever did this deed is mistaken in his man.”A sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, and she drew herself up as she clung more tightly to her father. Two of her protectors gone that night, but there was still a third, and a feeling of confidence strengthened her heart as she gripped her father’s arm.“Sooner or later I shall square accounts with this man,” said the Major, as he walked slowly toward the door. “Oh, if I only knew!”“If I only knew. If I only knew!” The words kept on repeating themselves in Dinah’s brain as she sought her room that night, till she found herself repeating them—“If he only knew—if he only knew!”She had not commenced undressing, and in her agitated, nervous state every sound about the house attracted her attention, so that she listened eagerly as she suddenly heard a light tapping sound, followed by—“Yes, sir, what is it?”“I didn’t want to disturb you, Martha; but have you moved my gun?”“No, sir. It’s in the corner of your study between the window and the bookcase.”“No, it is not there, but I am certain it was this afternoon.”“I’m sure it was there to-night, sir, just before Mr Reed went away.”“Very well, good-night,” said the Major; and he went back into the little study, and looked carefully round again.“Why, of course!” he exclaimed, “I must have stood it in my room.”

“No insolence, sir!”

“What?”

“I say no insolence, sir. I am aware of the fact that you are an excellent workman and valuable to me here, but you are presuming on those facts, and I warn you that if ever you dare to answer me in that way again, we part on the instant.”

“What way?”

“As you addressed me a short time back. Michael Sturgess, I have long noticed your insolent, overbearing ways with the men. They are beginning to resent it. I have had several complaints from them, and all this must end, if you are to stay here.”

“If I’m to stay here, eh? I daresay if the company is tired of the way in which I have made this old mine pay, I can soon get another engagement.”

“My good man,” said Clive Reed coldly and dispassionately, “prosperity is making you lose your head, and it is an act of kindness to disillusionise you before you go too far and lose a valuable appointment.”

The man glared at him as they stood together in one of the dark passages of the mine, close to an old shaft which descended to a lower line of workings.

“Let me tell you, once for all, that, though you have worked well, you are in no wise answerable for the success of the mine, and that it would have been quite as prosperous if Michael Sturgess had not been here.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the man insolently; and Reed flushed angrily, but controlled his rising temper, and went on calmly enough.

“Secondly, let me disabuse your mind of the idea that it is open to you to appeal to the company against any decision of mine. Understand this, sir: my power here is supreme, and, though I should be reluctant to exercise that power against a good workman, the trouble of obtaining a successor in your post would not be great, and I should exercise that power sharply and firmly, if I had just cause.”

“Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mr Reed. You are chief here at the mines.”

“And at the board in town, my man. You are insolent and angry still. Go about your work, and when you are calm and have had an opportunity for thinking all this over, come to me and apologise as a straightforward man should.”

“Oh, there’s no time like the present,” said the man roughly.

“Yes, there is, and I decline to quarrel with you, sir. That will do now. I leave you to think over what has passed, as I don’t wish to be angry and do anything to injure an honest man’s prospects.”

“But—”

“I said that will do,” said Reed firmly; and turning his back, he began to walk away without seeing the ominous shadow cast by the lanthorn he carried, as Michael Sturgess took a step forward with his hands cramped like a bird’s claws.

It would have been so easy, too; a sharp side-wise thrust and nothing could have saved the man who was touched. There was a slight rail by the side of that old shaft, but a man who slipped must have been precipitated headlong down the stony pit seventy or eighty feet, to the rocky floor below, and mutilation was certain—death more than a probable event.

But the man did not stir, and the shadow grew more and more faint, as Clive Reed strode along the gallery till he passed round a corner and disappeared.

Michael Sturgess stood listening to his chief’s steps till they died out, and then taking out a box of matches, he struck one and lit a lanthorn which he took from a niche in the wall, the glow lighting up his savage features.

He muttered an oath as he stood closing the lanthorn door. Then he burst out into a strange laugh. “Make much of it, my lad, while it lasts. It’s hard to bear, but I don’t want to be hung for the sake of a lass, specially when there’s another way.”

He went off in the other direction, and Clive Reed made his way to the cage and ascended to daylight and his books in the office, where he busied himself till evening, fully expecting a visit from his foreman; but the day passed, and at last he left the place, and made his way to the cottage over the mountain side where Dinah stood waiting, flushed and hopeful; and as his eyes met hers, the mine with its petty troubles and anxieties passed away, and he was in the land of love and hope and joy.

There was the usual walk among the flowers; and how bright those blossoms were! then the pleasant evening meal, and the adjournment to the tiny drawing-room, where, after a little music, to Clive’s disgust, the Major turned the conversation to the very subject the visitor wished to avoid. He asked him questions about the output, and the likeliness of increased yield, all of which questions Reed good-humouredly answered, feeling vexed, but at the same time amused by the love of money the Major had of late developed; while Dinah sat and listened, meeting her betrothed’s eyes from time to time.

“Capital—capital!” said the Major, rubbing his hands. “I feel as if I am quite a mine proprietor. Dinah, my dear, this does me good, and makes me feel as if I had been a slug all these years. I wish I had begun sooner.”

“Congratulate yourself, my dear sir, that you did not. You are gaining here, but this mine is one in ten thousand. You might have ruined yourself.”

“True; so I might, my boy, without your clear head to put me right. But the shares, how do they stand?”

“They are up ten since last week, sir, and steadily rising.”

“Then I ought to sell now and realise a big profit, oughtn’t I?”

Clive was silent, for he was hearing the Major’s words, and listening still to the echoes of Dinah’s sweet voice, and repeating to himself the lines of the songs she sang, as she now sat in the shadow, silent and waiting till her lover spoke again.

And how jarring the Major’s words were. Clive had come over that evening weary with the noise and worry of the mine, and annoyed by Sturgess’s insolent manner. All he wanted was peace and rest, not the talk about money and shares.

The Major spoke again.

“Eh! oughtn’t I to realise?”

“What, sell for the sake of a little present profit that which will go on, in all probability, yielding you an increasing income, sir. Surely that would be short-sighted.”

“Of course. But all this is so new to me, my dear boy. There! I shall leave myself in your hands; and trust to you to know what is best. You see what a child I am over money matters. Really there are times when I almost wish that I had not begun to dabble in these shares.”

“Why fidget about them, sir?” said Reed, smiling. “The amount is not large.”

“Not large? Do you hear him, my dear? He says the amount is not large when it is my poor all. One can see that you have been accustomed to deal with pretty heavy amounts, and—There, I will not continue this hateful topic. Let’s have something else to think about. Dinah, shall I be selfish if I challenge this man to a game of chess?”

For answer she rose and fetched the board and men, set out the pieces, and then took her seat by Clive and watched the game, which proved to be a long one, ending at last in the Major checkmating his adversary, who was quite a knight stronger, but he had been simply on his defence all through, listening the while to the soft breathing from the lips by his side, as from time to time it caressed his hand, or sounded like a suppressed sigh. No words passed between them, but they were needless. It was enough that they could be side by side, feeling each other’s presence, happy yet saddened by an indescribable portent of something coming to ruffle the placid stream of their existence.

As for the Major, he was happy and triumphant. It was a genuine pleasure to him, a man who had exiled himself from the world, to live in seclusion, to find that he was a match for this clever, keen man of business, and he showed his delight in many ways.

“What!” he cried, as his visitor rose to go. “You are not going to run off without your revenge. Eh! What?” he said, as Reed quietly took out his watch, and held the face toward him. “Oh, absurd! That thing must be wrong! Eh! No. Mine says the same. Eleven; and I thought it was not near ten. But you will stay now?”

“Don’t tempt me, sir. I have a busy day to-morrow.”

“But you could leave here early.”

“Not so early as I could wish, sir. There is a special reason, too, for my being at the mine early. I have a sort of quarrel on the way with my principal man, Sturgess.”

Dinah turned pale, while there was a strange, fixed look in her eyes.

“The man has been very strange of late, and I had to take him severely to task to-day. I want to meet him when he first comes to the mine. There cannot be two masters there.”

He looked smilingly at Dinah, and saw the trouble in her face.

“Nothing to alarm you,” he said, taking her hand to hold in his, while the Major suddenly recollected that he had a letter he should like to send, so that one of the men could take it on in the morning.

“You are nervous again about my crossing the hills so late. Why should you be, dearest?”

He drew her toward him, and she yielded to his embrace.

“It was not that,” she said faintly. “You talked of a quarrel with—with—”

“My foreman, Sturgess. Hardly a quarrel, but the sharp talking to, necessary to be given by a master.” At that moment the dog began to bark violently, and Dinah caught Clive’s arm and clung to him in dread lest he should go possibly into danger.

“It is nothing, dearest,” he whispered, proud of the way in which she clung to him for protection, while she listened with her eyes dilated, as there was the sound of the window in the Major’s den being opened, and his voice challenging.

“Is Mr Reed here, sir?” came from the garden.

“My clerk—Robson, from the mine,” said Reed, rather excitedly. “Whatever brings him here?”

“Your man, my dear boy,” said the Major, entering. “He has brought you a despatch.”

“It must be important,” said Reed quickly; and he passed his hand across his forehead. “I was half afraid there was some accident. Come in, Robson,” he continued, as he stepped into the little passage. “What is it?”

“A telegram, sir, from London. The postmaster sent it over at once by special messenger.”

Reed took the missive and went back into the little drawing-room, where Dinah stood pale and anxious, while the Major sat writing his letter there.

“Come, little wifie to be,” whispered Reed tenderly, “I have no secrets from you. This cannot be business, and you must share my troubles as well as joys.”

The Major glanced at them with a sigh full of regrets for the past, and smiled sadly as he saw his child pass her arm through Reed’s, and lean on him while he opened the envelope, and held it so that she could peruse the telegram at the same time. It was very brief:—

“For heaven’s sake, come at once and help me. I am half mad.—Praed.”

Dinah looked up in her lover’s anxious face, as it clouded over, her own full of eagerness and sympathy.

“From Janet Praed’s father, dearest,” he said softly. “You know everything—my brother’s wife. There must be some terrible trouble on the way.—Major, I must go up to town at once. Here is a telegram from my dear old godfather, Doctor Praed. You will take care of my darling till I return?”

“Not—not dead?” said the Major anxiously.

Clive Reed started, as a spasm shot through him.

“I pray God, no,” he said hoarsely, as for a moment he turned ghastly and wild-looking. Then he was the prompt man of business decision again.

“We must not jump at conclusions,” he said gravely. “Good-bye, dearest. I will telegraph the news as soon as I know it. God bless you, darling,” he whispered, as he embraced her. “Let’s hope for the best.—Good-bye, sir.”

“One moment, my boy, would it not be better to sleep here, and go on from Chapel in the morning?”

“My dear sir, I must be in London in the morning. If I run to the mine and get one of the horses, there will be just time to gallop over to Blinkdale and catch the up mail. Good-bye.”

The next minute, with the dog barking loudly, the Major and his daughter stood in the garden, listening to the regular beat-beat of feet as the two men went along the stony path, the sounds growing fainter and fainter, dying away, coming again, and finally dying out for good.

“Poor lad! I hope it is nothing very serious,” said the Major. “Good heavens! what is the matter with the dog?”

For suddenly as they stood there, the animal gave vent to a piteous, heartrending cry, which sent a thrill through the hearers. It was followed by another less wild and strange, and then came a quick scuffling sound, and the noise of the rattling of the chain.

“Back directly, my dear,” said the Major, and he hurried round to the other side of the cottage, leaving Dinah standing on the little lawn.

She took a step to follow, but at that moment there was a slight rustling sound from the bushes close at hand, and she stood as if petrified.

But only for a few moments, for directly after her father’s voice came loudly—

“Dinah! Quick! Bring a light.”

Before she could reach the little drawing-room a light flashed out from the door, and Martha, who had heard the words, appeared bringing a lamp.

“Don’t be frightened, Miss Dinah,” she said, as her arm was caught, and they hurried on together to where the dog’s piteous whines could be heard; “the poor thing must be in a fit.”

She was quite right, but it was a fit of agony—the last, for as they reached the kennel where the Major knelt on one knee, the poor dog uttered one short gasping bark, as it stretched itself out more and more, and then there was a sudden snatching, quivering motion, and it seemed to be drawn backward till it formed a curve.

“Father! Oh, poor Rollo!” cried Dinah, going down upon her knees by her old companion’s side; “he is dying.”

“No, my child,” said the Major sternly; and he drew in his breath with a low hiss, and bent down and softly patted the poor beast’s head, smoothing the long silky ears, “he is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Dinah wildly, as she sank upon her knees, and lifted the dog’s head into her lap. “Impossible!”

But the heavy, motionless weight endorsed the Major’s words. There was no joyous movement, no nestling toward her, no gladsome, whining bark; Rollo had had his last gambol over the mountain side, and lay slowly stiffening out, with eyes glazing and seeming to gaze mournfully up at her he had loved so well.

“Oh, sir,” cried Martha piteously, “I have been so careful, but he would take them. I always felt sure he would be choked by some bone.”

“Choked!” cried the Major angrily; “the poor brute has been poisoned for doing his duty too well.”

“Poisoned!” cried Martha, as Dinah looked up wildly at her father. “Impossible, sir. I’ve kept it in a bottle tied down and locked up where no one could find it but myself.”

“Kept what?” cried the Major.

“The arsenic for the rats, sir.”

“But this is something worse, woman. There is no doubt about it. There are the signs. Some scoundrel has given him strychnia, and it must be one of those ruffians from the mine.”

A low, piteous sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, as she softly laid the dog’s head on the stones, and then with a quick glance of apprehension, she rose and took hold of her father’s arm.

“Yes, my dear,” he said. “Poor Rollo was too true a servant, and watched for the pitiful purloiner. Now let him beware of my gun, for, by Jove, if I find any marauding scoundrel within shot, he shall certainly have the contents.”

Dinah said no word, but as Martha stood there holding the lamp, the light shone upon her dilated eyes, and lit up her white, contracted face, which seemed to have grown suddenly hard and stern. It was as if her father’s words had sent a sense of satisfaction through her, and she was looking out into the darkness of the night for the cowardly wretch who had robbed her of another friend, that he might come on once more and meet his fate.

She shivered the next moment, and clung to her father’s arm.

“I mean it,” he said fiercely. “I am a peaceful, quiet man, but I can be roused to action, and then—”

He looked at Martha with his eyes flashing, and a fierce glow in his face that transformed him at once into the old man of war.

“Master!” whispered the old servant, with a low sob, and there was an appeal in her tones which seemed to calm him.

“Yes,” he said, as he gazed straight away into the darkness. “Whoever did this deed is mistaken in his man.”

A sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, and she drew herself up as she clung more tightly to her father. Two of her protectors gone that night, but there was still a third, and a feeling of confidence strengthened her heart as she gripped her father’s arm.

“Sooner or later I shall square accounts with this man,” said the Major, as he walked slowly toward the door. “Oh, if I only knew!”

“If I only knew. If I only knew!” The words kept on repeating themselves in Dinah’s brain as she sought her room that night, till she found herself repeating them—“If he only knew—if he only knew!”

She had not commenced undressing, and in her agitated, nervous state every sound about the house attracted her attention, so that she listened eagerly as she suddenly heard a light tapping sound, followed by—“Yes, sir, what is it?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, Martha; but have you moved my gun?”

“No, sir. It’s in the corner of your study between the window and the bookcase.”

“No, it is not there, but I am certain it was this afternoon.”

“I’m sure it was there to-night, sir, just before Mr Reed went away.”

“Very well, good-night,” said the Major; and he went back into the little study, and looked carefully round again.

“Why, of course!” he exclaimed, “I must have stood it in my room.”

Chapter Twenty Three.The Tare Sowing.A man was going through the street with his pole extinguishing the gas lamps, as the hansom cab bearing Clive Reed went along at a sharp trot toward Russell Square. The waning light looked ghastly and strange, and well in keeping with his anxious state of mind, for in spite of all his genuine love for Dinah, it was impossible not to feel a thrill of misery akin to despair when reminded of one with whom so much of his boyhood and the later past had been mingled.“Poor, passionate, weak girl!” he said to himself again and again, as he journeyed on, and his heart was full of sympathy for her and indignation against his brother, whom he connected with the trouble, whatever it might be.“Sick unto death,” he muttered. “Heartbroken and despairing after finding him out. Oh, how can a man be so base?”Then all kinds of projects had flashed across his mind as to what might be done. Janet would certainly separate sooner or later from Jessop, and when she did, as the Doctor had intimated, she would return to her old home, and then why should not Dinah help him to soften her hard lot?“No,” he said, directly after. “It would be madness—impossible. Janet’s is not the nature to assimilate with Dinah’s. I am not so weak and blind to all her faults as I was then. Poor girl! Poor girl! Her life wrecked, and by my own brother too.”At last!The cab drew up at the great blank-looking door of the Doctor’s house, and Clive leaped out, paid the man, and hurried up the broad steps in the cold, grey morning. How many times, full of expectation and delight, he had hurried to that door bearing presents or bouquets; and now he was there once more—to hear what news of the bright, handsome girl whom he had made his idol from a boy?His hand was upon the heavy knocker, but it dropped to his side, and he rang the night-bell, and then stood listening to the distant wheels of the cab in which he had come.“Who is it?” came in a husky whisper from the mouth of the speaking-tube, and he answered back—“I: Clive Reed.”“Down directly.”Five minutes later the door was opened by the Doctor himself, and quite at home there, Clive Reed sprang in to face his old friend standing in dressing-gown and slippers.“How is she?” he cried, in a low excited whisper. “How is she?” repeated the Doctor, as he closed the door. “Here, come this way.”He took a chamber candlestick from where he had set it down on the hall table, and led on into his consulting-room, with its walls adorned with grim-looking engravings of medical magnates, and its table with books and inkstand, two stethoscopes standing upright on the chimneypiece like a pair of very ancient attenuated vases.“You came up at once, then?” said the Doctor grimly.“Of course. I caught the mail; but don’t keep me—in suspense,” Clive was about to say, but he checked himself, for positions had altered now, and he had no right to be in suspense, so he used the word “waiting.”“Waiting!” said the Doctor. “What do you mean?”“Your telegram—about Janet. Is she very bad?”“Confound Janet for a weak-minded idiot!” cried the Doctor testily. “Nothing of the kind. I wired to you to come up about this cursed mine.”“Oh!” ejaculated Clive, with a feeling of relief. “Your telegram explained nothing, and I thought the poor girl was ill.”“Ill! No: I wish she were. Be a lesson to her—a hussy. Now, then, what am I to do? Nice business this, sir. Here, on the strength of your representations, I put a life’s savings in that cursed mine, and they’re pretty well all swept away.”Clive looked at him, as if doubting his old friend’s sanity.“Don’t stand staring at me like a confounded stock-fish, sir. You’ve got me into this scrape, now tell me how to get out of it. Hang it all, Clive, I’ve been like a second father to you, and the least you could have done would have been to give me fair warning, so that I might have—have—hedged—yes, that’s the word my lovely son-in-law would have used. Now, then, before it is too late. I daresay I could get them back from him, as I only saw him to-night. Can you help me to make a better price?”Clive seated himself, for he was weary, and the Doctor, after setting down his candlestick, was walking up and down the room as he talked.“My dear Doctor,” said Clive, “will you explain what you mean? Cursed mine—too late—get them back from him. To begin with, who is ‘him’?”“Who is ‘him’?” cried the Doctor furiously. “Why, that confounded brother of yours. After all that has passed, I was obliged to go to him hat in hand, and humble myself so as to try and save what I could out of the fire.”“In heaven’s name, what fire, sir?” cried Clive, who, after his sleepless night and anxiety, was growing more and more confused.“For,” continued the Doctor, without heeding the question, “I said to myself: He’s cursedly knowing on ’Change, and for the sake of Janet and his expectations of what he may get from me, he’ll do his best, and he may know where to get a good price.”“My dear sir, have you taken leave of your senses?”“Almost, you scoundrel. Money spoils all men. Sucks all the honesty out of them. You’re as bad as the rest. But I didn’t think you would put me in such a hole. Now then: shall I leave them in Jessop’s hands or place them in yours, to cheat somebody else with the cursed rubbish. I’m a bit reckless now, for it’s ruin nearly, and drudgery to the end of my days.”“Look here,” said Clive excitedly; “do I understand that you have given your shares in the ‘White Virgin’ to Jessop to sell?”“Of course you do, sir. Was I to wait till they were worth nothing?”“Look here, Doctor: speak plainly. Are you all right?”“Confound you, no: I’m all wrong.”“But explain yourself. Those shares are worth double what you gave for them.”“I tell you they’re hardly worth their weight as waste-paper,” roared the Doctor. “Don’t stare at me with that miserable assumption of innocency about your cursed bankrupt old mine.”Clive burst out laughing.“Why, what do you mean, Doctor? What precious mare’s nest have you been discovering in the dark?”“Mare’s nest?” cried the Doctor, snatching up a heap of newspapers from a side table, and throwing them in the young man’s lap, “look at that, sir, and that, and that. Four days now has this been going on. I was down in the country at a consultation, and I came back to find myself a ruined man.”“What!” roared Clive, as his eyes fell upon a notice with a full heading—”‘Collapse of the “White Virgin” scheme—bubble cleverly inflated—burst at last—serious loss.’ Good heavens!”“Good other place!” growled the Doctor. “Oh, Clive Reed! You are a broken Reed indeed to lean on, and enter into a poor man’s hand. But there, don’t stop over those papers; they are alike, and the price has gone down to nothing. Tell me; can you sell my shares better than Jessop can? I must have a little back for my outlay.”“What did Jessop tell you?”“What does every man tell you when he has you at his mercy? That the paper was worthless, but he might get some speculative fool to buy them; and if I waited there at his office he would try, but I must expect the merest trifle for them.”“Well?” said Clive, frowning.“Don’t take it so confoundedly cool, sir. I was obliged to do the best I could, and I put myself in his hands.”“Well?”“And he went out and brought the speculative person—a Mr Wrigley, a solicitor.”“Well?”“Well! Ill, man, ill!”“But what did my worthy brother’s friend say?”“Shrugged his shoulders—said it was throwing money away—mere gambling. He did not want them, but to oblige his old friend, Mr Jessop Reed, he would take them at a pound apiece, and the chance of making an eighth out of them.”“And you laughed at him?”“Laughed? I nearly cried at him, and was only too glad to get the little bit of salvage from a man who bought as a speculation, and would not care so much if he lost.”“But you said you had let Jessop have them to try and sell.”“Did I? Yes, I think I did.”“And asked me if you got them back, whether I could deal better with them.”“Yes, I suppose I did, but I don’t want to swindle any one into buying worthless stock.”“Look here, Doctor, you are not yourself.”“Not myself? How can a man be himself under such circumstances. Suppose, though, that I could get them back from the man. He only took them as a favour.”“Did he pay you?” said Clive eagerly.“Yes.”“A cheque?”“No,” said the Doctor. “I was not going to run any more risks. No cheque: for the residue I insisted upon Bank of England notes and gold.”“And you were paid like that?”“Yes.”“Then you have gone too far to retreat.”“Oh no, not if we offer the man what he said he would be content with—an eighth. That’s half-a-crown to the hundred pounds, isn’t it?”“Half-a-crown to the hundred pounds!” said Clive furiously. “Why, as soon as the truth’s known—”“They won’t be worth that, eh?” said the Doctor dolefully.“Oh, Doctor Praed!” cried Clive furiously. “You telegraph to me to come and help you when you have thrown your money into the gutter, and it has been picked up and is gone. It is a swindle—an imposition.”“Yes, I’ve found out that,” said the Doctor bitterly. “But what are the shares worth then, really?”“What I told you, sir—double the price they were when so many were apportioned to you. This is some cursed jugglery: a trick—a scare—a false alarm to influence the price of the ‘White Virgin’ shares in the market.”“What!”“There isn’t a word of truth in the report.”“Not a word of truth in the report?”“No, sir. The mine is exceeding my greatest hopes. She teems with ore which grows richer in silver every day. In six months’ time the shares will be worth four times what they are now.”“But—but—the papers!—look at the papers,” cried the Doctor.“What for? They only give the reports on ’Change—the facts that the mine is reported to be in a state of collapse, and that consequently every one has rushed to realise, and make what little he could for what is supposed to be nearly worthless paper.”“But—tell me again—are you sure that the report is false?”“Who could know better than I, who have been down every day, who have watched every working, examined each skep of ore that came up, and assayed every pig of lead and ingot of silver. Doctor, I should have thought that you could have trusted me.”The Doctor sank down into his patients’ chair, and stared at his visitor aghast.“Clive Reed—Clive, my boy—is—is this true?”“You know it is true, sir!” cried the young man savagely, as he now took up the Doctor’s rôle of patrolling the room. “Do you, who have known me from a boy, ask me whether I would have deliberately swindled you into putting your savings into a worthless venture?”“No, no, not wilfully, my boy, but by a mistake.”“Mistake! There was no mistake. Doctor, an enemy hath done this thing, and people are only too ready to believe the evil instead of the good. Well, I’m glad I know. But how is it that no report has reached me at the mine? Why, of course: I have seen no paper for days. I am so busy that I often do not open them when they come over from the town.”“Then—then this really is a false report, Clive?”“Literally false, sir, and you have thrown your thousands away.”The Doctor groaned.“No, no: not yet. There is hope. Look here. I must buy those shares back at once.”“Bah!” exclaimed Clive. “Look here, Doctor: if I were dangerously ill I would sooner trust you than any man in London; but in money matters I think just as my poor father thought.”“That I was a mere baby? Yes, he always told me so,” said the Doctor, with a sigh. “But I made a lot of money, too.”“Yes, sir, but couldn’t keep it,” cried the young man angrily.“Don’t—don’t jump on me now I’m down, Clive, my boy,” cried the Doctor piteously. “I have been an old fool. I ought to have trusted you that you would warn me. But you were away; all London was ringing with the business, and in my rage and disappointment I thought I was doing right.”“I suppose so,” said Clive bitterly.“But it is not too late. We’ll go up to your brother at once.”“My brother will only be too glad to triumph over you.”“But this Mr Wrigley?”“Knew perfectly well what he was about, or he would not have bought.”“But I must buy again, if not from him—from some one else.”“You cannot. As soon as the truth is known the shares will go back to their old place at a bound, and then in the reaction rise rapidly, for the public will grasp that the mine must be as it is, exceedingly valuable.”“But before the truth is known.”“I shall go and get it made known on ’Change the moment it is open, sir.”“But—but if you waited a little while, Clive, to give me time, I—”“My old friend—my father’s trusted companion would not ask me to wait an instant before crushing a blackguardly conspiracy, sir. I cannot wait, and if I can trace this business to the source, I’ll do it, if it costs me thousands.”“You—you don’t think that Jessop—”“No!” cried Clive fiercely. “I don’t—I won’t think such a thing of my own brother. He ousted me in one great aim of my life; he is a spendthrift, and dishonourable enough; but, hang it, no, I won’t give him the credit for this.”There was a tap at the door.“Yes. Come in.”The Doctor’s quiet, grave servant in spotless black, looking as if he had been up for hours, entered with a tray, bearing hot tea and dry toast, placing it upon the table without a word, and leaving at once.“Take some tea, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor, going quietly now to his visitor, placing his hands upon his shoulders, and pressing him down into a chair. “Forgive me, my dear boy. No; of course, you could not do such a dishonourable act. I beg your pardon.”“Granted, Doctor.”“Confound the money, my boy! It’s my savings, but I should never have spent a penny on myself. Let it go, I won’t stir a peg about it, and I’ll never try to save again. I can always earn guineas enough to pay my way, and that must do for the while I live. There; I’m better now,” he continued, as he took a seat and helped himself to some tea.—“Hah! capital cup this. I’m very particular about my tea. And so you’re doing well down in Derbyshire?”“Wonderfully, sir.”“That’s right. I’m very glad of it. Clive, my boy, I’ve been studying up the digestive functions a good deal, and I’ve had to read a paper upon it. I’m getting honourable mention.”Clive looked at him wonderingly, and the Doctor saw it.“It’s all right, my boy. I have no business to dabble in money affairs. That’s all over now. I have too much to do in assuaging human ills to think any more about my losses; but I’m afraid that some people among your father’s old friends will be very hard hit.”“Good heavens!” cried Clive, starting up.“What is the matter?”“I have a friend down at the mine, who has bought pretty largely—for him—and if this cursed rumour reaches his ears,—here, I must go back by the next train. No, I cannot. I must stop in town, and have this report thoroughly contradicted by letters in the papers, and advertisements, as well as by personal visits to our old friends. Have you a telegram form?”“Yes, plenty, my dear boy. There: in the drawer.”Clive hastily wrote a telegram for the Major, telling him that if any report reached him, or he saw anything in the papers respecting the stability of the “White Virgin” mine and its shares, he was to pay no heed whatever.“Can your man take this for me?”“Of course,” cried the Doctor, ringing, and the quiet, grave-looking servant appeared.“Take a cab and go to the Charing Cross Post Office. That is open all night. You will pay for a special messenger to ride or drive over with it at once. The town is ten miles from Major Gurdon’s cottage. Quick, please: it is important.”He handed the man some money, and in two minutes the front door was closed.“Hah! That is a relief,” said Clive, with a sigh. “A quiet old officer who lives retired there, Doctor. He too has put his all into the mine. We have become very intimate.”“And has he a pretty daughter, too, like this old fool?”Clive started, and his cheeks flushed as he remained silent for a few moments.“Yes, Doctor, he has a daughter.”Doctor Praed held out his hand, and shook Clive’s warmly.“I’m very glad, my boy,” he said gently. “The wisest thing. I hope she is very nice. There, I will not ask you. It is quite right—quite right.”They sat sipping their tea for a few minutes, the Doctor looking perfectly content now, Clive thoughtful; and the black marble clock on the chimneypiece struck six.“Doctor,” said Clive at last, “I am bitterly grieved about this business: more so than I can express.”“Then now throw it over as far as I am concerned. It was an error. I committed it, and I am punished. I have too much to think about to worry any more; so have you.”“But I must make it up to you, sir.”“What! Give me the money?”“Yes.”“Rubbish, boy! It is of no use to me. I should only go and lose that too.”“But I feel to blame.”“More fool you, sir. There, not another word. The money has gone. Jolly go with it. I should like you to read my pamphlet.”“But, my dear sir—”“Clive Reed, I will not have another word. Look here. I tell you what,” he said, with a chuckle; “have you made your will?”“No, sir; not yet.”“Make it then, and leave me to be paid at your death the amount I have lost. I won’t poison you to get it, my lad. There, no more talk about money. Now then, go upstairs and have three hours’ good sleep. Breakfast at nine.”“No: I could not sleep,” said Clive. “I’ll go on now to Guildford Street. They will be getting up there by this time. Then I’m in for a busy day.”

A man was going through the street with his pole extinguishing the gas lamps, as the hansom cab bearing Clive Reed went along at a sharp trot toward Russell Square. The waning light looked ghastly and strange, and well in keeping with his anxious state of mind, for in spite of all his genuine love for Dinah, it was impossible not to feel a thrill of misery akin to despair when reminded of one with whom so much of his boyhood and the later past had been mingled.

“Poor, passionate, weak girl!” he said to himself again and again, as he journeyed on, and his heart was full of sympathy for her and indignation against his brother, whom he connected with the trouble, whatever it might be.

“Sick unto death,” he muttered. “Heartbroken and despairing after finding him out. Oh, how can a man be so base?”

Then all kinds of projects had flashed across his mind as to what might be done. Janet would certainly separate sooner or later from Jessop, and when she did, as the Doctor had intimated, she would return to her old home, and then why should not Dinah help him to soften her hard lot?

“No,” he said, directly after. “It would be madness—impossible. Janet’s is not the nature to assimilate with Dinah’s. I am not so weak and blind to all her faults as I was then. Poor girl! Poor girl! Her life wrecked, and by my own brother too.”

At last!

The cab drew up at the great blank-looking door of the Doctor’s house, and Clive leaped out, paid the man, and hurried up the broad steps in the cold, grey morning. How many times, full of expectation and delight, he had hurried to that door bearing presents or bouquets; and now he was there once more—to hear what news of the bright, handsome girl whom he had made his idol from a boy?

His hand was upon the heavy knocker, but it dropped to his side, and he rang the night-bell, and then stood listening to the distant wheels of the cab in which he had come.

“Who is it?” came in a husky whisper from the mouth of the speaking-tube, and he answered back—

“I: Clive Reed.”

“Down directly.”

Five minutes later the door was opened by the Doctor himself, and quite at home there, Clive Reed sprang in to face his old friend standing in dressing-gown and slippers.

“How is she?” he cried, in a low excited whisper. “How is she?” repeated the Doctor, as he closed the door. “Here, come this way.”

He took a chamber candlestick from where he had set it down on the hall table, and led on into his consulting-room, with its walls adorned with grim-looking engravings of medical magnates, and its table with books and inkstand, two stethoscopes standing upright on the chimneypiece like a pair of very ancient attenuated vases.

“You came up at once, then?” said the Doctor grimly.

“Of course. I caught the mail; but don’t keep me—in suspense,” Clive was about to say, but he checked himself, for positions had altered now, and he had no right to be in suspense, so he used the word “waiting.”

“Waiting!” said the Doctor. “What do you mean?”

“Your telegram—about Janet. Is she very bad?”

“Confound Janet for a weak-minded idiot!” cried the Doctor testily. “Nothing of the kind. I wired to you to come up about this cursed mine.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Clive, with a feeling of relief. “Your telegram explained nothing, and I thought the poor girl was ill.”

“Ill! No: I wish she were. Be a lesson to her—a hussy. Now, then, what am I to do? Nice business this, sir. Here, on the strength of your representations, I put a life’s savings in that cursed mine, and they’re pretty well all swept away.”

Clive looked at him, as if doubting his old friend’s sanity.

“Don’t stand staring at me like a confounded stock-fish, sir. You’ve got me into this scrape, now tell me how to get out of it. Hang it all, Clive, I’ve been like a second father to you, and the least you could have done would have been to give me fair warning, so that I might have—have—hedged—yes, that’s the word my lovely son-in-law would have used. Now, then, before it is too late. I daresay I could get them back from him, as I only saw him to-night. Can you help me to make a better price?”

Clive seated himself, for he was weary, and the Doctor, after setting down his candlestick, was walking up and down the room as he talked.

“My dear Doctor,” said Clive, “will you explain what you mean? Cursed mine—too late—get them back from him. To begin with, who is ‘him’?”

“Who is ‘him’?” cried the Doctor furiously. “Why, that confounded brother of yours. After all that has passed, I was obliged to go to him hat in hand, and humble myself so as to try and save what I could out of the fire.”

“In heaven’s name, what fire, sir?” cried Clive, who, after his sleepless night and anxiety, was growing more and more confused.

“For,” continued the Doctor, without heeding the question, “I said to myself: He’s cursedly knowing on ’Change, and for the sake of Janet and his expectations of what he may get from me, he’ll do his best, and he may know where to get a good price.”

“My dear sir, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Almost, you scoundrel. Money spoils all men. Sucks all the honesty out of them. You’re as bad as the rest. But I didn’t think you would put me in such a hole. Now then: shall I leave them in Jessop’s hands or place them in yours, to cheat somebody else with the cursed rubbish. I’m a bit reckless now, for it’s ruin nearly, and drudgery to the end of my days.”

“Look here,” said Clive excitedly; “do I understand that you have given your shares in the ‘White Virgin’ to Jessop to sell?”

“Of course you do, sir. Was I to wait till they were worth nothing?”

“Look here, Doctor: speak plainly. Are you all right?”

“Confound you, no: I’m all wrong.”

“But explain yourself. Those shares are worth double what you gave for them.”

“I tell you they’re hardly worth their weight as waste-paper,” roared the Doctor. “Don’t stare at me with that miserable assumption of innocency about your cursed bankrupt old mine.”

Clive burst out laughing.

“Why, what do you mean, Doctor? What precious mare’s nest have you been discovering in the dark?”

“Mare’s nest?” cried the Doctor, snatching up a heap of newspapers from a side table, and throwing them in the young man’s lap, “look at that, sir, and that, and that. Four days now has this been going on. I was down in the country at a consultation, and I came back to find myself a ruined man.”

“What!” roared Clive, as his eyes fell upon a notice with a full heading—”‘Collapse of the “White Virgin” scheme—bubble cleverly inflated—burst at last—serious loss.’ Good heavens!”

“Good other place!” growled the Doctor. “Oh, Clive Reed! You are a broken Reed indeed to lean on, and enter into a poor man’s hand. But there, don’t stop over those papers; they are alike, and the price has gone down to nothing. Tell me; can you sell my shares better than Jessop can? I must have a little back for my outlay.”

“What did Jessop tell you?”

“What does every man tell you when he has you at his mercy? That the paper was worthless, but he might get some speculative fool to buy them; and if I waited there at his office he would try, but I must expect the merest trifle for them.”

“Well?” said Clive, frowning.

“Don’t take it so confoundedly cool, sir. I was obliged to do the best I could, and I put myself in his hands.”

“Well?”

“And he went out and brought the speculative person—a Mr Wrigley, a solicitor.”

“Well?”

“Well! Ill, man, ill!”

“But what did my worthy brother’s friend say?”

“Shrugged his shoulders—said it was throwing money away—mere gambling. He did not want them, but to oblige his old friend, Mr Jessop Reed, he would take them at a pound apiece, and the chance of making an eighth out of them.”

“And you laughed at him?”

“Laughed? I nearly cried at him, and was only too glad to get the little bit of salvage from a man who bought as a speculation, and would not care so much if he lost.”

“But you said you had let Jessop have them to try and sell.”

“Did I? Yes, I think I did.”

“And asked me if you got them back, whether I could deal better with them.”

“Yes, I suppose I did, but I don’t want to swindle any one into buying worthless stock.”

“Look here, Doctor, you are not yourself.”

“Not myself? How can a man be himself under such circumstances. Suppose, though, that I could get them back from the man. He only took them as a favour.”

“Did he pay you?” said Clive eagerly.

“Yes.”

“A cheque?”

“No,” said the Doctor. “I was not going to run any more risks. No cheque: for the residue I insisted upon Bank of England notes and gold.”

“And you were paid like that?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have gone too far to retreat.”

“Oh no, not if we offer the man what he said he would be content with—an eighth. That’s half-a-crown to the hundred pounds, isn’t it?”

“Half-a-crown to the hundred pounds!” said Clive furiously. “Why, as soon as the truth’s known—”

“They won’t be worth that, eh?” said the Doctor dolefully.

“Oh, Doctor Praed!” cried Clive furiously. “You telegraph to me to come and help you when you have thrown your money into the gutter, and it has been picked up and is gone. It is a swindle—an imposition.”

“Yes, I’ve found out that,” said the Doctor bitterly. “But what are the shares worth then, really?”

“What I told you, sir—double the price they were when so many were apportioned to you. This is some cursed jugglery: a trick—a scare—a false alarm to influence the price of the ‘White Virgin’ shares in the market.”

“What!”

“There isn’t a word of truth in the report.”

“Not a word of truth in the report?”

“No, sir. The mine is exceeding my greatest hopes. She teems with ore which grows richer in silver every day. In six months’ time the shares will be worth four times what they are now.”

“But—but—the papers!—look at the papers,” cried the Doctor.

“What for? They only give the reports on ’Change—the facts that the mine is reported to be in a state of collapse, and that consequently every one has rushed to realise, and make what little he could for what is supposed to be nearly worthless paper.”

“But—tell me again—are you sure that the report is false?”

“Who could know better than I, who have been down every day, who have watched every working, examined each skep of ore that came up, and assayed every pig of lead and ingot of silver. Doctor, I should have thought that you could have trusted me.”

The Doctor sank down into his patients’ chair, and stared at his visitor aghast.

“Clive Reed—Clive, my boy—is—is this true?”

“You know it is true, sir!” cried the young man savagely, as he now took up the Doctor’s rôle of patrolling the room. “Do you, who have known me from a boy, ask me whether I would have deliberately swindled you into putting your savings into a worthless venture?”

“No, no, not wilfully, my boy, but by a mistake.”

“Mistake! There was no mistake. Doctor, an enemy hath done this thing, and people are only too ready to believe the evil instead of the good. Well, I’m glad I know. But how is it that no report has reached me at the mine? Why, of course: I have seen no paper for days. I am so busy that I often do not open them when they come over from the town.”

“Then—then this really is a false report, Clive?”

“Literally false, sir, and you have thrown your thousands away.”

The Doctor groaned.

“No, no: not yet. There is hope. Look here. I must buy those shares back at once.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Clive. “Look here, Doctor: if I were dangerously ill I would sooner trust you than any man in London; but in money matters I think just as my poor father thought.”

“That I was a mere baby? Yes, he always told me so,” said the Doctor, with a sigh. “But I made a lot of money, too.”

“Yes, sir, but couldn’t keep it,” cried the young man angrily.

“Don’t—don’t jump on me now I’m down, Clive, my boy,” cried the Doctor piteously. “I have been an old fool. I ought to have trusted you that you would warn me. But you were away; all London was ringing with the business, and in my rage and disappointment I thought I was doing right.”

“I suppose so,” said Clive bitterly.

“But it is not too late. We’ll go up to your brother at once.”

“My brother will only be too glad to triumph over you.”

“But this Mr Wrigley?”

“Knew perfectly well what he was about, or he would not have bought.”

“But I must buy again, if not from him—from some one else.”

“You cannot. As soon as the truth is known the shares will go back to their old place at a bound, and then in the reaction rise rapidly, for the public will grasp that the mine must be as it is, exceedingly valuable.”

“But before the truth is known.”

“I shall go and get it made known on ’Change the moment it is open, sir.”

“But—but if you waited a little while, Clive, to give me time, I—”

“My old friend—my father’s trusted companion would not ask me to wait an instant before crushing a blackguardly conspiracy, sir. I cannot wait, and if I can trace this business to the source, I’ll do it, if it costs me thousands.”

“You—you don’t think that Jessop—”

“No!” cried Clive fiercely. “I don’t—I won’t think such a thing of my own brother. He ousted me in one great aim of my life; he is a spendthrift, and dishonourable enough; but, hang it, no, I won’t give him the credit for this.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Yes. Come in.”

The Doctor’s quiet, grave servant in spotless black, looking as if he had been up for hours, entered with a tray, bearing hot tea and dry toast, placing it upon the table without a word, and leaving at once.

“Take some tea, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor, going quietly now to his visitor, placing his hands upon his shoulders, and pressing him down into a chair. “Forgive me, my dear boy. No; of course, you could not do such a dishonourable act. I beg your pardon.”

“Granted, Doctor.”

“Confound the money, my boy! It’s my savings, but I should never have spent a penny on myself. Let it go, I won’t stir a peg about it, and I’ll never try to save again. I can always earn guineas enough to pay my way, and that must do for the while I live. There; I’m better now,” he continued, as he took a seat and helped himself to some tea.—“Hah! capital cup this. I’m very particular about my tea. And so you’re doing well down in Derbyshire?”

“Wonderfully, sir.”

“That’s right. I’m very glad of it. Clive, my boy, I’ve been studying up the digestive functions a good deal, and I’ve had to read a paper upon it. I’m getting honourable mention.”

Clive looked at him wonderingly, and the Doctor saw it.

“It’s all right, my boy. I have no business to dabble in money affairs. That’s all over now. I have too much to do in assuaging human ills to think any more about my losses; but I’m afraid that some people among your father’s old friends will be very hard hit.”

“Good heavens!” cried Clive, starting up.

“What is the matter?”

“I have a friend down at the mine, who has bought pretty largely—for him—and if this cursed rumour reaches his ears,—here, I must go back by the next train. No, I cannot. I must stop in town, and have this report thoroughly contradicted by letters in the papers, and advertisements, as well as by personal visits to our old friends. Have you a telegram form?”

“Yes, plenty, my dear boy. There: in the drawer.”

Clive hastily wrote a telegram for the Major, telling him that if any report reached him, or he saw anything in the papers respecting the stability of the “White Virgin” mine and its shares, he was to pay no heed whatever.

“Can your man take this for me?”

“Of course,” cried the Doctor, ringing, and the quiet, grave-looking servant appeared.

“Take a cab and go to the Charing Cross Post Office. That is open all night. You will pay for a special messenger to ride or drive over with it at once. The town is ten miles from Major Gurdon’s cottage. Quick, please: it is important.”

He handed the man some money, and in two minutes the front door was closed.

“Hah! That is a relief,” said Clive, with a sigh. “A quiet old officer who lives retired there, Doctor. He too has put his all into the mine. We have become very intimate.”

“And has he a pretty daughter, too, like this old fool?”

Clive started, and his cheeks flushed as he remained silent for a few moments.

“Yes, Doctor, he has a daughter.”

Doctor Praed held out his hand, and shook Clive’s warmly.

“I’m very glad, my boy,” he said gently. “The wisest thing. I hope she is very nice. There, I will not ask you. It is quite right—quite right.”

They sat sipping their tea for a few minutes, the Doctor looking perfectly content now, Clive thoughtful; and the black marble clock on the chimneypiece struck six.

“Doctor,” said Clive at last, “I am bitterly grieved about this business: more so than I can express.”

“Then now throw it over as far as I am concerned. It was an error. I committed it, and I am punished. I have too much to think about to worry any more; so have you.”

“But I must make it up to you, sir.”

“What! Give me the money?”

“Yes.”

“Rubbish, boy! It is of no use to me. I should only go and lose that too.”

“But I feel to blame.”

“More fool you, sir. There, not another word. The money has gone. Jolly go with it. I should like you to read my pamphlet.”

“But, my dear sir—”

“Clive Reed, I will not have another word. Look here. I tell you what,” he said, with a chuckle; “have you made your will?”

“No, sir; not yet.”

“Make it then, and leave me to be paid at your death the amount I have lost. I won’t poison you to get it, my lad. There, no more talk about money. Now then, go upstairs and have three hours’ good sleep. Breakfast at nine.”

“No: I could not sleep,” said Clive. “I’ll go on now to Guildford Street. They will be getting up there by this time. Then I’m in for a busy day.”

Chapter Twenty Four.Alone.Breakfast-time at the cottage, and as a step was heard upon the stony path, Dinah rose quickly from her seat, then coloured and resumed her place, for she knew that it was impossible for her to receive letters so soon.Then as the steps were heard receding, Martha entered bearing a packet of newspapers and a letter.“Hallo! what a budget!” cried the Major. “Who can have sent these?”He opened the letter first, a business-like looking document, and read:—“Draper’s Buildings, E.C., August 18—.“To Major Gurdon, The Cottage, Blinkdale Tor.“Dear Sir,—As we have frequently done business for you, we esteem it our duty to let you know of the very great fall which has taken place in the mining shares which—as you will remember in opposition to our advice—were bought by you a short time since. We send herewith seven of the daily papers that you may see how serious the business is, and we should strongly advise you either to come up and confer with us, or to telegraph your instructions.“Of course there may be nothing in these reports, but we felt that an old client residing in so remote a part of England, where he might not hear of the rumour, ought to be advised.“We are, your obedient servants,—“Caley and Bland.”The Major groaned.“Father, dear, is it very bad news?” cried Dinah, rising to go to his side.“No, no, my dear,” he said bitterly. “Not so very bad. Read.”“What—what does this mean?” cried Dinah, changing colour.“Only ruin once more, my darling,” he said bitterly. “Bankrupt in honour and reputation, now I am a bankrupt in pocket.”“Oh, father! But—but surely it is not through this mine.”“Yes, my dear, through my folly in believing in a stranger. Bah, I have always been a fool, and as age creeps on I grow more foolish.”“But I don’t understand, dear,” cried Dinah piteously. “A stranger! You do not mean Mr Reed?”“Yes,” he said angrily, “I mean Mr Clive Reed. I have let him inveigle me into this speculation, and now nearly every penny I have is swept away.”“Oh, impossible!” cried Dinah, flushing now. “Clive would never have advised you but for your good.”“Pish!” cried the Major, tossing the letter upon the table; “here is a proof of it. Caley and Bland, the experienced brokers, who sold for me, and advised me not to put money in the speculation, show me that it is hopeless.”“But Clive told me it meant fortune, dear; and he could not err.”The Major laughed harshly.“Of course not—in your eyes, child. There, I am not going to be a brute to you, my dear. He has deceived us both.”“He has not deceived us both,” cried Dinah, drawing herself up proudly. “Clive is incapable of deceit.”“No, not quite—self-deceit, then. He meant well, perhaps, but, like all these mining adventurers, he was too sanguine.”“Oh, but, father, it is impossible. It must be a false report.”“False!” cried the Major, with a mocking laugh, as he glanced at a paper. “Look here—ruin—collapse—a bogus affair, got up to sell shares in an exhausted mine. You can read the opinions of the press, my dear, and the letters of indignant, ruined shareholders.”“It is a false report,” cried Dinah indignantly. “Let them say this—let the whole world say it. Clive Reed is my betrothed husband, and he is an honourable gentleman. I say it is false from beginning to end.”“Hah!” sighed the Major, as he gazed sadly at the flushed, defiant face before him; and taking his child’s hand, he drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.“Your mother’s child, my darling,” he said huskily. “Eighteen years ago she stood up like that in my defence, when the world said that I was a dishonourable scoundrel. She fought the fight upon my side, and fell wounded to the death, Dinah, true to her convictions that I was an innocent man; but it killed her, dear.”Dinah laid her hands upon her father’s shoulders, and gazed into his eyes, but he met her fixed, inquiring look without a quiver, and his face grew proud and stern.“Yes, dear; she was right,” he cried, drawing himself up. “I was—I am—an honourable man. But the world has never cleared me, and I have lived a recluse, waiting for the time to come when it should confess the wrong it did me. But it never will, Dinah—it never will.”“It shall, father, some day,” she cried passionately, as she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him again and again. “Yes, my dear, noble, self-denying father shall stand in his high place amongst men, and they shall be as proud of him as I am of Clive. For this, too, is all false, father. He could not have deceived us.”“Well, perhaps not willingly, dear,” said the Major sadly.“No, no, no. It is a false report.”“But it has ruined me, my child. Well, fate has worked her worst. She can do no more,” he added bitterly, “unless my child deceives me too.”Dinah sprang from him as if he had struck her a deadly blow, and stood there white as ashes, her eyes dilated and lips quivering till he caught her in his arms.“No, no,” he said huskily. “Forgive me, my darling. My words were too cruel. Nothing could come between us two. Forget what I said. The words were wrung from me by my sufferings. It is so hard, dear, to find one’s all swept away through my greedy folly, and at my time of life.”Dinah uttered a low piteous sigh, and her face went down upon her father’s shoulder, while her lips moved as she said the words in her shame, misery, and despair, the words which she had long wished to confide to him. But they were inaudible—he did not hear, and at last, after a tender, passionate embrace, he placed her in a chair.“Well,” he said firmly, “I must act like a man.”“What are you going to do?” she said, looking up now excitedly.“Go up to town, and save what I can out of the wreck.”“But, father, it must be a false report. Wait till we hear from Clive. He will be back soon.”The Major shook his head.“Perhaps not.”“But I am sure. What evidence have you but this letter—these reports?”“The telegram last night. His agitation on receiving these guarded words. I’ll agree, my dear, that the poor fellow meant honourably by us, but he is ruined as well as I. Dinah, my dear, you must be firm. So must I.”“And you will go?”“Directly.”“Take me too, father,” said Dinah excitedly.“Impossible. No; wait patiently. I must go and see the brokers at once, you see, you know there is no other course open.”“But you will go straight to Clive, dear.”“No,” said the Major firmly. “A man in my frame of mind, and with my hot temper, must not meet him for some time to come. It will be better not.” Dinah drew in a long deep breath, and remained silent as the Major hurriedly swallowed a little breakfast, and ten minutes later stood by the river path, bidding his child farewell.“God bless you!” he said. “I’ll believe that Clive Reed is honest, but the money has gone.—Good-bye.”Dinah stood watching him till he disappeared over the shoulder of the mountain slope on his ten-mile walk to the Blinkdale station, and then returned to the cottage, cold and shivering, as a sense of loneliness and want of protection crept over her.Martha was waiting at the door.“Oh, my dear, I hope there is no more trouble. Is it about money?”Dinah bowed gravely.“Dear, dear! What a nuisance money is. But I have a little saved up, master can have. I wish I’d told him before he went. He won’t be very long gone, will he, my dear? I mean he will be back to-night?”“No, Martha,” said Dinah, with the chilly sensation increasing. “Perhaps not to-morrow night.”“And us alone!” cried Martha, “and no Rollo.”Dinah shuddered slightly.“And I don’t want to frighten you, my dear, but I’ve seen that big dark man from the mine come about here sometimes of a night. Why, my dear child, it must have been him who poisoned that poor dog.”The cold shiver ran through Dinah again, but she made a spasmodic effort to master her feelings.“Don’t—don’t say that,” she said hoarsely. “Martha, dear, we must bury poor Rollo to-day. Will you help me?”“Poor fellow! yes. I always hated him, my dear, but I’m very sorry he’s dead. There, we must make the best of it. Come and finish your breakfast, lovey, and then we’ll get a spade, and bury him under one of the trees.”Dinah went in dreamy and thoughtful, but no breakfast passed her lips; and as, about an hour and a half later, the poor dog was being carried to his last resting-place, there was the sound of hoofs on the bridle-path, and five minutes later she received a telegram for her father, brought over from the town on the other side of the mine.She hesitated a moment, but the case was so urgent, and she opened the message to read Clive’s reassuring words.“I knew it,” she cried, as a flood of bright hope sent joy into her heart.But it was too late to try and overtake the Major, who was miles away in the other direction, and the messenger was dismissed.“He will know as soon as he reaches town, and telegraph,” thought Dinah, but the day wore away without news, and the night closed in dark and stormy, with the girl’s fancy conjuring up strange sounds about the house of so startling a nature in her nervous state, that at last she could bear them no longer. Again and again she had imagined that faces were peering through the window, and though she drew blind and curtain, there was the fancy still. And in this spirit she at last, about nine o’clock, determined to go and sit with their old servant in the kitchen.“It will be company for us both,” she said, and hurriedly gathering together her work, she left the little room, and entered the kitchen to find all dark.“Martha—Martha!” she cried, but there was no reply, and hurrying back for a lamp, she found that the candle had burned out, the tea things were still on the table, and the woman was seated there with her head down upon her hands, apparently fast asleep.“Martha!” she cried, shaking her; but there was no reply, only a heavy stertorous breath, and as the old chill came back, Dinah’s eyes lit upon the cup and saucer by the woman’s side.A flash of light illumined her brain, and instinctively she raised the tea-cup, and smelt, and then tasted the tea at the bottom.It was unmistakable. A peculiar, heavy, clammy taste was evident. The cup fell from her hand, and she looked wildly round, as her position came with tenfold horror. Alone there in that solitary dale, far from help. Even her old friend the dog taken from her side—quite alone, for Martha was beyond rousing for hours to come, plunged as she was in a deep stupor, the result of a drug.

Breakfast-time at the cottage, and as a step was heard upon the stony path, Dinah rose quickly from her seat, then coloured and resumed her place, for she knew that it was impossible for her to receive letters so soon.

Then as the steps were heard receding, Martha entered bearing a packet of newspapers and a letter.

“Hallo! what a budget!” cried the Major. “Who can have sent these?”

He opened the letter first, a business-like looking document, and read:—

“Draper’s Buildings, E.C., August 18—.

“To Major Gurdon, The Cottage, Blinkdale Tor.

“Dear Sir,—As we have frequently done business for you, we esteem it our duty to let you know of the very great fall which has taken place in the mining shares which—as you will remember in opposition to our advice—were bought by you a short time since. We send herewith seven of the daily papers that you may see how serious the business is, and we should strongly advise you either to come up and confer with us, or to telegraph your instructions.

“Of course there may be nothing in these reports, but we felt that an old client residing in so remote a part of England, where he might not hear of the rumour, ought to be advised.

“We are, your obedient servants,—

“Caley and Bland.”

The Major groaned.

“Father, dear, is it very bad news?” cried Dinah, rising to go to his side.

“No, no, my dear,” he said bitterly. “Not so very bad. Read.”

“What—what does this mean?” cried Dinah, changing colour.

“Only ruin once more, my darling,” he said bitterly. “Bankrupt in honour and reputation, now I am a bankrupt in pocket.”

“Oh, father! But—but surely it is not through this mine.”

“Yes, my dear, through my folly in believing in a stranger. Bah, I have always been a fool, and as age creeps on I grow more foolish.”

“But I don’t understand, dear,” cried Dinah piteously. “A stranger! You do not mean Mr Reed?”

“Yes,” he said angrily, “I mean Mr Clive Reed. I have let him inveigle me into this speculation, and now nearly every penny I have is swept away.”

“Oh, impossible!” cried Dinah, flushing now. “Clive would never have advised you but for your good.”

“Pish!” cried the Major, tossing the letter upon the table; “here is a proof of it. Caley and Bland, the experienced brokers, who sold for me, and advised me not to put money in the speculation, show me that it is hopeless.”

“But Clive told me it meant fortune, dear; and he could not err.”

The Major laughed harshly.

“Of course not—in your eyes, child. There, I am not going to be a brute to you, my dear. He has deceived us both.”

“He has not deceived us both,” cried Dinah, drawing herself up proudly. “Clive is incapable of deceit.”

“No, not quite—self-deceit, then. He meant well, perhaps, but, like all these mining adventurers, he was too sanguine.”

“Oh, but, father, it is impossible. It must be a false report.”

“False!” cried the Major, with a mocking laugh, as he glanced at a paper. “Look here—ruin—collapse—a bogus affair, got up to sell shares in an exhausted mine. You can read the opinions of the press, my dear, and the letters of indignant, ruined shareholders.”

“It is a false report,” cried Dinah indignantly. “Let them say this—let the whole world say it. Clive Reed is my betrothed husband, and he is an honourable gentleman. I say it is false from beginning to end.”

“Hah!” sighed the Major, as he gazed sadly at the flushed, defiant face before him; and taking his child’s hand, he drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.

“Your mother’s child, my darling,” he said huskily. “Eighteen years ago she stood up like that in my defence, when the world said that I was a dishonourable scoundrel. She fought the fight upon my side, and fell wounded to the death, Dinah, true to her convictions that I was an innocent man; but it killed her, dear.”

Dinah laid her hands upon her father’s shoulders, and gazed into his eyes, but he met her fixed, inquiring look without a quiver, and his face grew proud and stern.

“Yes, dear; she was right,” he cried, drawing himself up. “I was—I am—an honourable man. But the world has never cleared me, and I have lived a recluse, waiting for the time to come when it should confess the wrong it did me. But it never will, Dinah—it never will.”

“It shall, father, some day,” she cried passionately, as she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him again and again. “Yes, my dear, noble, self-denying father shall stand in his high place amongst men, and they shall be as proud of him as I am of Clive. For this, too, is all false, father. He could not have deceived us.”

“Well, perhaps not willingly, dear,” said the Major sadly.

“No, no, no. It is a false report.”

“But it has ruined me, my child. Well, fate has worked her worst. She can do no more,” he added bitterly, “unless my child deceives me too.”

Dinah sprang from him as if he had struck her a deadly blow, and stood there white as ashes, her eyes dilated and lips quivering till he caught her in his arms.

“No, no,” he said huskily. “Forgive me, my darling. My words were too cruel. Nothing could come between us two. Forget what I said. The words were wrung from me by my sufferings. It is so hard, dear, to find one’s all swept away through my greedy folly, and at my time of life.”

Dinah uttered a low piteous sigh, and her face went down upon her father’s shoulder, while her lips moved as she said the words in her shame, misery, and despair, the words which she had long wished to confide to him. But they were inaudible—he did not hear, and at last, after a tender, passionate embrace, he placed her in a chair.

“Well,” he said firmly, “I must act like a man.”

“What are you going to do?” she said, looking up now excitedly.

“Go up to town, and save what I can out of the wreck.”

“But, father, it must be a false report. Wait till we hear from Clive. He will be back soon.”

The Major shook his head.

“Perhaps not.”

“But I am sure. What evidence have you but this letter—these reports?”

“The telegram last night. His agitation on receiving these guarded words. I’ll agree, my dear, that the poor fellow meant honourably by us, but he is ruined as well as I. Dinah, my dear, you must be firm. So must I.”

“And you will go?”

“Directly.”

“Take me too, father,” said Dinah excitedly.

“Impossible. No; wait patiently. I must go and see the brokers at once, you see, you know there is no other course open.”

“But you will go straight to Clive, dear.”

“No,” said the Major firmly. “A man in my frame of mind, and with my hot temper, must not meet him for some time to come. It will be better not.” Dinah drew in a long deep breath, and remained silent as the Major hurriedly swallowed a little breakfast, and ten minutes later stood by the river path, bidding his child farewell.

“God bless you!” he said. “I’ll believe that Clive Reed is honest, but the money has gone.—Good-bye.”

Dinah stood watching him till he disappeared over the shoulder of the mountain slope on his ten-mile walk to the Blinkdale station, and then returned to the cottage, cold and shivering, as a sense of loneliness and want of protection crept over her.

Martha was waiting at the door.

“Oh, my dear, I hope there is no more trouble. Is it about money?”

Dinah bowed gravely.

“Dear, dear! What a nuisance money is. But I have a little saved up, master can have. I wish I’d told him before he went. He won’t be very long gone, will he, my dear? I mean he will be back to-night?”

“No, Martha,” said Dinah, with the chilly sensation increasing. “Perhaps not to-morrow night.”

“And us alone!” cried Martha, “and no Rollo.”

Dinah shuddered slightly.

“And I don’t want to frighten you, my dear, but I’ve seen that big dark man from the mine come about here sometimes of a night. Why, my dear child, it must have been him who poisoned that poor dog.”

The cold shiver ran through Dinah again, but she made a spasmodic effort to master her feelings.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” she said hoarsely. “Martha, dear, we must bury poor Rollo to-day. Will you help me?”

“Poor fellow! yes. I always hated him, my dear, but I’m very sorry he’s dead. There, we must make the best of it. Come and finish your breakfast, lovey, and then we’ll get a spade, and bury him under one of the trees.”

Dinah went in dreamy and thoughtful, but no breakfast passed her lips; and as, about an hour and a half later, the poor dog was being carried to his last resting-place, there was the sound of hoofs on the bridle-path, and five minutes later she received a telegram for her father, brought over from the town on the other side of the mine.

She hesitated a moment, but the case was so urgent, and she opened the message to read Clive’s reassuring words.

“I knew it,” she cried, as a flood of bright hope sent joy into her heart.

But it was too late to try and overtake the Major, who was miles away in the other direction, and the messenger was dismissed.

“He will know as soon as he reaches town, and telegraph,” thought Dinah, but the day wore away without news, and the night closed in dark and stormy, with the girl’s fancy conjuring up strange sounds about the house of so startling a nature in her nervous state, that at last she could bear them no longer. Again and again she had imagined that faces were peering through the window, and though she drew blind and curtain, there was the fancy still. And in this spirit she at last, about nine o’clock, determined to go and sit with their old servant in the kitchen.

“It will be company for us both,” she said, and hurriedly gathering together her work, she left the little room, and entered the kitchen to find all dark.

“Martha—Martha!” she cried, but there was no reply, and hurrying back for a lamp, she found that the candle had burned out, the tea things were still on the table, and the woman was seated there with her head down upon her hands, apparently fast asleep.

“Martha!” she cried, shaking her; but there was no reply, only a heavy stertorous breath, and as the old chill came back, Dinah’s eyes lit upon the cup and saucer by the woman’s side.

A flash of light illumined her brain, and instinctively she raised the tea-cup, and smelt, and then tasted the tea at the bottom.

It was unmistakable. A peculiar, heavy, clammy taste was evident. The cup fell from her hand, and she looked wildly round, as her position came with tenfold horror. Alone there in that solitary dale, far from help. Even her old friend the dog taken from her side—quite alone, for Martha was beyond rousing for hours to come, plunged as she was in a deep stupor, the result of a drug.

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