George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Explosion.

There was joy in the little cottage by the swiftly running river one day about a fortnight later, when a shadow was cast across the window; and with a cry of delight Dinah looked up from her work and saw that Clive Reed had approached silently, and was gazing in.

The next moment she was nestling in his strong arms, responding to his kisses, and feeling once more safe, protected, and that there was nothing more to fear or wish for in life.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered, as she drew him farther in with the blood flushing in her cheeks, and her hands trembling, lest her abandonment in her ecstasy of delight had been seen.

“Why not?” cried Clive. “I feel as if I could melt away into smiles and laughter—there’s a beautiful idea, pet—in the joy I feel at being back—at holding you in these great rough arms, at feeling safe, and that you had not forgotten me and run away with some fine handsome fellow while I was gone.”

“Clive!”

“Well, I do. I’m quite boyish—childish—oh, my darling, have I got you here in my arms once more?”

There was no doubt of it, for timid and shrinking now, Dinah kissed him gravely upon the forehead, and then gently and firmly shrank from his strong embrace.

“Where is the Major?” he cried.

“He has taken his satchel and geological hammer, and gone for a long walk.”

“Without you?”

“Yes; that is why I said, don’t laugh at me, and you stopped me from saying more. Clive—I felt that you would come this morning.”

“Ah, and how much sooner I should have been, but for the miserable worry of the company’s affairs. There, I will not worry you about that, and I am glad to say that I found Sturgess rapidly getting well. But he had a nasty accident. And how’s dear old Martha?”

“Quite well. She has been talking about you and longing to see you every day.”

“Bless her. And you. Oh, my darling, you look more beautiful than ever!”

“Clive!”

“You do. More sweet, more lovable. Oh, Dinah, there was never such a happy fellow before. This place is a paradise after grimy old London, and—oh, here is the Major, I can hear his step.”

Dinah turned pale.

“That is not his step,” she said, as she looked excitedly toward the window.

Clive rose, went to it, and looked out.

“Why, it’s Robson,” he cried. “Hang it! I hope there is nothing wrong. I’ll go and meet him.” Before he was outside Dinah was after him, and she hurriedly placed her hand upon his arm.

“Eh? Well, come with me then, pet. I have no secrets from you.—Well, Robson, what’s the matter? Sturgess worse?”

“No, sir, but you are wanted over yonder directly.”

“Wanted?”

“Yes, sir, there’s a party of gentlemen come down.”

“What—visitors? Oh, hang them; they want to see the mine, I suppose?”

“No, sir. They say they’ve come to take possession.”

“What?”

“I suppose they’re bailiffs, sir.”

“And I suppose you’re a confounded fool!” cried Clive angrily. “That mine does not owe a penny!”

“One of the gentlemen said he was a shareholder, sir, the principal shareholder, and he gave me his card.”

Clive snatched it, and Dinah read the name thereon—

“Mr Wrigley, New Inn, Strand.”

“Wrigley?” cried Clive excitedly.

“Yes, sir; and he said he must see you at once.”

“All right; I’ll come. Wait for me yonder at the corner, Robson; and I beg your pardon for speaking so roughly just now.”

“That’s nothing, sir. You were cross,” said the clerk, smiling; and he walked back down the garden to go and stand watching the trout in the river.

“Don’t look so scared, dearest,” said Clive tenderly; “there is nothing wrong. I’ll tell you briefly what it is. You know there was a scare about the mine—a panic.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, a lot of foolish old friends were frightened—oh, dear me! I’m accusing the Major. Well, there, I can’t help it. He did act foolishly. A lot of them, I say, instead of coming to me went and sold their shares, and these were bought up by speculators who have since then been interfering at our board meetings, and wanting to meddle over the management of things. In fact, I was so wroth that I would not go to yesterday’s meeting, but determined to come down here and see how things were, and—you know why I came. Now I must go on. I suppose they had their meeting yesterday, and passed some resolution or another; but I’m too big a shareholder to be trifled with, and I’m going to meet these people now and have a row. For they shall have their big dividends, but I’m not going to have any meddlesome fools down here.”

“But you will keep your temper, dear, and be calm.”

“I’ll take your sweet face with me, love, and—why, here’s the Major. Ah, my dear old dad, how are you? Good-bye, Dinah. Come over to the mine with me, sir, and help me to keep my temper; well talk as we go.”

“Of course,” cried the Major. “But look here, my boy—so glad to see you down—I saw a party going to the mine, and I hurried back trusting that one of them might be you.”

“Come along,” cried Clive; and after a quick, tender farewell, he hurried away along the path to the mine, explaining matters to the Major as he went.

On reaching the gate in the hill side, and entering the busy little hive of industry, it was plain that something important was on the way; for the men were all up from the workings, and were evidently listening to one of a party of well-dressed men, who was addressing them, and a buzz of voices arose as Clive, looking very stern now, walked up to the front of the office with his two companions.

“Oh, good morning, Mr Reed,” said the speaker, getting down from a pile of lead pigs.

“Good morning, Mr Wrigley. Well, Jessop, you here?”

The latter gentleman nodded, and Sturgess, who had his arm in a sling, stood close behind him.

“I have been telling the men, Mr Reed, that in consonance with the resolution passed at the board yesterday—”

“In my absence, Mr Wrigley.”

“You had the proper notices, sir,” said the lawyer coldly. “I say in accordance with the resolution passed yesterday, it was determined, in the interests of the ‘White Virgin Mine,’ to have a complete change of management.”

“Indeed!” said Clive. “But I, as the greatest shareholder, object.”

“You cannot, sir. I and my friends are greater shareholders, and have the majority with us. Out of respect to your late father’s memory we have made a concession to your brother.”

“Jessop!” cried Clive.

“Yes, sir. You will give up everything into his hands, for he will reside here and take the management, helped and counselled by Mr Sturgess, who now becomes co-manager of the property.”

“And I?” said Clive, who was perfectly aghast at the petard sprung beneath his feet.

“Will clear out at once.”

It was Jessop Reed who said these words brutally; and, as the brother’s eyes met in a long piercing gaze, Clive Reed knew that his enemies had him firmly by the hip, and that the next minute he must fall.

Chapter Thirty.

After the Encounter.

“But, my dear boy, why not have made a fight for it?” cried the Major, as he perspired profusely in his efforts to keep up with Clive, who was striding about the garden.

“I’m going to fight for it, sir,” cried Clive impatiently; “but these matters are not settled by brute force and bayonets.”

“Well, well, no,” cried the Major; “but you gave up almost without a word.”

“Everything was against me, sir. Come: you, as a soldier, know that I was beaten by a clever bit of strategy, and that I must meet the position by something of the same kind.”

“Yes, but you were in possession.”

“I was, sir, but a majority of the shareholders decided that my management was bad, and appointed another man, so I am bound to give up.”

“But not without a struggle.”

“I am going to struggle, sir, but carefully. I cannot afford to fight against what is partly my own property.”

“But you had a great number of shares, my dear boy.”

“I did hold nearly half, sir, and I felt it my duty to help friends who had lost, and—”

“You have ruined yourself to help me!” cried the Major passionately.

“Nonsense! there is no question of ruin in this case, sir. It is only a business of the management. I ought to have known that my brother would never sit down quietly under his disappointment; but I never thought he would be partner in such a scheme as this.”

“Then you think it was your brother who was the man that set the rumour afloat?” cried the Major.

“From his connection with, and knowledge of stocks, I now feel convinced it was.”

“The man whom I made my guest.”

“Yes,” said Clive. “He was down here, evidently as a spy, and this fellow—this solicitor, Wrigley, seems to be an old friend of his. Nice way to speak of my own brother, sir.”

“Your own brother!” cried the Major, in a towering passion; “he is a scoundrel, sir; I’d disown him, sir. He’s my enemy, sir. He has ruined me as well as you.”

“No, no, no, my dear sir. I tell you there is no question of ruin in the matter. There is the mine, and it is so enormously rich that the shareholders cannot suffer. The annoyance is, being kicked out of one’s position in the management; but, as we school-boys used to say,—‘two can play at that game;’ and perhaps at the next board meeting I shall be able to overset Mr Jessop. Why, the scoundrel must have been in league with Sturgess, and that accounts for this fellow’s insolence to me on several occasions.”

“Of course; and a nice diabolical scheme they have hatched between them. But you shall overthrow them, Clive, my boy, that you shall. Oh, I see it all now, unbusiness-like as I am. They had that report spread, frightened the shareholders into a panic, and then bought up everything.”

“Yes, sir, that was their modus operandi.”

“And they caught all the fools, including my stupid old self,” growled the Major. “But wait a bit. I daresay I shall have a settlement with Master Jessop Reed one of these days, and when that day does come, let him look out.”

“No, Major, you will leave this to me,” said Clive quietly. “Now, then, I’m going to throw over this piece of worry, and have a calm quiet day with our darling. As I tell you, it does not interfere with my monetary position in the least, and it will save me a great deal of hard work; but to-morrow morning I must go back to town and see the other shareholders, for this state of affairs ought not to continue, though I must own that Sturgess is a clever manager, and does his work well.”

The Major unslung a satchel from his shoulder at the door.

“Why, you have been carrying that heavy lot of specimens all the time,” said Clive, smiling.

“Yes, I forgot all about them,” said the Major; and he tossed the contents out into a basket in the tiny hall.

“Lead ore,” said Clive, looking curiously at a little block of dull grey stone.

“Yes, there’s plenty of that stuff on my wild bit of mountain land. It all interests me, and of course much more since I have been a shareholder in the mine—I mean,” said the Major hastily, “since I was once.”

“You are, Major. Once for all, no more words about that. A certain number more shares have been transferred to you, and they stand as yours in the company’s books. Not another word. Ah, Dinah! I seem to have neglected you sadly. Now, no more business; the whole day is ours. To-morrow morning I must be off back to town.”

The parting was sad enough the next morning quite early, for, to Dinah, it was as if she were losing her protector for many days to come, and she could not drive away the forebodings of looming troubles as she clung to Clive after accompanying him with the Major for some distance along the mountain track leading to Blinkdale. But Clive was cheerful and bright, and at last he tore himself away, insisting upon their returning, as he would have to hasten on.

“Take care of her, Major,” he cried, “and I’ll send you plenty of letters. Keep a good heart—it will all come right in the end. Now—goodbye.”

He sprang away, and they stood watching him as he stopped from time to time to wave his hand before plunging down into a hollow, and disappearing from their sight.

They turned then, and walked back in silence to the cottage, each too much occupied with painful thoughts to attempt to speak, for a shadow seemed to have fallen over their lives which was gradually darkening; and there were moments when Dinah looked forward, and then clung spasmodically to her father’s arm, for he broke out into angry mutterings from time to time, and as she looked in his face she could see that it was black with suppressed passion.

At last they reached the river path, and the Major broke out:

“I see it all plainly enough,” he cried. “Clive was right; that scoundrel of a brother was down here as a spy, and, curse him, I entertained him for his sake. He has won round that fellow Sturgess, and they think they are going to do as they like; but if I am to be a shareholder, confound them! they shall find that I can be a sharp one too, so let them beware.”