“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.”
