“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.
