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The White Virgin

by George Manville Fenn · English · Gutenberg #40672 · 481,294 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The White Virgin

Author: George Manville Fenn


        
Release date: September 5, 2012 [eBook #40672]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40672

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WHITE VIRGIN ***

The White Virgin
By George Manville Fenn
Published by Chatto & Windus, London.
This edition dated 1894.

CHAPTER ONE.

BY A THREAD.

It was a long, thin, white finger, one which had felt the throbbing of
hundreds and thousands of pulses, and Doctor Praed, after viciously
flicking at a fly which tried persistently to settle upon his
ivory-white, shiny, bald head, hooked that finger into Clive Reed's
button-hole, just below the white rosebud Janet had given him a little
earlier in the evening.

"Mind the flower."

"All right, puppy.  Come here.  I want to talk to you."

"About Janet?"

"Pish! mawkish youth.  Great ugly fellow like you thinking of nothing
else but Janet.  Wait till you've been her slave as I have for eighteen
years."

"Pleasant slavery, Doctor," said the young man, smiling, as he allowed
himself to be led out on to the verandah just over the gas-lamp which
helped to light up Great Guildford Street, W.C.

"Is it, sir?  You don't know what a jealous little she-tartar she is."

"I warn you I shall tell her every word you say, Doctor.  But it's of no
good.  I shall not back out.  Look at her dear face now."

Reed caught the little Doctor by the shoulder, and pointed to where his
daughter sat with the light of one of the shaded lamps falling upon her
pretty, animated face, as she laughed at something a sharp-looking,
handsome young man was saying--an anecdote of some kind which amused the
rest of the group in old Grantham Reed's drawing-room.

"Oh yes, she's pretty enough," said the Doctor testily.  "I wish she
weren't.  Don't let that brother of yours be quite so civil to her, boy.
I don't like Jessop."

"Nor me?" said the young man, smiling.

"Of course I don't, sir.  Hang it all! how can a man like the young
scoundrel who robs him of his child's love?"

"No, sir," said Clive Reed gravely; "only evokes a new love that had
lain latent, and offers him the love and respect of a son as well."

Doctor Praed caught the young man's hand in his and gave it a firm
pressure.  Then he cleared his throat before he spoke again, but his
voice sounded husky as he said--

"God bless you, my dear boy."

And then he stopped, and stood gazing through the window at the pleasant
little party, as two neatly-dressed maids entered and began to remove
the tea-things, one taking out the great plated urn, while the other
collected the cups and saucers.

"The old man hasn't bad taste in maids," he said, with his voice still a
little shaky, and as if he wanted to steady it before going on with
something he wished to say.  "Why don't he have men?"

"He will not.  He prefers to have maids about."

"Then he ought to have ugly ones," continued the Doctor, who keenly
watched the movements of the slight, pretty, fair girl who was
collecting the cups, and who exchanged glances with Jessop Reed as she
took the cup and saucer he handed her.  "A man who has two ugly
scoundrels of sons has no business to keep damsels like that."

"This ugly scoundrel is always out and busy over mining matters; that
ugly scoundrel is living away at chambers, money-making at the Stock
Exchange," said Clive, smiling.

"Humph!  Mining and undermining.  Well, young men like to look at pretty
girls."

"Of course, Doctor," said Clive.  "I do.  I'm looking now at the
prettiest, sweetest--"

"Don't be a young fool," cried the Doctor testily.  "I can describe
Janet better than you can.  Now, look here, boy; I've got two things to
say to you.  First of all, about this `White Virgin'."

"Yours?" said Clive, still glancing at Janet, over whom his brother was
now bending, as the maid who carried the tray made the cups dash as she
opened the door, and then hurried out as if to avoid a scolding.

"No, young idiot; yours--your father's," said the Doctor, rather
sharply.  "Hang that organ!"

"Yes, they are a nuisance," said the younger man, as one of the popular
tunes was struck up just inside the square.

"Well, what about the mine, sir?"

"Only this, my lad: I've got a few thousands put aside; you know that."

"Yes, sir; I supposed you had."

"Oh, you knew," said the Doctor suspiciously.

"Yes; I think I heard something of the kind."

"Humph!"

"There, Doctor, don't take up that tone.  Give me Janet, and leave your
money to a hospital."

"No; hang me if I do!  I haven't patience with them, sir.  The way in
which hospitals are imposed upon is disgraceful.  People who ought to be
able to pay for medical and surgical advice go and sponge upon hospitals
in a way that--Oh, hang it, that's not what I wanted to say.  Look here,
Clive, if this new mine--"

"No, sir: very old mine."

"Well, very old mine--is a good thing, I should like to have a few
thousands in it.  Now, then, would it be safe?  Stop, confound you!  If
you deceive me, you shan't have Janet."

"If ever I'm ill, I shall go to another doctor," said Clive quietly.

"Yes, you'd better, sir!  He'd poison you."

"Well, he wouldn't insult me, Doctor."

"Bah! nonsense; I was joking, my dear boy.  Come, tell me.  Here, feel
the pulse of my purse, and tell me what to do."

"I will," said the younger man.  "Wait, sir.  I don't know enough about
it yet to give a fair opinion.  At present everything looks wonderfully
easy.  It's a very ancient mine.  It was worked by the Romans, and
whatever was done was in the most primitive way, leaving lodes and veins
untouched, and which are extending possibly to an immense depth, rich,
and probably containing a very large percentage of silver."

"Well, come, that's good enough for anything."

"Yes, but I am not sure yet, Doctor.  I'm not going to give you advice
that might result in your losing heavily, and then upbraiding me for
years to come."

"No, dear boy.  You would only be losing your own money; for, of course,
it will be Janet's and yours."

"Bother the money!" said the young man shortly.  "Look here, Doctor; as
a mining engineer, I should advise every one but those who want to do a
bit of gambling, and are ready to take losses philosophically, to have
nothing to do with mines.  If, however, I can help you with this, I will
tell you all I know as fast as I learn it."

"That'll do, boy.  Now about the other matter.  You know I make use of
my eyes a good deal."

"Yes," said the young man anxiously.

"Then, to put it rather brutally and plainly, boy, I don't like the look
of the old dad."

"Doctor Praed!" cried the young man in a voice full of agony, as he
turned and gazed anxiously into the drawing-room, where Grantham Reed,
one of the best known floaters of mining projects in the City, sat back
in his chair, holding Janet Praed's hand, and patting it gently, as he
evidently listened to something his elder son was relating.  "Why, what
nonsense!  I never saw him look better in my life."

"Perhaps not--you didn't," said the Doctor drily.

"I beg your pardon.  But has he complained?"

"No; he has nothing to complain of, poor fellow; but all the same, we
doctors see things sometimes which tell us sad tales.  Look here, Clive,
my boy.  I speak to you like a son, because you are going to be my son.
I can't talk to your brother, though he is the elder, and ought to stand
first.  I don't like Jessop."

"Jess is a very good fellow when you know him as I do," said Clive
coldly.

"I'm very glad to hear it, boy," said the Doctor.  "But look here; your
father's in a very bad way, and he ought to be told."

"But are you sure, sir?" said Clive, in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes, I am sure," said the Doctor.  "I have been watching him for the
past six months in doubt.  Now I know.  Will you tell him, or shall I?"

"Tell him!" faltered Clive.

"Yes; a man in his position must have so much to do about his money
affairs--winding up matters, while his mind is still strong and clear."

"But he is well and happy," said Clive.  "How could I go to him and
say--"

"Here, where's that Doctor?" came from within, in a strong voice.  "Oh,
there you are!  It's going on for ten, and I must have one rubber before
you start."

Five minutes later four people were seated at a card-table, one of whom
was Clive Reed, whose hands were cold and damp, as he felt as if he were
playing for his father's life in some great game of chance, while in the
farther drawing-room Janet Praed was singing a ballad in a low, sweet
voice, and Clive's sharp-looking, keen-eyed brother was turning over the
music leaves and passing compliments, at which his sister-in-law elect
uttered from time to time in the intervals of the song a half-pained,
half-contemptuous laugh.

CHAPTER TWO.

ARCH-PLOTTERS.

"Hullo, my noble! what brings you here?"

Jessop Reed took off his glossy, fashionable hat, laid a gold-headed
malacca cane across it as he placed it upon the table, and then shot his
cuffs out of the sleeves of his City garments, cut in the newest style,
and apparently fresh that day.  Tie, collar, sleeve-links, pin, chain,
tightly-cut trousers, spats, and patent shoes betokened the dandy of the
Stock Exchange, and the cigar-case he took out was evidently the last
new thing of its kind.

"Cigar?" he said, opening and offering it to the dark, sallow, youngish
man seated at an office table, for he had not risen when his visitor to
the office in New Inn entered.

"Eh?  Well, I don't mind.  Yours are always so good."

He selected one, declined a patent cutter, preferring to use a very keen
penknife which lay on the table, but he accepted the match which his
visitor extracted from the interior of a little Japanese owl, and deftly
lit by rubbing it along his leg.  The next minute the two men sat
smoking and gazing in each other's eyes.

"Well, my brilliant, my jasper and sardine stone, what brings you
through grimy Wych Street to these shades?"

"You're pretty chippy this morning, Wrigley.  Been doing somebody?"

"No, my boy; hadn't a chance.  Have you come to be done?"

"Yes; gently.  Short bill on moderate terms."

"What!  You don't mean to say that you, my hero on 'Change, who are
turning over money, as it were, with a pitchfork, are coming to me?"

"I am, though, so no humbug."

"'Pon my word!  A fellow with a dad like a Rothschild and a brother
that--here, why don't you ask the noble Clive?"

"Hang Clive!" snapped out Jessop.

"Certainly, my dear fellow, if you wish it," said John Wrigley.  "Hang
Clive!  Will that do?"

"I don't care about worrying the old man, and there's a little thing on
in Argentines this morning.  I want a hundred at once."

"In paper?"

"Look here, Wrigley, if you won't let me have the stuff, say so, and
I'll go to some one else."

"And pay twice as much as I shall charge, my dear boy.  Don't be so
peppery.  Most happy to oblige you, and without consulting my friend in
the City, who will have to sell out at a loss, eh?  A hundred, eh?"

"Yes, neat."

"All right!"

A slip of blue stamped paper was taken out of a drawer, filled up,
passed over for signature, and as Jessop now took up a pen he uttered a
loud growl.

"Hundred and twenty in four months!  Sixty per cent.  Bah! what a
blood-sucker you are!"

"Yes, aren't I?" said the other cheerily.  "Don't take my interest
first, though, and give you a cheque for eighty, eh?"

He took the bill, glanced at it, and thrust it in a plain morocco case,
which he replaced in a drawer, took out a cheque-book, quickly wrote a
cheque, signed it, and looked up.

"Cross it?" he said.

"Yes.  I shall pay it in.  Thanks!"

"There you see the value of a good reputation, my dear Reed; but you
oughtn't to be paying for money through the nose like that."

"No," said the visitor, with a snarl, "I oughtn't to be, but I do.  If
the dear brother wants any amount, there it, is; but if I want it--cold
shoulder."

"So it is, my dear fellow; some are favourites for a time, some are not:
Let me see.  He's engaged to the rich doctor's daughter, isn't he?"

"Oh yes, bless me," said Jessop.  "All the fat and gravy of life come to
him."

The young lawyer threw one leg over the other and clasped his hands
about his knee.

"Ah! yes," he said seriously, "the distribution of money and honour in
this world is very unequal.  Clive is on that mine, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes; consulting engineer and referee scientific, and all the
confounded cant of it.  As for a good thing--well, I'm told not to
grumble, and to be content with my commission and all the shares I can
get taken up."

"Does seem hard," said Wrigley.  "Only for a year or two, eh?  And then
a sale and a burst up?"

"Don't you make any mistake about that, old man," said Jessop sulkily.
"It's a big thing."

"Then why wasn't it taken up before?"

"Because people are fools.  They've been so awfully humbugged, too, over
mines.  This is a very old mine that the governor has been trying to get
hold of on the quiet for years, but he couldn't work it till old Lord
Belvers died.  It has never been worked by machinery, and, as you may
say, has only been skinned.  There are mints of money in it, my boy, and
so I tell you."

Wrigley smiled.

"What is your commission on all the shares you place?"

"Precious little.  Eh?  Oh, I see; you think I want to plant a few.  Not
likely.  If you wanted a hundred, I couldn't get them for you."

"No, they never are to be had."

"Chaff away.  I don't care.  You know it's a good thing, or else our
governor wouldn't have put his name to it and set so much money as he
has."

"To come up and bear a good crop, eh?  There, I won't chaff about it,
Jessop, boy.  I know it's a good thing, and you ought to make a rare
swag out of it."

"So that you could too, eh?"

"Of course; so that we could both make a good thing out of it.  One is
not above making a few thou's, I can tell you.  Lead, isn't it?"

"Yes, solid lead.  None of your confounded flashy gold-mines."

"But they sound well with the public, Jessop.  Gold--gold--gold.  The
public is not a Bassanio, to choose the lead casket."

"It was a trump ace, though, my boy."

"So it was.  But you are only to get a little commission out of sales
over this, eh?"

"That's all; and it isn't worth the candle, for there'll be no more to
sell.  The shares are going up tremendously."

"So I hear--so I hear," said Wrigley thoughtfully; "and you are left out
in the cold, and have to come borrowing.  Jessop, old man, over business
matters you and I are business men, and there is, as the saying goes, no
friendship in business."

"Not a bit," said Jessop, with an oath.

"But we are old friends, and we have seen a little life together."

"Ah! we have," said Jessop, nodding his head.

"And, as the world goes, I think we have a little kind of pleasant
feeling one for the other."

"Humph!  I suppose so," said Jessop, watching the other narrowly with
the keen eye of a man who deals in hard cash, and knows the value of a
sixteenth per cent, in a large transaction.  "Well, what's up?"

"I was thinking, my dear fellow," said the young lawyer, in a low voice,
"how much pleasanter the world would be for you and me if we were rich.
But no, no, no.  You would not care to fight against your father and
brother."

"Perhaps before long there will only be my brother to fight against,"
said Jessop meaningly.

The lawyer looked at him keenly.

"You should not say that without a good reason, Jessop."

"No, I should not."

"Well, I don't ask for your confidence, so let it slide.  It was
tempting; but there is your brother."

"Curse my brother!" cried Jessop savagely.  "Is he always to stand in my
light?"

"That rests with you."

"Look here, what do you mean?"

"Do you wish me to state what I mean?"

"Yes," said Jessop excitedly.

"Then I meant this.  Your father is very rich, and knows how to protect
his interests."

"Trust him for that."

"Your brother is well provided for, and can make his way."

"Oh, hang him, yes.  Fortune's favourite, and no mistake."

"Then what would you say if--But one moment.  You tell me, as man to
man, to whom the business would be vital, that the `White Virgin' mine
is really a big thing?"

"I tell you, as man to man, that it will be a tremendously big thing."

"Good!" said the lawyer slowly, and in a low voice.  "Then what would
you say if I put you in the way of making a few hundred thousand
pounds?"

"And yourself too?"

"Of course."

"Then never mind what I should say.  Can you do it?"

"Yes.  You and I are about the only two men who could work that affair
rightly; and as the whole business is to others a speculation, if they
lose--well, they have gambled, and must take their chance."

"Of course.  But--speak out."

"No, not out, Jessop; we must not so much as whisper.  I have that
affair under my thumb, and there is a fortune in it for us--the
stockbroker and the lawyer.  Shall we make a contract of it, hand in
hand?"

"Tell me one thing first--it sounds impossible.  What would you do?"

"Simply this," said Wrigley, with a smile.  "I tell you because you will
not go back, neither could I.  There's my hand on it."

Jessop eagerly grasped the extended hand.

"It means being loss to thousands--fortune to two."

"Us two?" said Jessop hoarsely.

"Exactly!  It is in a nutshell, my boy.  All is fair in love, in war,
and money-making, eh?  Here is my plan."

CHAPTER THREE.

ANOTHER.

"Come, I say, my dear, what's the good of being so stand-offish.  It's
very nice and pretty, and makes a man fonder of you, and that's why you
do it, I know!  I say!  I didn't know that the pretty Derbyshire lasses
in this out-of-the-way place were as coy and full of their little games
as our London girls."  Out-of-the-way place indeed!  Dinah Gurdon knew
that well enough, as, with her teeth set fast and her eyes dilated, she
hurried along that afternoon over the mountain-side.  The path was an
old track, which had been made hundreds of years before, so that ponies
could drag the little trucks up and down, and in and out, but always
lower and lower to the smelting-house down in the dale, a mere crack in
the limestone far below, whose perpendicular jagged walls were draped
with ivy, and at whose foot rushed along the clear crystal trout-river,
which brought a stranger into those solitudes once in a way.  But not on
this particular afternoon, for Dinah looked vainly for some
tweed-clothed gentleman with lithe rod over his shoulder and
fishing-creel slung on back, to whom she could appeal for protection
from the man who followed her so closely behind on the narrow,
shelf-like path.

Two miles at least to go yet to the solitary nook in the hills just
above the bend in the stream, where the pretty, romantic, flower-clothed
cottage stood; and where only, as far as she knew, help could be found.
And at last, feeling that she must depend entirely upon herself for
protection, she drew her breath hard, and mastered the strong desire
within her to cry aloud and run along the stony track as fast as her
strength would allow.

But she only walked fast, with her sunburned, ungloved fingers tightly
holding her basket, her face hidden by her close sun-bonnet, and her
simply made blue spotted cotton dress giving forth a peculiar ruffing
sound as she hurried on with "that man" close behind.

She had seen that man again and again for the past two months, and he
had spoken to her twice, and each time she had imagined that he was some
stranger who was passing through, and whom one might never see again.
She knew better now.

He was not a bad-looking fellow of five-and-thirty; and an artist, who
could have robed him as he pleased, instead of having him in ordinary
clothes, could not have wished for a better model for a picturesque
ruffian than Michael Sturgess, a man born in London, but who had passed
the greater part of his time in Cornwall and in Wales.  A good workman,
but one who had a kind of notoriety among his fellows for divers little
acts of gallantry, real and imaginary.  He was not a man of strong
perceptions or experiences out of mines, and he judged womankind, as he
called them, by their faces and their clothes.  Silk and fashionable
bonnets suggested ladies to him; cotton dresses and pretty faces, girls
who enjoyed a bit of flirtation, and who were his lawful prey.

"I say, you know," he cried, "what's the good of rushing on like that,
and making yourself so hot?  Hold hard now; you've done the coy long
enough.  Sit down and rest, and let's have a good long talk.  You need
not look round; there's nobody about, and it's a good two miles to the
cottage where your old dad lives."

Dinah started and increased her pace.

"You see I know.  I've seen the old boy in his brown alpaca and straw
hat; I've watched him, same as I have you--you pretty little bright-eyed
darling.  Come, stop now; I want to make love to you."

As Michael Sturgess said these last words, he bent forward and caught
hold of the folds of the dress, and tried to stop the girl, who sprang
round in an instant, striking the dress from the man's hand, and facing
him with her handsome face flashing its indignation.

"How dare you!" she cried.  "Such insolence!  You forget yourself, sir,
and if my father were here--"

"Which he isn't, dear.  But bravo!  That's very nice and pretty, and
makes you look ten times as handsome as ever.  I like it.  I love to see
a girl with some pluck in her.  But come now, what's the good of going
on like that and pretending to be the fine lady, I know what you are,
and who you are, and where you live, as I told you."

"I desire you to leave me instantly, sir.  My father is a gentleman, and
you will be severely punished if you dare to interrupt me like this."

"Go on," said the man, with a laugh.  "I know the old boy, and have
talked to him twice.  It's all right, dear, don't be so proud.  I mean
the right thing by you.  I'm down here to take charge of the `White
Virgin' yonder, behind where you live, and want to take charge of this
little white virgin too.  See?  I shall have a grand place of it, and
I'll make quite the lady of you.  There now, you see it's all right.
Let me carry the basket; it's too big and heavy for your pretty little
hands."

He made a snatch at the creel she was carrying, but she drew back
quickly, and hurried on once more, fighting hard to keep back the
hysterical tears, and vainly looking to right and left for help or a
means of escape from the unwelcome attentions forced upon her.  But she
looked in vain.  The hillside sloped off too rapidly for any one but a
most able climber to mount, and to have attempted to descend meant doing
so at great risk to life and limb.

There was nothing for it but to hurry on, and this she did with her
breath coming faster--faster from excitement and exertion, as she
recalled his words.

What did he say?  He was in charge of the "White Virgin" mine--the old
disused series of shaft and excavation down the narrow chasm which ran
like a huge ragged gash into the mountain, and from which hundreds of
thousands of tons of stone and refuse had been tilted down the
mountain-side to form the moss-grown ugly cascade of stones which stood
out from the hill-slope forming a prominent object visible for miles.

The shelf she was following led past the narrow ravine, with its many
pathways cut in the steep sides all running towards the great shaft,
fenced in with blocks of stone.  She had been there several times with
her father, bearing him company during his walks in search of minerals,
so that the way was perfectly familiar to her, though it was a place not
to be approached without a feeling of dread.  Country superstition had
made it the home of the old miners, who now and then revisited the
glimpses of the moon; two people had been, it was said, murdered there,
and their bodies hidden in the dark, wet mazes of the workings; and
within the recollection of the oldest inhabitant an unhappy forsaken
maiden, who feared to face the reproaches of her relatives, had sought
oblivion in the water at the bottom of the principal shaft, and her body
had never been found.

It was an uncanny place on a bright sunny day--after night a spot to be
avoided for many reasons; but Dinah Gurdon approached it now with
feelings of hope, for she felt that the man who was in charge would
leave her there if she only maintained her firmness.

"Why, what a silly little thing it is!" he said, in a low, eager voice,
his words sounding subdued and confidential as he uttered them close to
her ear.  "What are you afraid of?  Why, bless your pretty heart, it's
plain to see you haven't been troubled much by the stupid bumpkins about
here.  Running away like that just because a man tells you he loves you.
And I do, my pretty one, and have ever since I came down here.  Soon as
I clapped eyes on you, I says to myself, `That's the lass for me.'  Why,
I've done down here what I haven't done since I left Sunday-school--I've
come three Sundays running to church, so as to see your bonny face.  I
saw you come by this morning when I was yonder leaning over the fence.
`Going to market,' I says.  `Wonder whether she'd bring me an ounce of
tobacco from the shop, if I asked her?'  But I was just too late, so I
sat down and waited for you.  `She won't want me to be seen with her in
the village,' I said.  `Girls like to keep these things quiet at first.'
So do I, dear.  I say, it's pretty lonesome for me down here till they
begin working, but I've got plenty of time for you, so let's make good
use of it while we can."

Dinah paid no heed to his words in her alarm, but they forced themselves
upon her unwilling ears, as she hurried through the solitary place,
feeling that every step took her nearer home, and toward the entrance to
the mine gap, where this man would leave her.

"I say, you know, aren't you carrying this on a bit too hard?" he
half-whispered.  "Isn't it time you gave way just a little bit?  You see
how nice and gentle I am with you, dear.  Some fellows would be rough
and lay hold of you, but I'm not that sort.  I like to be tender and
kind with a girl.  Just because one's big and strong, one don't need to
be a regular brute.  I say, come now, that's enough.  Let's look at your
pretty face.  Take off your sun-bonnet.  It's a darned ugly one, and
I'll go over to Derby some night and buy you the prettiest that there is
in the shops.  I will, 'pon my soul!  There's no humbug about me, my
dear.  Why, you've made this old wilderness look quite cheerful, and if
it hadn't been for knowing that you lived down there by the river, I
don't believe I should have stopped it out.  I should have just written
off to the governor and said, `I'm coming back to London.'  I say,
wouldn't you like to go up to London, my dear?  I'll take you and pay up
like a man.--I mean it."

Dinah's heart gave a great leap, for not fifty yards farther on there
was the narrow natural gateway in the side of the hill, leading right
into the deep, zigzag rift which clave the mountain from the top far
down into the bowels of the earth, and spread in secondary maze-like
chasms farther and farther in here through the limestone, where the
dirty grey lead ore was found in company with masses of crystalline
growth glittering with galena.  Here, too, was the wondrous conglomerate
of lily encrinite, once animated flowers of stone, forming the mountain
masses of Derbyshire marble, where a calm sea once spread its deep
waters in the days when the earth was young.  Here were the beds and
veins of the transparent violet spar, locally known as the "Blue John,"
which glistened here and there in the natural caves, side by side with
stalactite and stalagmite, wherever water filtered through the strata,
and came out charged with the lime which had gone on cementing spar and
shell together into solid blocks.

A weird, strange place to any one save the lovers of the strange, and
then only explored in company by the light of chemical and wick.  A
place generally shunned, and only to be sought or chosen as a sanctuary
by one who was pursued.  But circumstances alter cases, and matters
happen strangely and influence our lives in unexpected ways.

Dinah Gurdon, Major Gurdon's only child, paying no heed to her
follower's words, kept hurrying on, for she had nearly reached the
ragged entrance to the mine gap, feeling that at last she would be free,
and then the insolent, self-satisfied ruffian would not dare to pursue
her farther, for he had said that this was the place he had in charge.
But if he did, another quarter of a mile would take her round the great
limestone buttress formed by the mine spoil; and then she would be on
the south slope of the Tor, in full view of the narrow valley, up out of
which her father would probably be coming, and he would see her, as he
came to meet her, a mile away.

She had kept to her steady, quick walk as long as she could; but now the
exultation produced by the sight of freedom reassured her, and unable to
control herself, she started off running past the natural gateway in the
rocky wall on her right.

But Michael Sturgess was too quick for her.

"No, you don't, my pretty one," he cried, as he dashed in pursuit,
overtook her in a few yards, and caught her by the dress, which tore
loudly in his hand.  The next moment he had his arm round her waist, but
she struck at him wildly as he now held her and blocked her way.  There
was a momentary struggle, and she was free once more.  She turned as if
about to leap down the steep slope at her side; but the attempt was too
desperate, and she ran back a few yards, with the man close behind, and
then turned again and dashed frantically between the two natural
buttresses, down the steep path leading to the mazes and gloomy passages
of the ancient mine.

Michael Sturgess stopped short for a moment, burst into a coarse laugh,
and gave his leg a slap.

"I knowed it," he cried.  "Oh, these girls, these girls!"

The next minute he was in full pursuit, and ten minutes later, faint,
wild, and echoing up the walls of the shadowy solitude, there was a
piercing cry.

A great bird rose slowly, circling higher about the dismal gap, and then
all was still.

CHAPTER FOUR.

JESSOP'S WEAKNESS.

"I don't care.  I will speak, and if master gets to know, so much the
better."

"Will you hold your silly tongue?"

"No, I won't.  I've held it too long.  It's disgraceful, that's what it
is, and I'll tell Mr Clive of your goings-on with his sweetheart."

"Look here, Lyddy, do you want me to poison you, or take you out
somewhere and push you into a river?"

"Yes," cried the girl addressed, passionately.  "I wish you would, and
then there'd be an end of the misery and wretchedness.  And as for that
Miss Janet Praed--"

"Hold your tongue, you silly, jealous little fool!"

"Oh yes, I know I'm a fool--fool to believe all your wicked lies.  And
so would you be jealous.  I saw it all last time she was here--a slut
engaged to be married to your brother, and all the time making eyes at
you, while you are carrying on with her shamefully, and before me, too.
It's cruel and disgraceful.  I may be only a servant, but I've got my
feelings the same as other people, and I'd die sooner than behave as she
did, and you did, and--and--I wish I was dead, I do--that I do."

"Will you be quiet, you silly little goose.  Do you want everybody in
the house to know of our flirtation?"

"Flirtation!" cried the girl, wiping her streaming eyes.  "You regularly
proposed and asked me to be your wife."

"Why, of course.  Haven't I promised that I would marry you some day?"

"Yes--some day," said the girl bitterly; "but some day never comes.  Oh,
Jessop, dear Jessop! you made me love you so, and you're breaking my
heart, going on as you do with that Miss Praed."

She threw her arms about his neck, and clung to him till he roughly
forced her to quit her hold.

"Are you mad?" he said angrily.

"Yes, very nearly," cried the girl, with her pretty, fair, weak face
lighted up with rage.  "You've made me so.  I'll tell Mr Clive as soon
as he comes back from Derbyshire--see if I don't!"

"You'd better," said Jessop grimly.  "You dare say a word to a soul, and
I'll never put a ring on your finger, my lady--there!"

"Yes, you will--you shall!" cried the girl passionately.  "You promised
me, and the law shall make you!"

"Will you be quiet?  You'll have my father hear you directly."

"And a good job too."

"Oh, you think so, do you?"

"Yes, I do.  Master's a dear, good gentleman, and always been nice and
kind.  I'll tell him--that I will!"

"Not you.  There, wipe those pretty little blue eyes, and don't make
your dear little puggy nose red, nor your cheeks neither.  I don't know,
though," whispered Jessop, passing his arm round the girl and drawing
her to him; "it makes you look very sweet and attractive.  I say, Lyddy,
dear, you are really a beautiful girl, you know."

"Do adone, Jessop," she whispered, softening directly, and yielding
herself to his touch.

"I couldn't help loving you, darling, and I love you more and more every
day, though you will lead me such a life with your jealousy.  I never
find fault with you when I see you smiling at Clive."

"But it is not as I do at you, dear.  Mr Clive was always quite the
gentleman to me, and it hurts me to see you trying so hard to get Miss
Janet away from him."

"There you go again, little silly.  Isn't she going to be my
sister-in-law?"

"It didn't look like it."

"Pish!  What do you know about such things?  In society we are obliged
to be a bit polite, and so on."

"Oh, are we?  I know; and if I told Mr Clive, he'd think as I do.  I
won't have you make love to her before my very eyes--there!"

"Why, what an unreasonable little pet it is!" he cried, disarming the
girl's resentment with a few caresses.

"And the sooner master knows you are engaged to me the better," she
said, with a sob.

"And then you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that my father has
quarrelled with me, and altered his will, so that everything goes to my
brother.  He may marry you then, for I couldn't.  I shouldn't have a
penny to help myself.  Oh yes; go and tell.  I believe you want to get
hold of him now."

The girl gave him a piteous look, and tried to catch his hand, but he
avoided her touch, and laughed sneeringly.

"I don't want to be hard and bitter," he said, "but I'm not blind."

She looked up at him reproachfully.

"You don't mean what you are saying," she whispered sadly, "so I shan't
fret about that."

"You don't believe me," he said, in a low voice, as he fixed the girl
with his eyes, glorying in the knowledge that he had thoroughly subdued
her, and that she was his to mould exactly as he willed, to obey him
like a slave.  "Then you may believe this, that I have told you before.
All that has passed between us is our secret, and if you betray it and
ruin my prospects, and make me a beggar, you may go and drown yourself
as you threatened, for aught I care, for you will have wilfully cut
everything between us asunder.  Now we understand each other, and you
had better go before any one comes."  The girl stood gazing at him
piteously now, with every trace of anger gone out of her eyes, and her
tones, when she spoke, were those of appeal.

"But, Jessop, dear."

"Be quiet, will you," he said angrily.

"Don't speak to me like that, dear," she whispered.  "Only tell me you
don't care for Miss Praed."

"I won't answer such a baby's stupid questions.  You know I only care
for you."

There was a sob, but at the same moment a look of hope to lighten a good
deal of despair.

"You are not angry with me, Jessop, dear?"

"Yes, I am, very."

"But you will forgive me, love?"

"Anything, if you'll only be the dear, good, sensible little woman you
used to be."

"I will, dear--always," she whispered.

"And fight for me, so that I may not lose."

"Yes, dear, of course."

"Can I trust you, Lyddy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then, whatever happens, you will, for my sake, hold your tongue till I
tell you to speak?"

"Yes, if I die for it," she said earnestly.

"I thought you would be sensible," he said, nodding at her.  "Come,
that's my pretty, wise little woman.  Now go about your business, and
wait for the bright days to come, when I shall be free to do as I like."

"Yes, Jessop," she whispered, and after a sharp glance at the door she
bent forward and kissed him quickly.  "But there isn't anything between
you and Miss Janet?"

"Of course not," he cried.  "As if there could be while you live."

She nodded to him smiling, laid her finger on her lips to show that they
were sealed, and then hurried out of the room.

"Poor little fool!" said Jessop Reed to himself, as soon as he was
alone; "you are getting rather in the way."

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE TREASURE HOUSE.

Clive Reed stood up like a statue on a natural pedestal, high on the
precipitous slope.  It was a great ponderous block of millstone grit,
which had become detached just at the spot where, high up, mountain
limestone and the above-named formation joined.  And as he looked about
him, it seemed wonderful to a man fresh from London that he could find
so great a solitude in central England.  Look where he would, the
various jumbled together eminences of the termination of the Pennine
range met his eye; there was hardly a tree in sight, but everywhere hill
and deeply cut dale, the down-like tops of the calcareous, and the
roughly jagged crags of the grit, while, with the exception of a few
white dots on a green slope far away, representing a flock of sheep,
there was no sign of life, neither house, hut, nor church spire.

"Yes, there is something alive," said the young man, "for there goes a
bee wild-thyme hunting, and whir-r-r-r!  Think of that now, as somebody
says; who would have expected to see grouse out here in these hills?"

There they were, sure enough, a pair which skimmed by him as he stood at
the very edge of the great gash in the mountain-side, at the bottom of
which the track ran right into the mine he had come down to inspect for
the third time, after walking across from the town twelve miles distant,
where he had left the train on the previous evening.

"Wild, grand, solitary, on a day like this," said Reed to himself; "but
what must it be when a western gale is blowing.  Come, Master Sturgess,
you're behind your time again."

He glanced at his watch.

"No; give the devil his due," he muttered.  "I'm half an hour too soon,
and, by George, not so solitary as I thought.  Behold! two travellers
wending their way across the desolate waste, as the novel-writers say.
Now what can bring a pair of trousers and a petticoat there?"

The young man shaded his eyes and looked across the gap to where, far
away, the two figures he had seen moved so slowly that they seemed to be
stationary.  Then they separated a little, and the man stooped and then
knelt down.

"Can't be flower-gatherers out here.  I know: after mushrooms.  But
let's see."

Clive Reed dragged the strap which supported a tin case slung from his
shoulder, forced it aside, and tugged at another strap so as to bring a
little binocular into reach; and adjusting this, he followed his natural
instinct or some strange law of affinity, and brought the little lenses
to bear upon the female in place of the male.

"Not a gentle shepherdess fair, with tously locks and grubby hands and
face, though she has a dog by her side," he said to himself.  "Looks
like a lady--at a distance.  Phyllis and Corydon, eh?  No," he added,
after an alteration of the glass; "long white hair and grey beard, and--
hullo! old chap's got a candle-box.  Botanist or some other -ist.  Hang
it, he's after minerals for a pound, and the lady--in white?  Humph, it
can't be the `White Virgin' who gave the name to the mine.  Let's--Hands
off, old gentleman, or keep your own side.  Hah! there goes the dog:
after a rabbit, perhaps."

Clive Reed was ready to ask himself directly after, why he should stand
there taking so much interest in these two figures, so distant that even
with the help of the glass he could not distinguish their features.  But
watch them he did till they disappeared round a shoulder of the hill.

"Tourists--cheap trippers, I suppose," said the young man, replacing the
glass in its sling case.  "I wonder where they have come from?" and then
with a half laugh, as he took out a cigarette-case and lit up, "I wonder
why I take so much interest in them?"

"Answer simple," he continued, with a half laugh; "because they are the
only living creatures in sight.  Man is a gregarious beast, and likes to
greg.  I feel ready to go after them and talk.  Hallo! here we are!
Master Sturgess and two men with a stout ladder, coils of rope, and--if
he hasn't brought a crowbar and a lanthorn, woe."

He shaded his eyes again to watch a party of three men toiling up a
slope, half a mile away, and began to descend from his coign of vantage
to reach the pathway at the entrance to the gap, seeing as he did that
he would not arrive there long before the others.

A glance at his watch showed him that it was still only ten o'clock, for
he had started on his mountain tramp at daybreak, and as he walked and
slid downward, he calculated that he would have time after the mine
examination to make for one of the villages in the neighbourhood of
Matlock to pass the night, so as to see as much of the country as he
could.

"Morning, Sturgess; you got my letter then?"

"Oh, yes, sir, yesterday morning," said the man, as Reed nodded at his
two sturdy followers--rough-looking men of the mining stamp, both of
whom acknowledged his salute with a half-sneering smile.

"Brought two different chaps this time.  Got enough tackle?"

"Oh, yes, sir; ropes, hammer, spikes, and crowbar."

"Lanthorn?"

"Oh, yes, sir.  Shouldn't come on a job like this without a light."

"Then come along."

He led the way through the narrow entrance, where the rock had once upon
a time been picked away to allow room for the passage of horses or rough
trucks, but now all covered with lichen and the marks of the eroding
tooth of Time; and then up and down and in and out along the side of the
chasm, which grew more gloomy at every step, deeper into the
mountain-side, while the bottom of the gully grew narrower and closer,
till it resembled the dried-up bed of a stream which had become half
blocked up with the great masses of stone, which had fallen from above.

Clive Reed's eyes were everywhere as they went on--now noticing spots
where the sloping walls of rock had been worked for ore, others where
trials had been made, honeycombing the rock with shallow cells, but
always suggesting that this working must have been ages ago, and in a
very superficial primitive fashion.  This suggested plenty of prospect
for the engineer who would attack the ancient mine with the modern
appliances and forces which compel Nature to yield up her hidden
treasures, buried away since the beginning of the world.

Clive Reed saw pretty well everything on his way to the dark end, and,
after making a few short, sharp, business-like remarks, he said
suddenly--

"The plans say there is no way out whatever, beside the entrance."

He turned to Sturgess as he spoke, and a curious look came over the
countenance of the guardian of the mine, but before he could speak one
of the men behind said--

"Man as didn't mind breaking his neck might get up yonder," and he
nodded towards the precipitous side.

"Which means that a rough staircase might easily be made if wanted,
and--"

He did not finish speaking, but sprang up on to a block of stone,
climbed to another, drew himself on to a third, and extricated something
from a niche which had caught his observant eye, and with which he
sprang down.

It was a fine cambric handkerchief, which he turned over as Sturgess
looked on stolidly and with the same peculiar look in his countenance.

"Here, somebody may make inquiries about this.  You had better take it,
Sturgess.  Visitors to the old mine perhaps, but they have no business
here now.  You will keep the place quite private for the present."

The man took the handkerchief, and a keen observer would have thought
that he put it out of sight rather hurriedly.

"Blowed in," said one of the others with a laugh.  "Wonderful windy up
here sometimes."

Reed had started again, and plunging farther and farther into the
natural cutting in the mountain-side, soon after reached the end of the
_cul de sac_, where, partly obliterated by time, there were abundant
traces of the old workings, notably the shafts with their crumbling
sides, one going down perpendicularly, and into which the young engineer
pushed over a stone.  This fell down and down for some time before it
struck against a projection with such force that it sent up a hollow
reverberating roar, and directly after came the dull, sullen sound of
its plunge into the water which had gathered in the huge well-like
place.

"She's pretty deep, sir," said one of the men, with a laugh.

"Yes," said Reed, with a nod, and he went on climbing over the blocks of
stone fallen from above, and which cumbered the place, to one of the
other two shafts, both of which had been made following a lode running
raggedly down at an angle of about seventy degrees.

"We'll try this," said Reed sharply.

"Want me to go down and chip off a few bits that seem most likely?" said
Sturgess roughly.

"No.  Now, my lads, drive the crowbar well in here," said the engineer,
indicating a rift close to where they stood, a crevice between two
immense blocks of limestone.

"This here one's handier," said one of the men, pointing to a crack
close to the opening.

"Yes, and when you have loosened it by driving in that bar, more likely
to be pulled down into the shaft.  In here, please."

The man inserted the sharp edge of the bar, and his companion made the
great chasm echo as he began to drive the iron in with strokes of the
heavy hammer he carried, till it was deemed safe.

"Hold a ridgement o' sojers now, sir," said the hammerman.

"Yes, that's safe enough," said Reed; and after carefully examining the
ropes, he knotted two together, and formed a loop at the end of one.

"Shall we two go down, sir?"

"No; I am going," replied Reed quietly.

"Find it precious dirty and wet, sir.  Best let us."

"No, thank you.  Let me down.  How far is it to the first level?"

"'Bout two hundred foot, I should say, p'raps more; but I dare say it
don't go down so straight far, but works out'ard like.  I d'know,
though.  I've never been down, and nobody as I ever heard of ever did
go."

"No," said the other with a laugh, "and strikes me as you won't find
nothing worth your while when you do go.  The old folks got out all the
good stuff from here hundreds o' years ago."

"You will be ready to haul up when I signal," said Reed quietly.

"Oh, yes, sir.  You may trust us.  We don't want to make an inquess on
you."

"Light the lanthorn," said Reed to Sturgess, and taking off the flat tin
case he carried slung under his left arm, he took from it a cold chisel
and a geologist's hammer; stripped off his coat, rolled up his sleeves
over his white muscular arms, and then secured the lanthorn to his waist
with the strap of his binocular.

"You'll be careful about the loose stones, my men," he said in quick,
decisive tones.  "You, Sturgess, will follow me as soon as I have sent
up the rope."

The men nodded as Reed slipped the loop over his head, and then sat in
it, and without a moment's hesitation, after the men had passed the rope
round the upright bar, he lowered himself over the rugged side of the
shaft, and was rapidly allowed to descend past the rough stones which
formed the bottom of the slope, and showed traces still of how it had
been ground away for ages by the passage over it of the freshly
extracted ore.

It was a primitive way of descending, but in all probability the old
manner had been as rough, and there was little to trouble a cool man
with plenty of nerve, one accustomed to depend upon mine folk, and make
explorations in shaft, tunnel, and boring, deep down in the earth.
Besides, Clive Reed's brain was too busy as he looked around him, noting
some fifty feet down that a great vein of lead ore had been extracted
from the solid rock, leaving a narrow passage going off at right angles.
Another ran in an opposite direction, and soon after he passed another,
just as if they were branches of some great root which he was tracing to
its end.

About a hundred feet down, where the light shone now clearly, he
dislodged a loose stone, which went on before him with a rushing,
rumbling sound, ending in a sullen plunge into the water far below.

"All right?" came from above, the words descending the shaft, and
sounding like a strange whisper magnified and uttered close to his ear.

"Yes; lower away."

The rope glided on round the bar; and Reed went on down and down, noting
the differences in the formations as well as the crumbling, dripping
stone would allow, and mentally planning out fresh drifts here and
there, where he expected to find paying ore, till he found himself
opposite to a great cavernous opening, black and forbidding-looking
enough to repel any one wanting in nerve, while from far below came a
gleam of light, apparently reflected from the water.

"Hold hard!  Haul up four feet!"

Reed's words went echoing to the surface, and were promptly attended to.

"Now hold fast!"

The next minute he gave himself a swing, and obtained foothold in the
great cave whose bottom was worn hollow by the trickling of a tiny
stream which drained into the lower part of the shaft, and after
throwing off the rope and shouting to the men to haul up, he stood
holding the light above his head, examining the roof and sides, while he
waited for the descent of his companion; but here the ore seemed to have
been chipped and picked out to the last fragment.

Sturgess joined him at the end of a few minutes, took the lanthorn,
opened it so as to get as much light as possible, and then turned to
Reed.

"Same way again, sir?"

"No; we'll try that gallery off to the left.  That third one I noticed
last time."

"Why, that's right half a mile away, and goes to nowhere.  That's never
been worked."

Reed faced round to him sharply.

"Do you object to your job, my man?" he said; "because if so, speak at
once, and send down one of the others."

"Oh, I don't object," said the man surlily.  "I'll go where you won't
get them to venture.  I was thinking about you."

"Then don't think about me, but about your duties."

"That's all right enough, sir; only if a regular consulting engineer
came down, he'd chip off a bit here, and a bit there, and know directly
what a mine's worth.  I took stock of this old place last time, and can
tell you now without your troubling yourself to go a step farther.
'Sides, I've been down since."

"Indeed!"

"Oh yes.  I'd nothing to do, so it was natural I should come down and
have a look of the property I was to take care of."

"Well, and what estimate did you set on it--as to value?" said Reed,
with a smile.

"Oh, about the usual figure," said the man, with a peculiar laugh.
"It's worth just as much as you can get out of your shareholders."

"Yes?"

"That's it, sir; I've not been busy over mines ten years for nothing.
Not a penny more.  The old folks cleared it out clean enough, all but
the patch to the right down yonder."

"Then you think the whole thing is a swindle, Mr Sturgess, eh?"

"Oh no, sir.  I don't say that," replied the man, with a chuckle.  "I
only say it's a mine as will show up well when it has got all its new
machinery.  Ought to make a good job for a couple of years for a few
people.  Shall I show you where you can get a few good specimens?  I
know of some bits as are pretty rich."

"No, thank you," said Reed quietly.  "I'm not a regular consulting
engineer, my man, and we came down to do a good day's exploring.  I want
to see the whole of the workings."

"Then it'll take you a week, sir."

"Very well, then, let it take me a week.  Now, then, let's waste no more
time."

Michael Sturgess uttered a sound something like a grunt, and holding the
lantern before him led on along the rocky cavernous passage, which was
wonderfully free from fallen stones, the rock having formed endless
pillar buttresses and arch-like processes of stalactitic growth,
cementing and holding all firmly together.

But there was a wonderful sameness as they went on, following the course
of what had once been a lode of ore, which had finally been cleared out,
leaving its shape in the rock, and forming a tunnel as the ancient
miners worked their way.

Far down the main gallery of the mine Sturgess paused by a narrow rift
four or five feet across, and running up to nothing some fifteen feet
overhead.  The rock was different here, being a mass of cemented
together fragments of the old geological stone lilies, and looked as if
some modern shock had riven the place in two, for the lines on either
side suggested that if compressed they would still fit together.

"Mean to go along here, sir?" said Sturgess, holding up the lanthorn, so
as to display the stone of which the sides were formed.

"Yes; go on," said Reed shortly.

"There's been no working here, sir; this is all natural split in the
rock."

"I am perfectly aware of that, and we are wasting time."

"Oh, all right, sir," said the man surlily, and he strode in through the
opening, walking as fast as he could, like a sulky, offended schoolboy,
for a few dozen yards; but this soon came to an end, for in place of a
regular beaten well-used way, they were now compelled to pick their path
over broken marble, loose angular masses, and the accumulated debris
which had fallen from above, while in places they had to stride from
side to side of a narrow crevice which ran straight down.

But the place attracted Clive Reed as they went on and on, with the rift
they traversed growing wider, and opening out into a cavern now, or
contracting again, till in places their passage was so narrow that they
had to squeeze through into curious-looking chambers in the rock.  Then
the way split and branched off into different passages, suggestive of
endless labyrinths leading right away through the untrodden bowels of
the earth.  Below them in one place ran a good-sized stream, unseen as
it threaded its way among the broken stones, but making its presence
known by its musical gurgling, till, after they had been walking above
it for about ten minutes, Sturgess stood still, holding up the light at
the edge of a gulf, down which the water plunged with a dull, hissing
roar.

"Won't go no farther this way, I suppose, sir?" he said, rather
mockingly.

Reed made no reply, but stepped forward close to the man's side, shaded
his eyes, and peered into darkness, which he could not pierce.

He stooped to pick up a stone and hurl it outward, and listened till it
fell and splintered, and the fragments went rattling down for some
distance, before the noise they made was overcome by the roar of the
water.

"Along here," said Reed at last, and he pointed to his left.

Sturgess hesitated for a few moments, and then began to move cautiously
along the side of the vast cavern, a place apparently untouched, and
very rarely, if ever, visited by man.

At last he stopped short.

"I don't want to show no white feathers, Mr Reed, sir," he said, "but
our candles'll only last a certain time, and we've got to get back."

"I have matches and three candles in my pocket," said the young engineer
quietly.

"But I don't know whether I can find my way back, sir, now; whilst if we
go any farther, I'm sure I can't."

"I have it all perfectly impressed on my brain," said Reed quietly.
"But I do not want to go much farther.  I only want to examine the rock
here and there.  Take care, man: mind!"

He darted out his right hand, caught the miner by the coat and saved him
from plunging down into the black abyss beneath them, for in taking a
step forward, Sturgess had trodden on a piece of loose shell marble,
which gave way and one foot went down.

He dropped the lanthorn, though, and it went below, to hang in a crevice
upon its side, threatening to go out; but as soon as Sturgess had a
little recovered himself and sat down to start wiping his forehead, Reed
began to descend.

"Don't do that, sir," cried Sturgess hoarsely.  "Light your candle."

"No; I can get the lanthorn," said Reed quietly; and he went on
descending cautiously till, getting well hold of the nearest projecting
fragment with his left hand, he bent down lower and lower to try and
reach the handle of their lamp.

But, try how he would, it was always a few inches beyond his reach; and
at last, with the candle within guttering, flaring, and blackening the
glass, threatening to crack it and then go out, Reed drew himself up
again to try and get a fresh footing upon the side of the chasm.

He looked up to see, faintly, a white face gazing down at him, and, as
their eyes met, the man said hoarsely--

"Don't do that, sir.  Come up and light a fresh bit.  If you slip, I
shall be all in darkness.  It's horrid to have to come to one's end in a
place like this."

"Sympathy for himself, and not for me," thought Reed.  "I have the
lights."

Just at that moment he noted something just level with where he stood,
where there was a plain demarcation between two kinds of stone; and,
whereas on the left all was shelly fossil, on his right it was
limestone; and again, with a sparkling and gem-like vein of quartz full
of great crystals of galena.

"Do you hear, sir?  Come back here, and let's get out of this," cried
Sturgess again.  "It arn't fair to a man to bring him into such a hole.
This isn't a mine."

"My good fellow," said Reed quietly, "you are alarming yourself about
nothing.  I can get the lanthorn directly, and it is a pity to leave it
here."

The miner uttered a hoarse sigh which was almost a groan, and crouched
on the rugged shelf, looking down with starting eyes, as Reed glanced
quickly once more at the face of the rock, and then, taking fast hold of
another projection, he tried again to get a little lower, and had looked
beyond the lanthorn, to see that he was on a very rapid slope, going
down to unknown depths for aught that he could tell; for all below the
dim light was black--a terrible void, out of which came the splash and
roar of falling water.

He could not help a shudder as his mind raised up horrors in connection
with that black darkness, and the possibility of his falling and going
down and down into some rushing water which was waiting to bear him
away.

But it was only a momentary nervousness.  Then he smiled to himself, and
thought of home and of Janet Praed--how horrified she would be if she
could see him then.

"And nothing whatever to mind but imaginary fears," he said to himself.

"Stop a minute, sir," came in a hoarse whisper from above.  "Give me the
matches and candles, and I'll strike another light."

"And then I go to perdition for aught you care," thought Clive Reed.
"No, hang me if I do."

He took no notice of the appeal, but lowered one foot, got a fresh hold,
bent towards the lanthorn, extending his arm to the utmost, touched the
handle, but it moved an inch, a stone broke from where he was standing,
to go down with a rattle, and then, to the young man's dismay, the
lanthorn began to glide.

It was all in a moment.  He bent down lower and made a sudden snatch,
his left hand slipped from its hold, and he was falling, but in that
brief instant he grasped the lanthorn.  The next it was beneath him, the
light was out, and with a rush of dislodged stones he felt himself
rushing rapidly down the cavern side with the water roaring loudly in
his ears, but pierced by a cry that robbed him of all power as
thoroughly | as if he had received a paralytic stroke.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE LEAD OF LEAD.

"Ahoy there!  Sturgess!  Are you hurt?"

"Hurt, sir?  No."

"Then don't make that noise, man.  Any one would think you were a child,
frightened at the dark."

"But where are you, sir?"

"Down here, of course."

"I thought you were killed, sir, and--and--"

"That you were left alone in the dark, man.  There, wait till I get a
light."

Michael Sturgess muttered an oath, and leaned forward over the sharp
slope, as he wiped the great drops of fear-born perspiration from his
face.  "Child, am I?" he muttered.  "I'll let him see.  Enough to scare
anybody--place like this."

He gazed downward as Reed, after a little manipulation of the damaged
lanthorn, struck a light, which gleamed out some sixty feet below.  Then
the candle was relit, giving the man a faint glimpse of the
horrible-looking slope, and lastly Reed began to climb up, slowly
talking the while.  "Of course it's an ugly-looking place," he said;
"these underground limestone caverns always are, but it's of no use to
lose your nerve at the first emergency."

There was a good-humoured contempt in the young engineer's tones which
enraged the big strong man above him as he stood looking down at the
light.

"Like to scare him!" he muttered, as Reed climbed higher, rested when
about half-way up, and raised the lanthorn above his head to gaze at the
rock face before him, as if seeking for a good hand or foot hold.

"I daresay this place goes down for far enough," he said, as he
continued his climb, and kept on talking as if to take his companion's
attention; "it would be interesting to try and plumb the depth."

"Shall I take the lanthorn?" said Sturgess, a minute or two later.

"No, thanks, I'll carry it," replied Reed, as he made his way to where
Sturgess stood.  "I shall want to look at the walls here and there as we
go back.  There! might have been worse.  A bit scratched, and my clothes
a little torn.  I will go back to the regular old workings now.  There
has evidently never been anything done here."

"No, sir; what I told you.  No good here."

"No good!" said Reed, with a laugh.  "I think there's a great deal of
good."

"What, workable stuff, sir?" said the man sharply.  "Perhaps; but what I
meant was this tremendous hole and the water.  Why, Sturgess, man, it's
worth thousands."

"Don't see it, sir," said the man roughly.

"I do.  A natural drainage of the mine.  No expenditure for keeping the
workings dry."

"Oh, yes, that's right enough, sir," said the man, with a laugh, "if
you've got anything to work."

"I'm afraid Mr Sturgess and I will not get on together," said Reed to
himself, as he led the way on, examining the wall from time to time, and
now and then chipping off a piece for a specimen.

"If this cockney jockey's going to be over me," muttered Sturgess, "he's
got to be tough; but he don't know everything."

They reached the entrance to the grotto-like portion of the mine, where
Reed halted, took out a sandwich-box and flask, and began to refresh
himself, handing both to his companion first; and as Reed ate, he lifted
the lanthorn from time to time, and examined the neighbouring walls,
roof, and floor.

"All pretty well cleared out, sir," said Sturgess, with a grin.

"Yes--clean," replied Reed quietly; and soon after they resumed their
exploration, following the track of the old veins here and there through
an almost interminable maze of passages, and going farther and farther
into the depths of the mountain.  But it was always the same, passage
after passage through the limestone, following the old lode of lead ore
which had been diligently quarried and picked out any time during,
probably, the past two thousand years, and there was no plan, no special
arrangement in driving the various tunnels.  Where nature had run her
mineral in veins, there the old miners had followed; and, as Reed had
noticed before, there was scarcely a passage that had water lying about,
the drippings from the roof and cracks in the walls having worn for
themselves little channels, which found their way into others, and then
by degrees went to swell the fall by whose side he had stood some hours
before.

At last, with his bag growing heavy with specimens, and the supply of
candles getting less, and after the termination of the workings had been
found and examined in several places, Reed stopped.

"Back now," he said.

"Satisfied, sir?"

"Oh yes, for to-day.  I shall follow the other leads, of course, till I
have well examined all, and mapped it out."

"And settled where you shall begin work, sir," said the man, with a
grin.

"Oh, I have settled that," replied Reed.

Sturgess stared.

"Been a lot of good stuff got out of here, sir, no doubt."

"Evidently."

"More than there ever will be again."

"That's more than we can say, Sturgess.  Take the lanthorn now, and lead
on straight for the mouth.  Good heavens!  Why, it's five o'clock."

"Yes, sir, I thought it must be," said the man.

"Time goes when one is interested.  There, have a cigar.  Light up.  We
have not done a bad's day work.  Can you lead back pretty straight?"

"Oh yes, sir, I can manage that," said the man confidently; but he had
been trudging along, sending his and the young man's shadows grotesquely
dancing upon the roof for quite an hour and a half before the end of the
main artery of the mine was reached, with the sloping shaft up to the
daylight--"to grass," Sturgess termed it--but here there was no response
to their hails for nearly an hour, the men having gone.

"The scoundrels!"  Reed cried at last.  "Well, it's risky work, but we
can't stop down here.  We must either go back into the mine, try for the
other shaft, which may be climbable, or you or I must go up that rope."

"Who's to climb a rope like that, sir?" growled Sturgess; "and how do we
know that the end's properly fastened?--There they are!"

For a faint murmur of voices was heard from far above, and now an answer
came to their hail, and a minute later a voice shouted--

"All right below?"

"Yes," cried Reed.  "Get in the loop, my man.--Ahoy there! haul up."

The rope tightened and Sturgess was raised from his feet and went up
slowly, leaving Reed below in the darkness.

But it was all light to the young engineer, whose tired face shone with
joy and excitement.

"The blind cavern lizards," he said, half aloud.  "I knew it.  God bless
the old dad, what a brain he has!  He'll be delighted with my report;
and Janet, my darling, you shall have a home that will be the envy of
all we know, and make the old Doctor proud of us.  My darling!" he said
softly, as, with his eyes half closed, he raised up her fair young face
before him.  "Hah! poor old Jessop, too.  He must have a bit of the
luck.  I'll tell the old man bygones must be bygones.  We'll have a
clean slate.  Jess isn't a bad fellow after all.  I might have gone down
the wrong road a bit if it hadn't been for Janet.  Hang it all! the love
of a dear sweet girl does keep a weak fellow straight."

He glanced down at his hands and tweed suit, daubed with limestone mud,
and showing a couple of tears in the stout cloth.

"Delightful party for a drawing-room, and--hullo! here's the loop."

He secured the rope, which came dangling down, felt that his specimens
and tools were safe, and then slipped the loop over his head, sat in it
as nonchalantly as if it had been a swing, uttered a loud "All right,"
and the next minute he was being steadily hauled up towards the surface.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

MAKING FRIENDS.

"Hallo, my lads!" cried Reed, as he reached terra firma and gazed
around.  "I didn't know there was a public-house handy."

"No, no, don't blame the poor lads," said a well-dressed, elderly man,
smiling.  "They were alarmed at your long absence, sir, and came on to
me for help.  We came round, and picked up these two brave fellows, and
were ready for a search, but, thank heaven, it was a false alarm."

"Oh, that was it?" cried Reed; "then I beg your pardon, my lads, and
thank you, sir, heartily.  Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"

"Major Gurdon, at your service, sir," and there was a swift military
drawing up of the spare figure, the soft dark eyes brightened up, and
the speaker threw back his grey head and gave his long white beard a
shake to settle it upon his breast.

"Mr Reed, I believe, the new engineer of the mine?"

"Yes, sir, but at this present moment more like one of the miners," said
Reed, with a deprecating glance at his besmirched garments.  "Excuse me
one moment."

He turned to the men with his hand in his pocket--a hand that did not
come back empty, and the new-comers went off slowly, smiling as Reed
turned now to the Major, who had stepped forward, eager to speak.

"You look thoroughly exhausted," he said quickly.  "I live quite a
cottage life out here with my garden and fishing-rod, but if you will
accept my hospitality, such as it is--"

"Really, I could not trouble you--and in this condition," began Reed, as
Sturgess changed colour, and an unpleasant scowl came upon his face.

"You will be conferring a favour, my dear sir," said the Major.  "One
does not often have the society of a gentleman out in this wild place;
and," he added laughingly, "the hospitality will embrace soap and water
and a clothes-brush."

"Then I accept willingly," said Reed, holding out his hand, but
withdrawing it directly as he noted its condition, covered with dried
limestone mud, and streaked in two places with blood.

"Nonsense!" said the Major, taking the hand.  "I understand these
things, my dear sir.  I often go prowling about with a geologist's
hammer, and have gone home like this.  Come along.  My high tea will be
about ready."

"Well, this is most unexpected," said Reed warmly.  "Here, Sturgess, I
shall come over again to-morrow about eleven.  Be here with the men, and
you had better bring a couple of lanthorns."

"Hadn't I better come on to put you in the right road?"

"What!  Oh, no!  I shall manage.  That will do."  The man turned away
with the look upon his countenance intensifying; but it was not
observed, for Reed walked off in company with his new acquaintance, the
pair chatting away as if they had known each other for years.

"Quite gave me a scare," said the Major.  "Life here is so uneventful.
Very beautiful, but lonely, especially in the winter."

"But you do not stay here in the winter?"

"Oh yes; I have lived here ten years now."

"No accounting for taste," thought Reed; and he glanced sidewise at his
companion, but learned nothing.  He only saw a quiet-looking country
gentleman, whose sun-browned face told of an open-air life.

Sturgess followed them to the great natural gateway at the end of the
chasm, where he had stood some days before, but not alone; and he now
remained watching them as they went on westward along the narrow path,
and round by the huge buttress formed by the refuse of the mine, carried
and cast down there for hundreds upon hundreds of years.  Then as they
passed on out of sight, the man raised one of his fingers to his lips,
and began gnawing roughly at the side of the nail, till he seemed to
make up his mind, and took a step or two forward after them, next
stopped short again, for a hail came from behind.

"Coming on down to the village, Mr Sturgess?"

He turned and faced one of the two men, and nodded, walking away with
him in the other direction, taciturn and strange, answering his
companion in monosyllables, and with his thoughts evidently far away.
Not so very, though, for they were with Clive Reed, and promised him no
good.

"So you have been examining the old `White Virgin' mine, eh?" said Major
Gurdon.  "I heard it was sold.  A new company, eh?"

"Yes," said Reed, smiling; "a new company--a solid one."

"Eh?  I hope so.  But if I had to go in for a mining adventure, I think
I should begin here with the material the old miners cast away as
rubbish."  He pointed to the great buttress they were skirting.  "There
it is, already extracted from the mountain, and though poor, rich
enough, I should say, to pay a company if worked with modern
appliances."

"You understand these things?" said Reed, looking at his elderly
companion searchingly, and noting how deeply lined his brow seemed, and
that care and sorrow more than age had given him his hollow-cheeked,
anxious air.

"A man who likes geology, mineralogy, and who always lives among these
hills, cannot help picking up a little mining lore," said the Major,
with a smile.  "I have searched and toiled, my dear sir--much loss and
little gain.  I hope yours may prove to be a successful venture."

"Let's hope so," said Reed quietly.  "All mining is speculative, and in
speculative matters there must be losses as well as gains."

"And after all, what does it amount to, my young friend?  The chase of a
will o' the wisp who bears a golden lamp not worth the winning, you will
say when you grow as old as I.  But there, I shall bore you with this
twaddle.  What do you say to that for a view?  Derbyshire in front;
broad, honest, hardworking old Yorkshire away to your right; at your
feet the Swirl--my river, I call it."

"A lovely prospect, but rather wild," said Reed, smiling.

"Say savage, and you will be nearer the truth; but I can show you
something a little less stern;" and, chatting away pleasantly, he led on
along first one slope and then another, till at last they came down upon
a narrow track beside a rippling stream, shut in between two
perpendicular walls of rock, draped with ivy, and with every cleft and
crevice green and bright with trailing birch, moss, and clustering fern.

The water of the little river ran swiftly babbling here among the rocks,
there swirling round, eddying and forming whirlpools, one of which,
across the river where it washed the perpendicular rock, was evidently
very deep, for the water gradually subsided there and grew still and
glassy, reflecting the ivy-curtained walls as it slowly glided round.

"Ah! this is delightful," cried Reed, as he stopped to gaze at the
glancing waters, where the sun made the ripples dazzling to the eye, and
then turned to the deep shadows.  "Eden may have been lovely, but this
would be good enough for a poor commonplace nineteenth-century fellow
like myself."

"You like it?" said the Major, smiling.

"It's glorious.  Is there much of it like this?"

"About a mile.  I call it my river here, and the mining men respect my
rights generally--that is, unless the trout they catch sight of in some
pool is a very fat one indeed."

He said this with a peculiar smile, as he met Reed's eye.

"Not bad fellows, the miners, but I don't quite take to your guardian of
the mine."

"I suppose not," said Reed.  "He is rather a rough customer, but he was
recommended to my father for his knowledge of underground work.--You
have plenty of trout here, I suppose?"

"Oh yes, and I take toll of them all along this stretch of river.
Possession is nine points of the law, but I really have only my right on
one side as far as my bit of property extends."

"Ah! you have an estate along here?"

"Yes, and I am glad to meet my neighbours, sir.  My rough piece of
mountain is bounded by the river along here from the corner we just
passed, and on another side by the mine land of your Company--the old
`White Virgin' estate.  A worthless stretch of barren rock and ravine;
but I bought it for the sake of this piece of river fifteen years ago.
A place to retire to, my dear sir, suitable for a man weary of the
world, and one of whom the world had had enough."

His face was overcast as he spoke, and he frowned heavily, while Reed
noticed the sad, careworn aspect of the man, who looked as if he had
suffered from some terrible trouble--that which had so deeply lined his
face.  But it brightened up again directly, as Reed hung back to admire
the lovely meandering stream.

"You do like it?" said the Major.

"Like it, my dear sir!  If I were not a busy man, bound to go on carving
my way, it is just the place where I should like to come and dream away
my days."

"Do you care for fishing?"

"Oh yes."

"Then, as we are neighbours, if you come much to the mine, I shall at
any time be glad to show you a few good places where you can throw a
fly."

"Some day I shall certainly ask you," said Reed frankly; "not often, I
have no time."

"Whenever you like, and you will be welcome, Mr Reed; for--excuse me--I
like you."

"So soon," said Reed, raising his eyebrows.

"The liking of one man for another comes at once, sir, I think, and
seldom errs," said the Major gravely.  "You will be welcome if you can
content yourself with cottage fare and our simplicity.  This is my
little home."

Reed stopped short astonished, for they had turned a sharp corner of the
rugged wall of rock which towered up, and came suddenly upon a sheltered
nook, which ran from the river-side right up into the mountains.  There
was but one level space of about half an acre; the rest was knoll, crag,
mound, and rift, a natural garden full of waving birch, shrubs,
evergreens, and flowers all growing in wild luxuriance, with myrtle,
fuchsia, hydrangea, and geranium, developing into trees more than
plants, showing how sheltered the place must be, how warm and suited to
their lives.  There was no ugly fence, but moss and ivy covered walls of
rugged stone, placed here and there as a protection from wandering
sheep, while on the level patch, quaintly built of limestone, thatched,
porched with rugged wood, its windows embayed, and the whole covered
with wistaria, myrtle, and creeping plants, which fought for a hold upon
the walls, stood a cottage, out of whose porch Dinah Gurdon, pale of
face, anxious-looking, and troubled, came slowly down.

"Welcome to the wilderness, Mr Reed," said the Major, smiling sadly, as
he noted the young man's enthusiastic look of admiration; and then
frowning slightly as he saw a wondering look when the figure in white
came toward them from the porch.  "My daughter, sir.  Dinah, my child, I
bring a guest to partake of our poor hospitality this evening.  Don't
look so pale and frightened, my dear.  Mr Reed is, I am glad to say, a
deceiver.  There was no cause for alarm, and his aspect is only due to a
long journey underground.  He is not hurt."

"I--I am very glad," said Dinah, holding out her hand, which was eagerly
taken, and then shrinking as she encountered Clive Reed's eager look.
"The men brought such startling news."

"That we were prepared to turn your bedroom into a cottage hospital, Mr
Reed, and send off twelve miles for a doctor," said the Major, as he saw
his child's large dark eyes sink beneath their visitor's gaze, and a
couple of red spots begin to glow in her pale cheeks.  "Now, Dinah, my
child, Mr Reed must be shown to his room, and let's have your colour
back.  My daughter is a little unwell, Mr Reed.  She was crossing the
mountain the other day, coming back from Bedale, and as she passed over
one of the ragged pieces by your mine, she had an ugly fall."

"Not serious, I hope?" said Reed, with a look of interest, and his
searching eyes once more met those of the pale, intense countenance
before them, eyes so full of shrinking horror and fear, that though he
could not read them, Clive Reed wondered at their expression, as a flow
of crimson suffused the cheeks, rising right up to the forehead, and
then died out, leaving the girl deadly pale.

The Major waited, as if expecting that his child would speak, but as she
remained silent, he said gravely--

"No; she assures me that it was not serious, but she came back looking
horribly startled.  It was quite a shock to the system, from which she
has not quite recovered yet.  Now, Mr Reed, Martha will show you your
room."

Reed took a step forward, to find Martha, the hardest-looking,
harshest-faced woman of forty he had ever seen, waiting to lead the way.

"A fall," he said, as he stood alone in the prettily furnished bedroom:
"alone in the mountains, and no one by to help.  I wish I had been
there--with Janet, too, of course."

Dinah Gurdon was at that moment indulging in similar thoughts--naturally
omitting Janet--and as she stood nearly opposite a glass, she became
aware of her face reflected there, when she turned away with a shiver.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

UNDERMINING.

"Hallo, Jess, you here?" cried Clive, as he suddenly encountered his
brother at Dr Praed's door in Russell Square.

Jessop Reed started, and in spite of his man-about-town confidence, he
looked for the moment confused, but recovered himself directly.

"Might say the same to you," he retorted.  "I thought you were down some
hole in the Midlands."

"But I've come up again.  Just got here from St Pancras now.  I say,
though, what is it?  Out of sorts--been to see the Doctor?"

"Eh?  Oh no.  I'm all right.  But I'm in a hurry.  See you at dinner."

"Why, what's the matter with him?" thought Clive, as his brother hurried
away.  "Fast life, I suppose.  I'll run in and ask the Doctor before I
go up."

He rang; the Doctor's confidential man opened the door, and stood back
for him to enter.

"Patient with the Doctor, Morgan?"

"No, sir; past his time.  Gone on to the hospital.  Back soon."

Clive stared.

"Miss Praed's in the drawing-room, sir."

"Oh, all right.  I'll go up," said Clive; and he began to ascend two
steps at a time.  "I hope Jess isn't ill.  Disappointed, I suppose, at
finding the old man out."--"Ah, Janet, darling," he cried, as he entered
the drawing-room, to find his fiancee standing with a bouquet in her
hand, looking dreamy and thoughtful.

She flushed up as he caught her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, and
then frowned slightly, and put on the pouting look of a spoiled child.

"Why, what a bonnie bunch of roses!" he cried.  "Let's have one for a
button-hole."

"No, no," she said hastily, and a pained look of perplexity crossed
Clive's countenance as she held the bouquet from him.  Then with forced
playfulness, "Mustn't be touched."

"All right," he cried merrily.  "I came round this way so as to see you
first, pet.  Raced up by the early train this morning."

"Indeed!" said Janet, raising her eyebrows; "been in Derbyshire, have
you not?"

"My darling!"

"Well, one knows so little of your movements now."

"Oh, I say, Janet dear, don't be hard upon a poor busy fellow.  You know
why I am away so much.  All for your sake, pet," he whispered earnestly;
"to make ourselves thoroughly independent, and you a home of which you
may be proud."

There was a slight catching in Janet Praed's breath, as she said
jerkily, and with a show of flippancy, to hide the emotion from which
she suffered, for self-accusation was busy with her just then, and a
pang or two shot through her as she contrasted the frank, honest manner
of her betrothed, and his words, so full of simple honest affection,
with others to which she had in a foolish, half-jealous spirit listened
again and again--

"Oh yes, I know," she said, curling up her pretty lip, and speaking
hastily to hide her feelings; "but you might have called."

"Now, Janet, love, don't tease me.  How could I, dear?"

"Well, then, you might have written.  A whole week away and not a line."

"Gently, my own darling, judge, guide, and counsellor in one," he cried
warmly.  "I might have written, and ought to have written, but I have
been, oh so busy all day, and when I got back to quarters, there was the
Major to talk to me, and I could not slight Miss Gurdon."

"The Major--Miss Gurdon?  May I ask who these people are?"

"Oh, a very jolly old sort of fellow, who lives close to the mine, with
an only daughter.  He insisted upon my staying there while I was down,
and I wasn't sorry; for--O Janet! let me whisper it in your lovely
little shell of an ear," he continued playfully--"the miner's cottage I
slept at one night was not comfortable; it was grubby, and oh, those
fleas!  If it had not been for my stout walking-stick--"

"What sort of a person is Miss Gurdon?" said Janet, interrupting him
quickly.

"Oh, very nice and ladylike."

"Pretty?"

"Pretty!  Well, you would hardly call it pretty.  A sad, pensive face,
very sweet and delicate, and with the look of one who had known trouble.
There seemed to be some secret about father and daughter."

"Oh!" said Janet softly, and the colour came into her cheeks very
warmly.  "And you were very comfortable there?"

"Yes, very," said Clive emphatically.

"Too comfortable to remember me and write, of course."

"O Janet, my darling!" he said tenderly, as he passed his arm about her
waist, "how can you be such a jealous little thing!  As if I could think
of any one but you.  You were with me night and day.  It was always what
is Janet doing? how does she look? and is she thinking of me?  Whether I
was scrambling about down in the mine like a mud-lark, or more decent
and talking to Miss Gurdon of an evening in their tiny drawing-room."

"About me, of course," said Janet coldly.

"No, dear," said Clive innocently, "I never mentioned your name.  I
dared not, pet, for fear they should laugh at me, and think what a great
goose I was.  For I am, pet.  Once I begin talking to any one about you,
I can't leave off."

"Indeed!" she said sarcastically.

"Why, Janet, dear," he said earnestly, and he tried to take her hand,
"what have I said or done?  Surely you don't think--Oh, my love, my dear
love!" he cried, with his voice growing deep and earnest, "how can you
be so ready to take pique over such trifles!  Janet, I love you with all
my heart, dear.  I have not a thought that is not for my own darling."

"No, no; don't touch me," she panted, as he drew her towards him.

"I will--I will, darling wifie to be; but you must master these little
bits of uncalled-for jealousy, dear.  They are not fair to me, and next
time I am away I will at any cost write to you, even if the business
fails, and--"

"Scoundrel! ruffian! how dare you put your arm around my daughter, sir?
She is not your wife yet."

The words came so fiercely and suddenly that Clive started away, and
Janet hurriedly escaped to the other side of the chair.  For the Doctor
had bustled in just as Clive was trying to take the kiss withheld from
him, and now stood there with a terrific frown upon his heavy grey brow.

The next moment he had burst into a hearty roar of laughter.

"Nice guilty pair you look," he cried.  "Ah! you may well turn red, you
unblushing puss!  Eh?  No, that won't do, it's a bull.  And you, sir,
how dare--Well, how are you, Clive, my boy?  Came round here first, eh?
I called at Guildford Street as I went to the hospital, and they hadn't
heard of you."

"Yes, I was obliged to come here first," said Clive.

"Of course.  That's right.  Janet has been looking pale since you went.
Come and dine to-night, and don't let me come in here and catch you
behaving in that rude way again."

"Papa, for shame!" cried Janet, and she hurried out of the room.

The Doctor laughed.

"Well," he cried eagerly, "what about the mine?--is it good?"

"For your ears only, Doctor," said Clive, "in confidence?"

"On my honour, my dear boy," said Dr Praed gravely.

"Then you may invest as much as you like, sir."

"Not a company dodge?"

"The mine teems with ore, sir.  I have thoroughly examined it, and found
out a new, enormously rich lode."

"Then it's quite safe?"

"Safe as the Bank of England, sir, and the dad will be a millionaire."

"Ah!  I wish he would be a healthy man, instead of a wealthy," said the
Doctor.

"Oh, you don't think--you have not found him worse?"

"I don't like his looks, Clive, my boy," said the Doctor; "and I beg
that you will try to save him from all emotion.  This great accession of
wealth will do him no good, and--yes; what?--I didn't ring."

"Messenger, sir," said the Doctor's man, with grave earnestness and a
sharp glance at Clive.  "From Mr Reed's, sir--sudden attack, and will
you come at once."  Then in a hurried whisper, "Dying!"

But it sounded in trumpet-tones in Clive Reed's ear, as with a sharp cry
he sprang to his feet.

"Good heavens!" he said, "and I came on here!"

"Hush!" said the Doctor sternly.  "Here, Morgan, the carriage?"

"At the door, sir."

The Doctor nodded as he drew Clive's arm through his own.

"Do not fear the worst," he whispered; "I may save him yet."

CHAPTER NINE.

TWO DAYS EARLIER.

"Well, what news?" said Wrigley, as Jessop Reed entered his gloomy
office.  "Bah! what a dandy you are!  Why, you spend enough on barbers
and buttonholes to keep you from borrowing money."

"And you spend enough on ballet-girls to keep you from making profits by
lending," retorted Jessop.  "All right, my Jonathan," said Wrigley.

"All right, my David," replied Jessop.  "Let me see: David was a Jew."

"Whilst I am not," said Wrigley sharply.

"Oh, of course not.  No one would suppose Wrigley to be an Israelitish
name.  There, don't set up all your feathers, man, and look so indignant
because I suggested that you belonged to the chosen race.  There are
good Jews."

"And precious bad Christians," said Wrigley sourly.

"Awfully!  But I say, don't be so ruffled, man.  Lucky I didn't come for
some hard coin this morning."

"It is; and hang me if I ever lend you money again if I've to have blood
thrown in my face."

"Bah! you shouldn't be so sensitive about it.  I don't mind about your
descent."

"Enough to make any man sensitive.  Gad, sir, any one would think we
were lepers, seeing the treatment we receive."

"Yes, it's too bad," said Jessop soothingly; "but you do have your
recompense, old man.  Nice refined revenge your people have had for the
insult and contempt they have met with.  There, let's talk business."

"Yes, let's talk business.  Now, then, what about the hole in the earth
down which people throw their money?"

"Well, it's a big hole."

"Yes, I know that, but is it a big do after all?"

"No.  As I told you, the old man wouldn't have gone in for it if it
hadn't been right."

"Then he really does hold a great deal in it?"

"More than half, that I know of."

"You've carefully made sure of that."

"Yes, carefully.  It's all right, I tell you."

"Good!  And what about the dear brother?"

"He's still down there."

"Surveying the mine?"

"Surveying?  He has been down it every day for nearly a week, examining
every crack and corner--adit, winze, shaft, driving, all the whole lot
of it."

"Well?"

"He sends reports to the old man every night."

"And what does he say?  Do you know?"

"Yes; the old man reads them to me."

"Fudge!  Flams to rig the market.  Chatter for you to spread on the
Stock Exchange and make the shares go up."

"No," said Jessop quietly, as he sat on a corner of the lawyer's table,
and swung his cane and one leg to and fro.  "The dad and I don't hit it,
and we've had more quarrels than I can count about money and--other
little matters; but he's always straightforward with me over business,
and I'd trust his word sooner than any man's in London."

"Good son."

"Ah! you needn't sneer; you'd only be too glad to get his name to a bit
of paper."

"True, O king!  He is a model that way.  But then he is pretty warm, and
can afford to lose."

"Yes; but it would be the same if he were hard up.  The old man's dead
square."

"Then you believe your brother's reports are all that are read to you?"

"Implicitly."

"No garbling, you think?"

"I'm sure there isn't.  No, old fellow, I hate my fortunate brother most
bitterly, and I don't love my father; but I'd sooner take their word
than that of any one I know."

"Humph!" ejaculated the lawyer.  "Well, then, the mine is not quite
played out!"

"Played out!  Pish!  It has never been worked properly.  Only scratched
and scraped.  There's plenty of ore to pay by following on the old
workings with modern tackle, and a little fortune in re-smelting the old
refuse that has been accumulating for fifteen hundred or two thousand
years."

"Yes, it is very old," said Wrigley thoughtfully.

"Old!  Why, no one knows how old it is.  The Romans worked it, and I
daresay the Phoenicians had a finger in it before them."

"Go on, old fellow," said Wrigley, laughing.  "Can you prove that pigs
of lead were got from it to ballast the ark?"

"Well, you needn't believe it without you like."

"But I do believe a great deal of it.  There'll be quite enough for us,
if you mean business."

"If I mean business!  Why, of course I do.  Do you suppose I am going to
sit still and let my brother have all the cream of life?  He'll get all
the old man's money.  Plenty without that.  I'm not blind.  Precious
little for me there."

"Then what is going to be done?"

"They are going to set to work directly.  My brother has laid his
reports before the board.  I did not tell you that he has discovered a
new untouched lode that promises to yield wonderfully."

"Indeed!" said Wrigley--"a new lode?" and he looked searchingly at his
companion.

"Yes; an important vein of ore that promises to be of immense value."

"Hah! that sounds well," said Wrigley.

"For the shareholders?"

"No; for us.  Have you forgotten?"

"No," said Jessop gloomily, "but will it work?"

"Work?  You, an old hand, and ask that.  My dear Jessop, if we cannot
work that between us it is strange."

"Yes, but the money necessary.  It will be enormous."

"Pretty well, my dear boy," said Wrigley, with quiet confidence; "but
don't you fidget about that.  Millions are to be had for a safe thing,
so we need not be scared about thousands.  Yes; that new vein will do.
Jessop, my lad, you and I must work that vein.  The idea of the great
lode is glorious and makes our task easy in that direction; but there is
a stumbling-block elsewhere--a difficulty in the way."

"I don't understand you," said Jessop testily.  "Hang it, man!  Don't be
so mysterious.  Now then, please, what do you mean?"

"Let me take my own pace, my dear Jessop, as the inventor of our
fortune."

"Anyhow you like, but let me see how we are going."

"Well, then, you shall.  Now, then, we want an enemy.  Clive Reed's or
your father's enemy.  Has your brother any?"

"Yes; here he is, confound him!"

"And you will not do, my dear boy!  Besides, it would not be your work.
I meant some man who dislikes him so consumedly that he would not stick
at trifles for the sake of revenge--and hard cash.  What is more,"
continued Wrigley, as Jessop shook his head, "it must be some one
connected with the mine."

"Bah!  How can it be, when the mine is not started?"

"Then it must be as soon as possible after the mine has been started.
Some workman under him in a position of trust, whom he has injured:
struck him, taken his wife or sweetheart, mortally injured in some way."

Jessop burst into a coarse laugh, and Wrigley looked at him inquiringly.

"My dear boy," said the stockbroker, "I thought this was to be a matter
of finessing and making a few thousands."

"It is, and of making a good many thousands."

"And you talk as if it were a plot for an Adelphi drama.  My dear
fellow, my brother Clive is a sort of nineteenth-century saint--not the
cad in a play.  Clive doesn't drink, bet, nor gamble in any way.  He is
a good boy, who is engaged, and goes to church regularly with the lady."

"Oh, yes; that's as far as you know now."

"I do know," cried Jessop.  "Clive has never run away with any one's
wife, nor bullied men, nor gone to the--your friends for coin.  If you
can't hit out a better way than that, we may pitch the thing up."

"At the first difficulty?" said Wrigley, smiling.  "No, my boy.  We want
such a man as I have described--a man whose opinion about the mine will
be worth taking.  He must, as I say, hate your brother sufficiently to
give that opinion when we want it, so as to say check to your brother
and be believed."

"Well, then, there isn't such a man," said Jessop sourly.

"Indeed!  When do you expect your brother back?"

"At any time now.  To-morrow or next day, to meet the directors at the
board and report again upon his inspection."

"Again?"

"Yes; he has been down twice before."

"Who is down there?"

"Only the man in charge of the mine."

"Who is he?"

"Some fellow my father got hold of in connection with other mine
speculations."

"Well, wouldn't he do?"

"Pooh!  He is, I should say, out of the question."

"At a price?"

"At a price!"  Jessop started and looked keenly at the solicitor.

"Every man they say has his price, my dear Jessop.  We want the kind of
man I describe.  You say there is no such man.  I say there are in the
market, and I should say this is the very chap."

"But surely you would not bribe him to--"

"Don't use ugly terms.  If I saw my way to make a hundred thousand
pounds I should not shrink from giving a man five hundred to help me
make it."

"No, nor a thousand," said Jessop.

"My dear boy, I would get him for five hundred if I could, but if I
could not, I would go higher than you say; in fact, I would go up to
ninety-five thousand sooner than lose five.  Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand.  Anything to turn an honest penny."

"Exactly!  So now then, as soon as possible, we must begin to feel our
way, so as to secure our man."

"But if there is not such a man to be had?"

"Then we must make one."

"Wrigley, I thought I was sharp," said Jessop, with a peculiar smile.

"But you find there is always a sharper."

"Was that a _lapsus linguae_, Wrigley?"

"If you like to call it so," said the lawyer coldly.  "But to business.
Let me know the moment your brother gets back."

"Yes, but why?"

"I am going down to see what I think of the mine."

CHAPTER TEN.

THE GRIM VISITOR.

"The game's up, then, Doctor, eh?  There, man, don't shuffle.  This
isn't whist, but the game of life, and nature wins."

The Doctor stood holding his old friend's hand, and gazing sadly down in
the fine manly face, which looked wonderfully calm and peaceful as he
lay back on the white pillow.

"That's right; don't say medical things to me--clap-trap: you never did.
We always understand each other, and I shouldn't like it now I'm dying.
For that's it, Praed; the game's up.  I haven't read so plainly how
many trumps you held in your hand for all these years, old man, without
being able to judge your face now."

"Reed, old fellow," said the Doctor, in a voice full of emotion, "God
knows I have done my best.  Let me send for--"

"Tchah!  What for?" said the old man.  "You know more than he does.
It's of no use fighting against it.  Nature says the works must stop
soon.  Very well; I shall meet it as I have met other losses in my time.
Do you hear, Clive--Jessop?"

A murmur came from the other side of the bed, where the two young men
were standing, and then all was still again, save the rumble of a
vehicle in the street.

"It's disappointing just now, when I had made the _coup_ of my life, and
meant to settle down in peace; but it wasn't to be, and I'm going to
meet it like a man.  Clive, boy, come here."

The young man came to the bedside and knelt down.

"Ah!  I like that," said the old father.  "Good lad!" and he laid his
hand gently upon his son's head.  "I'm not a grand old patriarch," he
sighed.  "What, Doctor?--not talk?  Yes, I must have my say now, while
there's time.  Not a good old patriarch, Clive--not a religious man;
made too much of a god of money; but I said my wife and sons should
never know the poverty from which I had suffered, and I think it was
right; but I overdid it, boy.  Don't follow my example; there's no need.
There--my blessing for what it's worth, boy.  Now go: I want Jessop."

Clive rose, and his brother came and stood where he had knelt.

"Well," said the dying man, in a firm voice, "I have little to say to
you, Jessop.  Shake hands, my boy, and God forgive you, as I do--
everything."  Jessop was silent, and after a few moments the old man
went on--

"I have settled everything, my lad.  The Doctor here is one of my
executors, and he will see that Clive does his duty by you; though he
would without."

Jessop winced, for these words were very pregnant of meaning, and showed
only too well the place he would take after his father's death.

"There," said his father, pressing his hand, "that is all.  I know your
nature, boy, so I will not ask you to promise things which you cannot
perform.  Go now."

"Not stay with you, father?" said the young man, speaking for the first
time.

"No; go now.  I've done my duty by you, boy; now go and do yours by your
brother.  Good-bye, Jessop."  There was dead silence, and the old man
spoke again as he grasped his son's hand, "Good-bye, Jessop, for the
last time."

"Good-bye, father," was the reply; and then, with head bent, the young
man walked slowly out.

"Hah! that's over!" sighed the dying man.  "He will not break his heart,
Doctor; and if I had left him double, it would do him no good.  Now
then, Praed, I want to see little Janet.  Where is she?"

"Downstairs in the drawing-room."

"That's right.  Go and fetch her.  Tell her not to be frightened.  She
shan't see me die, for it won't be yet."

The Doctor left the bedroom, and the old man was alone with his younger
son.

"Take hold of my hand, Clive.  Sit down, my lad.  That's right.  There,
don't look so cut up, my boy.  I'm only going to sleep like a man
should.  It's simply nature; not the horror fanatics teach us.  Now I
want to talk business to you for a few minutes, and then business and
money will be dead to me for ever."

"You wish me to do something, father?"

"Yes, boy.  You will find everything in my will--you and the Doctor.
He's a good old friend, and his counsel is worth taking.  Marry Janet,
and make her a happy wife.  She has some weaknesses, but you can mould
her, my lad; and it will make her happy, and the Doctor too, for he
loves you like a son."

"Yes, father."

"That's good.  You're a fine, strong, clever man, Clive, but that was
the dear, good, affectionate boy of twenty years ago speaking.  Now
then, about money matters.  You'll be enormously rich over that mine, so
for heaven's sake be a true, just man with it, and do your duty by all
the shareholders.  Stick to it through thick and thin.  I remember all
you told me when I recovered from my fit.  I could repeat your report.
But I was convinced before, when all the London world thought I was
getting up a swindle.  There! that's enough about the mine--save this.
You'll be thinking of sharing with your brother.  I forbid it.  Keep to
your portion as I have left it to you, and do good with it.  To give to
Jessop is to do evil.  I am sorry, but it is the truth.  He cannot help
it perhaps, but he is not to be trusted, and you are not to league
yourself with him in any way.  You understand?"

"Yes, father!"

"I have made him a sufficiently rich man.  Let him be content.  You are
not to trust him.  I know Jessop by heart, and I can go from here
feeling that I have done my duty by him."

At that moment the Doctor returned with his daughter, and the old
speculator's face lit up with pleasure.

"Come here, Pussy," he said.  "I'm not very dreadful yet, my dear."

"Dear Mr Reed--dear Mr Reed!" cried Janet, running sobbing to his
side; "don't, pray, talk like that."

The old man smiled with content as the girl fell upon her knees by the
bed, and embraced him tenderly, "Ah! that's right.  That's like my
little darling," he said, and he stroked her cheek.  "Don't cry any
more, my dear.  There! you two go farther away; Janet and I have a few
words to say together."

Clive and the Doctor moved to the window and stood with their backs to
the bed, the old man watching them intently for a few moments, and then
smiling at Janet as he held and fondled her hand.

"There!" he said, "you are not to fret and be miserable about it, and
when I'm gone it is not to interfere with your marriage."

"Oh, Mr Reed!" she cried passionately.

"No, no, no," he continued quietly; "not a bit.  Life is short, my dear;
enjoy it, and do your work in it while you can.  And mind, there is to
be no silly parade of mourning for me.  I'm not going to have your
pretty face spoiled with black crape, and all that nonsense.  Mourn for
me in your dear little heart, Janet: not sadly, but with pleasant, happy
memories of one who held you when you were a baby, and who has always
looked upon you as his little daughter."  Janet's face went down on the
old man's hands with the tears flowing silently.

"Now, just a few more words, my dear," he almost whispered.  "Your
father and I have rather spoiled you by indulgence."

"Yes, yes," she whispered quickly.  "I have not deserved so much."

"Never mind; you are going to be a dear good girl now, and make Clive a
true, loving wife."

"Yes, I'll try so hard."

"It will not take much trying, Janet, for he loves you very dearly."

She raised her head sharply, and there was an angry look in her eyes.

"No, no, you are wrong," said the old man.  "Always the same, my pet.  I
can read you with these little jealous fits and fancies.  I tell you, he
loves you very dearly, and I'm going to say something else, my pet, my
last little bit of scolding, for I've always watched you very keenly for
my boy's sake."

"Mr Reed!" she whispered, shrinking from him and glancing towards the
window; but he held her hands tightly.

"They cannot hear us, little one," he said, "and I want you to listen.
For your own happiness, Janet, my child.  It is poor Clive who ought to
have been jealous and complained."

Janet hid her burning face.

"It was not all your fault, little one, but I saw a great deal.
Innocent enough with you; but Jacob has always been trying to win Esau's
heritage, and even his promised wife."

The girl sobbed bitterly now, and laid her burning face close to the old
man's, hiding it in the pillow.

"Oh, don't, don't," she whispered.  "I never liked him, but he was
always flattering me and saying nice things."

"Poison with sugar round them, my dear.  But that's all past.  You are
to be Clive's dear honoured wife.  No more silly, girlish little bits of
flirtation.  You are not spoiled, my dear, only petted a little too
much.  That's all to be put behind us now, is it not?"

"Yes, dear--yes, dear Mr Reed," she whispered, with her arms about his
neck; and it was as if years had dropped away, and it was the little
child the old man had petted and scolded a hundred times, asking
forgiveness, as she whispered, "I will be good now, and love him very
dearly."

"That's like my own child," said the old man.  "Now let's hear the true
woman speak."

"And do always what you wish," she said, looking him full in the eyes.

"That's right--try," he said, drawing her down to kiss her, and then
signing to her to go.

"I'm tired," he said wearily.  "Clive, take your little wife downstairs
for a bit.  Your hand, my boy.  God bless you!  Now, Doctor, I'll have
an hour's sleep."

The Doctor signed for the young people to go down; and as he took a
chair by the bed's head, Grantham Reed turned his head away from the
light, and went off into the great sleep as calmly as a tired child.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

JESSOP PLAYS TRUMPS.

Jessop Reed, when he left his father's bedroom, had gone straight down
to the study, with his brow contracted and his heart full of bitterness,
without seeing that he was closely watched, and that a pale, troubled
face was raised over the top balustrade, which looked very dull and
gloomy in the yellow light which streamed through the soot-darkened
skylight panes.

"So that's it," he said to himself, as he closed the door and threw
himself into his father's great morocco-covered chair.  "I'm nobody at
all.  The new king is to reign, and his name is Clive.  I'm not even
executor.  No voice in anything; only the naughty boy to be punished.
If I could only see that will!"

His eyes wandered about the dark room with its conventional cases of
books that were never read, and he looked at the cabinets and
writing-table as if he expected to see some drawer open with the key
already in it, so that he could take out the will and read it at his
ease.

But he shook his head, for he knew that his father was too business-like
a man to be careless over so important a document.

"At the lawyer's," he said to himself; "and there is no need.  I know
the old man too well; but I wonder what he has said.  A few hundred a
year for his naughty boy, and the dear, good, industrious youth, who
always did as father wished, nearly everything."

"I know," he said, half aloud, as he sat back in the chair and took out
his cigar-case to open it and select a strong, black roll of the weed,
bit off the end savagely, and spat it upon the carpet.

"I suppose I may smoke here now without getting into grief.  Poor old
boy! his game's over; but, curse him, he might have played fair."

He lit the cigar, and began to smoke and muse with his eyes half closed.

"I know," he thought, and he laughed bitterly.  "To my dear old friend,
Peter Praed, M.D., my cellar of wine, the Turner picture, and one
hundred pounds to buy a mourning ring and as recompense for acting as my
executor.  To my servants fifty pounds each and six months' wages.  To
my son Jessop the interest on bank-stock to produce five hundred pounds
per annum, paid in quarterly dividends.  To my beloved son, Clive Reed,
the whole of my remaining property in bank-stock, shares, and my
interest in the `White Virgin' mine in the county of Derby.  Hah! yes,"
he said aloud, "and it is good, or the old man would not have taken it
up as he has.  Yes, it is no balloon business puffed into a state of
inflation, but a genuine, solid affair.  All to him, and he is
co-executor with the Doctor.  He said he had made him so months ago; I
am nowhere.  And that's my father!"

He bit off a piece of the end of his cigar and spat it out angrily, but
started up as a thought struck him.

"No, that's not all," he muttered, as his eyes flashed,--"Janet!"

"Of course," he said, with a long-drawn breath, full of satisfaction,
"he would not forget her.  He worshipped the girl, and he would leave
her quite independent of Clive.  A hundred thousand, if he has left her
a penny.  The artful little jade: she played her cards right with the
old man."

He started from the chair, threw the cigar-end into the fireplace, and
hurried up to the drawing-room, to find it empty, and rang the bell.

"Where is Miss Praed?" he asked, as the servant appeared.

"She was fetched up into poor master's room, sir."

Jessop Reed went back to the study, and shut himself in, his brow
contracted more and more, and lighting another cigar, he lay back
smoking and thinking intently, but with his face less clouded by anger,
as he felt more and more satisfied that he was right about his father's
disposition of his property, and over his own plans and those of his
friend Wrigley.

"There is such a thing as salvage when there is a fire," he said, with a
laugh which disfigured his handsome features; "and it comes in too after
a wreck.  Well, we shall see, my dear brother; matters may balance
themselves fairly after all."

He started almost out of his chair just then, for a hand was laid upon
his shoulder, and there stood pretty, fair-haired Lyddy, with her eyes
red and swollen with weeping.

"How did you get here?" cried Jessop angrily.

"I opened the door, dear, and came in softly; didn't you hear me?"

"Hear you?  No; and how many more times am I to tell you not to call me
dear?"

"Oh, Jessop, don't, don't!" cried the poor girl, bursting into tears.
"Poor master! he's dying fast, they say, and there'll be no need to hide
anything from him now."

"But--but--"

"I was on the staircase watching for you, dear, and you were shut up
here so long, instead of being with master, that I was afraid you were
ill."

"Well, I'm not; so now go, there's a good girl; and wait a bit till I've
settled something about you."

"Settled something about me, dear!  Why, as soon as poor dear master's
dead you'll be master then, and can do as you like.  You won't be the
first gentleman who has married a servant."

"Oh no, of course not," he replied, with a bitter sarcasm in his tone.

"And you will make me happy then, won't you, dear?  For I am so
miserable when I see you courting Miss Janet, I could find it in my
heart to go some night to the Serpentine and end it all."

"Will you hold your tongue?" he cried, with a shiver.  "Do you think I
haven't enough to worry me as it is?  Now, my good girl, is this a time
for you to come bothering me?"

"I'm not a good girl," she replied with spirit; "and it's cruel of you,
in your man's selfishness, to talk of my bothering you.  No, no, no, I
won't be angry with you," she cried, hurriedly changing her tone.  "And
now, dear, that you can do as you like, you will not think of Miss Janet
any more."

"Wait," he said sullenly; "and now go.  Do you think I want the servants
to be tattling about your being shut up here?"

"Let them tattle," cried the girl proudly.  "Let them, if they dare.
They shall soon find that I'm their mistress.  Tattle, indeed!"

"You heard what I said.  Now, then, go away from here at once.  There's
a ten-pound note.  Don't bother about your pay, but get away from here,
for your dignity's sake.  Your box can be fetched at any time.  Go down
home."

"Go down home!" said the girl in a low voice, full of suppressed anger;
"home, eh? so as to be out of your way now?  No," she cried, flashing
out into a fit of passion; "it's to get rid of me.  I'm in your way now
that you are going to be master, and you don't mean to marry me, as
you've promised a hundred times.  I know: it's Miss Janet."

"Lyddy, don't be a fool," cried Jessop, in a tone full of suppressed
passion.  "Now, go, there's a good girl.  It's all for the best.  Hush!
you will be heard."

"Then every one shall hear me," she cried, tearing up the note he had
placed in her hand and flinging it in his face.  "No; I won't be a fool
any longer.  You're as good as master now; you've promised to marry me,
and I will not be packed off in disgrace.  You're master here, Jessop,
and I'm mistress; and come what may, I will not stir."

She flung her arms round him as she spoke, and in his rage he raised his
doubled fist to strike her down, but it fell to his side.

"Mr Jessop Reed is not master here," said a stern voice at the door,
"and you are not the mistress."

Jessop flung the girl from him, so that she staggered, and would have
fallen heavily, had not Clive, who had opened the door softly to come
and sit with his brother, caught her in his arms.

"Jessop," he said coldly, "have you not done enough to insult our father
without this miserable disgraceful episode, now while he is lying
upstairs almost at his last."

"The woman's mad," cried Jessop.  "Crazy with grief or drink, I suppose.
I don't know what she means."

"I'm not, I'm not, Mr Clive," cried the girl, bursting into a violent
fit of weeping.

"Lyddy," cried Jessop.

"I don't care; I must, I will speak.  He has promised to marry me again
and again, and now that master is dying and he is going to be free to do
as he likes, he is trying to pack me off--to send me home, and I'd
sooner go and jump off the bridges at once."

"Jessop!" cried Clive, "how can you be such a scoundrel?"

"Scoundrel yourself!" shouted Jessop furiously.  "The woman's an
impostor; it's a hatched-up breach of promise case to get money--a
fraud."

"No, no, no," cried Lyddy wildly, as she flung herself at Clive's feet,
and caught and clung to his hands.  "It's true--all true.  Dear Mr
Clive, don't, don't you forsake me.  Don't you turn against me now."

"Doctor! you here!" cried Clive, as he became conscious of the fact that
they were not alone; and he made a step to cross the room to where
Doctor Praed was standing with his child's arm locked in his.  But, at
the first movement, Lyddy uttered a piteous cry, clung to him wildly,
and suffered herself to be dragged over, and half lie sobbing
hysterically on the carpet.

"Yes, sir, I am here," said the Doctor gravely.

"But my father?" cried Clive excitedly.

"Is spared this fresh trouble, sir," said the Doctor coldly.

"Dead!" cried Clive, in a voice fall of agony, and he turned to his
brother.

Jessop was drawing Janet's arm through his as she gazed with flashing
eyes at her betrothed.

"Come away," Jessop whispered.  "Janet, dearest, this is no place for
you."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN RUSSELL SQUARE.

"But surely, Doctor, you don't believe I could be such a scoundrel?"

"My dear Clive, I should be sorry to think ill of any one, but you see I
am a student of man's nature."

"Then you believe it?"

"That you are a scoundrel, my dear boy?  Oh, dear no; I think you one of
the best of fellows, or I would not have allowed that engagement to take
place; and as I said to Janet, we must be a bit lenient; there was every
excuse."

"What!" roared Clive, leaping from his seat in Doctor Praed's
consulting-room the morning after his father's death.

"Now, now, be calm, and listen to what I have to say."

Clive sank back with his face flushed and hands clenched, while the
Doctor continued gravely--

"She was hot-headed and angry as could be when I got her home.  You see,
my dear boy, women are different in their nerve forces to men.  There
had been a great drain upon her during the interview with your poor
father, and then the sad surprise with that woman and the shock of your
father's death combined were sufficient to completely disturb the nerve
centres."

Clive Reed looked at the Doctor, as though he would have liked to shake
him, but he only waited.

"I told her, as I have said, that she must not be too severe."

Clive drew his breath hard.

"That, speaking as her father and a man of the world of a few
experiences, a young lady was in error if she expected to find the man
to whom she was betrothed quite perfect."

"Doctor, you'll drive me mad," said Clive.

"No, I am going to teach you to be a little philosophical and to be
patient, for of course she will come round.  I am angry, terribly angry
with you; I think it disgraceful--"

"But--"

"Hear me out, boy, or, confound you, I'll have you shown the door,"
cried the Doctor angrily.  Then calming down: "It is most unfortunate,
coming at such a time, too.  The old writer may well have said that
about our pleasant vices and the rods, or whatever it was, to scourge
us.  Be silent, sir: you shall speak when I have done.  I know there was
every excuse, living in the same house with a pretty gentle young girl
who looked above her station, but was not in her manners.  I have known
lots of cases.  Bit of vanity--good-looking young master--thinks she'll
be a lady--flings herself literally at young fellow's head.  Yes, a
young man needs to be superhuman, I may say, under the circumstances."

"Have you done, Doctor?"

"No, sir, I have not.  You will have to go through a kind of probation
with Janet--and with me, of course; and in time the matter may perhaps
be patched up.  Now we will set that aside, and talk about the business
matters connected with your father's decease.  Poor old Grantham!  It's
a gap out of my life, Clive.  We were chums for thirty years.  Thank God
he did not know of this, poor fellow, for he thought so highly of you,
my boy."

"Would to God he were here now!" cried Clive passionately.

"Amen!"

"To hear his son defend himself.  I swear to you, Doctor Praed, by all
that is holy, by my dead father lying there at home, and who from the
spirit-world may hear my words, I am perfectly innocent.  For years I
have not had a thought that Janet might not know--that has not been
hers.  It was all a mistake--a misconception, and in her hurry and
readiness to jump at conclusions she believed it."

"But, my dear boy, do you mean to deny that the unhappy girl, whose
words I heard as she knelt by you, has not had a promise of marriage?"

"No, sir--unfortunately no."

"Then what do you mean?"

"Oh, Doctor," cried Clive passionately, "why is it in this, world that
one man may go on adding blot after blot to his bespattered scutcheon,
and at each revelation people smile and shrug their shoulders; while
another who has tried to make his life blameless and keep the shield of
his honour bright is doubted at the first blur that is cast upon it;
every one seems to rejoice, sets him down as a hypocrite, and cries `Ah!
found out at last!'"

"Well, my boy, it is human nature.  I must confess to feeling something
like that yesterday myself."

"Then shame upon you, sir!--Doctor, you've known me from a boy, and
ought to be better able to judge me."

"Well, you see, my boy, the circumstances," said the Doctor--"the
temptations.  You suddenly lifted up to a position of great wealth and
influence, she a poor servant."

"Doctor, she is a gentle woman, and my nature would not let me forsake
her like a brute.  Damn you, sir!" cried Clive, leaping from his seat,
"how dare you believe it of me--that I could come here ready to swear
fidelity to Janet, kiss her sweet pure lips, and tender her my love,
while I frankly offered you--her father--my hand?  It is a shame, a
disgrace, a blot upon your own nature, to think it of your old friend's
son."

"I--I--beg your pardon, Clive, humbly, my boy," said the Doctor, rising
and catching the young man by the shoulders.  "I was wrong, I ought to
have known you better.  I am as hasty and jealous as Janet.  Forgive me.
I was angry for my child's sake.  Things looked so against you.  There,
there! curse me again, my dear boy, I deserve it, I do indeed."

"Then you do not believe it now?" cried Clive, as the Doctor got hold of
his hands and shook them warmly.

"Believe it?  No, not a word of it, nor shall Janet neither--a silly
little jealous baby.  Then it was that scoundrel Jessop, and the poor
girl was appealing to you for help?"

"I am not going to be my brother's accuser," said Clive bitterly.

"And he played the hypocrite, and took Janet away home here out of the
scene.  Here! say damn again to me, Clive, my boy, for I am about the
most idiotic old fool that ever lived.  But why--why the deuce didn't
you speak out?"

"I was literally stunned, sir."

"But the girl--why didn't you make her?"

"You saw, sir; she ran sobbing out of the room."

"Then you must make her speak now.  No, no: not now; let's set this
aside till after the funeral.  We cannot enter into such matters with my
poor old friend lying there."

"No, sir, not there; and there is a hindrance: the poor girl has gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes; she disappeared last night.  But I cannot go on living like this,
Doctor.  Take me up to Janet now; I must clear myself in her eyes."

"I would, my boy, but she is not here."

"Not here?" cried Clive excitedly.

"No; she left this letter and went out again within an hour."

The Doctor took a note from his breast-pocket and handed it to Clive to
read.

"Cannot stay at home and hear about that shame and disgrace--gone away
to be at peace, and try to forget it--with one of her aunts or a
schoolfellow--will write," stammered Clive, as he hastily read the
letter.

"Yes, my dear boy, you know what a creature of impulse she is; and I
don't know that we can wonder under the circumstances."

"But tell me--where do you think she will be?  I must follow her."

"Heaven only knows," said the Doctor.  "Since my poor wife died she has
been mistress here, and naturally very independent and womanly--a
strange girl, my dear boy.  I have been so wrapped up in my profession,
that I have lost the habit of guiding her."

"But the servants--what do they say?"

"That your brother saw her to the door, and she went straight up to her
bedroom and shut herself in.  When I came back she had gone out again,
leaving this letter.  I am afraid, my boy, you will have to wait.  But
there! it will be all right.  Poor child! she will be as humble to you
as I am.--Yes!"

This was to the Doctor's confidential servant, who brought in
half-a-dozen cards with pencilled appeals.

"Dear me! dear me!" said the Doctor, taking the cards.  "Any one else?"

"Room's packed, sir."

"Clive, my dear boy, I must see my poor patients.  There, there! go and
wait patiently.  I'll come on to-night.  You will see to matters, and
perhaps I shall have a letter from Janet, and you will be able to write
to her or go and see her.  There, there!  We are all straight again?"

"My dear old friend!" cried Clive.

"That's right!  I did see the lawyer last night.  Go and be patient;
matters are mending fast.  One moment though.  Clive, my dear boy, angry
passions rise; you will not go and see your brother."

"No, sir; he is keeping out of my way, or--"

"Eh? yes--or what?"

"I believe I should kill him."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE RICH MAN'S WILL.

Jessop Reed took good care that his brother should have no opportunity
for meeting him to bring him to book, and during the interval before
Grantham Reed's funeral the only news Clive heard of Janet was that she
would be back to accompany her father to old Mr Reed's burial.

"There! my dear boy," said the Doctor; "I can do no more.  You see she
does not even give me her address.  I believe, though, that she is down
at Weymouth with the Hartleys."

This was on the day before the funeral, and Clive had to exercise a
little more patience till after all was over.

He was calmer now.  There was that awful presence in the gloomy old
house, and he felt that it was no time to think of his own troubles or
to attack his brother.  These matters, in spite of the suffering they
caused him, were put aside, and he sat in the study thinking of all that
had passed with the stern, kindly-hearted old man lying above there in
his last sleep.  Of how he had fought the world to amass wealth, and of
this his last speculation, whose success he had been fated not to
witness, cut off as he was just after his son's announcement of the
wealth it must of a certainty produce.

It seemed to Clive to be a hard lesson in the vanity of human hopes; but
he did not flinch from his task.

"It was his wish," he said to himself, "that the mine should come out
triumphant, and it shall, for all our sakes."

As he mused, he thought of different business friends who had embarked
in the speculation upon the base of his father's credit, but mainly upon
the reports which he had sent home, his father having made these
announcements to him during his absence in the replies to letters, the
last being that the Doctor had bought heavily just before the shares
bounded up and were still rising.

"Poor old father!" he said to himself; "he shall find that I will do my
duty by it to the end, for I suppose he will leave me the management--
perhaps fully to take his place."

These business matters would intrude, and he did not cavil at them, for
he knew that he was carrying out the old man's wishes.

Then came the thoughts of Janet again, and they were mingled with a
bitter feeling of indignation against her for her readiness to think
evil of one whose every thought had been true.  But he knew that the
reconciliation would be very sweet, and told himself that she was still
but a girl, and that her character would ripen by and by.

"And be full of trust," he muttered.

Then the scene of her leaving that room, angry, jealous, and proud,
leaning upon his brother's arm, came back, and a sensation of fierce
anger thrilled him.

"A coward!" he muttered, "a base, miserable coward!  Well, we shall meet
to-morrow, and afterward the less we see one another in the future the
better for both."

Then he hurriedly devoted himself to his father's papers, so as to
change the current of his thoughts and try to check the throbbing of his
brain.

The next day broke gloomy and chill, well in accordance with the solemn
occasion.  Grantham Reed had instructed that his funeral should be
perfectly quiet, and that few people should be asked, but many came
unbidden to show their respect for a business friend whose name had been
a power in the City, his word as good as any bond.

Jessop came late, and took his place in the darkened drawing-room
without a word; and, nearly the last, Doctor Praed arrived with Janet,
in deep mourning, and her face hidden behind a thick crape veil, without
a word passing between her and either of the brothers, from both of whom
she seemed to shrink.

A few of the oldest friends went up to see the dead; then Janet placed
her hand upon her father's arm, and went to the solemn chamber, staying
some time, and being led back hanging heavily upon her father's arm,
sobbing bitterly and covering her face beneath her veil as she sank down
in her seat.

Clive's heart throbbed and his eyes grew dim.

"God bless her!" he murmured to himself; "she did love him dearly."

He felt softened, and as if he could rush across the room, clasp her to
his heart, and whisper that he was true, as staunch as steel to her, the
darling of his heart, his first and only love.

But it was neither time nor place for such an action, and turning to his
brother, he signed to him to come, and, in the midst of a silence broken
only by Janet's sobs, they two went out and upstairs without a word, to
stand by the open coffin where their father lay calmly as if in sleep.

"How can I feel enmity now!" thought Clive, "as we stand here before
you, father, whom I shall see no more on earth?  Am I to forgive him and
wipe away the past?"

As the young man bent down in that solemn moment, the words of the old
prayer came to him, and he breathed out, "As we forgive them that
trespass against us," and tenderly kissed the broad forehead.

Then half-blinded he went out, conscious that his brother followed him
closely down to the drawing-room, to listen, as Janet's sobs still rose
from time to time, to the heavy footsteps overhead, the hurried rustling
on the stairs, and then to rise when the door was opened, and pass out
with his brother to the mourning-coach.

Two hours, and the party were back in the long, gloomy dining-room, well
filled now, for of the many who followed, those most intimate had
entered to hear the reading of the deceased's will.

The brothers were widely separated now, while the Doctor, who looked old
and careworn, was seated near the family lawyer, who sat there at a
table with a tin despatch-box by his elbow, the most important personage
present.  Janet was by her father's side, clinging to his hand, still
closely veiled, but trembling and weak, while a faint, half-suppressed
sob escaped from her lips at intervals.

A few remarks were made by old friends, but the importance of the
occasion acted as a check, and there was a sigh of relief as the
deceased's old legal friend cleared his throat, put on his glasses, and
took them off again twice to rub away imaginary blurrings which obscured
his sight.

Then he began to read the various clauses of the will, which was
singularly free from repetition, being concise, business-like, and clear
in the extreme.

Clive, as he sat back in his chair, half closed his eyes, for to him it
was as if his father were speaking, and all sounded so matter-of-fact
that he felt that he had nothing to learn at first.  Everything nearly
was as he expected to hear; while Jessop, who kept his eyes rigidly
fixed upon the lawyer's lips, smiled in a peculiar way as he found how
prophetic he had been.

There were the minor bequests to servants of small sums and six or
twelve months' wages; a snuff-box to this old friend, a signet ring to
another, the watch and chain "to my dear trusty old friend Peter Praed,
doctor of medicine; also one hundred pounds as a slight remuneration for
his services as co-executor."  And so on, and so on, till the lawyer
turned over a sheet and paused for a few moments before beginning again,
amidst profound silence now, for the more interesting portion of the
will was to come.

In brief.  "To my son Jessop Reed, the interest of twenty-one thousand
pounds, two and a half per cent, bank-stock, to be paid to him during
the term of his life quarterly by my executors, the aforesaid Peter
Praed and Clive Reed, the capital sum of twenty-one thousand pounds
reverting at the death of my said son Jessop Reed to my estate."

"Exactly what I expected," said Jessop, with a smile of indifference.
"Five hundred a year, eh?"

"About, sir," said the old lawyer gravely.  Then, after sitting attent,
as if expecting another question, he coughed again, and went on.

"I give and bequeath to my son, Clive Reed, the whole of my interest in
the `White Virgin' mine, together with everything of which I die
possessed in shares, bank-stocks, freehold and leasehold property,
begging him that he will act in his possession thereof as a true and
just man, and the steward of a large estate committed to his charge.  I
do this believing that he will carry out my wishes in connection with
the said property for his own benefit, as well as for that of many
friends who have embarked their money in my last enterprise, the
aforesaid `White Virgin' mine."

The lawyer read the few remaining words connected with the signature
amidst a murmur of congratulations, in the midst of which Jessop started
up, black with fury and disappointment.

"Shame!" he cried.  "I protest!" and a dead silence fell.

"May I ask why, sir?" said the lawyer coldly.  "My deceased friend has
done more than his duty by you."

"Your words are uncalled-for and insolent, sir," cried Jessop.
"Recollect that you are only a paid professional man."

"And Grantham Reed's trusted confidential friend, sir.  Dr Praed and I
were the two men to whom he opened his heart--eh, Doctor?"

"Yes, in all things."

"I was not speaking about my own beggarly, tied-up legacy," cried
Jessop, who was now deadly pale, "but of the cruel, disgraceful way in
which my father has behaved to a young lady whom he professed to love as
a daughter, and led to expect that she would stand high in his will."

Janet's hands were extended deprecatingly toward the speaker, and Clive
half rose in his chair, but sank back as the lawyer said coldly--

"Perhaps Mr Jessop Reed will listen to the codicil before he adds to a
long list of injuries by casting aspersions upon the generosity of my
dear dead friend."

"What! is there a codicil?" cried Jessop.

The lawyer bowed his head.

"Then why have you kept it back, sir?"

"Because it comes last," said the lawyer, with a faint smile, "and also
because I have had no opportunity to read it on account of
interruptions."

A dead silence fell once more, and Clive darted a glance across to
Janet, whose eyes, as far as he could see, appeared to be directed at
his brother.

"The codicil," began the lawyer, "is dated six months before our
lamented friend's death."

He paused, and then read on, after the customary preliminaries--

"I give and bequeath to Janet Praed, daughter of my old friend, Peter
Praed, the sum of one hundred thousand pounds, standing in Bank of
England and Government of India stock, free of legacy duty."

"Hah!" cried Jessop, in a triumphant tone; and unable to contain
himself, he rose and crossed to Janet to take her hands, which she
resigned to him, while Clive felt as if he had received a thrust from a
knife, as the old lawyer raised his head and gazed curiously at the
group before him.

Then, as a low murmur once more arose, the lawyer coughed loudly, and
went on; every ear being again attent to his words, as he raised his
voice and sent a galvanic shock through the semicircle of his listeners.

"Conditionally--"

He paused, and Jessop dropped Janet's hands, while his lips parted,
displaying his white teeth.

"Conditionally," repeated the lawyer, "upon her becoming the wife of my
son, Clive Reed.  In the event of her refusing to fulfil these my
wishes, the above legacy of one hundred thousand pounds to become null
and void."

Jessop muttered an oath beneath his breath as he literally staggered at
this announcement.

Then, recovering himself--

"Stop!" he cried hoarsely; "there is another codicil."

"No, sir," said the old lawyer gravely; and he began slowly to double up
the will.

"Wait a minute, sir," cried Jessop, whose hand, as he stretched it out
in the midst of a painful silence, was trembling visibly.

"Jessop--dear Jessop," said Janet faintly, as she tore off her veil, "be
calm;" and she took a step or two towards the infuriated man, while
Clive felt sick, as if from some terrible blow, and sat gazing at the
shrinking girl as, with her face drawn with misery and white as ashes,
she touched his brother on the arm.

"Silence, woman!" he cried.  "Here you!" and he turned to the lawyer,
"give me that will."

"I beg your pardon," said the lawyer gravely.  "I have read the
document."

"Give it to me, I say.  I want to see for myself."

"It is not customary, sir," replied the lawyer.  "You have heard its
contents, and I am custodian, the representative of every one whose name
is mentioned there."

"Give it to me, I say," cried Jessop, stepping forward.  "I will read it
aloud again--myself."

There was a dull sound, a snap, and the rattle of a key being withdrawn.

"No, sir," said the lawyer, placing the key in his pocket.  "In your
excited state, and as the elder son, I would not trust that document in
your hand a moment."

"And quite right," said Dr Praed firmly.

Quick as lightning Jessop made a dash at the lawyer; but a strong hand
was upon his arm, and he was swung aside by Clive.

"Are you mad--and at a time like this!"

"Call it what you like," cried Jessop, "but don't you think I am going
to be cheated and juggled out of my--of her rights.  You have your share
and are out of court.  I'll have that will and read it over again."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Clive, "and you will not make a
scene in this--in my house."

"Indeed!  Oh, yes, I know it is your house, but you've got too strong a
man to deal with."

"Mr Jessop," said the old lawyer gravely, "you have the remedy in your
hands.  There is no underhand work possible with a will like that.  If
you are dissatisfied, go and consult your own legal adviser.  The will
of course has to be proved, and in a very short time you will find it
accurately copied at Somerset House.  Under all the circumstances, as my
deceased friend's trusted adviser, I cannot let it pass from my hands
into yours.  I think, gentlemen, the executors, you agree with my
action."

"Quite!" came in unison, in company with a murmur of approval from the
old friends present.

"Then my duties are at an end," said the solicitor, while Jessop stood
panting, speechless, and biting his lips.  "Clive Reed, my dear sir, I
have made many wills in my time--"

"And you influenced the old man in this," said Jessop.

The lawyer shook his head and looked at the disappointed man tolerantly.

"No, my dear sir.  Your worthy, father was too strong-minded a man to be
influenced.  You have listened to his own clear, concise words and
well-thought-out intentions.  As I was going to say, my dear Clive Reed,
I never made a will with whose principles I could more thoroughly
coincide.  God bless you, my dear boy!  I congratulate you, and I know
how well you will carry out poor old Grantham's wishes.  Ah!  Doctor,"
he continued sadly, "one dear old companion gone.  Many's the good
bottle of port we three cracked together in this room, and many's the
sterling hour of enjoyment, rational and social, we had together."

"Ay," said the Doctor, with tears in his eyes, "and our turn must come
before long."

"Yes!  He half apologised to me for not putting you down for a big lump
sum; but he said you did not want it, and he was favouring you in your
children."

"God bless me!  I didn't want his money," said the Doctor warmly.
"What's the use of money to me?  But a hundred thousand pounds to Janet.
Great heavens, what a sum!"

"Yes, and in her husband's trust," said the old lawyer, with a tender,
paternal smile, as he advanced to Janet, held out his hands, and she
nestled with a sob to him, the old family friend, upon whose knee she
had sat as a child scores of times.  "Hah!" sighed the old man, patting
her shoulder gently, "a woman grown, Janet, but still only the little
girl to me.  Bless you, my dear!  May you be very happy!"

"Happy!" she moaned, as Jessop engaged fiercely in conversation with
some of the old family friends, and Clive stood silent and watchful,
fighting against the horrible despair in his breast.

"Yes, happy, my dear--eh, Doctor?  We old fellows grow to think that
death when it comes is not a horror, but a restful ending to a busy
life, if we go down to the quiet grave loving and beloved, honoured,
too, by all our friends."

There was a subdued murmur of approval here, for the old lawyer had
looked round as he spoke.

"Come, come, wipe those pretty eyes."

"I tell you I will," cried Jessop fiercely; and he wrenched himself away
from an elderly man who tried to restrain him.

"Oh, Jessop, Jessop," sighed Janet, as she shrank from the lawyer's
arms, and then hurriedly turned her head away as she met Clive's
searching eyes.

"But I tell you, you haven't a leg to stand on, man."

"Then, curse it!" cried Jessop, "I'll fight on crutches.  It's a false
will, got out of the old man when he was imbecile.  He would never have
invented it himself."

"What!" cried the Doctor warmly; and Janet burst into tears.

"I say it's all a made-up, blackguardly concoction, schemed by my smug,
smooth brother, who has always been fighting against me.  Miner--
underminer he ought to be called.  But it shan't stand.  I'll throw the
whole thing into Chancery, and fight it year after year till there isn't
a penny left."

"And you have been shut up in a lunatic asylum, and the best place for
you," said the Doctor angrily.

"Oh, now you've begun," cried Jessop, with quite a snarl.  "You think
your child's going to have a hundred thousand, do you, and that you will
be able to have your coin all to yourself."

"Jessop," began Clive excitedly.

"No, no, my dear boy," said the lawyer, "there must be no brotherly
quarrel.  It is so unseemly at a time like this.  Let me try and settle
it."

"What, make terms?" cried Jessop.  "No; those are for me to make, for
I've got the whip hand of you, and you shall beg to me if all the old
man's cursed money is not to go to the lawyers.  Now, then, what have
you to say?"

"Oh, Jessop, Jessop," whispered Janet, laying her hand upon his arm.

"Will you be silent, fool!" cried Jessop, seizing her by the wrist, and
giving her a rough shake.

He had gone too far.  Clive uttered a cry of rage, and flew to save the
woman he loved from this indignity, but, as he dashed forward, his
brother, with a mocking laugh, full of triumphant pride, snatched the
yielding girl to his breast, and held her there.

"No, you don't," he said coolly: "not you, my clever schemer.  You can't
hit a man through his wife."

"What!" cried Clive wildly.

"Yes, father-in-law," said Jessop, turning to the Doctor.  "I am
fighting for our legacy.  Janet and I were married three days ago, and
this is part of our honeymoon."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

AT DINNER.

"Hold your tongue, boy!  Don't contradict me.  You're not to think
because your father is dead that you are going to do just as you like.
Try some more of that claret; it's very good.  There were only fifty
dozen of it, and your father and I shared the lot.  I suppose you've got
some of it left in the cellar--your cellar.  Dear, dear! poor old
Grantham, what a change!  There, fill up your glass.  That won't hurt
you.  I say it as a medical man.  That's wine that maketh glad the heart
of man; and one needs it now, for homes desolate enough.  The miserable
jade!"

"It was not her fault," said Clive sadly.

"What!  I say it was her fault, so don't you defend her.  Confound you,
sir, I know you've grown into a big, ugly, consequential fellow; but
recollect this, sir, I consider I take your father's place now he's
gone.  I'm the first man who ever held you in his hands.  Didn't I
vaccinate you, and bring you through half-a-dozen miserable little baby
disorders?  You are Clive Reed, mine-owner and rich man to the world;
but you are only the squalling brat and scrubby boy, sir, to me."

The Doctor tossed off a glass of his rich claret, and then swung himself
round in his chair.

"Don't take any notice of what I say, boy.  I'm not myself."

Clive rose from his chair and went and laid his hand upon the Doctor's
shoulder, to have it seized and held.

"My dear old friend!" he said, in a low voice.

"Thank you, my boy, thank you.  God bless you!  I seem to have no one
but you--now she's gone.  Clive, my lad, I'll tell you.  I came back
here after the funeral and went into the drawing-room, and I turned her
picture with its face to the wall, after I'd cursed her like old fathers
used to do in the plays when I was a boy.  I said I cast her off for
ever; and then I sat down in my chair, and did what I hadn't done since
her mother, my poor dear wife, died.  I cried, boy, like a little child.
For it seemed as if she was dead too--dead and gone--and I had suddenly
turned into a disappointed, lonely old man."

"And then you turned the picture back, and owned to yourself that you
loved her very dearly still, as I do, sir.  For we cannot tear our
affections up by the roots like that."

"I did, Clive, my boy, I did; for you are right.  I know too now that
it's my own fault, for I spoiled and indulged her.  She was left to me
almost a child, motherless, and I began to treat her at once as a woman.
I let her have her own way in everything, and she grew up pettish and
jealous, and ready to resent every check.  Times and times, when I've
offended her, has she gone right off on a visit, just to annoy me, and
show how independent she was.  But there! it's all over now."

"Yes," said Clive softly, "it's all over now."

"And how I used to reckon upon it all!" continued the Doctor.  "You two
married, and the little children springing up--hers and yours, boy, to
make my old life young again.  But it's all over.  I won't say I'll
never see her again, but I've done with her; and as for that miserable,
cunning, unprincipled scoundrel, how long will it be before he's laid up
with D.T., or something worse--if there is anything worse?  I'll go and
attend him gratis, and pay for his funeral afterwards with pleasure."

"No, no, not you," said Clive quietly.

"I will, sir; I shall consider it a duty to that poor girl to make her a
widow as soon as possible, so that she may live in peace and repent."

Clive shook his head.

"The man she loves," he said softly.

"She doesn't; she can't love such a scoundrel.  The brainless, little,
thoughtless idiot!  She believed all that of you directly, and ran off
to marry the blackguard who has been trying for weeks to undermine you,
so as to get my money.  Why, I find he has been constantly coming here
to see her, and she in her vanity played with him--a little coquette--
played with the confounded serpent, till he wound round and stung her."

Clive hung his head.

"And all the time you and I would have been ready to knock the man down
who had dared to suggest that she was trifling with you.  Bah! they're a
poor, weak, pitiful lot, the women, Clive.  I've doctored enough of them
to know all their little weaknesses, my lad.  A poor, pitiful lot!"

"Do you think so?" said Clive quietly.

"Well, some of them.  But, by jingo, boy, what a punishment for the
designing scoundrel.  He had heard poor old Grantham let drop that he
had put Janet--I mean that girl--down for a big sum, and he played for
it--gambled.  He meant that.  By jingo! his face when he found he had
lost!  I'm going to let you know, too, what I have done."

"What have you done?" said Clive, rather anxiously.

"Made a new will, sir, and had the old one burned before my eyes.  I've
gone on saving for that girl, and the money's hers, and she shall have
it when I die; but he shan't.  I went to old Belton, told him what I
wanted, and he went into it _con amore_, for he dislikes Master Jessop
consumedly.  He says it's a natural reversion--the harking back to a bad
strain that once got into the Reed blood."

"But what did you do?" said Clive.

"Do, boy! tied the money up as tight as the law can tie it.  My little
bit is to be in the hands of trustees, and she will get the dividends,
but she cannot sell out and give the money to your blackguard of a
brother; and in a very short time he'll know it, begin to ill-use her,
and go on till she shows that she has some spirit, and then she'll turn
upon him, there'll be a row, and she'll come home."

Clive sat frowning.

"It will be my revenge upon the scoundrel.  I say, by the way, that
little parlour-maid, Lyddy, what about her?"

"I know nothing," said Clive sadly.

"The scoundrel has spirited her away somewhere, I suppose.  Ah! well,
they'll make him suffer for it in the long-run, and you and I will have
a pretty revenge.  There now, not another word about either of them.
You told me you were going down to Derbyshire again."

"Yes, to-morrow."

"That's right!  Go and work, my lad.  You won't do it merely for the
money, but to carry out my poor old friend's wishes.  You've got to make
that mine a very big success.  I've put a lot in it, my boy, so you
mustn't let me lose.  I mean to take up what Byron calls a good old
gentlemanly vice--avarice.  Don't be down-hearted, boy.  Have another
glass of claret, and we'll drink to your success.  One of these days I
shall come and drink your bride's health.  Some true, sweet girl, whom I
can call daughter.  Ah! you shake your head now, because you have just
been to the funeral of your coming hopes.  But wait a bit, my boy.  The
world turns round, and after the winter the summer comes again."

Clive Reed sighed, and at that hour, sick and sore at heart, and
despairing, as much on account of the woman he loved as upon his own,
everything ahead looked black but the prospect of his late father's
venture, and over this he now set himself to work; not to make money,
for he had plenty, but to dull the gnawing pain always busy at his
heart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE UNDERCURRENT.

"Hah!  I nearly had you that time, my fine fellow," said Major Gurdon,
as he stood deep in the shade, where twilight was falling fast, and ever
and anon he deftly threw a fly with his lissome rod right across to the
edge of the black water, where the deep suddenly grew shallow, and a
sharp rippling was made by the swiftly flowing stream.

"Feel it chilly, my dear?" he said, as he made the brass winch chirrup
as he drew out more line.

"No, dear," said Dinah, with her pale, troubled face lighting up, as she
stood there holding a landing-net.  "It is very beautiful and cool and
pleasant now."

"Ah! that sounds better," said the Major, as he made his fine line whish
through the air and sent the fly far away down-stream.  "You have been
fidgeting me, my dear."

"I, papa?" said the girl hurriedly.

"Yes.  You haven't seemed the same since you had that fall."

"Oh, it was nothing much, dear."

"But it was a good deal to make you look so white and upset ever
since.--Missed him!--Do you know, my dear," continued the Major, making
another throw, "I lay awake half last night thinking that I ought to
take you up to London to see some clever physician."

"Oh, no, no, no," said the girl hurriedly.  "You shouldn't fidget about
that.  I am better.  I am, indeed."

"Then impossibilities have come to pass, and your little face is
deceitful."

"You take too much notice of things, dear," said Dinah, shrinking a
little behind her father, so as to hide the fresh shade of trouble in
her countenance.

"Oh no, I don't," said the Major, as he threw his fly again.  "I have
not studied your face since you were a baby, Diny, for nothing.  Do you
know, my dear," he continued, as his child stood with her lips pressed
so firmly together that they formed a thin white line, "I really think
that fish have more gumption than we give them credit for.  They really
do get to be educated and know when they are being fished for."

"Well, what wonder that they should refuse to take a tiny patch of hair
and feathers hiding a hook?"

"But it's a lovely black gnat I am trying, my dear.  I couldn't tell it
in the water from the real; and there: look at that," he cried, in a
tone full of vexation, as a big trout suddenly sucked down an
unfortunate fly floating close by the Major's cunningly made lure.  "I
knew that fellow was there, and I hereby register a vow that I mean to
have him wrapped in buttered writing-paper and grilled for my breakfast
before I have done.  What a--ah! that's a good throw, right above him.
That ought to tempt any natural fish.  Got him!--Be ready with the net,"
he cried.  "Not yet," as there was a wallow, a boil in the water, a
splash, and an ejaculation as the Major's rod, which had bent nearly
double, became straight again.

"Lost him, papa?"

"Lost him!  Of course.  My usual luck.  Lightly hooked in the lip.--
Eh?--No.  A badly-tempered hook snapped short off.  I wish the scoundrel
who made it--Dinah, my dear, would you mind walking just out of hearing.
There are a few good old trooper's oaths just suitable to this
occasion, and I should like to let them off."

Dinah did not stir, but a sad smile crossed her features, and she stood
waiting while her father selected a fresh fly, straightened the gut, and
began to fasten it to the collar of his line.

"Such a pity!  Just as I had hooked him too.  I wonder whether he will
try again.  I was going to say what a deal of trouble one does take, and
what an amount of time one does waste in fishing.  And so you think that
I need not take you up to town?"

"Oh, no, no," cried Dinah quickly.  "I am quite well."

"Ahem!"

"Well, nearly well again, dear.  Don't fidget about me, pray."

"Oh, no.  You are of no consequence whatever, not the slightest; and I
am to take no interest in you of any kind.  Ah! you are a strange girl,
Di, but you make my life bearable, only it seems brutally selfish to
keep you down here in this wilderness."

"You know I am very happy here."

"No, I do not," said the Major, whipping the stream rather viciously.
"You have looked miserable for a month past."

"No, no, dear, you exaggerate," said Dinah, with a smile that was
piteous.  "There!  I am going to be as cheerful as can be now, and you
shall hear me singing about the place again."

"Hah! at last!" cried the Major, striking sharply.  "Home this time, Di.
I believe it's that big trout with the distorted tail-fin.  That's
right, my fine fellow; run, but I think I have you.  No more lovely
May-flies to be sucked down your capacious gullet.  I have you, my
tyrant of the waters.  I'll bring him in ten yards lower down, my dear.
Mind and get your net well under him, and don't touch him with the
ring."

There followed five minutes' playing of the gallant fish, which leaped
twice out of the water in its desperate efforts to escape, and then it
was gently reeled in and lifted out on the stones.

"Best this season, my dear.  A beauty," said the Major, transferring the
speckled beauty to his creel, and preparing for another throw.  It was
suppertime with the trout in the twilight, and they were feeding eagerly
now, as the Major began once more--casting his line, and chatting the
while to his child, who stood just beside him on his left.

"They're pretty busy bringing the machinery over to the mine, I see."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; and the men told me that Mr What's-his-name, Reed, is down
again."

Dinah drew a faint breath and exhaled it in something like a sigh.

"Reed--bad name for a man of trust.  I say, Dinah, I don't like that
other fellow, that man Sturgess, at all."

Dinah's hands grasped the landing-net handle convulsively.

"He is offensive.  A coarse, overbearing, brutal sort of fellow.  I
don't like the way he looks at me.  I suppose in his eyes a man living
down here in a cottage cannot be a gentleman.  I shall have to give him
a setting down.  He is not coming to lord it over us.  I saw him fishing
below here the other day."

"No, no, don't speak to him," cried Dinah hastily.

"Nonsense!  I have commanded bigger and uglier fellows than he, my dear.
The fellow's insolent, and I saw him twice over clambering round the
rocks and staring into the garden.  I won't have it.  He shall respect
my boundaries, and--Ah! good evening, Mr Reed.  Down again, then!  What
is the last news in London?"

Clive Reed had come upon them suddenly from behind one of the angles of
the perpendicular rock which rose up from the narrow pathway beside the
river, and was quite unnoticed until he was close at hand.

Dinah turned pale as death as she uttered a low gasp, and for the moment
looked as if she were about to turn and run.

"Good evening, Miss Gurdon," said Clive.

He took off his hat to the Major's daughter as he spoke; and then, as
the fisherman released the hand which had been warmly grasped, the young
man stood hesitating; but as Dinah made no sign, he let it fall to his
side.

"I have been expecting to see something of you," continued the Major.
"Have you been to the cottage?"

"No," said Clive, in a quiet, constrained tone, and to Dinah's great
relief he did not look her way, but seemed to stare about him strangely.
"I did not call.  I did not expect to meet you here."

"Ah! well, never mind; we are glad to see you, but--Good heavens!--Mr
Reed!  You've been ill or something.  My dear sir, have you had some
accident up at the mine?"

"No," said Clive, smiling faintly.  "The trouble is past.  I have lost
my father, Major Gurdon, since I was here.  He died suddenly."

"God bless me!" cried the Major, in a tone full of sympathy, as he threw
his rod aside, and laid his hand with a sympathetic movement upon the
young man's arm.  "And I was thoughtlessly amusing myself here while you
were in trouble.  In the midst of life--dear, dear me!  I am deeply
grieved, sir--we are deeply grieved.  Mr Reed, you have suffered much.
Dinah, my child, I am sure Mr Reed will give us his company to-night."

Dinah bent her head, and, in spite of herself, gave their companion a
commiserating glance, their eyes meeting, and his resting upon hers with
a sad, wistful look as if he were grateful for their kindly sympathy.
Then he turned to the Major.

"I thank you warmly," he said, "but not this evening.  I have been down
in the mine all day, and chose this path for the sake of the cool,
sweet, moist air."

"The more need for a little rest and quiet communion with others, my
dear young friend," said the Major.  "You will give us pain if you do
refuse, Mr Reed.  I too have known trouble, perhaps greater than yours.
Don't say no, sir.  You will come?"  Dinah stood with her lips apart,
listening, as she mentally prayed that her father's hospitality might be
refused.

"You wish it?" said Clive.

"My dear sir," paid the Major, speaking rather stiffly, "I very rarely
ask a visitor to my little hermitage.  I have many failings, but my
daughter here will endorse my words when I tell you that insincerity is
not one."

"I beg your pardon, Major Gurdon," said Clive, more warmly, "I beg Miss
Gurdon's.  I am not a society man, and--and trouble and anxiety have
made me rather boorish, I am afraid."

"Suppose we set aside attack and defence, my dear sir," said the Major
gravely.  "I too am no society man, a mere hermit living in this
desolate--no, not desolate spot.  Dinah here makes my home a place of
happiness and rest."

It was on Clive Reed's lips to say coldly that he was sure that was the
case, but he was in no mood for passing empty compliments, and he
remained silent.

"Let me be frank, Mr Reed.  I look back upon the time you spent with
us, sir, as a bright little spot in rather a dark existence.  You
impressed me favourably, sir.  This is a very unconventional admission,
but I am eccentric.  Let me tell you openly that you impressed me very
favourably, and when you do have a leisure evening, you will be
conferring a kindness upon me by coming across to the cottage, where we
will do our best to make your stay such as would be acceptable to a busy
man--restful and calm.  There, Dinah, what do you say to that for a long
complimentary speech."

Dinah murmured something, but her eyes did not endorse her father's
words, for they fell, and the nerves about the corners of her lips
twitched slightly as she listened to their visitor's reply.

"This is very good and kind of you, Major Gurdon," he said; "and I
should be ungrateful if I did not accept your hospitality.  Let me be
frank, though, with you, sir.  I came down here to try and forget my
troubles in hard work.  My mission is to make this mine a successful
venture for the sake of those who have embarked in the scheme, and my
thoughts run upon the work, and that alone.  I shall prove to be a very
dreary guest."

"Let me have my opinion about that," said the Major, smiling.  "You have
done wisely, sir.  Hard work in these solitudes will restore your tone.
I came down years ago in despair, to die forgotten; but I soon found out
that `there is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we
may.'  I was not to die, sir.  Life began to have attractions once more.
I found that there was something to live for besides self.  Here we
are, then, and, Mr Reed, you are very welcome."

He drew back for his guest to enter, and he in turn made place for
Dinah, who raised her eyes to thank him in silence for his courtesy,
when he saw a sudden change come over her countenance, which in an
instant was full of a painful look of utter despair, as she seemed to
have caught sight of something over his shoulder.

The next moment she had hurried in, and Clive Reed followed, feeling a
new interest in his host's child, and at the same moment asking himself
whether she were not suffering from some mental trouble, which was
eating away the hopefulness of a life so young as hers.

There was something very restful and calm about that evening at the
cottage.  Dinah hardly spoke a word, but after the pleasant meal sat
engaged upon some piece of work, over which her white fingers passed
hastily to and fro, as the guest sat back in his chair and watched them,
while the Major smoked his cigar at the window, and chatted at times
about London and India, where he had gone through some service at the
time of the Mutiny.

But there were many lapses into silence, and the whole tone of the
evening was grave and still, according wonderfully with Clive Reed's
state of mind, as he felt a kind of sympathy for the lady before him,
and found himself working out her career, without female companionship,
saving that of the stern-looking elderly servant.  Dinah Gurdon, he
thought, must have gone through some terrible time of anguish to wear
such an aspect as he had noticed more than once, and he pitied her, as
he saw the busy hands, utterly devoid of any ornament but their natural
beauty of form and whiteness, still going to and fro the needlework in
the light cast upon them by the shaded lamp.

And then all at once it was late, and time for him to go; but he did not
care to stir--all was truly calm, there was such a sweet repose about
the place that life had suddenly grown dreamy, and he lay back in his
chair listening to the Major, and still watching those hands that were
as beautiful as--more beautiful than--Janet's.

Her face came into his mind with that, like a painful jarring discord in
the midst of some soft, dreamy symphony, and he started up.

"Eh?  What is the matter?" cried the Major suddenly.

"It is late, sir.  I am keeping you up far beyond your usual time, I am
sure."

"Yes, and thank you for doing so," said the Major.  "It is a pleasant
change.  Early to bed is good, but not too early.  Why, you do not
suppose, Mr Reed, that we are going to let you tramp across the bleak
mountain-side to-night, and have inquiries made for you in the morning,
because you have not gone to the mine."

"But really, Major Gurdon," protested Reed.

"My dear sir, after all these years in this solitude, I know the place
by heart, and there are dozens of spots--old shafts and the like--where
a man may lose his life."

"But indeed--"

"You are a new-comer.  Yes, my dear sir, and we must take care of you.
See how dark it is.  Look, Dinah, my child.  Go and see what the night
is like."

Dinah trembled as she went to the open French window, stepped into the
verandah, and came back looking ghastly, just as the dog began to bark
fiercely from somewhere at the back.

"Poachers after the grouse," said the Major decisively.  "I hope, Mr
Reed, you will use your influence to keep your men from trespassing and
going after the game--and my trout."

"Of course, sir, but--"

"Well, Dinah?" said the Major, without noticing her agitated face.

"It is very dark," she said huskily.

"Exactly!  Too dark for you to go, my dear sir.  Stay!  We will have an
early breakfast, and you can walk across to the mine.  I will not have
my peace of mind destroyed by being summoned to sit on a jury at an
inquest upon my late guest."

There was a mingling of mirth and seriousness in the Major's words, and
Reed hesitated.

"Well, sir," he said, involuntarily glancing across at Dinah, and
meeting her troubled gaze.

"I insist," cried the Major.  "What do you say, my dear?"

Dinah started, and her voice sounded strange as she said hurriedly--

"It would be very imprudent of Mr Reed to go back--on so dark a walk."

"Exactly!  There, my dear sir, you are a prisoner for to-night."

"Mr Reed will excuse me now," said Dinah quietly.  "Good-night," and
she held out her hand.

"Good-night," he replied, with a grave sympathy in his tone; and he
stood gazing at the door through which she had passed with the touch of
her cold, moist, trembling hand still lingering in his, till the Major
spoke again, after walking to the window, and shouting to the dog to lie
down.

"Been madness to have gone," he said.  "Why, even in broad daylight the
way across the mountain needs care.  My poor darling there had that
nasty slip some little time ago, and she has not been the same since.
You noticed, perhaps, that she looks pale and quite hysterical?"

"I had noticed--I did on my first visit too--that Miss Gurdon looked
very pale and ill."

"Exactly!  She gives me a great deal of concern about her health.  I
shall be obliged to take her up to town for good advice.  But come, sit
down; I will not trouble you about my cares."

"It is very late, sir."

"It is.  But only a few minutes, Mr Reed.  I wish to say something to
you."

Reed seated himself.

"Only a few words, sir, and I shall begin by asking you to pardon a much
older man for his frankness."

"Pray speak, sir."

"Well, Mr Reed, I like you, and therefore I say, as a man whose life
and hopes were blasted when he was young, and who would see with pain
another suffer a defeat, be careful."

"Over what, sir?" said Clive sadly.

"That mine.  Don't think me impertinent; but I would say to you, as a
young man to whom the income you receive as engineer or manager may be
of importance, don't put too much faith in that `venture.'"

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Because mining is very treacherous, and you might be bitterly
disappointed.  I have seen so many failures.  There, my dear sir, that
is all.  To put it in plain English, don't put all your hopes or eggs
into one basket.  I don't believe in that `White Virgin' at all.  There!
forgive me:--good-night."

"I forgive you, sir," said Clive warmly, as he clasped the hand extended
to him, "and thank you, too.  Good-night."

Half-an-hour later Clive Reed was lying in the pretty little bedroom,
thinking again how restful and calm it all was, and that instead of
lying mentally feverish, and tossing restlessly in turn, a pleasant
drowsiness was coming over him.

Then he was wide awake and attent, for, from somewhere close at hand, he
could hear the sound of a woman sobbing gently, evidently in her
despair, and after a time it came to him that the wall on one side of
his room was merely a papered over partition, and the sobs that came so
faintly to his ears must be those of Dinah Gurdon, suffering from some
terrible mental burden of which her father was possibly not aware.

The sobbing ceased, but in spite of the peacefulness of the place, Clive
Reed did not drop off to sleep, but lay thinking of the mine.  Then came
thoughts of Janet and of his brother--his father's wishes--of the
Doctor, and then, by a natural sequence, of the Major and his child.

What was the Major?  Of course his name would be in old Army Lists, but
why was he down there leading so retired a life?  He had hinted at some
trouble.  Then there was his child!  Sweet, ladylike, with a charm and
dignity that were strange in such a cottage as that.  What was her great
trouble?  It was evidently mental, and her father was in ignorance, and
attributed it to bodily infirmity; and that being so, she must have some
secret hidden from him, possibly too from her father.

So restful the minute before, now Clive Reed felt as if a hot iron had
seared him, and he turned angrily on his couch.

"What is it to me?" he said to himself.  "She is like the rest of them--
pleasant to the eye and good for food, but once plucked, no more
paradise.  The old story!  Pater in profound ignorance, and there is a
lover.  Well, I did not come here to play the spy upon Mademoiselle's
love affairs.  I have had my stab, and it has been sharp.  I suppose now
that I ought to turn cynic and look on.  No; I am too busy even for
that.  I have my betrothed--my `White Virgin'--to whom I must be
faithful.  Hang the girl! why couldn't she go and cry at the bottom of
the garden--top, I ought to say--or down by the river, and not where I
could hear her?  Mademoiselle Dinah Gurdon, you and I will never be
friends, but I like the old man, and I should like to know what his
secret has been.  Has no faith in the mine, hasn't he?  `Don't trust it,
young man'--`Don't place all your eggs in one basket.'  I suppose he
thinks I am a regular employe.  Well, I look it, coming fresh out of it
covered with limestone mud.  Well meant, old gentleman, and I like you
all the better for it.  I know that you are not civil to me because I
happen to be well off, and don't ask me here because I might prove to be
an eligible party for your daughter."

"Rubbish!" he muttered; "don't be an idiot.  If I thought that, I'd stay
away.  But it is not that.  The old man is a thorough gentleman, and the
girl is ladylike and nice enough."

She proved to be nice enough to make Clive Reed lie wakeful still, with
his mind running upon her pale, care-marked face, and begin to wonder
who the man might be who troubled her rest.

"Some one at a distance," he thought; "and the fellow doesn't write.
That's it.  Poor lassie!  These women do not monopolise all the
deception.  It is on the other side here.  Little Phyllis is left
neglected in this out-of-the-way place, quite forgotten perhaps, while
Corydon has gone up to London, and plunged into all the gaieties of
life--and so the world runs on."

Suddenly it struck him that there was a photograph over the mantelpiece
of a fine, handsome fellow in undress uniform.  He noted it when he came
into the room, but thought no more of it.  Now it came strongly to his
mind, and suggested a fresh train of thought.

That was it!  The portrait of the gentleman.  The father was an old
soldier: the more likely for the lover to be military, and he was either
away on foreign service, or leading a giddy life in some barrack town.

"Why, by Jove!" thought Clive, raising himself upon his elbow.  "This is
a tiny cot of a place, without a spare room, I should say.  The old man
would be too Spartan and military to have anything but the simplest of
accommodation, and the best is given to the guest.  I am in my lady's
chamber.  Of course.  The place is feminine and full of knick-knacks.
So that is the cavalier's portrait, and I have the key to the Pandora's
box of troubles.  Poor girl!  But what a shame for me to turn her out.
What's that?"

The endorsement of one set of Clive Reed's musings, the overturning of
others, and a glimpse into Dinah Gurdon's secret care.  For, sharp and
clear, there was the rattle of a few shot against the lattice panes of
the window.

Then in the stillness that instantly followed there was a movement on
the other side of the partition, and directly after the ringing, echoing
report of a gun fired from a room on the other side of the cottage.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

STURGESS SHOWS HIS TEETH.

The loud barking of a dog followed the shot, and directly after Reed
heard a sharp, light tap on a neighbouring door, and the Major's voice--

"Don't be alarmed, my dear.  I thought I heard steps in the garden; my
window was open.  Some prowling tramp, I expect.  Lie down and go to
sleep."

"Rather a military order," thought Reed; "as if the poor girl could go
to sleep under the circumstances, with her lover being shot at--Yes!"

"Don't be startled, Mr Reed," said the Major, who had tapped at his
door.  "We don't have policemen here to go their rounds.  Some scoundrel
was after my chickens, I expect; and the dog was asleep, so I just fired
a cartridge at random as a warning to my visitor.  Good-night."

"Shall I get up and go round with you?" said Reed.

"My dear sir, no.  He's over the hills and far away by now.
Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said Reed, who was half-dressed; and once more
stillness reigned in the mountain solitude.

"No business of mine," he thought, as he quietly returned to bed; "I've
enough to do to-morrow, and want rest.  Chickens, eh?  Poor old fellow!
for chickens read little ewe lamb.  Who'd have thought it of the pretty,
ladylike girl?  And I might have married, and eighteen or twenty years
hence have had a daughter like these two in the narrow circle of my
acquaintance--a child whom I had tenderly nursed in infancy, trained as
she grew up, believed in, trusted, and fancied that I shared her inmost
thoughts.  Then the revelation would probably have come.  No; I don't
think I shall marry now; and--well, how strange!  I feel as if I can
sleep--that engine ought to be fixed in a week, and we'll begin at once.
I'll have the smelting-house where I settled, and the furnaces here
shall be utilised for supplying additional steam.  I must send a
telegram off to-morrow to hurry on that tubing.  Bah!  I'll let all that
go to-night, and--"

"Would you like a little hot water, sir?"

Clive Reed started up.

"Eh?  No, thanks.  I don't shave.  Can I have a canful of cold, fresh
from the river?"

"I have brought one up, sir.  Breakfast in half an hour."

Clive Reed was dressed and out in half that space of time, to find the
Major busily tying up some beautiful carnations, one of which he cut and
presented, dew wet, to his guest.

"The most aromatic of our plants, Mr Reed," he said.  "I'm sorry I
disturbed you in the night, but it was no false alarm.  Look!  I would
not rake them out till you had seen them."

He pointed to the couple of heavy footprints in the soft soil, and to
one of his carnations crushed by a boot heel.

"Nothing missing," continued the Major.  "Our friend was startled; but
don't say anything about the footprints at breakfast."

"Certainly not.  But are you much troubled in this way?"

"Well, no," replied the Major, smiling grimly.

"The fact is, never.  I'm afraid the news of the reopening of the mine
has brought some roughs down into the neighbourhood.  When you get your
men all at work, they'll be too tired of a night to go wandering about."

"I am very sorry," said Reed.

"Oh, don't say a word about it, my dear sir.  I am not blaming you.  I
cannot expect to have Derbyshire reserved to me.  There! those are
smoothed out, and a man who finds that there are firearms upon premises,
with people who mean to use them, will think twice before he comes
again."

"Yes, of course," said Reed, looking thoughtfully at the fine old
soldierly fellow as he ceased raking his bed.  "How will Mademoiselle
look this morning?  Paler and more startled.  A deceitful little minx!"

"We've ten minutes yet," said the Major.  "Care to walk up to the top of
the garden?  I can show you where my boundary runs, and yours touches
it.  Fair play, Mr Engineer.  Keep your own side, and don't come
burrowing under me.  Hang your rooting and mining!  I don't want to have
my garden under-drained and my cottage come toppling about my ears."

"Don't be alarmed, sir.  I shall keep rigorously within the limits of
the mapped-out estate."

"Of course you will, my dear sir.  I have no fear.  It is fascinating
work, that mining, though.  If I were a young man I might be tempted to
begin myself.  As you saw indoors, I do dabble a bit in mineralogy and
metallurgy.  Dinah, too, is quite an expert."

"Indeed!  I was noticing your collection of ores.  Some of them very
rich."

"Yes; bits I have chipped here and there during the long years of my
stay.  There we are.  Your estate runs--"

A shrill whistle arrested him as he stood on the top of a rugged mass of
stone, high above the cottage, where luxuriant ferns clustered in every
niche; and placing a little silver call which hung by his watch-chain to
his lips, he blew an answer.

"One is obliged to have something of this kind," he said smilingly, "to
keep our Martha from going mad.  That was the breakfast-bell, or answers
for it.  Fine place this for your appetite, Mr Reed."

"Yes, one does get ready for one's meals," replied the guest, as he
walked slowly back down the glen-like garden, toward the open window of
the room in which they had been seated on the previous evening, and from
which Dinah, simply dressed, but looking, with her large eyes and pale
creamy cheeks, ten times as interesting as on the previous night, came
out to meet them.

"A guilty conscience needs no accuser," thought Reed, as they drew near,
but to his intense surprise she held out her hand to him with a sweet,
winning frankness, and bade him good morning.  Then turning to the
Major, a sensation as of a sob rising in his throat affected Reed at the
tender affection that seemed to exist between the pair, as Dinah raised
her lips to her father's while he embraced her.

"What a brute I am!" thought Clive; and in spite of the sharp rattle of
the shot seeming to ring in his ears, he told himself that he must have
been wrong.

"A girl like that could not be deceitful," he thought; and when a few
minutes later they were seated at the table, and Martha came in, bearing
a dish of fried ham, he looked hard at the stern robust woman, and
wondered whether she was responsible for the nocturnal visitor.

"Impossible!" he said to himself one moment, and the next he owned that
it might be so.  "Fifty if she's a day," he said mentally.  "Well,
perhaps so, and the lover has come at last."

Two hours later Clive Reed was back in the great shallow gap, where a
couple of teams of horses had just dragged up heavy loads of machinery
and materials, Sturgess looking morose and speaking in a surly voice,
busy ordering the men about the shaft to look sharp and help to unload.
The click of hammer and pick was making the place echo.  Masons were
busy erecting a stone building; and already the place was beginning to
look business-like, and as if waking up from its long, long sleep of
years.

The cottage and its occupants were soon as if they were non-existent to
Clive, who went at once into the temporary office which he had had
erected, wrote and sent off two telegrams to the nearest town for
despatch, several letters, and then, after changing his clothes, went
out to descend the mine.

He had accidentally arranged his time so that he met Sturgess, who had
just ascended.

"Ah!  Sturgess," he said, "I wanted to see you.  Those rails ought to
have been taken down first thing this morning, so that a line might be
begun for the small trucks."

"Oh, yes, I know," said the man roughly.

The engineer looked at him wonderingly.

"Then see about it at once."

"Plenty of time, sir; plenty of time," said Sturgess insolently.

"There is not plenty of time, sir," said Clive, in a tone of voice which
rather startled the man; "and have the goodness to understand this:--My
late father engaged you on the strength of your recommendations, but I
am in supreme authority here, and I submit to insolence from no person
in my employ."

"I didn't mean to be insolent," grumbled the man.

"Then please understand that you were, and don't venture upon it again,
or we part at once.  Now go and see that those rails are taken down
directly, and that a gang of men begin to lay them at once toward the
opening to the great cavern where the water flows."

"No use to lay 'em down there," grumbled Sturgess.

"You heard my orders, sir.  I shall be in that direction before long."

Sturgess went out without a word, but with an ugly look upon his
countenance.

"All right!" he muttered.  "Make much of it.  People who get up very
high have the farther to fall.  Curse him!  I'll let him see."

"He must have been drinking," thought Clive, as soon as he was alone.

The next minute he was wrapt in the management of the mine, and giving
orders to different men, ending by going to the bucket to be let down,
and noting that Sturgess was looking at him searchingly as he rose from
bending over the labourers who were lifting the rails.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

MAJOR GURDON'S VENTURE.

"My dear boy, you are quite a glutton at work," said the Major one day
when a miner had shown him into Clive's office.

"Ah!  Major," cried the engineer, looking up from a plan he was making,
"glad to see you;" and he shook hands.  "Hope Miss Gurdon is better."

"Who is to believe that, when you never come near us.  Eh?  My daughter!
Yes, thank heaven, I think that she is a little better.  She is
gradually losing that scared, frightened look.  Nerves growing
stronger."

"I am very glad, sir.  You must forgive my neglect.  You know what calls
are made upon my time.  If I am absent, the work stands still, and I
have been forced to run up to town four times since I saw you, to hunt
up the machinists.  I am coming some day for a few hours' rest and a bit
of trout-fishing."

"Do.  Pray come.  I shall be delighted.  But, my dear sir, what a change
you have made here in a month.  It is wonderful.  You have turned a
desert into a beehive."

"Well, we are progressing," said Clive, with a smile of pride, as he let
his eyes follow the Major's over engine and boiler houses, furnace, and
smelting sheds; tramway and lifting machinery finished and in progress.
"We shall begin raising ore very shortly."

"And making money for your shareholders, I hope."

"Oh, yes, I hope so," said Clive, with a confident smile.

"I see you are sanguine," said the Major.

"Oh, yes, fairly so, my dear sir."

"I sincerely hope that you will not be disappointed, Mr Reed; but you,
as an experienced mining engineer, know what mines are.  Don't burn your
fingers."

"Oh, no, sir, I'll take care.  Have you any money to invest?  Would you
like a few shares?"

"I!  No, no, Mr Reed.  I have my little income, and I will be content.
Too old to speculate, sir."

"There is no speculation in it, Major.  The matter is a certainty, and
you might double your income easily," said Clive.

"No, sir, I have enough," said the Major shortly.

"Pray forgive me," cried Clive hastily.  "I thought perhaps for Miss
Gurdon's sake--"

"Ah! there you touch me to the quick," cried the Major.  "But no, no!
Avaunt, tempter: I will run no risks."

"I will not tempt you," said Clive, smiling.  "That's right.  But, my
dear sir, you must not deprive yourself of all rest.  This struggle to
grow rich is one of the evils of the day."

"But I am not struggling to grow rich," said Clive quietly, "only to
make others who have trusted me wealthy."

"Then I beg your pardon; but really I think you are over-doing it."

"Don't be afraid for me.  I am better and happier with my mind fully
occupied.  But would you like to look round?"

"Very much indeed," said the Major.

"And go down?"

"Of course.  You will take care of me, I know."

"Oh, yes; you shall come `back to grass,' as we say, safe and sound.
Not much grass, though, by the way."

He touched a gong, and upon a boy answering it, sent a message for Mr
Sturgess to come to the office.

In a few minutes the foreman presented himself, and receiving the
manager's orders, he led the way to the entrance to the mouth, newly
fitted with a strong engine-house and wire rope, with a cage which ran
down the nearly perpendicular slope into the depths of the mine, where a
trolly bore them along with their lights for half a mile.

Then followed a walk, made easy now by the levelling which had gone on
through the passages that ran maze-like through the mine.  Finally, when
the Major was growing weary, Clive led him into the natural cavernous
part, and along over the falling water, to stop at length at the bottom
of a slope, newly cut, with a platform in front of the discovery made on
the day when the lanthorn fell.

"You were asking me," he said, "whether the old workings would pay, and
I told you yes.  But here is my mainstay: this great vein of ore.  I
have tested fair specimens of this, and found that not only is it very
rich in lead, but the lead, in turn, is rich in silver."

The Major turned from inspecting the dull bluish-looking stone against
which Sturgess held up a lanthorn.

"You amaze me," he said.  "This is indeed a find.  I had no idea that
our hills contained anything so good.  Yes; I know enough of metallurgy
to see that what you say is correct.  I congratulate you, Mr Reed.  And
to think that this mine should have been lying barren all these years
for want of a little enterprise and money!"

"There, you have seen enough for to-day, I think," said Clive, smiling;
and they returned to the daylight, Sturgess leaving them at the mouth of
the shaft.

"Your foreman?" said the Major, as they walked to the office.

"Yes; a very useful man.  Not polished or refined."

"Well, no; I--But there; I'm prejudiced."

"Think so?" said Clive, with a grave smile.  "He does not impress you
favourably?"

"To be frank, no, he does not.  I had a great deal to do with men in the
army, and as a rule I was pretty good at the study of physiognomy."

"Indeed!" said Clive, smiling.

"Yes, sir.  I should say that man was sensual, of a violent temper, and
not to be trusted."

"It may be you are about right," said Clive, "but the man is a good
worker, has special knowledge, and is very useful.  He wants driving
with the curb, and with a strong hand at the rein.  Now, then, a glass
of sherry and a biscuit.  But you would like to wash your hands."

"Yes, yes," said the Major, as he discussed his biscuit and sherry, "it
is quite absurd for me, an old waif cast aside by the stream of busy
life, to try and teach a keen business man like you.  Of course, you
know how to manage these people, and yes, yes, there was a time when
mine was a smart regiment, Mr Reed, and--Ah! that's past.  I am out of
the world now.  But that really is a very fine glass of sherry, Mr
Reed.  Old East India brown.  One does not often taste such wine
now-a-days."

"I am glad you like it," said Clive, filling a wine-glass and pouring it
into a tumbler, and then brimming it with cold water from a carafe.  "It
is some of my late father's wine.  I am glad to see it appreciated."

"It is remarkably fine, my dear sir," said the Major, making a grimace;
"but you'll pardon me: really, my dear Mr Reed, it is sacrilege to pour
water into wine like this."

"You think so?" said Clive, smiling.  "My walk underground has made me
thirsty.  I am no connoisseur of wine."

The Major sat sipping from his glass, looking thoughtful and frowning,
while Clive began to wish that he would go, for the afternoon was
gliding by, and he felt that he had a dozen things to do.

But the visitor did not budge, and readily accepted a second glass of
sherry.

"Very shocking, my dear sir, and at such a time, but I have not tasted
wine like that for years."

The Major sipped and sipped again, and in despair Clive forced himself
to think of the hospitality he had received from his new friend, and
giving up all thought of work for the day, unlocked a cupboard and took
out a broad flattish cigar-box.

"Try one, sir," he said, as he opened the box, and displayed a row of
spindle-shaped rolls carefully wrapped in foil.

"Well, really," said the Major, with his eyes glistening as he glanced
at the brand and the box, "I--I cannot refuse, Mr Reed.  Dear me, I
cannot offer you hospitality like this--the finest of wine, the choicest
brand of cigars.  Hah!" he sighed, after lighting up, and exhaling a few
whiffs of thick smoke, "exquisite!  Mr Reed, one has always been taught
to be suspicious of strangers.  I believe I have been of you--you of me.
But somehow you impressed me very favourably as a plain straightforward
English gentleman; and I hope--there, I find a difficulty in expressing
myself."

"You hope, Major Gurdon, that I was as favourably impressed.  I proved
it, sir, when I offered to procure for you some shares in this mine."

"Ah!  I was coming to that, for I have repented, Mr Reed."

"Then you would like to be a holder, sir?"

"One moment, Mr Reed," said the Major warmly.  "You have been my guest;
you have seen my child.  Mr Reed, my one thought in life is to be ready
to feel at death that I have left her modestly independent of the world,
single, married, according to her wishes.  I ask you, then, as an
English gentleman--a man of honour, shall I be safe in taking up some
shares pretty largely in this venture?"

"My dear sir," said Clive quietly, "no man can be perfectly certain
about a mine.  It may grow richer, it may fail, but this was my father's
pet scheme; he was a man of great insight and experience, and I believe
in the mine to such an extent, that I am ready to trust it and recommend
it to my friends."

"Then you think it will pay large dividends?"

"After what you have seen to-day, can you doubt it?"

"No," said the Major, after a few moments' thought, "I cannot doubt
either you or the mine, Mr Reed, and this evening I shall write to my
broker to get me--a--a--few--"

Clive Reed smiled.

"You will write in vain, sir.  I doubt very much whether you could get
any."

"Indeed!  Too late?"

"They never went upon the market, sir, but were distributed amongst a
few friends of my father.  You might get some, but only at an exorbitant
price, which I would not advise you to give; but I could let you have
some of mine."

"At what price?" said the Major, with a searching look which was not
lost by Clive, and he smiled slightly.

"At par, of course."

"My dear sir, this is very good of you.  I--I should much like to hold
five hundred shares."

"So many, sir?"

"Yes.  You think it a good venture?"

"I believe in it perfectly, sir, and I would not have suggested the
matter if I had not possessed perfect faith."

"That is enough, Mr Reed, and I thank you warmly, sir, and beg you to
forgive the slightest shade of distrust.  Now will you confer one more
favour upon me?"

"Certainly, if I can."

"Let the shares be transferred at once, so that I may get the matter off
my mind."

"I will," said Clive, smiling.  "Is that all?"

"No; I want you to come back with me, and let me give you a cheque."

"You could send it," said Clive, hesitating.

"Ah! yes.  You business men who deal with large sums, what a little you
think of a few thousands.  Can't you favour me, Mr Reed?  You have had
a long spell of work: a few hours' rest will do you good."

"I'll come," said the young man, rising; but he did not add, "You have
broken my day, so I may as well finish it in idleness."

"That's right," cried the Major; "and of course you will stay till
morning."

"And turn Miss Gurdon out of her room?"

The Major laughed.

"Oh, dear, no.  That is not her room.  She occupies it sometimes for--I
don't much understand these things--airing purposes, I believe;
sometimes our old maid Martha.  Don't let that idea get into your head,
my dear sir.  There! you will come?"

"Yes, I'll come," said Reed again; and, after summoning Sturgess, and
giving him a few instructions, which the man received with scowling brow
and a surly "Yes," Clive walked away along the tram-rails toward the
gateway of the mine gap, turning once to see that Sturgess was watching
them off the road; but he forgot the incident directly, and they turned
out on the shelf-like path under a projecting rock, which gave a
cavern-like aspect to the place; then round the bastion-like spoil heap,
to which Clive pointed.

"There, brother shareholder," he said, with a smile, "I believe there is
enough ore in that to keep us working for years, and pay a modest
dividend."

"I believe there is," said the Major frankly; and then they went
chatting on, descending toward the track by the river, with the view
increasing in beauty as they passed down toward the vale.

"I believe you are right," said Reed suddenly.  "I have been working
rather too closely.  This walk does one good.  The air is invigorating,
like champagne, and one's spirits rise."

"Yes, it is not good to give all one's thoughts to making money.  What
do you say to having a try for the trout this evening?"

"No," said Clive thoughtfully; "another time.  I must, after all, be
back this evening."

"Mr Reed!"

"Yes; excuse me, I must plead business.  Let me come for an hour or
two's chat in the garden, a cup of tea, and then let me return."

"Of course, if you really wish it."

"I do, this time, sir.  We can easily finish the little bit of business
first."

"My dear Mr Reed, I wish to treat you as a welcome guest," said the
Major; and they went on till he struck out away from the path.

"A short cut," he said, with a nod and a smile; and five minutes later
he pointed, smiling, to a figure standing by one of the high masses of
grit.  "Expected, you see," he said.

"Did she know I was coming back?" thought Clive; and, quick as light,
thought after thought of his last visit came to him, with the adventure
in the night, and his unworthy suspicions about the summons at the
window, thoroughly cleared up now by the Major's words.

Two minutes later he was shaking hands, and noting that the object of
his thoughts was not so pale.  The scared, painful look was gone, and a
faint blush rose to her cheeks as she endorsed her father's words that
they were glad to see their guest.

"But Mr Reed will not stay the night, my dear, and--What?"

"There is a gentleman here," said Dinah, rather hurriedly.

"A gentleman to see me?"

"No, a stranger.  He was crossing the mountain.  He has walked from
Matlock, and he came up and asked if he might rest and have some
refreshment."

The Major laughed.

"Come," he cried, "you are opening up the country, Mr Reed.  A visitor
to you, I should say.  Well, he has had a long walk.  You let Martha
take in tea, I suppose."

"Yes, dear.  Here he is," whispered Dinah, as the visitor came slowly
out of the porch, lighting a cigar, and looking round as though in
search of something.

The something of which he was in search was within a dozen yards, but
not alone, and Clive gave a violent start, for the visitor was slowly
approaching him, and now held out his hand.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SOME ONE IN EDEN.

"Jessop!" cried Clive, in a voice full of astonishment and anger.

"Yes, old fellow, Jessop.  How are you?  Quite a coincidence; Miss--Miss
Gurdon, I think?" said the visitor, turning to Dinah.  "I called here by
accident on my way to find my brother, and he comes to me.  Clive, old
fellow, will you introduce me to this gentleman?"

"Major Gurdon--my brother," said Clive coldly.

"Gurdon?  Then you are papa," cried Jessop boisterously.

"Yes, sir, I am papa," said the Major coldly.

"Then I have to thank you, sir, as well as this young lady, for your
kindly hospitality to a tired traveller.  I had no idea that it was so
far across from Matlock to the mine, or I would not have attempted to
walk."

"Mr Clive Reed's brother is quite welcome to any hospitality I can
afford him," said the Major, rather stiffly.  "Pray make this your home
during your stay."

Clive winced, and noticed as he changed his position that Dinah's eyes
were fixed upon him.

"Oh, thank you.  It is very good of you," cried Jessop.  "You see my
brother is so much down here, that one can't get a glimpse of him in
town; so having a little business matter to settle with him, and wanting
a bit of change, I thought I would run down for a day or two."

"A very wise proceeding," said the Major quietly.  "Our Derbyshire hills
and dales are worth a good look.  Dinah, my dear, these gentlemen have a
little business to transact.  The drawing-room is at your disposal.
After you have done, we can have our chat, Mr Reed."

"Eh?" said Jessop.

"I meant your brother," said the Major, smiling; and, taking Dinah's
arm, he went slowly into the house, with Jessop watching them till they
were out of sight.

"By George, Clive, old fellow, you have good taste," he said, with an
unpleasant little laugh and a peculiar look.

"You said that you had business with me, which brought you down.  What
is it?" cried Clive sternly.

"Oh, come, that will do," said Jessop.  "Recollect that we're brothers.
What's the good of your cutting up rough?"

"What is your business?"

"I'll tell you directly.  But look here, old fellow, aren't you a bit
greedy?  You can't have everything, you know.  You've got all the old
man's money, and I knew that you were to have it, so wasn't it natural
that I should play for Janet?"

"Will you state your business, sir?"

"Sir?  Oh, come, I say, isn't it time to forget and forgive?  I wanted
Janet, and I won.  You didn't care much, or you wouldn't have so jolly
soon consoled yourself with another girl.  I say, though, do they grow
many wenches like that here?"

Clive's eyes blazed, and he felt as if he could strike his brother down
where he stood; for he fancied him going back to his young wife, and
sneeringly telling her of what he had seen.  The thought of this made
Clive's blood boil; and his looks were so ominous that Jessop glanced
covertly toward the door where the Major had entered.

"Now, sir, if you please," said Clive, in low and angry tones, "your
business--what is it?"

"Why, you know, old fellow," cried Jessop, "Janet and I have been
talking it over, and she is upset and shocked that we two, with our
father only just cold in his grave, should be at enmity.  She agreed
that I ought to come down and make it up with you, so that we could meet
like brothers again."

"Leave Janet's name out of everything which you have to say to me," said
Clive, in a husky voice which betrayed how he was moved.  "Man, have you
no respect for your wife?"

"Respect!  Of course I have.  Come, I say, when a fellow acts like a
brother and comes down on purpose to make it up--"

"You lie, sir," said Clive, in a hoarse whisper, as he moved closer to
his brother.  "I have known you from a boy, Jessop, and I never found
you suffer from pangs of fraternal affection.  You have come down here
for some purpose of your own--as a spy; but you will get no information
from me, and under pain of dismissal no man will give you the
information you seek."

"Well, of all--" began Jessop in an injured tone; but he said no more.

"That will do, and I warn you that if you get speculating in any way
over the shares of this company, it will be on your own knowledge.  Take
my advice, Jessop: leave me and my affairs alone, and, above all, leave
this place to-morrow.  If you do not, I shall be compelled to tell Major
Gurdon that he is harbouring a treacherous scoundrel beneath his roof."

"Two can play at that game, Master Clive.  What if I give the Major a
few words of warning concerning his daughter?"

"As many as you please, sir.  He will choose between us," said Clive
sternly.

"Not gammoning the poor old man into taki

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