"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.