Breakfast-time at the cottage, and as a step was heard upon the stony
path, Dinah rose quickly from her seat, then coloured and resumed her
place, for she knew that it was impossible for her to receive letters so
soon.
Then as the steps were heard receding, Martha entered bearing a packet
of newspapers and a letter.
"Hallo! what a budget!" cried the Major. "Who can have sent these?"
He opened the letter first, a business-like looking document, and
read:--
"Draper's Buildings, E.C., August 18--.
"To Major Gurdon, The Cottage, Blinkdale Tor.
"Dear Sir,--As we have frequently done business for you, we esteem it
our duty to let you know of the very great fall which has taken place in
the mining shares which--as you will remember in opposition to our
advice--were bought by you a short time since. We send herewith seven
of the daily papers that you may see how serious the business is, and we
should strongly advise you either to come up and confer with us, or to
telegraph your instructions.
"Of course there may be nothing in these reports, but we felt that an
old client residing in so remote a part of England, where he might not
hear of the rumour, ought to be advised.
"We are, your obedient servants,--
"Caley and Bland."
The Major groaned.
"Father, dear, is it very bad news?" cried Dinah, rising to go to his
side.
"No, no, my dear," he said bitterly. "Not so very bad. Read."
"What--what does this mean?" cried Dinah, changing colour.
"Only ruin once more, my darling," he said bitterly. "Bankrupt in
honour and reputation, now I am a bankrupt in pocket."
"Oh, father! But--but surely it is not through this mine."
"Yes, my dear, through my folly in believing in a stranger. Bah, I have
always been a fool, and as age creeps on I grow more foolish."
"But I don't understand, dear," cried Dinah piteously. "A stranger!
You do not mean Mr Reed?"
"Yes," he said angrily, "I mean Mr Clive Reed. I have let him inveigle
me into this speculation, and now nearly every penny I have is swept
away."
"Oh, impossible!" cried Dinah, flushing now. "Clive would never have
advised you but for your good."
"Pish!" cried the Major, tossing the letter upon the table; "here is a
proof of it. Caley and Bland, the experienced brokers, who sold for me,
and advised me not to put money in the speculation, show me that it is
hopeless."
"But Clive told me it meant fortune, dear; and he could not err."
The Major laughed harshly.
"Of course not--in your eyes, child. There, I am not going to be a
brute to you, my dear. He has deceived us both."
"He has not deceived us both," cried Dinah, drawing herself up proudly.
"Clive is incapable of deceit."
"No, not quite--self-deceit, then. He meant well, perhaps, but, like
all these mining adventurers, he was too sanguine."
"Oh, but, father, it is impossible. It must be a false report."
"False!" cried the Major, with a mocking laugh, as he glanced at a
paper. "Look here--ruin--collapse--a bogus affair, got up to sell
shares in an exhausted mine. You can read the opinions of the press, my
dear, and the letters of indignant, ruined shareholders."
"It is a false report," cried Dinah indignantly. "Let them say this--
let the whole world say it. Clive Reed is my betrothed husband, and he
is an honourable gentleman. I say it is false from beginning to end."
"Hah!" sighed the Major, as he gazed sadly at the flushed, defiant face
before him; and taking his child's hand, he drew her to him, and kissed
her tenderly.
"Your mother's child, my darling," he said huskily. "Eighteen years ago
she stood up like that in my defence, when the world said that I was a
dishonourable scoundrel. She fought the fight upon my side, and fell
wounded to the death, Dinah, true to her convictions that I was an
innocent man; but it killed her, dear."
Dinah laid her hands upon her father's shoulders, and gazed into his
eyes, but he met her fixed, inquiring look without a quiver, and his
face grew proud and stern.
"Yes, dear; she was right," he cried, drawing himself up. "I was--I
am--an honourable man. But the world has never cleared me, and I have
lived a recluse, waiting for the time to come when it should confess the
wrong it did me. But it never will, Dinah--it never will."
"It shall, father, some day," she cried passionately, as she flung her
arms about his neck and kissed him again and again. "Yes, my dear,
noble, self-denying father shall stand in his high place amongst men,
and they shall be as proud of him as I am of Clive. For this, too, is
all false, father. He could not have deceived us."
"Well, perhaps not willingly, dear," said the Major sadly.
"No, no, no. It is a false report."
"But it has ruined me, my child. Well, fate has worked her worst. She
can do no more," he added bitterly, "unless my child deceives me too."
Dinah sprang from him as if he had struck her a deadly blow, and stood
there white as ashes, her eyes dilated and lips quivering till he caught
her in his arms.
"No, no," he said huskily. "Forgive me, my darling. My words were too
cruel. Nothing could come between us two. Forget what I said. The
words were wrung from me by my sufferings. It is so hard, dear, to find
one's all swept away through my greedy folly, and at my time of life."
Dinah uttered a low piteous sigh, and her face went down upon her
father's shoulder, while her lips moved as she said the words in her
shame, misery, and despair, the words which she had long wished to
confide to him. But they were inaudible--he did not hear, and at last,
after a tender, passionate embrace, he placed her in a chair.
"Well," he said firmly, "I must act like a man."
"What are you going to do?" she said, looking up now excitedly.
"Go up to town, and save what I can out of the wreck."
"But, father, it must be a false report. Wait till we hear from Clive.
He will be back soon."
The Major shook his head.
"Perhaps not."
"But I am sure. What evidence have you but this letter--these reports?"
"The telegram last night. His agitation on receiving these guarded
words. I'll agree, my dear, that the poor fellow meant honourably by
us, but he is ruined as well as I. Dinah, my dear, you must be firm.
So must I."
"And you will go?"
"Directly."
"Take me too, father," said Dinah excitedly.
"Impossible. No; wait patiently. I must go and see the brokers at
once, you see, you know there is no other course open."
"But you will go straight to Clive, dear."
"No," said the Major firmly. "A man in my frame of mind, and with my
hot temper, must not meet him for some time to come. It will be better
not." Dinah drew in a long deep breath, and remained silent as the
Major hurriedly swallowed a little breakfast, and ten minutes later
stood by the river path, bidding his child farewell.
"God bless you!" he said. "I'll believe that Clive Reed is honest, but
the money has gone.--Good-bye."
Dinah stood watching him till he disappeared over the shoulder of the
mountain slope on his ten-mile walk to the Blinkdale station, and then
returned to the cottage, cold and shivering, as a sense of loneliness
and want of protection crept over her.
Martha was waiting at the door.
"Oh, my dear, I hope there is no more trouble. Is it about money?"
Dinah bowed gravely.
"Dear, dear! What a nuisance money is. But I have a little saved up,
master can have. I wish I'd told him before he went. He won't be very
long gone, will he, my dear? I mean he will be back to-night?"
"No, Martha," said Dinah, with the chilly sensation increasing.
"Perhaps not to-morrow night."
"And us alone!" cried Martha, "and no Rollo."
Dinah shuddered slightly.
"And I don't want to frighten you, my dear, but I've seen that big dark
man from the mine come about here sometimes of a night. Why, my dear
child, it must have been him who poisoned that poor dog."
The cold shiver ran through Dinah again, but she made a spasmodic effort
to master her feelings.
"Don't--don't say that," she said hoarsely. "Martha, dear, we must bury
poor Rollo to-day. Will you help me?"
"Poor fellow! yes. I always hated him, my dear, but I'm very sorry he's
dead. There, we must make the best of it. Come and finish your
breakfast, lovey, and then we'll get a spade, and bury him under one of
the trees."
Dinah went in dreamy and thoughtful, but no breakfast passed her lips;
and as, about an hour and a half later, the poor dog was being carried
to his last resting-place, there was the sound of hoofs on the
bridle-path, and five minutes later she received a telegram for her
father, brought over from the town on the other side of the mine.
She hesitated a moment, but the case was so urgent, and she opened the
message to read Clive's reassuring words.
"I knew it," she cried, as a flood of bright hope sent joy into her
heart.
But it was too late to try and overtake the Major, who was miles away in
the other direction, and the messenger was dismissed.
"He will know as soon as he reaches town, and telegraph," thought Dinah,
but the day wore away without news, and the night closed in dark and
stormy, with the girl's fancy conjuring up strange sounds about the
house of so startling a nature in her nervous state, that at last she
could bear them no longer. Again and again she had imagined that faces
were peering through the window, and though she drew blind and curtain,
there was the fancy still. And in this spirit she at last, about nine
o'clock, determined to go and sit with their old servant in the kitchen.
"It will be company for us both," she said, and hurriedly gathering
together her work, she left the little room, and entered the kitchen to
find all dark.
"Martha--Martha!" she cried, but there was no reply, and hurrying back
for a lamp, she found that the candle had burned out, the tea things
were still on the table, and the woman was seated there with her head
down upon her hands, apparently fast asleep.
"Martha!" she cried, shaking her; but there was no reply, only a heavy
stertorous breath, and as the old chill came back, Dinah's eyes lit upon
the cup and saucer by the woman's side.
A flash of light illumined her brain, and instinctively she raised the
tea-cup, and smelt, and then tasted the tea at the bottom.
It was unmistakable. A peculiar, heavy, clammy taste was evident. The
cup fell from her hand, and she looked wildly round, as her position
came with tenfold horror. Alone there in that solitary dale, far from
help. Even her old friend the dog taken from her side--quite alone, for
Martha was beyond rousing for hours to come, plunged as she was in a
deep stupor, the result of a drug.