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.