Chapter Twenty.
Dinah Seeks Safety.
Clive Reed crossed the spoil bank one evening after a busy day at the mine, leaving a black cloud of smoke still rising where the furnaces were hard at work, turning the grey stone ore into light silvery metal, which was run off into the moulds ready for stamping there as ordinary soft lead; then, after several purifyings, as hard solid ingots of silver.
For the place had rapidly developed, gang after gang of men had been set on, miners, artificers, smelters; and in the eyes of the mining world the far-seeing man now sleeping calmly in his grave was loudly praised, and his son and the shareholders envied for their good fortune over a property that a couple of years before no one would have touched; even when Grantham Reed had acquired it, they had been ready to ask whether he was mad.
And now, day by day, the new lode which Clive had discovered was giving up such great wealth that the shares were of almost fabulous value, and not to be had at any price.
For the original scheme of continuing the old working and profiting by the clumsy way of production in the past, with its immense waste, had as yet not been touched. The “White Virgin” was rendering up her hidden treasures contained in the new lode, and it looked as if these were inexhaustible.
It had been a long, harassing experience for Clive to get everything in perfect going order, for the work—administrative and executive—had all fallen upon his shoulders. But it had been a labour which had brought him rest and ease of mind. When the hours of toil, too, were over, a sweet feeling of peace had gradually grown up, till the wild moorland had become to him a place of beauty; the river deep down in its narrow valley a home of enchantment, from which he tore himself at the rare times when he was compelled to visit London and attend the board meetings of his company.
At first he did not know why it was that his father’s death and the discovery of Janet’s weakness had grown to seem so far back in the past. When he first came down to the ruined mine, he felt old and careworn; he walked with his head bent, his eyes fixed upon the ground, but their mental gaze turned inward upon the misery in his heart. Now, after these few months, he was himself again, and Janet, his brother, and all that agony and despair, were misty and fading fast away.
“It’s the work,” he used to say, “the work. Nothing like action for a diseased mind.” Then by slow degrees after his brother’s visit the truth began to dawn upon him. At first he doubted, and ridiculed the idea; then he began to wonder, and lastly to ask himself what manner of man he really was. He had believed himself to be strong and determined of purpose, and now he told himself that he must be weak as water, and that, in spite of the past, he had never thoroughly felt a strong man’s genuine love.
“Yes,” he said, as he walked slowly along that narrow shelf-like path towards the Major’s house, “it is the truth—the simple truth.”
The evening was closing in, and the darkness gathered fast in the shadowy valley where the river rippled, so that by the time he reached the spot where the perpendicular side of the mountain had been cut away, forming the sides of a tunnel, with here and there a gap forming a cavernous niche, it was quite obscure for some fifty yards. But the thoughtful man was so wrapped up in the mission he had on hand, that he did not notice the faint odour of a cigar, as if some one had lately passed there smoking; neither did he turn his head to the right and look up when a small stone came rattling down from above; but, as if Fate was leading him into a temptation, he suddenly stopped and stood gazing off to his left at where, in the south-east, a bright star was rising out of the mists.
Had he turned and looked up, he would have seen a man’s face peering over a rugged block of stone which effectually hid the watcher’s body, and that between the face and him a piece of rock was balanced and held by two hands, either occupied in retaining it, or ready to send it crashing down.
It would have been a perilous position for a man to have walked close under that stone where the track was most worn, for the other part skirted the edge of the precipice, which fell sheer two hundred feet, and hence was bad for those who had not a steady nerve.
But Clive Reed’s nerve was once again steady, and he had chosen to walk to the edge and then to stop and gaze down into the gathering darkness.
For a few moments he did think of how easily any one might fall there, and what a fate it would be if the stones which had been left roof-like by the old workers who had made that path should come crumbling down. But the thought passed away, thrust out by others, some pleasant and full of delight, others serious of import, and connected with the purpose of that night.
He passed on directly after, and a faint rustling sound was heard from the narrow rift which led upward behind the loosened stone. The face had disappeared, but a bright light flashed up from behind the rock, and once more the odour of tobacco began to be diffused in the cavernous gloom of the place.
But it was bright and clear where Clive Reed walked on, and his mind too was quite clear, his purpose determined, as he strode on now at a rapid pace till he reached the path down by the river, and then turned up suddenly in front of the cottage, where he stopped short once more to look up at the light shining out of the little drawing-room window.
It was open, and he could see that Dinah was seated at work; and, as if irresistibly attracted by her, he advanced quickly two or three steps to enter by the window; but he suddenly turned off by the path leading to the door.
“Yes; far better, Reed,” said a low voice at his elbow.
“Major Gurdon!”
“Yes. It was cool and pleasant out here. How plainly a man’s features sometimes show his intentions. Will you have a cigar? I am going to smoke another.”
“Not now,” said Clive huskily, as he followed his host up the garden to some seats. “You are right, sir, and it was an unwarrantable liberty. I am glad I did not take it.”
“So am I,” said the Major drily. “But I thought it possible that you might come over this evening.”
“And I have come, sir, for I have grave news to communicate.”
“Great heavens!” cried the Major, starting from his garden-seat in a nook of the ferny rocks, “don’t tell me, sir, that there is anything wrong about the mine.”
Clive was silent for a few moments as he gazed at the dimly seen, agitated face before him, and saw that the Major hurriedly wiped his brow.
“Tell me, then,” he said hoarsely, “the worst.”
“I have no worst to tell, sir,” said Clive quietly. “You have been anxious, then, about the mine?”
“Yes; I couldn’t help it, my dear sir,” said the Major nervously. “This sort of thing is new to me, and it means so much. But there is something wrong about it.”
“Nothing whatever, sir.”
“Thank God,” muttered the Major.
“So far from there being anything wrong, sir, I had a letter this evening announcing, on the basis of our success here, that in a few days the shareholders will receive an interim dividend of twenty per cent, which means, sir, one-fifth of your investment returned already.”
“My dear Reed, you amaze me. It is marvellous. But never mind that now. You said you came upon grave business.”
“Yes, sir,” said Clive, after a pause, “very grave business to me.”
“Yes. Pray speak. You are in want of a little money?”
“No, sir, I do not want money; I want time.”
“What is the matter, then? Your voice is quite changed.”
Clive was silent again for a few moments, and then, after glancing at the window, he said in a low voice—
“Major Gurdon, the time has come for me to know whether I am to visit here again.”
“Come here again? I do not quite understand you, sir. Pray speak out.”
“I will, sir,” said Clive earnestly. “I love your child.”
“We all do, sir,” said the Major coldly. “Who could help it?”
“Yes, who could help it?” said Clive, in a tone of voice which told how deeply he was moved. “And now, as an honourable man, I ask you, sir, whether I am still to visit here, or my visits are to cease?”
“Have you told Dinah what you have told me?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“That’s right!”
“How could I without your leave?”
“True! Well, Mr Reed, I will be frank with you. A short time back I had not thought of such a thing. I welcomed you here selfishly, as a visitor who would relieve some of the monotony of my existence. Then, sir, I began to like you, and then by slow degrees I began to see that I had either made a great error, or else fate was working, as she always does, silently. I have been much exercised in my mind as to what I should do, and ended by acting on the defensive, leaving the enemy to declare his plans.”
“And am I the enemy of your peace, sir?”
“Mr Reed, you are, I fear, the enemy of my daughter’s peace, and I say to you, sir, as one who has shown himself to be a man of honour, if there is anything likely to militate against my child’s happiness, for heaven’s sake, sir, speak out, and let this end at once.”
“You say you will be frank with me, sir; I will be frank with you. Not many months back I was engaged to be married.”
“And broke it off?” said the Major sharply.
“No, sir; I was a poor weak lover, I suppose. Too much immersed in business. The lady chose again, or, poor girl, was tricked into another engagement, and is married. I came down here, half mad with despair, to forget my cares in work; and instead I have awakened to the fact there is still happiness for me if I can win it.”
“Ah!” said the Major. “In plain English, then, sir, you wish to speak to Dinah?”
“Yes.”
“You are aware, I suppose, that she has nothing but her own sweet nature with which to endow a man.”
“I never asked myself that question, sir.”
“Of course, at my death she will have a few thousands, upon whose interest we live.”
“Will she?” said Clive quietly.
“Yes; and you, Mr Reed, it is my duty as a father to ask you a question or two. Will your position as manager of this mine enable you to keep her, not in affluence, but modest comfort?”
“I think so, sir,” said Clive, smiling.
“That’s well. But there, if—I say if this goes on, she shall have half my shares at once. A fair white virgin shall go to the altar with so many ‘White Virgins’ in her train.”
“My dear Major Gurdon,” said Clive, grasping the old officer’s hand, “don’t you know?”
“Know—know, sir! What?”
“That exactly one-third of the ‘White Virgin’ shares are mine, beside a great deal of property my father left. I suppose I am what people call a very rich man.”
“What!” cried the Major, literally dazed, “and you work like you do?”
“And why not? It is for myself—for the shareholders—for you. It was my father’s wish, sir, that this mine should prove to be a great success, and it is my sacred duty to make it so.”
“But—but, my dear Reed, you must be a millionaire!”
“I suppose so,” said Clive quietly.
“Then it will be impossible. My poor child could not marry so wealthy a man.”
“Then I must make myself poor,” said Clive. “Bah! what has money to do with it? Major Gurdon, I came down here to find rest and peace; let me find happiness as well, and that the world is not all base.”
“I hardly dare give consent,” faltered the Major. “You are the first, sir, who has ever approached her in this way, and I could not help seeing how day by day she has brightened and seemed to grow more restful and content. It has been as if she felt that with you near she could be at rest, that you were at hand to protect her, and that the poor old father was growing to be nobody now. Ah! Reed, she has ceased to care for me as she used.”
“Father!”
“You there, Dinah? You heard what we said?”
“I heard you tell Mr Reed something that you cannot mean.”
“You heard no more?”
“No, dear; but why?”
She stopped short, with the colour flushing to her cheeks, and her heart beating heavily, for Clive gently took her hand. His voice was very low, and there, in the soft darkness of the autumnal evening, he said earnestly—
“Miss Gurdon—Dinah—I have dared to tell your father that I love you with all my heart, and begged him to let me speak to you. Not as a dramatic lover, but as an earnest man, who would have but one thought, dear, if you gave him the right, to make your life peaceful and happy to the end. Dinah—my own love—can you give me that right?”
Her hand struggled in its prison for a moment, and then lay trembling there, as if too firmly held by the strong fingers which formed its cage.
“I—I fear—I ought not—I—”
She faltered these words painfully; and then, with an hysterical cry, she nestled to him.
“Yes, yes,” she cried; “take me, and protect me, Clive. I do love you, and will love you to the end.”
“My darling!” he whispered, as he clasped her passionately to his heart, just as the dog burst out into a furious volley of growls and barks, mingled with sounds as if he were struggling hard to tear away his chain.
Dinah nestled to him more closely, and the start she had given at the dog’s barking gave place to a feeling of safety in those two strong arms.
“Are you content, sir?” said Clive, turning at last, as he drew Dinah’s arm through his with a sense of possession which made his heart beat against it heavily.
But there was no reply, for the Major had gone off to see what had alarmed the dog.
“Nothing that I can see,” he said, upon his return. “Why, of course! Clever dog! He scented a thief.”
“A thief?”
“Yes, my dear, a scoundrel come to try and steal away my darling girl.”
“Ah!”
A low sigh and a shiver of horror, as Dinah shrank away to flee into the house; but as she felt Clive’s arm tighten about her, she clung to him once more.
“Why, you silly child, don’t you understand a joke?” cried the Major. “I mean this fellow who is holding you fast; and you not shrinking in the least. But there! it is a time to be serious now. God bless you, Clive Reed! You have solved one difficulty in a declining life. I have often said to myself, ‘What is to become of my darling when I go?’ Now I know, and can go in peace.”
Two hours later, with the kisses of love moist upon his lips, Clive Reed started for his lonely walk back over the mountain-side.
End of Volume One.