Chapter Twenty Three.
The Tare Sowing.
A man was going through the street with his pole extinguishing the gas lamps, as the hansom cab bearing Clive Reed went along at a sharp trot toward Russell Square. The waning light looked ghastly and strange, and well in keeping with his anxious state of mind, for in spite of all his genuine love for Dinah, it was impossible not to feel a thrill of misery akin to despair when reminded of one with whom so much of his boyhood and the later past had been mingled.
“Poor, passionate, weak girl!” he said to himself again and again, as he journeyed on, and his heart was full of sympathy for her and indignation against his brother, whom he connected with the trouble, whatever it might be.
“Sick unto death,” he muttered. “Heartbroken and despairing after finding him out. Oh, how can a man be so base?”
Then all kinds of projects had flashed across his mind as to what might be done. Janet would certainly separate sooner or later from Jessop, and when she did, as the Doctor had intimated, she would return to her old home, and then why should not Dinah help him to soften her hard lot?
“No,” he said, directly after. “It would be madness—impossible. Janet’s is not the nature to assimilate with Dinah’s. I am not so weak and blind to all her faults as I was then. Poor girl! Poor girl! Her life wrecked, and by my own brother too.”
At last!
The cab drew up at the great blank-looking door of the Doctor’s house, and Clive leaped out, paid the man, and hurried up the broad steps in the cold, grey morning. How many times, full of expectation and delight, he had hurried to that door bearing presents or bouquets; and now he was there once more—to hear what news of the bright, handsome girl whom he had made his idol from a boy?
His hand was upon the heavy knocker, but it dropped to his side, and he rang the night-bell, and then stood listening to the distant wheels of the cab in which he had come.
“Who is it?” came in a husky whisper from the mouth of the speaking-tube, and he answered back—
“I: Clive Reed.”
“Down directly.”
Five minutes later the door was opened by the Doctor himself, and quite at home there, Clive Reed sprang in to face his old friend standing in dressing-gown and slippers.
“How is she?” he cried, in a low excited whisper. “How is she?” repeated the Doctor, as he closed the door. “Here, come this way.”
He took a chamber candlestick from where he had set it down on the hall table, and led on into his consulting-room, with its walls adorned with grim-looking engravings of medical magnates, and its table with books and inkstand, two stethoscopes standing upright on the chimneypiece like a pair of very ancient attenuated vases.
“You came up at once, then?” said the Doctor grimly.
“Of course. I caught the mail; but don’t keep me—in suspense,” Clive was about to say, but he checked himself, for positions had altered now, and he had no right to be in suspense, so he used the word “waiting.”
“Waiting!” said the Doctor. “What do you mean?”
“Your telegram—about Janet. Is she very bad?”
“Confound Janet for a weak-minded idiot!” cried the Doctor testily. “Nothing of the kind. I wired to you to come up about this cursed mine.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Clive, with a feeling of relief. “Your telegram explained nothing, and I thought the poor girl was ill.”
“Ill! No: I wish she were. Be a lesson to her—a hussy. Now, then, what am I to do? Nice business this, sir. Here, on the strength of your representations, I put a life’s savings in that cursed mine, and they’re pretty well all swept away.”
Clive looked at him, as if doubting his old friend’s sanity.
“Don’t stand staring at me like a confounded stock-fish, sir. You’ve got me into this scrape, now tell me how to get out of it. Hang it all, Clive, I’ve been like a second father to you, and the least you could have done would have been to give me fair warning, so that I might have—have—hedged—yes, that’s the word my lovely son-in-law would have used. Now, then, before it is too late. I daresay I could get them back from him, as I only saw him to-night. Can you help me to make a better price?”
Clive seated himself, for he was weary, and the Doctor, after setting down his candlestick, was walking up and down the room as he talked.
“My dear Doctor,” said Clive, “will you explain what you mean? Cursed mine—too late—get them back from him. To begin with, who is ‘him’?”
“Who is ‘him’?” cried the Doctor furiously. “Why, that confounded brother of yours. After all that has passed, I was obliged to go to him hat in hand, and humble myself so as to try and save what I could out of the fire.”
“In heaven’s name, what fire, sir?” cried Clive, who, after his sleepless night and anxiety, was growing more and more confused.
“For,” continued the Doctor, without heeding the question, “I said to myself: He’s cursedly knowing on ’Change, and for the sake of Janet and his expectations of what he may get from me, he’ll do his best, and he may know where to get a good price.”
“My dear sir, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Almost, you scoundrel. Money spoils all men. Sucks all the honesty out of them. You’re as bad as the rest. But I didn’t think you would put me in such a hole. Now then: shall I leave them in Jessop’s hands or place them in yours, to cheat somebody else with the cursed rubbish. I’m a bit reckless now, for it’s ruin nearly, and drudgery to the end of my days.”
“Look here,” said Clive excitedly; “do I understand that you have given your shares in the ‘White Virgin’ to Jessop to sell?”
“Of course you do, sir. Was I to wait till they were worth nothing?”
“Look here, Doctor: speak plainly. Are you all right?”
“Confound you, no: I’m all wrong.”
“But explain yourself. Those shares are worth double what you gave for them.”
“I tell you they’re hardly worth their weight as waste-paper,” roared the Doctor. “Don’t stare at me with that miserable assumption of innocency about your cursed bankrupt old mine.”
Clive burst out laughing.
“Why, what do you mean, Doctor? What precious mare’s nest have you been discovering in the dark?”
“Mare’s nest?” cried the Doctor, snatching up a heap of newspapers from a side table, and throwing them in the young man’s lap, “look at that, sir, and that, and that. Four days now has this been going on. I was down in the country at a consultation, and I came back to find myself a ruined man.”
“What!” roared Clive, as his eyes fell upon a notice with a full heading—”‘Collapse of the “White Virgin” scheme—bubble cleverly inflated—burst at last—serious loss.’ Good heavens!”
“Good other place!” growled the Doctor. “Oh, Clive Reed! You are a broken Reed indeed to lean on, and enter into a poor man’s hand. But there, don’t stop over those papers; they are alike, and the price has gone down to nothing. Tell me; can you sell my shares better than Jessop can? I must have a little back for my outlay.”
“What did Jessop tell you?”
“What does every man tell you when he has you at his mercy? That the paper was worthless, but he might get some speculative fool to buy them; and if I waited there at his office he would try, but I must expect the merest trifle for them.”
“Well?” said Clive, frowning.
“Don’t take it so confoundedly cool, sir. I was obliged to do the best I could, and I put myself in his hands.”
“Well?”
“And he went out and brought the speculative person—a Mr Wrigley, a solicitor.”
“Well?”
“Well! Ill, man, ill!”
“But what did my worthy brother’s friend say?”
“Shrugged his shoulders—said it was throwing money away—mere gambling. He did not want them, but to oblige his old friend, Mr Jessop Reed, he would take them at a pound apiece, and the chance of making an eighth out of them.”
“And you laughed at him?”
“Laughed? I nearly cried at him, and was only too glad to get the little bit of salvage from a man who bought as a speculation, and would not care so much if he lost.”
“But you said you had let Jessop have them to try and sell.”
“Did I? Yes, I think I did.”
“And asked me if you got them back, whether I could deal better with them.”
“Yes, I suppose I did, but I don’t want to swindle any one into buying worthless stock.”
“Look here, Doctor, you are not yourself.”
“Not myself? How can a man be himself under such circumstances. Suppose, though, that I could get them back from the man. He only took them as a favour.”
“Did he pay you?” said Clive eagerly.
“Yes.”
“A cheque?”
“No,” said the Doctor. “I was not going to run any more risks. No cheque: for the residue I insisted upon Bank of England notes and gold.”
“And you were paid like that?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have gone too far to retreat.”
“Oh no, not if we offer the man what he said he would be content with—an eighth. That’s half-a-crown to the hundred pounds, isn’t it?”
“Half-a-crown to the hundred pounds!” said Clive furiously. “Why, as soon as the truth’s known—”
“They won’t be worth that, eh?” said the Doctor dolefully.
“Oh, Doctor Praed!” cried Clive furiously. “You telegraph to me to come and help you when you have thrown your money into the gutter, and it has been picked up and is gone. It is a swindle—an imposition.”
“Yes, I’ve found out that,” said the Doctor bitterly. “But what are the shares worth then, really?”
“What I told you, sir—double the price they were when so many were apportioned to you. This is some cursed jugglery: a trick—a scare—a false alarm to influence the price of the ‘White Virgin’ shares in the market.”
“What!”
“There isn’t a word of truth in the report.”
“Not a word of truth in the report?”
“No, sir. The mine is exceeding my greatest hopes. She teems with ore which grows richer in silver every day. In six months’ time the shares will be worth four times what they are now.”
“But—but—the papers!—look at the papers,” cried the Doctor.
“What for? They only give the reports on ’Change—the facts that the mine is reported to be in a state of collapse, and that consequently every one has rushed to realise, and make what little he could for what is supposed to be nearly worthless paper.”
“But—tell me again—are you sure that the report is false?”
“Who could know better than I, who have been down every day, who have watched every working, examined each skep of ore that came up, and assayed every pig of lead and ingot of silver. Doctor, I should have thought that you could have trusted me.”
The Doctor sank down into his patients’ chair, and stared at his visitor aghast.
“Clive Reed—Clive, my boy—is—is this true?”
“You know it is true, sir!” cried the young man savagely, as he now took up the Doctor’s rôle of patrolling the room. “Do you, who have known me from a boy, ask me whether I would have deliberately swindled you into putting your savings into a worthless venture?”
“No, no, not wilfully, my boy, but by a mistake.”
“Mistake! There was no mistake. Doctor, an enemy hath done this thing, and people are only too ready to believe the evil instead of the good. Well, I’m glad I know. But how is it that no report has reached me at the mine? Why, of course: I have seen no paper for days. I am so busy that I often do not open them when they come over from the town.”
“Then—then this really is a false report, Clive?”
“Literally false, sir, and you have thrown your thousands away.”
The Doctor groaned.
“No, no: not yet. There is hope. Look here. I must buy those shares back at once.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Clive. “Look here, Doctor: if I were dangerously ill I would sooner trust you than any man in London; but in money matters I think just as my poor father thought.”
“That I was a mere baby? Yes, he always told me so,” said the Doctor, with a sigh. “But I made a lot of money, too.”
“Yes, sir, but couldn’t keep it,” cried the young man angrily.
“Don’t—don’t jump on me now I’m down, Clive, my boy,” cried the Doctor piteously. “I have been an old fool. I ought to have trusted you that you would warn me. But you were away; all London was ringing with the business, and in my rage and disappointment I thought I was doing right.”
“I suppose so,” said Clive bitterly.
“But it is not too late. We’ll go up to your brother at once.”
“My brother will only be too glad to triumph over you.”
“But this Mr Wrigley?”
“Knew perfectly well what he was about, or he would not have bought.”
“But I must buy again, if not from him—from some one else.”
“You cannot. As soon as the truth is known the shares will go back to their old place at a bound, and then in the reaction rise rapidly, for the public will grasp that the mine must be as it is, exceedingly valuable.”
“But before the truth is known.”
“I shall go and get it made known on ’Change the moment it is open, sir.”
“But—but if you waited a little while, Clive, to give me time, I—”
“My old friend—my father’s trusted companion would not ask me to wait an instant before crushing a blackguardly conspiracy, sir. I cannot wait, and if I can trace this business to the source, I’ll do it, if it costs me thousands.”
“You—you don’t think that Jessop—”
“No!” cried Clive fiercely. “I don’t—I won’t think such a thing of my own brother. He ousted me in one great aim of my life; he is a spendthrift, and dishonourable enough; but, hang it, no, I won’t give him the credit for this.”
There was a tap at the door.
“Yes. Come in.”
The Doctor’s quiet, grave servant in spotless black, looking as if he had been up for hours, entered with a tray, bearing hot tea and dry toast, placing it upon the table without a word, and leaving at once.
“Take some tea, Clive, my boy,” said the Doctor, going quietly now to his visitor, placing his hands upon his shoulders, and pressing him down into a chair. “Forgive me, my dear boy. No; of course, you could not do such a dishonourable act. I beg your pardon.”
“Granted, Doctor.”
“Confound the money, my boy! It’s my savings, but I should never have spent a penny on myself. Let it go, I won’t stir a peg about it, and I’ll never try to save again. I can always earn guineas enough to pay my way, and that must do for the while I live. There; I’m better now,” he continued, as he took a seat and helped himself to some tea.—“Hah! capital cup this. I’m very particular about my tea. And so you’re doing well down in Derbyshire?”
“Wonderfully, sir.”
“That’s right. I’m very glad of it. Clive, my boy, I’ve been studying up the digestive functions a good deal, and I’ve had to read a paper upon it. I’m getting honourable mention.”
Clive looked at him wonderingly, and the Doctor saw it.
“It’s all right, my boy. I have no business to dabble in money affairs. That’s all over now. I have too much to do in assuaging human ills to think any more about my losses; but I’m afraid that some people among your father’s old friends will be very hard hit.”
“Good heavens!” cried Clive, starting up.
“What is the matter?”
“I have a friend down at the mine, who has bought pretty largely—for him—and if this cursed rumour reaches his ears,—here, I must go back by the next train. No, I cannot. I must stop in town, and have this report thoroughly contradicted by letters in the papers, and advertisements, as well as by personal visits to our old friends. Have you a telegram form?”
“Yes, plenty, my dear boy. There: in the drawer.”
Clive hastily wrote a telegram for the Major, telling him that if any report reached him, or he saw anything in the papers respecting the stability of the “White Virgin” mine and its shares, he was to pay no heed whatever.
“Can your man take this for me?”
“Of course,” cried the Doctor, ringing, and the quiet, grave-looking servant appeared.
“Take a cab and go to the Charing Cross Post Office. That is open all night. You will pay for a special messenger to ride or drive over with it at once. The town is ten miles from Major Gurdon’s cottage. Quick, please: it is important.”
He handed the man some money, and in two minutes the front door was closed.
“Hah! That is a relief,” said Clive, with a sigh. “A quiet old officer who lives retired there, Doctor. He too has put his all into the mine. We have become very intimate.”
“And has he a pretty daughter, too, like this old fool?”
Clive started, and his cheeks flushed as he remained silent for a few moments.
“Yes, Doctor, he has a daughter.”
Doctor Praed held out his hand, and shook Clive’s warmly.
“I’m very glad, my boy,” he said gently. “The wisest thing. I hope she is very nice. There, I will not ask you. It is quite right—quite right.”
They sat sipping their tea for a few minutes, the Doctor looking perfectly content now, Clive thoughtful; and the black marble clock on the chimneypiece struck six.
“Doctor,” said Clive at last, “I am bitterly grieved about this business: more so than I can express.”
“Then now throw it over as far as I am concerned. It was an error. I committed it, and I am punished. I have too much to think about to worry any more; so have you.”
“But I must make it up to you, sir.”
“What! Give me the money?”
“Yes.”
“Rubbish, boy! It is of no use to me. I should only go and lose that too.”
“But I feel to blame.”
“More fool you, sir. There, not another word. The money has gone. Jolly go with it. I should like you to read my pamphlet.”
“But, my dear sir—”
“Clive Reed, I will not have another word. Look here. I tell you what,” he said, with a chuckle; “have you made your will?”
“No, sir; not yet.”
“Make it then, and leave me to be paid at your death the amount I have lost. I won’t poison you to get it, my lad. There, no more talk about money. Now then, go upstairs and have three hours’ good sleep. Breakfast at nine.”
“No: I could not sleep,” said Clive. “I’ll go on now to Guildford Street. They will be getting up there by this time. Then I’m in for a busy day.”