Chapter Twenty Two.
Bad Omens.
“No insolence, sir!”
“What?”
“I say no insolence, sir. I am aware of the fact that you are an excellent workman and valuable to me here, but you are presuming on those facts, and I warn you that if ever you dare to answer me in that way again, we part on the instant.”
“What way?”
“As you addressed me a short time back. Michael Sturgess, I have long noticed your insolent, overbearing ways with the men. They are beginning to resent it. I have had several complaints from them, and all this must end, if you are to stay here.”
“If I’m to stay here, eh? I daresay if the company is tired of the way in which I have made this old mine pay, I can soon get another engagement.”
“My good man,” said Clive Reed coldly and dispassionately, “prosperity is making you lose your head, and it is an act of kindness to disillusionise you before you go too far and lose a valuable appointment.”
The man glared at him as they stood together in one of the dark passages of the mine, close to an old shaft which descended to a lower line of workings.
“Let me tell you, once for all, that, though you have worked well, you are in no wise answerable for the success of the mine, and that it would have been quite as prosperous if Michael Sturgess had not been here.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the man insolently; and Reed flushed angrily, but controlled his rising temper, and went on calmly enough.
“Secondly, let me disabuse your mind of the idea that it is open to you to appeal to the company against any decision of mine. Understand this, sir: my power here is supreme, and, though I should be reluctant to exercise that power against a good workman, the trouble of obtaining a successor in your post would not be great, and I should exercise that power sharply and firmly, if I had just cause.”
“Oh, I don’t know so much about that, Mr Reed. You are chief here at the mines.”
“And at the board in town, my man. You are insolent and angry still. Go about your work, and when you are calm and have had an opportunity for thinking all this over, come to me and apologise as a straightforward man should.”
“Oh, there’s no time like the present,” said the man roughly.
“Yes, there is, and I decline to quarrel with you, sir. That will do now. I leave you to think over what has passed, as I don’t wish to be angry and do anything to injure an honest man’s prospects.”
“But—”
“I said that will do,” said Reed firmly; and turning his back, he began to walk away without seeing the ominous shadow cast by the lanthorn he carried, as Michael Sturgess took a step forward with his hands cramped like a bird’s claws.
It would have been so easy, too; a sharp side-wise thrust and nothing could have saved the man who was touched. There was a slight rail by the side of that old shaft, but a man who slipped must have been precipitated headlong down the stony pit seventy or eighty feet, to the rocky floor below, and mutilation was certain—death more than a probable event.
But the man did not stir, and the shadow grew more and more faint, as Clive Reed strode along the gallery till he passed round a corner and disappeared.
Michael Sturgess stood listening to his chief’s steps till they died out, and then taking out a box of matches, he struck one and lit a lanthorn which he took from a niche in the wall, the glow lighting up his savage features.
He muttered an oath as he stood closing the lanthorn door. Then he burst out into a strange laugh. “Make much of it, my lad, while it lasts. It’s hard to bear, but I don’t want to be hung for the sake of a lass, specially when there’s another way.”
He went off in the other direction, and Clive Reed made his way to the cage and ascended to daylight and his books in the office, where he busied himself till evening, fully expecting a visit from his foreman; but the day passed, and at last he left the place, and made his way to the cottage over the mountain side where Dinah stood waiting, flushed and hopeful; and as his eyes met hers, the mine with its petty troubles and anxieties passed away, and he was in the land of love and hope and joy.
There was the usual walk among the flowers; and how bright those blossoms were! then the pleasant evening meal, and the adjournment to the tiny drawing-room, where, after a little music, to Clive’s disgust, the Major turned the conversation to the very subject the visitor wished to avoid. He asked him questions about the output, and the likeliness of increased yield, all of which questions Reed good-humouredly answered, feeling vexed, but at the same time amused by the love of money the Major had of late developed; while Dinah sat and listened, meeting her betrothed’s eyes from time to time.
“Capital—capital!” said the Major, rubbing his hands. “I feel as if I am quite a mine proprietor. Dinah, my dear, this does me good, and makes me feel as if I had been a slug all these years. I wish I had begun sooner.”
“Congratulate yourself, my dear sir, that you did not. You are gaining here, but this mine is one in ten thousand. You might have ruined yourself.”
“True; so I might, my boy, without your clear head to put me right. But the shares, how do they stand?”
“They are up ten since last week, sir, and steadily rising.”
“Then I ought to sell now and realise a big profit, oughtn’t I?”
Clive was silent, for he was hearing the Major’s words, and listening still to the echoes of Dinah’s sweet voice, and repeating to himself the lines of the songs she sang, as she now sat in the shadow, silent and waiting till her lover spoke again.
And how jarring the Major’s words were. Clive had come over that evening weary with the noise and worry of the mine, and annoyed by Sturgess’s insolent manner. All he wanted was peace and rest, not the talk about money and shares.
The Major spoke again.
“Eh! oughtn’t I to realise?”
“What, sell for the sake of a little present profit that which will go on, in all probability, yielding you an increasing income, sir. Surely that would be short-sighted.”
“Of course. But all this is so new to me, my dear boy. There! I shall leave myself in your hands; and trust to you to know what is best. You see what a child I am over money matters. Really there are times when I almost wish that I had not begun to dabble in these shares.”
“Why fidget about them, sir?” said Reed, smiling. “The amount is not large.”
“Not large? Do you hear him, my dear? He says the amount is not large when it is my poor all. One can see that you have been accustomed to deal with pretty heavy amounts, and—There, I will not continue this hateful topic. Let’s have something else to think about. Dinah, shall I be selfish if I challenge this man to a game of chess?”
For answer she rose and fetched the board and men, set out the pieces, and then took her seat by Clive and watched the game, which proved to be a long one, ending at last in the Major checkmating his adversary, who was quite a knight stronger, but he had been simply on his defence all through, listening the while to the soft breathing from the lips by his side, as from time to time it caressed his hand, or sounded like a suppressed sigh. No words passed between them, but they were needless. It was enough that they could be side by side, feeling each other’s presence, happy yet saddened by an indescribable portent of something coming to ruffle the placid stream of their existence.
As for the Major, he was happy and triumphant. It was a genuine pleasure to him, a man who had exiled himself from the world, to live in seclusion, to find that he was a match for this clever, keen man of business, and he showed his delight in many ways.
“What!” he cried, as his visitor rose to go. “You are not going to run off without your revenge. Eh! What?” he said, as Reed quietly took out his watch, and held the face toward him. “Oh, absurd! That thing must be wrong! Eh! No. Mine says the same. Eleven; and I thought it was not near ten. But you will stay now?”
“Don’t tempt me, sir. I have a busy day to-morrow.”
“But you could leave here early.”
“Not so early as I could wish, sir. There is a special reason, too, for my being at the mine early. I have a sort of quarrel on the way with my principal man, Sturgess.”
Dinah turned pale, while there was a strange, fixed look in her eyes.
“The man has been very strange of late, and I had to take him severely to task to-day. I want to meet him when he first comes to the mine. There cannot be two masters there.”
He looked smilingly at Dinah, and saw the trouble in her face.
“Nothing to alarm you,” he said, taking her hand to hold in his, while the Major suddenly recollected that he had a letter he should like to send, so that one of the men could take it on in the morning.
“You are nervous again about my crossing the hills so late. Why should you be, dearest?”
He drew her toward him, and she yielded to his embrace.
“It was not that,” she said faintly. “You talked of a quarrel with—with—”
“My foreman, Sturgess. Hardly a quarrel, but the sharp talking to, necessary to be given by a master.” At that moment the dog began to bark violently, and Dinah caught Clive’s arm and clung to him in dread lest he should go possibly into danger.
“It is nothing, dearest,” he whispered, proud of the way in which she clung to him for protection, while she listened with her eyes dilated, as there was the sound of the window in the Major’s den being opened, and his voice challenging.
“Is Mr Reed here, sir?” came from the garden.
“My clerk—Robson, from the mine,” said Reed, rather excitedly. “Whatever brings him here?”
“Your man, my dear boy,” said the Major, entering. “He has brought you a despatch.”
“It must be important,” said Reed quickly; and he passed his hand across his forehead. “I was half afraid there was some accident. Come in, Robson,” he continued, as he stepped into the little passage. “What is it?”
“A telegram, sir, from London. The postmaster sent it over at once by special messenger.”
Reed took the missive and went back into the little drawing-room, where Dinah stood pale and anxious, while the Major sat writing his letter there.
“Come, little wifie to be,” whispered Reed tenderly, “I have no secrets from you. This cannot be business, and you must share my troubles as well as joys.”
The Major glanced at them with a sigh full of regrets for the past, and smiled sadly as he saw his child pass her arm through Reed’s, and lean on him while he opened the envelope, and held it so that she could peruse the telegram at the same time. It was very brief:—
“For heaven’s sake, come at once and help me. I am half mad.—Praed.”
Dinah looked up in her lover’s anxious face, as it clouded over, her own full of eagerness and sympathy.
“From Janet Praed’s father, dearest,” he said softly. “You know everything—my brother’s wife. There must be some terrible trouble on the way.—Major, I must go up to town at once. Here is a telegram from my dear old godfather, Doctor Praed. You will take care of my darling till I return?”
“Not—not dead?” said the Major anxiously.
Clive Reed started, as a spasm shot through him.
“I pray God, no,” he said hoarsely, as for a moment he turned ghastly and wild-looking. Then he was the prompt man of business decision again.
“We must not jump at conclusions,” he said gravely. “Good-bye, dearest. I will telegraph the news as soon as I know it. God bless you, darling,” he whispered, as he embraced her. “Let’s hope for the best.—Good-bye, sir.”
“One moment, my boy, would it not be better to sleep here, and go on from Chapel in the morning?”
“My dear sir, I must be in London in the morning. If I run to the mine and get one of the horses, there will be just time to gallop over to Blinkdale and catch the up mail. Good-bye.”
The next minute, with the dog barking loudly, the Major and his daughter stood in the garden, listening to the regular beat-beat of feet as the two men went along the stony path, the sounds growing fainter and fainter, dying away, coming again, and finally dying out for good.
“Poor lad! I hope it is nothing very serious,” said the Major. “Good heavens! what is the matter with the dog?”
For suddenly as they stood there, the animal gave vent to a piteous, heartrending cry, which sent a thrill through the hearers. It was followed by another less wild and strange, and then came a quick scuffling sound, and the noise of the rattling of the chain.
“Back directly, my dear,” said the Major, and he hurried round to the other side of the cottage, leaving Dinah standing on the little lawn.
She took a step to follow, but at that moment there was a slight rustling sound from the bushes close at hand, and she stood as if petrified.
But only for a few moments, for directly after her father’s voice came loudly—
“Dinah! Quick! Bring a light.”
Before she could reach the little drawing-room a light flashed out from the door, and Martha, who had heard the words, appeared bringing a lamp.
“Don’t be frightened, Miss Dinah,” she said, as her arm was caught, and they hurried on together to where the dog’s piteous whines could be heard; “the poor thing must be in a fit.”
She was quite right, but it was a fit of agony—the last, for as they reached the kennel where the Major knelt on one knee, the poor dog uttered one short gasping bark, as it stretched itself out more and more, and then there was a sudden snatching, quivering motion, and it seemed to be drawn backward till it formed a curve.
“Father! Oh, poor Rollo!” cried Dinah, going down upon her knees by her old companion’s side; “he is dying.”
“No, my child,” said the Major sternly; and he drew in his breath with a low hiss, and bent down and softly patted the poor beast’s head, smoothing the long silky ears, “he is dead.”
“Dead!” cried Dinah wildly, as she sank upon her knees, and lifted the dog’s head into her lap. “Impossible!”
But the heavy, motionless weight endorsed the Major’s words. There was no joyous movement, no nestling toward her, no gladsome, whining bark; Rollo had had his last gambol over the mountain side, and lay slowly stiffening out, with eyes glazing and seeming to gaze mournfully up at her he had loved so well.
“Oh, sir,” cried Martha piteously, “I have been so careful, but he would take them. I always felt sure he would be choked by some bone.”
“Choked!” cried the Major angrily; “the poor brute has been poisoned for doing his duty too well.”
“Poisoned!” cried Martha, as Dinah looked up wildly at her father. “Impossible, sir. I’ve kept it in a bottle tied down and locked up where no one could find it but myself.”
“Kept what?” cried the Major.
“The arsenic for the rats, sir.”
“But this is something worse, woman. There is no doubt about it. There are the signs. Some scoundrel has given him strychnia, and it must be one of those ruffians from the mine.”
A low, piteous sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, as she softly laid the dog’s head on the stones, and then with a quick glance of apprehension, she rose and took hold of her father’s arm.
“Yes, my dear,” he said. “Poor Rollo was too true a servant, and watched for the pitiful purloiner. Now let him beware of my gun, for, by Jove, if I find any marauding scoundrel within shot, he shall certainly have the contents.”
Dinah said no word, but as Martha stood there holding the lamp, the light shone upon her dilated eyes, and lit up her white, contracted face, which seemed to have grown suddenly hard and stern. It was as if her father’s words had sent a sense of satisfaction through her, and she was looking out into the darkness of the night for the cowardly wretch who had robbed her of another friend, that he might come on once more and meet his fate.
She shivered the next moment, and clung to her father’s arm.
“I mean it,” he said fiercely. “I am a peaceful, quiet man, but I can be roused to action, and then—”
He looked at Martha with his eyes flashing, and a fierce glow in his face that transformed him at once into the old man of war.
“Master!” whispered the old servant, with a low sob, and there was an appeal in her tones which seemed to calm him.
“Yes,” he said, as he gazed straight away into the darkness. “Whoever did this deed is mistaken in his man.”
A sigh escaped from Dinah’s lips, and she drew herself up as she clung more tightly to her father. Two of her protectors gone that night, but there was still a third, and a feeling of confidence strengthened her heart as she gripped her father’s arm.
“Sooner or later I shall square accounts with this man,” said the Major, as he walked slowly toward the door. “Oh, if I only knew!”
“If I only knew. If I only knew!” The words kept on repeating themselves in Dinah’s brain as she sought her room that night, till she found herself repeating them—“If he only knew—if he only knew!”
She had not commenced undressing, and in her agitated, nervous state every sound about the house attracted her attention, so that she listened eagerly as she suddenly heard a light tapping sound, followed by—“Yes, sir, what is it?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, Martha; but have you moved my gun?”
“No, sir. It’s in the corner of your study between the window and the bookcase.”
“No, it is not there, but I am certain it was this afternoon.”
“I’m sure it was there to-night, sir, just before Mr Reed went away.”
“Very well, good-night,” said the Major; and he went back into the little study, and looked carefully round again.
“Why, of course!” he exclaimed, “I must have stood it in my room.”