“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.