“It shall be in your name then,” said Clive, and he dashed off the missive. “There.” Turning to the Major, he took his hands. “Come, sir, look me in the eyes, and tell me you believe now that I am an honest man.”
“I—I cannot look you in the face, Clive,” murmured the Major huskily. “For Heaven’s sake, don’t humble me any more.”
“Humble you, sir? not I. There, that is all past. Never mind the shares. Why, my dear sir, I have never made any boast of it, but my poor father left me immensely rich, and my tastes are very simple. I am obliged to work for others, and, as I told you, it was his wish that the mine should stand high, and stand high it shall. There, our darling will soon be at rest. You and I will have dinner together here, and enjoy a bottle of the father’s claret. To-morrow morning you shall go down home again.—Yes, what is it?”
“Mr Belton, sir.”
“Show him in directly.”
“A moment. Let me go,” cried the Major.
“No, no, I want you to know Mr Belton, my father’s old solicitor and friend.”
“Here I am, Clive, my boy,” cried the old gentleman, entering mopping his face. “Oh, I thought you were alone.”
“Better than being alone,” said Clive; “this is a very dear friend of mine—Major Gurdon. I want you to know each other.”
“Any friend of Clive Reed’s, sir, is my friend,” said the old lawyer rather stiffly; but there was a look of pleasure in his eyes, as he shook hands with the Major, who greeted him with this touch, for he could not trust himself to speak.