"Nonsense! I have commanded bigger and uglier fellows than he, my dear.

The fellow's insolent, and I saw him twice over clambering round the rocks and staring into the garden. I won't have it. He shall respect my boundaries, and--Ah! good evening, Mr Reed. Down again, then! What is the last news in London?"

Clive Reed had come upon them suddenly from behind one of the angles of the perpendicular rock which rose up from the narrow pathway beside the river, and was quite unnoticed until he was close at hand.

Dinah turned pale as death as she uttered a low gasp, and for the moment looked as if she were about to turn and run.

"Good evening, Miss Gurdon," said Clive.

He took off his hat to the Major's daughter as he spoke; and then, as the fisherman released the hand which had been warmly grasped, the young man stood hesitating; but as Dinah made no sign, he let it fall to his side.

"I have been expecting to see something of you," continued the Major.

"Have you been to the cottage?"

"No," said Clive, in a quiet, constrained tone, and to Dinah's great relief he did not look her way, but seemed to stare about him strangely.

"I did not call. I did not expect to meet you here."

"Ah! well, never mind; we are glad to see you, but--Good heavens!--Mr Reed! You've been ill or something. My dear sir, have you had some accident up at the mine?"

"No," said Clive, smiling faintly. "The trouble is past. I have lost my father, Major Gurdon, since I was here. He died suddenly."

"G.o.d bless me!" cried the Major, in a tone full of sympathy, as he threw his rod aside, and laid his hand with a sympathetic movement upon the young man's arm. "And I was thoughtlessly amusing myself here while you were in trouble. In the midst of life--dear, dear me! I am deeply grieved, sir--we are deeply grieved. Mr Reed, you have suffered much.

Dinah, my child, I am sure Mr Reed will give us his company to-night."

Dinah bent her head, and, in spite of herself, gave their companion a commiserating glance, their eyes meeting, and his resting upon hers with a sad, wistful look as if he were grateful for their kindly sympathy.

Then he turned to the Major.

"I thank you warmly," he said, "but not this evening. I have been down in the mine all day, and chose this path for the sake of the cool, sweet, moist air."

"The more need for a little rest and quiet communion with others, my dear young friend," said the Major. "You will give us pain if you do refuse, Mr Reed. I too have known trouble, perhaps greater than yours.

Don't say no, sir. You will come?" Dinah stood with her lips apart, listening, as she mentally prayed that her father's hospitality might be refused.

"You wish it?" said Clive.

"My dear sir," paid the Major, speaking rather stiffly, "I very rarely ask a visitor to my little hermitage. I have many failings, but my daughter here will endorse my words when I tell you that insincerity is not one."

"I beg your pardon, Major Gurdon," said Clive, more warmly, "I beg Miss Gurdon's. I am not a society man, and--and trouble and anxiety have made me rather boorish, I am afraid."

"Suppose we set aside attack and defence, my dear sir," said the Major gravely. "I too am no society man, a mere hermit living in this desolate--no, not desolate spot. Dinah here makes my home a place of happiness and rest."

It was on Clive Reed's lips to say coldly that he was sure that was the case, but he was in no mood for pa.s.sing empty compliments, and he remained silent.

"Let me be frank, Mr Reed. I look back upon the time you spent with us, sir, as a bright little spot in rather a dark existence. You impressed me favourably, sir. This is a very unconventional admission, but I am eccentric. Let me tell you openly that you impressed me very favourably, and when you do have a leisure evening, you will be conferring a kindness upon me by coming across to the cottage, where we will do our best to make your stay such as would be acceptable to a busy man--restful and calm. There, Dinah, what do you say to that for a long complimentary speech."

Dinah murmured something, but her eyes did not endorse her father's words, for they fell, and the nerves about the corners of her lips twitched slightly as she listened to their visitor's reply.

"This is very good and kind of you, Major Gurdon," he said; "and I should be ungrateful if I did not accept your hospitality. Let me be frank, though, with you, sir. I came down here to try and forget my troubles in hard work. My mission is to make this mine a successful venture for the sake of those who have embarked in the scheme, and my thoughts run upon the work, and that alone. I shall prove to be a very dreary guest."

"Let me have my opinion about that," said the Major, smiling. "You have done wisely, sir. Hard work in these solitudes will restore your tone.

I came down years ago in despair, to die forgotten; but I soon found out that `there is a divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.' I was not to die, sir. Life began to have attractions once more.

I found that there was something to live for besides self. Here we are, then, and, Mr Reed, you are very welcome."

He drew back for his guest to enter, and he in turn made place for Dinah, who raised her eyes to thank him in silence for his courtesy, when he saw a sudden change come over her countenance, which in an instant was full of a painful look of utter despair, as she seemed to have caught sight of something over his shoulder.

The next moment she had hurried in, and Clive Reed followed, feeling a new interest in his host's child, and at the same moment asking himself whether she were not suffering from some mental trouble, which was eating away the hopefulness of a life so young as hers.

There was something very restful and calm about that evening at the cottage. Dinah hardly spoke a word, but after the pleasant meal sat engaged upon some piece of work, over which her white fingers pa.s.sed hastily to and fro, as the guest sat back in his chair and watched them, while the Major smoked his cigar at the window, and chatted at times about London and India, where he had gone through some service at the time of the Mutiny.

But there were many lapses into silence, and the whole tone of the evening was grave and still, according wonderfully with Clive Reed's state of mind, as he felt a kind of sympathy for the lady before him, and found himself working out her career, without female companionship, saving that of the stern-looking elderly servant. Dinah Gurdon, he thought, must have gone through some terrible time of anguish to wear such an aspect as he had noticed more than once, and he pitied her, as he saw the busy hands, utterly devoid of any ornament but their natural beauty of form and whiteness, still going to and fro the needlework in the light cast upon them by the shaded lamp.

And then all at once it was late, and time for him to go; but he did not care to stir--all was truly calm, there was such a sweet repose about the place that life had suddenly grown dreamy, and he lay back in his chair listening to the Major, and still watching those hands that were as beautiful as--more beautiful than--Janet's.

Her face came into his mind with that, like a painful jarring discord in the midst of some soft, dreamy symphony, and he started up.

"Eh? What is the matter?" cried the Major suddenly.

"It is late, sir. I am keeping you up far beyond your usual time, I am sure."

"Yes, and thank you for doing so," said the Major. "It is a pleasant change. Early to bed is good, but not too early. Why, you do not suppose, Mr Reed, that we are going to let you tramp across the bleak mountain-side to-night, and have inquiries made for you in the morning, because you have not gone to the mine."

"But really, Major Gurdon," protested Reed.

"My dear sir, after all these years in this solitude, I know the place by heart, and there are dozens of spots--old shafts and the like--where a man may lose his life."

"But indeed--"

"You are a new-comer. Yes, my dear sir, and we must take care of you.

See how dark it is. Look, Dinah, my child. Go and see what the night is like."

Dinah trembled as she went to the open French window, stepped into the verandah, and came back looking ghastly, just as the dog began to bark fiercely from somewhere at the back.

"Poachers after the grouse," said the Major decisively. "I hope, Mr Reed, you will use your influence to keep your men from trespa.s.sing and going after the game--and my trout."

"Of course, sir, but--"

"Well, Dinah?" said the Major, without noticing her agitated face.

"It is very dark," she said huskily.

"Exactly! Too dark for you to go, my dear sir. Stay! We will have an early breakfast, and you can walk across to the mine. I will not have my peace of mind destroyed by being summoned to sit on a jury at an inquest upon my late guest."

There was a mingling of mirth and seriousness in the Major's words, and Reed hesitated.

"Well, sir," he said, involuntarily glancing across at Dinah, and meeting her troubled gaze.

"I insist," cried the Major. "What do you say, my dear?"

Dinah started, and her voice sounded strange as she said hurriedly--

"It would be very imprudent of Mr Reed to go back--on so dark a walk."