"Exactly! There, my dear sir, you are a prisoner for to-night."

"Mr Reed will excuse me now," said Dinah quietly. "Good-night," and she held out her hand.

"Good-night," he replied, with a grave sympathy in his tone; and he stood gazing at the door through which she had pa.s.sed with the touch of her cold, moist, trembling hand still lingering in his, till the Major spoke again, after walking to the window, and shouting to the dog to lie down.

"Been madness to have gone," he said. "Why, even in broad daylight the way across the mountain needs care. My poor darling there had that nasty slip some little time ago, and she has not been the same since.

You noticed, perhaps, that she looks pale and quite hysterical?"

"I had noticed--I did on my first visit too--that Miss Gurdon looked very pale and ill."

"Exactly! She gives me a great deal of concern about her health. I shall be obliged to take her up to town for good advice. But come, sit down; I will not trouble you about my cares."

"It is very late, sir."

"It is. But only a few minutes, Mr Reed. I wish to say something to you."

Reed seated himself.

"Only a few words, sir, and I shall begin by asking you to pardon a much older man for his frankness."

"Pray speak, sir."

"Well, Mr Reed, I like you, and therefore I say, as a man whose life and hopes were blasted when he was young, and who would see with pain another suffer a defeat, be careful."

"Over what, sir?" said Clive sadly.

"That mine. Don't think me impertinent; but I would say to you, as a young man to whom the income you receive as engineer or manager may be of importance, don't put too much faith in that `venture.'"

"May I ask why, sir?"

"Because mining is very treacherous, and you might be bitterly disappointed. I have seen so many failures. There, my dear sir, that is all. To put it in plain English, don't put all your hopes or eggs into one basket. I don't believe in that `White Virgin' at all. There!

forgive me:--good-night."

"I forgive you, sir," said Clive warmly, as he clasped the hand extended to him, "and thank you, too. Good-night."

Half-an-hour later Clive Reed was lying in the pretty little bedroom, thinking again how restful and calm it all was, and that instead of lying mentally feverish, and tossing restlessly in turn, a pleasant drowsiness was coming over him.

Then he was wide awake and attent, for, from somewhere close at hand, he could hear the sound of a woman sobbing gently, evidently in her despair, and after a time it came to him that the wall on one side of his room was merely a papered over part.i.tion, and the sobs that came so faintly to his ears must be those of Dinah Gurdon, suffering from some terrible mental burden of which her father was possibly not aware.

The sobbing ceased, but in spite of the peacefulness of the place, Clive Reed did not drop off to sleep, but lay thinking of the mine. Then came thoughts of Janet and of his brother--his father's wishes--of the Doctor, and then, by a natural sequence, of the Major and his child.

What was the Major? Of course his name would be in old Army Lists, but why was he down there leading so retired a life? He had hinted at some trouble. Then there was his child! Sweet, ladylike, with a charm and dignity that were strange in such a cottage as that. What was her great trouble? It was evidently mental, and her father was in ignorance, and attributed it to bodily infirmity; and that being so, she must have some secret hidden from him, possibly too from her father.

So restful the minute before, now Clive Reed felt as if a hot iron had seared him, and he turned angrily on his couch.

"What is it to me?" he said to himself. "She is like the rest of them-- pleasant to the eye and good for food, but once plucked, no more paradise. The old story! Pater in profound ignorance, and there is a lover. Well, I did not come here to play the spy upon Mademoiselle's love affairs. I have had my stab, and it has been sharp. I suppose now that I ought to turn cynic and look on. No; I am too busy even for that. I have my betrothed--my `White Virgin'--to whom I must be faithful. Hang the girl! why couldn't she go and cry at the bottom of the garden--top, I ought to say--or down by the river, and not where I could hear her? Mademoiselle Dinah Gurdon, you and I will never be friends, but I like the old man, and I should like to know what his secret has been. Has no faith in the mine, hasn't he? `Don't trust it, young man'--`Don't place all your eggs in one basket.' I suppose he thinks I am a regular employe. Well, I look it, coming fresh out of it covered with limestone mud. Well meant, old gentleman, and I like you all the better for it. I know that you are not civil to me because I happen to be well off, and don't ask me here because I might prove to be an eligible party for your daughter."

"Rubbish!" he muttered; "don't be an idiot. If I thought that, I'd stay away. But it is not that. The old man is a thorough gentleman, and the girl is ladylike and nice enough."

She proved to be nice enough to make Clive Reed lie wakeful still, with his mind running upon her pale, care-marked face, and begin to wonder who the man might be who troubled her rest.

"Some one at a distance," he thought; "and the fellow doesn't write.

That's it. Poor la.s.sie! These women do not monopolise all the deception. It is on the other side here. Little Phyllis is left neglected in this out-of-the-way place, quite forgotten perhaps, while Corydon has gone up to London, and plunged into all the gaieties of life--and so the world runs on."

Suddenly it struck him that there was a photograph over the mantelpiece of a fine, handsome fellow in undress uniform. He noted it when he came into the room, but thought no more of it. Now it came strongly to his mind, and suggested a fresh train of thought.

That was it! The portrait of the gentleman. The father was an old soldier: the more likely for the lover to be military, and he was either away on foreign service, or leading a giddy life in some barrack town.

"Why, by Jove!" thought Clive, raising himself upon his elbow. "This is a tiny cot of a place, without a spare room, I should say. The old man would be too Spartan and military to have anything but the simplest of accommodation, and the best is given to the guest. I am in my lady's chamber. Of course. The place is feminine and full of knick-knacks.

So that is the cavalier's portrait, and I have the key to the Pandora's box of troubles. Poor girl! But what a shame for me to turn her out.

What's that?"

The endors.e.m.e.nt of one set of Clive Reed's musings, the overturning of others, and a glimpse into Dinah Gurdon's secret care. For, sharp and clear, there was the rattle of a few shot against the lattice panes of the window.

Then in the stillness that instantly followed there was a movement on the other side of the part.i.tion, and directly after the ringing, echoing report of a gun fired from a room on the other side of the cottage.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

STURGESS SHOWS HIS TEETH.

The loud barking of a dog followed the shot, and directly after Reed heard a sharp, light tap on a neighbouring door, and the Major's voice--

"Don't be alarmed, my dear. I thought I heard steps in the garden; my window was open. Some prowling tramp, I expect. Lie down and go to sleep."

"Rather a military order," thought Reed; "as if the poor girl could go to sleep under the circ.u.mstances, with her lover being shot at--Yes!"

"Don't be startled, Mr Reed," said the Major, who had tapped at his door. "We don't have policemen here to go their rounds. Some scoundrel was after my chickens, I expect; and the dog was asleep, so I just fired a cartridge at random as a warning to my visitor. Good-night."

"Shall I get up and go round with you?" said Reed.

"My dear sir, no. He's over the hills and far away by now.

Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," said Reed, who was half-dressed; and once more stillness reigned in the mountain solitude.

"No business of mine," he thought, as he quietly returned to bed; "I've enough to do to-morrow, and want rest. Chickens, eh? Poor old fellow!

for chickens read little ewe lamb. Who'd have thought it of the pretty, ladylike girl? And I might have married, and eighteen or twenty years hence have had a daughter like these two in the narrow circle of my acquaintance--a child whom I had tenderly nursed in infancy, trained as she grew up, believed in, trusted, and fancied that I shared her inmost thoughts. Then the revelation would probably have come. No; I don't think I shall marry now; and--well, how strange! I feel as if I can sleep--that engine ought to be fixed in a week, and we'll begin at once.

I'll have the smelting-house where I settled, and the furnaces here shall be utilised for supplying additional steam. I must send a telegram off to-morrow to hurry on that tubing. Bah! I'll let all that go to-night, and--"

"Would you like a little hot water, sir?"

Clive Reed started up.

"Eh? No, thanks. I don't shave. Can I have a canful of cold, fresh from the river?"

"I have brought one up, sir. Breakfast in half an hour."

Clive Reed was dressed and out in half that s.p.a.ce of time, to find the Major busily tying up some beautiful carnations, one of which he cut and presented, dew wet, to his guest.