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A Woman Intervenes

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Kenyon had to take one or two long trips in Canada and the United
States, to arrange for the disposal of the products of the mine; but,
as a general rule, his time was spent entirely in the log village near
the river.

When a year had passed, he was able to write a very jubilant letter to
Wentworth.

'You see,' he said, 'after all, the mine was worth the two hundred
thousand pounds we asked for it. It pays, even the first year, ten per
cent. on that amount. This will give back all the mine has cost, and I
think, George, the honest thing for us to do would be to let the whole
proceeds go to Mr. Smith this year, who advanced the money at a critical
time. This will recoup him for his outlay, because the working capital
has not been touched. The mica has more than paid the working of the
mine, and all the rest is clear profit. Therefore, if you are willing, we
will let our third go this year, and then we can take our large dividend
next year with a clear conscience. I enclose the balance-sheet.'

To this letter there came an answer in due time from Wentworth, who said
that he had placed John's proposal before Mr. Smith; but it seemed the
gentleman was so pleased with the profitable investment he had made that
he would hear of no other division of the profits but that of share and
share alike. He appeared to be very much touched by the offer John had
made, and respected him for making it, but the proposed rescinding on
his part and Wentworth's was a thing not to be thought of. This being
the case, John sent a letter and a very large cheque to his father. The
moment of posting that letter was, doubtless, one of the happiest of his
life, and this ends the formidable array of letters which appears in
this chapter.




CHAPTER XL.


Wentworth had written to Kenyon that Mr. Smith absolutely refused to take
more than one-third of the profits of the mine. It was true that the
offer had been declined, but Wentworth never knew how much tempted the
Mistress of the Mine had been when he made it. Her one great desire was
to pay back the thirty thousand pounds to her father, and she wanted to
do it as speedily as possible. At the end of the second year her profits
from the mine, including the return of the five thousand pounds which had
been sent to Ottawa as working capital, was still about five thousand
pounds under the thirty thousand pounds. She looked forward eagerly to
the time when she would be able to pay the thirty thousand pounds to her
father. Old Mr. Longworth had never spoken a word to his daughter about
the money. She had expected he would ask her what she had done with it,
but he had never mentioned the subject. Her conscience troubled her very
frequently about the method she had taken to obtain that large amount.
She saw that her father had changed in his manner towards her since that
day. He had given her the money, but he had given it, as one might say,
almost under compulsion, and there was no doubt that, generous as he
was, he did not like being coerced into parting with his money. Edith
Longworth had paid more for the mine than the amount of cash she had
deposited in Ottawa. She had paid for it by being cut off from her
father's confidence. Now he never asked her advice about any of his
business ventures, and, for the first time in many years, he had taken a
long sea-voyage without inviting her to accompany him. All this made the
girl more and more anxious to obtain the money to pay back her
indebtedness, and, if Wentworth had made the same offer at the end of the
second year which he had made at the close of the first, she would have
accepted it. The offer, however, was not made, and Miss Longworth said
nothing, but took her share of the profits and put them into the bank.

The plan of placing all one's eggs into the same basket is a good
one--until something happens to the basket! It is said that lightning
never strikes twice in the same place, and, as the small boy remarked,
'it never needed to.' In Mr. Longworth's affairs lightning struck in
three places, and in each of those strokes it hit a large basket. A new
law had been passed in one part of the world that vitally affected great
interests he held there. In another part of the world, at the same time,
there occurred a revolution, and every business in that country stopped
for the time being. In still another part of the world there had been a
commercial crisis; and, in sympathy with all these financial disasters,
the money market in London was exceedingly stringent.

Everybody wanted to sell, and nobody wished to buy. This unfortunate
combination of circumstances hit old Mr. Longworth hard. It was not that
he did not believe all his investments were secure, could he only
weather the gale, but there was an immediate need of ready money which it
seemed absolutely impossible to obtain. Day by day his daughter saw him
ageing perceptibly. She knew worry was the cause of this, and she knew
the events that were happening in different parts of the world must
seriously embarrass her father. She longed to speak to him about his
business, but one attempt she made in this direction had been very rudely
rebuffed, and she was not a woman to tempt a second repulse of that kind.
So she kept silent, and saw with grief the havoc business troubles were
making with her father's health.

'The old man,' said young Longworth, 'seems to be in a corner.'

'I do not want you ever again to allude to my father as "the old
man"--remember that!' cried the girl indignantly.

Young Longworth shrugged his shoulders, and said:

'I don't think you can insist on my calling him a young man much longer.
If he isn't an old man, I should like to know who is?'

'That doesn't matter,' said Edith. 'You must not use such a phrase again
in my hearing. What do you mean by saying he is in a corner?'

'Well,' returned the young man, 'I don't know much about his business. He
does not take me into his confidence at all. In fact, the older he grows,
the closer he gets, and the chances are he will make some very bad
speculation before long, if he has not done so already. That is the way
with old men, begging your pardon for using the phrase. It is not
levelled against your father in this instance, but at old men as a class,
especially men who have been successful. They seem to resent anybody
giving them advice.'

One day Edith received a telegram, asking her to come to the office in
the City without delay. She was panic-stricken when she read the message,
feeling sure her father had been stricken down in his office, and was
probably dying--perhaps dead. She had feared some such result for a long
time, because of the intense anxiety to which he had been subjected, and
he was not a man who could be counselled to take care of himself on the
plea that he was getting old. He resented any intimation that he was not
as good a business man as he had ever been, and so it was extremely
difficult to get him to listen to reason, if anyone had the courage to
talk reason to him.

Edith, without a moment's delay, sprang lightly into a hansom, and went
to the District Railway without waiting for her carriage. From the
Mansion House Station another cab took her quickly to her father's
office.

She was immensely relieved, as she passed through, to see the clerks
working as if nothing particular had happened. On entering her father's
room, she found him pacing up and down the apartment, while her cousin
sat, apparently absorbed in his own affairs, at his desk. Her father was
evidently greatly excited.

'Edith,' he cried the moment she entered, 'where is that money I gave you
two years ago?'

'It is invested,' she answered, turning slightly pale.

Her father laughed--a hoarse, dry laugh.

'Just as I thought,' he sneered--'put in such shape that a person
cannot touch a penny of it, I suppose. In what is it invested? I must
have that money.'

'How soon do you need it, father?

'I want it just now, at this moment; if I don't have that money I am a
ruined man.'

'This moment. I suppose, means any time to-day, before the bank closes?'

Her father looked at her for a moment, then said:

'Yes that is what it means.

'I will try and get you the money before that time.'

'My dear girl,' he said bitterly, 'you don't know what you are talking
about. If you have that money invested, even if your investment is worth
three times now what it was then, you could not get a penny on it. Don't
you know the state of the London money market? Don't you know how close
money is? I thought perhaps you might have some portion of it yet, not
sunk in your silly investment, whatever it is. I have never asked you
what it was. You told me you would tell me, but you never have done so. I
looked on that money as lost. I look on it still as lost. If you can get
me a remnant of it, it will help me now more than the whole amount, or
double the amount, would have done at the time I gave it to you. What
have you done with the money? What is it invested in?'

'It is invested in a mine.'

'A mine. Of all things in the world in which to sink money, a mine is the
worst. Just what a woman or a fool would do! How do you expect to raise
money on a mine in the present state of the market? What, in the name of
wonder, made you put it into a mine? Whose mine did you buy?'

'I do not know whose it was, father, but I was willing to tell you all I
knew at the time you asked me and if you ask me now what mine I bought, I
will tell you.'

'Certainly I ask you. What mine did you buy?'

'I bought the mine for which John Kenyon was agent.'

The moment these words were said, her cousin sprang to his feet and
glared at her like a man demented.

'You bought that mine--you? Then Wentworth lied to me. He said a Mr.
Smith had given him the money.'

'I am the Mr. Smith, William.'

'You are the Mr. Smith! You are the one who has cheated me out of that
mine!'

'My dear cousin, the less we say about cheating, the better. I am talking
to my father just now, and I do not wish to be interrupted. Will you be
so kind as to leave the room until my interview with him is over?'

'So you bought the mica-mine, did you! Pretending to be friendly with me,
and knowing all the time that you were doing your best to cheat----'

'Come, come!' interrupted the old gentleman; 'William, none of this. If
anyone is to talk roughly to Edith, it will be me, not you. Come, sir,
leave the room, as she has asked you to do. Now, my daughter,' he
continued, in a much milder tone of voice, after young Longworth had left
the office, 'have you any ready money? It is no use saying the mine is
worth a hundred thousand pounds, or a million, just now, if you haven't
the ready money. Edith, my child,' he cried, 'sit down with me a moment,
and I will explain the whole situation to you. It seems to me that ever
since I stopped consulting you things have gone wrong. Perhaps, even if
you have the money, it is better not to risk it just now; but one pound
will do what two pounds will not do a year hence, or perhaps six months
from now, when this panic is over.'

Edith sat down beside her father and heard from him exactly how things
stood. Then she said:

'All you really need is about fifteen thousand pounds?'

'Yes, that would do; I'm sure that would carry me over. Can you get it
for me, my child?'

'Yes, and more. I will try to get you the whole amount. Wait for me here
twenty minutes or half an hour.'

George Wentworth was very much surprised when he saw Edith Longworth
enter his office. It had been many months since she was there before, and
he cordially held out his hand to the girl.

'Mr. Wentworth,' she began at once, 'have you any of the money the mica
mine has brought you?'

'Yes. I invested the first year's proceeds, but, since I got the last
amount, things have been so shaky in the City that it is still at the
bank.'

'Will you lend me--_can_ you lend me five thousand pounds of it?'

'Of, course I can, and will; and very glad I am to get the chance of
doing so.'

'Then, please write me out a cheque for it at once, and whatever papers
you want as security, make them out, and I will see that you are
secured.'

'Look here, Miss Longworth,' said the young man, placing his hands on his
hips and gazing at her, 'do you mean to insult me? Do you not know that
the reason I am able to write out a cheque for five thousand pounds, that
will be honoured, is entirely because you trusted your money to me and
Kenyon without security? Do you think I want security? Take back the
word, Miss Longworth.'

'I will--I will,' she said; 'but I am in a great hurry. Please write me
out the cheque, for I must have it before the bank closes.'

The cheque was promptly written out and handed to her.

'I am afraid,' she said, 'I am not very polite to-day, and rather abrupt;
but I will make up for it some other time.'

And so, bidding the young man good-bye, she drove to the bank, deposited
the cheque, drew her own for thirty thousand pounds, and carried it to
her father.

'There,' she said, 'is thirty thousand pounds, and I still own the mine,
or, at least, part of it. All the money is made from the cheque you gave
me, or, rather, two-thirds of it, because one-third was never touched.
Now, it seems to me, father, that, if I am a good enough business woman
to more than double my money in two years, I am a good enough business
woman to be consulted by my father whenever he needs a confidant. My dear
father, I want to take some of the burden off your shoulders.'

There were tears in her father's eyes as he put his arm round her waist
and whispered to her:

'There is no one in all London like you, my dear--no one, no one. I'll
have no more secrets from you, my own brave girl.'




CHAPTER XLI.


Kenyon's luck, as he said to himself, had turned. The second year was
even more prosperous than the first, and the third as successful as the
second. He had a steady market for his mineral, and, besides, he had the
great advantage of knowing the rogues to avoid. Some new swindles he had
encountered during his first year's experience had taught him lessons
that he profited by in the second and third. He liked his home in the
wilderness, and he liked the rough people amongst whom he found himself.

Notwithstanding his renunciation of London, however, there would now and
then come upon him a yearning for the big city, and he promised himself a
trip there at the end of the third year. Wentworth had been threatening
month after month to come out and see him, but something had always
interfered.

Taking it all in all, John liked it better in the winter than in the
summer, in spite of the extreme cold. The cold was steady and could be
depended upon; moreover, it was healthful and invigorating. In summer,
John never quite became accustomed to the ravages of the black fly, the
mosquito, and other insect pests of that region. His first interview with
the black fly left his face in such a condition that he was glad he lived
in a wilderness.

At the beginning of the second winter John treated himself to a luxury.
He bought a natty little French Canadian horse that was very quick and
accustomed to the ice of the river, which formed the highway by which he
reached Burntpine from the mine in the cold season. To supplement the
horse, he also got a comfortable little cutter, and with this turn-out
he made his frequent journeys between the mine and Burntpine with comfort
and speed, wrapped snugly in buffalo robes.

If London often reverted to his mind, there was another subject that
obtruded itself even more frequently. His increased prosperity had
something to do with this. He saw that, if he was to have a third of the
receipts of the mine, he was not to remain a poor man for very long, and
this fact gave him a certain courage which had been lacking before. He
wondered if she remembered him. Wentworth had said very little about her
when he wrote, for his letters were largely devoted to enthusiastic
eulogies of Jennie Brewster, and Kenyon, in spite of the confession he
had made when his case seemed hopeless, was loath to write and ask his
friend anything about Edith.

One day, on a clear sharp frosty winter morning, Kenyon had his little
pony harnessed for his weekly journey to Burntpine. After the rougher
part of the road between the mine and the river had been left behind, and
the pony got down to her work on the ice, with the two white banks of
snow on either side of the smooth track, John gave himself up to thinking
about the subject which now so often engrossed his mind. Wrapped closely
in his furs, with the cutter skimming along the ice, these thoughts found
a pleasant accompaniment in the silvery tinkle of the bells which jingled
around his horse's neck. As a general thing, he met no one on the icy
road from the mine to the village. Sometimes there was a procession of
sleighs bearing supplies for his own mine and those beyond, and when this
procession was seen, Kenyon had to look out for some place by the side of
the track where he could pull up his horse and cutter and allow the
teams to pass. The snow on each side of the cutting was so deep that
these bays were shovelled out here and there to permit teams to get past
each other. He had gone halfway to the village, when he saw ahead of him
a pair of horses which he at once recognised as those belonging to the
hotel-keeper. He drew up in the first bay and awaited the approach of the
sleigh. He saw that it contained visitors for himself, because the
driver, on recognising him, had turned round and spoken to the occupants
of the vehicle. As it came along, the man drew up and nodded to Kenyon,
who, although ordinarily the most polite of men, did not return the
salutation. He was stricken dumb with astonishment on seeing who was in
the sleigh. One woman was so bundled up that not even her nose appeared
out in the cold, but the smiling rosy face of the other needed no
introduction to John Kenyon.

'Well, Mr. Kenyon,' cried a laughing voice, 'you did not expect to see me
this morning, did you?'

'I confess I did not,' said John, 'and yet--.' Here he paused; he was
going to say, 'and yet I was thinking of you,' but he checked himself.

Miss Longworth, who had a talent for reading the unspoken thoughts of
John Kenyon, probably did not need to be told the end of the sentence.

'Are you going to the village?' she asked.

'I _was_ going. I am not going now.'

'That's right. I was just about to invite you to turn round with us. You
see, we are on our way to look at the mine, and, I suppose, we shall have
to obtain the consent of the manager before we can do so.'

Miss Longworth's companion had emerged for a moment from her wraps and
looked at John, but instantly retired among the furs again with a
shiver. She was not so young as her companion, and she considered this
the most frightful climate she had ever encountered.

'Now,' said John, 'although your sleigh is very comfortable, I think this
cutter of mine is even more so. It is intended for two; won't you step
out of the sleigh into the cutter? Then, if the driver will move on, I
can turn, and we will follow the sleigh.'

'I shall be delighted to do so,' said the young woman, shaking herself
free from the buffalo robe, and stepping lightly from the sleigh into the
cutter, pausing, however, for a moment, before she did so, to put her own
wraps over her companion. John tucked her in beside himself, and, as the
sleigh jingled on, he slowly turned his pony round into the road again.

'I have got a pretty fast pony,' he said, 'but I think we will let
them drive on ahead. It irritates this little horse to see anything in
front of it.'

'Then we can make up speed,' said Edith, 'and catch them before they get
to the mine. Is it far from here?'

'No, not very far; at least, it doesn't take long to get there with a
smart horse.'

'I have enjoyed this experience ever so much,' she said; 'you see, my
father had to come to Montreal on business, so I came with him, as usual,
and, being there, I thought I would run up here and see the mine. I
wanted,' she continued, looking at the other side of the cutter and
trailing her well-gloved fingers in the snow--'I wanted to know
personally whether my manager was conducting my property in the way it
ought to be conducted, notwithstanding the very satisfactory
balance-sheets he sends.'

'_Your_ property!' exclaimed John, in amazement.

'Certainly. You didn't know that, did you?' she replied, looking for a
moment at him, and then away from him. 'I call myself the Mistress of
the Mine.'

'Then you are--you are----'

'Mr. Smith,' said the girl coming to his rescue.

There was a moment's pause, and the next words John said were not at all
what she expected.

'Take your hand out of the snow,' he commanded, 'and put it in under the
buffalo robe; you have no idea how cold it is here, and your hand will be
frozen in a moment.'

'Really,' said the girl, 'an employee must not talk to his employer in
that tone! My hand is my own, is it not?'

'I hope it is,' said John, 'because I want to ask you for it.'

For answer Miss Edith Longworth placed her hand in his.

Actions speak louder than words. The sleigh was far in advance, and there
were no witnesses on the white topped hills.

'Were you astonished?' she said, 'when I told you that I owned the mine?'

'Very much so indeed. Were _you_ astonished when I told you I wished to
own the owner of the mine?'

'Not in the slightest.'

'Why?'

'Because your treacherous friend Wentworth sent me your letter applying
for a situation. You got the situation, didn't you, John?'


THE END

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