The White Virgin

“Hah!” sighed the Major, as he gazed sadly at the flushed, defiant face before him; and taking his child’s hand, he drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly.

“Your mother’s child, my darling,” he said huskily. “Eighteen years ago she stood up like that in my defence, when the world said that I was a dishonourable scoundrel. She fought the fight upon my side, and fell wounded to the death, Dinah, true to her convictions that I was an innocent man; but it killed her, dear.”

Dinah laid her hands upon her father’s shoulders, and gazed into his eyes, but he met her fixed, inquiring look without a quiver, and his face grew proud and stern.

“Yes, dear; she was right,” he cried, drawing himself up. “I was – I am – an honourable man. But the world has never cleared me, and I have lived a recluse, waiting for the time to come when it should confess the wrong it did me. But it never will, Dinah – it never will.”

“It shall, father, some day,” she cried passionately, as she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him again and again. “Yes, my dear, noble, self-denying father shall stand in his high place amongst men, and they shall be as proud of him as I am of Clive. For this, too, is all false, father. He could not have deceived us.”

“Well, perhaps not willingly, dear,” said the Major sadly.

“No, no, no. It is a false report.”

“But it has ruined me, my child. Well, fate has worked her worst. She can do no more,” he added bitterly, “unless my child deceives me too.”

Dinah sprang from him as if he had struck her a deadly blow, and stood there white as ashes, her eyes dilated and lips quivering till he caught her in his arms.

“No, no,” he said huskily. “Forgive me, my darling. My words were too cruel. Nothing could come between us two. Forget what I said. The words were wrung from me by my sufferings. It is so hard, dear, to find one’s all swept away through my greedy folly, and at my time of life.”

Dinah uttered a low piteous sigh, and her face went down upon her father’s shoulder, while her lips moved as she said the words in her shame, misery, and despair, the words which she had long wished to confide to him. But they were inaudible – he did not hear, and at last, after a tender, passionate embrace, he placed her in a chair.

“Well,” he said firmly, “I must act like a man.”

“What are you going to do?” she said, looking up now excitedly.

“Go up to town, and save what I can out of the wreck.”

“But, father, it must be a false report. Wait till we hear from Clive. He will be back soon.”

The Major shook his head.

“Perhaps not.”

“But I am sure. What evidence have you but this letter – these reports?”

“The telegram last night. His agitation on receiving these guarded words. I’ll agree, my dear, that the poor fellow meant honourably by us, but he is ruined as well as I. Dinah, my dear, you must be firm. So must I.”

“And you will go?”

“Directly.”

“Take me too, father,” said Dinah excitedly.

“Impossible. No; wait patiently. I must go and see the brokers at once, you see, you know there is no other course open.”

“But you will go straight to Clive, dear.”

“No,” said the Major firmly. “A man in my frame of mind, and with my hot temper, must not meet him for some time to come. It will be better not.” Dinah drew in a long deep breath, and remained silent as the Major hurriedly swallowed a little breakfast, and ten minutes later stood by the river path, bidding his child farewell.

“God bless you!” he said. “I’ll believe that Clive Reed is honest, but the money has gone. – Good-bye.”

Dinah stood watching him till he disappeared over the shoulder of the mountain slope on his ten-mile walk to the Blinkdale station, and then returned to the cottage, cold and shivering, as a sense of loneliness and want of protection crept over her.

Martha was waiting at the door.

“Oh, my dear, I hope there is no more trouble. Is it about money?”

Dinah bowed gravely.

“Dear, dear! What a nuisance money is. But I have a little saved up, master can have. I wish I’d told him before he went. He won’t be very long gone, will he, my dear? I mean he will be back to-night?”

“No, Martha,” said Dinah, with the chilly sensation increasing. “Perhaps not to-morrow night.”

“And us alone!” cried Martha, “and no Rollo.”

Dinah shuddered slightly.

“And I don’t want to frighten you, my dear, but I’ve seen that big dark man from the mine come about here sometimes of a night. Why, my dear child, it must have been him who poisoned that poor dog.”

The cold shiver ran through Dinah again, but she made a spasmodic effort to master her feelings.

“Don’t – don’t say that,” she said hoarsely. “Martha, dear, we must bury poor Rollo to-day. Will you help me?”

“Poor fellow! yes. I always hated him, my dear, but I’m very sorry he’s dead. There, we must make the best of it. Come and finish your breakfast, lovey, and then we’ll get a spade, and bury him under one of the trees.”

Dinah went in dreamy and thoughtful, but no breakfast passed her lips; and as, about an hour and a half later, the poor dog was being carried to his last resting-place, there was the sound of hoofs on the bridle-path, and five minutes later she received a telegram for her father, brought over from the town on the other side of the mine.

She hesitated a moment, but the case was so urgent, and she opened the message to read Clive’s reassuring words.

“I knew it,” she cried, as a flood of bright hope sent joy into her heart.

But it was too late to try and overtake the Major, who was miles away in the other direction, and the messenger was dismissed.

“He will know as soon as he reaches town, and telegraph,” thought Dinah, but the day wore away without news, and the night closed in dark and stormy, with the girl’s fancy conjuring up strange sounds about the house of so startling a nature in her nervous state, that at last she could bear them no longer. Again and again she had imagined that faces were peering through the window, and though she drew blind and curtain, there was the fancy still. And in this spirit she at last, about nine o’clock, determined to go and sit with their old servant in the kitchen.

“It will be company for us both,” she said, and hurriedly gathering together her work, she left the little room, and entered the kitchen to find all dark.

“Martha – Martha!” she cried, but there was no reply, and hurrying back for a lamp, she found that the candle had burned out, the tea things were still on the table, and the woman was seated there with her head down upon her hands, apparently fast asleep.

“Martha!” she cried, shaking her; but there was no reply, only a heavy stertorous breath, and as the old chill came back, Dinah’s eyes lit upon the cup and saucer by the woman’s side.

A flash of light illumined her brain, and instinctively she raised the tea-cup, and smelt, and then tasted the tea at the bottom.

It was unmistakable. A peculiar, heavy, clammy taste was evident. The cup fell from her hand, and she looked wildly round, as her position came with tenfold horror. Alone there in that solitary dale, far from help. Even her old friend the dog taken from her side – quite alone, for Martha was beyond rousing for hours to come, plunged as she was in a deep stupor, the result of a drug.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Another Pigeon Plucked