The White Virgin

“That I was foolishly punctilious, that I was going to give him something of more value than all the riches in the world, and that I refused to take a fitting present from him.”

The warm blood glowed in Dinah’s cheeks, and there was a look of pride and happiness in her eyes which were gradually softened by the gathering tears.

“Yes, but you cannot take this, father dear!” she said softly. “It would be humiliation to us both. If we are very poor, and Clive loves me, he will love my dear father too. You must not take this, dear. It would be doubly painful after mistrusting him as you did.”

“Then I have done right,” cried the Major cheerfully.

“You have refused.”

“Yes. I was sorely tempted, my darling, for I felt how I was bringing you down to poverty; that I was no longer in a position to – to – Oh, hang it, Dinah,” cried the old man, with the tears in his eyes, “I would sooner march through a storm of bullets than go through this.”

“Clive loves me for myself, dearest father,” said Dinah, drawing his convulsed face down upon her bosom, to hide the weak tears of bitterness; “and it is not as if you were living in London. Our wants are so few here, and there are the few hundred pounds which you have often told me came from my dearest mother.”

“No, no; that could not be touched,” cried the Major, very firmly now. “That was to be your wedding portion, child.”

“There is no question of money between us, father,” said Dinah proudly. “I tell you again Clive loves me for myself, and there is a wedding portion here within my heart that can never fail. No, dearest, you cannot take this gift from my husband. You are rich in yourself as an English gentleman, and with your honourable name.”

A spasm shot through the Major, and his face contracted and looked older.

“There,” continued Dinah, “that is all at an end. Only we will economise, and live more simply, dear. But tell me I am right.”

“Always right, my darling,” cried the Major. “There, you have taken a heavy load from my breast. Hang it, yes, pet. We have our home and garden, and there is my preserve. A bit of bread of old Martha’s best, and a dish of trout of my own catching, or a bird or two. Bah! who says we’re poor?”

“Who would not envy us for being so rich?” cried Dinah, smiling.

“To be sure. And when my lord of the mines comes down,” cried the Major merrily, “we’ll be haughty with him, and let him see that it is a favour to be allowed to partake of our hermitage fare, eh?”

“Yes, yes,” cried Dinah, with childlike glee, though her eyes were still wet with tears. “But, father dear,” she faltered, “there is one thing I want to say.”

“Yes, my darling?”

“This man who is lying ill.”

“Yes, yes. We must do all we can.”

“No, father,” she said, speaking more firmly now. “We cannot go to him.”

“Eh! Why not?”

“Because – because,” faltered Dinah, with her voice sounding husky. Then growing strong, and her eyes looking hard and glittering, “Soon after he came down here, he began to follow me about.”

“What! The scoundrel!” roared the Major.

“And one day he spoke to me – and insulted me.”

“The dog – the miserable hound. But – here, Dinah – why was I not told of this?”

“Because, dear – I thought it better – I felt that I could not speak – I – ”

“Ah, but Clive shall know of this. But you have told him? Why has he not dismissed the hound?”

“No, I have not told Clive, father – not any one. Some day I must tell him – but not now.”

“Really, my darling!” cried the Major, whose face was flushed, and the veins were starting in his forehead.

“Father, this is very, very painful to me, your child,” she pleaded; “and I beg – I pray that you will say no more.”

“What! not have him punished?”

“No; not now. He is punished, dearest. But we cannot go to his help.”

“Help,” cried the Major furiously. “I should kill him.”

Dinah laid her hands upon his breast, and at last he bent down and kissed her.

“May I tell Clive when he comes?”

“No, dearest,” said Dinah, in quite a whisper, and with her face very pale now, while her voice was almost inaudible; “that must come from me.”

The Major frowned, and kissed his child’s pale face, prior to making another grievous mistake in his troubled life.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Explosion

There was joy in the little cottage by the swiftly running river one day about a fortnight later, when a shadow was cast across the window; and with a cry of delight Dinah looked up from her work and saw that Clive Reed had approached silently, and was gazing in.

The next moment she was nestling in his strong arms, responding to his kisses, and feeling once more safe, protected, and that there was nothing more to fear or wish for in life.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered, as she drew him farther in with the blood flushing in her cheeks, and her hands trembling, lest her abandonment in her ecstasy of delight had been seen.

“Why not?” cried Clive. “I feel as if I could melt away into smiles and laughter – there’s a beautiful idea, pet – in the joy I feel at being back – at holding you in these great rough arms, at feeling safe, and that you had not forgotten me and run away with some fine handsome fellow while I was gone.”

“Clive!”

“Well, I do. I’m quite boyish – childish – oh, my darling, have I got you here in my arms once more?”

There was no doubt of it, for timid and shrinking now, Dinah kissed him gravely upon the forehead, and then gently and firmly shrank from his strong embrace.

“Where is the Major?” he cried.

“He has taken his satchel and geological hammer, and gone for a long walk.”

“Without you?”

“Yes; that is why I said, don’t laugh at me, and you stopped me from saying more. Clive – I felt that you would come this morning.”

“Ah, and how much sooner I should have been, but for the miserable worry of the company’s affairs. There, I will not worry you about that, and I am glad to say that I found Sturgess rapidly getting well. But he had a nasty accident. And how’s dear old Martha?”