The White Virgin

“What, this?” cried Sturgess mockingly; “this was a fall.”

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “when the shot had entered in. Major, it was a gun-shot wound, and the marks of the dog’s teeth are in his leg. I’ll swear to that.”

“Liar and hound,” cried the Major, dashing at him, but he was too late, for, nerving himself for one blow, Clive Reed threw himself upon the ruffian, and the next moment he lay quivering on the ground, with the young man’s foot upon his chest.

“Dinah, my child,” cried the Major reproachfully, “why was I not told all this?”

“Because I was a woman, and shame closed my lips,” she said softly. “Take me home, father. Silence has been my only sin.”

“One word before you rise, my good fellow,” said Doctor Praed, as he drew his patient from where Sturgess lay; “whether the law deals with you or no is not my affair; but I, as a doctor, tell you this: mad or only enraged there’s sometimes a deadly poison in the tooth of a dog. You have had a long taste of delirium from that gun-shot wound. Mind what you’re about, or I wouldn’t give sixpence for your life; and if you’re bad again you may die before I’ll run a step to save you. Here, Jessop. Those of a feather flock together; take this bird of prey back to his cage. You’re not wanted here.”

He stood watching as Sturgess rose and staggered away like a drunken man, while Jessop, after a vain effort to speak, walked rapidly off in turn.

Then the Doctor turned to where the Major stood with Dinah in his arms, her face buried in his breast.

“You will not fear to be alone, Major?” he said quietly.

“Afraid, sir,” said the Major, with an angry look. “No.”

“Then I will leave you now, and take my patient back to town. Good day, my dear sir, and God bless you. I must come and see you again. Dinah, an old man wants to say good-bye.”

She turned her wild eyes to his, and his look was sufficient. She left her father and the next moment rested in his arms.

“Good-bye, and I need not say God bless you, my darling,” said the Doctor, with his voice quivering a little. “There, au revoir. Clive will ask your pardon another time. Not now.”

The next morning Clive Reed had to be helped up the steps into Doctor Praed’s house in Russell Square, a relapse having prostrated him; and by the time he was about again the ‘White Virgin’ mine was a solitude once more. It was waiting for orders to go forth about the sale of the valuable engines and other machinery, Robson now having the property in charge, and going over four or five times a week to see that the place was uninjured, though the weather had already begun to make its mark.

One day he met the Major, and was ready enough to become communicative, and tell how Sturgess had been taken bad the day he returned to the mine, and how he had been fetched at last by friends who came all the way from Cornwall.

“Death’s mark was on him, safe enough, sir. I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear that he had gone.”

“And those gentlemen?” said the Major, clearing his throat, and speaking still huskily, for he did not like his task.

“Mr Jessop Reed and Mr Wrigley, sir? Oh, they haven’t been down again. Don’t suppose they will come, for the poor mine’s played out.”

Two months more had passed away before Clive Reed visited those parts again. He was thin and worn, but there was a bright look in his eyes, as he breasted the hills from Blinkdale and plunged down into the deep, chasm-like vales. For he knew that the past, with its cruel doubting, was forgiven, and that the woman he loved more than life was ready to take him to her breast.

It was down the deep valley by the side of the rushing river that Dinah did take him to her throbbing heart, and hold him as tightly as his arms grasped her; for in that solitary place, where the glancing sunbeams shot from the silver river, there were only the trout to tell tales, and the tales they told never reached the air.

She had gone to meet him, and when they had sauntered on another half mile there was the Major whipping a dark pool under the shadow of the rocks.

“Ah, Clive, my boy,” he cried, winding in his line and speaking as if they had only parted the previous day, after a glance at Dinah’s eyes where the love-light burned brightly. “Glad to see you down again. Why didn’t you bring the Doctor?”

“He is rather in trouble about his daughter?”

“Ill?”

“Well, mentally more than bodily, sir. She is back home, and he will hardly leave her for a moment.”

“Home, eh? And her husband?”

“He is in New Zealand, and not likely to return.”

“So much the better for old England, my boy. Come along, you must be like me, hungry.”

They walked through the old wild garden, which looked more beautiful than ever; and Martha was ready to smile a welcome; while to Clive, as he let himself sink back in his old seat, it was as if he had at last found rest.

It was during a walk next morning with the Major, who took Clive round by the ‘White Virgin’ mine, that the old officer suddenly turned to him and said —

“Clive, my lad, the machinery here is to be sold next week.”

“I know it,” said the young man, frowning slightly.

“You must buy it, and start afresh. I can’t have you turn rusty for want of work.”

“No, sir, it is useless. The chances are too great against the old lode being found again.”

“Not at all, boy; it is found close to the surface.”

“What!” cried Clive excitedly. “Where?”

“On the patch of old waste of limestone that I bought all those years ago, when, for a fault I never committed, I had to exile myself and come to live down here – to rot in despair, as I thought, but to find a lasting peace.”

“Oh, impossible!” cried Clive. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as a man can be who has dabbled over minerals for twenty years. There it is – a foot beneath the surface, and as rich as it was in the ‘White Virgin’ mine. The White Virgin – my dearest child – gives it to you as her dowry, the day you call her wife.”

The Major held out his hands; and as they were taken a white dress was seen fluttering on the hill side a few hundred yards away, and the Major said softly —

“She does not know it. I have left the news for you to tell. One moment: I have a stipulation to make.”

“That you never leave us, sir.”

“No; but you may throw that in, boy, and not rob me of all. Let the new vein still be called the ‘White Virgin’ mine.”