“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.