when she felt the hot pressure of his, turning her face aside the moment
he released her.
He laughed a little, keeping his arm about her shoulders. "You haven't
missed me then?" he said.
"Oh, not a bit," said Dinah truthfully; and then quickly, "but what a
horrid thing to say! Why did you put it like that?"
"I wanted to know," said Sir Eustace.
She turned back to him. "I should have missed you if I hadn't been so
busy. Isabel is going to help me with my trousseau. And oh, Eustace, I am
to have such a crowd of lovely things."
He pinched her cheek. "What should a brown elf need beyond a shift of
thistle-down? Where is Isabel?"
"She is resting now. She got so tired. Biddy said she must lie down, and
we mustn't disturb her for tea. I do hope it wasn't too much for her,
Eustace."
"Too much for her! Nonsense! It does her good to think of someone else
besides herself," said Eustace. "If Biddy didn't coddle her so in the day
time, she would sleep better at night. Well, where is tea? In the
drawing-room? Come along and have it!"
Dinah clung to his arm. "It--it's in a place called my lady's boudoir,"
she told him shyly.
He looked at her. "Where? Oh, I know. That inner sanctuary with the west
window. You've taken a fancy to it, have you? Then we will call it
Daphne's Bower."
Dinah's laugh was not without a hint of restraint. "I haven't been in any
other room. Scott said you would show me everything. But I just wandered
in there, and he found me and showed me the dear little boudoir. He said
you were going to have it done up."
"So I am," said Eustace. "Everything that belongs to you must be new.
Have you decided what colour will suit you best?"
They were passing through the long drawing-room towards the curtained
doorway that led into the little boudoir. The drawing-room was a palatial
apartment with stately French furniture that Dinah surveyed with awe. She
could not picture herself as hostess in so magnificent a setting. She
could only think of Rose de Vigne. It would have suited her flawless
beauty perfectly, and she knew that Rose's self-contained heart would
have revelled in such an atmosphere.
But it made her feel a stranger, and she hastened through it to the
cosier nest beyond.
This was a far more homely spot. The furniture here was French also, and
exquisitely delicate; but it was designed for comfort, and the gilded
state of the outer room was wholly absent.
A tea-table stood near a deeply-cushioned settee, and the kettle sang
merrily over a spirit-lamp.
Eustace dropped on to the settee and drew her suddenly and wholly
unexpectedly down upon his knee.
"Oh, Eustace!" she gasped, turning crimson.
He wound his arms about her, holding her two hands imprisoned. "Oh,
Daphne!" he mocked softly. "I've caught you--I've caught you! Here in
your own bower with no one to look on! No, you can't even flutter your
wings now. You've got to stay still and be worshipped."
He spoke with his face against her neck. She felt the burning of his
breath, and something;--an urgent, inner prompting--warned her to submit.
She sat there in his grasp in quivering silence.
His arms drew her nearer, nearer. It was as if he were gradually merging
her whole being into his. In a moment, with a little gasp, she gave him
her trembling lips.
He uttered a low laugh of mastery and gave his passion the rein,
overwhelming her with those devouring kisses that from the very outset
had always filled her with an indefinable sense of shame. She was quite
powerless to frustrate him. The delicate barrier of her reserve was
rudely torn away. The burning blush on face and neck served but to feed
the flame. He kissed the panting throat as if he would draw the very life
out of it. There was fierce possession in the holding of his arms. She
thought she would never be free again.
The first fiery wave spent itself at last, but even then he did not let
her go. He held her pressed to him, and she lay against his breast
trembling but wholly passive, overcome by an inexplicable longing to
hide, to hide.
After a few seconds he spoke to her, his voice oddly unsteady, very deep.
"You're driving me mad, Daphne. Do you know that?"
"I--I'm sorry," she faltered, trying to shelter her tingling face in his
coat.
His arms were tense about her. "I want you more and more every day," he
said. "I don't know how to wait for you. How long is it to our wedding?"
"Three weeks and four days," she told him faintly.
He gave his low, quivering laugh, "What! You are counting the days too!
Daphne! My Daphne! Need we wait--all that time?"
Dinah's thumping heart gave a great start and seemed to stop. "Oh yes,"
she gasped desperately. "Yes, I couldn't possibly--be ready sooner."
He put his face down to hers, as one who breathes the essence of a
flower. "You are ready now," he said. "You will never be lovelier than
you are to-night."
She tried to laugh, but his lips were too near. Her voice quavered
piteously.
"Why do I wait for you?" he said, and in his words there beat a fierce
unrest. "Why am I such a fool? I lie awake night after night consumed
with the want of you. When I sleep, I am always chasing you, you
will-o'-the-wisp; and you always manage to keep just out of reach." His
arms tightened. His voice suddenly sank to a deep whisper. "Daphne! Shall
I tell you what I am going to do?"
"What?" panted Dinah.
"I am going to take you right away over the hills to-morrow to a place I
know of where it is as lonely as the Sahara, and we will have a picnic
there all to ourselves--all to ourselves, and make up for to-day."
His lips pressed hers again, but she withdrew herself with a sharp
effort. There was nameless terror in her heart.
"Oh, I can't, Eustace! I can't indeed!" she said, and now she was
striving, striving impotently, for freedom. "I'm going up to town with
Isabel."
"Isabel can wait," he said.
"No! No! I must go. You don't understand. There are no end of things to
be done." Dinah was as one encircled by fire, searching wildly round for
a means of escape. "I must go!" she said again. "I must go!"
"You can go the next day," he said with arrogance. "I want you to-morrow
and I mean to have you. Look at me, Dinah!"
She glanced at him, compelled by the command of his tone, met the fiery
intensity of his look, and sank helpless, conquered.
He kissed her again. "There! That's settled. You silly little thing! Why
do you always beat your wings against the inevitable? Do you think you
are going to get away from me now?"
She hid her face against his shoulder. She was almost in tears. "You--you
hurt me! You frighten me!" she whispered.
"Do I?" he said, and still in his voice she heard that deep note that
made her whole being quiver. "It's your own fault, my Daphne. You
shouldn't run away."
"I--I can't help it," she said tremulously. "I sometimes think--I'm
not big enough for you."
"You'll grow," he said.
"I don't know," she answered in distress. "I may not. And if I do, I
feel--I feel as if I shan't be myself any longer, but just--but just--a
bit of you!"
He laughed. "Daphne,--you oddity! Don't you want to be a bit of me?"
"I'd rather be myself," she murmured shyly.
His hold was not so close, and she longed, but did not dare, to get off
his knee and breathe. But in that moment there came the sound of a
halting step in the drawing-room beyond, and swiftly she raised her head.
"Oh, Eustace, let me go! Here is Scott!"
He did not release her instantly. Scott was already in the doorway
before, like a frightened fawn, she leapt from his grasp. She heard
Eustace laugh again, and somehow his laugh had a note of insolence.
"Come in, my good brother!" he said. "My lady is just about to make tea.
I presume that is what you have come for."
"The presumption is correct," said Scott.
He came forward in his quiet, unhurried fashion, and paused at the table
to open the tea-caddy for Dinah.
She thanked him with trembling lips, her eyes cast down, her face on
fire.
Eustace lounged back on the settee and watched her. He frowned
momentarily when Scott sat down beside him, leaving her a low chair by
the tea-tray.
Dinah's hands fluttered among the cups. She was painfully ill at ease.
But in a second or two Scott's placid voice came into the silence, and at
once her distress began to subside.
"Have you decided about the decoration of this room yet?" he asked. "I
always thought this dead-white rather cold."
"Dinah is to have her own choice," said Sir Eustace.
"I would like shell-pink," said Dinah, without looking up. "Don't you
think that would be nice with those pretty water-colour sketches?"
She spoke diffidently. No one had ever deferred to her taste before.
Sir Eustace laughed in his slightly supercilious way. "Do you know who is
responsible for those pretty sketches, my red, red rose?"
She glanced up nervously. "Not--not--are they yours, Scott?"
"They are," said Scott, with a smile.
She met his eyes for an instant, and was surprised by their gravity. "Oh,
I do like them," she said. "I wonder I didn't guess. They are so
beautifully finished, so--complete."
"I am glad you like them," said Scott. "I thought you might want to turn
them out as lumber."
"As if I should!" she said. "I love them--every one of them. I shall love
them better still now I know they are yours."
"Thank you," said Scott.
Eustace turned his attention to him. "No one ever paid you such a
compliment as that before, my good Stumpy," he observed. "If everyone saw
you in that light, you'd be a great artist by now."
"I wonder," said Scott.
Dinah sent him another swift glance. She seemed on the verge of speech,
but checked herself, and there fell a brief silence.
It was broken by the entrance of a servant. "If you please, Sir Eustace,
Mr. Grey is in the library and would be glad if you could spare him a few
minutes."
Sir Eustace uttered an impatient exclamation. "You go and see what he
wants, Stumpy!" he said.
But Scott remained seated. "I know what he wants, my dear chap, and it's
something that only you can give. He has come about Bob Jelf who was
caught poaching last week. He wants you to give the fellow as light a
sentence as possible on account of his wife."
Sir Eustace frowned. "I never give a light sentence for poaching. He's
always at it, I'd give him the cat if I could."
Scott raised his shoulders slightly. "Well, don't ask me to say that to
Mr. Grey! He's taking the whole business badly to heart, as he was
beginning to look on Jelf as a reformed character."
"I'll reform him!" said Sir Eustace. He turned to the servant. "Ask Mr.
Grey to join us here!"
"You had better see him alone first," said Scott.
"Why?" His brother turned upon him almost savagely.
Scott took up his tea-cup. "You can't refuse to give him a hearing," he
observed. "He has come up on purpose."
Sir Eustace murmured something under his breath and rose. His look fell
upon Dinah. "It's the village padre," he said. "I shall have to bring him
in here. I hope you don't mind?"
She gave him a quick, half-startled smile. "Of course not."
He turned to the door which the waiting servant was holding open, and
strode out with annoyed majesty.
Dinah watched him till the door closed; then very suddenly and urgently
she turned to Scott.
"Oh, please, will you help me?" she said.
He gave her a straight, keen look that seemed to penetrate to her soul.
"If it lies in my power," he said slowly.
She caught her breath, pierced by a sharp uncertainty. "You can. I'm sure
you can," she said.
He set down his cup. "Dinah," he said gently, "don't ask me to interfere
in your affairs if you can by any means manage without!"
"But that's just it!" she said in distress. "I can't."
He leaned forward. "My dear, don't be agitated!" he said. "Tell me what
is the matter!"
Dinah leaned forward also, her hands tightly clasped, and spoke in a
rapid whisper.
"Scott, Eustace wants me to go for an all-day picnic alone with him
to-morrow. I--don't want to go."
He was still looking at her with that straight, almost stern regard. An
odd little quiver went through her as she met it. She felt as if she were
in a fashion on her trial.
"Why don't you want to go?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I was to have gone up to town with Isabel to shop," she
said.
"No, that isn't the reason," he said. "Tell me the reason!"
She made a quick gesture of appeal. "I--wish you wouldn't ask," she
faltered, and suddenly she could meet his eyes no longer. She lowered her
own, and sat before him in burning confusion.
"Have you asked yourself?" he said, his voice very low.
She was silent; the quiet question seemed to probe her through and
through. There was no evading it.
Scott was still watching her very closely, very intently. He spoke at
length, just as she was beginning to feel his scrutiny to be more than
she could bear.
"If you are just shy with him--as I think you are--I think you ought to
try and get over it, as much for his sake as for your own. You don't want
to hurt him, do you? You wouldn't like him to be disappointed?"
Dinah shook her head. "If you could come too!" she suggested, in a very
small voice.
"No, I can't," said Scott firmly.
She sent him a darting glance. "Are you angry with me?" she said.
"I!" said Scott in amazement.
"You--spoke as if you were," she said. "And you looked--quite grim."
He laughed a little. "If you are afraid of me, you must indeed be easily
frightened. No, of course I am not angry. Dinah! Dinah! Don't be silly!"
Her lips were quivering, but in response to his admonishing tone she
forced them to smile. "I know I am silly," she said, with an effort.
"I--I'm not nearly good enough for Eustace. And I'm a dreadful little
coward, I know. But he does frighten me. When he kisses me--I always
want to run away."
"But you wouldn't like it if he didn't," said Scott, in the voice of the
philosopher.
"Shouldn't I?" said Dinah. "I wonder. It--wouldn't be him, would it?"
"And what are you going to do when you are married?" said Scott, point
blank. "You'll see much more of him then."
"Oh, I expect I shall feel different then," said Dinah. "Married people
are different, aren't they? They are not always going off by themselves
and kissing in corners."
"Not as a rule," admitted Scott. "But I've been told that there is
usually a good deal of that sort of thing done during the honeymoon."
"That's different too," Dinah's voice was slightly dubious
notwithstanding. "But we are not on our honeymoon yet. Scott, couldn't
you--just for once--help me to--to find an excuse not to go? It would
be--so dear of you."
She spoke with earnest entreaty, her eyes frankly raised to his.
Scott looked into them with steady searching before he finally responded.
"I will speak to him if you like. I don't know that I shall be
successful. But--if you wish it--I will try."
"Oh, thank you," she said. "Thank you." And then quickly, "You're sure
you don't mind? Sure you're not afraid?"
"Oh, quite sure of that," said Scott.
Her eyes expressed open admiration. "I can't think how you manage not to
be," she said.
He smiled with a touch of sadness. "Perhaps I am not so weak as I look,"
he said.
"You--weak!" said Dinah. "Why, you are the strongest man I ever met."
Scott smothered a sudden sigh. "Which only proves how very little you
know about me," he said.
But Dinah shook her head, wholly unconvinced. Here at least she was
absolutely sure of her ground.
"'Mr. Greatheart was a strong man,'" she quoted, "'and he was not afraid
of a Lion.'"
"There are sometimes worse things than lions in the path," said Scott
gravely.
CHAPTER VIII
THE VICTORY
The return of Sir Eustace, marshalling the Vicar before him, put an end
to further confidences.
Dinah rose nervously to receive the new-comer--a tall, thin man, elderly,
with a grave, intellectual face and courteous manner, who looked at her
with a gleam of surprise as he took her shyly proffered hand.
"It is a great privilege to meet you," he said then, and Dinah perceived
at once that he had prepared that remark for someone much more imposing
than herself, and had not time to readjust it.
She thanked him, and he sat down at Scott's invitation and fell into a
troubled silence.
Sir Eustace was looking decidedly formidable, and it was not difficult to
see that he had just given an unqualified refusal to his visitor's
earnest request.
It was Scott as usual who came to the rescue, breaking through the
Vicar's abstraction to ask for details concerning certain additions that
were being made to the Cottage Hospital. He drew Dinah also into the
conversation, taking it for granted that she would be interested; and
presently Mr. Grey brightened somewhat, launching into what was evidently
a favourite topic.
"We are hoping," he said, "that the new wing will be completed by the end
of June, and it is expected that the Parish Council will request Lady
Studley to be good enough to declare it open."
He looked at Dinah with the words, and she realized their significance
with a sharp shock. "Oh, do you mean me?" she said. "I don't think I
could."
"It wouldn't be a very difficult business," said Scott reassuringly.
"Oh, I couldn't!" she said. "Why--why, there would be crowds of people,
wouldn't there?"
"I hope to get a few of the County," said Mr. Grey, "to support you."
"That makes it worse," said Dinah.
Scott laughed. "Eustace and I will come too and take care of you. You
see, the Lady of the Manor has to do these tiresome things."
"Oh! I'll come if you want me," said Dinah. "But I've never done anything
like that before and I can't think what the County will say. You see, I
don't belong."
"Snap your fingers in its face, and it won't bite you!" said Eustace.
"You will belong by that time."
Mr. Grey smiled a very kindly smile that had in it a touch of compassion.
He said nothing, but in a few minutes he rose to take his leave, and
then, with Dinah's hand held for a moment in his, he said in a low voice,
"I wish I might enlist your sympathy on behalf of one of my parishioners.
His wife is dying of cancer, and he is to be sent to gaol for poaching."
"Oh!" Dinah exclaimed in distress.
She looked quickly across at her _fiancé_, and saw that his brow was
dark.
He said nothing whatever, and she went to him impulsively. "Eustace, must
you send him to prison?"
He looked at her for a second, then turned, without responding, to the
Vicar. "That was a very unnecessary move on your part, sir," he said
icily. "I have told you my decision in the matter, and there it must
rest. Justice is justice."
Dinah was looking at him very pleadingly; he laid his hand upon her arm,
and she felt his fingers close with a strong, restraining pressure.
Mr. Grey turned to go. "I make no excuse, Sir Eustace," he said. "I am
begging for mercy, not justice. My cause is urgent. If one weapon fails,
I must employ another."
He went out with Scott, and Dinah was left alone with Sir Eustace.
He spoke at once, sternly and briefly, before she had time to open her
lips. "Dinah, this is no matter for your interference. I forbid you to
pursue it any further."
His tone was crushingly absolute; she saw that he was white with anger.
She felt the colour die out of her own cheeks as she faced him. But the
Vicar's few words had made a deep impression upon her; she forced back
her fear.
"But, Eustace, is it true?" she said. "Is the man's wife really dying? If
so--if so--surely you will let him off!"
His grasp upon her arm tightened. "Are you going to disobey me?" he said
warningly.
His look was terrible, but she braved it. "Yes--yes, I am," she said,
with desperate courage. "Eustace, I've never asked you to do anything
before. Couldn't you--can't you--do this one thing?"
She met the blazing wrath of his eyes though her heart felt stiff with
fear. It had come so suddenly, this ordeal, but she braced herself to
meet it. Horrible though it was to withstand him, the thought came to her
that if she did not make the effort just once she would never have the
strength again.
"You think me very impertinent," she said, speaking quickly through
quivering lips. "But--but--I have a right to speak. If I am to be--your
wife, you must not treat me as--a servant."
She saw his look change. The anger went out of it, but something that was
more terrible to her took its place, something that she could not meet.
She flinched involuntarily, and in the same moment he drew her close to
him. "Ah, Daphne, the adorable!" he said. "I've never seen you at bay
before! You claim your privileges, do you? You think I can refuse you
nothing?"
She shrank at his tone--the mastery of it, the confidence, the caress.
"You needn't be afraid," he said, and bent his face to hers. "Whatever
you wish is law. But don't forget one thing! If I refuse you nothing, I
must have everything in exchange. 'Love the gift is Love the debt,' my
Daphne. You must give me freely all that you have in return."
She trembled in his embrace. Those passionate words of his
frightened her anew. Was it possible--would it ever be possible--to
give him--freely--all that she had?
The doubt shot through her like the stab of a dagger even while she gave
him the kiss he demanded for her audacity. Her victory over him amazed
her, so appalling had seemed the odds. But in a fashion it dismayed her
too. He was too mighty a giant to kneel at her feet for long. He would
exact payment in full, she was sure, she was sure, for all that he gave
her now.
She was thankful when a ceremonious knock at the door compelled him to
release her. Biddy presented herself very upright, primly correct.
"If ye please, Miss Dinah, Mrs. Everard is awake and will be pleased to
see ye whenever it suits ye to go to her at all."
"Oh, I'll go now," said Dinah with relief. She glanced at Eustace. "You
don't mind? You don't want me?"
"No, I have some business to discuss with Stumpy," he said. "Perhaps I
will join you presently."
He took out a cigarette and lighted it, and Dinah turned; and went away
with the old woman.
"And it's to be hoped he'll do nothing of the kind," remarked Biddy, as
they walked through the long drawing-room. "For the very thought of him
is enough to drive poor Miss Isabel scranny, specially in the evening."
"Is--is Miss Isabel so afraid of him?" asked Dinah under her breath.
Biddy nodded darkly. "She is that, Miss Dinah, and small blame to her."
Dinah pressed suddenly close. "Biddy, why?"
Biddy pursed her lips. "Faith, and it's meself that's afraid, ye'll find
the answer to that only too soon, Miss Dinah dear!" she said solemnly. "I
can't tell ye the straight truth. Ye wouldn't believe me if I did. Ye
must watch for yourself, me jewel. Ye've got a woman's intelligence.
Don't ye be afraid to use it!"
It was the soundest piece of advice that she had ever heard from
Biddy's lips, and Dinah accepted it in silence. She had known for some
time that Biddy had small love for Sir Eustace, but it was evident that
the precise reason for this was not to be conveyed in words. She wished
she could have persuaded her to be more explicit, but something held her
back from attempting to gain the information that Biddy withheld. It was
better--surely it was sometimes better--not to know too much.
They met Scott as they turned out of the drawing-room, and Biddy's grim
old face softened at the sight of him.
He paused: "Hullo! Going to Isabel? Has she had a good rest, Biddy?"
"Glory to goodness, Master Scott, she has!" said Biddy fervently.
"That's all right." Scott prepared to pass on. "Eustace hasn't gone, I
suppose?"
"No, he is in there, waiting for you." Dinah detained him for a moment.
"Scott, he--I think he is going to--to let that man off with a light
sentence."
"What?" said Scott. "Dinah, you witch! How on earth did you do it?"
He looked so pleased that her heart gave a throb of triumph. It had been
well worth while just to win that look from him.
She smiled back at him. "I don't know. I really don't know.
But,--Scott"--she became a little breathless--"if--if he really wants
me to-morrow, I think--p'raps--I'd better go."
Scott gave her his straight, level look. There was a moment's pause
before he said, "Wait till to-morrow comes anyway!" and with that he was
gone, limping through the great room with that steady but unobtrusive
purpose that ever, to Dinah's mind, redeemed him from insignificance.
"Ah! He's the gentleman is Master Scott," said Biddy's voice at her side.
"Ye'll never meet his like in all the world. It's a sad life he leads,
poor young gentleman, but he keeps a brave heart though never a single
joy comes his way. May the Almighty reward him and give him his desire
before it's too late."
"What desire?" asked Dinah.
Biddy shot her a lightning glance from her beady eyes ere again
mysteriously she shook her head.
"And it's the innocent lamb that ye are entirely, Miss Dinah dear," she
said.
With which enigmatical answer Dinah was forced to be content.
CHAPTER IX
THE BURDEN
Sir Eustace was standing by the window of the little boudoir when his
brother entered, and Scott joined him there. He also lighted a cigarette,
and they smoked together in silence for several seconds.
Finally Eustace turned with his faint, supercilious smile. "What's the
matter, Stumpy? Something on your mind?"
Scott met his look. "Something I've got to say to you anyway, old chap,
that rather sticks in my gullet."
Sir Eustace laughed. "You carry conscience enough for the two of us. What
is it? Fire away!"
Scott puffed at his cigarette. "You won't like it," he observed. "But
it's got to be said. Look here, Eustace! It's all very well to be in
love. But you're carrying it too far. The child's downright afraid of
you."
"Has she told you so?" demanded Eustace. A hot gleam suddenly shone in
his blue eyes. He looked down at Scott with a frown.
Scott shook his head. "If she had, I shouldn't tell you so. But the fact
remains. You're a bit of an ogre, you know, always have been. Slack off a
bit, there's a good fellow! You'll find it's worth it."
He spoke with the utmost gentleness, but there was determination in his
quiet eyes. Having spoken, he turned them upon the garden again and
resumed his cigarette.
There fell a brief silence between them. Sir Eustace was no longer
smoking. His frown had deepened. Suddenly he laid his hand upon Scott's
shoulder.
"It's my turn now," he said. "I've something to say to you."
"Well?" said Scott. He stiffened a little at the hold upon him, but he
did not attempt to frustrate it.
"Only this." Eustace pressed upon him as one who would convey a warning.
"You've interfered with me more than once lately, and I've borne with
it--more or less patiently. But I'm not going to bear with it much
longer. You may be useful to me, but--you're not indispensable. Remember
that!"
Scott started at the words, as a well-bred horse starts at the flicker of
the whip. He controlled himself instantly, but his eyelids quivered a
little as he answered, "I will remember it."
Sir Eustace's hand fell. "I think that is all that need be said," he
observed. "We will get to business."
He turned from the window, but in the same moment Scott wheeled also and
took him by the arm. "One moment!" he said. "Eustace, we are not going to
quarrel over this. You don't imagine, do you, that I interfere with you
in this way for my own pleasure?"
He spoke urgently, an odd wistfulness in voice and gesture.
Sir Eustace paused. The sternness still lingered in his eyes though his
face softened somewhat as he said, "I haven't gone into the question of
motives, Stumpy. I have no doubt they are--like yourself--very worthy,
though it might not soothe me greatly to know what they are."
Scott still held his arm. "Oh, man," he said very earnestly, "don't miss
the best thing in life for want of a little patience! She's such a child.
She doesn't understand. For your own sake give her time!"
There was that in his tone that somehow made further offence impossible.
A faint, half-grudging smile took the place of the grimness on his
brother's face.
"You take things so mighty seriously," he said. "What's the matter? What
has she been saying?"
Scott hesitated. "I can't tell you that. I imagine it is more what she
doesn't say that makes me realize the state of her mind. I can tell you
one thing. She would rather go shopping with Isabel to-morrow than
picnicking in the wilderness with you, and if you're wise, you'll give in
and let her go. You'll run a very grave risk of losing her altogether
if you ask too much."
"What do you mean?" Eustace's voice was short and stern; the question was
like a sword thrust.
Again Scott hesitated. Then very steadily he made reply. "I mean
that--with or without reason, you know best--she is beginning not to
trust you. It is more than mere shyness with her. She is genuinely
frightened."
His words went into silence, and in the silence he took out his
handkerchief and wiped his forehead. It had been a more difficult
interview for him than Eustace would ever realize. His powers of
endurance were considerable, but he had an almost desperate desire now to
escape.
But some instinct kept him where he was. To fail at the last moment for
lack of perseverance would have been utterly uncharacteristic of him. It
was his custom to stand his ground to the last, whatever the cost.
And so he forced himself to wait while his brother contemplated the
unpleasant truth that he had imparted. He knew that it was not in his
nature to spend long over the process, but he was still by no means sure
of the final result.
Eustace spoke at length very suddenly. "See here, Stumpy!" he said.
"There may be something in what you say, and there may not. But in any
case, you and Dinah are getting altogether too intimate and confidential
to please me. It's up to you to put the brake on a bit. Understand?"
He smiled as he said it, but there was a gleam as of cold steel behind
his smile.
Scott straightened himself. It was as if something within him leapt to
meet the steel. Spent though he was, this was a matter no man could
shirk.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," he said. "Do you think I'd destroy her
trust in me too? I'd sell my soul sooner."
The words were passionate, and the man as he uttered them seemed suddenly
galvanized with a new force, a force irresistible, elemental, even
sublime. The elder brother's brows went up in amazement. He did not know
Stumpy in that mood. He found himself confronted with a power colossal
manifested in the meagre frame, and before that power instinctively,
wholly involuntarily, he gave ground.
"I see you mean to please yourself," he said, and turned to go with a
sub-conscious feeling that if he lingered he would have the worst of it.
"But I warn you if you get in my way, you'll be kicked. So look out!"
It was not a conciliatory speech, but it was the outcome of undoubted
discomfiture. He was so accustomed to submission from Scott that he had
come to look upon it as inevitable. His sudden self-assertion was oddly
disconcerting.
So also was the laugh that followed his threat, a careless laugh wholly
devoid of bitterness which yet in some fashion inexplicable pierced his
armour, making him feel ashamed.
"You know exactly what I think of that sort of thing, don't you?" Scott
said. "That's the best of having no special physical attractions. One
doesn't need to think of appearances."
Sir Eustace made no rejoinder. He could think of nothing to say; for he
knew that Scott's attitude was absolutely sincere. For physical suffering
he cared not one jot. The indomitable spirit of the man lifted him above
it. He was fashioned upon the same lines as the men who faced the lions
of Rome. No bodily pain could ever daunt him.
He went from the room haughtily but in his heart he carried an odd
misgiving that burned and spread like a slow fire, consuming his pride.
Scott had withstood him, Scott the weakling, and in so doing had made him
aware of a strength that exceeded his own.
As for Scott, the moment he was alone he drew a great breath of relief,
and almost immediately after opened the French window and passed quietly
out into the garden.
The dusk was falling, and the air smote chill; yet he moved slowly forth,
closing the window behind him and so down into the desolate shrubberies
where he paced for a long, long time....
When he went to Isabel's room more than an hour later, his eyes were
heavy with weariness, and he moved like a man who bears a burden.
She was alone, and looked up at his entrance with a smile of welcome.
"Come and sit down, Stumpy! I've seen nothing of you. Dinah has only just
left me. She tells me Eustace is talking of a picnic for to-morrow, but
really she ought to give her mind to her trousseau if she is ever to be
ready in time. Do you think Eustace can be induced to see reason?"
"I don't know," Scott said. He seated himself by Isabel's side and leaned
back against the cushions, closing his eyes.
"You are tired," she said gently.
"Oh, only a little, Isabel!" He spoke without moving, making no effort to
veil his weariness from her.
"What is it, dear?" she said.
"I am very anxious about Dinah." He spoke the words deliberately; his
face remained absolutely still and expressionless.
"Anxious, Stumpy!" Isabel echoed the word quickly, almost as though it
gave her relief to speak. "Oh, so am I--terribly anxious. She is so
young, so utterly unprepared for marriage. I believe she is frightened to
death when she lets herself stop to think."
"I blame myself," Scott said heavily.
"My dear, why?" Isabel's hand sought and held his. "How could you be to
blame?"
"I forced it on," he said. "I--in a way--compelled Eustace to propose. He
wasn't serious till then. I made him serious."
"Oh, Stumpy, you!" Incredulity and reproach mingled in Isabel's tone.
She would have withdrawn her hand, but his fingers closed upon it. "I
made a mistake," he said, with dreary conviction, "a great mistake,
though God knows I meant well; and now it is out of my power to set it
right. I thought her heart was involved. I know now it was not. It's hard
on him too in a way, because he is very much in earnest now, whatever he
was before. I was a fool--I was a fool--not to let things take their
course. She would have suffered, but it would have been soon over.
Whereas now--" He stopped himself abruptly. "It's no good talking.
There's nothing to be done. He may--after marriage--break her in to
loving him, but if he does--if he does--" his hand clenched with sudden
force upon Isabel's--"it won't be Dinah any more," he said. "It'll
be--another woman; one who is satisfied with--a very little."
His hand relaxed as suddenly as it had closed. He lay still with a face
like marble.
Isabel sat motionless by his side for several seconds. She was gazing
straight before her with eyes that seemed to read the future.
"How did you compel him to propose?" she asked presently.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly. "I can do these things,
Isabel, if I try. But I wish I'd killed myself now before I interfered.
As I tell you, I was a fool--a fool."
He ceased to speak and sat in the silence of a great despair.
Isabel said nought to comfort him. Her tragic eyes still seemed to be
gazing into the future.
After many minutes Scott turned his head and looked at her. "Isabel, I
wish you would try to keep her with you as much as possible. Tell Eustace
what you have just told me! There is certainly no time to lose if she is
really to be married in three weeks from now!"
"I suppose he would never consent to put it off," Isabel said slowly.
"He certainly would not." Scott rose with a restless movement that said
more than words. "He is on fire for her. Can't you see it? There is
nothing to be done unless she herself wishes to be released. And I don't
think that is very likely to happen."
"He would never give her up," Isabel said with conviction.
"If she desired it, he would," Scott's reply held an even more absolute
finality.
Isabel looked at him for a moment; then: "Yes, but the poor little thing
would never dare," she said. "Besides--besides--there is the glamour of
it all."
"Yes, there is the glamour." Scott spoke with a kind of grim compassion.
"The glamour may carry her through. If so, then--possibly--it may soften
life for her afterwards. It may even turn into romance. Who knows?
But--in any case--there will probably be--compensations."
"Ah!" Isabel said. A wonderful light shone for a moment in her eyes and
died; she turned her face aside. "Compensations don't come to everyone,
Stumpy," she said. "What if the glamour fades and they don't come to take
its place?"
Scott was standing before the fire, his eyes fixed upon its red depths.
His shoulders were still bent, as though they bore a burden well-nigh
overwhelming. An odd little spasm went over his face at her words.
"Then--God help my Dinah!" he said almost under his breath.
In the silence that followed the words, Isabel rose impulsively, came to
him, and slipped her hand through his arm.
She neither looked at him nor spoke, and in silence the matter passed.
CHAPTER X
THE HOURS OF DARKNESS
Dinah could not sleep that night. For the first time in all her healthy
young life she lay awake with grim care for a bed-fellow. When in trouble
she had always wept herself to sleep before, but to-night she did not
weep. She lay wide-eyed, feeling hot and cold by turns as the memory of
her lover's devouring passion and Biddy's sinister words alternated in
her brain. What was the warning that Biddy had meant to convey? And
how--oh, how--would she ever face the morrow and its fierce, prolonged
courtship, from the bare thought of which every fibre of her being shrank
in shamed dismay?
"There won't be any of me left by night," she told herself, as she sought
to cool her burning face against the pillow. "Oh, I wish he didn't love
me quite so terribly."
It was no good attempting to bridle wish or fears. They were far too
insistent. She was immured in the very dungeons of Doubting Castle, and
no star shone in her darkness.
Towards morning her restlessness became unendurable. She arose and
tremblingly paced the room, sick with a nameless apprehension that seemed
to deprive her alike of the strength to walk or to be still.
Her whole body was in a fever as though it had been scourged with thongs;
in fact, she still seemed to feel the scourge, goading her on.
To and fro, to and fro, she wandered, scarcely knowing what she wanted,
only urged by that unbearable restlessness that gave her no respite. Of
the future ahead of her she did not definitely think. Her marriage still
seemed too intangible a matter for serious contemplation. She still in
her child's heart believed that marriage would make a difference. He
would not make such ardent love to her when they were married. They would
both have so many other things to think about. It was the present that so
weighed upon her, her lover's almost appalling intensity of worship and
her own utter inadequacy and futility.
Again, as often before, the question arose within her, How would Rose
have met the situation? Would she have been dismayed? Would she have
shrunk from those fiery kisses? Or could she--could she possibly--have
remained calm and complacent and dignified in the midst of those surging
tempests of love? But yet again she failed completely to picture Rose so
mastered, so possessed, by any man; Rose the queen whom all men
worshipped with reverence from afar. She wondered again how Sir Eustace
had managed to elude the subtle charm she cast upon all about her. He had
actually declared that her perfection bored him. It was evident that she
left him cold. Dinah marvelled at the fact, so certain was she that had
he humbled himself to ask for Rose's favour it would have been instantly
and graciously accorded to him.
It would have saved a lot of trouble if he had fallen in love with Rose,
she reflected; and then the old thrill of triumph went through her,
temporarily buoying her up. She had been preferred to Rose. She had
beaten Rose on her own ground, she the little, insignificant adjunct of
the de Vigne party! She was glad--oh, she was very glad!--that Rose was
to have so close a view of her final conquest.
She began to take comfort in the thought of her approaching wedding and
all its attendant glories, picturing every detail with girlish zest. To
be the queen of such a brilliant ceremony as that! To be received into
the County as one entering a new world! To belong to that Society from
which her mother had been excluded! To be in short--her ladyship.
A new excitement began to urge Dinah. She picked up a towel and draped it
about her head and shoulders like a bridal veil. Her mother would have
rated her for such vanity, but for the moment vanity was her only
comfort, and the thought of her mother did not trouble her. This was
how she would look on her wedding-day. There would be a wreath of
orange-blossoms of course; Isabel would see to that. And--yes, Isabel had
said that her bouquet should be composed of lilies-of-the-valley. She
even began to wish it were her wedding morning.
The glamour spread like a rosy dawning; she forgot the clouds that loomed
immediately ahead. Standing there in her night attire, poised like a
brown wood-nymph on the edge of a pool, she asked herself for the first
time if it were possible that she could have any pretensions to beauty.
It was not in the least likely, of course. Her mother had always railed
at her for the plainness of her looks. Did Eustace--did Scott--think her
plain? She wondered. She wondered.
A slight sound, the opening of a window, in the room next to hers, made
her start. That was Isabel's room. What was happening? It was three
o'clock in the morning. Could Isabel be ill?
Very softly she opened her own window and leaned forth. It was one of
those warm spring nights that come in the midst of March gales. There was
a scent of violets on the air. She thought again for a fleeting second of
Scott and their walk through fairyland that morning. And then she heard a
voice, pitched very low but throbbing with an eagerness unutterable, and
at once her thoughts were centred upon Isabel.
"Did you call me, my beloved? I am waiting! I am waiting!" said the
voice.
It went forth into the sighing darkness of the night, and Dinah held her
breath to listen, almost as if she expected to hear an answer.
There fell a long, long silence, and then there came a sound that struck
straight to her warm heart. It seemed to her that Isabel was weeping.
She left her window with the impetuosity of one actuated by an impulse
irresistible; she crossed her own room, and slipped out into the dark
passage just as she was. A moment or two she fumbled feeling her way; and
then her hand found Isabel's door. Softly she turned the handle, opened,
and peeped in.
Isabel was on her knees by the low window-sill. Her head with its crown
of silver hair was bowed upon her arm and they rested upon the bundle of
letters which Dinah had seen on the very first night that she had seen
Isabel. Old Biddy hovered shadow-like in the background. She made a sign
to Dinah as she entered, but Dinah was too intent upon her friend to
notice.
Fleet-footed she drew near, and as she approached a long bitter sigh
broke from Isabel and, following it, low-toned entreaties that pierced
her anew with the utter abandonment of their supplication.
"Oh God," she prayed brokenly. "I am so tired--so tired--of waiting. Open
the door for me! Let me out of my prison! Let me find my beloved in the
dawning--in the dawning!"
Her voice sank, went into piteous sobbing. She crouched lower in the
depth of her woe.
Dinah stooped over her with a little crooning murmur of pity, and
gathered her close in her arms.
Isabel gave a great start. "Child!" she said, and then she clasped Dinah
to her, leaning her face against her bosom.
Dinah was crying softly, but she saw that Isabel had no tears. That
sobbing came from her broken heart, but it brought no relief. The dark
eyes burned with a misery that found no vent, save possibly in the
passionate holding of her arms.
"My darling," she whispered presently, "did I wake you?"
"No, dearest, no!" Dinah was tenderly caressing the snowy hair; she spoke
with an almost motherly fondness. "I happened to be awake, and I heard
you at the window."
"Why were you awake, darling? Aren't you happy?"
Quick anxiety was in the words. Dinah flushed with a sense of guilt.
"Of course I am happy," she made answer. "What more could I have to wish
for? But, Isabel, you--you!"
"Ah, never mind me!" Isabel said. She rose with the movement of one who
would shield another from harm. "You ought to be in bed, sweetheart.
Shall I come and tuck you up?"
"Come and finish the night with me!" whispered Dinah. "We shall both be
happy then."
She scarcely expected that Isabel would accede to her desire, but it
seemed that Isabel could refuse her nothing. She turned, holding Dinah
closely to her.
"My good angel!" she murmured tenderly. "What should I do without you? It
is always you who come to lift me out of my inferno."
She left the letters forgotten on the window-sill. By the simple
outpouring of her love, Dinah had drawn her out of her place of torment;
and she led her now, leaning heavily upon her, through the passage to her
own room.
Biddy crept after them like a wise old cat alert for danger. "She'll
sleep now, Miss Dinah darlint," she murmured. "Ye won't be anxious at
all, at all? It's meself that'll be within call."
"No, no! Go to your own room and sleep, Biddy!" Isabel said. "We are both
going to do the same."
She sank into the great double bed that Dinah had found almost alarmingly
capacious, with a sigh of exhaustion, and Dinah slipped in beside her.
They clasped each other, each with a separate sense of comfort.
Biddy tucked up first one side, then the other, with a whispered blessing
for each.
"Ah, the poor lambs!" she murmured, as she went away.
But Isabel's voice had reassured her; she did not linger even outside the
door.
Mumbling still below her breath her inarticulate benisons, Biddy passed
through her mistress's room into her own. She was very tired, for she had
been watching without intermission for nearly five hours. She almost
dropped on to her bed and lay as she fell, deeply sleeping.
The letters on the window-sill were forgotten for the rest of that night.
CHAPTER XI
THE NET
When Dinah met her lover in the morning she found him in a surprisingly
indulgent mood. The day was showery, and he announced his intention of
accompanying them in the car up to town.
"An excellent opportunity for selecting the wedding-ring," he told her
lightly. "You will like that better than a picnic."
And Dinah in her relief admitted that this was the case.
Up to the last moment she hoped that Scott would accompany them also, but
when she came down dressed for the expedition she found that he had gone
to the library to write letters. She pursued him thither, but he would
not be persuaded to leave his work.
"Besides, I should only be in the way," he said. And when she vehemently
negatived this, he smiled and fell back upon the plea that he was busy.
Just at the last she tried to murmur a word of thanks to him for
intervening on her behalf to induce Eustace to abandon the picnic, but he
gently checked her.
"Oh, please don't thank me!" he said. "I am not a very good meddler, I
assure you. I hope you are going to have a good day. Take care of
Isabel!"
Dinah would have lingered to tell him of the night's happening, but Sir
Eustace called her and with a smile of farewell she hastened away.
She enjoyed that day with a zest that banished all misgivings. Sir
Eustace insisted upon the purchase of the ring at the outset, and then
she and Isabel went their way alone, and shopped in a fashion that raised
Dinah's spirits to giddy heights. She had never seen or imagined such
exquisite things as Isabel ordered on her behalf. The hours slipped away
in one long dream of delight. Sir Eustace had desired them to join him at
luncheon, but Isabel had gravely refused. There would not be time, she
said. They would meet for tea. And somewhat to Dinah's surprise he had
yielded the point.
They met for tea in a Bond Street restaurant and here Sir Eustace took
away his _fiancée's_ breath by presenting her with a pearl necklace to
wear at her wedding.
She was almost too overwhelmed by the gift to thank him. "Oh, it's too
good--it's too good!" she said, awestruck by its splendour.
"Nothing is too good for my wife," he said in his imperial fashion.
Isabel smiled the smile that never reached her shadowed eyes. "A chain of
pearls to bind a bride!" she said.
And the thought flashed upon Dinah that there was truth in her words.
Whether with intention or not, by every gift he gave her he bound her the
more closely to him. An odd little sensation of dismay accompanied it,
but she put it resolutely from her. Bound or not, what did it
matter--since she had no desire to escape?
She thanked him again very earnestly that night in the conservatory, and
he pressed her to him and kissed the neck on which his pearls rested with
the hot lips of a thirsty man. But he had himself under control, and when
she sought to draw herself away he let her go. She wondered at his
forbearance and was mutely grateful for it.
At Isabel's suggestion she went up to her room early. She was certainly
weary, but she was radiantly happy. It had been a wonderful day. The
beauty of the pearls dazzled her. She kissed them ere she laid them out
of sight. He was good to her. He was much too good.
There came a knock at the door just as she was getting into bed, and
Biddy came softly in, her brown face full of mystery and, Dinah saw at a
glance, of anxiety also.
She put up a warning finger as she advanced. "Whisht, Miss Dinah darlint!
For the love of heaven, don't ye make a noise! I just came in to ask ye a
question, for it's worried to death I am."
"Why what's the matter, Biddy?" Dinah questioned in surprise.
"And ye may well ask, Miss Dinah dear!" Tragedy made itself heard in
Biddy's rejoinder. "Sure it's them letters of Miss Isabel's that's
disappeared entirely, and left no trace. And what'll I do at all when she
comes to ask for them? It's not meself that'll dare to tell her as
they've gone, and she setting such store by them. She'll go clean out of
her mind, Miss Dinah, for sure, they've been her only comfort, poor lamb,
these seven years."
"But, Biddy!" Impulsively Dinah broke in upon her, her eyes round with
surprise and consternation. "They can't be--gone! They must be somewhere!
Have you hunted for them? She left them on the window-sill, didn't she?
They must have got put away."
"That they have not!" declared Biddy solemnly. "It's my belief that the
old gentleman himself must have spirited them away. The window was left
open, ye know, Miss Dinah, and it was a dark night."
"Oh, Biddy, nonsense, nonsense! One of the servants must have moved them
when she was doing the room. Have you asked everyone?"
"That couldn't have happened, Miss Dinah dear." Unshakable conviction was
in Biddy's voice. "I got up late, and I had to get Miss Isabel up in a
hurry to go off in the motor. But I missed the letters directly after she
was gone, and I hadn't left the room--except to call her. No one had been
in--not unless they slipped in in those few minutes while me back was
turned. And for what should anyone take such a thing as them letters,
Miss Dinah? There are no thieves in the house. And them love-letters were
worth nothing to nobody saving to Miss Isabel, and they were the very
breath of life to her when the black mood was on her. Whatever she'll
say--whatever she'll do--I don't dare to think."
Poor Biddy flourished her apron as though she would throw it over her
head. Her parchment face was working painfully.
Dinah sat on the edge of her bed and watched her, not knowing what to
say.
"Where is Miss Isabel?" she asked at last.
"She's still downstairs with Master Scott, and I'm expecting her up every
minute. It's herself that ought to be in bed by now, for she's tired out
after her long day; but he'll be bringing her up directly and then she'll
ask for her love-letters. There's never a night goes by but what she
kisses them before she lies down. When ye were ill, Miss Dinah dear,
she'd forget sometimes, but ever since she's been alone again she's never
missed, not once."
"Have you told Master Scott?" asked Dinah.
Biddy shook her head. "Would I add to his burdens, poor young gentleman?
He'll know soon enough."
"And are you sure you've looked everywhere--everywhere?" insisted Dinah.
"If no one has taken them--"
"Miss Dinah, I've turned the whole room upside down and shaken it,"
declared Biddy. "I'll take my dying oath that them letters have gone."
"Could they--could they possibly have fallen out of the window?" hazarded
Dinah.
"Miss Dinah dear, no!" A hint of impatience born of her distress was
perceptible in the old woman's tone; she turned to the door. "Well, well,
it's no good talking. Don't ye fret yourself! What must be, will be."
"But I think Scott ought to know," said Dinah.
"No, no, Miss Dinah! We'll not tell him before we need. He's got his own
troubles. But I wonder--I wonder--" Biddy paused with the door-handle in
her bony old fingers--"how would it be now," she said slowly, "if ye was
to get Miss Isabel to sleep with ye again? She forgot last night. It's
likely she may forget again--unless he calls her."
"Biddy!" exclaimed Dinah, startled.
Biddy's beady eyes gleamed mysteriously. "Arrah, but it's the truth I'm
telling ye, Miss Dinah. He does call her. I've known him call her when
she's been lying in a deep sleep, and she'll rise up with her arms
stretched out and that look in her eyes!" Biddy's face crumpled
momentarily, but was swiftly straightened again. "Will ye do it then,
Miss Dinah? Ye needn't be afraid. I'll be within call. But when she's got
you, she don't seem to be craving for anyone else. What was it she called
ye only last night? Her good angel! And so ye be, me jewel; so ye be!"
Dinah stood debating the matter. Biddy's expedient was of too temporary
an order to recommend itself to her. She wondered why Scott should not be
consulted, and it was with some vague intention of laying the matter
before him if an opportunity should occur that she finally gave her
somewhat hesitating consent.
"I will do it of course, Biddy. I love her to sleep with me. But, you
know, it is bound to come out some time, unless you manage to find the
letters again. They must be somewhere."
Biddy shook her head. "We must just leave that to the Almighty, Miss
Dinah dear," she said piously. "There's nothing else we can do at all.
I'll get back to her room now, and when she comes up, I'll tell her ye're
feeling lonely, and will she please to sleep with ye again. She won't
think of anything else then ye may be sure. Why, she worships the very
ground under your feet, mavourneen, like--like someone else I know."
She was gone with the words, leaving upon Dinah a dim impression that her
last words were intended to convey something which she would have
translated into simpler language had she been at liberty to do so.
She did not pay much attention to them. She was too troubled over her
former revelation to think seriously of anything else. Into her mind,
all unbidden, had flashed a sudden memory, and it held her like a
nightmare-vision. She saw Sir Eustace with that imperious frown on his
face holding out Isabel's treasure with a curt, "Take this thing away!"
She saw herself leap up and seize it from his intolerant grasp. She saw
Isabel's outstretched, pleading hands, and the piteous hunger in her
eyes....
When Isabel came to her that night, her face was all softened with
mother-love. She drew Dinah to her breast, kissing her very tenderly.
"Did you want me to come and take care of you, my darling?"
Dinah's heart smote her for the deception, but she answered bravely
enough, "Oh, Isabel, yes, yes! You are so good to me, I want you always."
"Dear heart!" Isabel said, with a sigh, and folded her closer as though
she would guard her against all the world.
She was the first to fall asleep notwithstanding, while Dinah lay
motionless and troubled far into the night. She wished that Biddy would
give her permission to tell Scott, for without that permission such a
step seemed like a betrayal of confidence. But for some reason Biddy
evidently thought that Scott had enough on his shoulders just then. And
so it seemed, she could only wait--only wait.
She did not want to burden Scott unduly either, and there was something
about him just now, something of a repressing nature, that held her back
from confiding in him too freely. He seemed to have raised a barrier
between them since their return to England which no intimacy ever quite
succeeded in scaling. Full of brotherly kindness though he was, the old
frank fellowship was gone. It was as though he had realized her
dependence upon him, and were trying with the utmost gentleness to make
her stand alone.
Dinah slept at last from sheer weariness, and forgot her troubles. She
must not tell Scott, she could not tell Eustace, and so there was no
other course but silence. But the anxiety of it weighed upon her even
through her slumber. Life was far more interesting than of yore. But
never, never before had it been so full of doubts and fears. The
complexity of it all was like an endless net, enmeshing her however
warily she stepped.
And always, and always, at the back of her mind there lurked the dread
conviction that one day the net would be drawn close, and she would find
herself a helpless prisoner in the grip of a giant.
CHAPTER XII
THE DIVINE SPARK
With the morning Dinah found her anxieties less oppressive. Isabel was
becoming so much more like herself that she was able to put the matter
from her and in a measure forget it. Like Biddy, she began to hope that
by postponing the evil hour they might possibly evade it altogether. For
there was nothing abnormal about Isabel during that day or those that
succeeded it. The time passed quickly. There was much to be done, much
to be discussed and decided, and their thoughts were fully occupied.
Dinah felt as one whirled in a torrent. She could not think of the great
undercurrent. She could deal only with the things on the surface.
How that week sped away she never afterwards fully recalled. It passed
like a fevered dream. Two more journeys to town with Isabel, the ordeal
of a dinner at the house of a neighbouring magnate, a much less
formidable tea at the Vicarage, on which occasion Mr. Grey drew her aside
and thanked her for using her influence over Sir Eustace in the right
direction and earnestly exhorted her to maintain and develop it as far as
possible when she was married, a few riding-lessons with Scott who always
seemed so much more imposing in the saddle than out of it and knew so
exactly how to instruct her, a few wild races in Sir Eustace's car from
which she always returned in a state of almost delirious exultation, and
then night after night the sleep of utter weariness, with Isabel lying by
her side.
The last night came upon her almost with a sense of shock. It had become
a custom for her to sit in the conservatory with Sir Eustace after
dinner, and here with the lights turned low he was wont to pour out to
her all the fiery worship which throughout the day he curbed. No one ever
disturbed them, but they were close to Isabel's sitting-room where Scott
was wont to sit and read while his sister lay on her couch resting and
listening. The murmur of his voice was audible to Dinah, and the
knowledge of his close proximity gave her a courage which surely had not
been hers otherwise. She was learning how to receive her lover's
demonstrations without starting away in affright. If he ever startled
her, the sound of Scott's voice in the adjoining room would always
reassure her. She knew that Scott was at hand and would never fail her.
But on that last night Sir Eustace was more ardent than she had ever
known him. He seemed to be almost fiercely resentful of the coming
separation, brief though it was to be, and he would not suffer her out of
reach of his hand.
Wedding presents had begun to arrive, and in some fashion they seemed to
increase his impatience.
"I can't think what we are waiting for," he said, with his arm about her,
drawing her close. "All this pomp and circumstance is nothing but a
hindrance. It's you I want, not your wedding finery. You had better be
married first and get the finery afterwards, as it isn't to be in town."
"Oh, but I want a big wedding," protested Dinah. "It's going to be such
fun."
He laughed, holding her pointed chin between his finger and thumb. "I
believe that's all you care about, you little heartless witch. I don't
count at all. You'd have enjoyed this week every bit as well if I hadn't
been here."
She winced a little at his words, for somehow they went home. "There
hasn't been much time for anything, has there?" she said. "But--but I've
enjoyed the motor rides, and--and I ought to thank you for being so very
good to me."
He kissed the quivering lips, and she slipped a shy arm round his neck
with the feeling that she owed it to him. But she did not return his
kisses, for she was afraid to feed the flame that already leapt so high.
"You've nothing to thank me for," he said presently, when she turned her
face at last abashed into his shoulder. "I may be giving more than you at
this stage, but it won't be so later. You shall have the opportunity of
paying me back in full. How does that appeal to you, Daphne the demure?
Are you going to be a good little wife to me?"
"I'll try," she whispered.
"And give me all I ask--always?"
"I'll try," she whispered again more faintly, conscious of that
terrifying sense of being so merged into his overwhelming personality
that the very breath she drew seemed not her own.
He lifted her into his arms, holding her hard pressed against the
throbbing of his heart. "You wisp of thistledown!" he said. "You feather!
How have you managed to set me on fire like this? I think of nothing but
you--the fairy wonder of you--day and night. If you were to slip out of
my reach now, I believe I should follow and kill you."
Dinah lay across his breast in palpitating submission to his will. She
could hear his heart beating like a rising tempest, and the force of his
passion overcame her like a tornado. His kisses were like the flames of a
fiery furnace. She felt stifled, shattered by his violence. But in the
room beyond she still heard that steady voice reading aloud, and it kept
her from panic. She knew that she had only to raise her own voice, and he
would be with her,--Greatheart of the golden armour, strong and fearless
in her defence.
Sir Eustace heard that quiet voice also, as one hears the warning of
conscience. He slackened his hold upon her, with a quivering, half-shamed
laugh.
"Only another fortnight," he said, "and I shall have you to myself--all
day and all night too." He looked at her with sudden critical attention.
"You had better go to bed, child. You look like a little tired ghost."
She did not feel like a ghost, for she was burning from head to foot. But
as she slipped from his arms the ground seemed to be rocking all around
her. She stretched out her hands blindly, gasping, feeling for support.
He was up in a moment, holding her. "What is it? Aren't you well?"
She sank against him for she could not stand. He held her with a
tenderness that was new to her.
"My darling, have I tired you out? What a thoughtless brute I am!"
It was the first time she had ever heard a word of self-reproach upon his
lips; the first time, though she knew it not, that actual love inspired
him, entering as it were through that breach in the wall of overbearing
pride that girt him round.
She leaned against him with more confidence than she had ever before
known, dizzy still, and conscious of a rush of tears behind her closed
lids. For that sudden compunction of his hurt her oddly. She did not know
how to meet it.
He bent over her. "Getting better, little sweetheart? Oh, don't cry! What
happened? Did I hurt you--frighten you?"
He was stroking her hair soothingly, persuasively, his dark face so close
to hers that when she opened her eyes they looked up straight into his.
But she saw nought to frighten her there, and after a moment she reached
up and kissed him apologetically.
"I'm only silly--only silly," she murmured confusedly. "Good night--good
night--Apollo!"
And with the words she stood up, summoning her strength, smiled upon him,
and slipped free from his encircling arm.
He did not seek to detain her. She flitted from his presence like a
fluttering white moth, and he was left alone. He stood quite motionless
in the semi-darkness, breathing deeply, his clenched hands pressed
against his sides.
That moment had been a revelation to him also. He was abruptly conscious
of the spirit so dominating the body that the fierce, ungoverned heart of
him drew back ashamed as a beast will shrink from the flare of a torch,
and he felt strangely conquered, almost cowed, as though an angel with a
flaming sword had suddenly intervened between him and his desire.
The madness of his passion was yet beating in his veins, but this--this
was another and a stronger element before which all else became
contemptible. The soul of the man had sprung from sleep like an awaking
giant. Half in wonder and half in awe, he watched the kindling of the
Divine Spark that outshineth every earthly fire.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BROKEN HEART
The return home was to Dinah like a sudden plunge into icy depths after a
brief sojourn in the tropics. The change of atmosphere was such that she
seemed actually to feel it in her bones, and her whole being, physical
and mental contracted in consequence. Her mother treated her with all her
customary harshness, and Dinah, grown sensitive by reason of much
petting, shrank almost with horror whenever she came in contact with the
iron will that had subjugated her from babyhood.
Before the first week was over, she was counting the days to her
deliverance; but of this fact she hinted nothing in her letters to her
lover. These were carefully worded, demure little epistles that gave him
not the smallest inkling of her state of mind. She was far too much
afraid of him to betray that.
Had she been writing to Scott she could scarcely have repressed it. In
one letter to Isabel indeed something of her yearning for the vanished
sunshine leaked out; but very strangely Isabel did not respond to the
pathetic little confidence, and Dinah did not venture to repeat it.
Perhaps Isabel was shocked.
The last week came, and with it the arrival of wedding-presents from her
father and friends that lifted Dinah out of her depression and even
softened her mother into occasional good-humour. Preparations for the
wedding began in earnest. Billy, released somewhat before the holidays
for the occasion, returned home, and everything took a more cheerful
aspect.
Dinah could not feel that her mother's attitude towards herself had
materially altered. It was sullen and threatening at times, almost as if
she resented her daughter's good fortune, and she lived in continual
dread of an outbreak of the cruel temper that had so embittered her home
life. But Billy's presence made a difference even to that. His influence
was entirely wholesome, and he feared no one.
"Why don't you stand up to her?" he said to his sister on one occasion
when he found her weeping after an overwhelming brow-beating over some
failure in the kitchen. "She'd think something of you then."
Dinah had no answer. She could not convince him that her spirit had been
broken for such encounters long ago. Billy had never been tied up to a
bed-post and whipped till limp with exhaustion, but such treatment had
been her portion more times than she could number.
But every hour brought her deliverance nearer, and so far she had managed
to avoid physical violence though the dread of it always menaced her.
"Why does she hate me so?" Over and over again she asked herself the
question, but she never found any answer thereto; and she was fain to
believe her father's easy-going verdict: "There's no accounting for your
mother's tantrums; they've got to be visited on somebody."
She wondered what would happen when she was no longer at hand to act as
scapegoat, and yet it seemed to her that her mother longed to be rid of
her.
"I'll get things into good order when you're out of the way," she said
to her on the last evening but one before the wedding-day, the evening
on which the Studleys were to arrive at the Court. "You're just a born
muddler, and you'll never be anything else, Lady Studley or no Lady
Studley. Get along upstairs and dress yourself for your precious
dinner-party, or your father will be ready first! Oh, it'll be a good
thing when it's all over and done with, but if you think you'll ever get
treated as a grand lady here, you're very much mistaken. Home broth is
all you'll ever get from me, so you needn't expect anything different.
If you don't like it, you can stop away."
Dinah escaped from the rating tongue as swiftly as she dared. She knew
that her mother had been asked to dine at the Court also--for the first
time in her life--and had tersely refused. She wasn't going to be
condescended to by anybody, she had told her husband in Dinah's hearing,
and he had merely shrugged his shoulders and advised her to please
herself.
Billy had not been asked, somewhat to his disgust; but he looked forward
to seeing Scott again in the morning and ordered Dinah to ask him to
lunch with them.
So finally Dinah and her father set forth alone in one of the motors from
the Court to attend the gathering of County magnates that the de Vignes
had summoned in honour of Sir Eustace Studley and his chosen bride.
She wore one of her trousseau gowns for the occasion, a pale green
gossamer-like garment that made her look more nymph-like than ever. Her
mother had surveyed it with narrowed eyes and a bitter sneer.
"Ok yes, you'll pass for one of the quality," she had said. "No one would
take you for a child of mine any way."
"That's no fault of the child's, Lydia," her father had rejoined
good-humouredly, and in the car he had taken her little cold hand into
his and asked her kindly enough if she were happy.
She answered him tremulously in the affirmative, the dread of her mother
still so strong upon her that she could think of nothing but the relief
of escape. And then before she had time to prepare herself in any way for
the sudden transition she found herself back in that tropical, brilliant
atmosphere in which thenceforth she was to move and have her being.
She could not feel that she would ever shine there. There were so many
bright lights, and though her father was instantly and completely at home
she felt dazzled and strange, till all-unexpectedly someone came to her
through the great lamp-lit hall, haltingly yet with purpose, and held her
hand and asked her how she was.
The quiet grasp steadied her, and in a moment she was radiantly happy,
all her troubles and anxieties swept from her path. "Oh, Scott!" she
said, and her eyes beamed upon him the greeting her lips somehow refused
to utter.
He was laughing a little; his look was quizzical. "I have been on the
look-out for you," he told her. "It's the best man's privilege, isn't it?
Won't you introduce me to your father?"
She did so, and then Rose glided forward, exquisite in maize satin and
pearls, and smilingly detached her from the two men and led her upstairs.
"We are to have a little informal dance presently," she said. "Did I tell
you in my note? No? Oh, well, no doubt it will be a pleasant little
surprise for you. How very charming you are looking, my dear! I didn't
know you had it in you. Did you choose that pretty frock yourself?"
Dinah, with something of her mother's bluntness of speech, explained that
the creation in question had been Isabel's choice, and Rose smiled as one
who fully understood the situation.
"She has been very good to you, poor soul, has she not?" she said. "She
is not coming down to-night. The journey has fatigued her terribly. That
funny, old-fashioned nurse of hers has asked very particularly that she
may not be disturbed, except to see you for a few minutes later."
"Is she worse?" asked Dinah, startled.
Whereat Rose shook her dainty head. "Has she ever been better? No, poor
thing, I am afraid her days are numbered, nor could one in kindness wish
it otherwise. Still, I mustn't sadden you, dear. You have got to look
your very best to-night, or Sir Eustace will be disappointed. There are
quite a lot of pretty girls coming, and you know what he is." Rose
uttered a little self-conscious laugh. "Put on a tinge of colour, dear!"
she said, as Dinah stood before the mirror in her room. "You look such a
little brown thing; just a faint glow on your cheeks would be such an
improvement."
"No, thank you," said Dinah, and flushed suddenly and hotly at the
thought of what she had once endured at her mother's hands for daring to
pencil the shadows under her eyes. It had been no more than a girlish
trick--an experiment to pass an idle moment. But it had been treated as
an offence of immeasurable enormity, and she winced still at the memory
of all that that moment's vanity had entailed.
Rose looked at her appraisingly. "No, perhaps you don't need it after
all, not anyhow when you blush like that. You have quite a pretty blush,
Dinah, and you are wise to make the most of it. Are you ready, dear? Then
we will go down."
She rustled forth with Dinah beside her, shedding a soft fragrance of
some Indian scent as she moved that somehow filled Dinah with
indignation, like a resentful butterfly in search of more wholesome
delights.
Eustace was in the hall when they descended. He came forward to meet his
_fiancée_, and her heart throbbed fast and hard at the sight of him. But
his manner was so strictly casual and impersonal that her agitation
speedily passed, and by the time they were seated side by side at
dinner--for the last time in their lives, as the Colonel jocosely
remarked--she could not feel that she had ever been anything nearer to
him than a passing acquaintance.
She was shy and very quiet. The hubbub of voices, the brilliance of it
all, overwhelmed her. If Scott had been on her other side, she would have
been much happier, but he was far away making courteous conversation for
the benefit of a deaf old lady whom no one else made the smallest effort
to entertain.
Suddenly Sir Eustace disengaged himself from the general talk and turned
to her. "Dinah!" he said.
Her heart leapt again. She glanced at him and caught the gleam of the
hunter in those rapier-bright eyes of his.
He leaned slightly towards her, his smile like a shining cloak, hiding
his soul. "Daphne," he said, and his voice came to her subtle, caressing,
commanding, through the gay tumult all about them, "there is going to be
dancing presently. Did you hear?"
"Yes," she whispered with lowered eyes.
"You will dance with only one to-night," he said. "That is understood, is
it?"
"Yes," she whispered again.
"Good!" he said. And then imperiously, "Why don't you drink some wine?"
She made a slight, startled movement. "I never do, I don't like it."
"You need it," he said, and made a curt sign to one of the servants.
Wine was poured into her glass, and she drank submissively. The
discipline of the past two weeks had made her wholly docile. And the wine
warmed and cheered her in a fashion that made her think that perhaps he
was right and she had needed it.
When the dinner came to an end she was feeling far less scared and
strange. Guests were beginning to assemble for the dance, and as they
passed out people whom she knew by sight but to whom she had never spoken
came up and talked with her as though they were old friends. Several men
asked her to dance, but she steadily refused them all. Her turn would
come later.
"I am going up to see Mrs. Everard," was her excuse. "She is expecting
me."
And then Scott came, and she turned to him with eager welcome. "Oh,
please, will you take me to see Isabel?"
He gave her a straight, intent look, and led her out of the throng.
His hand rested upon her arm as they mounted the stairs and she thought
he moved with deliberate slowness. At the top he spoke.
"Dinah, before you see her I ought to prepare you for a change. She has
been losing ground lately. She is not--what she was."
Dinah stopped short. "Oh, Scott!" She said in breathless dismay.
His hand pressed upon her, but it seemed to be imparting strength rather
than seeking it. "I think I told you that day at the Dower House that she
was nearing the end of her journey. I don't want to sadden you. You
mustn't be sad. But you couldn't see her without knowing. It won't be
quite yet; but it will be--soon."
He spoke with the utmost quietness; his face never varied. His eyes with
their steady comradeship looked straight into hers, stilling her
distress.
"She is so tired," he said gently. "I don't think it ought to grieve us
that her rest is drawing near at last. She has so longed for it, poor
girl."
"Oh, Scott!" Dinah said again, but she said it this time without
consternation. His steadfast strength had given her confidence.
"Shall we go to her?" he said. "At least, I think it would be better if
you went alone. She is quite determined that nothing shall interfere with
your coming happiness, so you mustn't let her think you shocked or
grieved. I thought it best to prepare you, that's all."
He led her gravely along the passage, and presently stopped outside a
closed door. He knocked three times as of old, and Dinah stood waiting as
one on the threshold of a holy place.
The door, was opened by Biddy, and he pressed her forward. "Don't stay
long!" he said. "She is very tired to-night, and Eustace will be wanting
you."
She squeezed his hand in answer and passed within.
Biddy's wrinkled brown face smiled a brief welcome under its snowy cap.
She motioned her to approach. "Ye'll not stay long, Miss Dinah dear," she
whispered. "The poor lamb's very tired to-night."
Dinah went forward.
The window was wide open, and the rush of the west wind filled the room.
Isabel was lying in bed with her face to the night, wide-eyed, intent,
still as death.
Noiselessly Dinah drew near. There was something in the atmosphere--a
ghostly, hovering presence--that awed her. In the sound of that racing
wind she seemed to hear the beat of mighty wings.
She uttered no word, she was almost afraid to speak. But when she reached
the bed, when she bent and looked into Isabel's face, she caught her
breath in a gasping cry. For she was shocked--shocked unutterably--by
what she saw. Shrivelled as the face of one who had come through fiery
tortures, ashen-grey, with eyes in which the anguish of the burnt-out
flame still lingered, eyes that were dead to hope, eyes that were open
only to the darkness, such was the face upon which she looked.
Biddy was by her side in a moment, speaking in a rapid whisper. "Arrah
thin, Miss Dinah darlint, don't ye be scared at all! She'll speak to ye
in a minute, sure. It's only that she's tired to-night. She'll be more
herself like in the morning."
Dinah hung over the still figure. Biddy's whispering was as the buzzing
of a fly. She heard it with the outer sense alone.
"Isabel!" she said; and again with a passionate earnestness,
"Isabel--darling--my darling--what has happened to you?"
At the sound of that pleading voice Isabel moved, seeming as it were to
return slowly from afar.
"Why, Dinah dear!" she said.
Her dark eyes smiled up at her in welcome, but it was a smile that cut
her to the heart with its aloofness, its total lack of gladness.
Dinah stooped to kiss her. "Are you so tired, dearest? Perhaps I had
better go away."
But Isabel put up a trembling, skeleton hand and detained her. "No, dear,
no! I am not so tired as that. I can't talk much; but I can listen. Sit
down and tell me about yourself!"
Dinah sat down, but she could think of nothing but the piteous, lined
face upon the pillow and the hopeless suffering of the eyes that looked
forth from it.
She held Isabel's hand very tightly, though its terrible emaciation
shocked her anew, and so for a time they were silent while Isabel seemed
to drift back again into the limitless spaces out of which Dinah's coming
had for a moment called her.
It was Biddy who broke the silence at last, laying a gnarled and
quivering hand upon Dinah as she sat.
"Ye'd better come again in the morning, mavourneen," she said. "She's too
far off to-night to heed ye."
Dinah started. Her eyes were full of tears as she bent and kissed the
poor, wasted fingers she held, realizing with poignant certainty as she
did it the truth of the old woman's statement. Isabel was too far off to
heed.
Then, as she rose to go, a strange thing happened. The tender strains of
a waltz, _Simple Aveu_, floated softly in broken snatches in on the west
wind, and again--as one who hears a voice that calls--Isabel came back.
She raised herself suddenly. Her face was alight, transfigured--the face
of a woman on the threshold of Love's sanctuary.
"Oh, my dearest!" she said, and her voice thrilled as never Dinah had
heard it thrill before. "How I have waited for this! How I have waited!"
She stretched out her arms in one second of rapture unutterable; and then
almost in the same moment they fell. The youth went out of her, she
crumpled like a withered flower.
"Biddy!" she said. "Oh, Biddy, tell them to stop! I can't bear it! I
can't bear it!"
Dinah went to the window and closed it, shutting out the haunting
strains. That waltz meant something to her also, something with which for
the moment she felt she could not cope.
Turning, she saw that Isabel was clinging convulsively to the old nurse,
and she was crying, crying, crying, as one who has lost all hope.
"But it's too late to do her any good," mourned Biddy over the bowed
head. "It's the tears of a broken heart."
CHAPTER XIV
THE WRATH OF THE GODS
The paroxysm did not last long, and in that fact most poignantly did
Dinah realize the waning strength.
Dumbly she stood and watched Biddy lay the inanimate figure back upon the
pillows. Isabel had sunk into a state of exhaustion that was almost
torpor.
"She'll sleep now, dear lamb," said Biddy, and tenderly covered her over
as though she had been a child.
She turned round to Dinah, looking at her with shrewd darting eyes. "Ye'd
better be getting along to your lover, Miss Dinah," she said. "He'll be
wanting ye to dance with him."
But Dinah stood her ground with a little shiver. The bare thought of
dancing at that moment made her feel physically sick. "Biddy! Biddy!" she
whispered, "what has happened to make her--like this?"
"And ye may well ask!" said Biddy darkly. "But it's not for me to tell
ye. Ye'd best run along, Miss Dinah dear, and be happy while ye can."
"But I'm not happy!" broke from Dinah. "How can I be? Biddy, what has
happened? You must tell me if you can. She wasn't like this a fortnight
ago. She has never been--quite like this--before."
Biddy pursed her lips. "Sure, we none of us travel the same road twice,
Miss Dinah," she said.
But Dinah would not be satisfied with so vague an axiom.
"Something has happened," she said. "Come into the next room and tell me
all about it! Please, Biddy!"
Biddy glanced at the bed. "She'll not hear ye in here, Miss Dinah," she
said. "And what for should I be telling ye at all? Ye'll be Sir Eustace's
bride in less than forty-eight hours from now, so it's maybe better ye
shouldn't know."
"I must know," Dinah said, and with the words a great wave of resolution
went through her, uplifting her, inspiring her. "I've got to know," she
said. "Whatever happens, I've got to know."
Biddy left the bedside and came close to her. "If ye insist, Miss
Dinah--" she said.
"I do--I do insist." Never in her life before had Dinah spoken with such
authority, but a force within was urging her--a force irresistible; she
spoke as one compelled.
Biddy came closer still. "Ye'll not tell Master Scott--nor any of 'em--if
I tell ye?" she whispered.
"No, no; of course--no!" Dinah's voice came breathlessly; she had not the
power to draw back.
"Ye promise, Miss Dinah?" Biddy could be insistent too; her eyes burned
like live coals.
"I promise, yes." Dinah held out an impulsive hand. "You can trust me,"
she said.
Biddy's fingers closed claw-like upon it. "Whist now, Miss Dinah!" she
said. "If Sir Eustace was to hear me, sure, he'd wring the neck on me
like as if I was an old fowl. But ye've asked me what's happened,
mavourneen, and sure, I'll tell ye. For it's the pretty young lady that
ye are and a cruel shame that ye should ever belong to the likes of him.
It's his doing, Miss Dinah, every bit of it, and it's the truth I'm
speaking, as the Almighty Himself could tell ye if He'd a mind to. The
poor lamb was fading away aisy like, but he came along and broke her
heart. It was them letters, Miss Dinah. He took 'em. And he burned 'em,
my dear, he burned 'em, and when ye were gone she missed 'em, and then he
told her what he'd done, told her brutal-like that it was time she'd done
with such litter. He said it was all damn' nonsense that she was wasting
her life over 'em and over the dead. Oh, it was wicked, it was cruel. And
she--poor innocent--she locked herself up when he'd gone and cried and
cried and cried till the poor heart of her was broke entirely. She said
she'd lost touch with her darling husband and he'd never come back to her
again."
"Biddy!" Horror undisguised sounded in Dinah's low voice. "He never did
such a thing as that!"
"He did that!" A queer species of triumph was apparent in Biddy's
rejoinder; malice twinkled for a second in her eyes. "I've told ye! I've
told ye!" she said. And then, with sharp anxiety. "But ye'll not tell
anyone as ye know, Miss Dinah. Ye promised, now didn't ye? Miss Isabel
wouldn't that any should know--not even Master Scott. He was away when it
happened, dining down at the Vicarage he was. And Miss Isabel she says to
me, 'For the life of ye, don't tell Master Scott! He'd be that angry,'
she says, 'and Sir Eustace would murder him entirely if it came to a
quarrel.' She was that insistent, Miss Dinah, and I knew there was truth
in what she said. Master Scott has the heart of a lion. He never knew the
meaning of fear from his babyhood. And Sir Eustace is a monster of
destruction when once his blood's up. And he minds what Master Scott says
more than anyone. So I promised, Miss Dinah dear, the same as you have.
And so he doesn't know to this day. Sir Eustace, ye see, has been in a
touchy mood all along, ever since ye left. Like gunpowder he's been, and
Master Scott has had a difficult enough time with him; and Miss Isabel
has kept it from him so that he thinks it was just your going again that
made her fret so. There, now ye know all, Miss Dinah dear, and don't ye
for the love of heaven tell a soul what I've told ye! Miss Isabel would
never forgive me if she came to know. Ah, the saints preserve us, what's
that?"
A brisk tap at the door had made her jump with violence. She went to
parley with a guilty air.
In a moment or two she shut the door and came back. "It's that flighty
young French hussy, Miss Dinah; her they call Yvonne. She says Sir
Eustace is waiting for ye downstairs."
A great revulsion of feeling went through Dinah. It shook her like an
overwhelming tempest and passed, leaving her deadly cold. She turned
white to the lips.
"I can't go to him, Biddy," she said. "I can't dance to-night. Yvonne
must tell him."
Biddy gave her a searching look. "Ye won't let him find out, Miss Dinah?"
she urged. "Won't he guess now if ye stay up here?"
The earnest entreaty of the old bright eyes moved her. She turned to the
door. "Oh, very well. I'll go myself and tell him."
"Ye won't let him suspect, mavourneen--mavourneen?" pleaded Biddy
desperately.
"No, Biddy, no! Haven't I sworn it a dozen times already?" Dinah had
reached the door; she looked back for a moment and her look was steadfast
notwithstanding the deathly pallor of her face. Then she passed slowly
forth, and heard old Biddy softly turn the key behind her, making
assurance doubly sure.
Slowly she moved along the passage. It was deserted, but the sound of
laughing voices and the tuning of violins floated up from below. Again
that feeling that was akin to physical sickness assailed Dinah. Down
there he was waiting for her, waiting to be intoxicated into headlong,
devouring passion by her dancing. She seemed to feel his arms already
holding her, straining her to him, so that the warmth of him was as a
fiery atmosphere all about her, encompassing her, possessing her. Her
whole body burned at the thought, and then again was cold--cold as though
she had drunk a draught of poison. She stood still, feeling too sick to
go on.
And then, while she waited, she heard a step. Her heart seemed to spring
into her throat, throbbing wildly like a caged bird seeking freedom. She
drew back against the wall, trembling from head to foot.
He came along the passage, magnificent, princely, confident, swinging his
shoulders with that semi-conscious swagger she knew so well. He spied her
where she stood, and she heard his brief, half-mocking laugh as he strode
to her.
"Ah, Daphne! Hiding as usual!" he said.
He took her between his hands, and she felt the mastery of him in that
free hold. She stood as a prisoner in his grasp. Her new-found resolution
was gone at the first contact with that overwhelming personality of his.
She hung her head in quivering distress.
He bent down, bringing his face close to hers. He tried to look into the
eyes that she kept downcast.
And suddenly he spoke again, softly into her ear. "Why so shy, little
sweetheart? Are you getting frightened now the time is so near?"
Her breathing quickened at his tone. Possessive though it was, it held
that tender note that was harder to bear than all his fiercest passion.
She could not speak in answer. No words would come.
He put his arm around her and held her close. "But you mustn't be afraid
of me," he said. "Don't you know I love you? Don't you know I am going to
make you the happiest little woman in the world?"
Dinah choked down some scalding tears. She longed to escape from the
holding of his arm, and yet her torn spirit felt the comfort of it. She
stood silent, shaken, unnerved, piteously conscious of her utter
weakness--the weakness wrought by that iron discipline that had never
suffered her to have any will of her own.
He put up a hand and pressed her drooping head against his shoulder.
"There's nothing very dreadful in being married, dear," he told her. "I'm
not such a devouring monster as I may seem. Why, I wouldn't hurt a hair
of your head. They are all precious to me."
She quivered at his use of the word that Biddy had employed with such
venom only a few minutes before; but still she said nothing. What could
she say? Against this new weapon of his she was more helpless than ever.
She hid her face against him and strove for self-control.
He kissed her temple and the clustering hair above it. "There now! You
are not going to be a silly little scared fawn any more. Come along and
dance it off!"
His arm encircled her shoulders; he began to lead her to the stairs.
And Dinah went, slave-like in her submission, but hating herself the more
for every step she took.
They went to the ballroom, and presently they danced. But the old subtle
charm was absent. Her feet moved to the rhythm of the music, her body
swayed and pulsed to the behest of his; but her spirit stood apart,
bruised and downcast and very much alone. Her gilded palace had fallen
all about her in ruins. The deliverance to which she had looked forward
so eagerly was but another bondage that would prove more cruel and more
enslaving than the first. She longed with all her quivering heart to run
away and hide.
He was very kind to her, more considerate than she had ever known him.
Perhaps he missed the fairy abandonment which had so delighted him in her
dancing of old; but he found no fault; and when the dance was over he did
not lead her away to some private corner as she had dreaded, but took her
instead to her father and stood with him for some time in talk.
She saw Scott in the distance, but he did not approach her while Eustace
was with them, and when her _fiancé_ turned away at length he had
disappeared.
They were left comparatively alone, and Dinah slipped an urgent hand into
her father's. "I want to go home, Daddy. I'm so tired."
He looked at her in surprise, but she managed to muster a smile in reply,
and he was not observant enough to note the distress that lay behind it.
"Had enough of it, eh?" he questioned. "Well, I think you're wise. You'll
be busy to-morrow. By all means, let's go!"
It was not till the very last moment that she saw Scott again. He came
forward just as she was passing through the hall to the front door.
He took the hand she held out to him, looking at her with those straight,
steady eyes of his that there was no evading, but he made no comment of
any sort.
"Mr. Grey is coming by a morning train to-morrow," he said. "May I bring
him to call upon you in the afternoon? I believe he wants to run through
the wedding-service with you beforehand."
He smiled as he said it, but Dinah could not smile in answer. There was
something ominous to her in that last sentence, something that made her
think of the clanking of chains. She was relieved to hear her father
answer for her.
"Come by all means! Nothing like a dress rehearsal to make things go
smoothly. I'll tell my wife to expect you."
Scott's hand relinquished hers, and she felt suddenly cold. She murmured
a barely audible "Good night!" and turned away.
From the portico she glanced back and saw Sir Eustace leading Rose de
Vigne to the ballroom. The light shone full upon them. They made a
splendid couple. And a sudden bizarre thought smote her. This was what
the gods had willed. This had been the weaving of destiny; and
she--she--had dared to intervene, frustrating, tearing the gilded,
smooth-wrought threads apart.
Ah well! It was done now. It was too late to draw back. But the wrath of
the gods remained to be faced. Already it was upon her, and there was no
escape.
As one who hears a voice speaking from a far distance, she heard herself
telling her father that all was well with her and she had spent an
enjoyable evening.
Then she lay back in the car with clenched hands, and listened trembling
to the thundering wheels of Destiny.
CHAPTER XV
THE SAPPHIRE FOR FRIENDSHIP
No girl ever worked harder in preparation for her own wedding than did
Dinah on the following day.
That she had scarcely slept all night was a fact that no one suspected.
Work-a-day Dinah, as her father was wont to call her, was not an object
of great solicitude to any in her home-circle, and for the first time in
her life she was thankful that such was the case.
Her mother's hard gipsy eyes watched only for delinquencies, and her
rating tongue was actually a relief to Dinah after the dread solitude of
those long hours. She was like a prisoner awaiting execution, and even
that harsh companionship was in a measure helpful to her.
The time passed with appalling swiftness. When the luncheon hour arrived
she was horrified to find that the morning had gone. She could eat
nothing, a fact which raised a jeering laugh from her mother and a
chaffing remonstrance from her father. Billy had gone riding on Rupert
and had not returned. Billy always came and went exactly as he pleased.
One or two more presents from friends of her father's had arrived by the
midday post. Mrs. Bathurst unpacked them, admiring them with more than a
touch of envy, assuring Dinah that she was a very lucky girl, luckier
than she deserved to be; but Dinah, though she acquiesced, had no heart
for presents. She could only see--as she had seen all through the
night--the piteous, marred face of a woman who had passed through such an
intensity of suffering as she could only dimly guess at into the dark of
utter despair. She could only hear, whichever way she turned, the
clanking of the chains that in so brief a time were to be welded
irrevocably about herself.
Luncheon over, she went up to dress and to finish the packing of the new
trunks which were to accompany her upon her honeymoon. She had not even
yet begun to realize these strange belongings of hers. She could no
longer visualize herself as a bride. She looked upon all the finery as
destined for another, possibly Rose de Vigne, but emphatically not for
herself.
The wedding-dress and veil lying in their box, swathed in tissue-paper,
had a gossamer unreality about them that even the sense of touch could
not dispel. No--no! The bride of to-morrow was surely, surely, not
herself!
They were to spend the first part of their honeymoon at a little
place on the Cornish coast, very far from everywhere, as Sir Eustace
said. She thought of that little place with a vague wonder. It was the
stepping-stone between the life she now knew and that new unknown life
that awaited her. She would go there just Dinah--work-a-day Dinah--her
own ordinary self. She would leave a fortnight after, possibly less, a
totally different being--a married woman, Lady Studley, part and parcel
of Sir Eustace's train, his most intimate belonging, most exclusively his
own.
She trembled afresh as this thought came home to her. Despite his
assurances, marriage seemed to her a terrible thing. It was like parting,
not only with the old life, but with herself.
She dressed mechanically, scarcely thinking of her appearance, roused
only at length from her pre-occupation by the tread of hoofs under her
window. She leaned forth quickly and discerned Scott on horseback,--a
trim, upright figure, very confident in the saddle--and with him Billy
still mounted on Rupert and evidently in the highest spirits.
The latter spied her at once and accosted her in his cracked, cheerful
voice. "Hi, Dinah! Come down! We're going to tea at the Court. Scott will
walk with you, and I'm going to ride his gee."
He rolled off Rupert with the words. Scott looked up at her, faintly
smiling as he lifted his hat. "I hope that plan will suit you," he said.
"The fact is the padre has been detained and can't get here before
tea-time. So we thought--Eustace thought--you wouldn't mind coming up to
the Court to tea instead of waiting to see him here."
It crossed her mind to wonder why Eustace had not come himself to fetch
her, but she was conscious of a deep, unreasoning thankfulness that he
had not. Then, before she could reply, she heard her father's voice in
the porch, inviting Scott to enter.
Scott accepted the invitation, and Dinah turned back into the room to
prepare for the walk.
Her hands were trembling so much that they could scarcely serve her. She
was in a state of violent and uncontrollable agitation, longing one
moment to be gone, and the next desiring desperately to remain where she
was. The thought of facing the crowd at the Court filled her with a
positive tumult of apprehension, but breathlessly she kept telling
herself that Scott would be there--Scott would be there. His sheltering
presence would be her protection.
And then, still trembling, still unnerved, she descended to meet him.
He was with her father in the drawing-room. The place was littered with
wedding-presents.
As she entered, he came towards her, and in a moment his quiet hand
closed upon hers. Her father went out in search of her mother and they
were alone.
"What a collection of beautiful things you have here!" he said.
She looked at him, met his steady eyes, and suddenly some force of speech
broke loose within her; she uttered words wild and passionate, such as
she had never till that moment dreamed of uttering.
"Oh, don't talk of them! Don't think of them! They suffocate me!"
She saw his face change, but she could not have analysed the expression
it took. He was silent for a moment, and in that moment his fingers
tightened hard and close upon her hand.
Then, "I have brought you a small offering on my own account," he said in
his courteous, rather tired voice. "May I present it? Or would you rather
I waited a little?"
She felt the tears welling up, swiftly, swiftly, and clasped her throat
to stay them. "Of course I would like it," she murmured almost
inarticulately. "That--that is different."
He took a small, white packet from his pocket and put it into the hand he
had been holding, without a word.
Dumbly, with quivering fingers, she opened it. There was something of
tragedy in the silence, something of despair.
The paper fluttered to the ground, leaving a leather case in her grasp.
She glanced up at him.
"Won't you look inside?" he said gently.