"Oh, here you are!" Airily Guy Bathurst advanced to meet him. "Don't let

me interrupt your drink! I only want a few words with you."

"I'll fetch another glass, sir" murmured the discreet man-servant, and

vanished.

Scott stood, stiff and uncompromising, by his chair. There was a hint of

hostility in his bearing. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

Bathurst ignored his attitude with that ease of manner of which he was a

past-master. "Well I thought perhaps you could give me news of Dinah" he

said. "Billy tells me he left you with her this morning."

"I see" said Scott. He looked at the other man with level, unblinking

eyes. "You are beginning to feel a little anxious about her?" he

questioned.

"Well, I think it's about time she came home," said Bathurst. He took out

a cigarette and lighted it. "Her mother is wondering what has become of

her," he added, between the puffs.

"I posted a letter to Mrs. Bathurst about an hour ago," said Scott. "She

will get it in the morning."

"Indeed!" Bathurst glanced at him. "And is her whereabouts to remain a

mystery until then?"

"That letter will reassure you as to her safety," Scott returned quietly.

"But it will not enlighten you as to her whereabouts. She is in good

hands, and it is not her intention to return home--at least for the

present. Under the circumstances you could scarcely compel her to do so."

"I never compel her to do anything," said Bathurst comfortably. "Her

mother keeps her in order, I have nothing to do with it."

"Evidently not." A sudden sharp quiver of scorn ran through Scott's

words. "Her mother may make her life a positive hell, but it's no

business of yours!"

A flicker of temper shone for a second in Bathurst's eyes. The scorn had

penetrated even his thick skin. "None whatever," he said deliberately.

"Nor of yours either, so far as I can see."

"There you are wrong." Hotly Scott took him up. "It is the duty of every

man to prevent cruelty. Dinah has been treated like a bond-slave all her

life. What were you about to allow it?"

He flung the question fiercely. The man's careless repudiation of all

responsibility aroused in him a perfect storm of indignation. He was

probably more angry at that moment than he had ever been before.

Guy Bathurst stared at him for a second or two, his own resentment

quenched in amazement. Finally he laughed.

"If you were married to my wife, you'd know," he said. "Personally I like

a quiet life. Besides, discipline is good for youngsters. I think Lydia

is disposed to carry it rather far, I admit. But after all, a woman can't

do much damage to her own daughter. And anyhow it isn't a man's business

to interfere."

He broke off as the servant reappeared, and seated himself in a chair on

the other side of the fire. He drank some whisky and water in large,

appreciative gulps, and resumed his cigarette.

"If Dinah had seriously wanted to get away from it, she should have

married your brother," he said then. "It was her own doing entirely, this

last affair. A girl shouldn't jilt her lover at the last moment if she

isn't prepared to face the consequences. She knows her mother's temper by

this time, I should imagine. She might have guessed what was in store for

her." He looked across at Scott as one seeking sympathy. "You'll admit it

was a tomfool thing to do," he said. "I don't wonder at her mother

wanting to make her smart for it. I really don't. Dinah ought to have

known her own mind."

"She knows it now," said Scott grimly.

"Yes. So it appears. By the way, have you any idea what induced her to

throw your brother over in that way just at the last minute? It would be

interesting to know."

"Did she give you no reason?" said Scott. He hated parleying with the

man, but something impelled him thereto.

Guy Bathurst leaning back at his ease with his cigarette between his

lips, uttered a careless laugh. "She seemed to think she wasn't in love

with him. We couldn't get any more out of her than that. As a matter of

fact her mother was too furious to attempt it. But there must have been

some other reason. I wondered if you knew what it was."

"I shouldn't have thought it essential that there should have been any

other reason," Scott said deliberately. "If there is--I am not in her

confidence."

He was still on his feet as if he wished it to be clearly understood that

he did not intend their conversation to develop into anything of the

nature of friendly intercourse.

Bathurst continued to smoke, but a faint air of insolence was apparent in

his attitude. He was not accustomed to being treated with contempt, and

the desire awoke within him to find some means of disconcerting this

undersized whippersnapper who had almost succeeded in making him feel

cheap.

"You haven't been making love to her on your own account by any chance, I

suppose?" he enquired lazily.

Scott's eyes flashed upon him a swift and hawk-like regard, and the

hauteur that so often characterized his brother suddenly descended upon

him and clothed him as a mantle.

"I have not," he said.

"Quite sure?" persisted Bathurst, still amiably smiling. "It's my belief

she's smitten with you, you know. I've thought so all along. Funny idea,

isn't it? Never occurred to you of course?"

Scott made no reply, but his silence was more scathing than speech. It

served to arouse all the rancour of which Bathurst's indolent nature was

capable.

"No accounting for women's preference, is there?" he said. "You ought to

feel vastly flattered, my good sir. It isn't many women would put you

before that handsome brother of yours. How did you work it, eh? Come,

you're caught! So you may as well own up."

Scott shrugged his shoulders abruptly, disdainfully, and turned from him.

"If you choose to amuse yourself at your daughter's expense, I cannot

prevent you," he said. "But there is not a grain of truth in your

insinuation. I repudiate it absolutely."

"My dear fellow, that's a bit thick," laughed Bathurst; he had found

the vulnerable spot, and he meant to make the most of it. "Do you

actually expect me to believe that you won her away from your brother

without knowing it? That's rather a tough proposition, too tough for my

middle-aged digestion. You've been trifling with her young affections,

but you are not man enough to own it."

"You are wrong, utterly wrong," Scott said. He restrained himself with

difficulty; for still something was at work within him urging him to be

temperate. "Dinah has never dreamed of falling in love with me. As you

say, the bare idea is manifestly absurd."

"Then who is she in love with?" demanded Bathurst, with lazy insistence.

"You're the only other man she knows, and there's certainly someone. No

girl would throw up such a catch as your brother for the mere sentiment

of the thing. It stands to reason there must be someone else. And there

is no one but you. She doesn't know anyone else, I tell you. She has no

opportunities. Her mother sees to that."

Scott was bending over the fire, his face to the flame. His indignation

had died down. He was very still, as one deep in thought. Could it be the

true word spoken in ill-timed jest which he had just heard? He wondered;

he wondered.

A golden radiance was spreading forth to him from the heart of those

leaping flames, like the coming of the dawnlight over the dark earth. He

watched it spell-bound, utterly unmindful of the man behind him. If this

thing were true! Ah, if this thing were true!

A sudden sound made him turn to see Colonel de Vigne and his daughter

enter.

They came forward to greet him and Bathurst. Rose was smiling; her eyes

were softly bright.

"How happy she looks!" was the thought that occurred to him, but it was

only a passing thought. It vanished in a moment as he heard her accost

Bathurst.

"How is our poor little Dinah by this time?"

"You had better ask this gentleman," airily responded Bathurst. "He has

elected to make himself responsible for her welfare."

Rose's delicate brows went up, but very strangely Scott no longer felt in

the least disconcerted. He replied to her unspoken query without

difficulty.

"Dinah felt that she could not face the gossips," he said, "and as Isabel

was badly wanting her, they have gone away together. Except for old

Biddy, they will be quite alone, and it will do them both all the good in

the world."

Rose's brow cleared. "What an excellent arrangement!" she murmured

sympathetically. "And--your brother?"

Scott smiled. "Needless to say, he is not of the party. His plans are

somewhat uncertain. He may go abroad for a time, but I doubt if he

banishes himself for long when the London season is in full swing."

Rose's smile answered his. "I think he is very wise," she said. "When

Easter is over, we shall probably follow his example. I hope we shall

have the pleasure of meeting you when we are all in town."

"Ha! So do I," said the Colonel. "You must look me up at the Club--any

time. I shall be delighted."

"You are very kind," Scott said. "But I go to town very rarely, and I

never stay there. My brother is far more of a society man than I am."

"You will have to come out of your shell," smiled Rose.

"Quite so--quite so," agreed the Colonel. "It isn't fair to cheat

society, you know. If we can't dance at your brother's wedding, you might

give us the pleasure of dancing at yours."

Bathurst uttered a careless laugh. "I've just been accusing him of

cutting his brother out," he said lightly. "But he denies all knowledge

of the transaction."

"Oh, but what a shame!" interposed Rose quickly. "Mr. Studley, we won't

listen to this gossip. Will you come up to my sitting-room, and show me

that new game of Patience you were talking about yesterday? Bring your

drink with you!"

He went with her almost in silence.

In her own room she turned upon him with a wonderful, illumined smile,

and held out her hand.

"I won't have you badgered," she said. "But--it is true, is it not?"

He took her hand, looking straight into her beautiful eyes. There was

more life in her face at that moment than he had ever seen before. She

was as one suddenly awakened. "What is true, Miss de Vigne?" he

questioned.

"That you care for her," she answered, "that she cares for you."

His look remained full upon her. "In a friendly sense, yes," he said.

"In no other sense?" she insisted. Her eyes were shining, as if her whole

soul were suddenly alight with animation. "Tell me," she said, as he did

not speak immediately, "have you ever cared for her merely as a friend?"

There was no evading the question, neither for some reason could he

resent it. He hesitated for a second or two; then, "You have guessed

right," he said quietly. "But she has never suspected it, and--she never

will."

To his surprise Rose frowned. "But why not tell her?" she said. "Surely

she has a right to know!"

He smiled and shook his head. "Pardon me! No one has the smallest right

to know. Would you say that of yourself if you cared for someone who did

not care for you?"

She blushed under his eyes suddenly and very vividly, and in a moment

turned from him. "Ah, but that is different!" she said. "A woman is

different! If she gives her heart where it is not wanted, that is her

affair alone."

He did not pursue his advantage; he liked her for the blush.

"Isn't it rather an unprofitable discussion?" he said gently. "Suppose we

get to our game of Patience!"

And Rose acquiesced in silence.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE KNIGHT IN DISGUISE

A long, curling wave ran up the shingle and broke in a snow-white sheet

of foam just below Dinah's feet. She was perched on a higher ridge of

shingle, bareheaded, full in the glare of the mid-June sunlight. Her

brown hands were locked tightly around her knees. Her small, pointed face

looked wistfully over the sea.

She had been sitting in that position for a long time, her green eyes

unblinking but swimming in the heat and glare. The dark ringlets on her

forehead danced in the soft breeze that came over the water. There was

tension in her attitude, the tension of deep and concentrated thought.

Into the midst of her meditations, there came a slow, halting step. It

fell on the shingle behind her, reaching her above the roar of the

breakers, and instantly a flood of colour rushed up over her face and

neck.

Sharply she turned. "Scott!"

She was on her feet in a second with hand outstretched in welcome.

"Oh, how you startled me! How good of you to come so soon! I--shouldn't

have left the house if I had known."

"I came at once," he said simply. "But I have only just got here. I saw

you sitting on the shore and came straight to you. What news?"

His quiet, deliberate voice was in striking contrast to her agitated

utterance. The hand that held hers was absolutely steady.

She met his look with confidence. "Scott, she is going. You knew

it--didn't you?--when you were here last Sunday? She knew it too. She

didn't want you to go really. And so--directly I realized she was

worse--I sent for you. But--they say--even now she may linger for a

little. But you'll stay, won't you? You won't go again?"

His grave eyes looked into hers. "Of course I will stay," he said.

She drew a quick sigh of relief. "She scarcely slept last night. Her

breathing was so bad. It was very hot, you know. The nurse or I were

fanning her nearly all the time, till the morning breeze came at last.

And then she got quieter. She is asleep now. They say she will sleep

for hours. And so I slipped out just for a little, so as to be quite

fresh again when she wakes."

"Don't you sleep at all?" Scott asked gently.

The colour was fading from her face; it returned at his question. "Oh

yes, any time. It doesn't matter for me. I am so strong. And I can

sleep--afterwards."

He looked down at the thin little hand he still held. "You mustn't wear

yourself out, Dinah," he said.

Her lip quivered suddenly, "What does it matter?" she said. "I've nothing

else to live for."

"I don't think we can any of us say that," he answered. "There is always

something left."

She turned her face and looked over the sea. "I'm sure I don't know

what," she said, with a catch in her voice. "If--Isabel--were going to

live, if--if I could only have her always, I should be quite happy. I

shouldn't want anything else. But without her--life without her--after

these two months,--" her voice broke and ceased.

"I know," Scott said. "I should have felt the same myself not so long

ago. I have let you slip into my place, you see; and it comes hard on you

now. But don't forget our friendship, Dinah! Don't forget I'm here!"

She turned back, swallowing her tears with difficulty and gave him a

quivering smile. "Oh, I know. You are so good. And it was dear of you

to--to let me take your place with her. None but you would have done such

a thing."

"My dear, it was far better for her, and she wished it," he interposed.

"Besides, with Eustace away, I had plenty to do. You mustn't twist that

into a virtue. It was the only course open to me. I knew that it would

lift her out of misery to have you, and--naturally--I wished it too."

She nodded. "It was just like you. And I--I ought to have remembered that

it couldn't last. It has been such a comfort to--to have my darling to

love and care for. But oh, the blank when she is gone!"

Scott was silent.

"It's wrong to want to keep her, I know," Dinah went on wistfully. "She

has got so wonderfully happy of late; and I know it is the thought of

nearing the end of the journey that makes her so. And when I am with her,

I feel happy too for her sake. But when I am away from her--it--it's

all so dreary. I--feel so frightened and--alone."

"Don't be frightened!" Scott said gently. "You never are alone."

"Ah, but life is so difficult," she whispered.

"It would be," he answered, "if we had to face it all at once. But, thank

God, that is not so. We can only see a little way ahead. We can only do a

little at a time."

"Do you think that is a help?" she said. "I would give

anything--sometimes--to look into the future."

"I think the burden would be greater than we could bear," Scott said.

"Oh, do you? I think it would be such a relief to know." Dinah uttered a

sharp sigh. "It's no good talking," she said. "Only one thing is certain.

I'm not going to break with Billy of course, but I'll never go back to

Perrythorpe again, never as long as I live!"

There was a quiver of passion in her voice. She looked at Scott with what

was almost a challenge in her eyes.

He did not answer it. His face wore a look of perplexity. But, "If I were

in your place," he said quietly, "I think I should say the same."

"I am sure you would," she said warmly. "I only tolerated it so long

because I didn't know what freedom was like. When I went to Switzerland,

I found out; and when I came back, it just wasn't endurable any longer.

But I wish I knew--I do wish I knew--what I were going to do."

The words were out before she could stop them, but the moment they were

uttered she made a sharp gesture as though she would recall them.

"I'm silly to talk like this," she said. "Please forget it!"

He smiled a little. "Not silly, Dinah," he said, "but mistaken. Believe

me, the future is already provided for."

Her brows contracted slightly. "Ah, you are good," she said. "You believe

in God."

"So do you," he said, with quiet conviction.

Her lip quivered. "I believe He would help anyone like you, but--but He

wouldn't bother Himself about me. There are too many others of the same

sort."

Scott looked at her in genuine astonishment. "What a curious idea!" he

said. "You don't really think that, do you?"

She nodded. "I can't help it. Life is such a maze of difficulties, and

one has to face them all alone."

"You won't face yours alone," he said quickly.

She smiled rather piteously. "I've faced all the worst bits alone so

far."

"I know," Scott said. "But you are through the worst now."

She shook her head doubtfully. "I'm afraid of life," she said.

He saw that she did not wish to pursue the subject and put it gently

aside. "Shall we go in?" he said. "I should like to be at hand when

Isabel wakes."

She turned beside him at once. Their talk went back to Isabel. They spoke

of her tenderly, as one nearing the end of a long and wearisome journey,

and as they approached the little white house on the heath above the sea,

Dinah gave somewhat hesitating utterance to a thought that had been

persistently in her mind of late.

"Do you," she said, speaking with evident effort, "think that--Eustace

should be sent for?"

"Does she want him?" said Scott.

"I don't know. She never speaks of him. But then--that may be--for my

sake." Dinah's voice was very low and not wholly free from distress. "And

again--it may be on my account he is keeping away. She hasn't seen him

for these two months--not since we left Perrythorpe."

"No," Scott said gravely. "I know."

Dinah was silent for a brief space; then she braced herself for another

effort. "Scott, I--don't want to be--in anyone's way. If--if she would

like to see him, and if he--doesn't want to come--because of me, I--must

go, that's all."

She spoke with resolution, and pausing at the gate that led off the heath

into the garden looked him straight in the face.

"I want you," she said rather breathlessly, "to find out if--that is so.

And if it is--if it is--"

"My dear, you needn't be afraid," Scott said. "I am quite sure that

Eustace wouldn't wish to drive you away. He might be doubtful as to

whether you would care to meet him again so soon, but if you had no

objection to his coming, he wouldn't deliberately stay away on his own

account. You know--I don't think you've ever realized it--he loves

Isabel."

"Then he must want to come," she said quickly. "Oh, Scott, do you know--I

said a dreadful--a cruel--thing to him--that last day. If he really loves

her, it must have hurt him--terribly."

"What did you say?" Scott asked.

"I said--" the quick tears sprang to her eyes--"I said that he was unkind

to her, and that--that she was always miserable when he was there. Scott,

what made me say it? It was hateful of me! It was hateful!"

"It was the truth," Scott said. He looked at her thoughtfully for a few

seconds, then very kindly he patted her hand as it rested on the gate.

"Don't be so distressed!" he said. "It probably did him good--even if it

did hurt. But I think you are right. If Isabel has the smallest wish to

see him, he must come. I will see what I can do."

Dinah gave him a difficult smile. "You always put things right," she

said.

He lifted his shoulders with a whimsical expression. "The

magnifying-glass again!" he said.

"No," she protested. "No. I see you as you are."

"Then you see a very ordinary citizen," he said.

But Dinah shook her head. "A knight in disguise," she said.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE MOUNTAIN SIDE

When Isabel opened her eyes after a slumber that had lasted for the

greater part of the day, it was to find Scott seated beside her quietly

watching her.

She reached a feeble hand to him with a smile of welcome. "Dear Stumpy,

when did you come?"

"An hour or two ago," he said, and put the weak hand to his lips. "You

have had a good sleep, dear?"

"Yes," she said. "Yes. It has done me good." She lay looking at him with

a smile still in her eyes. "I hope little Dinah is resting," she said.

"She was with me nearly all night. I didn't wish it, Stumpy, but the dear

child wouldn't leave till I was more comfortable."

"She is resting for a little now," he said. "I am so sorry you had a bad

time last night."

"Oh, don't be sorry for me!" she said softly. "My bad times are so nearly

over now. It is a waste of time to talk about them. She sent for you, did

she?"

He bent his head. "She knew I would wish to be sent for. She fancied you

might be wanting me."

"I do want you," she said, and into her wasted face there came a look of

unutterable tenderness. "Oh, Stumpy darling, need you leave me again?"

He was still holding her hand; his fingers closed upon it at her words.

"I think the last part may be--a little steep," she said wistfully. "I

would like to feel that you are near at hand. You have helped me so

often--so often. And then too--there is--my little Dinah. I want you to

help her too."

"God knows I will do my best, dear," he said.

Her fingers returned his pressure. "She has been so much to me--so much

to me," she whispered. "When I came here, I had no hope. But the care of

her, the comforting of her, opened the dungeon-door for me. And now no

Giant Despair will ever hold me captive again. But I am anxious about

her, Stumpy. There is some trouble in the background of which she has

never spoken--of which she can never bear to speak. Have you any idea

what it is?"

He moved with an unwonted touch of restlessness. "I think she worries

about the future," he said.

"That isn't all," Isabel said with conviction. "There is more than that.

It hangs over her like a cloud. It weighs her down."

"She hasn't confided in me," he said.

"Ah! But perhaps she will," Isabel's eyes still dwelt upon him with a

great tenderness. "Stumpy," she murmured under her breath, "forgive me

for asking! I must ask! Stumpy, why don't you win her for yourself, dear?

The way is open. I know--I know you can."

He moved again, moved with a gesture of protest. "You are mistaken,

Isabel," he said. "The way is not open." He spoke wearily. He was looking

straight before him. "If I were to attempt what you suggest," he said

slowly, "I should deprive her of the only friend to whom she can turn

with any confidence besides yourself. She trusts me now implicitly. She

believes my friendship for her to be absolutely simple and disinterested.

And I would rather die than fail her."

"Then you think she doesn't care?" Isabel said.

Scott turned his eyes upon her. "Personally, I came to that conclusion

long ago," he said. "No woman could ever hang a serious romance around

me, Isabel. I am not the right sort. If Dinah imagined for a moment that

I were capable of making love in the ordinary way, our friendship would

go to the bottom forthwith. No, my dear; put the thought out of your

mind! The Stumpys of this world must be resigned to go unpaired. They

must content themselves with the outer husk. It's that or nothing."

Isabel's smile was full of tenderness. "You talk as one who knows," she

said. "But I wonder if you do."

"Oh yes," Scott said. "I've learned my lesson. I've been given an

ordinary soul in an extraordinary body, and I've got to make the best of

it. You can't ignore the body, you know, Isabel. It plays a mighty big

part in this mortal life. The idea of any woman falling in love with me

in my present human tenement is ridiculous, and I have put it out of my

mind for good."

Isabel's eyes were shining. She clasped his hand closer. "I think you are

quite wrong, Stumpy dear," she said. "If your soul matched your body,

then there might be something in your argument. But it doesn't. And--if

you don't mind my saying so--your soul is far the most extraordinary

part of your personality. Little Dinah found out long ago that you

were--greathearted."

Scott smiled a little. "Oh yes, I know she views me through a

magnifying-glass and reveres me accordingly. Hence our friendship. But,

my dear, that isn't being in love. I believe that somewhere there is a

shadowy person whom she cherishes in the very inner secrecy of her heart.

Who he is or what he is, I don't know. He is probably something very

different from the dream-being she worships. We all are. But I feel that

he is there. Probably I have never met the actual man. I have only seen

his shadow and that by inadvertence. I once penetrated the secret chamber

for one moment only, and then I was driven forth and the door securely

locked. I am not good at trespassing, you know, for all my greatness. I

have never been near the secret chamber since."

"Do you mean that she admitted to you that--she cared for someone?"

Isabel asked.

Scott's pale eyes had a quizzical look. "I had the consideration to back

out before she had time to do anything so unmaidenly," he said. "Possibly

the shadowman may never materialize. In fact it seems more than possible.

In which case the least said is soonest mended."

"That may be what is troubling her," Isabel said thoughtfully.

She lay still for a while, and Scott leaned back in his chair and watched

the little pleasure-boats that skimmed the waters of the bay. The merry

cries of bathers came up to the quiet room. The world was full to the

brim of gaiety and sunshine on that hot June day.

"Stumpy," gently his sister's voice recalled him, "do you never mean to

marry, dear? I wish you would. You will be so lonely."

He lifted his shoulders. "What can I say Isabel? If the right woman comes

along and proposes, I will marry her with pleasure. I would never dare to

propose on my own,--being what I am."

"Being a very perfect knight whom any woman might be proud to marry,"

Isabel said. "That is only a pose of yours, Stumpy, and it doesn't become

you. I wonder--how I wonder!--if you are right about Dinah."

"Yes, I am right," he said with conviction. "But Isabel, you will

remember--it was spoken in confidence."

She gave a sharp sigh. "I shall remember dear," she said.

Again a brief silence fell between them; but Scott's eye no longer sought

the sparkling water. They dwelt upon his sister's face. Pale as

alabaster, clear-cut as though carven with a chisel, it rested upon the

white pillow, and the stamp of a great peace lay upon the calm forehead

and in the quiet of the deeply-sunken eyes. There were lines of suffering

that yet lingered about the mouth, lines of weariness and of sorrow, but

the old piteous look of craving had faded quite away. The bitter despair

that had so haunted Dinah had passed into the stillness of a great

patience. There was about her at that time the sacred hush that falls

before the dawn.

After a little she became aware of his quiet regard, and turned her head

with a smile. "Well, Stumpy? What is it?"

"I was just wondering what had happened to you," he made answer.

Her smile deepened. "I will tell you, dear," she said. "I have come

within sight of the mountain-top at last."

"And you are satisfied?" he said, in a low voice.

Her eyes shone with a soft brightness that seemed to illumine her whole

face. "Satisfied that my beloved is waiting for me and that I shall meet

him in the dawning?" she said. "Oh yes, I have known that in my heart for

a long time. It troubled me terribly when I lost his letters. They had

been such a link, and for a while I was in outer darkness. And then--by

degrees, after little Dinah came back to me--I began to find that after

all there were other links. Helping her in her trouble helped me to bear

my own. And I came to see that ministering to a need outside one's own is

the surest means of finding comfort in sorrow for oneself. I have been

very selfish Stumpy. I have been gradually waking to that fact for a long

while. I used to immerse myself in those letters to try and get the

feeling of his dear presence. Very, very often I didn't succeed. And I

know now that it was because I was forcing myself to look back and not

forward. I think material things are apt to make one do that. But when

material things are taken quite away, then one is forced upon the

spiritual. And that is what has happened to me. No one can take anything

from me now because what I possess is laid up in store for me. I am

moving forward towards it every day."

She ceased to speak, and again for the space of seconds the silence fell.

Scott broke it, speaking slowly, as if not wholly certain of the wisdom

of speech. "I did not know," he said, "that you had lost those letters."

Her face contracted momentarily with the memory of a past pain. "Eustace

destroyed them," she stated simply.

His brows drew sharply together. "Isabel! Do you mean that?"

She pressed his hand. "Yes, dear. I knew you would feel it badly so I

didn't tell you before. He acted for the best. I see that quite clearly

now. And--in a sense--the best has come of it."

Scott got to his feet with the gesture of a man who can barely restrain

himself. "He did--that?" he said.

She reached up a soothing hand. "My dear, it doesn't matter now. Don't be

angry with him. I know that he meant well."

Scott's eyes looked down into hers, intensely bright, burningly alive.

"No wonder," he said, breathing deeply, "that you never want to see him

again!"

"No, Stumpy; that is not so." Gently she made answer; her hand held his

almost pleadingly. "For a long time I felt like that, it is true. But now

it is all over. There is no bitterness left in my heart at all. We have

grown away from each other, he and I. But we were very close friends

once, and because of that I would give much--oh, very much--to be friends

with him again. It was in a very great measure my selfishness that came

between us, my pride too. I had influence with him, Stumpy, and I didn't

try to use it. I simply threw him off because he disapproved of my

husband. I might have won him, I feel that I could have won him if I had

tried. But I wouldn't. And afterwards, when my mind was clouded, my

influence was all gone. I wish I could get it back again. I feel as if I

might. But he is keeping away now because of Dinah. And I am afraid too

that he feels I do not want him--" her eyes were suddenly dim with tears.

"That is not so, Stumpy. I do want him. Sometimes--in the night--I long

for him. But, for little Dinah's sake--"

She paused, for Scott had suddenly turned and was pacing the room

rapidly, unevenly, as if inaction had become unendurable.

She lay and watched him while the great tears gathered and ran down her

wasted face.

He came back to her at length and saw them. He stood a moment looking

downwards, then knelt beside her and very tenderly wiped them away.

"My dear," he said softly, "you mustn't ever cry again. It breaks my

heart to see you. If you want Eustace, he shall come to you. Dinah was

speaking to me about it only a short time ago. She will not stand in the

way of his coming. In fact, I gathered that if you wish it, she wishes it

also."

"That is so like little Dinah," whispered Isabel. "But, Stumpy, do you

think we ought to let her face that?"

"I shall be here," he said.

"Oh, yes, dear. You will be here." She regarded him wistfully. "Stumpy,

don't'--don't let yourself get bitter against Eustace!" she pleaded. "You

have always been so splendid, so forbearing, till now."

Scott's lips were stern. "Some things are hard to forgive, Isabel," he

said.

"But if I forgive--" she said.

His face changed; he bowed his head suddenly down upon her pillow.

"Nothing will give you back to me--when you are gone," he whispered.

Her hand was on his head in a moment. "Oh, my dear, are you grieving

because of that? And I have been such a burden to you!"

"A burden beloved," he said, speaking with difficulty. "And you were

getting better. You were better. He--threw you back again. He brought

you--to this."

Her fingers pressed his forehead. "Not entirely, Stumpy. Be generous,

dear! It may have hastened matters a little--only a very little. And even

so, what of it, if the journey has been shortened? Perhaps the way has

been a little steeper, but it has brought me more quickly to my goal.

Stumpy, Stumpy, if it weren't for leaving you, I would go as gladly--as

gladly--as a happy bride--to her wedding."

She broke off, breathing fast.

He lifted his head swiftly, and saw the shadow of mortal pain gathering

in her eyes. He commanded himself on the instant and rose. Self-contained

and steady, he found and administered the remedy that was always kept at

hand.

Then, as the spasm passed, he stooped and quietly kissed the white

forehead. "Don't trouble about me, dear!" he said. "God knows I would not

keep you from your rest."

And with that calmly he turned and left her.

But Biddy, whom he sought a few moments later to send her to her

mistress, saw in him notwithstanding his composure, an intensity of

suffering that struck dismay to her honest heart. "The Lord preserve us!"

she said. "But Master Scott has the look of a man with a sword in his

soul!" She wiped her own tears away with a trembling hand. "And what'll

he do at all when Miss Isabel's gone," she said, "unless Miss Dinah does

the comforting of him?"

CHAPTER XXV

THE TRUSTY FRIEND

The trains from the junction to Heath-on-Sea were few and invariably

late. Scott had been pacing the platform for half an hour on the evening

of the day that followed his own arrival ere a line of distant smoke told

of the coming of the train he was awaiting.

His movements were slow and weary, but there was about him the strained

look of a man who cannot rest. There was no gladness of welcome in his

eyes as the train drew near. It was rather as if he braced himself for a

coming ordeal.

He searched the carriages intently as they ran past him, and a flicker of

recognition came into his face at the sight of a tall figure leaning from

one of them. He lifted a hand in salutation, and limped along the

platform to meet the newcomer.

Sir Eustace was out of the train before anyone else. He met his brother

with the impetuosity of one who cannot stop for greeting.

"Ah, Stumpy! I'm not too late?"

There was strain upon his face also as he flung the question, and in an

instant Scott's look had changed. He grasped the outflung hand.

"No, no, old fellow! It's all right. She is looking forward to seeing

you."

Sir Eustace drew a sharp breath. His dark face relaxed a little. "I've

had a hell of a time," he said.

"My dear chap, I'm sorry," impulsively Scott made answer. "I'd have met

you at the junction, only it was difficult to get away for so long. Do

you mind walking up? They'll see to fetching your traps along presently."

"Oh, all right. Yes, let us walk by all means!" Eustace expanded his

chest, and breathed again, deeply. He put his hand on Scott's shoulder as

they passed through the barrier. "What's the matter with you, my lad?" he

said.

Scott glanced up at him--a swift, surprised glance. "With me? Nothing. I

am--as usual."

Eustace's hawk-eyes scanned him closely. "I've never seen you look

worse," he said.

Scott raised his shoulder slightly under his hand, and said nothing. The

first involuntary kindliness of greeting passed wholly away, as if it had

not been.

Eustace linked the hand in his arm as they walked. "Tell me about her!"

he said.

"About Isabel?" Scott spoke with very obvious constraint. "There isn't

much to tell. She is just--going. These breathless attacks come very

frequently, and she is weaker after each one. The doctor says it would

not be surprising if she went in her sleep, or in fact at any time."

"And she asked for me?" The question fell curtly; Eustace was looking

straight ahead up the white, dusty road as he uttered it.

"Yes; she wanted you." Equally curtly came Scott's reply. He ignored the

hand on his arm, limping forward at his own pace and leaving his brother

to accommodate himself to it as best he could.

Sir Eustace sauntered beside him in silence for a space. They were

approaching the heath-clad common that gave the place its name, when he

spoke again.

"And Dinah?" he said then.

Again Scott glanced upwards, his pale eyes very resolute. "Yes, Dinah is

still here. Her people seem quite indifferent as to what becomes of her,

and Isabel wishes to keep her with her. I hope--" he hesitated

momentarily--"I hope you will bear in mind the extreme difficulty of her

situation."

Sir Eustace passed over the low words. "And what is going to happen to

her--afterwards?" he said.

"Heaven knows!" Scott spoke as one compelled.

Sir Eustace continued to gaze straight before him. "Haven't you thought

of any solution to the difficulty?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Scott's voice rang suddenly stern.

A faint smile touched his brother's face; it was like the shadow of his

old, supercilious sneer. "It occurred to me that you, being a chivalrous

knight, might be moved to offer her your protection," he explained

coolly. "You are quite at liberty to do so, so far as I am concerned. I

give you my free consent."

Scott started, as if he had been stung. "Man, don't sneer at me!" he said

in a voice that quivered. "I've a good many things against you, and I'm

damned if I can stand any more!"

There was desperation in his words. Sir Eustace's brows went up, and his

smile departed. But there came no answering anger in his eyes.

He was silent for several moments, pacing forward, his hand no longer

linked in Scott's arm. Then at last very quietly he spoke. "You're right.

You have a good many things against me. But this is not one of them. I

was not sneering at you."

There was a note of most unwonted sincerity in his voice that gave

conviction to his words. Scott turned and regarded him in open amazement.

The steel-blue eyes met his with an odd, half-shamed expression. "You

mustn't bully me, you know, Stumpy!" he said. "Remember, I can't hit

back."

Scott stood still. He had never in his life been more astounded. Even

then, with the direct evidence before him, he could hardly believe that

the old haughty dominance had given place to something different.

"Why--can't you--hit back?" he said, almost stammering in his

uncertainty.

Sir Eustace smiled again with rueful irony. "Because I've nothing to hit

with, my son. Because you can break through my defence every time. If I

were to kick you from here to the sea, you'd still have the best of me.

Haven't you realized that yet?"

"I hadn't--no!" Scott's eyes still regarded him with a puzzled,

half-suspicious expression.

Sir Eustace turned from their scrutiny, and began to walk on. "You will

presently," he said. "The man who masters himself is always the man to

master the rest of the world in the end. I never thought I should live to

envy you, my boy. But I do."

"Envy me! Why? Why on earth?" Embarrassment mingled with the curiosity in

Scott's voice. His hostility had gone down utterly before the

unaccustomed humility of his brother's attitude.

Sir Eustace glanced at him sideways. "I'll tell you another time," he

said. "Now look here, Stumpy! You're in command, and I shan't interfere

with you so long as you take reasonable care of yourself. But you must do

that. It is the one thing I am going to insist upon. That's understood,

is it?"

Scott smiled, his tired, gentle smile. "Oh, certainly, my dear chap.

Don't you worry yourself about that! It isn't of the first importance in

any case."

"It's got to be done," Sir Eustace insisted. "So keep it in mind!"

"I haven't been doing anything, you know," Scott protested mildly. "I

only came down yesterday."

"That may be. But you haven't been sleeping for some time. You needn't

trouble to deny it. I know the signs. What have you been doing at

Willowmount?"

It was a welcome change of subject, and Scott was not slow to avail

himself of it. They began to talk upon matters connected with the estate,

and the personal element passed completely out of the conversation.

When they reached the white house on the cliff they almost seemed to have

slipped into the old casual relations; but the younger brother was well

aware that this was not so. The change that had so amazed him was

apparent to him at every turn. The overbearing mastery to which he had

been accustomed all his life had turned in some miraculous fashion into

something that was oddly like deference. It was fully evident that

Eustace meant to keep his word and leave him in command.

Dinah met them in the rose-twined portico. There was a deep flush in her

cheeks; her eyes were very bright, resolutely unafraid. She shook hands

with Eustace, and he alone was aware of the tremor that ran through her

whole being as she did so.

"Isabel is asleep," she said. "She often gets a sleep in the afternoon,

and she is always the stronger for it when she wakes. Will you have some

tea before you go to her?"

They had tea in the sunny verandah overlooking the sea. Sir Eustace was

very quiet and grave, and it was Scott who gently conversed with the

girl, smoothing away all difficulties. She was plainly determined to

conquer her nervousness, and she succeeded to a great extent before the

ordeal was over. But there was obvious relief in her eyes when Sir

Eustace set down his cup and rose to go.

"I think I will go to her now," he said. "I shall not wake her."

He went, and a great stillness fell behind him. Scott dropped into

silence, and they sat together, he smoking, she leaning back in her chair

idle, with wistful eyes upon the silvery sea.

Up in Isabel's room overhead there was neither sound nor movement, but

presently there fell a soft footfall upon the stairs and the nurse came

quietly through and spoke to Dinah.

"Mrs. Everard is still asleep. Her brother is watching her and Biddy is

within call. I thought I would take a little walk on the shore, as I

shall not be wanted just at present."

"Oh, of course," Dinah said. "Don't hurry back!"

The nurse smiled and flitted away into the golden evening sunlight.

Dinah turned her head towards her silent companion. "I wonder," she said,

"if I could learn to be a nurse."

He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Are you still worrying about the

future?" he said.

"I don't know that I am exactly worrying," she made low reply. "But I

shall have to decide about it very soon."

Scott was silent for a space while he finished his cigarette. Then at

last slowly, haltingly, he spoke. "Dinah,--I have been thinking about the

future too. If I touch upon anything that hurts you, you must stop me,

and I will not say another word. But, child, it seems to me that we shall

both be--rather lost--when Isabel is gone. I wonder--would it shock you

very much--if I suggested to you--as a solution of the difficulty--that

we should some day in the future enter into partnership together?"

He spoke with obvious effort; his hands were gripped upon the arms of his

chair. The wicker creaked in the strain of his grasp, but he himself

remained lying back with eyes half-closed in compulsory inaction.

Dinah also sat absolutely still. If his words amazed her, she gave no

sign. Only the wistfulness about her mouth deepened as she made answer

below her breath. "It--is just like you to suggest such a thing;

but--it is quite impossible."

He opened his eyes and looked at her very steadily and kindly. "Quite?"

he said.

She bent her head, swiftly lowering her own. "Yes--thank you a million

times--quite."

"Even if I promise never to make love to you?" he said, his voice

half-quizzical, half-tender.

She put out a trembling hand and laid it on his arm. "Oh,

Scott,--it--isn't that!"

He took the hand and held it. "My dear, don't cry!" he urged gently. "I

knew you wouldn't have me really. I only thought I would just place

myself completely at your disposal in case--some day--you might be

willing to give me the chance to serve you in any capacity whatever.

There! It is over. We are as we were--friends."

He smiled at her with the words, and after a moment stooped and lightly

touched her fingers with his lips.

"Come!" he said gently. "I haven't frightened you anyway. Have I?"

"No," she whispered.

His hand clasped hers for a second or two longer, then quietly let it go.

"Don't be distressed!" he said, "I will never do it again. I am now--and

always--your trusty friend."

And with that he rose in his slow way, paused to light another cigarette,

smiled again upon her, and softly went indoors.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST SUMMONS

There is nought in life more solemn than the waiting hush that falls

before the coming of that great Change which men call Death. And it is to

the watchers rather than to the passing soul itself that the wonder seems

to draw most close. To stand before the veil, to know that very soon it

must be lifted for the loved one to pass beyond, to wait for the glimpse

of that spirit-world from which only the frail wall of mortality divides

even the least spiritual, to watch as it were for the Gate of Death to

open and the great Revelation to flash for one blinding moment upon the

dazzled eyes that may not grasp the meaning of what they see; this is to

stand for a space within the very Sanctuary of God.

The awe of it and the wonder hung night and day over the little

rose-covered house on the heath above the sea where Isabel was breathing

forth the last of her broken earthly life. Dinah moved in that strange

atmosphere as one in a dream. She spent most of her time with Scott in a

silent companionship in which no worldly thoughts seemed to have any

part. The things of earth, all worry, all distress, were in abeyance, had

sunk to such infinitesimal proportions that she was scarcely aware of

them at all. It was as though they had climbed the steep mountain with

Isabel, and not till they turned again to descend could they be aware of

those things which lay so far below.

Without Scott, both doubts and fears would have been her portion, but

with him all terrors fell shadow-like away before her. She hardly

realized all that his presence meant to her during those days of waiting,

but she leaned upon him instinctively as upon a sure support. He never

failed her.

Of Eustace she saw but little. From the very first it was evident that

his place was nearer to Isabel than Scott's had ever been. He did not

shoulder Scott aside, but somehow as a matter of course he occupied the

position that the younger brother had sought to fill for the past seven

years. It was natural, it was inevitable. Dinah could have resented this

superseding at the outset had she not seen how gladly Scott gave place.

Later she realized that the ground on which they stood was too holy for

such considerations to have any weight with either brother. They were

united in the one supreme effort to make the way smooth for the sister

who meant so much to them both; and during all those days of waiting

Dinah never heard a harsh or impatient word upon the elder's lips. All

arrogance, all hardness, seemed to have fallen away from him as he trod

with them that mountain-path. Even old Biddy realized the change and

relented somewhat towards him though she never wholly brought herself to

look upon him as an ally.

It was on a stormy evening at the beginning of July that Dinah was

sitting alone in the little creeper-grown verandah watching the wonderful

greens and purples of the sea when Eustace came soft-footed through the

window behind her and sat down in a chair close by, which Scott had

vacated a few minutes before.

Scott had just gone to the village post-office with some letters,

but she had refused to accompany him, for it was the hour when she

usually sat with Isabel. She glanced at Eustace swiftly as he sat down,

half-expecting a message from the sick-room. But he said nothing, merely

leaning back in the wicker-chair, and fixing his eyes upon the sombre

splendour of endless waters upon which hers had been resting. There was a

massive look about him, as of a strong man deliberately bent to some

gigantic task. A little tremor went through her as furtively she watched

him. His silence, unlike the silences of Scott, was disquieting. She

could never feel wholly at ease in his presence.

He turned his head towards her after a few seconds of absolute stillness,

and in a moment her eyes sank. She sat in palpitating silence, as one

caught in some disgraceful act.

But still he did not speak, and the painful colour flooded her face under

his mute scrutiny till in sheer distress she found herself forced to take

the initiative.

"Is--Isabel expecting me?" she faltered. "Ought I to go?"

"No," he said quietly. "She is dozing. Old Biddy is with her."

It seemed as if the intolerable silence were about to fall again. She

cast about desperately for a means of escape. "Biddy was up and down

during the night. I think I will relieve her for a little while and let

her rest."

She would have risen with the words, but unexpectedly he reached forth a

detaining hand. "Do you mind waiting a minute?" he said. "I will not

say--or do--anything to frighten you."

He spoke with a faint smile that somehow hurt her almost unbearably. She

remained as she was, leaning forward in her chair. "I--am not afraid,"

she murmured almost inaudibly.

His hand seemed to plead for hers, and in a moment she laid her own

within it. "That's right," he said. "Dinah, will you try and treat me as

if I were a friend--just for a few minutes?"

The tone of his voice--like his smile--pierced her with a poignancy that

sent the quick tears to her eyes. She forced them back with all her

strength.

"I would like to--always," she whispered.

"Thank you," he said. "You are kinder than I deserve. I have done nothing

to win your confidence, so it is all the more generous of you to bestow

it. On the strength of your generosity I am going to ask you a question

which only a friend could ask. Dinah, is there any understanding of any

sort--apart from friendship--between you and Scott?"

She started slightly at the question, and in a moment firmly, with a

certain authority, his hand closed upon hers.

"You needn't be afraid to speak on Scott's account," he said, with that

rather grim humility that seemed so foreign to his proud nature that

every sign of it stabbed her afresh. "I am not such a dog in the manger

as that and he knows it."

"Oh no!" Dinah said, and her words came with a rush. "But--I told you

before, didn't I?--he doesn't care for me like that. He never has--never

will."

"I wonder why you say that," Eustace said.

"Because it's true!" With a species of feverish insistence she answered

him. "How could I help knowing? Of course I know! Oh, please don't let us

talk about it! It--it hurts me."

"I want you to bear with me," he said gently, "just for a few minutes.

Dinah, what if you are making a mistake? Mistakes happen, you know. Scott

is a shy sort of chap, and immensely reserved. Doesn't it occur to you

that he may care for you and yet be afraid--just as you are afraid--to

let you know?"

"No," Dinah said. "He doesn't. I know he doesn't!"

She spoke with her eyes upon the ground, her voice sunk very low. She

felt as if she were being drawn down from the heights she desired to

tread. She did not want to contemplate the problems that she knew very

surely awaited her upon the lower level. She did not want to quit her

sanctuary before the time.

Sir Eustace received her assurance in silence, but he kept her hand in

his, and the power of his personality seemed to penetrate to the very

centre of her being.

He spoke at last almost under his breath, still closely watching her

downcast face. "Are you quite sure you still care for him--in that way?"

She made a quick, appealing gesture. "Oh, need I answer that? I feel

so--ashamed."

"No, you needn't answer," he made steady reply. "But you've nothing to be

ashamed about. Stumpy's an awful ass, you know,--always has been. He's

been head over heels in love with you ever since he met you. No, you

needn't let that shock you. He's such a bashful knight he'll never tell

you so. You'll have to do that part of it." He smiled with faint irony.

"But you may take my word for it, it is so. He has thought of nothing but

you and your happiness from the very beginning of things. And--unlike

someone else we know--he has had the decency always to put your happiness

first."

He paused. Dinah's eyes had flashed up to his, green, eager, intensely

alive, and behind those eyes her soul seemed to be straining like a thing

in leash. "Oh, I knew he had cared for someone," she breathed, "But it

couldn't--it couldn't have been me!"

"Yes," Sir Eustace said slowly. "You and none other. You wonder if it's

true--how I know. He's an awful ass, as I said before, one of the few

supreme fools who never think of themselves. I knew that he was caught

all right ages back in Switzerland, and--being a low hound of mean

instincts--I set to work to cut him out."

"Oh!" murmured Dinah. "That was just what I did with Rose de Vigne."

His mouth twisted a little. "It's a funny world, Dinah," he said. "Our

little game has cost us both something. I got too near the candle myself,

and the scorch was pretty sharp while it lasted. Well, to get back to my

story. Scott saw that I was beginning to give you indigestion, and--being

as I mentioned before several sorts of a fool--he tackled me upon the

subject and swore that if I didn't put an end to the game, he would put

you on your guard against me, tell you in fact the precise species of

rotter that I chanced to be. I was naturally annoyed by his interference.

Anyone would have been. I gave him the kicking he deserved. That was low

of me, wasn't it?" as she made a quick movement of shrinking. "You won't

forgive me for that, or for what came after. The very next day--to spite

the little beast--I proposed to you."

Dinah's eyes were fiercely bright. "I wish I'd known!" she said.

"I wish to heaven you had, my dear," Eustace spoke with a grim hint of

humour. "It would have saved us both a good deal of unnecessary trouble

and humiliation. However, Scott was too big a fool to tell you. There is

a martyrlike sort of cussedness about him that is several degrees worse

than any pride. So he let things be, still cheating himself into the

belief that the arrangement was for your happiness, till, as you are

aware, it turned out so manifestly otherwise that he found himself

obliged once more to come to the rescue of his lady love. But his

exasperating humility was such that he never suspected the real reason

for your change of mind, and when I accused him of cutting me out, he was

as scandalized as only a righteous man knows how to be. You can't do much

with a fellow like that, you know,--a fool who won't believe the evidence

of his own senses. Besides, it was not for me to enlighten him,

particularly as you didn't want him to know the real state of things just

then. So I left him alone. The next day--only the next day, mind you--the

silent knight opened his heart; to whom, do you think? You'll be horribly

furious when I tell you."

He looked into the hot eyes with an expression half-tender in his own.

"Tell me!" breathed Dinah.

"Really? Well, prepare for a nasty shock! To Rose de Vigne!"

"To Rose!" Indignation gave place to bewilderment in Dinah's eyes.

"Even so; to Rose. She guessed the truth, and he frankly admitted she was

right, but gave her to understand that as he hadn't a chance in the

world, you were never to know. I am telling you the truth, Dinah. You

needn't look so incredulous. She naturally considered that he was not

treating you very fairly and said so. But--" he raised his shoulders

slightly--"you know Scott. Mules can't compete with him when he has made

up his mind to a thing. He gracefully put an end to the discussion and

doubtless he has buried the whole subject in a neat little corner of his

heart where no one can ever tumble over it, and resigned himself to a

lonely old age. Now, Dinah, I am going to give you the soundest piece of

advice I have ever given anyone. If you are wise, you will dig it up

before the moss grows, bring it into the air and call it back to life. It

is the greatest desire of Isabel's heart to see you two happy together.

She told me so only to-day. And I am beginning to think that I wish it

too."

His look was wholly kind as he uttered the last words. He held her hand

in the close grip of a friend.

"Don't let that insane humility of his be his ruin!" he urged. "He's a

fool. I've always said so. But his foolishness is the sort that attacks

only the great. Once let him know you care, and he'll be falling over

himself to propose."

"Oh, don't!" Dinah begged, and her voice sounded chill and yet somehow

piteous. "I couldn't--ever--marry him. I told him so--only the other

day."

"What? He proposed, did he?" Sheer amazement sounded in Eustace's voice.

Dinah was not looking at him any longer. She sat rather huddled in her

chair, as if a cold wind had caught her.

"Yes," she said in the same small, uneven voice. "He proposed. He didn't

make love to me. In fact he--promised that he never would. But he

thought--yes, that was it--he thought that presently I should be lonely,

and he wanted me to know that he was willing to protect me."

"What a fool!" Eustace said. "And so you refused him! I don't wonder. I

should have pitched something at him if I'd been you."

"Oh no! That wasn't why I refused. I had another reason." Dinah's head

was bent low; he saw the hot colour she sought to hide. "I didn't know he

cared," she whispered. "But even if--if I had known, I couldn't have said

Yes. I never can say Yes now."

"Good heavens above!" he said. "Why not?"

"It's a reason I can't tell anyone," faltered Dinah.

"Nonsense!" he said, with a quick touch of his old imperiousness. "You

can tell me."

She shook her head. "No. Not you. Not anyone."

"That is absurd," he said, with brief decision. "What is the reason? Out

with it--quick, like a good child! If you could marry me, you can marry

him."

"But I couldn't have married you," she protested, "if I'd known."

"It's something that's cropped up lately, is it?" He bent towards her,

watching her keenly. "It can't be so very terrible."

"It is," she told him in distress.

He was silent a moment; then very suddenly he moved, put his arm around

her, drew her close. "What is it, my elf? Tell me!" he whispered.

She hid her face against him with a little sob. It was odd, but at that

moment she felt no fear of the man. He, whose fiery caresses had once

appalled her, had by some means unknown possessed himself of her

confidence so that she could not keep him at a distance. She did not even

wish to do so.

After a few seconds, quiveringly she began to speak. "I don't know how to

tell you. It's an awful thing to tell. You know, I--I've never been happy

at home. My mother never liked me,--was often cruel to me." She shuddered

suddenly and violently. "I never knew why--till that awful night--the

last time I saw her. And then--and then she told me." She drew a little

closer to him like a frightened child.

He held her against his breast. She was trembling all over. "Well?" he

said gently.

Desperately she forced herself to continue. "I don't belong to--to my

father--at all; only--only--to her."

"What?" he said.

She buried her shamed face a little deeper. "That was why--she married,"

she whispered.

"Your mother herself told you that?" Sir Eustace's voice was very low,

but there was in it a danger-note that made her quail.

Someone was coming along the garden-path, but neither of them heard.

Dinah was crying with piteous, long-drawn sobs. The telling of that

tragic secret had wrung her very soul.

"Oh, don't be angry! You won't be angry?" she pleaded brokenly.

His hand was on her head. "My child, I am not angry with you," he said.

"You were not to blame. There, dear! There! Don't cry! Isabel will be

distressed if she finds out. We mustn't let her know of this."

"Or Scott either!" She lifted her face appealingly. "Eustace,

please--please--you won't tell Scott? I--I couldn't bear him to know."

He looked into her beseeching eyes, and his own softened. "It may be he

will have to know some day," he said. "But--not yet."

The halting steps drew nearer, uneven, yet somehow purposeful.

Abruptly Eustace became aware of them. He looked up sharply. "You had

better go, dear," he whispered to the girl in his arms. "Isabel may be

wanting you at any time. We must think of her first now. Run in quickly

and dry your eyes before anyone sees! Come along!"

He rose, supporting her, turned her towards the window, and gently but

urgently pushed her within.

She went swiftly, enough as he released her, went with her hands over her

face and not a backward glance. And Eustace wheeled back with a movement

that was almost fierce and met his brother as he set foot upon the

verandah.

Scott's face was pale as death, and there was that in his eyes that could

not be ignored. Eustace answered it on the instant, briefly, with a

restraint that obviously cost him an effort. "It's all right, Dinah is a

bit upset this evening. But she will be all right directly if we leave

her alone."

Scott did not so much as pause. "Let me pass!" he said.

His voice was perfectly quiet, but the command of it was such that

Eustace, taken unawares, gave ground as it were instinctively. But the

next moment impulsively he caught Scott's arm.

"I say,--Stumpy!" An odd embarrassment possessed him; he shook it off

half-angrily. "You needn't go making mistakes--jumping to idiotic

conclusions. I'm not cutting you out this time."

Scott looked at him. His light eyes held contempt. "Oh, I know that," he

said, and there was in his slow voice a note of bitter humour that cut

like a whip. "You are never in earnest. You were always the sort to make

sport for yourself out of suffering, and then to toss the dregs of your

amusement to those who are not--sportsmen."

Eustace was as white as he was himself. He held him in a grip of iron.

"What the--devil do you mean?" he said, his voice husky with the strong

effort he made to control it.

The younger brother was absolutely controlled, but his eyes shone like a

dazzling white flame. "Ask yourself that question!" he said, and his

words, though low, had a burning quality, almost as if some force apart

from the man himself inspired them. "You know the answer as well as I do.

You have studied the damnable game so long, offered so many victims upon

the altar of your accursed sport. There is nothing to prevent your going

on with it. You will go on no doubt till you tire of the chase. And then

your turn will come. You will find yourself alone among the ruins, and

you will pay the price. You may repent then--but repentance sometimes

comes too late."

He was gone with the words, gone as if an inner force compelled, shaking

off the hand that had detained him, and passing scatheless within.

He went up the stairs as calmly as if he had entered the house without

interruption. Someone was sobbing piteously behind a closed door, but he

did not turn in that direction. He moved straight to the door of Isabel's

room, as if a voice had called him.

And on the threshold Biddy met him, her black eyes darkly mysterious, her

wrinkled face drawn with awe rather than grief.

"Ah, Master Scott, and is it yourself?" she whispered. "I was coming to

fetch ye--coming to tell ye. It's the call; she's had her last summons.

Faith, and I almost heard it meself. She'll be gone by morning, the

blessed lamb. There'll be no holding her after this."

Scott passed her by without a word. He went straight to his sister's

bedside.

She was lying with her face turned up to the evening sky, but on the

instant her eyes met his, and in them was that look of a great

expectation which many term the Shadow of Death.

"Oh, Stumpy, is it you?" she said. Her breathing was quick and irregular,

but it did not seem to hurt her. "I've had--such a wonderful--dream. Or

could it have been--a vision?"

He bent and took her hand in his. His eyes were infinitely tender. All

the passion had been wiped out of his face.

"It may have been a vision, dear," he said.

Her look brightened; she smiled. "He was here--in this room--with me,"

she said. "He was standing there--at the foot of the bed. And--and--I

held out my arms to him. Oh, Stumpy, I almost thought--I was going with

him then. But--I think he heard you coming, for he laughed and drew back.

'We shall meet in the morning,' he said. And while I was still looking,

he was gone."

She began to pant. He stooped and raised her. She clung to him with all

her waning strength. "Stumpy! Stumpy! You will help me--through the

night?"

"My darling, yes," he said.

She clung to him still. "It won't be--good-bye," she urged softly. "You

will be coming too--very soon."

"God grant it!" he said, under his breath.

Her look dwelt upon him. Again faintly she smiled. "Ah, Stumpy," she

said, "but you are going to be very happy first, my dear,--my dear."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE MOUNTAIN-TOP

The night fell like a black veil, starless and still. Up in Isabel's room

the watchers came and went, dividing the hours. Only the nurse and old

Biddy remained always at their posts, the one seated near one of the

wide-flung windows, the other crouched on an ottoman at the foot of the

bed, her beady eyes perpetually fixed upon the white, motionless face

upon the pillow.

Only by the irregular and sometimes difficult breathing did they know

that Isabel still lived, for she gave no sign of consciousness, uttered

no word, made no voluntary movement of any sort. Like those who watched

about her, she seemed to be waiting, waiting for the amazing revelation

of the Dawn.

They had propped her high with pillows; her pale hands lay outside the

coverlet. Her eyes were closed. She did not seem to notice who came or

went.

"She may slip away without waking," the nurse whispered once to Dinah who

had crept to her side. "Or she may be conscious just at the last. There

is no telling."

Dinah did not think that she was asleep, but yet during all her vigil the

white lids had not stirred, no spark of vitality had touched the marble

face. She was possessed by a great longing to speak to her, to call her

out of that trance-like silence; but she did not dare. She was as one

bound by a spell. The great stillness was too holy to break. All her

own troubles were sunk in oblivion. She felt as if she moved in a

shadow-world where no troubles could penetrate, where no voice was

ever lifted above a whisper.

As she crept from the room, she met Eustace entering. He looked gaunt and

haggard in the dim light. Nothing seemed natural on that night of

waiting.

He paused a moment, touched her shoulder. "Go and rest, child!" he

muttered. "I will call you if she wakes."

She sent him a faint smile and flitted by him into the passage. How

could she rest on a night like this, with the vague whisperings of the

spirit-world all about her? Besides, in another hour the darkness would

be over--the Dawn would come! Not for all the world would she miss that

wonderful coming of a new day--the day which Isabel was awaiting in that

dumb passivity of unquestioning patience. They had come so far up the

mountain-track together; she must be with her when the morning found

them on the summit.

But it was Eustace's turn to watch, and she moved towards her

own room, through the open windows of which the vague murmur and

splash of the sleeping sea drifted like the accompaniment of far-off

music--undreamed-of Alleluias.

The dim glow of a lamp lay across her path, like a barrier staying her

feet. Almost involuntarily she paused before a half-open door. It was as

though some unseen force compelled her. And, so pausing, there came to

her a sound that gripped her like a hand upon her heart--it was the

broken whispering of a man in an agony of prayer.

It was not by her own desire that she stood to listen. The anguish of

that voice held her, so that she was powerless to move.

"O God! O God!" The words pierced her with their entreaty; it was a cry

from the very depths. "The mistake was mine. Let me bear the

consequences! But save her--O save her--from further suffering!" A

momentary silence, and then, more desperately still: "O God--if Thou art

anywhere--hear--and help! Let me bear whatever Thou wilt! But spare

her--spare her! She has borne so much!"

A terrible sob choked the gasping utterance. There fell a silence so

tense, so poignant with pain, that the girl upon the threshold trembled

as one physically afraid. Yet she could not turn and flee. She felt as if

it were laid upon her to stand and witness this awful struggle of a soul

in torment. But that it should be Scott--the wise, the confident, the

unafraid--passing alone through this place of desolation, sent the blood

to her heart in a great wave of consternation. If Scott failed--if the

sword of Greatheart were broken--it seemed to her that nothing could be

left in all the world, as if even the coming Dawn must be buried in

darkness.

Was it for Isabel he was praying thus? She supposed it must be, though

she had felt all through this night of waiting that no prayer was needed.

Isabel was so near the mountain-top that surely she was safe--nearer

already to God than any of their prayers could bring her.

And yet Scott was wrestling here as one overwhelmed with evil. Wherefore?

Wherefore? The steady faith of this good friend of hers had never to her

knowledge flickered before. What had happened to shake him thus?

He was praying again, more coherently but in words so low that they were

scarcely audible. She crept a little nearer, and now she could see him,

kneeling at the table, his head sunk upon it, his arms flung wide with

clenched fists that seemed impotently to beat the air.

"I'm praying all wrong," he whispered. "Forgive me, but I'm all in the

dark to-night. Thou knowest, Lord, how awful the dark can be. I'm not

asking for an answer. Only guide our feet! Deliver us from evil--deliver

her--O God--deliver my Dinah--by that love which is of Thee and which

nothing will ever alter! If I may not help her, give me strength--to

stand aside!"

A great shiver went through him; he gripped his hands together suddenly

and passionately.

"O my God," he groaned, "it's the hardest thing on earth--to stand and do

nothing--when I love her so."

Something seemed to give way within him with the words. His shoulders

shook convulsively. He buried his face in his arms.

And in that moment the power that had stayed Dinah upon the threshold

suddenly urged her forward.

Almost before she realized it, she was there at his side, stooping over

him, holding him--holding him fast in a clasp that was free from any

hesitation or fear, a clasp in which all her pulsing womanhood rushed

forth to him, exulting, glorying in its self-betrayal.

"My dear! Oh, my dear!" she said. "Are you praying for me?"

"Dinah!" he said.

Just her name, no more; but spoken in a tone that thrilled her through

and through! He leaned against her for a few moments, almost as if he

feared to move. Then, as one gathering strength, he uttered a great sigh

and slowly got to his feet.

"You mustn't bother about me," he said, and the sudden rapture had all

gone out of his voice; it had the flatness of utter weariness. "I shall

be all right."

But Dinah's hands yet clung to his shoulders. Those moments of yielding

had revealed to her more than any subsequent word or action could belie.

Her eyes, shining with a great light, looked straight into his.

"Dear Scott! Dear Greatheart!" she said, and her voice trembled over the

tender utterance of the name. "Are you in trouble? Can't I help?"

He took her face between his hands, looking straight back into the

shining eyes. "You are the trouble, Dinah," he told her simply. "And I'd

give all I have--I'd give my soul--to make life easier for you."

She leaned towards him, and suddenly those shining eyes were blurred

with a glimmer of tears. "Life is dreadfully difficult," she said. "But

you have never done anything but help me. And, oh, Scott, I--don't know

if I ought to tell you--forgive me if it's wrong--but--but I feel I

must--" her breath came so quickly that she could hardly utter the

words--"I love you--I love you--better than anyone else in the world!"

"Dinah!" he said, as one incredulous.

"It's true!" she panted. "It's true! Eustace knows it--has known it

almost as long as I have. It isn't the only thing I have to tell you,

but it's the first--and biggest. And even though--even though--I shall

never be anything more to you than I am now--I'm glad--I'm proud--for

you to know. There's nothing else that counts in the same way. And

though--though I refused you the other day--I wanted you--dreadfully,

dreadfully. If--if I had only been good enough for you--But--but--I'm

not!" She broke off, battling with herself.

He was still holding her face between his hands, and there was something

of insistence, something that even bordered upon ruthlessness, in his

hold. Though the tears were running down her face, he would not let her

go.

"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he said, his voice very low.

"Or--must I ask Eustace?"

She started. There was that in his tone that made her wince inexplicably.

"Oh no," she said, "no! I'll tell you myself--if--if you must know."

"I am afraid I must," he said, and for all their resolution, the words

had a sound of deadly weariness. He let her go slowly as he uttered them.

"Sit down!" he said gently. "And please don't tremble! There is nothing

to make you afraid."

She dropped into the chair he indicated, and made a desperate effort to

calm herself. He stood beside her with the absolute patience of one

accustomed to long waiting.

After a few moments, she put up a quivering hand, seeking his. He took it

instantly, and as his fingers closed firmly upon her own, she found

courage.

"I didn't want you to know," she whispered. "But I--I see now--it's

better that you should. There's no other way--of making you understand.

It's just this--just this!" She swallowed hard, striving to control the

piteous trembling of her voice. "I am--one of those people--that--that

never ought to have been born. I don't belong--anywhere--except

to--my mother who--who--who has no use for me,--hated me before ever I

came into the world. You see, she--married because--because--another

man--my real father--had played her false. Oh, do you wonder--do you

wonder--" she bowed her forehead upon his hand with a rush of

tears--"that--that when I knew--I--I felt as if--I couldn't--go on

with life?"

Her weeping was piteous; it shook her from head to foot.

But--in the very midst of her distress--there came to her a wonder so

great that it checked her tears at the height of their flow. For very

suddenly it dawned upon her that Scott--Scott, her knight of the golden

armour--was kneeling at her feet.

Half in wonder and half in awe, she lifted her head and looked at him.

And in that moment he took her two hands and kissed them, tenderly,

reverently, lingeringly.

"Was this what you and Eustace were talking about this afternoon?" he

said.

She nodded. "I had to tell him--why--I couldn't marry you. He--he had

been--so kind."

"But, my own Dinah," he said, and in his voice was a quiver

half-quizzical yet strangely charged with emotion, "did you ever

seriously imagine that I should allow a sordid little detail like

that to come between us? Surely Eustace knew better than that!"

She heard him in amazement, scarcely believing that she heard. "Do

you--can you mean--" she faltered, "that--it really--doesn't count?"

"I mean that it is less than nothing to me," he made answer, and in his

eyes as they looked into hers was that glory of worship that she had once

seen in a dream. "I mean, my darling, that since you want me as I want

you, nothing--nothing in the world--can ever come between us any more.

Oh, my dear, my dear, I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I knew I ought to," she murmured, still hardly believing. "And

yet--somehow--I couldn't bear the thought of your knowing,--particularly

as--as--till Eustace told me--I never dreamed you--cared. You are

so--great. You ought to have someone so much--better than I. I'm not

nearly good enough--not nearly."

He was drawing her to him, and she went with a little sob into his arms;

but she turned her face away over his shoulder, avoiding his.

"I ought not--to have told you--I loved you," she said brokenly.

"It wasn't right of me. Only--when I saw you so unhappy--I

couldn't--somehow--keep it in any longer. Dear Scott, don't you

think--before--before we go any further--you had better--forget it

and--give me up?"

"No, I don't think so." Scott spoke very softly, with the utmost

tenderness, into her ear. "Don't you realize," he said, "that we belong

to each other? Could there possibly be anyone else for either you or me?"

She did not answer him; only she clung a little closer. And, after a

moment, as she felt the drawing of his hold, "Don't kiss me---yet!" she

begged him tremulously. "Let us wait till--the morning!"

His arms relaxed, "It is very near the morning now," he said. "Shall we

go and watch for it?"

They rose together. Dinah's eyes sought his for one shy, fleeting second,

falling instantly as if half-dazzled, half-afraid. He took her hand and

led her quietly from the room.

It was no longer dark in the passage outside. A pearly light was growing.

The splash of the sea sounded very far below them, as the dim surging of

a world unseen might rise to the watchers on the mountain-top.

They moved to an open window at the end of the passage. No sound came

from Isabel's room close by, and after a few seconds Scott turned

noiselessly aside and entered.

Dinah remained at the open window waiting with a throbbing heart in the

great silence that wrapped the world. She was not afraid, but she longed

for Scott to come back; she was conscious of an urgent need of him.

Several moments passed, and then softly he returned. "No change!" he

whispered. "Eustace will call us--when it comes."

She slipped her hand back into his, without speaking. He made her sit

upon the window-seat, and knelt himself upon it, his arm about her

shoulders, his fingers clasping hers.

She could see his face but vaguely in the dimness, but many times during

that holy hour before the dawn, though he spoke no word, she felt that he

was praying or giving thanks.

Slowly the twilight turned into a velvet dusk. The great Change was

drawing near. The silence lay like a thinning veil of mist upon the

mountain-top. The clouds were parting in the East, all tinged with gold,

like burnished gates flung back for the royal coming of the sun-god. The

stillness that lay upon all the waiting earth was sacred as the hush of

prayer.

Their faces were turned towards the spreading glow. It shone upon them as

it shone upon all beside, widening, intensifying, till the whole earth

lay wrapped in solemn splendour--and then at last, through the open

gates, red, royal, triumphant, the sun-god came.

There came a moment in which all things were touched with the glory, all

things were made new. And in that moment, sudden as a flash of light, a

bird of pure white plumage appeared before their eyes, hovered an

instant; then flew, mounting on wide, gleaming wings, straight into the

dawn....

Even while they watched, it vanished through the gates of gold. And only

the gracious sunshine of a new day remained....

A low voice spoke from the chamber of Death. They turned from the vision

and saw Eustace standing in the doorway.

He was very white, but absolutely calm. There was a nobility about him at

that moment that sent a queer little throb to Dinah's heart. He held out

his hand, not to her, but to Scott. "She is gone," he said.

Scott went to him; she saw their hands meet. There was no agitation about

either of them.

"In her sleep?" Scott said.

"Yes. We didn't even know--till it was over."

They turned into the room, still hand grasping hand.

And Dinah knelt up and stretched out her arms to the shining morning sky.

Something within her was whispering that she and Scott had seen more of

the passing of Isabel than any of those who had watched beside her bed.

And in the quiet of that wonderful morning, she offered her quivering

thanks to God.

CHAPTER XXVIII

CONSOLATION

Of the long hours that followed that wonderful dawning Dinah never had

any very distinct recollection. Even Scott seemed to forget her for a

while, and it was old Biddy who presently found her curled up on the

window-seat with her head upon the sill asleep--Biddy with her eyes very

bright and alert, albeit deeply rimmed with red.

She came to the childish, drooping figure, murmuring tender words. She

put wiry arms about her and lifted her to her feet.

"There! Come to your own room and rest, my lamb!" she said. "Old Biddy'll

take care of ye, aroon."

Dinah submitted with the vague docility of a brain but half-awakened. To

be cared for and petted by Biddy was no new thing in her experience. She

even felt as if the old crystal Alpine days had returned, as Biddy

undressed her and presently tucked her into bed. Later, still in

semi-consciousness, she drank the hot milk that the old woman brought

her, and then sank into a deep, deep sleep.

She awakened from that sleep with a sense of well-being such as she had

never known before, a feeling of complete security and rest. The house

was very quiet, and through the curtained window there came to her the

soft, slumberous splash of the waves.

She lay very still, listening to the soothing murmur, gradually focusing

her mind again after its long oblivion. The memory of the previous night

and of the coming of the dawn came back to her, and with it the thought

of Isabel; but without grief and without regret. They had left her on the

mountain-top, and she knew that all must be well.

A great peace seemed to have fallen like a veil upon the whole house.

Surely no one could be mourning over that glad release! She saw again the

flashing of those free wings in the dawn-light, and her heart thrilled

afresh. She remembered too the close, strong clasp of Scott's hand as

he had watched with her.

Where was Scott now? The wonder darted suddenly through her brain, and

with it, swift as a flying cloud-shadow, came the want of him, the

longing for the quiet voice, the quivering delight of his near presence.

She half-raised herself, and then, caught by another thought, sank down

again to hide her burning face in the pillow. It would be a little

difficult to meet him again. On the old easy terms of friendship it

could not be, and they had hardly begun to be lovers yet. He--had not

even--kissed her!

Another thought came to her--of an even more disturbing nature. Save for

old Biddy and the nurse, she was alone with the two brothers now. Would

they--would they insist upon sending her home until--until Scott was

ready to come and take her away? Oh, surely--surely Scott would never ask

that of her!

Nevertheless the thought tormented her. She did not see any way out of

the difficulty, and she was terribly afraid that Scott would be equally

at a loss.

"I don't think I could bear it," she whispered to herself. "And yet--if

he says so--if he says so--I suppose I must. I couldn't refuse--if he

said so."

The soft opening of the door recalled her to the immediate present. She

saw old Biddy's face with its watchful, guardian look peep stealthily in

upon her.

"Ah, mavourneen!" she whispered fondly, coming forward. "And is it awake

ye are? I've peeped round at ye this five times, and ye were sleeping

like a new-born babe. Lie still, darlint, while I fetch ye a cup o' tay

then!"

She was gone with the words, but in a very little she was back again with

her own especial brew. She set her tray down by Dinah's side, but Dinah

did not even look at it. She raised herself instead, and threw warm arms

around the old woman's neck. "Oh, Biddy," she said, "Biddy, darling, I

can't think what ever I'd do without you!"

Biddy uttered a sharp sob, and gathered her close. But in a moment,

half-angrily, "And what is it that I'd be crying for at all?" she said.

"Isn't my dear Miss Isabel safer with the Almighty than ever she was with

me? Isn't she gone to the blessed saints in Paradise? And would I have

her back? No, no! I'm not that selfish, Miss Dinah. I'm an old woman

moreover, and be the same token me own time can't be so far off now."

But Dinah clung faster to her. "Please, Biddy, please--don't talk like

that! I want you," she said.

"Ah, bless the dear lamb!" said Biddy, and tenderly kissed the upturned,

pleading face. "Miss Isabel said ye would now. But when ye've got Master

Scott to take care of ye, it's not old Biddy that ye'll be wanting any

longer."

"I shall," Dinah vowed. "I shall. I shall always want my Biddy."

"And may the Lord Almighty bless ye for the word!" said Biddy.

When Dinah was dressed, a great shyness fell upon her, born partly of the

still mystery of the presence of Death that wrapped the little house.

She stood by the window of her room, looking forth, irresolute, over the

evening sea.

The blinds were drawn only in the room of Death, for Scott had so

decreed, and the air blew in sweet and fresh from the rippling water.

After a few minutes, Biddy came softly up behind her. "And is it himself

ye're looking for, mavourneen?" she murmured at Dinah's shoulder.

Dinah started a little and flushed. She wondered if Biddy knew all or

only guessed. "I don't know--what to do," she said rather confusedly.

Biddy gave her a quick, wise look. "Will I tell ye a secret, Miss Dinah

dear?" she whispered.

Dinah looked at her. The old woman's face was full of shrewd

understanding. "Yes, tell me!" she said somewhat breathlessly.

Biddy's brown hand grasped her arm. "Master Scott went to town this

morning," she said. "He'll be back any minute now. Sir Eustace is

downstairs. He wants to see ye--to tell ye something--before Master Scott

gets back."

"Oh, what--what?" gasped Dinah.

"There, now, there! Don't ye be afraid!" said Biddy, her beady eyes

softening. "It's something ye'll like. Master Scott--he's not the

gentleman to make ye do anything ye don't want to do. Don't ye trust him,

Miss Dinah?"

"Of course--of course," Dinah said, with trembling lips.

"Then ye've nothing to be afraid of," said Biddy wisely. "Faith, it's

only the marriage-licence he's been to fetch!"

"Oh--Biddy!" Dinah wheeled from the window, with both her hands over her

heart.

Biddy nodded with grave triumph. "It was Sir Eustace made him go. Master

Scott--he didn't think it would be dacent, not at first. But, as Sir

Eustace said, there's more ways than one of being ondacent, and after all

it was the dearest wish of Miss Isabel's heart. 'Don't you be a

conventional fool!' he said. And for once I agreed with him," said Biddy

naïvely, "though I think he needn't have used bad language over it."

"Oh--Biddy!" Dinah said again, and then very oddly she began to smile,

and the tension went out of her attitude. She kissed the wrinkled cheek,

and turned. "I think perhaps I will go down and speak to Sir Eustace,"

she said.

She went quickly, aware that if she suffered herself to pause, that

overpowering shyness would seize upon her again.

Guided by the scent of cigarette-smoke, she entered the dining-room. Sir

Eustace was seated at a writing-table near the window. He looked up

swiftly at her entrance.

"Awake at last!" he said, and would have risen with the words, but she

reached him first and checked him.

"Eustace! Oh, Eustace!" she said. "I--I--Biddy has just told me--"

He frowned, as she stopped in confusion, steadying herself rather

piteously against his shoulder. But in a moment, seeing her agitation, he

put a kindly arm around her.

"Biddy is an old fool--always was. Don't take any notice of her! What a

ferment you're in, child! What's the matter? There, sit down!"

He drew her down on to the arm of his chair, and she leaned against him,

striving for self-control.

"You--you are so--so much too good," she murmured.

He smiled rather grimly. "No one ever accused me of that before! Was that

the staggering piece of information that Biddy has imparted to you?"

"No," she said, a fleeting smile upon her awn face. "It was--it

was--about Scott. It took my breath away,--that's all."

"That all?" said Eustace with a faintly wry lift of one eyebrow.

She slipped a shy arm around his neck. "Eustace, do you--do you think

I--ought to let Scott marry me?"

"I'm quite sure you'll break his heart if you don't," responded Eustace.

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she said quickly.

"No. I shouldn't if I were you. It isn't a very amusing game for anyone

concerned." Sir Eustace took up his pen with his free hand. "He's rather

a good chap, you know," he said, "beastly good sometimes. He'll take a

little living up to. But you'll manage that, I daresay. When he told me

how things stood between you, I saw directly that there was only one

thing to be done, and I made him do it. The idea is to get you married

before the nurse goes, and she is off to-morrow." He paused, looking at

her critically, and again half-cynically, half-sadly, smiled. "You took

that well," he said. "If it had been to me, you'd have jumped sky-high.

You're a wise little creature, Dinah. You've chosen the best man, and

you'll never be sorry. I congratulate you on your choice."

He turned his face fully to her, and she stooped swiftly and kissed him.

"I'm--dreadfully sorry I--treated you so badly first," she whispered.

"You needn't be," he said. "It did me good. You showed me myself from a

point of view that I had never taken before. You taught me to be human. I

told Isabel so. She--poor girl--" he stopped a second, and she saw that

momentarily he was moved; but he continued almost at once--"she was

grateful to you too," he said. "You removed the outer crust at a single

stroke--just in time to prevent atrophy. Of course," he glanced down at

the letter under his hand, "it was a more or less painful process, but it

may comfort you to know that it didn't go quite so deep with me as I

thought it had at the time. There's no sense in crying over spilt milk

anyhow. I never was that sort of ass. You may--or may not--be pleased to

hear that I am already well on the way to consolation." He lifted his

eyes suddenly with an expression in them that completely baffled her. It

was almost as if he had detached himself for the moment from all

participation in his own doings, contemplating them with a half-pathetic

irony. "Shall I tell you what I was doing when you came in just now?" he

said. "I was writing to the girl you nearly sacrificed your happiness to

cut out."

"Rose de Vigne?" she said quickly.

He nodded. "Yes, Rose de Vigne" He paused for a second, just a second;

then: "The girl I am going to marry," he said quietly.

"Oh, Eustace!" There was no mistaking the gladness in Dinah's tone. "I am

pleased!" she said earnestly. "I know you will be happy together. You

were simply made for each other."

He smiled, still in that strange, half-rueful fashion. "I am doing the

best I can under the circumstances. It is kind of you to be pleased. But

now once more to your affairs. They are more pressing than mine just now.

It may interest you to know that Scott--although under Isabel's will he

is made absolutely independent of me--is willing to live at the Dower

House, if that arrangement meets with your approval."

"Of course--I shall love it," Dinah said.

"I am glad of that, for it will be a great help to me to have him there.

You will be able to have Billy to stay with you in the holidays and roam

about as you like. Scott is making all sorts of plans. I am going to

settle the place on him as a wedding-present."

"Oh, Eustace! How kind! What a lovely gift!"

Sir Eustace smiled at her. "I am giving him more than that, Dinah. I am

giving him his wife and--the wedding-ring." The irony was uppermost

again, but it held no sting. "It will fit no other hand but yours, and it

will serve to keep you in constant remembrance of your good luck. I can

hear him coming up the path. Aren't you going to meet him?"

She sprang up like a startled fawn. "Oh, I can't--I can't meet him yet,"

she said desperately.

There was a curious glint in Eustace's eyes as he watched her, a flash of

mockery that came and went.

"What?" he said. "Do you want me to help you to run away from him now?"

She looked at him quickly, and in a moment her hesitation was gone.

"Oh, no!" she said. "No!" and with a little breathless sound that might

have been a tremor of laughter, she fled away from him out into the

evening sunshine to meet her lover.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN

They were married in the early morning at the little old church that had

nestled for centuries among its trees in the village on the cliff. The

absolute simplicity of the service deprived it of all terrors for Dinah.

Standing with Scott in the glow of sunlight that smote full upon them

through the mellow east window, she could not feel afraid. The whole

world was so bright, so full of joy.

"Do you think Isabel can see us now?" she whispered to him, as they rose

together from kneeling before the altar.

He did not answer her in words, but his pale eyes were shining with that

steadfast light of the spirit which she had come to know. She wished she

could have knelt there by his side a little longer. They seemed to be so

near to the Gates of Heaven.

But they were not alone, and they could not linger. Sir Eustace who had

given her away, Biddy who had tenderly supported her, the nurse who

carried the fragrant bouquet of honeysuckle--the bond of love--which she

had herself gathered for the bride, all were waiting to draw them back

to earth again; and with Scott's hand clasping hers she turned

regretfully and left the holy place.

Later, when Sir Eustace kissed her with the careless observation that he

always kissed a bride, she had a moment of burning shyness, and she would

gladly have hidden her face. But Scott did not kiss her. He had not

offered to do so since that wonderful moment when he had first held her

against his heart. He had not attempted to make love to her, and she had

not felt the need of it. Grave and practical, he had laid his plans

before her, and with the supreme confidence that he had always inspired

in her she had acquiesced to all.

At his desire she had refrained from entering Isabel's death-chamber. At

his desire she was to leave that day for the Dower House that was to be

their home. Biddy would accompany her thither. The place was ready for

occupation, for by Isabel's wish the work had gone on, though both she

and Scott had known that they would never share a home there. It almost

seemed as if she had foreseen the fulfilment of her earnest wish. And

here Dinah was to await her husband.

"I won't come to you till the funeral is over," he said to her. "I must

be with Eustace. You won't be unhappy?"

No, she would not be unhappy. She had never been so near to Death before,

but she was neither frightened nor dismayed. She stood in the shadow

indeed, but she looked forth from it over a world of such sunshine as

filled her heart with quivering gladness.

He did not want her to attend the funeral at Willowmount, would not, if

he could help it, suffer her so much as to see the trappings of woe; and

in this Dinah acquiesced also, comprehending fully the motive that

underlay his wish. She knew that the earthly formalities, though they

had to be faced, were to Scott something of the nature of a grim farce in

which, while he could not escape it himself, he was determined that she

should take no part. He was not mourning for Isabel. He would not pretend

to mourn. Her death was to him but as the opening wide of a prison-door

to one who had long lain captive, pining for liberty. He would follow the

poor worn body to its grave rather with thanksgiving than with grief. And

realizing so well that this was his inevitable feeling, even as in a

smaller degree it had become her own, Dinah agreed without demur to his

wish to spare her all the jarring details, the travesty of mourning, that

could not fail to strike a false chord in her soul.

It was well for her that she had Biddy to think of. The old woman was

pathetically eager to serve her. She had in fact attached herself to

Dinah in a fashion that went to her heart. It was Miss Isabel's wish that

she should take care of her, she told her tremulously, and Dinah, knew

that it had been equally her friend's wish that she should care for

Biddy.

And Biddy was very good. Probably in accordance with Scott's desire, she

made a great effort to throw off all gloom, and undoubtedly her own sense

of loss and bereavement was greatly lessened by the consciousness of

Dinah's need of her.

"Time enough to weep later," she told herself, as she lay down in the

room adjoining Dinah's on that first night in the Dower House. "She'll

not be wanting old Biddy when Master Scott comes to her."

The two days that followed were very fully occupied. There were curtains

and pictures to hang, furniture to be arranged, and many things to be

unpacked. Dinah went to the work with zest. She did not know when Scott

would come. But it would be soon, she knew it would be soon; and she

thrilled to the thought. Everything must be ready for him. She wanted him

to feel that it was home from the moment he crossed the threshold.

So, with Biddy's help, she went about her preparations, enlisting the old

nurse's sympathies till at last she succeeded in arousing her enthusiasm

also. There was certainly no time to weep.

That second day after her arrival was the day of the funeral. It was

a beautiful still day of summer, and in the afternoon Dinah and Biddy

sat in the garden overlooking the winding river, and read the Burial

Service together. It was Dinah's suggestion, somewhat shyly proffered,

and--though she knew it not--from that time forward Biddy's heart was

at her feet. Whatever tears there might be yet to shed had lost all

bitterness from that hour.

"I'll never be lonely so long as there's you to love, Miss Dinah

darlint," Biddy murmured, when the young arms closed about her neck for a

moment ere they went back to their work. "Ye've warmed and comforted me

all through."

It was late in the evening when dusk was falling that there came the

sound of an uneven tread on the gravel path before the Dower House.

Dinah was the first to hear it. Dinah wearing one of Biddy's voluminous

aprons and mounted on a pair of steps, arranging china on a high shelf

that ran round the old square hall.

The front-door was open, and the birds were singing in the gloaming. She

had been listening to them while she worked, when suddenly this new sound

came. Her heart gave a wild leap and stood still. She had not expected

him to-night.

She sat down on the top of the steps with a swift, indescribable rush of

feeling that seemed to deprive her of all her strength. She could not

have said for the moment if she were glad or dismayed at the sound of

that quiet footfall. But she was quite powerless to go and meet him. A

great wave of shyness engulfed her, possessing her, overwhelming her.

He entered. He came straight to her. She wondered afterwards what he must

have thought of her, sitting there on her perch in burning embarrassment

with no word or sign of welcome. But whatever he thought, he dealt with

the situation with unerring instinct.

He mounted a couple of steps with hands stretched up to hers. "Why, my

Dinah!" he said. "How busy you are! Let me help!"

Her heart throbbed on again, fast and hard. But still for a few seconds

she could not speak. She stooped with a soft endearing sound and laid her

face upon the hands that had clasped her own.

He suffered her for a moment or two in silence; she thought his hands

trembled slightly. Then: "Let's get finished, little wife!" he said

gently. "Isn't the day's work nearly over? Can't we take off our

sandals--and rest?"

"I have just done," she said, finding her voice. "Biddy and I have got

through such a lot. Oh, Scott," as the light fell upon his face, "how

tired you look!"

"It has been rather a tiring day," he made answer. "I didn't think I

could get over here to-night; but Eustace insisted."

"How good of him!" she said, with quick gratitude.

"Yes, he is good," Scott's voice was tender. "I couldn't sleep last

night, and he came into my room, and we had a long talk. He is one of the

best, Dinah; one of the best. I'm afraid you've made--rather a poor

exchange."

Something in his tone banished the last of Dinah's shyness. She gave him

her basket of china and prepared to descend. He stretched up a courteous

hand to help her, but she would have none of it. "You are never to say

that--or anything like it--again," she said severely. "If--if you weren't

so dreadfully tired, I believe I'd be really angry. As it is--" she

reached the ground and stood there before him, a small, purposeful figure

clad in the great apron that wrapped about her like a garment.

"As it is--" he suggested meekly, setting the basket on a chair and

turning back to face her.

Two quivering hands came out to him in the gloaming, and fastened

resolutely on his coat. "Oh, Greatheart," whispered a tremulous voice, "I

love you so much--so much--I want--to kiss you!"

"My darling," answered Greatheart softly, "you can't want it--more than I

do."

His arms closed about her; he drew her to his breast.

* * * * *

"Arrah thin, what would I cry for at all?" said Biddy, as she lay

down that night. "I've got herself and Master Scott to care for, and

maybe--some day--the Almighty will remember old Biddy for good, and give

another little one into her care."

* * * * *

"And you left them quite happy?" smiled Rose to her lover two days later.

"It's a very suitable arrangement, isn't it? I always used to think that

Dinah and your brother should make a match."

"Oh, quite suitable," agreed Eustace lazily, an odd blend of irony and

satisfaction in his tone. "They will be happy enough. Stumpy, you know,

is just the sort of chivalrous ass that a child like Dinah can

appreciate. They'll probably live in the seventh heaven, and fancy that

no one else has ever been within a million miles of it."

"Poor little Dinah!" murmured Rose. "She will never know what she has

missed."

And, "Just as well perhaps," said Sir Eustace, with his faintly cynical

smile.