She had been true to the greatest impulse that had ever stirred her soul. It had been at a frightful cost. She had sacrificed everything—everything—to a vision that she might never realize. She had cast away all the glitter and the wealth for this far greater thing which yet could never be more to her than a golden dream. She had even cast away love, and her heart still bled at the memory. But she had been true—she had been true.

Not yet was the sacrifice ended. She knew that a cruel ordeal yet awaited her. There was the morrow to be faced, the morrow with its renewal of disgrace and punishment. Her mother was furious with her, so furious that for the first time in her life her father had intervened on her behalf and temporarily restrained the flow of wrath. Perhaps he had seen her utter weariness, for he had advised her, not unkindly, to go to bed. She had gone to her room, thankful to escape, but neither tea nor supper had followed her thither. Billy had come to bid her good night long ago, but, though he had not said so, he also, it seemed, was secretly disgusted with her, and he had not lingered. It would be the same with everyone, she thought to herself wearily. No one would ever realize how terribly hard it had all been. No one would dream of extending any pity to her. And of course she had done wrong. She knew it, was quite ready to admit it. But the wrong had lain in accepting that overweaning lover of hers, not in giving him up. Also, she ought to have found out long ago. She wondered how it was she hadn't. It had never been a happy engagement.

Again her eyes wandered to the exquisite folds of that dress which she was never to wear. How she had loved the thought of it and all the lovely things that Isabel had procured for her! What would become of them all, she wondered? All the presents downstairs would have to go back. Yes, and Eustace's ring! She had forgotten that. She slipped it off her finger with a little dry sob, and put it aside. And the necklace of pearls that she had always thought so much too good for her, but which would have looked so beautiful on the wedding-dress; that must be returned. Very strangely that thought pierced the dull ache of her heart with a mere poignant pain. And following it came another, stabbing her like a knife. The sapphire for friendship—his sapphire—that would have to go too. There would be nothing left when it was all over.

And she would never see any of them any more. She would drop out of their lives and be forgotten. Even Isabel would not want her now that she had behaved so badly. She had made Sir Eustace the talk of the County. So long as they remembered her they would never forgive her for that.

Sir Eustace might forgive. He had been extraordinarily generous. A lump rose in her throat as she thought of him. But the de Vignes, all those wedding guests who were to have honoured the occasion, they would all look upon her with contumely for evermore. No wonder her mother was enraged against her! No wonder! No wonder! She would never have another chance of holding up her head in such society again.

A great sigh escaped her. What was the good of sitting there thinking? She had undressed long ago, and she was cold from head to foot. Yet somehow she had forgotten or been too miserable to go to bed. She supposed she had been waiting for the soothing tears that did not come. Or had she meant to pray? She could not remember, and in any case prayer seemed out of the question. Her life had been filled with delight for a few delirious weeks, but it had all drained away. She did not want it back again. She scarcely knew what she wanted, save the great Impossible for which she lacked the heart to pray. And no doubt God was angry with her too, or she could not feel like this! So what was the good of attempting it?

Wearily she turned to put out her candle. But ere her hand reached it, she paused in swift apprehension.

The next instant sharply she started round to see the door open, and her mother entered the room.

Gaunt, forbidding, full of purpose, she walked in, and set her candle down beside the one that Dinah had been about to extinguish.

"Get up!" she said to the startled girl. "Don't sit there gaping at me! I've come here to give you a lesson, and it will be a pretty severe one I can tell you if you attempt to disobey me."

"What do you want me to do?" breathed Dinah.

She stood up at the harsh behest, but she was trembling so much that her knees would scarcely support her. Her heart was throbbing violently, and each throb seemed as if it would choke her. She had seen that inflexibly grim look often before upon her mother's face, and she knew from bitter experience that it portended merciless treatment.

Mrs. Bathurst did not reply immediately. She went to a little table in a corner which Dinah used for writing purposes, and opened a blotter that lay upon it. From this she took a sheet of note-paper and laid it in readiness, found Dinah's pen, opened the ink-pot. Then, over her shoulder, she flung a curt command: "Come here!"

Dinah went, every nerve in her body tingling, her face and hands cold as ice.

Mrs. Bathurst glanced at her with a contemptuous smile. "Sit down, you little fool!" she said. "Now, you take that pen and write at my dictation!"

Dinah shrank at the rough words. She felt like a child about to receive corporal punishment. The vindictive force of the woman seemed to beat her down. Writhe and strain as she might, she was bound to suffer both the pain and the indignity to the uttermost limit; for she lacked the strength to break free.

She did not sit down however. She remained standing by the little table.

"Mother," she said through her white lips, "what do you want me to do?"

She could scarcely keep her teeth from chattering, and Mrs. Bathurst noted the fact with another grim smile.

"What am I going to make you do would be more to the purpose, my girl, wouldn't it?" she said. "Sit down there, and you'll find out!"

Dinah leaned upon the little table to steady herself. "Tell me what it is I am to do!" she said.

"Ah! That's better." A note of bitter humour sounded in Mrs. Bathurst's voice. "Sit down!"

She thrust out a bony hand, and gripped her by the shoulder, forcing her downwards.

Dinah dropped into the chair, and sat motionless.

"Take your pen!" Mrs. Bathurst commanded.

She hesitated; and instantly, with a violent movement, her mother snatched it up and held it in front of her.

"Take it!"

Dinah took it with fingers so numb that they were almost powerless.

"Now," said Mrs. Bathurst, "I will tell you what you are going to do. You are going to write to Sir Eustace at my dictation, and tell him that you are very sorry, you have made a mistake, and beg him to forget it and marry you to-morrow as arranged."

"Mother! No!" Dinah started as if at a blow; the pen dropped from her fingers. "Oh no! I can't indeed—indeed!"

"You will!" said Mrs. Bathurst.

Her hand gripped the slender shoulder with cruel force. She bent, bringing her harsh features close to her daughter's blanched face.

"Just you remember one thing!" she said, her voice low and menacing. "You've never succeeded in defying me yet, and you won't do it now. I'll conquer you—I'll break you—if it takes me all night to do it!"

Dinah recoiled before the unshackled fury that suddenly blazed in the gipsy eyes that looked into hers. Sheer horror sprang into her own.

"Oh, but I can't—I can't!" she reiterated in an agony. "I don't love him. He knows it. I ought to have found out before, but I didn't. Mother—Mother—" piteously she began to plead—"you—you can't want to make me marry a man I don't love? You—you would never—surely—have done such a thing yourself!"

Mrs. Bathurst made a sharp gesture as if something had pierced her. She shook the shoulder she grasped. "Love!" she said. "Oh, don't talk to me of love! Do you imagine—have you ever imagined—that I married that fox-hunting booby—for love?"

A great and terrible bitterness that was like the hunger of a famished animal looked out of her eyes. Dinah gazed at her aghast. What new and horrible revelation was this? She felt suddenly sick and giddy.

Her mother shook her again roughly, savagely. "None of that!" she said. "Don't think I'll put up with it, my fine lady, for I won't! What has love to do with such a chance as this? Tell me that, you little fool! Do you suppose that either you or I have ever been in a position to marry—for love?"

Her face was darkly passionate. Dinah felt as if she were in the clutches of a tigress. "What—what do you mean?" she faltered through her quivering lips.

"What do I mean?" Mrs. Bathurst broke into a sudden brutal laugh. "Ha! What do I mean?" she said. "I'll tell you, shall I? Yes, I'll tell you! I'll show you the shame that I've covered all these years. I mean that I married because of you—for no other reason. I married because I'd been betrayed—and left. Now do you understand why it isn't for you to pick and choose—you who have been the plague-spot of my life, the thorn in my side ever since you first stirred there—a perpetual reminder of what I would have given my very soul to forget? Do you understand, I say? Do you understand? Or must I put it plainer still? You—the child of my shame—to dare to set yourself up against me!"

She ended upon what was almost a note of loathing, and Dinah shuddered from head to foot. It was to her as if she had been rolled in pitch. She felt overwhelmed with the cruel degradation of it, the unspeakable shame.

Mrs. Bathurst watched her anguished distress with a species of bitter satisfaction. "That'll take the fight out of you, my girl," she said. "Or if it doesn't, I've another sort of remedy yet to try. Now, you start on that letter, do you hear? It'll be a bit shaky, but none the worse for that. Write and tell him you've changed your mind! Beg him humble-like to take you back!"

But Dinah only bowed her head upon her hands and sat crushed.

Mrs. Bathurst gave her a few seconds to recover her balance. Then again mercilessly she shook her by the shoulder.

"Come, Dinah! I'm not going to be defied. Are you going to write that letter at once? Or must I take stronger measures?"

And then a species of wild courage entered into Dinah. She turned at last at bay. "I will not write it! I would sooner die! If—if this thing is true, it would be far easier to die! I couldn't marry any man now who had any pride of birth."

She was terribly white, but she faced her tormentor unflinching, her eyes like stars. And it came to Mrs. Bathurst with unpleasant force that she had taken a false step which it was impossible to retrace. It was then that the evil spirit that had been goading her entered in and took full possession.

She gripped Dinah's shoulder till she winced with pain. "Mother, you—you are hurting me!"

"Yes, and I will hurt you," she made answer. "I'll hurt you as I've never hurt you yet if you dare to disobey me! I'll crush you to the earth before I will endure that from you. Now! For the last time! Will you write that letter? Think well before you refuse again!"

She towered over Dinah with awful determination, wrought up to a pitch of fury by her resistance that almost bordered upon insanity.

Dinah's boldness waned swiftly before the iron force that countered it. But her resolution remained unshaken, a resolution from which no power on earth could move her.

"I can't do it—possibly," she said.

"You mean you won't?" said Mrs. Bathurst.

Dinah nodded, and gripped the table hard to endure what should follow.

"You—mean—you won't?" Mrs. Bathurst said again very slowly.

"I will not." The white lips spoke the words, and closed upon them. Dinah sat rigid with apprehension.

Mrs. Bathurst took her hand from her shoulder and turned from her. The candle that had been burning all the evening was low in its socket. She lifted it out and went to the fireplace. There were some shavings in the grate. She pushed the lighted candle end in among them; then, as the fire roared up the chimney, she turned.

An open trunk was close to her with the dainty pale green dress that Dinah had worn the previous evening lying on the top. She took it up, and bundled the soft folds together. Then violently she flung it on to the flames.

Dinah gave a cry of dismay, and started to her feet. "Mother! What are you doing? Mother! Are you mad?"

Mrs. Bathurst looked at her with eyes of blazing vindictiveness. "If you are not going to be married, you won't need a trousseau," she said grimly. "These things are quite unfit for a girl in your station. For Lady Studley they would of course have been suitable, but not for such as you."

She turned back to the open trunk with the words, and began to sweep together every article of clothing it contained. Dinah watched her in horror-stricken silence. She remembered with odd irrelevance how once in her childhood for some petty offence her mother had burnt a favourite doll, and then had whipped her soundly for crying over her loss.

She did not cry now. Her tears seemed frozen. She did not feel as if she could ever cry again. The cold that enwrapped her was beginning to reach her heart. She thought she was getting past all feeling.

So in mute despair she watched the sacrifice of all that Isabel's loving care had provided. So much thought had been spent upon the delicate finery. They had discussed and settled each dainty garment together. She had revelled in the thought of all the good things which she was to wear—she who had never worn anything that was beautiful before. And now—and now—they shrivelled in the roaring flame and dropped into grey ash in the fender.

It was over at last. Only the wedding-dress remained. But as Mrs. Bathurst laid merciless hands upon this also, Dinah uttered a bitter cry.

"Oh, not that! Not that!"

Her mother paused. "Will you wear it to-morrow if Sir Eustace will have you?" she demanded.

"No! Oh no!" Dinah tottered back against her bed and covered her eyes.

She could not watch the destruction of that fairy thing. But it went so quickly, so quickly. When she looked up again, it had crumbled away like the rest, and the shimmering veil with it. Nothing, nothing was left of all the splendour that had been hers.

She sank down on the foot of the bed. Surely her mother would be satisfied now! Surely her lust for vengeance could devise no further punishment!

She was nearing the end of her strength, and she was beginning to know it. The room swam before her dizzy sight. Her mother's figure loomed gigantic, scarcely human.

She saw her poke down the last of the cinders and turn to the door. There was a pungent smell of smoke in the room. She wondered if she would ever be able to cross that swaying, seething floor to open the window. She closed her eyes and listened with straining ears for the closing of the door.

It came, and following it, a sharp click as of the turning of a key. She looked up at the sound, and saw her mother come back to her. She was carrying something in one hand, something that dangled and east a snake-like shadow.

She came to the cowering girl and caught her by the arm. "Now get up!" she ordered brutally. "And take the rest of your punishment!"

Truly Dinah drank the cup of bitterness to the dregs that night. Mentally she had suffered till she had almost ceased to feel. But physically her powers of endurance had not been so sorely tried. But her nerves were strung to a pitch when even a sudden movement made her tingle, and upon this highly-tempered sensitiveness the punishment now inflicted upon her was acute agony. It broke her even more completely than it had broken her in childhood. Before many seconds had passed the last shred of her self-control was gone.

Guy Bathurst, lying comfortably in bed, was aroused from his first slumber by a succession of sharp sounds like the lashing of a loosened creeper against the window, but each sound was followed by an anguished cry that sank and rose again like the wailing of a hurt child.

He turned his head and listened. "By Jove! That's too bad of Lydia," he said. "I suppose she won't be satisfied till she's had her turn, but I shall have to interfere if it goes on."

It did not go on for long; quite suddenly the cries ceased. The other sounds continued for a few seconds more, then ceased also, and he turned upon his pillow with a sigh of relief.

A minute later he was roused again by the somewhat abrupt entrance of his wife. She did not speak to him, but stood by the door and rummaged in the pockets of his shooting-coat that hung there.

Bathurst endured in silence for a few moments; then, "Oh, what on earth are you looking for?" he said with sleepy irritation. "I wish you'd go."

"I want your brandy flask," she said, and her words came clipped and sharp. "Where is it?"

"On the dressing-table," he said. "What have you been doing to the child?"

"I've given her as much as she can stand," his wife retorted grimly. "But you leave her to me! I'll manage her."

She departed with a haste that seemed to denote a certain anxiety notwithstanding her words.

She left the door ajar, and the man turned again on his pillow and listened uneasily. He was afraid Lydia had gone too far.

For a space he heard nothing. Then came the splashing of water, and again that piteous, gasping cry. He caught the sound of his wife's voice, but what she said he could not hear. Then there were movements, and Dinah spoke in broken supplication that went into hysterical sobbing. Finally he heard his wife come out of the room and close the door behind her.

She came back again with the brandy flask. "She's had a lesson," she observed, "that I rather fancy she'll never forget as long as she lives."

"Then I hope you're satisfied," said Bathurst, and turned upon his side.

Yes, Dinah had had a lesson. She had passed through a sevenfold furnace that had melted the frozen fountain of her tears till it seemed that their flow would never be stayed again. She wept for hours, wept till she was sick and blind with weeping, and still she wept on. And bitter shame and humiliation watched beside her all through that dreadful night, giving her no rest.

For she had gone through this fiery torture, this cruel chastisement of mind and body, all for what? For love of a man who felt nought but kindness for her,—for the dear memory of a golden vision that would never be hers again.



CHAPTER XX

THE COMING OF GREATHEART

It was soon after nine on the following morning that Scott presented himself on horseback at the gate of Dinah's home. It had been his intention to tie up his animal and enter, but he was met in the entrance by Billy coming out on a bicycle, and the boy at once frustrated his intention.

"Good morning, sir! Pleased to see you, but it's no good your coming in. The pater's still in bed, and the mater's doing the house-work."

"And Dinah?" said Scott. The question leapt from him almost involuntarily. He had not meant to display any eagerness, and he sought to cover it by his next words which were uttered with his usual careful deliberation. "It's Dinah I have come to see. I have a message for her from my sister."

Billy's freckled face crumpled into troubled lines. "Dinah has cleared out," he said briefly. "I'm just off to the station to try and get news of her."

"What?" Scott said, startled.

The boy looked at him, his green eyes shrewdly confiding. "There's been the devil of a row," he said. "The mater is furious with her. She gave her a fearful licking last night to judge by the sounds. Dinah was squealing like a rat. Of course girls always do squeal when they're hurt, but I fancy the mater must have hit a bit harder than usual. And she's burnt the whole of the trousseau too. Dinah was so mighty proud of all her fine things. She'd feel that, you know, pretty badly."

"Damnation!" Scott said, and for the second time he spoke without his own volition. He looked at Billy with that intense hot light in his eyes that had in it the whiteness of molten metal. "Do you mean that?" he said. "Do you actually mean that your mother flogged her—flogged Dinah?"

Billy nodded. "It's just her way," he explained half-apologetically. "The mater is like that. She's rough and ready. She's always done it to Dinah, had a sort of down on her for some reason. I guessed she meant business last night when I saw the dog-whip had gone out of the hall. I wished afterwards I'd thought to hide it, for it's rather a beastly implement. But the mater's a difficult woman to baulk. And when she's in that mood, it's almost better to let her have her own way. She's sure to get it sooner or later, and a thing of that sort doesn't improve with keeping."

So spoke Billy with the philosophy of middle-aged youth, while the man beside him sat with clenched hands and faced the hateful vision of Dinah, the fairy-footed and gay of heart, writhing under that horrible and humiliating punishment.

He spoke at length, and some electricity within him made the animal under him fidget and prance, for he stirred neither hand nor foot. "And you tell me Dinah has run away?"

"Yes, cleared out," said Billy tersely. "It was an idiotic thing to do, for the mater is downright savage this morning, and she'll only give her another hiding for her pains. She stayed away all day once before, years ago when she was a little kid, and, my eye, didn't she catch it when she came back! She never did it again—till now."

"And you are going to the station to look for her?" Scott's voice was dead level. He calmed the restive horse with a firm hand.

"Yes; just to find out if she's gone by train. I don't believe she has, you know. She's nowhere to go to. I expect she's hiding up in the woods somewhere. I shall scour the country afterwards; for the longer she stays away the worse it'll be for her. I'm sure of that," said Billy uneasily. "When the mater lays hands on her again, she'll simply flay her."

"She will not do anything of the sort," said Scott, and turned his horse's head with resolution. "Come along and find her first! I will deal with your mother afterwards."

Billy mounted his bicycle and accompanied him. Though he did not see how Scott was to prevent any further vengeance on his mother's part, it was a considerable relief to feel that he had enlisted a champion on his sister's behalf. For he was genuinely troubled about her, although the cruel discipline to which she had been subjected all her life had so accustomed him to seeing her in trouble that it affected him less than if it had been a matter of less frequent occurrence.

Scott's reception of his information had somewhat awed him. Like Dinah, he had long ceased to look upon this man as insignificant. He rode beside him in respectful silence.

The country lane they followed crossed the railway by a bridge ere it ran into the station road. There was a steep embankment on each side of the line surmounted by woods, and as they reached the bridge Billy dismounted to gaze searchingly into the trees.

"She might be anywhere" he said. "This is a favourite place of hers because the wind-flowers grow here. Somehow I've got a sort of feeling—" He stopped short. "Why, there she is!" he exclaimed.

Scott looked sharply in the same direction. Had he been alone, he would not have perceived her, for she was crouched low against a thicket of brambles and stunted trees midway down the embankment. She was clad in an old brown mackintosh that so toned with her surroundings as to render her almost invisible. Her chin was resting on her knees, and her face was turned from them. She seemed to be gazing up the line.

As they watched her, a signal near the bridge went down with a thud, and it seemed to Scott that the little huddled figure started and stiffened like a frightened doe. But she did not change her position, and she continued to gaze up the long stretch of line as though waiting for something.

"What on earth is she doing?" whispered Billy. "There are no wind-flowers there."

Scott slipped quietly to the ground. "You wait here!" he said. "Hold my animal, will you?"

He left the bridge, retracing his steps, and climbed a railing that fenced the wood. In a moment he disappeared among the trees, and Billy was left to watch and listen in unaccountable suspense.

The morning was dull, and a desolate wind moaned among the bare tree-tops. He shivered a little. There was something uncanny in the atmosphere, something that was evil. He kept his eyes upon Dinah, but she was a considerable distance away, and he could not see that she stirred so much as a finger. He wondered how long it would take Scott to reach her, and began to wish ardently that he had been allowed to go instead. The man was lame and he was sure that he could have covered the distance in half the time.

And then while he waited and watched, suddenly there came a distant drumming that told of an approaching train.

"The Northern express!" he said aloud.

Many a time had he stood on the bridge to see it flash and thunder below him. The sound of its approach had always filled him with a kind of ecstasy before, but now—to-day—it sent another feeling through him,—a sudden, wild dart of unutterable dread.

"What rot!" he told himself, with an angry shake. "Oh, what rot!"

But the dread remained coiled like a snake about his heart.

The animal he held became restless, and he backed it off the bridge, but he could not bring himself to go out of sight of that small, tragic figure in the old mackintosh that sat so still, so still, there upon the grassy slope. He watched it with a terrible fascination. Would Scott never make his appearance?

A white tuft of smoke showed against the grey of the sky. The throbbing of the engine grew louder, grew insistent. A couple of seconds more and it was within sight, still far away but rapidly drawing near. Where on earth was Scott? Did he realize the danger? Ought he to shout? But something seemed to grip his throat, holding him silent. He was powerless to do anything but watch.

Nearer came the train and nearer. Billy's eyes were starting out of his head. He had never been so scared in all his life before. There was something fateful in the pose of that waiting figure.

The rush of the oncoming express dinned in his ears. It was close now, and suddenly—suddenly as a darting bird—Dinah was on her feet. Billy found his voice in a hoarse, croaking cry, but almost ere it left his lips he saw Scott leap into view and run down the bank.

By what force of will he made his presence known Billy never afterwards could conjecture. No sound could have been audible above the clamour of the train. Yet by some means—some electric battery of the mind—he made the girl below aware of him. On the very verge of the precipice she stopped, stood poised for a moment, then turned herself back and saw him....

The train thundered by, shaking the ground beneath their feet, and rushed under the bridge. The whole embankment was blotted out in white smoke, and Billy reeled back against the horse he held.

"By Jove!" he whispered shakily. "By—Jove! What a ghastly fright!"

He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand, and led the animal away from the bridge. Somehow he was feeling very sick—too sick to look any longer, albeit the danger was past.

The smoke cleared from the embankment, and two figures were left facing one another on the grassy slope. Neither of them spoke a word. It was as if they were waiting for some sign. Scott was panting, but Dinah did not seem to be breathing at all. She stood there tense and silent, terribly white, her eyes burning like stars.

The last sound of the train died away in the distance, and then, such was their utter stillness, from the thorn-bush close to them a thrush suddenly thrilled into song. The soft notes fell balmlike into that awful silence and turned it into sweetest music.

Scott moved at last, and at once the bird ceased. It was as if an angel had flown across the heaven with a silver flute of purest melody and passed again into the unknown.

He came to Dinah. "My dear," he said, and his voice was slightly shaky, "you shouldn't be here."

She stood before him, pillar-like, her two hands clenched against her sides. Her lips were quite livid. They moved soundlessly for several seconds before she spoke. "I—was waiting—for the express."

Her voice was flat and emotionless. It sounded almost as if she were talking in her sleep. And strangely it was that that shocked Scott even more than her appearance. Dinah's voice had always held countless inflections, little notes gay or sad like the trill of a robin. This was the voice of a woman in whom the very last spark of hope was quenched.

It pierced him with an intolerable pain. "Dinah—Dinah!" he said. "For God's sake, child, you don't mean—that!"

Her white, pinched face twisted in a dreadful smile. "Why not?" she said. "There was no other way." And then a sudden quiver as of returning life went through her. "Why did you stop me?" she said. "If you hadn't, it would have been—all over by now."

He put out a quick hand. "Don't say it,—in heaven's name! You are not yourself. Come—come into the wood, and we will talk!"

She did not take his hand. "Can't we talk here?" she said.

He composed himself with an effort. "No, certainly not. Come into the wood!"

He spoke with quiet insistence. She gave him an inscrutable look.

"You think you are going to help me,—Mr. Greatheart," she said, "but I am past help. Nothing you can do will make any difference to me now."

"Come with me nevertheless!" he said.

He laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and she winced with a sharpness that tore his heart. But in a moment she turned beside him and began the ascent, slowly, labouringly, as if every step gave her pain. He moved beside her, supporting her elbow when she faltered, steadily helping her on.

They entered the wood, and the desolate sighing of the wind encompassed them. Dinah looked at her companion with the first sign of feeling she had shown.

"I must sit down," she said.

"There is a fallen tree over there," he said, and guided her towards it.

She leaned upon him, very near to collapse. He spread his coat upon the tree and helped her down.

"Now how long is it since you had anything to eat?" he said.

She shook her head slightly. "I don't remember. But it doesn't matter. I'm not hungry."

He took one of her icy hands and began to rub it. "Poor child!" he said. "You ought to be given some hot bread and milk and tucked up in bed with hot bottles."

Her face began to work. "That," she said, "is the last thing that will happen to me."

"Haven't you been to bed at all?" he questioned.

Her throat was moving spasmodically; she bowed her head to hide her face from him. "Yes," she said in a whisper. "My mother—my mother put me there." And then as if the words burst from her against her will, "She thrashed me first with a dog-whip; but dogs have got hair to protect them, and I—had nothing. She only stopped because—I fainted. She hasn't finished with me now. When I go back—when I go back—" She broke off. "But I'm not going," she said, and her voice was flat and hard again. "Even you can't make me do that. There'll be another express this afternoon."

Scott knelt down beside her, and took her bowed head on to his shoulder. "Listen to me, Dinah!" he said. "I am going to help you, and you mustn't try to prevent me. If you had only allowed me, I would have gone home again with you yesterday, and this might have been avoided. My dear, don't draw yourself away from me! Don't you know I am a friend you can trust?"

The pitiful tenderness of his voice reached her, overwhelming her first instinctive effort to draw back. She leaned against him with painful, long-drawn sobs.

He held her closely to him with all a woman's understanding. "Oh, don't cry any more, child!" he said. "You're worn out with crying."

"I feel—so bad—so bad!" sobbed Dinah.

"Yes, yes. I know. Of course you do. But it's over, it's over. No one shall hurt you any more."

"You don't—understand," breathed Dinah. "It never will be over—while I live. I'm hurt inside—inside."

"I know," he said again. "But it will get better presently. Isabel and I are going to take you away from it all."

"Oh no!" she said quickly. "No—no—no!" She lifted her head from his shoulder and turned her poor, stained face upwards. "I couldn't do that!" she said. "I couldn't! I couldn't!"

"Wait!" he said gently. "Let me do what I can to help you now—before we talk of that! Will you sit here quietly for a little, while I go and get you some milk from that farm down the road?"

"I don't want it," she said.

"But I want you to have it," he made grave reply. "You will stay here? Promise me!"

"Very well," she assented miserably.

He got up. "I shan't be gone long. Sit quite still till I come back!"

He touched her dark head comfortingly and turned away.

When he had gone a little distance he looked back, and saw that she was crouched upon the ground again and crying with bitter, straining sobs that convulsed her as though they would rend her from head to foot. With tightened lips he hastened on his way.

She had suffered a cruel punishment it was evident, and she was utterly worn out in body and spirit. But was it only the ordeal of yesterday and the physical penalty that she had been made to pay that had broken her thus?

He could not tell, but his heart bled for her misery and desolation.

"Who is the other fellow?" he asked himself. "I wonder if Billy knows."

He found Billy awaiting him in the road, anxious and somewhat reproachful. "You've been such a deuce of a time," he said. "Is she all right?"

"She is very upset," he made answer. "And she is faint too for want of food."

"That's not surprising," commented Billy. "She can't have had anything since lunch yesterday. What shall I do? Run home and get something? The mater can't want her to starve."

"No." Scott's voice rang on a hard note. "She probably doesn't. But you needn't go home for it. Run back to that farm we passed just now, and see if you can get some hot milk! Be quick like a good chap! Here's the money! I'll wait here."

Billy seized his bicycle and departed on his errand.

Scott began to walk his horse up and down, for inactivity was unbearable. Every moment he spent away from poor, broken Dinah was torturing. Those dreadful, hopeless tears of hers filled him with foreboding. He yearned to return.

Billy's absence lasted for nearly a quarter of an hour, and he was beginning to get desperate over the delay when at last the boy returned carrying a can of milk and a mug.

"I had rather a bother to get it," he explained. "People are so mighty difficult to stir, and I didn't want to tell 'em too much. I've promised to take these things back again. I say, can't I come along with you now?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Scott said. "I can manage best alone. Besides, I'm going to ask you to do something more."

"Anything!" said Billy readily.

"Thanks. Well, will you ride this animal into Great Mallowes, hire a closed car, and send it to the bridge here to pick me up? Then take him back to the Court, and if anyone asks any questions, say I've met a friend and I'm coming back on foot, but I may not be in to luncheon. Yes, that'll do, I think. I'll see about returning these things. Much obliged, Billy. Good-bye!"

Billy looked somewhat disappointed at this dismissal, but the prospect of a ride was dear to his boyish heart, and in a moment he nodded cheerily. "All right, I'll do that. I'll hide my bicycle in the wood and fetch it afterwards. But where are you going to take her to?"

Scott smiled also faintly and enigmatically. "Leave that to me, my good fellow! I shan't run away with her."

"But I shall see her again some time?" urged Billy, as he dumped his long-suffering machine over the railing and propped it out of sight behind the hedge.

"No doubt you will." Scott's tone was kindly and reassuring. "But I think I can help her better just now than you can, so I'll be getting back to her. Good-bye, boy! And thanks again!"

"So long!" said Billy, vaulting back and thrusting his foot into the stirrup. "You might let me hear how you get on."

"I will," promised Scott.



CHAPTER XXI

THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

When Scott reached the fallen tree again, Dinah's fit of weeping was over. She was lying exhausted and barely conscious against his coat.

She opened her eyes as he knelt down beside her. "You are—good," she whispered faintly.

He poured out some milk and held it to her. "Try to drink some!" he said gently.

She put out a trembling hand.

"No; let me!" he said.

She submitted in silence, and he lifted the glass to her lips and held it very steadily while slowly she drank.

Her eyes were swollen and burning with the shedding of many scalding tears. Now and then a sharp sob rose in her throat so that she could not swallow.

"Take your time!" he said. "Don't hurry it!"

But ere she finished, the tears were running down her face again. He set down the glass, and with his own handkerchief he wiped them away. Then he sat upon the low tree-trunk, and drew her to lean against him.

"When you're feeling better, we'll have a talk," he said.

She hid her face with a piteous gesture against his knee. "I don't see—the good of talking," she said, in muffled accents. "It can't make things—any better."

"I'm not so sure of that," he said. "Anyhow we can't leave things as they are. You will admit that."

Dinah was silent.

He went on with the utmost gentleness. "I want to get you away from here. Isabel is going down to Heath-on-Sea and she wants you to come too. It's a tiny place. We have a cottage there with the most wonderful garden for flowers you ever saw. It isn't more than thirty yards square, and there is a cliff path down to the beach. Isabel loves the place. The yacht is there too, and we go for cruises on calm days. I am hoping Isabel may pick up a little there, and she is always more herself when you are with her. You won't disappoint her, will you?"

A great-shiver went through Dinah. "I can't come," she said, almost under her breath. "It just—isn't possible."

"What is there to prevent?" he asked.

She moved a little, and lifted her head from its resting-place. "Ever so many things," she said.

"You are thinking of Eustace?" he questioned. "He has gone already—gone to town. He will probably go abroad; but in any case he will not get in your way."

"I wasn't thinking of him," Dinah said.

"Then of what?" he questioned. "Your mother? I will see her, and make that all right."

She started and lifted her face. "Oh no! Oh no! You must never dream of doing that!" she declared, with sudden fevered urgency. "I couldn't bear you to see her. You mustn't think of it, indeed—indeed! Why I would even—even sooner go back myself."

"Then I must write to her," he said, gently ceding the point. "It is not essential that I should see her. Possibly even, a letter would be preferable."

Dinah's face had flushed fiery red. She did not meet his eyes. "I don't see why you should have anything to do with her," she said. "You would never get her to consent."

"Then I propose that we act first," said Scott. "Isabel is leaving to-day. You can join her at Great Mallowes and go on together. I shall follow in a couple of days. There are several matters to be attended to first. But Isabel and Biddy will take care of you. Come, my dear, you won't dislike that so very badly!"

"Dislike it!" Dinah caught back another sob. "I should love it above all things if it were possible. But it isn't—it isn't."

"Why not?" he questioned. "Surely your father would not raise any objection?"

She shook her head. "No—no! He doesn't care what happens to me. I used to think he did; but he doesn't—he doesn't."

"Then what is the difficulty?" asked Scott.

She was silent, and he saw the hot colour spreading over her neck as she turned her face away.

"Won't you tell me?" he urged gently. "Is there some particular reason why you want to stay?"

"Oh no! I'm not going to stay." Quickly she made answer. "I am never going back. I couldn't after—after—" She broke off in quivering distress.

"I think your mother will be sorry presently," he said. "People with violent tempers generally repent very deeply afterwards."

Dinah turned upon him suddenly and hotly. "She will never repent!" she declared. "She hates me. She has always hated me. And I hate her—hate her—hate her!"

The concentrated passion of her made her vibrate from head to foot. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. She was possessed by such a fury of hatred as made her scarcely recognizable.

Scott looked at her steadily for a moment or two. Then: "But it does you more harm than good to say so," he said. "And it doesn't answer my question, does it? Dinah, if you don't feel that you can do this thing for your own sake, won't you do it for Isabel's? She is needing you badly just now."

The vindictive look went out of Dinah's face. Her eyes softened, and he saw the hopeless tears well up again. "But I couldn't help her any more," she said.

"The very fact of having you to care for would help her," Scott said.

Dinah shook her head. She was sitting on the ground with her hands clasped round her knees. As the tears splashed down again, she turned her face away.

"It wouldn't help her, it wouldn't help anybody, to have me as I am now," she said. "I can't tell you—I can't explain. But—I am not fit to associate with anyone good."

Scott leaned towards her. "Dinah, my dear, you are torturing yourself," he said. "It's natural, I know. You have had no sleep, and you have cried yourself ill. But I am not going to give in to you. I am not going to take No for an answer. You have no plans for yourself, and I doubt if in your present state you are capable of forming any. Isabel wants you, and it would be cruel to disappoint her. So you and I will join her at Great Mallowes this afternoon. I will deal with your people in the matter, but I do not anticipate any great difficulty in that direction. Now that is settled, and you need not weary yourself with any further discussion. I am responsible, and I will bear my responsibility."

His tone was kind but it held unmistakable finality.

Dinah uttered a heavy sigh, and said no more. She lacked the strength for prolonged opposition.

He persuaded her to drink some more of the milk, and made a cushion of his coat for her against the tree.

"Perhaps you will get a little sleep," he said, as she suffered herself to relax somewhat. "Will it disturb you if I smoke?"

"No," she said.

He took out his case. "Shut your eyes!" he said practically.

But Dinah's eyes remained open, watching him. He began to smoke as if unaware of her scrutiny.

After several moments she spoke. "Scott!"

He turned to her. "Yes? What is it?"

The piteous, shamed colour rose up under his eyes. Again she turned her face away. "That—that sapphire pendant!" she murmured. "I brought it with me. Of course—I know—the presents will have to be returned. I didn't mean to—to run away with it. But—but—I loved it so. I couldn't have borne my mother to touch it. Shall I—shall I give it you now?"

"No, dear," he answered firmly. "Neither now nor at any time. I gave it to you as a token of friendship, and I would like you to keep it always for that reason."

"Always?" questioned Dinah. "Even if—if I never marry at all?"

"Certainly," he said.

"Because I never shall marry now," she said, speaking with difficulty. "I—have quite given up that idea."

"I should like you to keep it in any case," Scott said.

"You are very good," she said earnestly. "I—I wonder you will have anything to do with me now that you know how—how wicked I am."

"I don't think you wicked," he said.

"Don't you?" She opened her heavy eyes a little. "You don't blame me for—for—" She broke off shuddering, and as she did so, there came again the rumble and roar of a distant train. "Then why did you stop me?" she whispered tensely.

Scott was silent for a moment or two. He was gazing straight before him. At length, "I stopped you," he said, "because I had to. It doesn't matter why. You would have done the same in my place. But I don't blame you, partly because it is not my business, and partly because I know quite well that you didn't realize what you were doing."

"I did realize," Dinah said. "If it weren't for you—because you are so good—nothing would have stopped me. Even now—even now—" again the hot tears came—"I've nothing to live for, and—and—God—doesn't—care." She turned her face into her arm and wept silently.

Scott made a sudden movement, and threw his cigarette away. Then swiftly he bent over her.

"Dinah," he said, "stop crying! You're making a big mistake."

His tone was arresting, imperative. She looked up at him almost in spite of herself. His eyes gazed straight into hers, and it seemed to her that there was something magnetic, something that was even unearthly, in their close regard.

"You are making a mistake," he repeated. "God always cares. He cared enough to send a friend to look after you. Do you want any stronger proof than that?"

"I—don't—know," Dinah said, awe-struck.

"Think about it!" Scott insisted. "Do you seriously imagine that it was just chance that brought me along at that particular moment? Do you think it was chance that made you draw back yesterday from giving yourself to a man you don't love? Was it chance that sent you to Switzerland in the first place? Don't you know in your heart that God has been guiding you all through?"

"I don't know," Dinah said again, but there was less of hopelessness in her voice. The shining certainty in Scott's eyes was warring with her doubt. "But then, why has He let me suffer so?"

"Why did He suffer so Himself?" Scott said. "Except that He might learn obedience? It's a bitter lesson to all of us, Dinah; but it's got to be learnt."

"You have learnt it!" she said, with a touch of her own impulsiveness.

He smiled a little—smiled and sighed. "I wonder. I've learnt anyhow to believe in the goodness of God, and to know that though we can't see Him in all things, it's not because He isn't there. Even those who know Him best can't realize Him always."

"But still you are sure He is there?" Dinah questioned.

"I am quite sure," he said, with a conviction so absolute that it placed further questioning beyond the bounds of possibility. "Life is full of problems which it is out of any man's power to solve. But to anyone who will take the trouble to see them the signs are unmistakable. There is not a single soul that is left unaccounted for in the reckoning of God. He cares for all."

There was no contradicting him; Dinah was too weary for discussion in any case. But he had successfully checked her tears at last; he had even in a measure managed to comfort her torn soul. She lay for a space pondering the matter.

"I am afraid I am one of those who don't take the trouble," she said at length. "But I shall try to now. Thank you for all your goodness to me, Mr. Greatheart." She smiled at him wanly. "I don't deserve it—not a quarter of it. But I'm grateful all the same. Please won't you have your smoke now, and forget me and my troubles?"

That smile cheered Scott more than any words. He recognized moreover that the delicate touch of reserve that characterized her speech was the first evidence of returning self-control that she had manifested.

He took out his cigarette-case again. "I hope you haven't found me over-presumptuous," he said.

Dinah reached up a trembling hand. "Presumptuous for helping me in the Valley of Humiliation?" she said.

He took the hand and held it firmly. "I am so used to it myself," he said, in a low voice. "I ought to know a little about it."

"Perhaps," said Dinah thoughtfully, "that is what makes you great."

He raised his shoulders slightly. "You have always seen me through a magnifying-glass," he said whimsically. "Some day the fates will reverse that glass and then you will be unutterably shocked."

Dinah smiled again and shook her head. "I know you," she said.

He lighted his cigarette, and then brought out a pocket-book. "I want to write a note to Isabel," he said. "You don't mind?"

"About me?" questioned Dinah.

"About the arrangements I am making. She is motoring to Great Mallowes in any case to catch the afternoon express."

"Oh!" said Dinah, and coloured vividly, painfully.

Scott did not see. "I can get someone at the farm to take the message," he said. "And when once you are with Isabel I shall feel easy about you."

"And—and—my—mother?" faltered Dinah.

"I shall write to her this afternoon while we are waiting for Isabel," said Scott quietly.

"What—shall you say?" whispered Dinah.

"Do you mind leaving that entirely to me?" he said.

"She will be—furious," she murmured. "She might—out of revenge come after us. What then?"

"She will certainly not do that," said Scott, "as she will not know your address. Besides, people do not remain furious, you know. They cool down, and then they are generally ashamed of themselves. Don't let us talk about your mother!"

"The de Vignes then," said Dinah, turning from the subject with relief. "Tell me what happened! Was the Colonel very angry?"

Scott's mouth twitched slightly. "Not in the least," he said.

"Not really!" Dinah looked incredulous for a moment; then: "Perhaps he thinks there is a fresh chance for Rose," she said.

"Perhaps he does," agreed Scott dryly. "In any case, he is more disposed to smile than frown, and as Eustace wasn't there to see it, it didn't greatly matter."

"Oh, poor Eustace!" she whispered. "It—was dreadful to hurt him so."

"I think he will get over it," Scott said.

"He was much—kinder—than—than I deserved," she murmured.

Scott's faint smile reappeared. "Perhaps he found it difficult to be anything else," he said.

She shook her head. "I wonder—how I came to make—such a dreadful mistake."

"It wasn't your fault," said Scott.

She looked at him quickly. "What makes you say that?"

He met her look gravely. "Because I know just how it happened," he said. "You were neither of you in earnest in the first place. I am afraid I had a hand in making Eustace propose to you. I was afraid—and so was Isabel—you would be hurt by his trifling."

"And you interfered?" breathed Dinah.

He nodded. "Yes, I told him it must be one thing or the other. I wanted you to be happy. But instead of helping you, I landed you in this mess."

Something in his tone touched her. She laid a small shy hand upon his knee. "It was—dear of you, Scott," she said very earnestly. "Thank you—ever so much—for what you did."

He put his hand on hers. "My dear, I would have given all I had to have undone it afterwards. It is very generous of you to take it like that. I have often wanted to kick myself since."

"Then you must never want to again," she said. "Do you know I'm so glad you've told me? It was so—fine of you—to do that for me. I'm sure you couldn't have wanted me for a sister-in-law even then."

"I wanted you to be happy," Scott reiterated.

She uttered a quick sigh. "Happiness isn't everything, is it?"

"Not everything, no," he said.

She grasped his hand hard. "I'm going to try to be good instead," she said. "Will you help me?"

He smiled at her somewhat sadly. "If you think my help worth having," he said.

"But of course it is," she made warm answer. "You are the strong man who helps everyone. You are—Greatheart."

He looked at her still smiling and slowly shook his head. "Now, if you don't mind," he said, "I will write my note to Isabel."



CHAPTER XXII

SPOKEN IN JEST

The afternoon was well advanced when Scott returned to Perrythorpe Court. No sounds of revelry greeted him as he entered. A blazing fire was burning in the hall, but no one was there to enjoy the warmth. The gay crowd that had clustered before the great hearth only yesterday had all dispersed. The place was empty.

"Can I get you anything, sir?" enquired the man who admitted him.

His voice was sepulchral. Scott smiled a little. "Yes, please. A whisky and soda. Where is everybody?"

"The Colonel and Miss Rose went out riding, sir, after the guests had all gone, and they have not yet returned. Her ladyship is resting in her room."

"Everyone gone but me?" questioned Scott, with a whimsical lift of the eyebrows.

The man bent his head decorously. "I believe so, sir. There was a general feeling that it would be more fitting as the marriage was not to take place as arranged. I understand, sir, that the family will shortly migrate to town."

"Really?" said Scott.

He bent over the fire, for the evening was chilly, and he was tired to the soul. The man coughed and withdrew. Again the silence fell.

A face he knew began to look up at Scott out of the leaping flames—a face that was laughing and provocative one moment, wistful and tear-stained the next.

He heaved a sigh as he followed the fleeting vision. "Will she ever be happy again?" he asked himself.

The last sight he had had of her had cut him to the heart. She had conquered her tears at last, but her smile was the saddest thing he had ever seen. It was as though her vanished childhood had suddenly looked forth at him and bidden him farewell. He felt that he would never see the child Dinah again.

The return of the servant with his drink brought him back to his immediate surroundings. He sat down in an easy-chair before the fire to mix it.

The man turned to go, but he had not reached the end of the hall when the front-door bell rang again. He went soft-footed to answer it.

Scott glanced over his shoulder as the door opened, and heard his own name.

"Is Mr. Studley here?" a man's voice asked.

"Yes, sir. Just here, sir," came the answer, and Scott rose with a weary gesture.

"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?"