He spoke with obvious effort; his hands were gripped upon the arms of his chair. The wicker creaked in the strain of his grasp, but he himself remained lying back with eyes half-closed in compulsory inaction.

Dinah also sat absolutely still. If his words amazed her, she gave no sign. Only the wistfulness about her mouth deepened as she made answer below her breath. "It—is just like you to suggest such a thing; but—it is quite impossible."

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

She bent her head, swiftly lowering her own. "Yes—thank you a million times—quite."

"Even if I promise never to make love to you?" he said, his voice half-quizzical, half-tender.

She put out a trembling hand and laid it on his arm. "Oh, Scott,—it—isn't that!"

He took the hand and held it. "My dear, don't cry!" he urged gently. "I knew you wouldn't have me really. I only thought I would just place myself completely at your disposal in case—some day—you might be willing to give me the chance to serve you in any capacity whatever. There! It is over. We are as we were—friends."

He smiled at her with the words, and after a moment stooped and lightly touched her fingers with his lips.

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

"No," she whispered.

His hand clasped hers for a second or two longer, then quietly let it go. "Don't be distressed!" he said, "I will never do it again. I am now—and always—your trusty friend."

And with that he rose in his slow way, paused to light another cigarette, smiled again upon her, and softly went indoors.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE LAST SUMMONS

There is nought in life more solemn than the waiting hush that falls before the coming of that great Change which men call Death. And it is to the watchers rather than to the passing soul itself that the wonder seems to draw most close. To stand before the veil, to know that very soon it must be lifted for the loved one to pass beyond, to wait for the glimpse of that spirit-world from which only the frail wall of mortality divides even the least spiritual, to watch as it were for the Gate of Death to open and the great Revelation to flash for one blinding moment upon the dazzled eyes that may not grasp the meaning of what they see; this is to stand for a space within the very Sanctuary of God.

The awe of it and the wonder hung night and day over the little rose-covered house on the heath above the sea where Isabel was breathing forth the last of her broken earthly life. Dinah moved in that strange atmosphere as one in a dream. She spent most of her time with Scott in a silent companionship in which no worldly thoughts seemed to have any part. The things of earth, all worry, all distress, were in abeyance, had sunk to such infinitesimal proportions that she was scarcely aware of them at all. It was as though they had climbed the steep mountain with Isabel, and not till they turned again to descend could they be aware of those things which lay so far below.

Without Scott, both doubts and fears would have been her portion, but with him all terrors fell shadow-like away before her. She hardly realized all that his presence meant to her during those days of waiting, but she leaned upon him instinctively as upon a sure support. He never failed her.

Of Eustace she saw but little. From the very first it was evident that his place was nearer to Isabel than Scott's had ever been. He did not shoulder Scott aside, but somehow as a matter of course he occupied the position that the younger brother had sought to fill for the past seven years. It was natural, it was inevitable. Dinah could have resented this superseding at the outset had she not seen how gladly Scott gave place. Later she realized that the ground on which they stood was too holy for such considerations to have any weight with either brother. They were united in the one supreme effort to make the way smooth for the sister who meant so much to them both; and during all those days of waiting Dinah never heard a harsh or impatient word upon the elder's lips. All arrogance, all hardness, seemed to have fallen away from him as he trod with them that mountain-path. Even old Biddy realized the change and relented somewhat towards him though she never wholly brought herself to look upon him as an ally.

It was on a stormy evening at the beginning of July that Dinah was sitting alone in the little creeper-grown verandah watching the wonderful greens and purples of the sea when Eustace came soft-footed through the window behind her and sat down in a chair close by, which Scott had vacated a few minutes before.

Scott had just gone to the village post-office with some letters, but she had refused to accompany him, for it was the hour when she usually sat with Isabel. She glanced at Eustace swiftly as he sat down, half-expecting a message from the sick-room. But he said nothing, merely leaning back in the wicker-chair, and fixing his eyes upon the sombre splendour of endless waters upon which hers had been resting. There was a massive look about him, as of a strong man deliberately bent to some gigantic task. A little tremor went through her as furtively she watched him. His silence, unlike the silences of Scott, was disquieting. She could never feel wholly at ease in his presence.

He turned his head towards her after a few seconds of absolute stillness, and in a moment her eyes sank. She sat in palpitating silence, as one caught in some disgraceful act.

But still he did not speak, and the painful colour flooded her face under his mute scrutiny till in sheer distress she found herself forced to take the initiative.

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

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

It seemed as if the intolerable silence were about to fall again. She cast about desperately for a means of escape. "Biddy was up and down during the night. I think I will relieve her for a little while and let her rest."

She would have risen with the words, but unexpectedly he reached forth a detaining hand. "Do you mind waiting a minute?" he said. "I will not say—or do—anything to frighten you."

He spoke with a faint smile that somehow hurt her almost unbearably. She remained as she was, leaning forward in her chair. "I—am not afraid," she murmured almost inaudibly.

His hand seemed to plead for hers, and in a moment she laid her own within it. "That's right," he said. "Dinah, will you try and treat me as if I were a friend—just for a few minutes?"

The tone of his voice—like his smile—pierced her with a poignancy that sent the quick tears to her eyes. She forced them back with all her strength.

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

"Thank you," he said. "You are kinder than I deserve. I have done nothing to win your confidence, so it is all the more generous of you to bestow it. On the strength of your generosity I am going to ask you a question which only a friend could ask. Dinah, is there any understanding of any sort—apart from friendship—between you and Scott?"

She started slightly at the question, and in a moment firmly, with a certain authority, his hand closed upon hers.

"You needn't be afraid to speak on Scott's account," he said, with that rather grim humility that seemed so foreign to his proud nature that every sign of it stabbed her afresh. "I am not such a dog in the manger as that and he knows it."

"Oh no!" Dinah said, and her words came with a rush. "But—I told you before, didn't I?—he doesn't care for me like that. He never has—never will."

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

"Because it's true!" With a species of feverish insistence she answered him. "How could I help knowing? Of course I know! Oh, please don't let us talk about it! It—it hurts me."

"I want you to bear with me," he said gently, "just for a few minutes. Dinah, what if you are making a mistake? Mistakes happen, you know. Scott is a shy sort of chap, and immensely reserved. Doesn't it occur to you that he may care for you and yet be afraid—just as you are afraid—to let you know?"

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

She spoke with her eyes upon the ground, her voice sunk very low. She felt as if she were being drawn down from the heights she desired to tread. She did not want to contemplate the problems that she knew very surely awaited her upon the lower level. She did not want to quit her sanctuary before the time.

Sir Eustace received her assurance in silence, but he kept her hand in his, and the power of his personality seemed to penetrate to the very centre of her being.

He spoke at last almost under his breath, still closely watching her downcast face. "Are you quite sure you still care for him—in that way?"

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

"No, you needn't answer," he made steady reply. "But you've nothing to be ashamed about. Stumpy's an awful ass, you know,—always has been. He's been head over heels in love with you ever since he met you. No, you needn't let that shock you. He's such a bashful knight he'll never tell you so. You'll have to do that part of it." He smiled with faint irony. "But you may take my word for it, it is so. He has thought of nothing but you and your happiness from the very beginning of things. And—unlike someone else we know—he has had the decency always to put your happiness first."

He paused. Dinah's eyes had flashed up to his, green, eager, intensely alive, and behind those eyes her soul seemed to be straining like a thing in leash. "Oh, I knew he had cared for someone," she breathed, "But it couldn't—it couldn't have been me!"

"Yes," Sir Eustace said slowly. "You and none other. You wonder if it's true—how I know. He's an awful ass, as I said before, one of the few supreme fools who never think of themselves. I knew that he was caught all right ages back in Switzerland, and—being a low hound of mean instincts—I set to work to cut him out."

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

His mouth twisted a little. "It's a funny world, Dinah," he said. "Our little game has cost us both something. I got too near the candle myself, and the scorch was pretty sharp while it lasted. Well, to get back to my story. Scott saw that I was beginning to give you indigestion, and—being as I mentioned before several sorts of a fool—he tackled me upon the subject and swore that if I didn't put an end to the game, he would put you on your guard against me, tell you in fact the precise species of rotter that I chanced to be. I was naturally annoyed by his interference. Anyone would have been. I gave him the kicking he deserved. That was low of me, wasn't it?" as she made a quick movement of shrinking. "You won't forgive me for that, or for what came after. The very next day—to spite the little beast—I proposed to you."

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

"I wish to heaven you had, my dear," Eustace spoke with a grim hint of humour. "It would have saved us both a good deal of unnecessary trouble and humiliation. However, Scott was too big a fool to tell you. There is a martyrlike sort of cussedness about him that is several degrees worse than any pride. So he let things be, still cheating himself into the belief that the arrangement was for your happiness, till, as you are aware, it turned out so manifestly otherwise that he found himself obliged once more to come to the rescue of his lady love. But his exasperating humility was such that he never suspected the real reason for your change of mind, and when I accused him of cutting me out, he was as scandalized as only a righteous man knows how to be. You can't do much with a fellow like that, you know,—a fool who won't believe the evidence of his own senses. Besides, it was not for me to enlighten him, particularly as you didn't want him to know the real state of things just then. So I left him alone. The next day—only the next day, mind you—the silent knight opened his heart; to whom, do you think? You'll be horribly furious when I tell you."

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

"Tell me!" breathed Dinah.

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

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

"Even so; to Rose. She guessed the truth, and he frankly admitted she was right, but gave her to understand that as he hadn't a chance in the world, you were never to know. I am telling you the truth, Dinah. You needn't look so incredulous. She naturally considered that he was not treating you very fairly and said so. But—" he raised his shoulders slightly—"you know Scott. Mules can't compete with him when he has made up his mind to a thing. He gracefully put an end to the discussion and doubtless he has buried the whole subject in a neat little corner of his heart where no one can ever tumble over it, and resigned himself to a lonely old age. Now, Dinah, I am going to give you the soundest piece of advice I have ever given anyone. If you are wise, you will dig it up before the moss grows, bring it into the air and call it back to life. It is the greatest desire of Isabel's heart to see you two happy together. She told me so only to-day. And I am beginning to think that I wish it too."

His look was wholly kind as he uttered the last words. He held her hand in the close grip of a friend.

"Don't let that insane humility of his be his ruin!" he urged. "He's a fool. I've always said so. But his foolishness is the sort that attacks only the great. Once let him know you care, and he'll be falling over himself to propose."

"Oh, don't!" Dinah begged, and her voice sounded chill and yet somehow piteous. "I couldn't—ever—marry him. I told him so—only the other day."

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

Dinah was not looking at him any longer. She sat rather huddled in her chair, as if a cold wind had caught her.

"Yes," she said in the same small, uneven voice. "He proposed. He didn't make love to me. In fact he—promised that he never would. But he thought—yes, that was it—he thought that presently I should be lonely, and he wanted me to know that he was willing to protect me."

"What a fool!" Eustace said. "And so you refused him! I don't wonder. I should have pitched something at him if I'd been you."

"Oh no! That wasn't why I refused. I had another reason." Dinah's head was bent low; he saw the hot colour she sought to hide. "I didn't know he cared," she whispered. "But even if—if I had known, I couldn't have said Yes. I never can say Yes now."

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

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

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

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

"That is absurd," he said, with brief decision. "What is the reason? Out with it—quick, like a good child! If you could marry me, you can marry him."

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

"It's something that's cropped up lately, is it?" He bent towards her, watching her keenly. "It can't be so very terrible."

"It is," she told him in distress.

He was silent a moment; then very suddenly he moved, put his arm around her, drew her close. "What is it, my elf? Tell me!" he whispered.

She hid her face against him with a little sob. It was odd, but at that moment she felt no fear of the man. He, whose fiery caresses had once appalled her, had by some means unknown possessed himself of her confidence so that she could not keep him at a distance. She did not even wish to do so.

After a few seconds, quiveringly she began to speak. "I don't know how to tell you. It's an awful thing to tell. You know, I—I've never been happy at home. My mother never liked me,—was often cruel to me." She shuddered suddenly and violently. "I never knew why—till that awful night—the last time I saw her. And then—and then she told me." She drew a little closer to him like a frightened child.

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

Desperately she forced herself to continue. "I don't belong to—to my father—at all; only—only—to her."

"What?" he said.

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

"Your mother herself told you that?" Sir Eustace's voice was very low, but there was in it a danger-note that made her quail.

Someone was coming along the garden-path, but neither of them heard. Dinah was crying with piteous, long-drawn sobs. The telling of that tragic secret had wrung her very soul.

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

His hand was on her head. "My child, I am not angry with you," he said. "You were not to blame. There, dear! There! Don't cry! Isabel will be distressed if she finds out. We mustn't let her know of this."

"Or Scott either!" She lifted her face appealingly. "Eustace, please—please—you won't tell Scott? I—I couldn't bear him to know."

He looked into her beseeching eyes, and his own softened. "It may be he will have to know some day," he said. "But—not yet."

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

Abruptly Eustace became aware of them. He looked up sharply. "You had better go, dear," he whispered to the girl in his arms. "Isabel may be wanting you at any time. We must think of her first now. Run in quickly and dry your eyes before anyone sees! Come along!"

He rose, supporting her, turned her towards the window, and gently but urgently pushed her within.

She went swiftly, enough as he released her, went with her hands over her face and not a backward glance. And Eustace wheeled back with a movement that was almost fierce and met his brother as he set foot upon the verandah.

Scott's face was pale as death, and there was that in his eyes that could not be ignored. Eustace answered it on the instant, briefly, with a restraint that obviously cost him an effort. "It's all right, Dinah is a bit upset this evening. But she will be all right directly if we leave her alone."

Scott did not so much as pause. "Let me pass!" he said.

His voice was perfectly quiet, but the command of it was such that Eustace, taken unawares, gave ground as it were instinctively. But the next moment impulsively he caught Scott's arm.

"I say,—Stumpy!" An odd embarrassment possessed him; he shook it off half-angrily. "You needn't go making mistakes—jumping to idiotic conclusions. I'm not cutting you out this time."

Scott looked at him. His light eyes held contempt. "Oh, I know that," he said, and there was in his slow voice a note of bitter humour that cut like a whip. "You are never in earnest. You were always the sort to make sport for yourself out of suffering, and then to toss the dregs of your amusement to those who are not—sportsmen."

Eustace was as white as he was himself. He held him in a grip of iron. "What the—devil do you mean?" he said, his voice husky with the strong effort he made to control it.

The younger brother was absolutely controlled, but his eyes shone like a dazzling white flame. "Ask yourself that question!" he said, and his words, though low, had a burning quality, almost as if some force apart from the man himself inspired them. "You know the answer as well as I do. You have studied the damnable game so long, offered so many victims upon the altar of your accursed sport. There is nothing to prevent your going on with it. You will go on no doubt till you tire of the chase. And then your turn will come. You will find yourself alone among the ruins, and you will pay the price. You may repent then—but repentance sometimes comes too late."

He was gone with the words, gone as if an inner force compelled, shaking off the hand that had detained him, and passing scatheless within.

He went up the stairs as calmly as if he had entered the house without interruption. Someone was sobbing piteously behind a closed door, but he did not turn in that direction. He moved straight to the door of Isabel's room, as if a voice had called him.

And on the threshold Biddy met him, her black eyes darkly mysterious, her wrinkled face drawn with awe rather than grief.

"Ah, Master Scott, and is it yourself?" she whispered. "I was coming to fetch ye—coming to tell ye. It's the call; she's had her last summons. Faith, and I almost heard it meself. She'll be gone by morning, the blessed lamb. There'll be no holding her after this."

Scott passed her by without a word. He went straight to his sister's bedside.

She was lying with her face turned up to the evening sky, but on the instant her eyes met his, and in them was that look of a great expectation which many term the Shadow of Death.

"Oh, Stumpy, is it you?" she said. Her breathing was quick and irregular, but it did not seem to hurt her. "I've had—such a wonderful—dream. Or could it have been—a vision?"

He bent and took her hand in his. His eyes were infinitely tender. All the passion had been wiped out of his face.

"It may have been a vision, dear," he said.

Her look brightened; she smiled. "He was here—in this room—with me," she said. "He was standing there—at the foot of the bed. And—and—I held out my arms to him. Oh, Stumpy, I almost thought—I was going with him then. But—I think he heard you coming, for he laughed and drew back. 'We shall meet in the morning,' he said. And while I was still looking, he was gone."

She began to pant. He stooped and raised her. She clung to him with all her waning strength. "Stumpy! Stumpy! You will help me—through the night?"

"My darling, yes," he said.

She clung to him still. "It won't be—good-bye," she urged softly. "You will be coming too—very soon."

"God grant it!" he said, under his breath.

Her look dwelt upon him. Again faintly she smiled. "Ah, Stumpy," she said, "but you are going to be very happy first, my dear,—my dear."



CHAPTER XXVII

THE MOUNTAIN-TOP

The night fell like a black veil, starless and still. Up in Isabel's room the watchers came and went, dividing the hours. Only the nurse and old Biddy remained always at their posts, the one seated near one of the wide-flung windows, the other crouched on an ottoman at the foot of the bed, her beady eyes perpetually fixed upon the white, motionless face upon the pillow.

Only by the irregular and sometimes difficult breathing did they know that Isabel still lived, for she gave no sign of consciousness, uttered no word, made no voluntary movement of any sort. Like those who watched about her, she seemed to be waiting, waiting for the amazing revelation of the Dawn.

They had propped her high with pillows; her pale hands lay outside the coverlet. Her eyes were closed. She did not seem to notice who came or went.

"She may slip away without waking," the nurse whispered once to Dinah who had crept to her side. "Or she may be conscious just at the last. There is no telling."

Dinah did not think that she was asleep, but yet during all her vigil the white lids had not stirred, no spark of vitality had touched the marble face. She was possessed by a great longing to speak to her, to call her out of that trance-like silence; but she did not dare. She was as one bound by a spell. The great stillness was too holy to break. All her own troubles were sunk in oblivion. She felt as if she moved in a shadow-world where no troubles could penetrate, where no voice was ever lifted above a whisper.

As she crept from the room, she met Eustace entering. He looked gaunt and haggard in the dim light. Nothing seemed natural on that night of waiting.

He paused a moment, touched her shoulder. "Go and rest, child!" he muttered. "I will call you if she wakes."

She sent him a faint smile and flitted by him into the passage. How could she rest on a night like this, with the vague whisperings of the spirit-world all about her? Besides, in another hour the darkness would be over—the Dawn would come! Not for all the world would she miss that wonderful coming of a new day—the day which Isabel was awaiting in that dumb passivity of unquestioning patience. They had come so far up the mountain-track together; she must be with her when the morning found them on the summit.

But it was Eustace's turn to watch, and she moved towards her own room, through the open windows of which the vague murmur and splash of the sleeping sea drifted like the accompaniment of far-off music—undreamed-of Alleluias.

The dim glow of a lamp lay across her path, like a barrier staying her feet. Almost involuntarily she paused before a half-open door. It was as though some unseen force compelled her. And, so pausing, there came to her a sound that gripped her like a hand upon her heart—it was the broken whispering of a man in an agony of prayer.

It was not by her own desire that she stood to listen. The anguish of that voice held her, so that she was powerless to move.

"O God! O God!" The words pierced her with their entreaty; it was a cry from the very depths. "The mistake was mine. Let me bear the consequences! But save her—O save her—from further suffering!" A momentary silence, and then, more desperately still: "O God—if Thou art anywhere—hear—and help! Let me bear whatever Thou wilt! But spare her—spare her! She has borne so much!"

A terrible sob choked the gasping utterance. There fell a silence so tense, so poignant with pain, that the girl upon the threshold trembled as one physically afraid. Yet she could not turn and flee. She felt as if it were laid upon her to stand and witness this awful struggle of a soul in torment. But that it should be Scott—the wise, the confident, the unafraid—passing alone through this place of desolation, sent the blood to her heart in a great wave of consternation. If Scott failed—if the sword of Greatheart were broken—it seemed to her that nothing could be left in all the world, as if even the coming Dawn must be buried in darkness.

Was it for Isabel he was praying thus? She supposed it must be, though she had felt all through this night of waiting that no prayer was needed. Isabel was so near the mountain-top that surely she was safe—nearer already to God than any of their prayers could bring her.

And yet Scott was wrestling here as one overwhelmed with evil. Wherefore? Wherefore? The steady faith of this good friend of hers had never to her knowledge flickered before. What had happened to shake him thus?

He was praying again, more coherently but in words so low that they were scarcely audible. She crept a little nearer, and now she could see him, kneeling at the table, his head sunk upon it, his arms flung wide with clenched fists that seemed impotently to beat the air.

"I'm praying all wrong," he whispered. "Forgive me, but I'm all in the dark to-night. Thou knowest, Lord, how awful the dark can be. I'm not asking for an answer. Only guide our feet! Deliver us from evil—deliver her—O God—deliver my Dinah—by that love which is of Thee and which nothing will ever alter! If I may not help her, give me strength—to stand aside!"

A great shiver went through him; he gripped his hands together suddenly and passionately.

"O my God," he groaned, "it's the hardest thing on earth—to stand and do nothing—when I love her so."

Something seemed to give way within him with the words. His shoulders shook convulsively. He buried his face in his arms.

And in that moment the power that had stayed Dinah upon the threshold suddenly urged her forward.

Almost before she realized it, she was there at his side, stooping over him, holding him—holding him fast in a clasp that was free from any hesitation or fear, a clasp in which all her pulsing womanhood rushed forth to him, exulting, glorying in its self-betrayal.

"My dear! Oh, my dear!" she said. "Are you praying for me?"

"Dinah!" he said.

Just her name, no more; but spoken in a tone that thrilled her through and through! He leaned against her for a few moments, almost as if he feared to move. Then, as one gathering strength, he uttered a great sigh and slowly got to his feet.

"You mustn't bother about me," he said, and the sudden rapture had all gone out of his voice; it had the flatness of utter weariness. "I shall be all right."

But Dinah's hands yet clung to his shoulders. Those moments of yielding had revealed to her more than any subsequent word or action could belie. Her eyes, shining with a great light, looked straight into his.

"Dear Scott! Dear Greatheart!" she said, and her voice trembled over the tender utterance of the name. "Are you in trouble? Can't I help?"

He took her face between his hands, looking straight back into the shining eyes. "You are the trouble, Dinah," he told her simply. "And I'd give all I have—I'd give my soul—to make life easier for you."

She leaned towards him, and suddenly those shining eyes were blurred with a glimmer of tears. "Life is dreadfully difficult," she said. "But you have never done anything but help me. And, oh, Scott, I—don't know if I ought to tell you—forgive me if it's wrong—but—but I feel I must—" her breath came so quickly that she could hardly utter the words—"I love you—I love you—better than anyone else in the world!"

"Dinah!" he said, as one incredulous.

"It's true!" she panted. "It's true! Eustace knows it—has known it almost as long as I have. It isn't the only thing I have to tell you, but it's the first—and biggest. And even though—even though—I shall never be anything more to you than I am now—I'm glad—I'm proud—for you to know. There's nothing else that counts in the same way. And though—though I refused you the other day—I wanted you—dreadfully, dreadfully. If—if I had only been good enough for you—But—but—I'm not!" She broke off, battling with herself.

He was still holding her face between his hands, and there was something of insistence, something that even bordered upon ruthlessness, in his hold. Though the tears were running down her face, he would not let her go.

"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he said, his voice very low. "Or—must I ask Eustace?"

She started. There was that in his tone that made her wince inexplicably. "Oh no," she said, "no! I'll tell you myself—if—if you must know."

"I am afraid I must," he said, and for all their resolution, the words had a sound of deadly weariness. He let her go slowly as he uttered them. "Sit down!" he said gently. "And please don't tremble! There is nothing to make you afraid."

She dropped into the chair he indicated, and made a desperate effort to calm herself. He stood beside her with the absolute patience of one accustomed to long waiting.

After a few moments, she put up a quivering hand, seeking his. He took it instantly, and as his fingers closed firmly upon her own, she found courage.

"I didn't want you to know," she whispered. "But I—I see now—it's better that you should. There's no other way—of making you understand. It's just this—just this!" She swallowed hard, striving to control the piteous trembling of her voice. "I am—one of those people—that—that never ought to have been born. I don't belong—anywhere—except to—my mother who—who—who has no use for me,—hated me before ever I came into the world. You see, she—married because—because—another man—my real father—had played her false. Oh, do you wonder—do you wonder—" she bowed her forehead upon his hand with a rush of tears—"that—that when I knew—I—I felt as if—I couldn't—go on with life?"

Her weeping was piteous; it shook her from head to foot.

But—in the very midst of her distress—there came to her a wonder so great that it checked her tears at the height of their flow. For very suddenly it dawned upon her that Scott—Scott, her knight of the golden armour—was kneeling at her feet.

Half in wonder and half in awe, she lifted her head and looked at him. And in that moment he took her two hands and kissed them, tenderly, reverently, lingeringly.

"Was this what you and Eustace were talking about this afternoon?" he said.

She nodded. "I had to tell him—why—I couldn't marry you. He—he had been—so kind."

"But, my own Dinah," he said, and in his voice was a quiver half-quizzical yet strangely charged with emotion, "did you ever seriously imagine that I should allow a sordid little detail like that to come between us? Surely Eustace knew better than that!"

She heard him in amazement, scarcely believing that she heard. "Do you—can you mean—" she faltered, "that—it really—doesn't count?"

"I mean that it is less than nothing to me," he made answer, and in his eyes as they looked into hers was that glory of worship that she had once seen in a dream. "I mean, my darling, that since you want me as I want you, nothing—nothing in the world—can ever come between us any more. Oh, my dear, my dear, I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I knew I ought to," she murmured, still hardly believing. "And yet—somehow—I couldn't bear the thought of your knowing,—particularly as—as—till Eustace told me—I never dreamed you—cared. You are so—great. You ought to have someone so much—better than I. I'm not nearly good enough—not nearly."

He was drawing her to him, and she went with a little sob into his arms; but she turned her face away over his shoulder, avoiding his.

"I ought not—to have told you—I loved you," she said brokenly. "It wasn't right of me. Only—when I saw you so unhappy—I couldn't—somehow—keep it in any longer. Dear Scott, don't you think—before—before we go any further—you had better—forget it and—give me up?"

"No, I don't think so." Scott spoke very softly, with the utmost tenderness, into her ear. "Don't you realize," he said, "that we belong to each other? Could there possibly be anyone else for either you or me?"

She did not answer him; only she clung a little closer. And, after a moment, as she felt the drawing of his hold, "Don't kiss me—-yet!" she begged him tremulously. "Let us wait till—the morning!"

His arms relaxed, "It is very near the morning now," he said. "Shall we go and watch for it?"

They rose together. Dinah's eyes sought his for one shy, fleeting second, falling instantly as if half-dazzled, half-afraid. He took her hand and led her quietly from the room.

It was no longer dark in the passage outside. A pearly light was growing. The splash of the sea sounded very far below them, as the dim surging of a world unseen might rise to the watchers on the mountain-top.

They moved to an open window at the end of the passage. No sound came from Isabel's room close by, and after a few seconds Scott turned noiselessly aside and entered.

Dinah remained at the open window waiting with a throbbing heart in the great silence that wrapped the world. She was not afraid, but she longed for Scott to come back; she was conscious of an urgent need of him.

Several moments passed, and then softly he returned. "No change!" he whispered. "Eustace will call us—when it comes."

She slipped her hand back into his, without speaking. He made her sit upon the window-seat, and knelt himself upon it, his arm about her shoulders, his fingers clasping hers.

She could see his face but vaguely in the dimness, but many times during that holy hour before the dawn, though he spoke no word, she felt that he was praying or giving thanks.

Slowly the twilight turned into a velvet dusk. The great Change was drawing near. The silence lay like a thinning veil of mist upon the mountain-top. The clouds were parting in the East, all tinged with gold, like burnished gates flung back for the royal coming of the sun-god. The stillness that lay upon all the waiting earth was sacred as the hush of prayer.

Their faces were turned towards the spreading glow. It shone upon them as it shone upon all beside, widening, intensifying, till the whole earth lay wrapped in solemn splendour—and then at last, through the open gates, red, royal, triumphant, the sun-god came.

There came a moment in which all things were touched with the glory, all things were made new. And in that moment, sudden as a flash of light, a bird of pure white plumage appeared before their eyes, hovered an instant; then flew, mounting on wide, gleaming wings, straight into the dawn....

Even while they watched, it vanished through the gates of gold. And only the gracious sunshine of a new day remained....

A low voice spoke from the chamber of Death. They turned from the vision and saw Eustace standing in the doorway.

He was very white, but absolutely calm. There was a nobility about him at that moment that sent a queer little throb to Dinah's heart. He held out his hand, not to her, but to Scott. "She is gone," he said.

Scott went to him; she saw their hands meet. There was no agitation about either of them.

"In her sleep?" Scott said.

"Yes. We didn't even know—till it was over."

They turned into the room, still hand grasping hand.

And Dinah knelt up and stretched out her arms to the shining morning sky. Something within her was whispering that she and Scott had seen more of the passing of Isabel than any of those who had watched beside her bed. And in the quiet of that wonderful morning, she offered her quivering thanks to God.



CHAPTER XXVIII

CONSOLATION

Of the long hours that followed that wonderful dawning Dinah never had any very distinct recollection. Even Scott seemed to forget her for a while, and it was old Biddy who presently found her curled up on the window-seat with her head upon the sill asleep—Biddy with her eyes very bright and alert, albeit deeply rimmed with red.

She came to the childish, drooping figure, murmuring tender words. She put wiry arms about her and lifted her to her feet.

"There! Come to your own room and rest, my lamb!" she said. "Old Biddy'll take care of ye, aroon."

Dinah submitted with the vague docility of a brain but half-awakened. To be cared for and petted by Biddy was no new thing in her experience. She even felt as if the old crystal Alpine days had returned, as Biddy undressed her and presently tucked her into bed. Later, still in semi-consciousness, she drank the hot milk that the old woman brought her, and then sank into a deep, deep sleep.

She awakened from that sleep with a sense of well-being such as she had never known before, a feeling of complete security and rest. The house was very quiet, and through the curtained window there came to her the soft, slumberous splash of the waves.

She lay very still, listening to the soothing murmur, gradually focusing her mind again after its long oblivion. The memory of the previous night and of the coming of the dawn came back to her, and with it the thought of Isabel; but without grief and without regret. They had left her on the mountain-top, and she knew that all must be well.

A great peace seemed to have fallen like a veil upon the whole house. Surely no one could be mourning over that glad release! She saw again the flashing of those free wings in the dawn-light, and her heart thrilled afresh. She remembered too the close, strong clasp of Scott's hand as he had watched with her.

Where was Scott now? The wonder darted suddenly through her brain, and with it, swift as a flying cloud-shadow, came the want of him, the longing for the quiet voice, the quivering delight of his near presence. She half-raised herself, and then, caught by another thought, sank down again to hide her burning face in the pillow. It would be a little difficult to meet him again. On the old easy terms of friendship it could not be, and they had hardly begun to be lovers yet. He—had not even—kissed her!

Another thought came to her—of an even more disturbing nature. Save for old Biddy and the nurse, she was alone with the two brothers now. Would they—would they insist upon sending her home until—until Scott was ready to come and take her away? Oh, surely—surely Scott would never ask that of her!

Nevertheless the thought tormented her. She did not see any way out of the difficulty, and she was terribly afraid that Scott would be equally at a loss.

"I don't think I could bear it," she whispered to herself. "And yet—if he says so—if he says so—I suppose I must. I couldn't refuse—if he said so."

The soft opening of the door recalled her to the immediate present. She saw old Biddy's face with its watchful, guardian look peep stealthily in upon her.

"Ah, mavourneen!" she whispered fondly, coming forward. "And is it awake ye are? I've peeped round at ye this five times, and ye were sleeping like a new-born babe. Lie still, darlint, while I fetch ye a cup o' tay then!"

She was gone with the words, but in a very little she was back again with her own especial brew. She set her tray down by Dinah's side, but Dinah did not even look at it. She raised herself instead, and threw warm arms around the old woman's neck. "Oh, Biddy," she said, "Biddy, darling, I can't think what ever I'd do without you!"

Biddy uttered a sharp sob, and gathered her close. But in a moment, half-angrily, "And what is it that I'd be crying for at all?" she said. "Isn't my dear Miss Isabel safer with the Almighty than ever she was with me? Isn't she gone to the blessed saints in Paradise? And would I have her back? No, no! I'm not that selfish, Miss Dinah. I'm an old woman moreover, and be the same token me own time can't be so far off now."

But Dinah clung faster to her. "Please, Biddy, please—don't talk like that! I want you," she said.

"Ah, bless the dear lamb!" said Biddy, and tenderly kissed the upturned, pleading face. "Miss Isabel said ye would now. But when ye've got Master Scott to take care of ye, it's not old Biddy that ye'll be wanting any longer."

"I shall," Dinah vowed. "I shall. I shall always want my Biddy."

"And may the Lord Almighty bless ye for the word!" said Biddy.

When Dinah was dressed, a great shyness fell upon her, born partly of the still mystery of the presence of Death that wrapped the little house. She stood by the window of her room, looking forth, irresolute, over the evening sea.

The blinds were drawn only in the room of Death, for Scott had so decreed, and the air blew in sweet and fresh from the rippling water.

After a few minutes, Biddy came softly up behind her. "And is it himself ye're looking for, mavourneen?" she murmured at Dinah's shoulder.

Dinah started a little and flushed. She wondered if Biddy knew all or only guessed. "I don't know—what to do," she said rather confusedly.

Biddy gave her a quick, wise look. "Will I tell ye a secret, Miss Dinah dear?" she whispered.

Dinah looked at her. The old woman's face was full of shrewd understanding. "Yes, tell me!" she said somewhat breathlessly.

Biddy's brown hand grasped her arm. "Master Scott went to town this morning," she said. "He'll be back any minute now. Sir Eustace is downstairs. He wants to see ye—to tell ye something—before Master Scott gets back."

"Oh, what—what?" gasped Dinah.

"There, now, there! Don't ye be afraid!" said Biddy, her beady eyes softening. "It's something ye'll like. Master Scott—he's not the gentleman to make ye do anything ye don't want to do. Don't ye trust him, Miss Dinah?"

"Of course—of course," Dinah said, with trembling lips.

"Then ye've nothing to be afraid of," said Biddy wisely. "Faith, it's only the marriage-licence he's been to fetch!"

"Oh—Biddy!" Dinah wheeled from the window, with both her hands over her heart.

Biddy nodded with grave triumph. "It was Sir Eustace made him go. Master Scott—he didn't think it would be dacent, not at first. But, as Sir Eustace said, there's more ways than one of being ondacent, and after all it was the dearest wish of Miss Isabel's heart. 'Don't you be a conventional fool!' he said. And for once I agreed with him," said Biddy naively, "though I think he needn't have used bad language over it."

"Oh—Biddy!" Dinah said again, and then very oddly she began to smile, and the tension went out of her attitude. She kissed the wrinkled cheek, and turned. "I think perhaps I will go down and speak to Sir Eustace," she said.

She went quickly, aware that if she suffered herself to pause, that overpowering shyness would seize upon her again.

Guided by the scent of cigarette-smoke, she entered the dining-room. Sir Eustace was seated at a writing-table near the window. He looked up swiftly at her entrance.

"Awake at last!" he said, and would have risen with the words, but she reached him first and checked him.

"Eustace! Oh, Eustace!" she said. "I—I—Biddy has just told me—"

He frowned, as she stopped in confusion, steadying herself rather piteously against his shoulder. But in a moment, seeing her agitation, he put a kindly arm around her.

"Biddy is an old fool—always was. Don't take any notice of her! What a ferment you're in, child! What's the matter? There, sit down!"

He drew her down on to the arm of his chair, and she leaned against him, striving for self-control.

"You—you are so—so much too good," she murmured.

He smiled rather grimly. "No one ever accused me of that before! Was that the staggering piece of information that Biddy has imparted to you?"

"No," she said, a fleeting smile upon her awn face. "It was—it was—about Scott. It took my breath away,—that's all."

"That all?" said Eustace with a faintly wry lift of one eyebrow.

She slipped a shy arm around his neck. "Eustace, do you—do you think I—ought to let Scott marry me?"

"I'm quite sure you'll break his heart if you don't," responded Eustace.

"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she said quickly.

"No. I shouldn't if I were you. It isn't a very amusing game for anyone concerned." Sir Eustace took up his pen with his free hand. "He's rather a good chap, you know," he said, "beastly good sometimes. He'll take a little living up to. But you'll manage that, I daresay. When he told me how things stood between you, I saw directly that there was only one thing to be done, and I made him do it. The idea is to get you married before the nurse goes, and she is off to-morrow." He paused, looking at her critically, and again half-cynically, half-sadly, smiled. "You took that well," he said. "If it had been to me, you'd have jumped sky-high. You're a wise little creature, Dinah. You've chosen the best man, and you'll never be sorry. I congratulate you on your choice."

He turned his face fully to her, and she stooped swiftly and kissed him. "I'm—dreadfully sorry I—treated you so badly first," she whispered.

"You needn't be," he said. "It did me good. You showed me myself from a point of view that I had never taken before. You taught me to be human. I told Isabel so. She—poor girl—" he stopped a second, and she saw that momentarily he was moved; but he continued almost at once—"she was grateful to you too," he said. "You removed the outer crust at a single stroke—just in time to prevent atrophy. Of course," he glanced down at the letter under his hand, "it was a more or less painful process, but it may comfort you to know that it didn't go quite so deep with me as I thought it had at the time. There's no sense in crying over spilt milk anyhow. I never was that sort of ass. You may—or may not—be pleased to hear that I am already well on the way to consolation." He lifted his eyes suddenly with an expression in them that completely baffled her. It was almost as if he had detached himself for the moment from all participation in his own doings, contemplating them with a half-pathetic irony. "Shall I tell you what I was doing when you came in just now?" he said. "I was writing to the girl you nearly sacrificed your happiness to cut out."

"Rose de Vigne?" she said quickly.

He nodded. "Yes, Rose de Vigne" He paused for a second, just a second; then: "The girl I am going to marry," he said quietly.

"Oh, Eustace!" There was no mistaking the gladness in Dinah's tone. "I am pleased!" she said earnestly. "I know you will be happy together. You were simply made for each other."

He smiled, still in that strange, half-rueful fashion. "I am doing the best I can under the circumstances. It is kind of you to be pleased. But now once more to your affairs. They are more pressing than mine just now. It may interest you to know that Scott—although under Isabel's will he is made absolutely independent of me—is willing to live at the Dower House, if that arrangement meets with your approval."

"Of course—I shall love it," Dinah said.

"I am glad of that, for it will be a great help to me to have him there. You will be able to have Billy to stay with you in the holidays and roam about as you like. Scott is making all sorts of plans. I am going to settle the place on him as a wedding-present."

"Oh, Eustace! How kind! What a lovely gift!"

Sir Eustace smiled at her. "I am giving him more than that, Dinah. I am giving him his wife and—the wedding-ring." The irony was uppermost again, but it held no sting. "It will fit no other hand but yours, and it will serve to keep you in constant remembrance of your good luck. I can hear him coming up the path. Aren't you going to meet him?"

She sprang up like a startled fawn. "Oh, I can't—I can't meet him yet," she said desperately.

There was a curious glint in Eustace's eyes as he watched her, a flash of mockery that came and went.

"What?" he said. "Do you want me to help you to run away from him now?"

She looked at him quickly, and in a moment her hesitation was gone.

"Oh, no!" she said. "No!" and with a little breathless sound that might have been a tremor of laughter, she fled away from him out into the evening sunshine to meet her lover.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN

They were married in the early morning at the little old church that had nestled for centuries among its trees in the village on the cliff. The absolute simplicity of the service deprived it of all terrors for Dinah. Standing with Scott in the glow of sunlight that smote full upon them through the mellow east window, she could not feel afraid. The whole world was so bright, so full of joy.

"Do you think Isabel can see us now?" she whispered to him, as they rose together from kneeling before the altar.

He did not answer her in words, but his pale eyes were shining with that steadfast light of the spirit which she had come to know. She wished she could have knelt there by his side a little longer. They seemed to be so near to the Gates of Heaven.

But they were not alone, and they could not linger. Sir Eustace who had given her away, Biddy who had tenderly supported her, the nurse who carried the fragrant bouquet of honeysuckle—the bond of love—which she had herself gathered for the bride, all were waiting to draw them back to earth again; and with Scott's hand clasping hers she turned regretfully and left the holy place.

Later, when Sir Eustace kissed her with the careless observation that he always kissed a bride, she had a moment of burning shyness, and she would gladly have hidden her face. But Scott did not kiss her. He had not offered to do so since that wonderful moment when he had first held her against his heart. He had not attempted to make love to her, and she had not felt the need of it. Grave and practical, he had laid his plans before her, and with the supreme confidence that he had always inspired in her she had acquiesced to all.

At his desire she had refrained from entering Isabel's death-chamber. At his desire she was to leave that day for the Dower House that was to be their home. Biddy would accompany her thither. The place was ready for occupation, for by Isabel's wish the work had gone on, though both she and Scott had known that they would never share a home there. It almost seemed as if she had foreseen the fulfilment of her earnest wish. And here Dinah was to await her husband.

"I won't come to you till the funeral is over," he said to her. "I must be with Eustace. You won't be unhappy?"

No, she would not be unhappy. She had never been so near to Death before, but she was neither frightened nor dismayed. She stood in the shadow indeed, but she looked forth from it over a world of such sunshine as filled her heart with quivering gladness.

He did not want her to attend the funeral at Willowmount, would not, if he could help it, suffer her so much as to see the trappings of woe; and in this Dinah acquiesced also, comprehending fully the motive that underlay his wish. She knew that the earthly formalities, though they had to be faced, were to Scott something of the nature of a grim farce in which, while he could not escape it himself, he was determined that she should take no part. He was not mourning for Isabel. He would not pretend to mourn. Her death was to him but as the opening wide of a prison-door to one who had long lain captive, pining for liberty. He would follow the poor worn body to its grave rather with thanksgiving than with grief. And realizing so well that this was his inevitable feeling, even as in a smaller degree it had become her own, Dinah agreed without demur to his wish to spare her all the jarring details, the travesty of mourning, that could not fail to strike a false chord in her soul.

It was well for her that she had Biddy to think of. The old woman was pathetically eager to serve her. She had in fact attached herself to Dinah in a fashion that went to her heart. It was Miss Isabel's wish that she should take care of her, she told her tremulously, and Dinah, knew that it had been equally her friend's wish that she should care for Biddy.

And Biddy was very good. Probably in accordance with Scott's desire, she made a great effort to throw off all gloom, and undoubtedly her own sense of loss and bereavement was greatly lessened by the consciousness of Dinah's need of her.

"Time enough to weep later," she told herself, as she lay down in the room adjoining Dinah's on that first night in the Dower House. "She'll not be wanting old Biddy when Master Scott comes to her."

The two days that followed were very fully occupied. There were curtains and pictures to hang, furniture to be arranged, and many things to be unpacked. Dinah went to the work with zest. She did not know when Scott would come. But it would be soon, she knew it would be soon; and she thrilled to the thought. Everything must be ready for him. She wanted him to feel that it was home from the moment he crossed the threshold.

So, with Biddy's help, she went about her preparations, enlisting the old nurse's sympathies till at last she succeeded in arousing her enthusiasm also. There was certainly no time to weep.

That second day after her arrival was the day of the funeral. It was a beautiful still day of summer, and in the afternoon Dinah and Biddy sat in the garden overlooking the winding river, and read the Burial Service together. It was Dinah's suggestion, somewhat shyly proffered, and—though she knew it not—from that time forward Biddy's heart was at her feet. Whatever tears there might be yet to shed had lost all bitterness from that hour.

"I'll never be lonely so long as there's you to love, Miss Dinah darlint," Biddy murmured, when the young arms closed about her neck for a moment ere they went back to their work. "Ye've warmed and comforted me all through."

It was late in the evening when dusk was falling that there came the sound of an uneven tread on the gravel path before the Dower House.

Dinah was the first to hear it. Dinah wearing one of Biddy's voluminous aprons and mounted on a pair of steps, arranging china on a high shelf that ran round the old square hall.

The front-door was open, and the birds were singing in the gloaming. She had been listening to them while she worked, when suddenly this new sound came. Her heart gave a wild leap and stood still. She had not expected him to-night.

She sat down on the top of the steps with a swift, indescribable rush of feeling that seemed to deprive her of all her strength. She could not have said for the moment if she were glad or dismayed at the sound of that quiet footfall. But she was quite powerless to go and meet him. A great wave of shyness engulfed her, possessing her, overwhelming her.

He entered. He came straight to her. She wondered afterwards what he must have thought of her, sitting there on her perch in burning embarrassment with no word or sign of welcome. But whatever he thought, he dealt with the situation with unerring instinct.

He mounted a couple of steps with hands stretched up to hers. "Why, my Dinah!" he said. "How busy you are! Let me help!"

Her heart throbbed on again, fast and hard. But still for a few seconds she could not speak. She stooped with a soft endearing sound and laid her face upon the hands that had clasped her own.

He suffered her for a moment or two in silence; she thought his hands trembled slightly. Then: "Let's get finished, little wife!" he said gently. "Isn't the day's work nearly over? Can't we take off our sandals—and rest?"

"I have just done," she said, finding her voice. "Biddy and I have got through such a lot. Oh, Scott," as the light fell upon his face, "how tired you look!"

"It has been rather a tiring day," he made answer. "I didn't think I could get over here to-night; but Eustace insisted."

"How good of him!" she said, with quick gratitude.

"Yes, he is good," Scott's voice was tender. "I couldn't sleep last night, and he came into my room, and we had a long talk. He is one of the best, Dinah; one of the best. I'm afraid you've made—rather a poor exchange."

Something in his tone banished the last of Dinah's shyness. She gave him her basket of china and prepared to descend. He stretched up a courteous hand to help her, but she would have none of it. "You are never to say that—or anything like it—again," she said severely. "If—if you weren't so dreadfully tired, I believe I'd be really angry. As it is—" she reached the ground and stood there before him, a small, purposeful figure clad in the great apron that wrapped about her like a garment.

"As it is—" he suggested meekly, setting the basket on a chair and turning back to face her.

Two quivering hands came out to him in the gloaming, and fastened resolutely on his coat. "Oh, Greatheart," whispered a tremulous voice, "I love you so much—so much—I want—to kiss you!"

"My darling," answered Greatheart softly, "you can't want it—more than I do."

His arms closed about her; he drew her to his breast.

* * * * *

"Arrah thin, what would I cry for at all?" said Biddy, as she lay down that night. "I've got herself and Master Scott to care for, and maybe—some day—the Almighty will remember old Biddy for good, and give another little one into her care."

* * * * *

"And you left them quite happy?" smiled Rose to her lover two days later. "It's a very suitable arrangement, isn't it? I always used to think that Dinah and your brother should make a match."

"Oh, quite suitable," agreed Eustace lazily, an odd blend of irony and satisfaction in his tone. "They will be happy enough. Stumpy, you know, is just the sort of chivalrous ass that a child like Dinah can appreciate. They'll probably live in the seventh heaven, and fancy that no one else has ever been within a million miles of it."

"Poor little Dinah!" murmured Rose. "She will never know what she has missed."

And, "Just as well perhaps," said Sir Eustace, with his faintly cynical smile.