"That was my brother's idea. Since we brought her home she has never been away, except once on the yacht; and then she was so miserable that we were afraid to keep her there. But he thought a thorough change—mountain air—might do her good. The doctor was not against it. So we came."
"And do you never leave her?" questioned Dinah.
"Practically never. Ever since that awful time in India she has been very dependent upon me. Biddy of course is quite indispensable to her. And I am nearly so."
"You have given yourself up to her in fact?" Quick admiration was inDinah's tone.
He smiled. "It didn't mean so much to me as it would have meant to some men, Miss Bathurst,—as it would have meant to Eustace, for instance. I'm not much of a man. To give up my college career and settle down at home wasn't such a great wrench. I'm not especially clever. I act as my brother's secretary, and we find it answers very well. He is a rich man, and there is a good deal of business in connection with the estate, and so on. I am a poor man. By my father's will nearly everything was left to him and to Isabel. I was something of an offence to him, being the cause of my mother's death and misshapen into the bargain."
"What a wicked shame!" broke from Dinah.
"No, no! Some people are like that. They are made so. I don't feel in the least bitter about it. He left me enough to live upon, though as a matter of fact neither he nor anyone else expected me to grow up at the time that will was made. It was solely due to Biddy's devotion, I believe, that I managed to do so." He uttered his quiet laugh. "I am talking rather much about myself. It's kind of you not to be bored."
"Bored!" echoed Dinah, with shining eyes. "I think you are simply wonderful. I hope—I hope Sir Eustace realizes it."
"I hope he does," agreed Scott with a twinkle. "He has ample opportunities for doing so. Ah, there he is! He is actually skating alone. What has become of the beautiful Miss de Vigne, I wonder."
They walked on, nearing the rink. "I'm not going to be horrid about her any more," said Dinah suddenly. "You must have thought me a perfect little cat. And so I was!"
"Oh, please!" protested Scott. "I didn't!"
She laughed. "That just shows how kind you are. It doesn't make me feel the least bit better. I was a cat. There! Oh, your brother is calling you. I think I'll go."
She blushed very deeply and quickened her steps. Sir Eustace had come to the edge of the rink.
"Stumpy!" he called. "Stumpy!"
"How dare he call you that?" said Dinah. "I can't think how you can put up with it."
Scott raised his shoulders slightly, philosophically. "Doesn't the cap fit?" he said.
"Not a bit," Dinah declared with emphasis. "I have another name for you that suits you far better."
"Oh! What is that?" he looked at her with smiling curiosity.
Dinah's blush deepened from carmine to crimson. "I call you—Mr.Greatheart," she said, her voice very low. "Because you help everybody."
A gleam of surprise crossed his face. He flushed also; but she saw that though embarrassed, he was not displeased.
He put a hand to his cap. "Thank you, Miss Bathurst," he said simply, and turned without further words to answer his brother's summons.
Dinah walked quickly on. That stroll with Scott had quite lifted her out of her depression.
"It really is very tiresome," complained Lady Grace. "I knew that child was going to be a nuisance from the very outset."
"What has she done now?" growled the Colonel.
He was lounging in the easiest chair in the room, smoking an excellent cigar, preparatory to indulging in his afternoon nap. His wife reclined upon a sofa with a French novel which she had not begun to read. Through the great windows that opened on to the balcony the sunshine streamed in a flood of golden light. Rose was seated on the balcony enjoying the warmth. Lady Grace's eyes rested upon her slim figure in its scarlet coat as she made reply.
"These people—these Studleys—won't leave her alone. Or else she runs after them. I can't quite make out which. Probably the latter. Anyhow the sister—who, I believe is what is termed slightly mental—has asked her to go to tea in their private sitting-room. I have told her she must decline."
"Quite right," said the Colonel. "What did she say?"
Lady Grace uttered a little laugh. "Oh, she was very ridiculous and high-flown, as you may imagine. But, as I told her, I am directly responsible to her mother for any friendships she may make out here, and I am not disposed to take any risks. We all know what Mrs. Bathurst can be like if she considers herself an injured party."
"A perfect she-dragon!" agreed the Colonel. "I fancy the child herself is still kept in order with the rod. Why, even Bathurst—great hulking ox—is afraid of her. Billy isn't, but then Billy apparently can do no wrong."
"She certainly loves no one else," said Lady Grace. "I never met anyone with such an absolutely vixenish and uncontrolled temper. I am sorry for Dinah. I have always pitied her, for she certainly works hard, and gets little praise for it. But at the same time, I can't let her run wild now she is off the rein for a little. It wouldn't be right. And these people are total strangers."
"I believe they are of very good family," said the Colonel. "The title is an old one, and Sir Eustace is evidently a rich man. I had the opportunity for a little talk with the brother yesterday evening. A very courteous little chap—quite unusually so. I think we may regard them as quite passable." His eyes also wandered to the graceful, lounging figure on the balcony. "At the same time I shouldn't let Dinah accept hospitality from them, anyhow at this stage. She is full young. She must be content to stay in the background—at least for the present."
"Just what I say," said Lady Grace. "Of course if the younger brother should take a fancy to her—and he certainly seems to be attracted—it might be a very excellent thing for her. Her mother can't hope to keep her as maid of all work for ever. But I can't have her pushing herself forward. I was very glad to hear you reprimand her so severely this morning."
"She deserved it," said the Colonel judicially. "But at the same time if there is any chance of what you suggest coming to pass, I have no wish to stand in the child's way. I have a fancy that she will find the bondage at home considerably more irksome after this taste of freedom. It might, as you say, be a good thing for her if the little chap did fall in love with her. Her mother can't expect much of a match for her."
"Oh, if that really happened, her mother would be charmed," said Lady Grace. "She is a queer, ill-balanced creature, and I don't believe she has ever had the smallest affection for her. She would be delighted to get her off her hands, I should say. But things mustn't move too quickly, or they may go in the wrong direction." Again her eyes sought her daughter's graceful outline. "You say Sir Eustace is rich?" she asked, after a moment.
"Extremely rich, I should say. He has his own yacht, a house in town as well as a large place in the country, and he will probably get a seat in Parliament at the next election. I'm not greatly taken with the man myself," declared Colonel de Vigne. "He is too overbearing. At the same time," again his eyes followed his wife's, "he would no doubt be a considerable catch."
"I don't mean Dinah to have Sir Eustace," said Lady Grace very decidedly. "It would be most unsuitable. Yes, what is it?" as a low knock came at the door. "Come in!"
It opened, and Dinah, looking flushed and rather uncertain, made her appearance.
"I wish you would have the consideration not to disturb us at this hour, my dear Dinah," said Lady Grace peevishly. "What is it you want now?"
"I am sorry," said Dinah meekly. "But I heard your voices, so I knew you weren't asleep. I just came in to say that Billy and I are going luging if you don't mind."
"What next?" said Lady Grace, still fretful. "Of course I don't mind so long as you don't get up to mischief."
"Dinah, come here!" said the Colonel suddenly.
Dinah, on the point of beating a swift retreat, stood still with obvious reluctance.
"Come here!" he repeated.
She went to him hesitatingly.
He reached up a hand and grasped her by the arm. "Were you eavesdropping just now?" he demanded.
Dinah started as if stung. "I—I—of course I wasn't!" she declared, with vehemence. "How can you suggest such a thing?"
"Quite sure?" said the Colonel, still holding her.
She wrenched herself from him in a sudden fury. "Colonel de Vigne, you—you insult me! I am not the sort that listens outside closed doors. How dare you? How dare you?"
She stamped her foot with the words, gazing down at him with blazing eyes.
The Colonel stiffened slightly, but he kept his temper. "If I have done you an injustice, I apologize," he said. "You may go."
And Dinah went like a whirlwind, banging the door behind her.
"Well, really!" protested Lady Grace in genuine displeasure.
Her husband smiled somewhat grimly. "A vixen's daughter, my dear! What can you expect?"
"She behaves like a fishwife's daughter," said Lady Grace. "And if she wasn't actually eavesdropping I am convinced she heard what I said."
"So am I," said the Colonel drily. "I was about to tax her with it. Hence her masterly retreat. But she was not deliberately eavesdropping or she would not have given herself away so openly. I quite agree with you, my dear. A match between her and Sir Eustace would not be suitable. And I also think Sir Eustace would be the first to see it. Anyhow, I shall take an early opportunity of letting him know that her birth is by no means a high one, and that her presence here is simply due to our kindness. At the same time, should the rather ludicrous little younger brother take it into his head to follow her up, so far as family goes he is of course too good for her, but I am sorry for the child and I shall put no obstacle in the way."
"All the same she shall not go to tea there unless Rose is invited too," said Lady Grace firmly.
"There," said the Colonel pompously, "I think that you are right."
Lady Grace simpered a little, and opened her novel. "It really wouldn't surprise me to find that she is a born fortune-hunter," she said. "I am certain the mother is avaricious."
"The mother," said Colonel de Vigne with the deliberation of one arrived at an unalterable decision, "is the most disagreeable, vulgar, and wholly objectionable person that I have ever met."
"Oh, quite," said Lady Grace. "If she were in our set, she would be altogether intolerable. But—thank heaven—she is not! Now, dear, if you don't mind, I am going to read myself to sleep. I have promised Rose to go to the ice carnival to-night, and I need a little relaxation first."
"I suppose Dinah is going?" said the Colonel.
"Oh, yes. But she is nothing of a skater." Lady Grace suddenly broke into a little laugh. "I wonder if the redoubtable Mrs. Bathurst does really beat her when she is naughty. It would be excellent treatment for her, you know."
"I haven't a doubt of it," said the Colonel. "She is absolutely under her mother's control. That great raw-boned woman would have a heavy hand too, I'll be bound."
"Oh, there is no doubt Dinah stands very much in awe of her. I never knew she had any will of her own till she came here. I always took her for the meekest little creature imaginable."
"There is a good deal more in Miss Dinah than jumps to the eye," said the Colonel. "In fact, if you ask me, I should say she is something of a dark horse. She is just beginning to feel her feet and she'll surprise us all one of these days by turning into a runaway colt."
"Not, I do hope, while she is in my charge," said Lady Grace.
"We will hope not," agreed the Colonel. "But all the same, I rather think that her mother will find her considerably less tame and tractable when she sees her again than she has ever been before. Liberty, you know, is a dangerous joy for the young."
"Then we must be more strict with her ourselves," said Lady Grace.
Dinah ran swiftly down the corridor to her own room.
As a matter of fact, she had intruded upon the Colonel and Lady Grace in the secret hope of finding a propitious moment for once again pressing her request to be allowed to accept Scott's invitation to tea. Her failure to do so added fuel to the flame, arousing in her an almost irresistible impulse to rebel openly.
The fear of consequences alone restrained her, for to be escorted home in disgrace after only a week in this Alpine paradise was more than she could face. All her life the dread of her mother's wrath had overhung Dinah like a cloud, sometimes near, sometimes distant, but always present. She had been brought up to fear her from her cradle. All through her childhood her punishments had been bitterly severe. She winced still at the bare thought of them; and she was as fully convinced as was Lady Grace that her mother had never really loved her. To come under the ban of her displeasure meant days of harsh treatment, nor, now that her childhood was over, had the discipline been relaxed. She never attempted to rebel openly. Her fear of her mother had become an integral part of herself. Her spirit shrank before her fits of violence. But for her father and Billy she sometimes thought that home would be an impossible place.
But her affection for her father was of a very intense order. Lazy, self-indulgent, supremely easy-going, yet possessed of a fascination that had held her from babyhood, such was Guy Bathurst. Despised at least outwardly by his wife and adored by his daughter, he went his indifferent way, enjoying life as he found it and quite impervious to snubs.
"I never interfere with your mother," was a very frequent sentence on his lips, and by that axiom he ruled his life, looking negligently on while Dinah was bent without mercy to the wheel of tyranny.
He was fond of Dinah,—her devotion to him made that inevitable—but he never obtruded his fondness to the point of interference on her behalf; for both of them were secretly aware that the harshness meted out to her had much of its being in a deep, unreasoning jealousy of that very selfish fondness. They kept their affection as it were for strictly private consumption, and it was that alone that made life at home tolerable to Dinah.
For upon one point her father was insistent. He would not part with her unless she married. He did not object to her working at home for his comfort, but the idea of her working elsewhere and making her living was one which he refused to consider. With rare self-assertion, he would not hear of it, and when he really asserted himself, which was seldom, his wife was wont to yield, albeit ungraciously enough, to his behest.
Besides Dinah was undoubtedly useful at home, and would certainly grow out of hand if she left her.
Not very willingly had she agreed to let her go upon this Alpine jaunt with the de Vignes, but Billy had been so keen, and the invitation would scarcely have been extended to him alone.
The whole idea had originated between the heads of the two families, riding home together after a day's hunting. Dinah had chanced to come into the conversation, and the Colonel, comparing her with that of his own daughter and being stirred to pity, had suggested that the two children might like to join them on their forthcoming expedition. Bathurst had at once accepted the tentative proposal, and had blurted forth the whole matter to his assembled family on his return with the result that Billy's instant and eager delight had made it virtually impossible for his mother to oppose the suggestion.
Dinah had been delighted too, almost deliriously so; but she had kept her pleasure to herself, not daring to show it in her mother's presence till the actual arrival of the last day. Then indeed she had lost her head, had sung and danced and made merry, till some trifling accident had provoked her mother's untempered wrath and a sound boxing of ears had quite sobered her enthusiasm. She had fared forth finally upon the adventure with tearful eyes and drooping heart, her mother's frigid kiss of farewell hurting her more poignantly than her drastic punishment of an hour before. For Dinah was intensely sensitive, keenly susceptible to rebuke and coldness, and her warm heart shrank from unkindness with a shrinking that was actual pain.
She knew that the little social world of Perrythorpe looked down upon her mother though not actually refusing to associate with her. Bathurst had married a circus-girl in his green Oxford days; so the story went,—a hard, handsome woman older than himself, and fiercely, intensely ambitious. Lack of funds had prevented her climbing very high, and bitterly she resented her failure. He had never done a day's work in his life, but, unlike his wife, he had plenty of friends. He was well-bred, a good rider, a straight shot, and an entertaining guest. He knew everyone within a radius of twenty miles, and was upon terms of easy intimacy with the de Vignes and many others who received him with pleasure, but very seldom went out of their way to encounter his wife.
Dinah shrewdly suspected that this fact accounted for much of the bitterness of her mother's outlook. Her ambition had apparently died of starvation long since, but her resentment remained. Her hand was against practically all the world, including her daughter, whose fairy-like daintiness and piquancy were so obvious a contrast to the somewhat coarse and flashy beauty that had once been hers. For all that Dinah inherited from her mother was her gipsy darkness. Mrs. Bathurst was not flashy now, and any attempt at personal adornment on Dinah's part was always very sternly repressed. She had met and writhed under the eye of scornful criticism too often, and she distrusted her own taste. She was determined that Dinah should never be subjected to the same humiliation.
She humiliated her often enough herself. It was the only means she knew of asserting her authority; for she had no intention of ever being the object of her daughter's contempt. She was harsh to the point of brutality, so that the girl's heart was wont to quicken apprehensively whenever she heard her step. She scolded, she punished, she coerced. But from an outsider, the bare thought of a snub was unendurable, and the possibility that Dinah might by any means lay herself open to one was enough to bring down the vials of wrath upon her head. Dinah remembered still with shivering vividness the whipping she had received on one occasion for demeaning herself by running after the de Vignes's carriage to deliver a message. Her mother's whippings had always been very terrible, vindictively thorough. The indignity of them lashed her soul even more cruelly than the unsparing thong her body. Because of them she went in daily trepidation, submissive almost to the point of abjectness, lest this hateful and demoralizing form of punishment should be inflicted upon her. For some time now, by great wariness and circumspection she had evaded it, and she had begun to entertain the trembling hope that she was at last considered to have passed the age for such childish correction. But her mother's outbreak of violence on the day of their departure had been a painful disillusion, and she knew well what it would mean to return home in disgrace with the de Vignes. Her cheeks burned and tingled still with the shame of the discovery. She felt that another of the old dreadful chastisements would overwhelm her utterly. And yet that she would most certainly have to endure it if she were unruly now was conviction that pressed like a cold weight upon her heart. Had not the letter she had received from her mother only that morning contained a stern injunction to her to behave herself, as though she had been a naughty, wayward child?
"It would kill me!" she told herself passionately. "Oh, why, why, why can't I grow up quick and marry? But I never shall grow up at home. That's the horrible, horrible part of it. And I shall never have a chance of marrying with mother looking on. I'm just a slave—a slave. Other girls can have a good time, do as they like, flirt when they like. But I—never—never!"
Her fit of rebellion lasted long. The emancipation from the home bondage was beginning to work within her as the Colonel had predicted. Seen from a distance, the old tyranny seemed outrageous and impossible, to go back into it monstrous. And yet, so far as she could see, there was no way of escape. She was not apparently to be allowed to make any friends outside her own sphere. The freedom she had begun to enjoy so feverishly had very suddenly been circumscribed, and if she dared to overstep the bounds marked out for her, she knew what to expect.
And yet she longed for freedom as she had never longed in her life before. She was nearly desperate with longing, so sweet had been the first, intoxicating taste thereof. For the first time she had seen life from the standpoint of the ordinary, happy girl, and the contrast to the life she knew had temporarily upset her equilibrium. Her mother's treatment, harsh before, seemed unendurable now. Her cheeks burned afresh with a fierce, intolerable shame. No, no! She could never face it again. She could not! She could not! Already her brief emancipation had begun to cost her dear. She must—she must—find a way of escape ere she went back into thraldom. For she knew her mother's strength so terribly well. It would conquer all resistance by sheer, overwhelming weight. She could not remember a single occasion upon which she had ever in the smallest degree held her own against it. Her will had been broken to her mother's so often that the very thought of prolonged resistance seemed absurd. She knew herself to be incapable of it. She was bound to crumple under the strain, bound to be humbled to the dust long ere the faintest hope of outmatching her mother's iron will had begun to dawn in her soul. The very thought made her feel puny and contemptible. If she resisted to the very uttermost of her strength, yet would she be crushed in the end, and that end would be more horribly painful than she dared to contemplate. All her childhood it had been the same. She had been conquered ere she had passed the threshold of rebellion. She had never been permitted to exercise a will of her own, and the discovery that she possessed one had been something of a surprise to Dinah.
It was partly this discovery that made her long so passionately for freedom. She wanted to grow, to develop, to get beyond the stultifying influence of that unvarying despotism. She longed to get away from the perpetual dread of consequences that so haunted her. She wanted to breathe her own atmosphere, live her own life, be herself.
"I believe I could do lots of things if I only had the chance," she murmured to herself; and then she was suddenly plunged into the memory of another occasion when she had received summary and austere punishment for omitting scales from her practising. But then no one ever liked doing what they must, and she had never had any real taste for music; or if she had had, it had vanished long since under the uninspiring goad of compulsion.
All her morning depression came back while these bitter meditations racked her brain. Oh, if only—if only—her father had chosen a lady for his wife! It was disloyal, she knew, to indulge such a thought, but her mood was black and her soul was in revolt. She was sure—quite sure—that marriage presented the only possibility of deliverance, and deliverance was beginning to seem imperative. Her whole individuality, which this past week of giddy liberty had done so much to develop, cried aloud for it.
She went to the window. Billy had grown tired of waiting and gone off without her. She fancied she could see his sturdy figure on the further slope. Her eyes took in the whole lovely scene, and suddenly, effervescently, her spirits began to rise. The inherent gaiety of her bubbled to the surface. What a waste of time to stay here grizzling while that paradise lay awaiting her! The sweetness of her nature began to assert itself once more, and an almost fevered determination to live in the present, to be happy while she could, entered into her. With impetuous energy she pushed the evil thoughts away. She would be happy. She would! She would! And happiness was not difficult to Dinah. It bubbled in her, a natural spring, that ever flowed again even after the worst storms had forced it from its course.
She even laughed to herself as she prepared to join Billy. Life was good,—oh yes, life was good! And home and the trials thereof were many miles away. Who could be unhappy for long in such a world as this, where the air sparkled like champagne, and the magic of it ran riot in the blood?
The black mood passed away from her spirit like a cloud. She threw on cap and coat and ran to join the merry-makers.
All through that afternoon Dinah and Billy played like cubs in the snow. They were very inexperienced in the art of luging, but they took their spills with much heartiness and a total disregard of dignity that made for complete enjoyment.
When the sun went down they forsook the sport, and joined in a snowballing match with a dozen or more of their fellow-visitors. But Dinah proved herself so adroit and impartial at this game that she presently became a general target, and found it advisable to retreat before she was routed. This she did with considerable skill and no small strategy, finally darting flushed and breathless into the hotel, covered with snow from head to foot, but game to the last.
"Well done!" commented a lazy voice behind her. "Now raise the drawbridge and lower the portcullis, and the honours of war are assured."
She turned with the flashing movement of a bird upon the wing, and found herself face to face with Sir Eustace.
His blue eyes met hers with deliberate nonchalance. "Sit down," he said, "while I fetch you some tea!"
Her heart gave an odd little leap that was half of pleasure and half of dread. She stammered incoherently that he must not take the trouble.
But he was evidently bent upon so doing, for he pressed her into the seat which he had just vacated. "Keep the place in the corner for me!" he commanded, and lounged away upon his errand with imperial leisureliness.
Dinah watched his tall figure out of sight. The encounter both astounded and thrilled her. She wondered if she were cheapening herself by meekly obeying his behest, wondered what Rose—that practised coquette—would have done under such circumstances; but to depart seemed so wholly out of the question that she dismissed the wonder as futile. She could only wait for the play to develop, and trust to her own particular luck, which had so favoured her the night before, to give her a cue.
He returned with tea and cake which he set before her on a little table that he had apparently secured beforehand for the purpose. "I am sure you must be ravenous," he said, in those high-bred, somewhat insolent accents of his.
"I am," Dinah admitted frankly.
"Then let me see you satisfy your hunger!" he said, seating himself in the corner he had reserved.
"Oh, but not alone!" she protested. "You—you must have some too."
He laughed. "No. I am going to smoke—with your permission. It will do me more good."
"Oh, pray do!" said Dinah, embarrassed still but strangely elated. "It makes me feel rather greedy, that's all."
"I am greedy too," he told her, his blue eyes still upon her vivid, sparkling face. "And—always with your permission—I am going to indulge my greed."
She did not understand him, but prudence restrained her from telling him so. Seated as she was he was the only person in the vestibule whom she could see, her back being turned to all beside. She wondered, again with that delightful yet half-startled thrill, if his meaning were in any way connected with this fact. He certainly absorbed the whole of her attention, if that were what he wanted. Her hunger faded completely into the background.
He lighted a cigarette and began to smoke. The space beyond them was full of moving figures and laughing voices; but the turmoil scarcely reached Dinah. An invisible barrier seemed to shut them off from all the rest. They were not merely aloof; they were alone, and a curiously intimate touch pervaded their solitude. She felt her spirit start in quivering response to the call of his, just as the night before when she had floated with him above the clouds. What was happening to her she had not the least idea, but the consciousness of his near presence pulsed magnetically through and through her. Scott's brief advice of the morning was scattered from her memory like feathers before the wind. She had no memory. She lived only in this burning splendid ardour of a moment.
She drank her tea mechanically, finding nothing enigmatic in his silence. The direct look of his blue eyes discomfited her strangely, but it was a sublime discomfiture—the discomfiture of the moth around the flame. She longed to meet it, but did not wholly dare. With veiled glances she yielded to the attraction, not yet bold enough for complete surrender.
He spoke at last, and she started.
"Well? Am I forgiven?"
The nonchalant enquiry sent the blood in another hot wave to her cheeks.Had she ever presumed to be angry with this godlike person?
"For what?" she asked, her voice very low.
He leaned towards her. "Did I only fancy that by some evil chance I had offended you?"
She kept her eyes lowered. "I thought you were the offended one," she said.
"I?" She caught the note of surprise in his voice, and it sent a very curious little sense of shame through her.
With an effort she raised her eyes. "Yes. I thought you were offended.You went by me this morning without seeing me."
His look was very intent, almost as if he were searching for something; but it did not disconcert her as she had half-expected to be disconcerted. His eyes were more caressing than dominant just then.
"What if I didn't see you because I didn't dare?" he said.
That gave her confidence. "I should think you couldn't be so silly as that," she said with decision.
He smiled a little. "Thank you,miladi. Then wasn't it—almost equally silly—your word, not mine!—of you to be afraid of me last night?"
She felt the thrust in a moment, and went white, conscious of the weak sick feeling that so often came over her at the sound of her mother's step when she was in disgrace.
He saw her distress, but he allowed several moments to elapse before he came to the rescue; Then lightly, "Pray don't let the matter disturb you!" he said. "Only—for your peace of mind—let me tell you that you really have nothing to fear. Out here we live in fairyland, and no one is in earnest. We just enjoy ourselves, and Mrs. Grundy simply doesn't exist. We are not ashamed of being frivolous, and we do whatever we like. And there are no consequences. Always remember that, Miss Bathurst! There are never any consequences in fairyland."
His eyes suddenly laughed at her, and Dinah was vastly reassured. Her dismay vanished, leaving a blithe sense of irresponsibility in its place.
"I shall remember that," she said, with her gay little nod. "I dreamt last night that we were in Olympus."
"We?" he said softly.
She nodded again, flushed and laughing, confident that she had received her cue. "And you—were Apollo."
She saw his eyes change magically, flashing into swift life, and dropped her own before the mastery that dawned there.
"And you," he questioned under his breath, "were Daphne?"
"Perhaps," she said enigmatically. After all, flirting was not such a difficult art, and since he had declared that there could be no consequences, she did not see why she should bury this new-found talent of hers.
"What a charming dream!" he commented lazily. "But you know what happened to Daphne when she ran away, don't you?"
She flung him a laughing challenge. "He didn't catch her anyway."
"True!" smiled Sir Eustace. "But have you never wondered whether it wouldn't have been more sport for her if he had? It wouldn't be very exciting, you know, to lead the life of a vegetable."
"It isn't!" declared Dinah, with abrupt sincerity.
"Oh, you know something about it, do you?" he said. "Then the modernDaphne ought to have too much sense to run away."
She laughed with a touch of wistfulness. "I wonder how she felt about it afterwards."
"I wonder," he agreed, tipping the ash off his cigarette. "It didn't matter so much to Apollo, you see. He had plenty to choose from."
Dinah's wistfulness vanished in a swift breath of indignation. "Really!" she said.
He looked at her. "Yes, really," he told her, with deliberation. "And he didn't need to run after them either. But, possibly," his gaze softened again, "possibly that was what made him want Daphne the most. Elusiveness is quite a fascinating quality if it isn't carried too far. Still—" he smiled—"I expect he got over it in the end, you know; but in her case I am not quite so sure."
"I don't suppose he did get ever it," maintained Dinah with spirit. "All the rest must have seemed very cheap afterwards."
"Perhaps he was more at home with the cheap variety," he suggested carelessly.
His eyes had wandered to the buzzing throng behind her, and she saw a glint of criticism—or was it merely easy contempt?—dispel the smile with which he had regarded her. His mouth wore a faint but unmistakable sneer.
But in a moment his look returned to her, kindled upon her. "Are you for the ice carnival to-night?" he asked.
She drew a quick, eager breath. "Oh, I do want to come! But I don't know—yet—if I shall be allowed."
"Why ask?" he questioned.
She hesitated, then ingenuously she told him her difficulty. "I got into trouble last night for dancing so late with you. And—and—I may be sent to bed early to make up for it."
He frowned. "Do you mean to say you'd go?"
She coloured vividly. "I'm only nineteen, and I have to do as I'm told."
"Heavens above!" he said. "You belong to the generation before the last evidently. No girl ever does as she is told now-a-days. It isn't the thing."
"I do," whispered Dinah, in dire confusion. "At least—generally."
"And what happens if you don't?" he queried. "Do they whip you and put you to bed?"
She clenched her hands hard. "Don't!" she said. "You're only joking, I know. But—I hate it!"
His manner changed in a moment, became half-quizzical, half-caressing. "Poor little brown elf, what a shame! Well, come if you can! I shall look out for you. I may have something to show you."
"May you? Oh, what?" cried Dinah, all eagerness in a moment.
He laughed. There was a provoking hint of mystery in his manner. "Ah!That lies in the future,miladi."
"But tell me!" she persisted.
"Will you come then?" he asked.
"Perhaps," she said. "If I can!"
"Ah! And perhaps not!" he said. "What then?"
Dinah's mouth grew suddenly firm. "I will come," she said.
"You will?" His keen eyes held hers with smiling compulsion.
"Yes, I will."
He made a gesture as if he would take her hand, but restrained himself, and paused to tip the ash once more off his cigarette.
"Now tell me!" commanded Dinah.
"I don't think I will," he said deliberately.
"But you must!" said Dinah.
His eyes sought hers again with that look which she found it impossible to meet. She bent over her cup.
"What will you show me?" she persisted. "Tell me!"
"I didn't say I would show you anything," he pointed out. "I said I might."
"Tell me what it was anyhow!" she said.
He leaned nearer to her, and suddenly it seemed to her that they were quite alone, very far removed from the rest of the world. "It may not be to-night," he murmured. "Or even to-morrow. But some day—in this land where there are no consequences—I will show you—when the fates are propitious, not before—some of the things that Daphne missed when she ran away."
He ceased to speak. Dinah's face was burning. She could not look at him. She felt as if a magic flame had wrapped her round. Her whole body was tingling, her heart wildly a-quiver. There was a rapture in that moment that was almost too intense, too poignant, to be borne.
He was the first to move. Calmly he leaned back, and resumed his cigarette. Through the aromatic smoke his voice came to her again.
"Are you angry?"
Her whole being stirred in response. She uttered a little quivering laugh that was near akin to tears.
"No—of course—no! But I—I think I ought to go and dress! It's getting late, isn't it? Thank you for giving me tea!" She rose, her movements quick and dainty as the flight of a robin. "Good-bye!" she murmured shyly.
He rose also with a sweeping bow. "A bientôt,—Daphne!" he said.
She gave him a single swift glance from under fluttering lashes, and turned away in silence.
She went up the stairs with the speed of a bird on the wing, but she could not outpace the wonder and the wild delight at her heart. As she entered her own room at length, she laughed, a breathless, rippling laugh. How amazing—and how gorgeous—was this new life!
The rink was ablaze with fairy-lights under the starry sky. Rose de Vigne, exquisitely fair in ruby velvet and ermine furs paused on the verandah, looking pensively forth.
Very beautiful she looked standing there, and Captain Brent of the Sappers striding forth with his skates jingling in his hand stopped as one compelled.
"Are you waiting for someone, Miss de Vigne? Or may I escort you?"
She looked at him with a faint smile as if in pity for his disappointment. "Too late, I am afraid, Captain Brent. I have promised Sir Eustace to skate with him."
"Who?" Brent glanced towards the rink. "Why, he's down there already dancing about with your little cousin. That's her laugh. Don't you hear it?"
Dinah's laugh, clear and ringing, came to them on the still air. Rose'sslim figure stiffened very slightly, barely perceptibly, at the sound."Sir Eustace has forgotten his engagement," she said icily. "Yes, CaptainBrent, I will come with you."
"Good business!" he said heartily. "It's a glorious night. Somebody said there was a change coming; but I don't believe it. Maddening if a thaw comes before the luging competition. The run is just perfection now. I'm going up there presently. It's glorious by moonlight."
He chattered inconsequently on, happy in the fact that he had secured the prettiest girl in the hotel for his partner, and not in the least disturbed by any lack of response on her part. To skate with her hand in hand was the utmost height of his ambition just then, his brain not being of a particularly aspiring order.
Down on the rink all was gaiety and laughter. The lights shone ruby, emerald, and sapphire, upon the darting figures. The undernote of the rushing skates made magic music everywhere. The whole scene was fantastic—a glittering fairyland of colour and enchantment.
"Each evening seems more splendid than the last," declared Dinah.
"They always will if you spend them in my company," said Sir Eustace. "Do you know I could very soon teach you to skate as perfectly as you dance?"
"I believe you could teach me anything," she answered happily.
"Given a free hand I believe I could," he said. "But the gift is yours, not mine. You have the most wonderful knack of divining a mood. You adapt yourself instinctively. I never knew anyone respond so perfectly to the unspoken wish. How is it, I wonder?"
"I don't know," she answered shyly. "But I can't help understanding what you want."
"Does that mean that we are kindred spirits?" he asked, and suddenly the clasp of his hands was close and intimate.
"I expect it does," said Dinah; but she said it with a touch of uneasiness. The voice that had spoken within her the night before, warning her, urging her to be gone, was beginning to murmur again, bidding her to beware.
She turned from the subject with ready versatility, obedient to the danger-signal. "Oh, there is Rose! I am afraid I ran away from her after dinner. They went upstairs for coffee, but I was so dreadfully afraid of being stopped that I hung behind and escaped. I do hope the Colonel won't be in a wax again. But I don't see that there was anything wicked in it; for Lady Grace herself is coming to look on presently."
"I skated with Miss de Vigne nearly all the afternoon," observed Sir Eustace. "But she is a regular ice-maiden. I couldn't get any enthusiasm out of her. Tell me, is she like that all through? Or is it just a pose?"
"Oh, I don't know," Dinah said. "I've never got through the outer crust.But then of course I'm far beneath her."
"How so?" asked Sir Eustace.
She laughed up at him with the happy confidence of a child. "Can't you see it for yourself? I—I am a mere guttersnipe compared to the de Vignes. They live in a great house with lots of servants and cars. They never do a thing for themselves. I don't suppose Rose could do her hair to save her life. While we—we live in a tumble-down, ramshackle old place, and do all the work ourselves. I've never been away from home in my life before. You see, we're poor, and Billy's schooling takes up a lot of money. I had to leave school when he first went as a boarder. And that is three years ago now. So I have forgotten all I ever learnt."
"Except dancing," he suggested.
"Oh, well, that's born in me. I couldn't very well forget that. My mother—" Dinah hesitated momentarily—"my mother was a dancer before she married."
"And she taught you?" asked Sir Eustace.
"No, no! She never taught me anything except useful things—like cooking and sewing and house-work. And I detest them all," said Dinah frankly. "I like sweeping the garden and digging the potatoes far better."
"She keeps you busy then," commented Sir Eustace, with semi-humorous interest.
"Busy isn't the word for it," declared Dinah. "I'm going from morning till night. We do the washing at home too. I get up at five and go to bed at nine. I make nearly all my own clothes too. That's why I haven't got any," she ended naively.
He laughed. "Not really! But what makes you work so hard as that? You're wasting all your best time. You'll never be so young again, you know."
"I know!" cried Dinah, and suddenly a wild gust of rebellion went through her. "It's hateful! I never knew how hateful till I came here. Going back will be—too horrible for words. But—" her voice fell abruptly flat—"what am I to do?"
"I should go on strike," he said lightly. "Tell your good mother that she must find someone else to do the work! You are going to take it easy and enjoy yourself."
Dinah uttered a short, painful laugh.
"Wouldn't that do?" he asked.
"No."
"Why not?" he questioned with indolent amusement. "Surely you're not afraid of the broomstick!"
Dinah gave a great start, and suddenly, as they skated, pressed close to him with the action of some small, terrified creature seeking shelter. "Oh, don't—don't let us spoil this perfect night by talking of my home affairs!" she pleaded, her voice quick and passionate. "I want to put everything right away. I want to forget there is such a place as home."
His arm was around her in a moment. He held her caught to him. "I can soon make you forget that, my Daphne," he said. "I can lead you through such a wonderland as will dazzle you into complete forgetfulness of everything else. But you must trust me, you know. You mustn't be afraid."
He was drawing her away from the glare of coloured lights as he spoke, drawing her to the further end of the rink where stood a tiny, rustic pavilion.
She went with him with a breathless sense of high adventure, skimming the ice in time with his rhythmic movements, mesmerized into an enchanted quiescence.
They reached the pavilion, and he paused. The other skaters were left behind. They stood as it were in a magic circle all their own. And only the moon looked on.
"Ah, Daphne!" he said, and took her in his arms.
There came to Dinah then a wild and desperate sense of fear, fear that was coupled with a wholly unreasoning and instinctive shame. She strained back from him. "Oh no! Oh no!" she gasped. "I mustn't! I'm sure it's wrong!"
But he mastered her very slowly, wholly without violence, yet wholly irresistibly. His dark face with its blue, compelling eyes dominated her, conquered her. And all her life resistance had been quelled in her. Her will wavered and was down.
"Why should it be wrong?" he whispered. "I tell you that nothing matters—nothing matters. We take our pleasures, and we tell no one. It is no one's business but our own, sweetheart. And nothing is wrong, if no harm is done to anyone."
Subtle, alluring, half-laughing, half-relentless, he drew her closer yet, he bent and pressed his lips upon her upturned face. But she quivered still and shrank, though unresisting. She could not give her lips to his. His kiss burned through and through her, so that she longed to flee away and hide.
For though that kiss sent a thrill of wild ecstasy through her, there was anguish mingled therewith. Even while she exulted over her unexpected victory, she was smitten with the thought that it had cost her too dear. Had she told him too much about herself that he held her thus cheaply? Would he—however urgent his desire to do so—would he have dreamed of treating Rose thus? Or any other girl of his own standing?
The thought went through her like a dagger. She bent herself back over his arm avoiding his lips a second time. That one kiss had opened her eyes.
"Oh, let me go!" she said, her voice muffled and tremulous. "You mustn't—ever—do it again."
"Why not?" he whispered softly. "What does it matter? This is the land of no consequences."
"I can't help it," she whispered back. "It may not mean anything to you.But—but—it makes me feel—wicked."
He laughed at her with tender ridicule. His arms still held her, but no longer closely.
"Don't be afraid, my elf of the mountains!" he said. "I won't do it again—yet. But there is nothing in it I tell you. And what does it matter if no one knows? Why shouldn't you have all the fun you can get?"
Dinah straightened herself, and passed her hands over her face with an oddly childish gesture. He behaved as though he had conferred a favour upon her; but yet the horrible feeling of shame lingered. Her mother's most drastic punishments had never humbled her more completely.
She drew herself from his hold. "I feel it does matter," she said, her voice pathetically small and shy. "But—I know you didn't mean to—to offend me. So let's forget it, please! Let's go back!"
She gave him her hand with a timid gesture, and he took it with a smile that held arrogance as well as amusement. "We will go back certainly," he said. "But we shall not forget. We have tasted the wine of the gods, my Daphne, and there is magic in the draught. Those who drink once are bound to come again for more."
"Oh no! Oh no!" said Dinah.
But even as she said it, she felt herself to be battling against destiny.
In that moment she knew beyond all doubting that by some means of which she had no understanding he had caught her will and made it captive. Elude him though she might for a time, she was bound to be his helpless prisoner at the last.
Yet his magnetism was such that she yielded herself to him almost mechanically as they went back into the giddy vortex of the carnival. Even in the midst of her dismay and uncertainty, she was strangely, almost deliriously happy.
Romance with gold-tipped wings unfurled had suddenly descended from the high heavens and flitted before her, luring her on.
On the edge of the rink immediately below the hotel, a slight figure was standing, patient as the Sphinx, awaiting them.
Sir Eustace's keen eyes lighted upon it from afar. "There is my brother," he said. "We will go and speak to him if you have no objection."
Dinah received the suggestion with eagerness. She was possessed for the moment by an urgent desire to get back to the commonplace. She had been whirled off her feet, and albeit the flight had held rapture, she had a desperate longing to tread solid ground once more.
Possibly her companion shared something of this feeling. The game was his, but there was no more to be won from her that night. The time had come to descend from the heights to the dull and banal levels. He divined her wish to return to earth, and he had no reason for thwarting it. With a careless laugh he put on speed and rushed her dizzily through the throng.
To Dinah it was as a rapid fall through space. She felt as if she had been suddenly shot from the gates of Olympus. She reached Scott, flushed and breathless and quivering still with the wonder of it.
He greeted her courteously. "Are you having a good time, Miss Bathurst?"
She answered him gaspingly. Somehow it was an immense relief to find herself by his side. "Yes; a glorious time. But I am coming off now. Have you—have you seen anything of Lady Grace or the Colonel?"
"I have just had the pleasure of making Lady Grace's acquaintance," he said. "Are you really coming off now? Have you had enough?"
She passed over his last question, for the wonder pierced her if she had not had too much. "Yes, really. I am going to change my boots. I left them somewhere here. I wonder where they are. Ah, there they are against the railing! No, please don't! I can manage quite well. I would rather."
She sat down on the bank, and bent her hot face over her task.
The two brothers remained near her. Scott was apparently waiting for her.They exchanged a few low words.
"I'll do my level best, old chap," she heard Scott say. "But if I don't succeed, it can't be helped. Rome wasn't built in a day."
Eustace made an impatient sound, and muttered something in a whisper.
"No," Scott said in answer. "Not that! Never with my consent. It wouldn't do, man! I tell you it wouldn't do. Can't you take my word for it?"
"You're as obstinate as a mule, Stumpy," his brother said, in tones of irritation. "It'll come to it sooner or later. You're only prolonging the agony."
"I am doing my best," Scott said gravely. "Give me credit for that at least!"
Sir Eustace clapped a sudden hand on his shoulder. "No one doubts that, my boy. You're true gold. But it's sheer foolishness to go on in the same old way that's proved a failure a hundred times. In heaven's name, now that we've hauled her out of that infernal groove, don't let idiotic sentimentality spoil everything! Don't shy at the consequences! I'll be responsible for them."
Dinah glanced up. She saw that for the moment she was forgotten. The light was shining upon Scott's face, and she read in it undeniable perplexity, but the eyes were steadfast and wholly calm.
He even smiled a little as he said, "My dear chap, have you ever considered the consequences of anything—counted the cost before you came to pay? No, never!"
"Don't preach to me!" Eustace said sharply.
"No. I won't. But don't you talk in that airy way about responsibility to me! Because—" Scott's smile broadened and became openly affectionate—"it just won't go down, dear fellow! I can't swallow camels—never could."
"You can strain at gnats though," commented Sir Eustace, pivoting round on his skates. "Well, you know my sentiments. I haven't put my foot down yet. But I'm going to—pretty soon. It's got to be done. And if you can't bring yourself to it,—well, I shall, that's all."
He was gone with the words, swift as an arrow, leaving behind him a space so empty that Dinah felt a sudden queer little pang of desolation.
Scott remained motionless, deep in thought, for the passage of several seconds. Then abruptly the consciousness of her presence came upon him, and he turned to her. She was sitting on the bank looking up at him with frank interest. Their eyes met.
And then a very curious thing happened to Dinah. She flinched under his look, flinched and averted her own. A great shyness suddenly surged through her, a quivering, overmastering sense of embarrassment. For in that moment she viewed the flight to Olympus as he would have viewed it, and was horribly, overwhelmingly ashamed. She could not break the silence. She had no words to utter—no possible means at hand by which to cover her discomfiture.
It was he who spoke, in his voice a tinge of restraint. "I was going to ask if it would bore you to come and see my sister again this evening. I have obtained Lady Grace's permission for you to do so."
She sprang to her feet. "Of course—of course I would love to!" she said rather incoherently. "How could it bore me? I—I should like it—more than anything."
He smiled faintly, and held out his hand for the boots she had just discarded. "That is more than kind of you," he said. "My sister was afraid you might not want to come."
"Of course I want to come!" maintained Dinah. "Oh no, thank you; I couldn't let you carry my boots. How clever of you to tackle Lady Grace! What did she say?"
"Neither she nor the Colonel made any difficulty about it at all," Scott said. "I told them my sister was an invalid. Lady Grace said that I must not keep you after ten, and I promised I wouldn't."
His manner was kindly and quizzical, and Dinah's embarrassment began to pass. But he discomfited her afresh as they walked across the road by saying, "You have made it up with my brother, I see."
Dinah's cheeks burned again. "Yes," she said, after a moment. "We made it up this afternoon."
"That was very lucky—for him," observed Scott rather dryly.
Dinah made a swift leap for the commonplace. "I hate being cross with people," she said, "or to have them cross with me; don't you?"
"I think it is sometimes unavoidable," said Scott gravely.
"Oh, surely you are never cross!" said Dinah impetuously. "I can't imagine it."
"Wait till you see it!" said Scott, with a smile.
They entered the hotel together. Dinah was tingling with excitement. She had managed to escape from her discomfiture, but she still felt that any prolonged intercourse with the man beside her would bring it back. She was beginning to know Scott as one who would not hesitate to say exactly what he thought, and not for all she possessed in the world would she have had him know what had passed in that far corner of the rink so short a time before.
She chattered inconsequently upon ordinary topics as they ascended the stairs together, but when they reached the door of Isabel's sitting-room she became suddenly shy again.
"Hadn't I better run and take off my things?" she whispered. "I feel so untidy."
He looked at her. She was clad in the white woollen cap and coat that she had worn in the day. Her eyes were alight and sparkling, her brown face flushed. She looked the very incarnation of youth.
"I think she will like to see you as you are," said Scott.
He knocked upon the door three times as before, and in a moment opened it.
"Go in, won't you?" he said, standing back.
Dinah entered.
"Ah! She has come!" A hollow voice said, and in a moment her shyness was gone.
She moved forward eagerly, saw Isabel seated in a low chair, and impulsively went to her. "How kind you are to ask me to come again!" she said.
And then all in a moment Isabel's arms came out to her, and she slipped down upon her knees beside her into their close embrace.
"How kind of you to come, dear child!" Isabel murmured. "I am afraid it is a visit to the desert for you."
"But I love to come!" Dinah told her with warm lips raised. "I can't tell you how much. I was never so happy before. Each day seems lovelier than the last."
Isabel kissed her lingeringly, tenderly. "My dear, you have a happy heart," she said. "Tell me what you have been doing since I saw you last!"
She would have let her go, but Dinah clung to her still, her cheek against her shoulder. "I have been very frivolous, dear Mrs. Everard," she said. "I have done lots of things. This afternoon we were luging, and now I have just come from the carnival, I wish you could have been there. Some people are wearing the most horrible masks. Billy—my brother—has a beauty. He made it himself. I rather wanted it to wear, but he wouldn't part with it."
"You could never wear a mask, sweetheart," Isabel said, clasping the small brown hand in hers. "Your face is too sweet a thing to hide."
Dinah hugged her in naïve delight. "I always thought I was ugly before," she said.
Isabel's face wore a wan smile. She stroked the girl's soft cheek. "My dear, no one with a heart like yours could have an ugly face. How did you enjoy your dance with Eustace last night?"
Dinah bent her head a little, wishing earnestly that Scott were not in the room. "I loved it," she said in a low voice.
"And afterwards?" questioned Isabel. "No one was vexed with you, I hope?"
Dinah hesitated. "Colonel de Vigne wasn't best pleased, I'm afraid," she said, after a moment.
"He scolded you!" said Isabel, swift regret in her voice. "I am so sorry, dear child. I ought to have gone to look after you. I was selfish."
"Oh no—indeed!" Dinah protested. "It was entirely my own fault. He would have been cross in any case. They are like that."
Isabel uttered a sigh. "I shall have to try to meet them. Naturally they will not let you come to total strangers. Stumpy, remind me in the morning! I must manage somehow to meet this child's guardians."
"Of course, dear," said Scott.
Dinah, glancing towards him, saw him exchange a swift look with the old nurse in the background, but his voice held neither surprise nor gratification. He took out a cigarette and began to smoke.
Isabel leaned back in her chair with abrupt weariness as if in reaction from the strain of a sudden unwonted exertion. "Let me see! Do I know your Christian name? Ah yes,—Dinah! What a pretty gipsy name! I think you are a little gipsy, are you not? You have the charm of the woods about you. Won't you sit in that chair, dear? You can't be comfortable on the floor."
But Dinah preferred to sit down against her knee, still holding the slender, inert hand.
"Tell me about your home!" Isabel said, closing languid eyes. "I can't talk much more, but I can listen. It does not tire me to listen."
Dinah hesitated somewhat. "I don't think you would find it very interesting," she said.
"But I am interested," Isabel said. "You live in the country, I think you said."
"At a place called Perrythorpe," Dinah said. "It's a great hunting country. My father hunts a lot and shoots too."
"Do you hunt?" asked Isabel.
"Oh no, never! There's never any time. I go for rambles sometimes on Sundays. Other days I am always busy. Fancy me hunting!" said Dinah, with a little laugh.
"I used to," said Isabel. "They always said I should end with a broken neck. But I never did."
"Are you very fond of riding?" asked Dinah.
"Not now, dear. I am not fond of anything now. Tell me some more, won't you? What makes you so busy that you never have time for any fun?"
Again Dinah hesitated. "You see, we're poor," she said. "My mother and I do all the work of the house and garden too."
"And your father is able to hunt?" Isabel's eyes opened. Her hand closed upon Dinah's caressingly.
"Oh yes, he has always hunted," Dinah said. "I don't think he could do without it. He would find it so dull."
"I see," said Isabel. "But he can't afford pleasures for you."
There was no perceptible sarcasm in her voice, but Dinah coloured a little and went at once to her father's defence.
"He sends Billy to a public school. Of course I—being only a girl—don't count. And he has sent us out here, which was very good of him—the sweetest thing he has ever done. He had a lucky speculation the other day, and he has spent it nearly all on us. Wasn't that kind of him?"
"Very kind, dear," said Isabel gently. "How long are you to have out here?"
"Only three weeks, and half the time is gone already," sighed Dinah. "The de Vignes are not staying longer. The Colonel is a J.P., and much too important to stay away for long. And they are going to have a large house-party. There isn't much more than a week left now." She sighed again.
"And then you will have no more fun at all?" asked Isabel.
"Not a scrap—nothing but work." Dinah's voice quivered a little. "I don't suppose it has been very good for me coming out here," she said. "I—I believe I'm much too fond of gaiety really."
Isabel's hand touched her cheek. "Poor little girl!" she said. "But you wouldn't like to leave your mother to do all the drudgery alone."
"Oh yes, I should," said Dinah, with a touch of recklessness. "I'd never go back if I could help it. I love Dad of course; but—" She paused.
"You don't love your mother?" supplemented Isabel.
Dinah leaned her face suddenly against the caressing hand. "Not much, I'm afraid," she whispered.
"Poor little girl!" Isabel murmured again compassionately.