His hand relaxed as suddenly as it had closed. He lay still with a face like marble.
Isabel sat motionless by his side for several seconds. She was gazing straight before her with eyes that seemed to read the future.
"How did you compel him to propose?" she asked presently.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly. "I can do these things,Isabel, if I try. But I wish I'd killed myself now before I interfered.As I tell you, I was a fool—a fool."
He ceased to speak and sat in the silence of a great despair.
Isabel said nought to comfort him. Her tragic eyes still seemed to be gazing into the future.
After many minutes Scott turned his head and looked at her. "Isabel, I wish you would try to keep her with you as much as possible. Tell Eustace what you have just told me! There is certainly no time to lose if she is really to be married in three weeks from now!"
"I suppose he would never consent to put it off," Isabel said slowly.
"He certainly would not." Scott rose with a restless movement that said more than words. "He is on fire for her. Can't you see it? There is nothing to be done unless she herself wishes to be released. And I don't think that is very likely to happen."
"He would never give her up," Isabel said with conviction.
"If she desired it, he would," Scott's reply held an even more absolute finality.
Isabel looked at him for a moment; then: "Yes, but the poor little thing would never dare," she said. "Besides—besides—there is the glamour of it all."
"Yes, there is the glamour." Scott spoke with a kind of grim compassion."The glamour may carry her through. If so, then—possibly—it may softenlife for her afterwards. It may even turn into romance. Who knows?But—in any case—there will probably be—compensations."
"Ah!" Isabel said. A wonderful light shone for a moment in her eyes and died; she turned her face aside. "Compensations don't come to everyone, Stumpy," she said. "What if the glamour fades and they don't come to take its place?"
Scott was standing before the fire, his eyes fixed upon its red depths. His shoulders were still bent, as though they bore a burden well-nigh overwhelming. An odd little spasm went over his face at her words.
"Then—God help my Dinah!" he said almost under his breath.
In the silence that followed the words, Isabel rose impulsively, came to him, and slipped her hand through his arm.
She neither looked at him nor spoke, and in silence the matter passed.
Dinah could not sleep that night. For the first time in all her healthy young life she lay awake with grim care for a bed-fellow. When in trouble she had always wept herself to sleep before, but to-night she did not weep. She lay wide-eyed, feeling hot and cold by turns as the memory of her lover's devouring passion and Biddy's sinister words alternated in her brain. What was the warning that Biddy had meant to convey? And how—oh, how—would she ever face the morrow and its fierce, prolonged courtship, from the bare thought of which every fibre of her being shrank in shamed dismay?
"There won't be any of me left by night," she told herself, as she sought to cool her burning face against the pillow. "Oh, I wish he didn't love me quite so terribly."
It was no good attempting to bridle wish or fears. They were far too insistent. She was immured in the very dungeons of Doubting Castle, and no star shone in her darkness.
Towards morning her restlessness became unendurable. She arose and tremblingly paced the room, sick with a nameless apprehension that seemed to deprive her alike of the strength to walk or to be still.
Her whole body was in a fever as though it had been scourged with thongs; in fact, she still seemed to feel the scourge, goading her on.
To and fro, to and fro, she wandered, scarcely knowing what she wanted, only urged by that unbearable restlessness that gave her no respite. Of the future ahead of her she did not definitely think. Her marriage still seemed too intangible a matter for serious contemplation. She still in her child's heart believed that marriage would make a difference. He would not make such ardent love to her when they were married. They would both have so many other things to think about. It was the present that so weighed upon her, her lover's almost appalling intensity of worship and her own utter inadequacy and futility.
Again, as often before, the question arose within her, How would Rose have met the situation? Would she have been dismayed? Would she have shrunk from those fiery kisses? Or could she—could she possibly—have remained calm and complacent and dignified in the midst of those surging tempests of love? But yet again she failed completely to picture Rose so mastered, so possessed, by any man; Rose the queen whom all men worshipped with reverence from afar. She wondered again how Sir Eustace had managed to elude the subtle charm she cast upon all about her. He had actually declared that her perfection bored him. It was evident that she left him cold. Dinah marvelled at the fact, so certain was she that had he humbled himself to ask for Rose's favour it would have been instantly and graciously accorded to him.
It would have saved a lot of trouble if he had fallen in love with Rose, she reflected; and then the old thrill of triumph went through her, temporarily buoying her up. She had been preferred to Rose. She had beaten Rose on her own ground, she the little, insignificant adjunct of the de Vigne party! She was glad—oh, she was very glad!—that Rose was to have so close a view of her final conquest.
She began to take comfort in the thought of her approaching wedding and all its attendant glories, picturing every detail with girlish zest. To be the queen of such a brilliant ceremony as that! To be received into the County as one entering a new world! To belong to that Society from which her mother had been excluded! To be in short—her ladyship.
A new excitement began to urge Dinah. She picked up a towel and draped it about her head and shoulders like a bridal veil. Her mother would have rated her for such vanity, but for the moment vanity was her only comfort, and the thought of her mother did not trouble her. This was how she would look on her wedding-day. There would be a wreath of orange-blossoms of course; Isabel would see to that. And—yes, Isabel had said that her bouquet should be composed of lilies-of-the-valley. She even began to wish it were her wedding morning.
The glamour spread like a rosy dawning; she forgot the clouds that loomed immediately ahead. Standing there in her night attire, poised like a brown wood-nymph on the edge of a pool, she asked herself for the first time if it were possible that she could have any pretensions to beauty. It was not in the least likely, of course. Her mother had always railed at her for the plainness of her looks. Did Eustace—did Scott—think her plain? She wondered. She wondered.
A slight sound, the opening of a window, in the room next to hers, made her start. That was Isabel's room. What was happening? It was three o'clock in the morning. Could Isabel be ill?
Very softly she opened her own window and leaned forth. It was one of those warm spring nights that come in the midst of March gales. There was a scent of violets on the air. She thought again for a fleeting second of Scott and their walk through fairyland that morning. And then she heard a voice, pitched very low but throbbing with an eagerness unutterable, and at once her thoughts were centred upon Isabel.
"Did you call me, my beloved? I am waiting! I am waiting!" said the voice.
It went forth into the sighing darkness of the night, and Dinah held her breath to listen, almost as if she expected to hear an answer.
There fell a long, long silence, and then there came a sound that struck straight to her warm heart. It seemed to her that Isabel was weeping.
She left her window with the impetuosity of one actuated by an impulse irresistible; she crossed her own room, and slipped out into the dark passage just as she was. A moment or two she fumbled feeling her way; and then her hand found Isabel's door. Softly she turned the handle, opened, and peeped in.
Isabel was on her knees by the low window-sill. Her head with its crown of silver hair was bowed upon her arm and they rested upon the bundle of letters which Dinah had seen on the very first night that she had seen Isabel. Old Biddy hovered shadow-like in the background. She made a sign to Dinah as she entered, but Dinah was too intent upon her friend to notice.
Fleet-footed she drew near, and as she approached a long bitter sigh broke from Isabel and, following it, low-toned entreaties that pierced her anew with the utter abandonment of their supplication.
"Oh God," she prayed brokenly. "I am so tired—so tired—of waiting. Open the door for me! Let me out of my prison! Let me find my beloved in the dawning—in the dawning!"
Her voice sank, went into piteous sobbing. She crouched lower in the depth of her woe.
Dinah stooped over her with a little crooning murmur of pity, and gathered her close in her arms.
Isabel gave a great start. "Child!" she said, and then she clasped Dinah to her, leaning her face against her bosom.
Dinah was crying softly, but she saw that Isabel had no tears. That sobbing came from her broken heart, but it brought no relief. The dark eyes burned with a misery that found no vent, save possibly in the passionate holding of her arms.
"My darling," she whispered presently, "did I wake you?"
"No, dearest, no!" Dinah was tenderly caressing the snowy hair; she spoke with an almost motherly fondness. "I happened to be awake, and I heard you at the window."
"Why were you awake, darling? Aren't you happy?"
Quick anxiety was in the words. Dinah flushed with a sense of guilt.
"Of course I am happy," she made answer. "What more could I have to wish for? But, Isabel, you—you!"
"Ah, never mind me!" Isabel said. She rose with the movement of one who would shield another from harm. "You ought to be in bed, sweetheart. Shall I come and tuck you up?"
"Come and finish the night with me!" whispered Dinah. "We shall both be happy then."
She scarcely expected that Isabel would accede to her desire, but it seemed that Isabel could refuse her nothing. She turned, holding Dinah closely to her.
"My good angel!" she murmured tenderly. "What should I do without you? It is always you who come to lift me out of my inferno."
She left the letters forgotten on the window-sill. By the simple outpouring of her love, Dinah had drawn her out of her place of torment; and she led her now, leaning heavily upon her, through the passage to her own room.
Biddy crept after them like a wise old cat alert for danger. "She'll sleep now, Miss Dinah darlint," she murmured. "Ye won't be anxious at all, at all? It's meself that'll be within call."
"No, no! Go to your own room and sleep, Biddy!" Isabel said. "We are both going to do the same."
She sank into the great double bed that Dinah had found almost alarmingly capacious, with a sigh of exhaustion, and Dinah slipped in beside her. They clasped each other, each with a separate sense of comfort.
Biddy tucked up first one side, then the other, with a whispered blessing for each.
"Ah, the poor lambs!" she murmured, as she went away.
But Isabel's voice had reassured her; she did not linger even outside the door.
Mumbling still below her breath her inarticulate benisons, Biddy passed through her mistress's room into her own. She was very tired, for she had been watching without intermission for nearly five hours. She almost dropped on to her bed and lay as she fell, deeply sleeping.
The letters on the window-sill were forgotten for the rest of that night.
When Dinah met her lover in the morning she found him in a surprisingly indulgent mood. The day was showery, and he announced his intention of accompanying them in the car up to town.
"An excellent opportunity for selecting the wedding-ring," he told her lightly. "You will like that better than a picnic."
And Dinah in her relief admitted that this was the case.
Up to the last moment she hoped that Scott would accompany them also, but when she came down dressed for the expedition she found that he had gone to the library to write letters. She pursued him thither, but he would not be persuaded to leave his work.
"Besides, I should only be in the way," he said. And when she vehemently negatived this, he smiled and fell back upon the plea that he was busy.
Just at the last she tried to murmur a word of thanks to him for intervening on her behalf to induce Eustace to abandon the picnic, but he gently checked her.
"Oh, please don't thank me!" he said. "I am not a very good meddler, I assure you. I hope you are going to have a good day. Take care of Isabel!"
Dinah would have lingered to tell him of the night's happening, but SirEustace called her and with a smile of farewell she hastened away.
She enjoyed that day with a zest that banished all misgivings. Sir Eustace insisted upon the purchase of the ring at the outset, and then she and Isabel went their way alone, and shopped in a fashion that raised Dinah's spirits to giddy heights. She had never seen or imagined such exquisite things as Isabel ordered on her behalf. The hours slipped away in one long dream of delight. Sir Eustace had desired them to join him at luncheon, but Isabel had gravely refused. There would not be time, she said. They would meet for tea. And somewhat to Dinah's surprise he had yielded the point.
They met for tea in a Bond Street restaurant and here Sir Eustace took away hisfiancée'sbreath by presenting her with a pearl necklace to wear at her wedding.
She was almost too overwhelmed by the gift to thank him. "Oh, it's too good—it's too good!" she said, awestruck by its splendour.
"Nothing is too good for my wife," he said in his imperial fashion.
Isabel smiled the smile that never reached her shadowed eyes. "A chain of pearls to bind a bride!" she said.
And the thought flashed upon Dinah that there was truth in her words. Whether with intention or not, by every gift he gave her he bound her the more closely to him. An odd little sensation of dismay accompanied it, but she put it resolutely from her. Bound or not, what did it matter—since she had no desire to escape?
She thanked him again very earnestly that night in the conservatory, and he pressed her to him and kissed the neck on which his pearls rested with the hot lips of a thirsty man. But he had himself under control, and when she sought to draw herself away he let her go. She wondered at his forbearance and was mutely grateful for it.
At Isabel's suggestion she went up to her room early. She was certainly weary, but she was radiantly happy. It had been a wonderful day. The beauty of the pearls dazzled her. She kissed them ere she laid them out of sight. He was good to her. He was much too good.
There came a knock at the door just as she was getting into bed, and Biddy came softly in, her brown face full of mystery and, Dinah saw at a glance, of anxiety also.
She put up a warning finger as she advanced. "Whisht, Miss Dinah darlint! For the love of heaven, don't ye make a noise! I just came in to ask ye a question, for it's worried to death I am."
"Why what's the matter, Biddy?" Dinah questioned in surprise.
"And ye may well ask, Miss Dinah dear!" Tragedy made itself heard in Biddy's rejoinder. "Sure it's them letters of Miss Isabel's that's disappeared entirely, and left no trace. And what'll I do at all when she comes to ask for them? It's not meself that'll dare to tell her as they've gone, and she setting such store by them. She'll go clean out of her mind, Miss Dinah, for sure, they've been her only comfort, poor lamb, these seven years."
"But, Biddy!" Impulsively Dinah broke in upon her, her eyes round withsurprise and consternation. "They can't be—gone! They must be somewhere!Have you hunted for them? She left them on the window-sill, didn't she?They must have got put away."
"That they have not!" declared Biddy solemnly. "It's my belief that the old gentleman himself must have spirited them away. The window was left open, ye know, Miss Dinah, and it was a dark night."
"Oh, Biddy, nonsense, nonsense! One of the servants must have moved them when she was doing the room. Have you asked everyone?"
"That couldn't have happened, Miss Dinah dear." Unshakable conviction was in Biddy's voice. "I got up late, and I had to get Miss Isabel up in a hurry to go off in the motor. But I missed the letters directly after she was gone, and I hadn't left the room—except to call her. No one had been in—not unless they slipped in in those few minutes while me back was turned. And for what should anyone take such a thing as them letters, Miss Dinah? There are no thieves in the house. And them love-letters were worth nothing to nobody saving to Miss Isabel, and they were the very breath of life to her when the black mood was on her. Whatever she'll say—whatever she'll do—I don't dare to think."
Poor Biddy flourished her apron as though she would throw it over her head. Her parchment face was working painfully.
Dinah sat on the edge of her bed and watched her, not knowing what to say.
"Where is Miss Isabel?" she asked at last.
"She's still downstairs with Master Scott, and I'm expecting her up every minute. It's herself that ought to be in bed by now, for she's tired out after her long day; but he'll be bringing her up directly and then she'll ask for her love-letters. There's never a night goes by but what she kisses them before she lies down. When ye were ill, Miss Dinah dear, she'd forget sometimes, but ever since she's been alone again she's never missed, not once."
"Have you told Master Scott?" asked Dinah.
Biddy shook her head. "Would I add to his burdens, poor young gentleman?He'll know soon enough."
"And are you sure you've looked everywhere—everywhere?" insisted Dinah."If no one has taken them—"
"Miss Dinah, I've turned the whole room upside down and shaken it," declared Biddy. "I'll take my dying oath that them letters have gone."
"Could they—could they possibly have fallen out of the window?" hazardedDinah.
"Miss Dinah dear, no!" A hint of impatience born of her distress was perceptible in the old woman's tone; she turned to the door. "Well, well, it's no good talking. Don't ye fret yourself! What must be, will be."
"But I think Scott ought to know," said Dinah.
"No, no, Miss Dinah! We'll not tell him before we need. He's got his own troubles. But I wonder—I wonder—" Biddy paused with the door-handle in her bony old fingers—"how would it be now," she said slowly, "if ye was to get Miss Isabel to sleep with ye again? She forgot last night. It's likely she may forget again—unless he calls her."
"Biddy!" exclaimed Dinah, startled.
Biddy's beady eyes gleamed mysteriously. "Arrah, but it's the truth I'm telling ye, Miss Dinah. He does call her. I've known him call her when she's been lying in a deep sleep, and she'll rise up with her arms stretched out and that look in her eyes!" Biddy's face crumpled momentarily, but was swiftly straightened again. "Will ye do it then, Miss Dinah? Ye needn't be afraid. I'll be within call. But when she's got you, she don't seem to be craving for anyone else. What was it she called ye only last night? Her good angel! And so ye be, me jewel; so ye be!"
Dinah stood debating the matter. Biddy's expedient was of too temporary an order to recommend itself to her. She wondered why Scott should not be consulted, and it was with some vague intention of laying the matter before him if an opportunity should occur that she finally gave her somewhat hesitating consent.
"I will do it of course, Biddy. I love her to sleep with me. But, you know, it is bound to come out some time, unless you manage to find the letters again. They must be somewhere."
Biddy shook her head. "We must just leave that to the Almighty, Miss Dinah dear," she said piously. "There's nothing else we can do at all. I'll get back to her room now, and when she comes up, I'll tell her ye're feeling lonely, and will she please to sleep with ye again. She won't think of anything else then ye may be sure. Why, she worships the very ground under your feet, mavourneen, like—like someone else I know."
She was gone with the words, leaving upon Dinah a dim impression that her last words were intended to convey something which she would have translated into simpler language had she been at liberty to do so.
She did not pay much attention to them. She was too troubled over her former revelation to think seriously of anything else. Into her mind, all unbidden, had flashed a sudden memory, and it held her like a nightmare-vision. She saw Sir Eustace with that imperious frown on his face holding out Isabel's treasure with a curt, "Take this thing away!" She saw herself leap up and seize it from his intolerant grasp. She saw Isabel's outstretched, pleading hands, and the piteous hunger in her eyes….
When Isabel came to her that night, her face was all softened with mother-love. She drew Dinah to her breast, kissing her very tenderly.
"Did you want me to come and take care of you, my darling?"
Dinah's heart smote her for the deception, but she answered bravely enough, "Oh, Isabel, yes, yes! You are so good to me, I want you always."
"Dear heart!" Isabel said, with a sigh, and folded her closer as though she would guard her against all the world.
She was the first to fall asleep notwithstanding, while Dinah lay motionless and troubled far into the night. She wished that Biddy would give her permission to tell Scott, for without that permission such a step seemed like a betrayal of confidence. But for some reason Biddy evidently thought that Scott had enough on his shoulders just then. And so it seemed, she could only wait—only wait.
She did not want to burden Scott unduly either, and there was something about him just now, something of a repressing nature, that held her back from confiding in him too freely. He seemed to have raised a barrier between them since their return to England which no intimacy ever quite succeeded in scaling. Full of brotherly kindness though he was, the old frank fellowship was gone. It was as though he had realized her dependence upon him, and were trying with the utmost gentleness to make her stand alone.
Dinah slept at last from sheer weariness, and forgot her troubles. She must not tell Scott, she could not tell Eustace, and so there was no other course but silence. But the anxiety of it weighed upon her even through her slumber. Life was far more interesting than of yore. But never, never before had it been so full of doubts and fears. The complexity of it all was like an endless net, enmeshing her however warily she stepped.
And always, and always, at the back of her mind there lurked the dread conviction that one day the net would be drawn close, and she would find herself a helpless prisoner in the grip of a giant.
With the morning Dinah found her anxieties less oppressive. Isabel was becoming so much more like herself that she was able to put the matter from her and in a measure forget it. Like Biddy, she began to hope that by postponing the evil hour they might possibly evade it altogether. For there was nothing abnormal about Isabel during that day or those that succeeded it. The time passed quickly. There was much to be done, much to be discussed and decided, and their thoughts were fully occupied. Dinah felt as one whirled in a torrent. She could not think of the great undercurrent. She could deal only with the things on the surface.
How that week sped away she never afterwards fully recalled. It passed like a fevered dream. Two more journeys to town with Isabel, the ordeal of a dinner at the house of a neighbouring magnate, a much less formidable tea at the Vicarage, on which occasion Mr. Grey drew her aside and thanked her for using her influence over Sir Eustace in the right direction and earnestly exhorted her to maintain and develop it as far as possible when she was married, a few riding-lessons with Scott who always seemed so much more imposing in the saddle than out of it and knew so exactly how to instruct her, a few wild races in Sir Eustace's car from which she always returned in a state of almost delirious exultation, and then night after night the sleep of utter weariness, with Isabel lying by her side.
The last night came upon her almost with a sense of shock. It had become a custom for her to sit in the conservatory with Sir Eustace after dinner, and here with the lights turned low he was wont to pour out to her all the fiery worship which throughout the day he curbed. No one ever disturbed them, but they were close to Isabel's sitting-room where Scott was wont to sit and read while his sister lay on her couch resting and listening. The murmur of his voice was audible to Dinah, and the knowledge of his close proximity gave her a courage which surely had not been hers otherwise. She was learning how to receive her lover's demonstrations without starting away in affright. If he ever startled her, the sound of Scott's voice in the adjoining room would always reassure her. She knew that Scott was at hand and would never fail her.
But on that last night Sir Eustace was more ardent than she had ever known him. He seemed to be almost fiercely resentful of the coming separation, brief though it was to be, and he would not suffer her out of reach of his hand.
Wedding presents had begun to arrive, and in some fashion they seemed to increase his impatience.
"I can't think what we are waiting for," he said, with his arm about her, drawing her close. "All this pomp and circumstance is nothing but a hindrance. It's you I want, not your wedding finery. You had better be married first and get the finery afterwards, as it isn't to be in town."
"Oh, but I want a big wedding," protested Dinah. "It's going to be such fun."
He laughed, holding her pointed chin between his finger and thumb. "I believe that's all you care about, you little heartless witch. I don't count at all. You'd have enjoyed this week every bit as well if I hadn't been here."
She winced a little at his words, for somehow they went home. "There hasn't been much time for anything, has there?" she said. "But—but I've enjoyed the motor rides, and—and I ought to thank you for being so very good to me."
He kissed the quivering lips, and she slipped a shy arm round his neck with the feeling that she owed it to him. But she did not return his kisses, for she was afraid to feed the flame that already leapt so high.
"You've nothing to thank me for," he said presently, when she turned her face at last abashed into his shoulder. "I may be giving more than you at this stage, but it won't be so later. You shall have the opportunity of paying me back in full. How does that appeal to you, Daphne the demure? Are you going to be a good little wife to me?"
"I'll try," she whispered.
"And give me all I ask—always?"
"I'll try," she whispered again more faintly, conscious of that terrifying sense of being so merged into his overwhelming personality that the very breath she drew seemed not her own.
He lifted her into his arms, holding her hard pressed against the throbbing of his heart. "You wisp of thistledown!" he said. "You feather! How have you managed to set me on fire like this? I think of nothing but you—the fairy wonder of you—day and night. If you were to slip out of my reach now, I believe I should follow and kill you."
Dinah lay across his breast in palpitating submission to his will. She could hear his heart beating like a rising tempest, and the force of his passion overcame her like a tornado. His kisses were like the flames of a fiery furnace. She felt stifled, shattered by his violence. But in the room beyond she still heard that steady voice reading aloud, and it kept her from panic. She knew that she had only to raise her own voice, and he would be with her,—Greatheart of the golden armour, strong and fearless in her defence.
Sir Eustace heard that quiet voice also, as one hears the warning of conscience. He slackened his hold upon her, with a quivering, half-shamed laugh.
"Only another fortnight," he said, "and I shall have you to myself—all day and all night too." He looked at her with sudden critical attention. "You had better go to bed, child. You look like a little tired ghost."
She did not feel like a ghost, for she was burning from head to foot. But as she slipped from his arms the ground seemed to be rocking all around her. She stretched out her hands blindly, gasping, feeling for support.
He was up in a moment, holding her. "What is it? Aren't you well?"
She sank against him for she could not stand. He held her with a tenderness that was new to her.
"My darling, have I tired you out? What a thoughtless brute I am!"
It was the first time she had ever heard a word of self-reproach upon his lips; the first time, though she knew it not, that actual love inspired him, entering as it were through that breach in the wall of overbearing pride that girt him round.
She leaned against him with more confidence than she had ever before known, dizzy still, and conscious of a rush of tears behind her closed lids. For that sudden compunction of his hurt her oddly. She did not know how to meet it.
He bent over her. "Getting better, little sweetheart? Oh, don't cry! What happened? Did I hurt you—frighten you?"
He was stroking her hair soothingly, persuasively, his dark face so close to hers that when she opened her eyes they looked up straight into his. But she saw nought to frighten her there, and after a moment she reached up and kissed him apologetically.
"I'm only silly—only silly," she murmured confusedly. "Good night—good night—Apollo!"
And with the words she stood up, summoning her strength, smiled upon him, and slipped free from his encircling arm.
He did not seek to detain her. She flitted from his presence like a fluttering white moth, and he was left alone. He stood quite motionless in the semi-darkness, breathing deeply, his clenched hands pressed against his sides.
That moment had been a revelation to him also. He was abruptly conscious of the spirit so dominating the body that the fierce, ungoverned heart of him drew back ashamed as a beast will shrink from the flare of a torch, and he felt strangely conquered, almost cowed, as though an angel with a flaming sword had suddenly intervened between him and his desire.
The madness of his passion was yet beating in his veins, but this—this was another and a stronger element before which all else became contemptible. The soul of the man had sprung from sleep like an awaking giant. Half in wonder and half in awe, he watched the kindling of the Divine Spark that outshineth every earthly fire.
The return home was to Dinah like a sudden plunge into icy depths after a brief sojourn in the tropics. The change of atmosphere was such that she seemed actually to feel it in her bones, and her whole being, physical and mental contracted in consequence. Her mother treated her with all her customary harshness, and Dinah, grown sensitive by reason of much petting, shrank almost with horror whenever she came in contact with the iron will that had subjugated her from babyhood.
Before the first week was over, she was counting the days to her deliverance; but of this fact she hinted nothing in her letters to her lover. These were carefully worded, demure little epistles that gave him not the smallest inkling of her state of mind. She was far too much afraid of him to betray that.
Had she been writing to Scott she could scarcely have repressed it. In one letter to Isabel indeed something of her yearning for the vanished sunshine leaked out; but very strangely Isabel did not respond to the pathetic little confidence, and Dinah did not venture to repeat it. Perhaps Isabel was shocked.
The last week came, and with it the arrival of wedding-presents from her father and friends that lifted Dinah out of her depression and even softened her mother into occasional good-humour. Preparations for the wedding began in earnest. Billy, released somewhat before the holidays for the occasion, returned home, and everything took a more cheerful aspect.
Dinah could not feel that her mother's attitude towards herself had materially altered. It was sullen and threatening at times, almost as if she resented her daughter's good fortune, and she lived in continual dread of an outbreak of the cruel temper that had so embittered her home life. But Billy's presence made a difference even to that. His influence was entirely wholesome, and he feared no one.
"Why don't you stand up to her?" he said to his sister on one occasion when he found her weeping after an overwhelming brow-beating over some failure in the kitchen. "She'd think something of you then."
Dinah had no answer. She could not convince him that her spirit had been broken for such encounters long ago. Billy had never been tied up to a bed-post and whipped till limp with exhaustion, but such treatment had been her portion more times than she could number.
But every hour brought her deliverance nearer, and so far she had managed to avoid physical violence though the dread of it always menaced her.
"Why does she hate me so?" Over and over again she asked herself the question, but she never found any answer thereto; and she was fain to believe her father's easy-going verdict: "There's no accounting for your mother's tantrums; they've got to be visited on somebody."
She wondered what would happen when she was no longer at hand to act as scapegoat, and yet it seemed to her that her mother longed to be rid of her.
"I'll get things into good order when you're out of the way," she said to her on the last evening but one before the wedding-day, the evening on which the Studleys were to arrive at the Court. "You're just a born muddler, and you'll never be anything else, Lady Studley or no Lady Studley. Get along upstairs and dress yourself for your precious dinner-party, or your father will be ready first! Oh, it'll be a good thing when it's all over and done with, but if you think you'll ever get treated as a grand lady here, you're very much mistaken. Home broth is all you'll ever get from me, so you needn't expect anything different. If you don't like it, you can stop away."
Dinah escaped from the rating tongue as swiftly as she dared. She knew that her mother had been asked to dine at the Court also—for the first time in her life—and had tersely refused. She wasn't going to be condescended to by anybody, she had told her husband in Dinah's hearing, and he had merely shrugged his shoulders and advised her to please herself.
Billy had not been asked, somewhat to his disgust; but he looked forward to seeing Scott again in the morning and ordered Dinah to ask him to lunch with them.
So finally Dinah and her father set forth alone in one of the motors from the Court to attend the gathering of County magnates that the de Vignes had summoned in honour of Sir Eustace Studley and his chosen bride.
She wore one of her trousseau gowns for the occasion, a pale green gossamer-like garment that made her look more nymph-like than ever. Her mother had surveyed it with narrowed eyes and a bitter sneer.
"Ok yes, you'll pass for one of the quality," she had said. "No one would take you for a child of mine any way."
"That's no fault of the child's, Lydia," her father had rejoined good-humouredly, and in the car he had taken her little cold hand into his and asked her kindly enough if she were happy.
She answered him tremulously in the affirmative, the dread of her mother still so strong upon her that she could think of nothing but the relief of escape. And then before she had time to prepare herself in any way for the sudden transition she found herself back in that tropical, brilliant atmosphere in which thenceforth she was to move and have her being.
She could not feel that she would ever shine there. There were so many bright lights, and though her father was instantly and completely at home she felt dazzled and strange, till all-unexpectedly someone came to her through the great lamp-lit hall, haltingly yet with purpose, and held her hand and asked her how she was.
The quiet grasp steadied her, and in a moment she was radiantly happy, all her troubles and anxieties swept from her path. "Oh, Scott!" she said, and her eyes beamed upon him the greeting her lips somehow refused to utter.
He was laughing a little; his look was quizzical. "I have been on the look-out for you," he told her. "It's the best man's privilege, isn't it? Won't you introduce me to your father?"
She did so, and then Rose glided forward, exquisite in maize satin and pearls, and smilingly detached her from the two men and led her upstairs.
"We are to have a little informal dance presently," she said. "Did I tell you in my note? No? Oh, well, no doubt it will be a pleasant little surprise for you. How very charming you are looking, my dear! I didn't know you had it in you. Did you choose that pretty frock yourself?"
Dinah, with something of her mother's bluntness of speech, explained that the creation in question had been Isabel's choice, and Rose smiled as one who fully understood the situation.
"She has been very good to you, poor soul, has she not?" she said. "She is not coming down to-night. The journey has fatigued her terribly. That funny, old-fashioned nurse of hers has asked very particularly that she may not be disturbed, except to see you for a few minutes later."
"Is she worse?" asked Dinah, startled.
Whereat Rose shook her dainty head. "Has she ever been better? No, poor thing, I am afraid her days are numbered, nor could one in kindness wish it otherwise. Still, I mustn't sadden you, dear. You have got to look your very best to-night, or Sir Eustace will be disappointed. There are quite a lot of pretty girls coming, and you know what he is." Rose uttered a little self-conscious laugh. "Put on a tinge of colour, dear!" she said, as Dinah stood before the mirror in her room. "You look such a little brown thing; just a faint glow on your cheeks would be such an improvement."
"No, thank you," said Dinah, and flushed suddenly and hotly at the thought of what she had once endured at her mother's hands for daring to pencil the shadows under her eyes. It had been no more than a girlish trick—an experiment to pass an idle moment. But it had been treated as an offence of immeasurable enormity, and she winced still at the memory of all that that moment's vanity had entailed.
Rose looked at her appraisingly. "No, perhaps you don't need it after all, not anyhow when you blush like that. You have quite a pretty blush, Dinah, and you are wise to make the most of it. Are you ready, dear? Then we will go down."
She rustled forth with Dinah beside her, shedding a soft fragrance of some Indian scent as she moved that somehow filled Dinah with indignation, like a resentful butterfly in search of more wholesome delights.
Eustace was in the hall when they descended. He came forward to meet hisfiancée, and her heart throbbed fast and hard at the sight of him. But his manner was so strictly casual and impersonal that her agitation speedily passed, and by the time they were seated side by side at dinner—for the last time in their lives, as the Colonel jocosely remarked—she could not feel that she had ever been anything nearer to him than a passing acquaintance.
She was shy and very quiet. The hubbub of voices, the brilliance of it all, overwhelmed her. If Scott had been on her other side, she would have been much happier, but he was far away making courteous conversation for the benefit of a deaf old lady whom no one else made the smallest effort to entertain.
Suddenly Sir Eustace disengaged himself from the general talk and turned to her. "Dinah!" he said.
Her heart leapt again. She glanced at him and caught the gleam of the hunter in those rapier-bright eyes of his.
He leaned slightly towards her, his smile like a shining cloak, hiding his soul. "Daphne," he said, and his voice came to her subtle, caressing, commanding, through the gay tumult all about them, "there is going to be dancing presently. Did you hear?"
"Yes," she whispered with lowered eyes.
"You will dance with only one to-night," he said. "That is understood, is it?"
"Yes," she whispered again.
"Good!" he said. And then imperiously, "Why don't you drink some wine?"
She made a slight, startled movement. "I never do, I don't like it."
"You need it," he said, and made a curt sign to one of the servants.
Wine was poured into her glass, and she drank submissively. The discipline of the past two weeks had made her wholly docile. And the wine warmed and cheered her in a fashion that made her think that perhaps he was right and she had needed it.
When the dinner came to an end she was feeling far less scared and strange. Guests were beginning to assemble for the dance, and as they passed out people whom she knew by sight but to whom she had never spoken came up and talked with her as though they were old friends. Several men asked her to dance, but she steadily refused them all. Her turn would come later.
"I am going up to see Mrs. Everard," was her excuse. "She is expecting me."
And then Scott came, and she turned to him with eager welcome. "Oh, please, will you take me to see Isabel?"
He gave her a straight, intent look, and led her out of the throng.
His hand rested upon her arm as they mounted the stairs and she thought he moved with deliberate slowness. At the top he spoke.
"Dinah, before you see her I ought to prepare you for a change. She has been losing ground lately. She is not—what she was."
Dinah stopped short. "Oh, Scott!" She said in breathless dismay.
His hand pressed upon her, but it seemed to be imparting strength rather than seeking it. "I think I told you that day at the Dower House that she was nearing the end of her journey. I don't want to sadden you. You mustn't be sad. But you couldn't see her without knowing. It won't be quite yet; but it will be—soon."
He spoke with the utmost quietness; his face never varied. His eyes with their steady comradeship looked straight into hers, stilling her distress.
"She is so tired," he said gently. "I don't think it ought to grieve us that her rest is drawing near at last. She has so longed for it, poor girl."
"Oh, Scott!" Dinah said again, but she said it this time without consternation. His steadfast strength had given her confidence.
"Shall we go to her?" he said. "At least, I think it would be better if you went alone. She is quite determined that nothing shall interfere with your coming happiness, so you mustn't let her think you shocked or grieved. I thought it best to prepare you, that's all."
He led her gravely along the passage, and presently stopped outside a closed door. He knocked three times as of old, and Dinah stood waiting as one on the threshold of a holy place.
The door, was opened by Biddy, and he pressed her forward. "Don't stay long!" he said. "She is very tired to-night, and Eustace will be wanting you."
She squeezed his hand in answer and passed within.
Biddy's wrinkled brown face smiled a brief welcome under its snowy cap. She motioned her to approach. "Ye'll not stay long, Miss Dinah dear," she whispered. "The poor lamb's very tired to-night."
Dinah went forward.
The window was wide open, and the rush of the west wind filled the room. Isabel was lying in bed with her face to the night, wide-eyed, intent, still as death.
Noiselessly Dinah drew near. There was something in the atmosphere—a ghostly, hovering presence—that awed her. In the sound of that racing wind she seemed to hear the beat of mighty wings.
She uttered no word, she was almost afraid to speak. But when she reached the bed, when she bent and looked into Isabel's face, she caught her breath in a gasping cry. For she was shocked—shocked unutterably—by what she saw. Shrivelled as the face of one who had come through fiery tortures, ashen-grey, with eyes in which the anguish of the burnt-out flame still lingered, eyes that were dead to hope, eyes that were open only to the darkness, such was the face upon which she looked.
Biddy was by her side in a moment, speaking in a rapid whisper. "Arrah thin, Miss Dinah darlint, don't ye be scared at all! She'll speak to ye in a minute, sure. It's only that she's tired to-night. She'll be more herself like in the morning."
Dinah hung over the still figure. Biddy's whispering was as the buzzing of a fly. She heard it with the outer sense alone.
"Isabel!" she said; and again with a passionate earnestness,"Isabel—darling—my darling—what has happened to you?"
At the sound of that pleading voice Isabel moved, seeming as it were to return slowly from afar.
"Why, Dinah dear!" she said.
Her dark eyes smiled up at her in welcome, but it was a smile that cut her to the heart with its aloofness, its total lack of gladness.
Dinah stooped to kiss her. "Are you so tired, dearest? Perhaps I had better go away."
But Isabel put up a trembling, skeleton hand and detained her. "No, dear, no! I am not so tired as that. I can't talk much; but I can listen. Sit down and tell me about yourself!"
Dinah sat down, but she could think of nothing but the piteous, lined face upon the pillow and the hopeless suffering of the eyes that looked forth from it.
She held Isabel's hand very tightly, though its terrible emaciation shocked her anew, and so for a time they were silent while Isabel seemed to drift back again into the limitless spaces out of which Dinah's coming had for a moment called her.
It was Biddy who broke the silence at last, laying a gnarled and quivering hand upon Dinah as she sat.
"Ye'd better come again in the morning, mavourneen," she said. "She's too far off to-night to heed ye."
Dinah started. Her eyes were full of tears as she bent and kissed the poor, wasted fingers she held, realizing with poignant certainty as she did it the truth of the old woman's statement. Isabel was too far off to heed.
Then, as she rose to go, a strange thing happened. The tender strains of a waltz,Simple Aveu, floated softly in broken snatches in on the west wind, and again—as one who hears a voice that calls—Isabel came back. She raised herself suddenly. Her face was alight, transfigured—the face of a woman on the threshold of Love's sanctuary.
"Oh, my dearest!" she said, and her voice thrilled as never Dinah had heard it thrill before. "How I have waited for this! How I have waited!"
She stretched out her arms in one second of rapture unutterable; and then almost in the same moment they fell. The youth went out of her, she crumpled like a withered flower.
"Biddy!" she said. "Oh, Biddy, tell them to stop! I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"
Dinah went to the window and closed it, shutting out the haunting strains. That waltz meant something to her also, something with which for the moment she felt she could not cope.
Turning, she saw that Isabel was clinging convulsively to the old nurse, and she was crying, crying, crying, as one who has lost all hope.
"But it's too late to do her any good," mourned Biddy over the bowed head. "It's the tears of a broken heart."
The paroxysm did not last long, and in that fact most poignantly didDinah realize the waning strength.
Dumbly she stood and watched Biddy lay the inanimate figure back upon the pillows. Isabel had sunk into a state of exhaustion that was almost torpor.
"She'll sleep now, dear lamb," said Biddy, and tenderly covered her over as though she had been a child.
She turned round to Dinah, looking at her with shrewd darting eyes. "Ye'd better be getting along to your lover, Miss Dinah," she said. "He'll be wanting ye to dance with him."
But Dinah stood her ground with a little shiver. The bare thought of dancing at that moment made her feel physically sick. "Biddy! Biddy!" she whispered, "what has happened to make her—like this?"
"And ye may well ask!" said Biddy darkly. "But it's not for me to tell ye. Ye'd best run along, Miss Dinah dear, and be happy while ye can."
"But I'm not happy!" broke from Dinah. "How can I be? Biddy, what has happened? You must tell me if you can. She wasn't like this a fortnight ago. She has never been—quite like this—before."
Biddy pursed her lips. "Sure, we none of us travel the same road twice,Miss Dinah," she said.
But Dinah would not be satisfied with so vague an axiom.
"Something has happened," she said. "Come into the next room and tell me all about it! Please, Biddy!"
Biddy glanced at the bed. "She'll not hear ye in here, Miss Dinah," she said. "And what for should I be telling ye at all? Ye'll be Sir Eustace's bride in less than forty-eight hours from now, so it's maybe better ye shouldn't know."
"I must know," Dinah said, and with the words a great wave of resolution went through her, uplifting her, inspiring her. "I've got to know," she said. "Whatever happens, I've got to know."
Biddy left the bedside and came close to her. "If ye insist, MissDinah—" she said.
"I do—I do insist." Never in her life before had Dinah spoken with such authority, but a force within was urging her—a force irresistible; she spoke as one compelled.
Biddy came closer still. "Ye'll not tell Master Scott—nor any of 'em—ifI tell ye?" she whispered.
"No, no; of course—no!" Dinah's voice came breathlessly; she had not the power to draw back.
"Ye promise, Miss Dinah?" Biddy could be insistent too; her eyes burned like live coals.
"I promise, yes." Dinah held out an impulsive hand. "You can trust me," she said.
Biddy's fingers closed claw-like upon it. "Whist now, Miss Dinah!" she said. "If Sir Eustace was to hear me, sure, he'd wring the neck on me like as if I was an old fowl. But ye've asked me what's happened, mavourneen, and sure, I'll tell ye. For it's the pretty young lady that ye are and a cruel shame that ye should ever belong to the likes of him. It's his doing, Miss Dinah, every bit of it, and it's the truth I'm speaking, as the Almighty Himself could tell ye if He'd a mind to. The poor lamb was fading away aisy like, but he came along and broke her heart. It was them letters, Miss Dinah. He took 'em. And he burned 'em, my dear, he burned 'em, and when ye were gone she missed 'em, and then he told her what he'd done, told her brutal-like that it was time she'd done with such litter. He said it was all damn' nonsense that she was wasting her life over 'em and over the dead. Oh, it was wicked, it was cruel. And she—poor innocent—she locked herself up when he'd gone and cried and cried and cried till the poor heart of her was broke entirely. She said she'd lost touch with her darling husband and he'd never come back to her again."
"Biddy!" Horror undisguised sounded in Dinah's low voice. "He never did such a thing as that!"
"He did that!" A queer species of triumph was apparent in Biddy's rejoinder; malice twinkled for a second in her eyes. "I've told ye! I've told ye!" she said. And then, with sharp anxiety. "But ye'll not tell anyone as ye know, Miss Dinah. Ye promised, now didn't ye? Miss Isabel wouldn't that any should know—not even Master Scott. He was away when it happened, dining down at the Vicarage he was. And Miss Isabel she says to me, 'For the life of ye, don't tell Master Scott! He'd be that angry,' she says, 'and Sir Eustace would murder him entirely if it came to a quarrel.' She was that insistent, Miss Dinah, and I knew there was truth in what she said. Master Scott has the heart of a lion. He never knew the meaning of fear from his babyhood. And Sir Eustace is a monster of destruction when once his blood's up. And he minds what Master Scott says more than anyone. So I promised, Miss Dinah dear, the same as you have. And so he doesn't know to this day. Sir Eustace, ye see, has been in a touchy mood all along, ever since ye left. Like gunpowder he's been, and Master Scott has had a difficult enough time with him; and Miss Isabel has kept it from him so that he thinks it was just your going again that made her fret so. There, now ye know all, Miss Dinah dear, and don't ye for the love of heaven tell a soul what I've told ye! Miss Isabel would never forgive me if she came to know. Ah, the saints preserve us, what's that?"
A brisk tap at the door had made her jump with violence. She went to parley with a guilty air.
In a moment or two she shut the door and came back. "It's that flighty young French hussy, Miss Dinah; her they call Yvonne. She says Sir Eustace is waiting for ye downstairs."
A great revulsion of feeling went through Dinah. It shook her like an overwhelming tempest and passed, leaving her deadly cold. She turned white to the lips.
"I can't go to him, Biddy," she said. "I can't dance to-night. Yvonne must tell him."
Biddy gave her a searching look. "Ye won't let him find out, Miss Dinah?" she urged. "Won't he guess now if ye stay up here?"
The earnest entreaty of the old bright eyes moved her. She turned to the door. "Oh, very well. I'll go myself and tell him."
"Ye won't let him suspect, mavourneen—mavourneen?" pleaded Biddy desperately.
"No, Biddy, no! Haven't I sworn it a dozen times already?" Dinah had reached the door; she looked back for a moment and her look was steadfast notwithstanding the deathly pallor of her face. Then she passed slowly forth, and heard old Biddy softly turn the key behind her, making assurance doubly sure.
Slowly she moved along the passage. It was deserted, but the sound of laughing voices and the tuning of violins floated up from below. Again that feeling that was akin to physical sickness assailed Dinah. Down there he was waiting for her, waiting to be intoxicated into headlong, devouring passion by her dancing. She seemed to feel his arms already holding her, straining her to him, so that the warmth of him was as a fiery atmosphere all about her, encompassing her, possessing her. Her whole body burned at the thought, and then again was cold—cold as though she had drunk a draught of poison. She stood still, feeling too sick to go on.
And then, while she waited, she heard a step. Her heart seemed to spring into her throat, throbbing wildly like a caged bird seeking freedom. She drew back against the wall, trembling from head to foot.
He came along the passage, magnificent, princely, confident, swinging his shoulders with that semi-conscious swagger she knew so well. He spied her where she stood, and she heard his brief, half-mocking laugh as he strode to her.
"Ah, Daphne! Hiding as usual!" he said.
He took her between his hands, and she felt the mastery of him in that free hold. She stood as a prisoner in his grasp. Her new-found resolution was gone at the first contact with that overwhelming personality of his. She hung her head in quivering distress.
He bent down, bringing his face close to hers. He tried to look into the eyes that she kept downcast.
And suddenly he spoke again, softly into her ear. "Why so shy, little sweetheart? Are you getting frightened now the time is so near?"
Her breathing quickened at his tone. Possessive though it was, it held that tender note that was harder to bear than all his fiercest passion. She could not speak in answer. No words would come.
He put his arm around her and held her close. "But you mustn't be afraid of me," he said. "Don't you know I love you? Don't you know I am going to make you the happiest little woman in the world?"
Dinah choked down some scalding tears. She longed to escape from the holding of his arm, and yet her torn spirit felt the comfort of it. She stood silent, shaken, unnerved, piteously conscious of her utter weakness—the weakness wrought by that iron discipline that had never suffered her to have any will of her own.
He put up a hand and pressed her drooping head against his shoulder. "There's nothing very dreadful in being married, dear," he told her. "I'm not such a devouring monster as I may seem. Why, I wouldn't hurt a hair of your head. They are all precious to me."
She quivered at his use of the word that Biddy had employed with such venom only a few minutes before; but still she said nothing. What could she say? Against this new weapon of his she was more helpless than ever. She hid her face against him and strove for self-control.
He kissed her temple and the clustering hair above it. "There now! You are not going to be a silly little scared fawn any more. Come along and dance it off!"
His arm encircled her shoulders; he began to lead her to the stairs.
And Dinah went, slave-like in her submission, but hating herself the more for every step she took.
They went to the ballroom, and presently they danced. But the old subtle charm was absent. Her feet moved to the rhythm of the music, her body swayed and pulsed to the behest of his; but her spirit stood apart, bruised and downcast and very much alone. Her gilded palace had fallen all about her in ruins. The deliverance to which she had looked forward so eagerly was but another bondage that would prove more cruel and more enslaving than the first. She longed with all her quivering heart to run away and hide.
He was very kind to her, more considerate than she had ever known him. Perhaps he missed the fairy abandonment which had so delighted him in her dancing of old; but he found no fault; and when the dance was over he did not lead her away to some private corner as she had dreaded, but took her instead to her father and stood with him for some time in talk.
She saw Scott in the distance, but he did not approach her while Eustace was with them, and when herfiancéturned away at length he had disappeared.
They were left comparatively alone, and Dinah slipped an urgent hand into her father's. "I want to go home, Daddy. I'm so tired."
He looked at her in surprise, but she managed to muster a smile in reply, and he was not observant enough to note the distress that lay behind it.
"Had enough of it, eh?" he questioned. "Well, I think you're wise. You'll be busy to-morrow. By all means, let's go!"
It was not till the very last moment that she saw Scott again. He came forward just as she was passing through the hall to the front door.
He took the hand she held out to him, looking at her with those straight, steady eyes of his that there was no evading, but he made no comment of any sort.
"Mr. Grey is coming by a morning train to-morrow," he said. "May I bring him to call upon you in the afternoon? I believe he wants to run through the wedding-service with you beforehand."
He smiled as he said it, but Dinah could not smile in answer. There was something ominous to her in that last sentence, something that made her think of the clanking of chains. She was relieved to hear her father answer for her.
"Come by all means! Nothing like a dress rehearsal to make things go smoothly. I'll tell my wife to expect you."
Scott's hand relinquished hers, and she felt suddenly cold. She murmured a barely audible "Good night!" and turned away.
From the portico she glanced back and saw Sir Eustace leading Rose de Vigne to the ballroom. The light shone full upon them. They made a splendid couple. And a sudden bizarre thought smote her. This was what the gods had willed. This had been the weaving of destiny; and she—she—had dared to intervene, frustrating, tearing the gilded, smooth-wrought threads apart.
Ah well! It was done now. It was too late to draw back. But the wrath of the gods remained to be faced. Already it was upon her, and there was no escape.
As one who hears a voice speaking from a far distance, she heard herself telling her father that all was well with her and she had spent an enjoyable evening.
Then she lay back in the car with clenched hands, and listened trembling to the thundering wheels of Destiny.