Dinah spent her Sunday afternoon seated in a far corner of the verandah, inditing a very laboured epistle to her mother—a very different affair from the gay little missives she scribbled to her father every other day.
The letter to her mother was a duty which must of necessity be accomplished, and perhaps in consequence she found it peculiarly distasteful. She never knew what to say, being uncomfortably aware that a detailed account of her doings would only give rise to drastic comment. The glories of the mountains were wholly beyond her powers of description when she knew that any extravagance of language would be at once termed high-flown and ridiculous. The sleigh-drive of the day before was disposed of in one sentence, and the dance of the evening could not be mentioned at all. The memory of it was like a flame in her inner consciousness. Her cheeks still burned at the thought, and her heart leapt with a wild longing. When would he kiss her again, she wondered? Ah, when, when?
There was another thought at the back of her wonder which she felt to be presumptuous, but which nevertheless could not be kept completely in abeyance. He had said that there would be no consequences; but—had he really meant it? Was it possible ever to awake wholly from so perfect a dream? Was it not rather the great reality of things to which she had suddenly come, and all her past life a mere background of shadows? How could she ever go back into that dimness now that she felt the glorious rays of this new radiance upon her? And he also—was it possible that he could ever forget? Surely it had ceased to be just a game to either of them! Surely, surely, the wonder and the rapture had caught him also into the magic web—the golden maze of Romance!
She leaned her head on her hand and gave herself up to the great enchantment, feeling again his kisses upon lips and eyes and brow, and the thrilling irresistibility of his hold. Ah, this was life indeed! Ah, this was life!
A soft footfall near her made her look up sharply, and she saw Rose de Vigne approaching. Rose was looking even more beautiful than usual, yet for the first time Dinah contemplated her without any under-current of envy. She moved slightly to make room for her.
"I haven't come to stay," Rose announced with her quiet, well-satisfied smile, as she drew near. "I have promised to sing at to-night's concert and the padre wants to look through my songs. Well, Dinah, my dear, how are you getting on? Is that a letter to your mother?"
Dinah suppressed a sigh. "Yes. I've only just begun it. I don't know in the least what to say."
Rose lifted her pretty brows. "What about your new friend Sir Eustace Studley's sister? Wouldn't she be interested to hear of her? Poor soul, it's lamentably sad to think that she should be mentally deranged. Some unfortunate strain in the family, I should say, to judge by the younger brother's appearance also."
Dinah's green eyes gleamed a little. "I don't see anything very unusual about him," she remarked. "There are plenty of little men in the world."
"And crippled?" smiled Rose.
"I shouldn't call him a cripple," rejoined Dinah quickly. "He is quite active."
"Many cripples are, dear," Rose pointed out. "He has learnt to get the better of his infirmity, but nothing can alter the fact that the infirmity exists. I call him a most peculiar little person to look at. Of course I don't deny that he may be very nice in other ways."
Dinah bit her lip and was silent. To hear Scott described as nice was to her mind less endurable than to hear him called peculiar. But somehow she could not bring herself to discuss him, so she choked down her indignation and said nothing.
Rose seated herself beside her. "I call Sir Eustace a very interesting man," she observed. "He fully makes up for the deficiencies of his brother and sister. He seems to be very kind-hearted too. Didn't I see him helping you with your skating the other night?"
Dinah's eyes shone again with a quick and ominous light. "He helped you with your ski-ing too, didn't he?" she said.
"He did, dear. I had a most enjoyable afternoon." Rose smiled again as over some private reminiscence. "He told me he thought you were coming on, in fact he seems to think that you have the makings of quite a good skater. It's a pity your opportunities are so limited, dear." Rose paused to utter a soft laugh.
"I don't see anything funny in that," remarked Dinah.
"No, no! Of course not. I was only smiling at the way in which he referred to you. 'That little brown cousin of yours' he said, 'makes me think of a water-vole, there one minute and gone the next.' He seemed to think you a rather amusing child, as of course you are." Rose put up a delicate hand and playfully caressed the glowing cheek nearest to her. "I told him you were not any relation, but just a dear little friend of mine who had never seen anything of the world before. And he laughed and said, 'That is why she looks like a chocolate baby out of an Easter egg.'"
"Anything else?" said Dinah, repressing an urgent desire to shiver at the kindly touch.
"No, I don't think so. We had more important matters to think of and talk about. He is a man who has travelled a good deal, and we found that we had quite a lot in common, having visited the same places and regarded many things from practically the same point of view. He took the trouble to be very entertaining," said Rose, with a pretty blush. "And his trouble was not misspent. I am convinced that he enjoyed the afternoon even more than I did. We also enjoyed the evening," she added. "He is an excellent dancer. We suited each other perfectly."
"Did you find him good at sitting out?" asked Dinah unexpectedly.
Rose looked at her enquiringly, but her eyes were fixed upon the distant mist-capped mountains. There was nothing in her aspect to indicate what had prompted the question.
"What a funny thing to ask!" she said, with her soft laugh. "No; we enjoyed dancing much too much to waste any time sitting out. He gave you one dance, I believe?"
"No," Dinah said briefly. "I gave him one."
She turned from her contemplation of the mountains. An odd little smile very different from Rose's smile of complacency hovered at the corners of her mouth. She gave Rose a swift and comprehensive glance, then slipped her pen into her writing-case and closed it.
"I am afraid I have interrupted you," said Rose.
"Oh no, it doesn't matter." Dinah's dimple showed for a second and was gone. "I can't write any more now. There's something about this air that makes me feel now and then that I must get up and jump. Does it affect you that way?"
"You funny little thing!" said Rose. "Why, no!"
Dinah's chin pointed upwards. She looked for the moment almost aggressively happy. But the next her look went beyond Rose, and she started. Her expression altered, became suddenly tender and anxious.
"There is Mrs. Everard!" she said softly.
Rose looked round. "Ah! Captain Brent's Purple Empress!" she said. "How haggard the poor soul looks!"
As if drawn magnetically, Dinah moved along the verandah.
Isabel was dressed in the long purple coat she had worn the previous day. She had a cap of black fur on her head. She stood as if irresolute, glancing up and down as though she searched for someone. There was an odd furtiveness in her bearing that struck Dinah on the instant. It also occurred to her as strange that though the restless eyes must have seen her they did not seem to take her in.
The fact deterred her for a second, but only for a second. Then swiftly she went forward and joined her.
"Are you looking for someone, dear Mrs. Everard?"
Isabel's eyes glanced at her, and instantly looked beyond. "I am looking for my husband," she said, her voice quick and low. "He does not seem to be here. You have not seen him, I suppose? He is tall and fair with a boyish smile, and eyes that look straight at you. He laughs a good deal. He is always laughing. You couldn't fail to notice him. He is one whom the gods love."
Again her eyes roamed over Dinah, and again they passed her to scan the mist-wreathed mountains.
Dinah slipped a loving hand through her arm. "He is not here, dear," she said. "Come and sit down for a little! The sun won't be gone yet. We can watch it go."
She tried to draw her gently along the verandah, but Isabel resisted. "No—no! I am not going that way. I have to go up the mountains to meet him. Don't keep me! Don't keep me!"
Dinah threw an anxious look around. There was no one near them. Rose had moved away to join a group just returned from the rink. The laughter and gay voices rose on the still air in merry chorus. No one knew or cared of the living tragedy so near.
Pleadingly she turned to Isabel. "Darling Mrs. Everard, need you go now?Wait till the morning! It is so late now. It will soon be dark."
Isabel made a sharp gesture of impatience. "Be quiet, child! You don't understand. Of course I must go now. I have escaped from them, and if I wait I shall be taken again. It would kill me to be kept back now. I must meet him in the dawn on the mountain-top. What was it you called it? The peaks of Paradise! That is where I shall find him. But I must start at once—at once."
She threw another furtive look around, and stepped forth. Dinah's hand closed upon her arm. "If you go, I am coming too," she said, with quick resolution. "But won't you wait a moment—just a moment—while I run and get some gloves?"
Isabel made a swift effort to disengage herself. "No, child, no! I can't wait. If you met Eustace, he would make you tell him where you were going, and then he would follow and bring me back. No, I must go now—at once. Yes, you may come too if you like. But you mustn't keep me back. I must go quickly—quickly—before they find out. Everything depends on that."
There was no delaying her. Dinah cast another look towards the chattering group, and gave up hope. She dared not leave her, for she had no idea of the whereabouts of either of the brothers. And there was no time to make a search. The only course open to her was to accompany her friend whithersoever the fruitless quest should lead. She was convinced that Isabel's physical powers of endurance were slight, and that when they were exhausted she would be able to bring her back unresisting.
Nevertheless, she was conscious of a little tremor at the heart as they set forth. There was an air of desperation about her companion that it was impossible to overlook. Isabel's manner towards her was so wholly devoid of that caressing element that had always marked their intimacy till that moment. Without being actually frightened, she was very uneasy. It was evident that Isabel was beyond all persuasion that day.
The sun was beginning to sink towards the western peaks as they turned up the white track, casting long shadows across the snow. The pine-wood through which the road wound was mysteriously dark. The rush of the stream in the hollow had an eerie sound. It seemed to Dinah that the ground they trod was bewitched. She almost expected to catch sight of goblin-faces peering from behind the dark trunks. Now and then muffled in the snow, she thought she heard the scamper of tiny feet.
Isabel went up the steep track with a wonderful elasticity, looking neither to right nor left. Her eyes were fixed perpetually forwards, with the look in them of one who strains towards a goal. Her lips were parted, and the eagerness of her face went to Dinah's heart.
They came out above the pine-wood. They reached and passed the spot where she and Scott had turned back on their first walk together. The snow crunched crisply underfoot. The ascent was becoming more and more acute.
Dinah was panting. Light as she was, with all the activity of youth in her veins, she found it hard to keep up, for Isabel was pressing, pressing hard. She went as one in whom the fear of pursuit was ever present, paying no heed to her companion, seeming indeed to have almost forgotten her presence.
On and on, up and up, they went on their rapid pilgrimage. The winding of the road had taken them out of sight of the hotel, and the whole world seemed deserted. The sun-rays slanted ever more and more obliquely. The valley behind them had fallen into shadow.
Before them and very far above them towered the great pinnacles, clothed in the everlasting snows, beginning to turn golden above their floating wreaths of mist. Even where they were, trails like the ragged edges of a cloud drifted by them, and the coldness of the air held a clammy quality. The sparkling dryness of the atmosphere seemed to be dissolving into these thin, veil-like vapours. The cold was more penetrating than Dinah had ever before experienced.
Now and then an icy draught came swirling down upon them, making her shiver, though it was evident that Isabel was unaware of it. The harder the way became, the more set upon her purpose did she seem to be. Dinah marvelled at her strength and unvarying determination. There was about it an element of the wild, not far removed from ferocity. Her uneasiness was growing with every step, and something that was akin to fear began to knock at her heart. The higher they mounted, the more those trails of mist increased. Very soon now the sun would be gone. Already it had ceased to warm that world of snow. And what would happen then? What if the dusk came upon them while still they pressed on up that endless, difficult track?
Timidly she clasped Isabel's arm at last. "It will be getting dark soon," she said. "Shouldn't we be going back?"
For a moment Isabel's eyes swept round upon her, and she marvelled at their intense and fiery brilliance. But instantly they sought the mountain-tops again, all rose-lit in the opal glow of sunset.
"You can go back, child," she said. "I must go on."
"But it is getting so late," pleaded Dinah. "And look at the mist! If we keep on much longer, we may be lost."
Isabel quickened her pace. "I am not afraid," she said, and her voice thrilled with a deep rapture. "He is waiting for me, there where the mountains meet the sky. I shall find him in the dawn. I know that I shall find him."
"But, dear Mrs. Everard, we can't go on after dark," urged Dinah. "We should be frozen long before morning. It is terribly cold already. And poor Biddy will be so anxious about you."
"Oh no!" Isabel spoke with supreme confidence. "Biddy will know where I have gone. She was asleep when I left, poor old soul. She had had a bad night." A sudden sharp shudder caught her. "All night I was struggling against the bars of my cage. It was only when Biddy fell asleep that I found the door was open. But you can go back, child," she added. "You had better go back. Eustace won't want to follow me if he has you."
But Dinah's hold instantly grew close and resolute. "I shall not leave you," she said, with decision.
Isabel made no further attempt to persuade her. She seemed to regard it as a matter of trifling importance. Her one aim was to reach those glowing peaks that glittered far above the floating mists like the glories half-revealed of another world.
It was nothing to her that the road by which they had come should be blotted out. She had no thought for that, no desire or intention to return. If an earthquake had rent away the ground behind them, she would not have been dismayed. It was only the forward path, leading ever upwards to the desired country, that held her mind, and the memory of a voice that called far above the mountain height.
The sun sank, the glory faded. The dark and the cold wrapped them round. But still was she undaunted. "When the dawn comes, we shall be there," she said.
And Dinah heard her with a sinking heart. She had no thought of leaving her, but she knew and faced the fact that in going on, she carried her life in her hand. Yet she kept herself from despair. Surely by now the brothers would have found out, and they would follow! Surely they would follow! And Eustace—Eustace would thank her for what she had done.
She strained her ears for their coming; but she heard nothing—nothing but their own muffled footsteps on the snow. And ever the darkness deepened, and the mist crept closer around them.
She gathered all her courage to face the falling night. She was sure she had done right to come and so she hoped God would take care of them.
It was growing late on that same evening that Scott came through the hotel vestibule after a rehearsal of the concert which was to take place that evening and at which he had undertaken to play the accompaniments. He glanced about him as he came as though in search of someone, and finally passed on to the smoking-room. His eye were heavy and his face worn, but there was an air of resolution about him that gave purpose to his movements.
In the smoking-room several men were congregated, and in a corner of it sat Sir Eustace, writing a letter. Scott came straight to him, and bent over him a hand on the back of his chair.
"Can I have a word with you?" he asked in a low voice.
Sir Eustace did not look round or cease to write. "Presently," he said.
Scott drew back and sat down near him. He did not smoke or take up a paper. His attitude was one of quiet vigilance.
Minutes passed. Sir Eustace continued his task exactly as if he were not there. Now and then he paused to flick the ash from his cigarette, but he did not turn his head. The dressing-gong boomed through the hotel, but he paid no attention to it. One after another the men in the room got up and sauntered away, but Scott remained motionless, awaiting his brother's pleasure.
Sir Eustace finished his letter, and pulled another sheet of paper towards him. Scott made no sign of impatience.
Sir Eustace began to write again, paused, wrote a few more words, then suddenly turned in his chair. They were alone.
"Oh, what the devil is it?" he said irritably. "I haven't any time to waste over you. What do you want?"
Scott stood up. "It's all right, old chap," he said gently. "I'm going. I only came in to tell you I was sorry for all the beastly things I said to you last night—this morning, rather. I lost my temper which was fairly low of me, considering you had been up all night and I hadn't."
He paused. Eustace was looking up at him from under frowning brows, his blue eyes piercing and merciless.
"It's all very fine, Stumpy," he said, after a moment. "Some people think that an apology more than atones for the offence. I don't."
"Neither do I," said Scott quietly. "But it's better than nothing, isn't it?" His eyes met his brother's very steadily and openly. His attitude was unflinching.
"It depends," Eustace rejoined curtly. "It is if you mean it. If you don't, it's not worth—that," with a snap of the fingers.
"I do mean it," said Scott, flushing.
"You do?" Eustace looked at him still more searchingly.
"I always mean what I say," Scott returned with deliberation.
"And you meant what you said this morning?" Eustace pounced without mercy upon the weak spot.
But the armour was proof. Scott remained steadfast. "I meant it—yes. ButI might have put it in a different form. I lost my temper. I am sorry."
Eustace continued to regard him with a straight, unsparing scrutiny. "And you consider that to be the sort of apology I can accept?" he asked, after a moment.
"I think you might accept it, old chap," Scott made pacific rejoinder.
Eustace turned back to the table, and began to put his papers together. "I might do many things," he observed, "which, not being a weak-kneed fool, I don't. If you really wish to make your peace with me, you had better do your best to make amends—to pull with me and not against me. For I warn you, Stumpy, you went too far last night. And it is not the first time."
He paused, as if he expected a disclaimer.
Scott waited a second or two; then with a very winning movement he bent and laid his arm across his brother's shoulders. "Try and bear with me, dear chap!" he said.
His voice was not wholly steady. There was entreaty in his action.
Eustace made a sharp gesture of surprise, but he did not repel him. There fell a brief silence between them; then Scott's hand came gently down and closed upon his brother's.
"Life isn't so confoundedly easy at the best of times," he said, speaking almost under his breath. "I'm generally philosopher enough to take it as it comes. But just lately—" he broke off. "Let it bepax,Eustace!" he urged in a whisper.
Eustace's hand remained for a moment or two stiffly unresponsive; then very suddenly it closed and held.
"What's the matter with you?" he said gruffly.
"Oh, I'm a fool, that's all," Scott answered, and uttered a shaky laugh. "Never mind! Forget it like a dear fellow! God knows I don't want to pull against you; but, old chap, we must go slow."
It was the conclusion that events had forced upon Eustace himself during the night, but he chafed against acknowledging it. "There's no sense in drifting on in the same old hopeless way for ever," he said. "We have got to make a stand; and it's now or never."
"I know. But we must have patience a bit longer. There is a change coming. I am certain of it. But—last night has thrown her back." Scott spoke with melancholy conviction.
"You gave her the draught?" Eustace asked sharply.
"I gave her a sedative only; but it took no effect. In the middle of the morning she was still in the same unsatisfactory state, and I gave her a second sedative. After that she fell asleep, but it was not a very easy sleep for a long time. This afternoon I saw Biddy for a moment, and she told me she seemed much more comfortable. The poor old thing looked tired out, and I told her to get a rest herself. She said she would lie down in the room. If it hadn't been for this concert business, I would have relieved her. But they couldn't muster anyone to take my place. I am just going up now to see how she is getting on."
Scott straightened himself slowly, with a movement that was unconsciously very weary. Eustace gave him a keen glance.
"You're wearing yourself out over her, Stumpy," he said.
"Oh, rot!" Scott smiled upon him, a light that was boyishly affectionate in his eyes. "I'm much tougher than I look. Thanks for being decent to me, old chap! I don't deserve it. If there are any more letters to be written, bring them along, and I'll attend to them to-night after the concert."
"No. Not this lot. I shall attend to them myself." Eustace got up, and passed a hand through his arm. "You are working too hard and sleeping too little. I'm going to take you in hand and put a stop to it."
Scott laughed. "No, no! Thanks all the same, I'm better left alone. Are you coming to the show to-night? The beautiful Miss de Vigne is going to sing."
Eustace looked supercilious. "Is there anything that young lady can't do, I wonder? Her accomplishments are legion. She told me yesterday that she could play the guitar. She can also recite, play bridge, and take cricket scores. She is a scratch golf-player, plays a good game of tennis, rides to hounds, and visits the poor. And that is by no means a complete list. I don't wonder that she gives the little brown girl indigestion. Her perfection is almost nauseating at times."
Scott laughed again. It was a relief to have diverted his brother's attention from more personal subjects. "She ought to suit you rather well," he observed. "You are something of the perfect knight yourself. I heard a lady exclaim only yesterday when you started off together on that ski-ing expedition, 'What a positively divine couple! Apollo and Aphrodite!' I think it was the parson's wife. You couldn't expect her to know much about heathen theology."
"Don't make me sick if you don't mind!" said Sir Eustace. "Look here, myfriend! We shall be late if we don't go. You can't spend long withIsabel, if you are to turn up in time for this precious concert. Hullo!What's the matter?"
The door of the smoking-room had burst suddenly open, and Colonel de Vigne, very red in the face and as agitated as his pomposity would allow, stood glaring at them.
"So you are here!" he exclaimed, his tone an odd blend of relief and anxiety.
"Do you mean me?" said Sir Eustace, with a touch of haughtiness.
"Yes, sir, you! I was looking for you," explained the Colonel, pulling himself together. "I thought perhaps you might be able to give me some idea as to the whereabouts of my young charge, Miss Bathurst. She is missing."
Sir Eustace raised his black brows. "What should I know about her whereabouts?" he said.
Scott broke in quickly. "I saw her in the verandah this afternoon with your daughter."
"I know. She was there." The Colonel spoke with brevity. "Rose left her there talking to your sister. No one seems to have seen her since. I thought she might have been with Sir Eustace. I see I was mistaken. I apologize. But where the devil can she be?"
Sir Eustace raised his shoulders. "She was certainly not talking to my sister," he remarked. "She has kept her room to-day. Miss Bathurst is probably in her own room dressing for dinner."
"That's just where she isn't!" exploded the Colonel. "I missed her at tea-time but thought she must be out. Now her brother tells me that he has been all over the place and can't find her. I suppose she can't be upstairs with your sister?" He turned to Scott.
"I'll go and see," Scott said. "She may be—though I doubt it. My sister was not so well, and so stayed in bed to-day."
He moved towards the stairs with the words; but ere he reached them there came the sound of a sudden commotion on the corridor above, and a wailing voice made itself heard.
"Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel! Wherever are you, mavourneen? Ah, what'll I do at all? Miss Isabel's gone!"
Old Biddy in her huge white apron and mob cap appeared at the top of the staircase and came hobbling down with skinny hands extended.
"Ah, Master Scott—Master Scott—may the saints help us! She's gone!She's gone! And meself sleeping like a hog the whole afternoon through!I'll never forgive meself, Master Scott,—never, never! Oh, what'll I do?I pray the Almighty will take my life before any harm comes to her!"
She reached Scott at the foot of the stairs and caught his hand hysterically between her own.
Sir Eustace strode forward, white to the lips. "Stop your clatter, woman, and answer me! How did Miss Isabel get away? Is she dressed?"
The old woman cowered back from the blazing wrath in his eyes. "Yes, your honour! No, your honour! I mean—Yes, your honour!" she stammered, still clinging pathetically to Scott. "I was asleep, ye see. I never knew—I never knew!"
"How long did you sleep?" demanded Sir Eustace.
"And how am I to tell at all?" wailed Biddy. "It didn't seem like five minutes, and I opened me eyes, and she was all quiet in the dark. And I said to meself, 'I won't disturb the dear lamb,' and I crept into me room and tidied meself, and made a cup o' tay. And still she kept so quiet; so I drank me tay and did a bit of work. And then—just a minute ago it was—I crept in and went to her thinking it was time she woke up,—and—and—and she wasn't there, your honour. The bed was laid up, and she was gone! Oh, what'll I do at all? What'll I do?" She burst into wild sobs, and hid her face in her apron.
Two or three people were standing about in the vestibule. They looked at the agitated group with interest, and in a moment a young man who had just entered came up to Scott.
"I believe I saw your sister in the verandah this afternoon," he said.
"That's just what Rose said," broke in the Colonel. "And you wouldn't believe me. She came out, and Dinah went to speak to her. And now the two of them are missing. It's obvious. They must have gone off together somewhere."
"Not up the mountain. I hope," the young man said.
"That is probably where they have gone," Scott said, speaking for the first time. He was patting Biddy's shoulder with compassionate kindness. "Why do you say that?"
"It's just begun to snow," the other answered. "And the mist up the mountain path is thick."
"Damnation!" exclaimed Sir Eustace furiously. "And she may have been gone for hours!"
"Miss Bathurst was with her," said Scott. "She would keep her head. I am certain of that." He turned to the Colonel who stood fuming by. "Hadn't we better organize a search-party sir? I am afraid that there is not much doubt that they have gone up the mountain. My sister, you know—" he flushed a little—"my sister is not altogether responsible for her actions. She would not realize the danger."
"But surely Dinah wouldn't be such a little fool as to go too!" burst forth the Colonel. "She's sane enough, when she isn't larking about with other fools." He glared at Sir Eustace. "And how the devil are we to know where to look, I'd like to know? We can't hunt all over the Alps."
"There may be some dogs in the village," Scott said. "There is certainly a guide. I will go down at once and see what I can find."
"No, no, Stumpy! Not you!" Sharply Sir Eustace intervened. "I won't have you go. It's not your job, and you are not fit for it." He laid a peremptory hand upon his brother's shoulder. "That's understood, is it? You will not leave the hotel."
He spoke with stern insistence, looking Scott straight in the eyes; and after a moment or two Scott yielded the point.
"All right, old chap! I'm not much good, I know. But for heaven's sake, lose no time."
"No time will be lost." Sir Eustace turned round upon the Colonel. "We can't have any but young men on this job," he said. "See if you can muster two or three to go with me, will you? A doctor if possible! And we shall want blankets and restoratives and lanterns. Stumpy, you can see to that. Yes, and send for a guide too though he won't be much help in a thick mist. And take that wailing woman away! Have everything ready for us when we come back! They can't have gone very far. Isabel hasn't the strength. I shall be ready immediately."
He turned to the stairs and went up them in great leaps, leaving the little group below to carry out his orders.
There was a momentary inaction after his departure, then Scott limped across to the door and opened it. Thick darkness met him, the clammy darkness of fog, and the faint, faint rustle of falling snow.
He closed the door and turned back, meeting the Colonel's eyes, "It's hard to stay behind, sir," he said.
The Colonel nodded. He liked Scott. "Yes, infernally hard. But we'll do all we can. Will you find the doctor and get the necessaries together? I'll see to the rest."
"Very good, sir; I will." Scott went to the old woman who still sobbed piteously into her apron. "Come along, Biddy! There's plenty to be done. Miss Isabel's room must be quite ready for her when she comes back, and Miss Bathurst's too. We shall want boiling water—lots of it. That's your job. Come along!"
He urged her gently to the stairs, and went up with her, holding her arm.
At the top she stopped and gave him an anguished look. "Ah, Master Scott darlint, will the Almighty be merciful? Will He bring her safe back again?"
He drew her gently on. "That's another thing you can do, Biddy," he said."Ask Him!"
And before his look Biddy commanded herself and grew calmer. "Faith, Master Scott," she said, "if it isn't yourself that's taught me the greatest lesson of all!"
A very compassionate smile shone in Scott's eyes as he passed on and left her. "Poor old Biddy," he murmured, as he went. "It's easy to preach to such as you. But, O God, there's no denying it's bitter work for those who stay behind!"
He knew that he and Biddy were destined to drink that cup of bitterness to the dregs ere the night passed.
The darkness of the night lay like a black pall upon the mountain. The snow was falling thickly, and ever more thickly. It drifted in upon Dinah, as she crouched in the shelter of an empty shed that had been placed on that high slope for the protection of sheep from the spring storms. They had come upon this shelter just as the gloom had become too great for even Isabel to regard further progress as possible, and in response to the girl's insistence they had crept in to rest. They had lost the beaten track long since; neither of them had realized when. But the certainty that they had done so had had its effect upon Isabel. Her energies had flagged from the moment that it had dawned upon her. A deadly tiredness had come over her, a feebleness so complete that Dinah had had difficulty in getting her into the shelter. Return was utterly out of the question. They were hopelessly lost, and to wander in that densely falling snow was to court disaster.
Very thankful Dinah had been to find even so poor a refuge in that waste of drifting fog; but now as she huddled by Isabel's side it seemed to her that the relief afforded was but a prolonging of their agony. The cold was intense. It seemed to penetrate to her very bones, and she knew by her companion's low moaning that she was suffering keenly also.
Isabel seemed to have sunk into a state of semi-consciousness, and only now and then did broken words escape her—words scarcely audible to Dinah, but which testified none the less to the bitterness of despair that had come upon her.
She sat in a corner of the desolate place with Dinah pressed close to her, while the snow drifted in through the door-less entrance and sprinkled them both. But it was the darkness rather than the cold or the snow that affected the girl as she crouched there with her arms about her companion, striving to warm and shelter her while she herself felt frozen to the very heart. It was so terrible, so monstrous, so nerve-shattering. And the silence that went with it was like a nightmare horror to her shrinking soul. For all Dinah's sensibilities were painfully on the alert. No merciful dulness of perception came to her. Responsibility had awakened in her a nervous energy that made her realize the awfulness of their position with appalling vividness. That they could possibly survive the night she did not believe. And Death—Death in that fearful darkness—was a terror from which she shrank almost in panic.
That she retained command of her quivering nerves was due solely to the fact of Isabel's helplessness—Isabel's dependence upon her. She knew that while she had any strength left, she must not give way. She must be brave. Their sole chance of rescue hung upon that.
Like Scott, she thought of the guide, though the hope was a forlorn one. He might know of this shelter; but whether in the awful darkness he would ever be able to find it she strongly doubted. Their absence must have been discovered long since, she was sure; and Scott—Scott would be certain to think of the mountain path. He would remember his sister's wild words of the day before, and he would know that she, Dinah, had had no choice but to accompany her upon the mad quest. It comforted her to think that Scott would understand, and was already at work to help them. If by any means deliverance could be brought to them she knew that Scott would compass it. His quiet and capable spirit was accustomed to grapple with difficulties, and the enormity of a task would never dismay him. He had probably organized a search-party long ere this. He would not rest until he had done his very utmost. She wondered if he would come himself to look for them; but discarded the idea as unlikely. His infirmity made progress on the mountains a difficult matter at all times, and he would not wish to hamper the movements of the others. That was like Scott, she reflected. He would always keep his own desires in the background, subservient to the needs of others. No, he would not come himself. He would stay behind in torturing inaction while fitter men fared forth.
The thought of Eustace came again to her. He would be one of the search-party. She pictured him forcing his way upwards, all his magnificent strength bent to the work. Her heart throbbed at the memory of that all-conquering presence—the arms that had held her, the lips that had pressed her own. And he had stooped to plead with her also. She would always remember that of him with a thrill of ecstasy. He the princely and splendid—Apollo the magnificent!
Always? A sudden chill smote her heart numbing her through and through. Always? And Death waiting on the threshold to snatch her away from the wonderful joy she had only just begun to know! Always! Ah, would she remember even to-morrow—even to-morrow? And he—would he not forget?
Isabel stirred in her arms and murmured an inarticulate complaint. Tenderly she drew her closer. How cold it was! How cruelly, how bitingly cold! All her bones were beginning to ache. A dreadful stiffness was creeping over her. How long would her senses hold out, she wondered piteously? How long? How long?
It must be hours now since they had entered that freezing place, and with every minute it seemed to be growing colder. Never in her life had she imagined anything so searching, so agonizing, as this cold. It held her in an iron rigour against which she was powerless to struggle. The strength to clasp Isabel in her arms was leaving her. She thought that her numbed limbs were gradually turning to stone. Even her lips were so numbed with cold that she could not move them. The steam of her breath had turned to ice upon the wool of her coat.
The need for prayer came upon her suddenly as she realized that her faculties were failing. Her belief in God was of that dim and far-off description that brings awe rather than comfort to the soul. The sudden thought of Him came upon her in the darkness like a thunderbolt. In all her life Dinah had never asked for anything outside her daily prayers which were of a strictly formal description. She had shouldered her own troubles unassisted with the philosophy of a disposition that was essentially happy. She had seldom given a serious thought to the life of the spirit. It was all so vague to her, so far removed from the daily round and the daily burden. But now—face to face with the coming night—the spiritual awoke in her. Her soul cried out for comfort.
With Isabel still clasped in her failing arms, she began a desperate prayer for help. Her words came haltingly. They sounded strange to herself. But with all the strength that remained she sent forth her cry to the Infinite. And even as she prayed there came to her—whence she knew not—the conviction that somewhere—probably not more than a couple of miles from her though the darkness made the distance seem immeasurable—Scott was praying too. That thought had a wonderfully comforting effect upon her. His prayer was so much more likely to be answered than hers. He was just the sort of man who would know how to pray.
"How I wish he were here!" she whispered piteously into the darkness. "I shouldn't be afraid of dying—if only he were here."
She was certain—quite certain—that had he been there with her, no fear would have reached her. He wore the armour of a strong man, and by it he would have shielded her also.
"Oh, dear Mr. Greatheart," she murmured through her numb lips, "I'm sure you know the way to Heaven."
Isabel stirred again as one who moves in restless slumber. "We must scale the peaks of Paradise to reach it," she said.
"Are you awake, dearest?" asked Dinah very tenderly.
Isabel's head was sunk against her shoulder. She moved it, slightly raised it. "Yes, I am awake," she said. "I am watching for the dawn."
"It won't come yet," whispered Dinah tremulously. "It's a long, long way off."
Isabel moved a little more, feeling for Dinah in the darkness. "Are you frightened, little one?" she said. "Don't be frightened!"
Dinah swallowed down a sob. "It is so dark," she murmured through chattering teeth. "And so, so cold."
"You are cold, dear heart?" Isabel sat up suddenly. "Why should you be cold?" she said. "The darkness is nothing to those who are used to it. I have lived in outer darkness for seven weary years. But now—now I think the day is drawing near at last."
With an energy that astounded Dinah she got upon her knees and by her movements she realized, albeit too late, that she was divesting herself of the long purple coat.
With all her strength she sought to frustrate her, but her strength had become very feebleness; and when, despite resistance, Isabel wrapped her round in the garment she had discarded, her resistance was too puny to take effect.
"My dear," Isabel said, in her voice the deep music of maternal tenderness, "I am not needing it. I shall not need any earthly things for long. I am going to meet my husband in the dawning. But you—you will go back."
She fastened the coat with a quiet dexterity that made Dinah think again of Scott, and sat down again in her corner as if unconscious of the cold.
"Come and lie in my arms, little one!" she said. "Perhaps you will be able to sleep."
Dinah crept close. "It will kill you—it will kill you!" she sobbed. "Oh, why did I let you?"
Isabel's arms closed about her. "Don't cry, dear!" she murmured fondly. "It is nothing to me. A little sooner—a little later! If you had suffered what I have suffered you would say as I do, 'Dear God, let it be soon!' There! Put your head on my shoulder, dear child! See if you can get a little sleep! You have cared for me long enough. Now I am going to care for you."
With loving words she soothed her, calming her as though she had been a child in nightmare terror, and gradually a certain peace began to still the horror in Dinah's soul. An unmistakable drowsiness was stealing over her, a merciful lethargy lulling the sensibilities that had been so acutely tried. Her weakness was merging into a sense of almost blissful repose. She was no longer conscious of the anguish of the cold. Neither did the darkness trouble her. And the comfort of Isabel's arms was rest to her spirit.
As one who wanders in a golden maze she began to dream strange dreams that yet were not woven by the hand of sleep. Dimly she saw as down a long perspective a knight in golden armour climbing, ever climbing, the peaks of Paradise, from which, as from an eagle's nest, she watched his difficult but untiring progress. She thought he halted somewhat in the ascent—which was unlike Apollo, who walked as walk the gods with a gait both arrogant and assured. But still he came on, persistently, resolutely, carrying his golden shield before him.
His visor was down, and she wished that he would raise it. She yearned for the sight of that splendid face with its knightly features and blue, fiery eyes. She pictured it to herself as he came, but somehow it did not seem to fit that patient climbing figure.
And then as he gradually drew nearer, the thought came to her to go and meet him, and she started to run down the slope. She reached him. She gave him both her hands. She was ready—she was eager—to be drawn into his arms.
But he did not so draw her. To her amazement he only bowed himself before her and stretched forth the shield he bore that it might cover them both.
"It is Mr. Greatheart!" she said to herself in wonder. "Of course—it isMr. Greatheart!"
And then, while she still gazed upon the glittering, princely form, he put up a hand and lifted the visor. And she saw the kindly, steadfast eyes all kindled and alight with a glory before which instinctively she hid her own. Never—no, never—had she dreamed before that any man could look at her so! It was not passion that those eyes held for her;—it was worship.
She stood with bated breath and throbbing heart, waiting, waiting, as one in the presence of a vision, who longs—yet fears—to look. And while she waited she knew that the sun was shining upon them both with a glowing warmth that filled her soul abrim with such a rapture as she had never known before.
"How wonderful!" she murmured to herself. "How wonderful!"
And then at last she summoned courage to look up, and all in a moment her vision was shattered. The darkness was all about her again; Greatheart was gone.
What happened after the passing of her vision Dinah never fully knew, so slack had become her grip upon material things. Her spirit seemed to be wandering aimlessly about the mountain-side while her body lay in icy chains within that miserable shelter. Of Isabel's presence she was no longer even dimly aware, and she knew neither fear nor pain, only a wide desolation of emptiness that encompassed her as atmosphere encompasses the world.
Sometimes she fancied that the sound of voices came muffled through the fog that hung impenetrably upon the great slope. And when this fancy caught her, her spirit drifted back very swiftly to the near neighbourhood of that inert and frozen body that lay so helpless in the dark. For that strange freedom of the spirit seemed to her to be highly dangerous and in a fashion wrong. It would be a terrible thing if they found and buried the body, and the spirit were left alone to wander for ever homeless on that desolate mountain-side. She could not imagine a fate more awful.
At the same time, being free from the body, she knew no physical pain, and she shrank from returning before she need, knowing well the anguish of suffering that awaited her. The desolation and loneliness made her unhappy in a vague and not very comprehensible fashion, but she did not suffer actively. That would come later when return became imperative. Till then she flitted to and fro, intangible as gossamer, elusive as the snow. She wondered what Apollo would say if he could see her thus. Even he would fail to catch her now. She pictured the strong arms closing upon her, and clasping—emptiness. That thought made her a little cold, and sent her floating back to make sure that the lifeless body was still there.
And as she went, drifting through the silence, there came to her the thought that Scott would be unutterably shocked if they brought her back to him dead. It was strange how the memory of him haunted her that night. It almost seemed as if his spirit were out there in the great waste, seeking hers.
She reached the shelter and entered, borne upon snowflakes. Yes, the body was still there. She hovered over it like a bird over its nest. For Scott's sake, should she not return?
And then very suddenly there came a great sound close to her—the loud barking of a dog;—and in a second—in less—she had returned.
A long, long shiver went through the poor frozen thing that was herself, and she knew that she moaned as one awaking….
Vaguely, through dulled senses, she heard the great barking yet again, and something immense that was furry and soft brushed against her. She heard the panting of a large animal close to her in the hut, and very feebly she put out a hand.
She did not like that loud baying. It went through and through her brain. She was not frightened, only dreadfully tired. And now that she was back again in the body, she longed unspeakably to sleep.
But the noise continued, a perfect clamour of sound; and soon there came other sounds, the shouting of men, the muffled tread of feet sorely hampered by snow. A dim light began to shine, and gradually increased till it became a single, piercing eye that swept searchingly around the wretched shelter. An arc of fog surrounded it, obscuring all besides.
Dinah gazed wide-eyed at that dazzling arc, wondering numbly, whence it came. It drew nearer to her. Its brightness became intolerable. She tried to shut her eyes, but the lids felt too stiff to move. Again, more feebly, she moved her hand. It would be terrible if they thought her dead, especially after all the trouble she had taken to return.
And then very suddenly the deadly lethargy passed from her. All her nerves were pricked into activity. For someone—someone—was kneeling beside her. She felt herself gathered into strong arms.
"Quick, Wetherby! The brandy!" Ah, well she knew those brief, peremptory tones! "My God! We're only just in time!"
Fast pressed against a man's heart, a faint warmth went through her. She knew an instant of perfect serenity; but the next she uttered a piteous cry of pain. For fire—liquid, agonizing—was on her bloodless lips and in her mouth. It burned its ruthless way down her throat, setting her whole body tingling, waking afresh in her the power to suffer.
She turned, weakly gasping, and hid her face upon the breast that supported her.
Instantly she felt herself clasped more closely. "It's all right, little darling, all right!" he whispered to her with an almost fierce tenderness. "Take it like a good child! It'll pull you through."
With steady insistence he turned her face back again, chafing her icy cheek hard. And in a moment or two another burning dose was on its way.
It made her choke and gurgle, but it did its work. The frozen heart in her began to beat again with great jerks and bounds, sending quivering shocks throughout her body.
She tried to speak to him, to whisper his name; but she could only gasp and gasp against his breast, and presently from very weakness she began to cry.
He gathered her closer still, murmuring fond words, while he rubbed her face and hands, imparting the warmth of his own body to hers. His presence was like a fiery essence encompassing her. Lying there against his heart, she felt the tide of life turn in her veins and steadily flow again. Like a child, she clung to him, and after a while, with an impulse sublimely natural, she lifted her lips to his.
He pressed his lips upon them closely, lingeringly. "Better now, sweetheart?" he whispered.
And she, clinging to him, found voice to answer, "Nothing matters now you have come."
The consciousness of his protecting care filled her with a rapture almost too great to be borne. She throbbed in his arms, pressing closer, ever closer. And the grim Shadow of Death receded from the threshold. She knew that she was safe.
It was soon after this that the thought of Isabel came to her, and tremulously she begged him to go to her. But he would not suffer her out of his arms.
"The others can see to her," he said. "You are my care."
She thrilled at the words, but she would not be satisfied. "She has been so good to me," she told him pleadingly "See, I am wearing her coat."
"But for her you would never have come to this," he made brief reply, and she thought his words were stern.
Then, as she would not be pacified, he lifted her like a child and held her so that she could look down upon Isabel, lying inert and senseless against the doctor's knee.
"Oh, is she dead?" whispered Dinah, awe-struck.
"I don't know," he made answer, and by the tightening of his arms she knew that her safety meant more to him at the moment than that of Isabel or anyone else in the world.
But in a second or two she heard Isabel moan, and was reassured.
"She is coming round," the doctor said. "She is not so far gone as the other lassie."
Dinah wondered hazily what he could mean, wondered if by any chance he suspected that long and dreary wandering of her spirit up and down the mountain-side. She nestled her head down against Eustace's shoulder with a feeling of unutterable thankfulness that she had returned in time.
Her impressions after that were of a very dim and shadowy description. She supposed the brandy had made her sleepy. Very soon she drifted off into a state of semi-consciousness in which she realized nothing but the strong holding of his arms. She even vaguely wondered after a time whether this also were not a dream, for other fantasies began to crowd about her. She rocked on a sea of strange happenings on which she found it impossible to focus her mind. It seemed to have broken adrift as it were—a rudderless boat in a gale. But still that sense of security never wholly left her. Dreaming or waking, the force of his personality remained with her.
It must have been hours later, she reflected afterwards, that she heard the Colonel's voice exclaim hoarsely over her head, "In heaven's name, say she isn't dead!"
And, "Of course she isn't," came Eustace's curt response. "Should I be carrying her if she were?"
She tried to open her eyes, but could not. They seemed to be weighted down. But she did very feebly close her numbed hands about Eustace's coat. Emphatically she did not want to be handed over like a bale of goods to the Colonel.
He clasped her to him reassuringly, and presently she knew that he bore her upstairs, holding her comfortably close all the way.
"Don't go away from me!" she begged him weakly.
"Not so long as you want me, little sweetheart," he made answer. But her woman's heart told her that a parting was imminent notwithstanding.
In all her life she had never had so much attention before. She seemed to have entered upon a new and amazing phase of existence. Colonel de Vigne faded completely into the background, and she found herself in the care of Biddy and the doctor. Eustace left her with a low promise to return, and she had to be satisfied with that thought, though she would fain have clung to him still.
They undressed her and put her into a hot bath that did much to lessen the numb constriction of her limbs, though it brought also the most agonizing pain she had ever known. When it was over, the limit of her endurance was long past; and she lay in hot blankets weeping helplessly while Biddy tried in vain to persuade her to drink some scalding mixture that she swore would make her feel as gay as a lark.
In the midst of this, someone entered quietly and stood beside her; and all in a moment there came to Dinah the consciousness of an unknown force very strangely uplifting her. She looked up with a quivering smile in the midst of her tears.
"Oh, Mr. Greatheart," she whispered brokenly, "is it you?"
He smiled down upon her, and took the cup from Biddy's shaky old hand.
"May I give you this?" he said.
Dinah was filled with gratified confusion. "Oh, please, you mustn't trouble! But—how very kind of you!"
He took Biddy's place by her side. His eyes were shining with an odd brilliance, almost, she thought to herself wonderingly, as if they held tears. A sharp misgiving went through her. How was it they were bestowing so much care upon her, unless Isabel—Isabel—
She did not dare to put her doubt into words, but he read it and instantly answered it. "Don't be anxious!" he said in his kindly, tired voice. "All is well. Isabel is asleep—actually sleeping quietly without any draught. The doctor is quite satisfied about her."
He spoke the simple truth, she knew; he was incapable of doing anything else. A great wave of thankfulness went through her, obliterating the worst of her misery.
"I am so glad," she told him weakly. "I was—so dreadfully afraid. I—I had to go with her, Mr. Studley. I do hope everyone understands."
"Everyone does," he made answer gently. "Now let me give you this, and then you must sleep too."
She drank from the cup he held, and felt revived.
He did not speak again till she had finished; then he leaned slightly towards her, and spoke with great earnestness. "Miss Bathurst, do you realize, I wonder, that you saved my sister's life by going with her? I do; and I shall never forget it."
She was sure now that she caught the gleam of tears in the grey eyes. She slipped her hands out to him. "I only did what I could," she murmured confusedly. "Anyone would have done it. And please, Mr. Greatheart, will you call me Dinah?"
"Or Mercy?" he suggested smiling, her hands clasped close in his.
She smiled back with shy confidence. The memory of her dream was in her mind, but she could not tell him of that.
"No," she said. "Just Dinah. I'm not nice enough to be called anything else. And thank you—thank you for being so good to me."
"My dear child," he made quiet reply, "no one who really knows you could be anything else."
"Oh, don't you think they could?" said Dinah wistfully. "I wish there were more people in the world like you."
"No one ever thought of saying that to me before," said Scott.
After that interview with Scott there followed a long, long period of pain and weakness for Dinah. She who had never known before what it meant to be ill went down to the Valley of the Shadow and lingered there for many days and nights. And there came a time when those who watched beside her began to despair of her ever turning back.
So completely had she lost touch with the ordinary things of life that she knew but little of what went on around her, dwelling as it were apart, conscious sometimes of agonizing pain, but more often of a dreadful sinking as of one overwhelmed in the billows of an everlasting sea. At such times she would cling piteously to any succouring hand, crying to them to hold her up—only to hold her up. And if the hand were the hand of Greatheart, she always found comfort at length and a sense of security that none other could impart.
Her fancy played about him very curiously in those days. She saw him in many guises,—as prince, as knight, as magician; but never as the mean and insignificant figure which first had caught her attention on that sunny morning before the fancy-dress ball.
This man who sat beside her bed of suffering for hours together because she fretted when he went away, who held her up when the gathering billows threatened to overwhelm her fainting soul, who prayed for her with the utmost simplicity when she told him piteously that she could not pray for herself, this man was above and beyond all ordinary standards. She looked up to him with reverence, as one of colossal strength who had power with God.
But she never dreamed again that golden dream of Greatheart in his shining armour with the light of a great worship in his eyes. That had been a wild flight of presumptuous fancy that never could come true.
His was not the only hand to which she clung during those terrible days of fear and suffering. Another presence was almost constantly beside her night and day,—a tender, motherly presence that watched over and ministered to her with a devotion that never slackened. For some time Dinah could not find a name for this gracious and comforting presence, but one day when a figure clothed in a violet dressing-gown stooped over her to give her nourishment an illuminating memory came to her, and from that moment this loving nurse of hers filled a particular niche in her heart which was dedicated to the Purple Empress. She could think of no other name for her. That quiet and stately presence seemed to demand a royal appellation. In her calmer moments Dinah liked to lie and watch the still face with its crown of silvery hair. She loved the touch of the white hands that always knew with unerring intuition exactly what needed to be done. There seemed to be healing in their touch.
Very strangely the thought of Eustace never came to her, or coming, but flitted unrecorded and undetained across the surface of her mind. He had receded with all the rest of the world into the far, far distance that lay behind her. He had no place in this region of many shadows where these others so tenderly guided her wandering feet. No one else had any place there save old Biddy who, being never absent, seemed a part of the atmosphere, and the doctor who came and went like a presiding genie in that waste of desolation.
She did not welcome his visits, although he was invariably kind, for on one occasion she caught a low murmur from him to the effect that her mother had better come to her, and this suggestion had thrown her into a most painful state of apprehension. She had implored them weeping to let her mother stay away, and they had hushed her with soothing promises; but she never saw the doctor thereafter without a nervous dread that she might also see her mother's gaunt figure accompanying him. And she was sure—quite sure—that her mother would be very angry with her when she saw her helplessness.
Nightmares of her mother's advent began to trouble her. She would start up in anguish of soul, scarcely believing in the soothing arms that held her till their tenderness hushed her back to calmness.
"No one can come to you, sweetheart, while I am here." How often she heard the low words murmured lovingly over her head! "See, I am holding you! You are quite safe. No one can take you from me."
And Dinah would cling to her beloved empress till her panic died away.
On one of these occasions Scott was present, and he presently left the sick-room with a look in his eyes that gave him a curiously hard expression. He went deliberately in search of Billy whom he found playing a not very spirited game with the two little daughters of the establishment. The weather had broken, and several people had left in consequence.
Billy was bored as well as anxious, and his attitude said as much as he unceremoniously left his small playfellows to join Scott.
"Just amusin' the kids," he observed explanatorily. "How is she now?"
Scott linked his hand in the boy's arm. "She's pretty bad, Billy," he said. "Both lungs are affected. The doctor thinks badly of her, though he still hopes he may pull her through."
"You may you mean," returned Billy. "Can't say the de Vignes have put themselves out at all over her. There's Rose flirts all day long with your brother, and Lady Grace grumbling continually about the folly of undertaking other people's responsibilities. She swears she must get back at the end of next week for their precious house-party. And the Colonel fumes and says the same. I told him I shouldn't go unless she was out of danger, though goodness knows, sir, I don't want to sponge on you."
Scott's hand pressed his arm reassuringly. "Don't imagine such a thing possible!" he said. "Of course you must stay if she isn't very much better by that time. But now, Billy, tell me—if it isn't an unwelcome question—why doesn't your sister want your mother to come to her?"
Billy gave him one of his shrewd glances. "She's told you that, has she? Well, you know the mater is rather a queer fish, and I doubt very much if she'd come if you asked her."
"My good fellow!" Scott said. "Not if she were dying?"
"I doubt it," said Billy, unmoved. "You see, the mater hasn't much use for Dinah, except as a maid-of-all work. Never has had. It's not altogether her fault. It's just the way she's made."
"Good heavens!" said Scott, and added, as if to himself, "That little fairy thing!"
"She can't help it," said Billy. "She can't get on with the female species. It's like cats, you know,—a sort of jealousy."
"And your father?" questioned Scott, the hard look growing in his eyes.
"Oh, Dad!" said Billy, smiling tolerantly. "He's all right—quite a decent sort. But you wouldn't get him to leave home in the middle of the hunting season. He's one of the Whips."
Scott's hand had tightened unconsciously to a grip. Billy looked at him in surprised interrogation, and was amazed to see a heavy frown drawing the colourless brows. There was a fiery look in the pale eyes also that he had never seen before.
He waited in silence for developments, being of a wary disposition, and in a moment Scott spoke in a voice of such concentrated fury that Billy felt as if a total stranger were confronting him.
"An infernal and blackguardly shame!" he said. "It would serve them right if the little girl never went back to them again. I never heard of such damnable callousness in all my life before."
Billy opened his eyes wide, and after a second or two permitted himself a soft whistle.
Scott's hold upon his arm relaxed. "Yes, I know," he said. "I've no right to say it to you. But when the blood boils, you've got to let off the steam somehow. I suppose you've written to tell them all about her?"
"Oh yes, I wrote, and so did the Colonel. I had a letter from Dad this morning. He said he hoped she was better and that she was being well looked after. That's like Dad, you know. He never realizes a thing unless he's on the spot. I daresay I shouldn't myself," said Billy broadmindedly. "It's want of imagination in the main."
"Or want of heart," said Scott curtly.
Billy did not attempt to refute the amendment. "It's just the way you chance to be made," he said philosophically. "Of course I'm fond of Dinah. We're pals. But Dad's an easy-going sort of chap. He isn't specially fond of anybody. The mater,—well, she's keen on me, I suppose," he blushed a little; "but, as I said before, she hasn't much use for Dinah. Even when she was a small kid, she used to whip her no end. Dinah is frightened to death at her. I don't wonder she doesn't want her sent for."