A long, curling wave ran up the shingle and broke in a snow-white sheet of foam just below Dinah's feet. She was perched on a higher ridge of shingle, bareheaded, full in the glare of the mid-June sunlight. Her brown hands were locked tightly around her knees. Her small, pointed face looked wistfully over the sea.
She had been sitting in that position for a long time, her green eyes unblinking but swimming in the heat and glare. The dark ringlets on her forehead danced in the soft breeze that came over the water. There was tension in her attitude, the tension of deep and concentrated thought.
Into the midst of her meditations, there came a slow, halting step. It fell on the shingle behind her, reaching her above the roar of the breakers, and instantly a flood of colour rushed up over her face and neck.
Sharply she turned. "Scott!"
She was on her feet in a second with hand outstretched in welcome.
"Oh, how you startled me! How good of you to come so soon! I—shouldn't have left the house if I had known."
"I came at once," he said simply. "But I have only just got here. I saw you sitting on the shore and came straight to you. What news?"
His quiet, deliberate voice was in striking contrast to her agitated utterance. The hand that held hers was absolutely steady.
She met his look with confidence. "Scott, she is going. You knew it—didn't you?—when you were here last Sunday? She knew it too. She didn't want you to go really. And so—directly I realized she was worse—I sent for you. But—they say—even now she may linger for a little. But you'll stay, won't you? You won't go again?"
His grave eyes looked into hers. "Of course I will stay," he said.
She drew a quick sigh of relief. "She scarcely slept last night. Her breathing was so bad. It was very hot, you know. The nurse or I were fanning her nearly all the time, till the morning breeze came at last. And then she got quieter. She is asleep now. They say she will sleep for hours. And so I slipped out just for a little, so as to be quite fresh again when she wakes."
"Don't you sleep at all?" Scott asked gently.
The colour was fading from her face; it returned at his question. "Oh yes, any time. It doesn't matter for me. I am so strong. And I can sleep—afterwards."
He looked down at the thin little hand he still held. "You mustn't wear yourself out, Dinah," he said.
Her lip quivered suddenly, "What does it matter?" she said. "I've nothing else to live for."
"I don't think we can any of us say that," he answered. "There is always something left."
She turned her face and looked over the sea. "I'm sure I don't know what," she said, with a catch in her voice. "If—Isabel—were going to live, if—if I could only have her always, I should be quite happy. I shouldn't want anything else. But without her—life without her—after these two months,—" her voice broke and ceased.
"I know," Scott said. "I should have felt the same myself not so long ago. I have let you slip into my place, you see; and it comes hard on you now. But don't forget our friendship, Dinah! Don't forget I'm here!"
She turned back, swallowing her tears with difficulty and gave him a quivering smile. "Oh, I know. You are so good. And it was dear of you to—to let me take your place with her. None but you would have done such a thing."
"My dear, it was far better for her, and she wished it," he interposed. "Besides, with Eustace away, I had plenty to do. You mustn't twist that into a virtue. It was the only course open to me. I knew that it would lift her out of misery to have you, and—naturally—I wished it too."
She nodded. "It was just like you. And I—I ought to have remembered that it couldn't last. It has been such a comfort to—to have my darling to love and care for. But oh, the blank when she is gone!"
Scott was silent.
"It's wrong to want to keep her, I know," Dinah went on wistfully. "She has got so wonderfully happy of late; and I know it is the thought of nearing the end of the journey that makes her so. And when I am with her, I feel happy too for her sake. But when I am away from her—it—it's all so dreary. I—feel so frightened and—alone."
"Don't be frightened!" Scott said gently. "You never are alone."
"Ah, but life is so difficult," she whispered.
"It would be," he answered, "if we had to face it all at once. But, thank God, that is not so. We can only see a little way ahead. We can only do a little at a time."
"Do you think that is a help?" she said. "I would give anything—sometimes—to look into the future."
"I think the burden would be greater than we could bear," Scott said.
"Oh, do you? I think it would be such a relief to know." Dinah uttered asharp sigh. "It's no good talking," she said. "Only one thing is certain.I'm not going to break with Billy of course, but I'll never go back toPerrythorpe again, never as long as I live!"
There was a quiver of passion in her voice. She looked at Scott with what was almost a challenge in her eyes.
He did not answer it. His face wore a look of perplexity. But, "If I were in your place," he said quietly, "I think I should say the same."
"I am sure you would," she said warmly. "I only tolerated it so longbecause I didn't know what freedom was like. When I went to Switzerland,I found out; and when I came back, it just wasn't endurable any longer.But I wish I knew—I do wish I knew—what I were going to do."
The words were out before she could stop them, but the moment they were uttered she made a sharp gesture as though she would recall them.
"I'm silly to talk like this," she said. "Please forget it!"
He smiled a little. "Not silly, Dinah," he said, "but mistaken. Believe me, the future is already provided for."
Her brows contracted slightly. "Ah, you are good," she said. "You believe in God."
"So do you," he said, with quiet conviction.
Her lip quivered. "I believe He would help anyone like you, but—but He wouldn't bother Himself about me. There are too many others of the same sort."
Scott looked at her in genuine astonishment. "What a curious idea!" he said. "You don't really think that, do you?"
She nodded. "I can't help it. Life is such a maze of difficulties, and one has to face them all alone."
"You won't face yours alone," he said quickly.
She smiled rather piteously. "I've faced all the worst bits alone so far."
"I know," Scott said. "But you are through the worst now."
She shook her head doubtfully. "I'm afraid of life," she said.
He saw that she did not wish to pursue the subject and put it gently aside. "Shall we go in?" he said. "I should like to be at hand when Isabel wakes."
She turned beside him at once. Their talk went back to Isabel. They spoke of her tenderly, as one nearing the end of a long and wearisome journey, and as they approached the little white house on the heath above the sea, Dinah gave somewhat hesitating utterance to a thought that had been persistently in her mind of late.
"Do you," she said, speaking with evident effort, "think that—Eustace should be sent for?"
"Does she want him?" said Scott.
"I don't know. She never speaks of him. But then—that may be—for my sake." Dinah's voice was very low and not wholly free from distress. "And again—it may be on my account he is keeping away. She hasn't seen him for these two months—not since we left Perrythorpe."
"No," Scott said gravely. "I know."
Dinah was silent for a brief space; then she braced herself for another effort. "Scott, I—don't want to be—in anyone's way. If—if she would like to see him, and if he—doesn't want to come—because of me, I—must go, that's all."
She spoke with resolution, and pausing at the gate that led off the heath into the garden looked him straight in the face.
"I want you," she said rather breathlessly, "to find out if—that is so.And if it is—if it is—"
"My dear, you needn't be afraid," Scott said. "I am quite sure that Eustace wouldn't wish to drive you away. He might be doubtful as to whether you would care to meet him again so soon, but if you had no objection to his coming, he wouldn't deliberately stay away on his own account. You know—I don't think you've ever realized it—he loves Isabel."
"Then he must want to come," she said quickly. "Oh, Scott, do you know—I said a dreadful—a cruel—thing to him—that last day. If he really loves her, it must have hurt him—terribly."
"What did you say?" Scott asked.
"I said—" the quick tears sprang to her eyes—"I said that he was unkind to her, and that—that she was always miserable when he was there. Scott, what made me say it? It was hateful of me! It was hateful!"
"It was the truth," Scott said. He looked at her thoughtfully for a few seconds, then very kindly he patted her hand as it rested on the gate. "Don't be so distressed!" he said. "It probably did him good—even if it did hurt. But I think you are right. If Isabel has the smallest wish to see him, he must come. I will see what I can do."
Dinah gave him a difficult smile. "You always put things right," she said.
He lifted his shoulders with a whimsical expression. "The magnifying-glass again!" he said.
"No," she protested. "No. I see you as you are."
"Then you see a very ordinary citizen," he said.
But Dinah shook her head. "A knight in disguise," she said.
When Isabel opened her eyes after a slumber that had lasted for the greater part of the day, it was to find Scott seated beside her quietly watching her.
She reached a feeble hand to him with a smile of welcome. "Dear Stumpy, when did you come?"
"An hour or two ago," he said, and put the weak hand to his lips. "You have had a good sleep, dear?"
"Yes," she said. "Yes. It has done me good." She lay looking at him with a smile still in her eyes. "I hope little Dinah is resting," she said. "She was with me nearly all night. I didn't wish it, Stumpy, but the dear child wouldn't leave till I was more comfortable."
"She is resting for a little now," he said. "I am so sorry you had a bad time last night."
"Oh, don't be sorry for me!" she said softly. "My bad times are so nearly over now. It is a waste of time to talk about them. She sent for you, did she?"
He bent his head. "She knew I would wish to be sent for. She fancied you might be wanting me."
"I do want you," she said, and into her wasted face there came a look of unutterable tenderness. "Oh, Stumpy darling, need you leave me again?"
He was still holding her hand; his fingers closed upon it at her words.
"I think the last part may be—a little steep," she said wistfully. "I would like to feel that you are near at hand. You have helped me so often—so often. And then too—there is—my little Dinah. I want you to help her too."
"God knows I will do my best, dear," he said.
Her fingers returned his pressure. "She has been so much to me—so much to me," she whispered. "When I came here, I had no hope. But the care of her, the comforting of her, opened the dungeon-door for me. And now no Giant Despair will ever hold me captive again. But I am anxious about her, Stumpy. There is some trouble in the background of which she has never spoken—of which she can never bear to speak. Have you any idea what it is?"
He moved with an unwonted touch of restlessness. "I think she worries about the future," he said.
"That isn't all," Isabel said with conviction. "There is more than that.It hangs over her like a cloud. It weighs her down."
"She hasn't confided in me," he said.
"Ah! But perhaps she will," Isabel's eyes still dwelt upon him with a great tenderness. "Stumpy," she murmured under her breath, "forgive me for asking! I must ask! Stumpy, why don't you win her for yourself, dear? The way is open. I know—I know you can."
He moved again, moved with a gesture of protest. "You are mistaken, Isabel," he said. "The way is not open." He spoke wearily. He was looking straight before him. "If I were to attempt what you suggest," he said slowly, "I should deprive her of the only friend to whom she can turn with any confidence besides yourself. She trusts me now implicitly. She believes my friendship for her to be absolutely simple and disinterested. And I would rather die than fail her."
"Then you think she doesn't care?" Isabel said.
Scott turned his eyes upon her. "Personally, I came to that conclusion long ago," he said. "No woman could ever hang a serious romance around me, Isabel. I am not the right sort. If Dinah imagined for a moment that I were capable of making love in the ordinary way, our friendship would go to the bottom forthwith. No, my dear; put the thought out of your mind! The Stumpys of this world must be resigned to go unpaired. They must content themselves with the outer husk. It's that or nothing."
Isabel's smile was full of tenderness. "You talk as one who knows," she said. "But I wonder if you do."
"Oh yes," Scott said. "I've learned my lesson. I've been given an ordinary soul in an extraordinary body, and I've got to make the best of it. You can't ignore the body, you know, Isabel. It plays a mighty big part in this mortal life. The idea of any woman falling in love with me in my present human tenement is ridiculous, and I have put it out of my mind for good."
Isabel's eyes were shining. She clasped his hand closer. "I think you are quite wrong, Stumpy dear," she said. "If your soul matched your body, then there might be something in your argument. But it doesn't. And—if you don't mind my saying so—your soul is far the most extraordinary part of your personality. Little Dinah found out long ago that you were—greathearted."
Scott smiled a little. "Oh yes, I know she views me through a magnifying-glass and reveres me accordingly. Hence our friendship. But, my dear, that isn't being in love. I believe that somewhere there is a shadowy person whom she cherishes in the very inner secrecy of her heart. Who he is or what he is, I don't know. He is probably something very different from the dream-being she worships. We all are. But I feel that he is there. Probably I have never met the actual man. I have only seen his shadow and that by inadvertence. I once penetrated the secret chamber for one moment only, and then I was driven forth and the door securely locked. I am not good at trespassing, you know, for all my greatness. I have never been near the secret chamber since."
"Do you mean that she admitted to you that—she cared for someone?"Isabel asked.
Scott's pale eyes had a quizzical look. "I had the consideration to back out before she had time to do anything so unmaidenly," he said. "Possibly the shadowman may never materialize. In fact it seems more than possible. In which case the least said is soonest mended."
"That may be what is troubling her," Isabel said thoughtfully.
She lay still for a while, and Scott leaned back in his chair and watched the little pleasure-boats that skimmed the waters of the bay. The merry cries of bathers came up to the quiet room. The world was full to the brim of gaiety and sunshine on that hot June day.
"Stumpy," gently his sister's voice recalled him, "do you never mean to marry, dear? I wish you would. You will be so lonely."
He lifted his shoulders. "What can I say Isabel? If the right woman comes along and proposes, I will marry her with pleasure. I would never dare to propose on my own,—being what I am."
"Being a very perfect knight whom any woman might be proud to marry," Isabel said. "That is only a pose of yours, Stumpy, and it doesn't become you. I wonder—how I wonder!—if you are right about Dinah."
"Yes, I am right," he said with conviction. "But Isabel, you will remember—it was spoken in confidence."
She gave a sharp sigh. "I shall remember dear," she said.
Again a brief silence fell between them; but Scott's eye no longer sought the sparkling water. They dwelt upon his sister's face. Pale as alabaster, clear-cut as though carven with a chisel, it rested upon the white pillow, and the stamp of a great peace lay upon the calm forehead and in the quiet of the deeply-sunken eyes. There were lines of suffering that yet lingered about the mouth, lines of weariness and of sorrow, but the old piteous look of craving had faded quite away. The bitter despair that had so haunted Dinah had passed into the stillness of a great patience. There was about her at that time the sacred hush that falls before the dawn.
After a little she became aware of his quiet regard, and turned her head with a smile. "Well, Stumpy? What is it?"
"I was just wondering what had happened to you," he made answer.
Her smile deepened. "I will tell you, dear," she said. "I have come within sight of the mountain-top at last."
"And you are satisfied?" he said, in a low voice.
Her eyes shone with a soft brightness that seemed to illumine her whole face. "Satisfied that my beloved is waiting for me and that I shall meet him in the dawning?" she said. "Oh yes, I have known that in my heart for a long time. It troubled me terribly when I lost his letters. They had been such a link, and for a while I was in outer darkness. And then—by degrees, after little Dinah came back to me—I began to find that after all there were other links. Helping her in her trouble helped me to bear my own. And I came to see that ministering to a need outside one's own is the surest means of finding comfort in sorrow for oneself. I have been very selfish Stumpy. I have been gradually waking to that fact for a long while. I used to immerse myself in those letters to try and get the feeling of his dear presence. Very, very often I didn't succeed. And I know now that it was because I was forcing myself to look back and not forward. I think material things are apt to make one do that. But when material things are taken quite away, then one is forced upon the spiritual. And that is what has happened to me. No one can take anything from me now because what I possess is laid up in store for me. I am moving forward towards it every day."
She ceased to speak, and again for the space of seconds the silence fell.
Scott broke it, speaking slowly, as if not wholly certain of the wisdom of speech. "I did not know," he said, "that you had lost those letters."
Her face contracted momentarily with the memory of a past pain. "Eustace destroyed them," she stated simply.
His brows drew sharply together. "Isabel! Do you mean that?"
She pressed his hand. "Yes, dear. I knew you would feel it badly so I didn't tell you before. He acted for the best. I see that quite clearly now. And—in a sense—the best has come of it."
Scott got to his feet with the gesture of a man who can barely restrain himself. "He did—that?" he said.
She reached up a soothing hand. "My dear, it doesn't matter now. Don't be angry with him. I know that he meant well."
Scott's eyes looked down into hers, intensely bright, burningly alive. "No wonder," he said, breathing deeply, "that you never want to see him again!"
"No, Stumpy; that is not so." Gently she made answer; her hand held his almost pleadingly. "For a long time I felt like that, it is true. But now it is all over. There is no bitterness left in my heart at all. We have grown away from each other, he and I. But we were very close friends once, and because of that I would give much—oh, very much—to be friends with him again. It was in a very great measure my selfishness that came between us, my pride too. I had influence with him, Stumpy, and I didn't try to use it. I simply threw him off because he disapproved of my husband. I might have won him, I feel that I could have won him if I had tried. But I wouldn't. And afterwards, when my mind was clouded, my influence was all gone. I wish I could get it back again. I feel as if I might. But he is keeping away now because of Dinah. And I am afraid too that he feels I do not want him—" her eyes were suddenly dim with tears. "That is not so, Stumpy. I do want him. Sometimes—in the night—I long for him. But, for little Dinah's sake—"
She paused, for Scott had suddenly turned and was pacing the room rapidly, unevenly, as if inaction had become unendurable.
She lay and watched him while the great tears gathered and ran down her wasted face.
He came back to her at length and saw them. He stood a moment looking downwards, then knelt beside her and very tenderly wiped them away.
"My dear," he said softly, "you mustn't ever cry again. It breaks my heart to see you. If you want Eustace, he shall come to you. Dinah was speaking to me about it only a short time ago. She will not stand in the way of his coming. In fact, I gathered that if you wish it, she wishes it also."
"That is so like little Dinah," whispered Isabel. "But, Stumpy, do you think we ought to let her face that?"
"I shall be here," he said.
"Oh, yes, dear. You will be here." She regarded him wistfully. "Stumpy, don't'—don't let yourself get bitter against Eustace!" she pleaded. "You have always been so splendid, so forbearing, till now."
Scott's lips were stern. "Some things are hard to forgive, Isabel," he said.
"But if I forgive—" she said.
His face changed; he bowed his head suddenly down upon her pillow."Nothing will give you back to me—when you are gone," he whispered.
Her hand was on his head in a moment. "Oh, my dear, are you grieving because of that? And I have been such a burden to you!"
"A burden beloved," he said, speaking with difficulty. "And you were getting better. You were better. He—threw you back again. He brought you—to this."
Her fingers pressed his forehead. "Not entirely, Stumpy. Be generous, dear! It may have hastened matters a little—only a very little. And even so, what of it, if the journey has been shortened? Perhaps the way has been a little steeper, but it has brought me more quickly to my goal. Stumpy, Stumpy, if it weren't for leaving you, I would go as gladly—as gladly—as a happy bride—to her wedding."
She broke off, breathing fast.
He lifted his head swiftly, and saw the shadow of mortal pain gathering in her eyes. He commanded himself on the instant and rose. Self-contained and steady, he found and administered the remedy that was always kept at hand.
Then, as the spasm passed, he stooped and quietly kissed the white forehead. "Don't trouble about me, dear!" he said. "God knows I would not keep you from your rest."
And with that calmly he turned and left her.
But Biddy, whom he sought a few moments later to send her to her mistress, saw in him notwithstanding his composure, an intensity of suffering that struck dismay to her honest heart. "The Lord preserve us!" she said. "But Master Scott has the look of a man with a sword in his soul!" She wiped her own tears away with a trembling hand. "And what'll he do at all when Miss Isabel's gone," she said, "unless Miss Dinah does the comforting of him?"
The trains from the junction to Heath-on-Sea were few and invariably late. Scott had been pacing the platform for half an hour on the evening of the day that followed his own arrival ere a line of distant smoke told of the coming of the train he was awaiting.
His movements were slow and weary, but there was about him the strained look of a man who cannot rest. There was no gladness of welcome in his eyes as the train drew near. It was rather as if he braced himself for a coming ordeal.
He searched the carriages intently as they ran past him, and a flicker of recognition came into his face at the sight of a tall figure leaning from one of them. He lifted a hand in salutation, and limped along the platform to meet the newcomer.
Sir Eustace was out of the train before anyone else. He met his brother with the impetuosity of one who cannot stop for greeting.
"Ah, Stumpy! I'm not too late?"
There was strain upon his face also as he flung the question, and in an instant Scott's look had changed. He grasped the outflung hand.
"No, no, old fellow! It's all right. She is looking forward to seeing you."
Sir Eustace drew a sharp breath. His dark face relaxed a little. "I've had a hell of a time," he said.
"My dear chap, I'm sorry," impulsively Scott made answer. "I'd have met you at the junction, only it was difficult to get away for so long. Do you mind walking up? They'll see to fetching your traps along presently."
"Oh, all right. Yes, let us walk by all means!" Eustace expanded his chest, and breathed again, deeply. He put his hand on Scott's shoulder as they passed through the barrier. "What's the matter with you, my lad?" he said.
Scott glanced up at him—a swift, surprised glance. "With me? Nothing. I am—as usual."
Eustace's hawk-eyes scanned him closely. "I've never seen you look worse," he said.
Scott raised his shoulder slightly under his hand, and said nothing. The first involuntary kindliness of greeting passed wholly away, as if it had not been.
Eustace linked the hand in his arm as they walked. "Tell me about her!" he said.
"About Isabel?" Scott spoke with very obvious constraint. "There isn't much to tell. She is just—going. These breathless attacks come very frequently, and she is weaker after each one. The doctor says it would not be surprising if she went in her sleep, or in fact at any time."
"And she asked for me?" The question fell curtly; Eustace was looking straight ahead up the white, dusty road as he uttered it.
"Yes; she wanted you." Equally curtly came Scott's reply. He ignored the hand on his arm, limping forward at his own pace and leaving his brother to accommodate himself to it as best he could.
Sir Eustace sauntered beside him in silence for a space. They were approaching the heath-clad common that gave the place its name, when he spoke again.
"And Dinah?" he said then.
Again Scott glanced upwards, his pale eyes very resolute. "Yes, Dinah is still here. Her people seem quite indifferent as to what becomes of her, and Isabel wishes to keep her with her. I hope—" he hesitated momentarily—"I hope you will bear in mind the extreme difficulty of her situation."
Sir Eustace passed over the low words. "And what is going to happen to her—afterwards?" he said.
"Heaven knows!" Scott spoke as one compelled.
Sir Eustace continued to gaze straight before him. "Haven't you thought of any solution to the difficulty?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" Scott's voice rang suddenly stern.
A faint smile touched his brother's face; it was like the shadow of his old, supercilious sneer. "It occurred to me that you, being a chivalrous knight, might be moved to offer her your protection," he explained coolly. "You are quite at liberty to do so, so far as I am concerned. I give you my free consent."
Scott started, as if he had been stung. "Man, don't sneer at me!" he said in a voice that quivered. "I've a good many things against you, and I'm damned if I can stand any more!"
There was desperation in his words. Sir Eustace's brows went up, and his smile departed. But there came no answering anger in his eyes.
He was silent for several moments, pacing forward, his hand no longer linked in Scott's arm. Then at last very quietly he spoke. "You're right. You have a good many things against me. But this is not one of them. I was not sneering at you."
There was a note of most unwonted sincerity in his voice that gave conviction to his words. Scott turned and regarded him in open amazement.
The steel-blue eyes met his with an odd, half-shamed expression. "You mustn't bully me, you know, Stumpy!" he said. "Remember, I can't hit back."
Scott stood still. He had never in his life been more astounded. Even then, with the direct evidence before him, he could hardly believe that the old haughty dominance had given place to something different.
"Why—can't you—hit back?" he said, almost stammering in his uncertainty.
Sir Eustace smiled again with rueful irony. "Because I've nothing to hit with, my son. Because you can break through my defence every time. If I were to kick you from here to the sea, you'd still have the best of me. Haven't you realized that yet?"
"I hadn't—no!" Scott's eyes still regarded him with a puzzled, half-suspicious expression.
Sir Eustace turned from their scrutiny, and began to walk on. "You will presently," he said. "The man who masters himself is always the man to master the rest of the world in the end. I never thought I should live to envy you, my boy. But I do."
"Envy me! Why? Why on earth?" Embarrassment mingled with the curiosity in Scott's voice. His hostility had gone down utterly before the unaccustomed humility of his brother's attitude.
Sir Eustace glanced at him sideways. "I'll tell you another time," he said. "Now look here, Stumpy! You're in command, and I shan't interfere with you so long as you take reasonable care of yourself. But you must do that. It is the one thing I am going to insist upon. That's understood, is it?"
Scott smiled, his tired, gentle smile. "Oh, certainly, my dear chap. Don't you worry yourself about that! It isn't of the first importance in any case."
"It's got to be done," Sir Eustace insisted. "So keep it in mind!"
"I haven't been doing anything, you know," Scott protested mildly. "I only came down yesterday."
"That may be. But you haven't been sleeping for some time. You needn't trouble to deny it. I know the signs. What have you been doing at Willowmount?"
It was a welcome change of subject, and Scott was not slow to avail himself of it. They began to talk upon matters connected with the estate, and the personal element passed completely out of the conversation.
When they reached the white house on the cliff they almost seemed to have slipped into the old casual relations; but the younger brother was well aware that this was not so. The change that had so amazed him was apparent to him at every turn. The overbearing mastery to which he had been accustomed all his life had turned in some miraculous fashion into something that was oddly like deference. It was fully evident that Eustace meant to keep his word and leave him in command.
Dinah met them in the rose-twined portico. There was a deep flush in her cheeks; her eyes were very bright, resolutely unafraid. She shook hands with Eustace, and he alone was aware of the tremor that ran through her whole being as she did so.
"Isabel is asleep," she said. "She often gets a sleep in the afternoon, and she is always the stronger for it when she wakes. Will you have some tea before you go to her?"
They had tea in the sunny verandah overlooking the sea. Sir Eustace was very quiet and grave, and it was Scott who gently conversed with the girl, smoothing away all difficulties. She was plainly determined to conquer her nervousness, and she succeeded to a great extent before the ordeal was over. But there was obvious relief in her eyes when Sir Eustace set down his cup and rose to go.
"I think I will go to her now," he said. "I shall not wake her."
He went, and a great stillness fell behind him. Scott dropped into silence, and they sat together, he smoking, she leaning back in her chair idle, with wistful eyes upon the silvery sea.
Up in Isabel's room overhead there was neither sound nor movement, but presently there fell a soft footfall upon the stairs and the nurse came quietly through and spoke to Dinah.
"Mrs. Everard is still asleep. Her brother is watching her and Biddy is within call. I thought I would take a little walk on the shore, as I shall not be wanted just at present."
"Oh, of course," Dinah said. "Don't hurry back!"
The nurse smiled and flitted away into the golden evening sunlight.
Dinah turned her head towards her silent companion. "I wonder," she said, "if I could learn to be a nurse."
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Are you still worrying about the future?" he said.
"I don't know that I am exactly worrying," she made low reply. "But I shall have to decide about it very soon."
Scott was silent for a space while he finished his cigarette. Then at last slowly, haltingly, he spoke. "Dinah,—I have been thinking about the future too. If I touch upon anything that hurts you, you must stop me, and I will not say another word. But, child, it seems to me that we shall both be—rather lost—when Isabel is gone. I wonder—would it shock you very much—if I suggested to you—as a solution of the difficulty—that we should some day in the future enter into partnership together?"
He spoke with obvious effort; his hands were gripped upon the arms of his chair. The wicker creaked in the strain of his grasp, but he himself remained lying back with eyes half-closed in compulsory inaction.
Dinah also sat absolutely still. If his words amazed her, she gave no sign. Only the wistfulness about her mouth deepened as she made answer below her breath. "It—is just like you to suggest such a thing; but—it is quite impossible."
He opened his eyes and looked at her very steadily and kindly. "Quite?" he said.
She bent her head, swiftly lowering her own. "Yes—thank you a million times—quite."
"Even if I promise never to make love to you?" he said, his voice half-quizzical, half-tender.
She put out a trembling hand and laid it on his arm. "Oh,Scott,—it—isn't that!"
He took the hand and held it. "My dear, don't cry!" he urged gently. "I knew you wouldn't have me really. I only thought I would just place myself completely at your disposal in case—some day—you might be willing to give me the chance to serve you in any capacity whatever. There! It is over. We are as we were—friends."
He smiled at her with the words, and after a moment stooped and lightly touched her fingers with his lips.
"Come!" he said gently. "I haven't frightened you anyway. Have I?"
"No," she whispered.
His hand clasped hers for a second or two longer, then quietly let it go. "Don't be distressed!" he said, "I will never do it again. I am now—and always—your trusty friend."
And with that he rose in his slow way, paused to light another cigarette, smiled again upon her, and softly went indoors.
There is nought in life more solemn than the waiting hush that falls before the coming of that great Change which men call Death. And it is to the watchers rather than to the passing soul itself that the wonder seems to draw most close. To stand before the veil, to know that very soon it must be lifted for the loved one to pass beyond, to wait for the glimpse of that spirit-world from which only the frail wall of mortality divides even the least spiritual, to watch as it were for the Gate of Death to open and the great Revelation to flash for one blinding moment upon the dazzled eyes that may not grasp the meaning of what they see; this is to stand for a space within the very Sanctuary of God.
The awe of it and the wonder hung night and day over the little rose-covered house on the heath above the sea where Isabel was breathing forth the last of her broken earthly life. Dinah moved in that strange atmosphere as one in a dream. She spent most of her time with Scott in a silent companionship in which no worldly thoughts seemed to have any part. The things of earth, all worry, all distress, were in abeyance, had sunk to such infinitesimal proportions that she was scarcely aware of them at all. It was as though they had climbed the steep mountain with Isabel, and not till they turned again to descend could they be aware of those things which lay so far below.
Without Scott, both doubts and fears would have been her portion, but with him all terrors fell shadow-like away before her. She hardly realized all that his presence meant to her during those days of waiting, but she leaned upon him instinctively as upon a sure support. He never failed her.
Of Eustace she saw but little. From the very first it was evident that his place was nearer to Isabel than Scott's had ever been. He did not shoulder Scott aside, but somehow as a matter of course he occupied the position that the younger brother had sought to fill for the past seven years. It was natural, it was inevitable. Dinah could have resented this superseding at the outset had she not seen how gladly Scott gave place. Later she realized that the ground on which they stood was too holy for such considerations to have any weight with either brother. They were united in the one supreme effort to make the way smooth for the sister who meant so much to them both; and during all those days of waiting Dinah never heard a harsh or impatient word upon the elder's lips. All arrogance, all hardness, seemed to have fallen away from him as he trod with them that mountain-path. Even old Biddy realized the change and relented somewhat towards him though she never wholly brought herself to look upon him as an ally.
It was on a stormy evening at the beginning of July that Dinah was sitting alone in the little creeper-grown verandah watching the wonderful greens and purples of the sea when Eustace came soft-footed through the window behind her and sat down in a chair close by, which Scott had vacated a few minutes before.
Scott had just gone to the village post-office with some letters, but she had refused to accompany him, for it was the hour when she usually sat with Isabel. She glanced at Eustace swiftly as he sat down, half-expecting a message from the sick-room. But he said nothing, merely leaning back in the wicker-chair, and fixing his eyes upon the sombre splendour of endless waters upon which hers had been resting. There was a massive look about him, as of a strong man deliberately bent to some gigantic task. A little tremor went through her as furtively she watched him. His silence, unlike the silences of Scott, was disquieting. She could never feel wholly at ease in his presence.
He turned his head towards her after a few seconds of absolute stillness, and in a moment her eyes sank. She sat in palpitating silence, as one caught in some disgraceful act.
But still he did not speak, and the painful colour flooded her face under his mute scrutiny till in sheer distress she found herself forced to take the initiative.
"Is—Isabel expecting me?" she faltered. "Ought I to go?"
"No," he said quietly. "She is dozing. Old Biddy is with her."
It seemed as if the intolerable silence were about to fall again. She cast about desperately for a means of escape. "Biddy was up and down during the night. I think I will relieve her for a little while and let her rest."
She would have risen with the words, but unexpectedly he reached forth a detaining hand. "Do you mind waiting a minute?" he said. "I will not say—or do—anything to frighten you."
He spoke with a faint smile that somehow hurt her almost unbearably. She remained as she was, leaning forward in her chair. "I—am not afraid," she murmured almost inaudibly.
His hand seemed to plead for hers, and in a moment she laid her own within it. "That's right," he said. "Dinah, will you try and treat me as if I were a friend—just for a few minutes?"
The tone of his voice—like his smile—pierced her with a poignancy that sent the quick tears to her eyes. She forced them back with all her strength.
"I would like to—always," she whispered.
"Thank you," he said. "You are kinder than I deserve. I have done nothing to win your confidence, so it is all the more generous of you to bestow it. On the strength of your generosity I am going to ask you a question which only a friend could ask. Dinah, is there any understanding of any sort—apart from friendship—between you and Scott?"
She started slightly at the question, and in a moment firmly, with a certain authority, his hand closed upon hers.
"You needn't be afraid to speak on Scott's account," he said, with that rather grim humility that seemed so foreign to his proud nature that every sign of it stabbed her afresh. "I am not such a dog in the manger as that and he knows it."
"Oh no!" Dinah said, and her words came with a rush. "But—I told you before, didn't I?—he doesn't care for me like that. He never has—never will."
"I wonder why you say that," Eustace said.
"Because it's true!" With a species of feverish insistence she answered him. "How could I help knowing? Of course I know! Oh, please don't let us talk about it! It—it hurts me."
"I want you to bear with me," he said gently, "just for a few minutes. Dinah, what if you are making a mistake? Mistakes happen, you know. Scott is a shy sort of chap, and immensely reserved. Doesn't it occur to you that he may care for you and yet be afraid—just as you are afraid—to let you know?"
"No," Dinah said. "He doesn't. I know he doesn't!"
She spoke with her eyes upon the ground, her voice sunk very low. She felt as if she were being drawn down from the heights she desired to tread. She did not want to contemplate the problems that she knew very surely awaited her upon the lower level. She did not want to quit her sanctuary before the time.
Sir Eustace received her assurance in silence, but he kept her hand in his, and the power of his personality seemed to penetrate to the very centre of her being.
He spoke at last almost under his breath, still closely watching her downcast face. "Are you quite sure you still care for him—in that way?"
She made a quick, appealing gesture. "Oh, need I answer that? I feel so—ashamed."
"No, you needn't answer," he made steady reply. "But you've nothing to be ashamed about. Stumpy's an awful ass, you know,—always has been. He's been head over heels in love with you ever since he met you. No, you needn't let that shock you. He's such a bashful knight he'll never tell you so. You'll have to do that part of it." He smiled with faint irony. "But you may take my word for it, it is so. He has thought of nothing but you and your happiness from the very beginning of things. And—unlike someone else we know—he has had the decency always to put your happiness first."
He paused. Dinah's eyes had flashed up to his, green, eager, intensely alive, and behind those eyes her soul seemed to be straining like a thing in leash. "Oh, I knew he had cared for someone," she breathed, "But it couldn't—it couldn't have been me!"
"Yes," Sir Eustace said slowly. "You and none other. You wonder if it's true—how I know. He's an awful ass, as I said before, one of the few supreme fools who never think of themselves. I knew that he was caught all right ages back in Switzerland, and—being a low hound of mean instincts—I set to work to cut him out."
"Oh!" murmured Dinah. "That was just what I did with Rose de Vigne."
His mouth twisted a little. "It's a funny world, Dinah," he said. "Our little game has cost us both something. I got too near the candle myself, and the scorch was pretty sharp while it lasted. Well, to get back to my story. Scott saw that I was beginning to give you indigestion, and—being as I mentioned before several sorts of a fool—he tackled me upon the subject and swore that if I didn't put an end to the game, he would put you on your guard against me, tell you in fact the precise species of rotter that I chanced to be. I was naturally annoyed by his interference. Anyone would have been. I gave him the kicking he deserved. That was low of me, wasn't it?" as she made a quick movement of shrinking. "You won't forgive me for that, or for what came after. The very next day—to spite the little beast—I proposed to you."
Dinah's eyes were fiercely bright. "I wish I'd known!" she said.
"I wish to heaven you had, my dear," Eustace spoke with a grim hint of humour. "It would have saved us both a good deal of unnecessary trouble and humiliation. However, Scott was too big a fool to tell you. There is a martyrlike sort of cussedness about him that is several degrees worse than any pride. So he let things be, still cheating himself into the belief that the arrangement was for your happiness, till, as you are aware, it turned out so manifestly otherwise that he found himself obliged once more to come to the rescue of his lady love. But his exasperating humility was such that he never suspected the real reason for your change of mind, and when I accused him of cutting me out, he was as scandalized as only a righteous man knows how to be. You can't do much with a fellow like that, you know,—a fool who won't believe the evidence of his own senses. Besides, it was not for me to enlighten him, particularly as you didn't want him to know the real state of things just then. So I left him alone. The next day—only the next day, mind you—the silent knight opened his heart; to whom, do you think? You'll be horribly furious when I tell you."
He looked into the hot eyes with an expression half-tender in his own.
"Tell me!" breathed Dinah.
"Really? Well, prepare for a nasty shock! To Rose de Vigne!"
"To Rose!" Indignation gave place to bewilderment in Dinah's eyes.
"Even so; to Rose. She guessed the truth, and he frankly admitted she was right, but gave her to understand that as he hadn't a chance in the world, you were never to know. I am telling you the truth, Dinah. You needn't look so incredulous. She naturally considered that he was not treating you very fairly and said so. But—" he raised his shoulders slightly—"you know Scott. Mules can't compete with him when he has made up his mind to a thing. He gracefully put an end to the discussion and doubtless he has buried the whole subject in a neat little corner of his heart where no one can ever tumble over it, and resigned himself to a lonely old age. Now, Dinah, I am going to give you the soundest piece of advice I have ever given anyone. If you are wise, you will dig it up before the moss grows, bring it into the air and call it back to life. It is the greatest desire of Isabel's heart to see you two happy together. She told me so only to-day. And I am beginning to think that I wish it too."
His look was wholly kind as he uttered the last words. He held her hand in the close grip of a friend.
"Don't let that insane humility of his be his ruin!" he urged. "He's a fool. I've always said so. But his foolishness is the sort that attacks only the great. Once let him know you care, and he'll be falling over himself to propose."
"Oh, don't!" Dinah begged, and her voice sounded chill and yet somehow piteous. "I couldn't—ever—marry him. I told him so—only the other day."
"What? He proposed, did he?" Sheer amazement sounded in Eustace's voice.
Dinah was not looking at him any longer. She sat rather huddled in her chair, as if a cold wind had caught her.
"Yes," she said in the same small, uneven voice. "He proposed. He didn't make love to me. In fact he—promised that he never would. But he thought—yes, that was it—he thought that presently I should be lonely, and he wanted me to know that he was willing to protect me."
"What a fool!" Eustace said. "And so you refused him! I don't wonder. I should have pitched something at him if I'd been you."
"Oh no! That wasn't why I refused. I had another reason." Dinah's head was bent low; he saw the hot colour she sought to hide. "I didn't know he cared," she whispered. "But even if—if I had known, I couldn't have said Yes. I never can say Yes now."
"Good heavens above!" he said. "Why not?"
"It's a reason I can't tell anyone," faltered Dinah.
"Nonsense!" he said, with a quick touch of his old imperiousness. "You can tell me."
She shook her head. "No. Not you. Not anyone."
"That is absurd," he said, with brief decision. "What is the reason? Out with it—quick, like a good child! If you could marry me, you can marry him."
"But I couldn't have married you," she protested, "if I'd known."
"It's something that's cropped up lately, is it?" He bent towards her, watching her keenly. "It can't be so very terrible."
"It is," she told him in distress.
He was silent a moment; then very suddenly he moved, put his arm around her, drew her close. "What is it, my elf? Tell me!" he whispered.
She hid her face against him with a little sob. It was odd, but at that moment she felt no fear of the man. He, whose fiery caresses had once appalled her, had by some means unknown possessed himself of her confidence so that she could not keep him at a distance. She did not even wish to do so.
After a few seconds, quiveringly she began to speak. "I don't know how to tell you. It's an awful thing to tell. You know, I—I've never been happy at home. My mother never liked me,—was often cruel to me." She shuddered suddenly and violently. "I never knew why—till that awful night—the last time I saw her. And then—and then she told me." She drew a little closer to him like a frightened child.
He held her against his breast. She was trembling all over. "Well?" he said gently.
Desperately she forced herself to continue. "I don't belong to—to my father—at all; only—only—to her."
"What?" he said.
She buried her shamed face a little deeper. "That was why—she married," she whispered.
"Your mother herself told you that?" Sir Eustace's voice was very low, but there was in it a danger-note that made her quail.
Someone was coming along the garden-path, but neither of them heard. Dinah was crying with piteous, long-drawn sobs. The telling of that tragic secret had wrung her very soul.
"Oh, don't be angry! You won't be angry?" she pleaded brokenly.
His hand was on her head. "My child, I am not angry with you," he said. "You were not to blame. There, dear! There! Don't cry! Isabel will be distressed if she finds out. We mustn't let her know of this."
"Or Scott either!" She lifted her face appealingly. "Eustace, please—please—you won't tell Scott? I—I couldn't bear him to know."
He looked into her beseeching eyes, and his own softened. "It may be he will have to know some day," he said. "But—not yet."
The halting steps drew nearer, uneven, yet somehow purposeful.
Abruptly Eustace became aware of them. He looked up sharply. "You had better go, dear," he whispered to the girl in his arms. "Isabel may be wanting you at any time. We must think of her first now. Run in quickly and dry your eyes before anyone sees! Come along!"
He rose, supporting her, turned her towards the window, and gently but urgently pushed her within.
She went swiftly, enough as he released her, went with her hands over her face and not a backward glance. And Eustace wheeled back with a movement that was almost fierce and met his brother as he set foot upon the verandah.
Scott's face was pale as death, and there was that in his eyes that could not be ignored. Eustace answered it on the instant, briefly, with a restraint that obviously cost him an effort. "It's all right, Dinah is a bit upset this evening. But she will be all right directly if we leave her alone."
Scott did not so much as pause. "Let me pass!" he said.
His voice was perfectly quiet, but the command of it was such that Eustace, taken unawares, gave ground as it were instinctively. But the next moment impulsively he caught Scott's arm.
"I say,—Stumpy!" An odd embarrassment possessed him; he shook it off half-angrily. "You needn't go making mistakes—jumping to idiotic conclusions. I'm not cutting you out this time."
Scott looked at him. His light eyes held contempt. "Oh, I know that," he said, and there was in his slow voice a note of bitter humour that cut like a whip. "You are never in earnest. You were always the sort to make sport for yourself out of suffering, and then to toss the dregs of your amusement to those who are not—sportsmen."
Eustace was as white as he was himself. He held him in a grip of iron. "What the—devil do you mean?" he said, his voice husky with the strong effort he made to control it.
The younger brother was absolutely controlled, but his eyes shone like a dazzling white flame. "Ask yourself that question!" he said, and his words, though low, had a burning quality, almost as if some force apart from the man himself inspired them. "You know the answer as well as I do. You have studied the damnable game so long, offered so many victims upon the altar of your accursed sport. There is nothing to prevent your going on with it. You will go on no doubt till you tire of the chase. And then your turn will come. You will find yourself alone among the ruins, and you will pay the price. You may repent then—but repentance sometimes comes too late."
He was gone with the words, gone as if an inner force compelled, shaking off the hand that had detained him, and passing scatheless within.
He went up the stairs as calmly as if he had entered the house without interruption. Someone was sobbing piteously behind a closed door, but he did not turn in that direction. He moved straight to the door of Isabel's room, as if a voice had called him.
And on the threshold Biddy met him, her black eyes darkly mysterious, her wrinkled face drawn with awe rather than grief.
"Ah, Master Scott, and is it yourself?" she whispered. "I was coming to fetch ye—coming to tell ye. It's the call; she's had her last summons. Faith, and I almost heard it meself. She'll be gone by morning, the blessed lamb. There'll be no holding her after this."
Scott passed her by without a word. He went straight to his sister's bedside.
She was lying with her face turned up to the evening sky, but on the instant her eyes met his, and in them was that look of a great expectation which many term the Shadow of Death.
"Oh, Stumpy, is it you?" she said. Her breathing was quick and irregular, but it did not seem to hurt her. "I've had—such a wonderful—dream. Or could it have been—a vision?"
He bent and took her hand in his. His eyes were infinitely tender. All the passion had been wiped out of his face.
"It may have been a vision, dear," he said.
Her look brightened; she smiled. "He was here—in this room—with me," she said. "He was standing there—at the foot of the bed. And—and—I held out my arms to him. Oh, Stumpy, I almost thought—I was going with him then. But—I think he heard you coming, for he laughed and drew back. 'We shall meet in the morning,' he said. And while I was still looking, he was gone."
She began to pant. He stooped and raised her. She clung to him with all her waning strength. "Stumpy! Stumpy! You will help me—through the night?"
"My darling, yes," he said.
She clung to him still. "It won't be—good-bye," she urged softly. "You will be coming too—very soon."
"God grant it!" he said, under his breath.
Her look dwelt upon him. Again faintly she smiled. "Ah, Stumpy," she said, "but you are going to be very happy first, my dear,—my dear."