The night fell like a black veil, starless and still. Up in Isabel's room the watchers came and went, dividing the hours. Only the nurse and old Biddy remained always at their posts, the one seated near one of the wide-flung windows, the other crouched on an ottoman at the foot of the bed, her beady eyes perpetually fixed upon the white, motionless face upon the pillow.
Only by the irregular and sometimes difficult breathing did they know that Isabel still lived, for she gave no sign of consciousness, uttered no word, made no voluntary movement of any sort. Like those who watched about her, she seemed to be waiting, waiting for the amazing revelation of the Dawn.
They had propped her high with pillows; her pale hands lay outside the coverlet. Her eyes were closed. She did not seem to notice who came or went.
"She may slip away without waking," the nurse whispered once to Dinah who had crept to her side. "Or she may be conscious just at the last. There is no telling."
Dinah did not think that she was asleep, but yet during all her vigil the white lids had not stirred, no spark of vitality had touched the marble face. She was possessed by a great longing to speak to her, to call her out of that trance-like silence; but she did not dare. She was as one bound by a spell. The great stillness was too holy to break. All her own troubles were sunk in oblivion. She felt as if she moved in a shadow-world where no troubles could penetrate, where no voice was ever lifted above a whisper.
As she crept from the room, she met Eustace entering. He looked gaunt and haggard in the dim light. Nothing seemed natural on that night of waiting.
He paused a moment, touched her shoulder. "Go and rest, child!" he muttered. "I will call you if she wakes."
She sent him a faint smile and flitted by him into the passage. How could she rest on a night like this, with the vague whisperings of the spirit-world all about her? Besides, in another hour the darkness would be over—the Dawn would come! Not for all the world would she miss that wonderful coming of a new day—the day which Isabel was awaiting in that dumb passivity of unquestioning patience. They had come so far up the mountain-track together; she must be with her when the morning found them on the summit.
But it was Eustace's turn to watch, and she moved towards her own room, through the open windows of which the vague murmur and splash of the sleeping sea drifted like the accompaniment of far-off music—undreamed-of Alleluias.
The dim glow of a lamp lay across her path, like a barrier staying her feet. Almost involuntarily she paused before a half-open door. It was as though some unseen force compelled her. And, so pausing, there came to her a sound that gripped her like a hand upon her heart—it was the broken whispering of a man in an agony of prayer.
It was not by her own desire that she stood to listen. The anguish of that voice held her, so that she was powerless to move.
"O God! O God!" The words pierced her with their entreaty; it was a cry from the very depths. "The mistake was mine. Let me bear the consequences! But save her—O save her—from further suffering!" A momentary silence, and then, more desperately still: "O God—if Thou art anywhere—hear—and help! Let me bear whatever Thou wilt! But spare her—spare her! She has borne so much!"
A terrible sob choked the gasping utterance. There fell a silence so tense, so poignant with pain, that the girl upon the threshold trembled as one physically afraid. Yet she could not turn and flee. She felt as if it were laid upon her to stand and witness this awful struggle of a soul in torment. But that it should be Scott—the wise, the confident, the unafraid—passing alone through this place of desolation, sent the blood to her heart in a great wave of consternation. If Scott failed—if the sword of Greatheart were broken—it seemed to her that nothing could be left in all the world, as if even the coming Dawn must be buried in darkness.
Was it for Isabel he was praying thus? She supposed it must be, though she had felt all through this night of waiting that no prayer was needed. Isabel was so near the mountain-top that surely she was safe—nearer already to God than any of their prayers could bring her.
And yet Scott was wrestling here as one overwhelmed with evil. Wherefore? Wherefore? The steady faith of this good friend of hers had never to her knowledge flickered before. What had happened to shake him thus?
He was praying again, more coherently but in words so low that they were scarcely audible. She crept a little nearer, and now she could see him, kneeling at the table, his head sunk upon it, his arms flung wide with clenched fists that seemed impotently to beat the air.
"I'm praying all wrong," he whispered. "Forgive me, but I'm all in the dark to-night. Thou knowest, Lord, how awful the dark can be. I'm not asking for an answer. Only guide our feet! Deliver us from evil—deliver her—O God—deliver my Dinah—by that love which is of Thee and which nothing will ever alter! If I may not help her, give me strength—to stand aside!"
A great shiver went through him; he gripped his hands together suddenly and passionately.
"O my God," he groaned, "it's the hardest thing on earth—to stand and do nothing—when I love her so."
Something seemed to give way within him with the words. His shoulders shook convulsively. He buried his face in his arms.
And in that moment the power that had stayed Dinah upon the threshold suddenly urged her forward.
Almost before she realized it, she was there at his side, stooping over him, holding him—holding him fast in a clasp that was free from any hesitation or fear, a clasp in which all her pulsing womanhood rushed forth to him, exulting, glorying in its self-betrayal.
"My dear! Oh, my dear!" she said. "Are you praying for me?"
"Dinah!" he said.
Just her name, no more; but spoken in a tone that thrilled her through and through! He leaned against her for a few moments, almost as if he feared to move. Then, as one gathering strength, he uttered a great sigh and slowly got to his feet.
"You mustn't bother about me," he said, and the sudden rapture had all gone out of his voice; it had the flatness of utter weariness. "I shall be all right."
But Dinah's hands yet clung to his shoulders. Those moments of yielding had revealed to her more than any subsequent word or action could belie. Her eyes, shining with a great light, looked straight into his.
"Dear Scott! Dear Greatheart!" she said, and her voice trembled over the tender utterance of the name. "Are you in trouble? Can't I help?"
He took her face between his hands, looking straight back into the shining eyes. "You are the trouble, Dinah," he told her simply. "And I'd give all I have—I'd give my soul—to make life easier for you."
She leaned towards him, and suddenly those shining eyes were blurred with a glimmer of tears. "Life is dreadfully difficult," she said. "But you have never done anything but help me. And, oh, Scott, I—don't know if I ought to tell you—forgive me if it's wrong—but—but I feel I must—" her breath came so quickly that she could hardly utter the words—"I love you—I love you—better than anyone else in the world!"
"Dinah!" he said, as one incredulous.
"It's true!" she panted. "It's true! Eustace knows it—has known it almost as long as I have. It isn't the only thing I have to tell you, but it's the first—and biggest. And even though—even though—I shall never be anything more to you than I am now—I'm glad—I'm proud—for you to know. There's nothing else that counts in the same way. And though—though I refused you the other day—I wanted you—dreadfully, dreadfully. If—if I had only been good enough for you—But—but—I'm not!" She broke off, battling with herself.
He was still holding her face between his hands, and there was something of insistence, something that even bordered upon ruthlessness, in his hold. Though the tears were running down her face, he would not let her go.
"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he said, his voice very low."Or—must I ask Eustace?"
She started. There was that in his tone that made her wince inexplicably."Oh no," she said, "no! I'll tell you myself—if—if you must know."
"I am afraid I must," he said, and for all their resolution, the words had a sound of deadly weariness. He let her go slowly as he uttered them. "Sit down!" he said gently. "And please don't tremble! There is nothing to make you afraid."
She dropped into the chair he indicated, and made a desperate effort to calm herself. He stood beside her with the absolute patience of one accustomed to long waiting.
After a few moments, she put up a quivering hand, seeking his. He took it instantly, and as his fingers closed firmly upon her own, she found courage.
"I didn't want you to know," she whispered. "But I—I see now—it's better that you should. There's no other way—of making you understand. It's just this—just this!" She swallowed hard, striving to control the piteous trembling of her voice. "I am—one of those people—that—that never ought to have been born. I don't belong—anywhere—except to—my mother who—who—who has no use for me,—hated me before ever I came into the world. You see, she—married because—because—another man—my real father—had played her false. Oh, do you wonder—do you wonder—" she bowed her forehead upon his hand with a rush of tears—"that—that when I knew—I—I felt as if—I couldn't—go on with life?"
Her weeping was piteous; it shook her from head to foot.
But—in the very midst of her distress—there came to her a wonder so great that it checked her tears at the height of their flow. For very suddenly it dawned upon her that Scott—Scott, her knight of the golden armour—was kneeling at her feet.
Half in wonder and half in awe, she lifted her head and looked at him. And in that moment he took her two hands and kissed them, tenderly, reverently, lingeringly.
"Was this what you and Eustace were talking about this afternoon?" he said.
She nodded. "I had to tell him—why—I couldn't marry you. He—he had been—so kind."
"But, my own Dinah," he said, and in his voice was a quiver half-quizzical yet strangely charged with emotion, "did you ever seriously imagine that I should allow a sordid little detail like that to come between us? Surely Eustace knew better than that!"
She heard him in amazement, scarcely believing that she heard. "Do you—can you mean—" she faltered, "that—it really—doesn't count?"
"I mean that it is less than nothing to me," he made answer, and in his eyes as they looked into hers was that glory of worship that she had once seen in a dream. "I mean, my darling, that since you want me as I want you, nothing—nothing in the world—can ever come between us any more. Oh, my dear, my dear, I wish you'd told me sooner."
"I knew I ought to," she murmured, still hardly believing. "And yet—somehow—I couldn't bear the thought of your knowing,—particularly as—as—till Eustace told me—I never dreamed you—cared. You are so—great. You ought to have someone so much—better than I. I'm not nearly good enough—not nearly."
He was drawing her to him, and she went with a little sob into his arms; but she turned her face away over his shoulder, avoiding his.
"I ought not—to have told you—I loved you," she said brokenly. "It wasn't right of me. Only—when I saw you so unhappy—I couldn't—somehow—keep it in any longer. Dear Scott, don't you think—before—before we go any further—you had better—forget it and—give me up?"
"No, I don't think so." Scott spoke very softly, with the utmost tenderness, into her ear. "Don't you realize," he said, "that we belong to each other? Could there possibly be anyone else for either you or me?"
She did not answer him; only she clung a little closer. And, after a moment, as she felt the drawing of his hold, "Don't kiss me—-yet!" she begged him tremulously. "Let us wait till—the morning!"
His arms relaxed, "It is very near the morning now," he said. "Shall we go and watch for it?"
They rose together. Dinah's eyes sought his for one shy, fleeting second, falling instantly as if half-dazzled, half-afraid. He took her hand and led her quietly from the room.
It was no longer dark in the passage outside. A pearly light was growing. The splash of the sea sounded very far below them, as the dim surging of a world unseen might rise to the watchers on the mountain-top.
They moved to an open window at the end of the passage. No sound came from Isabel's room close by, and after a few seconds Scott turned noiselessly aside and entered.
Dinah remained at the open window waiting with a throbbing heart in the great silence that wrapped the world. She was not afraid, but she longed for Scott to come back; she was conscious of an urgent need of him.
Several moments passed, and then softly he returned. "No change!" he whispered. "Eustace will call us—when it comes."
She slipped her hand back into his, without speaking. He made her sit upon the window-seat, and knelt himself upon it, his arm about her shoulders, his fingers clasping hers.
She could see his face but vaguely in the dimness, but many times during that holy hour before the dawn, though he spoke no word, she felt that he was praying or giving thanks.
Slowly the twilight turned into a velvet dusk. The great Change was drawing near. The silence lay like a thinning veil of mist upon the mountain-top. The clouds were parting in the East, all tinged with gold, like burnished gates flung back for the royal coming of the sun-god. The stillness that lay upon all the waiting earth was sacred as the hush of prayer.
Their faces were turned towards the spreading glow. It shone upon them as it shone upon all beside, widening, intensifying, till the whole earth lay wrapped in solemn splendour—and then at last, through the open gates, red, royal, triumphant, the sun-god came.
There came a moment in which all things were touched with the glory, all things were made new. And in that moment, sudden as a flash of light, a bird of pure white plumage appeared before their eyes, hovered an instant; then flew, mounting on wide, gleaming wings, straight into the dawn….
Even while they watched, it vanished through the gates of gold. And only the gracious sunshine of a new day remained….
A low voice spoke from the chamber of Death. They turned from the vision and saw Eustace standing in the doorway.
He was very white, but absolutely calm. There was a nobility about him at that moment that sent a queer little throb to Dinah's heart. He held out his hand, not to her, but to Scott. "She is gone," he said.
Scott went to him; she saw their hands meet. There was no agitation about either of them.
"In her sleep?" Scott said.
"Yes. We didn't even know—till it was over."
They turned into the room, still hand grasping hand.
And Dinah knelt up and stretched out her arms to the shining morning sky. Something within her was whispering that she and Scott had seen more of the passing of Isabel than any of those who had watched beside her bed. And in the quiet of that wonderful morning, she offered her quivering thanks to God.
Of the long hours that followed that wonderful dawning Dinah never had any very distinct recollection. Even Scott seemed to forget her for a while, and it was old Biddy who presently found her curled up on the window-seat with her head upon the sill asleep—Biddy with her eyes very bright and alert, albeit deeply rimmed with red.
She came to the childish, drooping figure, murmuring tender words. She put wiry arms about her and lifted her to her feet.
"There! Come to your own room and rest, my lamb!" she said. "Old Biddy'll take care of ye, aroon."
Dinah submitted with the vague docility of a brain but half-awakened. To be cared for and petted by Biddy was no new thing in her experience. She even felt as if the old crystal Alpine days had returned, as Biddy undressed her and presently tucked her into bed. Later, still in semi-consciousness, she drank the hot milk that the old woman brought her, and then sank into a deep, deep sleep.
She awakened from that sleep with a sense of well-being such as she had never known before, a feeling of complete security and rest. The house was very quiet, and through the curtained window there came to her the soft, slumberous splash of the waves.
She lay very still, listening to the soothing murmur, gradually focusing her mind again after its long oblivion. The memory of the previous night and of the coming of the dawn came back to her, and with it the thought of Isabel; but without grief and without regret. They had left her on the mountain-top, and she knew that all must be well.
A great peace seemed to have fallen like a veil upon the whole house. Surely no one could be mourning over that glad release! She saw again the flashing of those free wings in the dawn-light, and her heart thrilled afresh. She remembered too the close, strong clasp of Scott's hand as he had watched with her.
Where was Scott now? The wonder darted suddenly through her brain, and with it, swift as a flying cloud-shadow, came the want of him, the longing for the quiet voice, the quivering delight of his near presence. She half-raised herself, and then, caught by another thought, sank down again to hide her burning face in the pillow. It would be a little difficult to meet him again. On the old easy terms of friendship it could not be, and they had hardly begun to be lovers yet. He—had not even—kissed her!
Another thought came to her—of an even more disturbing nature. Save for old Biddy and the nurse, she was alone with the two brothers now. Would they—would they insist upon sending her home until—until Scott was ready to come and take her away? Oh, surely—surely Scott would never ask that of her!
Nevertheless the thought tormented her. She did not see any way out of the difficulty, and she was terribly afraid that Scott would be equally at a loss.
"I don't think I could bear it," she whispered to herself. "And yet—if he says so—if he says so—I suppose I must. I couldn't refuse—if he said so."
The soft opening of the door recalled her to the immediate present. She saw old Biddy's face with its watchful, guardian look peep stealthily in upon her.
"Ah, mavourneen!" she whispered fondly, coming forward. "And is it awake ye are? I've peeped round at ye this five times, and ye were sleeping like a new-born babe. Lie still, darlint, while I fetch ye a cup o' tay then!"
She was gone with the words, but in a very little she was back again with her own especial brew. She set her tray down by Dinah's side, but Dinah did not even look at it. She raised herself instead, and threw warm arms around the old woman's neck. "Oh, Biddy," she said, "Biddy, darling, I can't think what ever I'd do without you!"
Biddy uttered a sharp sob, and gathered her close. But in a moment, half-angrily, "And what is it that I'd be crying for at all?" she said. "Isn't my dear Miss Isabel safer with the Almighty than ever she was with me? Isn't she gone to the blessed saints in Paradise? And would I have her back? No, no! I'm not that selfish, Miss Dinah. I'm an old woman moreover, and be the same token me own time can't be so far off now."
But Dinah clung faster to her. "Please, Biddy, please—don't talk like that! I want you," she said.
"Ah, bless the dear lamb!" said Biddy, and tenderly kissed the upturned, pleading face. "Miss Isabel said ye would now. But when ye've got Master Scott to take care of ye, it's not old Biddy that ye'll be wanting any longer."
"I shall," Dinah vowed. "I shall. I shall always want my Biddy."
"And may the Lord Almighty bless ye for the word!" said Biddy.
When Dinah was dressed, a great shyness fell upon her, born partly of the still mystery of the presence of Death that wrapped the little house. She stood by the window of her room, looking forth, irresolute, over the evening sea.
The blinds were drawn only in the room of Death, for Scott had so decreed, and the air blew in sweet and fresh from the rippling water.
After a few minutes, Biddy came softly up behind her. "And is it himself ye're looking for, mavourneen?" she murmured at Dinah's shoulder.
Dinah started a little and flushed. She wondered if Biddy knew all or only guessed. "I don't know—what to do," she said rather confusedly.
Biddy gave her a quick, wise look. "Will I tell ye a secret, Miss Dinah dear?" she whispered.
Dinah looked at her. The old woman's face was full of shrewd understanding. "Yes, tell me!" she said somewhat breathlessly.
Biddy's brown hand grasped her arm. "Master Scott went to town this morning," she said. "He'll be back any minute now. Sir Eustace is downstairs. He wants to see ye—to tell ye something—before Master Scott gets back."
"Oh, what—what?" gasped Dinah.
"There, now, there! Don't ye be afraid!" said Biddy, her beady eyes softening. "It's something ye'll like. Master Scott—he's not the gentleman to make ye do anything ye don't want to do. Don't ye trust him, Miss Dinah?"
"Of course—of course," Dinah said, with trembling lips.
"Then ye've nothing to be afraid of," said Biddy wisely. "Faith, it's only the marriage-licence he's been to fetch!"
"Oh—Biddy!" Dinah wheeled from the window, with both her hands over her heart.
Biddy nodded with grave triumph. "It was Sir Eustace made him go. Master Scott—he didn't think it would be dacent, not at first. But, as Sir Eustace said, there's more ways than one of being ondacent, and after all it was the dearest wish of Miss Isabel's heart. 'Don't you be a conventional fool!' he said. And for once I agreed with him," said Biddy naïvely, "though I think he needn't have used bad language over it."
"Oh—Biddy!" Dinah said again, and then very oddly she began to smile, and the tension went out of her attitude. She kissed the wrinkled cheek, and turned. "I think perhaps I will go down and speak to Sir Eustace," she said.
She went quickly, aware that if she suffered herself to pause, that overpowering shyness would seize upon her again.
Guided by the scent of cigarette-smoke, she entered the dining-room. Sir Eustace was seated at a writing-table near the window. He looked up swiftly at her entrance.
"Awake at last!" he said, and would have risen with the words, but she reached him first and checked him.
"Eustace! Oh, Eustace!" she said. "I—I—Biddy has just told me—"
He frowned, as she stopped in confusion, steadying herself rather piteously against his shoulder. But in a moment, seeing her agitation, he put a kindly arm around her.
"Biddy is an old fool—always was. Don't take any notice of her! What a ferment you're in, child! What's the matter? There, sit down!"
He drew her down on to the arm of his chair, and she leaned against him, striving for self-control.
"You—you are so—so much too good," she murmured.
He smiled rather grimly. "No one ever accused me of that before! Was that the staggering piece of information that Biddy has imparted to you?"
"No," she said, a fleeting smile upon her awn face. "It was—it was—about Scott. It took my breath away,—that's all."
"That all?" said Eustace with a faintly wry lift of one eyebrow.
She slipped a shy arm around his neck. "Eustace, do you—do you thinkI—ought to let Scott marry me?"
"I'm quite sure you'll break his heart if you don't," responded Eustace.
"Oh, I couldn't do that!" she said quickly.
"No. I shouldn't if I were you. It isn't a very amusing game for anyone concerned." Sir Eustace took up his pen with his free hand. "He's rather a good chap, you know," he said, "beastly good sometimes. He'll take a little living up to. But you'll manage that, I daresay. When he told me how things stood between you, I saw directly that there was only one thing to be done, and I made him do it. The idea is to get you married before the nurse goes, and she is off to-morrow." He paused, looking at her critically, and again half-cynically, half-sadly, smiled. "You took that well," he said. "If it had been to me, you'd have jumped sky-high. You're a wise little creature, Dinah. You've chosen the best man, and you'll never be sorry. I congratulate you on your choice."
He turned his face fully to her, and she stooped swiftly and kissed him."I'm—dreadfully sorry I—treated you so badly first," she whispered.
"You needn't be," he said. "It did me good. You showed me myself from a point of view that I had never taken before. You taught me to be human. I told Isabel so. She—poor girl—" he stopped a second, and she saw that momentarily he was moved; but he continued almost at once—"she was grateful to you too," he said. "You removed the outer crust at a single stroke—just in time to prevent atrophy. Of course," he glanced down at the letter under his hand, "it was a more or less painful process, but it may comfort you to know that it didn't go quite so deep with me as I thought it had at the time. There's no sense in crying over spilt milk anyhow. I never was that sort of ass. You may—or may not—be pleased to hear that I am already well on the way to consolation." He lifted his eyes suddenly with an expression in them that completely baffled her. It was almost as if he had detached himself for the moment from all participation in his own doings, contemplating them with a half-pathetic irony. "Shall I tell you what I was doing when you came in just now?" he said. "I was writing to the girl you nearly sacrificed your happiness to cut out."
"Rose de Vigne?" she said quickly.
He nodded. "Yes, Rose de Vigne" He paused for a second, just a second; then: "The girl I am going to marry," he said quietly.
"Oh, Eustace!" There was no mistaking the gladness in Dinah's tone. "I am pleased!" she said earnestly. "I know you will be happy together. You were simply made for each other."
He smiled, still in that strange, half-rueful fashion. "I am doing the best I can under the circumstances. It is kind of you to be pleased. But now once more to your affairs. They are more pressing than mine just now. It may interest you to know that Scott—although under Isabel's will he is made absolutely independent of me—is willing to live at the Dower House, if that arrangement meets with your approval."
"Of course—I shall love it," Dinah said.
"I am glad of that, for it will be a great help to me to have him there. You will be able to have Billy to stay with you in the holidays and roam about as you like. Scott is making all sorts of plans. I am going to settle the place on him as a wedding-present."
"Oh, Eustace! How kind! What a lovely gift!"
Sir Eustace smiled at her. "I am giving him more than that, Dinah. I am giving him his wife and—the wedding-ring." The irony was uppermost again, but it held no sting. "It will fit no other hand but yours, and it will serve to keep you in constant remembrance of your good luck. I can hear him coming up the path. Aren't you going to meet him?"
She sprang up like a startled fawn. "Oh, I can't—I can't meet him yet," she said desperately.
There was a curious glint in Eustace's eyes as he watched her, a flash of mockery that came and went.
"What?" he said. "Do you want me to help you to run away from him now?"
She looked at him quickly, and in a moment her hesitation was gone.
"Oh, no!" she said. "No!" and with a little breathless sound that might have been a tremor of laughter, she fled away from him out into the evening sunshine to meet her lover.
They were married in the early morning at the little old church that had nestled for centuries among its trees in the village on the cliff. The absolute simplicity of the service deprived it of all terrors for Dinah. Standing with Scott in the glow of sunlight that smote full upon them through the mellow east window, she could not feel afraid. The whole world was so bright, so full of joy.
"Do you think Isabel can see us now?" she whispered to him, as they rose together from kneeling before the altar.
He did not answer her in words, but his pale eyes were shining with that steadfast light of the spirit which she had come to know. She wished she could have knelt there by his side a little longer. They seemed to be so near to the Gates of Heaven.
But they were not alone, and they could not linger. Sir Eustace who had given her away, Biddy who had tenderly supported her, the nurse who carried the fragrant bouquet of honeysuckle—the bond of love—which she had herself gathered for the bride, all were waiting to draw them back to earth again; and with Scott's hand clasping hers she turned regretfully and left the holy place.
Later, when Sir Eustace kissed her with the careless observation that he always kissed a bride, she had a moment of burning shyness, and she would gladly have hidden her face. But Scott did not kiss her. He had not offered to do so since that wonderful moment when he had first held her against his heart. He had not attempted to make love to her, and she had not felt the need of it. Grave and practical, he had laid his plans before her, and with the supreme confidence that he had always inspired in her she had acquiesced to all.
At his desire she had refrained from entering Isabel's death-chamber. At his desire she was to leave that day for the Dower House that was to be their home. Biddy would accompany her thither. The place was ready for occupation, for by Isabel's wish the work had gone on, though both she and Scott had known that they would never share a home there. It almost seemed as if she had foreseen the fulfilment of her earnest wish. And here Dinah was to await her husband.
"I won't come to you till the funeral is over," he said to her. "I must be with Eustace. You won't be unhappy?"
No, she would not be unhappy. She had never been so near to Death before, but she was neither frightened nor dismayed. She stood in the shadow indeed, but she looked forth from it over a world of such sunshine as filled her heart with quivering gladness.
He did not want her to attend the funeral at Willowmount, would not, if he could help it, suffer her so much as to see the trappings of woe; and in this Dinah acquiesced also, comprehending fully the motive that underlay his wish. She knew that the earthly formalities, though they had to be faced, were to Scott something of the nature of a grim farce in which, while he could not escape it himself, he was determined that she should take no part. He was not mourning for Isabel. He would not pretend to mourn. Her death was to him but as the opening wide of a prison-door to one who had long lain captive, pining for liberty. He would follow the poor worn body to its grave rather with thanksgiving than with grief. And realizing so well that this was his inevitable feeling, even as in a smaller degree it had become her own, Dinah agreed without demur to his wish to spare her all the jarring details, the travesty of mourning, that could not fail to strike a false chord in her soul.
It was well for her that she had Biddy to think of. The old woman was pathetically eager to serve her. She had in fact attached herself to Dinah in a fashion that went to her heart. It was Miss Isabel's wish that she should take care of her, she told her tremulously, and Dinah, knew that it had been equally her friend's wish that she should care for Biddy.
And Biddy was very good. Probably in accordance with Scott's desire, she made a great effort to throw off all gloom, and undoubtedly her own sense of loss and bereavement was greatly lessened by the consciousness of Dinah's need of her.
"Time enough to weep later," she told herself, as she lay down in the room adjoining Dinah's on that first night in the Dower House. "She'll not be wanting old Biddy when Master Scott comes to her."
The two days that followed were very fully occupied. There were curtains and pictures to hang, furniture to be arranged, and many things to be unpacked. Dinah went to the work with zest. She did not know when Scott would come. But it would be soon, she knew it would be soon; and she thrilled to the thought. Everything must be ready for him. She wanted him to feel that it was home from the moment he crossed the threshold.
So, with Biddy's help, she went about her preparations, enlisting the old nurse's sympathies till at last she succeeded in arousing her enthusiasm also. There was certainly no time to weep.
That second day after her arrival was the day of the funeral. It was a beautiful still day of summer, and in the afternoon Dinah and Biddy sat in the garden overlooking the winding river, and read the Burial Service together. It was Dinah's suggestion, somewhat shyly proffered, and—though she knew it not—from that time forward Biddy's heart was at her feet. Whatever tears there might be yet to shed had lost all bitterness from that hour.
"I'll never be lonely so long as there's you to love, Miss Dinah darlint," Biddy murmured, when the young arms closed about her neck for a moment ere they went back to their work. "Ye've warmed and comforted me all through."
It was late in the evening when dusk was falling that there came the sound of an uneven tread on the gravel path before the Dower House.
Dinah was the first to hear it. Dinah wearing one of Biddy's voluminous aprons and mounted on a pair of steps, arranging china on a high shelf that ran round the old square hall.
The front-door was open, and the birds were singing in the gloaming. She had been listening to them while she worked, when suddenly this new sound came. Her heart gave a wild leap and stood still. She had not expected him to-night.
She sat down on the top of the steps with a swift, indescribable rush of feeling that seemed to deprive her of all her strength. She could not have said for the moment if she were glad or dismayed at the sound of that quiet footfall. But she was quite powerless to go and meet him. A great wave of shyness engulfed her, possessing her, overwhelming her.
He entered. He came straight to her. She wondered afterwards what he must have thought of her, sitting there on her perch in burning embarrassment with no word or sign of welcome. But whatever he thought, he dealt with the situation with unerring instinct.
He mounted a couple of steps with hands stretched up to hers. "Why, myDinah!" he said. "How busy you are! Let me help!"
Her heart throbbed on again, fast and hard. But still for a few seconds she could not speak. She stooped with a soft endearing sound and laid her face upon the hands that had clasped her own.
He suffered her for a moment or two in silence; she thought his hands trembled slightly. Then: "Let's get finished, little wife!" he said gently. "Isn't the day's work nearly over? Can't we take off our sandals—and rest?"
"I have just done," she said, finding her voice. "Biddy and I have got through such a lot. Oh, Scott," as the light fell upon his face, "how tired you look!"
"It has been rather a tiring day," he made answer. "I didn't think I could get over here to-night; but Eustace insisted."
"How good of him!" she said, with quick gratitude.
"Yes, he is good," Scott's voice was tender. "I couldn't sleep last night, and he came into my room, and we had a long talk. He is one of the best, Dinah; one of the best. I'm afraid you've made—rather a poor exchange."
Something in his tone banished the last of Dinah's shyness. She gave him her basket of china and prepared to descend. He stretched up a courteous hand to help her, but she would have none of it. "You are never to say that—or anything like it—again," she said severely. "If—if you weren't so dreadfully tired, I believe I'd be really angry. As it is—" she reached the ground and stood there before him, a small, purposeful figure clad in the great apron that wrapped about her like a garment.
"As it is—" he suggested meekly, setting the basket on a chair and turning back to face her.
Two quivering hands came out to him in the gloaming, and fastened resolutely on his coat. "Oh, Greatheart," whispered a tremulous voice, "I love you so much—so much—I want—to kiss you!"
"My darling," answered Greatheart softly, "you can't want it—more than I do."
His arms closed about her; he drew her to his breast.
* * * * *
"Arrah thin, what would I cry for at all?" said Biddy, as she lay down that night. "I've got herself and Master Scott to care for, and maybe—some day—the Almighty will remember old Biddy for good, and give another little one into her care."
* * * * *
"And you left them quite happy?" smiled Rose to her lover two days later."It's a very suitable arrangement, isn't it? I always used to think thatDinah and your brother should make a match."
"Oh, quite suitable," agreed Eustace lazily, an odd blend of irony and satisfaction in his tone. "They will be happy enough. Stumpy, you know, is just the sort of chivalrous ass that a child like Dinah can appreciate. They'll probably live in the seventh heaven, and fancy that no one else has ever been within a million miles of it."
"Poor little Dinah!" murmured Rose. "She will never know what she has missed."
And, "Just as well perhaps," said Sir Eustace, with his faintly cynical smile.