Greatheart by Ethel May Dell (best books to read for beginners TXT) 📕

she came back! She never did it again—till now."

"And you are going to the station to look for her?" Scott's voice was dead level. He calmed the restive horse with a firm hand.

"Yes; just to find out if she's gone by train. I don't believe she has, you know. She's nowhere to go to. I expect she's hiding up in the woods somewhere. I shall scour the country afterwards; for the longer she stays away the worse it'll be for her. I'm sure of that," said Billy uneasily. "When the mater lays hands on her again, she'll simply flay her."

"She will not do anything of the sort," said Scott, and turned his horse's head with resolution. "Come along and find her first! I will deal with your mother afterwards."

Billy mounted his bicycle and accompanied him. Though he did not see how Scott was to prevent any further vengeance on his mother's part, it was a considerable relief to feel that he had enlisted a champion on his sister's behalf. For he was genuinely troubled about her, although the cruel discipline to which she had been subjected all her life had so accustomed him to seeing her in trouble that it affected him less than if it had been a matter of less frequent occurrence.

Scott's reception of his information had somewhat awed him. Like Dinah, he had long ceased to look upon this man as insignificant. He rode beside him in respectful silence.

The country lane they followed crossed the railway by a bridge ere it ran into the station road. There was a steep embankment on each side of the line surmounted by woods, and as they reached the bridge Billy dismounted to gaze searchingly into the trees.

"She might be anywhere" he said. "This is a favourite place of hers because the wind-flowers grow here. Somehow I've got a sort of feeling—" He stopped short. "Why, there she is!" he exclaimed.

Scott looked sharply in the same direction. Had he been alone, he would not have perceived her, for she was crouched low against a thicket of brambles and stunted trees midway down the embankment. She was clad in an old brown mackintosh that so toned with her surroundings as to render her almost invisible. Her chin was resting on her knees, and her face was turned from them. She seemed to be gazing up the line.

As they watched her, a signal near the bridge went down with a thud, and it seemed to Scott that the little huddled figure started and stiffened like a frightened doe. But she did not change her position, and she continued to gaze up the long stretch of line as though waiting for something.

"What on earth is she doing?" whispered Billy. "There are no wind-flowers there."

Scott slipped quietly to the ground. "You wait here!" he said. "Hold my animal, will you?"

He left the bridge, retracing his steps, and climbed a railing that fenced the wood. In a moment he disappeared among the trees, and Billy was left to watch and listen in unaccountable suspense.

The morning was dull, and a desolate wind moaned among the bare tree-tops. He shivered a little. There was something uncanny in the atmosphere, something that was evil. He kept his eyes upon Dinah, but she was a considerable distance away, and he could not see that she stirred so much as a finger. He wondered how long it would take Scott to reach her, and began to wish ardently that he had been allowed to go instead. The man was lame and he was sure that he could have covered the distance in half the time.

And then while he waited and watched, suddenly there came a distant drumming that told of an approaching train.

"The Northern express!" he said aloud.

Many a time had he stood on the bridge to see it flash and thunder below him. The sound of its approach had always filled him with a kind of ecstasy before, but now—to-day—it sent another feeling through him,—a sudden, wild dart of unutterable dread.

"What rot!" he told himself, with an angry shake. "Oh, what rot!"

But the dread remained coiled like a snake about his heart.

The animal he held became restless, and he backed it off the bridge, but he could not bring himself to go out of sight of that small, tragic figure in the old mackintosh that sat so still, so still, there upon the grassy slope. He watched it with a terrible fascination. Would Scott never make his appearance?

A white tuft of smoke showed against the grey of the sky. The throbbing of the engine grew louder, grew insistent. A couple of seconds more and it was within sight, still far away but rapidly drawing near. Where on earth was Scott? Did he realize the danger? Ought he to shout? But something seemed to grip his throat, holding him silent. He was powerless to do anything but watch.

Nearer came the train and nearer. Billy's eyes were starting out of his head. He had never been so scared in all his life before. There was something fateful in the pose of that waiting figure.

The rush of the oncoming express dinned in his ears. It was close now, and suddenly—suddenly as a darting bird—Dinah was on her feet. Billy found his voice in a hoarse, croaking cry, but almost ere it left his lips he saw Scott leap into view and run down the bank.

By what force of will he made his presence known Billy never afterwards could conjecture. No sound could have been audible above the clamour of the train. Yet by some means—some electric battery of the mind—he made the girl below aware of him. On the very verge of the precipice she stopped, stood poised for a moment, then turned herself back and saw him….

The train thundered by, shaking the ground beneath their feet, and rushed under the bridge. The whole embankment was blotted out in white smoke, and Billy reeled back against the horse he held.

"By Jove!" he whispered shakily. "By—Jove! What a ghastly fright!"

He wiped his forehead with a trembling hand, and led the animal away from the bridge. Somehow he was feeling very sick—too sick to look any longer, albeit the danger was past.

The smoke cleared from the embankment, and two figures were left facing one another on the grassy slope. Neither of them spoke a word. It was as if they were waiting for some sign. Scott was panting, but Dinah did not seem to be breathing at all. She stood there tense and silent, terribly white, her eyes burning like stars.

The last sound of the train died away in the distance, and then, such was their utter stillness, from the thorn-bush close to them a thrush suddenly thrilled into song. The soft notes fell balmlike into that awful silence and turned it into sweetest music.

Scott moved at last, and at once the bird ceased. It was as if an angel had flown across the heaven with a silver flute of purest melody and passed again into the unknown.

He came to Dinah. "My dear," he said, and his voice was slightly shaky, "you shouldn't be here."

She stood before him, pillar-like, her two hands clenched against her sides. Her lips were quite livid. They moved soundlessly for several seconds before she spoke. "I—was waiting—for the express."

Her voice was flat and emotionless. It sounded almost as if she were talking in her sleep. And strangely it was that that shocked Scott even more than her appearance. Dinah's voice had always held countless inflections, little notes gay or sad like the trill of a robin. This was the voice of a woman in whom the very last spark of hope was quenched.

It pierced him with an intolerable pain. "Dinah—Dinah!" he said. "For
God's sake, child, you don't mean—that!"

Her white, pinched face twisted in a dreadful smile. "Why not?" she said. "There was no other way." And then a sudden quiver as of returning life went through her. "Why did you stop me?" she said. "If you hadn't, it would have been—all over by now."

He put out a quick hand. "Don't say it,—in heaven's name! You are not yourself. Come—come into the wood, and we will talk!"

She did not take his hand. "Can't we talk here?" she said.

He composed himself with an effort. "No, certainly not. Come into the wood!"

He spoke with quiet insistence. She gave him an inscrutable look.

"You think you are going to help me,—Mr. Greatheart," she said, "but I am past help. Nothing you can do will make any difference to me now."

"Come with me nevertheless!" he said.

He laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and she winced with a sharpness that tore his heart. But in a moment she turned beside him and began the ascent, slowly, labouringly, as if every step gave her pain. He moved beside her, supporting her elbow when she faltered, steadily helping her on.

They entered the wood, and the desolate sighing of the wind encompassed them. Dinah looked at her companion with the first sign of feeling she had shown.

"I must sit down," she said.

"There is a fallen tree over there," he said, and guided her towards it.

She leaned upon him, very near to collapse. He spread his coat upon the tree and helped her down.

"Now how long is it since you had anything to eat?" he said.

She shook her head slightly. "I don't remember. But it doesn't matter.
I'm not hungry."

He took one of her icy hands and began to rub it. "Poor child!" he said. "You ought to be given some hot bread and milk and tucked up in bed with hot bottles."

Her face began to work. "That," she said, "is the last thing that will happen to me."

"Haven't you been to bed at all?" he questioned.

Her throat was moving spasmodically; she bowed her head to hide her face from him. "Yes," she said in a whisper. "My mother—my mother put me there." And then as if the words burst from her against her will, "She thrashed me first with a dog-whip; but dogs have got hair to protect them, and I—had nothing. She only stopped because—I fainted. She hasn't finished with me now. When I go back—when I go back—" She broke off. "But I'm not going," she said, and her voice was flat and hard again. "Even you can't make me do that. There'll be another express this afternoon."

Scott knelt down beside her, and took her bowed head on to his shoulder. "Listen to me, Dinah!" he said. "I am going to help you, and you mustn't try to prevent me. If you had only allowed me, I would have gone home again with you yesterday, and this might have been avoided. My dear, don't draw yourself away from me! Don't you know I am a friend you can trust?"

The pitiful tenderness of his voice reached her, overwhelming her first instinctive effort to draw back. She leaned against him with painful, long-drawn sobs.

He held her closely to him with all a woman's understanding. "Oh, don't cry any more, child!" he said. "You're worn out with crying."

"I feel—so bad—so bad!" sobbed Dinah.

"Yes, yes. I know. Of course you do. But it's over, it's over. No one shall hurt you any more."

"You don't—understand," breathed Dinah. "It never will be over—while I live. I'm hurt inside—inside."

"I know," he said again. "But it will get better presently. Isabel and I are going to take you away from it all."

"Oh no!" she said quickly. "No—no—no!" She lifted her head from his shoulder and turned her poor, stained face upwards. "I couldn't do that!" she said. "I couldn't! I couldn't!"

"Wait!" he said gently. "Let me do what I can to help you now—before we talk of that! Will you sit here quietly for a little, while I go and get you some milk from that farm down the road?"

"I don't want it," she said.

"But I want you to have it," he made grave reply. "You will stay here?
Promise me!"

"Very well," she assented miserably.

He got up. "I shan't be gone long. Sit quite still till I come back!"

He touched her dark head comfortingly and turned away.

When he had gone a little distance he looked back, and saw that she was crouched upon the ground again and crying with bitter, straining sobs that convulsed her as though they would rend her from head to foot. With tightened