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

lips he hastened on his way.

She had suffered a cruel punishment it was evident, and she was utterly worn out in body and spirit. But was it only the ordeal of yesterday and the physical penalty that she had been made to pay that had broken her thus?

He could not tell, but his heart bled for her misery and desolation.

"Who is the other fellow?" he asked himself. "I wonder if Billy knows."

He found Billy awaiting him in the road, anxious and somewhat reproachful. "You've been such a deuce of a time," he said. "Is she all right?"

"She is very upset," he made answer. "And she is faint too for want of food."

"That's not surprising," commented Billy. "She can't have had anything since lunch yesterday. What shall I do? Run home and get something? The mater can't want her to starve."

"No." Scott's voice rang on a hard note. "She probably doesn't. But you needn't go home for it. Run back to that farm we passed just now, and see if you can get some hot milk! Be quick like a good chap! Here's the money! I'll wait here."

Billy seized his bicycle and departed on his errand.

Scott began to walk his horse up and down, for inactivity was unbearable. Every moment he spent away from poor, broken Dinah was torturing. Those dreadful, hopeless tears of hers filled him with foreboding. He yearned to return.

Billy's absence lasted for nearly a quarter of an hour, and he was beginning to get desperate over the delay when at last the boy returned carrying a can of milk and a mug.

"I had rather a bother to get it," he explained. "People are so mighty difficult to stir, and I didn't want to tell 'em too much. I've promised to take these things back again. I say, can't I come along with you now?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Scott said. "I can manage best alone. Besides,
I'm going to ask you to do something more."

"Anything!" said Billy readily.

"Thanks. Well, will you ride this animal into Great Mallowes, hire a closed car, and send it to the bridge here to pick me up? Then take him back to the Court, and if anyone asks any questions, say I've met a friend and I'm coming back on foot, but I may not be in to luncheon. Yes, that'll do, I think. I'll see about returning these things. Much obliged, Billy. Good-bye!"

Billy looked somewhat disappointed at this dismissal, but the prospect of a ride was dear to his boyish heart, and in a moment he nodded cheerily. "All right, I'll do that. I'll hide my bicycle in the wood and fetch it afterwards. But where are you going to take her to?"

Scott smiled also faintly and enigmatically. "Leave that to me, my good fellow! I shan't run away with her."

"But I shall see her again some time?" urged Billy, as he dumped his long-suffering machine over the railing and propped it out of sight behind the hedge.

"No doubt you will." Scott's tone was kindly and reassuring. "But I think I can help her better just now than you can, so I'll be getting back to her. Good-bye, boy! And thanks again!"

"So long!" said Billy, vaulting back and thrusting his foot into the stirrup. "You might let me hear how you get on."

"I will," promised Scott.

CHAPTER XXI THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

When Scott reached the fallen tree again, Dinah's fit of weeping was over. She was lying exhausted and barely conscious against his coat.

She opened her eyes as he knelt down beside her. "You are—good," she whispered faintly.

He poured out some milk and held it to her. "Try to drink some!" he said gently.

She put out a trembling hand.

"No; let me!" he said.

She submitted in silence, and he lifted the glass to her lips and held it very steadily while slowly she drank.

Her eyes were swollen and burning with the shedding of many scalding tears. Now and then a sharp sob rose in her throat so that she could not swallow.

"Take your time!" he said. "Don't hurry it!"

But ere she finished, the tears were running down her face again. He set down the glass, and with his own handkerchief he wiped them away. Then he sat upon the low tree-trunk, and drew her to lean against him.

"When you're feeling better, we'll have a talk," he said.

She hid her face with a piteous gesture against his knee. "I don't see—the good of talking," she said, in muffled accents. "It can't make things—any better."

"I'm not so sure of that," he said. "Anyhow we can't leave things as they are. You will admit that."

Dinah was silent.

He went on with the utmost gentleness. "I want to get you away from here. Isabel is going down to Heath-on-Sea and she wants you to come too. It's a tiny place. We have a cottage there with the most wonderful garden for flowers you ever saw. It isn't more than thirty yards square, and there is a cliff path down to the beach. Isabel loves the place. The yacht is there too, and we go for cruises on calm days. I am hoping Isabel may pick up a little there, and she is always more herself when you are with her. You won't disappoint her, will you?"

A great-shiver went through Dinah. "I can't come," she said, almost under her breath. "It just—isn't possible."

"What is there to prevent?" he asked.

She moved a little, and lifted her head from its resting-place. "Ever so many things," she said.

"You are thinking of Eustace?" he questioned. "He has gone already—gone to town. He will probably go abroad; but in any case he will not get in your way."

"I wasn't thinking of him," Dinah said.

"Then of what?" he questioned. "Your mother? I will see her, and make that all right."

She started and lifted her face. "Oh no! Oh no! You must never dream of doing that!" she declared, with sudden fevered urgency. "I couldn't bear you to see her. You mustn't think of it, indeed—indeed! Why I would even—even sooner go back myself."

"Then I must write to her," he said, gently ceding the point. "It is not essential that I should see her. Possibly even, a letter would be preferable."

Dinah's face had flushed fiery red. She did not meet his eyes. "I don't see why you should have anything to do with her," she said. "You would never get her to consent."

"Then I propose that we act first," said Scott. "Isabel is leaving to-day. You can join her at Great Mallowes and go on together. I shall follow in a couple of days. There are several matters to be attended to first. But Isabel and Biddy will take care of you. Come, my dear, you won't dislike that so very badly!"

"Dislike it!" Dinah caught back another sob. "I should love it above all things if it were possible. But it isn't—it isn't."

"Why not?" he questioned. "Surely your father would not raise any objection?"

She shook her head. "No—no! He doesn't care what happens to me. I used to think he did; but he doesn't—he doesn't."

"Then what is the difficulty?" asked Scott.

She was silent, and he saw the hot colour spreading over her neck as she turned her face away.

"Won't you tell me?" he urged gently. "Is there some particular reason why you want to stay?"

"Oh no! I'm not going to stay." Quickly she made answer. "I am never going back. I couldn't after—after—" She broke off in quivering distress.

"I think your mother will be sorry presently," he said. "People with violent tempers generally repent very deeply afterwards."

Dinah turned upon him suddenly and hotly. "She will never repent!" she declared. "She hates me. She has always hated me. And I hate her—hate her—hate her!"

The concentrated passion of her made her vibrate from head to foot. Her eyes glittered like emeralds. She was possessed by such a fury of hatred as made her scarcely recognizable.

Scott looked at her steadily for a moment or two. Then: "But it does you more harm than good to say so," he said. "And it doesn't answer my question, does it? Dinah, if you don't feel that you can do this thing for your own sake, won't you do it for Isabel's? She is needing you badly just now."

The vindictive look went out of Dinah's face. Her eyes softened, and he saw the hopeless tears well up again. "But I couldn't help her any more," she said.

"The very fact of having you to care for would help her," Scott said.

Dinah shook her head. She was sitting on the ground with her hands clasped round her knees. As the tears splashed down again, she turned her face away.

"It wouldn't help her, it wouldn't help anybody, to have me as I am now," she said. "I can't tell you—I can't explain. But—I am not fit to associate with anyone good."

Scott leaned towards her. "Dinah, my dear, you are torturing yourself," he said. "It's natural, I know. You have had no sleep, and you have cried yourself ill. But I am not going to give in to you. I am not going to take No for an answer. You have no plans for yourself, and I doubt if in your present state you are capable of forming any. Isabel wants you, and it would be cruel to disappoint her. So you and I will join her at Great Mallowes this afternoon. I will deal with your people in the matter, but I do not anticipate any great difficulty in that direction. Now that is settled, and you need not weary yourself with any further discussion. I am responsible, and I will bear my responsibility."

His tone was kind but it held unmistakable finality.

Dinah uttered a heavy sigh, and said no more. She lacked the strength for prolonged opposition.

He persuaded her to drink some more of the milk, and made a cushion of his coat for her against the tree.

"Perhaps you will get a little sleep," he said, as she suffered herself to relax somewhat. "Will it disturb you if I smoke?"

"No," she said.

He took out his case. "Shut your eyes!" he said practically.

But Dinah's eyes remained open, watching him. He began to smoke as if unaware of her scrutiny.

After several moments she spoke. "Scott!"

He turned to her. "Yes? What is it?"

The piteous, shamed colour rose up under his eyes. Again she turned her face away. "That—that sapphire pendant!" she murmured. "I brought it with me. Of course—I know—the presents will have to be returned. I didn't mean to—to run away with it. But—but—I loved it so. I couldn't have borne my mother to touch it. Shall I—shall I give it you now?"

"No, dear," he answered firmly. "Neither now nor at any time. I gave it to you as a token of friendship, and I would like you to keep it always for that reason."

"Always?" questioned Dinah. "Even if—if I never marry at all?"

"Certainly," he said.

"Because I never shall marry now," she said, speaking with difficulty.
"I—have quite given up that idea."

"I should like you to keep it in any case," Scott said.

"You are very good," she said earnestly. "I—I wonder you will have anything to do with me now that you know how—how wicked I am."

"I don't think you wicked," he said.

"Don't you?" She opened her heavy eyes a little. "You don't blame me for—for—" She broke off shuddering, and as she did so, there came again the rumble and roar of a distant train. "Then why did you stop me?" she whispered tensely.

Scott was silent for a moment or two. He was gazing straight before him. At length, "I stopped you," he said, "because I had to. It doesn't matter why. You would have done the same in my place. But I don't blame you, partly because it is not my business, and partly because I know quite well that you didn't realize what you were doing."

"I did realize," Dinah said. "If it weren't for you—because you are so good—nothing would have stopped me. Even now—even now—" again the hot tears came—"I've nothing to live for, and—and—God—doesn't—care." She turned her face into her arm and wept silently.

Scott made a sudden movement, and threw his cigarette away. Then swiftly he bent over her.