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

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."

CHAPTER XXVII THE MOUNTAIN-TOP

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