Greatheart, Ethel May Dell [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗

he were not there. Now and then he paused to flick the ash from his cigarette, but he did not turn his head. The dressing-gong boomed through the hotel, but he paid no attention to it. One after another the men in the room got up and sauntered away, but Scott remained motionless, awaiting his brother's pleasure.

Sir Eustace finished his letter, and pulled another sheet of paper towards him. Scott made no sign of impatience.

Sir Eustace began to write again, paused, wrote a few more words, then suddenly turned in his chair. They were alone.

"Oh, what the devil is it?" he said irritably. "I haven't any time to waste over you. What do you want?"

Scott stood up. "It's all right, old chap," he said gently. "I'm going. I only came in to tell you I was sorry for all the beastly things I said to you last night—this morning, rather. I lost my temper which was fairly low of me, considering you had been up all night and I hadn't."

He paused. Eustace was looking up at him from under frowning brows, his blue eyes piercing and merciless.

"It's all very fine, Stumpy," he said, after a moment. "Some people think that an apology more than atones for the offence. I don't."

"Neither do I," said Scott quietly. "But it's better than nothing, isn't it?" His eyes met his brother's very steadily and openly. His attitude was unflinching.

"It depends," Eustace rejoined curtly. "It is if you mean it. If you don't, it's not worth—that," with a snap of the fingers.

"I do mean it," said Scott, flushing.

"You do?" Eustace looked at him still more searchingly.

"I always mean what I say," Scott returned with deliberation.

"And you meant what you said this morning?" Eustace pounced without mercy upon the weak spot.

But the armour was proof. Scott remained steadfast. "I meant it—yes. But
I might have put it in a different form. I lost my temper. I am sorry."

Eustace continued to regard him with a straight, unsparing scrutiny. "And you consider that to be the sort of apology I can accept?" he asked, after a moment.

"I think you might accept it, old chap," Scott made pacific rejoinder.

Eustace turned back to the table, and began to put his papers together. "I might do many things," he observed, "which, not being a weak-kneed fool, I don't. If you really wish to make your peace with me, you had better do your best to make amends—to pull with me and not against me. For I warn you, Stumpy, you went too far last night. And it is not the first time."

He paused, as if he expected a disclaimer.

Scott waited a second or two; then with a very winning movement he bent and laid his arm across his brother's shoulders. "Try and bear with me, dear chap!" he said.

His voice was not wholly steady. There was entreaty in his action.

Eustace made a sharp gesture of surprise, but he did not repel him. There fell a brief silence between them; then Scott's hand came gently down and closed upon his brother's.

"Life isn't so confoundedly easy at the best of times," he said, speaking almost under his breath. "I'm generally philosopher enough to take it as it comes. But just lately—" he broke off. "Let it be pax, Eustace!" he urged in a whisper.

Eustace's hand remained for a moment or two stiffly unresponsive; then very suddenly it closed and held.

"What's the matter with you?" he said gruffly.

"Oh, I'm a fool, that's all," Scott answered, and uttered a shaky laugh. "Never mind! Forget it like a dear fellow! God knows I don't want to pull against you; but, old chap, we must go slow."

It was the conclusion that events had forced upon Eustace himself during the night, but he chafed against acknowledging it. "There's no sense in drifting on in the same old hopeless way for ever," he said. "We have got to make a stand; and it's now or never."

"I know. But we must have patience a bit longer. There is a change coming. I am certain of it. But—last night has thrown her back." Scott spoke with melancholy conviction.

"You gave her the draught?" Eustace asked sharply.

"I gave her a sedative only; but it took no effect. In the middle of the morning she was still in the same unsatisfactory state, and I gave her a second sedative. After that she fell asleep, but it was not a very easy sleep for a long time. This afternoon I saw Biddy for a moment, and she told me she seemed much more comfortable. The poor old thing looked tired out, and I told her to get a rest herself. She said she would lie down in the room. If it hadn't been for this concert business, I would have relieved her. But they couldn't muster anyone to take my place. I am just going up now to see how she is getting on."

Scott straightened himself slowly, with a movement that was unconsciously very weary. Eustace gave him a keen glance.

"You're wearing yourself out over her, Stumpy," he said.

"Oh, rot!" Scott smiled upon him, a light that was boyishly affectionate in his eyes. "I'm much tougher than I look. Thanks for being decent to me, old chap! I don't deserve it. If there are any more letters to be written, bring them along, and I'll attend to them to-night after the concert."

"No. Not this lot. I shall attend to them myself." Eustace got up, and passed a hand through his arm. "You are working too hard and sleeping too little. I'm going to take you in hand and put a stop to it."

Scott laughed. "No, no! Thanks all the same, I'm better left alone. Are you coming to the show to-night? The beautiful Miss de Vigne is going to sing."

Eustace looked supercilious. "Is there anything that young lady can't do, I wonder? Her accomplishments are legion. She told me yesterday that she could play the guitar. She can also recite, play bridge, and take cricket scores. She is a scratch golf-player, plays a good game of tennis, rides to hounds, and visits the poor. And that is by no means a complete list. I don't wonder that she gives the little brown girl indigestion. Her perfection is almost nauseating at times."

Scott laughed again. It was a relief to have diverted his brother's attention from more personal subjects. "She ought to suit you rather well," he observed. "You are something of the perfect knight yourself. I heard a lady exclaim only yesterday when you started off together on that ski-ing expedition, 'What a positively divine couple! Apollo and Aphrodite!' I think it was the parson's wife. You couldn't expect her to know much about heathen theology."

"Don't make me sick if you don't mind!" said Sir Eustace. "Look here, my
friend! We shall be late if we don't go. You can't spend long with
Isabel, if you are to turn up in time for this precious concert. Hullo!
What's the matter?"

The door of the smoking-room had burst suddenly open, and Colonel de Vigne, very red in the face and as agitated as his pomposity would allow, stood glaring at them.

"So you are here!" he exclaimed, his tone an odd blend of relief and anxiety.

"Do you mean me?" said Sir Eustace, with a touch of haughtiness.

"Yes, sir, you! I was looking for you," explained the Colonel, pulling himself together. "I thought perhaps you might be able to give me some idea as to the whereabouts of my young charge, Miss Bathurst. She is missing."

Sir Eustace raised his black brows. "What should I know about her whereabouts?" he said.

Scott broke in quickly. "I saw her in the verandah this afternoon with your daughter."

"I know. She was there." The Colonel spoke with brevity. "Rose left her there talking to your sister. No one seems to have seen her since. I thought she might have been with Sir Eustace. I see I was mistaken. I apologize. But where the devil can she be?"

Sir Eustace raised his shoulders. "She was certainly not talking to my sister," he remarked. "She has kept her room to-day. Miss Bathurst is probably in her own room dressing for dinner."

"That's just where she isn't!" exploded the Colonel. "I missed her at tea-time but thought she must be out. Now her brother tells me that he has been all over the place and can't find her. I suppose she can't be upstairs with your sister?" He turned to Scott.

"I'll go and see," Scott said. "She may be—though I doubt it. My sister was not so well, and so stayed in bed to-day."

He moved towards the stairs with the words; but ere he reached them there came the sound of a sudden commotion on the corridor above, and a wailing voice made itself heard.

"Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel! Wherever are you, mavourneen? Ah, what'll I do at all? Miss Isabel's gone!"

Old Biddy in her huge white apron and mob cap appeared at the top of the staircase and came hobbling down with skinny hands extended.

"Ah, Master Scott—Master Scott—may the saints help us! She's gone!
She's gone! And meself sleeping like a hog the whole afternoon through!
I'll never forgive meself, Master Scott,—never, never! Oh, what'll I do?
I pray the Almighty will take my life before any harm comes to her!"

She reached Scott at the foot of the stairs and caught his hand hysterically between her own.

Sir Eustace strode forward, white to the lips. "Stop your clatter, woman, and answer me! How did Miss Isabel get away? Is she dressed?"

The old woman cowered back from the blazing wrath in his eyes. "Yes, your honour! No, your honour! I mean—Yes, your honour!" she stammered, still clinging pathetically to Scott. "I was asleep, ye see. I never knew—I never knew!"

"How long did you sleep?" demanded Sir Eustace.

"And how am I to tell at all?" wailed Biddy. "It didn't seem like five minutes, and I opened me eyes, and she was all quiet in the dark. And I said to meself, 'I won't disturb the dear lamb,' and I crept into me room and tidied meself, and made a cup o' tay. And still she kept so quiet; so I drank me tay and did a bit of work. And then—just a minute ago it was—I crept in and went to her thinking it was time she woke up,—and—and—and she wasn't there, your honour. The bed was laid up, and she was gone! Oh, what'll I do at all? What'll I do?" She burst into wild sobs, and hid her face in her apron.

Two or three people were standing about in the vestibule. They looked at the agitated group with interest, and in a moment a young man who had just entered came up to Scott.

"I believe I saw your sister in the verandah this afternoon," he said.

"That's just what Rose said," broke in the Colonel. "And you wouldn't believe me. She came out, and Dinah went to speak to her. And now the two of them are missing. It's obvious. They must have gone off together somewhere."

"Not up the mountain. I hope," the young man said.

"That is probably where they have gone," Scott said, speaking for the first time. He was patting Biddy's shoulder with compassionate kindness. "Why do you say that?"

"It's just begun to snow," the other answered. "And the mist up the mountain path is thick."

"Damnation!" exclaimed Sir Eustace furiously. "And she may have been gone for hours!"

"Miss Bathurst was with her," said Scott. "She would keep her head. I am certain of that." He turned to the Colonel who stood fuming by. "Hadn't we better organize a search-party sir? I am afraid that there is not much doubt that they have gone up the mountain. My sister, you know—" he flushed a little—"my sister is not altogether responsible for her actions. She would not realize the danger."

"But surely Dinah wouldn't be such a little fool as to go too!" burst forth the Colonel. "She's sane enough, when she isn't larking about with other fools." He glared at Sir Eustace. "And how the devil are we to know where to look, I'd like to know? We can't hunt all over the Alps."

"There may be some dogs in the village," Scott said. "There is certainly a guide. I will go down at once and see what I can find."

"No, no, Stumpy! Not