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

crept close. "It will kill you—it will kill you!" she sobbed. "Oh, why did I let you?"

Isabel's arms closed about her. "Don't cry, dear!" she murmured fondly. "It is nothing to me. A little sooner—a little later! If you had suffered what I have suffered you would say as I do, 'Dear God, let it be soon!' There! Put your head on my shoulder, dear child! See if you can get a little sleep! You have cared for me long enough. Now I am going to care for you."

With loving words she soothed her, calming her as though she had been a child in nightmare terror, and gradually a certain peace began to still the horror in Dinah's soul. An unmistakable drowsiness was stealing over her, a merciful lethargy lulling the sensibilities that had been so acutely tried. Her weakness was merging into a sense of almost blissful repose. She was no longer conscious of the anguish of the cold. Neither did the darkness trouble her. And the comfort of Isabel's arms was rest to her spirit.

As one who wanders in a golden maze she began to dream strange dreams that yet were not woven by the hand of sleep. Dimly she saw as down a long perspective a knight in golden armour climbing, ever climbing, the peaks of Paradise, from which, as from an eagle's nest, she watched his difficult but untiring progress. She thought he halted somewhat in the ascent—which was unlike Apollo, who walked as walk the gods with a gait both arrogant and assured. But still he came on, persistently, resolutely, carrying his golden shield before him.

His visor was down, and she wished that he would raise it. She yearned for the sight of that splendid face with its knightly features and blue, fiery eyes. She pictured it to herself as he came, but somehow it did not seem to fit that patient climbing figure.

And then as he gradually drew nearer, the thought came to her to go and meet him, and she started to run down the slope. She reached him. She gave him both her hands. She was ready—she was eager—to be drawn into his arms.

But he did not so draw her. To her amazement he only bowed himself before her and stretched forth the shield he bore that it might cover them both.

"It is Mr. Greatheart!" she said to herself in wonder. "Of course—it is
Mr. Greatheart!"

And then, while she still gazed upon the glittering, princely form, he put up a hand and lifted the visor. And she saw the kindly, steadfast eyes all kindled and alight with a glory before which instinctively she hid her own. Never—no, never—had she dreamed before that any man could look at her so! It was not passion that those eyes held for her;—it was worship.

She stood with bated breath and throbbing heart, waiting, waiting, as one in the presence of a vision, who longs—yet fears—to look. And while she waited she knew that the sun was shining upon them both with a glowing warmth that filled her soul abrim with such a rapture as she had never known before.

"How wonderful!" she murmured to herself. "How wonderful!"

And then at last she summoned courage to look up, and all in a moment her vision was shattered. The darkness was all about her again; Greatheart was gone.

CHAPTER XXI THE RETURN

What happened after the passing of her vision Dinah never fully knew, so slack had become her grip upon material things. Her spirit seemed to be wandering aimlessly about the mountain-side while her body lay in icy chains within that miserable shelter. Of Isabel's presence she was no longer even dimly aware, and she knew neither fear nor pain, only a wide desolation of emptiness that encompassed her as atmosphere encompasses the world.

Sometimes she fancied that the sound of voices came muffled through the fog that hung impenetrably upon the great slope. And when this fancy caught her, her spirit drifted back very swiftly to the near neighbourhood of that inert and frozen body that lay so helpless in the dark. For that strange freedom of the spirit seemed to her to be highly dangerous and in a fashion wrong. It would be a terrible thing if they found and buried the body, and the spirit were left alone to wander for ever homeless on that desolate mountain-side. She could not imagine a fate more awful.

At the same time, being free from the body, she knew no physical pain, and she shrank from returning before she need, knowing well the anguish of suffering that awaited her. The desolation and loneliness made her unhappy in a vague and not very comprehensible fashion, but she did not suffer actively. That would come later when return became imperative. Till then she flitted to and fro, intangible as gossamer, elusive as the snow. She wondered what Apollo would say if he could see her thus. Even he would fail to catch her now. She pictured the strong arms closing upon her, and clasping—emptiness. That thought made her a little cold, and sent her floating back to make sure that the lifeless body was still there.

And as she went, drifting through the silence, there came to her the thought that Scott would be unutterably shocked if they brought her back to him dead. It was strange how the memory of him haunted her that night. It almost seemed as if his spirit were out there in the great waste, seeking hers.

She reached the shelter and entered, borne upon snowflakes. Yes, the body was still there. She hovered over it like a bird over its nest. For Scott's sake, should she not return?

And then very suddenly there came a great sound close to her—the loud barking of a dog;—and in a second—in less—she had returned.

A long, long shiver went through the poor frozen thing that was herself, and she knew that she moaned as one awaking….

Vaguely, through dulled senses, she heard the great barking yet again, and something immense that was furry and soft brushed against her. She heard the panting of a large animal close to her in the hut, and very feebly she put out a hand.

She did not like that loud baying. It went through and through her brain. She was not frightened, only dreadfully tired. And now that she was back again in the body, she longed unspeakably to sleep.

But the noise continued, a perfect clamour of sound; and soon there came other sounds, the shouting of men, the muffled tread of feet sorely hampered by snow. A dim light began to shine, and gradually increased till it became a single, piercing eye that swept searchingly around the wretched shelter. An arc of fog surrounded it, obscuring all besides.

Dinah gazed wide-eyed at that dazzling arc, wondering numbly, whence it came. It drew nearer to her. Its brightness became intolerable. She tried to shut her eyes, but the lids felt too stiff to move. Again, more feebly, she moved her hand. It would be terrible if they thought her dead, especially after all the trouble she had taken to return.

And then very suddenly the deadly lethargy passed from her. All her nerves were pricked into activity. For someone—someone—was kneeling beside her. She felt herself gathered into strong arms.

"Quick, Wetherby! The brandy!" Ah, well she knew those brief, peremptory tones! "My God! We're only just in time!"

Fast pressed against a man's heart, a faint warmth went through her. She knew an instant of perfect serenity; but the next she uttered a piteous cry of pain. For fire—liquid, agonizing—was on her bloodless lips and in her mouth. It burned its ruthless way down her throat, setting her whole body tingling, waking afresh in her the power to suffer.

She turned, weakly gasping, and hid her face upon the breast that supported her.

Instantly she felt herself clasped more closely. "It's all right, little darling, all right!" he whispered to her with an almost fierce tenderness. "Take it like a good child! It'll pull you through."

With steady insistence he turned her face back again, chafing her icy cheek hard. And in a moment or two another burning dose was on its way.

It made her choke and gurgle, but it did its work. The frozen heart in her began to beat again with great jerks and bounds, sending quivering shocks throughout her body.

She tried to speak to him, to whisper his name; but she could only gasp and gasp against his breast, and presently from very weakness she began to cry.

He gathered her closer still, murmuring fond words, while he rubbed her face and hands, imparting the warmth of his own body to hers. His presence was like a fiery essence encompassing her. Lying there against his heart, she felt the tide of life turn in her veins and steadily flow again. Like a child, she clung to him, and after a while, with an impulse sublimely natural, she lifted her lips to his.

He pressed his lips upon them closely, lingeringly. "Better now, sweetheart?" he whispered.

And she, clinging to him, found voice to answer, "Nothing matters now you have come."

The consciousness of his protecting care filled her with a rapture almost too great to be borne. She throbbed in his arms, pressing closer, ever closer. And the grim Shadow of Death receded from the threshold. She knew that she was safe.

It was soon after this that the thought of Isabel came to her, and tremulously she begged him to go to her. But he would not suffer her out of his arms.

"The others can see to her," he said. "You are my care."

She thrilled at the words, but she would not be satisfied. "She has been so good to me," she told him pleadingly "See, I am wearing her coat."

"But for her you would never have come to this," he made brief reply, and she thought his words were stern.

Then, as she would not be pacified, he lifted her like a child and held her so that she could look down upon Isabel, lying inert and senseless against the doctor's knee.

"Oh, is she dead?" whispered Dinah, awe-struck.

"I don't know," he made answer, and by the tightening of his arms she knew that her safety meant more to him at the moment than that of Isabel or anyone else in the world.

But in a second or two she heard Isabel moan, and was reassured.

"She is coming round," the doctor said. "She is not so far gone as the other lassie."

Dinah wondered hazily what he could mean, wondered if by any chance he suspected that long and dreary wandering of her spirit up and down the mountain-side. She nestled her head down against Eustace's shoulder with a feeling of unutterable thankfulness that she had returned in time.

Her impressions after that were of a very dim and shadowy description. She supposed the brandy had made her sleepy. Very soon she drifted off into a state of semi-consciousness in which she realized nothing but the strong holding of his arms. She even vaguely wondered after a time whether this also were not a dream, for other fantasies began to crowd about her. She rocked on a sea of strange happenings on which she found it impossible to focus her mind. It seemed to have broken adrift as it were—a rudderless boat in a gale. But still that sense of security never wholly left her. Dreaming or waking, the force of his personality remained with her.

It must have been hours later, she reflected afterwards, that she heard the Colonel's voice exclaim hoarsely over her head, "In heaven's name, say she isn't dead!"

And, "Of course she isn't," came Eustace's curt response. "Should I be carrying her if she were?"

She tried to open her eyes, but could not. They seemed to be weighted down. But she did very feebly close her numbed hands about Eustace's coat. Emphatically she did not want to be handed over like a bale of goods to the Colonel.

He clasped her to him reassuringly, and presently she knew that he bore her upstairs, holding her comfortably close all the way.

"Don't go away from me!" she begged him weakly.

"Not so long as you want me, little sweetheart," he made answer. But her woman's heart told her that a parting was imminent notwithstanding.

In all her life she had never had so much attention before. She seemed to have entered upon a new and amazing phase of existence. Colonel de Vigne faded completely into the background, and she