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

though she could not bring herself to meet his look she knew that it held no anger.

He did not speak, and she went on with a species of desperate pleading, because silence was so intolerable. "It wouldn't be right of me to—to marry you and not tell you, would it? It wouldn't be fair. It would be like marrying you under false pretences. I only wish—oh, I do wish—that I had known sooner, when you first asked me. I might have known. I ought to have known! But—but—somehow—" she began to falter badly and finally concluded in a piteous whisper—"I didn't."

"How did you find out?" he said. His tone was still perfectly quiet; but he spoke judicially, as one who meant to have an answer.

But Dinah had no answer for him. It was the very question to which there could be no reply. Her fingers interlaced and strained against each other. She stood mute.

"I think you can tell me that," Eustace said.

She made a small but vehement gesture of negation. "I can't!" she said.
"It's—it's—private."

"You mean you won't?" he questioned.

She nodded silently, too distressed for speech.

He got to his feet with finality. "That ends the case then," he said. "The appeal is dismissed. You can give me no adequate reason for releasing you. Therefore, I keep you to your engagement."

Dinah uttered a gasp. She had not expected this. For the first time she met his look fully, met the blue, dominant eyes, the faint, supercilious smile. And dismay struck through and through her as she realized that he had made her captive again with scarcely a struggle.

"Oh, but you can't—you can't!" she said.

He raised his brows. "We shall see," he said. "Mean-time—" He paused, looking at her, and suddenly the old hot glitter flashed forth, dazzling her, hypnotizing her; he uttered a low laugh and took her in his arms. "Daphne, you will-o'-the-wisp, you witch, how dare you?"

She made no outcry or resistance, realizing in a single stunning second the mastery that would not be denied; only ere his lips reached her, she sank down in his hold, hiding her face and praying him brokenly, imploringly, to let her go.

"Oh, please—oh, please—if you love me—do be kind—do be generous! I can't go on—indeed—indeed! Oh, Eustace,—Eustace—do forgive me—and let me go!"

"I will not!" he said. "I will not!"

She heard the rising passion in his voice, and her heart died within her; she sank lower, till but for his upholding arms she would have been kneeling at his feet. And then quite suddenly her strength went from her; she hung powerless, almost fainting in his grasp.

She scarcely knew what happened next, save that the fierceness went out of his hold like the passing of an evil dream. He lifted and held her while the darkness surged around…. And then presently she heard his voice, very low, amazingly tender, speaking into her ear. "Dinah! Dinah! What has come to you? Don't you know that I love you? Didn't I tell you so only last night?"

She leaned against him palpitating, unstrung, piteously distressed.
"That's what makes it—so dreadful," she whispered. "I wish I were dead!
Oh, I do wish I were dead!"

"Nonsense!" he said. "Nonsense!" He put his hand upon her head, pressing it against his breast. "Little sweetheart, what has happened to you? Tell me what is the matter!"

That was the hardest to face of all, that he should subdue himself, restrain his passion to pour out to her that which was infinitely greater than passion; she made a little sound that seemed to come straight from her heart.

"Oh, I can't tell you!" she sobbed into his shoulder. "I can't think how I ever made such a terrible mistake. But if only—oh, if only—you could marry Rose instead! It would be so very much better for everybody."

"Marry Rose!" he said. "What on earth made you think of that at this stage?"

"I always thought you would—in Switzerland," she explained rather incoherently. "I—never really thought—I could cut her out."

"Is that what you did it for?" An odd note sounded in Sir Eustace's voice, as though some irony of circumstance had forced his sense of humour.

"Just at first," whispered Dinah. "Oh, don't be angry! Please don't be angry! You—you weren't in earnest either just at first."

He considered the matter in silence for a few moments. Then half-quizzically, "I don't see that that is any reason for throwing me over now," he said. "If you don't love me to-day, you will to-morrow."

She shook her head.

"Quite sure?" he said.

"Quite," she answered faintly.

His hand was still upon her head, and it remained there. He held her closely pressed to him.

For a space again he was silent, his dark face bent over her, his lips actually touching her hair. Of what was passing in his mind she had no notion, and she dared not lift her head to look. She dreaded each moment a return of that tornado-like passion that had so often appalled her. But it did not come. His arms held her indeed, but without violence, and in his stillness there was no tension to denote its presence.

He spoke at length, almost whispering. "Dinah, who is the lucky fellow?
Tell me!"

She started away from him. She almost cried out in her dismay. But he stopped her. He took her face between his hands with an insistence that would not be denied. He looked closely, searchingly, into her eyes.

"Is it Scott?" he said.

She did not answer him. She stood as one paralysed, and up over face and neck and all her trembling body, enwrapping her like a flame, there rose a scorching, agonizing blush.

He held her there before him and watched it, and she saw that his eyes were piercingly bright, with the brightness of burnished steel. She could not turn her own away from them, though her whole soul shrank from that stark scrutiny. In anguish of mind she faced him, helpless, unutterably ashamed, while that burning blush throbbed fiercely through every vein and gradually died away.

He let her go at last very slowly. "I—see," he said.

She put her hands up over her face with a childish, piteous gesture. She felt as if he had ruthlessly torn from her the one secret treasure that she cherished. She was free—she knew she was free. But at what a cost!

"So," Eustace said, "that's it, is it? We've got at the truth at last!"

She quivered at the words. Her whole being seemed to be shrivelled as though it had passed through the fire. He had wrenched her secret from her, and she had nothing more to hide.

Sir Eustace walked to the end of the room and back. He halted close to her, but he did not touch her. He spoke, briefly and sternly.

"How long has this been going on?"

She looked up at him, her face pathetically pinched and small. "It hasn't been going on. I—only realized it to-day. He doesn't know. He never must know!" A sudden sharp note of anxiety sounded in her voice. "He never must know!" she reiterated with emphasis.

"He hasn't made love to you then?" Sir Eustace spoke in the same curt tone; his mouth was merciless.

She started as if stung. "Oh no! Oh no! Of course he hasn't! He—he doesn't care for me—like that. Why should he?"

Eustace's grim lips twitched a little. "Why indeed? Well, it's lucky for him he hasn't. If he had, I'd have half killed him for it!"

There was concentrated savagery in his tone. His eyes shone with a fire that made her shrink. And then very suddenly he put his hand upon her shoulder.

"Do you mean to tell me that you want to throw me over solely because you imagine you care for a man who doesn't care for you?" he asked.

She looked up at him piteously, "Oh, please don't ask me any more!" she said.

"But I want to know," he said stubbornly. "Is that your only reason?"

With difficulty she answered him. "No."

"Then what more?" he demanded.

It was inevitable. She made a desperate effort to be brave. "I couldn't be happy with you. I am afraid of you. And—and—you are not kind to—to Isabel."

"Who says I am not kind to Isabel?" His hand pressed upon her ominously; his look was implacably stern.

But the effort to be brave had given her strength. She stiffened in his hold. "I know it," she said. "I have seen it. She is always miserable when you are there."

He frowned upon her heavily. "You don't understand. Isabel is very hysterical. She needs a firm hand."

"You are more than firm," Dinah said. "You are—cruel."

Never in her wildest moments had she imagined herself making such an indictment. She marvelled at herself even as it left her lips. But something seemed to have entered into her, taking away her fear. Not till long afterwards did she realize that it was her new-found womanhood that had come upon her all unawares during that poignant interview.

She faced him without a tremor as she uttered the words, and he received them in a silence so absolute that she went on with scarcely a pause. "Not only to Isabel, but to everyone; to Scott, to that poor poacher, to me. You don't believe it, because it is your nature. But it is true all the same. And I think cruelty is a most dreadful thing. It's a vice that not all the virtues put together could counter-balance."

"When have I been cruel to you?" he said.

His tone was quiet, his face mask-like; but she thought that fury raged behind his calm. And still she knew no fear, felt no faintest dread of consequence.

"All your love-making has been cruel," she said. "Only once—no, twice now—have you been the least bit kind to me. It's no good talking. You'd never understand. I've lain awake often in the night with the dread of you. But"—her voice shook slightly—"I didn't know what I wanted, so I kept on. Now that I do know—though I shall never have it—it's made a difference, and I can't go on. You don't want me any more now I've told you, so it won't hurt you so very badly to let me go."

"You are wrong," he said, and suddenly she knew that out of his silence or her speech had developed something that was strange and new. His voice was quick and low, utterly devoid of its customary arrogance. "I want you more than ever! Dinah—Dinah, I may have been a brute to you. You're right. I often am a brute. But marry me—only marry me—and I swear to you that I will be kind!"

His calm was gone. He leaned towards her urgently, his dark face aglow with a light that was not passion. She had deemed him furious, and behold, she had him at her feet! Her ogre was gone for ever. He had crumbled at a touch. She saw before her a man, a man who loved her, a man whom she might eventually have come to love but for—

She caught her breath in a sharp sob, and put forth a hand in pleading. "Eustace, don't! Please don't! I can't bear it. You—you must set me free!"

"You are free as air," he said.

"Am I? Then don't—don't ask me to bind myself again! For I can't—I can't. I want to go away. I want to be quiet." She broke down suddenly. The strain was past, the battle over. She had vanquished him, how she scarcely knew; but her own brief strength was tottering now. "Let me go home!" she begged. "Tell Scott I've gone! Tell everyone there won't be a wedding after all! Say I'm dreadfully sorry! It's my fault—all my fault! I ought to have known!" Her tears blinded her, silenced her. She turned towards the door.

"Won't you say good-bye to me?" Eustace said.

Her voice was low and very steady. The glow was gone. He was calm again, absolutely calm. With the failure of that one urgent appeal, he seemed to have withdrawn his forces, accepting defeat.

She turned back gropingly. "Good-bye—good-bye—" she whispered, "and—thank you!"

He put his arm around her, and bending kissed her forehead. "Don't cry, dear!" he said.

His manner was perfectly kind, supremely gentle. She hardly knew him thus. Again her heart smote her in overwhelming self-reproach. "Oh, Eustace, forgive me for hurting you so—forgive me—for all I've said!"

"For telling me the truth?" he said.