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

told her simply. "And I'd give all I have—I'd give my soul—to make life easier for you."

She leaned towards him, and suddenly those shining eyes were blurred with a glimmer of tears. "Life is dreadfully difficult," she said. "But you have never done anything but help me. And, oh, Scott, I—don't know if I ought to tell you—forgive me if it's wrong—but—but I feel I must—" her breath came so quickly that she could hardly utter the words—"I love you—I love you—better than anyone else in the world!"

"Dinah!" he said, as one incredulous.

"It's true!" she panted. "It's true! Eustace knows it—has known it almost as long as I have. It isn't the only thing I have to tell you, but it's the first—and biggest. And even though—even though—I shall never be anything more to you than I am now—I'm glad—I'm proud—for you to know. There's nothing else that counts in the same way. And though—though I refused you the other day—I wanted you—dreadfully, dreadfully. If—if I had only been good enough for you—But—but—I'm not!" She broke off, battling with herself.

He was still holding her face between his hands, and there was something of insistence, something that even bordered upon ruthlessness, in his hold. Though the tears were running down her face, he would not let her go.

"Will you tell me what you mean by that?" he said, his voice very low.
"Or—must I ask Eustace?"

She started. There was that in his tone that made her wince inexplicably.
"Oh no," she said, "no! I'll tell you myself—if—if you must know."

"I am afraid I must," he said, and for all their resolution, the words had a sound of deadly weariness. He let her go slowly as he uttered them. "Sit down!" he said gently. "And please don't tremble! There is nothing to make you afraid."

She dropped into the chair he indicated, and made a desperate effort to calm herself. He stood beside her with the absolute patience of one accustomed to long waiting.

After a few moments, she put up a quivering hand, seeking his. He took it instantly, and as his fingers closed firmly upon her own, she found courage.

"I didn't want you to know," she whispered. "But I—I see now—it's better that you should. There's no other way—of making you understand. It's just this—just this!" She swallowed hard, striving to control the piteous trembling of her voice. "I am—one of those people—that—that never ought to have been born. I don't belong—anywhere—except to—my mother who—who—who has no use for me,—hated me before ever I came into the world. You see, she—married because—because—another man—my real father—had played her false. Oh, do you wonder—do you wonder—" she bowed her forehead upon his hand with a rush of tears—"that—that when I knew—I—I felt as if—I couldn't—go on with life?"

Her weeping was piteous; it shook her from head to foot.

But—in the very midst of her distress—there came to her a wonder so great that it checked her tears at the height of their flow. For very suddenly it dawned upon her that Scott—Scott, her knight of the golden armour—was kneeling at her feet.

Half in wonder and half in awe, she lifted her head and looked at him. And in that moment he took her two hands and kissed them, tenderly, reverently, lingeringly.

"Was this what you and Eustace were talking about this afternoon?" he said.

She nodded. "I had to tell him—why—I couldn't marry you. He—he had been—so kind."

"But, my own Dinah," he said, and in his voice was a quiver half-quizzical yet strangely charged with emotion, "did you ever seriously imagine that I should allow a sordid little detail like that to come between us? Surely Eustace knew better than that!"

She heard him in amazement, scarcely believing that she heard. "Do you—can you mean—" she faltered, "that—it really—doesn't count?"

"I mean that it is less than nothing to me," he made answer, and in his eyes as they looked into hers was that glory of worship that she had once seen in a dream. "I mean, my darling, that since you want me as I want you, nothing—nothing in the world—can ever come between us any more. Oh, my dear, my dear, I wish you'd told me sooner."

"I knew I ought to," she murmured, still hardly believing. "And yet—somehow—I couldn't bear the thought of your knowing,—particularly as—as—till Eustace told me—I never dreamed you—cared. You are so—great. You ought to have someone so much—better than I. I'm not nearly good enough—not nearly."

He was drawing her to him, and she went with a little sob into his arms; but she turned her face away over his shoulder, avoiding his.

"I ought not—to have told you—I loved you," she said brokenly. "It wasn't right of me. Only—when I saw you so unhappy—I couldn't—somehow—keep it in any longer. Dear Scott, don't you think—before—before we go any further—you had better—forget it and—give me up?"

"No, I don't think so." Scott spoke very softly, with the utmost tenderness, into her ear. "Don't you realize," he said, "that we belong to each other? Could there possibly be anyone else for either you or me?"

She did not answer him; only she clung a little closer. And, after a moment, as she felt the drawing of his hold, "Don't kiss me—-yet!" she begged him tremulously. "Let us wait till—the morning!"

His arms relaxed, "It is very near the morning now," he said. "Shall we go and watch for it?"

They rose together. Dinah's eyes sought his for one shy, fleeting second, falling instantly as if half-dazzled, half-afraid. He took her hand and led her quietly from the room.

It was no longer dark in the passage outside. A pearly light was growing. The splash of the sea sounded very far below them, as the dim surging of a world unseen might rise to the watchers on the mountain-top.

They moved to an open window at the end of the passage. No sound came from Isabel's room close by, and after a few seconds Scott turned noiselessly aside and entered.

Dinah remained at the open window waiting with a throbbing heart in the great silence that wrapped the world. She was not afraid, but she longed for Scott to come back; she was conscious of an urgent need of him.

Several moments passed, and then softly he returned. "No change!" he whispered. "Eustace will call us—when it comes."

She slipped her hand back into his, without speaking. He made her sit upon the window-seat, and knelt himself upon it, his arm about her shoulders, his fingers clasping hers.

She could see his face but vaguely in the dimness, but many times during that holy hour before the dawn, though he spoke no word, she felt that he was praying or giving thanks.

Slowly the twilight turned into a velvet dusk. The great Change was drawing near. The silence lay like a thinning veil of mist upon the mountain-top. The clouds were parting in the East, all tinged with gold, like burnished gates flung back for the royal coming of the sun-god. The stillness that lay upon all the waiting earth was sacred as the hush of prayer.

Their faces were turned towards the spreading glow. It shone upon them as it shone upon all beside, widening, intensifying, till the whole earth lay wrapped in solemn splendour—and then at last, through the open gates, red, royal, triumphant, the sun-god came.

There came a moment in which all things were touched with the glory, all things were made new. And in that moment, sudden as a flash of light, a bird of pure white plumage appeared before their eyes, hovered an instant; then flew, mounting on wide, gleaming wings, straight into the dawn….

Even while they watched, it vanished through the gates of gold. And only the gracious sunshine of a new day remained….

A low voice spoke from the chamber of Death. They turned from the vision and saw Eustace standing in the doorway.

He was very white, but absolutely calm. There was a nobility about him at that moment that sent a queer little throb to Dinah's heart. He held out his hand, not to her, but to Scott. "She is gone," he said.

Scott went to him; she saw their hands meet. There was no agitation about either of them.

"In her sleep?" Scott said.

"Yes. We didn't even know—till it was over."

They turned into the room, still hand grasping hand.

And Dinah knelt up and stretched out her arms to the shining morning sky. Something within her was whispering that she and Scott had seen more of the passing of Isabel than any of those who had watched beside her bed. And in the quiet of that wonderful morning, she offered her quivering thanks to God.

CHAPTER XXVIII CONSOLATION

Of the long hours that followed that wonderful dawning Dinah never had any very distinct recollection. Even Scott seemed to forget her for a while, and it was old Biddy who presently found her curled up on the window-seat with her head upon the sill asleep—Biddy with her eyes very bright and alert, albeit deeply rimmed with red.

She came to the childish, drooping figure, murmuring tender words. She put wiry arms about her and lifted her to her feet.

"There! Come to your own room and rest, my lamb!" she said. "Old Biddy'll take care of ye, aroon."

Dinah submitted with the vague docility of a brain but half-awakened. To be cared for and petted by Biddy was no new thing in her experience. She even felt as if the old crystal Alpine days had returned, as Biddy undressed her and presently tucked her into bed. Later, still in semi-consciousness, she drank the hot milk that the old woman brought her, and then sank into a deep, deep sleep.

She awakened from that sleep with a sense of well-being such as she had never known before, a feeling of complete security and rest. The house was very quiet, and through the curtained window there came to her the soft, slumberous splash of the waves.

She lay very still, listening to the soothing murmur, gradually focusing her mind again after its long oblivion. The memory of the previous night and of the coming of the dawn came back to her, and with it the thought of Isabel; but without grief and without regret. They had left her on the mountain-top, and she knew that all must be well.

A great peace seemed to have fallen like a veil upon the whole house. Surely no one could be mourning over that glad release! She saw again the flashing of those free wings in the dawn-light, and her heart thrilled afresh. She remembered too the close, strong clasp of Scott's hand as he had watched with her.

Where was Scott now? The wonder darted suddenly through her brain, and with it, swift as a flying cloud-shadow, came the want of him, the longing for the quiet voice, the quivering delight of his near presence. She half-raised herself, and then, caught by another thought, sank down again to hide her burning face in the pillow. It would be a little difficult to meet him again. On the old easy terms of friendship it could not be, and they had hardly begun to be lovers yet. He—had not even—kissed her!

Another thought came to her—of an even more disturbing nature. Save for old Biddy and the nurse, she was alone with the two brothers now. Would they—would they insist upon sending her home until—until Scott was ready to come and take her away? Oh, surely—surely Scott would never ask that of her!

Nevertheless the thought tormented her. She did not see any way out of the difficulty, and she was terribly afraid that Scott would be equally at a loss.

"I don't think I could bear it," she whispered to herself. "And yet—if he says so—if he says so—I suppose I must. I couldn't refuse—if he said so."

The soft opening of the door recalled her to the immediate present. She saw old Biddy's face with its watchful, guardian look peep stealthily in upon her.

"Ah, mavourneen!" she whispered fondly, coming forward. "And is it awake ye are? I've peeped round at ye this five times, and ye were sleeping like a new-born babe. Lie still, darlint, while I fetch ye a cup o' tay then!"

She was gone with the words, but in a very little she was back again with her own especial brew. She set her tray down by Dinah's side, but Dinah did not even look at it. She raised herself instead, and threw warm arms around the old woman's neck. "Oh, Biddy," she