Greatheart - Ethel May Dell (best ereader for students txt) 📗

you!" Sharply Sir Eustace intervened. "I won't have you go. It's not your job, and you are not fit for it." He laid a peremptory hand upon his brother's shoulder. "That's understood, is it? You will not leave the hotel."

He spoke with stern insistence, looking Scott straight in the eyes; and after a moment or two Scott yielded the point.

"All right, old chap! I'm not much good, I know. But for heaven's sake, lose no time."

"No time will be lost." Sir Eustace turned round upon the Colonel. "We can't have any but young men on this job," he said. "See if you can muster two or three to go with me, will you? A doctor if possible! And we shall want blankets and restoratives and lanterns. Stumpy, you can see to that. Yes, and send for a guide too though he won't be much help in a thick mist. And take that wailing woman away! Have everything ready for us when we come back! They can't have gone very far. Isabel hasn't the strength. I shall be ready immediately."

He turned to the stairs and went up them in great leaps, leaving the little group below to carry out his orders.

There was a momentary inaction after his departure, then Scott limped across to the door and opened it. Thick darkness met him, the clammy darkness of fog, and the faint, faint rustle of falling snow.

He closed the door and turned back, meeting the Colonel's eyes, "It's hard to stay behind, sir," he said.

The Colonel nodded. He liked Scott. "Yes, infernally hard. But we'll do all we can. Will you find the doctor and get the necessaries together? I'll see to the rest."

"Very good, sir; I will." Scott went to the old woman who still sobbed piteously into her apron. "Come along, Biddy! There's plenty to be done. Miss Isabel's room must be quite ready for her when she comes back, and Miss Bathurst's too. We shall want boiling water—lots of it. That's your job. Come along!"

He urged her gently to the stairs, and went up with her, holding her arm.

At the top she stopped and gave him an anguished look. "Ah, Master Scott darlint, will the Almighty be merciful? Will He bring her safe back again?"

He drew her gently on. "That's another thing you can do, Biddy," he said.
"Ask Him!"

And before his look Biddy commanded herself and grew calmer. "Faith, Master Scott," she said, "if it isn't yourself that's taught me the greatest lesson of all!"

A very compassionate smile shone in Scott's eyes as he passed on and left her. "Poor old Biddy," he murmured, as he went. "It's easy to preach to such as you. But, O God, there's no denying it's bitter work for those who stay behind!"

He knew that he and Biddy were destined to drink that cup of bitterness to the dregs ere the night passed.

CHAPTER XX THE VISION OF GREATHEART

The darkness of the night lay like a black pall upon the mountain. The snow was falling thickly, and ever more thickly. It drifted in upon Dinah, as she crouched in the shelter of an empty shed that had been placed on that high slope for the protection of sheep from the spring storms. They had come upon this shelter just as the gloom had become too great for even Isabel to regard further progress as possible, and in response to the girl's insistence they had crept in to rest. They had lost the beaten track long since; neither of them had realized when. But the certainty that they had done so had had its effect upon Isabel. Her energies had flagged from the moment that it had dawned upon her. A deadly tiredness had come over her, a feebleness so complete that Dinah had had difficulty in getting her into the shelter. Return was utterly out of the question. They were hopelessly lost, and to wander in that densely falling snow was to court disaster.

Very thankful Dinah had been to find even so poor a refuge in that waste of drifting fog; but now as she huddled by Isabel's side it seemed to her that the relief afforded was but a prolonging of their agony. The cold was intense. It seemed to penetrate to her very bones, and she knew by her companion's low moaning that she was suffering keenly also.

Isabel seemed to have sunk into a state of semi-consciousness, and only now and then did broken words escape her—words scarcely audible to Dinah, but which testified none the less to the bitterness of despair that had come upon her.

She sat in a corner of the desolate place with Dinah pressed close to her, while the snow drifted in through the door-less entrance and sprinkled them both. But it was the darkness rather than the cold or the snow that affected the girl as she crouched there with her arms about her companion, striving to warm and shelter her while she herself felt frozen to the very heart. It was so terrible, so monstrous, so nerve-shattering. And the silence that went with it was like a nightmare horror to her shrinking soul. For all Dinah's sensibilities were painfully on the alert. No merciful dulness of perception came to her. Responsibility had awakened in her a nervous energy that made her realize the awfulness of their position with appalling vividness. That they could possibly survive the night she did not believe. And Death—Death in that fearful darkness—was a terror from which she shrank almost in panic.

That she retained command of her quivering nerves was due solely to the fact of Isabel's helplessness—Isabel's dependence upon her. She knew that while she had any strength left, she must not give way. She must be brave. Their sole chance of rescue hung upon that.

Like Scott, she thought of the guide, though the hope was a forlorn one. He might know of this shelter; but whether in the awful darkness he would ever be able to find it she strongly doubted. Their absence must have been discovered long since, she was sure; and Scott—Scott would be certain to think of the mountain path. He would remember his sister's wild words of the day before, and he would know that she, Dinah, had had no choice but to accompany her upon the mad quest. It comforted her to think that Scott would understand, and was already at work to help them. If by any means deliverance could be brought to them she knew that Scott would compass it. His quiet and capable spirit was accustomed to grapple with difficulties, and the enormity of a task would never dismay him. He had probably organized a search-party long ere this. He would not rest until he had done his very utmost. She wondered if he would come himself to look for them; but discarded the idea as unlikely. His infirmity made progress on the mountains a difficult matter at all times, and he would not wish to hamper the movements of the others. That was like Scott, she reflected. He would always keep his own desires in the background, subservient to the needs of others. No, he would not come himself. He would stay behind in torturing inaction while fitter men fared forth.

The thought of Eustace came again to her. He would be one of the search-party. She pictured him forcing his way upwards, all his magnificent strength bent to the work. Her heart throbbed at the memory of that all-conquering presence—the arms that had held her, the lips that had pressed her own. And he had stooped to plead with her also. She would always remember that of him with a thrill of ecstasy. He the princely and splendid—Apollo the magnificent!

Always? A sudden chill smote her heart numbing her through and through. Always? And Death waiting on the threshold to snatch her away from the wonderful joy she had only just begun to know! Always! Ah, would she remember even to-morrow—even to-morrow? And he—would he not forget?

Isabel stirred in her arms and murmured an inarticulate complaint. Tenderly she drew her closer. How cold it was! How cruelly, how bitingly cold! All her bones were beginning to ache. A dreadful stiffness was creeping over her. How long would her senses hold out, she wondered piteously? How long? How long?

It must be hours now since they had entered that freezing place, and with every minute it seemed to be growing colder. Never in her life had she imagined anything so searching, so agonizing, as this cold. It held her in an iron rigour against which she was powerless to struggle. The strength to clasp Isabel in her arms was leaving her. She thought that her numbed limbs were gradually turning to stone. Even her lips were so numbed with cold that she could not move them. The steam of her breath had turned to ice upon the wool of her coat.

The need for prayer came upon her suddenly as she realized that her faculties were failing. Her belief in God was of that dim and far-off description that brings awe rather than comfort to the soul. The sudden thought of Him came upon her in the darkness like a thunderbolt. In all her life Dinah had never asked for anything outside her daily prayers which were of a strictly formal description. She had shouldered her own troubles unassisted with the philosophy of a disposition that was essentially happy. She had seldom given a serious thought to the life of the spirit. It was all so vague to her, so far removed from the daily round and the daily burden. But now—face to face with the coming night—the spiritual awoke in her. Her soul cried out for comfort.

With Isabel still clasped in her failing arms, she began a desperate prayer for help. Her words came haltingly. They sounded strange to herself. But with all the strength that remained she sent forth her cry to the Infinite. And even as she prayed there came to her—whence she knew not—the conviction that somewhere—probably not more than a couple of miles from her though the darkness made the distance seem immeasurable—Scott was praying too. That thought had a wonderfully comforting effect upon her. His prayer was so much more likely to be answered than hers. He was just the sort of man who would know how to pray.

"How I wish he were here!" she whispered piteously into the darkness. "I shouldn't be afraid of dying—if only he were here."

She was certain—quite certain—that had he been there with her, no fear would have reached her. He wore the armour of a strong man, and by it he would have shielded her also.

"Oh, dear Mr. Greatheart," she murmured through her numb lips, "I'm sure you know the way to Heaven."

Isabel stirred again as one who moves in restless slumber. "We must scale the peaks of Paradise to reach it," she said.

"Are you awake, dearest?" asked Dinah very tenderly.

Isabel's head was sunk against her shoulder. She moved it, slightly raised it. "Yes, I am awake," she said. "I am watching for the dawn."

"It won't come yet," whispered Dinah tremulously. "It's a long, long way off."

Isabel moved a little more, feeling for Dinah in the darkness. "Are you frightened, little one?" she said. "Don't be frightened!"

Dinah swallowed down a sob. "It is so dark," she murmured through chattering teeth. "And so, so cold."

"You are cold, dear heart?" Isabel sat up suddenly. "Why should you be cold?" she said. "The darkness is nothing to those who are used to it. I have lived in outer darkness for seven weary years. But now—now I think the day is drawing near at last."

With an energy that astounded Dinah she got upon her knees and by her movements she realized, albeit too late, that she was divesting herself of the long purple coat.

With all her strength she sought to frustrate her, but her strength had become very feebleness; and when, despite resistance, Isabel wrapped her round in the garment she had discarded, her resistance was too puny to take effect.

"My dear," Isabel said, in her voice the deep music of maternal tenderness, "I am not needing it. I shall not need any earthly things for long. I am going to meet my husband in the dawning. But you—you will go back."

She fastened the coat with a quiet dexterity that made Dinah think again of Scott, and sat down again in her corner as if unconscious of the cold.

"Come and lie in my arms, little one!" she said. "Perhaps you will be able to sleep."

Dinah