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

made answer. "It—it is—Sir
Eustace."

There fell another silence, longer, deeper, than the first. Then Isabel uttered a short, hard sigh, and, stooping, kissed the bowed, curly head. "God bless and keep you always, dearest!" she said.

Something in the words—or was it the tone?—pierced Dinah. She turned her face slightly upwards. "I—I was afraid you wouldn't be pleased," she faltered. "Do—do forgive me—if you can!"

"Forgive you!" All the wealth of Isabel's love was in the words. "Why, darling, I have been wanting you for my own little sister ever since I first saw you."

"Oh, have you?" Eagerly Dinah lifted her head. Her eyes were shining, her cheeks very flushed. "Then you are pleased?" she said earnestly. "You really are pleased?"

Isabel smiled at her very sadly, very fondly. "My darling, if you are happy, I am more than pleased," she said.

Yet Dinah was puzzled, not wholly satisfied. She received Isabel's kiss with a certain wistfulness. "I feel—somehow—as if I've done wrong," she said. "Yet—yet—Scott—" she halted over the name, uttering it shyly—"said he was—awfully pleased."

"Ah! You have told Scott!" There was a sharp, almost a wrung, sound in Isabel's voice; but the next moment she controlled it, and spoke with steady resolution. "Then, my dear, you needn't have any misgivings. If you love Eustace and he loves you, it is the best thing possible for you both." She held Dinah to her again and kissed her; then very tenderly released her. "You must run and get ready, dear child. It is getting late."

Dinah went obediently, still with that bewildered feeling of having somehow taken a wrong turning. She was convinced in her own mind that the news had not been welcome to Isabel, disguise it how she would. And suddenly through her mind there ran the memory of those words she had uttered a few weeks before. "Never prefer the tinsel to the true gold!" She had not fully understood their meaning then. Now very vividly it flashed upon her. Isabel had compared her two brothers in that brief sentence. Isabel's estimate of the one was as low as that of the other was high. Isabel did not love Eustace—the handsome, debonair brother who had once been all the world to her.

A little, sick feeling of doubt went through Dinah! Had she—by any evil chance—had she made a mistake?

And then the man's overwhelming personality swung suddenly through her consciousness, filling all her being, possessing her, dominating her. She flung the doubt from her, as one flings away a poisonous insect. He was her own—her very own; her lover, the first, the best,—Apollo the Magnificent!

In Isabel's room old Biddy Maloney stood, gazing down at her mistress with eyes of burning devotion.

"And is it yourself that's feeling better now?" she questioned fondly.

Isabel raised herself, smiling her sad smile. "Oh, Biddy," she said, "for myself I feel that all is well—all will be well. The dawn draws nearer—every hour."

Biddy shook her head with pursed lips. "Ye shouldn't talk so, mavourneen. It's the Almighty who has the ruling. Ye wouldn't wish to go before your time?"

"Before my time! Oh, Biddy! When I have lingered in the prison-house so long!" Slowly Isabel rose to her feet. She looked at Biddy almost whimsically. "I think He will take that into the reckoning," she said. "Do you know, Biddy, this is the second summons that has come to me? And I think—I think," her face was glorified again as the face of one who sees a vision—"I think the third will be the last."

Biddy's black eyes screwed up suddenly. She turned her face away.

"Will we be getting ready to go now, Miss Isabel?" she asked after a moment, in a voice that shook.

The glory died out of Isabel's face, though the reflection of it still lingered in her eyes. "I am very selfish, Biddy," she said. "Can you guess what Miss Dinah has just told me?"

"Arrah thin, I can," said Biddy, with a touch of aggressiveness. "I've seen it coming for a long time past. And ye didn't ought to allow it at all, Miss Isabel. It's a mistake, that's what it is. It's just a bad mistake."

"Not if he loves her, Biddy." Isabel spoke gently, but there was a hint of reproof in her voice.

Biddy, however, remained quite unabashed. "He love her!" she snorted. "As if he ever loved anybody besides himself! Talk about the lion and the lamb, Miss Isabel! It's a cruel shame to let her go to such as him. And what'll poor Master Scott do at all? And he worshipping the little fairy feet of her!"

"Hush, Biddy, hush!" Isabel spoke with decision. "I hope—I trust—that he isn't very grievously disappointed. But if he is, it is the one thing that neither you nor I must ever seem to suspect."

"Ah!" grumbled Biddy mutinously. "And isn't that just like Sir Eustace, with all the world to pick from, to choose the one thing—the one little wild rose—as Master Scott had set his heart on? He's done it from his cradle. Always the one thing someone else wanted he must grab for himself. But is it too late, Miss Isabel darlint?" Sudden hope shone in the old woman's eyes. "Is it really too late? Couldn't ye drop a hint to the dear lamb? Sure and she's fond of Master Scott! Maybe she'd turn to him after all if she knew."

Isabel shook her head almost sternly. "Biddy, no! This is no affair of ours. If Master Scott suspected for a moment what you have just said to me, he would never forgive you."

"May I come in?" said Scott's voice at the door. "My dear, you are looking better. Are you well enough to start?"

"Yes, of course." Isabel moved towards him, her hands extended in mute affection.

He took and held them. "Dinah has told you? I am sure you are glad.
Eustace is waiting downstairs. Come and tell him how glad you are!"

His eyes, very straight and steadfast, met hers.

Isabel tried to speak in answer, but caught her breath in a sudden sob.

He waited a second. Then, "Isabel!" he said gently.

Sharply she controlled herself. "Yes. Yes. Let us go!" she said. "I must—congratulate Eustace."

They went; and old Biddy was left alone.

She looked after them with a piteous expression on her wrinkled face; then suddenly, with a wistful gesture, she clasped her old worn hands.

"I pray the Almighty," she said, with great earnestness, "to open the dear young lady's eyes, before it is too late. And if He wants anyone to help Him—sure it's meself that'll be only too pleased."

It was the most impressive prayer that Biddy had ever uttered.

PART II CHAPTER I CINDERELLA'S PRINCE

The early dusk of February was falling, together with a fine, drenching rain. The trees that over-hung the muddy lane were beating their stark branches together as though in despair over the general hopelessness of the outlook. The west wind that raced across the brown fields had the sharpness of snow in its train.

"We shall catch it before we've done," said Bathurst to his hunter.

Rupert the hunter, a dapple grey with powerful hindquarters, cocked a knowing ear in a fashion that Dinah always described as "his smile."

It had not been a good day for either of them. The meet had been at a considerable distance, there had been no run worth mentioning; and now that it was over they were returning, thoroughly tired, from the kennels.

Bathurst's pink coat clung to him like a sack, all streaked and darkened with rain. It had weathered a good many storms in its time, as its many varieties of tint testified; but despite this fact, its wearer never failed to look a sportsman and a gentleman. There was nothing of the vagabond about Bathurst, but he had the vagabond's facility for making himself at home wherever he went. He was never at a loss, never embarrassed, never affronted. He took life easily, as he himself put it; and on the whole he found it good.

Riding home at a jog-trot in that driving rain with the prospect of having to feed and rub down Rupert at the end of it before he could attend to his own needs was not a particularly entrancing prospect; but he faced it philosophically. After today the little girl would be at home, and she could do it for him again. She loved to wait on him hand and foot, and it really was a pleasure to let her.

He whistled cheerily to himself as he wended his leisurely way through the dripping lane that made the shortest cut to his home. It would be nice to have the little girl home again. Lydia was all very well—a good wife, as wives went—but there was no doubt about it that Dinah's presence made a considerable difference to his comfort. The child was quick to forestall his wants; he sometimes thought that she was even more useful to him than a valet would have been. He had missed her more than he would have dreamed possible.

Lydia had missed her too; he was sure of that. She had been peculiarly short of temper lately. Not that he ever took much notice; he was too used to her tantrums for that. But it certainly was more comfortable when Dinah was at home to bear the brunt of them. Yes, on the whole he was quite pleased that the little girl was coming back. It would make a difference to him in many ways.

He wondered what time she would arrive. He had known, but he had forgotten. He believed it was to be some time in the evening. Her grand friends had arranged to stay at Great Mallowes, three miles, away for the night, and one of them—the maid probably—was to bring Dinah home. He had smiled over this arrangement, and Lydia had openly scoffed at it. As if a girl of Dinah's age were not capable of travelling alone! But then of course she had been ill, very ill according to all accounts; and it was quite decent of them to bestow so much care upon her.

He fell to wondering if the child had got spoilt at all during her long absence from home and the harsh discipline thereof. If so, there was a hard time before her; for Lydia was never one to stand any nonsense. She had always been hard on her first-born, unreasonably hard, he sometimes thought; though it was not his business to interfere. The task of chastising the daughter of the family was surely the mother's exclusive prerogative; and certainly Lydia had carried it out very thoroughly. And if at times he thought her over-severe, he could not deny that the result achieved was eminently satisfactory. Dinah was always docile and active in his service—altogether a very good child; and this was presumably due to her mother's training. No, on the whole he had not much fault to find with either of them. Doubtless Lydia understood her own sex best.

He was nearing the end of the long lane; it terminated close to his home. Rupert quickened his pace. They were both splashed with mud from shoulder to heel. They had both had more than enough of the wet and the slush.

"That's right, Rupert, my boy!" the man murmured. "Finish in style!"

They came out from beneath the over-arching trees, emerging upon the high road that led from Great Mallowes to Perrythorpe. The hoot of a motor-horn caused Rupert to prick his ears, and his master reined him back as two great, shining head-lights appeared round a curve. They drew swiftly near, flashed past, and were gone meteor-like into the gloom.

"Whose car was that, I wonder?" mused Bathurst.

"The de Vignes's? It didn't look like one of the Court cars, but the old bird is always buying something new. Lucky devil!"

The thought of the Colonel renewed his thoughts of Dinah. Certain hints the former had dropped had made him wonder a little if the child were always as demure as she seemed. Not that Colonel de Vigne had actually found fault with her. He was plainly fond of her. But he had not spoken as if Dinah had effaced herself as completely abroad as she did at home.

"Oh, yes, the little baggage enjoyed herself—was as gay as a lark—till she got ill," he had said. "You may find her something of a handful when she gets back, Bathurst. She's stretched her wings a bit since she left you."

Bathurst shrugged his shoulders with the comforting