Greatheart by Ethel May Dell (android based ebook reader TXT) 📖

mind the extreme difficulty of her situation."

Sir Eustace passed over the low words. "And what is going to happen to her—afterwards?" he said.

"Heaven knows!" Scott spoke as one compelled.

Sir Eustace continued to gaze straight before him. "Haven't you thought of any solution to the difficulty?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Scott's voice rang suddenly stern.

A faint smile touched his brother's face; it was like the shadow of his old, supercilious sneer. "It occurred to me that you, being a chivalrous knight, might be moved to offer her your protection," he explained coolly. "You are quite at liberty to do so, so far as I am concerned. I give you my free consent."

Scott started, as if he had been stung. "Man, don't sneer at me!" he said in a voice that quivered. "I've a good many things against you, and I'm damned if I can stand any more!"

There was desperation in his words. Sir Eustace's brows went up, and his smile departed. But there came no answering anger in his eyes.

He was silent for several moments, pacing forward, his hand no longer linked in Scott's arm. Then at last very quietly he spoke. "You're right. You have a good many things against me. But this is not one of them. I was not sneering at you."

There was a note of most unwonted sincerity in his voice that gave conviction to his words. Scott turned and regarded him in open amazement.

The steel-blue eyes met his with an odd, half-shamed expression. "You mustn't bully me, you know, Stumpy!" he said. "Remember, I can't hit back."

Scott stood still. He had never in his life been more astounded. Even then, with the direct evidence before him, he could hardly believe that the old haughty dominance had given place to something different.

"Why—can't you—hit back?" he said, almost stammering in his uncertainty.

Sir Eustace smiled again with rueful irony. "Because I've nothing to hit with, my son. Because you can break through my defence every time. If I were to kick you from here to the sea, you'd still have the best of me. Haven't you realized that yet?"

"I hadn't—no!" Scott's eyes still regarded him with a puzzled, half-suspicious expression.

Sir Eustace turned from their scrutiny, and began to walk on. "You will presently," he said. "The man who masters himself is always the man to master the rest of the world in the end. I never thought I should live to envy you, my boy. But I do."

"Envy me! Why? Why on earth?" Embarrassment mingled with the curiosity in Scott's voice. His hostility had gone down utterly before the unaccustomed humility of his brother's attitude.

Sir Eustace glanced at him sideways. "I'll tell you another time," he said. "Now look here, Stumpy! You're in command, and I shan't interfere with you so long as you take reasonable care of yourself. But you must do that. It is the one thing I am going to insist upon. That's understood, is it?"

Scott smiled, his tired, gentle smile. "Oh, certainly, my dear chap. Don't you worry yourself about that! It isn't of the first importance in any case."

"It's got to be done," Sir Eustace insisted. "So keep it in mind!"

"I haven't been doing anything, you know," Scott protested mildly. "I only came down yesterday."

"That may be. But you haven't been sleeping for some time. You needn't trouble to deny it. I know the signs. What have you been doing at Willowmount?"

It was a welcome change of subject, and Scott was not slow to avail himself of it. They began to talk upon matters connected with the estate, and the personal element passed completely out of the conversation.

When they reached the white house on the cliff they almost seemed to have slipped into the old casual relations; but the younger brother was well aware that this was not so. The change that had so amazed him was apparent to him at every turn. The overbearing mastery to which he had been accustomed all his life had turned in some miraculous fashion into something that was oddly like deference. It was fully evident that Eustace meant to keep his word and leave him in command.

Dinah met them in the rose-twined portico. There was a deep flush in her cheeks; her eyes were very bright, resolutely unafraid. She shook hands with Eustace, and he alone was aware of the tremor that ran through her whole being as she did so.

"Isabel is asleep," she said. "She often gets a sleep in the afternoon, and she is always the stronger for it when she wakes. Will you have some tea before you go to her?"

They had tea in the sunny verandah overlooking the sea. Sir Eustace was very quiet and grave, and it was Scott who gently conversed with the girl, smoothing away all difficulties. She was plainly determined to conquer her nervousness, and she succeeded to a great extent before the ordeal was over. But there was obvious relief in her eyes when Sir Eustace set down his cup and rose to go.

"I think I will go to her now," he said. "I shall not wake her."

He went, and a great stillness fell behind him. Scott dropped into silence, and they sat together, he smoking, she leaning back in her chair idle, with wistful eyes upon the silvery sea.

Up in Isabel's room overhead there was neither sound nor movement, but presently there fell a soft footfall upon the stairs and the nurse came quietly through and spoke to Dinah.

"Mrs. Everard is still asleep. Her brother is watching her and Biddy is within call. I thought I would take a little walk on the shore, as I shall not be wanted just at present."

"Oh, of course," Dinah said. "Don't hurry back!"

The nurse smiled and flitted away into the golden evening sunlight.

Dinah turned her head towards her silent companion. "I wonder," she said, "if I could learn to be a nurse."

He blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Are you still worrying about the future?" he said.

"I don't know that I am exactly worrying," she made low reply. "But I shall have to decide about it very soon."

Scott was silent for a space while he finished his cigarette. Then at last slowly, haltingly, he spoke. "Dinah,—I have been thinking about the future too. If I touch upon anything that hurts you, you must stop me, and I will not say another word. But, child, it seems to me that we shall both be—rather lost—when Isabel is gone. I wonder—would it shock you very much—if I suggested to you—as a solution of the difficulty—that we should some day in the future enter into partnership together?"

He spoke with obvious effort; his hands were gripped upon the arms of his chair. The wicker creaked in the strain of his grasp, but he himself remained lying back with eyes half-closed in compulsory inaction.

Dinah also sat absolutely still. If his words amazed her, she gave no sign. Only the wistfulness about her mouth deepened as she made answer below her breath. "It—is just like you to suggest such a thing; but—it is quite impossible."

He opened his eyes and looked at her very steadily and kindly. "Quite?" he said.

She bent her head, swiftly lowering her own. "Yes—thank you a million times—quite."

"Even if I promise never to make love to you?" he said, his voice half-quizzical, half-tender.

She put out a trembling hand and laid it on his arm. "Oh,
Scott,—it—isn't that!"

He took the hand and held it. "My dear, don't cry!" he urged gently. "I knew you wouldn't have me really. I only thought I would just place myself completely at your disposal in case—some day—you might be willing to give me the chance to serve you in any capacity whatever. There! It is over. We are as we were—friends."

He smiled at her with the words, and after a moment stooped and lightly touched her fingers with his lips.

"Come!" he said gently. "I haven't frightened you anyway. Have I?"

"No," she whispered.

His hand clasped hers for a second or two longer, then quietly let it go. "Don't be distressed!" he said, "I will never do it again. I am now—and always—your trusty friend."

And with that he rose in his slow way, paused to light another cigarette, smiled again upon her, and softly went indoors.

CHAPTER XXVI THE LAST SUMMONS

There is nought in life more solemn than the waiting hush that falls before the coming of that great Change which men call Death. And it is to the watchers rather than to the passing soul itself that the wonder seems to draw most close. To stand before the veil, to know that very soon it must be lifted for the loved one to pass beyond, to wait for the glimpse of that spirit-world from which only the frail wall of mortality divides even the least spiritual, to watch as it were for the Gate of Death to open and the great Revelation to flash for one blinding moment upon the dazzled eyes that may not grasp the meaning of what they see; this is to stand for a space within the very Sanctuary of God.

The awe of it and the wonder hung night and day over the little rose-covered house on the heath above the sea where Isabel was breathing forth the last of her broken earthly life. Dinah moved in that strange atmosphere as one in a dream. She spent most of her time with Scott in a silent companionship in which no worldly thoughts seemed to have any part. The things of earth, all worry, all distress, were in abeyance, had sunk to such infinitesimal proportions that she was scarcely aware of them at all. It was as though they had climbed the steep mountain with Isabel, and not till they turned again to descend could they be aware of those things which lay so far below.

Without Scott, both doubts and fears would have been her portion, but with him all terrors fell shadow-like away before her. She hardly realized all that his presence meant to her during those days of waiting, but she leaned upon him instinctively as upon a sure support. He never failed her.

Of Eustace she saw but little. From the very first it was evident that his place was nearer to Isabel than Scott's had ever been. He did not shoulder Scott aside, but somehow as a matter of course he occupied the position that the younger brother had sought to fill for the past seven years. It was natural, it was inevitable. Dinah could have resented this superseding at the outset had she not seen how gladly Scott gave place. Later she realized that the ground on which they stood was too holy for such considerations to have any weight with either brother. They were united in the one supreme effort to make the way smooth for the sister who meant so much to them both; and during all those days of waiting Dinah never heard a harsh or impatient word upon the elder's lips. All arrogance, all hardness, seemed to have fallen away from him as he trod with them that mountain-path. Even old Biddy realized the change and relented somewhat towards him though she never wholly brought herself to look upon him as an ally.

It was on a stormy evening at the beginning of July that Dinah was sitting alone in the little creeper-grown verandah watching the wonderful greens and purples of the sea when Eustace came soft-footed through the window behind her and sat down in a chair close by, which Scott had vacated a few minutes before.

Scott had just gone to the village post-office with some letters, but she had refused to accompany him, for it was the hour when she usually sat with Isabel. She glanced at Eustace swiftly as he sat down, half-expecting a message from the sick-room. But he said nothing, merely leaning back in the wicker-chair, and fixing his eyes upon the sombre splendour of endless waters upon which hers had been resting. There was a massive look about him, as of a strong man deliberately bent to some gigantic task. A little tremor went through her as furtively she watched him. His silence, unlike the silences of Scott, was disquieting. She could never feel wholly at ease in his presence.

He turned his head towards her after a few seconds of absolute stillness, and in a moment her eyes sank. She sat in palpitating silence, as one caught in some