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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Ethel M. Dell's "Greatheart" presents a captivating exploration of love and sacrifice set against the backdrop of early 20th-century societal norms. The novel intricately weaves themes of personal struggle and redemption through Dell's rich, evocative prose, characterized by deep emotional resonance and vivid characterizations. The narrative centers on its protagonist, who embodies the essence of selflessness, navigating a world rife with both beauty and hardship, thereby challenging the conventional moral landscapes of her time. This work is emblematic of Dell's talent for crafting poignant tales that reflect the complexities of human relationships and the societal expectations gender roles impose upon them. Dell, a prominent writer in the early 1900s, often drew inspiration from her own experiences and the tumultuous period of World War I, which influenced her portrayal of resilience in the face of adversity. Her narrative voice emerged from a profound understanding of human emotions, shaped by her upbringing in a Victorian milieu. "Greatheart" reflects her desire to delve into the psychological and moral depths of its characters, showcasing her evolving perspectives on love and duty. Readers seeking a deeply affecting and thoughtful narrative will find "Greatheart" to be a remarkable addition to their literary collection. Dell's ability to blend romantic narratives with intense moral dilemmas invites readers to reflect on the essence of true heroism. This novel is not just a story of love; it is a heartfelt meditation on the choices we make in the pursuit of higher ideals, making it a must-read for fans of classic literature. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Greatheart
Table of Contents
Introduction
Greatheart turns on the quiet heroism of steadfast love confronting fear, injury, and the demands of conscience, tracing how courage that refuses spectacle can shelter vulnerability, sustain duty, and transform both protector and beloved in a world wary of tenderness yet hungry for proof of integrity; set against the strict rhythms of its age, the novel tests resolve not with grand gestures but with day-by-day fidelity, showing how endurance, compassion, and moral clarity forge a bond resilient enough to face loss, scrutiny, and the long work of healing without surrendering hope or the obligation to act with care.
Written by British novelist Ethel M. Dell, Greatheart belongs to the current of early twentieth-century romantic fiction and was first published in the 1910s, a period marked by the upheavals surrounding the First World War. Rather than offering a panoramic historical canvas, the book locates its drama in the intimate spaces where private loyalty intersects with public expectation. Its world reflects the social codes of its time, and its tensions arise less from distant events than from ethical choices made at close quarters. Within that frame, Dell explores the costs and consolations of constancy, and the forms compassion assumes when tested.
Without relying on elaborate intrigue, the novel builds from a premise in which a bond is formed under pressure and must prove itself credible, patient, and protective. Early movements establish a condition of vulnerability and the promise—often difficult to sustain—of care; from there, the narrative follows the slow calibration of trust as characters learn what may be asked, and what must be freely given. The experience is intimate, earnest, and attentive to recovery, favoring the felt weight of choices over spectacle. Readers encounter a story that advances through commitments made and kept, and through the risks of refusing despair.
Dell’s style here is forthright and emotionally concentrated, shaping scenes around vows, boundaries, and the price of courage. The prose emphasizes clarity of feeling and moral consequence, allowing conflicts to register as stark but humane rather than cynical. Set pieces hinge on endurance and quiet acts that carry ethical weight, while moments of heightened tension serve to illuminate character rather than to astonish for their own sake. The mood alternates between restraint and intensity, but the throughline is sincerity: a conviction that love fused with responsibility can be both shelter and summons, calling ordinary people to extraordinary steadiness.
Several themes interlace to give Greatheart its lasting shape: steadfastness under strain; the dignity of care; the negotiation of consent and trust; the interplay of strength and gentleness; and the possibility of renewal after pain. The title signals not bluster but resilient courage—the willingness to bear another’s burden without erasing their agency. The story weighs social judgment against interior conscience, asking what integrity costs and what it preserves. It also registers how love can be protective without becoming possession, and how sacrifice, when freely chosen, can foster growth rather than diminish the self it serves.
Read today, the novel engages questions that remain urgent: how to make promises ethically, how to sustain care across fatigue, how to honor vulnerability without condescension, and how to rebuild trust after injury. Its early twentieth-century sensibility is evident, including period assumptions about gender and class, yet that very framework invites reflection on how norms constrain or enable compassion. For contemporary readers, Greatheart offers a lens on resilience, responsibility, and the discipline of hope. It rewards those interested in the ethics of love, the labor of healing, and the quiet forms of bravery that outlast spectacle.
As an entry into Dell’s world, Greatheart offers a measured, immersive romance whose satisfactions lie in moral clarity, patient character work, and emotional candor. Readers who appreciate earnest narratives, intimate stakes, and the texture of early twentieth-century popular fiction will find a compelling study in devotion tested rather than proclaimed. Approached on its own terms—aware of its period voice yet open to its humane ambitions—the book yields not only a story of affection but also a meditation on what it means to keep faith. It is, above all, an invitation to witness courage practiced gently, and well.
Synopsis
Greatheart follows the intertwined lives of a steadfast man known for his quiet courage and a young woman whose future is clouded by uncertainty. The story opens in a close-knit community where duty, reputation, and compassion carry tangible weight. The central figure earns the nickname Greatheart for his consistent willingness to shoulder burdens others avoid, becoming a dependable presence in moments of crisis. Into this setting comes a heroine contending with fragile circumstances and limited choices. Their paths cross in ordinary service and small acts of care, laying the groundwork for a connection that grows from necessity, mutual respect, and shared responsibility.
Early chapters establish the heroine’s precarious position within a rigid social world. Bound by obligations to a fragile family situation and to conventional expectations, she faces pressure to accept security where she can find it. A magnetic outsider offers an alluring alternative that promises escape, while Greatheart provides steadier counsel grounded in prudence and integrity. The narrative contrasts glamorous impulse with reliable support, foregrounding the heroine’s struggle to weigh appearances against character. As the community observes and comments, she learns that choices made under strain can set the course of a life, and that protection sometimes arrives in ordinary, undramatic forms.
A sudden event disrupts the delicate balance, placing the heroine’s reputation and prospects in immediate jeopardy. Greatheart intervenes decisively, assuming responsibility at personal cost to prevent lasting harm. This turning point alters the relationship between them and compels both to confront new obligations. While the community reads motive into their actions, the narrative remains focused on practical consequences: arrangements must be made, roles defined, and the future reconsidered. The heroine discovers that safety can carry its own restraints. Greatheart, for his part, accepts the weight of expectation without complaint, committed to seeing her through whatever adjustments the decision demands.
The story then shifts into a more demanding environment where survival depends on discipline, courage, and resourcefulness. Work becomes unrelenting, and the heroine must adapt to isolation, unfamiliar customs, and a harsher climate. Greatheart’s reliability proves essential, but their bond remains carefully bounded by reserve and unspoken questions. The rhythm of daily effort provides structure, while moments of quiet reveal a growing awareness of each other’s strengths and vulnerabilities. Letters and rumors from home keep old ties alive, reminding the heroine that unfinished business persists. The narrative emphasizes gradual change, showing character tested less by grand gestures than by sustained endurance.
Complications arise when a figure from the past reappears, reviving unresolved tensions and inviting the heroine to reconsider earlier judgments. Conflicting accounts blur the line between truth and impression, and loyalties are pressed. Greatheart’s presence, steady as ever, becomes both anchor and challenge; his unwavering standards shed unforgiving light on compromise. Domestic routines are disrupted by illness, scarcity, and the unpredictable behavior of those who carry their own wounds. Misunderstandings grow in the spaces where caution replaces openness. The heroine’s inner debate intensifies as she weighs gratitude against desire, security against freedom, and appearances against the substance of character.
A public crisis tests the settlement, bringing hardship that demands collective effort and clinical calm. Greatheart’s role expands from private reliability to visible leadership as he organizes relief, accepts risk, and places the community’s welfare above his own comfort. The heroine, learning through action, discovers the power of service to clarify priorities. Their partnership deepens through shared work, even as personal questions remain unresolved. The crisis affirms why Greatheart bears his name: courage here is portrayed as steady attention under pressure. When the emergency ebbs, the community is altered, gratitude abounds, and the private consequences of public duty loom larger for both.
In the aftermath, revelations unsettle easy narratives. Motives behind earlier choices come to light, complicating the heroine’s view of those who once enchanted her and those who quietly stood by. Promises made in fear or haste are weighed against new understanding. Greatheart faces a decision between self-effacing guardianship and forthright claim, aware that either course may cost dearly. The heroine must decide whether to trust her emerging judgment or retreat to familiar patterns. The narrative balances confession and restraint, allowing consequences to unfold without melodrama. This is the story’s moral hinge: character, once tested, requires acknowledgment as well as endurance.
The climax arrives as danger presses close again, demanding coordinated action and immediate sacrifice. External peril mirrors internal conflict, compelling choices that cannot be postponed. Greatheart’s steady courage is matched by the heroine’s resolve, and the two work in tandem to confront what threatens their fragile stability. The sequence highlights competency, trust under strain, and the clarity that crisis can grant. When the danger passes, relationships are permanently altered, though the tale avoids pronouncing on ultimate outcomes. What remains clear is the cost of care, the dignity of service, and the way quiet devotion, tested, takes on unmistakable form.
The closing movement provides resolution without extravagance. The heroine’s future is framed by a clearer understanding of constancy, and Greatheart’s strength is recognized as more than mere endurance: it is chosen generosity. Social tensions ease into acceptance; private vows soften into sustainable habits. The narrative’s central message emerges plainly: courage often appears as steadfast service, love as responsibility freely embraced, and maturity as the alignment of feeling with principle. Without disclosing final particulars, the book ends on a note of earned hope, suggesting that loyalty, once proven in hardship, becomes a foundation on which everyday life can confidently stand.
Historical Context
Set during the closing Edwardian years and the Great War era, Greatheart unfolds primarily in England, among quiet country parishes, convalescent quarters, and the social orbit of officers and gentlewomen. The timeframe spans roughly 1914 to the immediate aftermath in 1918–1919, when Britain was absorbing the human cost of total war. The novel’s world is ordered by Anglican respectability, class deference, and a code of service associated with the officer corps. Even when scenes are domestic, the atmosphere is conditioned by mobilization, absence, and return. Dell draws on familiar terrains of moor, coast, and village, using them as moral landscapes for sacrifice and guardianship that echo the Puritan archetype of Great-heart.
Between August 1914 and November 1918, the United Kingdom fought in a global conflict against the Central Powers. Britain declared war on 4 August 1914; the British Expeditionary Force went to France, and mass recruitment created Kitchener’s Army. Battles such as the Somme in 1916 and Passchendaele in 1917 produced unprecedented casualties; British military dead exceeded 880,000, with millions wounded. Conscription arrived with the Military Service Acts of 1916. Greatheart reflects this context through characters marked by service, separation, and endurance. The plot’s emphasis on steadfast protection and moral courage mirrors wartime ideals valorized in public rhetoric and private life.
War medicine and convalescence reshaped British society between 1914 and 1919. The British Red Cross and the Order of St John organized Voluntary Aid Detachments from 1909, supplying tens of thousands of women as nurses, drivers, and clerks; by 1918, more than 90,000 VAD members had served. The Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service, founded in 1902, expanded under Matron-in-Chief Dame Maud McCarthy to staff base hospitals in France, Egypt, and Britain. Over 1.6 million British servicemen were wounded; the state created an extensive hospital network, from the Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley to hundreds of auxiliary hospitals housed in schools and country houses. Pioneering specialties emerged. Captain Harold Gillies established the Queen’s Hospital at Sidcup in 1917 to develop modern plastic and maxillofacial surgery for facially disfigured soldiers. The limb-fitting centre at Roehampton opened in 1915 to provide artificial limbs and physiotherapy to amputees. Psychological trauma, termed shell shock by Charles Myers in 1915, brought new neuropsychiatric wards at places such as Craiglockhart in Edinburgh. Convalescence, occupational therapy, and graded exercise were widely prescribed, while philanthropic funds and state schemes sought to retrain disabled men for employment. Greatheart is saturated with this medical milieu: its trials of physical weakness, concealed scars, vigilant nursing, and the ethic of patient guardianship mirror wartime hospital routines and the moral elevation of care work. The heroine’s competence and the hero’s gradual recovery align with the social visibility of VAD nurses and medical orderlies, whose quiet heroism was extolled in newspapers and parish records. Scenes of restraint, hygiene, and regulated routine echo hospital discipline, while images of splints, crutches, and secluded gardens recall the therapeutic landscapes of convalescent homes. The novel’s praise of steadfast tenderness over martial display articulates a cultural turn, in 1917–1919, toward valuing rehabilitation as the truest measure of courage.
Although centered in Britain, the book resonates with the imperial service culture that shaped Edwardian families. The Indian Army mobilized more than 1.3 million soldiers and laborers during 1914–1918, fighting in France, Mesopotamia, and East Africa. The 1911 Delhi Durbar marked the transfer of the capital from Calcutta to New Delhi; in August 1917 the Montagu Declaration promised progressive self-government, a pledge codified in the Government of India Act of 1919. Greatheart’s ethic of duty, reserve, and protective masculinity echoes the Anglo-Indian officer code familiar to Dell’s readership. Offstage references to postings, regimented habit, and long separations invoke the Raj’s rhythms and expectations.
The war accelerated shifts in women’s civic status and labor. On 6 February 1918, the Representation of the People Act enfranchised about 8.4 million women over age 30 meeting property or marital qualifications; in November 1918, the Parliament Qualification of Women Act permitted women to sit as Members of Parliament. By 1918 some 700,000 women worked in munitions, with many more in transport, agriculture, and hospitals. The Sex Disqualification Removal Act followed in 1919, opening professions and juries. In Greatheart, female initiative in work and in choosing a partner reflects this altered climate: nursing competence and moral decision-making are treated as socially consequential authority.
The Defence of the Realm Act, first passed on 8 August 1914 and expanded repeatedly, authorized sweeping controls over civilian life: censorship of letters and newspapers, restrictions on lighting, pub hours, photography, and movement near docks or railways. Food controls culminated in rationing of sugar in January 1918 and meat, butter, and margarine from February to April 1918. Price rises and shortages tested domestic management. Greatheart’s stoic domestic economy, subdued emotional expression, and guarded communication conform to this atmosphere of regulation. The novel’s stress on discretion, self-control, and quiet sacrifice mirrors a society schooled by DORA in reticence, duty, and communal restraint.
From spring 1918 to early 1920, the influenza pandemic caused an estimated 50 million deaths worldwide; in the United Kingdom, excess mortality reached roughly 228,000. A lethal second wave in autumn 1918 struck demobilizing troops and households already exhausted by war; schools and public gatherings were intermittently curtailed, and local authorities promoted masks and ventilation. Grief, hurried funerals, and chronic illness permeated communities. Greatheart’s preoccupation with frailty, convalescence, and the urgency of commitment reflects this context of precarious life. The tenderness of caretaking and the acceptance of loss in the narrative echo household experiences across Britain during 1918–1919.
As social and political critique, the book privileges ethical service over status, exposing tensions in class deference and gender hierarchy. Guardianship, paternal authority, and arranged expectations are tested against the claims of consent and compassionate choice, aligning with contemporary challenges to patriarchal control. By valorizing nursing, convalescent labor, and the rehabilitation of wounded men, the narrative implicitly censures public neglect of disabled veterans and the fetish of battlefield glory. Its restrained treatment of imperial and military codes suggests unease with rituals of command divorced from care. Within the constraints of propriety, Greatheart advocates a humane order responsive to suffering rather than to rank or rigid convention.
Greatheart
PART I
I. The Wanderer II. The Looker-On III. The Search IV. The Magician V. Apollo VI. Cinderella VII. The Broken Spell VIII. Mr. Greatheart IX. The Runaway Colt. X. The House of Bondage XI. Olympus XII. The Wine of the Gods XIII. Friendship in the Desert XIV. The Purple Empress XV. The Mountain Crest XVI. The Second Draught XVII. The Unknown Force XVIII. The Escape of the Prisoner XIX. The Cup of Bitterness XX. The Vision of Greatheart XXI. The Return XXII. The Valley of the Shadow XXIII. The Way Back XXIV. The Lights of a City XXV. The True Gold XXVI. The Call of Apollo XXVII. The Golden Maze XXVIII. The Lesson XXIX. The Captive XXX. The Second Summons
PART II
I. Cinderella's Prince II. Wedding Arrangements III. Despair IV. The New Home V. The Watcher VI. The Wrong Road VII. Doubting Castle VIII. THE VICTORY IX. THE BURDEN X. THE HOURS OF DARKNESS XI. THE NET XII. THE DIVINE SPARK XIII. THE BROKEN HEART XIV. THE WRATH OF THE GODS XV. THE SAPPHIRE FOR FRIENDSHIP XVI. THE OPEN DOOR XVII. THE LION IN THE PATH XVIII. THE TRUTH XIX. THE FURNACE XX. THE COMING OF GREATHEART XXI. THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION XXII. SPOKEN IN JEST XXIII. THE KNIGHT IN DISGUISE XXIV. THE MOUNTAIN SIDE XXV. THE TRUSTY FRIEND XXVI. THE LAST SUMMONS XXVII. THE MOUNTAIN-TOP XXVIII. CONSOLATION XXIX. THE SEVENTH HEAVEN
PART I
CHAPTER I
THE WANDERER.
Biddy Maloney stood at the window of her mistress's bedroom, and surveyed the world with eyes of stern disapproval. There was nothing of the smart lady's maid about Biddy. She abominated smart lady's maids. A flyaway French cap and an apron barely reaching to the knees were to her the very essence of flighty impropriety. There was just such a creature in attendance upon Lady Grace de Vigne who occupied the best suite of rooms in the hotel, and Biddy very strongly resented her existence. In her own mind she despised her as a shameless hussy wholly devoid of all ideas of "dacency." Her resentment was partly due to the fact that the indecent one belonged to the party in possession of the best suite, which they had occupied some three weeks before Biddy and her party had appeared on the scene.
It was all Master Scott's fault, of course. He ought to have written to engage rooms sooner, but then to be sure the decision to migrate to this winter paradise in the Alps had been a sudden one. That had been Sir Eustace's fault. He was always so sudden in his ways.
Biddy sighed impatiently. Sir Eustace had always been hard to manage. She had never really conquered him even in the days when she had made him stand in the corner and go without sugar in his tea. She well remembered the shocking occasion on which he had flung sugar and basin together into the fire so that the others might be made to share his enforced abstinence. She believed he was equal to committing a similar act of violence if baulked even now. But he never was baulked. At thirty-five he reigned supreme in his own world. No one ever crossed him, unless it were Master Scott, and of course no one could be seriously angry with him, poor dear young man! He was so gentle and kind. A faint, maternal smile relaxed Biddy's grim lips. She became aware that the white world below was a-flood with sunshine.
The snowy mountains that rose against the vivid blue were dream-like in their beauty. Where the sun shone upon them, their purity was almost too dazzling to behold. It was a relief to rest the eyes upon the great patches of pine-woods that clothed some of the slopes.
"I wonder if Miss Isabel will be happy here," mused Biddy.
That to her mind was the only thing on earth that really mattered, practically the only thing for which she ever troubled her Maker. Her own wants were all amalgamated in this one great desire of her heart—that her darling's poor torn spirit should be made happy. She had wholly ceased to remember that she had ever wanted anything else. It was for Miss Isabel that she desired the best rooms, the best carriages, the best of everything. Even her love for Master Scott—poor dear young man!—depended largely upon the faculty he possessed for consoling and interesting Miss Isabel. Anyone who did that earned Biddy's undying respect and gratitude. Of the rest of the world—save for a passing disapproval—she was scarcely aware. Nothing else mattered in the same way. In fact nothing else really mattered at all.
Ah! A movement from the bed at last! Her quick ears, ever on the alert, warned her on the instant. She turned from the window with such mother-love shining in her old brown face under its severe white cap as made it as beautiful in its way as the paradise without.
"Why, Miss Isabel darlint, how you've slept then!" she said, in the soft, crooning voice which was kept for this one beloved being alone.
Two white arms were stretched wide outside the bed. Two dark eyes, mysteriously shadowed and sunken, looked up to hers.
"Has he gone already, Biddy?" a low voice asked.
"Only a little way, darlint. He's just round the corner," said Biddy tenderly. "Will ye wait a minute while I give ye your tay?"
There was a spirit-kettle[2] singing merrily in the room. She busied herself about it, her withered face intent over the task.
The white arms fell upon the blue travelling-rug that Biddy had spread with loving care outside the bed the night before to add to her mistress's comfort. "When did he go, Biddy?" the low voice asked, and there was a furtive quality in the question as if it were designed for none but Biddy's ears. "Did he—did he leave no message?"
"Ah, to be sure!" said Biddy, turning her face for a moment. "And the likes of me to have forgotten it! He sent ye his best love, darlint, and ye were to eat a fine breakfast before ye went out."
The sad eyes smiled at her from the bed, half-gratified, half-incredulous, like the eyes of a lonely child who listens to a fairy-tale. "It was like him to think of that, Biddy. But—I wish he had stayed a little longer. I must get up and go and find him."
"Hasn't he been with ye through the night?" asked Biddy, bent again to her task.
"Nearly all night long!" The answer came on a note of triumph, yet there was also a note of challenge in it also.
"Then what more would ye have?" said Biddy wisely. "Leave him alone for a bit, darlint! Husbands are better without their wives sometimes."
A low laugh came from the bed. "Oh, Biddy, I must tell him that! He would love your bon-mots. Did he—did he say when he would be back?"
"That he did not," said Biddy, still absorbed over the kettle. "But there's nothing in that at all. Ye can't be always expecting a man to give account of himself. Now, mavourneen[1], I'll give ye your tay, and ye'll be able to get up when ye feel like it. Ah! There's Master Scott! And would ye like him to come in and have a cup with ye?"
Three soft knocks had sounded on the door. The woman in the bed raised herself, and her hair fell in glory around her, hair that at twenty-five had been raven-black, hair that at thirty-two was white as the snow outside the window.
"Is that you, Stumpy dear? Come in! Come in!" she called.
Her voice was hollow and deep. She turned her face to the door—a beautiful, wasted face with hungry eyes that watched and waited perpetually.
The door opened very quietly and unobtrusively, and a small, insignificant man came in. He was about the size of the average schoolboy of fifteen, and he walked with a slight limp, one leg being a trifle shorter than the other. Notwithstanding this defect, his general appearance was one of extreme neatness, from his colourless but carefully trained moustache and small trim beard to his well-shod feet. His clothes—-like his beard—fitted him perfectly.
His close-cropped hair was also colourless and grew somewhat far back on his forehead. His pale grey eyes had a tired expression, as if they had looked too long or too earnestly upon the turmoil of life.
He came to the bedside and took the thin white hand outstretched to him on which a wedding ring hung loose. He walked without awkwardness; there was even dignity in his carriage.
He bent to kiss the uplifted face. "Have you slept well, dear?"
Her arms reached up and clasped his neck. "Oh, Stumpy, yes! I have had a lovely night. Basil has been with me. He has gone out now; but I am going to look for him presently."
"Many happy returns of the day to ye, Master Scott!" put in Biddy rather pointedly.
"Ah yes. It is your birthday. I had forgotten. Forgive me, Stumpy darling! You know I wish you always the very, very best." The clinging arms held him more closely,
"Thank you, Isabel." Scott's voice was as tired as his eyes, and yet it had a certain quality of strength. "Of course it's a very important occasion. How are we going to celebrate it?"
"I have a present for you somewhere. Biddy, where is it?" Isabel's voice had a note of impatience in it.
"It's here, darlint! It's here!" Biddy bustled up to the bed with a parcel.
Isabel took it from her and turned to Scott. "It's only a silly old cigarette-case, dear, but I thought of it all myself. How old are you now, Stumpy?"
"I am thirty," he answered, smiling. "Thank you very much, dear. It's just the thing I wanted—only too good!"
"As if anything could be too good for you!" his sister said tenderly. "Has Eustace remembered?"
"Oh yes. Eustace has given me a saddle, but as he didn't think I should want it here, it is to be presented when we get home again." He sat down on the side of the bed, still inspecting the birthday offering.
"Haven't you had anything from anyone else?" Isabel asked, after a moment.
He shook his head. "Who else is there to bother about a minnow like me?"
"You're not a minnow, Scott. And didn't—didn't Basil give you anything?"
Scott's tired eyes looked at her with a sudden fixity. He said nothing; but a piteous look came into Isabel's face under his steady gaze, and she dropped her own as if ashamed.
"Whisht, Master Scott darlint, for the Lord's sake, don't ye go upsetting her!" warned Biddy in a sibilant whisper. "I had trouble enough last night. If it hadn't been for the draught, she wouldn't have slept at all, at all."
Scott did not look at her. "You should have called me," he said, and leaning forward took his sister's hand. "Isabel, wouldn't you like to come out and see the skaters? There is some wonderful luging[3] going on too."
She did not raise her eyes; her whole demeanour had changed. She seemed to droop as if all animation had gone; "I don't know," she said listlessly. "I think I would almost as soon stay here."
"Have your tay, darlint!" coaxed Biddy, on her other side.
"Eustace will be coming to look for you if you don't," said Scott.
She started at that, and gave a quick shiver. "Oh no, I don't want Eustace! Don't let him come here, Stumpy, will you?"
"Shall I go and tell him you are coming then?" asked Scott, his eyes still steadily watching her.
She nodded. "Yes, yes. But I don't want to be made. Basil never made me do things."
Scott rose. "I will wait for you downstairs. Thank you, Biddy. Yes, I'll drink that first. No tea in the world ever tastes like your brew."
"Get along with your blarney, Master Scott!" protested Biddy. "And you and Sir Eustace mustn't tire Miss Isabel out. Remember, she's just come a long journey, and it's not wonderful at all that she don't feel like exerting herself."
A red fire of resentment smouldered in the old woman's eyes, but Scott paid no attention to it. "You'd better get some sleep yourself, Biddy, if you can," he said. "No more, thanks. You will be out in an hour then, Isabel?"
"Perhaps," she said.
He paused, standing beside her. "If you are not out in an hour I shall come and fetch you," he said.
She put forth an appealing hand like a child. "I will come out, Stumpy. I will come out," she said tremulously.
He pressed the hand for a moment. "In an hour then, I want to show you everything. There is plenty to be seen."
He turned to the door, looked back with a parting smile, and went out.
Isabel did not see the smile. She was staring moodily downwards with eyes that only looked within.
CHAPTER II
THE LOOKER-ON
Down on the skating-rink below the hotel, a crowd of people were making merry. The ice was in splendid condition. It sparkled in the sun like a sheet of frosted glass, and over it the skaters glided with much mirth and laughter.
Scott stood on the road above and watched them. There were a good many accomplished performers among them, and there were also several beginners. But all seemed alike infected with the gaiety of the place. There was not one face that did not wear a smile.
It was an invigorating scene. From a slope of the white mountain-side beyond the rink the shouts and laughter of higers came through the crystal air. A string of luges was shooting down the run, and even as Scott caught sight of it the foremost came to grief, and a dozen people rolled ignominiously in the snow. He smiled involuntarily. He seemed to have stepped into an atmosphere of irresponsible youth. The air was full of the magic fluid. It stirred his pulses like a draught of champagne.
Then his eyes returned to the rink, and almost immediately singled out the best skater there. A man in a white sweater, dark, handsome, magnificently made, supremely sure of himself, darted with the swift grace of a swallow through the throng. His absolute confidence and splendid physique made him conspicuous. He executed elaborate figures with such perfect ease and certainty of movement that many turned to look at him in astonished admiration.
"Great Scott!" said a cracked voice at Scott's shoulder.
He turned sharply, and met the frank regard of a rosy-faced schoolboy a little shorter than himself.
"Look at that bloomin' swell!" said the new-comer in tones of deep disgust. "He seems to have sprouted in the night. I've no use for these star skaters myself. They're all so beastly sidey."
He addressed Scott as an equal, and as an equal Scott made reply. "P'raps when you're a star skater yourself, you'll change your mind about 'em."
The boy grinned. "Ah! P'raps! You're a new chum, aren't you?"
"Very new," said Scott.
"Can you skate?" asked the lad. "But of course you can. I suppose you're another dark horse. It's too bad, you know; just as Dinah and I are beginning to fancy ourselves at it. We began right at the beginning too."
"Consider yourself lucky!" said Scott rather briefly.
"What do you mean?" The boy's eyes flashed over him intelligently, green eyes humorously alert.
Scott glanced downwards. "I mean my legs are not a pair, so I can't even begin."
"Oh, bad luck, sir!" The equality vanished from the boy's voice. He became suddenly almost deferential, and Scott realized that he was no longer regarded as a comrade. "Still"—he hesitated—"you can luge, I suppose?"
"I don't quite see myself," said Scott, looking across once more to the merry group on the distant run.
"Any idiot can do that," the boy protested, then turned suddenly a deep red. "Oh, lor, I didn't mean that! Hi, Dinah!" He turned to cover his embarrassment and sent a deafening yell at the sun-bathed façade of the hotel. "Are you never coming, you cuckoo? Half the morning's gone already!"
"Coming, Billy!" at once a clear gay voice made answer, and the merriest face that Scott had ever seen made a sudden appearance at an open window. "Darling Billy, do keep your hair on for just two minutes longer! Yvonne has been trying on my fancy dress, but she's nearly done."
The neck and shoulders below the laughing face were bare and a bare arm waved in a propitiatory fashion ere it vanished.
"Looks as if the fancy dress is a minus quantity," observed Billy to his companion with a grin. "I didn't see any of it, did you?"
Scott tried not to laugh. "Your sister?" he asked.
Billy nodded affirmation. "She ain't a bad urchin," he observed, "as sisters go. We're staying here along with the de Vignes. Ever met 'em? Lady Grace is a holy terror. Her husband is a horrible stuck-up bore of an Anglo-Indian[5],—thinks himself everybody, and tells the most awful howlers. Rose—that's the daughter—is by way of being very beautiful. There she goes now; see? That golden-haired girl in red! She's another of your beastly star skaters. I'll bet she'll have that big bounder cutting capers with her before the day's out."
"Think so?" said Scott.
Billy nodded again. "I suppose he's a prince at least. My word, doesn't he fancy himself? Look at that now? Side—sheer side!"
The skater under discussion had just executed a most intricate figure not far from them. Having accomplished it with that unerring and somewhat blatant confidence that so revolted Billy's schoolboy soul, he straightened his tall figure, and darted in a straight line for the end of the rink above which they stood. His hands were in his pockets. His bearing was superb. He described a complete circle below them before he brought himself to a stand. Then he lifted his dark arrogant face. He wore a short clipped moustache which by no means hid the strength of a well-modelled though slightly sneering mouth. His eyes were somewhat deeply set, and shone extraordinarily blue under straight black brows that met. The man's whole expression was one of dominant self-assertion. He bore himself like a king.
"Well, Stumpy," he said, "where's Isabel?"
Scott's companion jumped, and beat a swift retreat. Scott smiled a little as he made reply.
"I have been up to see her. She will be out presently. Biddy had to give her a sleeping-draught last night."
"Damn!" said the other in a fierce undertone. "Did she call you first?"
"No."
"Then why the devil didn't she? I shall sack that woman. Isabel hasn't a chance to get well with a mischievous old hag like that always with her."
"I think Isabel would probably die without her," Stumpy responded in his quiet voice which presented a vivid contrast to his brother's stormy utterance. "And Biddy would probably die too—if she consented to go, which I doubt."
"Oh, damn Biddy! The sooner she dies the better. She's nothing but a perpetual nuisance. What is Isabel like this morning?"
Scott hesitated, and his brother frowned.
"That's enough. What else could any one expect? Look here, Scott! This thing has got to end. I shall take that sleeping-stuff away."
"If you can get hold of it," put in Scott drily.
"You must get hold of it. You have ample opportunity. It's all very well to preach patience, but she has been taking slow poison for seven years. I am certain of it. It's ridiculous! It's monstrous! It's got to end." He spoke with impatient finality, his blue eyes challenging remonstrance.
Scott made none. Only after a moment he said, "If you take away one prop, old chap, you must provide another. A broken thing can't stand alone. But need we discuss it now? As I told you, she is coming out presently, and this glorious air is bound to make a difference to her. It tastes like wine."
It was at this point that the golden-haired girl in red suddenly glided up and sat down on the bank a few yards away to adjust a skate.
Sir Eustace turned his head, and a sparkle came into his eyes. He watched her for a moment, then left his brother without further words.
"Can I do that for you?" he asked.
She lifted a flushed face. "Oh, how kind of you! But I have just managed it. How lovely the ice is this morning!"
She rose with the words, balancing herself with a grace as finished as his own, and threw him a dazzling smile of gratitude. Scott, from his post of observation on the bank, decided that she certainly was beautiful. Her face was almost faultless. And yet it seemed to him that there was infinitely more of witchery in the face that had laughed from the window a few minutes before. Almost unconsciously he was waiting to see the owner of that face emerge.
He watched the inevitable exchange of commonplaces between his brother and the beautiful Miss de Vigne whose graciousness plainly indicated her willingness for a nearer acquaintance, and presently he saw them move away side by side.
"What did I tell you?" said Billy's voice at his shoulder. "But you might have said that chap belonged to you. How was I to know?"
"Oh, quite so," said Scott. "Pray don't apologize! He doesn't belong to me either. It is I who belong to him."
Billy's green eyes twinkled appreciatively. "You're his brother, aren't you?"
Scott looked at him. "Now how on earth did you know that?"
He looked back with his frank, engaging grin. "Oh, there's the same hang about you. I can't tell you what it is. Dinah would know directly. You'd better ask her."
"I don't happen to have the pleasure of your sister's acquaintance," observed Scott, with his quiet smile.
"Oh, I'll soon introduce you if that's what you want," said Billy. "Come along! There she is now, just crossing the road. By the way, I don't think you told me your name."
"My name is Studley—Scott Studley, Stumpy to my friends," said Scott, in his whimsical, rather weary fashion.
Billy laughed. "You're a sport," he said. "When I know you a bit better, I shall remember that. Hi, Dinah! What a deuce of a time you've been. This is Mr. Studley, and he saw you at the window without anything on."
"I'm sure he didn't! Billy, how dare you?" Dinah's brown face burned an indignant red; she looked at Scott with instant hostility.
"Oh, please!" he protested mildly. "That's not quite fair on me."
"Serves you right," declared Billy with malicious delight. "You played me a shabby trick, you know."
Dinah's brow cleared. She smiled upon Scott. "Isn't he a horrid little pig? How do you do? Isn't it a ripping day? It makes you want to climb, doesn't it? I wish I'd got an alpenstock."
"Can't you get one anywhere?" asked Scott. "I thought they were always to be had."
"Yes, but they cost money," sighed Dinah. "And I haven't got any. It doesn't really matter though. There are lots of other things to do. Are you keen on luging? I am."
Her bright eyes smiled into his with the utmost friendliness, and he knew that she would not commit Billy's mistake and ask him if he skated.
Her smile was infectious. The charm of it lingered after it had passed. Her eyes were green like Billy's, only softer. They had a great deal of sweetness in them, and a spice—just a spice of devilry as well. The rest of the face would have been quite unremarkable, but the laughter-loving mouth and pointed chin wholly redeemed it from the commonplace. She was a little brown thing like a woodland creature, and her dainty air and quick ways put Scott irresistibly in mind of a pert robin.
In reply to her question he told her that he had arrived only the night before. "And I am quite a tyro," he added. "I have been watching the luging on that slope, and thanking all the stars that control my destiny that I wasn't there."
She laughed, showing a row of small white teeth. "Oh, you'd love it once you started. It's a heavenly sport if the run isn't bumpy. Isn't this a glorious atmosphere? It makes one feel so happy."
She came and stood by his side to watch the skaters. Billy was seated on the bank, impatiently changing his boots.
"I'm not going to wait for you any longer, Dinah," he said. "I'm fed up."
"Don't then!" she retorted. "I never asked you to."
"What a lie!" said Billy, with all a brother's gallantry.
She threw him a sister's look of scorn and deigned no rejoinder. But in a moment the incident was forgotten. "Oh, look there!" she suddenly exclaimed. "Isn't that just like Rose de Vigne? She's always sure to appropriate the most handsome man within sight. I've been watching that man from my window. He is a perfect Apollo, and skates divinely. And now she's got him!"
Deep disgust was audible in her voice. Billy looked up with a sideways grin. "You don't suppose he'd look at a sparrow like you, do you?" he said. "He prefers a swan, you bet."
"Be quiet, Billy!" commanded Dinah, making an ineffectual dig at him with her foot. "I don't want him to look at me. I hate men. But it is too bad the way Rose always chooses the best. It's just the same with everything. And I long—oh, I do long sometimes—to cut her out!"
"I should myself," said Scott unexpectedly. "But why don't you. I'm sure you could."
She threw him a whimsical smile. "I!" she said. "Why that's about as likely as—" she stopped short in some confusion.
He laughed a little. "You mean I might as soon hope to cut out Apollo? But the cases are not parallel, I assure you. Besides, Apollo happens to be my brother, which makes a difference."
"Oh, is he your brother? What a good thing you told me!" laughed Dinah. "I might have said something rude about him in a minute."
"Like me!" said Billy, stumbling to his feet. "I made a most horrific blunder, didn't I, Mr. Studley? I called him a bounder!"
Dinah looked at him witheringly. "You would!" she said. "Well, I hope you apologized."
Billy stuck out his tongue at her. "I didn't then!" he returned, and skated elegantly away on one leg.
"Billy," remarked Dinah dispassionately, "is not really such a horrid little beast as he seems."
Scott smiled his courteous smile. "I had already gathered that," he said.
Her green eyes darted him a swift look, as if to ascertain if he were in earnest. Then: "That was very nice of you," she said. "I wonder how you knew."
He still smiled, but without much mirth. "A looker-on sees a good many things, you know," he said.
Dinah's eyes flashed understanding. She said no more.
CHAPTER III
THE SEARCH
When Isabel came slowly forth at length from the hotel door whither Biddy had conducted her, Scott was sitting alone on a bench in the sunshine.
He rose at once to join her. "Why, how quick you have been! Or else the time flies here. Eustace is still skating. I had no idea he was so accomplished. See, there he is!"
But Isabel set her haggard face towards the mountain-road that wound up beyond the hotel. "I am going to look for Basil," she said.
"It is waste of time," said Scott quietly.
But he did not attempt to withstand her. They turned side by side up the hard, snowy track.
For some time they walked in silence. At a short distance from the hotel, the road ascended steeply through a pine-wood, dark and mysterious as an enchanted forest, through which there rose the sound of a rushing stream.
Scott paused to listen, but instantly his sister laid an imperious hand upon him.
"I can't wait," she said. "I am sure he is just round the corner. I heard him whistle."
He moved on in response to her insistence. "I heard that whistle too," he said. "But it was a mountain-boy."
He was right. At a curve in the road, they met a young Swiss lad who went by them with a smile and salute, and fell to whistling again when he had passed.
Isabel pressed on in silence. She had started in feverish haste, but her speed was gradually slackening. She looked neither to right nor left; her eyes perpetually strained forward as though they sought for something just beyond their range of vision. For a while Scott limped beside her without speaking, but at last as they sighted the end of the pine-wood he gently broke the silence.
"Isabel dear, I think we must turn back very soon."
"Oh, why?" she said. "Why? You always say that when—" There came a break in her voice, and she ceased to speak.
Her pace quickened so that he had some difficulty in keeping up with her, but he made no protest. With the utmost patience he also pressed on.
But it was not long before her strength began to fail. She stumbled once or twice, and he put a supporting hand under her elbow. As they neared the edge of the pines it became evident that the road dwindled to a mere mountain-path winding steeply upwards through the snow. The sun shone dazzlingly upon the great waste of whiteness.
Very suddenly Isabel stopped. "He can't have gone this way after all," she said, and turned to her brother with eyes of tragic hopelessness. "Stumpy, Stumpy, what shall I do?"
He drew her hand very gently through his arm. "We will go back, dear," he said.
A low sob escaped her, but she did not weep. "If I only had the strength to go on and on and on!" she said. "I know I should find him some day then."
"You will find him some day," he answered with grave assurance. "But not yet."
They went back to the turn in the road where the sound of the stream rose like fairy music from an unseen glen. The snow lay pure and untrodden under the trees.
Scott paused again, and this time Isabel made no remonstrance. They stood together listening to the rush of the torrent.
"How beautiful this place must be in springtime!" he said.
She gave a sharp shiver. "It is like a dead world now."
"A world that will very soon rise again," he answered.
She looked at him with vague eyes. "You are always talking of the resurrection," she said.
"When I am with you, I am often thinking of it," he said with simplicity.
A haunted look came into her face. "But that implies—death," she said, her voice very low.
"And what is Death?" said Scott gently, as if he reasoned with a child. "Do you think it is more than a step further into Life? The passing of a boundary, that is all."
"But there is no returning!" she protested piteously. "It must be more than that."
"My dear, there is never any returning," he said gravely. "None of us can go backwards. Yesterday is but a step away, but can we retrace that step? No, not one of us."
She made a sudden, almost fierce gesture. "Oh, to go back!" she cried. "Oh, to go back! Why should we be forced blindly forward when we only want to go back?"
"That is the universal law," said Scott. "That is God's Will."
"It is cruel! It is cruel!" she wailed.
"No, it is merciful. So long as there is Death in the world we must go on. We have got to get past Death[1q]."
She turned her tragic eyes upon him. "And what then? What then?"
Scott was gazing steadfastly into her face of ravaged beauty. "Then—the resurrection," he said. "There are millions of people in the world, Isabel, who are living out their lives solely for the sake of that, because they know that if they only keep on, the Resurrection will give back to them all that they have lost. My dear, it is not going back that could help anyone. The past is past, the present is passing; there is only the future that can restore all things. We are bound to go forward, and thank God for it!"
Her eyes fell slowly before his. She did not speak, but after a moment gave him her hand with a shadowy smile. They continued the descent side by side.
Another curve of the road brought them within sight of the hotel.
Scott broke the silence. "Here is Eustace coming to meet us!"
She looked up with a start, and into her face came a curious, veiled expression, half furtive, half afraid.
"Don't tell him, Stumpy!" she said quickly.
"What, dear?"
"Don't tell him I have been looking for Basil this morning. He—he wouldn't understand. And—and—you know—I must look for him sometimes. I shall lose him altogether if I don't."
"Shall we pretend we are enjoying ourselves?" said Scott with a smile.
She answered him with feverish earnestness. "Yes—yes! Let us do that! And, Stumpy, Stumpy dear, you are good, you can pray. I can't, you know. Will you—will you pray sometimes—that I may find him?"
"I shall pray that your eyes may be opened, Isabel," he answered, "so that you may know you have never really lost him."
She smiled again, her fleeting, phantom smile. "Don't pray for the impossible, Stumpy!" she said. "I—I think that would be a mistake."
"Is anything impossible?" said Scott.
He raised his hand before she could make any answer, and sent a cheery holloa down to his brother who waved a swift response. They quickened their steps to meet him.
Eustace was striding up the hill with the easy swing of a giant. He held out both hands to Isabel as he drew near. She pulled herself free from Scott, and went to him as one drawn by an unseen force.
"Ah, that's right," he said, and bent to kiss her. "I'm glad you've been for a walk. But you might have come and spoken to me first. I was only on the rink."
"I didn't want to see a lot of people," said Isabel, shrinking a little. "I—I don't like so many strangers, Eustace."
"Oh, nonsense!" he said lightly. "You have been buried too long. It's time you came out of your shell. I shan't take you home again till you have quite got over that."
His tone was kindly but it held authority. Isabel attempted no protest. Only she looked away over the sparkling world of white and blue with something near akin to despair in her eyes.
Scott took out his cigarette-case, and handed it to his brother. "Isabel's birthday present to me!" he said.
Eustace examined it with a smile. "Very nice! Did you think of it all by yourself, Isabel?"
"No," she said with dreary listlessness. "Biddy reminded me."
Eustace's face changed. He frowned slightly and gave the case back to his brother.
"Have a cigarette!" said Scott.
He took one absently, and Scott did the same.
"How did you get on with the lady in red?" he asked.
Eustace threw him a glance half-humorous, half-malicious. "If it comes to that, how did you get on with the little brown girl?"
"Oh, very nicely," smiled Scott. "Her name is Dinah. Your lady's name is Rose de Vigne, if you care to know."
"Really?" said Eustace. "And who told you that?"
"Dinah, of course, or Dinah's brother. I forget which. They belong to the same party."
"I should think that little snub-nosed person feels somewhat in the shade," observed Eustace.
"I expect she does. But she has plenty of wits to make up for it. She seems to find life quite an interesting entertainment."
"She can't skate a bit," said Eustace.
"Can't she? You'll have to give her a hint or two. I am sure she would be very grateful."
"Did she tell you so?"
"I'm not going to tell you what she told me. It wouldn't be fair."
Eustace laughed with easy tolerance. "Oh, I've no objection to giving her a hand now and then if she's amusing, and doesn't become a nuisance. I'm not going to let myself be bored by anybody this trip. I'm out for sport only."
"It's a lovely place," observed Scott.
"Oh, perfect. I'm going to ski this afternoon. How do you like it, Isabel?"
Abruptly the elder brother accosted her. She was walking between them as one in a dream. She started at the sound of her name.
"I don't know yet," she said. "It is rather cold, isn't it? I—I am not sure that I shall be able to sleep here."
Eustace's eyes held hers for a moment. "Oh, no one expects to sleep here," he said lightly. "You skate all day and dance all night. That's the programme."
Her lips parted a little. "I—dance!" she said.
"Why not?" said Eustace.
She made a gesture that was almost expressive of horror. "When I dance," she said, in her deep voice, "you may put me under lock and key for good and all, for I shall be mad indeed."
"Don't be silly!" he said sharply.
She shrank as if at a blow, and on the instant very quietly Scott intervened. "Isabel and I prefer to look on," he said, drawing her hand gently through his arm. "I fancy it suits us both best."
His eyes met his brother's quick frown deliberately, with the utmost steadiness, and for a few electric seconds there was undoubted tension between them. Isabel was aware of it, and gripped the supporting arm very closely.
Then with a shrug Eustace turned from the contest. "Oh, go your own way! It's all one to me. You're one of the slow coaches that never get anywhere."
Scott said nothing whatever. He smoked his cigarette without a sign of perturbation. Save for a certain steeliness in his pale eyes, his habitually placid expression remained unaltered.
He walked in silence for a few moments, then without effort began to talk in a general strain of their journey of the previous day. Had Isabel cared about the sleigh-ride? If so, they would go again one day.
She lighted up in response with an animation which she had not displayed during the whole walk. Her eyes shone a little, as with a far-off fire of gratitude.
"I should like it if you would, Stumpy," she said.
"Then we will certainly go," he said. "I should enjoy it very much."
Eustace came out of a somewhat sullen silence to throw a glance of half-reluctant approval towards his brother. He plainly regarded Scott's move as an achievement of some importance.
"Yes, go by all means!" he said. "Enjoy yourselves. That's all I ask."
Isabel's faint smile flitted across her tired face, but she said nothing.
Only as they reached and entered the hotel, she pressed Scott's hand for a moment in both her own.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAGICIAN
"Well, Dinah, my dear, are you ready?"
Rose de Vigne, very slim and graceful, with her beautiful hair mounted high above her white forehead and falling in a shower of golden ringlets behind after the style of a hundred years ago, stood on the threshold of Dinah's room, awaiting permission to enter. Her dress was of palest green satin brocade, a genuine Court dress of a century old. Her arms and neck gleamed with a snowy whiteness. She looked as if she had just stepped out of an ancient picture.
There came an impatient cry from within the room. "Oh, come in! Come in! I'm not nearly ready,—never shall be, I think. Where is Yvonne? Couldn't she spare me a single moment?"
The beautiful lady entered with a smile. She could afford to smile, being complete to the last detail and quite sure of taking the ballroom by storm. She found Dinah scurrying barefooted about the room with her hair in a loose bunch on her neck, her attire of the scantiest description, her expression one of wild desperation.
"I've lost my stockings. Where can they be? I know I had them this morning. Can Yvonne have taken them by mistake? She put everything ready for me,—or said she had."
The bed was littered with articles of clothing all flung together in hopeless confusion. Rose came forward. "Surely Yvonne didn't leave your things like this?" she said.
"No. I've been hunting through everything for the stockings. Where can they be? I shall have to go without them, that's all."
"My dear child, they can't be far away. You had better get on with your hair while I look for them. I am afraid you will not be able to count on any help from Yvonne to-night. She has only just finished dressing me, and has gone now to help Mother. You know what that means."
"Oh, goodness, yes!" said Dinah. "I wish I'd never gone in for this stupid fancy dress at all. I shall never be done."
Rose smiled in her indulgent way. She was always kind to Dinah. "Well, I can help you for a few minutes. I can't think how you come to be so late. I thought you came in long ago."
"Yes, but Billy wanted some buttons sewn on, and that hindered me." Dinah was dragging at her hair with impatient fingers. "What a swell you look, Rose! I'm sure no one will dare to ask you for any but square dances."
"Do you think so, dear?" said Rose, looking at herself complacently in the glass over Dinah's head.
Dinah made a sudden and hideous grimace. "Oh, drat my hair! I can't do anything with it. I believe I shall cut it all off, put on just a pinafore, and go as a piccaninny[4]."
"That sounds a little vulgar," observed Rose. "There are your stockings under the bed. You must have dropped them under. I should think the more simply you do your hair the better if you are going to wear a coloured kerchief over it. You have natural ringlets in front, and that is the only part that will show."
"And they will hang down over my eyes," retorted Dinah, "unless I fasten them back with a comb, which I haven't got. Oh, don't stay, Rose! I know you are wanting to go, and you can't help me. I shall manage somehow."
"Are you quite sure?" said Rose turning again to survey herself.
"Quite—quite! I shall get on best alone. I'm in a bad temper too, and I want to use language—horrid language," said Dinah, tugging viciously at her dark hair.
Rose lowered her stately gaze and watched her for a moment. Then as Dinah's green eyes suddenly flashed resentful enquiry upon her she lightly touched the girl's flushed cheek, and turned away. "Poor little Dinah!" she said.
The door closed upon her graceful figure in its old-world, sweeping robe and Dinah whizzed round from the glass like a naughty fairy in a rage. "Rose de Vigne, I hate you!" she said aloud, and stamped her unshod foot upon the floor.
A period of uninterrupted misfortune followed this outburst. Everything went wrong. The costume which the French maid had so deftly fitted upon her that morning refused to be adjusted properly. The fastenings baffled her, and finally a hook at the back took firm hold of the lawn of her sleeve and maliciously refused to be disentangled therefrom.
Dinah struggled for freedom for some minutes till the lawn began to tear, and then at last she became desperate. "Billy must do it," she said, and almost in tears she threw open the door and ran down the passage.
Billy's room was round a corner, and this end of the corridor was dim. As she turned it, she almost collided with a figure coming in the opposite direction—a boyish-looking figure in evening dress which she instantly took for Billy.
"Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed. "Do come along and help me like a saint! I'm in such a fix."
There was an instant's pause before she discovered her mistake, and then in the same moment a man's voice answered her.
"Of course I will help you with pleasure. What is wrong?"
Dinah started back, as if she would flee in dismay. But perhaps it was the kindness of his response, or possibly only the extremity of her need—something held her there. She stood her ground as it were in spite of herself.
"Oh, it is you! I do beg your pardon. I thought it was Billy. I've got my sleeve caught up at the back, and I want him to undo it."
"I'll undo it if you will allow me," said Scott.
"Oh, would you? How awfully kind! My arm is nearly broken with trying to get free. You can't see here though," said Dinah. "There's a light by my door."
"Let us go to it then!" said Scott. "I know what it is to have things go wrong at a critical time."
He accompanied her back again with the utmost simplicity, stopped by the light, and proceeded with considerable deftness to remedy the mischief.
"Oh, thank you!" said Dinah, with heart-felt gratitude as he freed her at last. "Billy would have torn the stuff in all directions. I'm dressing against time, you see, and I've no one to help me."
"Do you want any more help?" asked Scott, looking at her with a quizzical light in his eyes.
She laughed, albeit she was still not far from tears. "Yes, I want someone to pin a handkerchief on my head in the proper Italian fashion. I don't look much like a contadina yet, do I?"
He surveyed her more critically. "It's not a bad get-up. You look very nice anyhow. If you like to bring me the handkerchief, I will see what I can do. I know a little about it from the point of view of an amateur artist. You want some earrings. Have you got any?"
Dinah shook her head. "Of course not."
"I believe my sister has," said Scott. "I'll go and see."
"Oh no, no! What will she think?" cried Dinah in distress.
He uttered his quiet laugh. "I will present you to her by-and-bye if I may. I am sure she will be interested and pleased. You finish off as quickly as you can! I shall be back directly."
He limped away again down the passage, moving more quickly than was his wont, and Dinah hastened back into her room wondering if this informality would be regarded by her chaperon as a great breach of etiquette.
"Rose thinks I'm vulgar," she murmured to herself. "I wonder if I really am. But really—he is such a dear little man. How could I possibly help it?"
