_ PART II CHAPTER XXIX. THE SEVENTH HEAVEN
They were married in the early morning at the little old church that had nestled for centuries among its trees in the village on the cliff. The absolute simplicity of the service deprived it of all terrors for Dinah. Standing with Scott in the glow of sunlight that smote full upon them through the mellow east window, she could not feel afraid. The whole world was so bright, so full of joy.
"Do you think Isabel can see us now?" she whispered to him, as they rose together from kneeling before the altar.
He did not answer her in words, but his pale eyes were shining with that steadfast light of the spirit which she had come to know. She wished she could have knelt there by his side a little longer. They seemed to be so near to the Gates of Heaven.
But they were not alone, and they could not linger. Sir Eustace who had given her away, Biddy who had tenderly supported her, the nurse who carried the fragrant bouquet of honeysuckle--the bond of love--which she had herself gathered for the bride, all were waiting to draw them back to earth again; and with Scott's hand clasping hers she turned regretfully and left the holy place.
Later, when Sir Eustace kissed her with the careless observation that he always kissed a bride, she had a moment of burning shyness, and she would gladly have hidden her face. But Scott did not kiss her. He had not offered to do so since that wonderful moment when he had first held her against his heart. He had not attempted to make love to her, and she had not felt the need of it. Grave and practical, he had laid his plans before her, and with the supreme confidence that he had always inspired in her she had acquiesced to all.
At his desire she had refrained from entering Isabel's death-chamber. At his desire she was to leave that day for the Dower House that was to be their home. Biddy would accompany her thither. The place was ready for occupation, for by Isabel's wish the work had gone on, though both she and Scott had known that they would never share a home there. It almost seemed as if she had foreseen the fulfilment of her earnest wish. And here Dinah was to await her husband.
"I won't come to you till the funeral is over," he said to her. "I must be with Eustace. You won't be unhappy?"
No, she would not be unhappy. She had never been so near to Death before, but she was neither frightened nor dismayed. She stood in the shadow indeed, but she looked forth from it over a world of such sunshine as filled her heart with quivering gladness.
He did not want her to attend the funeral at Willowmount, would not, if he could help it, suffer her so much as to see the trappings of woe; and in this Dinah acquiesced also, comprehending fully the motive that underlay his wish. She knew that the earthly formalities, though they had to be faced, were to Scott something of the nature of a grim farce in which, while he could not escape it himself, he was determined that she should take no part. He was not mourning for Isabel. He would not pretend to mourn. Her death was to him but as the opening wide of a prison-door to one who had long lain captive, pining for liberty. He would follow the poor worn body to its grave rather with thanksgiving than with grief. And realizing so well that this was his inevitable feeling, even as in a smaller degree it had become her own, Dinah agreed without demur to his wish to spare her all the jarring details, the travesty of mourning, that could not fail to strike a false chord in her soul.
It was well for her that she had Biddy to think of. The old woman was pathetically eager to serve her. She had in fact attached herself to Dinah in a fashion that went to her heart. It was Miss Isabel's wish that she should take care of her, she told her tremulously, and Dinah, knew that it had been equally her friend's wish that she should care for Biddy.
And Biddy was very good. Probably in accordance with Scott's desire, she made a great effort to throw off all gloom, and undoubtedly her own sense of loss and bereavement was greatly lessened by the consciousness of Dinah's need of her.
"Time enough to weep later," she told herself, as she lay down in the room adjoining Dinah's on that first night in the Dower House. "She'll not be wanting old Biddy when Master Scott comes to her."
The two days that followed were very fully occupied. There were curtains and pictures to hang, furniture to be arranged, and many things to be unpacked. Dinah went to the work with zest. She did not know when Scott would come. But it would be soon, she knew it would be soon; and she thrilled to the thought. Everything must be ready for him. She wanted him to feel that it was home from the moment he crossed the threshold.
So, with Biddy's help, she went about her preparations, enlisting the old nurse's sympathies till at last she succeeded in arousing her enthusiasm also. There was certainly no time to weep.
That second day after her arrival was the day of the funeral. It was a beautiful still day of summer, and in the afternoon Dinah and Biddy sat in the garden overlooking the winding river, and read the Burial Service together. It was Dinah's suggestion, somewhat shyly proffered, and--though she knew it not--from that time forward Biddy's heart was at her feet. Whatever tears there might be yet to shed had lost all bitterness from that hour.
"I'll never be lonely so long as there's you to love, Miss Dinah darlint," Biddy murmured, when the young arms closed about her neck for a moment ere they went back to their work. "Ye've warmed and comforted me all through."
It was late in the evening when dusk was falling that there came the sound of an uneven tread on the gravel path before the Dower House.
Dinah was the first to hear it. Dinah wearing one of Biddy's voluminous aprons and mounted on a pair of steps, arranging china on a high shelf that ran round the old square hall.
The front-door was open, and the birds were singing in the gloaming. She had been listening to them while she worked, when suddenly this new sound came. Her heart gave a wild leap and stood still. She had not expected him to-night.
She sat down on the top of the steps with a swift, indescribable rush of feeling that seemed to deprive her of all her strength. She could not have said for the moment if she were glad or dismayed at the sound of that quiet footfall. But she was quite powerless to go and meet him. A great wave of shyness engulfed her, possessing her, overwhelming her.
He entered. He came straight to her. She wondered afterwards what he must have thought of her, sitting there on her perch in burning embarrassment with no word or sign of welcome. But whatever he thought, he dealt with the situation with unerring instinct.
He mounted a couple of steps with hands stretched up to hers. "Why, my Dinah!" he said. "How busy you are! Let me help!"
Her heart throbbed on again, fast and hard. But still for a few seconds she could not speak. She stooped with a soft endearing sound and laid her face upon the hands that had clasped her own.
He suffered her for a moment or two in silence; she thought his hands trembled slightly. Then: "Let's get finished, little wife!" he said gently. "Isn't the day's work nearly over? Can't we take off our sandals--and rest?"
"I have just done," she said, finding her voice. "Biddy and I have got through such a lot. Oh, Scott," as the light fell upon his face, "how tired you look!"
"It has been rather a tiring day," he made answer. "I didn't think I could get over here to-night; but Eustace insisted."
"How good of him!" she said, with quick gratitude.
"Yes, he is good," Scott's voice was tender. "I couldn't sleep last night, and he came into my room, and we had a long talk. He is one of the best, Dinah; one of the best. I'm afraid you've made--rather a poor exchange."
Something in his tone banished the last of Dinah's shyness. She gave him her basket of china and prepared to descend. He stretched up a courteous hand to help her, but she would have none of it. "You are never to say that--or anything like it--again," she said severely. "If--if you weren't so dreadfully tired, I believe I'd be really angry. As it is--" she reached the ground and stood there before him, a small, purposeful figure clad in the great apron that wrapped about her like a garment.
"As it is--" he suggested meekly, setting the basket on a chair and turning back to face her.
Two quivering hands came out to him in the gloaming, and fastened resolutely on his coat. "Oh, Greatheart," whispered a tremulous voice, "I love you so much--so much--I want--to kiss you!"
"My darling," answered Greatheart softly, "you can't want it--more than I do."
His arms closed about her; he drew her to his breast.
* * * * *
"Arrah thin, what would I cry for at all?" said Biddy, as she lay down that night. "I've got herself and Master Scott to care for, and maybe--some day--the Almighty will remember old Biddy for good, and give another little one into her care."
* * * * *
"And you left them quite happy?" smiled Rose to her lover two days later. "It's a very suitable arrangement, isn't it? I always used to think that Dinah and your brother should make a match."
"Oh, quite suitable," agreed Eustace lazily, an odd blend of irony and satisfaction in his tone. "They will be happy enough. Stumpy, you know, is just the sort of chivalrous ass that a child like Dinah can appreciate. They'll probably live in the seventh heaven, and fancy that no one else has ever been within a million miles of it."
"Poor little Dinah!" murmured Rose. "She will never know what she has missed."
And, "Just as well perhaps," said Sir Eustace, with his faintly cynical smile.
[THE END]
Ethel May Dell's Novel: Greatheart
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