NEWS FROM THE EAST
"I have been wondering," Grange said in his shy, rather diffident way,
"if you would care to do any riding while I am here."
"I?" Muriel looked up in some surprise.
They were walking back from church together by a muddy field-path, and
since neither had much to say at any time, they had accomplished more
than half the distance in silence.
"I know you do ride," Grange explained, "and it's just the sort of
country for a good gallop now and then. Daisy isn't allowed to, but I
thought perhaps you--"
"Oh, I should like to, of course," Muriel said. "I haven't done any
riding since I left Simla. I didn't care to alone."
"Ah! Lady Bassett rides, doesn't she? She is an accomplished
horsewoman, I believe?"
"I don't know," Muriel's reply was noticeably curt. "I never rode with
her."
Grange at once dropped the subject, and they became silent again.
Muriel walked with her eyes fixed straight before her. But she did not
see the brown earth underfoot or the bare trees that swayed overhead
in the racing winter wind. She was back again in the heart of the
Simla pines, hearing horses' feet that stamped below her window in the
dawning, and a gay, cracked voice that sang.
Her companion's voice recalled her. "I suppose Daisy will stay here
for the summer."
"I suppose so," she answered.
Grange went on with some hesitation. "The little chap doesn't look as
if he would ever stand the Indian climate. What will happen? Will she
ever consent to leave him with the Ratcliffes?"
"I am quite certain she won't," Muriel answered, with unfaltering
conviction. "She simply lives for him."
"I thought so," Grange said rather sadly. "It would go hard with her
if--if--"
Muriel's dark eyes flashed swift entreaty. "Oh, don't say it! Don't
think it! I believe it would kill her."
"She is stronger, though?" he questioned almost sharply.
"Yes, yes, much stronger. Only--not strong enough for that. Captain
Grange, it simply couldn't happen."
They had reached a gate at the end of the field. Grange stopped before
it, and spoke with sudden, deep feeling.
"If it does happen, Muriel," he said, using her Christian name quite
unconsciously, "we shall have to stand by her, you and I. You won't
leave her, will you? You would be of more use to her than I. Oh,
it's--it's damnable to see a woman in trouble and not be able to
comfort her."
He brought his ungloved hand down upon the gate-post with a violence
that drew blood; then, seeing her face of amazement, thrust it hastily
behind him.
"I'm a fool," he said, with his shy, semi-apologetic smile. "Don't
mind me, Miss Roscoe. You know, I--I'm awfully fond of Daisy, always
was. My people were her people, and when they died we were the only
two left, as it were. Of course she was married by that time, and
there are some other relations somewhere. But we've always hung
together, she and I. You can understand it, can't you?"
Muriel fancied she could, but his vehemence startled her none the
less. She had not deemed him capable of such intensity.
"I suppose you feel almost as if she were your sister," she remarked,
groping half-unconsciously for an explanation.
Grange was holding the gate open for her. He did not instantly reply.
Then, "I don't exactly know what that feels like," he said, with an
odd shame-facedness. "But in so far as that we have been playfellows
and chums all our lives, I suppose you might describe it in that way."
And Muriel, though she wondered a little at the laborious honesty of
his reply, was satisfied that she understood.
She was drifting into a very pleasant friendship with Blake Grange.
He seemed to rely upon her in an indefinable fashion that made their
intercourse of necessity one of intimacy. Moreover, Daisy's habits
were still more or less those of an invalid, and this fact helped very
materially to throw them together.
To Muriel, emerging slowly from the long winter of her sorrow, the
growing friendship with this man whom she both liked and admired was
as a shaft of sunshine breaking across a grey landscape. Insensibly
it was doing her good. The deep shadow of a horror that once had
overwhelmed her was lifting gradually away from her life. In her
happier moments it almost seemed that she was beginning to forget.
Grange's suggestion that they should ride together awoke in her a
keener sense of pleasure than she had known since the tragedy of Wara
had darkened her young life, and for the rest of the day she looked
forward eagerly to the resumption of this her favourite exercise.
Daisy was delighted with the idea, and when on the following morning
Grange ransacked the town for suitable mounts and returned triumphant,
she declared gaily that she should take no further trouble for her
guest's entertainment. The responsibility from that day forth rested
with Muriel.
Muriel was by no means loth to assume it. They got on excellently
together, and their almost daily rides became a source of keen
pleasure to her. Winter was fast merging into spring, and the magic
of the coming season was working in her blood. There were times when
a sense of spontaneous happiness would come over her, she knew not
wherefore. Jim Ratcliffe no longer looked at her with stern-browed
disapproval.
She and Grange both became regular members of Olga's hockey team. They
shared most of their pursuits. Among other things she was learning the
accompaniments of his songs. Grange had a well-cultivated tenor voice,
to which Daisy the restless would listen for any length of time.
Altogether they were a very peaceful trio, and as the weeks slipped on
it almost seemed as if the quiet home life they lived were destined to
endure indefinitely. Grange spoke occasionally of leaving, but Daisy
would never entertain the idea for an instant, and he certainly did
not press it very strongly. He was not returning to India before
September, and the long summer months that intervened made the date
of his departure so remote as to be outside discussion. No one ever
thought of it.
But the long, quiet interval in the sleepy little country town,
interminable as it might feel, was not destined to last for ever. On
a certain afternoon in March, Grange and Muriel, riding home together
after a windy gallop across open country, were waylaid outside the
doctor's gate by one of the Ratcliffe boys.
The urchin was cheering at the top of his voice and dancing
ecstatically in the mud. Olga, equally dishevelled but somewhat more
coherent, was seated on the gate-post, her long legs dangling.
"Have you seen Dad? Have you heard?" was her cry. "Jimmy, come out of
the road. You'll be kicked."
Both riders pulled up to hear the news, Jimmy squirming away from
the horses' legs after a fashion that provoked even the mild-tempered
Grange to a sharp reproof.
"You haven't heard?" pursued Olga, ignoring her small brother's
escapade as too trifling to notice at such a supreme moment. "But you
haven't, of course, if you haven't seen Dad. The letter only came an
hour ago. It's Nick, dear old Nick! He's coming home at last!" In
her delight over imparting the information Olga nearly toppled over
backwards, only saving herself by a violent effort. "Aren't you glad,
Muriel? Aren't you glad?" she cried. "I was never so pleased in my
life!"
But Muriel had no reply ready. For some reason her animal had become
suddenly restive, and occupied the whole of her attention.
It was Grange who after a seconds hesitation asked for further
particulars. "What is he coming for? Is it sick leave?"
Olga nodded. "He isn't to stay out there for the hot weather. It's
something to do with his wound. He doesn't want to come a bit. But he
is to start almost at once. He may be starting now."
"Not likely," put in Jimmy. "The end of March was what he said. Dad
said he couldn't be here before the third week in April."
"Oh, well, that isn't long, is it?" said Olga eagerly. "Not when you
come to remember that it's three years since he went away. I do think
they might have given him the V.C., don't you? Captain Grange, why
hasn't he got the V.C.?"
Grange couldn't say, really. He advised her to ask the man himself.
He was observing Muriel with some uneasiness, and when she at length
abruptly waved her whip and rode sharply on as though her horse
were beyond her control, he struck spurs into his own and started in
pursuit.
Muriel passed her own gate at a canter, but hearing Grange behind her
she soon reined in, and they trotted some distance side by side in
silence.
But Grange was still uneasy. The girl's rigid profile had that stony,
aloof look that he had noted upon his arrival weeks before, and that
he had come to associate with her escape from Wara.
Nevertheless, when she presently addressed him it was in her ordinary
tone and upon a subject indifferent to them both. She had received a
shock, he knew, but she plainly did not wish him to remark it.
They rode quite soberly back again, and separated at the door.