CHAPTER XXXI

THE EAGLE HOVERS

Luncheon in the low, old-fashioned dining-room at Redlands with its

windows facing the open sea, with Olga beaming at the head of the

table, would have been a peaceful and pleasant meal, had Muriel's

state of mind allowed her to enjoy it. But Nick's treatment of her

overture had completely banished all enjoyment for her. She forced

herself to eat and to appear unconcerned, but she was quivering

inwardly with a burning sense of resentment. She was firmly determined

that she would never be alone with him again. He had managed by those

few scoffing words of his to arouse in her all the bitterness of which

she was capable. If she had feared him before, she hated him now with

the whole force of her nature.

He seemed to be blissfully unconscious of her hostility and played the

part of host with complete ease of manner. Long before the meal was

over, Grange had put aside his sullenness, and they were conversing

together as comrades.

Nick had plenty to say. He spoke quite openly of his illness, and

declared himself to have completely recovered from it. "Even Jim has

ceased his gruesome threats," he said cheerily. "There will be no more

lopping of branches this season. Just as well, for I chance to have

developed an affection for what is left."

"You're going back to the Regiment, I suppose?" Blake questioned.

"No, he isn't," thrust in Olga, and was instantly frowned upon by

Nick.

"Speak when you're spoken to, little girl! That's a question you are

not qualified to answer. I'm on half-pay at present, and I haven't

made up my mind."

"I should quit in your place," Grange remarked, with his eyes on the

dazzling sea.

"No doubt you would," Nick responded dryly. "And what should you

advise, Muriel?"

The question was unexpected, but she had herself in hand, and answered

it instantly. "I certainly shouldn't advise you to quit."

He raised his eyebrows. "Might one ask why?"

She was quite ready for him, inspired by an overmastering longing

to hurt him if that were possible. "Because if you gave up your

profession, you would be nothing but a vacuum. If the chance to

destroy life were put out of your reach, you would simply cease to

exist."

She spoke rapidly, her voice pitched very low. She was trembling all

over, and her hands were clenched under the table to hide it.

The laugh with which Nick received her words jarred intolerably upon

her. She heard nothing in it but deliberate cruelty.

"Great Lucifer!" he said. "You have got me under the microscope with

a vengeance. But you can't see through me, you know. I have a reverse

side. Hadn't you better turn me over and look at that? There may be

sorcery and witchcraft there as well."

There might be. She could well have imagined it. But these were lesser

things in which she had no concern. She turned his thrust aside with

disdain.

"I am not sufficiently interested," she said. "The little I know is

enough."

"Well hit!" chuckled Nick. "I retire from the fray, discomfited. Olga

_mia_, I wish you would find the cigars. You know where they are."

Olga sprang to do his bidding. Having handed the box to Grange she

came to Nick and stood beside him while she cut and lighted a cigar

for him.

He put his arm round her for a moment, and she stooped a flushed face

and kissed the top of his head.

"Run along," said Nick. "Take Muriel into the garden. She hasn't seen

it all."

Muriel rose. "We mustn't be late in starting back," she remarked to

Blake.

But Olga lingered to whisper vehemently in Nick's ear.

He laughed and shook his head. "Go, child, go! You don't know anything

about it. And Muriel is waiting. You should never keep a guest

waiting."

Olga went reluctantly. They passed out into the clear June sunshine

together and down towards the shady shrubberies beyond the lawns.

"Can Nick play tennis?" Muriel asked, as they crossed a marked-out

court.

"Yes, he can do anything," the child said proudly. "He was on

horseback this morning, and he managed splendidly. We generally

play tennis in the evening. He almost always wins. His services are

terrific. I can't think how he does it. He calls it juggling. I try to

manage with only one hand sometimes--just to keep him company--but I

always make a mess of things. There's no one in the world as clever as

Nick."

Muriel felt inclined to agree with her, though in her opinion this

distinguishing quality was not an altogether admirable one. She

infinitely preferred people with fewer brains. She would not, however,

say this to Olga, and they paced on together under the trees in

silence. Suddenly a warm hand slid within her arm, and Olga's grey

eyes, very loving and wistful, looked up into hers.

"Muriel darling," she whispered softly, "don't you--don't you--like

Nick after all?"

The colour rushed over Muriel's face in a vivid flood.

"Like him! Like him!" she stammered. "Why do you ask?"

"Because, dear--don't be vexed, I love you frightfully--you did hurt

him so at lunch," explained Olga, pressing very close to her.

"Hurt him! Hurt him!" Again Muriel repeated her words, then,

recovering sharply, broke into a sudden laugh. "My dear child, I

couldn't possibly do such a thing if I tried."

"But you did, you did!" persisted Olga, a faint note of indignation in

her voice. "You don't know Nick. He feels--tremendously. Of course

you might not see it, for it doesn't often show. But I know--I always

know--when he is hurt, by the way he laughs. And he was hurt to-day."

She stuck firmly to her point, notwithstanding Muriel's equally

persistent attitude of incredulity, till even Muriel was conscious at

last in her inner soul of a faint wonder, a dim and wholly negligible

sense of regret. Not that she would under any circumstances have

recalled that thrust of hers. She felt it had been dealt in fair

fight; but even in fair fight there come sometimes moments of regret,

when one feels that the enemy's hand has been intentionally slack. She

knew well that, had he chosen, Nick might have thrust back, instantly

and disconcertingly, as his manner was. But he had refrained, merely

covering up his wound--if wound there had been--with the laugh that

had so wrung Olga's loving heart. His ways were strange. She would

never understand him. But she would like to have known how deep that

thrust had gone.

Could she have overheard the conversation between Nick and his

remaining guest that followed her departure, she might have received

enlightenment on this point, but Nick took very good care to ensure

that that conversation should be overheard by none.

As soon as Grange had finished his coffee, he proposed a move to the

library, and led the way thither, leaving his own drink untouched

behind him.

The library was a large and comfortable apartment completely shut

away from the rest of the house, and singularly ill-adapted for

eavesdroppers. The windows looked upon a wide stretch of lawn upon

which even a bird could scarcely have lingered unnoticed. The light

that filtered in through green sun-blinds was cool and restful. An

untidy writing-table and a sofa strewn with cushions in disorderly

attitudes testified to the fact that Nick had appropriated this room

for his own particular den. There was also a sun-bonnet tossed upon a

chair which seemed to indicate that Olga at least did not regard his

privacy as inviolable. The ancient brown volumes stacked upon shelves

that ranged almost from floor to ceiling were comfortably undisturbed.

It was plainly a sanctum in which ease and not learning ruled supreme.

Nick established his visitor in an easy-chair and hunted for an

ash-tray. Grange watched him uncomfortably.

"I'm awfully sorry about your arm, Ratcliffe," he said at length. "A

filthy bit of bad luck that."

"Damnable," said Nick.

"I've been meaning to look you up for a long time," Grange proceeded,

"but somehow it hasn't come off."

Nick laughed rather dryly. He was perfectly well aware that Grange had

been steadily avoiding him ever since his return. "Very good of you,"

he said, subsiding upon the sofa and pulling the cushions about him.

"I've been saving up my congratulations for you all these weeks. I

might have written, of course, but I had a notion that the spoken word

would be more forcible."

Grange stirred uneasily, neither understanding nor greatly relishing

Nick's tone. He wished vehemently that he would leave the subject

alone.

Nick, however, had no such intention. A faint fiendish smile was

twitching the corners of his lips. He did not even glance in Blake's

direction. There was no need.

"Well, I wish you joy," he said lightly.

"Thank you," returned Grange, without elation and with very little

gratitude. In some occult fashion, Nick was making it horribly awkward

for him. He longed to change the subject, but could find nothing to

say--possibly because Nick quite obviously had not yet done with it.

"Going to get married before you sail?" he asked abruptly.

"I don't think so." Very reluctantly Grange made reply.

"Why not?" said Nick.

"Muriel doesn't want to be married till she is out of mourning,"

Grange explained.

"Why doesn't she go out of mourning then?"

Grange didn't know, hadn't even thought of it.

"Perhaps she will elect to wear mourning all her life," suggested

Nick. "Have you thought of that?"

There was a distinct gibe in this, and Grange at once retreated to a

less exposed position. "I am quite willing to wait for her," he said.

"And she knows it."

"You're deuced easily pleased then," rejoined Nick. "And let me tell

you--for I'm sure you don't know--there's not a single woman under the

sun who appreciates that sort of patience."

Grange ignored the information with a decidedly sullen air. He did

not regard Nick as particularly well qualified to give him advice upon

such a subject.

After a moment Nick saw his attitude, and laughed aloud. "Yes, say it,

man! It's quite true in a sense, and I shouldn't contradict you if it

weren't. But has it never occurred to you that I was under a terrific

disadvantage from the very beginning? Do you remember that I undertook

the job that you shirked? Or do you possibly present the matter to

yourself--and others--in some more attractive form?"

He turned upon his elbow with the question and regarded Grange with an

odd expectancy. But Grange smoked in silence, not raising his eyes.

Suddenly Nick spoke in a different tone, a tone that was tense without

vibrating. "It doesn't matter how you put it. The truth remains.

You didn't love her then. If you had loved her, you must have been

ready--as I was ready--to make the final sacrifice. But you were not

ready. You hung back. You let me take the place which only a man who

cared enough to protect her to the uttermost could have taken. You

let me do this thing, and I did it. I brought her through untouched. I

kept her--night and day I kept her--from harm of any sort. And she has

been my first care ever since. You won't believe this, I daresay, but

it's true. And--mark this well--I will only let her go to the man who

will make her happy. Once I meant to be that man. You don't suppose,

do you, that I brought her safe through hell just for the pleasure of

seeing her marry another fellow? But it's all the same now what I did

it for. I've been knocked out of the running." His eyelids suddenly

quivered as if at a blow. "It doesn't matter to you how. It wasn't

because she fancied any one else. She hadn't begun to think of you

in those days. I let her go, never mind why. I let her go, but she is

still in my keeping, and will be till she is the actual property of

another man--yes, and after that too. I saved her, remember. I won the

right of guardianship over her. So be careful what you do. Marry her

if you love her. But if you don't, leave her alone. She shall be no

man's second best. That I swear."

He ceased abruptly. His yellow face was full of passion. His hand was

clenched upon the sofa-cushion. The whole body of the man seemed to

thrill and quiver with electric force.

And then in a moment it all passed. As at the touching of a spring his

muscles relaxed. The naked passion was veiled again--the old mask of

banter replaced.

He stretched out his hand to the man who had sat in silence and

listened to that one fierce outburst of a force which till then had

contained itself.

"I speak as a fool," he said lightly. "Nothing new for me, you'll say.

But just for my satisfaction--because she hates me so--put your hand

in mine and swear you will seek her happiness before everything else

in the world. I shall never trouble you again after this fashion. I

have spoken."

Blake sat for several seconds without speaking. Then, as if impelled

thereto, he leaned slowly forward and laid his hand in Nick's. He

seemed to have something to say, but it did not come.

Nick waited.

"I swear," Blake said at length.

His voice was low, and he did not attempt to look Nick in the face,

but he obviously meant what he said.

And Nick seemed to be satisfied. In less than five seconds, he had

tossed the matter carelessly aside as one having no further concern in

it. But the memory of that interview was as a searing flame to Blake's

soul for long after.

For he knew that the man from whom Muriel had sought his protection

was more worthy of her than he, and his heart cried bitter shame upon

him for that knowledge.

It was with considerable difficulty that he responded to Nick's airy

nothings during the half-hour that followed, and the unusual alacrity

with which he seized upon his host's suggestion that he might care

to see the garden, testified to his relief at being released from the

obligation of doing so.

They went out together on to the wide lawn and sauntered down to a

summer-house on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the whole mighty

expanse of sea. It lay dreaming in the sunlight, with hardly a ripple

upon the long white beach below. And here they came upon Muriel and

Olga, sitting side by side on the grass.

Olga had just finished pulling a daisy to pieces. She tossed it away

at Nick's approach, and sprang to meet him.

"It's very disappointing," she declared. "It's the fourth time I've

done it, and it always comes the same. I've been making the daisies

tell Muriel's fortune, and it always comes to 'He would if he could,

but he can't.' You try this time, Nick."

"All right. You hold the daisy," said Nick.

Muriel looked up with a slightly heightened colour. "I think we ought

to be going," she remarked.

"We have just ordered the horses for four o'clock," Grange said

apologetically.

She glanced at the watch on her wrist--half-past three. Nick, seated

cross-legged on the grass in front of her, had already, with Olga's

able assistance, begun his game.

Swiftly the tiny petals fell from his fingers. He was very intent,

and in spite of herself Muriel became intent too, held by a most

unaccountable fascination. So handicapped was he that he could not

even pull a flower to pieces without assistance. And yet--

Suddenly he looked across at her. "He loves her!" he announced.

"Oh, Nick!" exclaimed Olga reproachfully. "You cheated! You pulled off

two!"

"He usually does cheat," Muriel observed, plucking a flower of grass

and regarding it with absorption.

"So do you," retorted Nick unexpectedly.

"I!" She looked at him in amazement. "What do you mean?"

"I sha'n't tell you," he returned, "because you know, or you would

know if you took the trouble to find out. Grange, I wish you would

give me a light. Hullo, Olga, there's a hawk! See him? Straight above

that cedar!"

All turned to look at the dark shape of the bird hovering in mid-air.

Seconds passed. Suddenly there was a flashing, downward swoop, and the

sky was empty.

Olga exclaimed, and Nick sent up a wild whoop of applause. Muriel gave

a great start and glanced at him. For a single instant his look met

hers; then with a sick shudder, she turned aside.

"You are cold," said Grange.

Yes, she was cold. It was as if an icy hand had closed upon her heart.

As from an immense distance, she heard Olga's voice of protest.

"Oh, Nick, how can you cheer?"

And his careless reply. "My good child, don't grudge the poor creature

his dinner. Even a bird of prey must live. Come along! We'll go in to

tea. Muriel is cold."

They went in, and again his easy hospitality overcame all

difficulties.

When at length the visitors rode away, they left him grinning a cheery

farewell from his doorstep. He seemed to be in the highest spirits.

They were more than half-way home when Muriel turned impetuously to

her companion, breaking a long silence.

"Blake," she said, "I am ready to marry you as soon as you like."

PART IV

CHAPTER XXXII

THE FACE IN THE STORM

Muriel saw very little of her _fiancé_ during the weeks that followed

their visit to Redlands. There was not indeed room for him at the

cottage at Brethaven which she and Daisy had taken for the summer

months. He had, moreover, several visits to pay, and his leave would

be up in September.

Muriel herself, having once made her decision, had plenty to occupy

her. They had agreed to adhere to Sir Reginald Bassett's plan for

them, and to be married in India some time before Christmas. But she

did not want to go to Lady Bassett's sister before she left England,

and she was glad when Daisy declared that she herself would go to town

with her in the autumn.

A change had come over Daisy of late, a change which Muriel keenly

felt, but which she was powerless to define. It seemed to date from

the arrival of Nick though she did not definitely connect it with him.

There was nothing palpable in it, nothing even remotely suggestive

of a breach between them; only, subconsciously as it were, Muriel had

become aware that their silence, which till then had been the silence

of sympathy, had subtly changed till it had become the silence of a

deep though unacknowledged reserve. It was wholly intangible, this

change. No outsider would have guessed of its existence. But to the

younger girl it was always vaguely present. She knew that somewhere

between herself and her friend there was a locked door. Her own

reserve never permitted her to attempt to open it. With a species of

pride that was largely composed of shyness, she held aloof. But she

was never quite unconscious of the opposing barrier. She felt that the

old sweet intimacy, that had so lightened the burden of her solitude,

was gone.

Meanwhile, Daisy was growing stronger, and day by day more active. She

never referred to her baby, and very seldom to her husband. When his

letters arrived she invariably put them away with scarcely a glance.

Muriel sometimes wondered if she even read them. It was pitifully

plain to her that Will Musgrave's place in his wife's heart was very,

very narrow. It had dwindled perceptibly since the baby's death.

On the subject of Will's letters, Nick could have enlightened her, for

he always appeared at the cottage on mail-day for news. But Muriel,

having discovered this habit, as regularly absented herself, with the

result that they seldom met. He never made any effort to see her. On

one occasion when she came unexpectedly upon him and Olga, shrimping

along the shore, she was surprised that he did not second the child's

eager proposal that she should join them. He actually seemed too keen

upon the job in hand to pay her much attention.

And gradually she began to perceive that this was the attitude towards

her that he had decided to assume. What it veiled she knew not, nor

did she inquire. It was enough for her that hostilities had ceased.

Nick apparently was bestowing his energies elsewhere.

Midsummer passed, and a July of unusual heat drew on. Dr. Jim and his

wife and boys had departed to Switzerland. Nick and Olga had elected

to remain at Redlands. They were out all day long in the motor or

dogcart, on horseback or on foot. Life was one perpetual picnic to

Olga just then, and she was not looking forward to the close of the

summer holidays when, so her father had decreed, she was to return to

her home and the ordinary routine. Nick's plans were still unsettled

though he spoke now and then of a prospective return to India. He must

in any case return thither, so he once told her, whether he decided

to remain or not. It was not a pleasant topic to Olga, and she always

sought to avoid any allusion to it. After the fashion of children, she

lived in the present, and enjoyed it to the full: bathing with

Muriel every morning, and spending the remainder of the day in Nick's

society. The friendship between these two was based upon complete

understanding. They had been comrades as long as Olga could remember.

Given Nick, it was very seldom that she desired any one besides.

Muriel had ceased to marvel over this strange fact. She had come to

realise that Nick was, and always must be, an enigma to her. In

the middle of July, when the heat was so intense as to be almost

intolerable, Daisy received a pressing invitation to visit an old

friend, and to go yachting on the Broads. She refused it at first

point-blank; but Muriel, hearing of the matter before the letter was

sent, interfered, and practically insisted upon a change of decision.

"It is the very thing for you," she declared. "Brethaven has done

its best for you. But you want a dose of more bracing air to make you

quite strong again. It's absurd of you to dream of throwing away such

an opportunity. I simply won't let you do it."

"But how can I possibly leave you all alone?" Daisy protested. "If the

Ratcliffes were at home, I might think of it, but--"

"That settles it," Muriel announced with determination. "I never heard

such nonsense in my life. What do you think could possibly happen

to me here? You know perfectly well that a couple of weeks of my own

society would do me no harm whatever."

So insistent was she, that finally she gained her point, and Daisy,

albeit somewhat reluctantly, departed for Norfolk, leaving her to her

own devices.

The heat was so great in those first days of solitude that Muriel was

not particularly energetic. Apart from her early swim with Olga, and

an undeniably languid stroll in the evening, she scarcely left the

precincts of the cottage: No visitors came to her. There were none but

fisher-folk in the little village. And so her sole company consisted

of Daisy's _ayah_ and the elderly English cook.

But she did not suffer from loneliness. She had books and work in

plenty, and it was even something of a relief, though she never owned

it, to be apart from Daisy for a little. They never disagreed, but

always at the back of her mind there lay the consciousness of a gulf

between them.

She was at first somewhat anxious lest Nick should feel called upon

to entertain her, and should invite her to accompany him and Olga upon

some of their expeditions. But he did not apparently think of it, and

she was always very emphatic in assuring Olga that she was enjoying

her quiet time.

She and Nick had not met for some weeks, and she began to think it

more than probable that they would not do so during Daisy's absence.

Under ordinary circumstances this expectation of hers would doubtless

have been realised, for Nick had plainly every intention of keeping

out of her way; but the day of emergency usually dawns upon a world of

sleepers.

The brooding heat culminated at last in an evening of furious storm,

and Muriel speedily left the dinner-table to watch the magnificent

spectacle of vivid and almost continuous lightning over the sea.

It was a wonder that always drew her. She did not feel the nervous

oppression that torments so many women, or if she felt it she rose

above it. The splendour of the rising storm lifted her out of herself.

She had no thought for anything else.

For more than half an hour she stood by the little sitting-room

window, gazing out upon the storm-tossed water. It had not begun to

rain, but the sound of it was in the air, and the earth was waiting

expectantly. There seemed to be a feeling of expectation everywhere.

She was vaguely restless under it, curiously impatient for the climax.

It came at last, so suddenly, so blindingly, that she reeled back

against the curtain in sheer, physical recoil. The whole sky seemed to

burst into flame, and the crash of thunder was so instantaneous that

she felt as if a shell had exploded at her feet. Trembling, she hid

her face. The world seemed to rock all around her. For the first time

she was conscious of fear.

Then as the thunder died into a distant roar, the heavens opened as if

at a word of command, and in one marvellous, glittering sheet the rain

burst forth.

She lifted her head to gaze upon this new wonder that the incessant

lightning revealed. The noise was like the sharp rattle of musketry,

and it almost drowned the heavier artillery overhead. The window was

blurred and streaming, but the brilliance outside was such that every

detail in the little garden was clear to her notwithstanding. And

though she still trembled, she nerved herself to look forth.

An instant later she sprang backwards with a wild cry of terror.

A face--a wrinkled face that she knew--was there close against the

window-pane, and had looked into her own.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LIFTING OF THE MASK

Out of a curious numbness that had almost been a swoon there came to

her the consciousness of a hand that rapped and rapped and rapped

upon the pane. She had fled away to the farther end of the room in her

panic. She had turned the lamp low at the beginning of the storm, and

now it burned so dimly that it scarcely gave out any light at all.

Beyond the window, the lightning flashed with an awful luridness

upon the rushing hail. Beyond the window, looking in upon her, and

knocking, knocking, knocking, stood the figure of her dread.

She came to herself slowly, with a quaking heart. It was more horrible

to her than anything she had known since the days of her flight

from the beleaguered fort; but she knew that she must fight down her

horror, she knew as certainly as if a physical force compelled her

that she would have to go to the window, would have to open to the man

who waited there.

Slowly she brought her quivering body into subjection, while every

nerve twitched and clamoured to escape. Slowly she dragged herself

back to the vision that had struck her with that paralysis of terror.

Resisting feebly, invisibly compelled, she went.

He ceased to knock, and, his face against the pane, he spoke

imperatively. What he said, she could not hear in that tumult of

mighty sound. Only she felt his insistence, answered to it, was

mastered by it.

White-faced, with horror clutching at her heart, she undid the catch.

His one hand, strong, instinct with energy, helped her to raise the

sash. In a moment he was in the room, bare-headed, drenched from head

to foot.

She fell back before him, but he scarcely looked at her. He shut

the window sharply, then strode to the lamp, and turned it up.

Then, abruptly he wheeled and spoke in a voice half-kindly,

half-contemptuous. "Muriel, you're a little idiot!"

There was little in the words to comfort her, yet she was instantly

and vastly reassured. She was also for the moment overwhelmingly

ashamed, but he did not give her time to think of that.

"I couldn't get in any other way," he said. "I tried the doors first,

hammered at them, but no one came. Look here! Olga is ill, very ill,

and she wants you badly. Are you brave enough to come?"

"Oh!" Muriel said, with a gasp. "Now, do you mean? With--with you?"

He threw her an odd look under his flickering eyelids, and she noted

with a scared minuteness of attention the gleam of the lamplight on

their pale lashes. She had always hated pale eyelashes. They seemed to

her untrustworthy.

"Yes," he told her grimly. "All alone--with me--in the storm. Shall

you be afraid--if I give you my hand to hold? You've done it before."

Was he mocking her weakness? She could not say. She only knew that he

watched her with the intensity of an eagle that marks its quarry. He

did not mean her to refuse.

"What is the matter with Olga?" she asked.

"I don't know. I believe it is sunstroke. We were motoring in the

mid-day heat. She didn't seem to feel it at the time, but her head

ached when we got in. She is in a high fever now. I've sent my man on

in the motor to fetch Jim's locum from Weir. I should have brought the

dogcart myself, to fetch you, but I couldn't trust the horse in this."

"You left her alone to come here?" Muriel questioned.

He nodded. "I had no choice. She wished it. Besides, there were

none but women-folk left. She's got one of them with her, the least

imbecile of the lot, which isn't saying much. They're all terrified

of course at the storm--all except Olga. She is never afraid of

anything."

A frightful crash of thunder carried away his words. Before it had

rolled away, Muriel was at the door. She made a rapid sign to him, and

was gone.

Nick chafed up and down the room, waiting for her. The storm continued

with unabated violence, but he did not give it a thought. He was

counting the moments with feverish impatience.

Muriel's absence scarcely lasted for five minutes, but when she

came back all trace of fear had left her. Her face showed quiet and

matter-of-fact above the long waterproof in which she had wrapped

herself. Over her arm she carried a waterproof cloak.

She held it out to him. "It's one of Daisy's, but you are to wear it.

I think you must be mad to have come out without anything."

She put it round his shoulders; and he thanked her with a smothered

laugh.

A terrific blast of wind and rain met them as they emerged from the

cottage, nearly whirling Muriel off her feet. She made an instinctive

clutch at her companion and instantly her hand was caught fast in his.

He drew her arm close under his own, and she did not resist him. There

was something reassuring in his touch.

Later she wondered if they spoke at all during that terrible walk. She

could never recall a word on either side. And yet, though in a measure

frightened, she was not panic-stricken.

The storm was beginning to subside a little before they reached

Redlands, though the rain still fell heavily. In the intervals between

the lightning it was pitch dark. They had no lantern, but Nick was

undismayed. He walked as lightly and surely as a cat, and Muriel

had no choice but to trust herself unreservedly to his guidance. She

marvelled afterwards at the complete trust with which that night he

had managed to inspire her, but at the time she never questioned it.

Yet when the lights of Redlands shone at last through the gloom, she

breathed a sigh of relief. Instantly Nick spoke.

"Well done!", he said briefly. "You are your father's daughter still."

She knew that she flushed in the darkness, and was glad that he could

not see her face.

"You must go and get dry, first of all," he went on. "I told them to

light a fire somewhere. And you are to have some coffee too. Mind, I

say it."

To this she responded with some spirit. "I will if you will."

"I must go straight to Olga," he said. "I promised I would."

"Not in your wet things!" Muriel exclaimed. "No, Nick! Listen! I am

not wet, not as you are. Let me go to Olga first. You can send me some

coffee in her room if you like. But you must go at once and change.

Promise you will, Nick!"

She spoke urgently. For some reason the occasion seemed to demand it.

Nick was silent for a little, as if considering. Then as they finally

reached the porch he spoke in a tone she did not altogether fathom.

"I say, you are not going to shut me out, you know."

She looked up in astonishment. "Of course not. I never dreamt of such

a thing."

"All right," he said, and this time she knew he spoke with relief. "I

will do as you like then."

A moment more, and he opened the door, standing aside for her to pass.

She entered quickly, glad to be in shelter, and paused to slip off her

streaming waterproof. He took it from her, passing his hand over her

sleeve.

"You are sure you are not wet through?"

"Quite sure," she told him. "Take me straight up, won't you?"

"Yes. Come this way."

He preceded her up the wide stairs where he might have walked beside

her, not pausing for an instant till he stood at Olga's door.

"Go straight in," he said then. "She is expecting you. Tell her, if

she wants to know, that I am coming directly."

He passed on swiftly with the words, and disappeared into a room close

by.

Very softly Muriel turned the door-handle and entered. Olga's voice

greeted her before she was well in the room. It sounded husky and

strained.

"Muriel! Dear Muriel! I'm so glad you've come. I've wanted you so you

can't think. Where's Nick?"

"He is coming, dearest." Muriel went forward to the bed, and took in

hers the two hands eagerly extended.

The child was lying in an uneasy position, her hair streaming in a

disordered tangle about her flushed face. She was shivering violently

though the hands Muriel held were burning. "You came all through this

awful storm," she whispered. "It was lovely of you, dear. I hope you

weren't frightened."

Muriel sat down beside her. "And you have been left all alone," she

said.

"I didn't mind," gasped Olga. "Mrs. Ellis--that's the cook--was here

at first. But she was such an ass about the thunder that I sent her

away. I expect she's in the coal cellar."

A gleam of fun shone for an instant in her eyes, and was gone. The

fevered hands closed tightly in Muriel's hold. "I feel so ill," she

murmured, "so ill."

"Where is it, darling?" Muriel asked her tenderly.

"It's, it's all over me," moaned Olga. "My head worst, and my throat.

My throat is dreadful. It makes me want to cry."

There was little that Muriel could do to ease her. She tied back the

tossing hair, and rearranged the bedclothes; then sat down by her

side, hoping she might get some sleep.

Not long after, Nick crept in on slippered feet, but Olga heard him

instantly, and started up with out-flung arms. "Nick, darling, I want

you! I want you! Come quite close! I think I'm going to die. Don't let

me, Nick!"

Muriel rose to make room for him, but he motioned her back sharply;

then knelt down himself by the child's pillow and took her head upon

his arm.

"Stick to it, sweetheart!" he murmured softly. "There's a medicine man

coming, and you'll be better presently." Olga cuddled against him

with a sigh, and comforted by the close holding of his arm dropped

presently into an uneasy doze.

Nick never stirred from his position, and mutely Muriel sat and

watched him. There was a wonderful tenderness about him just then, a

softness with which she was strangely familiar, but which almost she

had forgotten. If she had never seen him before that moment, she knew

that she would have liked him.

He seemed to have wholly forgotten her presence. His entire attention

was concentrated upon the child. His lips twitched from time to time,

and she knew that he was very anxious, intensely impatient under his

stillness for the doctor's coming. She remembered that old trick of

his. She had never before associated it with any emotion.

Suddenly he turned his head as if he had felt her scrutiny, and looked

straight into her eyes. It was only for a moment. His glance flickered

beyond her with scarcely a pause. Yet it was to her as if by that

swift look he had spoken, had for the first time made deep and

passionate protest against her bitter judgment of him, had as it were

shown her in a single flash the human heart beneath the jester's garb.

And again very deep down in her soul there stirred that blind,

unconscious entity, of the existence of which she herself had so vague

a knowledge, feeling upwards, groping outwards, to the light.

There came upon her a sudden curious sense of consternation--a feeling

as of a mental earthquake when the very foundations of the soul

are shaken. Had she conceivably been mistaken in him? With all her

knowledge of him, had she by some strange mischance--some maddening,

some inexplicable misapprehension--failed utterly and miserably to see

this man as he really was?

For the first time the question sprang up within her. And she found no

answer to it--only that breathless, blank dismay.

Softly Nick's voice broke in upon her seething doubt. He had laid Olga

back upon the pillow.

"The doctor is here. Do you mind staying with her while I go?"

"You'll come back, Nick?" the child urged, in her painful whisper.

"Yes, I'll come back," he promised. "Honest Injun!"

He touched her cheek lightly at parting, and Olga caught the caressing

hand and pressed it against her burning lips. Muriel saw his face

as he turned from the bed. It was all softened and quivering with

emotion.

CHAPTER XXXIV

AT THE GATE OF DEATH

In the morning they knew the worst. Olga had scarlet fever.

The doctor imparted the news to Nick and Muriel standing outside

the door of the sick-room. Nick's reception of it was by no

means characteristic. For the first time in her life Muriel saw

consternation undisguised upon the yellow face.

"Great Jupiter!" he said. "What a criminal ass I am!"

At another moment she could have laughed at the tragic force of his

self-arraignment. Even as it was, she barely repressed a smile as she

set his mind at rest. She needed no explanation. It was easy enough to

follow the trend of his thoughts just then.

"If you are thinking of me," she said, "I have had it."

She saw his instant relief, though he merely acknowledged the

statement by a nod.

"We must have a nurse," he said briefly. "We shall manage all right

then. I'll do my turn. Oh, stuff!" at a look from the doctor. "I

sha'n't hurt. I'm much too tough a morsel for microbes to feed on."

Possibly the doctor shared this opinion, for he made no verbal

protest. It fell to Muriel to do this later in the day when the nurse

was installed, and she was at liberty to leave Olga's room. Nick

had just returned from the post-office whence he had been sending a

message to the child's father. She came upon him stealing up to take a

look at her. Seeing Muriel he stopped. "How is she?"

Muriel moved away to an open window at the end of the passage before

she made reply. He followed her, and they stood together, looking out

upon the sunset.

"The fever is very high," she said. "And she is suffering a good deal

of pain. She is not quite herself at times."

"You mean she is worse?" He looked at her keenly.

It was exactly what she did mean. Olga had been growing steadily worse

all day. Yet when abruptly he turned to leave her, Muriel laid a hasty

hand upon his arm.

"Nick," she said, and her voice was almost imploring, "don't go in!

Please don't go in!"

He stopped short. "Why not?"

She removed her hand quickly. "It's so dangerous--besides being

unnecessary. Won't you be sensible about it?"

He gave his head a queer upward jerk, and stood as one listening, not

looking at her. "What for?"

She could not think of any very convincing reason for the moment. Yet

it was imperative that he should see the matter as she saw it.

"Suppose I had not had it," she ventured, "what would you have done?"

"Packed you off to the cottage again double quick," said Nick

promptly.

It was the answer she had angled for. She seized upon it. "Well, tell

me why."

He spun round on his heels and faced her. He was blinking very

rapidly. "You asked me that question once before," he said. "And out

of a sentimental consideration for your feelings--I didn't answer

it. Do you really want an answer this time, or shall I go on being

sentimentally considerate?"

She heard the old subtle jeering note in his voice, but its effect

upon her was oddly different from what it had ever been before. It

did not anger her, nor did it wholly frighten her. It dawned upon her

suddenly that, though possibly it lay in his power to hurt her, he

would not do so.

She answered him with composure. "I don't want you to be anything

but sensible, Nick. And it isn't sensible to expose yourself to

unnecessary risk. It's wrong."

"That's my lookout," said Nick.

It was indubitably; but she wanted very much to gain her point.

"Won't you at least keep away unless she asks for you?" she urged.

"You seem mighty anxious to get rid of me," said Nick.

"I am not," she returned quickly. "I am not. You know it isn't that."

"Do I?" he said quizzically. "It's one of the few things I shouldn't

have known without being told. Well, I'm sorry I can't consent to be

sensible as you call it. I am quite sure personally that there isn't

the slightest danger. It isn't so infectious at this stage, you know.

Perhaps by-and-by, when she is through the worst, I will think about

it."

He spoke lightly, but she was aware of the anxiety that underlay the

words. She said no more, reminding herself that argument with Nick was

always futile, sometimes worse. Nevertheless she found some comfort

in the smile with which he left her. He had refused to treat with her,

but his enmity--if enmity it could be called--was no longer active. He

had proclaimed a truce which she knew he would not break.

Olga was delirious that night, and privately Muriel was glad that she

had not been able to exclude him; for his control over the child was

wonderful. As once with a tenderness maternal he had soothed her,

so now he soothed Olga, patiently, steadfastly, even with a certain

cheeriness. It all came back to her as she watched him, the strength

of the man, his selfless devotion.

She could see that both doctor and nurse thought very seriously of

the child. The former paid a late visit, but said very little beyond

advising her to rest if she could in an adjacent room. Both Nick and

the nurse seconded this, and, seeing there was nothing that she could

do, she gave way in the matter, lying down as she was with but small

expectation of sleep. But she was wearier than she knew, and the

slumber into which she fell was deep, and would have lasted for some

hours undisturbed.

It was Nick who roused her, and starting up at his touch, she knew

instantly that what they had all mutely feared had drawn very near.

His face told her at a glance, for he made no effort to dissemble.

"The nurse thinks you had better come," was all he said.

She pushed the hair from her forehead, and turned without a word to

obey the summons. But at the door something checked her, something

cried aloud within her, bidding her pause. She stopped. Nick was close

behind her. Swiftly, obedient to the voice that cried, she stretched

out her hand to him. He gripped it fast, and she was conscious for an

instant of a curious gladness, a willingness to leave it in his hold,

that she had never experienced before. But at the door of Olga's room

he softly relinquished it, and drew back.

Olga was lying propped on pillows, and breathing quickly. The nurse

was bending over her with a glass, but Olga's face was turned away.

She was watching the door.

As Muriel came to her, the light eyes brightened to quick

intelligence, and the parted lips tried to speak. But no sound came

forth, and a frown of pain succeeded the effort.

Muriel stooped swiftly and grasped the slender hand that lay clenched

upon the sheet.

"There, darling! Don't try to talk. It hurts you so. We are both here,

Nick and I, and we understand all about it."

It was the first time she had ever voluntarily coupled herself with

him. It came to her instinctively to do it in that moment.

But Olga had something to say, something apparently that must be said.

With infinite difficulty she forced a husky whisper. Muriel stooped

lower to catch it, so low that her face was almost touching the face

upon the pillow.

"Muriel," came haltingly from the parched lips, "there's something--I

want--to say to you--about Nick."

Muriel felt the blood surging at her temples as the faint words

reached her. She would have given anything to know that he was out of

earshot.

"Won't you say it in the morning, darling?" she said, almost with

pleading in her voice. "It's so late now."

It was not late. It was very, very early--the solemn hour when

countless weary ones fall into their long sleep. And the moment she

had spoken, her heart smote her. Was she for her own peace of mind

trying to silence the child's last words on earth?

"No, never mind, dear," she amended tenderly. "I am listening to you.

Tell me now."

"Yes," panted Olga. "I must. I must. You remember--that day--with the

daisies--the day we saw--the hawk?"

Yes, well Muriel remembered it. The thought of it went through her

like a stab.

"Yes, dear. What of it?" she heard herself say.

"Well, you know--I've thought since--that the daisies meant Nick,

not--not--I can't remember his name, Muriel."

"Do you mean Captain Grange, dear?"

"Yes, yes, of course. He was there too, wasn't he? I'm sure now--quite

sure--they didn't mean him."

"Very likely not, dear."

"And Muriel--do you know--Nick was just miserable--after you went. I

sort of felt he was. And late--late that night I woke up, and I crept

down to him--in the library. And he had his head down on the table--as

if--as if--he was crying. Oh, Muriel!"

A sharp sob interrupted the piteous whisper. Muriel folded her arms

about the child, pillowing the tired head on her breast. All the fair

hair had been cut off earlier in the day. Its absence gave Olga a very

babyish appearance.

Brokenly, with many gasping pauses, the pathetic little story came to

an end. "I went to him--and I asked him what it was. And he--he looked

up with that funny face he makes--you know--and he just said, 'Oh,

it's all right. I've been feeding on dust and ashes all day long,

that's all. And it's dry fare for a thirsty man!' He thought--I

wouldn't know what he meant. But I did, Muriel. And I always wanted

to tell you. But--somehow--you wouldn't let me. He meant you. He was

hurt--so hurt--because you weren't kind to him. Oh, Muriel, won't

you--won't you--try to be kind to him now? Please, dear, please!"

Muriel's eyes sought Nick, and instantly a thrill of surprise and

relief shot through her. He had not heard that request of Olga's. She

doubted if he had heard anything. He was sunk in a chair well in the

background with his head on his hand, and looking at him she saw his

shoulders shake with a soundless sob.

She looked away again with a sense of trespass. This--this was the man

who had fought and cursed and slain under her eyes--the man from whose

violence she had shrunk appalled, whose strength had made her shudder

many a time. She had never imagined that he could grieve thus--even

for his little pal Olga.

Tenderly she turned back to the child. That single glimpse of the man

in pain had made it suddenly easy to grant her earnest prayer.

"I won't be unkind to him again, darling," she promised softly.

"Never any more?" insisted Olga.

"Never any more, my darling."

Olga made a little nestling movement against her. It was all she

wanted, and now that the effort of asking was over she was very tired.

The nurse drew softly back into the shadow, and a deep silence fell in

the room. Through it in a long, monotonous roar there came the sound

of the sea breaking, eternally breaking, along the beach.

No one moved. Olga's breathing was growing slower, so much slower that

there were times when Muriel, listening intently, fancied that it

had wholly ceased. She held the little slim body close in her arms,

jealously close, as though she were defying Death itself. And ever

through the stillness she could hear her own heart beating like the

hoofs of a galloping horse.

Slowly the night began to pass. The outline of the window-frame became

visible against a faint grey glimmer. The window was open, and a

breath of the coming dawn wandered in with the fragrance of drenched

roses. A soft rain was falling. The patter of it could be heard upon

the leaves.

Again Muriel listened for the failing breath, listened closely,

tensely, her face bent low to the fair head that lay so still upon her

breast.

But she heard nothing--nothing but her own heart quickening,

quickening, from fear to suspense, from suspense to the anguish of

conviction.

She lifted her face at last, and in the same instant there arose

a sudden flood of song from the sleeping garden, as the first lark

soared to meet the dawn.

Half-dazed, she listened to that marvellous outpouring of gladness, so

wildly rapturous, so weirdly holy. On, ever on, pealed the bird-voice;

on to the very Gates of Heaven, and it seemed to the girl who

listened as though she heard a child's spirit singing up the steeps

of Paradise. With her heart she followed it till suddenly she heard

no more. The voice ceased as it had begun, ceased as a burst of music

when an open door is closed--and there fell in its stead a silence

that could be felt.

CHAPTER XXXV

THE ARMISTICE

She could not have said for how long she sat motionless, the slight,

inert body clasped against her breast. Vaguely she knew that the

night passed, and with it the wondrous silence that had lain like a

benediction upon the dawn. A thousand living things awoke to rejoice

in the crystal splendour of the morning; but within the quiet room the

spell remained unlifted, the silence lay untouched. It was as though

the presence of Death had turned it into a peaceful sanctuary that no

mere earthly tumult could disturb.

She sat in a species of waking stupor for a long, long time, not

daring to move lest the peace that enfolded her should be shattered.

Higher and higher the sun climbed up the sky till at last it topped

the cedar-trees and shone in upon her, throwing a single ray of purest

gold across the foot of the bed. Fascinated, she watched it travel

slowly upwards, till a silent, one-armed figure arose and softly drew

the curtain.

The room grew dim again. The world was shut out. She was not conscious

of physical fatigue, only of a certain weariness of waiting, waiting

for she knew not what. It seemed interminable, but she would not seek

to end it. She was as a soldier waiting for the order to quit his

post.

There came a slight movement at last. Someone touched her, whispered

to her. She looked up blankly, and saw the nurse. But understanding

seemed to have gone from her during those long hours. She could not

take in a word. There arose a great surging in her brain, and the

woman's face faded into an indistinct blur. She sat rigid, afraid to

move lest she should fall.

She heard vague whisperings over her head, and an arm that was like a

steel spring encircled her. Someone lifted her burden gently from her,

and a faint murmur reached her, such as a child makes in its sleep.

Then the arm that supported her gradually raised her up till she

was on her feet. Mechanically she tried to walk, but was instantly

overcome by a sick sense of powerlessness.

"I can't!" she gasped. "I can't!"

Nick's voice answered her in a quick, confident whisper. "Yes, you

can, dear. It's all right. Hang on to me. I won't let you go."

She obeyed him blindly. There was nothing else to do. And so,

half-led, half-carried, she tottered from the room.

A glare of sunlight smote upon her from a passage-window with a

brilliance that almost hurt her. She stood still, clinging to Nick's

shoulder.

"Oh, Nick," she faltered weakly, "why don't they--pull down the

blinds?"

Nick turned aside, still closely holding her, into the room in which

she had rested for the earlier part of the night.

"Because, thank God," he said, "there is no need. Olga is going to

live."

He helped her down into an easy-chair, and would have left her; but

she clung to him still, weakly but persistently.

"Oh, Nick, don't laugh! Tell me the truth for once! Please, Nick,

please!"

He yielded to her so abruptly that she was half-startled, dropping

suddenly down upon his knees beside her, the morning light full upon

his face.

"I am telling you the truth," he said. "I believe you have saved her

life. She has been sleeping ever since sunrise."

Muriel gazed at him speechlessly; but she no longer suspected him of

trying to deceive her. If he had never told her the truth before that

moment he was telling it to her then.

She gave a little gasping cry of relief unspeakable, and hid her face.

The next moment Nick was on his feet. She heard his quick, light step

as he crossed the threshold, and realised thankfully that he had left

her alone.

A little later, a servant brought her a breakfast-tray with a message

from the master of the house to the effect that he hoped she would go

to bed and take a long rest.

It was excellent advice, and she acted upon it; for since the worst

strain was over, sleep had become an urgent necessity to her. She

wondered as she lay down if Nick were following the same course. She

hoped he was, for she had a curiously vivid memory of the lines that

sleeplessness had drawn about his eyes.

It was late afternoon when she awoke, and sat swiftly up with a

confused sense of being watched.

"Don't jump like that!" a gruff voice said. "Lie down again at once.

You are not to get up till to-morrow morning."

She turned with a shaky laugh of welcome to find Dr. Jim seated

frowning by her side. He laid a compelling hand upon her shoulder.

"Lie down again, do you hear? There's nothing for you to do. Olga is

much better, and doesn't want you."

"And Nick?" said Muriel.

They were the first words that occurred to her. She said them

hurriedly, with heightened colour.

Jim Ratcliffe frowned more than ever. He was feeling her pulse. "A

nice couple of idiots you are!" he grimly remarked. "You needn't worry

about Nick. He has gone for a ride. As soon as he comes back, he will

dine and go to bed."

"Can't I get up to dinner?" Muriel suggested.

She could scarcely have said why she made the proposal, and she was

certainly surprised when Jim Ratcliffe fell in with it. He looked at

his watch. "Well, you may if you like. You will probably sleep the

better for it. But I'll have no nonsense, mind, Muriel. You're to do

as you're told."

Muriel smiled acquiescence. She felt that everything was right now

that Dr. Jim had returned to take the direction of affairs into his

own hands. He had come back alone, and he intended to finish his

holiday under Nick's roof. So much he told her before, with an abrupt

smile, he thanked her for her care of his little girl and took himself

off.

She almost regretted her decision when she came to get up, for the

strain was telling upon her more than she had realised. Not since

Simla days had she felt so utterly worn out. She was glad of the cup

of tea which Dr. Jim sent in to her before she left her room.

Sitting on the cushioned window-seat to drink it, she heard the tread

of a horse's feet along the drive, and with a start she saw Nick come

into view round a bend.

Her first impulse was to draw back out of sight, but the next moment

she changed her mind and remained motionless. Her heart was suddenly

beating very fast.

He was riding very carelessly, the bridle lying on the horse's neck.

The evening sun was shining full in his face, but he did not seem to

mind. His head was thrown back. He rode like a returning conqueror,

wearied it might be, but triumphant.

Passing into the shadow of the house, he saw her instantly, and the

smile that flashed into his face was one of sheer exultation. He

dropped the bridle altogether to wave to her.

"Up already? Have you seen old Jim?"

She nodded. It was impossible at the moment not to reflect his smile.

"I am coming down soon," she told him.

"Come now," said Nick persuasively.

She hesitated. He was slipping from his horse. A groom came up and

took the animal from him.

Nick paused below her window, and once more lifted his grinning,

confident face.

"I say, Muriel!"

She leaned down a little. "Well?"

"Don't come if you don't want to, you know."

She laughed half-reluctantly, conscious of a queer desire to please

him. Olga's words were running in her brain. He had fed on dust and

ashes.

Yet still she hesitated. "Will you wait for me?"

"Till doomsday," said Nick obligingly.

And drawn by a power that would not be withstood, she went down, still

smiling, and joined him in the garden.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE EAGLE STRIKES

Olga's recovery, when the crisis of the disease was past, was more

rapid than even her father had anticipated; and this fact, combined

with a spell of glorious summer weather, made the period of her

quarantine very tedious, particularly as Nick was rigidly excluded

from the sick-room.

At Olga's earnest request Muriel consented to remain at Redlands.

Daisy had written to postpone her own return to the cottage, having

received two or three invitations which she wished to accept if Muriel

could still spare her.

Blake was in Scotland. His letters were not very frequent, and though

his leave was nearly up, he did not speak of returning.

Muriel was thus thrown upon Jim Ratcliffe's care--a state of affairs

which seemed to please him mightily. It was in fact his presence that

made life easy for her just then. She saw considerably more of him

than of Nick, the latter having completely relegated the duties of

host to his brother. Though they met every day, they were seldom alone

together, and she began to have a feeling that Nick's attitude towards

her had undergone a change. His manner was now always friendly, but

never intimate. He did not seek her society, but neither did he avoid

her. And never by word or gesture did he refer to anything that had

been between them in the past. She even wondered sometimes if there

might not possibly have been another interpretation to Olga's story.

That unwonted depression of his that the child had witnessed had

surely never been inspired by her.

She found the time pass quickly enough during those six weeks. The

care of Olga occupied her very fully. She was always busy devising

some new scheme for her amusement.

Mrs. Ratcliffe returned to Weir, and Dr. Jim determined to transfer

Olga to her home as soon as she was out of quarantine. With paternal

kindliness, he insisted that Muriel must accompany her. Daisy's return

was still uncertain, though it could not be long delayed; and Muriel

had no urgent desire to return to the lonely life on the shore.

So, to Olga's outspoken delight, she yielded to the doctor's

persuasion, and on the afternoon preceding the child's emancipation

from her long imprisonment she walked down to the cottage to pack her

things.

It was a golden day in the middle of September and she lingered awhile

on the shore when her work was done. There was not a wave in all the

vast, shimmering sea. The tide was going out, and the shallow ripples

were clear as glass as they ran out along the white beach. Muriel

paused often in her walk. She was sorry to leave the little

fishing-village, realising that she had been very happy there. Life

had passed as smoothly as a dream of late, so smoothly that she had

been content to live in the present with scarcely a thought for the

future.

This afternoon she had begun to realise that her peaceful time was

drawing to an end. In a few weeks more, she would be in town in all

the bustle of preparation. And further still ahead of her--possibly

two months--there loomed the prospect of her return to India, of Lady

Bassett's soft patronage, of her marriage.

She shivered a little as one after another these coming events

presented themselves. There was not one of them that she would not

have postponed with relief. She stood still with her face to the

sunlit sea, and told herself that her summer in England had been all

too short. She had an almost passionate longing for just one more year

of home.

A pebble skimming past her and leaping from ripple to ripple like, a

living thing caught her attention. She turned sharply, and the next

moment smiled a welcome.

Nick had come up behind her unperceived. She greeted him with pleasure

unfeigned. She was tired of her own morbid thoughts just then.

Whatever he might be, he was at least never depressing.

"I'm saying good-bye," she told him. "I don't suppose I shall ever

come here again."

He came and stood beside her while he grubbed in the sand with a

stick.

"Not even to see me?" he suggested.

"Are you going to live here?" she asked in surprise.

"Oh, I suppose so," said Nick, "when I marry."

"Are you going to be married?" Almost in spite of her the question

leapt out.

He looked up, grinning shrewdly. "I put it to you," he said. "Am I the

sort of man to live alone?"

She experienced a curious sense of relief. "But you are not alone in

the world," she pointed out. "You have relations."

"You regard marriage as a last resource?" questioned Nick.

She coloured and turned her face to the shore. "I don't think any man

ought to marry unless--unless--he cares," she said, striving hard to

keep the personal note out of her voice.

"Exactly," said Nick, moving beside her. "But doesn't that remark

apply to women as well?"

She did not answer him. A discussion on this topic was the last thing

she desired.

He did not press the point, and she wondered a little at his

forbearance. She glanced at him once or twice as they walked, but his

humorous, yellow face told her nothing.

Reaching some rocks, he suddenly stopped. "I've got to get some

seaweed for Olga. Do you mind waiting?"

"I will help you," she answered.

He shook his head. "No, you are tired. Just sit down in the sun. I

won't be long."

She seated herself without protest, and he turned to leave her. A few

paces from her he paused, and she saw that he was trying to light a

cigarette. He failed twice, and impulsively she sprang up.

"Nick, why don't you ask me to help you?"

He whizzed round. "Perhaps I don't want you to," he said quizzically.

She took the match-box from him. "Don't be absurd! Why shouldn't I?"

She struck a match and held it out to him. But he did not take it

from her. He took her wrist instead, and stooping forward lighted his

cigarette deliberately.

She did not look at him. Some instinct warned her that his eyes were

intently searching her face. She seemed to feel them darting over her

in piercing, impenetrable scrutiny.

He released her slowly at length and stood up. "Am I to have the

pleasure of dancing at your wedding?" he asked her suddenly.

She looked up then very sharply, and against her will a burning blush

rose up to her temples. He waited for her answer, and at last it came.

"If you think it worth your while."

"I would come from the other side of the world to see you made happy,"

said Nick.

She turned her face aside. "You are very kind."

"Think so?" There was a note of banter in his voice. "It's the first

time you ever accused me of that."

She made no rejoinder. She had a feeling at the throat that prevented

speech, even had she had any words to utter. Certainly, as he had

discovered, she was very tired. It was physical weariness, no doubt,

but she had an almost overmastering desire to shed childish tears.

"You trot back now," said Nick cheerily. "I can grub along quite well

by myself."

She turned back silently. Why was it that the world seemed so grey

and cold on that golden summer afternoon? She sat down again in the

sunshine, and began to trace an aimless design in the sand with the

stick Nick had left behind. Away in the distance she heard his cracked

voice humming. Was he really as cheerful as he seemed, she wondered?

Or was he merely making the best of things?

Again her thoughts went back to Olga's pathetic little revelation.

Strange that she who knew him so intimately should never have seen him

in such a mood! But did she know him after all? It was a question

she had asked herself many times of late. She remembered how he had

lightly told her that he had a reverse side. But had she ever really

seen it, save for those brief glimpses by Olga's bedside, and as it

was reflected in the child's whole-souled devotion to him? She wished

with all her heart that he would lift the veil just once for her and

show her his inner soul.

Again her thoughts passed to her approaching marriage. She had

received a letter from Blake that day, telling her at length of his

plans. He and Daisy had been staying in the same house, but he was

just returning to town. He was to sail in less than a fortnight, and

would come and say good-bye to her immediately before his departure.

The letter had been courteously kind throughout, but she had not felt

tempted to read it again. It contained no reference to their wedding,

save such as she chose to attribute to the concluding sentence: "We

can talk everything over when we meet." A sense of chill struck

her when she recalled the words. He was very kind, of course, and

invariably meant well; but she had begun to realise of late that there

were times when she found him a little heavy and unresponsive. Not

that she had ever desired any demonstration of tenderness from him,

heaven knew. But the very consciousness that she had not desired this

added to the chill. She was not quite sure that she wanted to see him

again before he sailed. Certainly he had never bored her; but it was

not inconceivable that he might do so. She shivered ever so slightly.

It was not an exciting prospect--life with Blake. He was quite sure to

be kind to her. He would consider her in every way. But was that after

all quite all she wanted? A great sigh welled suddenly up from the

bottom of her heart. Life was ineffably dreary--when it was not

revoltingly horrible.

"Shall I tell you what is the matter?" said Nick.

She started violently, and found him leaning across the flat rock

on which she was seated. His eyes were remarkably bright. She had a

feeling that he suppressed a laugh as his look flickered over her.

"Sorry I made you jump," he said. "You ought to be used to me by this

time. Anyhow you needn't be frightened. My venom was extracted long

ago."

She turned to him with sudden, unconsidered impulse. "Oh, Nick," she

said, "I sometimes think to myself I've been a great fool."

He nodded. Her vehemence did not seem to surprise him. "I thought it

would strike you sooner or later," he said.

She laughed in spite of herself with her eyes full of tears. "There's

not much comfort in that."

"I haven't any comfort to give you," said Nick, "not at this stage.

I'll give you advice if you like--which I know you won't take."

"No, please don't! That would be even worse." There was a tremor in

her voice. She knew that she had stepped off the beaten track; but she

had an intense, an almost passionate longing to go a little further,

to penetrate, if only for a moment, that perpetual mask.

"Don't let us talk of my affairs," she said. "Tell me of your own.

What are you going to do?"

Nick's eyebrows went up. "I thought I was coming to your wedding," he

remarked. "That's as far as I've got at present."

She made a gesture of impatience. "Do you never think of the future?"

"Not in your presence," laughed Nick. "I think of you--you--and only

you. Didn't you know?"

She turned away in silence. Was he tormenting her deliberately? Or did

he fail to see that she was in earnest?

There followed a pause, and then, urged by that unknown impulse that

would not be repressed, she did a curious thing. She got up, and,

facing him, she made a very earnest appeal.

"Nick, why do you always treat me like this? Why will you never be

honest with me?"

There was more of pain than reproach in the words. Her voice was deep

and very sad.

But Nick scarcely looked at her. He was pulling tufts of dried seaweed

off the rock on which he leaned.

"My dear girl," he said, "how can you expect it?"

"Expect it!" she echoed. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

He drew himself slowly to a sitting posture. "How can I be honest with

you," he said, "when you are not honest with yourself?"

"What do you mean?" she said again.

He gave her an odd look. "You really want me to tell you?"

"Of course I do." She spoke sharply. The old scared feeling was awake

within her, but she would not yield to it. Now or never would she read

the enigma. She would know the truth, cost what it might.

"What I mean is this," said Nick. "You won't own it, of course, but

you are cheating, and you are afraid to stop. There isn't one woman in

ten thousand who has the pluck to throw down the cards when once she

has begun to cheat. She goes on--as you will go on--to the end of her

life, simply because she daren't do otherwise. You are out of the

straight, Muriel. That's why everything is such a hideous failure. You

are going to marry the wrong man, and you know it."

He looked up at her again for an instant as he said it. He had spoken

with his usual shrewd decision, but there was no hint of excitement

about him. He might have been discussing some matter of a purely

impersonal nature.

Muriel stood mutely poking holes in the sand. She could find nothing

to say to this matter-of-fact indictment.

"And now," Nick proceeded, "I will tell you why you are doing it."

She started at that, and looked up with flaming cheeks. "I don't think

I want to hear any more, Nick. It--it's rather late in the day, isn't

it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I knew you would be afraid to face it.

It's easier, isn't it, to go on cheating?"

Her eyes gleamed for a moment. He had flicked a tender place.

"Very well," she said proudly. "Say what you like. It will make no

difference. But please understand that I admit none of this."

Nick's grin leapt goblin-like across his face and was gone. "I never

expected it of you," he told her coolly. "You would sooner die than

admit it, simply because it would be infinitely easier for you to die.

You will be false to yourself, false to Grange, false to me, rather

than lower that miserable little rag of pride that made you jilt me

at Simla. I didn't blame you so much then. You were only a child.

You didn't understand. But that excuse won't serve you now. You are a

woman, and you know what Love is. You don't call it by its name, but

none the less you know it."

He paused for an instant, for Muriel had made a swift gesture of

protest.

"I don't think you know what you are saying," she said, her voice very

low.

He sprang abruptly to his feet. "Yes," he said, speaking very rapidly.

"That's how you will trick yourself to your dying day. It's a way

women have. But it doesn't help them. It won't help you. For that

thing in your heart--the thing that is fighting for air--the thing

you won't own--the thing that drove you to Grange for protection--will

never die. That is why you are miserable. You may do what you will to

it, hide it, smother it, trample it. But it will survive for all that.

All your life it will be there. You will never forget it though you

will try to persuade yourself that it belongs to a dead past. All your

life,"--his voice vibrated suddenly, and the ever-shifting eyes blazed

into leaping flame--"all your life, you will remember that I was once

yours to take or to throw away. And--you wanted me, yet--you chose to

throw me away."

Fiercely he flung the words at her. There was nothing impersonal

about him now. He was vitally, overwhelmingly, in earnest. A deep

glow covered the parchment face. The man was as it were electrified by

passion.

And Muriel gazed at him as one gazing upon sudden disaster. What was

this, what was this, that he had said to her? He had rent the veil

aside for her indeed. But to what dread vision had he opened her eyes?

The old paralysing fear was knocking at her heart. She dreaded each

instant to see the devil leap out upon his face. But as the seconds

passed she realised that he was still his own master. He had flung

down the gauntlet, but he would go no further, unless she took it up.

And this she could not do. She knew that she was no match for him.

He was watching her narrowly, she knew, and after a few palpitating

moments she nerved herself to meet his look. She felt as if it

scorched her, but she would not shrink. Not for a moment must he fancy

that those monstrous words of his had pierced her quivering heart.

Whatever happened later, when this stunned sense of shock had left

her, she must not seem to take them seriously now, with his watching

eyes upon her.

And so at last she lifted her head and faced him with a little

quivering laugh, brave enough in itself, but how piteous she never

guessed.

"I don't think you are quite so clever as you used to be, Nick," she

told him, "though I admit,"--her lips trembled--"that you are very

amusing sometimes. Blake once told me that you had the eyes of a

snake-charmer. Is it true, I wonder? Anyhow, they don't charm me."

She stopped rather breathlessly, half-frightened by his stillness.

Would he understand that it was not her intention to defy him--that

she was only refusing the conflict?

For a few moments her heart beat tumultuously, and then came a great

throb of relief. Yes, he understood. She had nought to fear.

He put his hand sharply over his eyes, turning from her. "I have never

tried to charm you," he said, in a voice that sounded curiously choked

and unfamiliar. "I have only--loved you."

In the silence that followed, he began to walk away from her, moving

noiselessly over the sand.

Mutely she watched him, but she dared not call him back. And very soon

she was quite alone.

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PENALTY FOR SENTIMENT

It did not take Dr. Jim long to discover that some trouble or at the

least some perplexity was weighing upon his young guest's mind. He

also shrewdly remarked that it dated from the commencement of

her visit at his house. No one else noticed it, but this was not

surprising. There was always plenty to occupy the attention in the

Ratcliffe household, and only Dr. Jim managed to keep a sharp eye upon

every member thereof. Moreover, by a casual observer, there was little

or nothing that was unusual to be detected in Muriel's manner. Quiet

she certainly was, but she was by no means listless. Her laugh did not

always ring quite true, that was all. And her eyes drooped a little

wearily from time to time. There were other symptoms, very slight,

wholly imperceptible to any but a trained eye, yet not one of which

escaped Dr. Jim.

He made no comment, but throughout that first week of her stay he

watched her unperceived, biding his time. During several motor rides

on which she accompanied him he maintained this attitude while she sat

all unsuspecting by his side. She had never detected any subtlety in

this staunch friend of hers, and, unlike Daisy, she felt no fear of

him. His blunt sincerity had never managed to wound her.

And so it was almost inevitable that she should give him his

opportunity at last.

Late one evening she entered his consulting-room where he was busy

writing.

"I want to talk to you," she said. "Is it very inconvenient?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Sit down there," he said,

pointing to one immediately facing him.

She laughed and obeyed, faintly blushing. "I'm not a patient, you

know."

He drew his black brows together. "It's very late. Why don't you go to

bed?"

"Because I want to talk to you."

"You can do that to-morrow," bluntly rejoined Dr. Jim. "You can't

afford to sacrifice your sleep to chatter."

"I am not sacrificing any sleep," Muriel told him rather wearily. "I

never sleep before morning."

He laid down his pen and gave her one of his hard looks. "Then you are

a very silly girl," he said curtly at length.

"It isn't my fault," she protested.

He shrugged his shoulders. "You all say that. It's the most ordinary

lie I know."

Muriel smiled. "I know you are longing to give me something nasty. You

may if you like. I'll take it, whatever it is."

Dr. Jim was silent for a space. He continued to regard her steadily,

with a scrutiny that spared her nothing. She sat quite still under it.

He had never disconcerted her yet. But when he leaned suddenly forward

and took her wrist between his fingers, she made a slight, instinctive

effort to frustrate him.

"Be still," he ordered. "What makes you so absurdly nervous? Want of

sleep, eh?"

Her lips trembled a little. "Don't probe too deep, doctor," she

pleaded. "I am not very happy just now."

"Why don't you tell me what is the matter?" he asked gruffly.

She did not answer, and he continued frowning over her pulse.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" he asked at last.

She looked up with an effort. "Oh, nothing much. Only a letter from

a Mrs. Langdale who lives in town. She is going to India in November,

and says she will take charge of me if I care to go with her. She has

invited me to go and stay with her beforehand."

"Well?" said Jim, as she paused.

"I don't want to go," she said. "Do you think I ought? She is Lady

Bassett's sister."

"I think it would probably do you good, if that's what you mean," he

returned. "But I don't suppose that consideration has much weight with

you. Why don't you want to go?"

"I don't like strangers, and I hate Lady Bassett," Muriel answered,

with absolute simplicity. "Then there is Daisy. I don't know what her

plans are. I always thought we should go East together."

"There's no sense in waiting for Daisy's plans to develop," declared

Jim. "She is as changeable as the wind. Possibly Nick will be able to

make up her mind for her. I fancy he means to try."

"Nick! You don't mean he will travel with Daisy?" There was almost a

tragic note in Muriel's voice. She looked up quickly into the shrewd

eyes that watched her.

"Why shouldn't he?" said Jim.

"I don't know. I never thought of it." Muriel leaned back again, a

faint frown of perplexity between her eyes. "Perhaps," she said slowly

at length, "I had better go to Mrs. Langdale."

"I should in your place," said Jim. "That handsome soldier of yours

won't want to be kept waiting, eh?"

"Oh, he wouldn't mind." The weariness was apparent again in her voice,

and with it a tinge of bitterness. "He never minds anything," she

said.

Jim grunted disapproval. "And you? Are you equally indifferent?"

Her pale face flushed vividly. She was silent a moment; then suddenly

she sat up and met his look fully.

"You'll think me contemptible, I know," she said, a great quiver in

her voice. "I can't help it; you must. Dr. Jim, I'll tell you the

truth. I--I don't want to go to India. I don't want to be married--at

all."

She ended with a swift rush of irrepressible tears. It was out at

last, this trouble of hers that had been gradually growing behind the

barrier of her reserve, and it seemed to burst over her in the telling

in a great wave of adversity.

"I've done nothing but make mistakes," she sobbed "ever since Daddy

died."

Dr. Jim got up quietly to lock the door. The grimness had passed from

his face.

"My dear," he said gruffly, "we all of us make mistakes directly we

begin to run alone."

He returned and sat down again close to her, waiting for her to

recover herself. She slipped out a trembling hand to him, and he took

it very kindly; but he said no more until she spoke.

"It's very difficult to know what to do."

"Is it? I should have said you were past that stage." His tone was

uncompromising, but the warm grip of his hand made up for it. His

directness did not dismay her. "If you are quite sure you don't care

for the fellow, your duty is quite plain."

Muriel raised her head slowly. "Yes, but it isn't quite so simple as

that, doctor. You see, it's not as if--as if--we either of us ever

imagined we were--in love with each other."

Jim's eyebrows went up. "As bad as that?"

She leaned her chin on her hand. "I am sure there must be crowds of

people who marry without ever being in love."

"Yes," said Jim curtly. "And kindle their own hell in doing it."

She started a little. "You think that?"

"I know it. I have seen it over and over again. Full half of the

world's misery is due to it. But you won't do that, Muriel. I know you

too well."

Muriel glanced up at him. "Do you know me? I don't think you would

have expected me to accept him in the first place."

"Depends what you did it for," said Jim.

She fell suddenly silent, slowly twisting the ring on her finger. "He

knew why," she said at last in a very low voice. "In fact--in fact he

asked me for that reason."

"And the reason still exists?"

She bent her head. "Yes."

"A reason you are ashamed of?" pursued the doctor.

She did not answer, and he drew his great brows together in deep

thought.

"You don't propose to take me any further into your confidence?" he

asked at last.

She made a quick, impulsive movement. "You--you--I think you know."

"Will you let me tell you what I know?" he said.

She shrank perceptibly. "If--if you won't make it too hard for me."

"I can't answer for that," he returned. "It depends entirely upon

yourself. My knowledge does not amount to anything very staggering

in itself. It is only this--that I know a certain person who would

cheerfully sacrifice all he has to make you happy, and that you have

no more cause to fear persecution from that person than from the man

in the moon."

He paused; but Muriel did not speak. She was still absently turning

her engagement ring round and round.

"To verify this," he said, "I will tell you something which I am sure

you don't know--which in fact puzzled me, too, considerably, for

some time. He has already sacrificed more than most men would care to

venture in a doubtful cause. It was no part of his plan to follow you

to England. He set his face against it so strongly that he very nearly

ended his mortal career for good and all in so doing. As it was, he

suffered for his lunacy pretty heavily. You know what happened. He was

forced to come in the end, and he paid the forfeit for his delay."

Again he paused, for Muriel had sprung upright with such tragedy in

her eyes that he knew he had said enough. The next moment she was on

her feet, quivering all over as one grievously wounded.

"Oh, do you know what you are saying?" she said, and in her voice

there throbbed the cry of a woman's wrung heart. "Surely--surely he

never did that--for me!"

He did not seem to notice her agitation. "It was a fairly big price

to pay for a piece of foolish sentiment, eh?" he said. "Let us hope he

will know better next time."

He looked up at her with a faintly cynical smile, but she was standing

with her face averted. He saw only that her chin was quivering like a

hurt child's.

"Come," he said at length. "I didn't tell you this to distress you,

you know. Only to set your mind at rest, so that you might sleep

easy."

She mastered herself with an effort, and turned towards him. "I know;

yes, I know. You--you have been very kind. Good-night, doctor."

He rose and went with her to the door. "You are not going to lie awake

over this?"

She shook her head. "Good-night," she said again.

He watched her down the passage, and then returned to his writing.

He smiled to himself as he sat down, but this time wholly without

cynicism.

"No, Nick, my boy," he said, as he drove his pen into the ink. "She

won't lie awake for you. But she'll cry herself to sleep for your

sake, you gibbering, one-armed ape. And the new love will be the old

love before the week is out, or I am no weather prophet."

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE WATCHER OF THE CLIFF