The gale that raged along the British coasts that autumn was the

wildest that had been known for years. It swelled quite suddenly out

of the last breezes of a superb summer, and by the middle of September

it had become a monster of destruction, devastating the shore. The

crumbling cliffs of Brethaven testified to its violence. Beating

rain and colossal, shattering waves united to accomplish ruin and

destruction. And the little fishing-village looked on aghast.

It was on the third day of the storm that news was brought to Nick

of a landslip on his own estate. He had been in town ever since his

guests' departure, and had only returned on the previous evening. He

did not contemplate a long stay. The place was lonely without Olga,

and he was not yet sufficiently proficient in shooting with one arm to

enjoy the sport, especially in solitude. He was in fact simply waiting

for an opportunity which he was convinced must occur before long, of

keeping a certain promise made to a friend of his on a night of early

summer in the Indian Plains.

It was a wild day of drifting squalls and transient gleams of

sunshine. He grimaced to himself as he sauntered forth after luncheon

to view the damage that had been wrought upon his property. The ground

he trod was sodden with long rain, and the cedars beyond the lawn

plunged heavily to and fro in melancholy unrest, flinging great drops

upon him as he passed. The force of the gale was terrific, and he had

to bend himself nearly double to meet it.

With difficulty he forced his way to the little summer-house that

overlooked the shore. He marvelled somewhat to find it still standing,

but it was sturdily built and would probably endure as long as the

ground beneath it remained unshaken.

But beyond it a great gap yawned. The daisy-covered space on which

they had sat that afternoon, now many weeks ago, had disappeared.

Nothing of it remained but a crumbling desolation to which the daisies

still clung here and there.

Nick stood in such shelter as the summer-house afforded, and looked

forth upon the heaving waste of waters. The tide was rising. He

could see the great waves swirling white around the rocks. Several

land-slips were visible from this post of observation. The village was

out of sight, tucked away behind a great shoulder of cliff; but an old

ruined cottage that had been uninhabited for some time had entirely

disappeared. Stacks of seaweed had been thrown up upon the deserted

shore, and lay in great masses above the breakers. The roar of the

incoming tide was like the continuous roll of thunder.

It was a splendid spectacle and for some time he stood, with his face

to the driving wind, gazing out upon the empty sea. There was not a

single vessel in all that wide expanse.

Slowly at last his vision narrowed. His eyes came down to the great

gash at his feet where red earth and tufts of grass mingled, where

the daisies had grown on that June day, where she had sat, proud and

aloof, and watched him fooling with the white petals. Very vividly

he recalled that summer afternoon, her scorn of him, her bitter

hostility--and the horror he had surprised in her dark eyes when the

hawk had struck. He laughed oddly to himself, his teeth clenched upon

his lower lip. How furiously she had hated him that day!

He turned to go; but paused, arrested by some instinct that bade

him cast one more look downwards along the howling shore. In another

moment he was lying full length upon the rotten ground, staring

intently down upon the group of rocks more than two hundred feet below

him.

Two figures--a man and a woman--had detached themselves from the

shelter of these rocks, and were moving slowly, very slowly, towards

the path that led inwards from the shore. They were closely linked

together, so much his first glance told him. But there was something

in the man's gait that caught the eye and upon which Nick's whole

attention was instantly focussed. He could not see the face, but

the loose-slung, gigantic limbs were familiar to him. With all his

knowledge of the world of men, he had not seen many such.

Slowly the two approached till they stood almost immediately beneath

him, and there, as upon mutual impulse, they stopped. It was a corner

protected from the driving blast by the crumbling mass of cliff that

had slipped in the night. The rain was falling heavily again, but

neither the two on the shore nor the solitary watcher stretched on the

perilous edge of the cliff seemed aware of it. All were intent upon

other things.

Suddenly the woman raised her face, and with a movement that was

passionate reached up her arms and clasped them about the man's bent

neck. She was speaking, but no sound or echo of words was audible

in that tumult. Only her face lifted to the beating rain, with its

passion of love, its anguish of pain, told the motionless spectator

something of their significance.

It was hidden from him almost at once by the man's massive head; but

he had seen enough, more than enough, to verify a certain suspicion

which had long been quartered at the back of his brain.

Stealthily he drew himself back from the cliff edge, and sat up on the

damp grass. Again his eyes swept the horizon; there was something of a

glare in them. He was drenched through and through by the rain, but

he did not know it. Had Muriel seen him at that moment she might have

likened him with a shudder to an eagle that viewed its quarry from

afar.

He returned to the house without further lingering, and spent the two

hours that followed in prowling ceaselessly up and down his library.

At the end of that time he sat down suddenly at the writing-table, and

scrawled a hasty note. His face, as he did so, was like the face of an

old man, but without the tolerance of age.

Finishing, he rang for his servant. "Take this note," he said, "and

ask at the Brethaven Arms if a gentleman named Captain Grange is

putting up there. If he is, send in the note, and wait for an answer.

If he is not, bring it back."

The man departed, and Nick resumed his prowling. It seemed that he

could not rest. Once he went to the window and opened it to listen to

the long roar of the sea, but the fury of the blast was such that

he could scarcely stand against it. He shut it out, and resumed his

tramp.

The return of his messenger brought him to a standstill.

"Captain Grange was there, sir. Here is his answer."

Nick grabbed the note with a gesture that might have indicated either

impatience or relief. He held the envelope between his teeth to slit

it open, and they left a deep mark upon it.

"Dear Ratcliffe," he read. "If I can get to you through this

murderous storm, I will. Expect me at eight o'clock.--Yours,

B. Grange."

"All right," said Nick over his shoulder. "Captain Grange will dine

with me."

With the words he dropped the note into the fire, and then went away

to dress.

CHAPTER XXXIX

BY SINGLE COMBAT

By eight o'clock Nick was lounging in the hall, awaiting his guest,

but it was more than a quarter of an hour later that the latter

presented himself.

Nick himself admitted him with a cheery grin. "Come in," he said.

"You've had a pretty filthy walk."

"Infernal," said Grange gloomily.

He entered with a heavy, rather bullied air, as if he had come against

his will. Shaking hands with his host, he glanced at him somewhat

suspiciously.

"Glad you managed to come," said Nick hospitably.

"What did you want to see me for?" asked Grange.

"The pleasure of your society, of course." Nick's benignity was

unassailable, but there was a sharp edge to it somewhere of which

Grange was uneasily aware. "Come along and dine. We can talk

afterwards."

Grange accompanied him moodily to the dining-room. "I thought you were

away," he remarked, as they sat down.

"I was," said Nick. "Came back last night. When do you sail?"

"On Friday. I came down to say good-bye."

"Muriel is at Weir," observed Nick.

"Yes. I shall go on there to-morrow. Daisy is only here for a night or

two to pack up her things."

"And then?" said Nick.

Grange stiffened perceptibly. "I don't know what her plans are. She

never makes up her mind till the last minute."

Nick laughed. "She evidently hasn't taken you into her confidence. She

is going East this winter."

Grange looked up sharply. "I don't believe it."

"It's true all the same," said Nick indifferently, and forthwith

forsook the subject.

He started other topics, racing, polo, politics, airily ignoring his

guest's undeniable surliness, till at last Grange's uneasiness began

to wear away. He gradually overcame his depression, and had even

managed to capture some of his customary courtesy before the end of

dinner. His attitude was quite friendly when they finally adjourned to

the library to smoke.

Nick followed him into the room and stopped to shut the door.

Grange had gone straight to the fire, and he did not see him slip

something into his pocket as he came forward.

But he did after several minutes of abstraction discover something not

quite normal in Nick's silence, and glanced down at him to ascertain

what it was.

Nick had flung himself into a deep easy-chair, and was lying quite

motionless with his head back upon the cushion. His eyes were closed.

He had been smoking when he entered, but he had dropped his cigar half

consumed into an ash-tray.

Grange looked at him with renewed uneasiness, and looked away again.

He could not help feeling that there was some moral tension somewhere;

but he had never possessed a keen perception, he could not have said

wherein it lay.

He retired into his shell once more and sat down facing his host in

silence that had become dogged.

Suddenly, without moving, Nick spoke.

His words were slightly more deliberate than usual, very even, very

distinct. "To come to the point," he said. "I saw you on the shore

this afternoon--you and Mrs. Musgrave."

"What?" Grange gave a great start and stared across at him, gripping

the arms of his chair.

Nick's face, however, remained quite expressionless. "I saw you," he

repeated.

With an effort Grange recovered himself. "Did you though? I wondered

how you knew I was down here. Where were you?"

There was an abrupt tremor behind Nick's eyelids, but they remained

closed. "I was on the top of the cliff, on my own ground, watching

you."

Dead silence followed his answer--a silence through which the sound of

the sea half a mile away swelled terribly, like the roar of a monster

in torment.

Then at last Nick's eyes opened. He looked Grange straight in the

face. "What are you going to do?" he said.

Grange's hands dropped heavily from the chair-arms, and his whole

great frame drooped slowly forward. He made no further attempt at

evasion, realising the utter futility of such a course.

"Do!" he said wearily. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" said Nick swiftly.

"No, nothing," he repeated, staring with a dull intentness at the

ground between his feet. "It's an old story, and the less said about

it the better. I can't discuss it with you or any one. I think it was

a pity you took the trouble to watch me this afternoon."

He spoke with a certain dignity, albeit he refused to meet Nick's

eyes. He looked unutterably tired.

Nick lay quite motionless in his chair, inscrutably still, save for

the restless glitter behind his colourless eyelashes. At length, "Do

you remember a conversation we had in this room a few months ago?" he

asked.

Grange shook his head slightly, too engrossed with his miserable

thoughts to pay much attention.

"Well, think!" Nick said insistently. "It had to do with your

engagement to Muriel Roscoe. Perhaps you have forgotten that too?"

Grange looked up then, shaking off his lethargy with a visible effort.

He got slowly to his feet, and drew himself up to his full giant

height.

"No," he said, "I have not forgotten it."

"Then," said Nick, "once more--what are you going to do?"

Grange's face darkened. He seemed to hesitate upon the verge of

vehement speech. But he restrained himself though the hot blood

mounted to his temples.

"I have never yet broken my word to a woman," he said. "I am not going

to begin now."

"Why not?" said Nick, with a grin that was somehow fiendish.

Grange ignored the gibe. "There is no reason why I should not marry

her," he said.

"No reason!" Nick's eyes flashed upwards for an instant, and a curious

sense of insecurity stabbed Grange.

Nevertheless he made unfaltering reply. "No reason whatever."

Nick sat up slowly and regarded him with minute attention. "Are you

serious?" he asked finally.

"I am absolutely serious," Grange told him sternly. "And I warn you,

Ratcliffe, this is not a subject upon which I will bear interference."

"Man alive!" jeered Nick. "You must think I'm damned easily scared."

He got up with the words, jerking his meagre body upright with a

slight, fierce movement, and stood in front of Grange, arrogantly

daring.

"Now just listen to this," he said. "I don't care a damn how you take

it, so you may as well take it quietly. It's no concern of mine to

know how you have whitewashed this thing over and made it look

clean and decent--and honourable--to your fastidious eye. What I am

concerned in is to prevent Muriel Roscoe making an unworthy marriage.

And that I mean to do. I told you in the summer that she should be no

man's second best, and, by Heaven, she never shall. I had my doubts

of you then. I know you now. And--I swear by all things sacred that I

will see you dead sooner than married to her."

He broke off for a moment as though to get a firmer grip upon

himself. His face was terrible, his body tense as though controlled by

tight-strung wires.

Before Grange could speak, he went on rapidly, with a resolution more

deadly if less passionate than before.

"If either of you had ever cared, it might have been a different

matter. But you never did. I knew that you never did. I never troubled

to find out your reason for proposing to her. No doubt it was strictly

honourable. But I always knew why she accepted you. Did you know that,

I wonder?"

"Yes, I did." Grange's voice was deep and savage. He glowered down

upon him in rising fury. "It was to escape you."

Nick's eyes flamed back like the eyes of a crouching beast. He uttered

a sudden, dreadful laugh. "Yes--to escape me," he said, "to escape me!

And it has fallen to me to deliver her from her chivalrous protector.

If you look all round that, you may see something funny in it."

"Funny!" burst forth Grange, letting himself go at last. "It's what

you have been playing for all along, you infernal mountebank! But you

have overreached yourself this time. For that very reason I will never

give her up."

He swung past Nick with the words, goaded past endurance, desperately

aware that he could not trust himself within arm's length of that

gibing, devilish countenance.

He reached the door and seized the handle, wrenched furiously for a

few seconds, then flung violently round.

"Ratcliffe," he exclaimed, "for your own sake I advise you not to keep

me here!"

But Nick had remained with his face to the fire. He did not so much

as glance over his shoulder. He had suddenly grown intensely quiet. "I

haven't quite done with you," he said. "There is just one thing more I

have to say."

Grange was already striding back like an enraged bull, but something

in the voice or attitude of the man who leaned against the mantelpiece

without troubling to face him, brought him up short.

Against his will he halted. "Well?" he demanded.

"It's only this," said Nick. "You know as well as I do that I possess

the means to prevent your marriage to Muriel Roscoe, and I shall

certainly use that means unless you give her up of your own accord.

You see what it would involve, don't you? The sacrifice of your

precious honour--and not yours only."

He paused as if to allow full vent to Grange's anger, but still he did

not change his position.

"You damned cur!" said Grange, his voice hoarse with concentrated

passion.

Nick took up his tale as if he had not heard. "But, on the other hand,

if you will write and set her free now, at once--I don't care how you

do it; you can tell any likely lie that occurs to you--I on my part

will swear to you that I will give her up entirely, that I will never

plague her again, will never write to her or attempt in any way to

influence her life, unless she on her own initiative makes it quite

clear that she desires me to do so."

He ceased, and there fell a dead silence, broken only by the lashing

rain upon the windows and the long, deep roar of the sea. He seemed to

be listening to them with bent head, but in reality he heard nothing

at all. He had made the final sacrifice for the sake of the woman he

loved. To secure her happiness, her peace of mind, he had turned his

face to the desert, at last, and into it he would go, empty, beaten,

crippled, to return no more for ever.

Across the lengthening silence Grange's voice came to him. There was a

certain hesitation in it as though he were not altogether sure of his

ground.

"I am to take your word for all that?"

Nick turned swiftly round. "You can do as you choose. I have nothing

else to offer you."

Grange abandoned the point abruptly, feeling as a man who has lost his

footing in a steep place and is powerless to climb back. Perhaps even

he was vaguely conscious of something colossal hidden away behind that

baffling, wrinkled mask.

"Very well," he said, with that dogged dignity in which Englishmen

clothe themselves in the face of defeat. "Then you will take my word

to set her free."

"To-night?" said Nick.

"To-night."

There was another pause. Then Nick crossed to the door and unlocked

it.

"I will take your word," he said.

A few seconds later, when Grange had gone, he softly shut and locked

the door once more, and returned to his chair before the fire. Great

gusts of rain were being flung against the window-panes. The

wind howled near and far with a fury that seemed to set the walls

vibrating. Now and then dense puffs of smoke blew out across the

hearth into the room, and the atmosphere grew thick and stifling.

But Nick did not seem aware of these things. He sat on unheeding in

the midst of his dust and ashes while the storm raged relentlessly

above his head.

CHAPTER XL

THE WOMAN'S CHOICE

With the morning there came a lull in the tempest though the great

waves that spent themselves upon the shore seemed scarcely less

mountainous than when they rode before the full force of the storm.

In Daisy Musgrave's cottage above the beach, a woman with a white,

jaded face sat by the window writing. A foreign envelope with an

Indian stamp lay on the table beside her. It had not been opened; and

once, glancing up, she pushed it slightly from her with a nervous,

impatient movement. Now and then she sat with her head upon her hand

thinking, and each time she emerged from her reverie it was to throw

a startled look towards the sea as though its ceaseless roar unnerved

her.

Nevertheless, at sight of a big, loosely-slung figure walking slowly

up the flagged path, a quick smile flashed into her face, making it

instantly beautiful. She half rose from her chair, and then dropped

back again, still faintly smiling, while the light which only one

man's coming can kindle upon any woman's face shone upon hers, erasing

all weariness and bitterness while it lingered.

At the opening of the door she turned without rising. "So you have

come after all! But I knew you would. Sit down a minute and wait while

I finish this tiresome letter. I have just done."

She was already scribbling last words as fast as her pen would move,

and her visitor waited for her without a word.

In a few minutes she turned to him again. "I have been writing a note

to Muriel, explaining things a little. She doesn't yet know that I

am here; but it would be no good for her to join me, for I am only

packing. I shall leave as soon as I can get away. And she too is going

almost at once to Mrs. Langdale, I believe. So we shall probably not

meet again at present. You will be seeing her this afternoon. Will you

give it to her?"

She held the letter out to him, but he made no move to take it. His

face was very pale, more sternly miserable than she had ever seen it.

"I think you had better post it," he said.

She rose and looked at him attentively. "Why, what's the matter,

Blake?" she said.

He did not answer, and she went on immediately, still with her eyes

steadily uplifted.

"Do you know, Blake, I have been thinking all night, and I have made

up my mind to have done with all this foolish sentimentality

finally and for ever. From to-day forward I enter upon the prosaic,

middle-aged stage. I was upset yesterday at the thought of losing you

so soon. It's been a lovely summer, hasn't it?" She stifled a sigh

half uttered. "Well, it's over. You have to go back to India, and we

must just make the best of it."

He made a sharp movement, but said nothing. The next moment he dropped

down heavily into a chair and sat bowed, his head in his hands.

Daisy stood looking down at him, and slowly her expression changed. A

very tender look came into her eyes, a look that made her seem older

and at the same time more womanly. Very quietly she sat down on the

arm of his chair and laid her hand upon him, gently rubbing it to and

fro.

"My own boy, don't fret, don't fret!" she said. "You will be happier

by-and-by. I am sure of it."

He took the little hand from his shoulder, and held it against his

eyes. At last after several seconds of silence he spoke.

"Daisy, I have broken my engagement."

Daisy gave a great start. A deep glow overspread her face, but it

faded very swiftly, leaving her white to the lips. "My dear Blake,

why?" she whispered.

He answered her with his head down. "It was Nick Ratcliffe's doing. He

made me."

"Made you, Blake! What can you mean?"

Sullenly Grange made answer. "He had got the whip-hand, and I couldn't

help myself. He saw us on the shore together yesterday afternoon, made

up his mind then and there that I was no suitable partner for Muriel,

got me to go and dine with him, and told me so."

"But Blake, how absurd!" Daisy spoke with a palpable effort. "How--how

utterly unreasonable! What made you give in to him?"

Grange would not tell her. "I shouldn't have done so," he said

moodily, "if he hadn't given his word that he would never pester

Muriel again. She's well rid of me anyhow. He was right there. She

will probably see it in the same light."

"What did you say to her?" questioned Daisy.

"Oh, it doesn't matter, does it? I didn't see her. I wrote. I didn't

tell her anything that it was unnecessary for her to know. In fact

I didn't give her any particular reason at all. She'll think me an

infernal cad. And so I am."

"You are not, Blake!" she declared vehemently. "You are not!"

He was silent, still tightly clasping her hand.

After a pause, she made a gentle movement to withdraw it; but at

that he turned with a sudden mastery and thrust his arms about her.

"Daisy," he broke out passionately, "I can't do without you! I can't!

I can't! I've tried,--Heaven knows how I've tried! But it can't be

done. It was madness ever to attempt to separate us. We were bound to

come together again. I have been drifting towards you always, always,

even when I wasn't thinking of you."

Fiercely the hot words rushed out. He was holding her fast, though had

she made the smallest effort to free herself he would have let her go.

But Daisy sat quite still, neither yielding nor resisting. Only at

his last words her lips quivered in a smile of tenderest ridicule.

"I know, my poor old Blake," she said, "like a good ship without a

rudder--caught in a strong current."

"And it has been the same with you," he insisted. "You have always

wanted me more than--"

He did not finish, for her hand was on his lips, restraining him. "You

mustn't say it, dear. You mustn't say it. It hurts us both too much.

There! Let me go! It does no good, you know. It's all so vain and

futile--now." Her voice trembled suddenly, and she ceased to speak.

He caught her hand away, looking straight up at her with that new-born

mastery of his that made him so infinitely hard to resist.

"If it is quite vain," he said, "then tell me to go,--and I will."

She tried to meet his eyes, but found she could not. "I--shall have

to, Blake," she said in a whisper.

"I am waiting," he told her doggedly.

But she could not say the word. She turned her face away and sat

silent.

He waited with absolute patience for minutes. Then at last very gently

he took his arms away from her and stood up.

"I am going back to the inn," he said. "And I shall wait there till

to-morrow morning for your answer. If you send me away, I shall

go without seeing you again. But if--if you decide otherwise,"--he

lowered his voice as if he could not wholly trust it--"then I shall

apply at once for leave to resign. And--Daisy--we will go to the New

World together, and make up there for all the happiness we have missed

in the Old."

He ended almost under his breath, and she seemed to hear his heart

beat through the words. It was almost too much for her even then. But

she held herself back, for there was that in her woman's soul that

clamoured to be heard--the patter of tiny feet that had never ceased

to echo there, the high chirrup of a baby's voice, the vision of a

toddling child with eager arms outstretched.

And so she held her peace and let him go, though the struggle within

her left her physically weak and cold, and she did not dare to raise

her eyes lest he should surprise the love-light in them once again.

It had come to this at last then--the final dividing of the ways, the

definite choice between good and evil. And she knew in her heart what

that choice would be, knew it even as the sound of the closing door

reached her consciousness, knew it as she strained her ears to catch

the fall of his feet upon the flagged path, knew it in every nerve and

fibre of her being as she sprang to the window for a last glimpse of

the man who had loved her all her life long, and now at last had won

her for himself.

Slowly she turned round once more to the writing-table. The unopened

letter caught her eye. She picked it up with a set face, looked at

it closely for a few moments, and then deliberately tore it into tiny

fragments.

A little later she went to her own room. From a lavender-scented

drawer she took an envelope, and shook its contents into her hand.

Only a tiny unmounted photograph of a laughing baby, and a ringlet of

baby hair!

Her face quivered as she looked at them. They had been her dearest

treasures. Passionately she pressed them to her trembling lips, but

she shed no tears. And when she returned to the sitting-room there was

no faltering in her step.

She poked the fire into a blaze, and, kneeling, dropped her treasures

into its midst. A moment's torture showed in her eyes, and passed.

She had chosen.

CHAPTER XLI

THE EAGLE'S PREY

During the whole of that day Muriel awaited in restless expectancy the

coming of her _fiancé_. She had not heard from him for nearly a week,

and she had not written in the interval for the simple reason that

she lacked his address. But every day she had expected him to pay his

promised visit of farewell.

It was hard work waiting for him. If she could have written, she would

have done so days before in such a fashion as to cause him almost

certainly to abandon his intention of seeing her. For her mind was

made up at last after her long torture of indecision. Dr. Jim's

vigorous speaking had done its work, and she knew that her only

possible course lay in putting an end to her engagement.

She had always liked Blake Grange. She knew that she always would like

him. But emphatically she did not love him, and she knew now with the

sure intuition which all women develop sooner or later that he

had never loved her. He had proposed to her upon a mere chivalrous

impulse, and she was convinced that he would not wish to quarrel with

her for releasing him.

Yet she dreaded the interview, even though she was quite sure that he

would not lose his self-control and wax violent, as had Nick on that

terrible night at Simla. She was almost morbidly afraid of hurting his

feelings.

Of Nick she rigidly refused to think at all, though it was no easy

matter to exclude him from her thoughts, for he always seemed to be

clamouring for admittance. But she could not help wondering if, when

Blake had gone at last and she was free, she would be very greatly

afraid.

She was sitting alone in her room that afternoon, watching the

scudding rain-clouds, when Olga brought her two letters.

"Both from Brethaven," she said, "but neither from Nick. I wonder if

he is at Redlands. I hope he will come over here if he is."

Muriel did not echo the hope. She knew the handwriting upon both the

envelopes, and she opened Daisy's first. It did not take long to read.

It simply contained a brief explanation of her presence at Brethaven,

which was due to an engagement having fallen through, mentioned Blake

as being on the point of departure, and wound up with the hope that

Muriel would not in any way alter her plans for her benefit as she was

only at the cottage for a few days to pack her possessions and she did

not suppose that she would care to be with her while this was going

on.

There was no reference to any future meeting, and Muriel gravely put

the letter away in thoughtful silence. She had no clue whatever to the

slackening of their friendship, but she could not fail to note with

pain how far asunder they had drifted.

She turned to Grange's letter with a faint wonder as to why he should

have troubled himself to write when he was so short a distance from

her.

It contained but a few sentences; she read them with widening eyes.

"Fate or the devil has been too strong for me, and I am

compelled to break my word to you. I have no excuse to offer,

except that my hand has been forced. Perhaps in the end it

will be better for you, but I would have stood by had it been

possible. And even now I would not desert you if I did not

positively know that you were safe--that the thing you feared

has ceased to exist.

"Muriel, I have broken my oath, and I can hardly ask your

forgiveness. I only beg you to believe that it was not by my

own choice. I was fiendishly driven to it against my will.

I came to this place to say good-bye, but I shall leave

to-morrow without seeing you unless you should wish otherwise.

"B. Grange."

She reached the end of the letter and sat quite still, staring at the

open page.

She was free, that was her first thought, free by no effort of her

own. The explanation she had dreaded had become unnecessary. She would

not even have to face the ordeal of a meeting. She drew a long breath

of relief.

And then swift as a poisoned arrow came another thought,--a stabbing,

intolerable suspicion. Why had he thus set her free? How had his hand

been forced? By what means had he been fiendishly driven?

She read the letter through again, and suddenly her heart began to

throb thick and hard, so that she gasped for breath. This was Nick's

doing. She was as sure of it as if those brief, bitter sentences had

definitely told her so. Nick was the motive power that had compelled

Grange to this action. How he had done it, she could not even vaguely

surmise. But that he had in some malevolent fashion come between them

she did not for an instant doubt.

And wherefore? She put her hand to her throat, feeling suffocated,

as the memory of that last interview with him on the shore raced

with every fiery detail through her brain. He had marked her down for

himself, long, long ago, and whatever Dr. Jim might say, he had never

abandoned the pursuit. He meant to capture her at last. She might

flee, but he was following, tireless, fleet, determined. Presently he

would swoop like an eagle upon his prey, and she would be utterly at

his mercy. He had beaten Grange, and there was no one left to help

her.

"Oh, Muriel,"--it was Olga's voice from the window--"come here, quick,

quick! I can see a hawk."

She started as one starts from a horrible dream, and looked round with

dazed eyes.

"It's hovering!" cried Olga excitedly. "It's hovering! There! Now it

has struck!"

"And something is dead," said Muriel, in a voiceless whisper.

The child turned round, saw something unusual in her friend's face,

and went impetuously to her.

"Muriel, darling, you look so strange. Is anything the matter?"

Muriel put an arm around her. "No, nothing," she said. "Olga, will it

surprise you very much to hear that I am not going to marry Captain

Grange after all?"

"No, dear," said Olga. "I never somehow thought you would, and I

didn't want you to either."

"Why not?" Muriel looked up in some surprise. "I thought you liked

him."

"Oh, yes, of course I do," said Olga. "But he isn't half the man Nick

is, even though he is a V.C. Oh, Muriel, I wish,--I do wish--you would

marry Nick. Perhaps you will now."

But at that Muriel cried out sharply and sprang to her feet, almost

thrusting Olga from her.

"No, never!" she exclaimed, "Never,--never,--never!" Then, seeing

Olga's hurt face, "Oh, forgive me, dear! I didn't mean to be

unkind. But please don't ever dream of such a thing again. It--it's

impossible--quite. Ah, there is the gong for tea. Let us go down."

They went down hand in hand. But Olga was very quiet for the rest of

the evening; and she did not cling to Muriel as usual when she said

good-night.

CHAPTER XLII

THE HARDEST FIGHT OF ALL

It was growing late on that same evening when to Daisy, packing in her

room with feverish haste, a message was brought that Captain Ratcliffe

was waiting, and desired to see her.

Her first impulse was to excuse herself from the interview, for she

and Nick had never stood upon ceremony; but a very brief consideration

decided her to see him. Since he had come at an unusual hour, it

seemed probable that he had some special object in view, and if that

were so, she would find it hard to turn him from his purpose. But she

resolved to make the interview as brief as possible. She had no place

for Nick in her life just then.

She entered the little parlour with a certain impetuosity, that was

not wholly spontaneous. "My dear Nick," she said, as she did so,

"I can give you exactly five minutes, not one second more, for I am

frightfully busy packing up my things to leave to-morrow."

He came swiftly to meet her, so swiftly that she was for the moment

deceived, and fancied that he was about to greet her with his

customary bantering gallantry. But he did not lift her fingers to his

lips after his usual gay fashion. He only held her proffered hand very

tightly for several seconds without verbal greeting of any sort.

Suddenly he began to speak, and as he did so she seemed to see

a hundred wrinkles spring into being on his yellow face. "I have

something to say to you, Mrs. Musgrave," he said. "And it's something

so particularly beastly that I funk saying it. We have always been

such pals, you and I, and that makes it all the harder."

He broke off, his shrewd glance flashing over her, keen and elusive as

a rapier. Daisy faced him quite fully and fearlessly. The possibility

of a conflict in this quarter had occurred to her before. She would

not shirk it, but she was determined that it should be as brief as

possible.

"Being pals doesn't entitle you to go trespassing, Nick," she said.

"I know that," said Nick, speaking very rapidly. "None better. But

I am not thinking of you only, though I hate to make you angry. Mrs.

Musgrave--Daisy--I want to ask you, and you can't refuse to answer.

What are you doing? What are you going to do?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said, speaking coldly. "And anyhow

I can't stop to listen to you. I haven't time. I think you had better

go."

"You must listen," Nick said. She caught the grim note of

determination in his voice, and was aware of the whole force of his

personality flung suddenly against her. "Daisy," he said, "you are to

look upon me as Will's representative. I am the nearest friend he has.

Have you thought of him at all lately, stewing in those hellish Plains

for your sake? He's such a faithful chap, you know. Can't you go back

to him soon? Isn't it--forgive me--isn't it a bit shabby to play

this sort of game when there's a fellow like that waiting for you and

fretting his very heart out because you don't go?"

He stopped--his lips twitching with the vigour of his appeal. And

Daisy realised that he would have to be told the simple truth. He

would not be satisfied with less.

Very pale but quite calm, she braced herself to tell him. "I am afraid

you are pleading a lost cause," she said, her words quiet and very

distinct. "I am never going back to him."

"Never!" Nick moved sharply drawing close to her. "Never?" he said

again; then with abrupt vehemence, "Daisy, you don't mean that! You

didn't say it!"

She drew back slightly from him, but her answer was perfectly steady,

rigidly determined. "I have said it, Nick. And I meant it. You had

better go. You will do no good by staying to argue. I know all

that you can possibly say, and it makes no difference to me. I have

chosen."

"What have you chosen?" he demanded.

For an instant she hesitated. There was something almost fierce in his

manner, something she had never encountered before, something that

in spite of her utmost effort made her feel curiously uneasy, even

apprehensive. She had always known that there was a certain uncanny

strength about Nick, but to feel the whole weight of it directed

against her was a new experience.

"What have you chosen?" he repeated relentlessly.

And reluctantly, more than half against her will, she told him. "I am

going to the man I love."

She was prepared for some violent outburst upon her words, but

none came. Nick heard her in silence, standing straight before her,

watching her, she felt, with an almost brutal intentness, though his

eyes never for an instant met her own.

"Then," he said suddenly at length, and quick though they were,

it seemed to her that the words fell with something of the awful

precision of a death-sentence, "God help you both; for you are going

to destroy him and yourself too."

Daisy made a sharp gesture; it was almost one of shrinking. And at

once he turned from her and fell to pacing the little room, up and

down, up and down incessantly, like an animal in a cage. It was

useless to attempt to dismiss him, for she saw that he would not go.

She moved quietly to a chair and sat down to wait.

Abruptly at last he stopped, halting in front of her. "Daisy,"--he

began, and broke off short, seeming to battle with himself.

She looked up in surprise. It was so utterly unlike Nick to relinquish

his self-command at a critical juncture. The next moment he amazed her

still further. He dropped suddenly down on his knees and gripped her

clasped hands fast.

"Daisy," he said again, and this time words came, jerky and

passionate, "this is my doing. I've driven you to it. If I hadn't

interfered with Grange, you would never have thought of it."

She sat without moving, but the hasty utterance had its effect upon

her. Some of the rigidity went out of her attitude. "My dear Nick,"

she said, "what is the good of saying that?"

"Isn't it true?" he persisted.

She hesitated, unwilling to wound him.

"You know it is true," he declared with vehemence. "If I had let him

alone, he would have married Muriel, and this thing would never have

happened. God knows I did what was right, but if it doesn't turn out

right, I'm done for. I never believed in eternal damnation before, but

if this thing comes to pass it will be hell-fire for me for as long as

I live. For I shall never believe in God again."

He swung away from her as though in bodily torture, came in contact

with the table and bowed his head upon it. For many seconds his

breathing, thick and short, almost convulsed, was the only sound in

the room.

As for Daisy, she sat still, staring at him dumbly, witnessing his

agony till the sight of it became more than she could bear. Then she

moved, reached stiffly forward, and touched him.

"You are not to blame yourself, Nick," she said.

He did not stir. "I don't," he answered, and again fell silent.

At last he moved, seemed to pull himself together, finally got to his

feet.

"Do you think you will be happy?" he said. "Do you think you will

ever manage to forget what you have sacrificed to this fetish you

call Love,--how you broke the heart of one of the best fellows in the

world, and trampled upon the memory of your dead child--the little

chap you used to call the light of your eyes, who used to hold out his

arms directly he saw you and cry when you went away?"

His voice was not very steady, and he paused but he did not look at

her or seem to expect any reply.

Daisy gave a great shiver. She felt cold from head to foot. But she

was not afraid of Nick. If she yielded, it would not be through fear.

A full minute crawled away before he spoke again. "And this fellow

Grange," he said then. "He is a man who values his honour. He has

lived a clean life. He holds an unblemished record. He is in your

hands. You can do what you like with him--whatever your love inspires

you to do. You can pull him back into a straight course, or you can

wreck him for good and all. Which is it going to be, I wonder? It's a

sacrifice either way,--a sacrifice to Love or a sacrifice to devils.

You can make it which you will. But if it is to be the last, never

talk of Love again. For Love--real Love--is the safeguard from all

evil. And if you can do this thing, it has never been above your

horizon, and never will be."

Again he stopped, and again there was silence while Daisy sat

white-faced and slightly bowed, wondering when it would be over,

wondering how much longer she could possibly endure.

And then suddenly he bent down over her. His hand was on her shoulder.

"Daisy," he said, and voice and touch alike implored her, "give him

up, dear! Give him up! You can do it if you will, if your love is

great enough. I know how infernally hard it is to do. I've done it

myself. It means tearing your very heart out. But it will be worth

it--it must be worth it--afterwards. You are bound--some time--to reap

what you have sown."

She lifted a haggard face. There was something in the utterance that

compelled her. And so looking, she saw that which none other of this

man's friend's had ever seen. She saw his naked soul, stripped bare of

all deception, of all reserve,--a vital, burning flame shining in the

desert. The sight moved her as had nought else.

"Oh, Nick," she cried out desperately, "I can't--I can't!"

He bent lower over her. He was looking straight down into her eyes.

"Daisy," he said very urgently, "Daisy, for God's sake--try!"

Her white lips quivered, striving again to refuse. But the words would

not come. Her powers of resistance had begun to totter.

"You can do it," he declared, his voice quick and passionate as though

he pleaded with her for life itself. "You can do it--if you will. I

will help you. You shan't stand alone. Don't stop to think. Just come

with me now--at once--and put an end to it before you sleep. For you

can't do this thing, Daisy. It isn't in you. It is all a monstrous

mistake, and you can't go on with it. I know you better than you know

yourself. We haven't been pals all these years for nothing. And there

is that in your heart that won't let you go on. I thought it was dead

a few minutes ago. But, thank God, it isn't. I can see it in your

eyes."

She uttered an inarticulate sound that was more bitter than any

weeping, and covered her face.

Instantly Nick straightened himself and turned away. He went to the

window and leaned his head against the sash. He had the spent look of

a man who has fought to the end of his strength. The thunder of the

waves upon the shore filled in the long, long silence.

Minutes crawled away, and still he stood there with his face to the

darkness. At last a voice spoke behind him, and he turned. Daisy had

risen.

She stood in the lamplight, quite calm and collected. There was even a

smile upon her face, but it was a smile that was sadder than tears.

"It's been a desperate big fight, hasn't it, Nick?" she said. "But--my

dear--you've won. For the sake of my little baby, and for the sake of

the man I love--yes, and partly for your sake too,"--she held out her

hand to him with the words--"I am going back to the prison-house. No,

don't speak to me. You have said enough. And, Nick, I must go alone.

So I want you, please, to go away, and not to come to me again until I

send for you. I shall send sooner or later. Will you do this?"

Her voice never faltered, but the misery in her eyes cut him to the

heart. In that moment he realised how terribly near he had been to

losing the hardest battle he had ever fought.

He gave her no second glance. Simply, without a word, he stooped and

kissed the hand she had given him; then turned and went noiselessly

away.

He had won indeed, but the only triumph he knew was the pain of a very

human compassion.

Scarcely five minutes after his departure, Daisy let herself out into

the night that lay like a pall above the moaning shore. She went with

lagging feet that often stumbled in the darkness. It was only the

memory of a baby's head against her breast that gave her strength.

CHAPTER XLIII

REQUIESCAT

"I believe I heard a gun in the night," remarked Mrs. Ratcliffe at the

breakfast-table on the following morning.

"Shouldn't be surprised," said Dr. Jim. "I know there was a ship in

distress off Calister yesterday. They damaged the lifeboat trying to

reach her. But the wind seems to have gone down a little this morning.

Do you care for a ride, Muriel?"

Muriel accepted the invitation gladly. She liked accompanying Dr. Jim

upon his rounds. She had arranged to leave two days later, a decision

which the news of Daisy's presence at Brethaven had not affected.

Daisy seemed to have dropped her for good and all, and her pride would

not suffer her to inquire the reason. She had, in fact, begun to think

that Daisy had merely tired of her, and that being so she was the

more willing to go to Mrs. Langdale, whose letters of fussy kindliness

seemed at least to ensure her a cordial welcome.

She had discussed her troubles no further with Dr. Jim. Grange's

letter had in some fashion placed matters beyond discussion. And so

she had only briefly told him that her engagement was at an end, and

he had gruffly expressed his satisfaction thereat. Her one idea now

was to escape from Nick's neighbourhood as speedily as possible. It

possessed her even in her dreams.

She went with Dr. Jim to the surgery when breakfast was over, and sat

down alone in the consulting-room to wait for him. He usually started

on his rounds at ten o'clock, but it wanted a few minutes to the

hour and the motor was not yet at the door. She sat listening for it,

hoping that no one would appear to detain him.

The morning was bright, and the wind had fallen considerably. Through

the window she watched the falling leaves as they eddied in sudden

draughts along the road. She looked through a wire screen that gave

rather a depressing effect to the sunshine.

Suddenly from some distance away there came to her the sound of a

horse's hoof-beats, short and hard, galloping over the stones. It

was a sound that arrested the attention, awaking in her a vague,

apprehensive excitement. Almost involuntarily she drew nearer to the

window, peering above the blind.

Some seconds elapsed before she caught sight of the headlong horseman,

and then abruptly he dashed into sight round a curve in the road. At

the same instant the gallop became a fast trot, and she saw that the

rider was gripping the animal with his knees. He had no saddle.

Amazed and startled, she stood motionless, gazing at the sudden

apparition, saw as the pair drew nearer what something within her had

already told her loudly before her vision served her, and finally drew

back with a sharp, instinctive contraction of her whole body as the

horseman reined in before the surgery-door and dismounted with a

monkey-like dexterity, his one arm twined in the bridle. A moment

later the surgery-bell pealed loudly, and her heart stood still. She

felt suddenly sick with a nameless foreboding.

Standing with bated breath, she heard Dr. Jim himself go to answer the

summons, and an instant later Nick's voice came to her, gasping and

uneven, but every word distinct.

"Ah, there you are! Thought I should catch you. Man, you're

wanted--quick! In heaven's name--lose no time. Grange was drowned

early this morning, and--I believe it's killed Daisy. For mercy's

sake, come at once!"

There was a momentary pause. Muriel's heart was beating in great

sickening throbs. She felt stiff and powerless.

Dr. Jim's voice, brief and decided, struck through the silence. "Come

inside and have something. I shall be ready to start in three minutes.

Leave your animal here. He's dead beat."

There followed the sound of advancing feet, a hand upon the door, and

the next moment they entered together. Nick was reeling a little and

holding Jim's arm. He saw Muriel with a sharp start, standing as she

had turned from the window. The doctor's brows met for an instant as

he put his brother into a chair. He had forgotten Muriel.

With an effort she overcame the paralysis that bound her, and moved

forward with shaking limbs.

"Did you say Blake was--dead?" she asked, her voice pitched very low.

She looked at Nick as she asked this question, and it was Nick who

answered her in his quick, keen way, as though he realised the mercy

of brevity.

"Yes. He and some fisher chaps went out early this morning in an

ordinary boat to rescue some fellows on a wreck that had drifted on

to the rocks outside the harbour. The lifeboat had been damaged, and

couldn't be used. They reached the wreck all right, but there were

more to save than they had reckoned on--more than the boat would

carry--and the wreck was being battered to pieces. It was only a

matter of seconds for the tide was rising. So they took the lot, and

Grange went over the side to make it possible. He hung on to a rope

for a time, but the seas were tremendous, and after a bit it parted.

He was washed up two hours ago. He had been in the water since three,

among the rocks. There wasn't the smallest chance of bringing him

back. He was long past any help we could give."

He ended abruptly, and helped himself with a jerk to something in a

glass that Jim had placed by his side.

Muriel stood dumbly watching. She noticed with an odd, detached sense

of curiosity that he was shivering violently as one with an ague. Dr.

Jim was already making swift preparations for departure.

Suddenly Nick looked up at her. His eyes were glittering strangely. "I

know now," he said, "what you women feel like when you can only stand

and look on. We have been looking on--Daisy and I--just looking on,

for six mortal hours." He banged his fist with a sort of condensed

fury upon the table, and leapt to his feet. "Jim, are you ready? I

can't sit still any longer."

"Finish that stuff, and don't be a fool!" ordered Jim curtly.

Muriel turned swiftly towards him. "You'll take me with you!" she said

very earnestly.

Nick broke in sharply upon the request. "No, no, Muriel! You're not to

go. Jim, you can't--you shan't--take her! I won't allow it!"

But Muriel was clinging to Dr. Jim's arm with quivering face upraised.

"You will take me," she entreated. "I was able to help Daisy before. I

can help her now."

But even before she spoke there flashed a swift glance between the two

brothers that foiled her appeal almost before it was uttered. With

a far greater gentleness than was customary with him, but with

unmistakable decision, Dr. Jim refused her petition.

"I can't take you now, child. But if Daisy should ask for you, or

if there is anything under the sun that you can do for her, I will

promise to let you know."

It was final, but she would not have it so. A sudden gust of anger

caught her, anger against the man for whose sake she had one night

shed so many bitter tears, whom now she so fierily hated. She still

clung to Jim. She was shaking all over.

"What does it matter what Nick says?" she urged pantingly. "Why give

in to him at every turn? I won't be left behind--just because he

wishes it!"

She would have said more. Her self-control was tottering; but Dr. Jim

restrained her. "My dear, it is not for Nick's sake," he said. "Come,

you are going to be sensible. Sit down and get your breath. There's

no time for hysterics. I must go across and speak to my wife before I

go."

He looked at Nick who instantly responded. "Yes, you be off! I'll look

after her. Be quick, man, be quick!"

But when Dr. Jim was gone, his impatience fell away from him. He

moved round the table and stood before her. He was steady enough now,

steadier far than she.

"Don't take it too hard," he said. "At least he died like a man."

She did not draw away from him. There was no room for fear in her

heart just then. It held only hatred--a fierce, consuming flame--that

enabled her to face him as she had never faced him before.

"Why did you let him go?" she demanded of him, her voice deep and

passionate, her eyes unwaveringly upon him. "There must have been

others. You were there. Why didn't you stop him?"

"I stop him!" said Nick, and a flash of something that was almost

humour crossed his face. "You seem to think I am omnipotent."

Her eyes continued to challenge him. "You always manage to get your

own way somehow," she said very bitterly, "by fair means or foul. Are

you going to deny that it was you who made him write that letter?"

He did not ask her what she meant. "No," he said with a promptitude

that took her by surprise. "I plead guilty to that. As you are aware,

I never approved of your engagement."

His effrontery stung her into what was almost a state of frenzy. Her

eyes blazed their utmost scorn. She had never been less afraid of him

than at that moment. She had never hated him more intensely.

"You could make him do a thing like that," she said. "And yet you

couldn't hold him back from certain death!"

He answered her without heat, in a tone she deemed most hideously

callous. "It was not my business to hold him back. He was wanted.

There would have been no rescue but for him. They needed a man to lead

them, or they wouldn't have gone at all."

His composure goaded her beyond all endurance. She scarcely waited for

him to finish, nor was she wholly responsible for what she said.

"Was there only one man among you, then?" she asked, with headlong

contempt.

He made her a curious, jerky bow. "One man--yes," he said. "The rest

were mere sheep, with the exception of one--who was a cripple."

Her heart contracted suddenly with a pain that was physical. She felt

as if he had struck her, and it goaded her to a fiercer cruelty.

"You knew he would never come back!" she declared her voice quivering

uncontrollably with the passion that shook her. "You--you never meant

him to come back!"

He opened his eyes wide for a single instant, and she fancied that she

had touched him. It was the first time in her memory that she had ever

seen them fully. Instinctively she avoided them, as she would have

avoided a flash of lightning.

And then he spoke, and she knew at once that her wild accusation had

in no way hurt him. "You think that, do you?" he said, and his tone

sounded to her as though he barely repressed a laugh. "Awfully nice of

you! I wonder what exactly you take me for."

She did not keep him in suspense on that point. If she had never had

the strength to tell him before, she could tell him now.

"I take you for a fiend!" she cried hysterically. "I take you for a

fiend!"

He turned sharply from her, so sharply that she was conscious of a

moment's fear overmastering her madness. But instantly, with his back

to her, he spoke, and her brief misgiving was gone.

"It doesn't matter much now what you take me for," he said, and again

in the cracked notes of his voice she seemed to hear the echo of a

laugh. "You won't need to seek any more protectors so far as I am

concerned. You will never see me again unless the gods ordain that

you should come and find me. It isn't the way of an eagle to swoop

twice--particularly an eagle with only one wing."

The laugh was quite audible now, and she never saw how that one hand

of his was clenched and pressed against his side. He had reached the

door while he was speaking. Turning swiftly, he cast one flickering,

inscrutable glance towards her, and then with no gesture of farewell

was gone. She heard his receding footsteps die away while she

struggled dumbly to quell the tumult of her heart.

CHAPTER XLIV

LOVE'S PRISONER

Late that evening a scribbled note reached Muriel from Dr. Jim.

"You can do nothing whatever," he wrote. "Daisy is suffering from

a sharp attack of brain fever, caused by the shock of her cousin's

death, and I think it advisable that no one whom she knows should be

near her. You may rest assured that all that can be done for her will

be done. And, Muriel, I think you will be wise to go to Mrs. Langdale

as you originally intended. It will be better for you, as I think

you will probably realise. You shall be kept informed of Daisy's

condition, but I do not anticipate any immediate change."

She was glad of those few words of advice. Her anxiety regarding

Daisy notwithstanding, she knew it would be a relief to her to go. The

strain of many days was telling upon her. She felt herself to be on

the verge of a break-down, and she longed unspeakably to escape.

She went to her room early on her last night at Weir, but not in order

to rest the longer. She had something to do, something from which she

shrank with a strange reluctance, yet which for her peace of mind she

dared not leave neglected.

It was thus she expressed it to herself as with trembling fingers she

opened the box that contained all her sacred personal treasures.

It lay beneath them all, wrapped in tissue-paper, as it had passed

from his hand to hers, and for long she strove to bring herself to

slip the tiny packet unopened into an envelope and seal it down--yet

could not.

At last--it was towards midnight--she yielded to the force that

compelled. Against her will she unfolded the shielding paper and held

that which it contained upon the palm of her hand. Burning rubies,

red as heart's blood, ardent as flame, flashed and glinted in the

lamp-light. "OMNIA VINCIT AMOR"--how the words scorched her memory!

And she had wondered once if they were true!

She knew now! She knew now! He had forced her to realise it. He had

captured her, had kindled within her--by what magic she knew not--the

undying Against her will, in spite of her utmost resistance, he had

done this thing. Above and beyond and through her fiercest hatred, he

had conquered her quivering heart. He had let her go again, but not

till he had blasted her happiness for ever. None other could ever

dominate her as this man dominated. None other could ever kindle in

her--or ever quench--the torch that this man's hand had lighted.

And this was Love--this hunger that could never be satisfied, this

craving which would not be stifled or ignored--Love triumphant,

invincible, immortal--the thing she had striven to slay at its

birth, but which had lived on in spite of her, growing, spreading,

enveloping, till she was lost, till she was suffocated, in its

immensity. There could never be any escape for her again. She was

fettered hand and foot. It was useless any longer to strive. She stood

and faced the truth.

She did not ask herself how it was she had ever come to care. She only

numbly realised that she had always cared. And she knew now that to no

woman is it given so to hate as she had hated without the spur of Love

goading her thereto. Ah, but Love was cruel!

Love was merciless! For she had never known--nor ever could know

now--the ecstasy of Love. Truly, it conquered; but it left its

prisoners to perish of starvation in the wilderness.

A slight sound in the midnight silence! A timid hand softly trying

the door-handle! She sprang up, dropping the ring upon her table, and

turned to see Olga in her nightdress, standing in the doorway.

"I was awake," the child explained tremulously. "And I heard you

moving. And I wondered, dear Muriel, if perhaps I could do anything to

help you. You--you don't mind?"

Muriel opened her arms impulsively. She felt as if Olga had been sent

to lighten her darkest hour.

For a while she held her close, not speaking at all; and it was Olga

who at last broke the silence.

"Darling, are you crying for Captain Grange?"

She raised her head then to meet the child's gaze of tearful sympathy.

"I am not crying, dear," she said. "And--it wouldn't be for him if I

were. I don't want to cry for him. I just envy him, that's all."

She leaned her head against Olga's shoulder, rocking a little to and

fro with closed eyes. "Yes," she said at last, "you can help me, Olga,

if you will. That ring on the table, dear,--a ring with rubies--do you

see it?"

"Yes," breathed Olga, holding her very close.

"Then just take it, dear." Muriel's voice was unutterably weary; she

seemed to speak with a great effort. "It belongs to Nick. He gave it

to me once, long ago, in remembrance of something. I want you to give

it back to him, and tell him simply that I prefer to forget."

Olga took up the ring. Her lips were trembling. "Aren't you--aren't

you being nice to Nick any more, Muriel?" she asked in a whisper.

Muriel did not answer.

"Not when you promised?" the child urged piteously.

There was silence. Muriel's face was hidden. Her black hair hung about

her like a cloud, veiling her from her friend's eyes. For a long time

she said nothing whatever. Then at last without moving she made reply.

"It's no use, Olga. I can't! I can't! It's not my doing. It's his.

Oh, I think my heart is broken!" Through the anguish of weeping that

followed, Olga clasped her passionately close, frightened, by an

intensity of suffering such as she had never seen before and was

powerless to alleviate.

She slept with Muriel that night, but, waking in the dawning, just

when Muriel had sunk to sleep, she crept out of bed and, with Nick's

ring grasped tightly in her hand, softly stole away.

PART V

CHAPTER XLV

THE VISION

A gorgeous sunset lay in dusky, fading crimson upon the Plains,

trailing to darkness in the east. The day had been hot and cloudless,

but a faint, chill wind had sprung up with the passing of the sun,

and it flitted hither and thither like a wandering spirit over the

darkening earth.

Down in the native quarter a _tom-tom_ throbbed, persistent,

exasperating as the voice of conscience. Somewhere in the distance a

dog barked restlessly, at irregular intervals. And at a point between

_tom-tom_ and dog a couple of parrots screeched vociferously.

Over all, the vast Indian night was rushing down on silent, mysterious

wings. Crimson merged to grey in the telling, and through the falling

dark there shone, detached and wonderful, a single star.

In the little wooden bungalow over against, the water-works a light

had been kindled and gleamed out in a red streak across the Plain.

Other lights were beginning to flicker also from all points of the

compass, save only where a long strip of jungle lay like a blot upon

the face of the earth. But the red light burned the steadiest of them

all.

It came from the shaded lamp of an Englishman, and beneath it with

stubborn, square-jawed determination the Englishman sat at work.

Very steadily his hand moved over the white paper, and the face that

was bent above it never varied--a face that still possessed something

of the freshness of youth though the set of the lips was firm even to

sternness and the line of the chin was hard. He never raised his eyes

as he worked except to refer to the notebook at his elbow. The passage

of time seemed of no moment to him.

Yet at the soft opening of the door, he did look up for an instant, a

gleam of expectancy upon his face that died immediately.

"All right, Sammy, directly," he said, returning without pause to his

work.

Sammy, butler, bearer, and general factotum, irreproachable from his

snowy turban to his white-slippered feet, did not take the hint

to retire, but stood motionless just inside the room, waiting with

statuesque patience till his master should deign to bestow upon him

the favour of his full attention.

After a little Will Musgrave realised this, and with an abrupt sigh

sat back in his chair and rubbed his hand across his forehead.

"Well?" he said then. "You needn't trouble to tell me that the mail

has passed, for I heard the fellow half an hour ago. Of course there

were no letters?"

The man shook his head despondingly. "No letters, sahib."

"Then what do you want?" asked Will, beginning to eye his work again.

Sammy--so dubbed by Daisy long ago because his own name was too sore

a tax upon her memory--sent a look of gleaming entreaty across the

lamp-lit space that separated him from his master.

"The dinner grows cold, sahib," he observed pathetically.

Will smiled a little. "All right, my good Sammy. What does it matter?

I'm sure if I don't mind, you needn't. And I'm busy just now."

But the Indian stood his ground. "What will my mem-sahib say to me,"

he said, "when she comes and finds that my lord has been starved?"

Will's face changed. It was a very open face, boyishly sincere. He did

not laugh at the earnest question. He only gravely shook his head.

"The mem-sahib will come," the man declared, with conviction. "And

what will her servant say when she asks him why his master is so thin?

She will say, 'Sammy, I left him in your care. What have you done to

him?' And, sahib, what answer can her servant give?"

Will clasped his hands at the back of his head in a careless attitude,

but his face was grim. "I don't think you need worry yourself, Sammy,"

he said. "I am not expecting the mem-sahib--at present."

Nevertheless, moved by the man's solicitude, he rose after a moment

and laid his work together. He might as well dine, he reflected, as

sit and argue about it. With a heavy step he passed into the room

where dinner awaited him, and sat down at the table.

No, he was certainly not expecting her at present. He had even of late

begun to ask himself if he expected her at all. It was five months now

since the news of her severe illness had almost induced him to throw

everything aside and go to her. He had only been deterred from this

by a very serious letter from Dr. Jim, strongly advising him to remain

where he was, since it was highly improbable that he would be allowed

to see Daisy for weeks or even months were he at hand, and she would

most certainly be in no fit state to return with him to India. That

letter had been to Will as the passing knell of all he had ever hoped

or desired. Definitely it had told him very little, but he was

not lacking in perception, and he had read a distinct and wholly

unmistakable meaning behind the guarded, kindly sentences. And he knew

when he laid the letter down that in Dr. Jim's opinion his presence

might do incalculable harm. From that day forward he had entertained

no further idea of return, settling down again to his work with a

dogged patience that was very nearly allied to despair.

He was undoubtedly a rising man. There were prospects of a speedy

improvement in his position. It was unlikely that he would be called

upon to spend another hot season in the scorching Plains. Steady

perseverance and indubitable talent had made their mark. But success

was dust and ashes to him now. He did not greatly care if he went or

stayed.

That Daisy was well again, or on the high-road to recovery, he knew;

but he had not received a single letter from her since her illness.

Jim's epistles were very few and far between, but Nick had maintained

a fairly regular correspondence with him till a few weeks back when it

had unaccountably lapsed. But then Nick had done unaccountable things

before, and he did not set down his silence to inconstancy. He was

probably making prodigious efforts on his behalf, and Will awaited

every mail with an eagerness he could not quite suppress, which turned

invariably, however, into a sick sense of disappointment.

That Daisy would ever return to him now he did not for an instant

believe, but there remained the chance--the slender, infinitesimal

chance--that she might ask him to go to her. More than a flying visit

she would know he could not manage. His work was his living, and

hers. But so much Nick's powers of persuasion might one day accomplish

though he would not allow himself to contemplate the possibility,

while week by week the chance dwindled.

So he sat alone and unexpectant at his dinner-table that night and

made heroic efforts to pacify the vigilant Sammy whose protest had

warmed his heart a little if it had not greatly assisted his appetite.

He was glad when the meal was over, and he could saunter out on to

the verandah with his cigar. The night was splendid with stars; but it

held no moon. The wind had died away, but it had left a certain chill

behind; and somehow he was reminded of a certain evening of early

summer in England long ago, when he and Daisy had strolled together

in an English garden, and she had yielded impulsively to his earnest

wooing and had promised to be his wife. He remembered still the little

laugh half sweet, half bitter, with which she had surrendered, the

soft raillery of her blue eyes that yet had not wholly mocked him, the

dainty charm of her submission. She had not loved him. He had known it

even then. She had almost told him so. But with a boy's impetuosity he

had taken the little she had to give, trusting to the future to make

her all his own.

Ah, well! He caught himself sighing, and found that his cigar was out.

With something less than his customary self-suppression he pitched it

forth into the darkness. He could not even smoke with any enjoyment.

He would go indoors and work.

He swung round on his heel, and started back along the verandah

towards his room from which the red light streamed. Three strides he

took with his eyes upon the ground. Then for no reason that he knew he

glanced up towards that bar of light. The next instant he stood still

as one transfixed, and all the blood rushed in tumult to his heart.

There, motionless in the full glare--watching him, waiting for

him--stood his wife!

CHAPTER XLVI

THE HEART OF A MAN

She did not utter a single word or move to greet him. Even in that

ruddy light she was white to the lips. Her hands were fast gripped

together. She did not seem to breathe.

So for full thirty seconds they faced one another, speechless,

spell-bound, while through the awful silence the cry of a jackal

sounded from afar, seeking its meat from God.

Will was the first to move, feeling for his handkerchief mechanically

and wiping his forehead. Also he tried to speak aloud, but his voice

was gone. "Pull yourself together, you fool!" he whispered savagely.

"She'll be gone again directly."

She caught the words apparently, for her attitude changed. She parted

her straining hands as though by great effort, and moved towards him.

Out of the glare of the lamplight she looked more normal. She wore

a grey travelling-dress, but her hat was off. He fancied he saw the

sparkle of the starlight in her hair.

She came towards him a few steps, and then she stopped. "Will," she

said, and her voice had a piteous tremble in it, "won't you speak to

me? Don't you--don't you know me?"

Her voice awoke him, brought him down from the soaring heights of

imagination as it were with a thud. He strode forward and caught her

hands in his.

"Good heavens, Daisy!" he said. "I thought I was dreaming! How on

earth--"

And there he stopped dead, checked in mid career, for she was leaning

back from him, leaning back with all her strength that he might not

kiss her.

He stood, still holding her hands, and looked at her. There was a

curious, choked sensation at his throat, as if he had swallowed ashes.

She had come back to him--she had come back to him indeed, but he had

a feeling that she was somehow beyond his reach, further away from him

in that moment of incredible reunion than she had ever been during all

the weary months of their separation. This woman with the pale face

and tragic eyes was a total stranger to him. Small wonder that he had

thought himself to be dreaming!

With a furious effort he collected himself. He let her hands slip

from his. "Come in here," he said, forcing his dry throat to speech by

sheer strength of will. "You should have let me know."

She went in without a word, and came to a stand before the table that

was littered with his work. She was agitated, he saw. Her hand was

pressed against her heart, and she seemed to breathe with difficulty.

Instinctively he came to her aid with commonplace phrases--the first

that occurred to him. "How did you come? But no matter! Tell me

presently. You must have something to eat. You look dead beat. Sit

down, won't--"

And there he stopped again, breaking off short to stare at her. In the

lighted room she had turned to face him, and he saw that her hair was

no longer golden but silvery white.

Seeing his look, she began to speak in hurried, uneven sentences. "I

have been ill, you know. It--it was brain fever, Jim said. Hair--fair

hair particularly--does go like that sometimes."

"You are well again?" he questioned.

"Oh, quite--quite." There was something almost feverish in the

assertion; she was facing him with desperate resolution. "I have been

well for a long time. Please don't send for anything. I dined at the

dâk-bungalow an hour ago. I--I thought it best."

Her agitation was increasing. She panted between each sentence. Will

turned aside, shut and bolted the window, and drew the blind. Then he

went close to her; he laid a steady hand upon her.

"Sit down," he said, "and tell me what is the matter."

She sank down mutely. Her mouth was quivering; she sought to hide it

from him with her hand.

"Tell me," he said again, and quietly though he spoke there was in his

tone a certain mastery that had never asserted itself in the old days;

"What is it? Why have you come to me like this?"

"I--haven't come to stay, Will," she said, her voice so low that it

was barely audible.

His face changed. He looked suddenly dogged. "After twenty months!" he

said.

She bent her head. "I know. It's half a lifetime--more. You have

learnt to do without me by this. At least--I hope you have--for your

own sake."

He made no comment on the words; perhaps he did not hear them. After a

brief silence she heard his voice above her bowed head. "Something is

wrong. You'll tell me presently, won't you? But--really you needn't be

afraid."

Something in the words--was it a hint of tenderness?--renewed her

failing strength. She commanded herself and raised her head. She

scarcely recognised in the steady, square-chinned man before her

the impulsive, round-faced boy she had left. There was something

unfathomable about him, a hint of greatness that affected her

strangely.

"Yes," she said. "Something is wrong. It is what I am here for--what I

have come to tell you. And when it is over, I'm going away--I'm going

away--out of your life--for ever, this time."

His jaw hardened, but he said nothing whatever. He stood waiting for

her to continue.

She rose slowly to her feet though she was scarcely capable of

standing. She had come to the last ounce of her strength, but she

spent it bravely.

"Will," she said, and though her voice shook uncontrollably every word

was clear, "I hardly know how to say it. You have always trusted me,

always been true to me. I think--once--you almost worshipped me. But

you'll never worship me any more, because--because--I am unworthy of

you. Do you understand? I was held back from the final wickedness,

or--or I shouldn't be here now. But the sin was there in my heart.

Heaven help me, it is there still. There! I have told you. It--was

your right. I don't ask for mercy or forgiveness. Only punish

me--punish me--and then--let me--go!"

Voice and strength failed together. Her limbs doubled under her,

and she sank suddenly down at his feet, sobbing--terrible, painful,

tearless sobs that seemed to rend her very being.

Without a word he stooped and lifted her. He was white to the lips,

but there was no hesitancy about him. He acted instantly and decidedly

as a man quite sure of himself.

He carried her to the old _charpoy_ by the window and laid her down.

Many minutes later, when her anguish had a little spent itself, she

realised that he was kneeling beside her, holding her pressed against

his heart. Through all the bitter chaos of her misery and her shame

there came to her the touch of his hand upon her head.

It amazed her--it thrilled her, that touch of his; in a fashion it

awed her. She kept her face hidden from him; she could not look up.

But he did not seek to see her face. He only kept his hand upon her

throbbing temple till she grew still against his breast.

Then at length, his voice slow and deep and very steady, he spoke.

"Daisy, we will never speak of this again."

She gave a great start. Pity, even a certain measure of kindness,

she had almost begun to expect; but not this--not this! She made a

movement to draw herself away from him, but he would not suffer it. He

only held her closer.

"Oh, don't, Will, don't!" she implored him brokenly. "For your own

sake--let me go!"

"For my own sake, Daisy," he answered quietly,--"and for yours, since

you have come to me, I will never let you go again."

"But you can't want me," she insisted piteously. "Don't be generous,

Will. I can't bear it. Anything but that! I would rather you cursed

me--indeed--indeed!"

His hand restrained her, silenced her. "Hush!" he said. "You are my

wife. I love you, and I want you."

Tears came to her then with a rush, blinding, burning, overwhelming,

and yet their very agony was relief to her. She made no further

effort to loosen his hold. She even feebly clung to him as one needing

support.

"Ah, but I must tell you--I must tell you," she whispered at last.

"If--if you mean to forgive me, you must know--everything."

"Tell me, if it helps you," he answered, and he spoke with the

splendid patience that twenty weary months had wrought in him. "Only

believe--before you begin--that I have forgiven you. For--before

God--it is the truth."

And so presently, lying in his arms, her face hidden low on his

breast, she told him all, suppressing nothing, extenuating nothing,

simply pouring out the whole bitter story, sometimes halting,

sometimes incoherent, but never wavering in her purpose, till, like

an evil growth that yet clung about her palpitating heart, her sin lay

bare before him--the sin of a woman who had almost forgotten that Love

is a holy thing.

He heard her to the end with scarcely a word, and when she had

finished he made one comment only.

"And so you gave him up."

She shivered with the pain of that memory. "Yes, I gave him up--I

gave him up. Nick had made me see the hopelessness of it all--the

wickedness. And he--he let me go. He saw it too--at least he

understood. And on that very night--oh, Will, that awful night--he

went to his death."

His arms grew closer about her. "My poor girl!" he said.

"Ah, but you shouldn't!" she sobbed. "You shouldn't! You ought to hate

me--to despise me."

"Hush!" he said again. And she knew that with that one word he

resolutely turned his back upon the gulf that had opened between them

during those twenty months--that gulf that his love had been great

enough to bridge--and that he took her with him, bruised and broken

and storm-tossed as she was, into a very sheltered place.

When presently he turned her face up to his own and gravely kissed her

she clung to his neck like a tired child, no longer fearing to meet

his look, only thankful for the comfort of his arms.

For a while longer he held her silently, then very quietly he began

to question her about her journey. Had she told him that she had been

putting up at the dâk-bungalow?

"Oh, only for a few hours," she answered. "We arrived this evening,

Nick and I."

"Nick!" he said. "And you left him behind?"

"He is waiting to take me back," she murmured, her face hidden against

his shoulder.

Again, very tenderly, his hand pressed her forehead. "He must come to

us, eh, dear? I will sent the _khit_ down with a note presently. But

you are tired out, and must rest. Lie here while I go and tell Sammy

to make ready."

It was when he came back to her that she began to see wherein lay the

change in him that had so struck her.

From her cushions she looked up at him, piteously smiling. "How thin

you are, Will! And you are getting quite a scholarly stoop."

"Ah, that's India," he said.

But she knew that it was not India at all, and her face told him so,

though he affected not to see it.

He bent over her. "Now, Daisy, I am going to carry you to bed as I

used--do you remember?--at Simla, after the baby came. Dear little

chap! Do you remember how he used to smile in his sleep?"

His voice was hushed, as though he stood once more beside the tiny

cot.

She sat up, yielding herself to his arms. "Oh, Will," she said, with a

great sob, "if only he had lived!"

He held her closely, and lying against his breast she felt the sigh he

stifled. His lips were upon the silvered hair.

"Perhaps--some day--Daisy," he said, under his breath.

And she, clinging to him, whispered back through her tears, "Oh,

Will,--I do hope so."

CHAPTER XLVII

IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP

It was very hot down on the buzzing race-course, almost intolerably

so in the opinion of the girl who sat in Lady Bassett's

elegantly-appointed carriage, and looked out with the indifference of

boredom upon the sweltering crowds.

"Dear child, don't look so freezingly aloof!" she had been entreated

more than once; and each time the soft injunction had reached her the

wide dark eyes had taken to themselves a more utter disdain.

If she looked freezing, she was far from feeling it, for the hot

weather was at its height, and Ghawalkhand, though healthy, was not

the coolest spot in the Indian Empire. Sir Reginald Bassett had been

appointed British Resident, to act as adviser to the young rajah

thereof, and there had been no question of a flitting to Simla that

year. Lady Bassett had deplored this, but Muriel rejoiced. She never

wanted to see Simla again.

Life was a horrible emptiness to her in those days. She was weary

beyond expression, and had no heart for the gaieties in which she was

plunged. Idle compliments had never attracted her, and flirtations

were an abomination to her. She looked through and beyond them with

the eyes of a sphinx. But there were very few who suspected the

intolerable ache that throbbed unceasingly behind her impassivity--the

loneliness of spirit that oppressed her like a crushing, physical

weight.

Even Bobby Fraser, who saw most things, could scarcely have been aware

of this; yet certainly it was not the vivacity of her conversation

that induced him to seek her out as he generally did when he saw

her sitting apart. A very cheery bachelor was Bobby Fraser, and a

tremendous favourite wherever he went. He was a wonderful organizer,

and he invariably had a hand in anything of an entertaining nature

that was going forward.

He had just brought her tea, and was waiting beside her while she

drank it. Lady Bassett had left the carriage for the paddock, and

Muriel sat alone.

Had she had anything on the last race, he wanted to know? Muriel had

not. He had, and was practically ruined in consequence--a calamity

which in no way seemed to affect his spirits.

"Who would have expected a rank outsider like that to walk over the

course? Ought to have been disqualified for sheer cheek. Reminds me

of a chap I once knew--forget his name--Nick something or other--who

entered at the last minute for the Great Mogul's Cup at Sharapura. Did

it for a bet, they said. It's years ago now. The horse was a perfect

brute--all bone and no flesh--with a temper like the foul fiend and

no points whatever--looked a regular crock at starting. But he romped

home on three legs, notwithstanding, with his jockey clinging to him

like an inspired monkey. It was the only race he ever won. Every one

put it down to black magic or personal magnetism on the part of his

rider. Same thing, I believe. He was the sort of chap who always comes

out on top. Rum thing I can't remember his name. I had travelled out

with him on the same boat once too. Have some more tea."

This was a specimen of most of Bobby Fraser's conversation. He was

brimful of anecdotes. They flowed as easily as water from a fountain.

Their source seemed inexhaustible. He never repeated himself to the

same person.

Muriel declined his offer of more tea. For some reason she wanted to

hear more of the man who had won the Great Mogul's Cup at Sharapura.

Bobby was more than willing to oblige. "Oh, it was sheer cheek that

carried him through, of course. I always said he was the cheekiest

beggar under the sun--quite a little chap he was, hideously ugly,

with a face like a baked apple, and eyes that made you think of a

cinematograph. You know the sort of thing. I used to think he had a

future before him, but he seems to have dropped out. He was only

about twenty when I had him for a stable-companion. I remember one

outrageous thing he did on the voyage out. There was card-playing

going on in the saloon one night, and he was looking on. One of the

lady-players--well, I suppose I may as well call it by its name--one

of them cheated. He detected it. Beastly position, of course. Don't

know what I should have done under the circumstances, but anyhow he

wasn't at a loss. He simply lighted a cigarette and set fire to the

lady's dress."

Muriel's exclamation of horror was ample testimony to the fact that

her keenest interest was aroused.