time he had been abominably careless. I did not hear the rights of the
case till afterwards, and then not from him. There was a fine flareup,
of course--card-table overturned--ladies in hysterics--in the middle
of the fray our gallant hero extinguishing the flames with his bare
hands. He was profusely apologetic and rather badly scorched. The lady
took very little harm, except to her nerves and her temper. She cut
him dead for the rest of the voyage, but I don't think it depressed
him much. He was the sort of fellow that never gets depressed. Hullo!
There's Mrs. Philpot making violent signs. I suppose I had better go
and see what she wants, or be dropped for evermore. Good-bye!"
He smiled upon her and departed, leaving her thoughtful, with a
certain wistful wonder in her eyes.
Lady Bassett's return interrupted her reverie. "You have had some tea,
I hope, dear? Ah, I thought Mr. Bobby Fraser was making his way in
this direction. So sweet of him not to forget you when he has so many
other calls upon his attention. And how are you faring for to-night?
Is your programme full yet? I have literally not one dance left."
Lady Bassett had deemed it advisable to ignore the fact of Muriel's
brief engagement to Captain Grange since the girl's return to India.
She knew, as did her husband, that it had come to an end before
Grange's death, but she withheld all comment upon it. Her one desire
was to get the dear child married without delay, and she was
not backward in letting her know it. Life at Ghawalkhand was one
continuous round of gaiety, and she had every opportunity for
forwarding her scheme. Though she deplored Muriel's unresponsiveness,
she yet did not despair. It was sheer affectation on the girl's part,
she would tell herself, and would soon pass. And after all, that
queenly, aloof air had a charm that was all its own. It might not
attract the many, but she had begun to fancy of late that Bobby Fraser
had felt its influence. He was not in the least the sort of man
she would have expected to do so, but there was no accounting for
taste--masculine taste especially. And it would be an excellent thing
for Muriel.
She was therefore being particularly gracious to her young charge just
then--a state of affairs which Muriel endured rather than appreciated.
She would never feel at her ease with Lady Bassett as long as she
lived.
She was glad when they drove away at length, for she wanted to be
alone. Those anecdotes of Bobby's had affected her strangely. She had
felt so completely cut off of late from all things connected with the
past. No one ever mentioned Nick to her now--not even her faithful
correspondent Olga. Meteor-like, he had flashed through her sky and
disappeared; leaving a burning, ineradicable trail behind him, it is
true, but none the less was he gone. She had not the faintest idea
where he was. She would have given all she had to know, yet could not
bring herself to ask. It seemed highly improbable that he would ever
cross her path again, and she knew she ought to be glad of this; yet
no gladness ever warmed her heart. And now here was a man who had
known him, who had told her of exploits new to her knowledge yet how
strangely familiar to her understanding, who had at a touch brought
before her the weird personality that her imagination sometimes
strove in vain to summon. She could have sat and listened to Bobby's
reminiscences for hours. The bare mention of Nick's name had made her
blood run faster.
Lady Bassett did not trouble her to converse during the drive back,
ascribing to her evident desire for silence a reason which Muriel was
too absent to suspect. But when the girl roused herself to throw a
couple of annas to an old beggar who was crouched against the entrance
to the Residency grounds she could not resist giving utterance to a
gentle expostulation.
"I wish you would not encourage these people, dearest. They are so
extremely undesirable, and there is so much unrest in the State just
now that I cannot but regard them with anxiety."
Muriel murmured an apology, with the inward reservation to bestow her
alms next time when Lady Bassett was not looking on.
She found a letter lying on her table when she entered her room,
and took it up listlessly, without much interest. Her mind was
still running on those two anecdotes with which Bobby Fraser had so
successfully enlivened her boredom. The writing on the envelope was
vaguely familiar to her, but she did not associate it with anything
of importance. Absently she opened it, half reluctant to recall her
wandering thoughts. It came from a Hill station in Bengal, but that
told her nothing. She turned to the signature.
The next instant she had turned back again to the beginning, and was
reading eagerly. Her correspondent was Will Musgrave.
"Dear Miss Roscoe,"--ran the letter. "After long consideration
I have decided to write and beg of you a favour which I fancy
you will grant more readily than I venture to ask. My wife, as
you probably know, joined me some months ago. She is in very
indifferent health, and has expressed a most earnest wish to
see you. I believe there is something which she wishes to
tell you--something that weighs upon her heavily; and though
I trust that all will go well with her, I cannot help feeling
that she would stand a much better chance of this if only her
mind could be set at rest. I know I am asking a big thing
of you, for the journey is a ghastly one at this time of the
year, but if of your goodness you can bring yourself to face
it, I will myself meet you and escort you across the Plains.
Will you think the matter carefully over? And perhaps you
would wire a reply.
"I have written without Daisy's knowledge, as she seems
to feel that she has forfeited the right to your
friendship.--Sincerely yours,
"W. MUSGRAVE."
Muriel's reply was despatched that evening, almost before she had
fully read the appeal.
"Starting to-morrow," was all she said.
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE HEALING OF THE BREACH
Lady Bassett considered the decision deplorably headlong, and said
so; but her remonstrances were of no avail. Muriel tossed aside her
listlessness as resolutely as the ball-dress that had been laid out
for the evening's festivity, and plunged at once into preparations for
her journey. She knew full well that it was of no actual importance
to Lady Bassett whether she went or stayed, and she did not pretend to
think otherwise. Moreover, no power on earth would have kept her away
from Daisy now that she knew herself to be wanted.
Though more than half of the three days' journey lay across the
sweltering Plains, she contemplated it without anxiety, even with
rejoicing. At last, the breach, over which she had secretly mourned so
deeply, was to be healed.
The next morning at an early hour she was upon her way. She looked
out as she drove through the gates for the old native beggar who had
crouched at the entrance on the previous afternoon. He was not there,
but a little way further she met him hobbling along to take up his
post for the day. From the folds of his chuddah his unkempt beard
wagged entreaty at the carriage as it passed. Impulsively, because of
the gladness that was so new to her lonely heart, she leaned from the
window and threw him a rupee.
Looking back upon the journey later, she never remembered its tedium.
She was as one borne on the wings of love, and she scarcely noticed
the hardships of the way.
Will Musgrave met her according to his promise at the great junction
in the Plains. She found him exceedingly solicitous for her welfare,
but so grave and silent that she hardly liked to question him. He
thanked her very earnestly for coming, said that Daisy was about the
same, and then left her almost exclusively to the society of her ayah.
The heat in the Plains was terrific, but Muriel's courage never
wavered. She endured it with unfaltering resolution, hour after hour
reckoning the dwindling miles that lay before them, passing over
all personal discomfort as of no account, content only to be going
forward.
But they left the Plains behind at last, and then came to the welcome
ascent to the Hill station through a country where pine-trees grew
ever more and more abundant.
At length at the close of a splendid day they reached it, and as they
were nearing their destination Will broke through his silence.
"She doesn't know even yet that you are coming," he said. "I thought
the suspense of waiting for you might be bad for her. Miss Roscoe--in
heaven's name--make her happy if you can!"
There was such a passion of entreaty in his voice that Muriel was
deeply touched. She gave him her hand impulsively.
"Mr. Musgrave," she said, "to this day I do not know what it was that
came between us, but I promise--I promise--that if any effort of mine
can remove it, it shall be removed to-night."
Will Musgrave squeezed her fingers hard. "God bless you!" he said
earnestly.
And with that he left her, and went on ahead to prepare Daisy for her
coming.
All her life Muriel remembered Daisy's welcome of that evening with
a thrill of pain. They met at the gate of the little compound that
surrounded the bungalow Will had taken for his wife, and though the
light of the sinking sun smote with a certain ruddiness upon Daisy,
Muriel was unspeakably shocked by her appearance.
Her white hair, her deathly pallor, the haunting misery of her
eyes--above all, her silence--went straight to the girl's heart.
Without a single word she gathered Daisy close in her warm young arms
and so held her in a long and speechless embrace.
After all, it was Daisy who spoke first, gently drawing herself away.
"Come in, darling! You must be nearly dead after your awful journey.
I can't think how Will could ask it of you at this time of the year. I
couldn't myself."
"I would have come to you from the world's end--and gladly," Muriel
answered, in her deep voice. "You know I would."
And that was all that passed between them, for Will was present, and
Daisy had already begun to lead her guest into the house.
As the evening wore on, Muriel was more and more struck by the great
change she saw in her. They had not met for ten months, but twice
as many years seemed to have passed over Daisy, crushing her beneath
their weight. All her old sprightliness had vanished utterly. She
spoke but little, and there was in her manner to her husband a wistful
humility, a submission so absolute, that Muriel, remembering her
ancient spirit, could have wept.
Will looked at her as if he longed to say something when she bade him
good-night, but Daisy was beside her, and he could only give her a
tremendous handgrip.
They went away together, and Daisy accompanied her to her room. But
the wall of reserve that had been built up between them was not to be
shattered at a touch. Neither of them knew exactly how to approach
it. There was no awkwardness between them, there was no lack of
tenderness, but the door that had closed so long ago was hard to
open. Daisy seemed to avoid it with a morbid dread, and it was not in
Muriel's power to make the first move.
So for awhile they lingered together, talking commonplaces, and at
length parted for the night, holding each other closely, without
words.
It seemed evident that Daisy could not bring herself to speak at
present, and Muriel went to bed with a heavy heart.
She was far too weary to lie awake, but her tired brain would not
rest. For the first time in many dreary months she dreamed of Nick.
He was jeering at her in devilish jubilation because she had changed
her mind about marrying him, but lacked the courage to tell him so.
CHAPTER XLIX
THE LOWERING OF THE FLAG
The night was very far advanced when Muriel was aroused from her
dreams by a sound which she drowsily fancied must have been going on
for some time. It did not disturb her very seriously at first; she
even subconsciously made an effort to ignore it. But at length a
sudden stab of understanding pierced her sleep-laden senses, and in a
moment she started up broad awake. Some one was in the room with her.
Through the dumb stillness before the dawn there came the sound of
bitter weeping.
For a few seconds she sat motionless, startled, bewildered, half
afraid. The room was in nearly total darkness. Only in dimmest
outline could she discern the long French window that opened upon the
verandah.
The weeping continued. It was half smothered, but it sounded agonised.
A great wave of compassion swept suddenly over Muriel. All in a moment
she understood.
Swiftly she leaned forward into the darkness, feeling outwards till
her groping hands touched a figure that crouched beside the bed.
"Daisy! Daisy, my darling!" she said, and there was anguish in her own
voice. "What is it?"
In a second the sobbing ceased as if some magic had silenced it.
Two hands reached up out of the darkness and tightly clasped hers. A
broken voice whispered her name.
"What is it?" Muriel repeated in growing distress.
"Hush, dear, hush!" the trembling voice implored. "Don't let Will
hear! It worries him so."
"But, my darling,--" Muriel protested.
She began to feel for some matches, but again the nervous hands caught
and imprisoned hers.
"Don't--please!" Daisy begged her earnestly. "I--I have something to
tell you--something that will shock you unutterably. And I--I don't
want you to see my face."
She resisted Muriel's attempt to put her arms about her. "No--no,
dear! Hear me first. There! Let me kneel beside you. It will not
take me long. It isn't just for my own sake I am going to speak,
nor yet--entirely--for yours. You will see presently. Don't ask me
anything--please--till I have done. And then if--if there is anything
you want to know, I will try to tell you."
"Come and lie beside me," Muriel urged.
But Daisy would not. She had sunk very low beside the bed. For a while
she crouched there in silence while she summoned her strength.
Then, "Oh, Muriel," she suddenly said, and the words seemed to burst
from her with a great sigh, "I wonder if you ever really loved Blake."
"No, dear, I never did." Muriel's answer came quiet and sincere
through the darkness. "Nor did he love me. Our engagement was a
mistake. I was going to tell him so--if things had been different."
"I never thought you cared for him," Daisy said. "But oh, Muriel,
I did. I loved him with my whole soul. No, don't start! It is over
now--at least that part of it that was sinful. I only tell you of
it because it is the key to everything that must have puzzled you
so horribly all this time. We always loved each other from the very
beginning, but our people wouldn't hear of it because we were cousins.
And so we separated and I used to think that I had put it away from
me. But--last summer--it all came back. You mustn't blame him, Muriel.
Blame me--blame me!" The thin hands tightened convulsively. "It was
when my baby died that I began to give way. We never meant it--either
of us--but we didn't fight hard enough. And then at last--at
Brethaven--Nick found it out; and it was because he knew that Blake's
heart was not in his compact with you that he made him write to you
and break it off. It was not for his own ends at all that he did it.
It was for your sake alone. He even swore to Blake that if he would
put an end to his engagement, he on his part would give up all idea
of winning you and would never trouble you any more. And that was the
finest thing he ever did, Muriel, for he never loved any one but you.
Surely you know it. You must know it by this time. You have never
understood him, but you must have begun to realise that he has loved
you well enough to set your happiness and well-being always far, far
before his own."
Daisy paused. Her weeping had wholly ceased, but she was shivering
from head to foot.
Muriel sat in silence above her, watching wide-eyed, unseeing,
the vague hint of light at the open window. She was beginning to
understand many things--ah, many things--that had been as a sealed
book to her till then.
After a time Daisy went on. "No one will ever know what Nick was to me
at that time, how he showed me the wickedness of it all, how he held
me back from taking the final step, making me realise--even against
my will--that Love--true Love--is holy, conquering all evil. And
afterwards--afterwards--when Blake was gone--he stood by me and helped
me to live, and brought me back at last to my husband. I could never
have done it alone. I hadn't the strength. You see"--the low voice
faltered suddenly--"I never expected Will to forgive me. I never asked
it of him--any more than I am asking it of you."
"Oh, my darling, there is no need!" Muriel turned suddenly to throw
impetuous arms about the huddled figure at her side. "Daisy! Daisy! I
love you. Let us forget there has ever been this thing between us. Let
us be as we used to be, and never drift apart again."
Tenderly but insistently, she lifted Daisy to the bed beside her,
holding her fast. The wall between them was broken down at last. They
clung together as sisters long parted.
Daisy, spent by the violence of her emotion, lay for a long time in
Muriel's arms without attempting anything further. But at length with
a palpable effort she began to speak of other things.
"You know, I have a feeling--perhaps it is morbid--that I am not going
to live. I am sure Will thinks so too. If I die, Muriel,--three months
from now--you and Nick must help him all you can."
"You are not going to die," Muriel asserted vehemently. "You are not
to talk of dying, or think of it. Oh, Daisy, can't you look forward to
the better time that is coming--when you will have something to live
for? And won't you try to think more of Will? It would break his heart
to lose you."
"I do think of him," Daisy said wearily. "I would do anything to make
him happier. But I can't look forward. I am so tired--so tired."
"You will feel differently by-and-by," Muriel whispered.
"Perhaps," she assented. "I don't know. I don't feel as if I shall
ever hold another child in my arms. God knows I don't deserve it."
"Do you think He looks at it in that way?" murmured Muriel, her arms
tightening. "There wouldn't be much in life for any of us if He did."
"I don't know," Daisy said again.
She lay quiet for a little as though pondering something. Then at
length hesitatingly she spoke. "Muriel, there is one thing that
whether I live or whether I die I want with my whole heart. May I tell
you what it is?"
"Of course, dear. What is it?"
Daisy turned in her arms, holding her in a clasp that was passionate.
"My darling," she whispered very earnestly, "I would give all I have
in the world to know you happy with--with the man you love."
Silence followed the words. Muriel had become suddenly quite still;
her head was bent.
"Don't--don't bar me out of your confidence," Daisy implored
her tremulously. "There is so little left for me to do now.
Muriel--dearest--you do love him?"
Muriel moved impulsively, hiding her face in her friend's neck. But
she said no word in answer.
Daisy went on softly, as though she had spoken. "He is still waiting
for you. I think he will wait all his life, though he will never come
to you again unless you call him. Won't you--can't you--send him just
one little word?"
"How can I?" The words broke suddenly from Muriel as though she could
no longer restrain them. "How can I possibly?"
"It could be done," Daisy said. "I know he is still somewhere in India
though he has left the Army. We could get a message to him at any
time."
"Oh, but I couldn't--I couldn't!" Muriel had begun to tremble
violently. There was a sound of tears in her deep voice. "Besides--he
wouldn't come."
"My dear, he would," Daisy assured her. "He would come to you directly
if he only knew that you wanted him. Muriel, surely you are not--not
too proud to let him know!"
"Proud! Oh, no, no!" There was almost a moan in the words. Muriel's
head sank a little lower. "Heaven knows I'm not proud," she said.
"I am ashamed--miserably ashamed. I have trampled on his love so
often--so often. How could I ask him for it--now?"
"Ah, but if he came to you," Daisy persisted, "if in spite of all he
came to you, you wouldn't send him away?"
"Send him away!" A sudden note of passion thrilled in Muriel's voice.
She lifted her head sharply. With the tears upon her cheeks she yet
spoke with a certain exultation. "I--I would follow him barefoot
across the world," she said, "if--if he would only lift one finger
to call me. But oh, Daisy,"--her confidence vanished at a
breath--"where's the use of talking? He never, never will."
"He will if you let him know," Daisy answered with conviction. "Don't
you think you can, dear? Give me just one word for him--one tiny
message that he will understand. Only trust him this once--just this
once! Give him his opportunity--he has never had one before, poor
boy--and I know, I know, he will not throw it away."
"You don't think he will--laugh?" Muriel whispered.
"My dear child, no! Nick doesn't laugh at sacred things."
Muriel's face was burning in the darkness. She covered it with her
hands as though it could be seen.
For a few seconds she sat very still. Then slowly but steadily she
spoke.
"Tell him then, Daisy, from me, that 'Love conquers all things--and we
must yield to Love.'"
CHAPTER L
EREBUS
Not another word passed between Daisy and Muriel upon the subject of
that night's confidences. There seemed nothing further to be said.
Moreover, there was between them a closer understanding than words
could compass.
The days that followed passed very peacefully, and Daisy began to
improve so marvellously in health and spirits that both her
husband and her guest caught at times fleeting glimpses of the old
light-hearted personality that they had loved in earlier days.
"You have done wonders for my wife," Will said one day to Muriel. And
though she disclaimed all credit, she could not fail to see a very
marked improvement.
She herself was feeling unaccountably happy in those days, as though
somewhere deep down in her heart a bird had begun to sing. Again and
again she told herself that she had no cause for gladness; but again
and yet again that sweet, elusive music filled her soul.
She would have gladly stayed on with Daisy, seeing how the latter
clung to her, for an indefinite period; but this was not to be.
Daisy came out on to the verandah one morning with a letter in her
hand.
"My dear," she said, "I regret to say that, I must part with you.
I have had a most touching epistle from Lady Bassett, describing at
length your many wasted opportunities, and urging me to return you to
the fold with all speed. It seems there is to be a State Ball at the
palace--an immense affair to which the Rajah is inviting all the big
guns for miles around--and Lady Bassett thinks that her dear child
ought not to miss such a gorgeous occasion. She seems to think that
something of importance depends upon it, and hints that I should be
almost criminally selfish to deprive you of such a treat as this will
be."
Muriel lifted a flushed face from a letter of her own. "I have heard
from Sir Reginald," she said. "Evidently she has made him write. I
can't think why, for she never wants me when I am with her. I don't
see why I should go, do you? After all, I am of age and independent."
A very tender smile touched Daisy's lips. "I think you had better go,
darling," she said.
Muriel opened her eyes wide. "But why--"
Daisy checked the question half uttered. "I think it will be better
for you. I never meant to let you stay till the rains, so it makes
little more than a week's difference. It sounds as if I want to be
rid of you, doesn't it? But you know it isn't that. I shall miss you
horribly, but you have done what you came to do, and I shall get on
all right now. So I am not going to keep you with me any longer. My
reasons are not Lady Bassett's reasons, but all the same it would be
selfish of me to let you stay. Later on perhaps--in the winter--you
will come and make a long stay; spend Christmas with us, and we will
have some real fun, shall we, Will?" turning to her husband who had
just appeared.
He stared for an instant as if he thought he had not heard aright, and
there was to Muriel something infinitely pathetic in the way his brown
hand touched his wife's shoulder as he passed her and made reply.
"Oh, rather!" he said. "We'll have a regular jollification with as
many old friends as we can collect. Don't forget, Miss Roscoe! You are
booked first and foremost, and we shall keep you to it, Daisy and I."
Two days later Muriel was on her way back to Ghawalkhand. She found
the heat of the journey almost insupportable. The Plains lay under a
burning pall of cloud, and at night the rolling thunder was incessant.
But no rain fell to ease the smothering oppression of the atmosphere.
She almost fainted one evening, but Will was with her and she never
forgot his kindly ministrations.
A few hours' journey from Ghawalkhand Sir Reginald himself met her,
and here she parted with Will with renewed promises of a future
meeting towards the end of the year.
Sir Reginald fussed over her kind-heartedly, hoped she had enjoyed
herself, thought she looked very thin, and declared that his wife was
looking forward with much pleasure to her return. The State was
still somewhat unsettled, there had been one or two outrages of late,
nothing serious, of course, but the native element was restless, and
he fancied Lady Bassett was nervous.
She was away at a polo-match when they arrived, and Muriel profited by
her absence and went straight to bed.
She could have slept for hours had she been permitted to do so, but
Lady Bassett, returning, awoke her to receive her welcome. She was
charmed to have her back, she declared, though shocked to see her
looking so wan, "so almost plain, dear child, if one may take the
liberty of an old friend to tell you so."
Neither the crooked smile that accompanied this gentle criticism
nor the decidedly grim laugh with which it was received, was of a
particularly friendly nature; but these facts were not extraordinary.
There had never been the smallest hint of sympathy between them.
"I trust you will be looking much better than this two nights hence,"
Lady Bassett proceeded in her soft accents. "The Rajah's ball is to
be very magnificent, quite dazzlingly so from all accounts. Mr.
Bobby Fraser is of course behind the scenes, and he tells me that the
preparations in progress are simply gigantic. By the way, dear, it is
to be hoped that your absence has not damaged your prospects in
that quarter. I have been afraid lately that he was transferring his
allegiance to the second Egerton girl. I hope earnestly that there is
nothing in it, for you know how I have your happiness at heart, do you
not? And it would be such an excellent thing for you, dear child, as
I expect you realise. For you know, you look so much older than
you actually are that you really ought not to throw away any more
opportunities. Every girl thinks she must have her fling, but you,
dear, should soberly think of getting settled soon. You would not like
to get left, I feel sure."
At this point Muriel sat up suddenly, her dark eyes very bright, and
in brief tones announced that so far as she was concerned the second
Egerton girl was more than welcome to Mr. Fraser and she hoped, if she
wanted him, she would manage to keep him.
It was crudely expressed, as Lady Bassett pointed out with a sigh for
her waywardness; but Muriel always was crude when her deeper feelings
were disturbed, and physical fatigue had made her irritable.
She wished ardently that Lady Bassett would leave her, but Lady
Bassett had not quite done. She lingered to ask for news of poor
little Daisy Musgrave. Had she yet fully recovered from the shock of
her cousin's tragic death? Could she bear to speak of him? She,
Lady Bassett, had always suspected the existence of an unfortunate
attachment between them.
Muriel had no information to bestow upon the subject. She hoped and
believed that Daisy was getting stronger, and had promised, all being
well, to spend Christmas with her.
Lady Bassett shook her head over this declaration. The dear child
was so headlong. Much might happen before Christmas. And what of
Mr. Ratcliffe--this was on her way to the door--had she heard the
extraordinary, the really astounding news concerning him that had just
reached Lady Bassett's ears? She asked because he and Mrs. Musgrave
used to be such friends, though to be sure Mr. Ratcliffe seemed to
have thrown off all his old friends of late. Had Muriel actually not
heard?
"Heard! Heard what?" Muriel forced out the question from between
lips that were white and stiff. She was suddenly afraid--horribly,
unspeakably afraid. But she kept her eyes unflinchingly upon Lady
Bassett's face. She would sooner die than quail in her presence.
Lady Bassett, holding the door-handle, looked back at her, faintly
smiling. "I wonder you have not heard, dear. I thought you were in
correspondence with his people. But perhaps they also are in the dark.
It is a most unheard-of thing--quite irrevocable I am told. But I
always felt that he was a man to do unusual things. There was always
to my mind something uncanny, abnormal, something almost superhuman,
about him."
"But what has happened to him?" Muriel did not know how she uttered
the words; they seemed to come without her own volition. She was
conscious of a choking sensation within her as though iron bands
were tightening about her heart. It beat in leaps and bounds like a
tortured thing striving to escape. But through it all she sat quite
motionless, her eyes fixed upon Lady Bassett's face, noting its faint,
wry smile, as the eyes of a prisoner on the rack might note the grim
lines on the face of the torturer.
"My dear," Lady Bassett said, "he has gone into a Buddhist monastery
in Tibet."
Calmly the words fell through smiling lips. Only words! Only words!
But with how deadly a thrust they pierced the heart of the woman
who heard them none but herself would ever know. She gave no sign of
suffering. She only stared wide-eyed before her as an image, devoid of
expression, inanimate, sphinx-like, while that awful constriction grew
straiter round her heart.
Lady Bassett was already turning to go when the deep voice arrested
her.
"Who told you this?"
She looked back, holding the open door. "I scarcely know who first
mentioned it. I have heard it from so many people,--in fact the news
is general property--Captain Gresham of the Guides told me for one. He
has just gone back to Peshawur. The news reached him, I believe, from
there. Then there was Colonel Cathcart for another. He was talking of
it only this afternoon at the Club, saying what a deplorable example
it was for an Englishman to set. He and Mr. Bobby Fraser had quite a
hot argument about it. Mr. Fraser has such advanced ideas, but I must
admit that I rather admire the staunch way in which he defends them.
There, dear child! You must not keep me gossiping any longer. You look
positively haggard. I earnestly hope a good sleep will restore you,
for I cannot possibly take that wan face to the Rajah's ball'."
Lady Bassett departed with the words, shaking her head tolerantly and
still smiling.
But for long after she had gone, Muriel remained with fixed eyes and
tense muscles, watching, watching, dumbly, immovably, despairingly, at
the locked door of her paradise.
So this was the key to his silence--the reason that her message had
gone unanswered. She had stretched out her hands to him too late--too
late.
And ever through the barren desert of her vigil a man's voice, vital
and passionate, rang and echoed in a maddening, perpetual refrain.
"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."
It was a refrain she had heard often and often before; but it had
never tortured her as it tortured her now,--now when her last hope was
finally quenched--now when at last she fully realised what it was that
had once been hers, and that in her tragic blindness she had wantonly
cast away.
CHAPTER LI
THE BIRD OF PARADISE
Muriel did not leave the Residency again until the evening of the
State Ball at the palace. Scarcely did she leave her room, pleading
intense fatigue as her excuse for this seclusion. But she could not
without exciting remark, absent herself from the great function for
which ostensibly she had returned to Ghawalkhand.
She wore a dress of unrelieved white for the occasion, for she had
but recently discarded her mourning for her father, and her face was
almost as devoid of colour. Her dark hair lay in a shadowy mass above
her forehead, accentuating her pallor. Her eyes looked out upon the
world with tragic indifference, unexpectant, apathetic.
"My dear, you don't look well," said Sir Reginald, as, gorgeous in
his glittering uniform, he stood to hand her after his wife into the
carriage.
She smiled a little. "It is nothing. I am still rather tired, that's
all."
Driving through the gates she looked forth absently and spied the old
beggar crouching in his accustomed place. He almost prostrated himself
at sight of her, but she had no money with her, nor could she have
bestowed any under Lady Bassett's disapproving eye. The carriage
rolled on, leaving his obsequiousness unrequited.
Entering the glittering ballroom all hung with glowing colours was
like entering a garden of splendid flowers. European and Indian
costumes were mingled in shining confusion. A hubbub of music and
laughter seemed to engulf them like a rushing torrent.
"Ah, here you are at last!" It was Bobby Fraser's voice at Muriel's
side. He looked at her with cheery approval. "I say, you know, you're
the queen of this gathering. Pity there isn't a king anywhere about.
Perhaps there is, eh? Well, can you give me a dance? Afraid I haven't
a waltz left. No matter! We can sit out. I know a cosy corner exactly
fitted to my tastes. In fact I've booked it for the evening. And I
want a talk with you badly. Number five then. Good-bye!"
He was gone, leaving Muriel with the curious impression that there
really was something of importance that he wished to say to her.
She wondered what it was. That he was paying her serious attention she
had never for a moment believed, nor had she given him the faintest
encouragement to do so. She knew that Lady Bassett thought otherwise,
but she had never rated her opinion very highly; and she had never
read anything but the most casual friendliness in Bobby's attitude.
Still it disturbed her somewhat, that hint of intimacy that his words
portended, and she awaited the dance he had solicited in a state of
mind very nearly allied to apprehension. Lady Bassett's suggestions
had done for her what no self-consciousness would ever have
accomplished unaided. They had implanted within her a deep-rooted
misgiving before which all ease of manner fled.
When Bobby Fraser joined her, she was so plainly nervous that he could
not fail to remark it. He led her to a quiet corner above the garden
that was sheltered from the throng by flowering tamarisks.
"I say," he said, "I hope you are not letting yourself get scared
by these infernal budmashes. The reports have all been immensely
exaggerated as usual."
"I am not at all scared," she told him. "But wasn't there an
Englishman murdered the other day?"
"Oh, yes," he admitted, "but miles and miles away, right the other
side of the State. There was nothing in that to alarm any one here.
It might have happened anywhere. People are such fools," he threw in
vindictively. "Begin to look askance at the native population, and
of course they are on the _qui vive_ instantly. It is only to be
expected. It was downright madness to send a Resident here. They
resent it, you know. But the Rajah's influence is enormous. Nothing
could happen here."
"I wonder," said Muriel.
She had scarcely given the matter a thought before, but it was a
relief to find some impersonal topic for discussion.
Bobby, however, had no intention of pursuing it further. "Oh, it's
self-evident," he said. "They are loyal to the Rajah, and the Rajah
is well-known to be loyal to the Crown. It's only these duffers of
administrators that make the mischief." He broke into an abrupt laugh,
and changed the subject. "Let us talk of something less exasperating.
How did you get on while you were away? You must have found the
journey across the Plains pretty ghastly."
She told him a little about it, incidentally mentioning Will Musgrave.
"Oh, I know him," he broke in. "An engineer, isn't he? Awfully clever
chap. I met him years ago at Sharapura the time Nick Ratcliffe won the
Great Mogul's Cup. I told you that story, didn't I?"
Yes, he had done so. She informed him of the fact with an immovable
face. It might have been a subject of total indifference to her.
"You know Nick Ratcliffe, don't you?" he pursued, evidently following
his own train of thought.
She flushed at the direct question. She had not expected it. "It is
a very long time since I last saw him," she said, with a deliberate
effort to banish all interest from her voice.
He was not looking at her. He could not have been aware of the flush.
Yet he elected to push the matter further.
"A queer fish," he said. "A very queer fish. He has lost his left arm,
poor beggar. Did you know?"
Yes, she knew; but she could hardly summon the strength to tell him
so. Her fan concealed her quivering lips, but the hand that held it
shook uncontrollably.
But he, still casual, continued his desultory harangue. "Always
reminds one of a jack-in-the-box--that fellow. Has a knack of popping
up when you least expect him. You never know what he will do next. You
can only judge him by the things he doesn't do. For instance, there's
been a rumour floating about lately that he has just gone into a
Tibetan monastery. Heaven knows who started it and why. But it is
absolutely untrue. It is the sort of thing that couldn't be true of a
man of his temperament. Don't you agree with me? Or perhaps you didn't
know him very well, and don't feel qualified to judge."
At this point he pulled out his programme and studied it frowningly.
He was plainly not paying much attention to her reply. He seemed to be
contemplating something that worried him.
It made it all the easier for her to answer. "No," she said slowly. "I
didn't know him very well. But--that rumour was told to me as absolute
fact. I--of course--I believed it."
She knew that her face was burning as she ended. She could feel the
blood surging through every vein.
"If you want to know what I think," said Bobby Fraser deliberately,
"it is that that rumour was a malicious invention of some one's."
"Oh, do you?" she said. "But--but why?"
He turned and looked at her. His usually merry face was stern.
"Because," he said, "it served some one's end to make some one else
believe that Nick had dropped out for good."
Her eyes fell under his direct look. "I don't understand," she
murmured desperately.
"Nor do I," he rejoined, "for certain. I can only surmise. It doesn't
do to believe things too readily. One gets let in that way." He rose
and offered her his arm. "Come outside for a little. This place is too
warm for comfort."
She went with him willingly, thankful to turn her face to the night. A
dozen questions hovered on her lips, but she could not ask him one
of them. She could only walk beside him and profess to listen to
the stream of anecdotes which he began to pour forth for her
entertainment.
She did not actually hear one of them. They came to her all jumbled
and confused through such a torrent of gladness as surely she had
never known before. For the bird in her heart had lifted its head
again, and was singing its rapture to the stars.
CHAPTER LII
A WOMAN'S OFFERING
Looking back upon the hours that followed that talk with Bobby behind
the tamarisks, Muriel could never recall in detail how they passed.
She moved in a whirl, all her pulses racing, all her senses on the
alert. None of her partners had ever seen her gay before, but she was
gay that night with a spontaneous and wonderful gaiety that came from
the very heart of her. It was not a gaiety that manifested itself in
words, but it was none the less apparent to those about her. For her
eyes shone as though they looked into a radiant future, and she danced
as one inspired. She was like a statue waked to splendid life.
Swiftly the hours flew by. She scarcely noted their passage, any more
than she noted the careless talk and laughter that hummed around her.
She moved in an atmosphere of her own to a melody that none other
heard.
The ball was wearing to a close when at length Lady Bassett summoned
her to return. Lady Bassett was wearing her most gracious smile.
"You have been much admired to-night, dear child," she murmured to the
girl, as they passed into the cloakroom.
Muriel's eyes looked disdainful for an instant, but they could not
remain so. As swiftly the happiness flashed back into them.
"I have enjoyed myself," she said simply.
She threw a gauzy scarf about her neck, and turned to go. She did not
want her evening spoilt by criticisms however honeyed.
The great marble entrance was crowded with departing guests. She edged
her way to one of the pillars at the head of the long flight of steps,
watching party after party descend to the waiting carriages. The
dancing had not yet ceased, and strains of waltz-music came to her
where she stood, fitful, alluring, plaintive. They were playing "The
Blue Danube."
She listened to it as one in a dream, and while she listened the tears
gathered in her eyes. How was it she had been so slow to understand?
Would she ever make it up to him? She wondered how long he meant to
keep her in suspense. It was not like him to linger thus if he had
indeed received her message. She hoped he would come soon. The waiting
was hard to bear.
She called to mind once more the last words he had spoken to her.
He had said that he would not swoop a second time, but she could
not imagine him doing anything else. He would be sudden, he would be
disconcerting, he would be overwhelming. He would come on winged feet
in answer to her call, but he would give her no quarter. He would
neither ask nor demand. He would simply take.
She caught her breath and hastened to divert her thought,
realising that she was on the verge of the old torturing process of
self-intimidation which had so often before unnerved her.
The throng about her had lessened considerably. Glancing downwards,
she discerned at the foot of the steps the old beggar who so
persistently haunted the Residency gates, incurring thereby Lady
Bassett's alarmed displeasure. He was crouching well to one side in
the familiar attitude of supplication. There were dozens like him in
Ghawalkhand, but she knew him by the peculiar, gibbering movement of
the wiry beard that protruded from his chuddah. He was repulsive, but
in a fashion fascinating. He made her think of a wizened old monkey
who had wandered from his kind.
She had come to regard him almost in the light of a protege, and,
remembering suddenly that he had besought an alms of her in vain some
hours before, she turned impulsively to a man she knew who had just
come up.
"Colonel Cathcart, will you lend me a rupee?"
He dived in his pocket and brought out a handful of money. She found
the coin she wanted, thanked him with a smile, and began to descend
the steps.
The old native was not looking at her. Something else seemed to have
caught his attention. For the moment he had ceased to cringe and
implore.
She heard Sir Reginald's voice above her. He was standing in talk with
the Rajah while he waited for his wife.
And then--she was half-way down the steps when it happened--a sudden
loud cry rang fiercely up to her, arresting her where she stood--a
man's voice inarticulate at first, bursting from mere sound into
furious headlong denunciation.
"You infernal hound!" it cried. "You damned assassin!"
At the same instant the old beggar at the foot of the palace steps
sprang panther-like from his crouching position to hurl himself bodily
at something that skulked in the shadows beyond him.
The marvellous agility of the action, the unerring precision with
which he pounced upon his prey, above all, the voice that had yelled
in execration, sent such a stab of amazed recognition through Muriel
that she stood for a second as one petrified.
But the next instant all her senses were pricked into alertness by a
revolver-shot. Another came, and yet another. They were fighting below
like tigers--two men in native dress, swaying, straining, struggling,
not three yards from where she stood.
She never fully remembered afterwards how she came to realise that
Nick--Nick himself--was there before her in the flesh, fighting like
a demon, fighting as she had seen him fight once long ago when every
nerve in her body had been strung to agonised repulsion.
She felt no repulsion now--no shrinking of any sort, only a wild
anguish of fear for his sake that drove her like a mad creature down
the intervening steps, that sent her flashing between him and his
adversary, that inspired her to wrench away the smoking revolver from
the murderous hand that gripped it.
She went through those awful moments as a woman possessed, blindly
obeying the compelling force, goaded by sheer, primaeval instinct to
protect her own. It was but a conflict of seconds, but while it lasted
she was untrammelled by any doubts or hesitations. She was sublimely
sure of herself. She was superbly unafraid.
When it was over, when men crowded round and dragged her enemy back,
when the pressing need was past, her courage fell from her like a
mantle. She sank down upon the steps, a trembling, hysterical woman,
and began to cry.
Some one bent over her, some one whispered soothing words, some one
drew the revolver out of her weak grasp. Looking up, she saw the old
native beggar upon whom she had thought to bestow her charity.
"Oh, Nick!" she gasped. "Nick!" And there stopped in sudden misgiving.
Was this grotesque figure indeed Nick? Could it be--this man who had
sat at the Residency gates for weeks, this man to whom she had so
often tossed an alms?
Her brain had begun to reel, but she clung to the central idea, as one
in deep waters clinging to a spar.
"Speak to me!" she entreated. "Only speak to me!"
But before he could answer, Bobby Fraser pushed suddenly forward,
bent over, lifted her. "You are not hurt, Miss Roscoe?" he questioned
anxiously, deep concern on his kindly face. "The damned swine didn't
touch you? There! Come back into the palace. You're the bravest girl I
ever met."
He began to help her up the steps, but though she was spent and near
to fainting she resisted him.
"That man--" she faltered. "Don't--don't let him go!"
"Certainly not," said Bobby promptly. "Here, you old scarecrow, come
and lend a hand!"
But the old scarecrow apparently had other plans for himself, for he
had already vanished from the scene as swiftly and noiselessly as a
shadow from a sheet.
"He is gone!" wailed Muriel. "He is gone! Oh, why did you let him go?"
"He'll turn up again," said Bobby consolingly. "That sort of chap
always does. I say, how ghastly you look! Take my arm! You are not
going to faint, are you? Ah, here is Colonel Cathcart! Miss Roscoe
isn't hurt, sir--only upset. Can't we get her back to the palace?"
They bore her back between them, and left her to be tended by the
women. She was not unconscious, but the shock had utterly unstrung
her. She lay with closed eyes, listening vaguely to the buzz of
excited comment about her, and wondering, wondering with an aching
heart, why he had gone.
No one seemed to know exactly what had taken place, and she was too
exhausted to tell. Possibly she would hot have told in any case. It
was known only that an attempt had been made upon the life of the
British Resident, Sir Reginald Bassett, and it was surmised that
Muriel had realised the murderous intention in time to frustrate it.
Certainly a native had tried to help her, but since the native had
disappeared, his share in the conflict was not regarded as very great.
As a matter of fact, the light had been too uncertain and the struggle
too confused for even the eye-witnesses to know with any certainty
what had taken place. Theories and speculations were many and various,
but not one of them went near to the truth.
"Dear Muriel will tell us presently just how it happened," Lady
Bassett said in her soft voice.
But Muriel was as one who heard not. She would not even open her eyes
till Sir Reginald came to her, pillowed her head against him, kissed
her white face, and called her his brave little girl.
That moved her at last, awaking in her the old piteous hunger,
never wholly stifled, for her father. She turned and clung to him
convulsively with an inarticulate murmuring that ended in passionate
tears.
CHAPTER LIII
THE LAST SKIRMISH
Why had he gone? That was the question that vexed Muriel's soul
through the long hours that followed her return to the Residency.
Lying sleepless on her bed, she racked her weary brain for an answer
to the riddle, but found none. Her brief doubt regarding him had long
since fled. She knew with absolute certainty that it was Nick and
no other who had yelled those furious words, who had made that
panther-spring, who had leaned over her and withdrawn the revolver
from her hold, telling her softly not to cry. But why had he gone just
then when she needed him most?
Surely by now her message had reached him! Surely he knew that she
wanted him, that she had lowered what he had termed her miserable
little rag of pride to tell him so! Then why was he tormenting her
thus--playing with her as a cat might play with a mouse? Was he taking
his revenge for all the bitter scorn she had flung at him in the past?
Did he think to wring from her some more definite appeal? Ah, that was
it! Like a searchlight flashing inwards, she remembered her promise
to him uttered long ago against her will--his answering oath. And she
knew that he meant to hold her to that promise--that he would exact
the very uttermost sacrifice that it entailed; and then perchance--she
shivered at the unendurable thought--he would laugh his baffling,
enigmatical laugh, and go his way.
But this was unbearable, impossible. She would sooner die than suffer
it. She would sooner--yes, she would almost sooner--break her promise.
And then, to save her from distraction, the other side of the picture
presented itself, that reverse side which he had once tauntingly
advised her to study. If he truly loved her, he would not treat her
thus. It would not gratify him to see her in the dust. If he still
cared, as Daisy had assured her he did, it would not be his pleasure
to make her suffer. But then again--oh, torturing question!--had that
been so, would he have gone at that critical moment, would he have
left her, when a look, a touch, would have sufficed to establish
complete understanding?
Drearily the hours dragged away. The heat was great, and just before
daybreak a thunder-storm rolled up, but spent itself without a drop of
rain. It put the finishing touches to Muriel's restlessness. She rose
and dressed, to sit by her window with her torturing thoughts for
company, and awaited the day.
With the passing of the storm a slight draught that was like a shudder
moved the scorched leaves of the acacias in the compound, quivered a
little, and ceased. Then came the dawn, revealing mass upon mass of
piled cloud hanging low over the earth. The breaking of the monsoon
was drawing very near. There could be no lifting of the atmosphere, no
relief, until it came.
She leaned her aching head against the window-frame in a maze of
weariness unutterable. Her heart was too heavy for prayer.
Minutes passed. The daylight grew and swiftly overspread all things.
The leaden silence began to be pierced here and there by the barking
of a dog, the crowing of a cock, the scolding of a parrot. Somewhere,
either in the compound or close to it, some one began to whistle--a
soft, tentative whistle, like a young blackbird trying its notes.
Muriel remained motionless, scarcely heeding while it wove itself into
the background of her thoughts. She was in fact hardly aware of it,
till suddenly, with a great thrill of astonishment that shook her
from head to foot, a wild suspicion seized her, and she started up,
listening intently. The fitful notes were resolving into a melody--a
waltz she knew, alluring, enchanting, compelling--the waltz that had
filled in the dreadful silences on that night long ago when she had
fought so desperately hard for her freedom and had prevailed at last.
But stay! Had she prevailed? Had she not rather been a captive in
spite of it all ever since?
On and on went the haunting waltz-refrain, now near, now far, now
summoning, now eluding. She stood gripping the curtain till she
could bear it no longer, and then with a great sob she mustered her
resolution; she stepped out upon the verandah, and passed down between
shrivelled trailing roses to the garden below.
The tune ceased quite suddenly, and she found herself moving through
a silence that could be felt. But she would not turn back then. She
would not let herself be discouraged. She had been frightened so often
when there had been no need for fear.
On she pressed to the end of the path till she stood by the high
fence that bordered the road. She could see no one. The garden lay
absolutely deserted. She paused, hesitating, bewildered.
At the same instant from the other side of the fence, almost as if
rising from the ground at her feet, a careless voice began to hum--a
cracked, tuneless, unmistakable voice, that sent the blood to her
heart with a force that nearly suffocated her.
"Nick!" she said, almost in a whisper.
He did not hear her evidently. His humming continued with unabated
liveliness.
"Nick!" she said again.
Still no result. There was nothing in the least dramatic in the
situation. It might almost have been described as ludicrous, but the
white-faced woman in the compound did not find it so.
She waited till he had come to a suitable stopping place, and then,
before he could renew the melody, she rapped with nervous force upon
the fence.
There fell a most unexpected silence.
She broke it with words imploring, almost agonised. "Nick! Nick! Come
and speak to me--for Heaven's sake!"
His flippant voice greeted her at once in a tone of cheerful inquiry.
"That you, Muriel?"
Her agitation began to subside of itself. Nothing could have been more
casual than his question. "Yes," she said in reply. "Why are you out
there? Why don't you come in?"
"My dear girl,--at this hour!" There was shocked reproof in the
ejaculation. Nick was evidently scandalised at the suggestion.
Muriel lost her patience forthwith. Was it for this that she had spent
all those miserable hours of fruitless heart-searching? His trifling
was worse than ridiculous. It was insufferable.
"You are to come in at once," she said, in a tone of authority.
"What for?" said Nick.
"Because--because--" She hesitated, and stopped, her face burning.
"Because--" said Nick encouragingly.
"Oh, don't be absurd!" she exclaimed in desperation. "How can I
possibly talk to you there?"
"It depends upon what you want to say," said Nick. "If it is something
particularly private--" He paused.
"Well?" she said.
"You can always come to me, you know," he pointed out. "But I
shouldn't do that, if I were you. It would be neither dignified nor
proper. And a girl in your position, dearest Muriel, cannot be too
discreet. It is the greatest mistake in the world to act upon impulse.
Let me entreat you to do nothing headlong. Take another year or so to
think things over. There are so many nice men to choose from, and this
absurd infatuation of yours cannot possibly last."
"Don't, Nick!" Muriel's voice held a curious mixture of mirth and
sadness. "It--it isn't a bit funny to talk like that. It isn't even
particularly kind."
"Ye gods!" said Nick. "Who wants to be kind?"
"Not you, evidently," she told him with a hint of bitterness. "You
only aim at being intelligent."
"Well, you'll admit I hit the mark sometimes," he rejoined. "I'm like
a rat, eh? Clever but loathsome."
She uttered a quivering laugh. "No, you are much more like an eagle,
waiting to strike. Why don't you, I wonder, and--and take what you
want?"
Nick's answering laugh had a mocking note in it. "Oh, I can play
Animal Grab as well as anybody--better than most," he said modestly.
"But I don't chance to regard this as a suitable occasion for
displaying my skill. Uninteresting for you, of course, but then you
are fond of running away when there is no one after you. It's been
your favourite pastime for almost as long as I have known you."
The sudden silence with which this airy remark was received had in
it something tragic. Muriel had sunk down on a garden-bench close at
hand, lacking the strength to go away. It was exactly what she had
expected. He meant to take his revenge in his own peculiar fashion.
She had laid herself open to this, and mercilessly, unerringly, he had
availed himself of the opportunity to wound. She might have known! She
might have known! Had he not done it again and again? Oh, she had been
a fool--a fool--to call him back!
Through the wild hurry of her thoughts his voice pierced once more. It
had an odd inflection that was curiously like a note of concern.
"I say, Muriel, are you crying?"
"Crying!" She pulled herself together hastily. "No! Why should I?"
"I can tell you why you shouldn't," he answered whimsically. "No one
ever ought to cry before breakfast. It's shocking for the appetite
and may ruin the complexion for the rest of the day. Besides,--you've
nothing to cry for."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" she flung back again almost fiercely. "I'm not
crying!"
"Quite sure?" said Nick.
"Absolutely certain," she declared.
"All right then," he rejoined. "That being so, you had better dry your
eyes very carefully, for I am coming to see for myself."
CHAPTER LIV
SURRENDER
She awaited him still sitting on the bench and striving vainly to
quiet her thumping heart. She heard him come lightly up behind her,
but she did not turn her head though she had no tears to conceal. She
was possessed by an insane desire to spring up and flee. It took all
her resolution to remain where she was.
And so Nick drew near unwelcomed--a lithe, alert figure in European
attire, bare-headed, eager-faced. He was smiling to himself as he
came, but when he reached her the smile was gone.
He bent and looked into her white, downcast face; then laid his hand
upon her shoulder.
"But Muriel--" he said.
And that was all. Yet Muriel suddenly hid her face and wept.
He did not attempt to restrain her. Perhaps he realised that tears
such as those must have their way. But the touch of his hand was in
some fashion soothing. It stilled the tempest within her, comforting
her inexplicably.
She reached up at last, and drew it down between her own, holding it
fast.
"I'm such a fool, Nick," she whispered shakily. "You--you must try to
bear with me."
She felt his fingers close and gradually tighten upon her own until
their grip was actual pain.
"Haven't I borne with you long enough?" he said. "Can't you come to
the point?"
She shook her head slightly. Her trembling had not wholly ceased. She
was not--even yet she was not--wholly sure of him.
"Afraid?" he questioned.
And she answered him meekly, with bowed head. "Yes, Nick; afraid."
"Don't you think you might look me in the face if you tried very
hard?" he suggested.
"No, Nick." She almost shrank at the bare thought.
"Oh, but you haven't tried," he said.
His voice sounded very close. She knew he was bending down. She even
fancied she could feel his breath upon her neck.
Her head sank a little lower. "Don't!" she whispered, with a sob.
"What are you afraid of?" he said. "You weren't afraid to send me a
message. You weren't afraid to save my life last night. What is it
frightens you?"
She could not tell him. Only her panic was very real. It shook her
from head to foot. A fierce struggle was going on within her,--the
last bitter conflict between her love and her fear. It tore her in all
directions. She felt as if it would drive her mad. But through it all
she still clung desperately to the bony hand that grasped her own. It
seemed to sustain her, to hold her up, through all her chaos of doubt,
of irresolution, of miserable, overmastering dread.
"What is it frightens you?" he said again. "Why won't you look at me?
There is nothing whatever to make you afraid!"
He spoke softly, as though he were addressing a scared child. But
still she was afraid, afraid of the very impulse that urged her,
horribly afraid of meeting the darting scrutiny of his eyes.
He waited for a little in silence; then suddenly with a sharp sigh
he straightened himself. "You don't know your own mind yet," he said.
"And I can't help you to know it. I had better go."
He would have withdrawn his hand with the words, but she held it fast.
"No, Nick, no! It isn't that," she told him tremulously. "I know what
I want--perfectly well. But--but--I can't put it into words. I can't!
I can't!"
"Is that it?" said Nick. His manner changed completely. He bent down
again. She heard the old note of banter in his voice, but mingled with
it was a tenderness so utter that she scarcely recognised it. "Then,
my dear girl, in Heaven's name, don't try! Words were not made for
such an occasion as this. They are clumsy tools at the best of times.
You can make me understand without words. I'm horribly intelligent, as
you remarked just now."
Her heart leapt to the rapid assurance. Was it so difficult to tell
him after all? Surely she could find a way!
The tumult of her emotions swelled to sudden uproar, thunderous,
all-possessing, overwhelming, so that she gasped and gasped again for
breath. And then all in a moment she knew that the conflict was over.
She was as a diver, hurling with headlong velocity from dizzy height
into deep waters, and she rejoiced--she exulted--in that mad rush into
depth.
With a quivering laugh she moved. She loosened her convulsive clasp
upon his hand, turned it upwards, and stooping low, she pressed her
lips closely, passionately, lingeringly, upon his open palm. She had
found a way.
He started sharply at her action; he almost winced. Then, "Muriel!" he
exclaimed in a voice that broke, and threw himself on his knees beside
her, holding her fast in a silence so sudden and so tense that she
also was awed into a great stillness.
Yet, after a little, though his face was pressed against her so
that she could not see it or even vaguely guess his mood, she found
strength to speak.
"I can tell you what I want now, Nick," she whispered. "Shall I tell
you?"
He did not answer, did not so much as breathe. But yet she knew no
fear or hesitancy. Her eyes were opened, and her tongue loosed. Words
came easily to her now, more easily than they had ever come before.
"I want to be married--soon, very soon," she told him softly. "And
then I want you to take me away with you into Nepal, as you planned
ever so long ago. And let us be alone together in the mountains--quite
alone as we were before. Will you, Nick? Will you?"
But again he had no answer for her. He did not seem able to reply.
His head still lay against her shoulder. His arm was still tense about
her. She fell silent, waiting for him.
At last he drew a deep breath that seemed to burst upwards from the
very heart of him, and lifted his face with a jerk.
"My God!" he said. "Is it true?"
His voice was oddly uneven; he seemed to produce it with difficulty.
But having broken the spell that bound him, he managed after a moment
to continue.
"Are you quite sure you want to marry me,--quite sure that to-morrow
you won't be scared out of your wits at the bare idea? Have you left
off being afraid of me? Do you mean me really to take you at your
word?"
"If you will, Nick," she answered humbly.
"If I will!" he echoed, with sudden passion. "I warn you, Muriel, you
are putting yourself irrevocably in my power, and you will never break
away again. You may come to loathe me with your whole soul, but I
shall never let you go. Have you realised that? If I take you now, I
take you for all time."
He spoke almost with violence, and, having spoken, drew back from her
abruptly, as though he could not wholly trust himself.
But nothing could dismay her now. She had fought her last battle, had
made the final surrender. Her fear was dead. She stretched out her
hands to him with unfaltering confidence.
"Take me then, Nick," she said.
He took the extended hands with quick decision, first one and then the
other, and laid them on his shoulders.
"Now look at me," he said.
She hesitated, though not as one afraid.
"Look at me, Muriel!" he insisted.
Then, as she kept her eyes downcast, he put his hand under her chin
and compelled her.
She yielded with a little quivering murmur of protest, and so for the
first time in her life she deliberately met his look, encountering
eyes so wide and so piercingly blue that she had a moment's bewildered
feeling of uncertainty, as though she had looked into the eyes of a
stranger. Then the colourless lashes descended again and veiled them
as of old. He blinked with his usual disconcerting rapidity and set
her free.
"Yes," he said. "You've left off cheating. And if you really care to
marry me--what's left of me--it's a precious poor bargain, but--I am
yours."
His voice cracked a little. She fancied he was going to laugh. And
then, while she was still wondering, his arm went round her again and
drew her closely to him. She was conscious of a sudden, leaping flame
behind the pale lashes, felt his hold tighten while the wrinkled face
drew near,--and with a sob she clasped her arms about his neck and
turned her lips to his.
CHAPTER LV
OMNIA VINCIT AMOR
"Funny, wasn't it?" said Nick, jingling a small handful of coins in
front of his fiancée. "Quite a harvest in its way! I had no idea you
were so charitable."
She caught his wrist. "You have no right to a single one of them. You
obtained them under false pretences. What in the world induced you to
do such a thing?"
Nick's hand closed firmly upon the spoil. "It was a sheer, heaven-sent
inspiration," he declared. "Care to know how it came to me? It
happened one night in the Indian Ocean when I was on the way out with
Daisy. I was lying on deck under the stars, thinking of you, and the
whole idea came to me ready-made. I didn't attempt to shape it; it
shaped itself. I was hungering for the sight of you, and I knew you
would never find me out. You never would have, either, if I hadn't
had Daisy's message. I was just going to quit my lonely vigil when
it reached me. But that altered my plans, and I decided with Fraser's
assistance to face it out. You knew he was in the secret, of course?
He is in every secret, that chap. As soon as I heard of Lady Bassett's
ingenious little fiction about the Buddhist monastery, I was ready
to take the wan path. But you were invisible, you know. I had to wait
till you emerged. Then came last night's episode, and I had to take to
my heels. I couldn't face a public exposure, and it wouldn't have
been particularly pleasant for you, either. So now you have the whole
touching story, and I think you needn't grudge me a rupee and a few
annas as a reward for my devotion."
Muriel laughed rather tremulously. "I would have given you something
better worth having--if I had known."
"Never too late," said Nick philosophically. "You can begin at once
if you like. Let me have your hand. Hold it steady, my dear girl.
Remember my limitations. You won't refuse any longer to wear my ring?"
"I will wear it gladly," she told him, as he fitted it back upon her
finger. "I shall never part with it again."
Her eyes were full of tears, but she would not let them fall, and Nick
was too intent upon what he was doing to notice.
"That imp Olga nearly broke her poor little heart when she gave it
back to me," he said. "I think I shall have to send her a cable. What
shall I say? OMNIA VINCIT AMOR? She is old enough to know what that
means. And if I add, 'From Muriel and Nick,' she will understand. A
pity she can't come to our wedding! I'd sooner have seen her jolly
little phiz than all Lady Bassett's wreathed smiles. She is sure to
smile, you know. She always does when she sees me." He broke off with
a hideous grimace.
"Don't, Nick!" Muriel's voice trembled a little. "Why does she hate
you so?"
"Can't imagine," grinned Nick. "It's a way some people have. Perhaps
she will end by falling in love with me. Who knows?"
"Don't be horrid, Nick! Why won't you tell me?" Muriel laid a pleading
hand upon his.
He caught it to his lips. "I can't tell you, darling, seeing she is
a woman. An unpleasant adventure befell her once for which I was
partially responsible. And she has hated me with most unseemly
vehemence ever since."
A light began to break upon Muriel. "Was it something that happened on
board ship?" she hazarded.
He gave her a sharp look. "Who told you that?"
She flushed a little. "Bobby Fraser. He didn't mention her name, of
course. We--we were talking about you once."
Nick laughed aloud. "Only once?"
Her colour deepened. "You are positively ridiculous. Still, I wish
it hadn't been Lady Bassett, Nick. I don't like to feel she hates you
like that."
"It doesn't hurt me in the least," Nick declared. "Her poison-fang is
extracted so far as I am concerned. She could only poison me through
you. I always knew I had her to thank for what happened at Simla."
"Oh, but not her alone," Muriel said quickly. "You mustn't blame her
only for that. I was prejudiced against you by--other things."
"I know all about it," said Nick. He was holding her hand in his,
moving it hither and thither to catch the gleam of the rubies upon it.
"You were a poor little scared rabbit fleeing from a hideous monster
of destruction. You began to run that last night at Wara when I made
you drink that filthy draught, and you have hardly stopped yet. I
don't suppose it ever occurred to you that I would rather have died
in torment than have done it." He broke into a sudden laugh. "But you
needn't be afraid that I shall ever do it again. I can't do much
to any one with only one arm, can I? You witnessed my futility last
night. There's a grain of comfort in that, eh, darling?"
"Nick, don't, don't!" She turned to him impulsively and laid her cheek
against his shoulder. "You--you don't know how you hurt me!"
"My dear girl, what's the matter?" said Nick. "I was only trying to
draw your attention to my good points--such as they are."
"Don't!" she said again, in a choked voice. "It's more than I can
bear. You would never have lost your arm but for me."
"Oh, rats!" said Nick, holding her closely. "Whoever told you that--"
"It was Dr. Jim."
"Well, Jim's an ass, and I shall tell him so. There, don't fret,
darling. It isn't worth it. I could wish it hadn't happened for your
sake, but I don't care a rap for my own."
"You are not to care for mine," she whispered. "I shall only love you
the better for it."
"Then it will be a blessing to me after all," said Nick cheerily.
"Do you know what we are going to do as soon as we are married,
sweetheart? We are going to climb the highest mountain in the world,
to see the sun rise, and to thank God."
She turned her face upwards with a quivering smile. "Let us be married
soon then, Nick."
"At once," said Nick promptly. "Come along and tell Sir Reginald.
He must be out of bed by this time. If he isn't I think the occasion
almost justifies us in knocking him up."
They found Sir Reginald already upon the verandah, drinking his early
coffee, and to Muriel's dismay he was not alone. It was later than she
had imagined, and Colonel Cathcart and Bobby Fraser had both dropped
in for a gossip, and were seated with him at the table smoking.
As she and Nick approached, Lady Bassett herself emerged through an
open window behind the three men.
Nick began to chuckle. This was the sort of situation that appealed
to his sense of humour. He began to chant an old-world ditty under his
breath with appropriate words.
"Oh, dear, what will the Bassett say?"
Muriel uttered a short, hysterical laugh, and instantly they were
discovered.
"Now what are you going to do?" said Nick.
"I don't know," she responded hurriedly. "Run away, I think."
"Not you," said Nick, grasping her hand very firmly. "You are going to
face the music with me."
She gave in, half laughing, half protesting, and he led her up the
steps with considerable pomp.
She need not have been so painfully embarrassed, for every one, with
the exception of Bobby Fraser, looked at Nick, and Nick only, in
speechless amazement, as though he had just returned from the dead.
Nick was sublimely equal to the occasion. He came to a standstill by
the table, executed an elaborate bow in Lady Bassett's direction, then
turned briskly to Sir Reginald.
"After two years' deliberation," he announced, "we have decided to
settle our differences by getting married, and we are hoping, sir,
that you will bestow your blessing upon our union."
"My good fellow!" gasped Sir Reginald. "This is a very great
surprise!"
"Yes, I know," said Nick. "It was to me, too. But--though fully
sensible of my unworthiness--I shall do my best to deserve the very
high honour that has been done me. And I hope we may count upon your
approval and support."
Again his bow included Lady Bassett. There was a mocking glint in the
glance he threw her.
She came forward as though in answer to a challenge, her face
unwontedly flushed. "This is indeed unexpected!" she declared,
extending her hand. "How do you do, Captain Ratcliffe? You will
understand our surprise when I tell you that some one was saying only
the other day that you had entered a Tibetan monastery."
"Some one must have been telling a lie, dear Lady Bassett," said Nick.
"I am sorry if it caused you any uneasiness on my account. I should
certainly never have taken such a serious step without letting you
know. I trust that my projected marriage will have a less disturbing
effect."
Lady Bassett smiled her crooked smile, and raised one eyebrow. "Oh, I
shall not be anxious on your account," she assured him playfully.
"Quite right, Lady Bassett," broke in Colonel Cathcart. "He'll hold
his own, wherever he is. I always said so when he was in the Service."
"And a little over probably," put in Bobby Fraser. "Miss Roscoe, if
you ever find him hard to manage, you send for me."
Muriel, from the shelter of Sir Reginald's arm, looked across at the
speaker with a smile of unwonted confidence.
"Thank you all the same," she responded, "but I don't expect any
difficulties in that respect."
"She is far more likely to fight my battles for me," remarked Nick
complacently, "seeing my own fighting days are over."
"And what have you been doing with yourself all this time?" demanded
Sir Reginald suddenly. "You have been singularly unobtrusive. What
have you been doing?"
Nick's answering grin was one of sheer exuberance of spirit. "I've
just been marking time, sir, that's all," he replied enigmatically.
"A monotonous business for every one concerned, but it seems to have
served its purpose."
Sir Reginald grunted a little, and looked uncomfortably at his wife's
twisted smile. "And now you want to get married, do you?" he said.
"At once," said Nick.
"Well, well," said Sir Reginald, beginning to smile himself. "All's
well that ends well, and Muriel is old enough to please herself. Mind
you are good to her, that's all. And I wish you both every happiness."
"So do I," said Bobby Fraser heartily. "And look here, you
jack-in-the-box, if you're wanting a best man to push you through,
I'll undertake the job. It's a capacity in which I have often made
myself useful."
"Right O!" laughed Nick. "But you won't find I want much pushing, old
chap. I'm on my way to the top crag of Everest already."
"Ah, Captain Ratcliffe, be careful!" murmured Lady Bassett. "Do not
soar too high!"
He bowed to her a third time, still with his baffling smile. "Thanks,
dear Lady Bassett!" he said lightly. "But you need have no misgivings.
Forewarned is forearmed, they say. And on this occasion, at least, I
am wise--in time."
"And dear Muriel too, I wonder?" smiled Lady Bassett.
"And dear Muriel too," smiled Nick.
CHAPTER LVI
THE EAGLE SOARS
Night and a running stream--a soft gurgle of sound that was like a
lullaby. Within the tent the quiet breathing of a man asleep; standing
in the entrance--a woman.
There was a faint quiver in the air as of something coming from afar,
a hushed expectancy of something great. A chill breath came off the
snows, hovering secretly above the ice-cold water. The stars glittered
like loose-hung jewels upon a sable robe.
Ah, that flash as of a sword across the sky! A meteor had fallen among
the mountains. It was almost like a signal in the heavens--herald of
the coming wonder of the dawn.
Softly the watcher turned inwards, and at once a gay, cracked voice
spoke out of the darkness.
"Hullo, darling! Up and watching already! Ye gods! What a sky! Why
didn't you wake me sooner? Have I time for a plunge?"
"Perhaps--if you will let me help you dress after it. Certainly not
otherwise." The deep voice had in it a tremulous note that was like a
caress. The speaker was looking into the shadows. The glory without no
longer held her.
"All right then, you shall--just for a treat. Perhaps you would like
to shave me as well?"
"Shave you!" There was scorn this time in the answering voice. "You
couldn't grow a single hair if you tried!"
"True, O Queen! I couldn't. And the few I was born with are invisible.
Hence my failure to distinguish myself in the Army. It is to be hoped
the deficiency will not blight my Parliamentary career also--always
supposing I get there."
"Ah, but you did distinguish yourself. I heard--once"--the words came
with slight hesitation--"that you ought to have had the V.C. after the
Wara expedition,--only you refused it."
"I wonder what gas-bag let that out," commented Nick. "You shouldn't
believe all you hear, you know. Now, darling, I'm ready for the
plunge, and I must look sharp about it too. Do you mind rummaging out
a towel?"
"But, Nick, was it true?"
"What? The V.C. episode? Oh, I suppose so, more or less. I didn't
want to be decorated for running away, you see. It didn't seem exactly
suitable. Besides, I didn't do it for that."
"Nick, do you know you make me feel more contemptible every day?"
There was an unmistakable quiver of distress in the words.
"My own girl, don't be a goose!" came the light response. "You don't
honestly suppose I could ever regret anything now, do you? Why, it's a
lost faculty."
He stepped from the tent, clad loosely in a bath sheet, and bestowed a
kiss upon his wife's downcast face in passing. "Look here, sweetheart,
if you cry while I'm in the water, I'll beat you directly I come out.
That's a promise, not a threat. And by the way, I've got something
good to tell you presently; so keep your heart up."
He laughed at her and went his way, humming tunelessly after his
own peculiarly volatile fashion. She listened to his singing, as he
splashed in the stream below, as though it were the sweetest music on
earth; and she knew that he had spoken the truth. Whatever sacrifices
he had made in the past, regret was a thing impossible to him now.
By the time he joined her again, she had driven away her own. The sky
was changing mysteriously. The purple depth was lightening, the stars
receding.
"We must hurry," said Nick. "The gods won't wait for us."
But they were ready first after all, and the morning found them high
up the mountainside with their faces to the east.
Sudden and splendid, the sun flashed up over the edge of the world,
and the snow of the mountain crests shone in roselit glory for a few
magic seconds, then shimmered to gold--glittering as the peaks of
Paradise.
They did not speak at all, for the ground beneath their feet was holy,
and all things that called for speech were left behind. Only as
dawn became day--as the sun-god mounted triumphant above the waiting
earth--the man's arm tightened about the woman, and his flickering
eyes grew steadfast and reverent as the eyes of one who sees a
vision....
"'Prophet and priestess we came--back from the dawning,'" quoted Nick,
under his breath.
Muriel uttered a long, long sigh, and turned her face against her
husband's shoulder.
His lips were on her forehead for a moment; the next he was peering
into her face with his usual cheery grin.
"Care to hear my piece of news?" he questioned.
She looked at him eagerly. "Oh, Nick, not the mail!"
He nodded. "Runner came in late last night. You were asleep and
dreaming of me. I hadn't the heart to wake you."
She laughed and blushed. "As if I should! Do you really imagine that I
never think of anyone else? But go on. What news?"
He pulled out two letters. "One from Olga, full of adoration, bless
her funny heart, and containing also a rude message from Jim to the
effect that Redlands is going to rack and ruin for want of a tenant
while we are philandering on the outside edge of civilisation doing
no good to anybody. No good indeed! I'll punch his head for that some
day. But I suppose we really ought to be thinking of Home before long,
eh, sweetheart?"
She assented with a smile and a sigh. "I am sure we ought. Dr. Jim is
quite right. We must come back to earth again, my eagle and I."
Nick kissed her hair. "It's been a gorgeous flight hasn't it? We'll do
it again--heaps of times--before we die."
"If nothing happens to prevent," said Muriel.
He frowned. "What do you say that for? Are you trying to be like Lady
Bassett? Because it's a vain aspiration, so you may as well give it up
at the outset."
"Nick, how absurd you are!" There was a slight break in the words.
"I--I had almost forgotten there was such a person. No, I said it
because--because--well, anything might happen, you know."
"Such as?" said Nick.
"Anything," she repeated almost inaudibly.
Nick pondered this for a moment. "Is it a riddle?" he asked.
She did not answer him. Her face was hidden.
He waited a little. Then, "I shall begin to guess directly," he said.
She uttered a muffled laugh, and clung to him with a sudden,
passionate closeness. "Nick, you--you humbug! You know!"
Nick tossed his letters on the ground and held her fast. "My precious
girl, you gave the show away not ten seconds ago by that blush of
yours. There! Don't be so absurdly shy! You can't be shy with me. Look
at me, sweet. Look up and tell me it's true!"
She turned her face upwards, quivering all over, yet laughing
tremulously. "Yes, Nick, really, really!" she told him. "Oh, my
darling, are you glad?"
"Am I glad?" said Nick, and laughed at her softly. "I'm the happiest
man on earth. I shall go Home now without a pang, and so will you.
We have got to feather the nest, you know. That'll be fun, eh,
sweetheart?"
Her eyes answered him more convincingly than any words. They seemed
to have caught some of the sunshine that made the world around them so
glorious.
Some time elapsed before she remembered the neglected correspondence.
Time was of no account up there among the mountains.
"The other letter, Nick, you didn't tell me about it. I fancied you
might have heard from Will Musgrave."
"So I have," said Nick. "You had better read it. There's a line for
you inside. It's all right. Daisy has got a little girl, both doing
splendidly; Daisy very happy, Will nearly off his head with joy."
Muriel was already deep in Will's ecstatic letter. She read it with
smiling lips and tearful eyes. At the end in pencil she found the line
that was for her.
"Tell Muriel that all's well with me, and I want you both for
Christmas.--Daisy."
Muriel looked up. "I promised to spend Christmas with them, Nick."
Nick smiled upon her quizzically. "By a strange coincidence, darling,
so did I. I should think under the circumstances we might go together,
shouldn't you?"
She drew his hand to her cheek. "We will go to them for Christmas
then. And after that straight Home. Tell Dr. Jim when you write.
But--Nick--I think we should like to feather the nest all ourselves,
don't you?"
"Why, rather!" said Nick. "We'll do it together--just you and I."
"Just you and I," she repeated softly.
Later, hand in hand, they looked across the valley to the shining
crags that glistened spear-like in the sun.
A great silence lay around them--a peace unspeakable--that those
silver crests lifted into the splendour of Infinity.
They stood alone together--above the world--with their faces to the
mountains.
And thus standing with the woman he loved, Nick spoke, briefly--it
seemed lightly--yet with a certain tremor in his voice.
"Horses," he said--"and chariots--of fire!" And Muriel looked at him
with memory and understanding in her eyes.
THE END