Title: The Way of an Eagle
Author: Dell, Ethel M. (Ethel May), 1881-1939
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Way of an Eagle" ***


[Illustration: Drawn by John Cassel.
"Where am I?" she gasped. "What--what
have you done with me?"]



The Way of an Eagle


By E.M. DELL

1911



CONTENTS



PART I


CHAPTER

I.--THE TRUST

II.--A SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER

III.--THE VICTIM OF TREACHERY

IV.--DESOLATION

V.--THE DEVIL IN THE WILDERNESS

VI.--WHEN STRONG MEN FAIL

VII.--THE COMING OF AN ARMY



PART II


VIII.--COMRADES

IX.--THE SCHOOL OF SORROW

X.--THE EAGLE SWOOPS

XI.--THE FIRST FLIGHT

XII.--THE MESSAGE

XIII.--THE VOICE OF A FRIEND

XIV.--THE POISON OF ADDERS

XV.--THE SUMMONS

XVI.--THE ORDEAL



PART III


XVII.--An Old Friend

XVIII.--The Explanation

XIX.--A Hero Worshipper

XX.--News from the East

XXI.--A Harbour of Refuge

XXII.--An Old Story

XXIII.--The Sleep Called Death

XXIV.--The Creed of a Fighter

XXV.--A Scented Letter

XXVI.--The Eternal Flame

XXVII.--The Eagle Caged

XXVIII.--The Lion's Skin

XXIX.--Old Friends Meet

XXX.--An Offer of Friendship

XXXI.--The Eagle Hovers



PART IV


XXXII.--The Face in the Storm

XXXIII.--The Lifting of the Mask

XXXIV.--At the Gate of Death

XXXV.--The Armistice

XXXVI.--The Eagle Strikes

XXXVII. THE PENALTY FOR SENTIMENT

XXXVIII. THE WATCHER OF THE CLIFF

XXXIX. BY SINGLE COMBAT

XL. THE WOMAN'S CHOICE

XLI. THE EAGLE'S PREY

XLII. THE HARDEST FIGHT OF ALL

XLIII. REQUIESCAT

XLIV. LOVE'S PRISONER



PART V


XLV. THE VISION

XLVI. THE HEART OF A MAN

XLVII. IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP

XLVIII. THE HEALING OF THE BREACH

XLIX. THE LOWERING OF THE FLAG

L. EREBUS

LI. THE BIRD OF PARADISE

LII. A WOMAN'S OFFERING

LIII. THE LAST SKIRMISH

LIV. SURRENDER

LV. OMNIA VINCIT AMOR

LVI. THE EAGLE SOARS



  "There be three things which are too wonderful
  for me, yea, four which I know not:

  The way of an eagle in the air;
  the way of a serpent upon a rock;
  the way of a ship in the midst of the sea;
  and the way of a man with a maid."

Proverbs xxx, 18-19.



THE WAY OF AN EAGLE



PART I



CHAPTER I

THE TRUST


The long clatter of an irregular volley of musketry rattled warningly
from the naked mountain ridges; over a great grey shoulder of rock
the sun sank in a splendid opal glow; from very near at hand came the
clatter of tin cups and the sound of a subdued British laugh. And in
the room of the Brigadier-General a man lifted his head from his hands
and stared upwards with unseeing, fixed eyes.

There was an impotent, crushed look about him as of one nearing the
end of his strength. The lips under the heavy grey moustache moved a
little as though they formed soundless words. He drew his breath once
or twice sharply through his teeth. Finally, with a curious groping
movement he reached out and struck a small hand-gong on the table in
front of him.

The door slid open instantly and an Indian soldier stood in the
opening. The Brigadier stared full at him for several seconds as if he
saw nothing, his lips still moving secretly, silently. Then suddenly,
with a stiff gesture, he spoke.

"Ask the major sahib and the two captain sahibs to come to me here."

The Indian saluted and vanished like a swift-moving shadow.

The Brigadier sank back into his chair, his head drooped forward, his
hands clenched. There was tragedy, hopeless and absolute, in every
line of him.

There came the careless clatter of spurred heels and loosely-slung
swords in the passage outside of the half-closed door, the sound of a
stumble, a short ejaculation, and again a smothered laugh.

"Confound you Grange! Why can't you keep your feet to yourself, you
ungainly Triton, and give us poor minnows a chance?"

The Brigadier sat upright with a jerk. It was growing rapidly dark.

"Come in, all of you," he said. "I have something to say. As well to
shut the door, Ratcliffe, though it is not a council of war."

"There being nothing left to discuss, sir," returned the voice that
had laughed. "It is just a simple case of sitting tight now till
Bassett comes round the corner."

The Brigadier glanced up at the speaker and caught the last glow of
the fading sunset reflected on his face. It was a clean-shaven face
that should have possessed a fair skin, but by reason of unfavourable
circumstances it was burnt to a deep yellow-brown. The features were
pinched and wrinkled--they might have belonged to a very old man; but
the eyes that smiled down into the Brigadier's were shrewd, bright,
monkey-like. They expressed a cheeriness almost grotesque. The two men
whom he had followed into the room stood silent among the shadows. The
gloom was such as could be felt.

Suddenly, in short, painful tones the Brigadier began to speak.

"Sit down," he said. "I have sent for you to ask one among you to
undertake for me a certain service which must be accomplished, but
which I--" he paused and again audibly caught his breath between his
teeth--"which I--am unable to execute for myself."

An instant's silence followed the halting speech. Then the young
officer who stood against the door stepped briskly forward.

"What's the job, sir? I'll wager my evening skilly I carry it
through."

One of the men in the shadows moved, and spoke in a repressive tone.
"Shut up, Nick! This is no mess-room joke."

Nick made a sharp, half-contemptuous gesture. "A joke only ceases
to be a joke when there is no one left to laugh, sir," he said. "We
haven't come to that at present."

He stood in front of the Brigadier for a moment--an insignificant
figure but for the perpetual suggestion of simmering activity that
pervaded him; then stepped behind the commanding officer's chair, and
there took up his stand without further words.

The Brigadier paid no attention to him. His mind was fixed upon one
subject only. Moreover, no one ever took Nick Ratcliffe seriously. It
seemed a moral impossibility.

"It is quite plain to me," he said heavily at length, "that the time
has come to face the situation. I do not speak for the discouragement
of you brave fellows. I know that I can rely upon each one of you to
do your duty to the utmost. But we are bound to look at things as they
are, and so prepare for the inevitable. I for one am firmly convinced
that General Bassett cannot possibly reach us in time."

He paused, but no one spoke. The man behind him was leaning forward,
listening intently.

He went on with an effort. "We are a mere handful. We have dwindled
to four white men among a host of dark. Relief is not even within a
remote distance of us, and we are already bordering upon starvation.
We may hold out for three days more. And then"--his breath came
suddenly short, but he forced himself to continue--"I have to think of
my child. She will be in your hands. I know you will all defend her to
the last ounce of your strength; but which of you"--a terrible gasping
checked his utterance for many labouring seconds; he put his hand over
his eyes--"which of you," he whispered at last, his words barely
audible, "will have the strength to--shoot her before your own last
moment comes?"

The question quivered through the quiet room as if wrung from the
twitching lips by sheer torture. It went out in silence--a dreadful,
lasting silence in which the souls of men, stripped naked of human
convention, stood confronting the first primaeval instinct of human
chivalry.

It continued through many terrible seconds--that silence, and through
it no one moved, no one seemed to breathe. It was as if a spell
had been cast upon the handful of Englishmen gathered there in the
deepening darkness.

The Brigadier sat bowed and motionless at the table, his head sunk in
his hands.

Suddenly there was a quiet movement behind him, and the spell was
broken. Ratcliffe stepped deliberately forward and spoke.

"General," he said quietly, "if you will put your daughter in my care,
I swear to you, so help me God, that no harm of any sort shall touch
her."

There was no hint of emotion in his voice, albeit the words were
strong; but it had a curious effect upon those who heard it. The
Brigadier raised his head sharply, and peered at him; and the other
two officers started as men suddenly stumbling at an unexpected
obstacle in a familiar road.

One of them, Major Marshall, spoke, briefly and irritably, with a
touch of contempt. His nerves were on edge in that atmosphere of
despair.

"You, Nick!" he said. "You are about the least reliable man in
the garrison. You can't be trusted to take even reasonable care of
yourself. Heaven only knows how it is you weren't killed long ago. It
was thanks to no discretion on your part. You don't know the meaning
of the word."

Nick did not answer, did not so much as seem to hear. He was standing
before the Brigadier. His eyes gleamed in his alert face--two weird
pin-points of light.

"She will be safe with me," he said, in a tone that held not the
smallest shade of uncertainty.

But the Brigadier did not speak. He still searched young Ratcliffe's
face as a man who views through field-glasses a region distant and
unexplored.

After a moment the officer who had remained silent throughout came
forward a step and spoke. He was a magnificent man with the physique
of a Hercules. He had remained on his feet, impassive but observant,
from the moment of his entrance. His voice had that soft quality
peculiar to some big men.

"I am ready to sell my life for Miss Roscoe's safety, sir," he said.

Nick Ratcliffe jerked his shoulders expressively, but said nothing. He
was waiting for the General to speak. As the latter rose slowly, with
evident effort, from his chair, he thrust out a hand, as if almost
instinctively offering help to one in sore need.

General Roscoe grasped it and spoke at last. He had regained his
self-command. "Let me understand you, Ratcliffe," he said. "You
suggest that I should place my daughter in your charge. But I must
know first how far you are prepared to go to ensure her safety."

He was answered instantly, with an unflinching promptitude he had
scarcely expected.

"I am prepared to go to the uttermost limit, sir," said Nicholas
Ratcliffe, his fingers closing like springs upon the hand that gripped
his, "if there is a limit. That is to say, I am ready to go through
hell for her. I am a straight shot, a cool shot, a dead shot. Will you
trust me?"

His voice throbbed with sudden feeling. General Roscoe was watching
him closely. "Can I trust you, Nick?" he said.

There was an instant's silence, and the two men in the background
were aware that something passed between them--a look or a rapid
sign--which they did not witness. Then reckless and debonair came
Nick's voice.

"I don't know, sir. But if I am untrustworthy, may I die to-night!"

General Roscoe laid his free hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Is it so, Nick?" he said, and uttered a heavy sigh. "Well--so be it
then. I trust you."

"That settles it, sir," said Nick cheerily. "The job is mine."

He turned round with a certain arrogance of bearing, and walked to the
door. But there he stopped, looking back through the darkness at the
dim figures he had left.

"Perhaps you will tell Miss Roscoe that you have appointed me
deputy-governor," he said. "And tell her not to be frightened, sir.
Say I'm not such a bogey as I look, and that she will be perfectly
safe with me." His tone was half-serious, half-jocular. He wrenched
open the door not waiting for a reply.

"I must go back to the guns," he said, and the next moment was gone,
striding carelessly down the passage, and whistling a music-hall
ballad as he went.



CHAPTER II

A SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER


In the centre of the little frontier fort there was a room which one
and all of its defenders regarded as sacred. It was an insignificant
chamber, narrow as a prison cell and almost as bare; but it was the
safest place in the fort. In it General Roscoe's daughter--the only
white woman in the garrison--had dwelt safely since the beginning of
that dreadful siege.

Strictly forbidden by her father to stir from her refuge without
his express permission, she had dragged out the long days in close
captivity, living in the midst of nerve-shattering tumult but taking
no part therein. She was little more than a child, and accustomed
to render implicit obedience to the father she idolised, or she had
scarcely been persuaded to submit to this rigorous seclusion. It would
perhaps have been better for her physically and even mentally to
have gone out and seen the horrors which were being daily enacted all
around her. She had at first pleaded for at least a limited freedom,
urging that she might take her part in caring for the wounded. But her
father had refused this request with such decision that she had never
repeated it. And so she had seen nothing while hearing much, lying
through many sleepless nights with nerves strung to a pitch of torture
far more terrible than any bodily exhaustion, and vivid imagination
ever at work upon pictures more ghastly than even the ghastly reality
which she was not allowed to see.

The strain was such as no human frame could have endured for long.
Her strength was beginning to break down under it. The long sleepless
nights were more than she could bear. And there came a time when
Muriel Roscoe, driven to extremity, sought relief in a remedy from
which in her normal senses she would have turned in disgust.

It helped her, but it left its mark upon her--a mark which her father
must have noted, had he not been almost wholly occupied with the
burden that weighed him down. Morning and evening he visited her, yet
failed to read that in her haunted eyes which could not have escaped a
clearer vision.

Entering her room two hours after his interview with his officers
regarding her, he looked at her searchingly indeed, but without
understanding. She lay among cushions on a _charpoy_ of bamboo in
the light of a shaded lamp. Young and slight and angular, with a
pale little face of utter weariness, with great dark eyes that gazed
heavily out of the black shadows that ringed them round, such was
Muriel Roscoe. Her black hair was simply plaited and gathered up at
the neck. It lay in cloudy masses about her temples--wonderful hair,
quite lustreless, so abundant that it seemed almost too much for the
little head that bore it. She did not rise at her father's entrance.
She scarcely raised her eyes.

"So glad you've come, Daddy," she said, in a soft, low voice. "I've
been wanting you. It's nearly bedtime, isn't it?"

He went to her, treading lightly. His thoughts had been all of her for
the past few hours and in consequence he looked at her more critically
than usual. For the first time he was struck by her pallor, her look
of deathly weariness. On the table near her lay a plate of boiled rice
piled high in a snowy pyramid. He saw that it had not been touched.

"Why, child," he said, a sudden new anxiety at his heart "you have had
nothing to eat. You're not ill?"

She roused herself a little, and a very faint colour crept into her
white cheeks. "No, dear, only tired--too tired to be hungry," she told
him. "That rice is for you."

He sat down beside her with a sound that was almost a groan. "You must
eat something, child," he said. "Being penned up here takes away your
appetite. But all the same you must eat."

She sat up slowly, and pushed back the heavy hair from her forehead
with a sigh.

"Very well, Daddy," she said submissively. "But you must have some
too, dear. I couldn't possible eat it all."

Something in his attitude or expression seemed to strike her at this
point, and she made a determined effort to shake off her lethargy. A
spoon and fork lay by the plate. She handed him the former and kept
the latter for herself.

"We'll have a picnic, Daddy." she said, with a wistful little smile.
"I told _ayah_ always to bring two plates, but she has forgotten. We
don't mind, though, do we?"

It was childishly spoken, but the pathos of it went straight to the
man's heart. He tasted the rice under her watching eyes and pronounced
it very good; then waited for her to follow his example which she did
with a slight shudder.

"Delicious, Daddy, isn't it?" she said. And even he did not guess what
courage underlay the words.

They kept up the farce till the pyramid was somewhat reduced; then by
mutual consent they suffered their ardour to flag. There was a faint
colour in the girl's thin face as she leaned back again. Her eyes were
brighter, the lids drooped less.

"I had a dream last night, Daddy," she said, "such a curious dream,
and so vivid. I thought I was out on the mountains with some one. I
don't know who it was, but it was some one very nice. It seemed to be
very near the sunrise, for it was quite bright up above, though it was
almost dark where we stood. And, do you know--don't laugh, Daddy,
I know it was only a silly dream--when I looked up, I saw that
everywhere the mountains were full of horses and chariots of fire. I
felt so safe, Daddy, and so happy. I could have cried when I woke up."

She paused. It was rather difficult for her to make conversation for
the silent man who sat beside her so gloomy and preoccupied. Save that
she loved her father as she loved no one else on earth, she might have
felt awed in his presence.

As it was, receiving no response, she turned to look, and the next
instant was on her knees beside him, her thin young arms clinging to
his neck.

"Daddy, darling, darling!" she whispered, and hid her face against him
in sudden, nameless terror.

He clasped her to him, holding her close, that she might not again see
his face and the look it wore. She began to tremble, and he tried to
soothe her with his hand, but for many seconds he could find no words.

"What is it, Daddy?" she whispered at last, unable to endure the
silence longer. "Won't you tell me? I can be very brave. You said so
yourself."

"Yes," he said. "You will be a brave girl, I know." His voice quivered
and he paused to steady it. "Muriel," he said then, "I don't know if
you have ever thought of the end of all this. There will be an end,
you know. I have had to face it to-night."

She looked up at him quickly, but he was ready for her. He had
banished from his face the awful despair that he carried in his soul.

"When Sir Reginald Bassett comes--" she began uncertainly.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "You will try not to be afraid," he
said. "I am going to treat you, as I have treated my officers, with
absolute candour. We shall not hold out more than three days more. Sir
Reginald Bassett will not be here in time."

He stopped. Muriel uttered not a word. Her face was still upturned,
and her eyes had suddenly grown intensely bright, but he read no
shrinking in them.

With an effort he forced himself to go on. "I may not be able to
protect you when the end comes. I may not even be with you. But--there
is one man upon whom you can safely rely whatever happens, who will
give himself up to securing your safety alone. He has sworn to me that
you shall not be taken, and I know that he will keep his word. You
will be safe with him, Muriel. You may trust him as long as you live.
He will not fail you. Perhaps you can guess his name?"

He asked the question with a touch of curiosity in the midst of
his tragedy. That upturned, listening face had in it so little of a
woman's understanding, so much of the deep wonder of a child.

Her answer was prompt and confident, and albeit her very lips were
white, there was a faint hint of satisfaction in her voice as she made
it.

"Captain Grange, of course, Daddy."

He started and looked at her narrowly. "No, no!" he said. "Not Grange!
What should make you think of him?"

He saw a look of swift disappointment, almost of consternation, darken
her eyes. For the first time her lips quivered uncertainly.

"Who then, Daddy? Not--not Mr. Ratcliffe?"

He bent his head. "Yes, Nick Ratcliffe. I have placed you in his
charge. He will take care of you."

"Young Nick Ratcliffe!" she said slowly. "Why, Daddy, he can't even
take care of himself yet. Every one says so. Besides,"--a curiously
womanly touch crept into her speech--"I don't like him. Only the other
day I heard him laugh at something that was terrible--something it
makes me sick to think of. Indeed, Daddy, I would far rather have
Captain Grange to take care of me. Don't you think he would if you
asked him? He is so much bigger and stronger, and--and kinder."

"Ah! I know," her father said. "He seems so to you. But it is nerve
that your protector will need, child; and Ratcliffe possesses more
nerve than all the rest of the garrison put together. No, it must be
Ratcliffe, Muriel. And remember to give him all your trust, all your
confidence. For whatever he does will be with my authority--with
my--full--approval."

His voice failed suddenly and he rose, turning sharply away from the
light. She clung to his arm silently, in a passion of tenderness,
though she was far from understanding the suffering those last words
revealed. She had never seen him thus moved before.

After a few seconds he turned back to her, and bending kissed her
piteous face. She clung closely to him with an agonised longing to
keep him with her; but he put her gently from him at last.

"Lie down again, dear," he said, "and get what rest you can. Try not
to be frightened at the noise. There is sure to be an assault, but the
fort will hold to-night."

He stood a moment, looking down at her. Then again he stooped and
kissed her. "Good-bye, my darling," he said huskily, "till we meet
again!"

And so hurriedly, as if not trusting himself to remain longer, he left
her.



CHAPTER III

THE VICTIM OF TREACHERY


There came again the running rattle of rifle-firing from the valley
below the fort, and Muriel Roscoe, lying on her couch, pressed both
hands to her eyes and shivered. It seemed impossible that the end
could be so near. She felt as if she had existed for years in this
living nightmare of many horrors, had lain down and had slept with
that dreadful sound in her ears from the very beginning of things. The
life she had led before these ghastly happenings had become so vague a
memory that it almost seemed to belong to a previous existence, to an
earlier and a happier era. As in a dream she now recalled the vision
of her English school-life. It lay not a year behind her, but she felt
herself to have changed so fundamentally since those sunny, peaceful
days that she seemed to be a different person altogether. The Muriel
Roscoe of those days had been a merry, light-hearted personality. She
had revelled in games and all outdoor amusements. Moreover, she had
been quick to learn, and her lessons had never caused her any trouble.
A daring sprite she had been, with a most fertile imagination and a
longing for adventure that had never been fully satisfied, possessing
withal so tender and loving a heart that the very bees in the garden
had been among her cherished friends. She remembered all the sunny
ideals of that golden time and marvelled at herself, forgetting
utterly the eager, even passionate, craving that had then been hers
for the wider life, the broader knowledge, that lay beyond her reach,
forgetting the feverish impatience with which she had longed for
the day of her emancipation when she might join her father in the
wonderful glowing East which she so often pictured in her dreams. Of
her mother she had no memory. She had died at her birth. Her father
was all the world to her; and when at last he had travelled home on a
brief leave and taken her from her quiet English life to the strange,
swift existence of the land of his exile, her soul had overflowed with
happiness.

Nevertheless, she had not been carried away by the gaieties of this
new world. The fascinations of dance and gymkhana had not caught her.
The joy of being with her father was too sacred and too precious to be
foregone for these lesser pleasures, and she very speedily decided to
sacrifice all social entertainments to which he could not accompany
her. She rode with him, camped with him, and became his inseparable
companion. Undeveloped in many ways, shy in the presence of strangers,
she soon forgot her earlier ambition to see the world and all that it
contained. Her father's society was to her all-sufficing, and it was
no sacrifice to her to withdraw herself from the gay crowd and dwell
apart with him.

He had no wish to monopolise her, but it was a relief to him that the
constant whirl of pleasure about her attracted her so little. He liked
to have her with him, and it soon became a matter of course that she
should accompany him on all his expeditions. She revelled in his tours
of inspection. They were so many picnics to her, and she enjoyed them
with the zest of a child.

And so it came to pass that she was with him among the hills of the
frontier when, like a pent flood suddenly escaping, the storm of
rebellion broke and seethed about them, threatening them with total
annihilation.

No serious trouble had been anticipated. A certain tract of country
had been reported unquiet, and General Roscoe had been ordered to
proceed thither on a tour of inspection and also, to a very mild
degree, of intimidation. Marching through the district from fort to
fort, he had encountered no shadow of opposition. All had gone well.
And then, his work over, and all he set out to do satisfactorily
accomplished, his face towards India and his back to the mountains,
the unexpected had come upon him like a thunderbolt.

Hordes of tribesmen, gathered Heaven knew how or whence, had suddenly
burst upon him from the south, had cut off his advance by sheer
immensity of numbers, and, hemming him in, had forced him gradually
back into the mountain fastnesses through which he had just passed
unmolested.

It was a stroke so wholly new, so subtly executed, that it had won
success almost before the General had realised the weight of the
disaster that had come upon him. He had believed himself at first to
be involved in a mere fray with border thieves. But before he reached
the fort upon which he found himself obliged to fall back, he knew
that he had to cope with a general rising of the tribes, and that the
means at his disposal were as inadequate to stem the rising flood of
rebellion as a pebble thrown into a mountain stream to check its flow.

The men under his command, with the exception of a few officers, were
all native soldiers, and he soon began to have a strong suspicion that
among these he numbered traitors. Nevertheless, he established himself
at the fort, determined there to make his stand till relief should
arrive.

The telegraph wires were cut, and for a time it seemed that all
communication with the outside world was an impossibility. Several
runners were sent out, but failed to break through the besieging
forces. But at last after many desperate days there came a message
from without--a scrap of paper attached to a stone and flung over the
wall of the fort at night. News of the disaster had reached Peshawur,
and Sir Reginald Bassett, with a hastily collected force, was moving
to their assistance.

The news put heart into the garrison, and for a time it seemed that
the worst would be averted. But it became gradually evident to General
Roscoe that the relieving force could not reach them in time. The
water supply had run very low, and the men were already subsisting
upon rations that were scarcely sufficient for the maintenance of
life. There was sickness among them, and there were also many wounded.
The white men were reduced to four, including himself, the native
soldiers had begun to desert, and he had been forced at last to face
the fact that the end was very near.

All this had Muriel Roscoe come through, physically scathless,
mentally torn and battered, and she could not bring herself to realise
that the long-drawn-out misery of the siege could ever be over.

Lying there, tense and motionless, she listened to the shots and yells
in the distance with a shuddering sense that it was all a part of her
life, of her very being, even. The torture and the misery had so eaten
into her soul. Now and then she heard the quick thunder of one of the
small guns that armed the fort, and at the sound her pulses leaped
and quivered. She knew that the ammunition was running very low. These
guns did not often speak now.

Then, during a lull, there came to her the careless humming of a
British voice, the free, confident tread of British feet, approaching
her door.

She caught her breath as a hand rapped smartly upon the panel. She
knew who the visitor was, but she could not bring herself to bid him
enter. A sudden awful fear was upon her. She could neither speak nor
move. She lay, listening intently, hoping against hope that he would
believe her to be sleeping and go away.

The knock was not repeated. Dead silence reigned. And then quickly
and decidedly the door opened, and Nick Ratcliffe stood upon the
threshold. The light struck full upon his face as he halted--a clever,
whimsical face that might mask almost any quality good or bad.

"May I come in, Miss Roscoe?" he asked.

For she had not moved at his appearance. She lay as one dead. But as
he spoke she uncovered her face, and terror incarnate stared wildly at
him from her starting eyes. He entered without further ceremony,
and closed the door behind him. In the shaded lamplight his features
seemed to twitch as if he wanted to smile. So at least it seemed to
her wrought-up fancy.

He gazed greedily at the plate of rice on the table as he came
forward. "Great Jupiter!" he said. "What a sumptuous repast!"

The total freedom from all anxiety or restraint with which he made
this simple observation served to restore to some degree the girl's
tottering self-control. She sat up, sufficiently recovered to remember
that she did not like this man.

"Pray have some if you want it," she said coldly.

He turned his back on it abruptly. "No, don't tempt me," he said.
"It's a fast day for me. I'm acquiring virtue, being conspicuously
destitute of all other forms of comfort. Why don't you eat it
yourself? Are you acquiring virtue too?"

He stood looking down at her quizzically, under rapidly flickering
eyelids. She sat silent, wishing with all her heart that he would go
away.

Nothing, however, was apparently further from his thoughts. After a
moment he sat down in the chair that her father had occupied an hour
before. It was very close to her, and she drew herself slightly
away with a small, instinctive movement of repugnance. But Nick was
sublimely impervious to hints.

"I say, you know," he said abruptly, "you shouldn't take opium. Your
donkey of an _ayah_ ought to know better than to let you have it."

Muriel gave a great start. "I don't"--she faltered. "I--I--"

He shook his head at her, as though reproving a child. "Pussy's out,"
he observed. "It is no good giving chase. But really, you know, you
mustn't do it. You used to be a brave girl once, and now your nerves
are all to pieces."

There was a species of paternal reproach in his tone. Looking at him,
she marvelled that she had ever thought him young and headlong. Almost
in spite of herself she began to murmur excuses.

"I can't help it. I must have something. I don't sleep. I lie for
hours, listening to the fighting. It--it's more than I can bear."
Her voice quivered, and she turned her face aside, unable to hide her
emotion, but furious with herself for displaying it.

Nick said nothing at all to comfort her, and she bitterly resented
his silence. After a pause he spoke again, as if he had banished the
matter entirely from his mind.

"Look here," he said. "I want you to tell me something. I don't know
what sort of a fellow you think I am, though I fancy you don't like
me much. But you're not afraid of me, are you? You know I'm to be
trusted?"

It was her single chance of revenge, and she took it. "I have my
father's word for it," she said.

He nodded thoughtfully as if unaware of the thrust. "Yes, your father
knows me. And so"--he smiled at her suddenly--"you are ready to trust
me on his recommendation? You are ready to follow me blindfold through
danger if I give you my hand to hold?"

She felt a sharp chill strike her heart. What was it he was asking of
her? What did those words of his portend?

"I don't know," she said. "I don't see that it makes much difference
how I feel."

"Well, it does," he assured her. "And that is exactly what I have
come to talk about. Miss Roscoe, will you leave the fort with me,
and escape in disguise? I have thought it all out, and it can be done
without much difficulty. I do not need to tell you that the idea has
your father's full approval."

They were her father's own words, but at sound of them she shrank
and shivered, in sheer horror at the coolness with which they were
uttered. He might have been asking her to stroll with him in the leafy
quiet of some English lane.

Could it be, she asked herself incredulously, could it be that her
father had ever sanctioned and approved so ghastly a risk for her? She
put her hand to her temples. Her brain was reeling. How could she do
this thing? How could she have permitted it to be even suggested to
her? And then, swift through her tortured mind flashed his words:
"There will be an end. I have had to face it to-night." Was it this
that he had meant? Was it for this that he had been preparing her?

With a muffled exclamation she rose, trembling in every limb. "I
can't!" she cried piteously, "oh, I can't! Please go away!"

It might have been the frightened prayer of a child, so beseeching
was it, so full of weakness. But Nick Ratcliffe heard it unmoved. He
waited a few seconds till she came to a stand by the table, her back
towards him. Then with a sudden quiet movement he rose and followed
her.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "But you can't afford to shirk things
at this stage. I am offering you deliverance, though you don't realise
it."

He spoke with force, and if his aim had been to rouse her to a more
practical activity, he gained his end. She turned upon him in swift
and desperate indignation. Her voice rang almost harsh.

"How can you call it deliverance? It is at best a choice of two
horrible evils. You know perfectly well that we could never get
through. You must be mad to suggest such a thing. We should be made
prisoners and massacred under the very guns of the fort."

"I beg your pardon," he said again, and his eyelids quivered a little
as if under the pressure of some controlled emotion. "We shall not be
made prisoners. I know what I am saying. It is deliverance that I am
offering you. Of course you can refuse, and I shall still do my
utmost to save you. But the chances are not equal. I hope you will not
refuse."

The moderation of this speech calmed her somewhat. In her first wild
panic she had almost imagined that he could take her against her will.
She saw that she had been unreasonable, but she was too shaken to tell
him so. Moreover, there was still that about him, notwithstanding his
words, that made her afraid to yield a single inch of ground lest by
some hidden means he should sweep her altogether from her precarious
foothold. Even in the silence, she felt that he was doing battle with
her, and she did not dare to face him.

With a childish gesture of abandonment, she dropped into a chair and
laid her head upon her arms.

"Oh, please go away!" she besought him weakly. "I am so tired--so
tired."

But Ratcliffe did not move. He stood looking down at her, at the black
hair that clustered about her neck, at the bowed, despairing figure,
the piteous, clenched hands.

A little clock in the room began to strike in silvery tones, and he
glanced up. The next instant he bent and laid a bony hand upon her two
clasped ones.

"Can't you decide?" he said. "Will you let me decide for you? Don't
let yourself get scared. You have kept so strong till now." Firmly
as he spoke, there was somehow a note of soothing in his voice, and
almost insensibly the girl was moved by it. She remained silent and
motionless, but the strong grip of his fingers comforted her subtly
notwithstanding.

"Come," he said, "listen a moment and let me tell you my plan of
campaign. It is very simple, and for that reason it is going to
succeed. You are listening now?"

His tone was vigorous and insistent. Muriel sat slowly up in response
to it. She looked down at the thin hand that grasped hers, and
wondered at its strength; but she lacked the spirit at that moment to
resent its touch.

He leaned down upon the table, his face close to hers, and began to
unfold his plan.

"We shall leave the fort directly the moon is down. I have a disguise
for you that will conceal your face and hair. And I shall fake as a
tribesman, so that my dearest friend would never recognise me. They
will be collecting the wounded in the dark, and I will carry you
through on my shoulder as if I had got a dead relation. You won't
object to playing a dead relation of mine?"

He broke into a sudden laugh, but sobered instantly when he saw her
shrink at the sound.

"That's about all the plan," he resumed. "There is nothing very
alarming about it, for they will never spot us in the dark. I'm as
yellow as a Chinaman already. We shall be miles away by morning. And I
know how to find my way afterwards."

He paused, but Muriel made no comment. She was staring straight before
her.

"Can you suggest any amendments?" he asked.

She turned her head and looked at him with newly-roused aversion in
her eyes. She had summoned all her strength to the combat, realising
that now was the moment for resistance if she meant to resist.

"No, Mr. Ratcliffe," she said, with a species of desperate firmness
very different from his own. "I have nothing to suggest. If you wish
to escape, you must go alone. It is quite useless to try to persuade
me any further. Nothing--nothing will induce me to leave my father."

Whether or not he had expected this opposition was not apparent on
Nick's face. It betrayed neither impatience nor disappointment.

"There would be some reason in that," he gravely rejoined, "if you
could do any good to your father by remaining. Of course I see your
point, but it seems to me that it would be harder for him to see you
starve with the rest of the garrison than to know that you had escaped
with me. A woman in your position is bound to be a continual burden
and anxiety to those who protect her. The dearer she is to them, so
much the heavier is the burden. Miss Roscoe, you must see this. You
are not an utter child. You must realise that to leave your father
is about the greatest sacrifice you can make for him at the present
moment. He is worn out with anxiety on your behalf, literally bowed
down by it. For his sake, you are going to do this thing, it being the
only thing left that you can do for him."

There was more than persuasion in his voice. It held authority. But
Muriel heard it without awe. She had passed that stage. The matter
was too momentous to allow of weakness. She had strung herself to the
highest pitch of resistance as a hunted creature at bay. She threw
back her head, a look of obstinacy about her lips, her slight figure
straightened to the rigidity of defiance.

"I will not be forced," she said, in sharp, uneven tones. "Mr.
Ratcliffe, you may go on persuading and arguing till doomsday. I will
not leave my father."

Ratcliffe stood up abruptly. A curious glitter shone in his eyes, and
the light eyebrows twitched a little. She felt that he had suddenly
ceased to do battle with her, yet that the victory was not hers. And
for a second she was horribly frightened, as though an iron trap had
closed upon her and held her at his mercy.

He walked to the door without speaking and opened it. She expected
him to go, sat waiting breathlessly for his departure, but instead he
stood motionless, looking into the dark passage.

She wondered with nerves on edge what he was waiting for. Suddenly
she heard a step without, a few murmured words, and Nick stood on one
side. Her father's Sikh orderly passed him, carrying a tray on which
was a glass full of some dark liquid. He set it down on the table
before her with a deep salaam.

"The General Sahib wishes Missy Sahib to have a good night," he said.
"He cannot come to her himself, but he sends her this by his servant,
and he bids her drink it and sleep."

Muriel looked up at the man in surprise. Her father had never done
such a thing before, and the message astonished her not a little.
Then, remembering that he had shown some anxiety regarding her
appearance that evening, she fancied she began to understand. Yet
it was strange, it was utterly unlike him, to desire her to take an
opiate. She looked at the glass with hesitation.

"Give him my love, Purdu," she said finally to the waiting orderly.
"Tell him I will take it if I cannot sleep without."

The man bowed himself again and withdrew. To her disgust, however,
Nick remained. He was looking at her oddly.

"Miss Roscoe," he said abruptly, "I beg you, don't drink that
stuff. Your father must be mad to offer it to you. Let me take the
beastliness away."

She faced him indignantly. "My father knows what is good for me better
than you do," she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't profess to be a sage. But any
one will tell you that it is madness to take opium in this reckless
fashion. For Heaven's sake, be reasonable. Don't take it."

He came back to the table, but at his approach she laid her hand upon
the glass. She was quivering with angry excitement.

"I will not endure your interference any longer," she declared, goaded
to headlong, nervous fury by his persistence. "My father's wishes are
enough for me. He desires me to take it, and so I will."

She took up the glass in a sudden frenzy of defiance. He had
frightened her--yes, he had frightened her--but he should see how
little he had gained by that. She took a taste of the liquid, then
paused, again assailed by a curious hesitancy. Had her father really
meant her to take it all?

Nick had stopped short at her first movement, but as she began to
lower the glass in response to that disquieting doubt, he swooped
suddenly forward like a man possessed.

For a fleeting instant she thought he was going to wrest it from her,
but in the next she understood--understood the man's deep treachery,
and with what devilish ingenuity he had worked upon her. Holding her
with an arm that felt like iron, he forced the glass back between her
teeth, and tilted the contents down her throat. She strove to resist
him, strove wildly, frantically, not to swallow the draught. But he
held her pitilessly. He compelled her, gripping her right hand with
the glass, and pinning the other to her side.

When it was over, when he had worked his will and the hateful draught
was swallowed, he set her free and turned himself sharply from her.

She sprang up trembling and hysterical. She could have slain him in
that instant had she possessed the means to her hand. But her strength
was more nearly exhausted than she knew. Her limbs doubled up under
her weight, and as she tottered, seeking for support, she realised
that she was vanquished utterly at last.

She saw him wheel quickly and start to support her, sought to evade
him, failed--and as she felt his arms lift her, she cried aloud in
anguished helplessness.

What followed dwelt ever after in her memory as a hideous dream, vivid
yet not wholly tangible. He laid her down upon the couch and bent over
her, his hands upon her, holding her still; for every muscle, every
nerve twitched spasmodically, convulsively, in the instinctive effort
of the powerless body to be free. She had a confused impression also
that he spoke to her, but what he said she was never able to recall.
In the end, her horror faded, and she saw him as through a mist
bending above her, grim and tense and silent, controlling her as it
were from an immense distance. And even while she yet dimly wondered,
he passed like a shadow from her sight, and wonder itself ceased.

Half an hour later Nicholas Ratcliffe, the wit and clown of his
regiment, regarded by many as harebrained or wantonly reckless,
carried away from the beleaguered fort among the hostile mountains the
slight, impassive figure of an English girl.

The night was dark, populated by terrors alive and ghastly. But he
went through it as one unaware of its many dangers. Light-footed and
fearless, he passed through the midst of his enemies, marching with
the sublime audacity of the dominant race, despising caution--yea,
grinning triumphant in the very face of Death.



CHAPTER IV

DESOLATION


Out of a deep abyss of darkness in which she seemed to have wandered
ceaselessly and comfortlessly for many days, Muriel Roscoe came
haltingly back to the surface of things. She was very weak, so weak
that to open her eyes was an exertion requiring all her resolution,
and to keep them open during those first hours of returning life a
physical impossibility. She knew that she was not alone, for gentle
hands ministered to her, and she was constantly aware of some one who
watched her tirelessly, with never-failing attention. But she felt
not the smallest interest regarding this faithful companion, being
too weary to care whether she lived or fell away for ever down those
unending steeps up which some unseen influence seemed magnetically to
draw her.

It was a stage of returning consciousness that seemed to last even
longer than the period of her wandering, but this also began to pass
at length. The light grew stronger all about her, the mists rolled
slowly away from her clogged brain, leaving only a drowsing languor
that was infinitely restful to her tired senses.

And then while she lay half-dreaming and wholly content, a remorseless
hand began to bathe her face and head with ice-cold water. She awoke
reluctantly, even resentfully.

"Don't!" she entreated like a child. "I am so tired. Let me sleep."

"My poor dear, I know all about it," a motherly voice made answer.
"But it's time for you to wake."

She did not grasp the words--only, very vaguely, their meaning; and
this she made a determined, but quite fruitless, effort to defy. In
the end, being roused in spite of herself, she opened her eyes and
gazed upwards.

And all his life long Nick Ratcliffe remembered the reproach that
those eyes held for him. It was as if he had laid violent hands upon a
spirit that yearned towards freedom, and had dragged it back into the
sordid captivity from which it had so nearly escaped.

But it was only for a moment that she looked at him so. The reproach
faded swiftly from the dark eyes and he saw a startled horror dawn
behind it.

Suddenly she raised herself with a faint cry. "Where am I?" she
gasped. "What--what have you done with me?"

She stared around her wildly, with unreasoning, nightmare terror. She
was lying on a bed of fern in a narrow, dark ravine. The place was
full of shadow, though far overhead she saw the light of day. At one
end, only a few yards from her, a stream rushed and gurgled among
great boulders, and its insistent murmur filled the air. Behind her
rose a great wall of grey rock, clothed here and there with some dark
growth. Its rugged face was dented with hollows that looked like the
homes of wild animals. There was a constant trickle of water on all
sides, an eerie whispering, remote but incessant. As she sat there in
growing panic, a great bat-like creature, immense and shadowy, swooped
soundlessly by her.

She shrank back with another cry, and found Nick Ratcliffe's arm
thrust protectingly about her.

"It's all right," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "You're not
frightened at flying-foxes, are you?"

Recalled to the fact of his presence, she turned sharply, and flung
his arm away as though it had been a snake. "Don't touch me!" she
gasped, passionate loathing in voice and gesture.

"Sorry," said Nick imperturbably. "I meant well."

He began to busy himself with a small bundle that lay upon the ground,
whistling softly between his teeth, and for a few seconds Muriel sat
and watched him. He was dressed in a flowing native garment, that
covered him from head to foot. Out of the heavy enveloping folds his
smooth, yellow face looked forth, sinister and terrible to her fevered
vision. He looked like some evil bird, she thought to herself.

Glancing down, she saw that she was likewise attired, save that
her head was bare. The hair hung wet on her forehead, and the water
dripped down her face. She put up her hand half-mechanically to wipe
the drops away. Her fear was mounting rapidly higher.

She knew now what had happened. He had drugged her forcibly--she
shivered at the remembrance--and had borne her away to this dreadful
place during her unconsciousness. Her father was left behind in the
fort. He had sanctioned her removal. He had given her, a helpless
captive, into this man's keeping.

But no! Her whole soul rose up in sudden fierce denial of this. He
had never done this thing. He had never given his consent to an act so
cowardly and so brutal. He was incapable of parting with her thus. He
could never have permitted so base a trick, so cruel, so outrageous, a
deed of treachery.

Strength came suddenly to her--the strength of frenzy. She leaped to
her feet. She would escape. She would go back to him through all
the hordes of the enemy. She would face anything--anything in the
world--rather than remain at the mercy of this man.

But--he had not been looking at her, and he did not look at her,--his
arm shot out as she moved, and his hand fastened claw-like upon her
dress.

"Sorry," he said again, in the same practical tone. "But you'll have
something to eat before you go."

She stooped and strove wildly, frantically, to shake off the detaining
hand. But it held her like a vice, with awful skeleton fingers that
she could not, dared not, touch.

"Let me go!" she cried impotently. "How dare you? How dare you?"

Still he did not raise his head. He was on his knees, and he would not
even trouble himself to rise.

"I can't help myself," he told her coolly. "It's not my fault. It's
yours."

She made a final, violent effort to wrest herself free. And then--it
was as if all power were suddenly taken from her--her strained nerves
gave way completely, and she dropped down upon the ground again in a
quivering agony of helplessness.

Nick's hand fell away from her. "You shouldn't," he said gently. "It's
no good, you know."

He returned to his former occupation while she sat with her face
hidden, in a stupor of fear, afraid to move lest he should touch her
again.

"Now," said Nick, after a brief pause, "let me have the pleasure of
seeing you break your fast. There is some of that excellent boiled
rice of yours here. You will feel better when you have had some."

She trembled at the sound of his voice. Could he make her eat also
against her will, she wondered?

"Come!" said Nick again, in a tone of soft wheedling that he might
have employed to a fractious child. "It'll do you good, you know,
Muriel. Won't you try? Just a mouthful--to please me!"

Reluctantly she uncovered her face, and looked at him. He was kneeling
in front of her, the _chuddah_ pushed back from his face, humbly
offering her an oatmeal biscuit with a small heap of rice piled upon
it.

She drew back shuddering. "I couldn't eat anything--possibly," she
said, and even her voice seemed to shrink. "You can. You take it. I
would rather die."

Nick did not withdraw his hand. "Take it, Muriel," he said quietly.
"It is going to do you good."

She flashed him a desperate glance in which anger, fear, abhorrence,
were strongly mingled. He advanced the biscuit a little nearer. There
was a queer look on his yellow face, almost a bullying look.

"Take it," he said again.

And against her will, almost without conscious movement, she obeyed
him. The untempting morsel passed from his hand to hers, and under the
compulsion of his insistence she began to eat.

She felt as if every mouthful would choke her, but she persevered,
urged by the dread certainty that he would somehow have his way.

Not until the last fragment was gone did she feel his vigilance relax,
but he ate nothing himself though there remained several biscuits and
a very little of the rice.

"You are feeling better?" he asked her then.

A curious suspicion that he was waiting to tell her something made
her answer almost feverishly in the affirmative. It amounted to a
premonition of evil tidings, and instinctively her thoughts flew to
her father.

"What is it?" she questioned nervously. "You have something to say."

Nick's face was turned from her. He seemed to be gazing across the
ravine.

"Yes," he said, after a moment.

"Oh, what?" she broke in. "Tell me quickly--quickly! It is my father,
I know, I know. He has been hurt--wounded--"

She stopped. Nick had lifted one hand as if to silence her. "My dear,"
he said, his voice very low, "your father died last night--before we
left the fort."

At her cry of agony he started up, and in a second he was on his
knees by her side and had gathered her to him as though she had been
a little child in need of comfort. She did not shrink from him in her
extremity. The blow had been too sudden, too overwhelming. It blotted
out all lesser sensibilities. In those first terrible moments she
did not think of Nick at all, was scarcely conscious of his presence,
though she vaguely felt the comfort of his arms.

And he, holding her fast against his breast, found no consolation, no
word of any sort wherewith to soothe her. He only rocked her gently,
pressing her head to his shoulder, while his face, bent above her,
quivered all over as the face of a man in torture.

Muriel spoke at last, breaking her stricken silence with a strangely
effortless composure. "Tell me more," she said.

She stirred in his arms as if to free herself from some oppression,
and finally drew herself away from him, though not as if she wished to
escape his touch. She still seemed to be hardly aware of him. He was
the medium of her information, that was all. Nick dropped back into
his former attitude, his hands clasped firmly round his knees, his
eyes, keen as a bird's and extremely bright, gazing across the ravine.
His lips still quivered a little, but his voice was perfectly even and
quiet.

"It happened very soon after the firing began. It must have been
directly after he left you. He was hit in the breast, just over the
heart. We couldn't do anything for him. He knew himself that it was
mortal. In fact, I think he had almost expected it. We took him into
the guardroom and made him as easy as possible. He lost consciousness
before he died. He was lying unconscious when I came to you."

Muriel made a sharp movement. "And you never told me," she said, in a
dry whisper.

"I thought it best," he answered with great gentleness. "You could not
have gone to him. He didn't wish it."

"Why not?" she demanded, and suddenly her voice rang harsh again. "Why
could I not have gone to him? Why didn't he wish it?"

Nick hesitated for a single instant. Then, "It was for your own sake,"
he said, not looking at her.

"You mean he suffered?"

"While he remained conscious--yes." Nick spoke reluctantly. "It didn't
last long," he said.

She scarcely seemed to hear him. "And so you tricked me," she said;
"you tricked me while my father was lying dying. I was not to see
him--either then or after--for my own sake! And do you think"--her
voice rising--"do you think that you were in any way justified in
treating me so? Do you think it was merciful to blind me and to take
from me all I should ever have of comfort to look back upon? Do you
think I couldn't have borne it all ten thousand times easier if I
could have seen and known the very worst? It was my right--it was
my right! How dared you take it from me? I will never forgive
you--never!"

She was on her feet as the passionate protest burst from her, but she
swayed as she stood and flung out her arms with a groping gesture.

"I could have borne it," she cried again wildly, piteously. "I could
have borne anything--anything--if I had only known!"

She broke into a sudden, terrible sobbing, and threw herself
down headlong upon the earth, clutching at the moss with shaking,
convulsive fingers, and crying between her sobs for "Daddy! Daddy!" as
though her agony could pierce the dividing barrier and bring him
back to her. Nick made no further attempt to help her. He sat gazing
stonily out before him in a sphinx-like stillness that never varied
while the storm of her anguish spent itself at his side.

Even after her sobs had ceased from sheer exhaustion he made no
movement, no sign that he was so much as thinking of her.

Only when at last she raised herself with difficulty, and put the
heavy hair back from her disfigured face, did he turn slightly and
hold out to her a small tin cup.

"It's only water," he said gently. "Have some."

She took it almost mechanically and drank, then lay back with closed
eyes and burning head, sick and blinded by her paroxysm of weeping.

A little later she felt his hands moving about her again, but she was
too spent to open her eyes. He bathed her face with a care equal to
any woman's, smoothed back her hair, and improvised a pillow for her
head.

And afterwards she knew that he sat down by her, out of sight but
close at hand, a silent presence watching over her, till at last, worn
out with grief and the bitter strain of the past weeks, she sank into
natural, dreamless slumber, and slept for hours.



CHAPTER V

THE DEVIL IN THE WILDERNESS


It was dark when Muriel awoke--so dark that she lay for a while
dreamily fancying herself in bed. But this illusion passed very
quickly as her brain, refreshed and active, resumed its work. The cry
of a jackal at no great distance roused her to full consciousness, and
she started up in the chill darkness, trembling and afraid.

Instantly a warm hand grasped hers, and a low voice spoke. "It's all
right," said Nick. "I'm here."

"Oh, isn't it dark?" she said. "Isn't it dark?"

"Don't be frightened," he answered gently. "Come close to me. You are
cold."

She crept to him shivering, thankful for the shielding arm he threw
around her.

"The sunrise can't be far off," he said. "I expect you are hungry,
aren't you?"

She was very hungry, and he put a biscuit into her hand. The very fact
of eating there in the darkness in some measure reassured her. She ate
several biscuits, and began to feel much better.

"Getting warmer?" questioned Nick. "Let me feel your hands." They were
still cold, and he took them and thrust them down against his breast.
She shrank a little at the touch of his warm flesh.

"It will make you so cold," she murmured.

But he only laughed at her softly, and pressed them closer. "I am not
easily chilled," he said. "Besides, it's sleeping that makes you cold.
And I haven't slept."

Muriel heard the news with astonishment. She was no longer angry with
Nick, and her fears of him were dormant. Though she would never forget
and might never forgive his treachery, he was her sole protector in
that wilderness of many terrors, and she lacked the resolution to keep
him at arm's length. There was, moreover, something comforting in his
presence, something that vastly reassured her, making her lean upon
him almost in spite of herself.

"Haven't you slept at all?" she asked him in wonder. "How in the world
did you keep awake?"

He did not answer her, only laughed again as though at some secret
joke. He seemed to be in rather good spirits, she noticed, and she
marvelled at him with a heavy pain at her heart that was utterly
beyond expression or relief.

She sat silent for a little, then at length withdrew her hands,
assuring him that they were quite warm.

"And I want to talk to you," she added, in a more practical tone than
she had previously managed to assume. "Mr. Ratcliffe, you may be in
command of this expedition, but I think you ought to tell me your
plans."

"Call me Nick, won't you?" he said. "It'll make things easier. You are
quite welcome to know my plans, such as they are. I haven't managed
to develop anything very ingenious during all these hours. You see we
are, to a certain extent, at the mercy of circumstances. This place
isn't more than a dozen miles from the fort, and the hills all round
are infested with tribesmen. I hoped at first that we should get clear
in the night, but you were asleep, and on the whole it seemed best to
lie up for another day. We might make a bolt for it to-morrow night if
all goes well. I have a sort of instinct for these mountains. There is
always plenty of cover for those who know how to find it. It will be
slow progress, of course, but we will keep moving south, and, given
luck, we may fall in with Bassett's relief column before many days."

So with much serenity he disclosed his plans, and Muriel marvelled
afresh at the confidence that buoyed him up. Was he really as
sublimely free from anxiety as he wished her to believe, she wondered?
It was difficult to think otherwise, even though he had admitted that
they were governed by circumstance. She began to think that there was
magic in him, some hidden reserve force upon which he could always
draw when all other resources failed.

Another matter had also caught her attention, and this she presently
decided to investigate. She had never thought of Nick Ratcliffe as in
any sense a remarkable person before.

"Did you actually carry me ten miles?" she asked.

"Something very near it," said Nick.

"How in the world did you do it?" Her interest was quickened.
Undoubtedly there was something uncanny in this man's strength.

"You're not very heavy, you know," he said.

His arm was still around her, and she suffered it; for the darkness
still frightened her when she allowed herself to think.

"Have you had anything to eat?" she asked him next.

"Not quite lately," said Nick. "I've been smoking. I wonder you didn't
notice it."

His tone was somehow repressive, but she ignored it with a growing
temerity. After all, he did not seem such an alarming person on a
nearer acquaintance.

"Does smoking do as well as eating?" she asked.

"Much better," said Nick promptly. "Care to try?"

She shook her head in the darkness. "I don't think you are telling the
truth," she said.

"What?" said Nick.

He spoke carelessly, but she did not repeat her assertion. A sudden
shyness descended upon her, and she became silent. Nick was quiet too,
and she wondered what was passing in his mind. But for the tenseness
of the arm that encircled her, she could have believed him to be
dozing. The silence was becoming oppressive when abruptly he broke it.

"See!" he said. "Here comes the dawn!"

She started and stared in front of her, seeing nothing.

"Over to your left," said Nick. And turning she beheld a lightening of
the darkness high above them.

She breathed a sigh of thankfulness, and watched it grow. It spread
rapidly. The walls of the ravine showed ghostly grey, then faintly
pink. Through the dimness the boulders scattered about the stream
stood up like mediaeval monsters, and for a few panic-stricken seconds
Muriel took the twining roots of a rhododendron close at hand for the
coils of a gigantic snake. Then as the ordinary light of day filtered
down into the gloomy place she sighed again with relief, and looked at
her companion.

He was sitting with his chin on his hand, gazing across the ravine. He
did not stir or glance in her direction. His yellow face was seamed in
a thousand wrinkles.

A vague misgiving assailed her as she looked at him. There was
something unnatural in his stillness.

"Nick!" she said at length with hesitation.

He turned sharply, and in an instant the ready grin leaped out upon
his face. "Good morning," he said lightly. "I was just thinking how
nice it would be to go down there and have a wash. We've got to pass
the time somehow, you know. Will you go first?"

His gaiety baffled her, but she did not feel wholly reassured. She got
up slowly, and as she did so, her attention was caught by something
that sent a thrill of dismay through her.

"Don't look at my feet, please," said Nick. "They won't bear
inspection at present."

She turned horrified eyes to his face, as he thrust them down into a
bunch of fern. "How dreadful!" she exclaimed. "They are all cut and
gashed. I didn't know you were barefooted."

"I wasn't," said Nick. "I've got some sandals here. Don't look like
that! You make me want to cry. I assure you it doesn't hurt in the
least."

He grinned again as he uttered this cheerful lie, but Muriel was not
deceived.

"You must let me bind them up," she said.

"Not for the world," laughed Nick. "I couldn't walk with my feet
in poultice-bags, and we shall have some more rough marching to do
to-night. Now don't you worry. Run along like a good girl. I'm going
to say my prayers."

It was flippantly spoken, but Muriel realised that it would be better
to obey. She turned about slowly, and began to make her way down to
the stream.

The sunlight was beginning to slant through the ravine, and here and
there the racing water gleamed silvery. It was intensely refreshing to
kneel and bathe face and hands in its icy coldness. She lingered long
over it. Its sparkling purity seemed to reach and still the throbbing
misery at her heart. In some fashion it brought her peace.

She would have prayed, but she felt she had no prayer to offer. She
had no favour to ask for herself, and her world was quite empty now.
She had no one in her heart for whom to pray.

Yet for awhile she knelt dumb among the lifeless stones, her face
hidden, her thoughts with the father whose loss she had scarcely
begun to realise. It might be that God would understand and pity her
silence, she thought drearily to herself.

The rush of the water drowned all sound but its own, and the memory
of Nick, waiting above, faded from her consciousness like a dream. Her
brain felt numb and heavy still. She did not want to think. She leaned
her head against a rock, closing her eyes. The continuous babble of
the stream was like a lullaby.

Under its soothing influence she might have slept, a blessed
drowsiness was stealing over her, when suddenly there flashed through
her being a swift warning of approaching danger. Whence it came she
knew not, but its urgency was such that instinctively she started up
and looked about her.

The next instant, with a sound half-gasp, half-cry, she was on
her feet, and shrinking back against her sheltering boulder in the
paralysis of a great horror. There, within a few yards of her and
drawing nearer, ever nearer, with a beast-like stealth, was a tall,
black-bearded tribesman. Transfixed by terror, she stood and gazed
at him, waiting dumbly, cold from head to foot, feeling as though her
very heart had turned to stone.

Nearer he came, and yet nearer, soundlessly over the stones. His eyes,
gleaming, devilish, were to her as the eyes of a devouring monster.
In her agony she tried to shriek aloud, but her voice was gone, her
throat seemed locked. She was powerless.

Close to her, for a single instant he paused; then, as in a lightning
flash, she saw the narrow, sinewy hand and snake-like arm dart forward
to seize her, felt every muscle in her body stiffen to rigidity in
anticipation of its touch, and shrank--shrank in every nerve though
she made no outward sign of shrinking.

But on the instant, with a panther-like spring, sure, noiseless,
deadly, another figure leapt suddenly across her vision. There
followed a violent struggle in front of her, a confused swaying to and
fro, a cry choked instantly and terribly, the tinkling sound of steel
falling upon stone. And then both figures were on the ground almost
at her feet, locked together in mortal combat, fighting, fighting
like demons in a silence that throbbed with the tumult of unrestrained
savagery.

Later she never could remember how long it took her to realise that
the second apparition was Nick, or if she had known it from the first.
She felt herself hovering upon the brink of a great emptiness, a void
immense, and yet all her senses were alive and tingling with horror.
With agonised perception of what was passing, she yet felt numbed: as
though her body were dead, but still contained a vital, tortured soul.

And it was thus that she presently saw Nick's face bent above the
black-bearded face of his enemy; and remembered suddenly and horribly
a picture she had once seen of the devil in the wilderness.

With his knees he was gripping the writhing body of his fallen foe.
With his hands--it came upon her as she watched with a shock of
anguished comprehension--he was deliberately and with deadly intention
choking out the man's life.

"Curse you! Die!" she heard him say and his voice sounded like the
snarl of a wild beast. His upper lip was drawn back, the lower one was
between his teeth, and from it the blood dripped continuously upon his
hands and upon the dark throat he gripped.

"Give me that knife!" he suddenly said, with an upward jerk of the
head.

A dagger was lying almost within his reach, close to her foot. She
could have kicked it towards him had not her body been fast bound in
that deathly inertia. But her whole soul rose up in wild revolt at
the order. She tried to cry out, to implore him to have mercy, but
she could not make a sound. She could only stand in frozen horror, and
witness this awful thing.

She saw Nick shift his grip to one hand and reach out with the other
for the weapon. He grasped it and recovered himself. A great darkness
was descending upon her, but it did not come at once. It hovered
before her eyes, and seemed to pass, and again she saw the horror
at her feet; saw Nick, bent to destroy like an eagle above his prey,
merciless, full of strength, terrible; saw the man beneath him,
writhing, convulsed, tortured; saw his upturned face, and starting
eyes; saw the sudden downward swoop of Nick's right hand, the flash of
the descending steel.

In her agony she burst the spell that bound her, and shrieking turned
to flee from that awful sight.

But even as she moved, the darkness came suddenly back upon her,
enveloping her, overwhelming her--a darkness that could be felt. For
a little she fought against it frantically, impotently. Then her feet
seemed to totter over the edge of a dreadful, formless silence. She
knew that she fell.



CHAPTER VI

WHEN STRONG MEN FAIL


"Wake up!" said Nick softly. "Wake up! Don't be afraid."

But Muriel turned her face from the light with a moan. Memory winged
with horror was sweeping back upon her, and she wanted never to wake
again.

"Wake up!" Nick said again, and this time there was insistence in his
voice. "Open your eyes, Muriel. There is nothing to frighten you."

Shuddering, she obeyed him. She was lying once more upon her couch of
ferns, and he was stooping over her, looking closely into her face.
His eyes were extraordinarily bright, like the eyes of an eagle, but
the lids flickered so rapidly that he seemed to be looking through her
rather than at her. There was a wound upon his lower lip, and at the
sight she shuddered again, closing her eyes. She remembered that the
last time she had looked upon that face, it had been the face of a
devil.

"Oh, go away! Go away!" she wailed. "Let me die!"

"I will go away," he answered swiftly, "if you will promise to drink
what is in this cup."

He pressed it against her hand, and she took it almost mechanically.
"It is only brandy and water," he said. "You will drink it?"

"If I must," she answered weakly.

"You must," he rejoined, and she heard him rise and move away. She
strained her ears to listen, but she very soon ceased to hear him; and
then raising herself cautiously, she drank. A warm thrill of life ran
through her veins with the draught, steadying her, refreshing her. But
it was long before she could bring herself to look round.

The miniature roar of the stream was the only sound to be heard, and
when at length she glanced downwards there was no sign anywhere of
the ghastly spectacle she had just witnessed. She saw the rock behind
which she had knelt, and again a violent fit of shuddering assailed
her. What did that rock conceal?

Nevertheless she presently took courage to rise, looking about her
furtively, half afraid that Nick might pop up at any moment to detain
her. For she felt that she could not stay longer in that place,
whatever he might say or do. The one idea that possessed her was to
get away from him, to escape from his horrible presence, whither she
neither knew nor cared. If he appeared to stop her then, she thought
that she would go raving mad.

But she saw nothing of him as she stood there, and with deep relief
she began to creep away. Half a dozen yards she covered, and then
stood suddenly still with her heart in her throat. There, immediately
in front of her, flung prone upon the ground with his face on his
arms, was Nick. He did not move at her coming, did not seem to hear.
And the thought came to her to avoid him by a circuit, and yet escape.
But something--a queer, indefinable something--made her pause. Why was
he lying there? Had he been hurt in that awful struggle? Was he--was
he unconscious? Was he--dead?

She fought back the impulse to fly, not for its unworthiness, but
because she felt that she must know.

Trembling, she moved a little nearer to the prostrate, motionless
figure.

"Nick!" she whispered under her breath.

He made no sign.

Her doubt turned to sudden, overmastering fear that pricked her
forward in spite of herself.

"Nick!" she said again, and finding herself close to him she bent and
very slightly touched his shoulder.

He moved then, and she almost gasped with relief. He turned his head
sharply without raising himself, and she saw the grim lines of his
lean cheek and jaw.

"That you, Muriel?" he said, speaking haltingly, spasmodically. "I'm
awfully sorry. Fact is--I'm not well. I shall be--better--directly. Go
back, won't you?"

He broke off, and lay silent, his hands clenched as if he were in
pain.

Muriel stood looking down at him in consternation. It was her chance
to escape--a chance that might never occur again--but she had no
further thought of taking it.

"What is it?" she asked him timidly, "Can I--do anything?"

And then she suddenly saw what was the matter. It burst upon her--a
startling revelation. Possibly the sight of those skeleton fists
helped her to enlightenment. She turned swiftly and sped back to their
camping ground.

In thirty seconds or less, she was back again and stooping over him
with a piece of brown bread in her hand.

"Eat this," she ordered, in a tone of authority.

Nick's face was hidden again. He seemed to be fighting with himself.
His voice came at length, muffled and indistinct.

"No, no! Take it away! I'll have a drain of brandy. And I've got some
tobacco left."

Muriel stooped lower. She caught the words though they were scarcely
audible. She laid her hand upon his arm, stronger in the moment's
emergency than she had been since leaving the fort.

"You are to eat it," she said very decidedly. "You shall eat it. Do
you hear, Nick? I know what is the matter with you. You are starving.
I ought to have seen it before."

Nick uttered a shaky laugh, and dragged himself up on to his elbows.
"I'm not starving," he declared. "Take it away, Muriel. Do you think
I'm going to eat your luncheon, tea, and dinner, and to-morrow's
breakfast as well?"

"You are going to eat this," she answered.

He flashed her a glance of keen curiosity. "Am I?" he said.

"You must," she said, speaking with an odd vehemence which later
surprised herself. "Why should you go out of your way to tell me a
lie? Do you think I can't see?"

Nick raised himself slowly. Something in the situation seemed to have
deprived him of his usual readiness. But he would not take the bread,
would not even look at it.

"I'm better now," he said. "We'll go back."

Muriel stood for a second irresolute, then sharply turned her back.
Nick sat and watched her in silence. Suddenly she wheeled. "There!"
she said. "I've divided it. You will eat this at least. It's absurd of
you to starve yourself. You might as well have stayed in the fort to
do that."

This was unanswerable. Nick took the bread without further protest.
He began to eat, marvelling at his own docility; and suddenly he knew
that he was ravenous.

There was very little left when at length he looked up.

"Show me what you have saved for yourself," he said.

But Muriel backed away with a short, hysterical laugh.

He started to his feet and took her rudely by the shoulder. "Do
you mean to say--" he began, almost with violence; and then checked
himself, peering at her with fierce, uncertain eyes.

She drew away from him, all her fears returning upon her in a flood;
but at her movement he set her free and turned his back.

"Heaven knows what you did it for," he said, seeming to control his
voice with some difficulty. "It wasn't for your own sake, and I won't
presume to think it was for mine. But when the time comes for handing
round rewards, may it be remembered that your offering was something
more substantial than a cup of cold water."

He broke off with a queer sound in the throat, and began to move away.

But Muriel followed him, an unaccountable sense of responsibility
overcoming her reluctance.

"Nick!" she said.

He stood still without turning. She had a feeling that he was putting
strong restraint upon himself. With an effort she forced herself to
continue.

"You want sleep, I know. Will you--will you lie down while I watch?"

He shook his head without looking at her.

"But I wish it," she persisted. "I can wake you if--anything happens."

"You wouldn't dare," said Nick.

"I suppose that means you are afraid to trust me," she said.

He turned at that. "It means nothing of the sort. But you've had one
scare, and you may have another. I think myself that that fellow was
a scout on the look-out for Bassett's advance guard. But Heaven only
knows what brought him to this place, and there may be others. That's
why I didn't dare to shoot."

He paused, his light eyebrows raised, surveying her questioningly; for
Muriel had suddenly covered her face with both hands. But in another
moment she looked up again, and spoke with an effort.

"Your being awake couldn't lessen the danger. Won't you--please--be
reasonable about it? I am doing my best."

There was a deep note of appeal in her voice, and abruptly Nick gave
in.

He moved back to their resting-place without another word, and flung
himself face downwards beside the nest of fern that he had made for
her, lying stretched at full length like a log.

She had not expected so sudden and complete a surrender. It took her
unawares, and she stood looking down at him, uncertain how to proceed.

But after a few seconds he turned his head towards her and spoke.

"You'll stay by me, Muriel?"

"Of course," she answered, that unwonted sense of responsibility still
strongly urging her.

He murmured something unintelligible, and stirred uneasily. She knew
in a flash what he wanted, but a sick sense of dread held her back.
She felt during the silence that followed as though he were pleading
with her, urging her, even entreating her. Yet still she resisted,
standing near him indeed, but with a desperate reluctance at her
heart, a shrinking unutterable from the bare thought of any closer
proximity to him that was as the instinctive recoil of purity from a
thing unclean.

The horror of his deed had returned upon her over-whelmingly with his
brief reference to it. His lack of emotion seemed to her as hideous
callousness, more horrible than the deed itself. His physical
exhaustion had called her out of herself, but the reaction was doubly
terrible.

Nick said no more. He lay quite motionless, hardly seeming to breathe,
and she realised that there was no repose in his attitude. He was not
even trying to rest.

She wrung her hands together. It could not go on, this tension. Either
she must yield to his unspoken desire, or he would sit up and cry
off the bargain. And she knew that sleep was a necessity to him.
Common-sense told her that he was totally unfit for further hardship
without it.

She closed her eyes a moment, summoning all her strength for the
greatest sacrifice she had ever made. And then in silence she sat down
beside him, within reach of his hand.

He uttered a great sigh and suffered his whole body to relax. And she
knew by the action, though he did not speak a word, that she had set
his mind at rest.

Scarcely a minute later, his quiet breathing told her that he slept,
but she sat on by his side without moving during the long empty hours
of her vigil. He had trusted her without a question, and, as her
father's daughter, she would at whatever cost prove herself worthy of
his trust.



CHAPTER VII

THE COMING OF AN ARMY


Through a great part of the night that followed they tramped steadily
southward. The stars were Nick's guide, though as time passed he began
to make his way with the confidence of one well-acquainted with his
surroundings. The instinct of locality was a sixth sense with him.
Hand in hand, over rocky ground, through deep ravines, by steep and
difficult tracks, they made their desperate way. Sometimes in the
distance dim figures moved mysteriously, revealed by starlight,
but none questioned or molested them. They passed from rock to rock
through the heart of the enemy's country, unrecognised, unobserved.
There were times when Nick grasped his revolver under his disguise,
ready, ready at a moment's notice, to keep his word to the girl's
father, should detection be their portion; but each time as the danger
passed them by he tightened his hold upon her, drawing her forward
with greater assurance.

They scarcely spoke throughout the long, long march. Muriel had moved
at first with a certain elasticity, thankful to escape at last from
the horrors of their resting-place. But very soon a great weariness
came upon her. She was physically unfit for any prolonged exertion.
The long strain of the siege had weakened her more than she knew.

Nevertheless, she kept on bravely, uttering no complaint, urged to
utmost effort by the instinctive desire to escape. It was this one
idea that occupied all her thoughts during that night. She shrank with
a vivid horror from looking back. And she could not see into the dim
blank future. It was mercifully screened from her sight.

At her third heavy stumble, Nick stopped and made her swallow some
raw brandy from his flask. This buoyed her up for a while, but it was
evident to them both that her strength was fast failing. And presently
he stopped again, and without a word lifted her in his arms. She
gasped a protest to which he made no response. His arms compassed
her like steel, making her feel helpless as an infant. He was limping
himself, she noticed; yet he bore her strongly, without faltering,
sure-footed as a mountain goat over the broken ground, till he found
at length what he deemed a safe halting-place in a clump of stunted
trees.

The sunrise revealed a native village standing among rice and cotton
fields in the valley below them.

"I shall have to go foraging," Nick said.

But Muriel's nerves that had been tottering on the verge of
collapse for some time here broke down completely. She clung to him
hysterically and entreated him not to leave her.

"I can't bear it! I can't bear it!" she kept reiterating. "If you go,
I must go too. I can't--I can't stay here alone."

He gave way instantly, seeing that she was in a state of mind that
bordered upon distraction, and that he could not safely leave her. He
sat down beside her, therefore, making her as comfortable as he could;
and she presently slept with her head upon his shoulder. It was but
a broken slumber, however, and she awoke from it crying wildly that
a man was being murdered--murdered--murdered--and imploring him with
agonised tears to intervene.

He quieted her with a steady insistence that gained its end, though
she crouched against him sobbing for some time after. As the sun rose
higher her fever increased, but she remained conscious and suffering
intensely, all through the heat of the day. Then, as the evening drew
on, she slipped into a heavy stupor.

It was the opportunity Nick had awaited for hours, and he seized it.
Laying her back in the deep shadow of a boulder, he went swiftly down
into the valley. The last light was passing as he strode through the
village, a gaunt, silent figure in a hillman's dress, a native dagger
in his girdle. Save that he had pulled the _chuddah_ well over his
face, he attempted no concealment.

He glided by a ring of old men seated about a fire, moving like a
shadow through the glare. They turned to view him, but he had already
passed with the tread of a wolf, and the mud wall of one of the
cottages hid him from sight.

Into this hut he dived as though some instinct guided him. He paid no
heed to a woman on a string-bedstead with a baby at her breast, who
chattered shrilly at his entrance. Preparations for a meal were
in progress, and he scarcely paused before he lighted upon what he
sought. A small earthen pitcher stood on the mud floor. He swooped
upon it, caught it up, splashing milk in all directions, clapped his
hand yellow and claw-like upon the mouth, and was gone.

There arose a certain hue and cry behind him, but he was swiftly
beyond detection, a fleeing shadow up the hillside. And the baffled
villagers, returning, found comfort in the reflection that he was
doubtless a holy man and that his brief visit would surely entail a
blessing.

By the time they arrived at this conclusion, Nick was kneeling by the
girl's side, supporting her while she drank. The nourishment revived
her. She came to herself, and thanked him.

"You will have some too," said she anxiously.

And Nick drank also with a laugh and a joke to cloak his eagerness.
That draught of milk was more to him at that moment than the choicest
wine of the gods.

He sat down beside her again when he had thus refreshed himself. He
thought that she was drowsy, and was surprised when presently she laid
a trembling hand upon his arm.

He bent over her quickly. "What is it? Anything I can do?"

She did not shrink from him any longer. He could but dimly see her
face in the strong shadow cast by the moonlight behind the trees.

"I want just to tell you, Nick," she said faintly, "that you will have
to go on without me when the moon sets. You needn't mind about leaving
me any more. I shall be dead before the morning comes. I'm not afraid.
I think I'm rather glad. I am so very, very tired."

Her weak voice failed.

Nick was stooping low over her. He did not speak at once. He only took
the nerveless hand that lay upon his arm and carried it to his lips,
breathing for many seconds upon the cold fingers.

When at length he spoke, his tone was infinitely gentle, but it
possessed, notwithstanding, a certain quality of arresting force.

"My dear," he said, "you belong to me now, you know. You have been
given into my charge, and I am not going to part with you."

She did not resist him or attempt to withdraw her hand, but her
silence was scarcely the silence of acquiescence. When she spoke again
after a long pause, there was a piteous break in her voice.

"Why don't you let me die? I want to die. Why do you hold me back?"

"Why?" said Nick swiftly. "Do you really want me to tell you why?"

But there he checked himself with a sharp, indrawn breath. The next
instant he laid her hand gently down.

"You will know some day, Muriel," he said. "But for the present you
will have to take my reason on trust. I assure you it is a very good
one."

The restraint of his words was marked by a curious vehemence, but this
she was too ill at the time to heed. She turned her face away almost
fretfully.

"Why should I live?" she moaned. "There is no one wants me now."

"That will never be true while I live," Nick answered steadily, and
his tone was the tone of a man who registers a vow.

But again she did not heed him. She had suffered too acutely and
too recently to be comforted by promises. Moreover, she did not want
consolation. She wanted only to shut her eyes and die. In her weakness
she had not fancied that he could deny her this.

And so when presently he roused her by lifting her to resume the
journey, she shed piteous tears upon his shoulder, imploring him to
leave her where she was. He would not listen to her. He knew that it
was highly dangerous to rest so close to habitation, and he would not
risk another day in such precarious shelter.

So for hours he carried her with a strength almost superhuman, forcing
his physical powers into subjection to his will. Though limping badly,
he covered several miles of wild and broken country, deserted for the
most part, almost incredibly lonely, till towards sunrise he found a
resting-place in a hollow high up the side of a mountain, overlooking
a winding, desolate pass.

Muriel was either sleeping or sunk in the stupor of exhaustion. There
was some brandy left in his flask, and he made her take a little. But
it scarcely roused her, and she was too weak to notice that he did not
touch any himself.

All through the scorching day that followed, she dozed and woke in
feverish unrest, sometimes rambling incoherently till he brought her
gravely back, sometimes crying weakly, sometimes making feeble efforts
to pray.

All through the long, burning hours he never stirred away from her. He
sat close to her, often holding her in his arms, for she seemed less
restless so; and perpetually he gazed out with terrible, bloodshot
eyes over the savage mountains, through the long, irregular line of
pass, watching eagle-like, tireless and intent, for the deliverance
which, if it came at all, must come that way. His face was yellow and
sunken, lined in a thousand wrinkles like the face of a monkey; but
his eyes remained marvellously bright. They looked as if they had not
slept for years, as if they would never sleep again. He was at the end
of his resources and he knew it, but he would watch to the very end.
He would die watching.

As the sun sank in a splendour that transfigured the eternally white
mountain-crest to a mighty shimmer of rose and gold, he turned at last
and looked down at the white face pillowed upon his arm. The eyes were
closed. The ineffable peace of Death seemed to dwell upon the quiet
features. She had lain so for a long time, and he had fancied her
sleeping.

He caught his breath, feeling for his flask, and for the first time
his hands shook uncontrollably. But as the raw spirit touched her
lips, he saw her eyelids quiver, and a great gasp of relief went
through him. As she opened her eyes he stayed his hand. It seemed
cruel to bring her back. But the suffering and the half instinctive
look of horror passed from her eyes like a shadow, as they rested upon
him. There was even the very faint flicker of a smile about them.

She turned her face slightly towards him with the gesture of a child
nestling against his breast. Yet though she lay thus in his arms, he
felt keenly, bitterly, that she was very far away from him.

He hung over her, still holding himself in with desperate strength,
not daring to speak lest he should disturb the holy peace that seemed
to be drawing all about her.

The sunset glory deepened. For a few seconds the crags above them
glittered golden as the peaks of Paradise. And in the wonderful
silence Muriel spoke.

"Do you see them?" she said.

He saw that her eyes were turned upon the shining mountains. There was
a strange light on her face.

"See what, darling?" he asked her softly.

Her eyes came back to him for a moment. They had a thoughtful,
wondering look.

"How strange!" she said slowly. "I thought it was--an eagle."

The detachment of her tone cut him to the heart. And suddenly the pain
of it was more than he could bear.

"It is I--Nick," he told her, with urgent emphasis. "Surely you know
me!"

But her eyes had passed beyond him again. "Nick?" she questioned to
herself. "Nick? But this--this was an eagle."

She was drawing away from him, and he could not hold her, could not
even hope to follow her whither she went. A great sob broke from him,
and in a moment, like the rush of an overwhelming flood from behind
gates long closed, the anguish of the man burst its bonds.

"Muriel!" he cried passionately. "Muriel! Stay with me, look at
me, love me! There is nothing in the mountains to draw you. It is
here--here beside you, touching you, holding you. O God," he prayed
brokenly, "she doesn't understand me. Let her understand,--open her
eyes,--make her see!"

His agony reached her, touched her, for a moment held her. She turned
her eyes back to his tortured face.

"But, Nick," she said softly, "I can see."

He bent lower. "Yes?" he said, in a choked voice. "Yes?"

She regarded him with a faint wonder. Her eyes were growing heavy, as
the eyes of a tired child. She raised one hand and pointed vaguely.

"Over there," she said wearily. "Can't you see them? Then perhaps it
was a dream, or even--perhaps--a vision. Don't you remember how
it went? 'And behold--the mountain--was full--of horses--and
chariots--of--fire!' God sent them, you know."

The tired voice ceased. Her head sank lower upon Nick's breast. She
gave a little quivering sigh, and seemed to sleep.

And Nick turned his tortured eyes upon the pass below him, and stared
downwards spellbound.

Was he dreaming also? Or was it perchance a vision--the trick of his
fevered fancy? There, at his feet, not fifty yards from where he sat,
he beheld men, horses, guns, winding along in a narrow, unbroken line
as far as he could see.

A great surging filled his ears, and through it he heard himself shout
once, twice, and yet a third time to the phantom army below.

The surging swelled in his brain to a terrific tumult--a confusion
indescribable. And then something seemed to crack inside his head.
The dark peaks swayed giddily against the darkening sky, and toppled
inwards without sound.

The last thing he knew was the call of a bugle, tense and shrill as
the buzz of a mosquito close to his ear. And he laughed aloud to think
how so small a thing had managed to deceive him.



PART II



CHAPTER VIII

COMRADES


The jingling notes of a piano playing an air from a comic opera
floated cheerily forth into the magic silence of the Simla pines, and
abruptly, almost spasmodically, a cracked voice began to sing. It was
a sentimental ditty treated jocosely, and its frivolity rippled out
into the mid-day silence with something of the effect of a monkey's
chatter. The _khitmutgar_ on the verandah would have looked
scandalised or at best contemptuous had it not been his rôle to
express nothing but the dignified humility of the native servant.
He was waiting for his mistress to come out of the nursery where her
voice could be heard talking imperiously to her baby's _ayah_. He had
already waited some minutes, and he would probably have waited much
longer, for his patience was inexhaustible, had it not been for that
sudden irresponsible and wholly tuneless burst of song. But the
second line was scarcely ended before she came hurriedly forth, nearly
running into his stately person in her haste.

"Oh, dear, Sammy!" she exclaimed with some annoyance. "Why didn't you
tell me Captain Ratcliffe was here?"

She hastened past him along the verandah with the words, not troubling
about his explanation, and entered the room whence the music proceeded
at a run.

"My dear Nick," she cried impulsively, "I had no idea!"

The music ceased in a jangle of wrong notes, and Nick sprang to his
feet, his yellow face wearing a grin of irrepressible gaiety.

"So I gathered, O elect lady," he rejoined, seizing her outstretched
hands and kissing first one and then the other. "And I took the first
method that presented itself of making myself known. So they beguiled
you to Simla, after all?"

"Yes, I had to come for my baby's sake. They thought at first it would
have to be home and no compromise. I'm longing to show him to you,
Nick. Only six months, and such a pet already! But tell me about
yourself. I am sure you have come off the sick list too soon. You
look as if you had come straight from a lengthy stay with the
_bandar-log_."

"_Tu quoque!_" laughed Nick. "And with far less excuse. Only you
manage to look charming notwithstanding, which is beyond me. Do you
know, Mrs. Musgrave, you don't do justice to the compromise? I should
be furious with you if I were Will."

Mrs. Musgrave frowned at him. She was a very pretty woman, possessing
a dainty and not wholly unconscious charm. "Tell me about yourself,
Nick," she commanded. "And don't be ridiculous. You can't possibly
judge impartially on that head, as you haven't the smallest idea as to
how ill I have been. I am having a rest cure now, you must know, and I
don't go anywhere; or I should have come to see you in hospital."

"Good thing you didn't take the trouble," said Nick. "I've been
sleeping for the last three weeks, and I am only just awake."

Mrs. Musgrave looked at him with a very friendly smile. "Poor Nick!"
she said. "And Wara was relieved after all."

He jerked up his shoulders. "After a fashion. Grange was the only
white man left, and he hadn't touched food for three days. If Muriel
Roscoe had stayed, she would have been dead before Bassett got
anywhere near them. There are times when the very fact of suffering
actively keeps people alive. It was that with her."

He spoke briefly, almost harshly, and immediately turned from the
subject. "I suppose you were very anxious about your cousin?"

"Poor Blake Grange? Of course I was. But I was anxious--horribly
anxious--about you all." There was a quiver of deep feeling in Mrs.
Musgrave's voice.

"Thank you," said Nick. He reached out a skeleton finger and laid it
on her arm. "I thought you would be feeling soft-hearted, so I have
come to ask you a favour. Not that I shouldn't have come in any case,
but it seemed a suitable moment to choose."

Mrs. Musgrave laughed a little. "Have you ever found me anything but
kind?" she questioned.

"Never," said Nick. "You're the best pal I ever had, which is the
exact reason for my coming here to-day. Mrs. Musgrave, I want you to
be awfully good to Muriel Roscoe. She needs some one to help her along
just now."

Mrs. Musgrave opened her eyes wide, but she said nothing at once, for
Nick had sprung to his feet and was restlessly pacing the room.

"Come back, Nick," she said at last. "Tell me a little about her. We
have never met, you know. And why do you ask this of me when she is in
Lady Bassett's care?"

"Lady Bassett!" said Nick. He made a hideous grimace, and said no
more.

Mrs. Musgrave laughed. "How eloquent! Do you hate her, too, then? I
thought all men worshipped at that shrine."

Nick came back and sat down. "I nearly killed her once," he said.

"What a pity you didn't quite!" ejaculated Mrs. Musgrave.

Nick grinned. "Sits the wind in that quarter? I wonder why."

"Oh, I hate her by instinct," declared Mrs. Musgrave recklessly,
"though her scented notes to me always begin, 'Dearest Daisy'! She
always disapproved of me openly till baby came. But she has found
another niche for me now. I am not supposed to be so fascinating as I
was. She prefers unattractive women."

"Gracious heaven!" interjected Nick.

"Yes, you may laugh. I do myself." Daisy Musgrave spoke almost
fiercely notwithstanding. "She's years older than I am anyhow, and I
shall score some day if I don't now. Have you ever watched her dance?
There's a sort of snaky, coiling movement runs up her whole body.
Goodness!" breaking off abruptly. "I'm getting venomous myself. I had
better stop before I frighten you away."

"Oh, don't mind me!" laughed Nick. "No one knows better than I
that she is made to twist all ways. She hates me as a cobra hates a
mongoose."

"Really?" Daisy Musgrave was keenly interested. "But why?"

He shook his head. "You had better ask Lady Bassett. It may be
because I had the misfortune to set fire to her once. It is true I
extinguished her afterwards, but I don't think she enjoyed it. It was
a humiliating process. Besides, it spoilt her dress."

"But she is always so gracious to you," protested Daisy.

"Honey-sweet. That's exactly how I know her cobra feelings. And that
brings me round to Muriel Roscoe again, and the favour I have to ask."

Daisy shot him a sudden shrewd glance. "Do you want to marry her?" she
asked him point blank.

Nick's colourless eyebrows went up till they nearly met his colourless
hair. "Dearest Daisy," he said, "you are a genius. I mean to do that
very thing."

Daisy got up and softly closed the window. "Surely she is very young,"
she said. "Is she in love with you?"

She did not turn at the sound of his laugh. She had almost expected
it. For she knew Nick Ratcliffe as very few knew him. The bond of
sympathy between them was very strong.

"Can you imagine any girl falling in love with me?" he asked.

"Of course I can. You are not so unique as that. There isn't a man in
the universe that some woman couldn't be fool enough to love."

"Many thanks!" said Nick. "Then--I may count upon your support, may
I? I know Lady Bassett will put a spoke in my wheel if she can. But I
have Sir Reginald's consent. He is Muriel's guardian, you know. Also,
I had her father's approval in the first place. It has got to be soon,
you see, Daisy. The present state of affairs is unbearable. She will
be miserable with Lady Bassett."

Daisy still stood with her back to him. She was fidgeting with the
blind-cord, her pretty face very serious.

"I am not sure," she said slowly, "that it lies in my power to help
you. Of course I am willing to do my best, because, as you say, we are
pals. But, Nick, she is very young. And if--if she really doesn't love
you, you mustn't ask me to persuade her."

Nick sprang up impulsively. "Oh, but you don't understand," he said
quickly. "She would be happy enough with me. I would see to that. I--I
would be awfully good to her, Daisy."

She turned swiftly at the unwonted quiver in his voice. "My dear
Nick," she said earnestly, "I am sure of it. You could make any woman
who loved you happy. But no one--no one--knows the misery that may
result from a marriage without love on both sides--except those who
have made one."

There was something almost passionate in her utterance. But she turned
if off quickly with a smile and a friendly hand upon his arm.

"Come," she said lightly. "I want to show you my boy. I left him
almost in tears. But he always smiles when he sees his mother."

"Who doesn't?" said Nick gallantly, following her lead.



CHAPTER IX

THE SCHOOL OF SORROW


The aromatic scent of the Simla pines literally encircled and pervaded
the Bassetts' bungalow, penetrating to every corner. Lady Bassett was
wont to pronounce it "distractingly sweet," when her visitors drew
her attention to the fact. Hers was among the daintiest as well as the
best situated bungalows in Simla, and she was pleasantly aware of
a certain envy on the part of her many acquaintances, which added
a decided relish to the flavour of her own appreciation. But
notwithstanding this, she was hardly ever to be found at home except
by appointment. Her social engagements were so numerous that, as she
often pathetically remarked, she scarcely ever enjoyed the luxury of
solitude. As a hostess she was indefatigable, and being an excellent
bridge-player as well as a superb dancer, it was not surprising that
she occupied a fairly prominent position in her own select circle.
In appearance she was a woman of about five-and-thirty--though the
malicious added a full dozen years more to her credit--with fair hair,
a peculiarly soft voice, and a smile that was slightly twisted. She
was always exquisitely dressed, always cool, always gentle, never
hasty in word or deed. If she ever had reason to rebuke or snub, it
was invariably done with the utmost composure, but with deadly effect
upon the offender. Lady Bassett was generally acknowledged to be
unanswerable at such times by all but the very few who did not fear
her.

There were not many who really felt at ease with her, and Muriel
Roscoe was emphatically not one of the number. Her father had
nominated Sir Reginald her guardian, and Sir Reginald, aware of this
fact, had sent her at once to his wife at Simla. The girl had been too
ill at the time to take any interest in her destination or ultimate
disposal. It was true that she had never liked Lady Bassett, that she
had ever felt shy and constrained in her presence, and that, had she
been consulted, she would probably have asked to be sent to England.
But Sir Reginald had been too absorbed in the task before him to spend
much thought on his dead comrade's child at that juncture, and he
had followed the simplest course that presented itself, allowing Nick
Ratcliffe to retain the privilege which General Roscoe himself had
bestowed. Thus Muriel had come at last into Lady Bassett's care, and
she was only just awaking to the fact that it was by no means the
guardianship she would have chosen for herself had she been in a
position to choose. As the elasticity of her youth gradually asserted
itself, and the life began to flow again in her veins, the power to
suffer returned to her, and in the anguish of her awakening faculties
she knew how utterly she was alone. It was in one sense a relief that
Lady Bassett, being caught in the full swing of the Simla season, was
unable to spare much of her society for the suddenly bereaved girl who
had been thrust upon her. But there were times during that period of
dragging convalescence when any presence would have been welcome.

She was no longer acutely ill, but a low fever hung about her, a
species of physical inertia against which she had no strength to
struggle. And often she wondered to herself with a dreary amazement,
why she still lived, why she had survived the horrors of that flight
through the mountains, why she had been thus, as it were, cast up upon
a desert rock when all that had made life good in her eyes had been
ruthlessly swept away. At such times there would come upon her a
loneliness almost unthinkable, a shrinking more terrible than the fear
of death, and the future would loom before her black as night, a blank
and awful desert which she felt she could never dare to travel.

Sometimes in her dreams there would come to her other visions--visions
of the gay world that throbbed so close to her, the world she had
entered with her father so short a time before. She would hear again
the hubbub of laughing voices, the music, the tramp of dancing feet.
And she would start from her sleep to find only a great emptiness, a
listening silence, an unspeakable desolation.

If she ever thought of Nick in those days, it was as a phantom that
belonged to the nightmare that lay behind her. He had no part in her
present, and the future she could not bring herself to contemplate. No
one even mentioned his name to her till one day Lady Bassett entered
her room before starting for a garden-party at Vice-Regal Lodge, a
faint flush on her cheeks, and her blue eyes brighter than usual.

"I have just received a note from Captain Ratcliffe, dear Muriel,"
she said. "I have already mentioned to him that you are too unwell to
think of receiving any one at present, but he announces his intention
of paying you a visit notwithstanding. Perhaps you would like to write
him a note yourself, and corroborate what I have said."

"Captain Ratcliffe!" Muriel echoed blankly, as though the name
conveyed nothing to her; and then with a great start as the blood
rushed to her white cheeks, "Oh, you mean Nick. I--I had almost
forgotten his other name. Does he want to see me? Is he in Simla
still?"

She turned her hot face away with a touch of petulance from the
peculiar look with which Lady Bassett was regarding her. What did she
mean by looking at her so, she wondered irritably?

There followed a pause, and Lady Bassett began to fasten her
many-buttoned gloves.

"Of course, dear," she said gently, at length, "there is not the
smallest necessity for you to see him. Indeed, if my advice were
asked, I should recommend you not to do so; for after such a
terrible experience as yours, one cannot be too circumspect. It is so
perilously easy for rumours to get about. I will readily transmit a
message for you if you desire it, though I think on the whole it would
be more satisfactory if you were to write him a line yourself to say
that you cannot receive him."

"Why?" demanded Muriel, with sudden unexpected energy. She turned back
again, and looked at Lady Bassett with a quick gleam that was almost a
challenge in her eyes. "Why should I not see him? After all, I suppose
I ought to thank him. Besides--besides--why should I not?"

She could not have said what moved her to this unwonted
self-assertion. Had Lady Bassett required her to see Nick she would
probably have refused to do so, and listlessly dismissed the matter
from her mind. But there was that in Lady Bassett's manner which
roused her antagonism almost instinctively. But vaguely understanding,
she yet resented the soft-spoken words. Moreover, a certain
perversity, born of her weakness, urged her. What right had Lady
Bassett to deny her to any one?

"When is he coming?" she asked. "I will see him when he comes."

Lady Bassett yielded the point at once with the faintest possible
shrug. "As you wish, dear child, of course; but I do beg of you to be
prudent. He speaks of coming this afternoon. But would you not like
him to postpone his visit till I can be with you?"

"No, I don't think so," Muriel said, with absolute simplicity.

"Ah, well!" Lady Bassett spoke in the tone of one repudiating all
responsibility. She bent over the girl with a slightly wry smile, and
kissed her forehead. "Good-bye, dearest! I shouldn't encourage him to
stay long, if I were you. And I think you would be wise to call him
Captain Ratcliffe now that you are living a civilised life once more."

Muriel turned her face aside with a species of bored patience that
could scarcely be termed tolerance. She did not understand these
veiled warnings, and she cared too little for Lady Bassett and her
opinions to trouble herself about them. She had never liked her,
though she knew that her father had conscientiously tried to do so for
the sake of his friend, Sir Reginald.

As Lady Bassett went away she rubbed the place on her forehead which
her cold lips had touched. "If she only knew how I hate being kissed!"
she murmured to herself.

And then with an effort she rose and moved wearily across the room to
ring the bell. Since by some unaccountable impulse she had decided to
see Nick, it might be advisable, she reflected, to give her own orders
regarding his visit.

Having done so, she lay down again. But she did not sleep. Sleep was
an elusive spirit in those days. It sometimes seemed to her that she
was too worn out mentally and physically ever to rest naturally again.

Nearly an hour passed away while she lay almost unconsciously
listening. And then suddenly, with a sense of having experienced it
all long before, there came to her the sound of careless footsteps and
of a voice that hummed.

It went through her heart like a sword-thrust as she called to mind
that last night at Fort Wara when she had clung to her father for the
last time, and had heard him bid her good-bye--till they should meet
again.

With a choked sensation she rose, and stood steadying herself by the
back of the sofa. Could she go through this interview? Could she bear
it? Her heart was beating in heavy, sickening throbs. For an instant
she almost thought of escaping and sending word that she was not equal
to seeing any one, as Lady Bassett had already intimated. But even as
the impulse flashed through her brain, she realised that it was
too late. The shadow of the native servant had already darkened the
window, and she knew that Nick was just behind him on the verandah.
With a great, sobbing gasp, she turned herself to meet him.



CHAPTER X

THE EAGLE SWOOPS


He came in as lightly and unceremoniously as though they had parted
but the day before, a smile of greeting upon his humorous, yellow
face, words of careless good-fellowship upon his lips.

He took her hand for an instant, and she felt rather than saw that
he gave her a single, scrutinising glance from under eyelids that
flickered incessantly.

"I see you are better," he said, "so I won't put you to the trouble
of saying so. I suppose dear Lady Bassett has gone to the Vice-Regal
garden-party. But it's all right. I told her I was coming. Did you
have to persuade her very hard to let you see me?"

Muriel stiffened a little at this inquiry. Her agitation was rapidly
subsiding. It left her vaguely chilled, even disappointed. She had
forgotten how cheerily inconsequent Nick could be.

"I didn't persuade her at all," she said coldly. "I simply told her
that I should see you in order--"

"Yes?" queried Nick, looking delighted. "In order--"

To her annoyance she felt herself flushing. With a gesture of
weariness she dismissed the sentence and sat down. She had meant to
make him a brief and gracious speech of gratitude for his past care of
her, but somehow it stuck in her throat. Besides, it was quite obvious
that he did not expect it.

He came and sat down beside her on the sofa. "Let's talk things over,"
he said. "You are out of the doctor's hands, I'm told."

Muriel was leaning back against the cushions. She did not raise her
heavy eyes to answer. "Oh, yes, ever so long ago. I'm quite well, only
rather tired still."

She frowned slightly as she gave this explanation. Though his face
was not turned in her direction, she had a feeling that he was still
closely observant of her.

He nodded to himself twice while he listened and then suddenly he
reached out and laid his hand upon both of hers as they rested in her
lap. "I'm awfully pleased to hear you are quite well," he said, in
a voice that seemed to crack on a note of laughter. "It makes my
business all the easier. I've come to ask you, dear, how soon you can
possibly make it convenient to marry me. To-day? To-morrow? Next week?
I don't of course want to hurry you unduly, but there doesn't seem to
be anything to wait for. And--personally--I abhor waiting. Don't you?"

He turned towards her with the last words. He had spoken very gently,
but there seemed to be an element of humour in all that he said.

Muriel's eyes were wide open by the time he ended. She was staring
at him in blank astonishment. The flush on her face had deepened to
crimson.

"Marry you?" she gasped at length, stammering in her confusion. "I?
Why--why--whatever made you dream of such a thing?"

"I'll tell you," said Nick instantly, and quite undismayed. "I dreamed
that a certain friend of mine was lonely and heart-sick and sad. And
she wanted--horribly--some one to come and take care of her, to cheer
her up, to lift her over the bad places, to give her things which, if
they couldn't compensate for all she had lost, would be anyhow a bit
of a comfort to her. And then I remembered how she belonged to me, how
she had been given to me by her own father to cherish and care for.
And so I plucked up courage to intrude upon her while she was still
wallowing in her Slough of Despair. And I didn't pester her with
preliminaries. We're past that stage, you and I, Muriel. I simply came
to her because it seemed absurd to wait any longer. And I just asked
her humble-like to fix a day when we would get up very early, and
bribe the padre and sweet Lady Bassett to do likewise, and have a
short--very short--service all to ourselves at church, and when it was
over we would just say good-bye to all kind friends and depart. Won't
you give the matter your serious consideration? Believe me, it is
worth it."

He still held her hand closely in his while he poured out his rapid
explanation, and his eyebrows worked up and down so swiftly that
Muriel was fascinated by them. His eyes baffled her completely. They
were like a glancing flame. She listened to his proposal with more
of bewilderment than consternation. It took her breath away without
exactly frightening her. The steady grasp of his hand and the
exceedingly practical tones of his voice kept her from unreasoning
panic; but she was too greatly astounded to respond very promptly.

"Tell me what you think about it," he said gently.

But she was utterly at a loss to describe her feelings. She shook her
head and was silent.

After a little he went on, still quickly, but with less impetuosity.
"It isn't just a sudden fancy of mine--this. Don't think it. There's
nothing capricious about me. Your father knew about it. And because he
knew, he put you in my care. It was his sole reason for trusting you
to me. I had his full approval."

He paused, for her fingers had closed suddenly within his own. She
was looking at him no longer. Her memory had flashed back to that last
terrible night of her father's life. Again she heard him telling her
of the one man to whom he had entrusted her, who would make it his
sole business to save her, who would protect her life with his own,
heard his speculative question as to whether she knew whom he meant,
recalled her own quick reply, and his answer--and his answer.

With a sudden sense of suffocation, she freed her hand and rose. Once
more her old aversion to this man swept over her in a nauseating wave.
Once more there rose before her eyes the dread vision which for many,
many nights had haunted her persistently, depriving her of all
rest, all peace of mind--the vision of a man in his death-struggle,
fighting, agonising, under those merciless fingers.

It was more than she could bear. She covered her eyes, striving to
shut out the sight that tortured her weary brain. "Oh, I don't know if
I can!" she almost wailed. "I don't know if I can!"

Nick did not move. And yet it seemed to her in those moments of
reawakened horror as if by some magnetic force he still held her fast.
She strove against it with all her frenzied strength, but it eluded
her, baffled her--conquered her.

When he spoke at length, she turned and listened, lacking the
motive-power to resist.

"There is nothing to frighten you anyhow," he said, and the tone in
which he said it was infinitely comforting, infinitely reassuring. "I
only want to take care of you; for you're a lonely little soul, not
old enough, or wise enough to look after yourself. And I'll be awfully
good to you, Muriel, if you'll have me."

Something in those last words--a hint of pleading, of coaxing
even--found its way to her heart, as it were, against her will.
Moreover, what he said was true. She was lonely: miserably,
unspeakably lonely. All her world was in ashes around her, and there
were times when its desolation positively appalled her.

But still she stood irresolute. Could she, dared she, take this step?
What if that phantom of horror pursued her relentlessly to the day of
her death? Would she not come in time to shrink with positive loathing
from this man whose offer of help she now felt so strangely tempted in
her utter friendlessness to accept?

It was impossible to answer these tormenting questions satisfactorily.
But there was nothing--so she told herself--to be gained by waiting.
She had no one to advise her, no one really to mind what happened to
her, with the single exception of this friend of hers, who only
wanted to take care of her. And after all, since misery was to be her
portion, what did it matter? Why should she refuse to listen to him?
Had he not shown her already that he could be kind?

A sudden warmth of gratitude towards him stirred in her heart--a tiny
flame springing up among the ashes of her youth. Her horror sank away
like an evil dream.

She turned round with a certain deliberation that had grown upon her
of late, and went back to Nick still seated on the sofa.

"I don't care much what I do now," she said wearily. "I will marry
you, if you wish it, if--if you are quite sure you will never wish you
hadn't."

"Well done!" said Nick, with instant approval. "That's settled then,
for I was quite sure of that ages ago."

He smiled at her quizzically, his face a mask of banter. Of what his
actual feelings were at that moment she had not the faintest idea.

With a piteous little smile in answer she laid her hand upon his knee.
"You will have to be very patient with me," she said tremulously. "For
remember--I have come to the end of everything, and you are the only
friend I have left."

He took her hand into his own again, with a grasp that was warm and
comforting. "My dear," he said very kindly, "I shall always remember
that you once told me so."



CHAPTER XI

THE FIRST FLIGHT


Muriel lay awake for hours that night, going over and over that
interview with Nick till her tired brain reeled. She was not exactly
frightened by this new element that had come into her life. The very
fact of having something definite to look forward to was a relief
after dwelling for so long in the sunless void of non-expectancy. But
she was by no means sure that she welcomed so violent a disturbance at
the actual heart of her darkened existence. She could not, moreover,
wholly forget her fear of the man who had saved her by main force from
the fate she would fain have shared with her father. His patience--his
almost womanly gentleness--notwithstanding, she could not forget
the demon of violence and bloodshed that she knew to be hidden away
somewhere behind that smiling, yellow mask.

She marvelled at herself for her tame surrender, but she felt it to
be irrevocable nevertheless. So broken was she by adversity, that she
lacked the energy to resist him or even to desire to do so. She tried
to comfort herself with the thought that she was carrying out her
father's wishes for her; but this did not take her very far. She could
not help the doubt arising as to whether he had ever really gauged
Nick's exceedingly elusive character.

Tired out, at last she slept, and dreamed that an eagle had caught her
and was bearing her swiftly, swiftly, through wide spaces to his eyrie
in the mountains.

It was a long, breathless flight fraught with excitement and a
nameless exultation that pierced her like pain. She awoke from it
with a cry that was more of disappointment than relief, and started up
gasping to hear horses' hoofs dancing in the compound below her window
to the sound of a cracked, hilarious voice.

She almost laughed as she realised what it was, and in a moment all
her misgivings of the night vanished like wraiths of the darkness.
He had extracted a promise from her to ride with him at dawn, and he
meant to keep her to it. She got up and pulled aside the blind.

A wild view-halloa greeted her, and she dropped it again sharply;
but not before she had seen Nick prancing about the drive on a giddy,
long-limbed Waler, and making frantic signs to her to join him.
Another horse with a side-saddle was waiting, held by a grinning
little _saice_. The sun was already rising rapidly behind the
mountains. She began to race through her toilet at a speed that showed
her to have caught some of the fever of her cavalier's impatience.

She wondered what Lady Bassett thought of the disturbance (Lady
Bassett never rose early), and nearly laughed aloud.

Hastening out at length she found Nick dismounted and waiting for her
by the verandah-steps. He sprang up to meet her with an eager whoop of
greeting.

"Hope you enjoyed my serenade. Come along! There's no time to waste.
Jakko turned red some minutes ago. Were you asleep?"

Muriel admitted the fact.

"And dreaming of me," he rattled on, "as was sweet and proper?"

She did not answer, and he laughed like a boy, rudely but not
insolently.

"Didn't I know it? Jump up! We're going to have a glorious gallop.
I've brought some slabs of chocolate to keep you from starvation.
Ready? Heave ho! My dear girl, you're disgracefully light still. Why
don't you eat more?"

"You're as thin as a herring yourself," Muriel retorted, with a most
unwonted flash of spirit.

He lifted his grinning face to her as she settled herself in the
saddle, and then uncovering swiftly he bent and kissed the black cloth
of her habit, humbly, reverently, as became a slave.

It sent a queer thrill through her, that kiss of his. She felt that
it was in some fashion a revelation; but she was still too blinded by
groping in dark places to understand its message. As they trotted side
by side out of the compound, she knew her face was burning, and turned
it aside that he might not see.

It was a wonderful morning. There was intoxication in the scent of the
pines. The whole atmosphere seemed bewitched. They gave their horses
the rein and raced with the wind through an enchanted world. It was
the wildest, most alluring ride that she had ever known, and when Nick
called a halt at last she protested with a flushed face and sparkling
eyes.

Nevertheless, it was good to sit and watch the rapid transformation
that the sun-god was weaving all about them. She saw the spurs of
Jakko fade from pink to purest amber, and then in the passage of a
few seconds gleam silver in the flood of glory that topped the highest
crests. And her heart fluttered oddly at the sight, while again she
thought of the eagle of her dream, cleaving the wide spaces, and
bearing her also.

She glanced round for Nick, but he had wheeled his horse and was
staring out towards the plains. She wondered what was passing in his
mind, for he sat like a statue, his face turned from her. And suddenly
the dread loneliness of the mountains gripped her as with a chilly
hand. It seemed as if they two were alone together in all the world.

She walked over to him. "I'm cold, Nick," she said, breaking in upon
his silence almost apologetically. "Shall we go?"

He stretched out a hand to her without turning his head, without
speaking. But she would not put her own within it, for she was afraid.

After a long pause he gave a sudden sharp sigh, and pulled his horse
round. "Eh? Cold? We'll fly down to Annandale. There's plenty of
time before us. By the way, I want to introduce you to a friend of
mine--Daisy Musgrave. Ever heard of her? She and Blake Grange are
first cousins. You'll like Daisy. We are great chums, she and I."

Muriel had heard of her from Captain Grange. She had also once upon a
time met Daisy's husband.

"I liked him, rather," she said. "But I thought he must be very
young."

"So he is," said Nick. "A mere infant. He's in the Civil Service, and
works like an ox. Mrs. Musgrave is very delicate. She and the baby
were packed off up here in a hurry. I believe she has a weak heart.
She may have to go home to recruit even now. She doesn't go out at all
herself, but she hopes I will take you to see her. Will you come?"

Muriel hesitated for a moment. "Nick," she said, "are you
telling--everybody--of our--engagement?"

"Of course," said Nick, instantly. "Why not?"

She could not tell him, only she was vaguely dismayed.

"I told Lady Bassett yesterday evening," he went on. "Didn't she say
anything to you?"

"Oh, yes. She kissed me and said she was very pleased." Muriel's
cheeks burned at the recollection.

"How nice of her!" commented Nick. He shot her a sidelong glance.
"Dear Lady Bassett always says and does the right thing at the right
moment. It's her speciality. That's why we are all so fond of her."

Muriel made no response, though keenly aware of the subtlety of this
speech. So Nick disliked her hostess also. She wondered why.

"You see," he proceeded presently, "it is as well to be quite open
about it as we are going to be married so soon. Of course every one
realises that it is to be a strictly private affair. You needn't be
afraid of any demonstration."

It was not that that had induced her feeling of dismay, but she could
not tell him so.

"And Mrs. Musgrave knows?" she questioned.

"I told her first," said Nick. "But you mustn't mind her. She won't
commit the fashionable blunder of congratulating you."

Muriel laughed nervously. She longed to say something careless and
change the subject, but she was feeling stiff and unnatural, and words
failed her.

Nick brought his horse up close to hers.

"There's one thing I want to say to you, Muriel, before we go down,"
he said.

"Oh, what?" She turned a scared face towards him.

"Nothing to alarm you," said Nick, frowning at her quizzically. "I
wanted to say it some minutes ago only I was shy. Look here, dear." He
held out to her a twist of tissue-paper on the palm of his hand. "It's
a ring I want you to wear for me. There's a message inside it. Read it
when you are alone."

Muriel looked at the tiny packet without taking it. She had turned
very white. "Oh, Nick," she faltered at last, "are you--are you--quite
sure?"

"Quite sure of what?" questioned Nick. "Your mind? Or my own?"

"Don't!" she begged tremulously. "I can't laugh over this."

"Laugh!" said Nick sharply. And then swiftly his whole manner changed.
"Yes, it's all right, dear," he said, smiling at her. "Take it, won't
you? I am--quite--sure."

She took it obediently, but her reluctance was still very manifest.
Nick, however, did not appear to notice this.

"Don't look at it now," he said. "Wait till I'm not there. Put it away
somewhere for the present, and let's have another gallop."

She glanced at him as she slipped his gift into her pocket. "Won't you
let me thank you, Nick?" she asked shyly.

"Wait till you've seen it," he returned. "You may not think it worth
it. Ready? One! Two! Three!"

In the scamper that followed, the blood surged back to her face, and
her spirits rose again; but in her secret heart there yet remained a
nameless dread that she was as powerless to define as to expel.



CHAPTER XII

THE MESSAGE


Lady Bassett was still invisible when Muriel returned to the bungalow
though breakfast was waiting for them on the verandah. She passed
quickly through to her room and commenced hasty preparations for a
bath. It had been a good ride, and she realised that, though tired,
she was also very hungry.

She slipped Nick's gift out of the pocket of her riding-habit, but she
would not stop to open it then. That should come presently, when
she had the whole garden to herself, and all the leisure of the long
summer morning before her. She felt that in a sense she owed him that.

But a note that caught her eye lying on the table she paused to open
and hastily peruse. The writing was unfamiliar to her--a dashing,
impetuous scrawl that excited her curiosity.

"Dear Miss Roscoe," it ran,--"Don't think me an unmitigated bore if
you can help it. I am wondering if you would have the real kindness
to waive ceremony and pay me a visit this afternoon. I shall be quite
alone, unless my baby can be considered in the light of a social
inducement. I know that Nick contemplates bringing you to see me, and
so he shall, if you prefer it. But personally I consider that he would
be decidedly _de trop_. I feel that we shall soon know each other so
well that a formal introduction seems superfluous. Let me know your
opinion by word of mouth, or if not, I shall understand. Nick, being
of the inferior species, could hardly be expected to do so, though I
admit that he is more generously equipped in the matter of intellect
than most.--Your friend to be,

"Daisy Musgrave."

Muriel laid down the letter with a little smile. Its spontaneous
friendliness was like a warm hand clasping hers. Yes, she would go,
she decided, as she splashed refreshingly in her bath, and that not
for Nick's sake. She knew instinctively that she was going to discover
a close sympathy with this woman who, though an utter stranger to her,
yet knew how to draw her as a sister. And Muriel's longing for such
human fellowship had already driven her to extremes.

She had the note in her hand when she finally joined Lady Bassett upon
the verandah.

Lady Bassett, though ever-gracious, was seldom at her best in the
morning. She greeted the girl with a faint, wry smile, and proffered
her nearest cheek to be kissed.

"Quite an early bird, dear child!" was her comment. "I should imagine
Captain Ratcliffe's visitation awakened the whole neighbourhood. I
think you must not go out again with him before sunrise. I should not
have advised it this morning if you had consulted me."

Muriel flushed at the softly-conveyed reproof. "It is not the first
time," she said, in her deep voice that was always deepest when
indignation moved her. "We have seen the sun rise together and the
moon rise too, before to-day."

Lady Bassett sighed gently. "I am sure, dearest," she said, "that you
do not mean to be uncouth or unmannerly, far less--that most odious
of all propensities in a young girl--forward. But though my authority
over you were to be regarded as so slight as to be quite negligible, I
should still feel it my duty to remonstrate when I saw you committing
a breach of the conventions which might be grievously misconstrued. I
trust, dear Muriel, that you will bear my protest in mind and regulate
your actions by it in the future. Will you take coffee?"

Muriel had seated herself at the other side of the table, and was
regarding her with wide, dark eyes that were neither angry nor
ashamed, only quite involuntarily disdainful.

After a distinct pause she decided to let the matter drop, reflecting
that Lady Bassett's subtleties were never worth pursuing.

"I am going to see a friend of Nick's this afternoon," she said
presently. "I expect you know her--Mrs. Musgrave."

Lady Bassett's forehead puckered a little. It could hardly be called a
frown. "Have you ever met Mrs. Musgrave?" she asked.

"No, never. But she is Nick's friend, and of course I know her cousin,
Captain Grange, quite well."

Lady Bassett made no comment upon this. "Of course, dear," she said,
"you are old enough to please yourself, but it is not usual, you
know, to plunge into social pleasures after so recent a bereavement as
yours."

The sudden silence that followed this gentle reminder had in it
something that was passionate. Muriel's face turned vividly crimson,
and then gradually whitened to a startling pallor.

"It is the last thing I should wish to do," she said, in a stifled
voice.

Lady Bassett continued, softly suggestive. "I say nothing of your
marriage, dear child. For that, I am aware, is practically a matter
of necessity. But I do think that under the circumstances you can
scarcely be too careful in what you do. Society is not charitably
inclined towards those who even involuntarily transgress its rules.
And you most emphatically are not in a position to do so wilfully."

She paused, for Muriel had risen unexpectedly to her feet. Her eyes
were blazing in her white face.

"Why should you call my marriage a matter of necessity?" she demanded.
"Sir Reginald told me that my father had provided for me."

"Of course, of course, dear." Lady Bassett uttered a faint, artificial
laugh. "It is not a question of means at all. But, there, since you
are so childishly unsophisticated, I need not open your eyes. It is
enough for you to know that there is a sufficiently urgent reason for
your marriage, and the sooner it can take place, the better. But in
the meantime, let me counsel you to be as prudent as possible in all
that you do. I assure you, dear, it is very necessary."

Muriel received this little homily in silence. She did not in the
least understand to what these veiled allusions referred, and
she decided impatiently that they were unworthy of her serious
consideration. It was ridiculous to let herself be angry with Lady
Bassett. As if it mattered in the least what she said or thought! She
determined to pay her projected visit notwithstanding, and quietly
said so, as she turned at length from the table.

Lady Bassett raised no further remonstrance beyond a faint, eloquent
lift of the shoulders. And Muriel went away into the shady compound,
her step firmer and her dark head decidedly higher than usual. She
felt for Nick's gift as she went, with a little secret sensation of
pleasure. After all, why had she been afraid? All girls wore rings
when they became engaged to be married.

Reaching her favourite corner, she drew it forth from its
hiding-place, a quiver of excitement running through her.

She was sitting in the hammock under the pines as she unwrapped it.
The hot sunshine, glinting through the dark boughs overhead, flashed
upon precious stones and dazzled her as the wisp of tissue-paper fell
from her hand.

And in a moment she was looking at an old marquise ring of rubies in
a setting of finely-wrought gold. Her heart gave a throb of sheer
delight at the beauty of the thing. She slipped it impetuously on to
her finger, and held it up to the sunlight.

The rubies shone with a deep lustre--red, red as heart's blood, ardent
as flame. She gazed and gazed with sparkling, fascinated eyes.

Suddenly his words flashed into her mind. A message inside it! She had
been so caught by the splendour of the stones that she had not looked
inside. She drew the ring from her finger, and examined it closely,
with burning cheeks.

Yes, there was the message--three words engraved in minute,
old-fashioned characters inside the gold band. They were so tiny that
it took her a long time to puzzle them out. With difficulty at length
she deciphered the quaint letters, but even then it was some time
before she grasped the meaning that they spelt.

It flashed upon her finally, as though a voice had spoken into her
ear. The words were: OMNIA VINCIT AMOR. And the ring in her hand
was no longer the outward visible sign of her compact. It was a
love-token, given to her by a man who had spoken no word of love.



CHAPTER XIII

THE VOICE OF A FRIEND


"So you didn't bring Nick after all. That was nice of you," said Daisy
Musgrave, with a little, whimsical smile. "I wanted to have you all to
myself. The nicest of men can be horribly in the way sometimes."

She smiled upon her visitor whom she had placed in the easiest chair
and in the pleasantest corner of her drawing-room. Her pretty face was
aglow with friendliness. No words of welcome were needed.

Muriel was already feeling happier than she had felt for many, many
weary weeks. It had been an effort to come, but she was glad that she
had made it.

"It was kind of you to ask me," she said, "though of course I know
that you did it for Nick's sake."

"You are quite wrong," Daisy answered instantly. "He told me about
you, I admit. But after that, I wanted you for your own. And now I
have got you, Muriel, I am not going to stand on ceremony the least
bit in the world. And you mustn't either; but I can see you won't.
Your eyes are telling me things already. I don't get on with stiff
people somehow. Lady Bassett calls me effusive. And I think myself
there must have been something meteoric about my birth star. Doubtless
that is why I agree so well with Nick. He's meteoric, too." She
slipped cosily down upon a stool by Muriel's side. "He's a nice boy,
isn't he?" she said sympathetically. "And is that his ring? Ah, let
me look at it! I think I have seen it before. No, don't take it off!
That's unlucky."

But Muriel had already drawn it from her finger. "It's beautiful," she
said warmly. "Do you know anything about it? It looks as if it had a
history."

"It has," said Daisy. "I remember now. He showed it to me once when I
was staying at his brother's house in England. I know the Ratcliffes
well. My husband used to live with them as a boy. It came from the old
maiden aunt who left him all his money. She gave it to him before she
died, I believe, and told him to keep it for the woman he was sure to
love some day. Nick was an immense favourite of hers."

"But the ring?" urged Muriel.

Daisy was frowning over the inscription within it, but she was fully
aware of the soft colour that had flooded the girl's face at her
words.

"OMNIA VINCIT AMOR," she read slowly. "That is it, isn't it? Ah, yes,
and the history of it. It's rather sad. Do you mind?"

"I am used to sad things," Muriel reminded her, with her face turned
away toward the mountains.

Daisy pressed her hand gently. "It is a French ring," she said. "It
belonged to an aristocrat who was murdered in the Reign of Terror.
He sent it by his servant to the girl he loved from the steps of the
guillotine. I don't know their names. Nick didn't tell me that. But
she was English."

Muriel had turned quickly back. Her interest was aroused. "Yes," she
said eagerly, as Daisy paused. "And she?"

"She!" Daisy's voice had a sudden hard ring in it. "She remained
faithful to him for just six months. And then she married an
Englishman. It was said that she did it against her will. Still she
did it. Luckily for her, perhaps, she died within the year--when her
child was born."

Daisy rose abruptly and moved across the room. "That was more than a
hundred years ago," she said, "and women are as great fools still. If
they can't marry the man they love--they'll marry--anything."

Muriel was silent. She felt as if she had caught sight of something
that she had not been intended to see.

But in a moment Daisy came back, and, kneeling beside her, slipped the
ring on to her finger again. "Yet love conquers all the same, dear,"
she said, passing her arm about the girl. "And yours is going to be
a happy love story. The ring came finally into the possession of the
lady's grandson, and it was he who gave it to Nick's aunt--the maiden
aunt. It was her engagement ring. She never wore any other, and she
only gave it to Nick when her fingers were too rheumatic to wear it
any longer. Her lover, poor boy, was killed in the Crimea. There!
Forgive me if I have made you sad. Death is not really sad, you
know, where there is love. People talk of it as if it conquered love,
whereas it is in fact all the other way round. Love conquers death."

Muriel hid her face suddenly on Daisy's shoulder. "Oh, are you quite
sure?" she whispered.

"I am quite sure, darling." The reply was instant and full of
conviction. "It doesn't need a good woman to be quite sure of that.
Over and over again it has been the only solid thing I have had to
hold by. I've clung to it blindly in outer darkness, God only knows
how often."

Her arms tightened about Muriel, and she fell silent. For minutes the
room was absolutely quiet. Then Muriel raised her head.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much."

Her eyes were full of tears as her lips met Daisy's, but she brushed
them swiftly away before they fell.

Daisy was smiling at her. "Come," she said, "I want to show you my
baby. He is just the wee-est bit fractious, as he is cutting a tooth.
The doctor says he will be all right, but he still threatens to send
us both to England."

"And you don't want to go?" questioned Muriel.

Daisy shook her head. "I want to see my cousin Blake," she said
lightly, "when he comes marching home again. Did you hear the rumour
that he is to have the V.C.? They ought to give it to Nick, too, if he
does."

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. Nick didn't do anything. At least," Muriel
stumbled a little, "nothing to be proud of."

Daisy laughed and caught her face between her hands. "Except save his
girl from destruction," she said. "Doesn't that count? Oh, Muriel, I
know exactly what made him want you. No, you needn't be afraid. I'm
not going to tell you. Wild horses sha'n't drag it from me. But he's
the luckiest man in India, and I think he knows it. What lovely hair
you have! I'll come round early on your wedding-day and do it for
you. And what will you wear? It mustn't be a black wedding whatever
etiquette may decree. You look too pathetic in black, and it's a
barbarous custom anyway. I have warned my husband fairly that if he
goes into mourning for me, I'll never speak to him hereafter again.
He is coming up to see us next week, and to discuss our fate with the
doctor. Have you ever met Will?"

"Once," said Muriel. "It was at a dance at Poonah early last summer."

"Ah! When I was at Mahableshwar. He is a good dancer, isn't he? He
does most things well, I think."

Daisy smiled tolerantly as she indicated the photograph of a boy
upon the mantelpiece. "He isn't sixteen," she said; "he is nearly
twenty-eight. Now come and see his son and the light of my eyes." She
linked her arm in Muriel's, and, still smiling, led her from the room.



CHAPTER XIV

THE POISON OF ADDERS


The week that followed that first visit of hers was a gradual renewal
of life to Muriel. She had come through the darkest part of her
trouble, and, thick though the shadows might still lie about her, she
had at last begun to see light ahead. She went again and yet again to
see Daisy, and each visit added to her tranquillity of mind. Daisy was
wonderfully brisk for an invalid, and her baby was an endless source
of interest. Even Lady Bassett could not cavil when her charge spoke
of going to nursery tea at Mrs. Musgrave's. She made no attempt to
check the ripening friendship, though Muriel was subtly aware that she
did not approve of it.

She also went every morning for a headlong gallop with Nick who, in
fact, would take no refusal in the matter. He came not at all to the
house except for these early visits, and she had a good many hours
to herself. But her health was steadily improving, and her loneliness
oppressed her less than formerly. She spent long mornings lying in the
hammock under the pines with only an occasional monkey far above her
to keep her company. It was her favourite haunt, and she grew to look
upon it as exclusively her own. There was a tiny rustic summer-house
near it, which no one ever occupied, so far as she knew. Moreover,
the hammock had been decorously slung behind it, so that even though
a visitor might conceivably penetrate as far as the arbour, it was
extremely unlikely that the hammock would come into the range of
discovery.

Even Lady Bassett had never sought her here, her time being generally
quite fully occupied with her countless social engagements. Muriel
often wondered that that garden on the mountainside in which she
revelled seemed to hold so slight an attraction for its owner. But
then of course Lady Bassett was so much in demand that she had little
leisure to admire the beauties that surrounded her.

Growing daily stronger, Muriel's half-childish panic regarding her
approaching marriage as steadily diminished. She enjoyed her rides
with Nick, becoming daily more and more at her ease with him. They
seldom touched upon intimate matters. She wore his ring, and once
she shyly thanked him for it. But he made no further reference to the
words engraved within it, and she was relieved by his forbearance.

Nick, on his part, was visiting Daisy Musgrave every day, and
sedulously imbibing her woman's wisdom. He had immense faith in her
insight and her intuition, and when she entreated him to move
slowly and without impatience he took a sterner grip of himself and
resolutely set himself to cultivate the virtue she urged upon him.

"You mustn't do anything in a hurry," Daisy assured him, "either
before your marriage or after. She has had a very bad shock, and she
is only just getting over it. You will throw everything back if you
try to precipitate matters. She is asleep, you know, Nick, and it is
for you to waken her, but gradually--oh, very gradually--or she will
start up in the old nightmare terror again. If she doesn't love you
yet, she is very near it. But you will only win her by waiting for
her. Never do anything sudden. Always remember what a child she is,
though she has outgrown her years. And children, you know, though they
will trust those they love to the uttermost, are easily frightened."

Nick knew that she was right. He knew also that he was steadily
gaining ground, and that knowledge helped him more than all Daisy's
counsels. He was within sight, so he felt, of the great consummation
of all his desires, and he was drawing daily nearer.

Their wedding-day was little more than a week away. He had already
made full preparation for it. It was to be as quiet a ceremony as it
was possible to arrange. Daisy Musgrave had promised to be there, and
he expected her husband also. Lady Bassett, whose presence he realised
with a grimace to be indispensable, would complete the wedding-party.

He had arranged to leave Simla directly the service was over, and to
go into Nepal. It would not be his first visit to that most wonderful
country, and it held many things that he desired to show her. He
expected much from that wedding journey, from the close companionship,
the intimacy that must result. He would teach her first beyond all
doubting that she had nothing to fear, and then--then at last, as
the reward of infinite patience, he would win her love. His blood
quickened whenever he thought of it. Alone with her once more among
the mountains, in perfect security, surrounded by the glory of the
eternal snows, so he would win her. They would come back closely
united, equipped to face the whole world hand-in-hand, so joined
together that no shadow of evil could ever come between them any more.
For they would be irrevocably made one. Thus ran the current of
his splendid dream, and for this he curbed himself, mastered his
eagerness, controlled his passion.

On the day that Daisy's husband arrived, he considerately absented
himself from their bungalow, knowing how the boy loved to have his
wife to himself. He had in consequence the whole afternoon at
his disposal, and he contemplated paying a surprise visit to his
betrothed. He had ridden with her that morning, and he did not doubt
that she was to be found somewhere in Lady Bassett's compound. So in
fact she was, and had he carried out his first intention, he would
have explored behind the summer-house and found her in her retreat.
But he did not after all pay his projected visit. A very small matter
frustrated his plans--a matter of no earthly importance, but which he
always looked upon afterwards as a piece of the devil's own handiwork.
He remembered some neglected correspondence, and decided to clear it
off. She would not be expecting him, possibly she might not welcome
his intrusion. And so, in consequence of that rigid self-restraint
that he was practising, he suffered this latter reflection to sway
him in the direction of his unanswered letters, and sat down to his
writing-table with a strong sense of virtue, utterly unsuspicious of
the evil which even at that moment was drawing near imperceptibly but
surely to the girl he loved.

She was lying in her hammock with an unread book on her knees. It
was a slumberous afternoon, making for drowsiness. The mountains were
wrapped in a vague haze, and the whole world was very still. Very far
overhead, the pines occasionally whispered to one another, but below
there was no movement, save when a lizard scuttled swiftly over the
pine-needles, and once when an enquiring monkey-face peered at her
round the red bole of a pine.

It was all very restful, and Muriel was undeniably sleepy. She had
ridden farther than usual with Nick that morning, and it did not take
much to tire her. Lady Bassett had gone to a polo-match, she knew, and
she luxuriated in undisturbed solitude. It lay all about her like
a spell of enchantment. With her cheek pillowed on her hand she
presently floated into serene slumber. It was like drifting down a
tidal river into a summer sea....

Her awakening was abrupt, almost startling. She felt as if some
one had touched her, though she realised In a moment that this was
impossible; for she was still alone. No one was in sight. Only from
the arbour a few feet away there came the sound of voices, and the
tinkle of tea-cups.

Visitors evidently! Lady Bassett had returned and brought back a
couple of guests with her. She frowned impatiently over the discovery,
realising that she was a prisoner unless she elected to show herself.
For her corner behind the summer-house was bounded by the wall of the
compound, and there was no retreat save by the path that led to the
bungalow, and this wound in front of the arbour itself.

It was very annoying, but there was no help for it. She knew very
few people in Simla, and neither of the voices that mingled with Lady
Bassett's was familiar to her. It did not take her long to decide that
she had no desire for a closer acquaintance with their owners. One
was a man's voice, sonorous and weighty, that sounded as if it were
accustomed to propound mighty problems from the pulpit. The other was
a woman's, high-pitched as the wail of a cat on a windy night, that
caused the listening girl to nestle back on her pillow with the
instant resolution to remain where she was until the intruders saw fit
to depart, even if by so doing she had to forego her tea.

She opened her book with an unwarrantable feeling of resentment. Of
course Lady Bassett could not know she was there, and of course she
was at liberty to go whither she would in her own garden. But no one
likes to have their cherished privacy invaded even in ignorance.
And Lady Bassett might surely have concluded that she would be out
somewhere under the pines.

Well, they probably would not stay for long, and she was in no hurry.
With a faint sigh of lingering annoyance she began to read.

But the piercing, feline voice soon pounded flail-like into her
consciousness, scattering her thoughts with ruthless insistence.

"Of course," it asserted, "it was the only thing he could possibly do.
No man with any decent feeling could have done otherwise. But it was a
little hard on him. Surely you agree with me there?"

Lady Bassett's voice, soft and precise, made answer. "Indeed I think
he has behaved most generously in the matter. As you say, it would
have been but a gentleman's duty to make an offer of marriage,
considering all the circumstances. But he went further than that. He
actually insisted upon the arrangement. I suppose he felt bound to
do so as the poor child's father had placed her in his charge. She
is quite unformed still, and is very far from realising her grave
position. Indeed, I scarcely expected her to accept him without the
urgent reason for the match being explained to her; for it is quite
obvious that she does not care for him in that way. Poor child, she is
scarcely old enough to know the true meaning of love. It is very sad
for them both."

A gentle sigh closed the sentence. Muriel's book had slid down upon
a cushion of pine-needles. She had raised herself in the hammock, and
was staring at the rustic woodwork of the summer-house as though she
saw a serpent twining there.

There followed a brief silence. Then came the man's voice, deliberate
and resounding.

"I am sure it must have caused you much anxiety, dear Lady Bassett.
With my knowledge of Nicholas Ratcliffe I confess that I should have
felt very grave misgivings as to whether he were endowed with the
chivalry to fulfil the obligation he had incurred. My esteem for him
has increased fourfold since I heard of his intention to shoulder his
responsibilities thus courageously. I had not deemed him capable of
such a sacrifice. I sincerely trust that he will be given strength to
carry it through worthily."

"I shall not feel really easy till they are married," confessed Lady
Bassett.

"Ah!" The sonorous voice broke in again with friendly reproof.
"But--pardon me--does not that indicate a certain lack of faith, Lady
Bassett? Since the young man has been led to see that the poor girl
has been so sadly compromised, surely we may trust that he will be
enabled to carry out his engagement. I consider it doubly praiseworthy
that he has taken this action on his own initiative. I may tell you in
confidence that I was seriously debating with myself as to whether it
were not my duty to approach him on the subject. But the news of his
engagement relieved me of all responsibility. It is no doubt something
of a sacrifice to a man of his stamp. We can only trust that he will
be duly rewarded."

Here the shrill, feline voice suddenly made itself heard, tripping in
upon the deeper tones without ceremony.

"Oh, but poor Nick! I can't picture him married and done for. He has
always been so gay. Why, look at him with Daisy Musgrave! I know for
a fact that he goes there every day at least, and she refusing to
receive any one else. I call it quite scandalous."

"My dear! My dear!" It was Lady Bassett's turn to reprove. "Not quite
every day surely!"

"I do assure you that isn't the smallest exaggeration," protested
her informant. "I had it from Mrs. Gybbon-Smythe who never misstates
anything. It was she who first told me of this engagement, and she
considered that Nick was positively throwing himself away. A mere
chivalrous fad she called it, and declared that it would simply ruin
his prospects. For it is well known that married officers are almost
invariably passed over by the powers that be. And he is regarded as so
promising too. Really I am almost inclined to agree with her. Just a
little more tea, dear, if I may. Your tea is always so delicious, and
doubly so out here under the pines."

The soft jingling of tea-cups ensued, and through it presently came
Lady Bassett's gentle tones. They sounded as if she were smiling.

"Well, all I can say is, I was unspeakably relieved when I heard that
Captain Ratcliffe had decided to treat the matter as a point of honour
and marry dear Muriel. She is a sweet girl and I am devoted to her,
which made it doubly hard for me. For I should scarcely have dared to
venture, after what has happened, to ask any of my friends to receive
her. Naturally, she shrinks from speaking of that terrible time, but
I understand that she spent no less than three nights alone in
the mountains with him. And that fact in itself would be more than
sufficient to blight any girl's career from a social standpoint. I
often think that the rules of our modern etiquette are very rigid,
though I know well that we cannot afford to disregard them." Again
came that soft, regretful sigh; and then in an apologetic tone, "_You_
will say, I know, that for the good of the community this must be so,
but you are great enough to make allowances for a woman's weakness.
And I must confess that I cannot but feel the pity of it in such a
case as this."

"Indeed, Lady Bassett, I think your feminine weakness does you
credit," was the kind response this elicited. "We must all of us
sympathise most deeply with the poor little wanderer, who, I am well
assured, could not be in better hands than she is at the present
moment. Your protecting care must, I am convinced, atone to her in a
very great measure for all that she has been called upon to undergo."

"So sweet of you to say so!" murmured Lady Bassett. "Words cannot
express my reluctance to explain to her the actual state of affairs,
or my relief that I have been able to avoid doing so with a clear
conscience. Ah! Your cup is empty! Will you let me refill it? No? But
you are not thinking of leaving me yet, surely?"

"Ah, but indeed we must. We are dining with the Boltons to-night, and
going afterwards to the Parkers' dance. You will be there of course?
How delightful! Then we shall soon meet again."

The penetrating voice was accompanied by the sounds of a general move,
and there ensued the usual interchange of compliments at departure,
Lady Bassett protesting that it had been so sweet of her friends to
visit her, and the friends assuring her of the immense pleasure it had
given them to do so. All the things that are never said by people who
are truly intimate with each other were said several times over as
the little party moved away. Their voices receded into the distance,
though they continued for a while to prick through the silence that
fell like a velvet curtain behind them.

Finally they ceased altogether. The summer-house was empty, and an
enterprising monkey slipped down the trunk of a tree and peered in.
But he was a nervous beast, and he had a feeling that the place was
not so wholly devoid of human presence as it seemed. He approached
cautiously, gibbering a little to himself. It looked safe enough, and
there was some dainty confectionery within. But, uneasy instinct still
urging him, he deemed it advisable to peer round the corner of the
summer-house before he yielded to the promptings of a rapacious
appetite.

The next instant his worst fears were realised, and he was scudding up
the nearest tree in a panic.

There, on the ground, face downwards on the pine-needles, lay a human
form. True, it was only a woman lying there. But her silence and her
stillness were eloquent of tragedy even to his monkey-intelligence.
From a safe height he sat and reviled her till he was tired for having
spoilt his sport. Finally, as she made no movement, he forgot
his grievance, and tripped airily away in quest of more thrilling
adventures.

But the woman remained prone upon the ground for a long, long time.



CHAPTER XV

THE SUMMONS


Nick's fit of virtue evaporated with his third letter, and he got
up, feeling that he had spent an unprofitable afternoon. He also
discovered that he was thirsty, and while quenching his thirst he
debated with himself whether he would after all stroll round to the
Musgraves. He and Will were old school-fellows, and the friendship
between them was of the sort that wears forever. He was moreover
dissatisfied with regard to Daisy's appearance, and he wanted to know
the doctor's verdict.

He had just decided to chance his welcome and go, when a note was
brought to him which proved to be from Will himself.

    "DEAR OLD NICK," it ran,--"I have been wanting to shake your
    hand ever since I heard of your gallant return from the jaws
    of death. Well done, old chap, if it isn't a stale sentiment!

    "Will you come and dine with us? Do thy diligence, for though
    we are neither of us the best of company, we both want you.
    The doctor has ordered Daisy and the youngster home. They are
    to leave before the _chota-bursat_. Damn the _chota-bursat_,
    and the whole beastly show!--Yours ever,

    "WILL"

Nick considered this outburst with a sympathetic frown, and at once
despatched an answer in the affirmative. He had almost expected the
news. It had been quite plain to him that Daisy was not making any
progress towards the recovery of her strength. Her quick temperament
would not allow her to be listless, but he had not been deceived. And
he was glad that Will had come up at length to see for himself.

It was horribly unlucky for them both, he reflected, for he knew
that Will could not accompany his wife to England. And the thought
presently flashed across him,--How would it go with him if he ever had
to part with Muriel in that way? Having once possessed her, could
he ever bear to let her go again? Would he not rather relinquish his
profession for her sake, dear though it was to him? He had made her
his own by sheer dogged effort. He had planned for her, fought for
her, suffered for her,--almost he had died for her. Now that she was
his at last, he knew that he could never let her go.

He turned impetuously to a calendar on his writing-table, and ticked
off another day. There were only six left before his wedding-day. He
counted them with almost savage exultation. Finally he tossed down the
pencil with a sudden, quivering laugh, and stood up with wide-flung
arms. She was his--his--his! No power or force of circumstance could
ever come between them now. He would trample every obstacle underfoot.

But there were no obstacles left. He had overcome them all. He had won
her fairly; and the reward of patience was very near.

For the first time he slackened the bonds of his self-restraint;
and instantly the fire of his passion leapt up, free and fierce,
overflowing its confines in a wide-spread, molten stream that carried
all before it.

When later he departed to keep his engagement, he was as a man
treading upon air. Not a dozen yards from the gate one of Lady
Bassett's servants met him and presented a note. He guessed it was
from Muriel, and the blood rose in a hot wave to his head and pounded
at his temples as he opened it. It was the first she had ever written
to him.

    "I must see you at once,--M."

That was all. He dismissed the waiting native, and returned to his
room. There he wrote a note to Will Musgrave warning him that he had
been delayed.

Then he suddenly straightened himself and stood tense. Something had
happened. He was sure of it. That urgent summons rang in his brain
like a cry for help. Some demand was about to be made upon him, a
demand which he might find himself ill-equipped to meet. He was not
lacking in courage. He could meet adversity without a quiver. But for
once he was not sure of himself. He was not prepared to resist any
sudden strain that night.

Several minutes passed before he moved. Then, glancing down, he
saw her message fast gripped in his hand. With a swift, passionate
movement he carried the paper to his lips. And he remembered suddenly
how he had once held her hand there and breathed upon the little cold
fingers to give them life. He had commanded himself then. Was he any
the less his own master now? And was he fool enough to destroy all in
a moment that trust of hers which he had built up so laboriously? He
felt as if a fiend had ensnared him, and with a fierce effort he broke
free. Surely he was torturing himself in vain. She had only sent for
him to explain that she could not ride with him in the morning, or
some other matter equally trifling. He would go to her at once since
she had desired it, and set her mind at rest on whatever subject
happened to be troubling it.

And so with steady tread he left the house once more. She had called
him for the first time. He would not keep her waiting.



CHAPTER XVI

THE ORDEAL


The drawing-room was empty when he entered it, the windows standing
flung wide to the night. Strains of dance music were wafted in from
somewhere lower down the hill, and he guessed that Lady Bassett would
be from home. The pine-trees of the compound stood black and silent.
There seemed to be a hush of expectancy in the air.

He stood with his back to the room and his face to the mountains. The
moon was still below the horizon, but stars blazed everywhere with a
marvellous brightness. It was a night for dreams, and he thought with
a quickening heart of the nights that were coming when they two would
be alone once more among the hills, no longer starved and fleeing
for their lives, but wandering happily together in an enchanted world
where the past was all forgotten, and the future gleamed like the
peaks of Paradise.

At sound of a quiet footfall, he turned back into the room. Muriel had
entered and was closing the door behind her. At first sight he fancied
that she was ill, so terribly did her deep mourning and heavy hair
emphasise her pallor. But as she moved forward he reassured himself.
It was growing late. Doubtless she was tired.

He went impetuously to meet her, and in a moment he had her hands
in his; but they lay in his grasp cold and limp, with no responding
pressure. Her great eyes, as they looked at him, were emotionless
and distant, remote as the lights of a village seen at night across a
far-reaching plain. She gave him no word or smile of welcome.

A sudden dark suspicion flashed through his brain, and he drew her
swiftly to the light, looking at her closely, searchingly.

"What have you been doing?" he said.

She fathomed his suspicion, and faintly smiled. "Nothing--nothing
whatever. I have never touched opium since the night you--"

He cut in sharply, as if the reminiscence hurt him. "I beg your
pardon. Well, what is it then? There's something wrong."

She did not contradict him. Merely with a slight gesture of weariness,
she freed herself and sat down.

Nick remained on his feet, looking down at her, waiting grimly for
enlightenment.

It did not come very readily. Seconds had passed into minutes before
she spoke, and then her words did not bear directly upon the matter in
hand.

"I hope it was quite convenient to you to come to-night. I was a
little afraid you would have an engagement."

He remembered the urgency of her summons and decided that she spoke
thus conventionally to gain time. On another occasion he might
have humoured such a whim, but to-night it goaded him almost beyond
endurance. Surely they had passed that stage, he and she.

With an effort he controlled himself, but it sounded in his voice as
he made reply.

"My engagement to you stands before any other. What is it you want to
say to me?"

Her expression changed slightly at his words, and a shade of
apprehension flitted across her face. She threw him a swift upward
glance, half-scared, half-questioning. Unconsciously her hands locked
themselves together.

"I want you not to be vexed, Nick," she said, in a low voice.

He made an abrupt movement. "My dear girl, don't be silly. What's the
trouble? Let me hear it and have done."

His tone was reassuring. She looked up at him with more confidence.

"Yes, I am silly," she acknowledged. "I'm perfectly idiotic to fancy
for a moment that it can make any difference to you. Nick, I have been
thinking things over seriously, and--and--I find that I can't marry
you after all. I hope you won't mind, though of course--" she uttered
a little laugh that was piteously insincere--"I know you will feel
bound to say you do. But--anyhow--you needn't say it to me, because I
understand. I thought it was only fair to let you know at once."

"Thank you," said Nick, and there was that in his voice which was like
the sudden snapping of a tense spring.

She saw his hands clench with the words, and an overwhelming sense
of danger swept over her. Instinctively she started to her feet. If a
tiger had leapt in upon her through the window she could not have been
more terrified.

Nick took a single stride towards her, and she stopped as if struck
powerless. His face was the face she had once seen bent over a man in
his death-agony, convulsed with passion, savage, merciless,--the face
of a devil.

She shrank away from him in nameless terror, gasping and
panic-stricken. "Nick," she whispered, "are you--mad?"

He answered her jerkily in a strangled voice that was like the snarl
of a beast. "Yes--I am mad. If you try to run away from me now--I
won't answer for myself."

She gazed at him with widening eyes. "But, but--" she faltered--"I--I
don't understand. Oh, Nick, you frighten me!"

It was the cry of a child, lost, bewildered, piteous. Had she
withstood him, had she sought to escape, the demon in him would have
burst the last restraining bond, and have shattered in one moment of
unshackled violence all the chivalrous patience which during the last
few weeks he had spent his whole strength to achieve.

But that cry of desolation pierced straight through his madness,
cutting deeper than reproach or protest, wounding him to the heart.

With a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, he turned his back upon
her and covered his face.

For a space of seconds he stood so, not moving, seeming not even to
breathe. And Muriel, steadying herself by the mantelpiece, watched him
with a panting heart.

Then abruptly, moving with a quick, light tread that made no sound, he
crossed the room to one of the wide-flung windows and stopped there.

From across the quiet garden there came the strains of "The Blue
Danube," fitful, alluring, plaintive--that waltz to which countless
lovers have danced and wooed and whispered through the years. Muriel
longed intensely to shut it out, to stop her ears, to make some noise
to drown it. Her nerves were all on edge, and she felt as if its
persistent sweetness would drive her mad.

Surely Nick felt the same; but if he did, he made no sign. He stood
without movement with his face to the night, gripping the woodwork of
the window with both hands, every bone of them standing out in sharp,
skeleton lines.

She watched him, fascinated, for a long time, but he did not stir from
his tense position. He seemed to have utterly forgotten her presence
in the room behind him. And still that maddening waltz kept on and on
and on till she felt sick and dazed with listening to it. It seemed as
if for the rest of her life she would never again be free from those
haunting strains.

The soft shutting of the window made her start and quiver. Nick had
moved at last, and her heart began to throb thick and fast as he
turned. She tried to read his face, but she could not even see
it. There was a swimming mist before her eyes, and her limbs felt
powerless, heavy as lead.

In every nerve, she felt him drawing near, and in an agony of
helplessness she awaited him, all the surging horror of that night
when he had drugged her rushing back upon her with tenfold force.
Again she saw him as she had seen him then, monstrous, silent,
terrible, a man of superhuman strength, whose mastery appalled
her. Again in desperate fear she shrank from him, seeking wildly,
fruitlessly, for a way of escape.

And then came the consciousness of his arm about her, supporting her;
and the voice that had quieted her wildest delirium was speaking in
her ear.

"The goblins are all gone, dear," she heard him say. "Don't be
frightened."

He led her gently to a sofa and made her sit down, bending over her
and softly rubbing her cold cheek.

"Tell me when you're better," he said, "and we'll talk this thing out.
But don't be frightened anyway. It's all right."

The tenderness of voice and touch, the sudden cessation of all
tension, the swift putting to flight of her fear, all combined to
produce in her a sense of relief so immense that the last shred of her
self-control went from her utterly. She laid her head down upon the
cushions and burst into a storm of tears.

Nick's hand continued to stroke and soothe, but he said no more while
her paroxysm of weeping lasted. He who was usually so ready of speech,
so quick to console, found for once no words wherewith to comfort her.

Only when her distress had somewhat spent itself, he bent a little
lower and dried her tears with his own handkerchief, his lips
twitching as he did it, his eyes flickering so rapidly that it was
impossible to read their expression.

"There!" he said at last. "There's nothing to cry about. Finish what
you were saying when I interrupted you. I think you were in the middle
of throwing me over, weren't you? At least, you had got through that
part of it, and were just going to tell me why."

His tone was reassuringly flippant.

Looking up at him, she saw the old kindly, quizzical look on his face.
He met her eyes, nodding shrewdly.

"Let's have it," he said, "straight from the shoulder. You're tired of
me, eh?"

She drew back from him, but with no gesture of shrinking. "I'm tired
of everything--everything," she said, a little passionate quiver in
her voice. "I wish--I wish with all my heart, you had left me to die."

"Is that the grievance?" said Nick. He sat down on the head of the
sofa, and drove his fist into the cushion. "If I could explain things
to you, I would. But you're such a chicken, aren't you, dear, and
about as easily scared? Since when have you harboured this grudge
against me?"

The gentle banter of his tone did not deceive her into imagining that
she could trifle with him, nor was she addicted to trifling. She
made answer with a certain warmth of indignation that seemed to have
kindled on its own initiative and wholly without her volition.

"I haven't, I don't. I'm not so absurd. It isn't that at all."

"You're not tired of me?" queried Nick.

"No."

"If I were to die to-morrow for instance--and there's no telling, you
know, Muriel,--you'd be a little sorry?"

Again, though scarcely aware of it, she resented the question. "Why do
you ask me that? Of course I should be sorry."

"Of course," acquiesced Nick. "But all the king's horses and all the
king's men wouldn't bring me back again. That's the worst of being
mortal. You can't dance at your own funeral."

"What do you mean?" There was a note of exasperation in Muriel's
voice. She saw that he had an object in view, but his method of
attaining it was too tortuous for her straightforward understanding.

He explained himself with much patience. His mood had so completely
changed that she could barely recall to mind the vision that had so
appalled her but a few minutes before.

"What I mean is that it's infernal to think that some one may be
shedding precious tears on your grave and you not there to see.
I've often wondered if one could get a ticket of leave for such an
occasion." He smiled down at her with baffling directness. "I should
value those tears unspeakably," he said.

Muriel made a slight movement of impatience. The discussion seemed to
her inconsequent and unprofitable.

Nick began to enumerate his points. "You're not tired of me--though
I see I'm boring you hideously; put up with it a little longer, I've
nearly finished--and you'd shed quite a respectable number of tears
if I were to die young. Yes, I am young though as ugly as Satan. I
believe you think I'm some sort of connection, don't you? Is that why
you don't want to marry me?"

He put the question with startling suddenness, and Muriel glanced up
quickly, but was instantly reassured. He was no more formidable at
that moment than a grinning schoolboy. Still she did not feel wholly
at her ease with him. She had a curious suspicion that he was in some
fashion testing her.

"No," she answered, after a moment. "It is nothing of that sort."

"Quite sure there is a reason?" he asked quizzically.

Her white cheeks flushed. "Yes, of course. But--I would rather not
tell you what it is."

"Quite so," said Nick. "I suppose that also is 'only fair'?"

Her colour deepened. He made her feel unaccountably ashamed. "I will
tell you if you wish to know," she said reluctantly. "But I would
rather not."

Nick made an airy gesture. "Not for the world! My intelligence
department is specially fitted for this sort of thing. Besides, I know
exactly what happened. It was something like this." He passed his
hand over his face, then turned to her with a faint, wry smile so
irresistibly reminiscent of Lady Bassett that Muriel gasped with a
sudden hysterical desire to laugh.

He silenced her by beginning to speak in soft, purring accents. "You
know, darling Muriel, I have never looked upon Nicholas Ratcliffe as
a marrying man. He is such a gay butterfly." (This with an indulgent
shake of the head.) "Indeed, I have heard dear Mrs. Gybbon-Smythe
describe him as a shocking little flirt. And they say he is fond of
his glass too, but let us hope this is an exaggeration. I know for a
fact that he has a very violent temper, and this may have given
rise to the rumour. I assure you, dearest, he is quite formidable,
notwithstanding his size. But there, if I tell you any more you will
think I am prejudiced against him, whereas we are really the greatest
friends--the greatest possible friends. I only thought it kind to warn
you not to expect too much. It is a mistake so many young girls make,
and I want you to be as happy as you can, poor child."

Muriel was laughing helplessly when he stopped. The mimicry of voice
and action was so perfect, so free from exaggeration, so sublimely
spontaneous.

Nick did not laugh with her. Behind his mask of banter he was
watching, watching closely. He had clad himself in jester's garb to
feel for the truth. Perhaps she realised something of this as
she recovered herself, for again that glance, half-questioning,
half-frightened, flashed up at him as she made reply.

"No, Nick. She never said that, indeed. I wouldn't have cared if she
had. It was only--only--"

"I know," he broke in abruptly. "If it wasn't that, there is only one
thing left that it could have been. I don't want you to tell me. It's
as plain as daylight. Let me tell you instead. It's all for the sake
of your poor little personal pride. I know--yes, I know. They've been
throwing mud at you, and it's stuck. You'd sooner die than marry me,
wouldn't you? But what will you do if I refuse to set you free?"

She turned suddenly crimson. "You--you wouldn't, Nick! You couldn't!
You haven't--the right."

"Haven't I?" said Nick, with an odd smile. "I thought I had."

He looked down at her, and a queer little flame leaped up like an evil
spirit in his eyes, flickered an instant, and was gone. "I thought I
had," he said again, in a different tone. "But we won't quarrel about
that. Tell me what you want to do."

Her answer came with a vehemence that perhaps he had hardly expected.
"Oh, I want to get away--right away. I want to go home. I--I hate this
place."

"And every one in it?" suggested Nick.

"Almost." Muriel spoke recklessly, even defiantly. She was fighting
for her freedom, and the battle was infinitely harder than she had
anticipated.

He nodded. "The sole exception being Mrs. Musgrave. Do you know Mrs.
Musgrave is going home? You would like to go with her."

Muriel looked at him with sudden hope. "Alone with her?" she said.

"Oh, I'm not going," declared Nick. "I'm going to Khatmandu for my
honeymoon."

The hope died out of Muriel's eyes. "Don't--jeer at me, Nick," she
said, in a choked voice. "I can't bear it."

"Jeer!" said Nick. "I!" He reached down suddenly and took her hand.
The light sparkled on the ring he had given her, and he moved it
slowly to and fro watching it.

"I am going to ask you to take it back," she said.

He did not raise his eyes. "And I am going to refuse," he answered
promptly. "I don't say you must wear it, but you are to keep it--not
as a bond, merely in remembrance of a promise which you will make to
me."

"A promise--" she faltered.

Still he did not look up. He was watching the stones with eyes
half-shut.

"Yes," he said, after a moment. "I will let you go on the sole
condition that you give me this promise."

She began to tremble a little. "What is it?" she whispered.

He glanced at her momentarily, but his expression was enigmatical. She
felt as if his look lighted and dwelt upon something beyond her.

"Simply this," he said. "You'll laugh, I daresay; but if you are able
to laugh it won't hurt you to promise. I want your word of honour that
if you ever change your mind about marrying me, you will come to me
like a brave woman and tell me so."

Thus, quite calmly, he made known to her his condition, and in the
amazed silence with which she received it he continued to flash hither
and thither the wonderful rays that shone from the gems upon her hand.
He did not appear to be greatly concerned as to what her answer would
be. Simply with an inscrutable countenance he waited for it.

"Is it a bargain?" he asked at last.

She started with an involuntary gesture of shrinking. "Oh, no, Nick!
How could I promise you that? You know I shall never change my mind."

He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "That isn't the point under
discussion. If it's an impossible contingency, it costs you the less
to promise."

He kept her hand in his as he said it, though she fidgeted to be free.
"Please, Nick," she said earnestly, "I would so much rather not."

"You prefer to marry me at once?" he asked, and suddenly it seemed to
her that this was the alternative to which he meant to drive her.

She rose in a panic, and he rose also, still keeping her hand. His
face looked like a block of yellow granite.

"Must it--must it--be one or the other?" she panted.

He looked at her under flickering eyelids. "I have said it," he
remarked.

Her resistance flagged, sank, rose again, and finally died away. After
all, why should she hesitate? What was there in such an undertaking as
this to send the blood so wildly to her heart?

"Very well," she said faintly at last. "I promise. But--but--I never
shall change my mind, Nick--never--never."

He was still looking at her with veiled, impenetrable eyes. He paid no
attention to her protest. It was as if he had not so much as heard it.

"You've done your part," he said. "Now hear me do mine. I swear to
you--before God--that I will never marry you unless you ask me to."

He bent with the words, and solemnly, reverently, he pressed his lips
upon the hand he held.

Muriel waited, half-frightened still, and wholly awestruck. She did
not know Nick in this mood.

But when he straightened himself again, the old whimsical smile was on
his face, and she breathed a sigh of relief. With a quick, caressing
movement he took her by the shoulders.

"That's over then," he said lightly. "Turn over and start another
page. Go back to England, go back to school; and let them teach you to
be young again."

They were his last words to her. Yet an instant longer he waited, and
very deep down in her heart something that was hidden there stirred
and quivered as a blind creature moves at the touch of the sun. It
awoke a vague pain within her, that was all.

The next moment Nick had turned upon his heel and was departing.

She heard him humming a waltz tune under his breath as he went away
with his free British swagger. And she knew with no sense of elation
that she had gained her point.

For good or ill he had left her, and he would not return.



PART III



CHAPTER XVII

AN OLD FRIEND


"There!" said Daisy, standing back from the table to review her
handiwork with her head on one side. "I may be outrageously childish,
but if Blake fails to appreciate this masterpiece of mine, I shall
feel inclined to turn him out-of-doors, and leave him to spend the
night on the step."

Muriel, curled up in the old-fashioned window-seat, looked round with
her low laugh. "It's snowing hard," she remarked.

Daisy did not heed her. "Come and look at it," she said.

The masterpiece in question consisted of an enormous red scroll
bearing in white letters the words: "Welcome to the Brave."

"It never before occurred to me that Blake was brave," observed Daisy.
"He is so shy and soft and retiring. I can't somehow feel as if I am
going to entertain a lion. He ought to be here by this time. Let's go
and hang my work of art in the hall."

She slipped her hand through Muriel's arm, and glanced at her sharply
when she felt it tremble.

"It will be good to see him again, won't it?" she said.

"Yes," Muriel agreed, but there was a little tremor in her voice as
well.

Very vividly were the circumstances under which she had last seen this
man in her mind that night. Eight months that were like as many years
stretched between that tragic time and the present, but the old wild
horror had still the power to make her blood turn cold, the old wound
had not lost its ache. These things had made a woman of her before
her time, but yet she was not as other women. It seemed that she was
destined all her life to live apart, and only to look on at the joys
of others. They did not attract her, and she had no heart for gaiety.
Yet she was not cold, or Daisy had not found in her so congenial a
companion. But even Daisy seldom penetrated behind the deep reserve
that had grown over the girl's sad young heart. They were close
friends, but their friendship lay mainly in what they left unsaid.
For all her quick warmth, Daisy too had her inner shrine--a place so
secret that she herself never entered it save as it were by stealth.

But something of Muriel's mood she understood on that bitter night
in January on which they awaited the coming of Blake Grange, and her
close hand-pressure conveyed as much as they passed out together into
the little hall that glowed so snugly in the firelight.

"He is sure to be frozen, poor boy," she said. "I hope Jim Ratcliffe
won't forget to send the motor to the station as he promised."

"I am quite sure he never forgets anything," Muriel declared, with
reassuring confidence.

Daisy laughed lightly. "Yes, he's very dependable, deliciously solid,
isn't he? A trifle domineering perhaps, but all doctors are. They
rule us weak women with a rod of iron. I am a little afraid of Dr. Jim
myself, and most unfortunately he knows it."

Muriel's silence expressed a certain scepticism that provoked another
laugh from Daisy. She was almost frivolously light-hearted that night.

"It's a fact, I assure you. Have you never noticed how docile I am
in his presence? I always feel as if I want to confess all my sins to
him. I should like intensely to have his opinion upon some of them. I
think it would do me good."

"Then why not ask for it?" suggested Muriel.

"For the reason aforementioned--a slavish timidity." Daisy broke off
to carol a few bars of a song. "I've known the Ratcliffe family ever
since I became engaged to Will," she said presently. "Jim Ratcliffe,
you know, was left his guardian, and he was always very good to him.
Will made his home with them and he and Nick are great pals, just like
brothers. I should think Dr. Jim had his hands full with the two of
them." Again Daisy stopped to sing. Muriel was stooping over the fire.
It was seldom that Nick's name was mentioned between them, though the
fact that Daisy had placed herself and her baby in the hands of
his half-brother formed a connecting link which could not always be
ignored. She always dropped into silence when a reference was made
to him. Not in the most casual conversation had Daisy ever heard her
utter his name.

Having successfully fixed her message of welcome in a prominent
position, she joined the girl in front of the fire. Her face was
flushed and her eyes were sparkling. Muriel thought that she had never
seen her look so well or so happy.

"You're quite excited," she said.

Daisy put up a hand to her hot cheek. "Yes, isn't it absurd? I hope
Dr. Jim won't come with him, or he will be cross. But I can't help it.
Blake and I have been chums all our lives, and of course I am glad to
see him after all this while. So nice, too, not to have Lady Bassett
looking on."

There was a spice of venom in this, over which Muriel smiled in her
sad way.

"Does she disapprove?" she asked.

Daisy nodded impatiently. "She chose altogether to overlook the fact
that we are first cousins. It was intolerable. But--" again came her
light laugh--"everything is intolerable till you learn to shrug your
shoulders and laugh. Hark! Surely I heard something!"

Both listened intently. Footsteps were approaching the door. Daisy
sprang to open it.

But it was only the evening post, and she came back holding a letter
with a very unwonted expression of disappointment.

"From Will," she said. "I forgot it was mail night. I don't suppose
there is anything very exciting in it."

She pushed the flimsy envelope into the front of her dress and fell
again to listening.

"Can he have missed the train? Surely it's getting very late. A fog on
the line perhaps. No! What's that? Ah! It really is this time. That's
the horn, and, yes, Jim Ratcliffe's voice."

In a moment she had the door open again, and was out upon the step
crying welcome to her guest.

Muriel crouched a little lower over the fire. Her hands were fast
gripped together. It was more of an ordeal than she had thought it
possibly could be.

An icy blast blew in through the open door, and she heard Dr.
Ratcliffe's voice, sharp and curt, ordering Daisy back into the
house. Then came another voice, slow and soft as a woman's, and for an
instant Muriel covered her face, overwhelmed by bitter memory.

When she looked up they were entering the hall together, Daisy,
radiant, eager, full of breathless questioning; Blake, upright,
soldierly, magnificent, wearing the shy, pleased smile that she so
well remembered.

He did not at once see her, and she stood hesitating, till Daisy, who
was clinging to her cousin's arm, turned swiftly round and called her.

"Muriel, dear, where are you? Why are you hiding yourself? See, Blake!
Here is Muriel Roscoe! You knew we were living together?"

He saw her then, and came across to her, with both hands outstretched.

"Forgive me, Miss Roscoe," he said, with his pleasant smile. "You know
how glad I am to meet you again."

He looked down at her with eyes full of frank and friendly sympathy,
and the grasp of his hands was such that she felt it for long after.
It warmed her through and through, but she could not speak just then,
and with ready understanding he turned back to Daisy.

"Dr. Ratcliffe told me you had sent him to fetch me from the station,"
he said. "I am immensely grateful to you and to him."

Daisy was greeting the doctor with much animation and a hint of
mischief.

"I knew you would come," she laughed. "You never trust me to take care
of myself, do you?"

He brushed some flakes of snow from her dress. "Events prove me to be
justified," he remarked dryly. "Since Will has put you in my care, I
labour under a twofold responsibility. What possessed you to go out in
that murderous north-easter?"

He frowned at her heavily, his black brows meeting, but
notwithstanding her avowal of a few minutes before, Daisy only
grimaced in return. He was generally regarded as somewhat formidable,
this gruff, square-shouldered doctor, with his iron-grey hair and
black moustache, and keenly critical eyes. There was no varnish in his
curt speech, no dissimulation in any of his dealings. It was said
of him that he never sugared his pills. But his popularity was
wide-spread nevertheless. His help was sought in a thousand ways
outside his profession. To see his strong face melt into a smile was
like sunshine on a gloomy day, the village mothers declared.

But Daisy's gay effrontery did not manage to provoke it at that
moment.

"You have no business to take risks," he said. "How's the boy?"

Daisy sobered instantly. "His teeth have been worrying him rather
to-day. _Ayah_ is with him. I left her crooning him to sleep. Will you
go up?"

Jim Ratcliffe nodded and turned aside to the stairs. But he had not
reached the top when Muriel overtook him, moving more quickly than was
her wont.

"Let me come with you, doctor," she said.

He put his hand on her arm unceremoniously. "Miss Roscoe," he said, "I
have a message for you--from my scapegrace Olga. She wants to know
if you will play hockey in her team next Saturday. I have promised to
exert my influence--if I have any--on her behalf."

Muriel looked at him in semi-tragic dismay. "Oh, I can't indeed. Why,
I haven't played for ages,--not since I was at school. Besides--"

"How old are you?" he cut in.

"Nearly twenty," she told him. "But--"

He brought his hand down sharply on her shoulder. "I shall never call
you Miss Roscoe again. You obtained my veneration on false pretences,
and you have lost it for ever. Now look here, Muriel!" Arrived at the
top of the stairs, he stood still and confronted her with that smile
of his that so marvellously softened his rugged face. "I am thirty
years older than you are, and I haven't lived for any part of
them with my eyes shut. I've been wanting to give you some
advice--medical advice--for a long time. But you wouldn't have it. And
now I'm not going to offer it to you. You shall take the advice of a
friend instead. You join Olga's hockey team, and go paper-chasing with
her too. The monkey is a rare sportswoman. She'll give you a good run
for your money. Besides, she has set her heart on having you, and
she is a young woman that likes her own way, though, to be sure, she
doesn't always get it. Come, you can't refuse when a friend asks you."

It was difficult, certainly, but Muriel plainly desired to do so. She
had escaped from the whirling vortex of life with strenuous effort,
and dragged herself bruised and aching to the bank. She did not want
to step down again into even the minutest eddy of that ruthless
flood. Moreover, in addition to this morbid reluctance she lacked the
physical energy that such a step demanded of her.

"It's very kind of your little daughter to think of asking me," she
said. "But really, I shouldn't be any good. I get tired so quickly.
No, there's nothing the matter with me," seeing his intent look. "I'm
not ill. I never have been actually ill. Only--" her voice quivered a
little--"I think I always shall be tired for the rest of my life."

"Skittles!" he returned bluntly. "That isn't what's the matter with
you. Go out into the open air. Go out into the north-east wind and
sweep the snow away. Shall I tell you what is wrong with you? You're
stiff from inaction. It's a species of cramp, my dear, and there's
only one remedy for it. Are you going to take it of your own accord,
or must I come round with a physic spoon and make you?"

She laughed a little, though the deep pathos of her shadowed eyes
never varied. Daisy's merry voice rose from the lower regions gaily
chaffing her cousin.

"Goodness, Blake! I shouldn't have known you. You're as gaunt as
a camel. Haven't you got over your picnic at Fort Wara yet? You're
almost as scanty a bag of bones as Nick was six months ago."

Blake's answer was inaudible. Dr. Ratcliffe did not listen for it.
He had seen the swift look of horror that the brief allusion had sent
into the girl's sad face, and he understood it though he made no sign.

"Very well," he said, turning towards the nursery. "Then I take you
in hand from this day forward. And if I don't find you in the
hockey-field on Saturday, I shall come myself and fetch you."

There was nothing even vaguely suggestive of Nick about him, but
Muriel knew as surely as if Nick had said it that he would keep his
word.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE EXPLANATION


"Now," said Daisy briskly, "you two will just have to entertain each
other for a little while, for I am going up to sit with my son while
_ayah_ is off duty."

"Mayn't we come too?" suggested her cousin, as he rose to open the
door.

She stood a moment and contemplated him with shining eyes. "You
are too magnificent altogether for this doll's house of ours," she
declared. "I am sure this humble roof has never before sheltered such
a lion as Captain Blake Grange, V.C."

"Only an ass in a lion's skin, my dear Daisy," said Grange modestly.

She laughed. "An excellent simile, my worthy cousin. I wish I had
thought of it myself."

She went lightly away with this thrust, and Grange, after a brief
pause, turned slowly back into the room.

Muriel was seated in a low chair before the fire. She was working at
some tiny woollen socks, knitting swiftly in dead silence.

He moved to the hearthrug, and stood there, obviously ill at ease. A
certain shyness was in his nature, and Muriel's nervousness reacted
upon him. He did not know how to break the silence.

At length, with an effort, he spoke. "You heard about Nick Ratcliffe's
wound, I expect, Miss Roscoe?"

Muriel's hands leapt suddenly and fell into her lap. "Nick Ratcliffe!
When was he wounded? No, I have heard nothing."

He looked down at her with an uneasy suspicion that he had lighted
upon an unfortunate subject.

"I thought you would have heard," he said. "Didn't Daisy know? He
came back to us from Simla--got himself attached to the punitive
expedition. I was on the sick list myself, so did not see him, but
they say he fought like a dancing dervish, and did a lot of damage
too. Every one thought he would have the V.C., but there was a rumour
that he refused it."

"And--he was wounded, you say?" Muriel's voice sounded curiously
strained. Her knitting lay jumbled together in her lap. Her dark face
was lifted, and it seemed to Grange, unskilled observer though he was,
that he had never seen deeper tragedy in any woman's eyes.

Somewhat reluctantly he made reply. "He had his arm injured by a
sword-thrust at the very end of the campaign. He made light of it for
ever so long till things began to look serious. Then he had to give
in, and had a pretty sharp time of it, I believe. He's better again
now, though, so his brother told me this evening. I never heard any
details. I daresay he's all right again." He stooped to pick up a
completed sock that had fallen. "He's the sort of chap who always
comes out on top," he ended consolingly.

Muriel stiffened a little as she sat. She had a curious longing to
hear more, and an equally curious reluctance to ask for it.

"I never heard anything about it--naturally," she remarked.

Grange, having fitted the sock on to two fingers, was examining it
with a contemplative air. It struck her abruptly that he was trying to
say something. She waited silently, not without apprehension. She had
no idea as to how much he knew of what had passed between herself and
Nick.

"I say, Miss Roscoe," he blurted out suddenly, "do you hate talking
about these things--very badly, I mean?"

She looked up at him, and was surprised to see emotion on his face. It
had an odd effect upon her, placing her unaccountably at her ease with
him, banishing all her stiffness in a moment. She remembered with a
quick warmth at her heart how she had always liked this man in those
far-off days of her father's protection, how she had always found
something reassuring in his gentle courtesy.

"No," she said, after a moment, speaking with absolute sincerity. "I
can't bear to with--most people; but I don't think I mind with you."

She saw his pleasant smile for an instant. He laid the sock down upon
her knee, and in doing so touched and lightly pressed her hand.

"Thank you," he said simply. "I know I'm not good at expressing
myself, but please believe that I wouldn't hurt you for the world.
Miss Roscoe, I have brought some things with me I think you will like
to have--things that belonged to your father. Sir Reginald Bassett
entrusted them to me--left them, in fact, in my charge, as he found
them. I was coming home, and I asked leave to bring them to you.
Perhaps you would like me to fetch them?"

She was on her feet as he asked the question, on her face such a look
of eagerness as it had not worn for many weary months.

"Oh, please--if you would!" she said, her words falling fast and
breathless. "It has been--such a grief to me--that I had nothing of
his to--to treasure."

He turned at once to the door. The desolation that those words of hers
revealed to him went straight to his man's heart. Poor little girl!
Had the parting been so infernally hard as even now to bring that look
to her eyes? Was her father's memory the only interest she had left
in her sad young life? And all the evening, save for that first brief
moment of their meeting, he had been thinking her cold, impassive,
even cynical.

With a deep pity in his soul he departed on his errand.

Returning with the soft tread which was his peculiarity, he surprised
her with her face in her hands in an attitude of such abandonment that
he drew back hesitating. But, suddenly aware of him, she sprang up
swiftly, with no sign of tears upon her face.

"Oh, come in, come in!" she said impatiently. "Why do you stand
there?"

She ran forward to meet him with hands hungrily outstretched, and
he put into them those trifles which were to her so infinitely
precious--a cigarette-case, a silver match-box, a pen-knife, a little
old prayer-book very worn at the edges, with all the gilt faded from
its leaves. She gathered them to her breast closely, passionately.
All but the prayer-book had been her gifts to the father she had
worshipped. With a wrung heart she called to mind the occasion upon
which each had been offered, his smile of kindly appreciation, the
old-world courtliness of his thanks. With loving hands she laid them
down one by one, lingering over each, seeing them through a blur of
tears. She was no longer conscious of Grange, as reverently, even
diffidently, she opened last of all the little shabby prayer-book that
her father had been wont to take with him on all his marches. She knew
that he had cherished it as her mother's gift.

It opened upon a scrap of white heather which marked the Service for
the Burial of the Dead. Her tears fell upon the faded sprig, and she
brushed her hand swiftly across her eyes, looking more closely as
certain words underlined caught her attention. Other words had been
written by her father's hand very minutely in the margin.

The passage underlined was ... "not to be sorry as men without hope,
for them that sleep ..." and in a moment she guessed that her father
had made that mark on the day of her mother's death. It was like a
message to her, the echo of a cry.

The words in the margin were so small that she had to carry them to
the light to read them. And then they flashed out at her as if
sprung suddenly to light on the white paper. There, in the beloved
handwriting, sure and indelible, she read it, and across the desert
of her heart, voiceless but insistent, there swept the hunger-cry of a
man's soul: OMNIA VINCIT AMOR.

It pulsed through her like an electric current, seeming to overwhelm
every other sensation, shutting her off as it were from the home-world
to which she had fled, how fruitlessly, for healing. Once more
skeleton fingers held hers, shifting to and fro, to and fro, slowly,
ceaselessly, flashing the deep rays that shone from ruby hearts hither
and thither. Once more--But she would not bear it! She was free! She
was free! She flung out the hand that once had worn those rubies, and,
resisting wildly, broke away from the spell that the words her father
had written had woven afresh for her.

It might be true that Love conquered all things--he had believed
it--but ah, what had this uncanny force to do with Love? Love was a
pure, a holy thing, the bond imperishable--the Eternal Flame at which
all the little torches of the world are lighted.

Moreover, there was no fear in Love, and she--she was sick with fear
whenever she encountered that haunting phantom of memory.

With a start she awoke to the fact that she was not alone. Blake
Grange had taken her out-flung hand, and was speaking to her softly,
soothingly.

"Don't grieve so awfully, Miss Roscoe," he urged, a slight break in
his own voice. "You're not left friendless. I know how it is. I've
felt like it myself. But it gets better afterwards."

Muriel suffered him with a dawning sense of comfort. It surprised her
to see tears in his eyes. She wondered vaguely if they were for her.

"Yes," she said, after a pause. "It does get better, I know, in a way.
Or at least one gets used to an empty heart. One gets to leave off
listening for what one will never, never hear any more."

"Never is a dreary word," said Grange.

She bent her head silently, and again his heart overflowed with pity
for her. He looked down at the hand that lay so passively in his.

"I hope you will always think of me as a friend," he said.

She looked up at him a quick gleam of gratitude in her eyes. "Thank
you," she said. "Yes, always."

He still held her hand. "You know," he said, blundering awkwardly, "I
always blamed myself that--that I wasn't the one to be with you when
you escaped from Wara. I might have been. But I--I wasn't prepared to
pay the possible price."

She was still looking at him with those aloof, tragic eyes of
hers. "I don't quite understand," she said, "I never did
understand--exactly--why Nick was chosen to protect me. I always
wished it had been you."

"It ought to have been," Grange said, with feeling. "It should have
been. I blame myself. But Nick is a better fighter than I. He keeps
his head. Moreover, he's a savage in some respects. I wasn't savage
enough."

He smiled with a hint of apology.

Muriel repressed a shudder at his words. "I don't understand," she
said again.

He hesitated. "It's a difficult thing to explain to you," he said
reluctantly. "You see, the fellow who took charge of you had to be
prepared for--well--anything. You know what devils those tribesmen
are. There was to be no chance of your falling into their hands. It
didn't mean just fighting for you, you understand. We would all have
done that to the last drop of our blood. But--your father--was forced
to ask of us--something more. And only Ratcliffe would undertake it.
He's a queer chap. I used to think him a rotter till I saw him fight,
and then I had to change my mind. That was, I believe, the main reason
why General Roscoe selected him as your protector. He knew he could
trust the fellow's nerve. The rest of us were like women compared to
Nick."

He paused. Muriel's eyes had not flinched from his. She heard his
explanation as one not vitally concerned.

"Have I made myself intelligible?" he asked, as she did not speak.

"Do you mean I was to be shot if things went wrong?" she returned, in
her deep, quiet voice.

He nodded. "It must have been that. Your father saw it in that light,
and so did we. Of course you are bound to see it too. But we stuck at
it--Marshall and I. There was only Nick left, and he volunteered."

"Only Nick left!" she repeated slowly. "Nick would stick at nothing,
Captain Grange."

"I honestly don't think he would," said Grange. "Still, you know, he's
awfully plucky. He would have gone any length to save you first."

She drew back with a sudden shrinking of her whole body. "Oh, I know,
I know!" she said. "I sometimes think there is a devil in Nick."

She turned aside, bending once more over her father's things, putting
them together with unsteady fingers. So this was the answer to the
riddle--the secret of his choice for her! She understood it all now.

After a short pause, she spoke again more calmly. "Did Nick ever speak
to you about me?"

"Never," said Grange.

"Then please, Captain Grange"--she stood up again and faced
him--"never speak to me again about him. I--want to forget him."

Very young and slight she looked standing there, and again he felt his
heart stir within him with an urgent pity. Vague rumours he had heard
of those few weeks at Simla during which her name and Nick Ratcliffe's
had been coupled together, but he had never definitely known what
had taken place. Had Nick been good to her, he wondered for the first
time? How was it that the bare mention of him was unendurable to
her? What had he done that she should shudder with horror when she
remembered him, and should seek thus with loathing to thrust him out
of her life?

Involuntarily the man's hands clenched and his blood quickened. Had
the General's trust been misplaced? Was Nick a blackguard?

Finding her eyes still upon him, he made her a slight bow that was
wholly free from gallantry.

"I will remember your wish, Miss Roscoe," he said. "I am sorry I
mentioned a painful subject to you, though I am glad for you to know
the truth. You are not vexed with me, I hope?"

Her eyes shone with sincere friendliness. "I am not vexed," she
answered. "Only--let me forget--that's all."

And in those few words she voiced the desire of her soul. It was her
one longing, her one prayer--to forget. And it was the one thing of
all others denied to her.

In the silence that followed, she was conscious of his warm and kindly
sympathy, and she was grateful for it, though something restrained her
from telling him so.

Daisy, coming lightly in upon them, put an end to their tête-à-tête.
She entered softly, her face alight and tender, and laid her two hands
upon Grange's great shoulders as he sat before the fire.

"Come upstairs, Blake," she whispered, "and see my baby boy. He's
sleeping so sweetly. I want you to see him first while he's good."

He raised his face to her smiling, his hands on hers. "I am sure to
admire anything that belongs to you, Daisy," he said.

"You're a dear old pal," responded Daisy lightly. "Come along."

When they were gone Muriel spied Will Musgrave's letter lying on
the ground by Grange's chair as it had evidently fallen from Daisy's
dress. She went over and picked it up. It was still unopened.

With an odd little frown she set it up prominently upon the
mantelpiece.

"Does Love conquer after all?" she murmured to herself, and there was
a faint twist of cynicism about her lips as she asked the question.
There seemed to be so many forms of Love.



CHAPTER XIX

A HERO WORSHIPPER


"Well played! Oh, well played! Miss Roscoe, you're a brick."

The merry voice of the doctor's little daughter Olga, aged fourteen,
shrilled across the hockey-ground, keen with enthusiasm. She was
speeding across the field like a hare to congratulate her latest
recruit.

"I'm so pleased!" she cried, bursting through the miscellaneous crowd
of boys and girls that surrounded Muriel. "I wanted you to shoot that
goal."

She herself had been acting as goal-keeper at her own end of the
field, a position of limited opportunities which she had firmly
refused to assign to the new-comer. A child of unusual character was
Olga Ratcliffe, impulsive but shrewd, with quick, pale eyes which
never seemed to take more than a brief glance at anything, yet which
very little ever escaped. At first sight Muriel had experienced a
certain feeling of aversion to her, so marked was the likeness this
child bore to the man whom she desired so passionately to shut out of
her very memory. But a nearer intimacy had weakened her antipathy
till very soon it had altogether disappeared. Olga had a swift and
fascinating fashion of endearing herself to all who caught her fancy
and, somewhat curiously, Muriel was one of the favoured number. What
there was to attract a child of her quick temperament in the grave,
silent girl in mourning who held aloof so coldly from the rest of the
world was never apparent. But that a strong attraction existed for her
was speedily evident, and Muriel, who was quite destitute of any
near relations of her own, soon found that a free admittance to the
doctor's home circle was accorded her on all sides, whenever she chose
to avail herself of it.

But though Daisy was an immense favourite and often ran into the
Ratcliffes' house, which was not more than a few hundred yards away
from her own little abode, Muriel went but seldom. The doctor's wife,
though always kind, was too busy to seek her out. And so it had been
left to the doctor himself to drag her at length from her seclusion,
and he had done it with a determination that would take no refusal.
She did not know him very intimately, had never asked his advice,
or held any confidential talk with him. At the outset she had been
horribly afraid lest he should have heard of her engagement to Nick,
but, since he never referred to her life in India or to Nick as in any
fashion connected with herself, this fear had gradually subsided. She
was able to tell herself thankfully that Nick was dropping away from
her into the past, and to hope with some conviction that the great
gulf that separated them would never be bridged.

Yet, notwithstanding this, she had a fugitive wish to know how her
late comrade in adversity was faring. Captain Grange's news regarding
him had aroused in her a vague uneasiness, which would not be quieted.

She wondered if by any means she could extract any information from
Olga, and this she presently essayed to do, when play was over for the
day and Olga had taken her upstairs to prepare for tea.

Olga was the easiest person in the world to deal with upon such a
subject. She expanded at the very mention of Nick's name.

"Oh, do you know him? Isn't he a darling? I have a photograph of him
somewhere. I must try and find it. He is in fancy dress and standing
on his head--such a beauty. Weren't you awfully fond of him? He has
been ill, you know. Dad was very waxy because he wouldn't come home.
He might have had sick leave, but he wouldn't take it. However, he may
have to come yet, Dad says, if something happens. He didn't say what.
It was something to do with his wound. Dad wants him to leave the Army
and settle down on his estate. He owns a big place about twelve miles
away that an old great-aunt of his left him. Dad thinks a landowner
ought to live at home if he can afford to. And of course Nick might go
into Parliament too. He's so clever, and rich as well. But he won't do
it. So it's no good talking."

Olga jumped off the dressing-table, and wound her arm impulsively
through Muriel's. "Miss Roscoe," she said coaxingly, "I do like you
most awfully. May I call you by your Christian name?"

"Why, do!" Muriel said. "I should like it best."

"Oh, that's all right," said Olga, well pleased. "I knew you weren't
stuck-up really. I hate stuck-up people, don't you? I'm awfully
pleased that you like Nick. I simply love him--better almost than any
one else. He writes to me sometimes, pages and pages. I never show
them to any one, and he doesn't show mine either. You see, we're pals.
But I can show you his photograph--the one I told you about. It's just
like him--his grin and all. Come up after tea, and I'll find it."

And with her arm entwined in Muriel's she drew her, still talking
eagerly, from the room.



CHAPTER XX

NEWS FROM THE EAST


"I have been wondering," Grange said in his shy, rather diffident way,
"if you would care to do any riding while I am here."

"I?" Muriel looked up in some surprise.

They were walking back from church together by a muddy field-path, and
since neither had much to say at any time, they had accomplished more
than half the distance in silence.

"I know you do ride," Grange explained, "and it's just the sort of
country for a good gallop now and then. Daisy isn't allowed to, but I
thought perhaps you--"

"Oh, I should like to, of course," Muriel said. "I haven't done any
riding since I left Simla. I didn't care to alone."

"Ah! Lady Bassett rides, doesn't she? She is an accomplished
horsewoman, I believe?"

"I don't know," Muriel's reply was noticeably curt. "I never rode with
her."

Grange at once dropped the subject, and they became silent again.
Muriel walked with her eyes fixed straight before her. But she did not
see the brown earth underfoot or the bare trees that swayed overhead
in the racing winter wind. She was back again in the heart of the
Simla pines, hearing horses' feet that stamped below her window in the
dawning, and a gay, cracked voice that sang.

Her companion's voice recalled her. "I suppose Daisy will stay here
for the summer."

"I suppose so," she answered.

Grange went on with some hesitation. "The little chap doesn't look as
if he would ever stand the Indian climate. What will happen? Will she
ever consent to leave him with the Ratcliffes?"

"I am quite certain she won't," Muriel answered, with unfaltering
conviction. "She simply lives for him."

"I thought so," Grange said rather sadly. "It would go hard with her
if--if--"

Muriel's dark eyes flashed swift entreaty. "Oh, don't say it! Don't
think it! I believe it would kill her."

"She is stronger, though?" he questioned almost sharply.

"Yes, yes, much stronger. Only--not strong enough for that. Captain
Grange, it simply couldn't happen."

They had reached a gate at the end of the field. Grange stopped before
it, and spoke with sudden, deep feeling.

"If it does happen, Muriel," he said, using her Christian name quite
unconsciously, "we shall have to stand by her, you and I. You won't
leave her, will you? You would be of more use to her than I. Oh,
it's--it's damnable to see a woman in trouble and not be able to
comfort her."

He brought his ungloved hand down upon the gate-post with a violence
that drew blood; then, seeing her face of amazement, thrust it hastily
behind him.

"I'm a fool," he said, with his shy, semi-apologetic smile. "Don't
mind me, Miss Roscoe. You know, I--I'm awfully fond of Daisy, always
was. My people were her people, and when they died we were the only
two left, as it were. Of course she was married by that time, and
there are some other relations somewhere. But we've always hung
together, she and I. You can understand it, can't you?"

Muriel fancied she could, but his vehemence startled her none the
less. She had not deemed him capable of such intensity.

"I suppose you feel almost as if she were your sister," she remarked,
groping half-unconsciously for an explanation.

Grange was holding the gate open for her. He did not instantly reply.

Then, "I don't exactly know what that feels like," he said, with an
odd shame-facedness. "But in so far as that we have been playfellows
and chums all our lives, I suppose you might describe it in that way."

And Muriel, though she wondered a little at the laborious honesty of
his reply, was satisfied that she understood.

She was drifting into a very pleasant friendship with Blake Grange.
He seemed to rely upon her in an indefinable fashion that made their
intercourse of necessity one of intimacy. Moreover, Daisy's habits
were still more or less those of an invalid, and this fact helped very
materially to throw them together.

To Muriel, emerging slowly from the long winter of her sorrow, the
growing friendship with this man whom she both liked and admired was
as a shaft of sunshine breaking across a grey landscape. Insensibly
it was doing her good. The deep shadow of a horror that once had
overwhelmed her was lifting gradually away from her life. In her
happier moments it almost seemed that she was beginning to forget.

Grange's suggestion that they should ride together awoke in her a
keener sense of pleasure than she had known since the tragedy of Wara
had darkened her young life, and for the rest of the day she looked
forward eagerly to the resumption of this her favourite exercise.

Daisy was delighted with the idea, and when on the following morning
Grange ransacked the town for suitable mounts and returned triumphant,
she declared gaily that she should take no further trouble for her
guest's entertainment. The responsibility from that day forth rested
with Muriel.

Muriel was by no means loth to assume it. They got on excellently
together, and their almost daily rides became a source of keen
pleasure to her. Winter was fast merging into spring, and the magic
of the coming season was working in her blood. There were times when
a sense of spontaneous happiness would come over her, she knew not
wherefore. Jim Ratcliffe no longer looked at her with stern-browed
disapproval.

She and Grange both became regular members of Olga's hockey team. They
shared most of their pursuits. Among other things she was learning the
accompaniments of his songs. Grange had a well-cultivated tenor voice,
to which Daisy the restless would listen for any length of time.

Altogether they were a very peaceful trio, and as the weeks slipped on
it almost seemed as if the quiet home life they lived were destined to
endure indefinitely. Grange spoke occasionally of leaving, but Daisy
would never entertain the idea for an instant, and he certainly did
not press it very strongly. He was not returning to India before
September, and the long summer months that intervened made the date
of his departure so remote as to be outside discussion. No one ever
thought of it.

But the long, quiet interval in the sleepy little country town,
interminable as it might feel, was not destined to last for ever. On
a certain afternoon in March, Grange and Muriel, riding home together
after a windy gallop across open country, were waylaid outside the
doctor's gate by one of the Ratcliffe boys.

The urchin was cheering at the top of his voice and dancing
ecstatically in the mud. Olga, equally dishevelled but somewhat more
coherent, was seated on the gate-post, her long legs dangling.

"Have you seen Dad? Have you heard?" was her cry. "Jimmy, come out of
the road. You'll be kicked."

Both riders pulled up to hear the news, Jimmy squirming away from
the horses' legs after a fashion that provoked even the mild-tempered
Grange to a sharp reproof.

"You haven't heard?" pursued Olga, ignoring her small brother's
escapade as too trifling to notice at such a supreme moment. "But you
haven't, of course, if you haven't seen Dad. The letter only came an
hour ago. It's Nick, dear old Nick! He's coming home at last!" In
her delight over imparting the information Olga nearly toppled over
backwards, only saving herself by a violent effort. "Aren't you glad,
Muriel? Aren't you glad?" she cried. "I was never so pleased in my
life!"

But Muriel had no reply ready. For some reason her animal had become
suddenly restive, and occupied the whole of her attention.

It was Grange who after a seconds hesitation asked for further
particulars. "What is he coming for? Is it sick leave?"

Olga nodded. "He isn't to stay out there for the hot weather. It's
something to do with his wound. He doesn't want to come a bit. But he
is to start almost at once. He may be starting now."

"Not likely," put in Jimmy. "The end of March was what he said. Dad
said he couldn't be here before the third week in April."

"Oh, well, that isn't long, is it?" said Olga eagerly. "Not when you
come to remember that it's three years since he went away. I do think
they might have given him the V.C., don't you? Captain Grange, why
hasn't he got the V.C.?"

Grange couldn't say, really. He advised her to ask the man himself.
He was observing Muriel with some uneasiness, and when she at length
abruptly waved her whip and rode sharply on as though her horse
were beyond her control, he struck spurs into his own and started in
pursuit.

Muriel passed her own gate at a canter, but hearing Grange behind her
she soon reined in, and they trotted some distance side by side in
silence.

But Grange was still uneasy. The girl's rigid profile had that stony,
aloof look that he had noted upon his arrival weeks before, and that
he had come to associate with her escape from Wara.

Nevertheless, when she presently addressed him it was in her ordinary
tone and upon a subject indifferent to them both. She had received a
shock, he knew, but she plainly did not wish him to remark it.

They rode quite soberly back again, and separated at the door.



CHAPTER XXI

A HARBOUR OF REFUGE


To Daisy the news that Grange imparted was more pleasing than
startling. "I knew he would come before long if he were a wise man,"
she said.

But when her cousin wanted to know what she meant, she would not tell
him.

"No, I can't, Blake," was her answer. "I once promised Muriel never to
speak of it. She is very sensitive on the subject."

Grange did not press for an explanation. It was not his way. He left
her moodily, a frown of deep dissatisfaction upon his handsome face.
Daisy did not spend much thought upon him. Her interests at that
time were almost wholly centred upon her boy who was so backward and
delicate that she was continually anxious about him. She was, in fact,
so preoccupied that she hardly noticed at dinner that Muriel scarcely
spoke and ate next to nothing.

Grange remarked both facts, and his moodiness increased. When
Daisy went up to the nursery, he at once followed Muriel into the
drawing-room. She was standing by the window when he entered, a slim,
straight figure in unrelieved black; but though she must have heard
him, she neither spoke nor turned her head.

Grange closed the door and came softly forward. There was an unwonted
air of resolution about him that made him look almost grim. He reached
her side and stood there silently. The wind had fallen, and the sky
was starry.

After a brief silence Muriel dropped the blind and looked at him.
There was something of interrogation in her glance.

"Shall we go into the garden?" she suggested. "It is so warm."

He fell in at once with the proposal. "You will want a cloak," he
said. "Can I fetch you one?"

"Oh, thanks! Anything will do. I believe there's one of Daisy's in the
hall."

She moved across the room quickly, as one impatient to escape from a
confined space. Grange followed her. He was not smoking as usual. They
went out together into the warm darkness, and passed side by side
down the narrow path that wound between the bare flower-beds. It was
a wonderful night. Once as they walked there drifted across them a
sudden fragrance of violets.

They reached at length a rustic gate that led into the doctor's
meadow, and here with one consent they stopped. Very far away a faint
wind was stirring, but close at hand there was no sound. Again, from
the wet earth by the gate, there rose the magic scent of violets.

Muriel rested her clasped hands upon the gate, and spoke in a voice
unconsciously hushed.

"I never realised how much I liked this place before," she said.
"Isn't it odd? I have been actually happy here--and I didn't know it."

"You are not happy to-night," said Grange.

She did not attempt to contradict him. "I think I am rather tired,"
she said.

"I don't think that is quite all," he returned, with quiet conviction.

She moved, turning slightly towards him; but she said nothing, though
he obviously waited for some response.

For awhile he was discouraged, and silence fell again upon them. Then
at length he braced himself for an effort. For all his shyness he was
not without a certain strength.

"Miss Roscoe," he said, "do you remember how you once promised that
you would always regard me as a friend?"

She turned fully towards him then, and he saw her face dimly in the
starlight. He thought she looked very pale.

"I do," she said simply.

In a second his diffidence fell away from him. He realised that the
ground on which he stood was firm. He bent towards her.

"I want you to keep that promise of yours in its fullest sense
to-night, Muriel," he said, and his soft voice had in it almost a
caressing note. "I want you--if you will--to tell me what is the
matter."

Muriel stood before him with her face upturned. He could not read her
expression, but he knew by her attitude that she had no thought of
repelling him.

"What is it?" he urged gently. "Won't you tell me?"

"Don't you know?" she asked him slowly.

"I only know that what we heard this afternoon upset you," he
answered. "And I don't understand it. I am asking you to explain."

"You will only think me very foolish and absurd."

There was a deep quiver in the words, and he knew that she was
trembling. Very kindly he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Can't you trust me better than that?" he asked.

She did not answer him. Her breathing became suddenly sharp and
irregular, and he realised that she was battling for self-control.

"I don't know if I can make you understand," she said at last. "But I
will try."

"Yes, try!" he said gently. "You won't find it so very difficult."

She turned back to the gate, and leaned wearily upon it.

"You are very kind. You always have been. I couldn't tell any one
else--not even Daisy. You see, she is--his friend. But you are
different. I don't think you like him, do you?"

Grange hesitated a little. "I won't go so far as to say that," he
said finally. "We get on all right. I was never very intimate with the
fellow. I think he is a bit callous."

"Callous!" Muriel gave a sudden hard shudder. "He is much worse than
callous. He is hideously, almost devilishly cruel. But--but--he isn't
only that. Blake, do you think he is quite human? He is so horribly,
so unnaturally strong."

Grange heard the scared note in her voice, and drew very close to her.
"I think," he said quietly, "that--without knowing it--you exaggerate
both his cruelty and his strength. I know he is a queer chap. I once
heard it said of him that he has the eyes of a snake-charmer, and I
believe it more or less. But I assure you he is human--quite human.
And"--he spoke with unwonted emphasis--"he has no more power over
you--not an inch--than you choose to give him."

Muriel uttered a faint sigh. "I knew I should never make you
understand."

Grange was silent. He might have retorted that she had given him very
little information to go upon, but he forebore. There was an almost
colossal patience about this man. His silence had in it nothing of
resentment.

After a few seconds Muriel went on, her voice very low. "I would give
anything--all I have--not to meet him when he comes back. But I don't
know how to get away from him. He is sure to seek me out. And I--I am
only a girl. I can't prevent it."

Again there sounded that piteous quiver in her words. It was like the
cry of a lost child. Grange heard it, and clenched his hands, but he
did not speak. He was gazing straight ahead, stern-eyed and still.

Muriel scarcely noticed his attitude. Having at length broken through
her barrier of reserve, she found a certain relief in speech.

"I might go away, of course," she said. "I expect I shall do that, for
I don't think I could endure it here. But I haven't many friends.
My year in India seemed to cut me off from every one. It's a little
difficult to know where to go. And then, too, there is Daisy."

She paused, and suddenly Grange spoke, with more abruptness than was
his wont.

"Why do you think he is sure to seek you out? Did he ever say so?"

She shivered. "No, he never said so. But--but--in a way I feel it.
He is so merciless. He always makes me think of an eagle swooping
down on its prey. No doubt you think me very fanciful and ridiculous.
Perhaps I am. But once--in the mountains--he told me that I belonged
to him--that he would not let me go, and--and--I have never been able
to forget it."

Her voice sank, and it seemed to Grange that she was crying in the
darkness. Her utter forlornness pierced him to the heart. He leaned
towards her, trying ineffectually to see her face.

"My dear little girl," he said gently, "don't be so distressed. He
deserves to be kicked for frightening you like this."

"It's my own fault," she whispered back. "If I were stronger, or if
Daddy were with me--it would be different. But I am all alone. There
is no one to help me. I used to think it didn't matter what happened
to me, but I am beginning to feel it does."

"Of course it does," Grange said. His hand felt along the rail for
hers, and, finding them, held them closely. Her weakness gave him
confidence. "Poor child!" he murmured softly. "Poor little girl! You
do want some one to take care of you."

Muriel mastered herself with an effort. It was not often now that she
gave way so completely.

"It's only now and then," she said. "It's better than it used to be.
Only somehow I got frightened when I heard that Nick was coming. I
daresay--when I begin to get used to the idea--I shan't mind it quite
so much. Never mind about my silly worries any more. No doubt I shall
get wiser as I grow older."

She tried to laugh with the words, but somehow no laugh came. Grange's
great hand closed very tightly upon hers, and she looked up in
surprise.

Almost instantly he began to speak, very humbly, but also very
resolutely. "Muriel," he said, "I'm an unutterable fool at expressing
things. I can only say them straight out and hope for the best. You
want a protector, don't you? And I--should like to be the one to
protect you if--if it were ever possible for you to think of me in
that light."

He spoke with immense effort. He was afraid of scaring her, afraid of
hurting her desolate young heart, afraid almost of the very impulse
that moved him to speak.

Absolute silence reigned when he ended.

Muriel had become suddenly rigid, and so still that she did not seem
to breathe. For several seconds he waited, but still she made no sign.
He had not the remotest clue to guide him. He began to feel as if a
door had unexpectedly closed against him, not violently, but steadily,
soundlessly, barring him out.

It was but a fleeting impression. In a few moments more it was gone.
She drew a long quivering breath, and turned slightly towards him.

"I would rather trust myself to you," she said, "than to any one else
in the world."

She spoke in her deep, sincere voice which gave him no doubt that she
meant what she said, and at once his own trepidation departed. He put
his arm around her, and pressed her close to him.

"Come to me then," he said very tenderly. "And I will take such care
of you, Muriel, that no one shall ever frighten you again."

She yielded to his touch as simply as a child, leaning her head
against him with a little, weary gesture of complete confidence. She
was desperately tired of standing alone.

"I know I shall be safe with you," she whispered.

"Quite safe, dear," he answered gravely. He paused a moment as though
irresolute; then, still holding her closely, he bent and kissed her
forehead.

He did it very quietly and reverently, but at the action she started,
almost shrank. One of those swift flashes of memory came suddenly upon
her, and as in a vision she beheld another face bending over her--a
yellow, wrinkled face of terrible emaciation, with eyes of flickering
fire--eyes that never slept--and heard a voice, curiously broken
and incoherent that seemed to pray. She could not catch the words it
uttered.

The old wild panic rushed over her, the old frenzied longing to
escape. With a sobbing gasp she turned in Grange's arms, and clung to
him.

"Oh, Captain Grange," she panted piteously, "promise--promise you will
never let me go!"

Her agitation surprised him, but it awaked in him a responsive
tenderness that compassed her with a strength bred rather of emergency
than habit.

"My little girl, I swear I will never let you go," he said, with grave
assurance. "You are quite safe now. No one shall ever take you from
me."

And it was to Muriel as if, after long and futile battling in the open
sea, she had drifted at last into the calm heaven which surely had
always been the goal of her desires.



CHAPTER XXII

AN OLD STORY


Jim Ratcliffe was in the drawing-room with Daisy when they returned.
He scrutinised them both somewhat sharply as they came in, but he made
no comment upon their preference for the garden. Very soon he rose to
take his leave.

Grange accompanied him to the door, and Muriel, suddenly possessed by
an overwhelming sense of shyness, bent over Daisy and murmured a hasty
goodnight.

Daisy looked at her for a moment. "Tired, dear?"

"A little," Muriel admitted.

"I hope you haven't been catching cold--you and Blake," Daisy said, as
she kissed her.

Muriel assured her to the contrary, and hastened to make her escape.
In the hall she came face to face with Blake. He met her with a smile.

"What! Going up already?"

She nodded. Her face was burning. For an instant her hand lay in his.

"You tell Daisy," she whispered, and fled upstairs like a scared bird.

Grange stood till she was out of sight; then turned aside to the
drawing-room, the smile wholly gone from his face.

Daisy, from her seat before the fire, looked up with her gay laugh.
"I'm sure there is a secret brewing between you two," she declared. "I
can feel it in my bones."

Grange closed the door carefully. There was a queer look on his face,
almost an apprehensive look. He took up his stand on the hearthrug
before he spoke.

"You are not far wrong, Daisy," he said then.

She answered him lightly as ever. "I never am, my dear Blake. Surely
you must have noticed it. Well, am I to be let into the plot, or not?"

He looked at her for a moment uneasily. "Of course we shall tell you,"
he said. "It--it's not a thing we could very well keep to ourselves
for any length of time."

A sudden gleam of understanding flashed into Daisy's upturned face,
and instantly her expression changed. With a swift, vehement movement
she sprang up and stood before him.

"Blake!" she exclaimed, and in her voice astonishment, dismay, and
even reproach were mingled.

He averted his eyes from hers. "Won't you congratulate me, Daisy?" he
said, speaking almost under his breath.

Daisy had turned very white. She put out both hands, and leaned upon
the mantelpiece.

"But, my dear Blake," she said, after a moment, "she is not for you."

"What do you mean?" Grange's jaw suddenly set itself. He squared
his great shoulders as if instinctively bracing himself to meet
opposition.

"I mean"--Daisy spoke very quietly and emphatically--"I mean, Blake,
that she is Nick's property. She belonged to Nick before ever you
thought of wanting her. I never dreamed that you would do anything
so shabby as to step in at the last moment, just when Nick is coming
home, and cut him out. How could you do such a thing, Blake? But
surely it isn't irrevocable? You can't have said anything definite?"

Grange's face had become very stern. He no longer avoided her eyes.
For once he was really angry, and showed it.

"You make a mistake," he told her curtly. "I have done nothing
whatever of which I am ashamed, or of which any man could be ashamed.
Certainly I have taken a definite step. I have proposed to her, and
she has accepted me. With regard to Nick Ratcliffe, I believe myself
that the fellow is something of a blackguard, but in any case she both
fears and hates him. He can have no shadow of a right over her."

"You forget that he saved her life," said Daisy.

"Is she to hold herself at his disposal on that account? I must say I
fail to see the obligation."

There was even a hint of scorn in Grange's tone. At sound of it, Daisy
turned round and laid her hand winningly upon his arm.

"Dear old boy," she said gently, "don't be angry. I'm not against
you."

He softened instantly. It was not in him to harbour resentment against
a woman. He took her hand, and heaved a deep sigh.

"No, Daisy," he said half sadly, "you mustn't be against me. I always
count on you."

Daisy laughed a little wistfully. "Always did, dear, didn't you? Well,
tell me some more. What made you propose all of a sudden like this?
Are you--very much in love?"

He looked at her. "Perhaps not quite as we used to understand the
term," he said, seeming to speak half-reluctantly.

"Oh, we were very extravagant and foolish," rejoined Daisy lightly.
"I didn't mean quite in that way, Blake. You at least are past the age
for such feathery nonsense, or should be. I was--aeons and aeons ago."

"Were you?" he said, and still he looked at her half in wonder, it
seemed, and half in regret.

Daisy nodded at him briskly. The colour had come back to her face.
"Yes, I have arrived at years of discretion," she assured him. "And I
quite agree with Solomon that childhood and youth are vanity. But now
let us talk about this. Is she in love with you, I wonder? I must be
remarkably blind not to have seen it. How in the world I shall ever
face Nick again, I can't imagine."

Grange frowned. "I'm getting a bit tired of Nick," he said moodily.
"He crops up everywhere."

Daisy's face flushed. "Don't you ever again say a word against him in
my hearing," she said. "For I won't bear it. He may not be handsome
like you; but for all that, he's about the finest man I know."

"Good heavens!" said Blake. "As much as that!"

She nodded vehemently. "Yes, quite as much. And he loves her, too,
loves her with his whole soul. Perhaps you never knew that they would
have been married long ago in Simla if Muriel hadn't overheard some
malicious gossip and thrown him over. How in the world she made him
let her go I never knew, but she did it, though I believe it nearly
broke his heart. He came to me afterwards and begged me to keep her
with me as long as I could, and take care of her."

"All this," broke in Grange, "is what you promised never to speak of?"

"Yes," she admitted recklessly. "But it is what you ought to
know--what you must know--before you go any further."

"It will make no difference to me," he observed. "It is quite obvious
that she never cared for him in the smallest degree. Why, my dear
girl, she hates the man!"

Daisy gave vent to a sigh of exasperation. "When you come to talk
about women's feelings, Blake, you make me tired. You will never be
anything but a great big booby in that respect as long as you live."

Grange became silent. He never argued with Daisy. She had always had
the upper hand. He watched her as she sat down again, her pretty face
in the glow of the fire; but though fully aware of the fact, she would
not look at him.

"She is a dear girl, and you are not half good enough for her," she
said, stooping a little to the blaze.

"I know that," he answered bluntly. "I wasn't good enough for you,
either, but you would have had me--once."

She made a dainty gesture with one shoulder. "That also was aeons ago.
Why disturb that poor old skeleton?"

He did not answer, but he continued to watch her steadily with eyes
that held an expression of dumb faithfulness--like the eyes of a dog.

Daisy was softly and meditatively poking the fire. "If you marry her,
Blake," she said, "you will have to be enormously good to her. She
isn't the sort of girl to be satisfied with anything but the best."

"I should do my utmost to make her happy," he answered.

She glanced up momentarily. "I wonder if you would succeed," she
murmured.

For a single instant their eyes met. Daisy's fell away at once, and
the firelight showed a swift deepening of colour on her face.

As for Blake, he stood quite stiff for a few seconds, then with an
abruptness of movement unusual with him, he knelt suddenly down beside
her.

"Daisy," he said, and his voice sounded strained, almost hoarse,
"you're not vexed about it? You don't mind my marrying? It isn't--you
know--it isn't--as if--"

He broke off, for Daisy had jerked upright as if at the piercing of a
nerve. She looked at him fully, with blazing eyes. "How can you be so
ridiculous, Blake?" she exclaimed, with sharp impatience. "That was
all over and done with long, long ago, and you know it. Besides, even
if it hadn't been, I'm not a dog in the manger. Surely you know that
too. Oh, go away, and don't be absurd!"

She put her hand against his shoulder, and gave him a small but
vehement push.

He stood up again immediately, but he did not look hurt, and the
expression of loyalty in his eyes never wavered.

There was a short pause before Daisy spoke again.

"Well," she said, with a brief sigh, "I suppose it's no good crying
over spilt milk, but I wish you had chosen any girl in the world but
Muriel, Blake; I do indeed. You will have to write to Sir Reginald
Bassett. He is her guardian, subject to his wife's management. Perhaps
she will approve of you. She hated Nick for some reason."

"I don't see how they can object," Grange said, in the moody tone he
always used when perplexed.

"No," said Daisy. "Nor did Nick. But Lady Bassett managed to put a
spoke in his wheel notwithstanding. Still, if Muriel wants to marry
you--or thinks she does--she will probably take her own way. And
possibly regret it afterwards."

"You think I shall not make her happy?" said Grange.

Daisy hesitated a little. "I think," she said slowly, "that you are
not the man for her. However,"--she rose with another shrug--"I may
be wrong. In any case you have gone too far for me to meddle. I can't
help either of you now. You must just do what you think best." She
held out her hand. "I must go up now. Baby is restless to-night, and
may want me. Good-night."

Blake stooped, and carried her hand softly and suddenly to his lips.
He seemed for an instant on the verge of saying something, but no
words came. There was a faint, half-mocking smile on Daisy's face
as she turned away. But she was silent also. It seemed that they
understood each other.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE SLEEP CALLED DEATH


It was an unspeakable relief to Muriel that, in congratulating her
upon her engagement, Daisy made no reference to Nick. She did not know
that this forbearance had been dictated long before by Nick himself.

The days that followed her engagement had in them a sort of rapture
that she had never known before. She felt as a young wild creature
suddenly escaped from the iron jaws of a trap in which it had long
languished, and she rioted in the sense of liberty that was hers. Her
youth was coming back to her in leaps and bounds with the advancing
spring.

She missed nothing in Blake's courtship. His gentleness had always
attracted her, and the intimacy that had been growing up between them
made their intercourse always easy and pleasant. They never spoke of
Nick. But ever in Muriel's heart there lay the soothing knowledge that
she had nothing more to fear. Her terrible, single-handed contests
against overwhelming odds were over, and she was safe. She was
convinced that, whatever happened, Blake would take care of her. Was
he not the protector she would have chosen from the beginning, could
she but have had her way?

So, placidly and happily, the days drifted by, till March was nearly
gone; and then, sudden and staggering as a shell from a masked
battery, there fell the blow that was destined to end that peaceful
time.

Very late one night there came a nervous knocking at Muriel's door,
and springing up from her bed she came face to face with Daisy's
_ayah_. The woman was grey with fright, and babbling incoherently.
Something about "baba" and the "mem-sahib" Muriel caught and instantly
guessed that the baby had been taken ill. She flung a wrap round her,
and hastened to the nursery.

It was a small room opening out of Daisy's bedroom. The light was
turned on full, and here Daisy herself was walking up and down with
the baby in her arms.

Before Muriel was well in the room, she stopped and spoke. Her face
was ghastly pale, and she could not raise her voice above a whisper,
though she made repeated efforts. "Go to Blake!" she panted. "Go
quickly! Tell him to fetch Jim Ratcliffe. Quick! Quick!"

Muriel flew to do her bidding. In her anxiety she scarcely waited to
knock at Blake's door, but burst in upon him headlong. The room was in
total darkness, but he awoke instantly.

"Hullo! What is it? That you, Muriel?"

"Oh, Blake!" she gasped. "The child's ill. We want the doctor."

He was up in a moment. She heard him groping for matches, but he only
succeeded in knocking something over.

"Can't you find them?" she asked. "Wait! I'll get you a light."

She ran back to her own room and fetched a candle. Her hands were
shaking so that she could scarcely light it. Returning, she found
Grange putting on his clothes in the darkness. He was fully as
flurried as she.

As she set down the candle there arose a sudden awful sound in Daisy's
room.

Muriel stood still. "Oh, what is that?"

Grange paused in the act of dragging on his coat. "It's that damned
_ayah_," he said savagely.

And in a second Muriel understood. Daisy's _ayah_ was wailing for the
dead.

She put her hands over her ears. The dreadful cry seemed to pierce
right through to her very soul. Then she remembered Daisy, and turned
to go to her.

Out in the passage she met the white-faced English servants huddling
together and whispering. One of them was sobbing hysterically. She
passed them swiftly by.

Back in Daisy's room she found the _ayah_ crouched on the floor, and
rocking herself to and fro while she beat her breast and wailed. The
door that led into the nursery was closed.

Muriel advanced fiercely upon the woman. She almost felt as if
she could have choked her. She seized her by the shoulders without
ceremony. The _ayah_ ceased her wailing for a moment, then recommenced
in a lower key. Muriel pulled her to her feet, half-dragged, half-led
her to her own room, thrust her within, and locked the door upon her.
Then she returned to Daisy.

She found her sunk in a rocking-chair before the waning fire, softly
swaying to and fro with the baby on her breast. She looked at Muriel
entering, with a set, still face.

"Has Blake gone?" she asked, still in that dry, powerless whisper.

Muriel moved to her side, and knelt down. "He is just going," she
began to say, but the words froze on her lips.

She remained motionless for a long second, gazing at the tiny, waxen
face on Daisy's breast. And for that second her heart stood still; for
she knew that the baby was dead.

From the closed room across the passage came the muffled sound of the
_ayah's_ wailing. Daisy made a slight impatient movement.

"Stir the fire," she whispered. "He feels so cold."

But Muriel did not move to obey. Instead she held out her arms.

"Let me take him, dear," she begged tremulously. Daisy shook her head
with a jealous tightening of her clasp. "He has been so ill, poor wee
darling," she whispered. "It came on so suddenly. There was no time
to do anything. But he is easier now. I think he is asleep. We won't
disturb him."

Muriel said no more. She rose and blindly poked the fire. Then--for
the sight of Daisy rocking her dead child with that set, ashen face
was more than she could bear--she turned and stole away, softly
closing the door behind her.

Again meeting the English servants hovering outside, she sent them
downstairs to light the kitchen fire, going herself to the dining-room
window to watch for the doctor. Her feet were bare and freezing, but
she would not return to her room for slippers. She felt she could not
endure that awful wailing at close quarters again. Even as it was, she
heard it fitfully; but from the nursery there came no sound.

She wondered if Blake had gone across the meadow to the doctor's
house--it was undoubtedly the shortest cut--and tried to calculate how
long it would take him.

The waiting was intolerable. She bore it with a desperate endurance.
She could not rid herself of the feeling that somehow Nick was near
her. She almost expected to see him come lightly in and stand beside
her. Once or twice she turned shivering to assure herself that she was
really alone.

There came at last the click of the garden-gate. They had come across
the drenched meadows. In a transient gleam of moonlight she saw the
two figures striding towards her. Grange stopped a moment to fasten
the gate. The doctor came straight on.

She ran to the front door and threw it open. The wind blew swirling
all about her, but she never felt it, though her very lips were numb
and cold.

"It's too late!" she gasped, as he entered. "It's too late!"

Jim Ratcliffe took her by the shoulders and forced her away from the
open door.

"Go and put something on," he ordered, "instantly!"

There was no resisting the mastery of his tone. She responded to it
instinctively, hardly knowing what she did.

The _ayah's_ paroxysm of grief had sunk to a low moaning when she
re-entered her room. It sounded like a dumb creature in pain. Hastily
she dressed, and twisted up her hair with fingers that she strove in
vain to steady.

Then noiselessly she crept back to the nursery.

Daisy was still rocking softly to and fro before the ore, her piteous
burden yet clasped against her heart. The doctor was stooping over
her, and Muriel saw the half-eager, half-suspicious look in Daisy's
eyes as she watched him. She was telling him in rapid whispers what
had happened.

He listened to her very quietly, his keen eyes fixed unblinking upon
the baby's face. When she ended, he stooped a little lower, his hand
upon her arm.

"Let me take him," he said.

Muriel trembled for the answer, remembering the instant refusal with
which her own offer had been met. But Daisy made no sort of protest.
She seemed to yield mechanically.

Only, as he lifted the tiny body from her breast, a startled, almost
a bereft look crossed her face, and she whispered quickly, "You won't
let him cry?"

Jim Ratcliffe was silent a moment while he gazed intently at the
little lifeless form he held. Then very gently, very pitifully, but
withal very steadily, his verdict fell through the silent room.

"He will never cry any more."

Daisy was on her feet in a moment, the agony in her eyes terrible to
see. "Jim! Jim!" she gasped, in a strangled voice. "He isn't dead!
My little darling,--my baby,--the light of my eyes; tell me--he
isn't--dead!"

She bent hungrily over the burden he held, and then gazed wildly into
his face. She was shaking as one in an ague.

Quietly he drew the head-covering over the baby's face. "My dear," he
said, "there is no death."

The words were few, spoken almost in an undertone; but they sent a
curious, tingling thrill through Muriel--a thrill that seemed to
reach her heart. For the first time, unaccountably, wholly intangibly,
she was aware of a strong resemblance between this man whom she
honoured and the man she feared. She almost felt as if Nick himself
had uttered the words.

Standing dumbly by the door, she saw the doctor stoop to lay the poor
little body down in the cot, saw Daisy's face of anguish, and the
sudden, wide-flung spread of her empty arms.

The next moment, her woman's instinct prompting her, she sprang
forward; and it was she who caught the stricken mother as she fell.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE CREED OF A FIGHTER


It was growing very hot in the plains. A faint breeze born at sunset
had died away long ago, leaving a wonderful, breathless stillness
behind. The man who sat at work on his verandah with his shirt-sleeves
turned up above his elbows sighed heavily from time to time as if
he felt some oppression in the atmosphere. He was quite a young man,
fair-skinned and clean-shaven, with an almost pathetically boyish look
about him, a wistful expression as of one whose youth still endured
though the zest thereof was denied to him. His eyes were weary and
bloodshot, but he worked on steadily, indefatigably, never raising
them from the paper under his hand.

Even when a step sounded in the room behind him, he scarcely looked
up. "One moment, old chap!" He was still working rapidly as he spoke.
"I've a toughish bit to get through. I'll talk to you in a minute."

There was no immediate reply. A man's figure, dressed in white linen,
with one arm quite invisible under the coat, stood halting for a
moment in the doorway, then moved out and slowly approached the table
at which the other sat.

The lamplight, gleaming upwards, revealed a yellow face of many
wrinkles, and curious, glancing eyes that shone like fireflies in the
gloom.

He stopped beside the man who worked. "All right," he said. "Finish
what you are doing."

In the silence that followed he seemed to watch the hand that moved
over the paper with an absorbing interest. The instant it rested he
spoke.

"Done?"

The man in the chair stretched out his arms with a long gesture of
weariness; then abruptly leapt to his feet.

"What am I thinking of, keeping you standing here? Sit down, Nick!
Yes, I've done for the present. What a restless beggar you are! Why
couldn't you lie still for a spell?"

Nick grimaced. "It's an accomplishment I have never been able to
acquire. Besides, there's no occasion for it now. If I were going to
die, it would be a different thing, and even then I think I'd
rather die standing. How are you getting on, my son? What mean these
hieroglyphics?"

He dropped into the empty chair and pored over the paper.

"Oh, you wouldn't understand if I told you," the other answered.
"You're not an engineer."

"Not even a greaser of wheels." admitted Nick modestly. "But you
needn't throw it in my teeth. I suppose you are going to make your
fortune soon and retire--you and Daisy and the imp--to a respectable
suburb. You're a very lucky chap, Will."

"Think so?" said Will.

He was bending a little over his work. His tone sounded either absent
or dubious.

Nick glanced at him, and suddenly swept his free right hand across the
table. "Put it away!" he said. "You're overdoing it. Get the wretched
stuff out of your head for a bit, and let's have a smoke before
dinner. I'll bring her out to you next winter. See if I don't!"

Will turned towards him impulsively. "Oh, man, if you only could!"

"Only could!" echoed Nick. "I tell you I will. Ten quid on it if you
like. Is it done?"

But Will shook his head with a queer, unsteady smile. "No, it
isn't. But come along and smoke, or you will be having that infernal
neuralgia again. It was confoundedly good of you to look me up like
this when you weren't fit for it."

Nick laughed aloud. "Man alive! You don't suppose I did it for your
sake, do you? Don't you know I wanted to break the journey to the
coast?"

"Odd place to choose!" commented Will.

Nick arose in his own peculiarly abrupt fashion, and thrust his hand
through his friend's arm.

"Perhaps I thought a couple of days of your society would cheer me
up," he observed lightly. "I daresay that seems odd too."

Will laughed in spite of himself. "Well, you've seen me with my
nose to the grindstone anyhow. You can tell Daisy I'm working like a
troop-horse for her and the boy! Jove! What a knowing little beggar
that youngster used to be! He isn't very strong though, Daisy writes."

"How often do you hear?" asked Nick.

"Oh, the last letter came three weeks ago. They were all well then,
but she didn't stop to say much because Grange was there. He is
staying with them, you know."

"You haven't heard since then?" There was just a hint of indignation
in Nick's query.

Will shook his head. "No. She's a bad correspondent, always was. I
write by every mail, and of course, if there were anything I ought
to know, she would write too. But they are leading a fairly humdrum
existence just now. She can't have much to tell me."

Nick changed the subject. "How long has Grange been there?"

"I don't know. Some time, I think. But I really don't know. They are
very old pals, you know, he and Daisy. There was a bit of a romance
between them, I believe, years ago, when she was in her teens. Their
people wouldn't hear of it because they were first cousins, so it
fizzled out. But they are still great friends. A good sort of fellow,
I always thought."

"Too soft for me," said Nick. "He's like a well-built ship adrift
without a rudder. He's all manners and no grit--the sort of chap who
wants to be pushed before he can do anything. I often ached to kick
him when we were boxed up at Wara."

Will smiled. "The only drawback to indulging in that kind of game
is that you may get kicked back, and a kick from a giant like Grange
would be no joke."

Nick looked supremely contemptuous. "Fellows like Grange don't kick.
They don't know how. That's why I had to leave him alone."

He turned into Will's sitting-room and stretched himself out upon an
ancient _charpoy_ furnished with many ancient cushions that stood by
the window.

Will gave him a cigarette, and lighted it. "I wonder how many nights I
have spent on that old shake-down," he remarked, as he did it.

Nick glanced upwards. "Last year?"

Will nodded. "It was like hell," he said, with terrible simplicity. "I
came straight back here, you know, after Daisy left Simla. I suppose
the contrast made it worse. Then, too, the sub was ill, and it meant
double work. Well," with another sigh, "we pulled through somehow,
and I suppose we shall again. But, Nick, Daisy couldn't possibly stand
this place more than four months out of the twelve. And as for the
kiddie--"

Nick removed his cigarette to yawn.

"You won't be here all your life, my son," he said. "You're a rising
man, remember. There's no sense in grizzling, anyhow, and you're
getting round-shouldered. Why don't you do some gymnastics? You've
got a swimming bath. Go and do a quarter of a mile breast-stroke every
day. Jupiter! What wouldn't I give to"--He broke off abruptly. "Well,
I'm not going to cry for the moon either. There's the _khit_ on the
verandah. What does he want?"

Will went out to see. Nick, idly watching, saw the native hand him
something on a salver which Will took to the lamp by which he had been
working. Dead silence ensued. From far away there came the haunting
cry of a jackal, but near at hand there was no sound. A great
stillness hung upon all things.

To Nick, lying at full length upon the cushions, there presently came
the faint sound of paper crackling, and a moment later his friend's
voice, pitched very low, spoke to the waiting servant. He heard the
man softly retire, and again an intense stillness reigned.

He could not see Will from where he lay, and he smoked on placidly for
nearly five minutes in the belief that he was either answering
some communication or looking over his work. Then at last, growing
impatient of the prolonged silence, he lifted his voice without
moving.

"What in the world are you doing, you unsociable beggar? Can't you
tear yourself away from that beastly work for one night even? Come in
here and entertain me. You won't have the chance to-morrow."

There was no reply. Only from far away there came again the weird yell
of a jackal. For a few seconds more Nick lay frowning. Then swiftly
and quietly he arose, and stepped to the window.

There he stopped dead as if in sudden irresolution; for Will was sunk
upon his knees by the table with his head upon his work and his arms
flung out with clenched hands in an attitude of the most utter, the
most anguished despair. He made no sound of any sort; only, as Nick
watched, his bowed shoulders heaved once convulsively.

It was only for a moment that Nick stood hesitating. The next, obeying
an impulse that he never stopped to question, he moved straight
forward to Will's side; and then saw--what he had not at first seen--a
piece of paper crumpled and gripped in one of his hands.

He bent over him and spoke rapidly, but without agitation. "Hullo, old
boy! What is it! Bad news, eh?"

Will started and groaned, then sharply turned his face upwards. It was
haggard and drawn and ghastly, but even then its boyishness remained.

He spoke at once, replying to Nick in short, staccato tones. "I've
had a message--just come through. It's the kiddie--our little chap--he
died--last night."

Nick heard the news in silence. After a moment he stooped forward and
took the paper out of Will's hand, thrusting it away without a glance
into his own pocket. Then he took him by the arm and hoisted him up.
"Come inside!" he said briefly.

Will went with him blindly, too stricken to direct his own movements.

And so he presently found himself crouching forward in a chair staring
at Nick's steady hand mixing whiskey and water in a glass at his
elbow. As Nick held it towards him he burst into sudden, wild speech.

"I've lost her!" he exclaimed harshly. "I've lost her! It was only the
kiddie that bound us together. She never cared a half-penny about
me. I always knew I should never hold her unless we had a child. And
now--and now--"

"Easy!" said Nick. "Easy! Just drink this like a good chap. There's no
sense in letting yourself go."

Will drank submissively, and covered his face. "Oh, man," he whispered
brokenly, "you don't know what it is to be despised by the one being
in the world you worship."

Nick said nothing. His lips twitched a little, that was all.

But when several miserable seconds had dragged away and Will had
not moved, he bent suddenly down and put his arm round the huddled
shoulders. "Keep a stiff upper lip, old chap," he urged gently. "Don't
knock under. She'll be coming to you for comfort presently."

"Not she!" groaned Will. "I shall never get near her again. She'll
never come back to me. I know. I know."

"Don't be a fool!" said Nick still gently. "You don't know. Of course
she will come back to you. If you stick to her, she'll stick to you."

Will made a choked sound of dissent. Nevertheless, after a moment he
raised his quivering face, and gripped hard the hand that pressed his
shoulder. "Thanks, dear fellow! You're awfully good. Forgive me for
making an ass of myself. I--I was awfully fond of the little nipper
too. Poor Daisy! She'll be frightfully cut up." He broke off, biting
his lips.

"Do you know," he said presently in a strained whisper, "I've wanted
her sometimes--so horribly, that--that I've even been fool enough to
pray about it."

He glanced up as he made this confidence, half expecting to read
ridicule on the alert face above him, but the expression it wore
surprised him. It was almost a fighting look, and wholly free from
contempt.

Nick seated himself on the edge of the table, and smote him on the
shoulder. "My dear chap," he said, with a sudden burst of energy,
"you're only at the beginning of things. It isn't just praying now and
then that does it. You've got to keep up the steam, never slack for an
instant, whatever happens. The harder going it is, the more likely
you are to win through if you stick to it. But directly you slack,
you lose ground. If you've only got the grit to go on praying, praying
hard, even against your own convictions, you'll get it sooner or
later. You are bound to get it. They say God doesn't always grant
prayer because the thing you want may not do you any good. That's
gammon--futile gammon. If you want it hard enough, and keep on
clamouring for it, it becomes the very thing of all others you
need--the great essential. And you'll get it for that very reason.
It's sheer pluck that counts, nothing else--the pluck to go on
fighting when you know perfectly well you're beaten, the pluck to hang
on and worry, worry, worry, till you get your heart's desire."

He sprang up with a wide-flung gesture. "I'm doing it myself," he
said, and his voice rang with a certain grim elation. "I'm doing it
myself. And God knows I sha'n't give Him any peace till I'm satisfied.
I may be small, but if I were no bigger than a mosquito, I'd keep on
buzzing."

He walked to the end of the room, stood for a second, and came slowly
back.

Will was looking at him oddly, almost as if he had never seen him
before.

"Do you know," he said, smiling faintly, "I always thought you were a
rotter."

"Most people do," said Nick. "I believe it's my physiognomy that's
at fault. What can any one expect from a fellow with a face like an
Egyptian mummy? Why, I've been mistaken for the devil himself before
now." He spoke with a semi-whimsical ruefulness, and, having spoken,
he went to the window and stood there with his face to the darkness.

"Hear that jackal, Will?" he suddenly said. "The brute is hungry. You
bet, he won't go empty away."

"Jackals never do," said Will, with his weary sigh.

Nick turned round. "It shows what faithless fools we are," he said.

In the silence that followed, there came again to them, clear through
the stillness, and haunting in its persistence, the crying of the
beast that sought its meat from God.



CHAPTER XXV

A SCENTED LETTER


There is no exhaustion more complete or more compelling than the
exhaustion of grief, and it is the most restless temperaments that
usually suffer from it the most keenly. It is those who have watched
constantly, tirelessly, selflessly, for weeks or even months, for whom
the final breakdown is the most utter and the most heartrending.

To Daisy, lying silent in her darkened room, the sudden ending of the
prolonged strain, the cessation of the anxiety that had become a part
of her very being, was more intolerable than the sense of desolation
itself. It lay upon her like a physical, crushing weight, this absence
of care, numbing all her faculties. She felt that the worst had
happened to her, the ultimate blow had fallen, and she cared for
nought besides.

In those first days of her grief she saw none but Muriel and the
doctor. Jim Ratcliffe was more uneasy about her than he would
admit. He knew as no one else knew what the strain had been upon the
over-sensitive nerves, and how terribly the shock had wrenched them.
He also knew that her heart was still in a very unsatisfactory state,
and for many hours he dreaded collapse.

He was inclined to be uneasy upon Muriel's account as well, at first,
but she took him completely by surprise. Without a question, without a
word, simply as a matter of course, she assumed the position of
nurse and constant companion to her friend. Her resolution and steady
self-control astonished him, but he soon saw that these were qualities
upon which he could firmly rely. She had put her own weakness behind
her, and in face of Daisy's utter need she had found strength.

He suffered her to have her way, seeing how close was the bond of
sympathy between them, and realising that the very fact of supporting
Daisy would be her own support.

"You are as steady-going as a professional," he told her once.

To which she answered with her sad smile, "I served my probation in
the school of sorrow last year. I am only able to help her because I
know what it is to sit in ashes."

He patted her shoulder and called her a good girl. He was growing very
fond of her, and in his blunt, unflattering way he let her know it.

Certain it was that in those terrible days following her bereavement,
Daisy clung to her as she had never before clung to any one, scarcely
speaking to her, but mutely leaning upon her steadfast strength.

Muriel saw but little of Blake though he was never far away. He
wandered miserably about the house and garden, smoking endless
cigarettes, and invariably asking her with a piteous, dog-like
wistfulness whenever they met if there were nothing that he could do.
There never was anything, but she had not the heart to tell him
so, and she used to invent errands for him to make him happier. She
herself did not go beyond the garden for many days.

One evening, about three weeks after her baby's death, Daisy heard his
step on the gravel below her window and roused herself a little.

"Who is taking care of Blake?" she asked.

Muriel glanced down from where she sat at the great listless figure
nearing the house. "I think he is taking care of himself," she said.

"All alone?" said Daisy.

"Yes, dear."

Daisy uttered a sudden hard sigh. "You mustn't spend all your time
with me any longer," she said. "I have been very selfish. I forgot. Go
down to him, Muriel."

Muriel looked up, struck by something incomprehensible in her
tone. "You know I like to be with you," she said. "And of course he
understands."

But Daisy would not be satisfied. "That may be. But--but--I want you
to go to him. He is lonely, poor boy. I can hear it in his step. I
always know."

Wondering at her persistence, and somewhat reluctant, Muriel rose
to comply. As she was about to pass her, with a swift movement Daisy
caught her hand and drew her down.

"I want you--so--to be happy, dearest," she whispered, a quick note of
passion in her voice. "It's better for you--it's better for you--to
be together. I'm not going to monopolise you any longer. I will try
to come down to-morrow, if Jim will let me. It's hockey day, isn't it?
You must go and play as usual, you and he."

She was quivering with agitation as she pressed her lips to the girl's
cheek. Muriel would have embraced her, but she pushed her softly away.
"Go--go, dear," she insisted. "I wish it."

And Muriel went, seeing that she would not otherwise be pacified.

She found Blake depressed indeed, but genuinely pleased to see her,
and she walked in the garden with him in the soft spring twilight till
the dinner hour.

Just as they were about to go in, the postman appeared with foreign
letters for them both, which proved to be from Sir Reginald and Lady
Bassett.

The former had written briefly but very kindly to Grange, signifying
his consent to his engagement to his ward, and congratulating him upon
having won her. To Muriel he sent a fatherly message, telling her of
his pleasure at hearing of her happiness, and adding that he hoped she
would return to them in the following autumn to enable him to give her
away.

Grange put his arm round his young _fiancée_ as he read this passage
aloud, but she only stood motionless within it, not yielding to his
touch. It even seemed to him that she stiffened slightly. He looked at
her questioningly and saw that she was very pale.

"What is it?" he asked gently. "Will that be too soon for you?"

She met his eyes frankly, but with unmistakable distress. "I--I didn't
think it would be quite so soon, Blake," she faltered. "I don't want
to be married at present. Can't we go on as we are for a little? Shall
you mind?"

Blake's face wore a puzzled look, but it was wholly free from
resentment. He answered her immediately and reassuringly.

"Of course not, dear. It shall be just when you like. Why should you
be hurried?"

She gave him a smile of relief and gratitude, and he stooped and
kissed her forehead with a soothing tenderness that he might have
bestowed upon a child.

It was with some reluctance that she opened Lady Bassett's letter
in his presence, but she felt that she owed him this small mark of
confidence.

There was a strong aroma of attar of roses as she drew it from the
envelope, and she glanced at Grange with an expression of disgust.

"What is the matter?" he asked. "Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"It's only the scent," she explained, concealing a faint sense of
irritation.

He smiled. "Don't you like it? I thought all women did."

"My dear Blake!" she said, and shuddered.

The next minute she threw a sharp look over her shoulder, suddenly
assailed by an uncanny feeling that Nick was standing grimacing at
her elbow. She saw his features so clearly for the moment with his
own peculiarly hideous grimace upon them that she scarcely persuaded
herself that her fancy had tricked her. But there was nothing but the
twilight of the garden all around her, and Blake's huge bulk by her
side, and she promptly dismissed the illusion, not without a sense of
shame.

With a gesture of impatience she unfolded Lady Bassett's letter. It
commenced "Dearest Muriel," and proceeded at once in terms of flowing
elegance to felicitate her upon her engagement to Blake Grange.

"In according our consent," wrote Lady Bassett, "Sir Reginald and I
have not the smallest scruple or hesitation. Only, dearest, for Blake
Grange's sake as well as for your own, make quite sure _this time_
that your mind is fully made up, and your choice final."

When Muriel read this passage a deep note of resentment crept into her
voice, and she lifted a flushed face.

"It may be very wicked," she said deliberately, "but I hate Lady
Bassett."

Grange looked astonished, even mildly shocked. But Muriel returned to
the letter before he could reply.

It went on to express regret that the writer could not herself
return to England for the summer to assist her in the purchase of her
trousseau and to chaperon her back to India in the autumn; but her
sister, Mrs. Langdale, who lived in London, would she was sure, be
delighted to undertake the part of adviser in the first case, and in
the second she would doubtless be able to find among her many friends
who would be travelling East for the winter, one who would take charge
of her. No reference was made to Daisy till the end of the letter,
when the formal hope was expressed that Mrs. Musgrave's health had
benefited by the change.

"She dares to disapprove of Daisy for some reason," Muriel said,
closing the letter with the rapidity of exasperation.

Grange did not ask why. He was engrossed in brushing a speck of mud
from his sleeve, and she was not sure that he even heard her remark.

"You--I suppose you are not going to bother about a trousseau yet
then?" he asked rather awkwardly.

She shook her head with vehemence. "No, no, of course not. Why should
I hurry? Besides, I am in mourning."

"Exactly as you like," said Grange gently. "My leave will be up in
September, as you know, but I am not bound to stay in the Army. I will
send in my papers if you wish it."

Muriel looked at him in amazement. "Send in your papers! Why no,
Blake! I wouldn't have you do it for the world. I never dreamed of
such a thing."

He smiled good-humouredly. "Well, of course, I should be sorry to
give up polo, but there are plenty of other things I could take to.
Personally, I like a quiet existence."

Was there just a shade of scorn in Muriel's glance as it fell away
from him? It would have been impossible for any bystander to say with
certainty, but there was without doubt a touch of constraint in her
voice as she made reply.

"Yes. You are quite the most placid person I know. But please don't
think of leaving the Army for my sake. I am a soldier's daughter
remember. And--I like soldiers."

Her lip quivered as she turned to enter the house. Her heart at that
moment was mourning over a soldier's unknown grave. But Grange did not
know it, did not even see that she was moved.

His eyes were raised to an upper window at which a dim figure stood
looking out into the shadows. And he was thinking of other things.



CHAPTER XXVI

THE ETERNAL FLAME


Daisy maintained her resolution on the following day, and though she
did not speak again of going downstairs, she insisted that Muriel
should return to the hockey-field and resume her place in Olga's team.
It was the last match of the season, and she would not hear of her
missing it.

"You and Blake are both to go," she said. "I won't have either of you
staying at home for me."

But Blake, when Muriel conveyed this message to him, moodily shook his
head. "I'm not going. I don't want to. You must, of course. It will do
you good. But I couldn't play if I went. I've strained my wrist."

"Oh, have you?" Muriel said, with concern. "What a nuisance! How did
you manage it?"

He reddened, and looked slightly ashamed. "I vaulted the gate into the
meadow this morning. Idiotic thing to do. But I shall be all right.
Never mind about me. I shall smoke in the garden. I may go for a
walk."

Thus pressed on all sides, though decidedly against her own
inclination, Muriel went. The day was showery with brilliant
intervals. Grange saw her off at the field-gate.

"Plenty of mud," he remarked.

"Yes, I shall be a spectacle when I come back. Good-bye! Take care of
yourself." Muriel's hand rested for an instant on his arm, and then
she was gone--a slim, short-skirted figure walking swiftly over the
grass.

He stood leaning on the gate watching her till a clump of trees
intervened between them, then lazily he straightened himself and began
to stroll back up the garden. He was not smoking. His face wore a
heavy, almost a sullen, look. He scarcely raised his eyes from the
ground as he walked.

Nearing the house the sudden sound of a window being raised made
him look up, and in an instant, swift as a passing cloud-shadow, his
moodiness was gone. Daisy was leaning on her window-sill, looking down
upon him.

Though she had not spoken to him for weeks, she gave him no greeting.
Her voice even sounded a trifle sharp.

"What are you loafing there for?" she demanded. "Why didn't you go
with Muriel to the hockey?"

He hesitated for a single instant. Then--for he never lied to
Daisy--quite honestly he made reply. "I didn't want to."

Her pale face frowned down at him, though the eyes had a soft light
that was like a mother's indulgence for her wayward child.

"How absurd you are! How can you be so lazy? I won't have it, Blake.
Do you hear?"

He moved forward a few steps till he was immediately below her, and
there stood with uplifted face. "What do you want me to do?"

"Do!" echoed Daisy. "Why, anything--anything rather than nothing.
There's the garden-roller over there by the tool-shed. Go and get it,
and roll the lawn."

He went off obediently without another word, and presently the clatter
of the roller testified to his submissive fulfilment of her command.
He did not look up again. Simply, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves
turned above his elbows, he tackled his arduous task, labouring up and
down in the soft spring rain, patient and tireless as an ox.

He had accomplished about half his job when again Daisy's voice broke
imperiously in upon him.

"Blake! Blake! Come in! You'll get wet to the skin."

He stopped at once, straightening his great frame with a sigh of
relief. Daisy was standing at the drawing-room window.

He pulled on his coat and went to join her.

She came to meet him with sharp reproach. "Why are you so foolish?
I believe you would have gone on rolling if there had been an
earthquake. You must be wet through and through." She ran her little
thin hand over him. "Yes, I knew you were. You must go and change."

But Grange's fingers closed with quiet intention upon her wrist. He
was looking down at her with the faithful adoration of a dumb animal.

"Not yet," he said gently. "Let me see you while I can."

She made a quick movement as if his grasp hurt her, and in an instant
she was free.

"Yes, but let us be sensible," she said. "Don't let us talk about hard
things. I'm very tired, you know, Blake. You must make it easy for
me."

There was a piteous note of appeal in her voice. She sat down with
her back to the light. He could see that her hands were trembling, but
because of her appeal he would not seem to see it.

"Don't you think a change would be good for you?" he suggested.

"I don't know," she answered. "Jim says so. He wants me to go to
Brethaven. It's only ten miles away, and he would motor over and look
after me. But I don't think it much matters. I'm not particularly fond
of the sea. And Muriel assures me she doesn't mind."

"Isn't it at Brethaven that Nick Ratcliffe owns a place?" asked
Grange.

"Yes. Redlands is the name. I went there once with Will. It's a
beautiful place on the cliff--quite thrown away on Nick, though,
unless he marries, which he never will now."

Grange looked uncomfortable. "It's not my fault," he remarked bluntly.

"No, I know," said Daisy, with a faint echo of her old light laugh.
"Nothing ever was, or could be, your fault, dear old Blake. You're
just unlucky sometimes, aren't you? That's all."

Blake frowned a little. "I play a straight game--generally," he said.

"Yes, dear, but you almost always drive into a bunker," Daisy
insisted. "It's not your fault, as we said before. It's just your
misfortune."

She never flattered Blake. It was perhaps the secret of her charm for
him. To other women he was something of a paladin; to Daisy he was no
more than a man--a man moreover of many weaknesses, each one of which
she knew, each one of which was in a fashion dear to her.

"We will have some tea, shall we?" she said, as he sat silently
digesting her criticism. "I must try and write to Will presently. I
haven't written to him since--since--" She broke off short and began
again. "I got Muriel to write for me once. But he keeps writing by
every mail. I wish he wouldn't."

Grange got up and walked softly to the window. "When do you think of
going back?" he asked.

"I don't know." There was a keen note of irritation in the reply.
Daisy leaned suddenly forward, her fingers locked together. "You
might as well ask me when I think of dying," she said, with abrupt and
startling bitterness.

Grange remained stationary, not looking at her. "Is it as indefinite
as that?" he asked presently.

"Yes, quite." She spoke recklessly, even defiantly. "Where would be
the use of my going to a place I couldn't possibly live in for more
than four months in the year? Besides--besides--" But again, as if
checked by some potent inner influence, she broke off short. Her
white face quivered suddenly, and she turned it aside. Her hands were
convulsively clenched upon each other.

Her cousin did not move. He seemed to be unaware of her agitation.
Simply with much patience he waited for her end of the sentence.

It came at last in a voice half-strangled. She was making almost
frantic efforts to control herself. "Besides, I couldn't stand
it--yet. I am not strong enough. And he--he wouldn't understand, poor
boy. I think--I honestly think--I am better away from him for the
present"

Blake made no further inquiries. From Daisy's point of view, he seemed
to be standing motionless, but in reality he was quite unconsciously,
though very deliberately, pulling the tassel of the blind-cord to
shreds.

The clouds had passed, and the sun blazed down full upon him, throwing
his splendid outline into high relief. Every detail of his massive
frame was strongly revealed. There was about him a species of careless
magnificence, wholly apart from arrogance, unfettered, superb.

To Daisy, familiar as she was with every line of him, the sudden
revelation of the sunlight acted like a charm. She had been hiding her
eyes for many days from all light, veiling them in the darkness of her
grief, and the splendour of the man fairly dazzled her. It rushed
upon her, swift, overmastering as a tidal wave, and before it even the
memory of her sorrow grew dim.

Blake, turning at last, met her eyes fixed full upon him with that in
their expression which no man could ignore. She had not expected him
to turn. The movement disconcerted her. With a sharp jerk She averted
her face, seeking to cover that momentary slip, to persuade him
even then, if it were possible, into the belief that he had not seen
aright.

But it was too late. That unguarded look of hers had betrayed her,
rending asunder in an instant the veil with which for years she had
successfully baffled him.

In a second he was on his knees beside her, his arms about her,
holding her with a close and passionate insistence.

"Daisy!" he whispered huskily. And again, "Daisy!"

And Daisy turned with a sudden deep sob and hid her face upon his
breast.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE EAGLE CAGED


In spite of Olga's ecstatic welcome, Muriel took her place on the
hockey-field that afternoon with a heavy heart. Her long attendance
upon Daisy had depressed her. But gradually, as the play proceeded,
she began to forget herself and her troubles. The spring air
exhilarated her, and when they returned to the field after a sharp
shower her spirits had risen. She became even childishly gay in the
course of a hotly-contested battle, and the sadness gradually died
out of her eyes. She had grown less shy, less restrained, than of old.
Youth and health, and a dawning, unconscious beauty had sprung to life
upon her face. She was no longer the frightened, bereft child of Simla
days. She no longer hid a monstrous fear in her heart. She had put it
all away from her wisely, resolutely, as a tale that is told.

The wild wind had blown the hair all loose about her face by the time
the last goal was won. Hatless, flushed, and laughing, she drew back
from the fray, Olga, elated by victory, clinging to her arm. It was a
moment of keen triumph, for the fight had been hard, and she enjoyed
it to the full as she stood there with her face to the sudden,
scudding rain. The glow of exercise had braced every muscle. Every
pulse was beating with warm, vigorous life.

She laughed aloud in sheer exultation, a low, merry laugh, and turned
with Olga to march in triumphant procession from the field.

In that instant from a gate a few yards away that led into the road
there sounded the short, imperious note of a motor-horn, repeated many
times in a succession of sharp blasts. Every one stood to view the
intruder with startled curiosity for perhaps five seconds. Then there
came a sudden squeal of rapture from Olga, and in a moment she had
torn her arm free and was gone, darting like a swallow over the turf.

Muriel stood looking after her, but she was as one turned to stone.
She was no longer aware of the children grouped around her. She no
longer saw the fleeting sunshine, or felt the drift of rain in her
face. Something immense and suffocating had closed about her heart.
Her racing pulses had ceased to beat.

A figure familiar to her--a man's figure, unimposing in height,
unremarkable in build, but straight, straight as his own
sword-blade--had bounded from the car and scaled the intervening gate
with monkey-like agility.

He met the child's wild rush with one arm extended; the other--Muriel
frowned sharply, peering with eyes half closed, then uttered a queer
choked sound that had the semblance of a laugh--in place of the other
arm there was an empty sleeve.

Through the rush of the wind she heard his voice.

"Hullo, kiddie, hullo! Hope I don't intrude. I've come over on purpose
to pay my respects."

Olga's answer did not reach her. She was hanging round her hero's
neck, and her head was down upon Nick's shoulder. It seemed to Muriel
that she was crying, but if so, she received scant sympathy from the
object of her solicitude. His cracked, gay laugh rang out across the
field.

"What? Why, yesterday, to be sure. Spent the night in town. No, I know
I didn't. Never meant to. Wanted to steal a march on you all. Why not?
I say, is that--Muriel?"

For the first time he seemed to perceive her, and instantly with a
dexterous movement he had disengaged himself from Olga's clinging arms
and was briskly approaching her. Two of the doctor's boys sprang to
greet him, but he waved them airily aside.

"All right, you chaps, in a minute! Where's Dr. Jim? Go and tell him
I'm here."

And then in a couple of seconds more they were face to face.

Muriel stared at him speechlessly. She felt cold from head to foot.
She had known that he was coming. She had been steeling herself for
weeks to meet him in an armour of conventional reserve. But all her
efforts had come to this. Swift, swift as the wind over wheat, his
coming swept across her new-born confidence. It wavered and bent its
head.

"Does your Excellency deign to remember the least and humblest of her
servants?" queried Nick, with a deep salaam.

The laugh in his tone brought her sharply back to the demand of
circumstance. Before the watching crowd of children, she forced her
white lips to smile in answer, and in a moment she had recovered her
self-possession. She remembered with a quick sense of relief that this
man's power over her belonged to the past alone--to the tale that was
told.

The hand she held out to him was almost steady. "Yes, I remember you,
Nick," she said, with chilly courtesy. "I am sorry you have been ill.
Are you better?"

He made a queer grimace at her words, and for the second that her hand
lay in his, she knew that he looked at her closely, piercingly.

"Thanks--awfully," he said. "As you may have noticed, there is a
little less of me than there used to be. I hope you think it's an
improvement."

She felt as if he had flung back her conventional sympathy in her
face, and she stiffened instinctively. "I am sorry to see it," she
returned icily.

Nick laughed enigmatically. "I thought you would be. Well, Olga, my
child, what do you mean by growing up like this in my absence? You
used to be just the right size for a kid, and now you are taller than
I am."

"I'm not, Nick," the child declared with warmth. "And I never will be,
there!"

She slid her arm again round his neck. Her eyes were full of tears.

Nick turned swiftly and bestowed a kiss upon the face which, though
the face of a child, was so remarkably like his own.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?" he said.

"There's no need," said Olga, hugging him closer. "They all know
Captain Ratcliffe of Wara. Why haven't you got the V.C., Nick, like
Captain Grange?"

"Didn't qualify for it," returned Nick. "You see, I only distinguished
myself by running away. Hullo! It's raining. Just run and tell the
chauffeur to drive round to the house. You can go with him. And take
your friends too. It'll carry you all. I'm going the garden way with
Muriel."

Muriel realised the impossibility of frustrating this plan, though the
last thing in the world that she desired was to be alone with him.
But the distance to the house was not great. As the children scampered
away to the waiting motor-car she moved briskly to leave the field.

Nick walked beside her with his free, elastic swagger. In a few
moments he reached out and took her hockey-stick from her.

"Jove!" he said. "It did me good to see you shoot that goal."

"I had no idea you were watching," she returned stiffly.

He grinned. "No, I saw that. Fun, wasn't it? Like to know what I said
to myself?"

She made no answer, and his grin became a laugh. "I'm sure you would,
so I'll tell you. I said, 'Prayer Number One is granted,' and I ticked
it off the list, and duly acknowledged the same."

Muriel was plainly mystified. He was in the mood that most baffled
her. "I don't know what you mean," she said at last.

Nick swung the hockey-stick idly. His yellow face, for all its
wrinkles, looked peculiarly complacent.

"Let me explain," he said coolly; "I wanted to see you young again,
and--my want has been satisfied, that's all."

Muriel looked sharply away from him, the vivid colour rushing all over
her face. She remembered--and the memory seemed to stab her--a day
long, long ago when she had lain in this man's arms in the extremity
of helpless suffering, and had heard him praying above her head,
brokenly, passionately, for something far different--something from
which she had come to shrink with a nameless, overmastering dread.

She quickened her pace in the silence that followed. The rain was
coming down sharply. Reaching the door that led into the doctor's
walled garden, she stretched out her hand with impetuous haste to push
it open.

Instantly, with disconcerting suddenness, Nick dropped the
hockey-stick and swooped upon it like a bird of prey.

"Who gave you that?" he demanded.

He had spied a hoop of diamonds upon her third finger. She could
not see his eyes under the flickering lids, but he held her wrist
forcibly, and it seemed to her that there was a note of savagery in
his voice.

Her heart beat fast for a few seconds, so fast that she could not find
her voice. Then, almost under her breath, "Blake gave it to me," she
said. "Blake Grange."

"Yes?" said Nick. "Yes?"

Suddenly he looked straight at her, and his eyes were alight, fierce,
glowing. But she felt a curious sense of scared relief, as if he were
behind bars,--an eagle caged, of which she need have no fear.

"We are engaged to be married," she said quietly.

There fell a momentary silence, and a voice cried out in her soul that
she had stabbed him through the bars.

Then in a second Nick dropped her hands and stooped to pick up the
hockey-stick. His face as he stood up again flashed back to its old,
baffling gaiety.

"What ho!" he said lightly. "Then I'm in time to dance at the wedding.
Pray accept my heartiest congratulations!"

Muriel murmured her thanks with her face averted. She was no longer
afraid merely, but strangely, inexplicably ashamed.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THE LION'S SKIN


The news of Nick's return spread like wildfire through the doctor's
house, and the whole establishment assembled to greet him. Jim himself
came striding out into the rain to shake his hand and escort him in.

His "Hullo, you scapegrace!" had in it little of sentiment, but there
was nothing wanting in his welcome in the opinion of the recipient
thereof.

Nick's rejoinder of "Hullo, you old buffer!" was equally free from any
gloss of eloquence, but he hooked his hand in the doctor's arm as he
made it, and kept it there.

Jim gave him one straight, keen look that took in every detail, but he
made no verbal comment of any sort. His heavy brows drew together for
an instant, that was all.

It was an exceedingly clamorous home-coming. The children, having
arrived in the motor, swarmed all about the returned hero, who was
more than equal to the occasion, and obviously enjoyed his boisterous
reception to the uttermost. There never had been any shyness about
Nick.

Muriel, standing watching in the background with a queer,
unaccountable pain at her heart, assured herself that the news of
her engagement had meant nothing to him whatever. He had managed
to deceive her as usual. She realised it with burning cheeks, and
ardently wished that she had borne herself more proudly. Well, she was
not wanted here. Even Olga, her faithful and loving admirer, had eyes
only for Nick just then. As for Dr. Jim, he had not even noticed her.

Quietly she stole away from the merry, chattering group. The hall-door
stood open, and she saw that it was raining heavily; but she did not
hesitate. With a haste that was urged from within by something that
was passionate, she ran out hatless into the storm.

The cracked, careless laugh she knew so well pursued her as she went,
and once she fancied that some one called her by name. But she did
not slacken speed to listen. She only dashed on a little faster than
before.

Drenched and breathless, she reached home at length, to be met upon
the threshold by Blake. In her exhaustion she almost fell into his
arms.

"Hullo!" he said, steadying her. "You shouldn't run like that. I never
dreamed you would come back in this, or I would have come across with
an umbrella to fetch you."

She sank into a chair in the hall, speechless and gasping, her hair
hanging about her neck in wildest disorder.

Blake stood beside her. He was wearing his worried, moody look.

"You shouldn't," he said again. "It's horribly bad for you."

"Ah, I'm better," she gasped back. "I had to run--all the way--because
of the rain."

"But why didn't you wait?" said Blake. "What were they thinking of to
let you come in this down-pour?"

"They couldn't help it." Muriel raised herself with a great sobbing
sigh. "It was nobody's fault but my own. I wanted to get away. Oh,
Blake, do you know--Nick is here?"

Blake started. "What? Already? Do you mean he is actually in the
place?"

She nodded. "He came up in a motor while we were playing. I suppose he
is staying at Redlands, but I don't know. And--and--Blake, he has
lost his left arm. It makes him look so queer." She gave a sudden,
uncontrollable shudder. The old dumb horror looked out of her eyes.
"I thought I shouldn't mind," she said, under her breath. "Perhaps--if
you had been there--it would have been different. As it was--as it
was--" She broke off, rising impetuously to her feet, and laying
trembling hands upon his arms. "Oh, Blake," she whispered, like a
scared child. "I feel so helpless. But you promised--you promised--you
would never let me go."

Yes, he had promised her that. He had sworn it, and, sick at heart,
he remembered that in her eyes at least he was a man of honour. It
had been in his mind to tell her the simple truth, just so far as he
himself was concerned, and thereafter to place himself at her
disposal to act exactly as she should desire. But suddenly this was an
impossibility to him. He realised it with desperate self-loathing.
She trusted him. She looked to him for protection. She leaned upon
his strength. She needed him. He could not--it almost seemed as if in
common chivalry he could not--reveal to her the contemptible weakness
which lay like a withering blight upon his whole nature. To own
himself the slave of a married woman, and that woman her closest
friend, would be to throw her utterly upon her own resources at a
time when she most needed the support and guidance of a helping
hand. Moreover, the episode was over; so at least both he and Daisy
resolutely persuaded themselves. There had been a lapse--a vain and
futile lapse--into the long-cherished idyll of their romance. It
must never recur. It never should recur. It must be covered over
and forgotten as speedily as might be. They had come to their senses
again. They were ready, not only to thrust away the evil that had
dominated them, but to ignore it utterly as though it had never been.

So, rapidly, the man reasoned with himself with the girl's hands
clasping his arm in earnest entreaty, and her eyes of innocence raised
to his.

His answer when it came was slow and soft and womanly, but, in her
ears at least, there was nothing wanting in it. She never dreamed that
he was reviling himself for a blackguard even as he uttered it.

"My dear little girl, there is nothing whatever for you to be afraid
of. You're a bit overstrung, aren't you? The man isn't living who
could take you from me."

He patted her shoulder very kindly, soothing her with a patient,
almost fatherly tenderness, and gradually her panic of fear passed.
She leaned against him with a comforting sense of security.

"I can't think how it is I'm so foolish," she told him. "You are good
to me, Blake. I feel so safe when I am with you."

His heart smote him, yet he bent and kissed her. "You're not quite
strong yet, dear," he said. "It takes a long time to get over all that
you had to bear last year."

"Yes," she agreed with a sigh. "And do you know I thought I was
so much stronger than I am? I actually thought that I shouldn't
mind--much--when he came. And yet I did mind--horribly. I--I--told him
about our engagement, Blake."

"Yes, dear," said Blake.

"Yes, I told him. And he laughed and offered his congratulations.
I don't think he cared," said Muriel, again with that curious,
inexplicable sensation of pain at her heart.

"Why should he?" said Blake.

She looked at him with momentary irresolution. "You know, Blake, I
never told you. But I was--I was--engaged to him for about a fortnight
that dreadful time at Simla."

To her relief she marked no change in Blake's courteously attentive
face.

"You need not have told me that, dear," he said quietly.

"No, I know," she answered, pressing his arm. "It wouldn't make any
difference to you. You are too great. And it was always a little bit
against my will. But the breaking with him was terrible--terrible. He
was so angry. I almost thought he would have killed me."

"My dear," Blake said, "you shouldn't dwell on these things. They are
better forgotten."

"I know, I know," she answered. "But they are just the very hardest of
all things to forget. You must help me, Blake. Will you?"

"I will help you," he answered steadily.

And the resolution with which he spoke was an unspeakable comfort to
her. Once more there darted across her mind the wonder at her father's
choice for her. How was it--how was it--that he had passed over this
man and chosen Nick?

Blake's own explanation of the mystery seemed to her suddenly weak and
inadequate. She simply could not bring herself to believe that in a
supreme moment he could be found wanting. It was unthinkable that the
giant frame and mighty sinews could belong to a personality that was
lacking in a corresponding greatness.

So she clung to her illusion, finding comfort therein, wholly blind to
those failings in her protector which to the woman who had loved him
from her earliest girlhood were as obvious and well-nigh as precious
as his virtues.



CHAPTER XXIX

OLD FRIENDS MEET


"I must be getting back," said Nick.

He was sprawling at ease on the sofa in Jim's study, blinking
comfortably at the ceiling, as he made this remark.

Jim himself had just entered the room. He drew up a chair to Nick's
side.

"You will be doing nothing of the sort to-night," he returned, with
a certain grimness. "The motor has gone back to Redlands for your
things. I saw to that an hour ago."

"The deuce you did!" said Nick. He turned slightly to send a shifting
glance over his brother. "That was very officious of you, Jimmy," he
remarked.

"Very likely," conceded the doctor. "I have to be officious
occasionally. And if you think that I mean to let you out of my sight
in your present state of health, you make a big mistake. No, lie
still, I tell you! You're like a monkey on wires. Lie still! Do you
hear me, Nick?"

Nick's feet were already on the ground, but he did not rise. He sat
motionless, as if weighing some matter in his mind.

"I can't stay with you, Jimmy," he said at last. "I'll spend to-night
of course with all the pleasure in the world. But I'm going back to
Redlands to-morrow. I have a fancy for sleeping in my own crib just
now. Come over and see me as often as you feel inclined, the oftener
the better. And if you care to bring your science to bear upon all
that is left of this infernally troublesome member of mine, I shall be
charmed to let you. You may vivisect me to your heart's content. But
don't ask me to be an in-patient, for it can't be done. There are
reasons."

Jim frowned at him. "Do you know what will happen if you don't take
care of yourself?" he said brusquely. "You'll die."

Nick burst into a laugh, and lay back on the cushions. "I was driven
out of India by that threat," he said. "It's getting a bit stale.
You needn't be afraid. I'm not going to die at present. I'll take
reasonable precautions to prevent it. But I won't stay here, that's
flat. I tell you, man, I can't."

He glanced again at Jim, and, finding the latter closely watching him,
abruptly shut his eyes.

"I'm going to open Redlands," he said, "and I will have Olga to come
and keep house for me. It'll be good practice for her. I'll take her
back with me to-morrow, if you have no objection."

"Fine mischief you'll get up to, the pair of you," grumbled Jim.

"Very likely," said Nick cheerily. "But we shan't come to any harm,
either of us. To begin with, I shall make her wait on me, hand and
foot. She'll like that, and so shall I."

"Yes, you'll spoil her thoroughly." said Jim. "And I shall have the
pleasure of breaking her in afterwards."

Nick laughed again. "What an old tyrant you are! But you needn't be
afraid of that. I'll make her do as she's told. I'm particularly good
at that. Ask Muriel Roscoe."

Jim's frown deepened. "You know of that girl's engagement to Grange, I
suppose?"

Nick did not trouble to open his eyes. "Oh, rather! She took care that
I should. I gave her my blessing."

"Well, I don't like it," said Jim plainly.

"What's the matter with him?" questioned Nick.

"Nothing that I know of. But she isn't in love with him."

Nick's eyelids parted a little, showing a glint between. "You funny
old ass!" he murmured affectionately.

Jim leaned forward and looked at him hard.

"Quite so," said Nick in answer, closing his eyes again. "But you
don't by any chance imagine she's in love with me, do you? You know
how a woman looks at a worm she has chopped in half by mistake? That's
how Muriel Roscoe looked at me to-day when she expressed her regret
for my mishap."

"She wouldn't do that for nothing," observed Jim, with a hint of
sternness.

"She wouldn't," Nick conceded placidly.

"Then why the devil did you ever give her reason?" Jim spoke with
unusual warmth. Muriel was a favourite of his.

But he obtained scant satisfaction notwithstanding.

"Ask the devil," said Nick flippantly. "I never was good at
definitions."

It was a tacit refusal to discuss the matter, and as such Jim accepted
it.

He turned from the subject with a grunt of discontent. "Well, if I am
to undertake your case, you had better let me look at you. But we'll
have a clean understanding first, mind, that you obey my orders. I
won't be responsible otherwise."

Nick opened his eyes with a chuckle. "I'll do anything under the sun
to please you, Jimmy," he said generously. "When did you ever find me
hard to manage?"

"You've given me plenty of trouble at one time and another," Jim said
bluntly.

"And shall again before I die," laughed Nick, as he submitted to his
brother's professional handling. "There's plenty of kick left in me.
By the way, tell me what you think about Daisy. I must call on her
to-morrow before I leave."

This intention, however, was not fulfilled, for Daisy herself came
early to the doctor's house to visit him. Far from well though she
was, she made the effort as a matter of course. Nick was too near a
friend to neglect. Blake did not accompany her. He was riding with
Muriel.

She found Nick stretched out in luxurious idleness on a couch in
the sunshine. He made a movement to spring to meet her, but checked
himself with a laugh.

"This is awfully good of you, Daisy. I was coming to see you later,
but I'm nailed to this confounded sofa for the next two hours, having
solemnly sworn to Jim that nothing short of battle, murder or sudden
death should induce me to move. I'm afraid I can't reasonably describe
your coming as any of these, so I must remain a fixture. It's Jimmy's
rest cure."

He reached out his hand to Daisy, who took it in both her own. "My
poor dear Nick!" she said, and stooping impulsively kissed him on the
forehead.

"Bless you!" said Nick. "I'm ten times better for that. Sit down here,
won't you? Pull up close. I've got a lot to say."

Of sympathy for her recent bereavement, however, he said no word
whatever. He only held her hand.

"There's poor old Will," he said: "I spent the night with him on my
way down. He's beastly homesick--sent all sorts of messages to you.
You'll be going out in the winter?"

"It depends," said Daisy.

"He's breaking his heart for you, like a silly ass," said Nick. "How
long has Muriel been engaged to Grange?"

Daisy started at the sudden question.

"It's all right," Nick assured her. "I'm not a bit savage. It'll be a
little experience for her. When did it begin?"

Daisy hesitated. "Some weeks ago now."

Nick nodded. "Exactly. As soon as she heard I was coming. Funny of
her. And what of Grange? Is he smitten?"

Daisy flushed painfully, and tried to laugh. "Don't be so
cold-blooded, Nick. Of course he--he's fond of her."

"Oh, he--he's fond of her, is he?" said Nick. He looked at her
suddenly, and laughed with clenched teeth. "I'm infernally rude, I
know. But why put it in that way? Should you say I was 'fond' of her?"

Daisy met his darting, elusive glance with a distinct effort. "I
shouldn't say you were fond of any one, Nick. The term doesn't
apply where you are concerned. There never were two men more totally
different than you and Blake. But he isn't despicable for all that.
He's a child compared to you, but he's a good child. He would never do
wrong unless some one tempted him."

"That's so with a good many of us," remarked Nick, sneering faintly.
"Let us hope that when the account comes to be totted up, allowance
will be made."

Daisy's hand upon his banished the sneer. "Be fair, Nick," she urged.
"We are not all made with wills of iron. I know you are bitter because
you think he isn't good enough for her. But would you think any man
good enough? Don't think I wanted this. I was on your side. But I--I
was busy at the time with--other things. And I didn't see it coming."

Nick's face softened. He said nothing.

She bent towards him. "I would have given anything to have stopped it
when I knew. But it was too late. Will you forgive me, Nick?"

He patted her hand lightly. "Of course, of course. Don't fret on my
account."

"But I do," she whispered vehemently. "I do. I know--how horribly--it
hurts."

Nick's fingers closed suddenly upon hers. His eyes went beyond her.

"Mrs. Musgrave," he said, "I am gifted with a superhuman intelligence,
remember. I know some cards by their backs."

Daisy withdrew her hand swiftly. His tone had been one of warning.
She threw him a look of sharp uneasiness. She did not ask him what he
meant.

"Tell me some more about Will," she said. "I was thinking of writing
to him to-day."

And Nick forthwith plunged into a graphic account of the man who was
slaving night and day in the burning Plains of the East for the woman
of his heart.



CHAPTER XXX

AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP


It was with unspeakable relief that Muriel learned of Nick's
departure. That he had elected to take Olga with him surprised her
considerably and caused her some regret. Grange had discovered some
urgent business that demanded his presence in town, and she missed the
child in consequence more than she would otherwise have done.

Daisy was growing stronger, and was beginning to contemplate a change,
moved at last by Jim Ratcliffe's persistent urging. There was a
cottage at Brethaven which, he declared, would suit her exactly.
Muriel raised no objection to the plan. She knew it would be for
Daisy's benefit, but her heart sank whenever she thought of it. She
was glad when early in June Blake came back to them for a few days
before starting on a round of visits.

He approved of the Brethaven plan warmly, and he and Muriel rode over
one morning to the little seaside village to make arrangements. Muriel
said no more to him upon the subject of Nick. On this one point
she had come to know that it was vain to look for sympathy. He had
promised to help her indeed, but he simply did not understand
her nervous shrinking from the man. Moreover, Nick had made it so
abundantly evident that he had no intention of thrusting himself upon
her that there could be no ground for fear on that score. Besides, was
not her engagement her safeguard?

As for Blake, her silence upon the matter made him hope that she was
getting over her almost childish panic. With all the goodwill in the
world, he could not see that his presence as watch-dog was required.

Yet, as they turned from the cottage on the shore with their errand
accomplished, he did say after some hesitation, "Of course, if for
any reason you should want me when I am away, you must let me know. I
would come at once."

She thanked him with a heightened colour, and he had a feeling that
his allusion had been unwelcome. They rode up from the beach in
silence.

Turning a sharp corner towards the village where they proposed to
lunch, they came suddenly upon a motor stationary by the roadside.
A whoop of cheery recognition greeted them before either of them
realised that it was occupied, and they discovered Nick seated on the
step, working with his one hand at the foot-brake. Olga was with him,
endeavouring to assist.

Nick's face grinned welcome impartially to the newcomers. "Hullo! This
is luck. Delighted to see you. Grange, my boy, here's a little job
exactly suited to your Herculean strength. Climb down like a good
fellow, and lend a hand."

Grange glanced at Muriel, and with a slight shrug handed her his
bridle. "I'm not much good at this sort of thing," he remarked, as he
dismounted.

"Never thought you were for a moment," responded Nick. "But I suppose
you can do as you're told at a pinch. This filthy thing has got
jammed. It's too tough a job for a single-handed pigmy like me." He
glanced quizzically up at Muriel with the last remark, but she quickly
averted her eyes, bending to speak to Olga at the same instant.

Olga was living in the seventh heaven just then, and her radiant face
proclaimed it. "I'm learning to drive," she told Muriel. "It's the
greatest fun. You would just love it. I know you would." She stood
fondling the horses and chattering while the two men wrestled with the
motor's internal arrangements, and Muriel longed desperately to give
her animal the rein and flee away from the mocking sprite that gibed
at her from Nick's eyes. Whence came it, this feeling of insecurity,
this perpetual sense of fighting against the inevitable? She had
fancied that Blake's presence would be her safeguard, but now she
bitterly realised that it made no difference to her. He stood as it
were outside the ropes, and was powerless to intervene.

Suddenly she saw them stand up. The business was done. They stood for
a second side by side--Blake gigantic, well-proportioned, splendidly
strong; Nick, meagre, maimed, almost shrunken, it seemed. But in that
second she knew with unerring conviction that the greater fighter of
the two was the man against whom she had pitted her quivering woman's
strength. She knew at a single glance that for all his bodily weakness
Nick possessed the power to dominate even so mighty a giant as Blake.
What she had said to herself many a time before, she said again. He
was abnormal, superhuman even; more--where he chose to exert himself,
he was irresistible.

The realisation went through her, sharp and piercing, horribly
distinct. She had sought shelter like a frightened rabbit in the
densest cover she could find, but, crouching low, she heard the rush
of the remorseless wings above her. She knew that at any moment he
could rend her refuge to pieces and hold her at his mercy.

Abruptly he left Blake and came to her side. "I want you and Grange to
come to Redlands for luncheon," he said. "Olga is hostess there. Don't
refuse."

"Oh, do come!" urged Olga, dancing eagerly upon one leg. "You've never
been to Redlands, have you? It's such a lovely place. Say you'll come,
Muriel."

Muriel scarcely heard her. She was looking down into Nick's face,
seeking, seeking for the hundredth time, to read that baffling mask.

"Don't refuse," he said again. "You'll get nothing but underdone chops
at the inn here, and I can't imagine that to be a weakness of yours."

She gave up her fruitless search. "I will come," she said.

"It's exactly as you like, you know, Muriel," Grange put in awkwardly.

She understood the precise meaning of Nick's laugh. She even for a
moment wanted to laugh herself. "Thank you. I should like to," she
said.

Nick nodded and turned aside. "Olga, stop capering," he ordered, "and
drive me home."

Olga obeyed him promptly, with the gaiety of a squirrel. As Nick
seated himself by her side, Muriel saw her turn impulsively and rub
her cheek against his shoulder. It gave her a queer little tingling
shock to see the child's perfect confidence in him. But then--but
then--Olga had never looked on horror, had never seen the devil leap
out in naked fury upon her hero's face.

They waited to let the car go first, Olga proudly grasping the wheel;
then, trotting briskly, followed in its wake.

Muriel had an uneasy feeling that Blake wanted to apologise, and she
determined that he should not have the opportunity. Each time that
he gave any sign of wishing to draw nearer to her, she touched her
horse's flank. Something in the nature of a revelation had come to
her during that brief halt by the roadside. For the first time she
had caught a glimpse, plain and unvarnished, of the actual man that
inhabited the giant's frame, and it had given her an odd, disturbing
suspicion that the strength upon which she leaned was in simple fact
scarcely equal to her own.

The way to Redlands lay through leafy woodlands through which here
and there the summer sea gleamed blue. Turning in at the open gates,
Muriel uttered an exclamation of delight. She seemed to have suddenly
entered fairyland. The house, long, low, rambling, roofed with thatch,
stood at the end of a winding drive that was bordered on both sides
by a blaze of rhododendron flowers. Down below her on the left was a
miniature glen from which arose the tinkle of running water. On her
right the trees grew thickly, completely shutting out the road.

"Oh, Blake!" she exclaimed. "What a perfect paradise!"

"Like it?" said Nick; and with a start she saw him coolly step out
from a shadowy path behind them and close the great iron gate.

Impulsively she pulled up and slipped to the ground. "Take my horse,
Blake," she said. "I must run down to that stream."

He obeyed her, not very willingly, and Nick with a chuckle turned and
plunged after her down the narrow path. "Go straight ahead!" he called
back. "Olga is waiting for you at the house."

He came up with Muriel on the edge of the fairy stream. Her face was
flushed and her eyes nervous, but she met him bravely. She had known
in her heart that he would follow. As he stopped beside her, she
turned with a little desperate laugh and held out her hand.

"Is it peace?" she said rather breathlessly.

She felt his fingers, tense as wire, close about her own. "Seems like
it," he said. "What are you afraid of? Me?"

She could not meet his look. But the necessity for some species of
understanding pressed upon her. She wanted unspeakably to conciliate
him.

"I want to be friends with you, Nick," she said, "if you will let me."

"What for?" said Nick sharply.

She was silent. She could not tell him that her sure defence had
crumbled at a touch. Somehow she was convinced that he knew it
already.

"You never wanted such a thing before," he said. "You certainly
weren't hankering after it the last time we met."

Her cheeks burned at the memory. Again she felt ashamed. With a great
effort she forced herself to speak with a certain frankness.

"I am afraid," she said--"I have thought since--that I was rather
heartless that day. The fact was, I was taken by surprise. But I am
sorry now, Nick. I am very sorry."

Her tone was unconsciously piteous. Surely he must see that if they
were to meet often, as inevitably they must, some sort of agreement
between them was imperative. She must feel stable ground beneath her
feet. Their intercourse could not be one perpetual passage of arms.
Flesh and blood could never endure it.

But Nick did not apparently view the matter in the same light. "Pray
don't be sorry," he airily begged her. "I quite understood. I never
take offence where none is intended, and not always where it is. So
dismiss the matter from your mind with all speed. There is not the
smallest occasion for regret."

He meant to elude her, she saw, and she turned from him without
another word. There was to be no understanding then, no friendly
feeling, no peace of mind. She had trusted to his generosity, and it
was quite clear that he had no intention of being generous.

As they walked by a mossy pathway towards the house, they talked upon
indifferent things. But the girl's heart was very bitter within
her. She would have given almost anything to have flung back his
hospitality in his grinning, triumphant face, and have departed with
her outraged pride to the farthest corner of the earth.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE EAGLE HOVERS


Luncheon in the low, old-fashioned dining-room at Redlands with its
windows facing the open sea, with Olga beaming at the head of the
table, would have been a peaceful and pleasant meal, had Muriel's
state of mind allowed her to enjoy it. But Nick's treatment of her
overture had completely banished all enjoyment for her. She forced
herself to eat and to appear unconcerned, but she was quivering
inwardly with a burning sense of resentment. She was firmly determined
that she would never be alone with him again. He had managed by those
few scoffing words of his to arouse in her all the bitterness of which
she was capable. If she had feared him before, she hated him now with
the whole force of her nature.

He seemed to be blissfully unconscious of her hostility and played the
part of host with complete ease of manner. Long before the meal was
over, Grange had put aside his sullenness, and they were conversing
together as comrades.

Nick had plenty to say. He spoke quite openly of his illness, and
declared himself to have completely recovered from it. "Even Jim has
ceased his gruesome threats," he said cheerily. "There will be no more
lopping of branches this season. Just as well, for I chance to have
developed an affection for what is left."

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

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

"Speak when you're spoken to, little girl! That's a question you are
not qualified to answer. I'm on half-pay at present, and I haven't
made up my mind."

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

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

The question was unexpected, but she had herself in hand, and answered
it instantly. "I certainly shouldn't advise you to quit."

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

She was quite ready for him, inspired by an overmastering longing
to hurt him if that were possible. "Because if you gave up your
profession, you would be nothing but a vacuum. If the chance to
destroy life were put out of your reach, you would simply cease to
exist."

She spoke rapidly, her voice pitched very low. She was trembling all
over, and her hands were clenched under the table to hide it.

The laugh with which Nick received her words jarred intolerably upon
her. She heard nothing in it but deliberate cruelty.

"Great Lucifer!" he said. "You have got me under the microscope with
a vengeance. But you can't see through me, you know. I have a reverse
side. Hadn't you better turn me over and look at that? There may be
sorcery and witchcraft there as well."

There might be. She could well have imagined it. But these were lesser
things in which she had no concern. She turned his thrust aside with
disdain.

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

"Well hit!" chuckled Nick. "I retire from the fray, discomfited. Olga
_mia_, I wish you would find the cigars. You know where they are."

Olga sprang to do his bidding. Having handed the box to Grange she
came to Nick and stood beside him while she cut and lighted a cigar
for him.

He put his arm round her for a moment, and she stooped a flushed face
and kissed the top of his head.

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

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

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

He laughed and shook his head. "Go, child, go! You don't know anything
about it. And Muriel is waiting. You should never keep a guest
waiting."

Olga went reluctantly. They passed out into the clear June sunshine
together and down towards the shady shrubberies beyond the lawns.

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

"Yes, he can do anything," the child said proudly. "He was on
horseback this morning, and he managed splendidly. We generally
play tennis in the evening. He almost always wins. His services are
terrific. I can't think how he does it. He calls it juggling. I try to
manage with only one hand sometimes--just to keep him company--but I
always make a mess of things. There's no one in the world as clever as
Nick."

Muriel felt inclined to agree with her, though in her opinion this
distinguishing quality was not an altogether admirable one. She
infinitely preferred people with fewer brains. She would not, however,
say this to Olga, and they paced on together under the trees in
silence. Suddenly a warm hand slid within her arm, and Olga's grey
eyes, very loving and wistful, looked up into hers.

"Muriel darling," she whispered softly, "don't you--don't you--like
Nick after all?"

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

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

"Because, dear--don't be vexed, I love you frightfully--you did hurt
him so at lunch," explained Olga, pressing very close to her.

"Hurt him! Hurt him!" Again Muriel repeated her words, then,
recovering sharply, broke into a sudden laugh. "My dear child, I
couldn't possibly do such a thing if I tried."

"But you did, you did!" persisted Olga, a faint note of indignation in
her voice. "You don't know Nick. He feels--tremendously. Of course
you might not see it, for it doesn't often show. But I know--I always
know--when he is hurt, by the way he laughs. And he was hurt to-day."

She stuck firmly to her point, notwithstanding Muriel's equally
persistent attitude of incredulity, till even Muriel was conscious at
last in her inner soul of a faint wonder, a dim and wholly negligible
sense of regret. Not that she would under any circumstances have
recalled that thrust of hers. She felt it had been dealt in fair
fight; but even in fair fight there come sometimes moments of regret,
when one feels that the enemy's hand has been intentionally slack. She
knew well that, had he chosen, Nick might have thrust back, instantly
and disconcertingly, as his manner was. But he had refrained, merely
covering up his wound--if wound there had been--with the laugh that
had so wrung Olga's loving heart. His ways were strange. She would
never understand him. But she would like to have known how deep that
thrust had gone.

Could she have overheard the conversation between Nick and his
remaining guest that followed her departure, she might have received
enlightenment on this point, but Nick took very good care to ensure
that that conversation should be overheard by none.

As soon as Grange had finished his coffee, he proposed a move to the
library, and led the way thither, leaving his own drink untouched
behind him.

The library was a large and comfortable apartment completely shut
away from the rest of the house, and singularly ill-adapted for
eavesdroppers. The windows looked upon a wide stretch of lawn upon
which even a bird could scarcely have lingered unnoticed. The light
that filtered in through green sun-blinds was cool and restful. An
untidy writing-table and a sofa strewn with cushions in disorderly
attitudes testified to the fact that Nick had appropriated this room
for his own particular den. There was also a sun-bonnet tossed upon a
chair which seemed to indicate that Olga at least did not regard his
privacy as inviolable. The ancient brown volumes stacked upon shelves
that ranged almost from floor to ceiling were comfortably undisturbed.
It was plainly a sanctum in which ease and not learning ruled supreme.

Nick established his visitor in an easy-chair and hunted for an
ash-tray. Grange watched him uncomfortably.

"I'm awfully sorry about your arm, Ratcliffe," he said at length. "A
filthy bit of bad luck that."

"Damnable," said Nick.

"I've been meaning to look you up for a long time," Grange proceeded,
"but somehow it hasn't come off."

Nick laughed rather dryly. He was perfectly well aware that Grange had
been steadily avoiding him ever since his return. "Very good of you,"
he said, subsiding upon the sofa and pulling the cushions about him.
"I've been saving up my congratulations for you all these weeks. I
might have written, of course, but I had a notion that the spoken word
would be more forcible."

Grange stirred uneasily, neither understanding nor greatly relishing
Nick's tone. He wished vehemently that he would leave the subject
alone.

Nick, however, had no such intention. A faint fiendish smile was
twitching the corners of his lips. He did not even glance in Blake's
direction. There was no need.

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

"Thank you," returned Grange, without elation and with very little
gratitude. In some occult fashion, Nick was making it horribly awkward
for him. He longed to change the subject, but could find nothing to
say--possibly because Nick quite obviously had not yet done with it.

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

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

"Why not?" said Nick.

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

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

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

"Perhaps she will elect to wear mourning all her life," suggested
Nick. "Have you thought of that?"

There was a distinct gibe in this, and Grange at once retreated to a
less exposed position. "I am quite willing to wait for her," he said.
"And she knows it."

"You're deuced easily pleased then," rejoined Nick. "And let me tell
you--for I'm sure you don't know--there's not a single woman under the
sun who appreciates that sort of patience."

Grange ignored the information with a decidedly sullen air. He did
not regard Nick as particularly well qualified to give him advice upon
such a subject.

After a moment Nick saw his attitude, and laughed aloud. "Yes, say it,
man! It's quite true in a sense, and I shouldn't contradict you if it
weren't. But has it never occurred to you that I was under a terrific
disadvantage from the very beginning? Do you remember that I undertook
the job that you shirked? Or do you possibly present the matter to
yourself--and others--in some more attractive form?"

He turned upon his elbow with the question and regarded Grange with an
odd expectancy. But Grange smoked in silence, not raising his eyes.

Suddenly Nick spoke in a different tone, a tone that was tense without
vibrating. "It doesn't matter how you put it. The truth remains.
You didn't love her then. If you had loved her, you must have been
ready--as I was ready--to make the final sacrifice. But you were not
ready. You hung back. You let me take the place which only a man who
cared enough to protect her to the uttermost could have taken. You
let me do this thing, and I did it. I brought her through untouched. I
kept her--night and day I kept her--from harm of any sort. And she has
been my first care ever since. You won't believe this, I daresay, but
it's true. And--mark this well--I will only let her go to the man who
will make her happy. Once I meant to be that man. You don't suppose,
do you, that I brought her safe through hell just for the pleasure of
seeing her marry another fellow? But it's all the same now what I did
it for. I've been knocked out of the running." His eyelids suddenly
quivered as if at a blow. "It doesn't matter to you how. It wasn't
because she fancied any one else. She hadn't begun to think of you
in those days. I let her go, never mind why. I let her go, but she is
still in my keeping, and will be till she is the actual property of
another man--yes, and after that too. I saved her, remember. I won the
right of guardianship over her. So be careful what you do. Marry her
if you love her. But if you don't, leave her alone. She shall be no
man's second best. That I swear."

He ceased abruptly. His yellow face was full of passion. His hand was
clenched upon the sofa-cushion. The whole body of the man seemed to
thrill and quiver with electric force.

And then in a moment it all passed. As at the touching of a spring his
muscles relaxed. The naked passion was veiled again--the old mask of
banter replaced.

He stretched out his hand to the man who had sat in silence and
listened to that one fierce outburst of a force which till then had
contained itself.

"I speak as a fool," he said lightly. "Nothing new for me, you'll say.
But just for my satisfaction--because she hates me so--put your hand
in mine and swear you will seek her happiness before everything else
in the world. I shall never trouble you again after this fashion. I
have spoken."

Blake sat for several seconds without speaking. Then, as if impelled
thereto, he leaned slowly forward and laid his hand in Nick's. He
seemed to have something to say, but it did not come.

Nick waited.

"I swear," Blake said at length.

His voice was low, and he did not attempt to look Nick in the face,
but he obviously meant what he said.

And Nick seemed to be satisfied. In less than five seconds, he had
tossed the matter carelessly aside as one having no further concern in
it. But the memory of that interview was as a searing flame to Blake's
soul for long after.

For he knew that the man from whom Muriel had sought his protection
was more worthy of her than he, and his heart cried bitter shame upon
him for that knowledge.

It was with considerable difficulty that he responded to Nick's airy
nothings during the half-hour that followed, and the unusual alacrity
with which he seized upon his host's suggestion that he might care
to see the garden, testified to his relief at being released from the
obligation of doing so.

They went out together on to the wide lawn and sauntered down to a
summer-house on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the whole mighty
expanse of sea. It lay dreaming in the sunlight, with hardly a ripple
upon the long white beach below. And here they came upon Muriel and
Olga, sitting side by side on the grass.

Olga had just finished pulling a daisy to pieces. She tossed it away
at Nick's approach, and sprang to meet him.

"It's very disappointing," she declared. "It's the fourth time I've
done it, and it always comes the same. I've been making the daisies
tell Muriel's fortune, and it always comes to 'He would if he could,
but he can't.' You try this time, Nick."

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

Muriel looked up with a slightly heightened colour. "I think we ought
to be going," she remarked.

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

She glanced at the watch on her wrist--half-past three. Nick, seated
cross-legged on the grass in front of her, had already, with Olga's
able assistance, begun his game.

Swiftly the tiny petals fell from his fingers. He was very intent,
and in spite of herself Muriel became intent too, held by a most
unaccountable fascination. So handicapped was he that he could not
even pull a flower to pieces without assistance. And yet--

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

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

"He usually does cheat," Muriel observed, plucking a flower of grass
and regarding it with absorption.

"So do you," retorted Nick unexpectedly.

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

"I sha'n't tell you," he returned, "because you know, or you would
know if you took the trouble to find out. Grange, I wish you would
give me a light. Hullo, Olga, there's a hawk! See him? Straight above
that cedar!"

All turned to look at the dark shape of the bird hovering in mid-air.
Seconds passed. Suddenly there was a flashing, downward swoop, and the
sky was empty.

Olga exclaimed, and Nick sent up a wild whoop of applause. Muriel gave
a great start and glanced at him. For a single instant his look met
hers; then with a sick shudder, she turned aside.

"You are cold," said Grange.

Yes, she was cold. It was as if an icy hand had closed upon her heart.
As from an immense distance, she heard Olga's voice of protest.

"Oh, Nick, how can you cheer?"

And his careless reply. "My good child, don't grudge the poor creature
his dinner. Even a bird of prey must live. Come along! We'll go in to
tea. Muriel is cold."

They went in, and again his easy hospitality overcame all
difficulties.

When at length the visitors rode away, they left him grinning a cheery
farewell from his doorstep. He seemed to be in the highest spirits.

They were more than half-way home when Muriel turned impetuously to
her companion, breaking a long silence.

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



PART IV



CHAPTER XXXII

THE FACE IN THE STORM


Muriel saw very little of her _fiancé_ during the weeks that followed
their visit to Redlands. There was not indeed room for him at the
cottage at Brethaven which she and Daisy had taken for the summer
months. He had, moreover, several visits to pay, and his leave would
be up in September.

Muriel herself, having once made her decision, had plenty to occupy
her. They had agreed to adhere to Sir Reginald Bassett's plan for
them, and to be married in India some time before Christmas. But she
did not want to go to Lady Bassett's sister before she left England,
and she was glad when Daisy declared that she herself would go to town
with her in the autumn.

A change had come over Daisy of late, a change which Muriel keenly
felt, but which she was powerless to define. It seemed to date from
the arrival of Nick though she did not definitely connect it with him.
There was nothing palpable in it, nothing even remotely suggestive
of a breach between them; only, subconsciously as it were, Muriel had
become aware that their silence, which till then had been the silence
of sympathy, had subtly changed till it had become the silence of a
deep though unacknowledged reserve. It was wholly intangible, this
change. No outsider would have guessed of its existence. But to the
younger girl it was always vaguely present. She knew that somewhere
between herself and her friend there was a locked door. Her own
reserve never permitted her to attempt to open it. With a species of
pride that was largely composed of shyness, she held aloof. But she
was never quite unconscious of the opposing barrier. She felt that the
old sweet intimacy, that had so lightened the burden of her solitude,
was gone.

Meanwhile, Daisy was growing stronger, and day by day more active. She
never referred to her baby, and very seldom to her husband. When his
letters arrived she invariably put them away with scarcely a glance.
Muriel sometimes wondered if she even read them. It was pitifully
plain to her that Will Musgrave's place in his wife's heart was very,
very narrow. It had dwindled perceptibly since the baby's death.

On the subject of Will's letters, Nick could have enlightened her, for
he always appeared at the cottage on mail-day for news. But Muriel,
having discovered this habit, as regularly absented herself, with the
result that they seldom met. He never made any effort to see her. On
one occasion when she came unexpectedly upon him and Olga, shrimping
along the shore, she was surprised that he did not second the child's
eager proposal that she should join them. He actually seemed too keen
upon the job in hand to pay her much attention.

And gradually she began to perceive that this was the attitude towards
her that he had decided to assume. What it veiled she knew not, nor
did she inquire. It was enough for her that hostilities had ceased.
Nick apparently was bestowing his energies elsewhere.

Midsummer passed, and a July of unusual heat drew on. Dr. Jim and his
wife and boys had departed to Switzerland. Nick and Olga had elected
to remain at Redlands. They were out all day long in the motor or
dogcart, on horseback or on foot. Life was one perpetual picnic to
Olga just then, and she was not looking forward to the close of the
summer holidays when, so her father had decreed, she was to return to
her home and the ordinary routine. Nick's plans were still unsettled
though he spoke now and then of a prospective return to India. He must
in any case return thither, so he once told her, whether he decided
to remain or not. It was not a pleasant topic to Olga, and she always
sought to avoid any allusion to it. After the fashion of children, she
lived in the present, and enjoyed it to the full: bathing with
Muriel every morning, and spending the remainder of the day in Nick's
society. The friendship between these two was based upon complete
understanding. They had been comrades as long as Olga could remember.
Given Nick, it was very seldom that she desired any one besides.

Muriel had ceased to marvel over this strange fact. She had come to
realise that Nick was, and always must be, an enigma to her. In
the middle of July, when the heat was so intense as to be almost
intolerable, Daisy received a pressing invitation to visit an old
friend, and to go yachting on the Broads. She refused it at first
point-blank; but Muriel, hearing of the matter before the letter was
sent, interfered, and practically insisted upon a change of decision.

"It is the very thing for you," she declared. "Brethaven has done
its best for you. But you want a dose of more bracing air to make you
quite strong again. It's absurd of you to dream of throwing away such
an opportunity. I simply won't let you do it."

"But how can I possibly leave you all alone?" Daisy protested. "If the
Ratcliffes were at home, I might think of it, but--"

"That settles it," Muriel announced with determination. "I never heard
such nonsense in my life. What do you think could possibly happen
to me here? You know perfectly well that a couple of weeks of my own
society would do me no harm whatever."

So insistent was she, that finally she gained her point, and Daisy,
albeit somewhat reluctantly, departed for Norfolk, leaving her to her
own devices.

The heat was so great in those first days of solitude that Muriel was
not particularly energetic. Apart from her early swim with Olga, and
an undeniably languid stroll in the evening, she scarcely left the
precincts of the cottage: No visitors came to her. There were none but
fisher-folk in the little village. And so her sole company consisted
of Daisy's _ayah_ and the elderly English cook.

But she did not suffer from loneliness. She had books and work in
plenty, and it was even something of a relief, though she never owned
it, to be apart from Daisy for a little. They never disagreed, but
always at the back of her mind there lay the consciousness of a gulf
between them.

She was at first somewhat anxious lest Nick should feel called upon
to entertain her, and should invite her to accompany him and Olga upon
some of their expeditions. But he did not apparently think of it, and
she was always very emphatic in assuring Olga that she was enjoying
her quiet time.

She and Nick had not met for some weeks, and she began to think it
more than probable that they would not do so during Daisy's absence.
Under ordinary circumstances this expectation of hers would doubtless
have been realised, for Nick had plainly every intention of keeping
out of her way; but the day of emergency usually dawns upon a world of
sleepers.

The brooding heat culminated at last in an evening of furious storm,
and Muriel speedily left the dinner-table to watch the magnificent
spectacle of vivid and almost continuous lightning over the sea.
It was a wonder that always drew her. She did not feel the nervous
oppression that torments so many women, or if she felt it she rose
above it. The splendour of the rising storm lifted her out of herself.
She had no thought for anything else.

For more than half an hour she stood by the little sitting-room
window, gazing out upon the storm-tossed water. It had not begun to
rain, but the sound of it was in the air, and the earth was waiting
expectantly. There seemed to be a feeling of expectation everywhere.
She was vaguely restless under it, curiously impatient for the climax.

It came at last, so suddenly, so blindingly, that she reeled back
against the curtain in sheer, physical recoil. The whole sky seemed to
burst into flame, and the crash of thunder was so instantaneous that
she felt as if a shell had exploded at her feet. Trembling, she hid
her face. The world seemed to rock all around her. For the first time
she was conscious of fear.

Then as the thunder died into a distant roar, the heavens opened as if
at a word of command, and in one marvellous, glittering sheet the rain
burst forth.

She lifted her head to gaze upon this new wonder that the incessant
lightning revealed. The noise was like the sharp rattle of musketry,
and it almost drowned the heavier artillery overhead. The window was
blurred and streaming, but the brilliance outside was such that every
detail in the little garden was clear to her notwithstanding. And
though she still trembled, she nerved herself to look forth.

An instant later she sprang backwards with a wild cry of terror.
A face--a wrinkled face that she knew--was there close against the
window-pane, and had looked into her own.



CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LIFTING OF THE MASK


Out of a curious numbness that had almost been a swoon there came to
her the consciousness of a hand that rapped and rapped and rapped
upon the pane. She had fled away to the farther end of the room in her
panic. She had turned the lamp low at the beginning of the storm, and
now it burned so dimly that it scarcely gave out any light at all.
Beyond the window, the lightning flashed with an awful luridness
upon the rushing hail. Beyond the window, looking in upon her, and
knocking, knocking, knocking, stood the figure of her dread.

She came to herself slowly, with a quaking heart. It was more horrible
to her than anything she had known since the days of her flight
from the beleaguered fort; but she knew that she must fight down her
horror, she knew as certainly as if a physical force compelled her
that she would have to go to the window, would have to open to the man
who waited there.

Slowly she brought her quivering body into subjection, while every
nerve twitched and clamoured to escape. Slowly she dragged herself
back to the vision that had struck her with that paralysis of terror.
Resisting feebly, invisibly compelled, she went.

He ceased to knock, and, his face against the pane, he spoke
imperatively. What he said, she could not hear in that tumult of
mighty sound. Only she felt his insistence, answered to it, was
mastered by it.

White-faced, with horror clutching at her heart, she undid the catch.
His one hand, strong, instinct with energy, helped her to raise the
sash. In a moment he was in the room, bare-headed, drenched from head
to foot.

She fell back before him, but he scarcely looked at her. He shut
the window sharply, then strode to the lamp, and turned it up.
Then, abruptly he wheeled and spoke in a voice half-kindly,
half-contemptuous. "Muriel, you're a little idiot!"

There was little in the words to comfort her, yet she was instantly
and vastly reassured. She was also for the moment overwhelmingly
ashamed, but he did not give her time to think of that.

"I couldn't get in any other way," he said. "I tried the doors first,
hammered at them, but no one came. Look here! Olga is ill, very ill,
and she wants you badly. Are you brave enough to come?"

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

He threw her an odd look under his flickering eyelids, and she noted
with a scared minuteness of attention the gleam of the lamplight on
their pale lashes. She had always hated pale eyelashes. They seemed to
her untrustworthy.

"Yes," he told her grimly. "All alone--with me--in the storm. Shall
you be afraid--if I give you my hand to hold? You've done it before."

Was he mocking her weakness? She could not say. She only knew that he
watched her with the intensity of an eagle that marks its quarry. He
did not mean her to refuse.

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

"I don't know. I believe it is sunstroke. We were motoring in the
mid-day heat. She didn't seem to feel it at the time, but her head
ached when we got in. She is in a high fever now. I've sent my man on
in the motor to fetch Jim's locum from Weir. I should have brought the
dogcart myself, to fetch you, but I couldn't trust the horse in this."

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

He nodded. "I had no choice. She wished it. Besides, there were
none but women-folk left. She's got one of them with her, the least
imbecile of the lot, which isn't saying much. They're all terrified
of course at the storm--all except Olga. She is never afraid of
anything."

A frightful crash of thunder carried away his words. Before it had
rolled away, Muriel was at the door. She made a rapid sign to him, and
was gone.

Nick chafed up and down the room, waiting for her. The storm continued
with unabated violence, but he did not give it a thought. He was
counting the moments with feverish impatience.

Muriel's absence scarcely lasted for five minutes, but when she
came back all trace of fear had left her. Her face showed quiet and
matter-of-fact above the long waterproof in which she had wrapped
herself. Over her arm she carried a waterproof cloak.

She held it out to him. "It's one of Daisy's, but you are to wear it.
I think you must be mad to have come out without anything."

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

A terrific blast of wind and rain met them as they emerged from the
cottage, nearly whirling Muriel off her feet. She made an instinctive
clutch at her companion and instantly her hand was caught fast in his.
He drew her arm close under his own, and she did not resist him. There
was something reassuring in his touch.

Later she wondered if they spoke at all during that terrible walk. She
could never recall a word on either side. And yet, though in a measure
frightened, she was not panic-stricken.

The storm was beginning to subside a little before they reached
Redlands, though the rain still fell heavily. In the intervals between
the lightning it was pitch dark. They had no lantern, but Nick was
undismayed. He walked as lightly and surely as a cat, and Muriel
had no choice but to trust herself unreservedly to his guidance. She
marvelled afterwards at the complete trust with which that night he
had managed to inspire her, but at the time she never questioned it.

Yet when the lights of Redlands shone at last through the gloom, she
breathed a sigh of relief. Instantly Nick spoke.

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

She knew that she flushed in the darkness, and was glad that he could
not see her face.

"You must go and get dry, first of all," he went on. "I told them to
light a fire somewhere. And you are to have some coffee too. Mind, I
say it."

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

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

"Not in your wet things!" Muriel exclaimed. "No, Nick! Listen! I am
not wet, not as you are. Let me go to Olga first. You can send me some
coffee in her room if you like. But you must go at once and change.
Promise you will, Nick!"

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

Nick was silent for a little, as if considering. Then as they finally
reached the porch he spoke in a tone she did not altogether fathom.

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

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

"All right," he said, and this time she knew he spoke with relief. "I
will do as you like then."

A moment more, and he opened the door, standing aside for her to pass.
She entered quickly, glad to be in shelter, and paused to slip off her
streaming waterproof. He took it from her, passing his hand over her
sleeve.

"You are sure you are not wet through?"

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

"Yes. Come this way."

He preceded her up the wide stairs where he might have walked beside
her, not pausing for an instant till he stood at Olga's door.

"Go straight in," he said then. "She is expecting you. Tell her, if
she wants to know, that I am coming directly."

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

Very softly Muriel turned the door-handle and entered. Olga's voice
greeted her before she was well in the room. It sounded husky and
strained.

"Muriel! Dear Muriel! I'm so glad you've come. I've wanted you so you
can't think. Where's Nick?"

"He is coming, dearest." Muriel went forward to the bed, and took in
hers the two hands eagerly extended.

The child was lying in an uneasy position, her hair streaming in a
disordered tangle about her flushed face. She was shivering violently
though the hands Muriel held were burning. "You came all through this
awful storm," she whispered. "It was lovely of you, dear. I hope you
weren't frightened."

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

"I didn't mind," gasped Olga. "Mrs. Ellis--that's the cook--was here
at first. But she was such an ass about the thunder that I sent her
away. I expect she's in the coal cellar."

A gleam of fun shone for an instant in her eyes, and was gone. The
fevered hands closed tightly in Muriel's hold. "I feel so ill," she
murmured, "so ill."

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

"It's, it's all over me," moaned Olga. "My head worst, and my throat.
My throat is dreadful. It makes me want to cry."

There was little that Muriel could do to ease her. She tied back the
tossing hair, and rearranged the bedclothes; then sat down by her
side, hoping she might get some sleep.

Not long after, Nick crept in on slippered feet, but Olga heard him
instantly, and started up with out-flung arms. "Nick, darling, I want
you! I want you! Come quite close! I think I'm going to die. Don't let
me, Nick!"

Muriel rose to make room for him, but he motioned her back sharply;
then knelt down himself by the child's pillow and took her head upon
his arm.

"Stick to it, sweetheart!" he murmured softly. "There's a medicine man
coming, and you'll be better presently." Olga cuddled against him
with a sigh, and comforted by the close holding of his arm dropped
presently into an uneasy doze.

Nick never stirred from his position, and mutely Muriel sat and
watched him. There was a wonderful tenderness about him just then, a
softness with which she was strangely familiar, but which almost she
had forgotten. If she had never seen him before that moment, she knew
that she would have liked him.

He seemed to have wholly forgotten her presence. His entire attention
was concentrated upon the child. His lips twitched from time to time,
and she knew that he was very anxious, intensely impatient under his
stillness for the doctor's coming. She remembered that old trick of
his. She had never before associated it with any emotion.

Suddenly he turned his head as if he had felt her scrutiny, and looked
straight into her eyes. It was only for a moment. His glance flickered
beyond her with scarcely a pause. Yet it was to her as if by that
swift look he had spoken, had for the first time made deep and
passionate protest against her bitter judgment of him, had as it were
shown her in a single flash the human heart beneath the jester's garb.

And again very deep down in her soul there stirred that blind,
unconscious entity, of the existence of which she herself had so vague
a knowledge, feeling upwards, groping outwards, to the light.

There came upon her a sudden curious sense of consternation--a feeling
as of a mental earthquake when the very foundations of the soul
are shaken. Had she conceivably been mistaken in him? With all her
knowledge of him, had she by some strange mischance--some maddening,
some inexplicable misapprehension--failed utterly and miserably to see
this man as he really was?

For the first time the question sprang up within her. And she found no
answer to it--only that breathless, blank dismay.

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

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

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

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

He touched her cheek lightly at parting, and Olga caught the caressing
hand and pressed it against her burning lips. Muriel saw his face
as he turned from the bed. It was all softened and quivering with
emotion.



CHAPTER XXXIV

AT THE GATE OF DEATH


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

The doctor imparted the news to Nick and Muriel standing outside
the door of the sick-room. Nick's reception of it was by no
means characteristic. For the first time in her life Muriel saw
consternation undisguised upon the yellow face.

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

At another moment she could have laughed at the tragic force of his
self-arraignment. Even as it was, she barely repressed a smile as she
set his mind at rest. She needed no explanation. It was easy enough to
follow the trend of his thoughts just then.

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

She saw his instant relief, though he merely acknowledged the
statement by a nod.

"We must have a nurse," he said briefly. "We shall manage all right
then. I'll do my turn. Oh, stuff!" at a look from the doctor. "I
sha'n't hurt. I'm much too tough a morsel for microbes to feed on."

Possibly the doctor shared this opinion, for he made no verbal
protest. It fell to Muriel to do this later in the day when the nurse
was installed, and she was at liberty to leave Olga's room. Nick
had just returned from the post-office whence he had been sending a
message to the child's father. She came upon him stealing up to take a
look at her. Seeing Muriel he stopped. "How is she?"

Muriel moved away to an open window at the end of the passage before
she made reply. He followed her, and they stood together, looking out
upon the sunset.

"The fever is very high," she said. "And she is suffering a good deal
of pain. She is not quite herself at times."

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

It was exactly what she did mean. Olga had been growing steadily worse
all day. Yet when abruptly he turned to leave her, Muriel laid a hasty
hand upon his arm.

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

He stopped short. "Why not?"

She removed her hand quickly. "It's so dangerous--besides being
unnecessary. Won't you be sensible about it?"

He gave his head a queer upward jerk, and stood as one listening, not
looking at her. "What for?"

She could not think of any very convincing reason for the moment. Yet
it was imperative that he should see the matter as she saw it.

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

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

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

He spun round on his heels and faced her. He was blinking very
rapidly. "You asked me that question once before," he said. "And out
of a sentimental consideration for your feelings--I didn't answer
it. Do you really want an answer this time, or shall I go on being
sentimentally considerate?"

She heard the old subtle jeering note in his voice, but its effect
upon her was oddly different from what it had ever been before. It
did not anger her, nor did it wholly frighten her. It dawned upon her
suddenly that, though possibly it lay in his power to hurt her, he
would not do so.

She answered him with composure. "I don't want you to be anything
but sensible, Nick. And it isn't sensible to expose yourself to
unnecessary risk. It's wrong."

"That's my lookout," said Nick.

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

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

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

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

"Do I?" he said quizzically. "It's one of the few things I shouldn't
have known without being told. Well, I'm sorry I can't consent to be
sensible as you call it. I am quite sure personally that there isn't
the slightest danger. It isn't so infectious at this stage, you know.
Perhaps by-and-by, when she is through the worst, I will think about
it."

He spoke lightly, but she was aware of the anxiety that underlay the
words. She said no more, reminding herself that argument with Nick was
always futile, sometimes worse. Nevertheless she found some comfort
in the smile with which he left her. He had refused to treat with her,
but his enmity--if enmity it could be called--was no longer active. He
had proclaimed a truce which she knew he would not break.

Olga was delirious that night, and privately Muriel was glad that she
had not been able to exclude him; for his control over the child was
wonderful. As once with a tenderness maternal he had soothed her,
so now he soothed Olga, patiently, steadfastly, even with a certain
cheeriness. It all came back to her as she watched him, the strength
of the man, his selfless devotion.

She could see that both doctor and nurse thought very seriously of
the child. The former paid a late visit, but said very little beyond
advising her to rest if she could in an adjacent room. Both Nick and
the nurse seconded this, and, seeing there was nothing that she could
do, she gave way in the matter, lying down as she was with but small
expectation of sleep. But she was wearier than she knew, and the
slumber into which she fell was deep, and would have lasted for some
hours undisturbed.

It was Nick who roused her, and starting up at his touch, she knew
instantly that what they had all mutely feared had drawn very near.
His face told her at a glance, for he made no effort to dissemble.

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

She pushed the hair from her forehead, and turned without a word to
obey the summons. But at the door something checked her, something
cried aloud within her, bidding her pause. She stopped. Nick was close
behind her. Swiftly, obedient to the voice that cried, she stretched
out her hand to him. He gripped it fast, and she was conscious for an
instant of a curious gladness, a willingness to leave it in his hold,
that she had never experienced before. But at the door of Olga's room
he softly relinquished it, and drew back.

Olga was lying propped on pillows, and breathing quickly. The nurse
was bending over her with a glass, but Olga's face was turned away.
She was watching the door.

As Muriel came to her, the light eyes brightened to quick
intelligence, and the parted lips tried to speak. But no sound came
forth, and a frown of pain succeeded the effort.

Muriel stooped swiftly and grasped the slender hand that lay clenched
upon the sheet.

"There, darling! Don't try to talk. It hurts you so. We are both here,
Nick and I, and we understand all about it."

It was the first time she had ever voluntarily coupled herself with
him. It came to her instinctively to do it in that moment.

But Olga had something to say, something apparently that must be said.
With infinite difficulty she forced a husky whisper. Muriel stooped
lower to catch it, so low that her face was almost touching the face
upon the pillow.

"Muriel," came haltingly from the parched lips, "there's something--I
want--to say to you--about Nick."

Muriel felt the blood surging at her temples as the faint words
reached her. She would have given anything to know that he was out of
earshot.

"Won't you say it in the morning, darling?" she said, almost with
pleading in her voice. "It's so late now."

It was not late. It was very, very early--the solemn hour when
countless weary ones fall into their long sleep. And the moment she
had spoken, her heart smote her. Was she for her own peace of mind
trying to silence the child's last words on earth?

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

"Yes," panted Olga. "I must. I must. You remember--that day--with the
daisies--the day we saw--the hawk?"

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

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

"Well, you know--I've thought since--that the daisies meant Nick,
not--not--I can't remember his name, Muriel."

"Do you mean Captain Grange, dear?"

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

"Very likely not, dear."

"And Muriel--do you know--Nick was just miserable--after you went. I
sort of felt he was. And late--late that night I woke up, and I crept
down to him--in the library. And he had his head down on the table--as
if--as if--he was crying. Oh, Muriel!"

A sharp sob interrupted the piteous whisper. Muriel folded her arms
about the child, pillowing the tired head on her breast. All the fair
hair had been cut off earlier in the day. Its absence gave Olga a very
babyish appearance.

Brokenly, with many gasping pauses, the pathetic little story came to
an end. "I went to him--and I asked him what it was. And he--he looked
up with that funny face he makes--you know--and he just said, 'Oh,
it's all right. I've been feeding on dust and ashes all day long,
that's all. And it's dry fare for a thirsty man!' He thought--I
wouldn't know what he meant. But I did, Muriel. And I always wanted
to tell you. But--somehow--you wouldn't let me. He meant you. He was
hurt--so hurt--because you weren't kind to him. Oh, Muriel, won't
you--won't you--try to be kind to him now? Please, dear, please!"

Muriel's eyes sought Nick, and instantly a thrill of surprise and
relief shot through her. He had not heard that request of Olga's. She
doubted if he had heard anything. He was sunk in a chair well in the
background with his head on his hand, and looking at him she saw his
shoulders shake with a soundless sob.

She looked away again with a sense of trespass. This--this was the man
who had fought and cursed and slain under her eyes--the man from whose
violence she had shrunk appalled, whose strength had made her shudder
many a time. She had never imagined that he could grieve thus--even
for his little pal Olga.

Tenderly she turned back to the child. That single glimpse of the man
in pain had made it suddenly easy to grant her earnest prayer.

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

"Never any more?" insisted Olga.

"Never any more, my darling."

Olga made a little nestling movement against her. It was all she
wanted, and now that the effort of asking was over she was very tired.

The nurse drew softly back into the shadow, and a deep silence fell in
the room. Through it in a long, monotonous roar there came the sound
of the sea breaking, eternally breaking, along the beach.

No one moved. Olga's breathing was growing slower, so much slower that
there were times when Muriel, listening intently, fancied that it
had wholly ceased. She held the little slim body close in her arms,
jealously close, as though she were defying Death itself. And ever
through the stillness she could hear her own heart beating like the
hoofs of a galloping horse.

Slowly the night began to pass. The outline of the window-frame became
visible against a faint grey glimmer. The window was open, and a
breath of the coming dawn wandered in with the fragrance of drenched
roses. A soft rain was falling. The patter of it could be heard upon
the leaves.

Again Muriel listened for the failing breath, listened closely,
tensely, her face bent low to the fair head that lay so still upon her
breast.

But she heard nothing--nothing but her own heart quickening,
quickening, from fear to suspense, from suspense to the anguish of
conviction.

She lifted her face at last, and in the same instant there arose
a sudden flood of song from the sleeping garden, as the first lark
soared to meet the dawn.

Half-dazed, she listened to that marvellous outpouring of gladness, so
wildly rapturous, so weirdly holy. On, ever on, pealed the bird-voice;
on to the very Gates of Heaven, and it seemed to the girl who
listened as though she heard a child's spirit singing up the steeps
of Paradise. With her heart she followed it till suddenly she heard
no more. The voice ceased as it had begun, ceased as a burst of music
when an open door is closed--and there fell in its stead a silence
that could be felt.



CHAPTER XXXV

THE ARMISTICE


She could not have said for how long she sat motionless, the slight,
inert body clasped against her breast. Vaguely she knew that the
night passed, and with it the wondrous silence that had lain like a
benediction upon the dawn. A thousand living things awoke to rejoice
in the crystal splendour of the morning; but within the quiet room the
spell remained unlifted, the silence lay untouched. It was as though
the presence of Death had turned it into a peaceful sanctuary that no
mere earthly tumult could disturb.

She sat in a species of waking stupor for a long, long time, not
daring to move lest the peace that enfolded her should be shattered.
Higher and higher the sun climbed up the sky till at last it topped
the cedar-trees and shone in upon her, throwing a single ray of purest
gold across the foot of the bed. Fascinated, she watched it travel
slowly upwards, till a silent, one-armed figure arose and softly drew
the curtain.

The room grew dim again. The world was shut out. She was not conscious
of physical fatigue, only of a certain weariness of waiting, waiting
for she knew not what. It seemed interminable, but she would not seek
to end it. She was as a soldier waiting for the order to quit his
post.

There came a slight movement at last. Someone touched her, whispered
to her. She looked up blankly, and saw the nurse. But understanding
seemed to have gone from her during those long hours. She could not
take in a word. There arose a great surging in her brain, and the
woman's face faded into an indistinct blur. She sat rigid, afraid to
move lest she should fall.

She heard vague whisperings over her head, and an arm that was like a
steel spring encircled her. Someone lifted her burden gently from her,
and a faint murmur reached her, such as a child makes in its sleep.

Then the arm that supported her gradually raised her up till she
was on her feet. Mechanically she tried to walk, but was instantly
overcome by a sick sense of powerlessness.

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

Nick's voice answered her in a quick, confident whisper. "Yes, you
can, dear. It's all right. Hang on to me. I won't let you go."

She obeyed him blindly. There was nothing else to do. And so,
half-led, half-carried, she tottered from the room.

A glare of sunlight smote upon her from a passage-window with a
brilliance that almost hurt her. She stood still, clinging to Nick's
shoulder.

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

Nick turned aside, still closely holding her, into the room in which
she had rested for the earlier part of the night.

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

He helped her down into an easy-chair, and would have left her; but
she clung to him still, weakly but persistently.

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

He yielded to her so abruptly that she was half-startled, dropping
suddenly down upon his knees beside her, the morning light full upon
his face.

"I am telling you the truth," he said. "I believe you have saved her
life. She has been sleeping ever since sunrise."

Muriel gazed at him speechlessly; but she no longer suspected him of
trying to deceive her. If he had never told her the truth before that
moment he was telling it to her then.

She gave a little gasping cry of relief unspeakable, and hid her face.
The next moment Nick was on his feet. She heard his quick, light step
as he crossed the threshold, and realised thankfully that he had left
her alone.

A little later, a servant brought her a breakfast-tray with a message
from the master of the house to the effect that he hoped she would go
to bed and take a long rest.

It was excellent advice, and she acted upon it; for since the worst
strain was over, sleep had become an urgent necessity to her. She
wondered as she lay down if Nick were following the same course. She
hoped he was, for she had a curiously vivid memory of the lines that
sleeplessness had drawn about his eyes.

It was late afternoon when she awoke, and sat swiftly up with a
confused sense of being watched.

"Don't jump like that!" a gruff voice said. "Lie down again at once.
You are not to get up till to-morrow morning."

She turned with a shaky laugh of welcome to find Dr. Jim seated
frowning by her side. He laid a compelling hand upon her shoulder.

"Lie down again, do you hear? There's nothing for you to do. Olga is
much better, and doesn't want you."

"And Nick?" said Muriel.

They were the first words that occurred to her. She said them
hurriedly, with heightened colour.

Jim Ratcliffe frowned more than ever. He was feeling her pulse. "A
nice couple of idiots you are!" he grimly remarked. "You needn't worry
about Nick. He has gone for a ride. As soon as he comes back, he will
dine and go to bed."

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

She could scarcely have said why she made the proposal, and she was
certainly surprised when Jim Ratcliffe fell in with it. He looked at
his watch. "Well, you may if you like. You will probably sleep the
better for it. But I'll have no nonsense, mind, Muriel. You're to do
as you're told."

Muriel smiled acquiescence. She felt that everything was right now
that Dr. Jim had returned to take the direction of affairs into his
own hands. He had come back alone, and he intended to finish his
holiday under Nick's roof. So much he told her before, with an abrupt
smile, he thanked her for her care of his little girl and took himself
off.

She almost regretted her decision when she came to get up, for the
strain was telling upon her more than she had realised. Not since
Simla days had she felt so utterly worn out. She was glad of the cup
of tea which Dr. Jim sent in to her before she left her room.

Sitting on the cushioned window-seat to drink it, she heard the tread
of a horse's feet along the drive, and with a start she saw Nick come
into view round a bend.

Her first impulse was to draw back out of sight, but the next moment
she changed her mind and remained motionless. Her heart was suddenly
beating very fast.

He was riding very carelessly, the bridle lying on the horse's neck.
The evening sun was shining full in his face, but he did not seem to
mind. His head was thrown back. He rode like a returning conqueror,
wearied it might be, but triumphant.

Passing into the shadow of the house, he saw her instantly, and the
smile that flashed into his face was one of sheer exultation. He
dropped the bridle altogether to wave to her.

"Up already? Have you seen old Jim?"

She nodded. It was impossible at the moment not to reflect his smile.
"I am coming down soon," she told him.

"Come now," said Nick persuasively.

She hesitated. He was slipping from his horse. A groom came up and
took the animal from him.

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

"I say, Muriel!"

She leaned down a little. "Well?"

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

She laughed half-reluctantly, conscious of a queer desire to please
him. Olga's words were running in her brain. He had fed on dust and
ashes.

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

"Till doomsday," said Nick obligingly.

And drawn by a power that would not be withstood, she went down, still
smiling, and joined him in the garden.



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE EAGLE STRIKES


Olga's recovery, when the crisis of the disease was past, was more
rapid than even her father had anticipated; and this fact, combined
with a spell of glorious summer weather, made the period of her
quarantine very tedious, particularly as Nick was rigidly excluded
from the sick-room.

At Olga's earnest request Muriel consented to remain at Redlands.
Daisy had written to postpone her own return to the cottage, having
received two or three invitations which she wished to accept if Muriel
could still spare her.

Blake was in Scotland. His letters were not very frequent, and though
his leave was nearly up, he did not speak of returning.

Muriel was thus thrown upon Jim Ratcliffe's care--a state of affairs
which seemed to please him mightily. It was in fact his presence that
made life easy for her just then. She saw considerably more of him
than of Nick, the latter having completely relegated the duties of
host to his brother. Though they met every day, they were seldom alone
together, and she began to have a feeling that Nick's attitude towards
her had undergone a change. His manner was now always friendly, but
never intimate. He did not seek her society, but neither did he avoid
her. And never by word or gesture did he refer to anything that had
been between them in the past. She even wondered sometimes if there
might not possibly have been another interpretation to Olga's story.
That unwonted depression of his that the child had witnessed had
surely never been inspired by her.

She found the time pass quickly enough during those six weeks. The
care of Olga occupied her very fully. She was always busy devising
some new scheme for her amusement.

Mrs. Ratcliffe returned to Weir, and Dr. Jim determined to transfer
Olga to her home as soon as she was out of quarantine. With paternal
kindliness, he insisted that Muriel must accompany her. Daisy's return
was still uncertain, though it could not be long delayed; and Muriel
had no urgent desire to return to the lonely life on the shore.

So, to Olga's outspoken delight, she yielded to the doctor's
persuasion, and on the afternoon preceding the child's emancipation
from her long imprisonment she walked down to the cottage to pack her
things.

It was a golden day in the middle of September and she lingered awhile
on the shore when her work was done. There was not a wave in all the
vast, shimmering sea. The tide was going out, and the shallow ripples
were clear as glass as they ran out along the white beach. Muriel
paused often in her walk. She was sorry to leave the little
fishing-village, realising that she had been very happy there. Life
had passed as smoothly as a dream of late, so smoothly that she had
been content to live in the present with scarcely a thought for the
future.

This afternoon she had begun to realise that her peaceful time was
drawing to an end. In a few weeks more, she would be in town in all
the bustle of preparation. And further still ahead of her--possibly
two months--there loomed the prospect of her return to India, of Lady
Bassett's soft patronage, of her marriage.

She shivered a little as one after another these coming events
presented themselves. There was not one of them that she would not
have postponed with relief. She stood still with her face to the
sunlit sea, and told herself that her summer in England had been all
too short. She had an almost passionate longing for just one more year
of home.

A pebble skimming past her and leaping from ripple to ripple like, a
living thing caught her attention. She turned sharply, and the next
moment smiled a welcome.

Nick had come up behind her unperceived. She greeted him with pleasure
unfeigned. She was tired of her own morbid thoughts just then.
Whatever he might be, he was at least never depressing.

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

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

"Not even to see me?" he suggested.

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

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

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

He looked up, grinning shrewdly. "I put it to you," he said. "Am I the
sort of man to live alone?"

She experienced a curious sense of relief. "But you are not alone in
the world," she pointed out. "You have relations."

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

She coloured and turned her face to the shore. "I don't think any man
ought to marry unless--unless--he cares," she said, striving hard to
keep the personal note out of her voice.

"Exactly," said Nick, moving beside her. "But doesn't that remark
apply to women as well?"

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

He did not press the point, and she wondered a little at his
forbearance. She glanced at him once or twice as they walked, but his
humorous, yellow face told her nothing.

Reaching some rocks, he suddenly stopped. "I've got to get some
seaweed for Olga. Do you mind waiting?"

"I will help you," she answered.

He shook his head. "No, you are tired. Just sit down in the sun. I
won't be long."

She seated herself without protest, and he turned to leave her. A few
paces from her he paused, and she saw that he was trying to light a
cigarette. He failed twice, and impulsively she sprang up.

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

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

She took the match-box from him. "Don't be absurd! Why shouldn't I?"
She struck a match and held it out to him. But he did not take it
from her. He took her wrist instead, and stooping forward lighted his
cigarette deliberately.

She did not look at him. Some instinct warned her that his eyes were
intently searching her face. She seemed to feel them darting over her
in piercing, impenetrable scrutiny.

He released her slowly at length and stood up. "Am I to have the
pleasure of dancing at your wedding?" he asked her suddenly.

She looked up then very sharply, and against her will a burning blush
rose up to her temples. He waited for her answer, and at last it came.

"If you think it worth your while."

"I would come from the other side of the world to see you made happy,"
said Nick.

She turned her face aside. "You are very kind."

"Think so?" There was a note of banter in his voice. "It's the first
time you ever accused me of that."

She made no rejoinder. She had a feeling at the throat that prevented
speech, even had she had any words to utter. Certainly, as he had
discovered, she was very tired. It was physical weariness, no doubt,
but she had an almost overmastering desire to shed childish tears.

"You trot back now," said Nick cheerily. "I can grub along quite well
by myself."

She turned back silently. Why was it that the world seemed so grey
and cold on that golden summer afternoon? She sat down again in the
sunshine, and began to trace an aimless design in the sand with the
stick Nick had left behind. Away in the distance she heard his cracked
voice humming. Was he really as cheerful as he seemed, she wondered?
Or was he merely making the best of things?

Again her thoughts went back to Olga's pathetic little revelation.
Strange that she who knew him so intimately should never have seen him
in such a mood! But did she know him after all? It was a question
she had asked herself many times of late. She remembered how he had
lightly told her that he had a reverse side. But had she ever really
seen it, save for those brief glimpses by Olga's bedside, and as it
was reflected in the child's whole-souled devotion to him? She wished
with all her heart that he would lift the veil just once for her and
show her his inner soul.

Again her thoughts passed to her approaching marriage. She had
received a letter from Blake that day, telling her at length of his
plans. He and Daisy had been staying in the same house, but he was
just returning to town. He was to sail in less than a fortnight, and
would come and say good-bye to her immediately before his departure.
The letter had been courteously kind throughout, but she had not felt
tempted to read it again. It contained no reference to their wedding,
save such as she chose to attribute to the concluding sentence: "We
can talk everything over when we meet." A sense of chill struck
her when she recalled the words. He was very kind, of course, and
invariably meant well; but she had begun to realise of late that there
were times when she found him a little heavy and unresponsive. Not
that she had ever desired any demonstration of tenderness from him,
heaven knew. But the very consciousness that she had not desired this
added to the chill. She was not quite sure that she wanted to see him
again before he sailed. Certainly he had never bored her; but it was
not inconceivable that he might do so. She shivered ever so slightly.
It was not an exciting prospect--life with Blake. He was quite sure to
be kind to her. He would consider her in every way. But was that after
all quite all she wanted? A great sigh welled suddenly up from the
bottom of her heart. Life was ineffably dreary--when it was not
revoltingly horrible.

"Shall I tell you what is the matter?" said Nick.

She started violently, and found him leaning across the flat rock
on which she was seated. His eyes were remarkably bright. She had a
feeling that he suppressed a laugh as his look flickered over her.

"Sorry I made you jump," he said. "You ought to be used to me by this
time. Anyhow you needn't be frightened. My venom was extracted long
ago."

She turned to him with sudden, unconsidered impulse. "Oh, Nick," she
said, "I sometimes think to myself I've been a great fool."

He nodded. Her vehemence did not seem to surprise him. "I thought it
would strike you sooner or later," he said.

She laughed in spite of herself with her eyes full of tears. "There's
not much comfort in that."

"I haven't any comfort to give you," said Nick, "not at this stage.
I'll give you advice if you like--which I know you won't take."

"No, please don't! That would be even worse." There was a tremor in
her voice. She knew that she had stepped off the beaten track; but she
had an intense, an almost passionate longing to go a little further,
to penetrate, if only for a moment, that perpetual mask.

"Don't let us talk of my affairs," she said. "Tell me of your own.
What are you going to do?"

Nick's eyebrows went up. "I thought I was coming to your wedding," he
remarked. "That's as far as I've got at present."

She made a gesture of impatience. "Do you never think of the future?"

"Not in your presence," laughed Nick. "I think of you--you--and only
you. Didn't you know?"

She turned away in silence. Was he tormenting her deliberately? Or did
he fail to see that she was in earnest?

There followed a pause, and then, urged by that unknown impulse that
would not be repressed, she did a curious thing. She got up, and,
facing him, she made a very earnest appeal.

"Nick, why do you always treat me like this? Why will you never be
honest with me?"

There was more of pain than reproach in the words. Her voice was deep
and very sad.

But Nick scarcely looked at her. He was pulling tufts of dried seaweed
off the rock on which he leaned.

"My dear girl," he said, "how can you expect it?"

"Expect it!" she echoed. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"

He drew himself slowly to a sitting posture. "How can I be honest with
you," he said, "when you are not honest with yourself?"

"What do you mean?" she said again.

He gave her an odd look. "You really want me to tell you?"

"Of course I do." She spoke sharply. The old scared feeling was awake
within her, but she would not yield to it. Now or never would she read
the enigma. She would know the truth, cost what it might.

"What I mean is this," said Nick. "You won't own it, of course, but
you are cheating, and you are afraid to stop. There isn't one woman in
ten thousand who has the pluck to throw down the cards when once she
has begun to cheat. She goes on--as you will go on--to the end of her
life, simply because she daren't do otherwise. You are out of the
straight, Muriel. That's why everything is such a hideous failure. You
are going to marry the wrong man, and you know it."

He looked up at her again for an instant as he said it. He had spoken
with his usual shrewd decision, but there was no hint of excitement
about him. He might have been discussing some matter of a purely
impersonal nature.

Muriel stood mutely poking holes in the sand. She could find nothing
to say to this matter-of-fact indictment.

"And now," Nick proceeded, "I will tell you why you are doing it."

She started at that, and looked up with flaming cheeks. "I don't think
I want to hear any more, Nick. It--it's rather late in the day, isn't
it?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I knew you would be afraid to face it.
It's easier, isn't it, to go on cheating?"

Her eyes gleamed for a moment. He had flicked a tender place.
"Very well," she said proudly. "Say what you like. It will make no
difference. But please understand that I admit none of this."

Nick's grin leapt goblin-like across his face and was gone. "I never
expected it of you," he told her coolly. "You would sooner die than
admit it, simply because it would be infinitely easier for you to die.
You will be false to yourself, false to Grange, false to me, rather
than lower that miserable little rag of pride that made you jilt me
at Simla. I didn't blame you so much then. You were only a child.
You didn't understand. But that excuse won't serve you now. You are a
woman, and you know what Love is. You don't call it by its name, but
none the less you know it."

He paused for an instant, for Muriel had made a swift gesture of
protest.

"I don't think you know what you are saying," she said, her voice very
low.

He sprang abruptly to his feet. "Yes," he said, speaking very rapidly.
"That's how you will trick yourself to your dying day. It's a way
women have. But it doesn't help them. It won't help you. For that
thing in your heart--the thing that is fighting for air--the thing
you won't own--the thing that drove you to Grange for protection--will
never die. That is why you are miserable. You may do what you will to
it, hide it, smother it, trample it. But it will survive for all that.
All your life it will be there. You will never forget it though you
will try to persuade yourself that it belongs to a dead past. All your
life,"--his voice vibrated suddenly, and the ever-shifting eyes blazed
into leaping flame--"all your life, you will remember that I was once
yours to take or to throw away. And--you wanted me, yet--you chose to
throw me away."

Fiercely he flung the words at her. There was nothing impersonal
about him now. He was vitally, overwhelmingly, in earnest. A deep
glow covered the parchment face. The man was as it were electrified by
passion.

And Muriel gazed at him as one gazing upon sudden disaster. What was
this, what was this, that he had said to her? He had rent the veil
aside for her indeed. But to what dread vision had he opened her eyes?

The old paralysing fear was knocking at her heart. She dreaded each
instant to see the devil leap out upon his face. But as the seconds
passed she realised that he was still his own master. He had flung
down the gauntlet, but he would go no further, unless she took it up.
And this she could not do. She knew that she was no match for him.

He was watching her narrowly, she knew, and after a few palpitating
moments she nerved herself to meet his look. She felt as if it
scorched her, but she would not shrink. Not for a moment must he fancy
that those monstrous words of his had pierced her quivering heart.
Whatever happened later, when this stunned sense of shock had left
her, she must not seem to take them seriously now, with his watching
eyes upon her.

And so at last she lifted her head and faced him with a little
quivering laugh, brave enough in itself, but how piteous she never
guessed.

"I don't think you are quite so clever as you used to be, Nick," she
told him, "though I admit,"--her lips trembled--"that you are very
amusing sometimes. Blake once told me that you had the eyes of a
snake-charmer. Is it true, I wonder? Anyhow, they don't charm me."

She stopped rather breathlessly, half-frightened by his stillness.
Would he understand that it was not her intention to defy him--that
she was only refusing the conflict?

For a few moments her heart beat tumultuously, and then came a great
throb of relief. Yes, he understood. She had nought to fear.

He put his hand sharply over his eyes, turning from her. "I have never
tried to charm you," he said, in a voice that sounded curiously choked
and unfamiliar. "I have only--loved you."

In the silence that followed, he began to walk away from her, moving
noiselessly over the sand.

Mutely she watched him, but she dared not call him back. And very soon
she was quite alone.



CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PENALTY FOR SENTIMENT


It did not take Dr. Jim long to discover that some trouble or at the
least some perplexity was weighing upon his young guest's mind. He
also shrewdly remarked that it dated from the commencement of
her visit at his house. No one else noticed it, but this was not
surprising. There was always plenty to occupy the attention in the
Ratcliffe household, and only Dr. Jim managed to keep a sharp eye upon
every member thereof. Moreover, by a casual observer, there was little
or nothing that was unusual to be detected in Muriel's manner. Quiet
she certainly was, but she was by no means listless. Her laugh did not
always ring quite true, that was all. And her eyes drooped a little
wearily from time to time. There were other symptoms, very slight,
wholly imperceptible to any but a trained eye, yet not one of which
escaped Dr. Jim.

He made no comment, but throughout that first week of her stay he
watched her unperceived, biding his time. During several motor rides
on which she accompanied him he maintained this attitude while she sat
all unsuspecting by his side. She had never detected any subtlety in
this staunch friend of hers, and, unlike Daisy, she felt no fear of
him. His blunt sincerity had never managed to wound her.

And so it was almost inevitable that she should give him his
opportunity at last.

Late one evening she entered his consulting-room where he was busy
writing.

"I want to talk to you," she said. "Is it very inconvenient?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Sit down there," he said,
pointing to one immediately facing him.

She laughed and obeyed, faintly blushing. "I'm not a patient, you
know."

He drew his black brows together. "It's very late. Why don't you go to
bed?"

"Because I want to talk to you."

"You can do that to-morrow," bluntly rejoined Dr. Jim. "You can't
afford to sacrifice your sleep to chatter."

"I am not sacrificing any sleep," Muriel told him rather wearily. "I
never sleep before morning."

He laid down his pen and gave her one of his hard looks. "Then you are
a very silly girl," he said curtly at length.

"It isn't my fault," she protested.

He shrugged his shoulders. "You all say that. It's the most ordinary
lie I know."

Muriel smiled. "I know you are longing to give me something nasty. You
may if you like. I'll take it, whatever it is."

Dr. Jim was silent for a space. He continued to regard her steadily,
with a scrutiny that spared her nothing. She sat quite still under it.
He had never disconcerted her yet. But when he leaned suddenly forward
and took her wrist between his fingers, she made a slight, instinctive
effort to frustrate him.

"Be still," he ordered. "What makes you so absurdly nervous? Want of
sleep, eh?"

Her lips trembled a little. "Don't probe too deep, doctor," she
pleaded. "I am not very happy just now."

"Why don't you tell me what is the matter?" he asked gruffly.

She did not answer, and he continued frowning over her pulse.


"What do you want to talk to me about?" he asked at last.

She looked up with an effort. "Oh, nothing much. Only a letter from
a Mrs. Langdale who lives in town. She is going to India in November,
and says she will take charge of me if I care to go with her. She has
invited me to go and stay with her beforehand."

"Well?" said Jim, as she paused.

"I don't want to go," she said. "Do you think I ought? She is Lady
Bassett's sister."

"I think it would probably do you good, if that's what you mean," he
returned. "But I don't suppose that consideration has much weight with
you. Why don't you want to go?"

"I don't like strangers, and I hate Lady Bassett," Muriel answered,
with absolute simplicity. "Then there is Daisy. I don't know what her
plans are. I always thought we should go East together."

"There's no sense in waiting for Daisy's plans to develop," declared
Jim. "She is as changeable as the wind. Possibly Nick will be able to
make up her mind for her. I fancy he means to try."

"Nick! You don't mean he will travel with Daisy?" There was almost a
tragic note in Muriel's voice. She looked up quickly into the shrewd
eyes that watched her.

"Why shouldn't he?" said Jim.

"I don't know. I never thought of it." Muriel leaned back again, a
faint frown of perplexity between her eyes. "Perhaps," she said slowly
at length, "I had better go to Mrs. Langdale."

"I should in your place," said Jim. "That handsome soldier of yours
won't want to be kept waiting, eh?"

"Oh, he wouldn't mind." The weariness was apparent again in her voice,
and with it a tinge of bitterness. "He never minds anything," she
said.

Jim grunted disapproval. "And you? Are you equally indifferent?"

Her pale face flushed vividly. She was silent a moment; then suddenly
she sat up and met his look fully.

"You'll think me contemptible, I know," she said, a great quiver in
her voice. "I can't help it; you must. Dr. Jim, I'll tell you the
truth. I--I don't want to go to India. I don't want to be married--at
all."

She ended with a swift rush of irrepressible tears. It was out at
last, this trouble of hers that had been gradually growing behind the
barrier of her reserve, and it seemed to burst over her in the telling
in a great wave of adversity.

"I've done nothing but make mistakes," she sobbed "ever since Daddy
died."

Dr. Jim got up quietly to lock the door. The grimness had passed from
his face.

"My dear," he said gruffly, "we all of us make mistakes directly we
begin to run alone."

He returned and sat down again close to her, waiting for her to
recover herself. She slipped out a trembling hand to him, and he took
it very kindly; but he said no more until she spoke.

"It's very difficult to know what to do."

"Is it? I should have said you were past that stage." His tone was
uncompromising, but the warm grip of his hand made up for it. His
directness did not dismay her. "If you are quite sure you don't care
for the fellow, your duty is quite plain."

Muriel raised her head slowly. "Yes, but it isn't quite so simple as
that, doctor. You see, it's not as if--as if--we either of us ever
imagined we were--in love with each other."

Jim's eyebrows went up. "As bad as that?"

She leaned her chin on her hand. "I am sure there must be crowds of
people who marry without ever being in love."

"Yes," said Jim curtly. "And kindle their own hell in doing it."

She started a little. "You think that?"

"I know it. I have seen it over and over again. Full half of the
world's misery is due to it. But you won't do that, Muriel. I know you
too well."

Muriel glanced up at him. "Do you know me? I don't think you would
have expected me to accept him in the first place."

"Depends what you did it for," said Jim.

She fell suddenly silent, slowly twisting the ring on her finger. "He
knew why," she said at last in a very low voice. "In fact--in fact he
asked me for that reason."

"And the reason still exists?"

She bent her head. "Yes."

"A reason you are ashamed of?" pursued the doctor.

She did not answer, and he drew his great brows together in deep
thought.

"You don't propose to take me any further into your confidence?" he
asked at last.

She made a quick, impulsive movement. "You--you--I think you know."

"Will you let me tell you what I know?" he said.

She shrank perceptibly. "If--if you won't make it too hard for me."

"I can't answer for that," he returned. "It depends entirely upon
yourself. My knowledge does not amount to anything very staggering
in itself. It is only this--that I know a certain person who would
cheerfully sacrifice all he has to make you happy, and that you have
no more cause to fear persecution from that person than from the man
in the moon."

He paused; but Muriel did not speak. She was still absently turning
her engagement ring round and round.

"To verify this," he said, "I will tell you something which I am sure
you don't know--which in fact puzzled me, too, considerably, for
some time. He has already sacrificed more than most men would care to
venture in a doubtful cause. It was no part of his plan to follow you
to England. He set his face against it so strongly that he very nearly
ended his mortal career for good and all in so doing. As it was, he
suffered for his lunacy pretty heavily. You know what happened. He was
forced to come in the end, and he paid the forfeit for his delay."

Again he paused, for Muriel had sprung upright with such tragedy in
her eyes that he knew he had said enough. The next moment she was on
her feet, quivering all over as one grievously wounded.

"Oh, do you know what you are saying?" she said, and in her voice
there throbbed the cry of a woman's wrung heart. "Surely--surely he
never did that--for me!"

He did not seem to notice her agitation. "It was a fairly big price
to pay for a piece of foolish sentiment, eh?" he said. "Let us hope he
will know better next time."

He looked up at her with a faintly cynical smile, but she was standing
with her face averted. He saw only that her chin was quivering like a
hurt child's.

"Come," he said at length. "I didn't tell you this to distress you,
you know. Only to set your mind at rest, so that you might sleep
easy."

She mastered herself with an effort, and turned towards him. "I know;
yes, I know. You--you have been very kind. Good-night, doctor."

He rose and went with her to the door. "You are not going to lie awake
over this?"

She shook her head. "Good-night," she said again.

He watched her down the passage, and then returned to his writing.
He smiled to himself as he sat down, but this time wholly without
cynicism.

"No, Nick, my boy," he said, as he drove his pen into the ink. "She
won't lie awake for you. But she'll cry herself to sleep for your
sake, you gibbering, one-armed ape. And the new love will be the old
love before the week is out, or I am no weather prophet."



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE WATCHER OF THE CLIFF


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.

"Yes, awfully risky, wasn't it?" said Bobby. "We only thought at the
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





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