"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 fiance 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."