The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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"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."

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