The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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"I wonder," said Muriel.

She had scarcely given the matter a thought before, but it was a
relief to find some impersonal topic for discussion.

Bobby, however, had no intention of pursuing it further. "Oh, it's
self-evident," he said. "They are loyal to the Rajah, and the Rajah
is well-known to be loyal to the Crown. It's only these duffers of
administrators that make the mischief." He broke into an abrupt laugh,
and changed the subject. "Let us talk of something less exasperating.
How did you get on while you were away? You must have found the
journey across the Plains pretty ghastly."

She told him a little about it, incidentally mentioning Will Musgrave.

"Oh, I know him," he broke in. "An engineer, isn't he? Awfully clever
chap. I met him years ago at Sharapura the time Nick Ratcliffe won the
Great Mogul's Cup. I told you that story, didn't I?"

Yes, he had done so. She informed him of the fact with an immovable
face. It might have been a subject of total indifference to her.

"You know Nick Ratcliffe, don't you?" he pursued, evidently following
his own train of thought.

She flushed at the direct question. She had not expected it. "It is
a very long time since I last saw him," she said, with a deliberate
effort to banish all interest from her voice.

He was not looking at her. He could not have been aware of the flush.
Yet he elected to push the matter further.

"A queer fish," he said. "A very queer fish. He has lost his left arm,
poor beggar. Did you know?"

Yes, she knew; but she could hardly summon the strength to tell him
so. Her fan concealed her quivering lips, but the hand that held it
shook uncontrollably.

But he, still casual, continued his desultory harangue. "Always
reminds one of a jack-in-the-box--that fellow. Has a knack of popping
up when you least expect him. You never know what he will do next. You
can only judge him by the things he doesn't do. For instance, there's
been a rumour floating about lately that he has just gone into a
Tibetan monastery. Heaven knows who started it and why. But it is
absolutely untrue. It is the sort of thing that couldn't be true of a
man of his temperament. Don't you agree with me? Or perhaps you didn't
know him very well, and don't feel qualified to judge."

At this point he pulled out his programme and studied it frowningly.
He was plainly not paying much attention to her reply. He seemed to be
contemplating something that worried him.

It made it all the easier for her to answer. "No," she said slowly. "I
didn't know him very well. But--that rumour was told to me as absolute
fact. I--of course--I believed it."

She knew that her face was burning as she ended. She could feel the
blood surging through every vein.

"If you want to know what I think," said Bobby Fraser deliberately,
"it is that that rumour was a malicious invention of some one's."

"Oh, do you?" she said. "But--but why?"

He turned and looked at her. His usually merry face was stern.
"Because," he said, "it served some one's end to make some one else
believe that Nick had dropped out for good."

Her eyes fell under his direct look. "I don't understand," she
murmured desperately.

"Nor do I," he rejoined, "for certain. I can only surmise. It doesn't
do to believe things too readily. One gets let in that way." He rose
and offered her his arm. "Come outside for a little. This place is too
warm for comfort."

She went with him willingly, thankful to turn her face to the night. A
dozen questions hovered on her lips, but she could not ask him one
of them. She could only walk beside him and profess to listen to
the stream of anecdotes which he began to pour forth for her
entertainment.

She did not actually hear one of them. They came to her all jumbled
and confused through such a torrent of gladness as surely she had
never known before. For the bird in her heart had lifted its head
again, and was singing its rapture to the stars.

CHAPTER LII

A WOMAN'S OFFERING

Looking back upon the hours that followed that talk with Bobby behind
the tamarisks, Muriel could never recall in detail how they passed.
She moved in a whirl, all her pulses racing, all her senses on the
alert. None of her partners had ever seen her gay before, but she was
gay that night with a spontaneous and wonderful gaiety that came from
the very heart of her. It was not a gaiety that manifested itself in
words, but it was none the less apparent to those about her. For her
eyes shone as though they looked into a radiant future, and she danced
as one inspired. She was like a statue waked to splendid life.

Swiftly the hours flew by. She scarcely noted their passage, any more
than she noted the careless talk and laughter that hummed around her.
She moved in an atmosphere of her own to a melody that none other
heard.

The ball was wearing to a close when at length Lady Bassett summoned
her to return. Lady Bassett was wearing her most gracious smile.

"You have been much admired to-night, dear child," she murmured to the
girl, as they passed into the cloakroom.

Muriel's eyes looked disdainful for an instant, but they could not
remain so. As swiftly the happiness flashed back into them.

"I have enjoyed myself," she said simply.

She threw a gauzy scarf about her neck, and turned to go. She did not
want her evening spoilt by criticisms however honeyed.

The great marble entrance was crowded with departing guests. She edged
her way to one of the pillars at the head of the long flight of steps,
watching party after party descend to the waiting carriages. The
dancing had not yet ceased, and strains of waltz-music came to her
where she stood, fitful, alluring, plaintive. They were playing "The
Blue Danube."

She listened to it as one in a dream, and while she listened the tears
gathered in her eyes. How was it she had been so slow to understand?
Would she ever make it up to him? She wondered how long he meant to
keep her in suspense. It was not like him to linger thus if he had
indeed received her message. She hoped he would come soon. The waiting
was hard to bear.

She called to mind once more the last words he had spoken to her.
He had said that he would not swoop a second time, but she could
not imagine him doing anything else. He would be sudden, he would be
disconcerting, he would be overwhelming. He would come on winged feet
in answer to her call, but he would give her no quarter. He would
neither ask nor demand. He would simply take.

She caught her breath and hastened to divert her thought,
realising that she was on the verge of the old torturing process of
self-intimidation which had so often before unnerved her.

The throng about her had lessened considerably. Glancing downwards,
she discerned at the foot of the steps the old beggar who so
persistently haunted the Residency gates, incurring thereby Lady
Bassett's alarmed displeasure. He was crouching well to one side in
the familiar attitude of supplication. There were dozens like him in
Ghawalkhand, but she knew him by the peculiar, gibbering movement of
the wiry beard that protruded from his chuddah. He was repulsive, but
in a fashion fascinating. He made her think of a wizened old monkey
who had wandered from his kind.

She had come to regard him almost in the light of a protege, and,
remembering suddenly that he had besought an alms of her in vain some
hours before, she turned impulsively to a man she knew who had just
come up.

"Colonel Cathcart, will you lend me a rupee?"

He dived in his pocket and brought out a handful of money. She found
the coin she wanted, thanked him with a smile, and began to descend
the steps.

The old native was not looking at her. Something else seemed to have
caught his attention. For the moment he had ceased to cringe and
implore.

She heard Sir Reginald's voice above her. He was standing in talk with
the Rajah while he waited for his wife.

And then--she was half-way down the steps when it happened--a sudden
loud cry rang fiercely up to her, arresting her where she stood--a
man's voice inarticulate at first, bursting from mere sound into
furious headlong denunciation.

"You infernal hound!" it cried. "You damned assassin!"

At the same instant the old beggar at the foot of the palace steps
sprang panther-like from his crouching position to hurl himself bodily
at something that skulked in the shadows beyond him.

The marvellous agility of the action, the unerring precision with
which he pounced upon his prey, above all, the voice that had yelled
in execration, sent such a stab of amazed recognition through Muriel
that she stood for a second as one petrified.

But the next instant all her senses were pricked into alertness by a
revolver-shot. Another came, and yet another. They were fighting below
like tigers--two men in native dress, swaying, straining, struggling,
not three yards from where she stood.

She never fully remembered afterwards how she came to realise that
Nick--Nick himself--was there before her in the flesh, fighting like
a demon, fighting as she had seen him fight once long ago when every
nerve in her body had been strung to agonised repulsion.

She felt no repulsion now--no shrinking of any sort, only a wild
anguish of fear for his sake that drove her like a mad creature down
the intervening steps, that sent her flashing between him and his
adversary, that inspired her to wrench away the smoking revolver from
the murderous hand that gripped it.

She went through those awful moments as a woman possessed, blindly
obeying the compelling force, goaded by sheer, primaeval instinct to
protect her own. It was but a conflict of seconds, but while it lasted
she was untrammelled by any doubts or hesitations. She was sublimely
sure of herself. She was superbly unafraid.

When it was over, when men crowded round and dragged her enemy back,
when the pressing need was past, her courage fell from her like a
mantle. She sank down upon the steps, a trembling, hysterical woman,
and began to cry.

Some one bent over her, some one whispered soothing words, some one
drew the revolver out of her weak grasp. Looking up, she saw the old
native beggar upon whom she had thought to bestow her charity.

"Oh, Nick!" she gasped. "Nick!" And there stopped in sudden misgiving.
Was this grotesque figure indeed Nick? Could it be--this man who had
sat at the Residency gates for weeks, this man to whom she had so
often tossed an alms?

Her brain had begun to reel, but she clung to the central idea, as one
in deep waters clinging to a spar.

"Speak to me!" she entreated. "Only speak to me!"

But before he could answer, Bobby Fraser pushed suddenly forward,
bent over, lifted her. "You are not hurt, Miss Roscoe?" he questioned
anxiously, deep concern on his kindly face. "The damned swine didn't
touch you? There! Come back into the palace. You're the bravest girl I
ever met."

He began to help her up the steps, but though she was spent and near
to fainting she resisted him.

"That man--" she faltered. "Don't--don't let him go!"

"Certainly not," said Bobby promptly. "Here, you old scarecrow, come
and lend a hand!"

But the old scarecrow apparently had other plans for himself, for he
had already vanished from the scene as swiftly and noiselessly as a
shadow from a sheet.

"He is gone!" wailed Muriel. "He is gone! Oh, why did you let him go?"

"He'll turn up again," said Bobby consolingly. "That sort of chap
always does. I say, how ghastly you look! Take my arm! You are not
going to faint, are you? Ah, here is Colonel Cathcart! Miss Roscoe
isn't hurt, sir--only upset. Can't we get her back to the palace?"

They bore her back between them, and left her to be tended by the
women. She was not unconscious, but the shock had utterly unstrung
her. She lay with closed eyes, listening vaguely to the buzz of
excited comment about her, and wondering, wondering with an aching
heart, why he had gone.

No one seemed to know exactly what had taken place, and she was too
exhausted to tell. Possibly she would hot have told in any case. It
was known only that an attempt had been made upon the life of the
British Resident, Sir Reginald Bassett, and it was surmised that
Muriel had realised the murderous intention in time to frustrate it.
Certainly a native had tried to help her, but since the native had
disappeared, his share in the conflict was not regarded as very great.
As a matter of fact, the light had been too uncertain and the struggle
too confused for even the eye-witnesses to know with any certainty
what had taken place. Theories and speculations were many and various,
but not one of them went near to the truth.

"Dear Muriel will tell us presently just how it happened," Lady
Bassett said in her soft voice.

But Muriel was as one who heard not. She would not even open her eyes
till Sir Reginald came to her, pillowed her head against him, kissed
her white face, and called her his brave little girl.

That moved her at last, awaking in her the old piteous hunger,
never wholly stifled, for her father. She turned and clung to him
convulsively with an inarticulate murmuring that ended in passionate
tears.

CHAPTER LIII

THE LAST SKIRMISH

Why had he gone? That was the question that vexed Muriel's soul
through the long hours that followed her return to the Residency.
Lying sleepless on her bed, she racked her weary brain for an answer
to the riddle, but found none. Her brief doubt regarding him had long
since fled. She knew with absolute certainty that it was Nick and
no other who had yelled those furious words, who had made that
panther-spring, who had leaned over her and withdrawn the revolver
from her hold, telling her softly not to cry. But why had he gone just
then when she needed him most?

Surely by now her message had reached him! Surely he knew that she
wanted him, that she had lowered what he had termed her miserable
little rag of pride to tell him so! Then why was he tormenting her
thus--playing with her as a cat might play with a mouse? Was he taking
his revenge for all the bitter scorn she had flung at him in the past?
Did he think to wring from her some more definite appeal? Ah, that was
it! Like a searchlight flashing inwards, she remembered her promise
to him uttered long ago against her will--his answering oath. And she
knew that he meant to hold her to that promise--that he would exact
the very uttermost sacrifice that it entailed; and then perchance--she
shivered at the unendurable thought--he would laugh his baffling,
enigmatical laugh, and go his way.

But this was unbearable, impossible. She would sooner die than suffer
it. She would sooner--yes, she would almost sooner--break her promise.

And then, to save her from distraction, the other side of the picture
presented itself, that reverse side which he had once tauntingly
advised her to study. If he truly loved her, he would not treat her
thus. It would not gratify him to see her in the dust. If he still
cared, as Daisy had assured her he did, it would not be his pleasure
to make her suffer. But then again--oh, torturing question!--had that
been so, would he have gone at that critical moment, would he have
left her, when a look, a touch, would have sufficed to establish
complete understanding?

Drearily the hours dragged away. The heat was great, and just before
daybreak a thunder-storm rolled up, but spent itself without a drop of
rain. It put the finishing touches to Muriel's restlessness. She rose
and dressed, to sit by her window with her torturing thoughts for
company, and awaited the day.

With the passing of the storm a slight draught that was like a shudder
moved the scorched leaves of the acacias in the compound, quivered a
little, and ceased. Then came the dawn, revealing mass upon mass of
piled cloud hanging low over the earth. The breaking of the monsoon
was drawing very near. There could be no lifting of the atmosphere, no
relief, until it came.

She leaned her aching head against the window-frame in a maze of
weariness unutterable. Her heart was too heavy for prayer.

Minutes passed. The daylight grew and swiftly overspread all things.
The leaden silence began to be pierced here and there by the barking
of a dog, the crowing of a cock, the scolding of a parrot. Somewhere,
either in the compound or close to it, some one began to whistle--a
soft, tentative whistle, like a young blackbird trying its notes.

Muriel remained motionless, scarcely heeding while it wove itself into
the background of her thoughts. She was in fact hardly aware of it,
till suddenly, with a great thrill of astonishment that shook her
from head to foot, a wild suspicion seized her, and she started up,
listening intently. The fitful notes were resolving into a melody--a
waltz she knew, alluring, enchanting, compelling--the waltz that had
filled in the dreadful silences on that night long ago when she had
fought so desperately hard for her freedom and had prevailed at last.
But stay! Had she prevailed? Had she not rather been a captive in
spite of it all ever since?

On and on went the haunting waltz-refrain, now near, now far, now
summoning, now eluding. She stood gripping the curtain till she
could bear it no longer, and then with a great sob she mustered her
resolution; she stepped out upon the verandah, and passed down between
shrivelled trailing roses to the garden below.

The tune ceased quite suddenly, and she found herself moving through
a silence that could be felt. But she would not turn back then. She
would not let herself be discouraged. She had been frightened so often
when there had been no need for fear.

On she pressed to the end of the path till she stood by the high
fence that bordered the road. She could see no one. The garden lay
absolutely deserted. She paused, hesitating, bewildered.

At the same instant from the other side of the fence, almost as if
rising from the ground at her feet, a careless voice began to hum--a
cracked, tuneless, unmistakable voice, that sent the blood to her
heart with a force that nearly suffocated her.

"Nick!" she said, almost in a whisper.

He did not hear her evidently. His humming continued with unabated
liveliness.

"Nick!" she said again.

Still no result. There was nothing in the least dramatic in the
situation. It might almost have been described as ludicrous, but the
white-faced woman in the compound did not find it so.

She waited till he had come to a suitable stopping place, and then,
before he could renew the melody, she rapped with nervous force upon
the fence.

There fell a most unexpected silence.

She broke it with words imploring, almost agonised. "Nick! Nick! Come
and speak to me--for Heaven's sake!"

His flippant voice greeted her at once in a tone of cheerful inquiry.
"That you, Muriel?"

Her agitation began to subside of itself. Nothing could have been more
casual than his question. "Yes," she said in reply. "Why are you out
there? Why don't you come in?"

"My dear girl,--at this hour!" There was shocked reproof in the
ejaculation. Nick was evidently scandalised at the suggestion.

Muriel lost her patience forthwith. Was it for this that she had spent
all those miserable hours of fruitless heart-searching? His trifling
was worse than ridiculous. It was insufferable.

"You are to come in at once," she said, in a tone of authority.

"What for?" said Nick.

"Because--because--" She hesitated, and stopped, her face burning.

"Because--" said Nick encouragingly.

"Oh, don't be absurd!" she exclaimed in desperation. "How can I
possibly talk to you there?"

"It depends upon what you want to say," said Nick. "If it is something
particularly private--" He paused.

"Well?" she said.

"You can always come to me, you know," he pointed out. "But I
shouldn't do that, if I were you. It would be neither dignified nor
proper. And a girl in your position, dearest Muriel, cannot be too
discreet. It is the greatest mistake in the world to act upon impulse.
Let me entreat you to do nothing headlong. Take another year or so to
think things over. There are so many nice men to choose from, and this
absurd infatuation of yours cannot possibly last."

"Don't, Nick!" Muriel's voice held a curious mixture of mirth and
sadness. "It--it isn't a bit funny to talk like that. It isn't even
particularly kind."

"Ye gods!" said Nick. "Who wants to be kind?"

"Not you, evidently," she told him with a hint of bitterness. "You
only aim at being intelligent."

"Well, you'll admit I hit the mark sometimes," he rejoined. "I'm like
a rat, eh? Clever but loathsome."

She uttered a quivering laugh. "No, you are much more like an eagle,
waiting to strike. Why don't you, I wonder, and--and take what you
want?"

Nick's answering laugh had a mocking note in it. "Oh, I can play
Animal Grab as well as anybody--better than most," he said modestly.
"But I don't chance to regard this as a suitable occasion for
displaying my skill. Uninteresting for you, of course, but then you
are fond of running away when there is no one after you. It's been
your favourite pastime for almost as long as I have known you."

The sudden silence with which this airy remark was received had in
it something tragic. Muriel had sunk down on a garden-bench close at
hand, lacking the strength to go away. It was exactly what she had
expected. He meant to take his revenge in his own peculiar fashion.
She had laid herself open to this, and mercilessly, unerringly, he had
availed himself of the opportunity to wound. She might have known! She
might have known! Had he not done it again and again? Oh, she had been
a fool--a fool--to call him back!

Through the wild hurry of her thoughts his voice pierced once more. It
had an odd inflection that was curiously like a note of concern.

"I say, Muriel, are you crying?"

"Crying!" She pulled herself together hastily. "No! Why should I?"

"I can tell you why you shouldn't," he answered whimsically. "No one
ever ought to cry before breakfast. It's shocking for the appetite
and may ruin the complexion for the rest of the day. Besides,--you've
nothing to cry for."

"Oh, don't be absurd!" she flung back again almost fiercely. "I'm not
crying!"

"Quite sure?" said Nick.

"Absolutely certain," she declared.

"All right then," he rejoined. "That being so, you had better dry your
eyes very carefully, for I am coming to see for myself."

CHAPTER LIV

SURRENDER

She awaited him still sitting on the bench and striving vainly to
quiet her thumping heart. She heard him come lightly up behind her,
but she did not turn her head though she had no tears to conceal. She
was possessed by an insane desire to spring up and flee. It took all
her resolution to remain where she was.

And so Nick drew near unwelcomed--a lithe, alert figure in European
attire, bare-headed, eager-faced. He was smiling to himself as he
came, but when he reached her the smile was gone.

He bent and looked into her white, downcast face; then laid his hand
upon her shoulder.

"But Muriel--" he said.

And that was all. Yet Muriel suddenly hid her face and wept.

He did not attempt to restrain her. Perhaps he realised that tears
such as those must have their way. But the touch of his hand was in
some fashion soothing. It stilled the tempest within her, comforting
her inexplicably.

She reached up at last, and drew it down between her own, holding it
fast.

"I'm such a fool, Nick," she whispered shakily. "You--you must try to
bear with me."

She felt his fingers close and gradually tighten upon her own until
their grip was actual pain.

"Haven't I borne with you long enough?" he said. "Can't you come to
the point?"

She shook her head slightly. Her trembling had not wholly ceased. She
was not--even yet she was not--wholly sure of him.

"Afraid?" he questioned.

And she answered him meekly, with bowed head. "Yes, Nick; afraid."

"Don't you think you might look me in the face if you tried very
hard?" he suggested.

"No, Nick." She almost shrank at the bare thought.

"Oh, but you haven't tried," he said.

His voice sounded very close. She knew he was bending down. She even
fancied she could feel his breath upon her neck.

Her head sank a little lower. "Don't!" she whispered, with a sob.

"What are you afraid of?" he said. "You weren't afraid to send me a
message. You weren't afraid to save my life last night. What is it
frightens you?"

She could not tell him. Only her panic was very real. It shook her
from head to foot. A fierce struggle was going on within her,--the
last bitter conflict between her love and her fear. It tore her in all
directions. She felt as if it would drive her mad. But through it all
she still clung desperately to the bony hand that grasped her own. It
seemed to sustain her, to hold her up, through all her chaos of doubt,
of irresolution, of miserable, overmastering dread.

"What is it frightens you?" he said again. "Why won't you look at me?
There is nothing whatever to make you afraid!"

He spoke softly, as though he were addressing a scared child. But
still she was afraid, afraid of the very impulse that urged her,
horribly afraid of meeting the darting scrutiny of his eyes.

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