The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX

THE SCHOOL OF SORROW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X

THE EAGLE SWOOPS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI

THE FIRST FLIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muriel admitted the fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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