The Way of an Eagle by Ethel M. Dell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And Mrs. Musgrave knows?" she questioned.

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

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

Nick brought his horse up close to hers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII

THE MESSAGE

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

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

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

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

"Daisy Musgrave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII

THE VOICE OF A FRIEND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But the ring?" urged Muriel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV

THE POISON OF ADDERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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