The Way of an Eagle, Ethel May Dell [inspirational books to read txt] 📗

overlook the fact that we are first cousins. It was intolerable. But--" again came her light laugh--"everything is intolerable till you learn to shrug your shoulders and laugh. Hark! Surely I heard something!"
Both listened intently. Footsteps were approaching the door. Daisy sprang to open it.
But it was only the evening post, and she came back holding a letter with a very unwonted expression of disappointment.
"From Will," she said. "I forgot it was mail night. I don't suppose there is anything very exciting in it."
She pushed the flimsy envelope into the front of her dress and fell again to listening.
"Can he have missed the train? Surely it's getting very late. A fog on the line perhaps. No! What's that? Ah! It really is this time. That's the horn, and, yes, Jim Ratcliffe's voice."
In a moment she had the door open again, and was out upon the step crying welcome to her guest.
Muriel crouched a little lower over the fire. Her hands were fast gripped together. It was more of an ordeal than she had thought it possibly could be.
An icy blast blew in through the open door, and she heard Dr. Ratcliffe's voice, sharp and curt, ordering Daisy back into the house. Then came another voice, slow and soft as a woman's, and for an instant Muriel covered her face, overwhelmed by bitter memory.
When she looked up they were entering the hall together, Daisy, radiant, eager, full of breathless questioning; Blake, upright, soldierly, magnificent, wearing the shy, pleased smile that she so well remembered.
He did not at once see her, and she stood hesitating, till Daisy, who was clinging to her cousin's arm, turned swiftly round and called her.
"Muriel, dear, where are you? Why are you hiding yourself? See, Blake! Here is Muriel Roscoe! You knew we were living together?"
He saw her then, and came across to her, with both hands outstretched.
"Forgive me, Miss Roscoe," he said, with his pleasant smile. "You know how glad I am to meet you again."
He looked down at her with eyes full of frank and friendly sympathy, and the grasp of his hands was such that she felt it for long after. It warmed her through and through, but she could not speak just then, and with ready understanding he turned back to Daisy.
"Dr. Ratcliffe told me you had sent him to fetch me from the station," he said. "I am immensely grateful to you and to him."
Daisy was greeting the doctor with much animation and a hint of mischief.
"I knew you would come," she laughed. "You never trust me to take care of myself, do you?"
He brushed some flakes of snow from her dress. "Events prove me to be justified," he remarked dryly. "Since Will has put you in my care, I labour under a twofold responsibility. What possessed you to go out in that murderous north-easter?"
He frowned at her heavily, his black brows meeting, but notwithstanding her avowal of a few minutes before, Daisy only grimaced in return. He was generally regarded as somewhat formidable, this gruff, square-shouldered doctor, with his iron-grey hair and black moustache, and keenly critical eyes. There was no varnish in his curt speech, no dissimulation in any of his dealings. It was said of him that he never sugared his pills. But his popularity was wide-spread nevertheless. His help was sought in a thousand ways outside his profession. To see his strong face melt into a smile was like sunshine on a gloomy day, the village mothers declared.
But Daisy's gay effrontery did not manage to provoke it at that moment.
"You have no business to take risks," he said. "How's the boy?"
Daisy sobered instantly. "His teeth have been worrying him rather to-day. _Ayah_ is with him. I left her crooning him to sleep. Will you go up?"
Jim Ratcliffe nodded and turned aside to the stairs. But he had not reached the top when Muriel overtook him, moving more quickly than was her wont.
"Let me come with you, doctor," she said.
He put his hand on her arm unceremoniously. "Miss Roscoe," he said, "I have a message for you--from my scapegrace Olga. She wants to know if you will play hockey in her team next Saturday. I have promised to exert my influence--if I have any--on her behalf."
Muriel looked at him in semi-tragic dismay. "Oh, I can't indeed. Why, I haven't played for ages,--not since I was at school. Besides--"
"How old are you?" he cut in.
"Nearly twenty," she told him. "But--"
He brought his hand down sharply on her shoulder. "I shall never call you Miss Roscoe again. You obtained my veneration on false pretences, and you have lost it for ever. Now look here, Muriel!" Arrived at the top of the stairs, he stood still and confronted her with that smile of his that so marvellously softened his rugged face. "I am thirty years older than you are, and I haven't lived for any part of them with my eyes shut. I've been wanting to give you some advice--medical advice--for a long time. But you wouldn't have it. And now I'm not going to offer it to you. You shall take the advice of a friend instead. You join Olga's hockey team, and go paper-chasing with her too. The monkey is a rare sportswoman. She'll give you a good run for your money. Besides, she has set her heart on having you, and she is a young woman that likes her own way, though, to be sure, she doesn't always get it. Come, you can't refuse when a friend asks you."
It was difficult, certainly, but Muriel plainly desired to do so. She had escaped from the whirling vortex of life with strenuous effort, and dragged herself bruised and aching to the bank. She did not want to step down again into even the minutest eddy of that ruthless flood. Moreover, in addition to this morbid reluctance she lacked the physical energy that such a step demanded of her.
"It's very kind of your little daughter to think of asking me," she said. "But really, I shouldn't be any good. I get tired so quickly. No, there's nothing the matter with me," seeing his intent look. "I'm not ill. I never have been actually ill. Only--" her voice quivered a little--"I think I always shall be tired for the rest of my life."
"Skittles!" he returned bluntly. "That isn't what's the matter with you. Go out into the open air. Go out into the north-east wind and sweep the snow away. Shall I tell you what is wrong with you? You're stiff from inaction. It's a species of cramp, my dear, and there's only one remedy for it. Are you going to take it of your own accord, or must I come round with a physic spoon and make you?"
She laughed a little, though the deep pathos of her shadowed eyes never varied. Daisy's merry voice rose from the lower regions gaily chaffing her cousin.
"Goodness, Blake! I shouldn't have known you. You're as gaunt as a camel. Haven't you got over your picnic at Fort Wara yet? You're almost as scanty a bag of bones as Nick was six months ago."
Blake's answer was inaudible. Dr. Ratcliffe did not listen for it. He had seen the swift look of horror that the brief allusion had sent into the girl's sad face, and he understood it though he made no sign.
"Very well," he said, turning towards the nursery. "Then I take you in hand from this day forward. And if I don't find you in the hockey-field on Saturday, I shall come myself and fetch you."
There was nothing even vaguely suggestive of Nick about him, but Muriel knew as surely as if Nick had said it that he would keep his word.


CHAPTER XVIII
THE EXPLANATION

"Now," said Daisy briskly, "you two will just have to entertain each other for a little while, for I am going up to sit with my son while _ayah_ is off duty."
"Mayn't we come too?" suggested her cousin, as he rose to open the door.
She stood a moment and contemplated him with shining eyes. "You are too magnificent altogether for this doll's house of ours," she declared. "I am sure this humble roof has never before sheltered such a lion as Captain Blake Grange, V.C."
"Only an ass in a lion's skin, my dear Daisy," said Grange modestly.
She laughed. "An excellent simile, my worthy cousin. I wish I had thought of it myself."
She went lightly away with this thrust, and Grange, after a brief pause, turned slowly back into the room.
Muriel was seated in a low chair before the fire. She was working at some tiny woollen socks, knitting swiftly in dead silence.
He moved to the hearthrug, and stood there, obviously ill at ease. A certain shyness was in his nature, and Muriel's nervousness reacted upon him. He did not know how to break the silence.
At length, with an effort, he spoke. "You heard about Nick Ratcliffe's wound, I expect, Miss Roscoe?"
Muriel's hands leapt suddenly and fell into her lap. "Nick Ratcliffe! When was he wounded? No, I have heard nothing."
He looked down at her with an uneasy suspicion that he had lighted upon an unfortunate subject.
"I thought you would have heard," he said. "Didn't Daisy know? He came back to us from Simla--got himself attached to the punitive expedition. I was on the sick list myself, so did not see him, but they say he fought like a dancing dervish, and did a lot of damage too. Every one thought he would have the V.C., but there was a rumour that he refused it."
"And--he was wounded, you say?" Muriel's voice sounded curiously strained. Her knitting lay jumbled together in her lap. Her dark face was lifted, and it seemed to Grange, unskilled observer though he was, that he had never seen deeper tragedy in any woman's eyes.
Somewhat reluctantly he made reply. "He had his arm injured by a sword-thrust at the very end of the campaign. He made light of it for ever so long till things began to look serious. Then he had to give in, and had a pretty sharp time of it, I believe. He's better again now, though, so his brother told me this evening. I never heard any details. I daresay he's all right again." He stooped to pick up a completed sock that had fallen. "He's the sort of chap who always comes out on top," he ended consolingly.
Muriel stiffened a little as she sat. She had a curious longing to hear more, and an equally curious reluctance to ask for it.
"I never heard anything about it--naturally," she remarked.
Grange, having fitted the sock on to two fingers, was examining it with a contemplative air. It struck her abruptly that he was trying to say something. She waited silently, not without apprehension. She had no idea as to how much he knew of what had passed between herself and Nick.
"I say, Miss Roscoe," he blurted out suddenly, "do you hate talking about these things--very badly, I mean?"
She looked up at him, and was surprised to see emotion on his face. It had an odd effect upon her, placing her unaccountably at her ease with him, banishing all her stiffness in a moment. She remembered with a quick warmth at her heart how she had always liked this man in those far-off days of her father's protection, how she had always found something reassuring in his gentle courtesy.
"No," she said, after a moment, speaking with absolute sincerity. "I can't bear to with--most people; but I don't think I mind with you."
She saw his pleasant smile for an instant. He laid the sock down upon her knee,