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

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CHAPTER XLVIII
THE HEALING OF THE BREACH

Lady Bassett considered the decision deplorably headlong, and said so; but her remonstrances were of no avail. Muriel tossed aside her listlessness as resolutely as the ball-dress that had been laid out for the evening's festivity, and plunged at once into preparations for her journey. She knew full well that it was of no actual importance to Lady Bassett whether she went or stayed, and she did not pretend to think otherwise. Moreover, no power on earth would have kept her away from Daisy now that she knew herself to be wanted.
Though more than half of the three days' journey lay across the sweltering Plains, she contemplated it without anxiety, even with rejoicing. At last, the breach, over which she had secretly mourned so deeply, was to be healed.
The next morning at an early hour she was upon her way. She looked out as she drove through the gates for the old native beggar who had crouched at the entrance on the previous afternoon. He was not there, but a little way further she met him hobbling along to take up his post for the day. From the folds of his chuddah his unkempt beard wagged entreaty at the carriage as it passed. Impulsively, because of the gladness that was so new to her lonely heart, she leaned from the window and threw him a rupee.
Looking back upon the journey later, she never remembered its tedium. She was as one borne on the wings of love, and she scarcely noticed the hardships of the way.
Will Musgrave met her according to his promise at the great junction in the Plains. She found him exceedingly solicitous for her welfare, but so grave and silent that she hardly liked to question him. He thanked her very earnestly for coming, said that Daisy was about the same, and then left her almost exclusively to the society of her ayah.
The heat in the Plains was terrific, but Muriel's courage never wavered. She endured it with unfaltering resolution, hour after hour reckoning the dwindling miles that lay before them, passing over all personal discomfort as of no account, content only to be going forward.
But they left the Plains behind at last, and then came to the welcome ascent to the Hill station through a country where pine-trees grew ever more and more abundant.
At length at the close of a splendid day they reached it, and as they were nearing their destination Will broke through his silence.
"She doesn't know even yet that you are coming," he said. "I thought the suspense of waiting for you might be bad for her. Miss Roscoe--in heaven's name--make her happy if you can!"
There was such a passion of entreaty in his voice that Muriel was deeply touched. She gave him her hand impulsively.
"Mr. Musgrave," she said, "to this day I do not know what it was that came between us, but I promise--I promise--that if any effort of mine can remove it, it shall be removed to-night."
Will Musgrave squeezed her fingers hard. "God bless you!" he said earnestly.
And with that he left her, and went on ahead to prepare Daisy for her coming.
All her life Muriel remembered Daisy's welcome of that evening with a thrill of pain. They met at the gate of the little compound that surrounded the bungalow Will had taken for his wife, and though the light of the sinking sun smote with a certain ruddiness upon Daisy, Muriel was unspeakably shocked by her appearance.
Her white hair, her deathly pallor, the haunting misery of her eyes--above all, her silence--went straight to the girl's heart. Without a single word she gathered Daisy close in her warm young arms and so held her in a long and speechless embrace.
After all, it was Daisy who spoke first, gently drawing herself away. "Come in, darling! You must be nearly dead after your awful journey. I can't think how Will could ask it of you at this time of the year. I couldn't myself."
"I would have come to you from the world's end--and gladly," Muriel answered, in her deep voice. "You know I would."
And that was all that passed between them, for Will was present, and Daisy had already begun to lead her guest into the house.
As the evening wore on, Muriel was more and more struck by the great change she saw in her. They had not met for ten months, but twice as many years seemed to have passed over Daisy, crushing her beneath their weight. All her old sprightliness had vanished utterly. She spoke but little, and there was in her manner to her husband a wistful humility, a submission so absolute, that Muriel, remembering her ancient spirit, could have wept.
Will looked at her as if he longed to say something when she bade him good-night, but Daisy was beside her, and he could only give her a tremendous handgrip.
They went away together, and Daisy accompanied her to her room. But the wall of reserve that had been built up between them was not to be shattered at a touch. Neither of them knew exactly how to approach it. There was no awkwardness between them, there was no lack of tenderness, but the door that had closed so long ago was hard to open. Daisy seemed to avoid it with a morbid dread, and it was not in Muriel's power to make the first move.
So for awhile they lingered together, talking commonplaces, and at length parted for the night, holding each other closely, without words.
It seemed evident that Daisy could not bring herself to speak at present, and Muriel went to bed with a heavy heart.
She was far too weary to lie awake, but her tired brain would not rest. For the first time in many dreary months she dreamed of Nick.
He was jeering at her in devilish jubilation because she had changed her mind about marrying him, but lacked the courage to tell him so.


CHAPTER XLIX
THE LOWERING OF THE FLAG

The night was very far advanced when Muriel was aroused from her dreams by a sound which she drowsily fancied must have been going on for some time. It did not disturb her very seriously at first; she even subconsciously made an effort to ignore it. But at length a sudden stab of understanding pierced her sleep-laden senses, and in a moment she started up broad awake. Some one was in the room with her. Through the dumb stillness before the dawn there came the sound of bitter weeping.
For a few seconds she sat motionless, startled, bewildered, half afraid. The room was in nearly total darkness. Only in dimmest outline could she discern the long French window that opened upon the verandah.
The weeping continued. It was half smothered, but it sounded agonised. A great wave of compassion swept suddenly over Muriel. All in a moment she understood.
Swiftly she leaned forward into the darkness, feeling outwards till her groping hands touched a figure that crouched beside the bed.
"Daisy! Daisy, my darling!" she said, and there was anguish in her own voice. "What is it?"
In a second the sobbing ceased as if some magic had silenced it. Two hands reached up out of the darkness and tightly clasped hers. A broken voice whispered her name.
"What is it?" Muriel repeated in growing distress.
"Hush, dear, hush!" the trembling voice implored. "Don't let Will hear! It worries him so."
"But, my darling,--" Muriel protested.
She began to feel for some matches, but again the nervous hands caught and imprisoned hers.
"Don't--please!" Daisy begged her earnestly. "I--I have something to tell you--something that will shock you unutterably. And I--I don't want you to see my face."
She resisted Muriel's attempt to put her arms about her. "No--no, dear! Hear me first. There! Let me kneel beside you. It will not take me long. It isn't just for my own sake I am going to speak, nor yet--entirely--for yours. You will see presently. Don't ask me anything--please--till I have done. And then if--if there is anything you want to know, I will try to tell you."
"Come and lie beside me," Muriel urged.
But Daisy would not. She had sunk very low beside the bed. For a while she crouched there in silence while she summoned her strength.
Then, "Oh, Muriel," she suddenly said, and the words seemed to burst from her with a great sigh, "I wonder if you ever really loved Blake."
"No, dear, I never did." Muriel's answer came quiet and sincere through the darkness. "Nor did he love me. Our engagement was a mistake. I was going to tell him so--if things had been different."
"I never thought you cared for him," Daisy said. "But oh, Muriel, I did. I loved him with my whole soul. No, don't start! It is over now--at least that part of it that was sinful. I only tell you of it because it is the key to everything that must have puzzled you so horribly all this time. We always loved each other from the very beginning, but our people wouldn't hear of it because we were cousins. And so we separated and I used to think that I had put it away from me. But--last summer--it all came back. You mustn't blame him, Muriel. Blame me--blame me!" The thin hands tightened convulsively. "It was when my baby died that I began to give way. We never meant it--either of us--but we didn't fight hard enough. And then at last--at Brethaven--Nick found it out; and it was because he knew that Blake's heart was not in his compact with you that he made him write to you and break it off. It was not for his own ends at all that he did it. It was for your sake alone. He even swore to Blake that if he would put an end to his engagement, he on his part would give up all idea of winning you and would never trouble you any more. And that was the finest thing he ever did, Muriel, for he never loved any one but you. Surely you know it. You must know it by this time. You have never understood him, but you must have begun to realise that he has loved you well enough to set your happiness and well-being always far, far before his own."
Daisy paused. Her weeping had wholly ceased, but she was shivering from head to foot.
Muriel sat in silence above her, watching wide-eyed, unseeing, the vague hint of light at the open window. She was beginning to understand many things--ah, many things--that had been as a sealed book to her till then.
After a time Daisy went on. "No one will ever know what Nick was to me at that time, how he showed me the wickedness of it all, how he held me back from taking the final step, making me realise--even against my will--that Love--true Love--is holy, conquering all evil. And afterwards--afterwards--when Blake was gone--he stood by me and helped me to live, and brought me back at last to my husband. I could never have done it alone. I hadn't the strength. You see"--the low voice faltered suddenly--"I never expected Will to forgive me. I never asked it of him--any more than I am asking it of you."
"Oh, my darling, there is no need!" Muriel turned suddenly to throw impetuous arms about the huddled figure at her side. "Daisy! Daisy! I love you. Let us forget there has ever been this thing between us. Let us be as we used to be, and never drift apart again."
Tenderly but insistently, she lifted Daisy to the bed beside her, holding her fast. The wall between them was