In the morning they knew the worst. Olga had scarlet fever.
The doctor imparted the news to Nick and Muriel standing outside the door of the sick-room. Nick's reception of it was by no means characteristic. For the first time in her life Muriel saw consternation undisguised upon the yellow face.
"Great Jupiter!" he said. "What a criminal ass I am!"
At another moment she could have laughed at the tragic force of his self-arraignment. Even as it was, she barely repressed a smile as she set his mind at rest. She needed no explanation. It was easy enough to follow the trend of his thoughts just then.
"If you are thinking of me," she said, "I have had it."
She saw his instant relief, though he merely acknowledged the statement by a nod.
"We must have a nurse," he said briefly. "We shall manage all right then. I'll do my turn. Oh, stuff!" at a look from the doctor. "I sha'n't hurt. I'm much too tough a morsel for microbes to feed on."
Possibly the doctor shared this opinion, for he made no verbal protest. It fell to Muriel to do this later in the day when the nurse was installed, and she was at liberty to leave Olga's room. Nick had just returned from the post-office whence he had been sending a message to the child's father. She came upon him stealing up to take a look at her. Seeing Muriel he stopped. "How is she?"
Muriel moved away to an open window at the end of the passage before she made reply. He followed her, and they stood together, looking out upon the sunset.
"The fever is very high," she said. "And she is suffering a good deal of pain. She is not quite herself at times."
"You mean she is worse?" He looked at her keenly.
It was exactly what she did mean. Olga had been growing steadily worse all day. Yet when abruptly he turned to leave her, Muriel laid a hasty hand upon his arm.
"Nick," she said, and her voice was almost imploring, "don't go in!Please don't go in!"
He stopped short. "Why not?"
She removed her hand quickly. "It's so dangerous—besides being unnecessary. Won't you be sensible about it?"
He gave his head a queer upward jerk, and stood as one listening, not looking at her. "What for?"
She could not think of any very convincing reason for the moment. Yet it was imperative that he should see the matter as she saw it.
"Suppose I had not had it," she ventured, "what would you have done?"
"Packed you off to the cottage again double quick," said Nick promptly.
It was the answer she had angled for. She seized upon it. "Well, tell me why."
He spun round on his heels and faced her. He was blinking very rapidly. "You asked me that question once before," he said. "And out of a sentimental consideration for your feelings—I didn't answer it. Do you really want an answer this time, or shall I go on being sentimentally considerate?"
She heard the old subtle jeering note in his voice, but its effect upon her was oddly different from what it had ever been before. It did not anger her, nor did it wholly frighten her. It dawned upon her suddenly that, though possibly it lay in his power to hurt her, he would not do so.
She answered him with composure. "I don't want you to be anything but sensible, Nick. And it isn't sensible to expose yourself to unnecessary risk. It's wrong."
"That's my lookout," said Nick.
It was indubitably; but she wanted very much to gain her point.
"Won't you at least keep away unless she asks for you?" she urged.
"You seem mighty anxious to get rid of me," said Nick.
"I am not," she returned quickly. "I am not. You know it isn't that."
"Do I?" he said quizzically. "It's one of the few things I shouldn't have known without being told. Well, I'm sorry I can't consent to be sensible as you call it. I am quite sure personally that there isn't the slightest danger. It isn't so infectious at this stage, you know. Perhaps by-and-by, when she is through the worst, I will think about it."
He spoke lightly, but she was aware of the anxiety that underlay the words. She said no more, reminding herself that argument with Nick was always futile, sometimes worse. Nevertheless she found some comfort in the smile with which he left her. He had refused to treat with her, but his enmity—if enmity it could be called—was no longer active. He had proclaimed a truce which she knew he would not break.
Olga was delirious that night, and privately Muriel was glad that she had not been able to exclude him; for his control over the child was wonderful. As once with a tenderness maternal he had soothed her, so now he soothed Olga, patiently, steadfastly, even with a certain cheeriness. It all came back to her as she watched him, the strength of the man, his selfless devotion.
She could see that both doctor and nurse thought very seriously of the child. The former paid a late visit, but said very little beyond advising her to rest if she could in an adjacent room. Both Nick and the nurse seconded this, and, seeing there was nothing that she could do, she gave way in the matter, lying down as she was with but small expectation of sleep. But she was wearier than she knew, and the slumber into which she fell was deep, and would have lasted for some hours undisturbed.
It was Nick who roused her, and starting up at his touch, she knew instantly that what they had all mutely feared had drawn very near. His face told her at a glance, for he made no effort to dissemble.
"The nurse thinks you had better come," was all he said.
She pushed the hair from her forehead, and turned without a word to obey the summons. But at the door something checked her, something cried aloud within her, bidding her pause. She stopped. Nick was close behind her. Swiftly, obedient to the voice that cried, she stretched out her hand to him. He gripped it fast, and she was conscious for an instant of a curious gladness, a willingness to leave it in his hold, that she had never experienced before. But at the door of Olga's room he softly relinquished it, and drew back.
Olga was lying propped on pillows, and breathing quickly. The nurse was bending over her with a glass, but Olga's face was turned away. She was watching the door.
As Muriel came to her, the light eyes brightened to quick intelligence, and the parted lips tried to speak. But no sound came forth, and a frown of pain succeeded the effort.
Muriel stooped swiftly and grasped the slender hand that lay clenched upon the sheet.
"There, darling! Don't try to talk. It hurts you so. We are both here,Nick and I, and we understand all about it."
It was the first time she had ever voluntarily coupled herself with him. It came to her instinctively to do it in that moment.
But Olga had something to say, something apparently that must be said. With infinite difficulty she forced a husky whisper. Muriel stooped lower to catch it, so low that her face was almost touching the face upon the pillow.
"Muriel," came haltingly from the parched lips, "there's something—I want—to say to you—about Nick."
Muriel felt the blood surging at her temples as the faint words reached her. She would have given anything to know that he was out of earshot.
"Won't you say it in the morning, darling?" she said, almost with pleading in her voice. "It's so late now."
It was not late. It was very, very early—the solemn hour when countless weary ones fall into their long sleep. And the moment she had spoken, her heart smote her. Was she for her own peace of mind trying to silence the child's last words on earth?
"No, never mind, dear," she amended tenderly. "I am listening to you.Tell me now."
"Yes," panted Olga. "I must. I must. You remember—that day—with the daisies—the day we saw—the hawk?"
Yes, well Muriel remembered it. The thought of it went through her like a stab.
"Yes, dear. What of it?" she heard herself say.
"Well, you know—I've thought since—that the daisies meant Nick, not—not—I can't remember his name, Muriel."
"Do you mean Captain Grange, dear?"
"Yes, yes, of course. He was there too, wasn't he? I'm sure now—quite sure—they didn't mean him."
"Very likely not, dear."
"And Muriel—do you know—Nick was just miserable—after you went. I sort of felt he was. And late—late that night I woke up, and I crept down to him—in the library. And he had his head down on the table—as if—as if—he was crying. Oh, Muriel!"
A sharp sob interrupted the piteous whisper. Muriel folded her arms about the child, pillowing the tired head on her breast. All the fair hair had been cut off earlier in the day. Its absence gave Olga a very babyish appearance.
Brokenly, with many gasping pauses, the pathetic little story came to an end. "I went to him—and I asked him what it was. And he—he looked up with that funny face he makes—you know—and he just said, 'Oh, it's all right. I've been feeding on dust and ashes all day long, that's all. And it's dry fare for a thirsty man!' He thought—I wouldn't know what he meant. But I did, Muriel. And I always wanted to tell you. But—somehow—you wouldn't let me. He meant you. He was hurt—so hurt—because you weren't kind to him. Oh, Muriel, won't you—won't you—try to be kind to him now? Please, dear, please!"
Muriel's eyes sought Nick, and instantly a thrill of surprise and relief shot through her. He had not heard that request of Olga's. She doubted if he had heard anything. He was sunk in a chair well in the background with his head on his hand, and looking at him she saw his shoulders shake with a soundless sob.
She looked away again with a sense of trespass. This—this was the man who had fought and cursed and slain under her eyes—the man from whose violence she had shrunk appalled, whose strength had made her shudder many a time. She had never imagined that he could grieve thus—even for his little pal Olga.
Tenderly she turned back to the child. That single glimpse of the man in pain had made it suddenly easy to grant her earnest prayer.
"I won't be unkind to him again, darling," she promised softly.
"Never any more?" insisted Olga.
"Never any more, my darling."
Olga made a little nestling movement against her. It was all she wanted, and now that the effort of asking was over she was very tired.
The nurse drew softly back into the shadow, and a deep silence fell in the room. Through it in a long, monotonous roar there came the sound of the sea breaking, eternally breaking, along the beach.
No one moved. Olga's breathing was growing slower, so much slower that there were times when Muriel, listening intently, fancied that it had wholly ceased. She held the little slim body close in her arms, jealously close, as though she were defying Death itself. And ever through the stillness she could hear her own heart beating like the hoofs of a galloping horse.
Slowly the night began to pass. The outline of the window-frame became visible against a faint grey glimmer. The window was open, and a breath of the coming dawn wandered in with the fragrance of drenched roses. A soft rain was falling. The patter of it could be heard upon the leaves.
Again Muriel listened for the failing breath, listened closely, tensely, her face bent low to the fair head that lay so still upon her breast.
But she heard nothing—nothing but her own heart quickening, quickening, from fear to suspense, from suspense to the anguish of conviction.
She lifted her face at last, and in the same instant there arose a sudden flood of song from the sleeping garden, as the first lark soared to meet the dawn.
Half-dazed, she listened to that marvellous outpouring of gladness, so wildly rapturous, so weirdly holy. On, ever on, pealed the bird-voice; on to the very Gates of Heaven, and it seemed to the girl who listened as though she heard a child's spirit singing up the steeps of Paradise. With her heart she followed it till suddenly she heard no more. The voice ceased as it had begun, ceased as a burst of music when an open door is closed—and there fell in its stead a silence that could be felt.
She could not have said for how long she sat motionless, the slight, inert body clasped against her breast. Vaguely she knew that the night passed, and with it the wondrous silence that had lain like a benediction upon the dawn. A thousand living things awoke to rejoice in the crystal splendour of the morning; but within the quiet room the spell remained unlifted, the silence lay untouched. It was as though the presence of Death had turned it into a peaceful sanctuary that no mere earthly tumult could disturb.
She sat in a species of waking stupor for a long, long time, not daring to move lest the peace that enfolded her should be shattered. Higher and higher the sun climbed up the sky till at last it topped the cedar-trees and shone in upon her, throwing a single ray of purest gold across the foot of the bed. Fascinated, she watched it travel slowly upwards, till a silent, one-armed figure arose and softly drew the curtain.
The room grew dim again. The world was shut out. She was not conscious of physical fatigue, only of a certain weariness of waiting, waiting for she knew not what. It seemed interminable, but she would not seek to end it. She was as a soldier waiting for the order to quit his post.
There came a slight movement at last. Someone touched her, whispered to her. She looked up blankly, and saw the nurse. But understanding seemed to have gone from her during those long hours. She could not take in a word. There arose a great surging in her brain, and the woman's face faded into an indistinct blur. She sat rigid, afraid to move lest she should fall.
She heard vague whisperings over her head, and an arm that was like a steel spring encircled her. Someone lifted her burden gently from her, and a faint murmur reached her, such as a child makes in its sleep.
Then the arm that supported her gradually raised her up till she was on her feet. Mechanically she tried to walk, but was instantly overcome by a sick sense of powerlessness.
"I can't!" she gasped. "I can't!"
Nick's voice answered her in a quick, confident whisper. "Yes, you can, dear. It's all right. Hang on to me. I won't let you go."
She obeyed him blindly. There was nothing else to do. And so, half-led, half-carried, she tottered from the room.
A glare of sunlight smote upon her from a passage-window with a brilliance that almost hurt her. She stood still, clinging to Nick's shoulder.
"Oh, Nick," she faltered weakly, "why don't they—pull down the blinds?"
Nick turned aside, still closely holding her, into the room in which she had rested for the earlier part of the night.
"Because, thank God," he said, "there is no need. Olga is going to live."
He helped her down into an easy-chair, and would have left her; but she clung to him still, weakly but persistently.
"Oh, Nick, don't laugh! Tell me the truth for once! Please, Nick, please!"
He yielded to her so abruptly that she was half-startled, dropping suddenly down upon his knees beside her, the morning light full upon his face.
"I am telling you the truth," he said. "I believe you have saved her life. She has been sleeping ever since sunrise."
Muriel gazed at him speechlessly; but she no longer suspected him of trying to deceive her. If he had never told her the truth before that moment he was telling it to her then.
She gave a little gasping cry of relief unspeakable, and hid her face. The next moment Nick was on his feet. She heard his quick, light step as he crossed the threshold, and realised thankfully that he had left her alone.
A little later, a servant brought her a breakfast-tray with a message from the master of the house to the effect that he hoped she would go to bed and take a long rest.
It was excellent advice, and she acted upon it; for since the worst strain was over, sleep had become an urgent necessity to her. She wondered as she lay down if Nick were following the same course. She hoped he was, for she had a curiously vivid memory of the lines that sleeplessness had drawn about his eyes.
It was late afternoon when she awoke, and sat swiftly up with a confused sense of being watched.
"Don't jump like that!" a gruff voice said. "Lie down again at once.You are not to get up till to-morrow morning."
She turned with a shaky laugh of welcome to find Dr. Jim seated frowning by her side. He laid a compelling hand upon her shoulder.
"Lie down again, do you hear? There's nothing for you to do. Olga is much better, and doesn't want you."
"And Nick?" said Muriel.
They were the first words that occurred to her. She said them hurriedly, with heightened colour.
Jim Ratcliffe frowned more than ever. He was feeling her pulse. "A nice couple of idiots you are!" he grimly remarked. "You needn't worry about Nick. He has gone for a ride. As soon as he comes back, he will dine and go to bed."
"Can't I get up to dinner?" Muriel suggested.
She could scarcely have said why she made the proposal, and she was certainly surprised when Jim Ratcliffe fell in with it. He looked at his watch. "Well, you may if you like. You will probably sleep the better for it. But I'll have no nonsense, mind, Muriel. You're to do as you're told."
Muriel smiled acquiescence. She felt that everything was right now that Dr. Jim had returned to take the direction of affairs into his own hands. He had come back alone, and he intended to finish his holiday under Nick's roof. So much he told her before, with an abrupt smile, he thanked her for her care of his little girl and took himself off.
She almost regretted her decision when she came to get up, for the strain was telling upon her more than she had realised. Not since Simla days had she felt so utterly worn out. She was glad of the cup of tea which Dr. Jim sent in to her before she left her room.
Sitting on the cushioned window-seat to drink it, she heard the tread of a horse's feet along the drive, and with a start she saw Nick come into view round a bend.
Her first impulse was to draw back out of sight, but the next moment she changed her mind and remained motionless. Her heart was suddenly beating very fast.
He was riding very carelessly, the bridle lying on the horse's neck. The evening sun was shining full in his face, but he did not seem to mind. His head was thrown back. He rode like a returning conqueror, wearied it might be, but triumphant.
Passing into the shadow of the house, he saw her instantly, and the smile that flashed into his face was one of sheer exultation. He dropped the bridle altogether to wave to her.
"Up already? Have you seen old Jim?"
She nodded. It was impossible at the moment not to reflect his smile."I am coming down soon," she told him.
"Come now," said Nick persuasively.
She hesitated. He was slipping from his horse. A groom came up and took the animal from him.
Nick paused below her window, and once more lifted his grinning, confident face.
"I say, Muriel!"
She leaned down a little. "Well?"
"Don't come if you don't want to, you know."
She laughed half-reluctantly, conscious of a queer desire to please him. Olga's words were running in her brain. He had fed on dust and ashes.
Yet still she hesitated. "Will you wait for me?"
"Till doomsday," said Nick obligingly.
And drawn by a power that would not be withstood, she went down, still smiling, and joined him in the garden.
Olga's recovery, when the crisis of the disease was past, was more rapid than even her father had anticipated; and this fact, combined with a spell of glorious summer weather, made the period of her quarantine very tedious, particularly as Nick was rigidly excluded from the sick-room.
At Olga's earnest request Muriel consented to remain at Redlands. Daisy had written to postpone her own return to the cottage, having received two or three invitations which she wished to accept if Muriel could still spare her.
Blake was in Scotland. His letters were not very frequent, and though his leave was nearly up, he did not speak of returning.
Muriel was thus thrown upon Jim Ratcliffe's care—a state of affairs which seemed to please him mightily. It was in fact his presence that made life easy for her just then. She saw considerably more of him than of Nick, the latter having completely relegated the duties of host to his brother. Though they met every day, they were seldom alone together, and she began to have a feeling that Nick's attitude towards her had undergone a change. His manner was now always friendly, but never intimate. He did not seek her society, but neither did he avoid her. And never by word or gesture did he refer to anything that had been between them in the past. She even wondered sometimes if there might not possibly have been another interpretation to Olga's story. That unwonted depression of his that the child had witnessed had surely never been inspired by her.
She found the time pass quickly enough during those six weeks. The care of Olga occupied her very fully. She was always busy devising some new scheme for her amusement.
Mrs. Ratcliffe returned to Weir, and Dr. Jim determined to transfer Olga to her home as soon as she was out of quarantine. With paternal kindliness, he insisted that Muriel must accompany her. Daisy's return was still uncertain, though it could not be long delayed; and Muriel had no urgent desire to return to the lonely life on the shore.
So, to Olga's outspoken delight, she yielded to the doctor's persuasion, and on the afternoon preceding the child's emancipation from her long imprisonment she walked down to the cottage to pack her things.
It was a golden day in the middle of September and she lingered awhile on the shore when her work was done. There was not a wave in all the vast, shimmering sea. The tide was going out, and the shallow ripples were clear as glass as they ran out along the white beach. Muriel paused often in her walk. She was sorry to leave the little fishing-village, realising that she had been very happy there. Life had passed as smoothly as a dream of late, so smoothly that she had been content to live in the present with scarcely a thought for the future.
This afternoon she had begun to realise that her peaceful time was drawing to an end. In a few weeks more, she would be in town in all the bustle of preparation. And further still ahead of her—possibly two months—there loomed the prospect of her return to India, of Lady Bassett's soft patronage, of her marriage.
She shivered a little as one after another these coming events presented themselves. There was not one of them that she would not have postponed with relief. She stood still with her face to the sunlit sea, and told herself that her summer in England had been all too short. She had an almost passionate longing for just one more year of home.
A pebble skimming past her and leaping from ripple to ripple like, a living thing caught her attention. She turned sharply, and the next moment smiled a welcome.
Nick had come up behind her unperceived. She greeted him with pleasure unfeigned. She was tired of her own morbid thoughts just then. Whatever he might be, he was at least never depressing.
"I'm saying good-bye," she told him. "I don't suppose I shall ever come here again."
He came and stood beside her while he grubbed in the sand with a stick.
"Not even to see me?" he suggested.
"Are you going to live here?" she asked in surprise.
"Oh, I suppose so," said Nick, "when I marry."
"Are you going to be married?" Almost in spite of her the question leapt out.
He looked up, grinning shrewdly. "I put it to you," he said. "Am I the sort of man to live alone?"
She experienced a curious sense of relief. "But you are not alone in the world," she pointed out. "You have relations."
"You regard marriage as a last resource?" questioned Nick.
She coloured and turned her face to the shore. "I don't think any man ought to marry unless—unless—he cares," she said, striving hard to keep the personal note out of her voice.
"Exactly," said Nick, moving beside her. "But doesn't that remark apply to women as well?"
She did not answer him. A discussion on this topic was the last thing she desired.
He did not press the point, and she wondered a little at his forbearance. She glanced at him once or twice as they walked, but his humorous, yellow face told her nothing.
Reaching some rocks, he suddenly stopped. "I've got to get some seaweed for Olga. Do you mind waiting?"
"I will help you," she answered.
He shook his head. "No, you are tired. Just sit down in the sun. I won't be long."
She seated herself without protest, and he turned to leave her. A few paces from her he paused, and she saw that he was trying to light a cigarette. He failed twice, and impulsively she sprang up.
"Nick, why don't you ask me to help you?"
He whizzed round. "Perhaps I don't want you to," he said quizzically.
She took the match-box from him. "Don't be absurd! Why shouldn't I?" She struck a match and held it out to him. But he did not take it from her. He took her wrist instead, and stooping forward lighted his cigarette deliberately.
She did not look at him. Some instinct warned her that his eyes were intently searching her face. She seemed to feel them darting over her in piercing, impenetrable scrutiny.
He released her slowly at length and stood up. "Am I to have the pleasure of dancing at your wedding?" he asked her suddenly.
She looked up then very sharply, and against her will a burning blush rose up to her temples. He waited for her answer, and at last it came.
"If you think it worth your while."
"I would come from the other side of the world to see you made happy," said Nick.
She turned her face aside. "You are very kind."
"Think so?" There was a note of banter in his voice. "It's the first time you ever accused me of that."
She made no rejoinder. She had a feeling at the throat that prevented speech, even had she had any words to utter. Certainly, as he had discovered, she was very tired. It was physical weariness, no doubt, but she had an almost overmastering desire to shed childish tears.
"You trot back now," said Nick cheerily. "I can grub along quite well by myself."
She turned back silently. Why was it that the world seemed so grey and cold on that golden summer afternoon? She sat down again in the sunshine, and began to trace an aimless design in the sand with the stick Nick had left behind. Away in the distance she heard his cracked voice humming. Was he really as cheerful as he seemed, she wondered? Or was he merely making the best of things?
Again her thoughts went back to Olga's pathetic little revelation. Strange that she who knew him so intimately should never have seen him in such a mood! But did she know him after all? It was a question she had asked herself many times of late. She remembered how he had lightly told her that he had a reverse side. But had she ever really seen it, save for those brief glimpses by Olga's bedside, and as it was reflected in the child's whole-souled devotion to him? She wished with all her heart that he would lift the veil just once for her and show her his inner soul.
Again her thoughts passed to her approaching marriage. She had received a letter from Blake that day, telling her at length of his plans. He and Daisy had been staying in the same house, but he was just returning to town. He was to sail in less than a fortnight, and would come and say good-bye to her immediately before his departure. The letter had been courteously kind throughout, but she had not felt tempted to read it again. It contained no reference to their wedding, save such as she chose to attribute to the concluding sentence: "We can talk everything over when we meet." A sense of chill struck her when she recalled the words. He was very kind, of course, and invariably meant well; but she had begun to realise of late that there were times when she found him a little heavy and unresponsive. Not that she had ever desired any demonstration of tenderness from him, heaven knew. But the very consciousness that she had not desired this added to the chill. She was not quite sure that she wanted to see him again before he sailed. Certainly he had never bored her; but it was not inconceivable that he might do so. She shivered ever so slightly. It was not an exciting prospect—life with Blake. He was quite sure to be kind to her. He would consider her in every way. But was that after all quite all she wanted? A great sigh welled suddenly up from the bottom of her heart. Life was ineffably dreary—when it was not revoltingly horrible.
"Shall I tell you what is the matter?" said Nick.
She started violently, and found him leaning across the flat rock on which she was seated. His eyes were remarkably bright. She had a feeling that he suppressed a laugh as his look flickered over her.
"Sorry I made you jump," he said. "You ought to be used to me by this time. Anyhow you needn't be frightened. My venom was extracted long ago."
She turned to him with sudden, unconsidered impulse. "Oh, Nick," she said, "I sometimes think to myself I've been a great fool."
He nodded. Her vehemence did not seem to surprise him. "I thought it would strike you sooner or later," he said.
She laughed in spite of herself with her eyes full of tears. "There's not much comfort in that."
"I haven't any comfort to give you," said Nick, "not at this stage.I'll give you advice if you like—which I know you won't take."
"No, please don't! That would be even worse." There was a tremor in her voice. She knew that she had stepped off the beaten track; but she had an intense, an almost passionate longing to go a little further, to penetrate, if only for a moment, that perpetual mask.
"Don't let us talk of my affairs," she said. "Tell me of your own.What are you going to do?"
Nick's eyebrows went up. "I thought I was coming to your wedding," he remarked. "That's as far as I've got at present."
She made a gesture of impatience. "Do you never think of the future?"
"Not in your presence," laughed Nick. "I think of you—you—and only you. Didn't you know?"
She turned away in silence. Was he tormenting her deliberately? Or did he fail to see that she was in earnest?
There followed a pause, and then, urged by that unknown impulse that would not be repressed, she did a curious thing. She got up, and, facing him, she made a very earnest appeal.
"Nick, why do you always treat me like this? Why will you never be honest with me?"
There was more of pain than reproach in the words. Her voice was deep and very sad.
But Nick scarcely looked at her. He was pulling tufts of dried seaweed off the rock on which he leaned.
"My dear girl," he said, "how can you expect it?"
"Expect it!" she echoed. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
He drew himself slowly to a sitting posture. "How can I be honest with you," he said, "when you are not honest with yourself?"
"What do you mean?" she said again.
He gave her an odd look. "You really want me to tell you?"
"Of course I do." She spoke sharply. The old scared feeling was awake within her, but she would not yield to it. Now or never would she read the enigma. She would know the truth, cost what it might.
"What I mean is this," said Nick. "You won't own it, of course, but you are cheating, and you are afraid to stop. There isn't one woman in ten thousand who has the pluck to throw down the cards when once she has begun to cheat. She goes on—as you will go on—to the end of her life, simply because she daren't do otherwise. You are out of the straight, Muriel. That's why everything is such a hideous failure. You are going to marry the wrong man, and you know it."
He looked up at her again for an instant as he said it. He had spoken with his usual shrewd decision, but there was no hint of excitement about him. He might have been discussing some matter of a purely impersonal nature.
Muriel stood mutely poking holes in the sand. She could find nothing to say to this matter-of-fact indictment.
"And now," Nick proceeded, "I will tell you why you are doing it."
She started at that, and looked up with flaming cheeks. "I don't think I want to hear any more, Nick. It—it's rather late in the day, isn't it?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I knew you would be afraid to face it.It's easier, isn't it, to go on cheating?"
Her eyes gleamed for a moment. He had flicked a tender place. "Very well," she said proudly. "Say what you like. It will make no difference. But please understand that I admit none of this."
Nick's grin leapt goblin-like across his face and was gone. "I never expected it of you," he told her coolly. "You would sooner die than admit it, simply because it would be infinitely easier for you to die. You will be false to yourself, false to Grange, false to me, rather than lower that miserable little rag of pride that made you jilt me at Simla. I didn't blame you so much then. You were only a child. You didn't understand. But that excuse won't serve you now. You are a woman, and you know what Love is. You don't call it by its name, but none the less you know it."
He paused for an instant, for Muriel had made a swift gesture of protest.
"I don't think you know what you are saying," she said, her voice very low.
He sprang abruptly to his feet. "Yes," he said, speaking very rapidly. "That's how you will trick yourself to your dying day. It's a way women have. But it doesn't help them. It won't help you. For that thing in your heart—the thing that is fighting for air—the thing you won't own—the thing that drove you to Grange for protection—will never die. That is why you are miserable. You may do what you will to it, hide it, smother it, trample it. But it will survive for all that. All your life it will be there. You will never forget it though you will try to persuade yourself that it belongs to a dead past. All your life,"—his voice vibrated suddenly, and the ever-shifting eyes blazed into leaping flame—"all your life, you will remember that I was once yours to take or to throw away. And—you wanted me, yet—you chose to throw me away."
Fiercely he flung the words at her. There was nothing impersonal about him now. He was vitally, overwhelmingly, in earnest. A deep glow covered the parchment face. The man was as it were electrified by passion.
And Muriel gazed at him as one gazing upon sudden disaster. What was this, what was this, that he had said to her? He had rent the veil aside for her indeed. But to what dread vision had he opened her eyes?
The old paralysing fear was knocking at her heart. She dreaded each instant to see the devil leap out upon his face. But as the seconds passed she realised that he was still his own master. He had flung down the gauntlet, but he would go no further, unless she took it up. And this she could not do. She knew that she was no match for him.
He was watching her narrowly, she knew, and after a few palpitating moments she nerved herself to meet his look. She felt as if it scorched her, but she would not shrink. Not for a moment must he fancy that those monstrous words of his had pierced her quivering heart. Whatever happened later, when this stunned sense of shock had left her, she must not seem to take them seriously now, with his watching eyes upon her.
And so at last she lifted her head and faced him with a little quivering laugh, brave enough in itself, but how piteous she never guessed.
"I don't think you are quite so clever as you used to be, Nick," she told him, "though I admit,"—her lips trembled—"that you are very amusing sometimes. Blake once told me that you had the eyes of a snake-charmer. Is it true, I wonder? Anyhow, they don't charm me."
She stopped rather breathlessly, half-frightened by his stillness. Would he understand that it was not her intention to defy him—that she was only refusing the conflict?
For a few moments her heart beat tumultuously, and then came a great throb of relief. Yes, he understood. She had nought to fear.
He put his hand sharply over his eyes, turning from her. "I have never tried to charm you," he said, in a voice that sounded curiously choked and unfamiliar. "I have only—loved you."
In the silence that followed, he began to walk away from her, moving noiselessly over the sand.
Mutely she watched him, but she dared not call him back. And very soon she was quite alone.
It did not take Dr. Jim long to discover that some trouble or at the least some perplexity was weighing upon his young guest's mind. He also shrewdly remarked that it dated from the commencement of her visit at his house. No one else noticed it, but this was not surprising. There was always plenty to occupy the attention in the Ratcliffe household, and only Dr. Jim managed to keep a sharp eye upon every member thereof. Moreover, by a casual observer, there was little or nothing that was unusual to be detected in Muriel's manner. Quiet she certainly was, but she was by no means listless. Her laugh did not always ring quite true, that was all. And her eyes drooped a little wearily from time to time. There were other symptoms, very slight, wholly imperceptible to any but a trained eye, yet not one of which escaped Dr. Jim.
He made no comment, but throughout that first week of her stay he watched her unperceived, biding his time. During several motor rides on which she accompanied him he maintained this attitude while she sat all unsuspecting by his side. She had never detected any subtlety in this staunch friend of hers, and, unlike Daisy, she felt no fear of him. His blunt sincerity had never managed to wound her.
And so it was almost inevitable that she should give him his opportunity at last.
Late one evening she entered his consulting-room where he was busy writing.
"I want to talk to you," she said. "Is it very inconvenient?"
The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Sit down there," he said, pointing to one immediately facing him.
She laughed and obeyed, faintly blushing. "I'm not a patient, you know."
He drew his black brows together. "It's very late. Why don't you go to bed?"
"Because I want to talk to you."
"You can do that to-morrow," bluntly rejoined Dr. Jim. "You can't afford to sacrifice your sleep to chatter."
"I am not sacrificing any sleep," Muriel told him rather wearily. "I never sleep before morning."
He laid down his pen and gave her one of his hard looks. "Then you are a very silly girl," he said curtly at length.
"It isn't my fault," she protested.
He shrugged his shoulders. "You all say that. It's the most ordinary lie I know."
Muriel smiled. "I know you are longing to give me something nasty. You may if you like. I'll take it, whatever it is."
Dr. Jim was silent for a space. He continued to regard her steadily, with a scrutiny that spared her nothing. She sat quite still under it. He had never disconcerted her yet. But when he leaned suddenly forward and took her wrist between his fingers, she made a slight, instinctive effort to frustrate him.
"Be still," he ordered. "What makes you so absurdly nervous? Want of sleep, eh?"
Her lips trembled a little. "Don't probe too deep, doctor," she pleaded. "I am not very happy just now."
"Why don't you tell me what is the matter?" he asked gruffly.
She did not answer, and he continued frowning over her pulse.
"What do you want to talk to me about?" he asked at last.
She looked up with an effort. "Oh, nothing much. Only a letter from a Mrs. Langdale who lives in town. She is going to India in November, and says she will take charge of me if I care to go with her. She has invited me to go and stay with her beforehand."
"Well?" said Jim, as she paused.
"I don't want to go," she said. "Do you think I ought? She is LadyBassett's sister."
"I think it would probably do you good, if that's what you mean," he returned. "But I don't suppose that consideration has much weight with you. Why don't you want to go?"
"I don't like strangers, and I hate Lady Bassett," Muriel answered, with absolute simplicity. "Then there is Daisy. I don't know what her plans are. I always thought we should go East together."
"There's no sense in waiting for Daisy's plans to develop," declared Jim. "She is as changeable as the wind. Possibly Nick will be able to make up her mind for her. I fancy he means to try."
"Nick! You don't mean he will travel with Daisy?" There was almost a tragic note in Muriel's voice. She looked up quickly into the shrewd eyes that watched her.
"Why shouldn't he?" said Jim.
"I don't know. I never thought of it." Muriel leaned back again, a faint frown of perplexity between her eyes. "Perhaps," she said slowly at length, "I had better go to Mrs. Langdale."
"I should in your place," said Jim. "That handsome soldier of yours won't want to be kept waiting, eh?"
"Oh, he wouldn't mind." The weariness was apparent again in her voice, and with it a tinge of bitterness. "He never minds anything," she said.
Jim grunted disapproval. "And you? Are you equally indifferent?"
Her pale face flushed vividly. She was silent a moment; then suddenly she sat up and met his look fully.
"You'll think me contemptible, I know," she said, a great quiver in her voice. "I can't help it; you must. Dr. Jim, I'll tell you the truth. I—I don't want to go to India. I don't want to be married—at all."
She ended with a swift rush of irrepressible tears. It was out at last, this trouble of hers that had been gradually growing behind the barrier of her reserve, and it seemed to burst over her in the telling in a great wave of adversity.
"I've done nothing but make mistakes," she sobbed "ever since Daddy died."
Dr. Jim got up quietly to lock the door. The grimness had passed from his face.
"My dear," he said gruffly, "we all of us make mistakes directly we begin to run alone."
He returned and sat down again close to her, waiting for her to recover herself. She slipped out a trembling hand to him, and he took it very kindly; but he said no more until she spoke.
"It's very difficult to know what to do."
"Is it? I should have said you were past that stage." His tone was uncompromising, but the warm grip of his hand made up for it. His directness did not dismay her. "If you are quite sure you don't care for the fellow, your duty is quite plain."
Muriel raised her head slowly. "Yes, but it isn't quite so simple as that, doctor. You see, it's not as if—as if—we either of us ever imagined we were—in love with each other."
Jim's eyebrows went up. "As bad as that?"
She leaned her chin on her hand. "I am sure there must be crowds of people who marry without ever being in love."
"Yes," said Jim curtly. "And kindle their own hell in doing it."
She started a little. "You think that?"
"I know it. I have seen it over and over again. Full half of the world's misery is due to it. But you won't do that, Muriel. I know you too well."
Muriel glanced up at him. "Do you know me? I don't think you would have expected me to accept him in the first place."
"Depends what you did it for," said Jim.
She fell suddenly silent, slowly twisting the ring on her finger. "He knew why," she said at last in a very low voice. "In fact—in fact he asked me for that reason."
"And the reason still exists?"
She bent her head. "Yes."
"A reason you are ashamed of?" pursued the doctor.
She did not answer, and he drew his great brows together in deep thought.
"You don't propose to take me any further into your confidence?" he asked at last.
She made a quick, impulsive movement. "You—you—I think you know."
"Will you let me tell you what I know?" he said.
She shrank perceptibly. "If—if you won't make it too hard for me."
"I can't answer for that," he returned. "It depends entirely upon yourself. My knowledge does not amount to anything very staggering in itself. It is only this—that I know a certain person who would cheerfully sacrifice all he has to make you happy, and that you have no more cause to fear persecution from that person than from the man in the moon."
He paused; but Muriel did not speak. She was still absently turning her engagement ring round and round.
"To verify this," he said, "I will tell you something which I am sure you don't know—which in fact puzzled me, too, considerably, for some time. He has already sacrificed more than most men would care to venture in a doubtful cause. It was no part of his plan to follow you to England. He set his face against it so strongly that he very nearly ended his mortal career for good and all in so doing. As it was, he suffered for his lunacy pretty heavily. You know what happened. He was forced to come in the end, and he paid the forfeit for his delay."
Again he paused, for Muriel had sprung upright with such tragedy in her eyes that he knew he had said enough. The next moment she was on her feet, quivering all over as one grievously wounded.
"Oh, do you know what you are saying?" she said, and in her voice there throbbed the cry of a woman's wrung heart. "Surely—surely he never did that—for me!"
He did not seem to notice her agitation. "It was a fairly big price to pay for a piece of foolish sentiment, eh?" he said. "Let us hope he will know better next time."
He looked up at her with a faintly cynical smile, but she was standing with her face averted. He saw only that her chin was quivering like a hurt child's.
"Come," he said at length. "I didn't tell you this to distress you, you know. Only to set your mind at rest, so that you might sleep easy."
She mastered herself with an effort, and turned towards him. "I know; yes, I know. You—you have been very kind. Good-night, doctor."
He rose and went with her to the door. "You are not going to lie awake over this?"
She shook her head. "Good-night," she said again.
He watched her down the passage, and then returned to his writing. He smiled to himself as he sat down, but this time wholly without cynicism.
"No, Nick, my boy," he said, as he drove his pen into the ink. "She won't lie awake for you. But she'll cry herself to sleep for your sake, you gibbering, one-armed ape. And the new love will be the old love before the week is out, or I am no weather prophet."
The gale that raged along the British coasts that autumn was the wildest that had been known for years. It swelled quite suddenly out of the last breezes of a superb summer, and by the middle of September it had become a monster of destruction, devastating the shore. The crumbling cliffs of Brethaven testified to its violence. Beating rain and colossal, shattering waves united to accomplish ruin and destruction. And the little fishing-village looked on aghast.
It was on the third day of the storm that news was brought to Nick of a landslip on his own estate. He had been in town ever since his guests' departure, and had only returned on the previous evening. He did not contemplate a long stay. The place was lonely without Olga, and he was not yet sufficiently proficient in shooting with one arm to enjoy the sport, especially in solitude. He was in fact simply waiting for an opportunity which he was convinced must occur before long, of keeping a certain promise made to a friend of his on a night of early summer in the Indian Plains.
It was a wild day of drifting squalls and transient gleams of sunshine. He grimaced to himself as he sauntered forth after luncheon to view the damage that had been wrought upon his property. The ground he trod was sodden with long rain, and the cedars beyond the lawn plunged heavily to and fro in melancholy unrest, flinging great drops upon him as he passed. The force of the gale was terrific, and he had to bend himself nearly double to meet it.
With difficulty he forced his way to the little summer-house that overlooked the shore. He marvelled somewhat to find it still standing, but it was sturdily built and would probably endure as long as the ground beneath it remained unshaken.
But beyond it a great gap yawned. The daisy-covered space on which they had sat that afternoon, now many weeks ago, had disappeared. Nothing of it remained but a crumbling desolation to which the daisies still clung here and there.
Nick stood in such shelter as the summer-house afforded, and looked forth upon the heaving waste of waters. The tide was rising. He could see the great waves swirling white around the rocks. Several land-slips were visible from this post of observation. The village was out of sight, tucked away behind a great shoulder of cliff; but an old ruined cottage that had been uninhabited for some time had entirely disappeared. Stacks of seaweed had been thrown up upon the deserted shore, and lay in great masses above the breakers. The roar of the incoming tide was like the continuous roll of thunder.
It was a splendid spectacle and for some time he stood, with his face to the driving wind, gazing out upon the empty sea. There was not a single vessel in all that wide expanse.
Slowly at last his vision narrowed. His eyes came down to the great gash at his feet where red earth and tufts of grass mingled, where the daisies had grown on that June day, where she had sat, proud and aloof, and watched him fooling with the white petals. Very vividly he recalled that summer afternoon, her scorn of him, her bitter hostility—and the horror he had surprised in her dark eyes when the hawk had struck. He laughed oddly to himself, his teeth clenched upon his lower lip. How furiously she had hated him that day!
He turned to go; but paused, arrested by some instinct that bade him cast one more look downwards along the howling shore. In another moment he was lying full length upon the rotten ground, staring intently down upon the group of rocks more than two hundred feet below him.
Two figures—a man and a woman—had detached themselves from the shelter of these rocks, and were moving slowly, very slowly, towards the path that led inwards from the shore. They were closely linked together, so much his first glance told him. But there was something in the man's gait that caught the eye and upon which Nick's whole attention was instantly focussed. He could not see the face, but the loose-slung, gigantic limbs were familiar to him. With all his knowledge of the world of men, he had not seen many such.
Slowly the two approached till they stood almost immediately beneath him, and there, as upon mutual impulse, they stopped. It was a corner protected from the driving blast by the crumbling mass of cliff that had slipped in the night. The rain was falling heavily again, but neither the two on the shore nor the solitary watcher stretched on the perilous edge of the cliff seemed aware of it. All were intent upon other things.
Suddenly the woman raised her face, and with a movement that was passionate reached up her arms and clasped them about the man's bent neck. She was speaking, but no sound or echo of words was audible in that tumult. Only her face lifted to the beating rain, with its passion of love, its anguish of pain, told the motionless spectator something of their significance.
It was hidden from him almost at once by the man's massive head; but he had seen enough, more than enough, to verify a certain suspicion which had long been quartered at the back of his brain.
Stealthily he drew himself back from the cliff edge, and sat up on the damp grass. Again his eyes swept the horizon; there was something of a glare in them. He was drenched through and through by the rain, but he did not know it. Had Muriel seen him at that moment she might have likened him with a shudder to an eagle that viewed its quarry from afar.
He returned to the house without further lingering, and spent the two hours that followed in prowling ceaselessly up and down his library.
At the end of that time he sat down suddenly at the writing-table, and scrawled a hasty note. His face, as he did so, was like the face of an old man, but without the tolerance of age.
Finishing, he rang for his servant. "Take this note," he said, "and ask at the Brethaven Arms if a gentleman named Captain Grange is putting up there. If he is, send in the note, and wait for an answer. If he is not, bring it back."
The man departed, and Nick resumed his prowling. It seemed that he could not rest. Once he went to the window and opened it to listen to the long roar of the sea, but the fury of the blast was such that he could scarcely stand against it. He shut it out, and resumed his tramp.
The return of his messenger brought him to a standstill.
"Captain Grange was there, sir. Here is his answer."
Nick grabbed the note with a gesture that might have indicated either impatience or relief. He held the envelope between his teeth to slit it open, and they left a deep mark upon it.
"Dear Ratcliffe," he read. "If I can get to you through thismurderous storm, I will. Expect me at eight o'clock.—Yours,B. Grange."
"All right," said Nick over his shoulder. "Captain Grange will dine with me."
With the words he dropped the note into the fire, and then went away to dress.
By eight o'clock Nick was lounging in the hall, awaiting his guest, but it was more than a quarter of an hour later that the latter presented himself.
Nick himself admitted him with a cheery grin. "Come in," he said."You've had a pretty filthy walk."
"Infernal," said Grange gloomily.
He entered with a heavy, rather bullied air, as if he had come against his will. Shaking hands with his host, he glanced at him somewhat suspiciously.
"Glad you managed to come," said Nick hospitably.
"What did you want to see me for?" asked Grange.
"The pleasure of your society, of course." Nick's benignity was unassailable, but there was a sharp edge to it somewhere of which Grange was uneasily aware. "Come along and dine. We can talk afterwards."
Grange accompanied him moodily to the dining-room. "I thought you were away," he remarked, as they sat down.
"I was," said Nick. "Came back last night. When do you sail?"
"On Friday. I came down to say good-bye."
"Muriel is at Weir," observed Nick.
"Yes. I shall go on there to-morrow. Daisy is only here for a night or two to pack up her things."
"And then?" said Nick.
Grange stiffened perceptibly. "I don't know what her plans are. She never makes up her mind till the last minute."
Nick laughed. "She evidently hasn't taken you into her confidence. She is going East this winter."
Grange looked up sharply. "I don't believe it."
"It's true all the same," said Nick indifferently, and forthwith forsook the subject.
He started other topics, racing, polo, politics, airily ignoring his guest's undeniable surliness, till at last Grange's uneasiness began to wear away. He gradually overcame his depression, and had even managed to capture some of his customary courtesy before the end of dinner. His attitude was quite friendly when they finally adjourned to the library to smoke.
Nick followed him into the room and stopped to shut the door.
Grange had gone straight to the fire, and he did not see him slip something into his pocket as he came forward.
But he did after several minutes of abstraction discover something not quite normal in Nick's silence, and glanced down at him to ascertain what it was.
Nick had flung himself into a deep easy-chair, and was lying quite motionless with his head back upon the cushion. His eyes were closed. He had been smoking when he entered, but he had dropped his cigar half consumed into an ash-tray.
Grange looked at him with renewed uneasiness, and looked away again. He could not help feeling that there was some moral tension somewhere; but he had never possessed a keen perception, he could not have said wherein it lay.
He retired into his shell once more and sat down facing his host in silence that had become dogged.
Suddenly, without moving, Nick spoke.
His words were slightly more deliberate than usual, very even, very distinct. "To come to the point," he said. "I saw you on the shore this afternoon—you and Mrs. Musgrave."
"What?" Grange gave a great start and stared across at him, gripping the arms of his chair.
Nick's face, however, remained quite expressionless. "I saw you," he repeated.
With an effort Grange recovered himself. "Did you though? I wondered how you knew I was down here. Where were you?"
There was an abrupt tremor behind Nick's eyelids, but they remained closed. "I was on the top of the cliff, on my own ground, watching you."
Dead silence followed his answer—a silence through which the sound of the sea half a mile away swelled terribly, like the roar of a monster in torment.
Then at last Nick's eyes opened. He looked Grange straight in the face. "What are you going to do?" he said.
Grange's hands dropped heavily from the chair-arms, and his whole great frame drooped slowly forward. He made no further attempt at evasion, realising the utter futility of such a course.
"Do!" he said wearily. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" said Nick swiftly.
"No, nothing," he repeated, staring with a dull intentness at the ground between his feet. "It's an old story, and the less said about it the better. I can't discuss it with you or any one. I think it was a pity you took the trouble to watch me this afternoon."
He spoke with a certain dignity, albeit he refused to meet Nick's eyes. He looked unutterably tired.
Nick lay quite motionless in his chair, inscrutably still, save for the restless glitter behind his colourless eyelashes. At length, "Do you remember a conversation we had in this room a few months ago?" he asked.
Grange shook his head slightly, too engrossed with his miserable thoughts to pay much attention.
"Well, think!" Nick said insistently. "It had to do with your engagement to Muriel Roscoe. Perhaps you have forgotten that too?"
Grange looked up then, shaking off his lethargy with a visible effort. He got slowly to his feet, and drew himself up to his full giant height.
"No," he said, "I have not forgotten it."
"Then," said Nick, "once more—what are you going to do?"
Grange's face darkened. He seemed to hesitate upon the verge of vehement speech. But he restrained himself though the hot blood mounted to his temples.
"I have never yet broken my word to a woman," he said. "I am not going to begin now."
"Why not?" said Nick, with a grin that was somehow fiendish.
Grange ignored the gibe. "There is no reason why I should not marry her," he said.
"No reason!" Nick's eyes flashed upwards for an instant, and a curious sense of insecurity stabbed Grange.
Nevertheless he made unfaltering reply. "No reason whatever."
Nick sat up slowly and regarded him with minute attention. "Are you serious?" he asked finally.
"I am absolutely serious," Grange told him sternly. "And I warn you,Ratcliffe, this is not a subject upon which I will bear interference."
"Man alive!" jeered Nick. "You must think I'm damned easily scared."
He got up with the words, jerking his meagre body upright with a slight, fierce movement, and stood in front of Grange, arrogantly daring.
"Now just listen to this," he said. "I don't care a damn how you take it, so you may as well take it quietly. It's no concern of mine to know how you have whitewashed this thing over and made it look clean and decent—and honourable—to your fastidious eye. What I am concerned in is to prevent Muriel Roscoe making an unworthy marriage. And that I mean to do. I told you in the summer that she should be no man's second best, and, by Heaven, she never shall. I had my doubts of you then. I know you now. And—I swear by all things sacred that I will see you dead sooner than married to her."
He broke off for a moment as though to get a firmer grip upon himself. His face was terrible, his body tense as though controlled by tight-strung wires.
Before Grange could speak, he went on rapidly, with a resolution more deadly if less passionate than before.
"If either of you had ever cared, it might have been a different matter. But you never did. I knew that you never did. I never troubled to find out your reason for proposing to her. No doubt it was strictly honourable. But I always knew why she accepted you. Did you know that, I wonder?"