The Way of an Eagle by Ethel May Dell (list of e readers .TXT) 📖

"I wanted you to shoot that goal."
She herself had been acting as goal-keeper at her own end of the field, a position of limited opportunities which she had firmly refused to assign to the new-comer. A child of unusual character was Olga Ratcliffe, impulsive but shrewd, with quick, pale eyes which never seemed to take more than a brief glance at anything, yet which very little ever escaped. At first sight Muriel had experienced a certain feeling of aversion to her, so marked was the likeness this child bore to the man whom she desired so passionately to shut out of her very memory. But a nearer intimacy had weakened her antipathy till very soon it had altogether disappeared. Olga had a swift and fascinating fashion of endearing herself to all who caught her fancy and, somewhat curiously, Muriel was one of the favoured number. What there was to attract a child of her quick temperament in the grave, silent girl in mourning who held aloof so coldly from the rest of the world was never apparent. But that a strong attraction existed for her was speedily evident, and Muriel, who was quite destitute of any near relations of her own, soon found that a free admittance to the doctor's home circle was accorded her on all sides, whenever she chose to avail herself of it.
But though Daisy was an immense favourite and often ran into the Ratcliffes' house, which was not more than a few hundred yards away from her own little abode, Muriel went but seldom. The doctor's wife, though always kind, was too busy to seek her out. And so it had been left to the doctor himself to drag her at length from her seclusion, and he had done it with a determination that would take no refusal. She did not know him very intimately, had never asked his advice, or held any confidential talk with him. At the outset she had been horribly afraid lest he should have heard of her engagement to Nick, but, since he never referred to her life in India or to Nick as in any fashion connected with herself, this fear had gradually subsided. She was able to tell herself thankfully that Nick was dropping away from her into the past, and to hope with some conviction that the great gulf that separated them would never be bridged.
Yet, notwithstanding this, she had a fugitive wish to know how her late comrade in adversity was faring. Captain Grange's news regarding him had aroused in her a vague uneasiness, which would not be quieted.
She wondered if by any means she could extract any information from Olga, and this she presently essayed to do, when play was over for the day and Olga had taken her upstairs to prepare for tea.
Olga was the easiest person in the world to deal with upon such a subject. She expanded at the very mention of Nick's name.
"Oh, do you know him? Isn't he a darling? I have a photograph of him somewhere. I must try and find it. He is in fancy dress and standing on his head--such a beauty. Weren't you awfully fond of him? He has been ill, you know. Dad was very waxy because he wouldn't come home. He might have had sick leave, but he wouldn't take it. However, he may have to come yet, Dad says, if something happens. He didn't say what. It was something to do with his wound. Dad wants him to leave the Army and settle down on his estate. He owns a big place about twelve miles away that an old great-aunt of his left him. Dad thinks a landowner ought to live at home if he can afford to. And of course Nick might go into Parliament too. He's so clever, and rich as well. But he won't do it. So it's no good talking."
Olga jumped off the dressing-table, and wound her arm impulsively through Muriel's. "Miss Roscoe," she said coaxingly, "I do like you most awfully. May I call you by your Christian name?"
"Why, do!" Muriel said. "I should like it best."
"Oh, that's all right," said Olga, well pleased. "I knew you weren't stuck-up really. I hate stuck-up people, don't you? I'm awfully pleased that you like Nick. I simply love him--better almost than any one else. He writes to me sometimes, pages and pages. I never show them to any one, and he doesn't show mine either. You see, we're pals. But I can show you his photograph--the one I told you about. It's just like him--his grin and all. Come up after tea, and I'll find it."
And with her arm entwined in Muriel's she drew her, still talking eagerly, from the room.


CHAPTER XX
NEWS FROM THE EAST

"I have been wondering," Grange said in his shy, rather diffident way, "if you would care to do any riding while I am here."
"I?" Muriel looked up in some surprise.
They were walking back from church together by a muddy field-path, and since neither had much to say at any time, they had accomplished more than half the distance in silence.
"I know you do ride," Grange explained, "and it's just the sort of country for a good gallop now and then. Daisy isn't allowed to, but I thought perhaps you--"
"Oh, I should like to, of course," Muriel said. "I haven't done any riding since I left Simla. I didn't care to alone."
"Ah! Lady Bassett rides, doesn't she? She is an accomplished horsewoman, I believe?"
"I don't know," Muriel's reply was noticeably curt. "I never rode with her."
Grange at once dropped the subject, and they became silent again. Muriel walked with her eyes fixed straight before her. But she did not see the brown earth underfoot or the bare trees that swayed overhead in the racing winter wind. She was back again in the heart of the Simla pines, hearing horses' feet that stamped below her window in the dawning, and a gay, cracked voice that sang.
Her companion's voice recalled her. "I suppose Daisy will stay here for the summer."
"I suppose so," she answered.
Grange went on with some hesitation. "The little chap doesn't look as if he would ever stand the Indian climate. What will happen? Will she ever consent to leave him with the Ratcliffes?"
"I am quite certain she won't," Muriel answered, with unfaltering conviction. "She simply lives for him."
"I thought so," Grange said rather sadly. "It would go hard with her if--if--"
Muriel's dark eyes flashed swift entreaty. "Oh, don't say it! Don't think it! I believe it would kill her."
"She is stronger, though?" he questioned almost sharply.
"Yes, yes, much stronger. Only--not strong enough for that. Captain Grange, it simply couldn't happen."
They had reached a gate at the end of the field. Grange stopped before it, and spoke with sudden, deep feeling.
"If it does happen, Muriel," he said, using her Christian name quite unconsciously, "we shall have to stand by her, you and I. You won't leave her, will you? You would be of more use to her than I. Oh, it's--it's damnable to see a woman in trouble and not be able to comfort her."
He brought his ungloved hand down upon the gate-post with a violence that drew blood; then, seeing her face of amazement, thrust it hastily behind him.
"I'm a fool," he said, with his shy, semi-apologetic smile. "Don't mind me, Miss Roscoe. You know, I--I'm awfully fond of Daisy, always was. My people were her people, and when they died we were the only two left, as it were. Of course she was married by that time, and there are some other relations somewhere. But we've always hung together, she and I. You can understand it, can't you?"
Muriel fancied she could, but his vehemence startled her none the less. She had not deemed him capable of such intensity.
"I suppose you feel almost as if she were your sister," she remarked, groping half-unconsciously for an explanation.
Grange was holding the gate open for her. He did not instantly reply.
Then, "I don't exactly know what that feels like," he said, with an odd shame-facedness. "But in so far as that we have been playfellows and chums all our lives, I suppose you might describe it in that way."
And Muriel, though she wondered a little at the laborious honesty of his reply, was satisfied that she understood.
She was drifting into a very pleasant friendship with Blake Grange. He seemed to rely upon her in an indefinable fashion that made their intercourse of necessity one of intimacy. Moreover, Daisy's habits were still more or less those of an invalid, and this fact helped very materially to throw them together.
To Muriel, emerging slowly from the long winter of her sorrow, the growing friendship with this man whom she both liked and admired was as a shaft of sunshine breaking across a grey landscape. Insensibly it was doing her good. The deep shadow of a horror that once had overwhelmed her was lifting gradually away from her life. In her happier moments it almost seemed that she was beginning to forget.
Grange's suggestion that they should ride together awoke in her a keener sense of pleasure than she had known since the tragedy of Wara had darkened her young life, and for the rest of the day she looked forward eagerly to the resumption of this her favourite exercise.
Daisy was delighted with the idea, and when on the following morning Grange ransacked the town for suitable mounts and returned triumphant, she declared gaily that she should take no further trouble for her guest's entertainment. The responsibility from that day forth rested with Muriel.
Muriel was by no means loth to assume it. They got on excellently together, and their almost daily rides became a source of keen pleasure to her. Winter was fast merging into spring, and the magic of the coming season was working in her blood. There were times when a sense of spontaneous happiness would come over her, she knew not wherefore. Jim Ratcliffe no longer looked at her with stern-browed disapproval.
She and Grange both became regular members of Olga's hockey team. They shared most of their pursuits. Among other things she was learning the accompaniments of his songs. Grange had a well-cultivated tenor voice, to which Daisy the restless would listen for any length of time.
Altogether they were a very peaceful trio, and as the weeks slipped on it almost seemed as if the quiet home life they lived were destined to endure indefinitely. Grange spoke occasionally of leaving, but Daisy would never entertain the idea for an instant, and he certainly did not press it very strongly. He was not returning to India before September, and the long summer months that intervened made the date of his departure so remote as to be outside discussion. No one ever thought of it.
But the long, quiet interval in the sleepy little country town, interminable as it might feel, was not destined to last for ever. On a certain afternoon in March, Grange and Muriel, riding home together after a windy gallop across open country, were waylaid outside the doctor's gate by one of the Ratcliffe boys.
The urchin was cheering at the top of his voice and dancing ecstatically in the mud. Olga, equally dishevelled but somewhat more coherent, was seated on the gate-post, her long legs dangling.
"Have you seen Dad? Have you heard?" was her cry. "Jimmy, come out of the road. You'll be kicked."
Both riders pulled up to hear the news, Jimmy squirming away from the horses' legs after a fashion that provoked even the mild-tempered Grange to a sharp reproof.
"You haven't heard?" pursued Olga, ignoring her small brother's escapade as too trifling to notice at such a supreme