The Way of an Eagle - Ethel May Dell (i read books TXT) 📗

good-humouredly. "Well, of course, I should be sorry to give up polo, but there are plenty of other things I could take to. Personally, I like a quiet existence."
Was there just a shade of scorn in Muriel's glance as it fell away from him? It would have been impossible for any bystander to say with certainty, but there was without doubt a touch of constraint in her voice as she made reply.
"Yes. You are quite the most placid person I know. But please don't think of leaving the Army for my sake. I am a soldier's daughter remember. And--I like soldiers."
Her lip quivered as she turned to enter the house. Her heart at that moment was mourning over a soldier's unknown grave. But Grange did not know it, did not even see that she was moved.
His eyes were raised to an upper window at which a dim figure stood looking out into the shadows. And he was thinking of other things.


CHAPTER XXVI
THE ETERNAL FLAME

Daisy maintained her resolution on the following day, and though she did not speak again of going downstairs, she insisted that Muriel should return to the hockey-field and resume her place in Olga's team. It was the last match of the season, and she would not hear of her missing it.
"You and Blake are both to go," she said. "I won't have either of you staying at home for me."
But Blake, when Muriel conveyed this message to him, moodily shook his head. "I'm not going. I don't want to. You must, of course. It will do you good. But I couldn't play if I went. I've strained my wrist."
"Oh, have you?" Muriel said, with concern. "What a nuisance! How did you manage it?"
He reddened, and looked slightly ashamed. "I vaulted the gate into the meadow this morning. Idiotic thing to do. But I shall be all right. Never mind about me. I shall smoke in the garden. I may go for a walk."
Thus pressed on all sides, though decidedly against her own inclination, Muriel went. The day was showery with brilliant intervals. Grange saw her off at the field-gate.
"Plenty of mud," he remarked.
"Yes, I shall be a spectacle when I come back. Good-bye! Take care of yourself." Muriel's hand rested for an instant on his arm, and then she was gone--a slim, short-skirted figure walking swiftly over the grass.
He stood leaning on the gate watching her till a clump of trees intervened between them, then lazily he straightened himself and began to stroll back up the garden. He was not smoking. His face wore a heavy, almost a sullen, look. He scarcely raised his eyes from the ground as he walked.
Nearing the house the sudden sound of a window being raised made him look up, and in an instant, swift as a passing cloud-shadow, his moodiness was gone. Daisy was leaning on her window-sill, looking down upon him.
Though she had not spoken to him for weeks, she gave him no greeting. Her voice even sounded a trifle sharp.
"What are you loafing there for?" she demanded. "Why didn't you go with Muriel to the hockey?"
He hesitated for a single instant. Then--for he never lied to Daisy--quite honestly he made reply. "I didn't want to."
Her pale face frowned down at him, though the eyes had a soft light that was like a mother's indulgence for her wayward child.
"How absurd you are! How can you be so lazy? I won't have it, Blake. Do you hear?"
He moved forward a few steps till he was immediately below her, and there stood with uplifted face. "What do you want me to do?"
"Do!" echoed Daisy. "Why, anything--anything rather than nothing. There's the garden-roller over there by the tool-shed. Go and get it, and roll the lawn."
He went off obediently without another word, and presently the clatter of the roller testified to his submissive fulfilment of her command. He did not look up again. Simply, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves turned above his elbows, he tackled his arduous task, labouring up and down in the soft spring rain, patient and tireless as an ox.
He had accomplished about half his job when again Daisy's voice broke imperiously in upon him.
"Blake! Blake! Come in! You'll get wet to the skin."
He stopped at once, straightening his great frame with a sigh of relief. Daisy was standing at the drawing-room window.
He pulled on his coat and went to join her.
She came to meet him with sharp reproach. "Why are you so foolish? I believe you would have gone on rolling if there had been an earthquake. You must be wet through and through." She ran her little thin hand over him. "Yes, I knew you were. You must go and change."
But Grange's fingers closed with quiet intention upon her wrist. He was looking down at her with the faithful adoration of a dumb animal.
"Not yet," he said gently. "Let me see you while I can."
She made a quick movement as if his grasp hurt her, and in an instant she was free.
"Yes, but let us be sensible," she said. "Don't let us talk about hard things. I'm very tired, you know, Blake. You must make it easy for me."
There was a piteous note of appeal in her voice. She sat down with her back to the light. He could see that her hands were trembling, but because of her appeal he would not seem to see it.
"Don't you think a change would be good for you?" he suggested.
"I don't know," she answered. "Jim says so. He wants me to go to Brethaven. It's only ten miles away, and he would motor over and look after me. But I don't think it much matters. I'm not particularly fond of the sea. And Muriel assures me she doesn't mind."
"Isn't it at Brethaven that Nick Ratcliffe owns a place?" asked Grange.
"Yes. Redlands is the name. I went there once with Will. It's a beautiful place on the cliff--quite thrown away on Nick, though, unless he marries, which he never will now."
Grange looked uncomfortable. "It's not my fault," he remarked bluntly.
"No, I know," said Daisy, with a faint echo of her old light laugh. "Nothing ever was, or could be, your fault, dear old Blake. You're just unlucky sometimes, aren't you? That's all."
Blake frowned a little. "I play a straight game--generally," he said.
"Yes, dear, but you almost always drive into a bunker," Daisy insisted. "It's not your fault, as we said before. It's just your misfortune."
She never flattered Blake. It was perhaps the secret of her charm for him. To other women he was something of a paladin; to Daisy he was no more than a man--a man moreover of many weaknesses, each one of which she knew, each one of which was in a fashion dear to her.
"We will have some tea, shall we?" she said, as he sat silently digesting her criticism. "I must try and write to Will presently. I haven't written to him since--since--" She broke off short and began again. "I got Muriel to write for me once. But he keeps writing by every mail. I wish he wouldn't."
Grange got up and walked softly to the window. "When do you think of going back?" he asked.
"I don't know." There was a keen note of irritation in the reply. Daisy leaned suddenly forward, her fingers locked together. "You might as well ask me when I think of dying," she said, with abrupt and startling bitterness.
Grange remained stationary, not looking at her. "Is it as indefinite as that?" he asked presently.
"Yes, quite." She spoke recklessly, even defiantly. "Where would be the use of my going to a place I couldn't possibly live in for more than four months in the year? Besides--besides--" But again, as if checked by some potent inner influence, she broke off short. Her white face quivered suddenly, and she turned it aside. Her hands were convulsively clenched upon each other.
Her cousin did not move. He seemed to be unaware of her agitation. Simply with much patience he waited for her end of the sentence.
It came at last in a voice half-strangled. She was making almost frantic efforts to control herself. "Besides, I couldn't stand it--yet. I am not strong enough. And he--he wouldn't understand, poor boy. I think--I honestly think--I am better away from him for the present"
Blake made no further inquiries. From Daisy's point of view, he seemed to be standing motionless, but in reality he was quite unconsciously, though very deliberately, pulling the tassel of the blind-cord to shreds.
The clouds had passed, and the sun blazed down full upon him, throwing his splendid outline into high relief. Every detail of his massive frame was strongly revealed. There was about him a species of careless magnificence, wholly apart from arrogance, unfettered, superb.
To Daisy, familiar as she was with every line of him, the sudden revelation of the sunlight acted like a charm. She had been hiding her eyes for many days from all light, veiling them in the darkness of her grief, and the splendour of the man fairly dazzled her. It rushed upon her, swift, overmastering as a tidal wave, and before it even the memory of her sorrow grew dim.
Blake, turning at last, met her eyes fixed full upon him with that in their expression which no man could ignore. She had not expected him to turn. The movement disconcerted her. With a sharp jerk She averted her face, seeking to cover that momentary slip, to persuade him even then, if it were possible, into the belief that he had not seen aright.
But it was too late. That unguarded look of hers had betrayed her, rending asunder in an instant the veil with which for years she had successfully baffled him.
In a second he was on his knees beside her, his arms about her, holding her with a close and passionate insistence.
"Daisy!" he whispered huskily. And again, "Daisy!"
And Daisy turned with a sudden deep sob and hid her face upon his breast.


CHAPTER XXVII
THE EAGLE CAGED

In spite of Olga's ecstatic welcome, Muriel took her place on the hockey-field that afternoon with a heavy heart. Her long attendance upon Daisy had depressed her. But gradually, as the play proceeded, she began to forget herself and her troubles. The spring air exhilarated her, and when they returned to the field after a sharp shower her spirits had risen. She became even childishly gay in the course of a hotly-contested battle, and the sadness gradually died out of her eyes. She had grown less shy, less restrained, than of old. Youth and health, and a dawning, unconscious beauty had sprung to life upon her face. She was no longer the frightened, bereft child of Simla days. She no longer hid a monstrous fear in her heart. She had put it all away from her wisely, resolutely, as a tale that is told.
The wild wind had blown the hair all loose about her face by the time the last goal was won. Hatless, flushed, and laughing, she drew back from the fray, Olga, elated by victory, clinging to her arm. It was a moment of keen triumph, for the fight had been hard, and she enjoyed it to the full as she stood there with her face to the sudden, scudding rain. The glow of exercise had braced every muscle. Every pulse was beating with warm, vigorous life.
She laughed aloud in sheer exultation, a low, merry laugh, and turned with Olga to march in triumphant procession from the field.
In that instant from a gate a few yards away that led into the road there sounded the