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

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.


CHAPTER XXXV
THE ARMISTICE

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