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

I am going to carry you to bed as I used--do you remember?--at Simla, after the baby came. Dear little chap! Do you remember how he used to smile in his sleep?"
His voice was hushed, as though he stood once more beside the tiny cot.
She sat up, yielding herself to his arms. "Oh, Will," she said, with a great sob, "if only he had lived!"
He held her closely, and lying against his breast she felt the sigh he stifled. His lips were upon the silvered hair.
"Perhaps--some day--Daisy," he said, under his breath.
And she, clinging to him, whispered back through her tears, "Oh, Will,--I do hope so."


CHAPTER XLVII
IN THE NAME OF FRIENDSHIP

It was very hot down on the buzzing race-course, almost intolerably so in the opinion of the girl who sat in Lady Bassett's elegantly-appointed carriage, and looked out with the indifference of boredom upon the sweltering crowds.
"Dear child, don't look so freezingly aloof!" she had been entreated more than once; and each time the soft injunction had reached her the wide dark eyes had taken to themselves a more utter disdain.
If she looked freezing, she was far from feeling it, for the hot weather was at its height, and Ghawalkhand, though healthy, was not the coolest spot in the Indian Empire. Sir Reginald Bassett had been appointed British Resident, to act as adviser to the young rajah thereof, and there had been no question of a flitting to Simla that year. Lady Bassett had deplored this, but Muriel rejoiced. She never wanted to see Simla again.
Life was a horrible emptiness to her in those days. She was weary beyond expression, and had no heart for the gaieties in which she was plunged. Idle compliments had never attracted her, and flirtations were an abomination to her. She looked through and beyond them with the eyes of a sphinx. But there were very few who suspected the intolerable ache that throbbed unceasingly behind her impassivity--the loneliness of spirit that oppressed her like a crushing, physical weight.
Even Bobby Fraser, who saw most things, could scarcely have been aware of this; yet certainly it was not the vivacity of her conversation that induced him to seek her out as he generally did when he saw her sitting apart. A very cheery bachelor was Bobby Fraser, and a tremendous favourite wherever he went. He was a wonderful organizer, and he invariably had a hand in anything of an entertaining nature that was going forward.
He had just brought her tea, and was waiting beside her while she drank it. Lady Bassett had left the carriage for the paddock, and Muriel sat alone.
Had she had anything on the last race, he wanted to know? Muriel had not. He had, and was practically ruined in consequence--a calamity which in no way seemed to affect his spirits.
"Who would have expected a rank outsider like that to walk over the course? Ought to have been disqualified for sheer cheek. Reminds me of a chap I once knew--forget his name--Nick something or other--who entered at the last minute for the Great Mogul's Cup at Sharapura. Did it for a bet, they said. It's years ago now. The horse was a perfect brute--all bone and no flesh--with a temper like the foul fiend and no points whatever--looked a regular crock at starting. But he romped home on three legs, notwithstanding, with his jockey clinging to him like an inspired monkey. It was the only race he ever won. Every one put it down to black magic or personal magnetism on the part of his rider. Same thing, I believe. He was the sort of chap who always comes out on top. Rum thing I can't remember his name. I had travelled out with him on the same boat once too. Have some more tea."
This was a specimen of most of Bobby Fraser's conversation. He was brimful of anecdotes. They flowed as easily as water from a fountain. Their source seemed inexhaustible. He never repeated himself to the same person.
Muriel declined his offer of more tea. For some reason she wanted to hear more of the man who had won the Great Mogul's Cup at Sharapura.
Bobby was more than willing to oblige. "Oh, it was sheer cheek that carried him through, of course. I always said he was the cheekiest beggar under the sun--quite a little chap he was, hideously ugly, with a face like a baked apple, and eyes that made you think of a cinematograph. You know the sort of thing. I used to think he had a future before him, but he seems to have dropped out. He was only about twenty when I had him for a stable-companion. I remember one outrageous thing he did on the voyage out. There was card-playing going on in the saloon one night, and he was looking on. One of the lady-players--well, I suppose I may as well call it by its name--one of them cheated. He detected it. Beastly position, of course. Don't know what I should have done under the circumstances, but anyhow he wasn't at a loss. He simply lighted a cigarette and set fire to the lady's dress."
Muriel's exclamation of horror was ample testimony to the fact that her keenest interest was aroused.
"Yes, awfully risky, wasn't it?" said Bobby. "We only thought at the time he had been abominably careless. I did not hear the rights of the case till afterwards, and then not from him. There was a fine flareup, of course--card-table overturned--ladies in hysterics--in the middle of the fray our gallant hero extinguishing the flames with his bare hands. He was profusely apologetic and rather badly scorched. The lady took very little harm, except to her nerves and her temper. She cut him dead for the rest of the voyage, but I don't think it depressed him much. He was the sort of fellow that never gets depressed. Hullo! There's Mrs. Philpot making violent signs. I suppose I had better go and see what she wants, or be dropped for evermore. Good-bye!"
He smiled upon her and departed, leaving her thoughtful, with a certain wistful wonder in her eyes.
Lady Bassett's return interrupted her reverie. "You have had some tea, I hope, dear? Ah, I thought Mr. Bobby Fraser was making his way in this direction. So sweet of him not to forget you when he has so many other calls upon his attention. And how are you faring for to-night? Is your programme full yet? I have literally not one dance left."
Lady Bassett had deemed it advisable to ignore the fact of Muriel's brief engagement to Captain Grange since the girl's return to India. She knew, as did her husband, that it had come to an end before Grange's death, but she withheld all comment upon it. Her one desire was to get the dear child married without delay, and she was not backward in letting her know it. Life at Ghawalkhand was one continuous round of gaiety, and she had every opportunity for forwarding her scheme. Though she deplored Muriel's unresponsiveness, she yet did not despair. It was sheer affectation on the girl's part, she would tell herself, and would soon pass. And after all, that queenly, aloof air had a charm that was all its own. It might not attract the many, but she had begun to fancy of late that Bobby Fraser had felt its influence. He was not in the least the sort of man she would have expected to do so, but there was no accounting for taste--masculine taste especially. And it would be an excellent thing for Muriel.
She was therefore being particularly gracious to her young charge just then--a state of affairs which Muriel endured rather than appreciated. She would never feel at her ease with Lady Bassett as long as she lived.
She was glad when they drove away at length, for she wanted to be alone. Those anecdotes of Bobby's had affected her strangely. She had felt so completely cut off of late from all things connected with the past. No one ever mentioned Nick to her now--not even her faithful correspondent Olga. Meteor-like, he had flashed through her sky and disappeared; leaving a burning, ineradicable trail behind him, it is true, but none the less was he gone. She had not the faintest idea where he was. She would have given all she had to know, yet could not bring herself to ask. It seemed highly improbable that he would ever cross her path again, and she knew she ought to be glad of this; yet no gladness ever warmed her heart. And now here was a man who had known him, who had told her of exploits new to her knowledge yet how strangely familiar to her understanding, who had at a touch brought before her the weird personality that her imagination sometimes strove in vain to summon. She could have sat and listened to Bobby's reminiscences for hours. The bare mention of Nick's name had made her blood run faster.
Lady Bassett did not trouble her to converse during the drive back, ascribing to her evident desire for silence a reason which Muriel was too absent to suspect. But when the girl roused herself to throw a couple of annas to an old beggar who was crouched against the entrance to the Residency grounds she could not resist giving utterance to a gentle expostulation.
"I wish you would not encourage these people, dearest. They are so extremely undesirable, and there is so much unrest in the State just now that I cannot but regard them with anxiety."
Muriel murmured an apology, with the inward reservation to bestow her alms next time when Lady Bassett was not looking on.
She found a letter lying on her table when she entered her room, and took it up listlessly, without much interest. Her mind was still running on those two anecdotes with which Bobby Fraser had so successfully enlivened her boredom. The writing on the envelope was vaguely familiar to her, but she did not associate it with anything of importance. Absently she opened it, half reluctant to recall her wandering thoughts. It came from a Hill station in Bengal, but that told her nothing. She turned to the signature.
The next instant she had turned back again to the beginning, and was reading eagerly. Her correspondent was Will Musgrave.

"Dear Miss Roscoe,"--ran the letter. "After long consideration
I have decided to write and beg of you a favour which I fancy
you will grant more readily than I venture to ask. My wife, as
you probably know, joined me some months ago. She is in very
indifferent health, and has expressed a most earnest wish to
see you. I believe there is something which she wishes to
tell you--something that weighs upon her heavily; and though
I trust that all will go well with her, I cannot help feeling
that she would stand a much better chance of this if only her
mind could be set at rest. I know I am asking a big thing
of you, for the journey is a ghastly one at this time of the
year, but if of your goodness you can bring yourself to face
it, I will myself meet you and escort you across the Plains.
Will you think the matter carefully over? And perhaps you
would wire a reply.
"I have written without Daisy's knowledge, as she seems
to feel that she has forfeited the right to your
friendship.--Sincerely yours,
"W. MUSGRAVE."

Muriel's reply was despatched that evening, almost before she had fully read the appeal.