The Way of an Eagle by Ethel May Dell (korean novels in english TXT) 📕

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.


CHAPTER XXXVII
THE PENALTY FOR SENTIMENT

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 Lady Bassett'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