The Way of an Eagle Part 44

He shook his head. "No, you are tired. Just sit down in the sun. I won't be long."

She seated herself without protest, and he turned to leave her. A few paces from her he paused, and she saw that he was trying to light a cigarette. He failed twice, and impulsively she sprang up.

"Nick, why don't you ask me to help you?"

He whizzed round. "Perhaps I don't want you to," he said quizzically.

She took the match-box from him. "Don't be absurd! Why shouldn't I?"

She struck a match and held it out to him. But he did not take it from her. He took her wrist instead, and stooping forward lighted his cigarette deliberately.

She did not look at him. Some instinct warned her that his eyes were intently searching her face. She seemed to feel them darting over her in piercing, impenetrable scrutiny.

He released her slowly at length and stood up. "Am I to have the pleasure of dancing at your wedding?" he asked her suddenly.

She looked up then very sharply, and against her will a burning blush rose up to her temples. He waited for her answer, and at last it came.

"If you think it worth your while."

"I would come from the other side of the world to see you made happy,"

said Nick.

She turned her face aside. "You are very kind."

"Think so?" There was a note of banter in his voice. "It's the first time you ever accused me of that."

She made no rejoinder. She had a feeling at the throat that prevented speech, even had she had any words to utter. Certainly, as he had discovered, she was very tired. It was physical weariness, no doubt, but she had an almost overmastering desire to shed childish tears.

"You trot back now," said Nick cheerily. "I can grub along quite well by myself."

She turned back silently. Why was it that the world seemed so grey and cold on that golden summer afternoon? She sat down again in the sunshine, and began to trace an aimless design in the sand with the stick Nick had left behind. Away in the distance she heard his cracked voice humming. Was he really as cheerful as he seemed, she wondered?

Or was he merely making the best of things?

Again her thoughts went back to Olga's pathetic little revelation.

Strange that she who knew him so intimately should never have seen him in such a mood! But did she know him after all? It was a question she had asked herself many times of late. She remembered how he had lightly told her that he had a reverse side. But had she ever really seen it, save for those brief glimpses by Olga's bedside, and as it was reflected in the child's whole-souled devotion to him? She wished with all her heart that he would lift the veil just once for her and show her his inner soul.

Again her thoughts pa.s.sed to her approaching marriage. She had received a letter from Blake that day, telling her at length of his plans. He and Daisy had been staying in the same house, but he was just returning to town. He was to sail in less than a fortnight, and would come and say good-bye to her immediately before his departure.

The letter had been courteously kind throughout, but she had not felt tempted to read it again. It contained no reference to their wedding, save such as she chose to attribute to the concluding sentence: "We can talk everything over when we meet." A sense of chill struck her when she recalled the words. He was very kind, of course, and invariably meant well; but she had begun to realise of late that there were times when she found him a little heavy and unresponsive. Not that she had ever desired any demonstration of tenderness from him, heaven knew. But the very consciousness that she had not desired this added to the chill. She was not quite sure that she wanted to see him again before he sailed. Certainly he had never bored her; but it was not inconceivable that he might do so. She shivered ever so slightly.

It was not an exciting prospect--life with Blake. He was quite sure to be kind to her. He would consider her in every way. But was that after all quite all she wanted? A great sigh welled suddenly up from the bottom of her heart. Life was ineffably dreary--when it was not revoltingly horrible.

"Shall I tell you what is the matter?" said Nick.

She started violently, and found him leaning across the flat rock on which she was seated. His eyes were remarkably bright. She had a feeling that he suppressed a laugh as his look flickered over her.

"Sorry I made you jump," he said. "You ought to be used to me by this time. Anyhow you needn't be frightened. My venom was extracted long ago."

She turned to him with sudden, unconsidered impulse. "Oh, Nick," she said, "I sometimes think to myself I've been a great fool."

He nodded. Her vehemence did 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 pa.s.sionate 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?"