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Title: The Keeper of the Door

Author: Ethel M. Dell

Release Date: February 10, 2005 [EBook #15013]

Language: English

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THE KEEPER OF THE DOOR


By ETHEL M. DELL


AUTHOR OF "The Way of an Eagle," "The Knave of Diamonds," "The Rocks of
Valpre," Etc.


A.L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

Published by Arrangements with G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, 1915

BY

ETHEL M. DELL


Fourth Impression


BY ETHEL M. DELL

   The Way of an Eagle
   The Knave of Diamonds
   The Rocks of Valpré
   The Swindler
   The Keeper of the Door
   Bars of Iron
   Rosa Mundi
   The Obstacle Race
   Tetherstones
   The Passerby and Other Stories
   The Hundredth Chance
   The Safety Curtain
   Greatheart
   The Lamp in the Desert
   The Tidal Wave
   The Top of the World
   The Odds and Other Stories
   Charles Rex
   The Unknown Quantity
   A Man Under Authority


This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G.P.
PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON


The Knickerbocker Press, New York Made in the United States of America




I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF ONE WHO WAITS BEYOND THE
DOOR FOR THOSE HE LOVES

"And the keepers before the door kept the prison."

_Acts xii. 6._


   "A deep below the deep
       And a height beyond the height!
    Our hearing is not hearing,
       And our seeing is not sight."

_The Voice and the Peak._

ALFRED TENNYSON.




CONTENTS

   _PART ONE_

   CHAPTER                                         PAGE

   I. THE LESSON                                    1

   II. THE ALLY                                    16

   III. THE OBSTACLE                               27

   IV. THE SETTING OF THE WATCH                    37

   V. THE CHAPERON                                 47

   VI. THE PAIN-KILLER                             62

   VII. THE PUZZLE                                 74

   VIII. THE ELASTIC BOND                          86

   IX. THE PROJECT                                 97

   X. THE DOOR                                    108

   XI. THE IMPOSSIBLE                             120

   XII. THE PAL                                   129

   XIII. HER FATE                                 149

   XIV. THE DARK HOUR                             155

   XV. THE AWAKENING                              167

   XVI. SECRETS                                   177

   XVII. THE VERDICT                              189

   XVIII. SOMETHING LOST                          198

   XIX. THE REVELATION                            205

   XX. THE SEARCH                                 217

   XXI. ON THE BRINK                              228

   XXII. OVER THE EDGE                            235

   XXIII. AS GOOD AS DEAD                         243

   XXIV. THE OPENING OF THE DOOR                  252

   XXV. THE PRICE                                 264


   _PART TWO_

   I. COURTSHIP                                   281

   II. THE SELF-INVITED GUEST                     287

   III. THE NEW LIFE                              297

   IV. THE PHANTOM                                305

   V. THE EVERLASTING CHAIN                       317

   VI. CHRISTMAS MORNING                          327

   VII. THE WILDERNESS OF NASTY POSSIBILITIES     340

   VIII. THE SOUL OF A HERO                       350

   IX. THE MAN WITH THE GUN                       357

   X. A TALK IN THE OPEN                          367

   XI. THE FAITHFUL WOUND OF A FRIEND             376

   XII. A LETTER FROM AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE         390

   XIII. A WOMAN'S PREJUDICE                      403

   XIV. SMOKE FROM THE FIRE                       414

   XV. THE SPREADING OF THE FLAME                 426

   XVI. THE GAP                                   437

   XVII. THE EASIEST COURSE                       452

   XVIII. ONE MAN'S LOSS                          462

   XIX. A FIGHT WITHOUT A FINISH                  472

   XX. THE POWER OF THE ENEMY                     487

   XXI. THE GATHERING STORM                       503

   XXII. THE REPRIEVE                             510

   XXIII. THE GIFT OF THE RAJAH                   518

   XXIV. THE BIG, BIG GAME OF LIFE                528

   XXV. MEMORIES THAT HURT                        537

   XXVI. A FOOL'S ERRAND                          548

   XXVII. LOVE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE           556

   XXVIII. A SOLDIER AND A GENTLEMAN              570

   XXIX. THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW                  578

   XXX. THE LINE OF RETREAT                       588




PART I

CHAPTER I

THE LESSON


"Then he's such a prig!" said Olga.

"You should never use a word you can't define," observed Nick, from the
depths of the hammock in which his meagre person reposed at length.

She made a face at him, and gave the hammock a vicious twitch which
caused him to rock with some violence for several seconds. As he was
wont pathetically to remark, everyone bullied him because he was small
and possessed only one arm, having shed the other by inadvertence
somewhere on the borders of the Indian Empire.

Certainly Olga--his half-brother's eldest child--treated him with scant
respect, though she never allowed anyone else to be other than polite to
him in her hearing. But then she and Nick had been pals from the
beginning of things, and this surely entitled her to a certain licence
in her dealings with him. Nick, too, was such a darling; he never minded
anything.

Having duly punished him for snubbing her, she returned with serenity to
the work upon her lap.

"You see," she remarked thoughtfully, "the worst of it is he really is
a bit of a genius. And one can't sit on genius--with comfort. It sort of
flames out where you least expect it."

"Highly unpleasant, I should think," agreed Nick.

"Yes; and he has such a disgusting fashion of behaving as if--as if one
were miles beneath his notice," proceeded Olga. "And I'm not a chicken,
you know, Nick, I'm twenty."

"A vast age!" said Nick.

For which remark she gave him another jerk which set him swinging like a
pendulum.

"Well, I've got a little sense anyhow," she remarked.

"But not much," said Nick. "Or you would know that that sort of
treatment after muffins for tea is calculated to produce indigestion in
a very acute form, peculiarly distressing to the beholder."

"Oh, I'm sorry! I forgot the muffins." Olga laid a restraining hand upon
the hammock. "But do you like him, Nick? Honestly now!"

"My dear child, I never like anyone till I've seen him at his worst.
Drawing-room manners never attract me."

"But this man hasn't got any manners at all," objected Olga. "And he's
so horribly satirical. It's like having a stinging-nettle in the house.
I believe--just because he's clever in his own line--that he's been
spoilt. As if everybody couldn't do something!"

"Ah! That's the point," said Nick sententiously. "Everybody can, but it
isn't everybody who does. Now this young man apparently knows how to
make the most of his opportunities. He plays a rattling hand at bridge,
by the way."

"I wonder if he cheats," said Olga. "I'm sure he's quite unscrupulous."

Nick turned his head, and surveyed her from under his restless eyelids.
"I begin to think you must be falling in love with the young man," he
observed.

"Don't be absurd, Nick!" Olga did not even trouble to look up. She was
stitching with neat rapidity.

"I'm not. That's just how my wife fell in love with me. I assure you it
often begins that way." Nick shook his head wisely. "I should take steps
to be nice to him if I were you, before the mischief spreads."

Olga tossed her head. She was slightly flushed. "I shall never make a
fool of myself over any man, Nick," she said. "I'm quite determined on
that point."

"Dear, dear!" said Nick. "How old did you say you were?"

"I am woman enough to know my own mind," said Olga.

"Heaven forbid!" said Nick. "You wouldn't be a woman at all if you did
that."

"I don't think you are a good judge on that subject, Nick," remarked his
niece judiciously. "In fact, even Dr. Wyndham knows better than that. I
assure you the antipathy is quite mutual. He regards everyone who isn't
desperately ill as superfluous and uninteresting. He was absolutely
disappointed the other day because, when I slipped on the stairs, I
didn't break any bones."

"What a fiend!" said Nick.

"And yet Dad likes him," said Olga. "I can't understand it. The poor
people like him too in a way. Isn't it odd? They seem to have such faith
in him."

"I believe Jim has faith in him," remarked Nick. "He wouldn't turn him
loose on his patients if he hadn't."

"Of course, Sir Kersley Whitton recommended him," conceded Olga. "And he
is an absolutely wonderful man, Dad says. He calls him the greatest
medicine-man in England. He took up Max Wyndham years ago, when he was
only a medical student. And he has been like a father to him ever
since. In fact, I don't believe Dr. Wyndham would ever have come here if
Sir Kersley hadn't made him. He was overworked and wouldn't take a rest,
so Sir Kersley literally forced him to come and be Dad's assistant for a
while. He told Dad that he was too brilliant a man to stay long in the
country, and Dad gathered that he contemplated making him his own
partner in the course of time. The sooner the better, I should say. He
obviously thinks himself quite thrown away on the likes of us."

"Altogether he seems to be a very interesting young man," said Nick. "I
must really cultivate his acquaintance. Is he going to be present
to-night?"

"Oh, I suppose so. It's a great drawback having him living in the house.
You see, being his hostess, I have to be more or less civil to him. It's
very horrid," said Olga, upon whom, in consequence of her mother's death
three years before, the duties of housekeeper had devolved. "And Dad is
so fearfully strict too. He won't let me be the least little bit rude,
though he is often quite rude himself. You know Dad."

"I know him," said Nick. "He's licked me many a time, bless his heart,
and richly I deserved it. Help me to get out of this like a good kid! I
see James the Second and the twins awaiting me on the tennis-court. I
promised them a sett after tea."

He rolled on to his feet with careless agility, his one arm encircling
his young niece's shoulders.

"I shouldn't worry if I were you," protested Olga. "It's much too hot.
Don't waste your energies amusing the children! They can quite well play
about by themselves."

"And get up to mischief," said Nick. "No, I'm on the job, overlooking
the whole crowd of you, and I'll do it thoroughly. When old Jim comes
home he'll find a model household awaiting him. By the way, I had a
letter from him this afternoon. The kiddie is stronger already, and
Muriel as happy as a queen. I shall hear from her to-morrow."

"Don't you wish you were with them?" questioned Olga. "It would be much
more fun than staying here to chaperone me."

Nick looked quizzical. "Oh, there's plenty of fun to be had out of that
too," he assured her. "I take a lively interest in you, my child; always
have."

"You're a darling," said Olga, raising her face impulsively. "I shall
write and tell Dad what care you are taking of us all."

She kissed him warmly and let him go, smiling at the tuneless humming
that accompanied his departure. Who at a casual glance would have taken
Nick Ratcliffe for one of the keenest politicians of his party, a man
whom friend and foe alike regarded as too brilliant to be ignored? He
had even been jestingly described as "that doughty champion of the
British Empire"--an epithet that Olga cherished jealously because it had
not been bestowed wholly in jest.

His general appearance was certainly the reverse of imposing, and in
this particular, to her intense gratification, Olga resembled him. She
had the same quick, pale eyes, with the shrewdness of observation that
never needed to look twice, the same colourless brows and lashes and
insignificant features; but she possessed one redeeming point which Nick
lacked. What with him was an impish grin of sheer exuberance, with her
was a smile of rare enchantment, very fleeting, with a fascination quite
indescribable but none the less capable of imparting to her pale young
face a charm that only the greatest artists have ever been able to
depict. People were apt to say of Olga Ratcliffe that she had a face
that lighted up well. Her ready intelligence was ardent enough to
illuminate her. No one was ever dull in her society. Certainly in her
temperament at least there was nothing colorless. Where she loved she
loved intensely, and she hated in the same way, quite thoroughly and
without dissimulation.

Maxwell Wyndham, for instance, the subject of her recent conversation
with Nick, she had disliked wholeheartedly from the commencement of
their acquaintance, and he was perfectly aware of the fact. He could not
well have been otherwise, but he was by no means disconcerted thereby.
It even seemed as if he took a malicious pleasure in developing her
dislike upon every opportunity that presented itself, and since he was
living in the house as her father's assistant, opportunities were by no
means infrequent.

But there was no open hostility between them. Under Dr. Ratcliffe's eye,
his daughter was always frigidly polite to the unwelcome outsider, and
the outsider accepted her courtesy with a sarcastic smile, knowing
exactly how much it was worth.

Perhaps he was a little curious to know how she meant to treat him
during her father's absence, or it may have been sheer chance that
actuated him on that sultry evening in August, but Nick and his three
playfellows had only just settled down to a serious sett when the
doctor's assistant emerged from the house with his hands deep in his
pockets and a peculiarly evil-smelling cigarette between his firm lips,
and strolled across to the shady corner under the walnut-trees where the
doctor's daughter was sitting.

She was stitching so busily that she did not observe his approach until
escape was out of the question; but she would not have retreated in any
case. It was characteristic of her to display a bold front to the people
she disliked.

She threw him one of her quick glances as he reached her, and noted with
distaste the extreme fieriness of his red hair in the light of the
sinking sun. His hair had always been an offence to her. It was so
obtrusive. But she could have borne with that alone. It was the green
eyes that mocked at everything from under shaggy red brows that had
originally given rise to her very decided antipathy, and these Olga
found it impossible to condone. People had no right to mock, whatever
the colour of their eyes.

He joined her as though wholly unaware of her glance of disparagement.

"I fear I am spoiling a charming picture," he observed as he did so.
"But since there was none but myself to admire it, I felt at liberty to
do so."

Again momentarily Olga's eyes flashed upwards, comprehending the whole
of his thick-set figure in a single sweep of the eyelids. He was
exceedingly British in build, possessing in breadth what he lacked in
height. There was a bull-dog strength about his neck and shoulders that
imparted something of a fighting look to his general demeanour. He bore
himself with astounding self-assurance.

"Have you had any tea?" Olga inquired somewhat curtly. She was inwardly
wondering what he had come for. He usually had a very definite reason
for all he did.

"Many thanks," he replied, balancing himself on the edge of the hammock.
"I am deeply touched by your solicitude for my welfare. I partook of tea
at the Campions' half an hour ago."

"At the Campions'!" There was quick surprise in Olga's voice.

It elicited no explanation however. He sat and swayed in the hammock as
though he had not noticed it.

After a moment she turned and looked at him fully. The green eyes were
instantly upon her, alert and critical, holding that gleam of satirical
humour that she invariably found so exasperating.

"Well?" said Olga at last.

"Well, fair lady?" he responded, with bland serenity.

She frowned. He was the only person in her world who ever made her take
the trouble to explain herself, and he did it upon every possible
occasion, with unvarying regularity. She hated him for it very
thoroughly, but she always had to yield.

"Why did you go to the Campions'?" she asked, barely restraining her
irritation.

"That, fair lady," he coolly responded, "is a question which with regret
I must decline to answer."

Olga flushed. "How absurd!" she said quickly. "Dad would tell me like a
shot."

"I am not Dad," said the doctor's assistant, with unruffled urbanity.
"Moreover, fair lady--"

"I prefer to be called by my name if you have no objection, Dr.
Wyndham," cut in Olga, with rising wrath.

He smiled at something over her head. "Thank you, Olga. It saves trouble
certainly. Would you like to call me by mine? Max is what I generally
answer to."

Olga turned a vivid scarlet. "I am Miss Ratcliffe to you," she said.

He accepted the rebuff with unimpaired equanimity. "I thought it must be
too good to be true. Pardon my presumption! When you are as old as I am
you will realize how little it really matters. You are genuinely angry,
I suppose? Not pretending?"

Olga bit her lip in silence and returned to her work, conscious of
unsteady fingers, conscious also of a scrutiny that marked and derided
the fact.

"Yes," he said, after a moment, "I should think your pulse must be about
a hundred. Leave off working for a minute and let it steady down!"

Olga stitched on in spite of growing discomfiture. The shakiness was
increasing very perceptibly. She could feel herself becoming hotter
every moment. It was maddening to feel those ironical eyes noting and
ridiculing her agitation. From exasperation she had passed to something
very nearly resembling fury.

"Leave off!" he said again; and then, because she would not, he laid a
detaining hand upon her work.

Instantly and fiercely her needle stabbed downwards. It was done in a
moment, almost before she realized the nature of the impulse that
possessed her. Straight into the back of his hand the weapon drove, and
there from the sheer force of the impact broke off short.

Olga exclaimed in horror, but Max Wyndham made no sound of any sort. The
cigarette remained between his lips, and not a muscle of his face moved.
His hand with the broken needle in it was not withdrawn. It clenched
slowly, that was all.

The blood welled up under Olga's dismayed eyes, and began to trickle
over the brown fist. She threw a frightened glance into his grim face.
Her anger had wholly evaporated and she was keenly remorseful. But it
was no matter for an apology. The thing was beyond words.

"And now," said Max Wyndham, coolly removing the ash from his cigarette,
"perhaps you will come to the surgery with me and get it out."

"I?" stammered Olga, turning very white.

"Even so, fair lady. It will be a little lesson for you--in surgery. I
hope the sight of blood doesn't make you feel green," said Max, with a
one-sided twitch of the lips that was scarcely a smile.

He removed his hand to her relief, and stood up. Olga stood up too, but
she was trembling all over.

"Oh, I can't! Indeed, I can't! Dr. Wyndham, please!" She glanced round
desperately. "There's Nick! Couldn't you ask him?"

"Unfortunately this is a job that requires two hands," said Max.
"Besides, you did the mischief, remember."

Olga gasped and said no more. Meekly she laid her work on the chair by
the hammock and accompanied him to the house. It was the most painful
predicament she had ever been in. She knew that there was no escape for
her, knew, moreover, that she richly deserved her punishment; yet, as he
held open the surgery-door for her, she made one more appeal.

"I'm sure I can't do it. I shall do more harm than good, and hurt you
horribly."

"Oh, but you'll enjoy that," he said.

"Indeed, I shan't!" Olga was almost in tears by this time. "Couldn't you
do it yourself with--with a forceps?"

"Afraid not," said Max.

He went to a cupboard and took out a bottle containing something which
he measured into a glass and filled up with water.

"Fortify yourself with this," he said, handing it to her, "while I
select the instruments of torture."

Olga shuddered visibly. "I don't want it. I only want to go."

"Well, you can't go," he returned, "until you have extracted that bit of
needle of yours. So drink that, and be sensible!"

He pulled out a drawer with the words, and she watched him, fascinated,
as he made his selection. He glanced up after a moment.

"Olga, if you don't swallow that stuff soon, I shall be--annoyed with
you."

She raised it at once to her lips, feeling as if she had no choice, and
drank with shuddering distaste.

"I always have hated _sal volatile_," she said, as she finished the
draught.

"You can't have everything you like in this world," returned Max
sententiously. "Come over here by the window! Now you are to do exactly
what I tell you. Understand? Put your own judgment in abeyance. Yes, I
know it's bleeding; but you needn't shudder like that. Give me your
hand!" She gave it, trembling. He held it firmly, looking straight into
her quivering face. "We won't proceed," he said, "until you have quite
recovered your self-control, or you may go and slit a large vein, which
would be awkward for us both. Just stand still and pull yourself
together."

She found herself obliged to obey. The shrewd green eyes watched her
mercilessly, and under their unswerving regard her agitation gradually
died down.

"That's better," he said at length, and released her hand. "Now see what
you can do."

It seemed to Olga later that he took so keen an interest in the
operation as to be quite insensible of the pain it involved. She obeyed
his instructions herself with a set face and a quaking heart,
suppressing a sick shudder from time to time, finally achieving the
desired end with a face so ghastly that the victim of her efforts
laughed outright.

"Whom are you most sorry for, yourself or me?" he wanted to know. "I
say, please don't faint till you have bandaged me up! I can't attend to
you properly if you do, and I shall probably spill blood over you and
make a beastly mess."

Again his insistence carried the day. Olga bandaged the torn hand
without a murmur.

"And now," said Dr. Max Wyndham, "tell me what you did it for!"

She looked at him then with quick defiance. She had endured much in
silence, mainly because she had known that she had deserved it; but
there was a limit. She was not going to be brought to book as though she
had been a naughty child.

"You had yourself alone to thank for it," she declared with indignation.
"If--if you hadn't interfered and behaved intolerably, it wouldn't have
happened."

"What a naïve way of expressing it!" said Max. "Shall I tell you how I
regard the 'happening'?"

"You can do as you like," she flung back. She was longing to go, but
stood her ground lest departure should look like flight.

Max took out and lighted another cigarette before he spoke again. Then:
"I regard it," he said very deliberately, "as a piece of spiteful
mischief for which you deserve a sound whipping--which it would give me
immense pleasure to administer."

Olga's pale face flamed scarlet. Her eyes flashed up to his in fiery
disdain.

"You!" she said, with withering scorn. "You!"

"Well, what about me?"

Carelessly, his hands in his pockets, Max put the question. Quite
obviously he did not care in the smallest degree what answer she made.
And so Olga, being stung to rage by his unbearable superiority, cast
scruples to the wind.

"I'd do the same to you again--and worse," she declared vindictively,
"if I got the chance!"

Max smiled at that superciliously, one corner of his mouth slightly
higher than the other. "Oh, no, you wouldn't," he said. "For one thing,
you wouldn't care to run the risk of having to sew me up again. And for
another, you wouldn't dare!"

"Not dare! Do you think I am afraid of you?"

Olga stood in a streak of sunlight that slanted through the wire blind
of the doctor's surgery and fell in chequers upon her white dress. Her
pale eyes fairly blazed. No one who had ever seen her thus would have
described her as colourless. She was as vivid in that moment as the
flare of the sunset; and into the eyes of the man who leaned against the
table coolly appraising her there came an odd little gleam of
satisfaction--the gleam that comes into the eyes of the treasure-hunter
at the first glint of gold.

Olga came a step towards him. She saw the gleam and took it for
ridicule. The situation was intolerable. She would be mocked no longer.

"Dr. Wyndham," she said, her voice pitched rather low, "do you call
yourself a gentleman?"

"I really don't know," he answered. "It's a question I've never asked
myself."

"Because," she said, speaking rather quickly, "I think you a cad."

"Not really!" said Max, smiling openly. "Now I wonder why! Sit down,
won't you, and tell me?"

The colour was fading from her face again. She had made a mistake in
thus assailing him, and already she knew it. He only laughed at her puny
efforts to hurt him, laughed and goaded her afresh.

"Why am I not a gentleman?" he asked, and drew in a mouthful of smoke
which he puffed at the ceiling. "Because I said I should like to give
you a whipping? But you would like to tar and feather me, I gather.
Isn't that even more barbarous?" He watched the smoke ascend, with eyes
screwed up, then, as she did not speak, looked down at her again.

She no longer stood in the sunlight, and the passing of the splendour
seemed to have left her cold. She looked rather small and pinched--there
was even a hint of forlornness about her. But she had learned her
lesson.

As he looked at her, she clenched her hands, drew a deep breath, and
spoke. "Dr. Wyndham, I beg your pardon for hurting you, and for being
rude to you. I can't help my thoughts, of course, but I was wrong to put
them into words. Please forget--all I've said!"

"Oh, I say!" said Max, opening his eyes, "that's the cruellest thing
you've done yet. You've taken all the wind out of my sails, and left me
stranded. What is one expected to say to an apology of that sort? It's
outside my experience entirely."

Olga had turned to the door, but at his words she paused, looking back.
A glimmer of resentment still shone in her eyes.

"If I were in your place," she said, "I should apologize too."

"Oh, no, you wouldn't," said Max. "Not if you wished to achieve the
desired effect. You see, I've nothing to apologize for."

"How like a man!" exclaimed Olga.

"Yes, isn't it? Thanks for the compliment! Strange to say, I am much
more like a man than anything else under the sun. I say, are you really
going? Well, I forgive you for being naughty, if that's what you want.
And I'm sorry I can't grovel to you, but I don't feel justified in so
doing, and it would be very bad for you in any case. By the
way--er--Miss Ratcliffe, I think you will be interested to learn that my
visit to the Campions was of a social and not of a professional
character. That was all you wanted to know, I think?"

Olga, holding the door open, looked across at him with surprise that
turned almost instantly to half-scornful enlightenment.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" she said.

"That's it," said Max. "Quite sure you don't want to know anything
else?"

Again he puffed the smoke upwards and watched it ascend.

"Why on earth couldn't you have said so before?" said Olga.

He turned at that and surveyed her quite seriously. "Oh, that was
entirely for your sake," he said.

"For my sake!" said Olga. Sheer curiosity impelled her to remain and
probe this mystery.

"Yes," said Max, with a sudden twinkle in his green eyes. "You know, it
isn't good for little girls to know too much."

As the door banged upon her retreat, he leaned back, holding to the edge
of the table, and laughed with his chin in the air.

Life in the country, notwithstanding its many drawbacks, was turning out
to be more diverting than he had anticipated.




CHAPTER II

THE ALLY


"Ah, my dear, there you are! I was just wondering if I would come over
and see you."

Violet Campion reined in her horse with a suddenness that made him chafe
indignantly, and leaned from the saddle to greet Olga, who had just
turned in at the Priory gates.

Olga was bicycling. She sprang from her machine, and reached up an
impetuous hand, as regardless of the trampling animal as its rider.

"Pluto is in a tiresome mood to-day," remarked his mistress. "I know he
won't be satisfied till he has had a good beating. Perhaps you will go
on up to the house while I give him a lesson."

"Oh, don't beat him!" Olga pleaded. "He's only fresh."

"No, he isn't. He's vicious. He snapped at me before I mounted. It's no
good postponing it. He'll have to have it." Violet spoke as if she were
discussing the mechanism of a machine. "You go on up the drive, my dear,
while I take him across the turf."

But Olga lingered. "Violet, really--I know he will throw you or bolt
with you. I wish you wouldn't."

Violet's laugh had a ring of scorn. "My dear child, if I were afraid of
that, I had better give up riding him altogether."

"I wish you would," said Olga. "He is much too strong for a woman to
manage."

Violet laughed again, this time with sheer amusement, and then, with
dark eyes that flashed in the sunlight, she slashed the animal's flank
with her riding-whip. He uttered a snort that was like an exclamation of
rage, and leaped clean off the ground. Striking it again, he reared, but
received a stinging cut over the ears that brought him down. Then
furiously he kicked and plunged, catching the whip all over his glossy
body, till with a furious squeal he flung himself forward and galloped
headlong away.

Olga stood on the drive and watched with lips slightly compressed. She
knew that as an exhibition of skilled horsemanship the spectacle she had
just witnessed was faultless; but it gave her no pleasure, and there was
no admiration in the eyes that followed the distant galloping figure
with the merciless whip that continued active as long as she could see
it.

As horse and rider passed from sight beyond a clump of trees, she
remounted her bicycle, and rode slowly towards the house.

Old and grey and weather-stained, the walls of Brethaven Priory shone in
the hot sunlight. It had been built in Norman days a full mile and a
half inland; but more than the mile had disappeared in the course of the
crumbling centuries, and only a stretch of gleaming hillside now
intervened between it and the sea. The wash and roar of the Channel and
the crying of gulls swept over the grass-clad space as though already
claim had been laid to the old grey building that had weathered so many
gales. Undoubtedly the place was doomed. There was something eerily
tragic about it even on that shining August afternoon, a shadow
indefinable of which Olga had been conscious even in her childish days.

She looked over her shoulder several times as she rode in the direction
in which her friend had disappeared, but she saw no sign of her.
Finally, reaching the house, she went round to a shed at the back, in
which she was accustomed to lodge her bicycle.

Here she was joined by an immense Irish wolf-hound, who came from the
region of the stables to greet her.

She stopped to fondle him. She and Cork were old friends. As she finally
returned to the carriage-drive in front of the house, he accompanied
her.

The front door stood open, and she went in through its Gothic archway,
glad to escape from the glare outside. The great hall she thus entered
had been the chapel in the days of the monks, and it had the clammy
atmosphere of a vault. Passing in from the brilliant sunshine, Olga felt
actually cold.

It was dark also, the only light, besides that from the open door,
proceeding from a stained-glass window at the farther end--a gruesome
window representing in vivid colours the death of St. John the Baptist.

A carved oak chest, long and low, stood just within, and upon this the
girl seated herself, with the great dog close beside her. Her ten-mile
bicycle ride in the heat had tired her.

There was no sound in the house save the ticking of an invisible clock.
It might have been a place bewitched, so intense and so uncanny was the
silence, broken only by that grim ticking that sounded somehow as if it
had gone on exactly the same for untold ages.

"What a ghostly old place it is, Cork!" Olga remarked to her companion.
"And you actually spend the night here! I can't think how you dare."

In response to which Cork smiled with a touch of superiority and gave
her to understand that he was too sensible to be afraid of shadows.

They were still sitting there conversing, with their faces to the
sunlit garden, when there came the sound of a careless footfall and
Violet Campion, her riding-whip dangling from her wrist, strolled round
the corner of the house, and in at the open door.

She was laughing as she came, evidently at some joke that clung to her
memory.

"Look at me!" she said. "I'm all foam. But I've conquered his majesty
King Devil for once. He's come back positively abject. My dear, do get
up! You're sitting on my coffin!"

Olga got up quickly. "Violet, what extraordinary things you think of!"

The other girl laughed again, and stooping raised the oaken lid. "It's
not in the least extraordinary. Look inside, and picture to yourself how
comfy I shall be! You can come and see me if you like, and spread
flowers--red ones, mind. I like plenty of colour."

She dropped the lid again carelessly, and took a gold cigarette-case
from her pocket. The sunlight shone generously upon her at that moment,
and Olga Ratcliffe told herself for the hundredth time that this friend
of hers was the loveliest girl she had ever seen. Certainly her beauty
was superb, of the Spanish-Irish type that is world-famous,--black hair
that clustered in soft ringlets about the forehead, black brows very
straight and delicate, skin of olive and rose, features so exquisite as
to make one marvel, long-lashed eyes that were neither black nor grey,
but truest, deepest violet.

"Don't look at me like that!" she said, with gay imperiousness. "You
pale-eyed folk have a horrible knack of making one feel as if one is
under a microscope. Your worthy uncle is just the same. If I weren't so
deeply in love with him, I might resent it. But Nick is a privileged
person, isn't he, wherever he goes? Didn't someone once say of him that
he rushes in where angels fear to tread? It's rather an apt
description. How is he, by the way? And why didn't you bring him too?"

She stood on the step, with the sunlight pouring over her, and daintily
smoked her cigarette. Olga came and stood beside her. They formed a
wonderful contrast--a contrast that might have seemed cruel but for the
keen intelligence that gave such vitality to the face of the doctor's
daughter.

"Oh, Nick is playing cricket with the boys," she said. "He is
wonderfully good, you know, and takes immense care of us all."

"A positive paragon, my dear! Don't I know it? A pity he saw fit to
throw himself away upon that very lethargic young woman! I should have
made him a much more suitable wife--if he had only had the sense to wait
a few years instead of snatching the first dark-eyed damsel who came his
way!"

"Oh, really, Violet! And fancy calling Muriel lethargic! She is one of
the deepest people I know, and absolutely devoted to Nick--and he to
her."

"Doubtless! doubtless!" Violet flicked the ash delicately from her
cigarette. "I am sure he is the soul of virtue. But how comes it that
the devoted Muriel can tear herself from his side to go a-larking on the
Continent with the grim and masterful Dr. Jim?"

"Oh, I thought you knew that. It is for the child's benefit. Poor little
Reggie has a delicate chest, and Redlands doesn't altogether suit him.
Dad positively ordered him abroad, and when Muriel demurred about taking
him out of Dad's reach (she has such faith in him, you know), he
arranged to go too if Nick would leave Redlands and come and help me
keep house. You see, Dad couldn't very well leave me to look after Dr.
Wyndham singlehanded."

"My dear, of course not!" Up went the violet eyes in horror at the bare
suggestion. "You scandalize me. An innocent child like you! Not to be
thought of for a moment! Rather than that, I would have come and shared
the burden with you myself!"

"That's exactly what I have come to ask you to do," said Olga eagerly.
"Do say you can! You can't think how welcome you will be!"

"My dear, you're so impetuous!" Violet was just a year her junior, but
this fact was never recognized. "Pray give me time to deliberate. You
forget that I also have a family to consider. What will Bruce say if I
desert him at a moment's notice?"

"I'm sure Bruce won't mind. Can't we go and ask him?"

"Presently, my child. He is not at home just at present. Neither is Mrs.
Bruce." The daintiest grimace in the world testified to the opinion
entertained by the speaker for the latter. "Moreover, Bruce and I had a
difference of opinion this morning and are not upon speaking terms. So
unfortunate that he is so _difficile_. By the way, he is hand and glove
with the new assistant. Were you aware of that?"

"I knew that he came to tea here yesterday," said Olga.

"Oh! And how did you find that out?"

"He told me."

"You mean you asked him!"

"Indeed, I didn't!" Olga refuted the charge with indignation. "I don't
take the smallest interest in his doings."

"Not really?" Her friend looked at her with a comprehending smile.
"Don't you like the young man?" she enquired.

"I detest him!" Olga declared with vehemence.

Again the slender little finger flicked the ash from the cigarette. "But
what a mistake, dear!" murmured the owner thereof. "Young men don't grow
on every gooseberry bush. Besides, one can never tell! The object of
one's detestation might turn out to be the one and only, and it's so
humiliating to have to change one's mind."

"I shall never change mine with regard to Dr. Wyndham," Olga said with
great determination. "I should hate him quite as badly even if he were
the only man in the world."

But at that the cigarette was suddenly whisked from the soft lips and
pointed full at her. "Allegro,"--it was Violet Campion's special name
for her, and she uttered it weightily,--"mark my words and ponder them
well! You have met your fate!"

"Violet! How dare you say such a thing?" Olga turned crimson with
indignant protest. "I haven't! I wouldn't! It's horrid of you to talk
like that!"

"Quite indecent, dear, I admit. But have you never noticed how indecent
the truth can be? What a pity to waste such a lovely blush on me! I
presume he hasn't begun to make love to you yet?"

"Of course he hasn't! No man would be such a fool with you within
reach!" thrust back Olga, goaded to self-defence.

"But I am not within reach," said Violet, with a twirl of the cigarette.

"Far more so than I," returned Olga with spirit. "Anyhow, he never went
out of his way to have tea with me."

A peal of laughter from her companion put a swift end to her
indignation. Violet was absolutely irresistible when she laughed. It was
utterly impossible to be indignant with her.

"Then you think if I am there perhaps he will be persuaded to stay at
home to tea?" she chuckled mischievously. "Well, my dear, I'll come, and
we will play at battledore and shuttlecock to your heart's content. But
if the young man turns and rends us for our pains--and I have a shrewd
notion that that's the sort of young man he is--you mustn't blame me."

She tossed away her cigarette with the words, and turned inwards,
sweeping Olga with her with characteristic energy. She was never still
for long in this mood.

They passed through the great hall to a Gothic archway in the south
wall, close to the wonderful stained window. Olga glanced up at it with
a slight shiver as she passed below.

"Isn't it horribly realistic?" she said.

The girl beside her laughed lightly. "I rather like it myself; but then
I have an appetite for the horrors. And they've made the poor man so
revoltingly sanctimonious that one really can't feel sorry for him. I'd
cut off the head of anybody with a face like that. It's a species that
still exists, but ought to have been exterminated long ago."

With her hand upon Olga's arm, she led her through the Gothic archway to
a second smaller hall, and on up a wide oak staircase with a carved
balustrade that was lighted half-way up by another great window of
monastic design but clear glass.

Olga always liked to pause by this window, for the view from it was
magnificent. Straight out to the open sea it looked, and the width of
the outlook was superb.

"Oh, it's better than Redlands," she said.

"I don't think so," returned Violet. "Redlands is civilized. This isn't.
Picture to yourself the cruelty of bottling up a herd of monks here in
full view of their renounced liberty. Imagine being condemned to pass
this window a dozen times in the day, on the way to that dreary chapel
of theirs. A refinement of torture with which the window downstairs
simply can't compete. How they must have hated the smell of the sea,
poor dears! But I daresay they didn't open their windows very often. It
wasn't the fashion in those days."

She drew Olga on to the corridor above, and so to her own room, a
cheerful apartment that faced the Priory grounds.

"If I am really coming to stay with you, I suppose I must pack some
clothes. Does the young man dress for dinner, by the way?"

"Oh, yes. It's very ridiculous. We all do it now. It's such a waste of
time," said the practical Olga. "And I never have anything to wear."

"Poor child! That is a drawback certainly. I wonder if you could wear
any of my things. I shouldn't like to eclipse you."

"I'm sure I couldn't, thank you all the same." Olga's reply was very
prompt. "As to eclipsing me, you'll do that in any case, whatever you
wear."

Violet looked at her with dancing eyes. "I believe you actually want to
be eclipsed! What on earth has the young man been doing? He seems to
have scared you very effectually."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of him!" Olga spoke with her chin in the air. "But I
detest him with all my heart, and he detests me."

"In fact, you are at daggers drawn," commented Violet. "And you want me
to come and divert the enemy's attention while you strengthen your
defences. Well, my dear, as I said before, I'll come. But--from what I
have seen of Dr. Maxwell Wyndham--I don't think I shall make much
impression. If he means to gobble you up, he certainly will do so,
whether I interfere or not. I've a notion you might do worse, green eyes
and red hair notwithstanding. He will probably whip you soundly now and
then and put you in the corner till you are good. But you will get to
like that in time. And I daresay he will be kind enough to let you lace
up his boots for a treat in between whiles."

Olga's pale eyes flashed. "You are positively mad this afternoon,
Violet!"

"Oh, no, I'm not. I haven't had a mad spell for a long time. I am only
extraordinarily shrewd and far-seeing. Well, dear, what shall I bring to
wear? Do you think I shall be appreciated in my red silk? Or will that
offend the eye of the virtuous Nick?"

"No, you are not to wear that red thing. Wear white. I like you best in
white."

"And black?"

"Yes, black too. But not colours. You are too beautiful for colours."

"Ridiculous child! That red thing, as you call it, suits me to
perfection."

"I know it does. But I don't like it. You make me think of Lady Macbeth
in that. Besides, it's much too splendid for ordinary occasions. Yes,
that pale mauve is exquisite. You will look lovely in that. And this
maize suits you too. But you look positively dangerous in red."

"I must leave the business of selection to you, it seems," laughed
Violet. "Well, I am to be your guest, so you shall make your own choice.
By the way, how shall I get to Weir? Mrs. Bruce has the car, and will
probably not return till late. And Bruce is using the dog-cart. That
only leaves the luggage-cart for me."

"I'll fly round to Redlands for the motor. Nick won't mind. You get your
things packed while I'm gone."

Olga deposited an armful of her friend's belongings upon the bed, and
turned to go.

Nick's property of Redlands was less than a mile away, and all that Nick
possessed was at her disposal. In fact, she had almost come to look upon
Redlands as a second home. It would not take her long to run across to
the garage and fetch the little motor which Nick himself had taught her
years ago to drive. Lightly she ran down the oak stairs and through the
echoing hall once more. The vault-like chill of the place struck her
afresh as she passed to the open door. And again involuntarily she
shivered, quickening her steps, eager to leave the clammy atmosphere
behind.

Passing into the hot sunshine beyond the great nail-studded door was
like entering another world. She turned her face up to the brightness
and rejoiced.




CHAPTER III

THE OBSTACLE


Redlands had always been a bower of delight to Olga's vivid fancy. The
house, long, low, and rambling, stood well back from the cliffs in the
midst of a garden which to her childhood's mind had always been the
earthly presentment of Paradise. Not the owner of it himself loved it as
did Olga. Many were the hours she had spent there, and not one of them
but held a treasured place in her memory.

As she turned in at the iron gate, the music of the stream that ran
through the glen rose refreshingly through the August stillness. She
wished Nick were with her to enjoy it too.

The temptation to run down to the edge of the water was irresistible. It
babbled with such delicious coolness between its ferns. The mossy
pathway gleamed emerald green. Surely there was no need for haste! She
could afford to give herself five minutes in her paradise. Violet
certainly would not be ready yet.

She sat down therefore on the edge of the stream, and gave herself up to
the full enjoyment of her surroundings. An immense green dragon-fly
whirred past her and shot away into the shadows. She watched its flight
with fascinated eyes, so sudden was it, so swift, and so unerringly
direct. It reminded her of something, she could not remember what. She
wrestled with her memory vainly, and finally dismissed the matter with
slight annoyance, turning her attention to a wonderful coloured moth
that here flitted across her line of vision. It was an exquisite thing,
small, but red as coral. Only in this fairyland of Nick's had she ever
seen its like. Lightly it fluttered through the chequered light and
shade above the water, shining like a jewel above the shallows, the
loveliest thing in sight. And then, even under her watching eyes came
tragedy. Swift as an arrow, the green dragon-fly darted back again, and
in an instant flashed away. In that instant the coral butterfly vanished
also.

Olga exclaimed in incredulous horror. The happening had been too quick
for her eyes to follow, but her comprehension leaped to the truth. And
in that moment she realized what it was of which the dragon-fly reminded
her. It was of Max Wyndham sitting on the surgery-table watching her
with that mocking gleam in his green eyes, as though he knew her to be
at his mercy whether she stayed or fled.

It was unreasonable of course, but that fairy tragedy in the glen
increased her dislike of the man a hundredfold. She felt as if he had
darted into her life, armed in some fashion with the power to destroy.
And she longed almost passionately to turn him out; for no disturbing
force had ever entered there before. But she knew that she could not.

She went on up to the house in sober mood. It had been left to the care
of the servants since Nick's departure. She found a French window
standing open, and entered. It was the drawing-room, all swathed in
brown holland. Its dim coolness was very different from the stony chill
of the Priory. She looked around her with a restful feeling of being at
home, despite the brown coverings. Many were the happy hours she had
spent here both before and after Nick's marriage. It had always been her
palace of delight.

As she paused in the room, she remembered that there was a book Nick
had said he wanted out of the library. This room was a somewhat recent
addition to the house and shut away from the rest of the building by a
long passage. She passed from the drawing-room, and made her way
thither.

It surprised her a little to find the door standing open, but it was
only a passing wonder. The light that came in through green sun-blinds
made her liken it in her own mind to a chamber under the sea. She went
to a book-shelf in a dark corner, and commenced her hunt.

"If you are looking for Farrow's _Treatise on Party Government_,"
remarked a casual voice behind her, "I've got it here."

Olga started violently. Any voice would have given her a surprise at
that moment, but the voice of Max Wyndham was an absolute shock that set
every nerve on edge.

He laughed at her from the sofa, on which he sprawled at length. "My
good child, your nerves are like fiddle-strings after a frost. Remind me
to make you up a tonic when we get back! Did you bicycle over?"

Olga ignored the question. She was for the moment too angry to speak.

"Sit down," he said. "You ought to know better than to scorch on a day
like this. You deserve a sunstroke."

"I didn't scorch," declared Olga, stung by this injustice. "I'm not such
an idiot. You seem to think I haven't any sense at all!"

"My thoughts are my own," said Max. "Why didn't you say you were coming?
You could have motored over with me."

"I didn't so much as know you would be in this direction. How could I?"
said Olga. "And even if I had known--" she, paused.

"You would have preferred sunstroke?" he suggested.

"That I can quite believe. Well, here is the book!" He swung his legs
off the sofa. "I dropped in to fetch it myself, as your good uncle
seemed to want it, and then became so absorbed in its pages that I
couldn't put it down. We seem to have a rotten Constitution altogether.
Wonder whose fault it is."

Olga took the book with a slight, contemptuous glance. That he had been
interested in the subject for a single moment she did not believe. She
wondered that he deemed it worth his while to feign interest.

"Are you taking a holiday to-day?" she enquired bluntly.

He smiled at that. "I cut off an old man's toe at the cottage hospital
this morning, vaccinated four babies, pulled out a tooth, and dressed a
scald. What more would you have? I suppose you don't want to be
vaccinated by any chance?"

Olga passed the flippant question over. "It's a half-holiday then, is
it?" she said.

"Well, as it happens, fair lady, it is, all thanks to Dame Stubbs of
'The Ship Inn' who summoned me hither with great urgency and then was
ungrateful enough to die before I reached her."

"Oh!" exclaimed Olga. "Is old Mrs. Stubbs dead?"

"She is," said Max.

She turned upon him. "And you've just come--from her death-bed?"

He arose and stretched himself. "Even so, fair lady."

Olga stared at him incredulously. "You actually--don't care?" she asked
slowly.

"Not much good caring," said Max.

"What did she die of?" questioned Olga.

He hesitated for a second. Then, "cancer," he said briefly.

"Did she suffer much?" She asked the question nervously as if she feared
the answer.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" said Max, thrusting his hands into his
pockets.

"I don't see why you shouldn't tell me that." Olga spoke with a flash of
indignation. "It does matter in my opinion."

"Nothing that's past matters," said Max.

"I don't agree with you!" Hotly she made answer, inexplicably hurt by
his callous tone. "It matters a lot to me. She was a friend of mine. If
I had known she was seriously ill, I'd have gone to see her. You--I
think you might have told me."

She turned with the words as if to go, but Max coolly stepped to the
door before her. He stretched a hand as if to open it, but paused,
holding it closed.

"I was not aware that the old woman was a friend of yours," he said.
"But it wouldn't have done much good to anyone if you had seen her. She
probably wouldn't have known you."

"I might have taken her things at least," said Olga.

"Which she wouldn't have touched," he rejoined.

She clenched her hands unconsciously. Why was he so maddeningly
cold-blooded?

"Do you mind opening the door?" she said.

But he remained motionless, his hand upon it. "Do you mind telling me
where you are going?" he said.

Her eyes blazed. "Really, Dr. Wyndham, what is that to you?"

He stood up squarely and faced her, his back against the door. "I will
answer your question when you have answered mine."

She restrained herself with an effort. How she hated the man! Conflict
with him made her feel physically sick; and yet she had no choice.

"I am going down to 'The Ship' at once," she said, "to see her
daughter."

"Pardon me!" said Max. "I thought that was your intention. I am sorry
to have to frustrate it, but I must. I assure you Mrs. Briggs will have
plenty of other visitors to keep her amused."

"I am going nevertheless," said Olga.

She saw his jaw coming into sudden prominence, and her heart gave a hard
quick throb of misgiving. They stood face to face in the dimness,
neither uttering a word.

Several seconds passed. The green eyes were staring at the bookshelves
beyond Olga, but it was a stony, pitiless stare. Had he any idea as to
how formidable he looked, she wondered? Surely--surely he did not mean
to keep her against her will! He could not!

She collected herself and spoke. "Dr. Wyndham, will you let me go?"

Instantly his eyes met hers. "Certainly," he said, "if you will promise
me first not to go to 'The Ship' till after the funeral."

She felt her face gradually whitening. "But I mean to go. Why shouldn't
I?"

"Simply because it wouldn't be good for you," he made calm reply.

"How ridiculous!" They were the only words that occurred to her. She
spoke them with vehemence.

He received them in silence, and she saw that a greater effort would be
necessary if she hoped to assert her independence with any success.

It was essential that she should do so, and she braced herself for a
more determined attempt. "Dr. Wyndham," she said, throwing as much
command into her voice as she could muster, "open that door--at once!"

She saw again that glint in his eyes that seemed to mock her weakness.
He stood his ground. "Fair lady," he said, "with regret I refuse."

She made a sharp movement forward, nerved for the fray by sheer
all-possessing anger. She gripped the handle of the door above his hand
and gave it a sharp wrench. He would not--surely he would not--struggle
with her! Surely she must discomfit him--rout him utterly--by this
means!

Yes, she had won! The sheer unexpectedness of her action had gained the
day! Her heart gave a great leap of triumph as he took his hand away.
But the next instant it stood still. For in the twinkling of an eye he
had taken her by the shoulders holding her fast.

"That is the most foolish thing you ever did in your life," he said, and
his words came curt and clipped as though he spoke them through his
teeth.

Something about him restrained her from offering any resistance. She
stood in silence, her heart jerking on again with wild palpitations. The
grip of his hands was horribly close; she almost thought he was going to
shake her. But his eyes under their bristling brows held her even more
securely. Under their look she was suddenly hotly ashamed.

"You are going to make me that promise," he said.

But she stood silent, trying to muster strength to defy him.

"What do you want to go for?" he demanded.

"I want to know--I want to know--" She stammered over her answer; it was
uttered against her will.

"Well? What?" Still holding her, he put the question. "I can tell you
anything you want to know."

"But you won't!" Olga plucked up her spirit at this. "It's no good
asking you anything. You never answer."

"I will answer you," he said.

"And besides--" said Olga.

"Yes?" said Max.

"You're so horrid," she burst out, "so cold-blooded, so--so--so
unsympathetic!"

To her own amazement and dismay, she found herself in tears. In the
same instant she was free and the door left unguarded; but she did not
use her freedom to escape. Somehow she did not think of that. She only
leaned against the wall with her hands over her face and wept.

Max, with his hands deep in his pockets, strolled about the room,
whistling below his breath. The gleam had died out of his eyes, but the
brows met fiercely above them. His face was the face of a man working
out a difficult problem.

Suddenly he walked up to her, and stood still.

"Look here," he said; "can't you manage to be sensible for a minute? If
you go on in this way you will soon get hysterical, and I don't think my
treatment for hysterics would appeal to you. Olga, are you listening?"

Yes, she was listening--listening tensely, because she could not help
herself.

"I'm sorry you think me a brute," he proceeded. "I don't think anyone
else does, but that's a detail. I am also sorry that you're upset about
old Mrs. Stubbs, though I don't see much sense in crying for her now her
troubles are over. I think myself that it was just as well I didn't
reach her in time. I should only have prolonged her misery. That's one
of the grand obstacles in the medical career. I've kicked against it a
good many times." He paused.

"She did suffer then?" whispered Olga, commanding herself with an
effort.

"When she wasn't under the influence of morphia--yes. That was the only
peace she knew. But of course it affected her brain. It always does, if
you keep on with it."

Olga's hands fell. She straightened herself. "Then--you think she is
better dead?" she said.

He squared his great shoulders, and she felt infinitely small. "If I
could have followed my own inclination with that old woman," he said, "I
should have given her a free pass long ago. But--I am not authorized to
distribute free passes. On the contrary, it's my business to hang on to
people to the bitter end, and not to let them through till they've paid
for their liberty to the uttermost farthing."

She glanced at him quickly. Cynical as were his words, she was aware of
a touch of genuine feeling somewhere. She made swift response to it,
almost before she realized what she was doing.

"Oh, but surely the help you give far outweighs that!" she said. "I
often think I will be a nurse when I am old enough, if Dad can spare
me."

"Good heavens, child!" he said. "Do you want to be a gaoler too?"

"No," she answered quickly. "I'll be a deliverer."

He smiled his one-sided smile. "And I wonder how long you will call
yourself that," he said.

She had no answer ready, for he seemed to utter his speculation out of
knowledge and not ignorance. It made her feel a little cold, and after a
moment she turned from the subject.

"I am going back to the Priory," she said. "Shall I take that book, or
will you?"

It was capitulation, but he gave no sign that he so much as remembered
that there had been a battle. Obviously then her defeat had been a
foregone conclusion from the outset.

"You needn't bicycle back," he said. "I've got the car here. And I'm
going to the Priory myself."

Olga's eyes opened wide at the announcement. "In--deed!" she said, with
somewhat daring significance.

"In--deed!" he responded imperturbably. "Is it a joke?"

She felt herself colouring, and considered it safer to leave the
question unanswered. "I can't go back in our car," she said. "Violet
Campion will be with me, so I have come to fetch Nick's."

"Oh--ho!" said Max keenly. "Coming to stay?"

Very curiously she resented his keenness. "I suppose you have no
objection," she said coldly.

"I am enchanted," he declared. "But why not come with me in the car? If
you take the one from here, you will only have to bring it back, for you
can't house it at Weir."

"But I should have to come back in any case to fetch my bicycle," Olga
pointed out.

"No, you needn't! Mitchel can ride that home, and you can drive the
motor. You can drive, I'm told?"

"Of course, I can. I often drive Dad." Olga spoke with pride.

"Do you really? Why did you never tell me that before? Afraid I should
want you instead of Mitchel?" He looked at her quizzically.

"It wouldn't make much difference if you did," said Olga. It was really
quite useless to attempt to be polite to him if he would come so
persistently within snubbing distance. Besides, she really did not owe
him any courtesy, after the way he had dared to treat her.

But he only laughed at her, and turned to the door. "I shouldn't be so
cocksure of that if I were you," he said, opening it with a flourish. "I
have a wonderful knack of getting what I want."

She flung him the gauntlet of her contemptuous defiance as she passed
him. "Really?" she said.

He took it up instantly, with disconcerting assurance. "Yes, really," he
said.

And to Olga all unbidden there came a sudden little tremor of shuddering
remembrance as there flashed across her inner vision the spectacle of a
green dragon-fly swooping upon a poor little fluttering scarlet moth.




CHAPTER IV

THE SETTING OF THE WATCH


To return to the Priory with her _bête-noir_ seated in triumph beside
her was a trick of fortune that Olga had been very far from
anticipating. There was no help for it, however, for he was determined
to go thither, notwithstanding her assurance that the master of the
house was from home. He leaned back at his ease and watched her drive
with frank criticism.

"I had no idea you were so accomplished," he remarked, as they skimmed
up the long Priory drive. "I should have thought you were much too
nervous to drive a car."

Olga was never nervous except in his presence, but she would have rather
died than have had him know it.

"Nick taught me," she said, "years ago, when he first lost his arm. It's
about the only thing he can't do himself."

"I've noticed that he's fairly agile," commented Max. "What did he have
his arm cut off for? Couldn't he make himself conspicuous enough in any
other way?"

Olga's cheeks flamed. "He was wounded in action," she said shortly.

Max cocked one corner of his mouth. "And so entered Parliament in a
blaze of glory," he said. "Vote for the Brave! Vote for the Veteran!
Vote for the One-Armed Hero! Never mind his politics! That empty sleeve
must have been absolutely invaluable to him in his electioneering days."

But joking on this subject was more than Olga could bear. The sight of
the empty sleeve was enough to bring tears to her eyes at times even
now. To hear it thus lightly spoken of was intolerable.

"How dare you say such a thing!" she exclaimed. "As if
Nick--Nick!--would ever stoop to take advantage of a thing like that.
Nick, who might have won the V.C., only--" She broke off with vehement
self-repression. "I'm an idiot to argue with you!" she said.

"Don't be too hard on yourself!" said Max kindly. "Your imbecility takes
quite an attractive form, I assure you. So our gallant hero occupies the
shrine of your young affections, does he? It must be rather cramping for
him. Is he never allowed to come out and stretch himself?"

Olga said no word in answer. Her lips were firmly closed.

"Poor chap!" said Max. "He must find it a tight squeeze, notwithstanding
his size. If you don't slow up pretty soon, fair lady, you will knock
the Priory into a heap of ruins."

"I know what I'm about," breathed Olga.

He caught the remark and threw it back with his customary readiness. "Do
you really? I humbly beg to question that statement. If you did know,
you would proceed with caution."

Olga applied her brake and brought the car adroitly to a standstill in
front of the house before replying. Then she flung him a challenging
glance.

"Yes," he said with deliberation. "I don't question your cleverness,
fair lady;--only your wisdom. You are too prone to let your feelings run
away with you, and that is the most infectious disorder that I know."

She laughed, avoiding his eyes, and hotly aware of a certain
embarrassment that made reply impossible. "Perhaps, when you have quite
finished your lecture, you will get out," she said, "and let me do the
same. It's hot sitting here."

"Evidently," said Max.

He turned and descended, held up a hand to her, then, as she ignored it,
stooped to guard her dress from the wheel. She whisked it swiftly from
his touch, and ran in through the open door, encountering the master of
the house just coming out with a suddenness that involved a collision.

He held her up with a sharp, "Hullo, hullo! Why don't you look where you
are going?"

And Olga, crimson and breathless, extricated herself with more of speed
than dignity. "I'm so sorry, Colonel Campion. The sun is so blazing, I
didn't see you. I've come to fetch Violet. She has promised to spend a
few days with me while Dad is away."

Colonel Campion's thin, bronzed face was grim, but he raised no
objection to the projected visit. He turned at once to Max.

"Hullo, Wyndham! You, is it? Come in and have a drink."

And Olga, feeling herself dismissed, hastened away to find her friend.
She stood somewhat in awe of Colonel Campion, despite the fact that his
young half-sister defied him continually with impunity. There was
something fateful and forbidding about him. He made her think of a man
labouring perpetually under a burden which he resented, but was
compelled to bear. She wondered what he and Max Wyndham could have in
common as she paused at the sea-window on the stairs to cool her cheeks.
He had certainly been pleased in his gloomy fashion to see Max, though
he had not troubled to give her a welcome.

She found that Violet had not proceeded much further with her packing
than when she had left her more than an hour before. She was in fact
lying at careless ease half-dressed upon the bed, deeply immersed in a
book with a lurid paper cover. She scarcely raised her eyes at Olga's
entrance.

"Back already. My dear, you are like quicksilver. Well have I named you
Allegro! It suits you to perfection. Sit down--anywhere! I really can't
attend to you for a few minutes. This is the beastliest thing I've ever
read. You shall have it when I've finished. It's all about the Turkish
massacres in Armenia--revolting--absolutely revolting--" Her voice
trailed off into a semi-conscious murmur and ceased. The beautiful eyes,
dilated with horror, devoured the open page.

Olga contemplated her for a moment, then went to the bedside. "Violet,
do put down that hateful book! How can you read such disgusting things?
Violet!" as her remonstrance elicited no response, "do get up and let us
pack your things! Dr. Wyndham is downstairs."

"What?" Violet looked at her this time, but with a mazed expression as
of one half-asleep. "Who? The great Objectionable himself? How did you
inveigle him here? By nothing short of witchcraft, I will swear. Those
pale eyes of yours are rather witch-like, do you know? Did you fly over
on a broomstick to fetch him? And why?"

Olga possessed herself of the book, and shut it with decision. "I came
upon him at Redlands, and as he has got the car with him, we may as well
go back in it. He said he was coming here in any case."

"Really, dear? I wonder why." Violet made a futile effort to recapture
her book. "You might let me have it. I must know what became of those
unlucky girls when the convent was taken. They mutilated most of the
nuns with their scimitars. But the pupils--Allegro, let me have it,
dear! I shan't sleep a wink to-night till I know the worst."

"You won't sleep if you do," said Olga magisterially.

"You shan't read any more. It's a disgusting, filthy book and you
shan't have it. Get up and dress, and don't be horrid!"

"Horrid!" Violet broke into a gay laugh and the strained look passed in
a moment from her eyes. "I was all that was beautiful a little while
ago. You're quite right though. It is a foul book, and the man who wrote
it is a downright beast. Take it away, and never let me see it again!"

She sprang from the bed, and began to do up her hair rapidly before the
glass. Olga laid down the book, and busied herself with folding the
various articles of raiment that littered the room.

"I think we ought to be quick," she said.

"To be sure! We mustn't keep his Objectionable Majesty waiting. Why
didn't you bring him up with you? It would have kept him amused."

"Violet! As if I could!"

"Oh, couldn't you? I thought doctors were allowed anywhere. And I am
sure this young man of yours is not lightly shocked. What was he doing
at Redlands?"

Olga hesitated momentarily. "He had been sent for to 'The Ship,' to
attend old Mrs. Stubbs," she said then. "But he didn't get there in
time."

"Oh! Is she dead? I should think he is pretty savage with her, isn't
he?"

"Why should you think so?" Olga glanced round in surprise.

"He's the sort of person to resent anyone dying without his express
permission, I should imagine. I know I should never dare to die with him
looking on;" Lightly the gay voice made answer. The speaker turned from
the glass, her vivid face aglow with merriment. "Really, Olga, if you're
quite determined to do my packing, I think I will run down and entertain
him."

"You needn't trouble to do that. He is with your brother." Olga
proceeded deftly with her task as she spoke. "We found him in the hall
as we came in."

"Bruce back already! How tiresome of him! I meant to have just left a
message, and now we shall have a wordy argument instead."

"Is Colonel Campion ever wordy?" asked Olga, trying to imagine this
phenomenon.

"No, I supply the words and he the argument generally. You might just
hook me down the back, dear; do you mind? What do you think his latest
craze is? Mrs. Bruce is run down, so nothing will serve but we must all
go for a yachting cruise in the Atlantic. I have told him flatly that I
will not be one of the party. I detest being on the sea, and as to being
boxed up in a yacht with those two--my dear, it would be unspeakable! I
should simply leap overboard, I know I should, and I told him so. He has
sulked ever since."

"Ah well, you are coming to us," said Olga consolingly. "So he can go
without you now with a clear conscience."

"So he can. Mrs. Bruce will be enchanted. She hates me, though she
pretends not to and thinks I don't know. Isn't it funny of her? Allegro,
you're a darling!" Impulsively she whizzed round and kissed her friend.
"You are the one person in the world who loves me, and the only one I
love!"

"Violet dearest, how can you say so?"

"The truth, dear, I assure you. I fell in love last winter when we were
at Nice with a boy with the most romantic, heavenly eyes you ever
saw--an Italian. And then he went and spoilt everything by falling in
love with me. I hated him then. He became cheap and very nasty. He only
liked my outer covering too, and was not in the least interested in the
creature that lived inside."

"You apparently only cared for his eyes," observed Olga.

"Yes, exactly, dear. How clever you are! I should like to have brought
them away with me as trophies. But he didn't love me enough for that,
and nothing else would have satisfied me. Have you put that hateful,
revolting book quite out of reach? I think you had better. If I get it
again, you won't take it away so easily a second time."

"I can't think what makes you like such beastly things," said Olga,
sitting down upon it firmly.

"Nor I, dear. It's just the way I'm made. I don't like them either. I
hate them. That's where the fascination comes in. There! Let me put on
my hat, and I am ready. I suppose I must veil myself? We mustn't dazzle
the impressionable Max, must we? He must accustom his sight to me
gradually. Never mind the rest of those things, Allegro! Françoise can
finish, and send them on by the luggage-cart in the evening. Come along,
let us face the dragon and get it over."

She linked her arm in Olga's once more, and drew her to the door. Olga
carried the book with her for safety, determined that her friend should
feast no more on horrors.

"What a little tyrant you are!" laughed Violet. "I am coming to protect
you from the dragon, but I shall probably end by protecting the dragon
from you. Do you keep a censorious eye upon the literature he reads
also?"

"I leave him quite alone," said Olga, "unless he interferes with me."

"Ah! And then, I suppose, you scratch him heartily Poor young man! But I
should imagine he is quite capable of clipping your claws if they get in
his way. My dear, your fate will be no easy one. I should begin to treat
him kindly if I were you."

"I shall never do that," said Olga with conviction.

She was somewhat dismayed as they passed through the archway into the
hall to find Max and his host still there; but as they were at the
further end and apparently deeply engrossed in conversation, she decided
that Violet's gay remarks were scarcely likely to have made any
impression, even if they had penetrated so far.

Both men looked up at their entrance, and Max at once moved to meet
them.

"I've turned up again at risk of boring you, Miss Campion," he observed.
"I chanced to find myself in this direction, so had to yield to the
temptation of coming here."

"Oh, don't apologize!" laughed Violet, giving him two fingers. "Of
course, I know that it's Bruce you come to see. I wish you would
prescribe him a temper tonic. He needs one badly, don't you, Bruce? So
Granny Stubbs has given you the slip, has she? How impertinent of her!
Aren't you very angry?"

Max shrugged his shoulders with a glance at Olga's tight lips. "I never
expend my emotions in vain," he said. "It's a waste of time as well as
energy, and I have other purposes for both."

"Then you are never angry?" enquired Violet.

"Never, unless I can punish the offender," smiled Max.

"How frightfully practical! Dear me! I shall have to be exceedingly
careful not to offend you. I wonder what form your punishments usually
take. Are they made to fit the crime?"

"Usually," said Max, and again he glanced at Olga.

Her eyelids flickered as though she were aware of his look, but she did
not raise them.

"You make me quite nervous," declared Violet. "Do you know I have
actually promised to come and help keep house for you and the
redoubtable Captain Ratcliffe? I'm beginning to think I've been rather
rash."

"On the contrary," said Max. "It was quite a wise move on your part, and
it shall be mine to see that you do not regret it."

Her gay laugh rang through the old hall. "Bruce is looking quite
scandalized, and I don't wonder. Will you and Adelaide be able to
support life without me, Bruce? It's a purely formal question, so you
needn't answer it if you don't wish. Oh, do let us have some tea! I'm so
thirsty. Please ring the bell, Dr. Wyndham! It's close to you. Look at
Olga cuddling that naughty book of mine! Don't you think you ought to
take it away from her? It's not fit for an innocent maiden to handle
even with gloves on."

"What book is it?" It was Colonel Campion who spoke in the harsh tone of
one issuing a command.

Olga coloured fierily. "I was taking it away with me to burn on the
garden bonfire," she said.

"Give it to me!" he said.

"No, don't, Allegro! It isn't yours to give. You may give it to Dr.
Wyndham if you like, but not to Bruce."

"I am not going to give it to anyone," Olga said rather shortly.

"Pardon!" said Max, holding out his hand. "I should like to sample Miss
Campion's taste in literature."

She drew back, but his hand remained outstretched. After a moment,
reluctantly, she surrendered the book. He took it, and began to turn the
pages.

"Nothing ever shocks a medical man," observed Violet. "He is inured to
the worst. Come along, dear! This place is like a vault. Let us get into
the sunshine and leave him to wallow till tea appears."

They went out together to Olga's immense relief, and spent the next ten
minutes in playing with the motor, in the driving of which Violet had
lately developed a keen interest.

When they returned, the book had disappeared and the incident was
apparently forgotten. They had tea to the accompaniment of much
light-hearted chatter on the parts of Violet and Max Wyndham. Colonel
Campion sat in heavy silence, and Olga instinctively held aloof. There
was something in Max's attitude that puzzled her, but it was something
so intangible that she could not even vaguely define it to herself. All
his careless banter notwithstanding, she was fully convinced in her own
mind that he was not in the smallest degree dazzled or so much as
attracted by the brilliant beauty that so dominated her own imagination.
Though he laughed and joked in his customary cynical strain, she had a
feeling that his mental energies were actually employed elsewhere. He
was like a man watching behind a mask. Watching--for what?

Suddenly she remembered again the tragedy she had witnessed in the glen
that afternoon, and her heart recoiled.

Was it the atmosphere of the place that made her morbid? Or was there
indeed some evil influence at work in her friend's life which she by her
headlong action had somehow rendered active?

Before they left the Priory, she had begun to repent almost passionately
the impulse that had taken her thither. But wherefore she thus repented
she could not have explained.




CHAPTER V

THE CHAPERON


"It's very kind of Olga to provide us with distractions," said Nick, as
he dropped into an arm-chair, with a cigar, "but I almost think we are
better off without them. If I see much of that girl, it will upset my
internal economy. Is she real by any chance?"

"Haven't you ever seen her before?" asked Max.

"Several times, but never for long together. Jove! What a face she has!"
He turned his head sharply, and looked up at Max who stood on the
hearth-rug. "You're not wildly enthusiastic over her anyhow," he
observed. "Are you really indifferent or only pretending?"

"I?" The corners of Max's mouth went down. He stuffed his pipe into one
of them and said no more.

Nick continued to regard him with interest for some seconds. Suddenly he
laughed. "Do you know, Wyndham," he said, "I should awfully like to give
you a word of advice?"

"What on?" Max did not sound particularly encouraging. He proceeded to
light his pipe with exceeding deliberation. He despised cigars.

Nick closed his eyes. "In my capacity of chaperon," he said. "It's a
beastly difficult position by the way. I'm weighed down by
responsibility."

"So I've noticed," remarked Max drily.

"Well, you haven't done much to lighten the burden," said Nick. "I
suppose you haven't realized yet that I am one of the gods that control
your destiny."

"Well, no; I hadn't." Max leaned against the mantelpiece and smoked,
with his face to the ceiling. "I knew you were a species of deity of
course. I've been told that several times. And I humbly beg to offer you
my sympathy."

"Thanks!" Nick's eyes flashed open as if at the pulling of a string. "If
it isn't an empty phrase, I value it."

"I don't deal in empty phrases as a rule," said Max.

"Quite so. Only with a definite end in view? I hold that no one should
ever do or say anything without a purpose."

"So do I," said Max.

Nick's eyes flickered over him and closed again. "Then, my dear chap,"
he said, "why in Heaven's name make yourself so damned unpleasant?"

"So what?" said Max.

"What I said." Coolly Nick made answer. "It's not an empty phrase," he
added. "You will find a meaning attached if you deign to give it the
benefit of your august consideration."

Max uttered a grim, unwilling laugh. "I suppose you are privileged to
say what you like," he said.

"I observe certain limits," said Nick.

"And you never make mistakes?"

"Oh, yes, occasionally. Not often. You see, I'm too well-meaning to go
far astray," said Nick, with becoming modesty. "You must remember that
I'm well-meaning, Wyndham. It accounts for a good many little
eccentricities. I think you were quite right to make her extract that
needle. I should have done it myself. But you are not so wise in
resenting her refusal to kiss the place and make it well. I speak from
the point of view of the chaperon, remember."

"Who told you anything about a needle?" demanded Max, suddenly turning
brick-red..

"That's my affair," said Nick.

"And mine!"

"No, pardon me, not yours!" Again his eyes took a leaping glance at his
companion.

Doggedly Max faced it. "Did she tell you?"

"Who?" said Nick.

"Olga." He flung the name with half-suppressed resentment. His attitude
in that moment was aggressively British. He looked as he had looked to
Olga that afternoon, undeniably formidable.

But Nick remained unimpressed. "I shan't answer that question," he said.

"You needn't," said Max grimly.

"That's why," said Nick.

"Oh! I see." Max's eyes searched him narrowly for a moment, then
returned to the ceiling. "Does she think I'm in love with her?" he asked
rather curtly.

"Well, scarcely. I shouldn't let her think that at present if I were
you. In my opinion any extremes are inadvisable at this stage."

"I suppose you know I am going to marry her?" said Max.

"Yes, I've divined that."

"And you approve?"

"I submit to the inevitable," said Nick with a sigh.

Max smiled, the smile of a man who faces considerable odds with complete
confidence. "She doesn't--at present."

Nick's grin of appreciation flashed across his yellow face and was gone.
"No, my friend. And you'll find her very elusive to deal with. You will
never make her like you. I suppose you know that."

"I don't want her to," said Max.

"You make that very obvious," laughed Nick. "It's a mistake. If you
keep bringing her to bay, you'll never catch her. She's always on her
guard with you now. She never breathes freely with you in the room, poor
kid."

"What is she afraid of?" growled Max.

"You know best." Nick glanced up again with sudden keenness. "Don't
harry the child, Wyndham!" he said, a half-whimsical note of pleading in
his voice. "If you know you're going to win through, you can afford to
let her have the honours of war. There's nothing softens a woman more."

"I don't mean to harry her." Max turned squarely round upon him. "But
neither have I the smallest intention of fetching and carrying for her
till she either kicks me or pats me on the head. I shouldn't appreciate
either, and it's a method I don't believe in."

"There I am with you," said Nick. "But for Heaven's sake, man, be
patient! It's no joke, I assure you, if the one woman takes it into her
head that you are nothing short of a devouring monster. She will fly to
the ends of the earth to escape you sooner than stay to hear reason."

Max smiled in his one-sided fashion. "Has that been your experience?"

Nick nodded. There was a reminiscent glitter in his eyes. "My courtship
represented two years' hard labour. It nearly killed me. However, we've
made up for it since."

"I don't propose to spend two years over mine," said Max.

Nick's eyes flashed upwards, meeting those of the younger man with
something of the effect of a collision. His body however remained quite
passive, and his voice even sounded as if it had a laugh in it as he
made response.

"I think you're a decent chap," he said, "and I think you might make her
happy; but I'm damned if she shall marry any man--good, bad, or
indifferent--before she's ready."

"You also think you could prevent such a catastrophe?" suggested Max
cynically.

Nick grinned with baffling amiability. "No, I don't think. I know. Quite
a small spoke is enough to stop a wheel--even a mighty big wheel--if
it's going too fast."

And again, more than half against his will, Max laughed. "You make a
very efficient chaperon," he said.

"It's my speciality just now," said Nick.

He closed his eyes again peaceably, and gave himself up to his cigar.

Max, his rough red brows drawn together, leaned back against the
mantelpiece and smoked his pipe, staring at the opposite wall. There was
no strain in the silence between them. Both were preoccupied.

Suddenly through the open window there rippled in the fairy notes of a
mandolin, and almost at once a voice of most alluring sweetness began to
sing:

   "O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
     On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
   My plaidie to the angry airt,
     I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.
   Or did misfortune's bitter storms
     Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
   Thy bield should be my bosom,
     To share it a', to share it a'."

   "Or were I in the wildest waste,
     Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
   The desert were a paradise,
     If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
   Or were I monarch o' the globe,
     Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
   The brightest jewel in my crown
     Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."

As the song died out into the August night, Nick rose. "That girl's a
siren," he said. "Come along! We're wasting our time in here."

Max stooped laconically to knock the ashes from his pipe. His face as
he stood up again was quite expressionless. "You lead the way," he said.
"Are you going to leave your cigar behind? I suppose cigarettes are
allowed?"

"I should think so, as the lady smokes them herself." Nick opened the
door with the words, but paused a moment looking back at his companion
quizzically. "Good luck to you, old chap!" he said.

Max's hand came out of his pocket with a jerk. He still had it bandaged,
but he managed to grip hard with it nevertheless. But he did not utter a
word.

They passed into the drawing-room with the lazy, tolerant air of men
expecting to be amused; and Olga, with all her keenness, was very far
from suspecting aught of what had just passed between them.

She and Violet were both near the open window, the latter with her
instrument lying on her knee, its crimson ribbons streaming to the
floor. She herself was very simply attired in white. The vivid beauty of
her outlined against the darkness of the open French window was such as
to be almost startling. She smiled a sparkling welcome.

"Dr. Wyndham, I've decided to call you Max; not because I like it,--I
think it's hideous,--but because it's less trouble. I thought it as well
to explain at the outset, so that there should be no misunderstanding."

"That is very gracious of you," said Max.

"You may regard it exactly as you please," she said majestically, "so
long as you come when you're called. Allegretto, why do you move? I like
you sitting there."

"I promised to go and say good-night to the boys," said Olga, who had
sprung up somewhat precipitately at Max's approach. "Sit on the sofa,
Nick, and keep a corner for me! I'm coming back."

She was gone with the words, a vanishing grey vision, the quick closing
of the door shutting her from sight.

Violet leaned back in her chair, and dared the full scrutiny of Max's
eyes.

"What a disturber of the peace you are!" she said. "What did you want to
come here for before you had finished your smoke?"

"That was your doing," said Nick. "You literally dragged us hither. I'm
inclined to think it was you who disturbed the peace."

"I?" She turned upon him. "Captain Ratcliffe--"

"Pray call me Nick!" he interposed. "It will save such a vast amount of
trouble as well as keep you in the fashion."

She laughed. "You're much funnier than Max because you don't try to be.
What do you mean by saying that I dragged you here? Was it that silly
old song?"

"In part," said Nick cautiously.

"And the other part?"

"I won't put that into words. It would sound fulsome."

"Oh, please don't!" she said lightly. "And you, Max, what did you come
for?"

He seated himself in the chair which Olga had vacated. "I thought it was
time someone came to look after you," he said.

"How inane! You don't pretend to be musical, I hope?"

He leaned back, directly facing her. "No," he said. "I don't pretend."

"Never?" she said.

He smiled in his own enigmatical fashion. "That is the sort of question
I never answer."

She nodded gaily. "I knew you wouldn't. Why do you look at me like that?
I feel as if I were being dissected. I don't wonder that Olga runs away
when she sees you coming. I shall myself in a minute."

He laughed. "Surely you are accustomed to being looked at!"

"With reverence," she supplemented, "not criticism! You have the eye of
a calculating apothecary. I believe you regard everybody you meet in the
light of a possible patient."

"Naturally," said Max. "I suppose even you are mortal."

"Oh, yes, I shall die some day like the rest of you," she answered
flippantly. "But I shan't have you by my death-bed. I shouldn't think
you had ever seen anybody die, have you?"

"Why not?" said Max.

"Nobody could with you standing by. You're too vital, too electric. I
picture you with your back against the door and your arms spread out,
hounding the poor wretch back into the prison-house."

Max got up abruptly and moved to the window. "You have a vivid
imagination," he said.

She laughed, drawing her fingers idly across the strings of her
mandolin.

"Quite nightmarishly so sometimes. It's rather a drawback for some
things. How are you enjoying that book of mine? Do you appreciate the
Arabian Nights' flavour in modern literature?"

"It's a bit rank, isn't it?" said Max.

She laughed up at him. "I should have thought you would have been virile
enough to like rank things. To judge by the tobacco you smoke, you do."

"Poisonous, isn't it?" said Nick. "I suppose it soothes his nerves, but
it sets everyone else's on edge."

Violet stretched out her hand to a box of cigarettes that stood on a
table within reach. "You would probably feel insulted if I offered you
one of these," she said, "but I practically live on them."

"Very bad for you," said Max.

She snapped her fingers at him. "Then I shall certainly continue the
pernicious habit. Do you know Major Hunt-Goring? It was he who gave
them to me. He thinks he is going to marry me,--but he isn't!"

"Great Lucifer!" said Nick.

She turned towards him. "What an appropriate name! I wish I'd thought of
it. Do you know him?"

"Know him!" Nick's grimace was expressive. "Yes, I know him."

"Well?"

"Rather better than he thinks."

She laughed again, lightly, inconsequently, irresistibly. "He's a
fascinating creature. It is his proud boast that he has kissed every
girl in the neighbourhood except me."

"What an infernal liar!" said Nick.

"How do you know?" Gaily she challenged him. "It's quite probably true.
He is exceedingly popular with the feminine portion of the community. I
notice that friend Max maintains a shocked silence."

"Not at all," said Max. "I was only wondering why he had made an
exception of you."

She tossed her head. "Can't you guess?"

"No, I can't," he returned daringly. "I should have thought you would
have been the first on the list."

"How charming of you to say so!" said Violet. "Perhaps you are not aware
of the fact that the sweetest fruit is generally out of reach."

"You might have let me say that," said Nick. "But the man is a liar in
any case, and I hope he will give me the opportunity to tell him so."

Violet regarded him with interest. "I had no idea you were so
pugnacious. Do you always tell people exactly what you think of them? Is
it safe?"

"Quite safe for him," said Max.

"Why?" Violet turned back to him, her fingers carelessly plucking at the
instrument on her knee.

Max made prompt and unflattering reply. "Because he's so obviously
gimcrack that no one dares do anything to him for fear he should tumble
to pieces."

"Many thanks!" said Nick.

Violet's peal of laughter mingled with the weird notes of her mandolin,
and Olga, returning, desired to be told the joke.

Nick pulled her down beside him on the sofa. "Come and take care of me,
Olga _mia_! I'm being disgracefully maligned. Can't you persuade Miss
Campion to sing to us, by way of changing the subject?"

"Who has been maligning you?" demanded Olga, looking at Max with very
bright eyes.

He looked straight back at her with that gleam in his eyes which with
any other man would have denoted admiration but which with him she well
knew to be only mockery.

"I admit it, fair lady," he said. "I threw a clod of mud at your hero. I
thought it would be good for him. However, you will be relieved to hear
that it went wide of the mark. He still sits secure in his tight little
shrine and smiles magnanimously at my futility."

Olga's hand slipped into Nick's. "He's the biggest man you've ever
seen!" she declared, with warmth.

"Please don't fight over my body!" remonstrated Nick. "I never professed
to be more than a minnow among Tritons, and quite a lean minnow at
that."

"You're not, Nick!" declared his champion impetuously. "You're a giant!"

"In miniature," suggested Max. "He is actually proposing to go and kick
Major Hunt-Goring because--" He broke off short.

Into Olga's face of flushed remonstrance there had flashed a very
strange look, almost a petrified look, as if she had suddenly come upon
a snake in her path.

"Why?" she said quickly.

"Oh, never mind why," said Max, passing rapidly on. "That wasn't the
point. We were trying to picture Hunt-Goring's amusement. He stands
about seven feet high, doesn't he? And your redoubtable uncle--What
exactly is your height, Ratcliffe?"

"Nick, why do you want to kick Major Hunt-Goring?" Very distinctly Olga
put the question. She was evidently too proud to accept help from this
quarter.

"It's a chronic craving with me," said Nick. "But Miss Campion has
kindly undertaken the job for me. I am sure she is infinitely better
equipped for the task than I am, and she will probably do it much more
effectually."

"But not yet!" laughed Violet. "I like his cigarettes too well. Why do
you look like that, Allegro? Doesn't he send you any?"

"If he did," said Olga, with concentrated passion, "I'd pick them up
with the tongs and put them in the fire!"

Max laughed in a fashion that made her wince, but Nick's fingers
squeezed hers protectingly.

"You don't like him any better than I do apparently," he said lightly.
"But I suppose we must tolerate the man for Jim's sake. He wouldn't
thank us for eliminating all his unpleasant patients during his absence.
Now, Miss Campion, a song, please! The most sentimental in your
_repertoire_!"

She flashed him her gay smile and flung the streaming ribbons over her
arm. There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes as, without preliminary,
she began to sing. Her voice was rich and low and wonderfully pure.

   In vain all the knights of the Underworld woo'd her,
   Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she;
   Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,
   But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

   "Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, "so excelling,
   That Knight must the conqu'ror of conquerors be;
   He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;--
   None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!"

   Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her
   On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree;
   Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her,
   And worshipp'd at distance the high-born Ladye.

   At length came a Knight from a far land to woo her,
   With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea;
   His vizor was down--but, with voice that thrill'd through her,
   He whisper'd his vows to the high-born Ladye.

   "Proud maiden, I come with high spousals to grace thee,
   In me the great conqu'ror of conquerors see;
   Enthron'd in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee,
   And mine thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

   The maiden she smil'd and in jewels array'd her,
   Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she;
   And proud was the step, as her bridegroom convey'd
   her In pomp to his home, of that high-born Ladye.

   "But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you led me?
   Here's nought but a tomb and a dark cypress tree;
   Is _this_ the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?"
   With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye.

   "Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures."
   Then he lifted his helm for the fair one to see;
   But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features,
   And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

The beautiful voice throbbed away into silence, and the mandolin jarred
and thrummed upon the floor. Violet Campion sat staring straight before
her with eyes that were wide and fixed.

Olga jumped up impulsively. "Violet, why did you sing that gruesome
thing? Do you want to give us all the horrors?"

She picked up the mandolin with a swish of its red ribbons, and laid it
upon the piano, where it quivered and thrummed again like a living
thing, awaking weird echoes from the instrument on which it rested.

Then she turned back to her friend. "Violet, wake up! What are you
looking at?"

But Violet remained immovable as one in a trance.

Olga bent over her, touched her. "Violet!"

With a quick start, as though suspended animation had suddenly been
restored, Violet relaxed in her chair, leaning back with careless grace,
her white arms outstretched.

"What's the matter, Allegretto? You look as if you had had a glimpse of
the conqueror of conquerors yourself. I shall have to come and sleep
with you to frighten away the spooks."

"I don't think I shall ever dare to go to bed at all after that," said
Nick.

She laughed at him lazily. "Get Max to sit up with you and hold your
hand! The very sight of him would scare away all bogies."

"The sign of a wholesome mind," said Max.

She turned towards him. "Not at all! Scepticism only indicates gross
materialism and lack of imagination. There is nothing at all to be proud
of in the possession of a low grade of intelligence."

Max's mouth went down, and Violet's face flashed into her most
bewitching smile.

"I don't often get the opportunity to jeer at a genius," she said. "You
know that I am one of your most ardent admirers, don't you?"

"Is that the preliminary to asking a favour?" said Max.

She broke into a light laugh. "No, I never ask favours. I always take
what I want. It's much the quickest way."

"Saves trouble, too," he suggested.

"It does," she agreed. "I am sure you follow the same plan yourself."

"Invariably," said Max.

"It's a plan that doesn't always answer," observed Nick, in a
grandfatherly tone. "I shouldn't recommend it to everybody."

"And it's horribly selfish," put in Olga.

"My dear child, don't be so frightfully moral!" protested Violet. "I
can't rise to it. Nick, why doesn't it always answer to take what one
wants?"

"Because one doesn't always succeed in keeping it," said Nick.

"He means," said Max, a spark of humour in his eyes, "that a
champion,--no, a chaperon--sometimes comes along to the rescue of the
stolen article. But--from what I've seen of life--I scarcely think the
odds would be on the side of the chaperon. What is your opinion, Miss
Campion?"

"If the chaperon were Nick, I should certainly put my money on him," she
answered lightly.

"And lose it!" said Max.

"And win it!" said Olga.

"Order! Order!" commanded Nick. "Once more I refuse to be the bone of
contention between you. You will tear me to shreds among you, and even
the great Dr. Wyndham might find some difficulty in putting me together
again. Olga, give us some music!"

"I can't, dear," said Olga.

He frowned at her. "Why not?"

She hesitated. "I'm not in the mood for it. At least--"

"Am I the obstacle?" asked Max.

She could not control her colour, though she strove resolutely to appear
as if she had not heard.

He turned to Violet, faintly smiling. "Shall we take a stroll in the
garden?"

She rose, flinging a gay glance at Olga. "Just two turns!" she said.

He held aside the curtain for her, and followed her out, with a
careless jest. The two who were left heard them laughing as they
sauntered away. Olga rose with a shiver.

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

To which she answered, "Nothing," knowing that he would not believe her,
knowing also that he would understand enough to ask no more.

She went to the piano, put aside the mandolin, and began to play. Not
even to Nick, her hero and her close confidant, would she explain the
absolute repugnance that the association of Max Wyndham with her friend
had inspired in her.

But though she played with apparent absorption, her ears were strained
to catch the sound of their voices in the garden behind her, the girl's
light chatter, her companion's brief, cynical laugh. For she knew by the
sure intuition which is a woman's inner and unerring vision, that jest
or trifle as he might his keen brain was actively employed in some
subtle investigation too obscure for her to fathom, and that behind his
badinage and behind his cynicism there sat a man who watched.




CHAPTER VI

THE PAIN-KILLER


"I am going over to Brethaven to see Mrs. Briggs to-day," Olga announced
nearly a week later, waylaying Max after breakfast on his way to the
surgery with the air of one prepared to resist opposition. "Are you
wanting the car this morning, Dr. Wyndham?"

She knew that he would be engaged at the cottage-hospital that morning,
but it was one of Dr. Ratcliffe's strict rules that the car should never
be used unprofessionally without express permission from himself or his
assistant. Naturally Olga resented having to observe this rule in her
father's absence and her manner betrayed as much, but she was too
conscientious to neglect its observance.

"You don't propose to go alone, I suppose?" said Max, pausing.

This was another of her father's rules and one which Olga had often
vainly attempted to persuade him to rescind. Under these circumstances,
Max's question seemed little short of an insult.

"I don't see what that has to do with it," she said.

Max looked at his watch, then turned squarely and faced her. "With me,
you mean. Very likely not. But there is a remote connection or I
shouldn't ask. Are you going to take Nick with you?"

"He is going part of the way," said Olga, striving for dignity.

"Only part?"

"As far as the station," she returned, almost in spite of herself.

"Going up to town, is he?" said Max. "Well, that doesn't help much. Take
one of the boys!"

"I don't want one of the boys," Olga spoke with sudden irritation.
"Violet is going with me," she said.

His face changed very slightly, almost imperceptibly. "In that case you
must take Mitchel," he said.

"How absurd!" exclaimed Olga.

"No, it isn't absurd. It's quite reasonable from my point of view. If
you can't take Mitchel with you, I can't spare the car."

He smiled a little as he pronounced this decision, but quite plainly his
mind was made up.

Olga bit her lip in exasperation. "Do you think I am not to be trusted
to take care of her?" she asked him scornfully. "I shall ask Nick if I
need do anything so ridiculous!"

"Here he is," said Nick, coming lightly up behind her with the words.
"What's the trouble now? If you are requiring my valuable advice, it is
quite at your service."

Olga turned to him at once. "Nick, it's really too silly for words. Dr.
Wyndham makes mountains out of molehills."

"That's very ingenious of him," commented Nick. "I shouldn't harass the
man if I were you, Olga. He's been out all night."

Olga pounced upon this fact. "I expect Mitchel has too, then, so he just
won't be able to go."

"No," said Max. "I didn't take the car or Mitchel. It chanced to be a
case in the village, and I bicycled."

"Who was it?" asked Olga eagerly; and then restrained herself with
annoyance. "But of course you won't tell me. You're much too
professional."

"Keep to the point!" ordered Nick.

Olga slipped a coaxing arm round his neck. "Nick, don't you think it
absurd that Violet and I shouldn't motor over to Brethaven without a man
to take care of us? I am quite certain Dad wouldn't object."

"There you are wrong," said Max. "If your father were here, he would
forbid it--as I do."

He spoke with emphasis, and glanced again at his watch as he did so.

"He doesn't object to my going alone with one of the boys," said Olga.
"It's only Violet who is too precious to go motoring without a
full-grown escort. As if I weren't quite capable of taking care of her!"

"It's not that at all," said Max curtly. "I can't stop to argue, so
please make up your mind what you are going to do. I'm sorry you've been
dragged into the discussion, Ratcliffe. I daresay it seems a senseless
one to you, but I have my reasons."

Nick looked at him for a moment, a quick gleam of comprehension behind
his flickering eyelids. "It won't hurt you to take Mitchel, Olga _mia_,"
he said.

"Oh, Nick!" There was deep reproach in Olga's voice, and at sound of it
Max smiled with dry humour.

Nick laughed outright, openly heartless. "My beloved chicken, who is
making mountains out of molehills now? I would escort you myself if I
hadn't got to attend this committee meeting in town,--a million plagues
upon it! Come along and open my letters for me! We are wasting time."

"I do think you needn't take his part," said Olga, as Max disappeared
into the surgery. "He's quite bullying and tyrannical enough without
that."

"I'm inclined to sympathize with the young man myself," said Nick. "He
wouldn't bully you if you weren't so nasty."

"Nick, I'm not nasty!"

"I should detest you if I were Max," said Nick, squeezing her
affectionately with his one wiry arm.

"It isn't my fault we are antipathetic," protested Olga. "For goodness'
sake, Nick, don't start liking him! But I'm sure you don't in your heart
of hearts. You simply couldn't."

"Why not?" said Nick.

"Oh, Nick, you don't! You know you don't! He's so cold-blooded and
cynical."

"Do you want to know what he was up to last night?" said Nick.

"Yes, tell me!" said Olga.

"He was sent for last thing by some people who live in that filthy
alley--near the green pond. A child was choking. They thought it had
swallowed a pin. When he got there, he found it was diphtheria at its
most advanced stage. The child was at death's door. He had to perform an
operation at a moment's notice, hadn't got the proper paraphernalia with
him, and sucked the poison out himself."

"Good heavens, Nick!" said Olga, turning very white. "And the child?"

"The child is better. It is to be taken to the hospital to-day."

"Will it--won't it--have an effect on him?" gasped Olga.

"Heavens knows," said Nick.

"And that's why he didn't come down to breakfast," she said. "How did
you find out about it? He didn't tell you?"

"He couldn't help it," said Nick. "He stole my bath this morning, and
when I arrived he was lying in it face downwards boiling himself in some
filthy disinfectant that made the bathroom temporarily uninhabitable.
Naturally I lodged a complaint, and finally got at the whole story. By
the way, he said I wasn' to tell you; but I told him I probably should.
That's only a detail, but I mention it in case you should be tempted to
broach the subject to him. I shouldn't advise you to do so, as I think
you will probably find him rather touchy about it."

"But, Nick!" Olga's eyes had begun to shine. "It was very--fine of him,"
she said. "I wish I'd known before I was so cross to him. I--I should
have made allowances if I had known."

"Quite so," said Nick. "Well, you can begin now if you feel so inclined,
though I suppose the young man did no more than his duty after all."

"Oh, Nick, a man isn't obliged to go so far as that!" she exclaimed
reproachfully. "There are plenty who wouldn't."

"Doubtless," agreed Nick, looking faintly quizzical. "It was the action
of a fool--but a brave fool. We'll grant him that much, shall we?"

She laughed a little, her cheek against his shoulder. "Don't poke fun at
me! It isn't fair. You know he isn't a fool perfectly well."

"By Jove! You are getting magnanimous!" laughed Nick.

"No, I'm not. I'm only trying to be fair. One must be that," said Olga,
whose honest soul abhorred injustice of any description.

"Oh, of course," said Nick. "You'll have to spoil him now to make up for
having been so--'horrid,' I think, is the proper term, isn't it? It's
the most comprehensive word in the woman's vocabulary, comprising
everything from slightly disagreeable to damned offensive."

"Really, Nick!"

Nick grinned. "Pardon my unparliamentary language!"

"But Nick, I've never been--that!" protested Olga.

"A matter of opinion!" laughed Nick.

But Olga did not laugh, she only flushed a little and changed the
subject.

About an hour later, Max, taking his hat from a peg in the hall,
preparatory to departing for the cottage-hospital, discovered the lining
thereof to be pulled away in order to accommodate a twisted scrap of
paper which had been pinned to it in evident haste.

He carried the hat to the consulting-room and there detached and
examined its contents. He smoothed out the crumpled morsel with his
customary deliberation, drawing his shaggy red brows together over a few
lines of minute writing which became visible as he did so.

   "Dear Max," he read, "I'm sorry I've been a beast to
   you lately. Please don't take any notice of this but let us
   just be friends for the future. Yours,

   "Olga."

There was no mockery in the green eyes as they deciphered the impulsive
note, nor did the somewhat hard lips smile. Max stood for some seconds
after reading it, staring fixedly at the paper, and when at length he
looked up his face wore a guarded expression with which many of his
patients were familiar. He took a pocket-book from an inner pocket and
laid the crumpled scrap within it. Then, without more ado, he put on his
hat and departed.

Olga was by that time spinning merrily along the road to Brethaven,
having parted with Nick at the railway-station. Violet was seated beside
her, and the old servant Mitchel sat sourly behind them. He had a rooted
objection to the back-seat, and held the opinion that a woman at the
wheel was out of place.

Olga, however, was not prepared to yield on this point at least. She had
brought him against her will, and she meant to forget him if possible.
But it was not long before Violet had extracted from her an account of
the discussion that had resulted in Mitchel's unwilling presence. She
was not very anxious to supply the information, but Violet was
insistent and soon possessed herself of the full details of the argument
which she seemed to find highly amusing.

"Oh, my dear, he's in love with me of course!" she said "I discovered
that the first night I was with you. Hence his solicitude."

"I'm not so sure of that," said Olga.

"What! You haven't noticed it? My dear child, where are your eyes?
Haven't you seen the way he watches me?"

Yes, Olga had seen it; but somehow she did not think it meant that. She
said so rather hesitatingly.

"What else could it mean?" laughed Violet. "But you needn't be afraid,
dear. I'm not going to have him. He's much too anatomical for me, too
business-like and professional altogether. I'd sooner die than have him
attend me."

"Would you?" said Olga. "But why? He's very clever."

"That's just it. He's too clever to have any imagination. He would be
quite unscrupulous, quite merciless, and utterly without sympathy. Can't
you picture him making you endure any amount of torture just to enable
him to say he had cured you? Oh yes, he's diabolically clever, but he is
cruel too. He would take the shortest cut, whatever it meant. He
wouldn't care what agony he inflicted so long as he gained his end and
made you live."

"I don't think he is quite so callous as that," Olga said, but even as
she said it she wondered.

"You will if he ever has to doctor you," rejoined Violet. "I wonder what
Mrs. Briggs thought of him. We'll find out to-day."

Mrs. Briggs was the daughter of the old woman who had died the preceding
week at "The Ship Inn," whither they were bound that morning. She had
nursed Violet in her infancy, and was a privileged acquaintance of both
girls.

They found her busy pastry-making, for the business of the
establishment had not been suspended during her recent troubles. She
greeted them both hospitably, though not without a hint of reproach,
which found expression in words when she had come to the end of a
detailed account of the funeral.

"I thought you'd 'a' been round long ago," she said. "Your flowers was
lovely, Miss Olga. You ought to 'a' seen 'em a-layin' on pore mother. I
made sure as you'd want to. And you too, Miss Violet. I kept the coffin
open till the very last minute, thinkin' as you'd come."

"That was very sweet of you, Mrs. Briggs," said Violet. "It was all Dr.
Wyndham's fault that we didn't. I'm staying there, you know, and
whatever he says is law. I'm sure I don't know why, but there it is."

"Well, there!" said Mrs. Briggs. "I might 'a' known. Pore mother was
frit to death o' he. 'There's black magic in 'im' she says to me. It was
the day as she was took, too. 'Black magic,' she says. 'I've a-begged
'im to let me die easy, but Lor' bless yer, 'e don't take no more notice
than if 'e were the Spink,'" Mrs. Briggs glanced over her shoulder. "But
there's one thing as you'll both be glad to know," she said, lowering
her voice confidentially, "she died easy, pore soul, in spite of 'im. 'E
don't know 'ow that was."

"What?" gasped both girls in a breath.

Mrs. Briggs went to the door, peered out, softly closed it. Her eyes
shone craftily as she returned. She took up her rolling-pin, holding it
impressively between her floury hands.

"Two days afore pore mother went," she began, with an air of gruesome
mystery, "Dr. Wyndham, 'e came and examined 'er, and 'urt 'er cruel, 'e
did. I thought 'e'd 'ave killed 'er afore 'e'd finished. Well, just
afore 'e left, 'e come to me with a dark blue bottle, and 'e says: 'Look
'ere, Mrs. Briggs, she won't last out the week. She's quiet now,' 'e
says, 'for I've given 'er a dose as'll last for some hours. But when
that's exhausted,' 'e says, 'the pain'll come back. And so I'm goin' to
give you this.' 'E 'olds it up to the light, and looks at it. 'It's good
stuff,' 'e says. 'It's warranted to kill pain. But it ain't a thing to
play with. You give 'er a teaspoon of it,' 'e says, 'but only if she's
took with bad pain. But she mustn't 'ave more than one in twenty-four
hours,' 'e says. 'You mind that. And if you 'ave to give it to 'er, you
send at once for me. If you don't send,' 'e says, 'I won't be 'eld
responsible for the consequences.' With that 'e goes, and pore mother
she seemed to take a turn, and all that day and the next she seemed to
drowse like and not take much notice o' things. The neighbours come in
and look at 'er, but she didn't seem to know. We 'ad two quiet nights
with 'er, and then all of a sudden in the middle of the afternoon she
started screamin' and writhin.' Oh, lor, Miss Olga, you never see the
like. It was just as if she were bein' tortured over a slow fire. Well,
Briggs, 'e was fair unmanned by it. 'For 'eaven's sake,' 'e says, 'give
'er the medicine as the doctor left, and I'll go and tell 'im as you've
done it.' And off 'e goes, though it was gettin' latish and no one to
attend to the bar. Well, I fetched the medicine, and I took it to 'er,
and I says, ''Ere you are, mother,' I says, 'you 'ave a dose o' this.
It'll kill the pain.' I gave it 'er in a teaspoon like 'e said, and she
took it. But there, it didn't make no more difference to 'er than if it
'ad been water.'" Mrs. Briggs heaved a sob, and picked up a corner of
her apron to wipe her eyes. "I told 'er as I dursn't give 'er any more
because of what the doctor 'ad said, and I said as 'ow Briggs 'ad gone
for him, and 'e'd know 'ow to quiet 'er when 'e came. But the very
thought of 'im seemed to drive 'er crazy. And then she said that about
the black magic, and 'ow 'e'd never be persuaded to let 'er die easy.
And then she says to me. 'But you didn't shake the bottle,' she says. 'I
expect the stuff that kills the pain is all at the bottom.' And I
thought there might be somethin' in it, so I fetched the bottle again
and shook it up. And I thought I'd give 'er just 'alf a dose more in
case she 'adn't 'ad enough. But just as I was a-goin' to pour it out
there was such a rappin' down in the bar, that I 'ad to just give it 'er
and run. I was back in under a minute, and there was pore mother
a-sittin' up in bed and a-smilin' at me as if all 'er troubles was past,
and says she, 'Annie,' she says, 'I've 'ad enough and I don't want no
more,' she says; 'it's killed the pain.' And then she laid down in bed
still smilin', and says she, 'You tell the doctor when 'e comes as I'm
sorry to 'a' fetched 'im for nothin', but I couldn't wait--.' And--if
you'll believe me, Miss Olga,--those was the last words she spoke."
Again vigorously Mrs. Briggs dried her eyes. "She just dropped off to
sleep as easy as easy, and I left 'er and went back to the bar. There
was a stick by the bedside, and I knew I should 'ear 'er knock if she
wanted me. But she didn't knock, and she didn't knock, and I kept
thinkin' to myself what a nice sleep she was 'avin', and I wouldn't
disturb 'er till the doctor came. And then all of a sudden, it came into
my mind to wonder about that there medicine. And I just run up to see.
And there I found 'er a-laying' dead, and _the stuff in the bottle were
'alf-gone!_"

Mrs. Briggs's information was imparted in a whisper and punctuated by
sniffs. Her two listeners exchanged awe-stricken glances.

"How did you know she was dead?" asked Violet. "What did she look like?"

"My dear," said Mrs. Briggs, with solemn pride, "anyone as 'as seen
death as often as I 'ave don't need to look twice."

Mrs. Briggs occupied the exalted position of layer-out in chief in
Brethaven village, and right proud was she of her calling. It had been
handed down from mother to daughter in her family for the past four
generations. She literally swelled with importance as she resumed her
narrative and her pastry-rolling at the same moment.

"Well, there she lay, pore dear, and I saw as the Lord 'ad took 'er
right enough, and 'er troubles was well over. But there was this 'ere
medicine-bottle, and I 'ad to think pretty quick about that; for just as
I picked it up I 'eard the doctor's motor come round the corner. It came
to me all in a minute, it did, and I upped with the water-jug and filled
it to all but a spoonful of the top. For I knew what 'is first thought
would be," said Mrs. Briggs grimly. "And I wasn't minded to let myself
in for any questions. Yer see, my dear, 'e'd told me 'isself as the pore
creature couldn't last the week. Well, I stuck the bottle on the shelf,
and went to meet 'im. 'She's gone, sir,' I says. He come right past me
without a word and stoops over the bed. And then, sure enough, quite
sharp and sudden says 'e, 'You give 'er the pain-killer?' 'Just as you
told me, sir,' I says, and with that I showed 'im the bottle. 'E took it
into 'is 'and, and 'e give me a very straight look, and says 'e,
frowning, 'Well, she'll never want any more of that.' And 'e just took
it straight downstairs and emptied the bottle into the sink."

"He knew!" exclaimed Olga involuntarily.

"Lor' bless yer, no!" Mrs. Briggs's tone held unquestioning conviction.
"'E was frownin' to 'isself all the time, and I could see as 'e was
pretty mad that 'e'd come too late. I weren't sorry myself," she
asserted boldly. "For I'd 'oped against 'ope after 'is last visit that
'e'd never see pore mother again alive. I couldn't 'a' stood it! There,
I just couldn't."

Quite unexpectedly Mrs. Briggs suddenly broke down and dropped into a
chair. Violet sprang to comfort, while Olga took possession of the
rolling-pin and continued the pastry-making with deft hands.

After an interval poor Mrs. Briggs managed to recover somewhat of the
hard demeanour that usually characterized her. "I've no call to fret,"
she said. "And don't you go rubbin' my dirty face with your clean
'andkerchief, Miss Violet. I ain't fit for you to touch, my dear."

"I'm only trying to get off the flour," explained Violet. "But I'm
afraid you'll have to wash it after all. It's all gone into paste."

"And there's Miss Olga a-makin' my tarts for me like a ministerin'
angel," said Mrs. Briggs, with a watery smile. "It's a pity you couldn't
'a' seen 'er in 'er coffin; for it was a beautiful coffin. Briggs said
it was as fine a one as 'e'd seen. Well, well! She's gone, pore soul.
And now you young ladies must try some of my rhubarb wine."

She rose briskly, and went to a cupboard. "We drank some of it at the
funeral," she said. "And everyone liked it--even Briggs. But I thought
I'd save the rest for when you came. Miss Olga always likes my rhubarb
wine."

The rhubarb wine proved at least a welcome distraction, and under its
genial influence Mrs. Briggs's spirits rose. She was quite cheery by the
time her two visitors took their leave. They left her waving farewell
from her doorstep, the patches of paste still upon her ruddy
countenance, but with no other traces of her recent distress visible.

"Rum old thing!" said Violet. "I want to go round to the Priory and see
Cork and Pluto next. I like to drop in unexpectedly when Bruce is away,
and make sure that they are treated properly."

"We haven't much time," observed Olga.

"Oh, nonsense! Make time! We're not slaves," said Violet imperiously.

And Olga turned in the direction of the Priory without further words. It
always took less time to yield to her friend's behests than to argue
against them.




CHAPTER VII

THE PUZZLE


The visit to the Priory occupied some time, as Olga had foreseen. There
were some things that Violet wanted to fetch from her own room and this
entailed a search, for her possessions were always in the wildest
disorder. Olga waited for her in the hall, chafing at the delay, since
she knew that the car would be required by Max early in the afternoon to
take him on his rounds.

Mitchel remained outside in the hot sunshine, severe disapproval in
every line of him. Olga felt decidedly out of patience with him. As if
it were her fault!

She sat on the old oak chest that Violet gaily called her coffin, and
stared at the gruesome east window, while her thoughts dwelt upon the
story she had just heard from Mrs. Briggs's lips. Had Max really
intended to place freedom within the old woman's reach? For some reason
wholly inexplicable she longed to know. She recalled the words he had
uttered that day in the library of Redlands, his half-cynical talk of "a
free pass," his reference to himself as "gaoler." Was it possible that
she had formed a wrong impression of him? And if in this matter, perhaps
in others also. Perhaps after all she had mistaken his attitude towards
Violet. Perhaps after all he was human enough to feel the strong
attraction of the girl's beauty. Perhaps after all he was beginning to
care. And if so, what then? She felt her face burn in the coolness.
Somehow she did not want him to be hurt, to suffer as she knew that
other men had been made to suffer by the gay inconsequence of her
friend. Only a week ago she had desired his ignominious downfall. To-day
she wanted to save him from it. She had a desperate longing to warn him
that Violet's favour was a thing of nought, that her treatment of him
had all been planned between them beforehand, that it was all a game.

She could not picture him at any woman's feet. Yet undoubtedly Violet
was hard to resist; their intimacy had grown apace during the past few
days. And Violet knew so well how to wield her power, when to scorn and
when subtly to flatter. She had never yet received a check in her
triumphant career, and she boasted openly of her conquests.

No, Olga was fain to admit it. All her own private aversion
notwithstanding, she did not want this man added to the list of victims.
Cynical and even overbearing though he might be, she no longer desired
to see him humiliated. And her face glowed more and more hotly as she
remembered that it was she who had set the trap.

She fully realized, however, that an appeal to Violet at this stage
would be worse than futile. Violet was too set on her mischievous course
to do other than laugh and pursue it with renewed zest for her capture.
Of course there remained Nick, chosen adviser and confidant; but for
some reason Olga shrank from discussing Max with him. She had an uneasy
dread lest Nick's intelligence should leap ahead of her and disclose to
her with disconcerting suddenness facts and possibilities with which she
was quite unprepared to reckon. She visualized his grin of amused
comprehension over the means she had devised for her own deliverance and
the unpleasant quandary in which it had placed her. Nick's sense of
humour was at times almost too keen. She smiled faintly to herself over
this reflection. She could not deny that there were points in the
situation which appealed even to her own.

Yet she was more ashamed than amused. The discovery that Max was human
had somehow altered everything, and made her own conduct appear
dastardly. She had acted maliciously albeit, in self-defence; but now
that it seemed that her point might pierce his armour, she wanted to
withdraw it. She shrank unspeakably from seeing him vanquished. It would
have hurt her to find him at her own feet, but the bare thought of him
at Violet's--Violet who had no mercy upon old or young, who would
trample him underfoot without a pang and pass gaily on--that thought was
unbearable.

Of course she might be wrong. It was still possible that her original
conception of him might be the correct one. He had a passion for his
profession, she knew. It was quite possible that this had inspired his
taking that awful risk the night before, quite possible also that a
hopeless case did not appeal to him and that he had not therefore
greatly cared how soon or in what manner Mrs. Stubbs had passed out
through the prison-door which it was his work to guard. She realized
vaguely that this form of callousness was not so hideous as she had at
first deemed it. She also began to realize that for a man who had seen
suffering and death in many forms and who found himself finally
powerless to alleviate the one or avert the other, the inevitable end
could not possess the tragic significance which it possessed for others.

Either point of view of his character was possible. She did not know him
well enough to decide to her own satisfaction which was actually the
true one. But the fact remained that she had delivered him to Violet to
be tormented, and that before he had given any sign of suffering she had
repented the rash act. He might be capable of suffering or he might not;
but she had a passionate desire to know him safe before the fire had
begun to kindle.

Violet's return at length broke up her reflections. She awoke from her
reverie with a start to exclaim upon the lateness of the hour. It was
already close upon luncheon-time.

"We shall have to scorch," laughed Violet.

And scorch they did at a rate that made the sober Mitchel swear
inarticulately almost throughout the journey. They met with no mishap,
however, and finally reached Weir flushed, dishevelled, but exultant.

Max came from the direction of the surgery as they entered.

"Can I speak to you a moment?" he said to Olga and drew her into her
father's little smoking-room at the side of the hall almost before the
words were uttered.

Olga faced him with a racing heart, burningly reminiscent of the note
she had left in his hat, the note she had asked him to ignore.

He must have seen her embarrassment, for his green eyes studied her
without mercy; but when he spoke it was not upon the subject of her
overture.

"Look here!" he said. "Hunt-Goring is here. Do you mind if I ask him to
luncheon?"

The news was unexpected. Olga gave a sharp, involuntary start. "Major
Hunt-Goring!" she stammered. "Why--what is he doing here?"

"He walked over with a broken thumb for me to mend," said Max, still
grimly watching her. "It's some way back to The Warren, and he's a bit
used up. I fancy your father would make him lunch here under the
circumstances, but you must do as you think best. It's not my house."

The colour sank rapidly from Olga's face under his look. "Oh, Dr.
Wyndham," she said breathlessly, "do you think we need?"

He frowned at her agitation. "Of course, we needn't," he said. "If you
don't want him, he can go to 'The Swan.' He is in the surgery at the
present moment. I must go back and see how he is getting on."

"Wait a moment!" Olga broke in rapidly. "I--I'm afraid you're right. Dad
would certainly keep him. Oh, why isn't Nick here? He needn't have
chosen to-day to break this thumb."

"Kismet!" said Max, with a cynical lift of the shoulders. "I gather you
don't like the man?"

She shrank at the question: it was almost a shudder. "No!"

He turned to the door. "Well, pull yourself together. I daresay he won't
eat you. And you'll have Miss Campion to protect you. She would be proof
against a dozen monsters."

He cast her a glance with the words that made her aware of a certain not
very abstruse meaning behind them. Olga's cheeks burned again. Did he
know, then? Had he guessed why Violet was in the house? Was that the
reason of his curious vigilance, his guarded acceptance of her favours?
She was possessed by an almost overwhelming desire to know, and yet no
words could she find in which to ask.

"Well?" said Max, pausing in the act of opening the door. "You were
going to say--"

She raised her eyes with a conscious effort, and nerved herself to
speak.

"Max," she said desperately, "please don't mind my asking! It isn't from
idle curiosity. Do you like her?" She saw the rough red brows go up, and
swiftly repented her temerity. "I only asked," she faltered, "because--"

"Well?" Max said again. "It would be interesting to know why you asked."

She compelled herself to answer him, or perhaps it was he who compelled.
In any case, with her head bent, her answer came.

"I had been thinking that perhaps you were getting fond of her,
and--and--I should be sorry if that happened, because I know she isn't
in earnest. I know she is only playing with you."

The words ran cut in a whisper. She dared not look at him. She could
only watch with fascinated eyes the brown fingers that gripped the
door-knob.

"She has told you that?" asked Max.

She quivered at the question. It was horribly difficult to answer. "I
know it is so," she murmured.

She was thankful that he did not press her to be more explicit. He stood
for a moment in silence; then: "Isn't it possible," he said in a very
level tone, "for a woman to set out to catch a man and to end by being
caught herself?"

"Not for Violet," said Olga.

"I wonder," said Max.

She looked up at him quickly, caught by something in his tone. His eyes,
alert and green, looked straight into hers.

"Did you really think I was falling in love with her?" he said.

Olga hesitated.

"She thinks so?" he questioned.

"Yes." Against her will she answered. It was as if he wrung the word
from her.

He smiled a grim smile. "Many thanks for your warning!" he said. "I take
a deep interest in Miss Campion, as you seem to have divined. But the
danger of my falling a victim to her charms is very remote. You need
harbour no further anxieties on my account."

He opened the door as he spoke, and Olga passed out, uncertain whether
to be glad or sorry that she had brought herself to speak.

She went upstairs to Violet and acquainted her with the fact of Major
Hunt-Goring's presence and its cause.

"I do wish Nick had been here," she said in conclusion.

"He may elect to stay for ever so long. I don't know what we shall do
with him."

Violet, however, was by no means dismayed by the prospect. "Oh, I enjoy
Major Hunt-Goring," she said. "You leave him to me. I'll entertain him."

"Hateful man!" said Olga.

Whereat Violet laughed and pinched her cheek. "You know you like him!"

"I detest him!" said Olga quickly.

It was certainly with no excess of cordiality that a few minutes later
she greeted her guest. He was standing in the hall with one arm in a
sling when she and Violet descended the stairs, an immense man of about
five-and-forty with a very decided military bearing and dark eyes of
covert insolence.

Max was with him, and Olga experienced a very novel feeling of relief to
see him there. She advanced and shook hands with extreme frigidity.

"I am sorry you have had an accident," she said.

"Very good of you," said Major Hunt-Goring, his eyes boldly passing her
to rest upon Violet. "Managed to crack my thumb tinkering at my old
motor. Dr. Wyndham tells me that you have been kind enough to ask me to
lunch. How do you do, Miss Campion? Charmed to meet you! Someone told me
you were yachting in the Atlantic."

"Heaven forbid!" said Violet. "Yachting is simply another word for
imprisonment to me. I told Bruce I should certainly drown myself if I
went with them."

"I should like to introduce you to a form of yachting that is not
imprisonment," said Hunt-Goring.

Violet laughed. "Oh, I should have to be mistress of the yacht for
that."

"Even so," he rejoined significantly.

"And I shouldn't have any men on board with the exception of the
sailors," she went on.

"And the captain," said Hunt-Goring.

"Oh, dear me, no! I would be my own captain."

"You'd be horribly bored before the first week was out," observed the
major, as he followed her into the dining-room.

She laughed gaily. "There isn't a single man of my acquaintance in whose
company I shouldn't be bored to extinction long before that."

"Oh, come!" he protested. "You don't speak from experience. You condemn
us untried."

"I know you all too well," laughed Violet.

"You know me not at all," declared Hunt-Goring. "I appeal to Miss
Ratcliffe. Am I the sort of man to bore a woman?"

"I am no judge," said Olga somewhat hastily. "I never have time to be
bored with anyone. Will you sit here, please? I am sorry to say my uncle
is in town to-day."

"Where are the three boys?" asked Max.

Olga turned to him with relief. "They have gone for an all-day
paper-chase with the Rectory crowd and taken lunch with them."

"Why didn't you go too?" he asked. "Too lazy?"

"Too busy," she returned briefly.

"That's only an excuse," said Max.

She glanced at him. "It's a sound one anyhow."

"What are you going to do this afternoon?" he asked.

"Mend."

"Mend what?"

"Stockings," said Olga.

"Great Scot!" said Max. "Do you mend the stockings of the entire
family?"

"Including yours," said Olga.

"Oh, I say!" he protested. "That wasn't in the contract, was it? Pitch
'em into my room. I'll mend them myself or do without."

"One pair more or less doesn't make much difference," said Olga. "As to
doing without,--well, of course, you're a man or you wouldn't make such
a suggestion."

"You've thrown that in my teeth before," he observed. "I think you might
remember that I am hardly responsible for my sex. It's my misfortune,
not my fault."

She smiled, her sudden brief smile, but made no rejoinder.

Major Hunt-Goring and Violet, who had undertaken to cut up his meal for
him, were engrossed in a frothy conversation which it was obvious that
neither desired to have interrupted.

Max glanced towards them before he abruptly started another subject with
Olga.

"How is Mrs. Briggs?"

Olga coloured hotly. "Oh, she seemed all right."

Max surveyed her rather pointedly. "Well? What had she got to say about
me?"

"About you?" said Olga.

He laughed and looked away. "Even so, fair lady. I conclude it was
something you would rather not repeat. I had already fathomed the fact
that I was not beloved by Mrs. Briggs."

"It's your own fault," said Olga, speaking on the impulse to escape from
a difficult subject. "You have such a knack of making all your patients
afraid of you."

"Really?" said Max.

"Oh, don't be supercilious!" she said quickly. "You know it's true."

"It must be if you say so," he rejoined, "though there again it is more
my misfortune than my fault. If my patients elect to make me the butt of
their neurotic imagination, surely I am more to be pitied than blamed."

"No, I don't pity you at all," Olga said. "It's want of sympathy, you
know. You go and do a splendid thing like--like--" She stopped suddenly.

"Please go on!" said Max. "Let's hear my good points, by all means!"

But Olga was in obvious confusion. "I didn't mean to mention it," she
said. "It just slipped out. I was really thinking of--what happened last
night."

He frowned instantly. "Who told you anything about it?"

"Nick."

"I should like to wring his skinny little neck," said Max.

"How dare you?" said Olga indignantly.

"You don't think I'm afraid of you, do you?" he said, with a smile.

"No," she admitted rather grudgingly. "I don't think you are afraid of
anyone or anything. But it is a pity you spoil things by being
so--unfriendly."

"Are you speaking on Mrs. Briggs's behalf or your own?" asked Max.

She met his eyes with a feeling of reluctance. "Well, I do hate
quarrelling," she said.

"I never quarrel," said Max placidly.

"Oh, but you do!" she exclaimed. "How can you say such a thing?"

"No, I don't!" said Max. "I go my own way, that's all. If anyone tries
to stop me, well, they get knocked down and trampled on. I don't call
that quarrelling. It simply happens in the natural course of things."

"No wonder people don't like you!" said Olga.

"Don't you like me?" said Max.

He put the question with obvious indifference, yet his green eyes still
studied her critically. Olga poured out some water with a hand so shaky
that it splashed over. He reached forward and dabbed it up with his
table-napkin.

"Well?" he said.

"I don't know," she murmured somewhat incoherently.

"Don't know! But you knew this morning!" The green eyes suddenly
laughed at her. "I say, don't try to drink that yet!" he said. "You'll
choke if you do. Go on! Tell me some more about Mrs. Briggs! Did she
give you any of that filthy concoction she calls rhubarb wine?"

"It isn't filthy! It's delicious," declared Olga. "You can't have tasted
it."

"Oh, yes, I had some the day the old woman died. In fact, I was trying
to sleep off the effects that afternoon, when you caught me in Uncle
Nick's library. It's horribly strong stuff. I suppose that is what made
you so late for luncheon?"

"Indeed, it wasn't! We went to the Priory before coming home."

"Oh! What for?"

"Some things Violet wanted."

"What things?" said Max.

She looked at him in surprise. "I'm sure I don't know. I'm not so
inquisitive as you are. You had better ask Violet."

"Ask me what?" said Violet, detaching her attention from Major
Hunt-Goring for a moment.

"Nothing," said Max. "I was only wondering how many glasses of rhubarb
wine you had at 'The Ship.'"

Carelessly he rallied her on the subject, carelessly let it pass. And
Olga was left with a newly-awakened doubt at her heart. What was the
reason for the keen interest he took in her friend? Had he really told
her the truth when repudiating the possibility of his falling in love
with her? She fancied he had; and if so, why was he so anxious to inform
himself of her most trivial doings? It was a puzzle to Olga--a puzzle
that for some reason gave her considerable uneasiness. Against her will
and very deep down within her, she was aware of a lurking distrust that
made her afraid of Max Wyndham. She felt as if he were watching to catch
her off her guard, ready at a moment's notice to turn to his own
purposes any rash confidence into which she might be betrayed. And she
told herself with passionate self-reproach that she had already been
guilty of disloyalty to her friend.

During the rest of luncheon she exerted herself to keep the conversation
general, Max seconding her efforts as though unconscious of her desire
to avoid him. In fact, he seemed wholly unaware of any change in her
demeanour, and Olga noted the fact with relief, the while she determined
to exclude him rigidly for the future from anything even remotely
approaching to intimacy. Watch as they might, the shrewd green eyes
should never again catch her off her guard.




CHAPTER VIII

THE ELASTIC BOND


Major Hunt-Goring was quite obviously in his element. To Olga's dismay
he showed no disposition to depart when they rose from the
luncheon-table. Violet suggested a move to the garden, and he fell in
with the proposal with a readiness that plainly showed that he had every
intention of inflicting his company upon them for some time longer.

"It's confoundedly lonely up at The Warren," he remarked pathetically,
as he lounged after her into the sunshine.

Violet laughed over her shoulder, an unlighted cigarette between her
teeth. "You're hardly ever there."

"No. Well, it's a fact. I can't stand it. I'm a sociable sort of chap,
you know. I like society."

"Why don't you marry?" laughed Violet.

"That's a question to which I can find no answer," he declared.
"Why--why, indeed!"

"Hateful man!" murmured Olga, looking after them. "How I wish he would
go!"

"Leave them alone for a spell," advised Max. "Go and mend your stockings
in peace! Miss Campion is quite equal to entertaining him unassisted."

But Olga hesitated to pursue this course, and finally collected her work
and followed her two guests into the garden.

Max departed upon his rounds, and a very unpleasant sense of
responsibility descended upon her.

She took up a central position under the lime-trees that bordered the
tennis-court, but Major Hunt-Goring and Violet did not join her. They
sauntered about the garden-paths just out of earshot, and several times
it seemed to Olga that they were talking confidentially together. She
wondered impatiently how Violet could endure the man at such close
quarters. But then there were many things that Violet liked that she
found quite unbearable.

Slowly the afternoon wore away. The young hostess still sat under the
limes, severely darning, but Violet and her companion had disappeared
unobtrusively into a more secluded part of the garden. For nearly half
an hour she had heard no sound of voices. She wondered if she ought to
go in search of them, but her pile of work was still somewhat formidable
and she was both to leave it. She continued to darn therefore with
unflagging energy, till suddenly a hand touched her shoulder and a man's
voice spoke softly in her ear.

"Hullo, little one! All alone? What has become of the fiery-headed
assistant?"

She flung his hand away with a violent gesture. So engrossed had she
been with getting through her work that she had not heard his step upon
the grass.

"Are you just off?" she asked him frigidly. "Will you have anything
before you go?"

Hunt-Goring laughed--a soft, unpleasant laugh. "Many thanks!" he said.
"I was just asking myself that question. Generous of you to suggest it
though. Perhaps you--like myself--are feeling bored."

He lowered himself on to the grassy bank beside her chair, smiling up at
her with easy insolence. Olga did not look at him. Handsome though he
undoubtedly was, he was the one man of her acquaintance whose eyes she
shrank from meeting. His very proximity sent a shiver of disgust
through her. She made a covert movement to edge her chair away.

"Where is Miss Campion?" she said.

He laughed again, that hateful confidential laugh of his. "She has gone
indoors to rest. The heat made her sleepy. I suggested the hammock, but
she wouldn't run the risk of being caught napping. I see that there is
small danger of that with you."

Olga stiffened. She was putting together her work with evident
determination. "I will see you off," she said.

"You seem in a mighty hurry to get rid of me," he said, without moving.

She laid her mending upon the grass and rose. "I am busy--as you see,"
she returned.

He looked at her for a moment, then very deliberately followed her
example. He stood looking down at her from his great height, a
speculative smile on his face.

"You've soon had enough of me, what?" he suggested.

Olga's pale eyes gleamed for an instant like steel suddenly bared to the
sun. She said nothing whatever, merely stood before him very stiff and
straight, plainly waiting for him to go.

"It's a pity to outstay one's welcome," he said. "I wouldn't do that for
the world. But what about that kiss you offered me just now?"

"I?" said Olga, quivering disdain in the word.

"You, my little spitfire!" he said genially. "And it won't be the first
time, what? Come now! You're always running away, but you should reflect
that you're bound to be caught sooner or later. You didn't think I was
going to let you off, did you?"

She stood before him speechless, with clenched hands.

He drew a little nearer. "You pay your debts, don't you? And what more
suitable opportunity than the present? You are so elusive nowadays.
Why, I haven't seen you except from afar since last Christmas. You were
always such a nice, sociable little girl till then."

"Sociable!" whispered Olga.

"Well, you were!" He laughed again in his easy fashion. "Don't you
remember what fun we had at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, and how you
came to tea with me on the sly a few days after, and how we kissed under
the mistletoe, and how you promised--"

"I promised nothing!" burst out Olga, with flashing eyes.

"Oh, pardon me! You promised to kiss me again some day. Have you
forgotten? I hardly think your memory is as short as that."

He drew nearer still, and slipped a cajoling arm about her. "Why are we
in such a towering rage, I wonder? Surely you don't want to repudiate
your liabilities! You promised, you know."

She flung up a desperate face to his. "Very well, Major Hunt-Goring,"
she said breathlessly. "Take it--and go!"

He bent to her. "But you must give," he said.

"Very well," she said again. "It--it will be the last!"

"Will it?" he questioned, pausing. "In that case, I feel almost inclined
to postpone the pleasure, particularly as--"

"Don't torture me!" she said in a whisper half--choked.

Her eyes were tightly shut; but Hunt-Goring's were looking over her
head, and a sudden gleam of malicious humour shone in them. He turned
them upon the white, shrinking face of the girl who stood rigid but
unresisting within the circle of his arm. And then very suddenly he bent
and kissed her on the lips.

She shivered through and through and broke from him with her hands over
her face.

"But you didn't pay your debt, you know," said Hunt-Goring amiably. "I
won't trouble you now, however, as we are no longer alone. Another
day--in a more secluded spot--"

No longer alone! Olga looked up with a gasp. Her face was no longer
pale, but flaming red. She seemed to be burning from head to foot.

And there, not a dozen paces from her, was Maxwell Wyndham, carelessly
approaching, his hands in his pockets, his hat thrust to the back of his
head, a faint, supercilious smile cocking one corner of his mouth, his
whole bearing one of elaborate unconsciousness.

This much Olga saw; but she did not wait for more. The situation was
beyond her. An involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped her, an
inarticulate sound that seemed physically wrung from her; and then,
without a second glance, ignominiously she turned and fled.

The sound of Hunt-Goring's oily laugh followed her as she went, and
added speed to her flying feet.

It was several minutes later that Max entered the surgery, carrying an
armful of stockings, and found her scrubbing her face vigorously over
the basin that was kept there. She had turned on the hot water, and a
cloud of steam arose above her head.

"Don't scald yourself!" said Max. "Try the pumice!"

"Oh, go away!" gasped Olga, with a furious stamp.

"Not going," said Max.

He fetched out a clean towel, and placed it within her reach. Then he
sat down on the table and waited, whistling below his breath.

Olga grabbed the towel at last and buried her face in it. "Do you want
to make me--hate you?" She flung at him through its folds.

"Don't be silly!" said Max.

"I'm not!" she cried stormily. "I'm not! It's you who--who make bad
worse--always!"

He stood up abruptly. "No, I don't. I help--when I can. Sit down, and
stop crying!"

"I'm not crying!" she sobbed.

"Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly. I'll make you
drink some _sal volatile_ if you don't."

"I'm sure you won't. I--I--I'm not a bit afraid of you!" came in muffled
tones of distress from the crumpled towel.

"All right. Who said you were?" said Max. "Sit down now! Here's a chair.
Now--let me have the towel! Yes, really, Olga!" He loosened her hold
upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence. "There,
that's better. You look as if you'd got scarlet fever. What did you want
to boil yourself like that for? Now, don't cry! It's futile and quite
unnecessary. Just sit quiet till you feel better! There's no one about
but me, and I don't count."

He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began
to sort them into pairs.

"By Jove! You're in the middle of one of mine," he said. "I'll finish
this."

He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.

"Oh, don't!" said Olga. "You--you will only make a mess of it."

He waved his hand with airy assurance.

"I never make a mess of anything, and I'm a lot cleverer than you think.
What train is Nick coming home by?"

"I don't know. The five-twenty probably."

He glanced at the clock. "Half an hour from now. And where is the fair
Violet?"

"I don't know. He said she had gone in. I suppose I ought to go and
see."

"Sit still!" said Max, frowning over his darning. "She is probably
reading some obscene novel, and won't be wanting you."

"Max!"

"I apologize," said Max.

Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."

"It's me," said Max.

She dried the last of her tears. "What--what did you do with him?"

"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."

"I wish Mitchel would run into something and kill him!" said Olga, with
sudden vehemence.

Max's brows went up. "Afraid I didn't give Mitchel instructions to that
effect."

He spoke without raising his eyes, being quite obviously intent upon his
darning. Olga watched him for a few seconds in silence. Finally she gave
herself a slight shake and rose.

"You're doing that on the right side," she said.

"It's the best way to approach this kind of hole," said Max.

She came and stood by his side, still closely watching him.

"Dr. Wyndham!" she said at last, her voice very low.

"Please don't make me nervous!" said Max.

"Don't, please!" she said. "I want to speak to you seriously."

He drew out his needle with a reflective air. "Are you going to ask me
to prescribe for you?"

"No."

"Then don't call me 'Dr. Wyndham'!" he said severely. "I don't answer to
it, except in business hours."

She smiled faintly. "Max, then! Will you do me a favour?"

Max's eyes found hers with disconcerting suddenness. "On one condition,"
he said.

"What is it?"

The corner of his mouth went up. "I will name my condition when you have
named your favour."

She hesitated momentarily. "Oh, it isn't very much," she said. "I only
want you not to tell--Nick, or anyone--about--about what happened this
afternoon."

"Why isn't Nick to know?" asked Max.

"He would be so angry," she said, "and he couldn't do any good. He would
only go and get himself hurt."

"Would you care to know what Hunt-Goring said to me after you had
effected a retreat?" asked Max.

The hot colour began to fade out of her cheeks. "Yes," she said, under
her breath.

"He said--you know his breezy style: 'Don't be astonished! Miss
Ratcliffe and I understand one another. In fact, we've been more or less
engaged for a long time, though it isn't generally known.'"

"Max!" Olga started back as if from a blow. "He never said--that!"

"Yes, he did. I guessed it was a lie," said Max, "in spite of
appearances."

She winced. "It is a lie!" she said with vehemence. "You--you told him
so?"

"I was not in a position to do that," said Max. "But if you authorize me
to do so--"

"Yes--yes?" she said feverishly.

"I can only do it if you accept my condition," he said.

"That means you want me to tell you everything," she said.

"No, it doesn't. I know quite as much as I need to know, and I shan't
believe anything he may be pleased to say on the subject. It's up to you
to tell me as much or as little as you like. No, the condition is this,
and there is nothing in it that you need jib at. If you really want me
to give him the lie, you must furnish me with full authority. You must
put me in a position to do it effectually."

He was looking straight into her face of agitation. There was a certain
remorselessness about him that made him in a fashion imposing. Olga
quivered a little under the insistence of his eyes, but she flinched no
more.

"Yes?" she said. "Well, I do authorize you. It's got to be stopped
somehow. I never dreamed of his saying that."

"Quite so," said Max. "But that isn't enough. You will have to go a step
further. Give me a free hand! It's the only way if you don't want Nick
rushing in. Give me the right to protect you! I promise to use it with
discretion."

He smiled very slightly with the words; but Olga only gazed at him
uncomprehendingly.

"How? I don't know what you mean."

He held out his hand to her abruptly. "Don't faint!" he said. "Let me
tell him--as a dead secret--that you are engaged to me!"

Olga gasped.

Max got up. "Only as a temporary expedient," he said. "I'll let you go
again--when you wish it."

His hand remained outstretched, and after a very considerable pause she
laid hers within it.

"But really," she said, with an effort, "I don't think we need do
anything so desperate as that."

"A desperate case requires a desperate remedy sometimes," said Max, with
a humorous twinkle in his eyes "It doesn't mean anything, but we must
floor this rascal somehow. Is it a bargain?"

She hesitated. "You won't tell anyone else?"

"Not a soul," said Max.

She still hesitated. "But--he won't believe you."

"He will if I refer him to you," said Max.

Olga pondered the matter. "Are you sure it's the only way?"

"If you don't want Nick to know," he said.

"And what if he--spreads it abroad?" she hazarded.

"We can always treat it as idle gossip, you know," said Max. "Imminent
but not actual--the sort of thing over which we blush demurely and say
nothing."

She smiled in spite of herself. "It's very good of you," she said with
feeling.

"Not a bit," said Max. "I shall enjoy it. I think it ought to put an
effectual stop to all unwelcome amenities on his part. We'll try it
anyhow."

He released her hand, and resumed his darning, still looking quizzical.

Olga lingered, dubiously reminding herself that only a few hours before
she had distrusted this man whom circumstance now made her champion.

"Scissors, please!" said Max.

She gave them to him absently. He held out the unsevered wool, his eyes
laughing at her over it.

"You can do the cutting," he said.

She complied, and in the same instant she met his look. "Max," she said
rather breathlessly, "I--don't quite like it."

"All right," he said imperturbably. "Don't do it!"

She paused, looking at him almost imploringly. "You're sure it won't
mean anything?"

"It can mean as much or as little as you like," said Max.

"I didn't mean--quite that," faltered Olga. "But--it won't be--it never
could be--like a real engagement; could it?"

"Like, yet unlike," said Max. "It will be a sort of elastic and
invisible bond, made to stretch to the utmost limit, never breaking of
itself, though capable of being severed by either party at a moment's
notice."

Olga drew a breath of relief. "If that is really all--"

"What more could the most exacting require?" said Max.

What indeed! Yet the phrase struck Olga somehow as being not wholly
satisfactory. Perhaps even then, vaguely she began to realize that the
species of bond he described might prove the most inviolable of all. But
she raised no further argument, doubts notwithstanding; for, in face of
his assurance, there seemed nothing left to say.




CHAPTER IX

THE PROJECT


The sound of Nick's cheery, untuneful humming seemed to invest all
things with a more normal and wholesome aspect. Olga went to meet him
with unfeigned delight.

He put his arm around her, flashing a swift look over her as he did it.
"Well, Olga _mia_. I trust there has been no more bickering in my
absence."

"No, I've made friends with Max," she said. "Come and have tea!"

He went through the house with her to the garden where tea awaited him.
Max was seated alone beside the little table under the trees.

"You're not a very large party," commented Nick.

"Best we can do under the circumstances," said Max. "The kids are still
paper-chasing, and Miss Campion, overcome by the heat, has retired to
bed. I propose to follow her example if the company will excuse me. I
only put in two hours last night, and may have to attend another case
to-night. Here, Ratcliffe, you can have my chair."

"Are you coming down to dinner?" asked Olga.

"I am," he said.

"Because you needn't. I can send it up."

"Thanks! I'll come down," said Max.

He turned away towards the house, but stopped abruptly as Violet
suddenly sauntered forth. She was yawning as she came.

"Good people, pray excuse me! I'm always sleepy after a motor-run. What
has become of the dear major, Allegro? You haven't banished him
already!"

"Did you think he was going to live here?" said Olga, with a very
unwonted touch of asperity.

"I expect he will, dear, now he knows I'm here." Violet subsided into
the vacant chair with a languid smile at Nick who offered it to her. Her
eyes were wonderfully bright, but the lids were heavy. "I'm horribly
sleepy still," she said. "Give me some tea, quick, to wake me up! Max, I
haven't the energy to amuse you, so you may consider yourself excused."

"Many thanks!" said Max. "I am going to give myself the pleasure of
waiting upon you."

"Nick can do that," said Olga. "Do go and get a rest!"

"My dear, if you show yourself so anxious to be rid of him, he'll stay,"
protested Violet. "Haven't you discovered that yet? You should display
an elegant indifference, a pray-stay-if-you've-a-mind-to-but-don't-
imagine-that-I-want-you kind of attitude. There are not many men who can
face that for long." She broke off to yawn. "No, thanks. Nothing to eat.
I'm too sleepy. Well, Nick, have you settled the affairs of the nation
satisfactorily?"

"On the contrary. The nation is trying to settle mine," said Nick.

"Oh, really! What more could anyone want you to do?"

"I'm specially qualified for many things, it seems," said Nick modestly.
"What has Hunt-Goring been here for?"

"Managed to break his thumb," said Max.

"Yes, and stayed philandering all the afternoon," chimed in Violet. "How
did you manage to get rid of him, Allegro? He wouldn't go for me."

"Dr. Wyndham came back early and sent him home in the car," said Olga,
with a slight effort.

"I was bored to death with him," declared Violet. "I simply deserted him
at last because I couldn't keep my eyes open. Give me my _tea strong,
please_, or I shall fall _asleep again_ under your eyes."

"Do you mind if I smoke?" said Max.

"Not in the least; quite delighted."

He offered her his cigarette-case. "P'raps you'll join me."

"No, thanks. I've been smoking all the afternoon." She stretched up her
arms behind her head; they were bare to the elbow, soft and white and
rounded. Her eyelids began to droop a little more. She snuggled down
into the chair, plainly on the verge of slumber.

And in that moment Olga looked at Max. He was intently watching the
girl, so intently that he was oblivious of everything else; and into her
mind, all-unbidden, there flashed again the memory of the green
dragon-fly--the monster of the stream--darting upon the little scarlet
moth. It sent a curious revulsion of feeling through her. For the moment
she felt physically sick.

Then impetuously, desperately, she intervened, "Violet, dear, wake up
and have your tea! It's this horrid thundery weather that is affecting
you. I've felt it myself. Max, you won't get much of a rest if you don't
go soon."

Instantly his eyes were turned upon her, and she was conscious of the
sudden quickening of her heart; for she saw at a glance that he resented
her interference.

"Go on, Max!" grinned Nick. "Why can't you take a graceful hint, man?
There may be another luckless little brat wanting you to-night."

"One thing at a time," said Max curtly.

He took out a cigarette and lighted it, a frown between his shaggy
brows. He looked neither at Violet nor Olga but his attitude was one of
stubborn determination.

"Are you waiting to see me drink my tea?" asked Violet, rousing herself
in response to Olga's hand on her arm.

"I am," he said.

"Oh, well, that's soon done," she said, and raised the cup to her lips.

Max smoked on, taciturn and frowning. Violet finished her tea, and asked
for more. He finished his cigarette and turned to her.

"I wonder if you would let me try one of yours."

"Not now, I'm afraid," she made answer. "I left my case upstairs."

He lighted another of his own and rose.

"Good-night!" said Nick.

"I shall be down to dinner," Max responded gruffly, and sauntered away.

"Ill-tempered cuss!" said Nick. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's jealous," said Violet.

"Of whom?" Nick was frankly curious.

"Of Major Hunt-Goring. He's been dangling after me half the afternoon.
How would you like me to marry him, Allegro?"

"Who?" said Olga, turning crimson.

"Oh, not Max, you may be sure!" Her friend laughed mischievously. "Max
is only an interlude."

"And Hunt-Goring the main theme?" suggested Nick.

She laughed again indifferently. "Perhaps, I can't say I'm enamoured of
him, though. He's rather a brute at heart, underneath the oil-silk.
Well, I'm going to lie in the hammock and sleep."

She got up, stretched luxuriously, and strolled away over the grass.

Nick watched her go with flickering, observant eyes; but he made no
comment upon her. Only as she passed from sight, he made an odd little
grimace as if dismissing a slightly distasteful subject from his mind.
Then he turned to his niece.

"Well, my chicken, you've had a busy afternoon."

"A beastly afternoon, Nick!" she responded warmly. "And I'm very glad
it's over, and I don't want to talk about it. Tell me about your doings
instead! What were you wanted for?"

"Prepare for a shock!" said Nick. "I haven't got over it myself yet.
They want to pack me off to India again. I told 'em I couldn't go, but
they seem to take it for granted that I shall. Don't know what Muriel
will say to it, I'm sure. They say it would be only a six months' job,
but I have my doubts of that."

"Nick! India!"

"India, my child--naked and unadulterated India! The Imperial
Commissioners have quite decided that I'm the man for the job. I kept on
saying 'Can't!' and 'Won't!' But that didn't make the least difference.
Old Reggie Bassett's doing, I'll lay a wager. He will have it that my
genius is thrown away in England. And they inform me rather brutally
that my seat in Parliament would be far more easily filled than this
Sharapura post. Also the young Rajah has done me the honour to ask for
me. We went pig-sticking together once--years ago, and I chanced to head
off Piggie at a critical moment for young Akbar. On the strength of
that, he wants me to go and be his political adviser for a few months.
It seems the State is in rather a muddle. His father was a shocking old
shuffler, and there are plenty of _budmashes_ about, if report says
true. But this young Rajah is anxious to get things straightened out,
and the Commissioner wants a report made and so on. Altogether," Nick
paused with a smile on his yellow face, "they were very persuasive," he
said.

"Nick! You're going!" Olga exclaimed.

He laughed. "If you want my impartial opinion as to that," he said, "I
believe I am."

She drew a deep breath. Her eyes were shining. "Oh, how I wish I were a
man! I'd come with you."

"Ladies are admitted," said Nick.

"Ah! I wonder what Muriel will say," she said. "Does she like India?"

"India is a large place," he pointed out. "She doesn't like Ghawalkhand,
and she isn't keen on Simla--which is sheer prejudice on her part.
Sharapura she has never seen. It's a small State in the very middle of
the Empire. There are rivers and jungles and tigers and snakes--quite a
lot of snakes; a decent little capital and a hill-station, healthy
enough though not very high. The natives are exactly like monkeys. I
learnt to speak their lingo one winter from a villainous bearer I had
when some of us were stationed there. There is a small native garrison
in cantonments at the capital. There is also a fort and a race-course. I
won the Great Mogul's Cup there--a memorable occasion. My mount was a
wall-eyed lanky brute of a Waler, with the action of a camel. But he had
the spirit of an Olympian, and we won at a canter."

Nick stopped. His eyes also had begun to shine. Olga was listening
enraptured.

"How I wish I was Muriel!" she said. "Of course she'll want to go, Nick.
It sounds perfectly enchanting."

"Especially the tigers and snakes," laughed Nick. "Poor Muriel! It's
rather a shame to ask her. She had an overdose of the East at the
outset, and she has never got over it."

"Oh, but that's æons ago!" protested Olga.

"I know; but it went deep." Nick leaned back abruptly, with closed eyes.
"I wonder if I can bring myself to refuse finally and conclusively--without
telling her," he said ruminatively.

"Never, Nick!" Olga sprang from her chair. "You shan't think of such a
thing! Nick! A heaven-sent chance like that! Oh, it wouldn't be fair.
I'm sure she would say so. You must--you must tell her!"

Nick's hand clenched upon the arm of his chair. He kept his eyes shut.
"You see, dear," he said, "there's the kiddie too. I'm an unnatural
beast. I'd actually forgotten him for the moment. One-eyed of me, wasn't
it?"

"Nick--darling!" Suddenly Olga was kneeling beside his chair; she put
her arms about his neck. "You shan't call yourself anything so horrid!"
she said. "Dad and I will take care of little Reggie. You know you can
trust him to me, Nick. I'll watch over him day and night."

"Bless your heart!" said Nick. He lodged his head against her shoulder
after the fashion she most loved. "You're a sweet little pal," he said.
"But I doubt if Muriel would consent to go so far away from him, and I'm
a selfish hound myself to contemplate such a thing. No; don't contradict
me! It's rude. I'm that, and several other things besides. I'd no idea I
was so much in the grip of the East. It's a curious thing. One feels it
in the blood. It's six years--more--since I climbed on to the shelf, and
I've been quite smug and self-satisfied most of the time. There's been a
twinge of regret every now and then, but nothing I couldn't whistle
away. But now--" his words quickened; he spoke them whimsically, yet
passionately, in her ear--"between you and me, I'd give an eye, an ear,
or a leg--anything I possess in duplicate--to come off the shelf, and
have one more fling. I'm stiff! I'm stiff! And, ye gods, I'm only
four-and-thirty! I always thought I'd go till sixty at least. I entered
Parliament just to keep going; but that's only a steady progress
downhill--a sort of frog's march in which you kick and are kicked, but
don't do much besides. I'm a fighter, kiddie. I wasn't made to ornament
the shelf. I'm not a hero; only an ordinary, restless, discontented
mortal. They told me this afternoon that it was time I did something,
that I was dropping out, that I should ossify if I sat still much
longer. (A good term that; worthy of our friend Max!) And, by Heaven,
they're right! But how can I help it? I know in my heart of hearts that
it would be sheer brutality to spring this on Muriel now."

He ceased to speak, and there fell a silence. Olga's arms clasped him
very tightly. Her cheek pressed his forehead. It was not often that Nick
opened his heart to her thus. Only twice before had it ever happened,
and on each occasion he had been in trouble--once when the woman he
loved had sent back his engagement ring through her, and once again
nearly two years later when that same woman--Muriel, his wife--had lain
at death's door all through one dreadful night while they two, close
pals, had waited huddled together in the passage outside her room. Those
two occasions were sacred to Olga, never spoken of to any, shrined deep
in the most inner, most secret recesses of her heart. Nick's confidence
had ever been her most cherished possession. It thrilled her now with
something more than pride; and through her silence her sympathy came out
to him in a flood of understanding which needed no verbal expression.

She spoke at last very softly, almost in a whisper. "Nick, you know,
don't you, that you are dearer to me than anyone else in the world?"

He put up his hand and patted her cheek. "What! Still?" he said.

"Still, Nick? What do you mean?"

"Nothing at all," said Nick promptly. "Go on!"

She took his hand and held it. "Nick darling, do you remember how I came
and kept house for you--years ago, at Redlands, when I was a child?"

"Rather!" said Nick. "Bully, wasn't it?"

She hesitated a little. "Nick, I'm going to make a perfectly awful
suggestion."

"Don't mind me!" said Nick.

She laughed faintly. "I don't, dear,--formidable as you can be. It only
flashed into my mind that if Muriel feels she really can't leave Reggie,
and if she can possibly bear to part with you and you with her, could
you possibly put up with me as a substitute for those few months and
take me instead, if Dad could spare me?"

"By Jove!" said Nick, sitting up.

"I know it's great cheek of me to suggest it," Olga hastened to say.
"For of course I know I'd be a very poor substitute; but at least I
could keep a motherly eye on you, and see that you were properly clothed
and fed. And Muriel herself couldn't possibly love you more."

"By Jove!" Nick said again. Olga's face flushed and eager was close to
his. He bent suddenly forward and kissed it. "And what about you, my
chicken?" he said.

"I, Nick? I should love it!" she said, with candid eyes raised to his.
"You can't imagine how much I should love it."

"You'd be homesick," said Nick.

"Nick! With you!"

He was looking at her with shrewd, flickering eyes. "Do you mean to
say," he said, "that there is no one here that you would mind leaving
for so long?"

"There's Dad of course," she said. "But--don't you think perhaps Muriel
wouldn't mind taking care of him for me if I took care of you for her?"

Nick broke into a laugh. "Excellent, my child! Most ingenious! Jim and
Muriel are fast allies. But--Jim is not the only person you would leave
behind. You ought to consider that before you get too obsessed by this
enchanting idea. It's pretty beastly, you know, to feel that half the
world stretches between you and--someone you might at any moment develop
a pressing desire to see."

Olga frowned at him. "What are you driving at, Nick?"

"I'm only indicating the obvious," said Nick.

"No, you're not, dear. You're hinting things."

"In that case," said Nick, "you are at liberty to treat me with the
contempt I deserve. Look here! We won't talk about this any more to-day.
The subject is too indigestible. We'll sleep on it, and see what we
think of it to-morrow."

"You're not going to write to Muriel to-night?" asked Olga.

"Not to-night. They've given me a week to make up my mind."

"And when would you have to go?"

"Some time towards the end of next month, or possibly the beginning of
October. But as we're not going," said Nick, "I move that the discussion
be postponed."

He smiled into her eyes, a baffling, humorous smile, and rose.

"But it was a ripping idea of yours," he said. "I'm quite grateful to
you for mentioning it. There are some chocolates in the hall for you.
Don't give them all to Violet, charm she never so wisely."

"Oh, Nick, you darling! Fancy your remembering me! Do let's have some at
once!"

They went indoors together with something of the air of conspirators,
and in the close companionship of her hero Olga managed to forget that
she had so recently been driven to another man for protection. In fact,
the interview in the surgery, with the episode that had preceded it, was
completely crowded out of her mind by this new and dazzling idea that
had flashed so suddenly into her brain, and which seemed already to have
altered the course of her life.

Many and startling were the visions that filled her sleeping hours that
night but each one of them served but to impress upon her the same
thing. When she arose in the morning she told herself with a little
shiver of sheer excitement that the gates of the world were opening to
her, and that soon she would actually behold those wonders of which till
then she had only dreamed.




CHAPTER X

THE DOOR


When remembrance of the previous day's happenings came to Olga, she was
already so deeply engrossed in household duties that she was able to
dismiss the matter without much difficulty. It was one of the busiest
mornings of the week, and no sooner had she finished indoors than she
donned a sun-bonnet and big apron and betook herself to the
raspberry-bed to gather fruit for jam.

The day was hot, and Violet had established herself in the hammock under
the lime-trees with a book and a box of cigarettes. The three boys had
gone with Nick on a fishing expedition, and all was supremely quiet.

The sun blazed mercilessly down upon Olga as she toiled, but she would
not be discouraged. The raspberries were many and ready to drop with
ripeness, and the jam-making could not be deferred. So intent was she
that she really almost forgot the physical discomfort in her anxiety to
accomplish her task. She had meant to do it in the cool of the previous
evening, but her talk with Nick had driven the matter absolutely from
her mind.

So she laboured in the full heat of a burning August day, till her head
began to throb and her muscles to ache so unbearably that it was no
longer possible to ignore them. It was at the commencement of the last
row but one (they were very long rows) that she became aware that her
energies were seriously flagging. The rest of the garden seemed to be
swimming in a haze around her, but she stubbornly ignored that, and bent
again to her work, fixing her attention once more with all her
resolution upon the great rose-red berries that were waiting to be
gathered. She must finish now. She had promised herself to clear the bed
by luncheon-time. But it was certainly very hard labour, harder than she
had ever found it before. She began to feel as if her limbs were
weighted, and the fruit itself danced giddily before her aching eyes.

Suddenly she heard a step on the ash-path near her. She looked up,
half-turning as she did so. The next instant it was as if a knife had
suddenly pierced her temples. She cried out sharply with the pain of it,
staggered, clutched wildly at emptiness, and fell. The contents of her
basket scattered around her in spite of her desperate efforts to save
them, and this disaster was to Olga the climax of all. She went into a
brief darkness in bitterness of spirit.

Not wholly did she lose consciousness, however, for she knew whose arms
lifted her, and even very feebly tried to push them away. In the end she
found herself sitting on an old wooden bench in the shade of the
garden-wall, with her head against Max's shoulder, and his hand, very
vital and full of purpose, grasping her wrist.

"Oh, Max," she said, with a painful gasp, "my raspberries!"

"Damn the raspberries!" growled Max. His hand travelled up to her head
and removed the sun-bonnet while he was speaking. "Don't move till you
feel better!" he said. "There's nothing to bother about."

He pressed her temples with a sure, cool touch. She closed her eyes
under it.

"But I must get on," she said uneasily. "I want to make the jam this
afternoon."

"Do you?" said Max grimly.

She was silent for a little. He kept his hand upon her head, and she
was glad of its support though she wished it had not been his.

"It must be nearly luncheon-time," she said at last, with an effort.

"It is," said Max. "We will go indoors."

"Oh, but I must pick up my raspberries first, and--there's a whole
row--more--to gather yet."

"You will have to leave that job for someone else," he said. "You are
not fit for it. Are you quite mad, I wonder?"

"It had to be done," said Olga. "I must finish now--really I must
finish." She took his hand from her head and slowly raised it. Instantly
that agonizing pain shot through her temples again. She barely
suppressed a cry.

"What is it?" he said.

"My head!" she gasped. "And oh, Max, I do feel so sick."

He stood up. "Come along!" he said. "I'm going to carry you in."

She raised a feeble protest to which he paid no more attention than if
it had been the buzzing of a fly. Very steadily and strongly he lifted
her.

"Put your head on my shoulder!" he said, and she obeyed him like a
child.

They encountered no one on the way back to the house. Straight in and
straight upstairs went Max, finally depositing her upon her bed. He
seemed to know exactly how she felt, for he propped her head high with a
skill that she found infinitely comforting, and drew the window-curtains
to shade her eyes. Then very quietly he proceeded to remove her shoes.

"Thank you very much," murmured Olga. "Don't bother!"

He came and stood beside her and again felt her pulse. "Look here," he
said. "As soon as you feel a little better, you undress and slip into
bed. I'll come up again in half an hour and give you something for your
head. Understand?"

"Oh, no!" Olga said. "No! I can't go to bed, really. I'll lie here for a
little while, but I shall be quite all right presently."

Max continued to feel her pulse. He was frowning a good deal. "You will
do as I say," he said deliberately. "You are to go to bed at once, and
you won't come down again for the rest of the day."

There was so much of finality in his speech that Olga became aware of
the futility of argument. She felt moreover totally unfit for it. She
only hazarded one more protest.

"But what about Violet?"

"She can take care of herself," he said. "I will tell her."

There was no help for it. Olga gave in without further protest. But she
did venture to say as he released her hand, "Please don't bother about
bringing me anything! I couldn't possibly take it."

"Leave that to me!" said Max brusquely.

He left her then, to her unutterable relief. There was no doubt about
it; she was feeling very ill, so ill that the business of undressing was
almost more than she could accomplish. But she did manage it at last,
and crept thankfully into bed, laying her throbbing head upon the pillow
with the vague wonder if she would ever have the strength to lift it
again.

From that she drifted into a maze of pain that blurred all thought, and
from which she only roused herself to find Max once more by her side. He
was watching her closely.

"Is your head very bad?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I've got some stuff here that will soothe it," he said.

"Just drink it down, and then see if you can get a sleep."

His tone was so gentle that had her pain been less severe Olga might
have found room for amazement. As it was, she began very weakly to cry.

"Now don't be silly!" said Max. "You needn't move. I'll do it all."

He slipped his arm under the pillow, and lifted her. She commanded
herself and drank from the medicine-glass he held to her lips.

"What queer stuff!" she said. "Is it--is it 'the pain-killer'?"

"What do you know about 'the pain-killer'?" he said.

She shrank a little at the question, and he did not pursue it. He laid
her down again, settled the pillows, and left her.

Olga lay very still. She felt as if a strange glow were dawning in her
brain, a kind of mental radiance, inexpressibly wonderful, absorbing her
pain as mist is absorbed by the sun. Gradually it grew and spread till
the pain was all gone, swamped, forgotten, in this curious flood of
warmth and ecstasy. It was the most marvellous sensation she had ever
experienced. Her whole being thrilled responsive to the glow. It was as
though a door had been opened somewhere above her and she were being
drawn upwards by some invisible means, upwards and upwards, light as
gossamer and strangely transcendentally happy, towards the warmth and
brightness and wonder that lay beyond.

Up and still up her spirit seemed to soar. Of her body she was
supremely, most blissfully, unconscious. She felt as one at the entrance
of a dream-world, a world of unknown unimagined splendours, a world of
golden atmosphere, of ineffable rapture, and she was floating up through
the ether, eager-spirited, wrapt in delight.

And then quite suddenly she knew that Max had returned to her side. His
hand was laid upon her arm, his fingers sensitive and ruthless closed
upon her pulse.

In that instant Olga also knew that her dream-world was fading from her,
her paradise was lost. Softly, inexorably, the door that had begun to
open to her closed. The hand that grasped her drew her firmly back to
earth and held her there.

In her disappointment she could have wept, so vital, so entrancing, had
been the vision. Piteously she tried to plead with him, but it was as
though an obscuring veil had been dropped upon her. She could only utter
unintelligible murmurings. She sought for words and found them not.

And then she heard his voice quite close to her, very tender and
reassuring.

"Don't vex yourself, sweetheart! It's all right--all right."

His hand smoothed her brow; she almost fancied that he kissed her hair,
but she was not certain and it did not seem to matter. Surely nothing
could ever matter again since the closing of that door!

A brief confusion was hers, a brief wandering in dark places, and then a
slow deepening of the dark, the spreading of a great silence....

The last thing she heard was the steady ticking of a watch that someone
held close to her. The last thing her brain registered was the close,
unvarying grip of a hand upon her wrist....

It was many hours--it might have been years to Olga--before she awoke.
Very slowly her clogged spirit climbed out of the deep, deep waters of
oblivion in which it had been steeped. For a long time she lay with
closed eyes, semi-conscious, not troubling to summon her faculties. At
last very wearily she opened them, and found Nick seated beside her,
alertly watching.

"Hullo!" she murmured languidly.

"Hullo, darling!" he made soft response. "Had a nice sleep?"

She stared at him vaguely. "What are you sitting there for?"

"Taking care of you," said Nick.

She frowned, collecting her wits with difficulty. "It's night, isn't
it?"

"Half-past one," said Nick.

"My dear!" She opened her eyes a little wider. "But what are you waiting
for? Why don't you go to bed?"

"I like sitting up sometimes," said Nick. "Keeps me in form."

She turned her head on the pillow. "Is Max here?"

"No," said Nick.

"But--he has been?" she persisted.

"Yes. He's been in now and then."

"Ah!" Olga frowned still more. "Am I ill, Nick?" she asked, with a touch
of nervousness.

His lean hand sought and held hers. "You've had a touch of sun, dear,"
he said, "but you've slept it off. Max is quite satisfied about you.
You'll feel a bit rotten for a day or two, but that's all."

"How horrid!" said Olga.

"Don't worry!" said Nick. "I'm here. I shall stick like a leech for the
future. You will never be out of my sight again in your waking hours."

She squeezed his hand. "Poor old Nick! I'm dreadfully sorry. But I had
to get those raspberries. Oh, what's that?"

She started violently at the soft opening of the door. Nick got up, but
she clung to him so fast that he could not leave her side. He bent down
over her.

"It's all right, darling. It's only Max with some refreshments. We'll
leave you in peace as soon as you have broken your fast."

"I don't want Max," she whispered. "Please send him away!"

"I'll go like a bird," Max said, "if you will let me take your pulse
first. It isn't much to ask, is it?"

He set down a tray he was carrying, and came and stood beside Nick.
Outlined against the dim light shed by a shaded night-lamp, he looked
gigantically square and strong.

"I won't hurt you, Olga," he said. "Won't you trust me?"

Again his voice was softened to a great gentleness; yet it compelled. In
another second Nick had withdrawn himself, and Max stood alone beside
her bed. He stooped low over her, put back the hair from her forehead,
looked intently into her eyes.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"No," she whispered back.

"You are sure? It doesn't hurt you to move your eyes?"

"No," she said again.

He passed his hand again over her forehead, felt her face, her temples,
finally turned his attention to her pulse. As he took out his watch, she
remembered again the two things that had outlasted all other impressions
before she had sunk into her long sleep. And with this memory came
another. She raised her eyes to his grave face.

"Max!"

"In a moment!" said Max.

But it was many moments before he laid her hand down.

"You will be all right when you have eaten something," he said then,
"and had another sleep. Is there something you want to say to me?"

His tone was kind, but his manner repressive. She wished the light had
not been so dim upon his face.

"Max," she said, with an effort, "why--why did you close the door?"

She fancied he smiled, grimly humorous, at the question. She was sure
his eyes gleamed mockery. He was silent for a space, and then: "Ask me
some other time!" he said.

She breathed a sigh of disappointment. She knew she would never have the
courage.

He waited a few seconds more, then as she remained silent he laid his
hand again on hers and pressed it lightly.

"Good-night!" he said.

She scarcely responded, nor did he wait for her to respond. In another
moment he had turned from her, and was talking in a low voice to Nick.

A minute later he went softly out, and she saw no more of him that
night.

Nick remained for some little time longer, waiting on her with the
tenderness of a woman. It was wonderful to note how little his infirmity
hampered him. There were very few things that Nick could not accomplish
with one hand as quickly as the rest of the world with two.

But Olga, having recovered the full possession of her faculties, would
not permit him to sacrifice any more of his night's rest to her.

"I shall be perfectly all right," she declared. "If I'm not, you are
only in the next room, and I can rap on the wall."

"Yes, but will you?" said Nick.

"Of course I will."

"Is it a promise?"

She caught his hand and kissed it. "Yes, dear Nick, a promise."

"All right," said Nick. "I'll go."

But he was obviously loth to leave her, and she detained him to assure
him how greatly she loved to be in his care.

"Max tells me I am not in the least fitted to look after you," he said
rather ruefully, "and I believe he's right."

The humility of this speech was so extraordinary that it nearly took
Olga's breath away.

"My dear Nick," she said, "what nonsense! Surely you
don't--seriously--care what Max says?"

"Don't you?" said Nick.

She began to answer in the negative, but tripped up unexpectedly. "I--I
can't quite say. I haven't really thought about it. But--anyhow--it's no
business of his, is it?"

"He thinks it is," said Nick.

"Why?" She suddenly put out her hand to him with a little shiver. "Nick,
you haven't told him about--that scheme of ours?"

"Yes, I have," said Nick.

"Oh, why?" There was unmistakable distress in the question.

Nick knelt down beside her. "Olga, I had to. He's a clever chap,
cleverer than Jim even. I wanted to know if I'd better go on with it, if
he thought--in view of to-day's misfortune--it might upset your health,
supposing you were allowed to go. I couldn't run the risk of that."

"What did he say?" said Olga.

Nick chuckled a little. "He said that your normal health appeared to be
up to the average young woman's, but he hadn't sounded you in any way,
and--"

"And he shan't!" interjected Olga, with vehemence.

"And so couldn't say for certain," ended Nick. "But--I'll tell you
this--he doesn't like our precious scheme--at all."

"Why not?" said Olga. "What has it got to do with him?"

"I don't know," said Nick.

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"My dear, you can do that in the morning--before I write to Muriel."

"I will," said Olga firmly. "It's my belief that you're afraid of him,"
she added, a moment later.

"No, I'm not," said Nick simply.

"Then why are you so careful of his feelings?"

"I shouldn't like to see him writhing in hell," said Nick. "I've done it
myself, and I know exactly what it feels like."

"Really, Nick!"

"Yes, really, little sweetheart. You know or p'raps you don't know--what
fools men can be."

"I know they can be quite unreasonable and very horrid sometimes," said
Olga. "Nick dear, you'll promise me, won't you, that if Muriel agrees
and Dad agrees you won't let an outsider like Max stand in our way?"

"Is he an outsider?" asked Nick humorously.

"He is so far as I am concerned," said Olga. "I can't imagine why you
take any notice of him."

"Are you sure you don't yourself?" asked Nick.

"Oh, in some things perhaps. But not in a matter of this sort. I think
he is very interfering," said Olga resentfully.

Nick smiled and rose. "I shouldn't be too hard on him, kiddie. Doubtless
he has his reasons."

"I should like to know what they are," said Olga.

He stooped for a final kiss. "I daresay--if you were to ask him
prettily--he would tell you."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't," she said. "He never tells me anything, even if I
beg him." She slipped her arms round his neck and held him closely for a
moment. "Nick darling, you will work that lovely scheme of ours if you
possibly can--promise me!--in spite of anything Max may say or do!"

"You don't mind hurting his feelings?" asked Nick.

"Oh, well,"--she hesitated--"he couldn't care all that. It's only his
love of interference."

"Or his love of you? I wonder which!" whispered Nick.

"Nick! Nick!" Wonder, dismay, incredulity, mingled in the cry.

But Nick had already slipped free from the clinging of her arms, and he
did not pause in answer.

"Good-night, Olga _mia_!" he called back to her softly from the door.
"Don't forget to knock on the wall if you feel squeamish!"

And with that he was gone. The latch clicked behind him, and she was
alone.




CHAPTER XI

THE IMPOSSIBLE


Could it be true? Sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, all through
the night Olga asked herself the question; and when morning came she was
still unconvinced. Nothing in Max's manner had ever given her cause to
imagine for an instant that he cared for her. Never for an instant had
she seriously imagined that he could care. Till quite recently she had
believed that a very decided antipathy had existed between them. True,
it had not thriven greatly since the writing of her note; but that had
been an event of only two days before. She was sure he had not cared for
her before that. He could not have begun to care since! And if he had,
how in wonder could Nick have come to know?

Certainly he knew most things. His uncanny shrewdness had moved her many
a time before to amazement and admiration. This quickness of intellect
was hers also, but in a far smaller degree. She could leap to
conclusions herself and often find them correct. But Nick--Nick
literally swooped upon the truth with unerring precision. She had never
known him to miss his mark. But this time--could he be right this time?
It was such a monstrous notion. Its very contemplation bewildered her,
carried her off her feet, made her giddy. She began to be a little
frightened, to cast back her thoughts over all her intercourse with Max
to ascertain if she had ever given him the smallest reason for loving
her. Most emphatically she had never felt drawn towards him. In fact,
she had often been repelled. In all their skirmishes she had invariably
had the worst of it. He had simply despised her resistance, treating it
as a thing of nought. And yet--there was no denying it--their intimacy
had grown. Who but an intimate friend could have made that suggestion
for encompassing her deliverance from the persecutions of that hateful
man? Her face burned afresh over the memory of this. It had certainly
been a desperate remedy--one to which she would never have given her
consent could she for a single instant have suspected that it had been
dictated by anything more than a friendly desire for her welfare.

Surely, argued her practical mind, he could never have been so foolish
as to let himself care deeply for one who so obviously had only the most
casual regard for him! She knew women did these silly things, but surely
not men--and hard-headed men like Max!

Besides, what could he possibly see in her? Was it not Violet upon whom
his attention was constantly focussed? And small wonder, his own
repudiation of sentiment notwithstanding! Did not all men look at her
with dazzled eyes? Even Nick paid her that much homage, though Olga was
privately a little doubtful as to whether he altogether liked her
brilliant friend.

No, she had never for an instant seriously contemplated this possibility
which Nick had whispered into her ear. She wondered what had made him do
it? Had he meant to put her on her guard. Or--staggering thought!--had
he thought to wake her heart to some response? Was he taking Max's part?
Did he want her to be kind to him?

She pictured Max's wrath, sardonically expressed, should he ever become
acquainted with that move of Nick's. She fancied he did not much like
Nick and that suspicion of itself was quite sufficient to present him in
an unfavourable light to her half-involuntary criticism. How could she
ever possibly begin to care for a man who did not admire her hero? Oh,
why had she ever placed herself under an obligation to him, ever
consented to the forging of that bond between them, elastic though it
might be?

Of course it could be severed. He had said so. And severed it should be
at once. But why had she ever suffered it? It weighed upon her
intolerably now that she realized in what foundry its links had been
cast. Even her enemy's impertinences would be easier to bear--now that
she knew.

Again, as morning broke, she told herself that this thing was an
impossibility after all, that Nick had been misled, or had spoken in
jest. It seemed the only sane conclusion by the practical light of day,
and, reassured, at last she slipped into untroubled slumber. Yes, she
was sure Max was much too shrewd to let himself be caught by a girl who
did not even want him. He would never waste his valuable time over such
as she.

Yet while she slept, a curious memory came to her--a memory that was
half a dream--of a hand that had stroked her head with a sure and
soothing touch, of lips very near her hair that had whispered words of
tenderness. It was not a disturbing dream by any means. She slept
through it into a deeper peace with a smile upon her face.

She was finally aroused without ceremony by Violet, who skipped airily
into the room, clad in a daring sea-green wrapper that revealed more of
her charms than it concealed.

"Oh, my dear soul, are you awake?" was her greeting, as she perched
herself on the foot of the bed. "I've just had the very sweetest note
from Hunt-Goring accompanied by a box of the most exquisite Eastern
cigarettes--'Companions of the Harem,' he says they are called. And how
are you feeling now, you poor wan thing? What interesting shadows you
have developed! I wish I could make my eyes look like that. The revered
Max suffered agonies about you last night, and nearly slew me with a
glance because I dared to touch my mandolin after dinner. Poor little
Nick was rather blue too though he did at least try to be courteous.
What made you go and get sunstroke, Allegretto? Rather unnecessary,
wasn't it? He was quite obviously at your feet without that. Of course
you realize how completely my wiles have been thrown away on him. I
declare I was never so humiliated in my life. However, I daresay I shall
get over it. If I don't, I shall take refuge in Hunt-Goring's harem.
Good gracious! What now?"

A smart rap at the door had interrupted her plans for her future. She
sprang off the end of Olga's bed, and stood poised on one foot,
listening.

"Can I come in?" asked Max on the other side of the door.

Olga's face flushed scarlet. Violet shot her a glance of mock dismay.

"My dear, I wonder which would be the least improper," she said. "To go
or to remain?"

"For pity's sake, put something on!" urged Olga. "There's my
dressing-gown. Take that!"

But Violet had already snatched up a bath-towel which she draped about
her with scarf-like effect.

"This will do quite well and is infinitely more artistic. Pray come in,
Dr. Wyndham! The patient is quite ready for you."

Max came in. He scarcely looked at either girl, but halted just inside
the room, holding the door wide open.

"One at a time, Miss Campion, please!" he said curtly.

"Dear, dear!" laughed Violet, with audacious mirth. "Then you had better
call again later when I have concluded my visit."

He turned his eyes straight upon her; they were piercingly green in the
morning light. "Your visit," he said, "is a direct violation of my
orders. I must trouble you to conclude it at once."

He had never used that tone to her before. She opened her eyes very
wide, meeting his look with the utmost nonchalance.

"Dear me!" she said. "How fierce we are this morning! And what if Olga
prefers my company to yours?"

"That has nothing to do with it," he returned. "I am here
professionally.".

"And if Olga is not requiring your professional services?" she suggested
daringly.

"Oh, Violet dear, I think you had better go," interposed Olga nervously.
"You can come back again when you are dressed."

Violet's beautiful eyes suddenly gleamed. She moved to the door,
stepping daintily with her bare feet.

"Dr. Wyndham," she said, "I congratulate you on your conquest. It has
been a ridiculously easy capture, but I warned her she had met her fate
long ago. No doubt she has wisely decided that to run away any longer
would be a waste of energy. _En tout cas_,--" she made an airy gesture
of the hands,--"my blessing be upon you both!"

And with that, lightly she crossed the threshold, and was gone, flitting
like a sunbeam from the room.

Quietly Max closed the door. He did not look at Olga, but walked
straight to the window and stood there with his back turned and his
hands in his pockets, staring outwards.

"I hope you don't object to an early visit," he said, after a moment. "I
want to get my rounds done in good time to-day, and I didn't like to
leave without seeing you first."

"I don't mind at all," stammered Olga in reply. "But--really, there's
no reason for you to--to bother about me. I've had a good night,
and--and I'm going to get up."

"Really?" he said. "You're not going raspberry picking, I hope?"

She laughed somewhat tremulously. Violet's vindictive thrust had
embarrassed rather than hurt her. She looked at the great square
shoulders that intervened between her eyes and the morning sunshine, and
wondered why he did not turn. Was it possible that he could be feeling
embarrassed too? She could scarcely imagine it; but yet the position was
sufficiently intolerable for him also.

"I'm afraid the raspberries will have to go," she said regretfully,
"unless the boys--"

"They would probably eat 'em as fast as they picked 'em," observed Max
grimly. "I know boys."

Again, rather feebly, she laughed. "It seems a pity," she said.

"I shouldn't worry," said Max. "Besides, it's Sunday. You couldn't make
jam on Sunday in any case."

"I could, though," said Olga, "if the fruit wouldn't keep till Monday."

He laughed. "What an admirably practical spirit!"

"Thank you!" said Olga. "That's the first nice thing you have ever said
to me."

"Oh, no, it isn't!" said Max. "May I come and take a survey now?"

"I can't imagine what you are waiting for," she returned with renewed
spirit.

She could meet him on the old fencing-ground without a tremor; at least
so she fancied. But the next instant he disconcerted her in the most
unexpected fashion.

"I have been waiting for your pulse to steady down," he said coolly.

"Oh!" said Olga.

He left the window and came to her side. She gave him her hand with an
abrupt, childish movement.

"It's great nonsense!" she said, with burning cheeks. "You can't
possibly make me out ill."

She saw one side of his mouth go up. He took out his watch, but he
looked at her.

"You don't imagine that I want to keep you as a patient, do you?" he
said.

"You know you always like people best when they are ill," she retorted.

"Do I?" he said.

"Well, don't you?"

"I wonder what makes you think so," he said.

She looked straight up at him with something of defiance. "You never
bother to be nice to people unless they are ill."

He frowned a little. "I've been as nice as you would let me," he said.

"Yes, yes," said Olga rather hurriedly. "Of course we are friends. But,
Max, there's something I want to say to you. It's very particular. Be
quick with my pulse!"

He let her hand slip from his. "It's about a hundred and fifty," he
observed, "but that seems to be the normal rate with you. I don't think
you had better talk to me now unless it's to be a professional
consultation. You can get up if you want to, and I will give Nick a list
of the things you are not to do."

He would have gone with the words, but imperiously she detained him.

"You must wait a minute now. I want to speak about--about that compact
we made the other day. You--you knew I was only joking, didn't you? You
didn't--really--? tell Major Hunt-Goring--that?"

"Yes, I did," said Max. "And do you generally go and cry into the
surgery towel when you are enjoying a joke?"

"Oh, Max! You told him?" Her face was tragic. "And what did he say?"

"He congratulated me," said Max.

"Max!"

"My dear girl, I'm telling you the truth; but really, since you have
discharged yourself as cured, this has become a highly improper
situation. Don't you think we had better postpone this discussion to a
more suitable moment?"

Max was openly laughing into her face of distress. She suddenly felt
abundantly reassured. He could not--surely--look and speak like this if
he dreamed of wooing her in earnest!

"I don't want any discussion," she hastened to tell him. "Only--please,
do go and tell Major Hunt-Goring that--that--there's been a mistake,
and--in short--"

"In short that you've thrown me over?" said Max. "Oh, thanks, no! You
can tell him that--if you wish!"

"He must be told," she said.

"I don't see why." Max smiled upon her with good-natured indulgence.
"Have you suddenly taken fright at something?" he asked.

She smiled also, but a little anxiously. "I'm afraid it wasn't a very
wise move after all. I want to put an end to it."

"You can't put an end to an engagement that doesn't exist," he said.
"You will have to wait till I propose, and then you can go and tell
everyone--including Hunt-Goring--that you have said No."

It was impossible to treat the matter seriously. She had a feeling that
he was deliberately restraining her from so doing, deliberately offering
her an easy means of escape from her own indiscretion. She seized upon
it, eager to convince him that she had never deemed him in earnest.

"Do propose soon then!" she said. "And let us get it over!"

He turned to the door. "Given a suitable opportunity," he said, "if
shall be done to-night."

"To-night!" she echoed sharply.

She caught the mocking gleam of his eyes for an instant, and her heart
misgave her.

"Really, Max!" she said, in a tone of protest.

"Yes, really," said Max. "Good-bye!"

He was gone. She heard him stride away down the passage, and go
downstairs. A little later she heard the banging of the surgery-door and
the sound of his feet on the gravel. They passed under her window. They
paused.

"Olga," he called up to her, "do you mind if a pal of mine comes to
lunch?"

Her heart gave a great jolt at the sound of his voice. She swallowed
twice before she found her own.

"Who is it?" she called then.

"Someone very nice," he assured her, and she caught a laugh in the
words. "Someone you'll like."

"Anyone I know?" she asked.

"No."

She heard him strike a match to light a cigarette. He would not be
looking upwards then. Impulse moved her. She left her bed and went to
the window.

He was standing immediately below her, a thick-set, British figure of
immense strength. A brisk breeze was blowing. She watched him nursing
the flame between his hands, firm, powerful hands, full of confidence.
The flame flickered and went out. Instantly he threw up his head and saw
her. His cigarette was alight.

She drew back sharply as he waved her an airy salute.

"Adieu, fair lady!" called the mocking voice. "I conclude the
aforementioned pal may come, then?"

He did not wait for her answer. She heard him whistling cheerily as he
went in the direction of the coach-house, and the ting of his
bicycle-bell a moment after as he rode away. When that reached her ears,
Olga sat down very suddenly on the edge of her bed with the limpness of
relaxed tension, and realized that she was feeling very weak.




CHAPTER XII

THE PAL


Nick's letter to his wife was written that morning while Olga lay on the
study-sofa, comfortably lazy for once, and listened to the scratching of
his pen.

The boys had been sent to church, Violet was again devouring a book and
smoking Major Hunt-Goring's cigarettes in the hammock, and all was very
quiet.

"I suppose I had better write to Jim too," Nick said, as he looked up at
length from his completed epistle.

"I was just thinking I would," said Olga.

"No. Writing is strictly prohibited by your medical adviser." Nick
grinned over his shoulder. "I'll send him a line myself."

"Don't let him be worried about me," said Olga. "I really don't know why
I'm being so lazy. I feel quite well."

"And look--charming," supplemented Nick.

"Don't be silly, dear! You know I'm as hideous as--"

"As I am? Oh, no, not quite, believe me. I always pride myself I am
unique in that respect. Now you mustn't talk," said Nick judiciously,
"or you will spoil my inspiration. Who's that going across the lawn?"

He was writing rapidly as he spoke. Olga raised herself on her elbow to
look.

"How on earth did you know? I never heard anyone. Oh!"

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

"It's Major Hunt-Goring!"

Nick ceased to write and peered into the garden. "It's all right. He's
only violeting. An interesting pastime!" He turned unexpectedly and gave
her one of his shrewd glances. "You don't seem pleased," he observed.

"Oh, Nick, he's so hateful! And--and Violet actually likes him."

"Every woman to her taste," said Nick. "Why shouldn't she?"

Olga was silent.

Nick returned to his writing. "I'll go and kick him for you if you
like," he said. "Let me just finish my letter to Jim first, though, or
it may never get written."

His pen resumed its energetic progress, and Olga fell into a brown
study.

Half an hour later Nick turned swiftly and looked at her. Her eyes met
his instantly.

"Not asleep?" he said.

"No, Nick. Only thinking."

"What about?"

"India," said Olga.

He got up and came and sat on the edge of the sofa. "Look here, kiddie,"
he said, "if you've thought better of it, just mention the same before I
post these letters. I shall understand."

She smiled at him, her quick, sweet smile. "Nick, you're a darling! But
I haven't."

"Quite sure?" said Nick.

"Quite sure," she replied with emphasis.

He looked a little quizzical. "By the way, did you ask Max--what you
wanted to know?"

She knew that she coloured, but she faced him notwithstanding. "No, I
didn't. I decided it wasn't important enough."

"Oh, all right," said Nick. He got up. "Now can I trust you to lie
quietly here while I go and post these letters?"

"Of course you can," she said.

"I shan't be more than five minutes," he said, turning to the door.

She watched him go, and then closed her eyes, slightly frowning. She
wished with all her heart that Major Hunt-Goring had not seen fit to
come again, even though it was obviously her friend and not herself that
he had come to see.

She was still pondering the unpleasant subject when the housemaid
suddenly presented herself at the open door.

"Cook wants to know what she's to do about the raspberries, miss."

"Raspberries!" said Olga, with a start. "Oh, I'm afraid they're done
for. It's no good thinking about them. I will go round to-morrow, and
see if there are any left worth having. But I expect they will all be
spoilt by this hot sun."

The girl looked at her, slightly mystified. "But they've been gathered,
miss. Didn't you know? Cook thought you had done them yourself before
you took ill."

Olga put her hand to her head. "No, I didn't. I hadn't finished. I
dropped them all too."

"Well, they're in the pantry now, miss, and cook was wondering if she
hadn't better start the jam first thing in the morning."

"Who brought them in?" asked Olga quickly.

The housemaid didn't know. She departed to ask.

Olga leaned back again on her cushions. She was growing a little tired
of inactivity, notwithstanding the undeniable languor that had succeeded
the previous day's headache.

The sound of voices in the hall outside, however, dispelled her boredom
almost before she had time to recognize it. She suddenly remembered
Max's pal, and started up in haste to smooth her rumpled hair. Surely
Max would not be so inconsiderate as to bring him straight in to her
without a moment's preparation!

This was evidently his intention, however, for she heard their footsteps
drawing nearer, and she was possessed by a momentary shyness so acute
that she nearly fled through the window. It really was too bad of Max!

"Come in here!" she heard him say, and with an effort she braced herself
to encounter the stranger.

He entered, paused a second, and came forward. And in that second very
strangely and quite completely her embarrassment vanished. She found
herself shaking hands with a large, kindly man, who looked at her with
deep-set, friendly eyes and asked her in a voice of marvellous softness
how she was.

Her heart warmed to him on the instant, and she forgave Max forthwith.

"I am quite well," she said. "Have you walked from the station? Please
sit down!"

He was years older than Max, she saw, this man whom the latter had so
airily described as his pal. There was a bald patch on the back of his
head, and his brows were turning grey. His face was clean-shaven, and
she thought his mouth the kindest and the saddest she had ever seen.

"Yes, I walked," he said. "Max brought me across the fields. It was very
pleasant. There is a good breeze to-day."'

"I am sure you must be thirsty," Olga said, mindful of the honours of
the house. "Max, please go and find something to drink and bring it
here!"

"No, no, my dear fellow! I can wait," protested the newcomer. But Max
had already departed upon his errand. He turned back smiling to the
girl. "I know you were lying on the sofa when I came in. Please lie down
again!"

"I've had more than enough of it," she assured him. "I don't think
lying still suits me. I only did it to please Nick. He will be in
directly."

"Nick is your brother?" he asked.

Olga's smile flashed out. "Not quite. He is three parts brother to one
part uncle. That is to say, he is Dad's half-brother, but nearer my age
than Dad's."

He nodded in humorous comprehension. "And your father is away, Max tells
me. I hope you don't mind being taken by storm like this? I am sorry to
miss him, for we are old friends. We don't often meet, as I haven't a
great deal of time at my disposal. I reserved to-day, however, as I
rather particularly wanted to see Max."

"You will manage to come again perhaps, when Dad is at home," said Olga.

He smiled courteously. "I shall certainly try. And you are his eldest
daughter?"

"His only daughter," she said. "There are three boys as well."

"Ah! And you have been left in charge?"

"Nick and I," she said; and then moved to sudden confidence, "I expect
you have heard of Nick, haven't you? Nick Ratcliffe of Wara! He is an
M.P. too."

"Oh, is he that Ratcliffe?" Her listener displayed immediate interest.
"Yes, of course I have heard of him, Miss Ratcliffe. He is a man of
renown, isn't he? It will give me much pleasure to meet him."

"You'll like him awfully!" said Olga, with shining eyes.

It was at this point that Nick himself pushed open the door with a
peremptory, "Now then, Olga, what about your promise? Hullo!" He stopped
short, and stood blinking rapidly at the visitor. "I thought it was
Hunt-Goring you had got here," he observed. "Introduce me, please!"

Olga hesitated in momentary confusion. "Max didn't tell me your name,
you know," she said to the stranger. "This is Captain Ratcliffe of
Wara."

"Monkey!" said Nick briefly. "Plain Ratcliffe of no-where in particular
is my description."

The big man rose with outstretched hand. "I know you well by repute, and
I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Whitton--Kersley Whitton."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Olga. "Max might have told me!"

He laughed at her quietly. "Told you what? Didn't he say I was a friend
of his?"

"So you've been entertaining a celebrity unawares!" laughed Nick. "I
hope you have been on your best behaviour, my child."

"But Miss Ratcliffe must be accustomed to celebrities," said Sir Kersley
Whitton, "since she has to entertain you and Max Wyndham every day."

"Is Max a celebrity too, then?" asked Olga quickly.

"He is going to be one," the great doctor answered, with conviction.

"You mean he will--someday--be like you?" she said.

He smiled at that. "He will be a greater man than I am," he said.

"An interesting collection!" commented Nick. "Heroes past, present, and
to come! You will pardon me for putting myself first. My little halo
went out long ago."

"Nick! How absurd you are!"

"My dear, it's my _rôle_ to be absurd. I am the clown in every tragedy I
come across--the comic relief man--the buffoon in every side-show. Hence
my Frontier laurels, because I kept on dancing when everyone else was
dead. The world likes dancers--virtuous or otherwise." Nick broke off
with his elastic grimace. "If I go on, you'll think I'm trying to be
clever. Sir Kersley, come and have a drink!"

"I'm bringing drinks," said Max's voice from the hall. "I say,
Ratcliffe,"--he entered with the words--"do go and dislodge that leech
Goring. He's in the garden with Miss Campion. Tell him I don't want to
see either him or his beastly thumb for a week. I'll call in next
Sunday, if I've nothing better to do. Say I'm engaged if he asks for me
now."

"I'll say you're dead if you like," said Nick cheerily. "Shall I say
you're dead too, Olga?"

"Say she's engaged also," said Max.

Olga glanced up sharply, but he was not looking at her. He was occupied
in pouring out a drink for his friend, which he brought to him almost
immediately.

"That's how you like it measured to a drop. Sorry there's no ice to be
had. It doesn't grow in these parts."

"I'd have got out the best glass if I'd known," murmured Olga
regretfully.

Max threw up his head and laughed. "What a good thing I didn't tell her,
eh, Kersley?" He leaned a careless hand on Sir Kersley's shoulder. "She
doesn't know what a taste you have for the simple life."

Olga's eyes opened wide at the familiarity of speech and action. Sir
Kersley faintly smiled.

"Since Miss Ratcliffe received me so kindly as a friend of yours," he
said, "I hope she will continue to regard me in that light, and dispense
with all unnecessary ceremony. Miss Ratcliffe, I drink to our better
acquaintance!"

"How nice of you!" said Olga.

"I return thanks on Miss Ratcliffe's behalf," said Max. "How long has
the Hunt-Goring monstrosity been here?"

Olga's face clouded. "Oh, ages! Do you think Nick will persuade him to
go?"

"He can't stop to lunch if he isn't asked," said Max.

"An unwelcome visitor?" asked Sir Kersley.

"Yes, a neighbour of ours," explained Olga. "He lives about two miles
away at a place called The Warren. He is retired from the Army. He
shoots and hunts in the winter and loafs all the summer."

"A very horrid man," said Max with a twinkle. "He broke his thumb the
other day and we haven't been quit of him since. You see, Miss Ratcliffe
has a most beautiful friend staying with her with whom we all fall in
love at first sight. Some of us fall out again and some of us don't.
Hunt-Goring--presumably--belongs to the latter category."

"And you?" asked Sir Kersley.

"Oh, I am too busy for frivolities of that sort," said Max. "My mind is
entirely occupied with drugs. Ask Miss Ratcliffe if it isn't!"

Olga looked a little scornful. It suddenly seemed to her that Max
Wyndham required a snub. She was spared the trouble of administering
one, however, by the reappearance of the housemaid.

She rose. "Do you want me, Ellen?"

"Oh, no, miss. It's all right," was Ellen's breezy reply. "I only just
come to say as it was Dr. Wyndham as brought in them raspberries--early
this morning."

Ellen disappeared as Max popped the cork of a soda-water bottle with
unexpected violence. He clapped his hand over the top and carried it
bubbling to the window.

"Awfully sorry," he said. "The beastly stuff is so up this weather."

Olga followed him with his glass. "Thank you for rescuing my
raspberries," she said.

Max rubbed himself down with a handkerchief and took the glass from her.
He was somewhat red in the face. He looked at her with a queer smile.

"Confound that girl!" he said.

"Have you discovered any specially beneficial properties In
raspberries?" asked Sir Kersley in the tone of one seeking information.

"Not yet. I'm experimenting," said Max.

And Olga laughed, though she could scarcely have said why.

"There goes Nick, escorting the undesirable," observed Max, a moment
later. "I begin to think there really must be a spark of genius in that
little uncle of yours. Hunt-Goring looks as if he had been kicked, while
the swagger of Five Foot Nothing defies description. Ah! And here comes
Miss Campion! She looks as if--" He broke off short.

Olga bent forward sharply to catch a glimpse of her friend, and then as
swiftly checked herself and remembered her guest. She moved sedately
back into the room, only to discover that he also had risen, to look out
of the window over Max's shoulder.

Instinctively she glanced at him. His deep-set eyes were fixed intently
as if held by a vision. But his face was drawn in painful lines. She had
a curious feeling of foreboding as she watched him. There was something
fateful in his look. It passed in a moment. Almost before she knew it,
he had turned back to her and was courteously conversing.

She gave him her attention with difficulty. Her ears were strained to
catch the sound of Violet's approach. She was possessed by a ridiculous
longing to rush out to her, to keep her from entering this man's
presence, to warn her--to warn her--Of what? She had not the faintest
idea.

By a great effort of will, she controlled herself, but the impulse yet
remained--a striving, clamouring force, impotent but insistent.

There came the low, sweet notes of Violet's voice. She was singing a
Spanish love-song.

Sir Kersley Whitton fell silent. He looked at the door. Max wheeled from
the window. Olga waited tensely for the coming of her friend.

The door swung back and she entered. With her careless Southern grace
she sauntered in upon them.

"Good Heavens!" she said, breaking off in the middle of her song. "Is it
a party of mutes?"

Olga hastily and with evident constraint introduced the visitor, at
sound of whose name Violet opened her beautiful eyes to their widest
extent.

"How do you do? I had no idea a lion was expected. Why wasn't I told?"

"He is not one of the roaring kind," said Max.

Violet was looking with frank curiosity into Sir Kersley's face. "I'm
sure I've met you somewhere," she said. "I wonder where."

He smiled slightly--a smile which to Olga's watching eyes was infinitely
sad.

"I don't think you have," he said. "You may have seen my portrait."

"Ah, that's it!" She regarded him with a new interest. "I have! I
believe I've got it somewhere."

"Do you collect the portraits of celebrities?" asked Max.

She shook her head. "Oh, no! It's among my mother's things. It must have
been taken years ago. You were very handsome--in those days, weren't
you?"

"Was I?" said Sir Kersley.

"Yes. That's why I kept you. There was a bit of your hair with it, but I
burnt that." Violet's brows knitted suddenly. "My mother was handsome
too," she said. "I wonder why you jilted her!"

Sir Kersley made a slight movement, so slight that it seemed almost
involuntary. "That, my child," he said quietly, "is a very old story."

She laughed her gay, winning laugh. "Oh, of course! I expect you have
jilted dozens since then. It's the way of the world, isn't it?"

He looked into the exquisite face, still faintly smiling. "It's not my
way," he said.

There fell a sudden silence, and Olga sent an appealing glance towards
Max. He came forward instantly and clapped a practical hand upon his
friend's shoulder.

"Come and have a wash, Kersley!" he said, and with characteristic
decision marched him away.

As they went, Violet broke once more into the low, sweet refrain of her
Spanish love-song.




CHAPTER XIII

HER FATE


"How extraordinary men are!" Violet stretched her arms high above her
head and let them fall. Her eyes were turned contemplatively towards the
sinking sun. "This man for instance who might have been--who should have
been--my father. He loved her, you know; he must have loved her, or he
wouldn't have remained single all these years. And she worshipped him.
Yet on the very eve of marriage--he jilted her. Extraordinary!"

"How do you know she worshipped him?" Olga spoke with slight constraint;
it seemed to her that the matter was too sacred for casual discussion.

"How do I know? My dear, it is written in black and white on the back of
his photograph. 'The only being I have it in me to love--sovereign lord
of my heart!' Fancy writing that of any man! I couldn't, could you?"

"I don't know," said Olga soberly.

Violet laughed. "You're such a queer child! One day you come flying to
me for protection, and almost the day after, you--"

"Please, Violet!" Olga broke in sharply. "You know I don't like it!"

"Oh, very well, my dear, very well! The subject is closed. We will
return to the renowned Sir Kersley. He was watching me all
luncheon-time. Did you notice?"

Olga had noticed. "Are you very like your mother?" she asked.

"I am better-looking than she ever was," said Violet, without vanity.
"You see, my father, Judge Campion (he was nearly sixty when he married
her, by the way), was considered the handsomest man in India at the
time. She was a Californian, and very Southern in temperament, I
believe. I often rather wish I could have seen her, though she would
probably have hated me for not being the child of the man she loved. She
died almost before I was born however. I daresay it's as well. I'm sure
we shouldn't have got on."

"Violet! How can you say those things?"

"I always say whatever occurs to me," said Violet. "It's so much
simpler. Mrs. Briggs was all the mother I ever knew or wanted. Of course
as soon as Bruce settled down, I was taken to live with them. But I
never liked either of them. They always resented the Judge's second
marriage."

"Why didn't he take care of you himself?" asked Olga.

"My dear, he was dead. He died before she did. He was assassinated by a
native before they had been married three months. I've always thought it
was rather poor-spirited of her to die too; for of course she never
cared for him. She must have married him only to pique Kersley. By the
way, Major Hunt-Goring met them in his subaltern days. He said everyone
fell in love with her. I supposed that included himself, and he smiled
and said, 'Calf-love, señorita!' Allegro, I wonder if I really like that
man."

"I'm sure you don't," said Olga quickly. "You couldn't."

"But I must amuse myself with someone," reasoned Violet pathetically.
"Besides, he gives me such lovely cigarettes. Have one, Allegretto. Do!"

"No!" said Olga almost fiercely.

"I will, Miss Campion." Coolly Max came forward from the open window
behind them. "You promised me one, you know."

"Did I?" She tossed him her cigarette-case carelessly. "They are not
made for masculine palates. However, as you are so anxious--"

"Thank you," he said.

He opened the case. Violet was lying back with eyes half-closed. Olga's
eyes were keenly watching. He glanced up and met them.

Abruptly he held up a warning finger. For one instant his eyes commanded
her, compelled her. Then deliberately he extracted two cigarettes,
slipped one into his pocket, stuck the other between his lips. She
watched him in silence.

He returned the case to its owner with the slight, cynical smile she
knew so well, and began to smoke.

"What time is Sir Kersley Whitton going?" asked Violet.

"Soon. His train starts at seven."

Olga rose suddenly. "Well, I am going to the evening service," she
announced, with a touch of aggressiveness. "Are you coming, Violet?"

"No, dear," said Violet.

"Nor you either," said Max, blowing a cloud of smoke upwards.

She looked at him. "Why not?"

"Doctor's orders," he said imperturbably.

Violet laughed a little. Olga's face flamed.

"That is absurd! I am going!"

"Where's Nick?" said Max unexpectedly.

"Somewhere in the garden with Sir Kersley. I believe they went to see
the vine."

"Then go to him," said Max; "tell him I have forbidden you to go to
church to-night, and see what he says."

"I won't," said Olga.

She passed him without a second glance, and went indoors.

Violet laughed again. Max turned towards her. "Excuse me a moment!" he
said, and therewith followed Olga into the house.

He overtook her at the foot of the stairs and stopped her without
ceremony.

"Olga, what do you want to go to church for?"

She turned upon him in sudden, quivering anger. "Max, leave me alone!
How dare you?"

His hand was on her arm. He kept it there. He looked steadily into her
eyes.

"I dare because I must," he said. "You have had a tiring day, and you
will end it with a racking headache if you are not careful."

"What does it matter?" she flashed back.

He did not answer her. "What are you so angry about?" he said. "Tell
me!"

She was silent.

"Olga," he said, "it isn't quite fair of you to treat me like this."

"I shall treat you how I like," she said.

"No, no, you won't!" he said.

His voice was quiet, yet somehow it controlled her. Her wild rebellion
began to die down. For a few seconds she stood in palpitating silence.
Then, almost under her breath: "Max," she said, "why did you take that
other cigarette?"

She saw him frown. "Why do you want to know?"

Her hands clenched unconsciously. "You are always watching
Violet--always spying upon her. Why?"

"I can't tell you," he said briefly and sternly.

"You can," she said slowly, "if you will."

"I won't, then," said Max.

She flinched a little, but persisted. "Don't you think I have a right
to know? It was I who brought her here. She is--in a sense--under my
protection."

"What are you afraid of?" Max demanded curtly.

She shivered. "I don't know. I believe you are trying to get some power
over her."

"You don't trust me?" he said, in the same curt tone.

"I don't know," she said again.

"You do know," he said.

She was silent. There seemed nothing left to say.

He released her arm slowly. "I am sorry I can't be quite open with you,"
he said. "But I will pledge you my word of honour that whatever I do is
in your friend's interest. Will that make things any easier?"

Her eyes fell before his. "I--was a fool to ask you," she said.

He did not contradict the statement. "You are going to have a rest now,"
he said, "before the headache begins."

It had begun already, but she did not tell him so. "I would rather go to
church," she said.

Max looked stubborn.

"I always do go," she protested into his silence. "It will do me good to
go."

"All right," he said, with his one-sided smile. "Then I must go too,
that's all."

"What for?" she asked quickly.

"To bring you home again when you begin to be ill."

"I'm not going to be ill!" she declared indignantly.

"No," he said. "And you're not going to church either. I'm sorry to
thwart your pious intentions, but in your father's absence--"

"Oh, don't begin that!" she broke in irritably.

"Well, don't you be silly!" said Max good-humouredly. "You know you
don't really want to go. It's only because you are cross with me."

"It isn't!" she said.

"All right. It isn't. Now go and lie down like a good child! I shall
come and prescribe for you if you don't."

Was it mockery that glinted in his eyes as he thus smilingly quelled her
resistance? She asked herself the question as she slowly mounted the
stairs. It was a look she had come to know singularly well of late, a
look that she resented instinctively because it made her feel so small
and puny. It was a look that told her more decidedly than any words that
he would have his way with her, resist him as she might.

She heard the church-bells ringing as she went to her room, but the
impulse to obey their summons had wholly left her. She lay down wearily
upon her bed. She wished there were not so many problems in life. She
had an uneasy sensation as of being caught in the endless meshes of an
invisible net that compassed her whichever way she turned.

She did not sleep, but the rest did her good. Undeniably it had been a
tiring day. It was growing dark when a tentative scratch at the door
told her of Nick's presence there.

She called him eagerly in. "Has Sir Kersley gone? I hope he didn't think
me rude. Max made such a fuss about my resting. So I thought--"

"Quite right, my chicken!" Nick came softly to her side. "Max explained
your absence. How's the head?"

"Oh, it's all right now. Nick, how soon will Dad and Muriel get your
letters?"

"The day after to-morrow," said Nick.

She took his hand and squeezed it. "And we shall hear--when?"

"On Thursday night--with luck," said Nick.

She carried the hand impulsively to her lips. "Nick, you are a darling!"

He laughed. "Same to you! But we won't count on it too much or we may
find ourselves crying for the moon, which is the silliest amusement I
know. How do you like Sir Kersley Whitton?"

"Oh, very much. You heard about--about Violet's mother having been
engaged to him, I suppose?"

"He told me himself," said Nick.

"What did he tell you, Nick?"

Nick hesitated momentarily. "He spoke in confidence," he said then.

"You won't tell me?" she asked quickly.

"Sorry; I can't," said Nick.

Olga sat up. A sudden idea had begun to illumine her brain. "Nick tell
me this--anyhow! Did Violet's mother do--something dreadful?"

"Look here, Olga _mia!_" said Nick severely. "I know you can't help
being a woman, but you're not to look at your neighbour's cards. It's
against the rules."

She laughed a little. "Forgive me, Nick! I suppose supper is ready. I'll
come down."

They went down together, to find Violet thrumming her mandolin in the
twilight for the benefit of Max who was stretched at full length on the
drawing-room sofa. The three boys were scudding about the garden like
puppies.

As Olga and Nick entered, Violet looked up from her instrument. "I'm
wondering if Sir Kersley would like to adopt me as well as Max. Do you
think he would?"

"Exceedingly doubtful," said Max, rising.

"Why?"

"You would take up too much of his valuable time," he rejoined. "A man
has to think of that, you know."

"Only horrid sordid men like you!" she retorted.

He uttered his dry laugh. "A professional man must think of his career."

She tossed her head. "Is that your creed--that there is no time for a
woman in a professional man's life?"

Max laughed again. "She mustn't be too beautiful, anyhow."

She sprang suddenly to her feet. The mandolin jarred and jangled upon
the ground. "Are you listening, Allegro?" she said, and through her deep
voice there ran a sinister note that seemed to mingle, oddly vibrant,
with the echoing strings of the instrument. "A professional man can
admit only a plain woman into his life. The other kind is too
distracting, since he must think of his career."

Nick cut in upon the words with the suddenness of a sabre-thrust. "Oh,
we all say that till we meet the right woman, and then, be she lovely or
hideous, the career bobs under like a float and ceases to count."

Max grunted. "Does it? Well, you ought to know."

"Let's go and have supper," said Olga, and turned from the room.

Violet stooped to pick up her mandolin. Nick lingered to summon the
boys. Max entered the dining-room in Olga's wake.

"Give me five minutes in the surgery presently," he said as he did so.

She glanced round at him sharply. "Why?"

He raised his brows. "Because I ask you to." He halted at the sideboard
to cut some bread. "Going to refuse?" he asked.

"No," said Olga.

"Thanks!"

He went on with his cutting with the utmost serenity, and almost
immediately they were joined by the rest of the party.

It was a somewhat rowdy meal. Violet appeared to be in one of her
wildest moods. Her eyes shone like stars, and her merriment rippled
forth continuously like a running stream. The boys were uproarious, and
Nick was as one of them. In the midst of the fun and laughter, Olga sat
rather silent. Max, drily humorous, took his customary somewhat
supercilious share in the general conversation, but he made no attempt
to draw her into it. She almost wished he would do so, for she felt as
if he purposely held aloof from her.

Rising from the table at length, she was aware of an urgent impulse to
shirk the interview for which he had made request. Valiantly she held it
in check, but it did not have a very soothing effect upon her nerves.

The whole party rose together, and she slipped away to the kitchen to
discuss domestic matters with the cook. She knew that Max saw her go,
knew with sure intuition that he would seize the opportunity of her
return to secure those few minutes alone with her that he had desired.

She was not mistaken. He was waiting for her by the baize door that led
to the surgery when she emerged. With a brief, imperious gesture he
invited her to pass through. The door closed behind them, and they were
alone together.

"Come along into the consulting-room," said Max.

She turned thither without question. The room was in darkness. Max went
forward and lighted the gas. Then, without pause, he wheeled and faced
her.

"Are you angry with me still?"

Olga stood still by the table. "You haven't brought me in here
to--quarrel, have you?" she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He smiled very slightly. "I have not. Sit down, won't you? You're
looking very fagged."

He pulled forward an arm-chair, and she sat down with a nervous feeling
that she was about to face a difficult situation. He relaxed into his
favourite position, lounging against the table, his hands deep in his
pockets.

"I want a word with you about Hunt-Goring," he said.

She looked up startled. "What about him?"

"He was here to-day, wasn't he?" proceeded Max.

"Yes. He came to see Violet."

Max grunted. "I suppose you know his little game?"

Olga's eyes widened. "No, I don't. What is it?"

He looked at her for a moment or two in silence. "Do you really imagine
that you succeed in effacing yourself when you hide behind the beautiful
Miss Campion?" he asked then.

The quick colour rose in her face. "What an absurd question!" she said.

"Why absurd?"

"As if anyone could possibly prefer me to Violet!"

"I know at least two who do," said Max.

"Who?" She flung the question almost angrily, as though she uttered it
against her will.

Very deliberately he answered her. "Hunt-Goring and myself."

She started. Her face was burning now. Desperately she strove to cover
her confusion, or at least to divert his attention from it. "I am quite
sure Major Hunt-Goring doesn't! He--he wouldn't be so silly!"

"We are neither of us that," remarked Max with a twist of the lips that
was hardly a smile. "I suppose you don't feel inclined to tell me
exactly what the fellow's hold over you is."

"You said you didn't want to know!" she flashed back.

Max's green eyes were regarding her very intently. She resented their
scrutiny hotly, but she could not bring herself to challenge it.

"Quite so, fair lady, I did," he responded imperturbably. "But as this
affair has developed into something of the nature of a duel between the
gallant major and myself it might be as well, for your sake as much as
mine, that I should know what sort of ground I am standing on."

"A duel!" echoed Olga.

He smiled a little. "Hunt-Goring has no intention of letting you stay
engaged to me if he can by any means prevent it."

"Oh, Max!" She met his look for an instant. "But--but--what can it
really matter to him--one way or the other?"

"I conclude he wants you for himself," said Max.

She turned suddenly white. "He doesn't! He couldn't! Max!" She turned to
him almost imploringly. "He doesn't really want me! It's not possible!"

"I should say he wants you very much indeed," said Max. "But you needn't
be scared on that account. He isn't going to have you."

That reassured her somewhat. She essayed a shaky laugh. "You'll think me
a shocking coward," she said. "But--do you know, I'm horribly frightened
at him."

"Are you frightened at me too?" Max enquired unexpectedly.

She shook her head without looking at him.

"Quite sure?" he persisted.

She raised her eyes with a feeling that he must be convinced of this at
all costs. "Of course I'm not," she said.

He leaned down towards her on one elbow, his hands still deep in his
pockets. "Will you be engaged to me in earnest then?" he said. "Will you
marry me?"

She stared at him. "Max!"

The humorous corner of his mouth went up. "Don't let me take your breath
away! I say, what's the matter? You're as white as a ghost. Do you want
some _sal volatile_?"

She forced a rather piteous smile. "No--no! I'm quite all right. But,
Max--"

He pulled one hand free and laid it upon her clasped ones. "You can't
stand me at any price, eh?"

She shook her head again. "Are you suggesting that I should--marry you,
just to get away from Major Hunt-Goring?"

"I suppose you would rather marry me than him," said Max.

She laughed faintly. Her eyes were upon his hand--that hand which she
had so ruthlessly stabbed not so very long before. The red scar yet
remained. For the first time she felt genuinely sorry for having
inflicted it.

"But there is no question of my marrying him, is there?" she said at
last. "He has never even hinted at such a thing."

"That's true," said Max grimly. "You see, he has begun to realize by
this time that you are not precisely fond of him."

She shivered involuntarily. "I hate him, Max!"

"He thrives on that," observed Max drily.

"Oh, not really!" she protested. "He couldn't want to marry me against
my will."

"My good child," said Max, "if you had had the bad taste to flirt with
him, he would have tired of you long ago. As it is--" he paused.

She looked up. "As it is?"

He uttered a curt laugh, and sat up, thrusting his hand back into his
pocket. "Well--he won't be happy till he gets you."

Olga sprang to her feet. "But, Max, he couldn't marry me against my
will! That sort of thing isn't done nowadays."

Max looked at her, his shrewd eyes very cynical. "Quite true!" he said.

"Then--then--" She stood hesitating, looking at him doubtfully--"what is
there to be afraid of?" she asked at length.

"Oh, don't ask me!" said Max.

She felt the blood rush back to her face, and turned sharply from him.

"You--you don't help me much," she said.

He got to his feet abruptly. "You won't accept my help," he returned.
"You've got yourself into a nasty hole, and you can't climb out alone,
and you won't let me pull you out."

Olga was silent.

He stood a moment, then turned to the doctor's writing-table and sat
down. "It's no good talking round and round," he said. "You'll have to
tell Nick or your father. I can't do anything further. It's not in my
power."

He opened a blotter with an air of finality, found a sheet of paper, and
began to write.

Olga turned at the sound of his pen, and watched him dumbly. He had
apparently dismissed her and her small affairs from his mind. His hand
travelled with swift decision over the paper. He was evidently immersed
in his own private concerns. He wrote rapidly and without a pause.

Very suddenly, without turning, he spoke again. "How did you like
Kersley?"

The question astonished her. She had almost forgotten their visitor of a
few hours before. But she managed to answer with enthusiasm.

"I liked him immensely."

"He is the greatest friend I possess," Max said, still writing. "He made
me."

"I thought you seemed very intimate," observed Olga.

He laughed. "We are. I pulled him through a pretty stiff illness once.
The mischief was that he wanted to die. I made him live." A note of grim
triumph sounded in his voice, but he still continued to write.

"Was he grateful?" Olga asked.

"No. He fought like a mule. But I had my own way. It was tough work. I
crocked up myself afterwards. And then it was his turn." Max jerked up
his head. "After that," he said, "we became pals. He was only my patron
before; since, we have been--something more than brothers."

He paused. Olga said nothing. She was wondering a little why he had
chosen to make this confidence.

Suddenly he turned in his chair and enlightened her. "If you want to
know what sort of animal I am," he said, his eyes going direct to hers,
"if you want to know if I am worthy of a woman's confidence--in short,
if I'm a white man or--the other thing, ask Kersley Whitton. For he is
the only person in the world who knows."

The words were blunt, perhaps all the more so for the unwonted touch of
fiery feeling which Olga was quick to detect in their utterance. They
moved her strangely. It was almost as if he had flung open his soul to
her, challenging her to enter and satisfy herself. And something very
deep within her awoke and made swift response almost before she knew.

"But I don't need to ask him, Max," she said. "I know that for myself."

"Really?" said Max.

He stretched out his hand to her, without rising. His manner had changed
completely. It was no longer passionate, but intensely quiet.

She came to him slowly, feeling compelled. She laid her hand in his.

His eyes were still upon hers. "I can't marry you against your will, can
I?" he said. "It's not done nowadays."

She smiled a little. "I'm not afraid of that."

"Shall we go on being engaged, then," he said, "and see how we like it?
We won't tell anyone yet--if you'd rather not."

She hesitated. "But--if I go to India with Nick?"

He frowned momentarily. "Well. I shouldn't ask you to marry me first."

Olga's face cleared somewhat. This was reassuring. It might very well
lead to nothing after all.

"But," said Max impressively, "you wouldn't get engaged to any other
fellow without letting me know."

She laughed at that. "I certainly shan't marry anyone out there."

Max looked grim. "You will give me the first refusal in any case?"

"But I needn't promise anything?" she said quickly.

"No, you needn't make any promise. Just bear me in mind, that's all;
though I don't suppose for a moment that you could forget me if you
tried," said Max with the utmost calmness.

"Why do you say that?" said Olga rather breathlessly.

It suddenly seemed to her that she had gone a little further than she
had intended. She made an instinctive effort to get back while the way
remained open.

But she was too late. She felt his hand tighten. For a moment she caught
that gleam in his eyes which always disconcerted her.

And then it was gone, even as his hand released hers. He turned back to
the writing-table with his supercilious smile.

"Because, fair lady," he said, "you have met your fate. If Hunt-Goring
pesters you any further, of course you will let me know. Hadn't you
better go now? The little god in the shrine will be jealous. And I have
work to do."

And Olga went, somewhat precipitately, her heart throbbing in such a
clamour of confused emotions that she hardly knew what had happened or
even if she had any real cause for distress.




CHAPTER XIV

THE DARK HOUR


He had not made love to her! That was the thought uppermost in Olga's
mind when the wild tumult of her spirit gradually subsided. He had not
so much as touched upon his own feelings at all. Not the smallest reason
had he given her for imagining that he cared for her, and very curiously
this fact inclined her towards him more than anything else. Had he
proposed to her in any more ardent fashion, she would have been scared
away. Possibly he had fathomed this, and again possibly he had not
wanted to be ardent. He was hard-headed, practical, in all he did. She
was sure that his profession came first with him. He probably thought
that a wife would be a useful accessory, and he was kind-hearted enough
to be willing to do her a good turn at the same time that he provided
for his own wants.

Violet's malicious declaration regarding a professional man's preference
for a plain woman recurred to her at this point and made her feel a
little cold. She did not know very much about men, and she had to admit
to herself that it might quite easily be the truth. And then she thought
of Hunt-Goring, reflecting with a shudder that that explanation would
not account for his preference, if indeed what Max said were true and he
actually did prefer her to Violet at whose feet he was so obviously
worshipping.

She wondered if she ought to tell Max all about the man, and shuddered
again at the bare thought. Not that there was much to tell, but even so,
it was enough to set the blood racing in her veins and to make her hotly
ashamed. She remembered with gratitude that he had not pressed her to be
open on this point. He had left the matter almost at the first sigh of
her reluctance to discuss it. She liked him for that. It furnished proof
of a kindly consideration with which she had not otherwise credited him.
It also furnished proof that he did not think very seriously of the
matter. And for that also, lying awake in the moonlight, Olga secretly
blessed her champion. Hard of head and cool of heart he might be, but he
was undoubtedly a white man through and through.

From that she began to wonder if she really had met her fate, and if so,
what life with him would be like, whether she would find it difficult,
whether they would quarrel much, whether--whether they would ever fall
in love. Of course there were plenty of people in the world who didn't,
excellent people to whom romance in that form came not. Olga had always
been quite sure that she was not romantic. She had always loved cricket
and hockey and all outdoor sports. She had even--quite privately--been a
little scornful over such shreds of romance as had come beneath her
notice, dismissing them as paltry and ridiculous. Possibly also Violet's
scoffing attitude towards her adorers had fostered her indifference.

No, on the whole she decided that it was verging upon foolish
sentimentality to contemplate the possibility of falling in love. She
was convinced Max would think so, even pictured to herself the one-sided
smile that such nonsense would provoke. Doubtless he deemed her too
sensible to waste time and thought over anything so absurd. He would
even quite possibly be extremely annoyed if she ever ventured beyond the
limits of rational friendship which he had marked out. Olga's sense of
humour vibrated a little over this thought. He was always so scathing
about her worship of Nick. He would certainly find no use for such
feminine trash himself.

And yet--and yet--through her mind, vague as a dream, intangible yet not
wholly elusive, there floated once more the memory of a voice that had
reassured, a hand that had lulled her to rest. Had he really spoken that
word of tenderness? Had his lips really touched her hair? Or had it all
been a trick of her fancy already strung to fantastic imaginings by that
magic draught?

She told herself that she would have given all she had to know if the
dream were true and then found herself trembling from head to foot lest
haply she might one day find that it had been so. Yes, on the whole she
was relieved, thankful beyond measure, that he had not made love to her.
Things were better as they were.

The church clock struck one as she arrived at this comfortable
conclusion, and she turned her back to the moonlight and composed
herself for slumber. Her thoughts wandered off down another
track;--India as Nick had described it to her, a land of rivers and
jungles, tigers and snakes, natives that were like monkeys, horses that
moved like camels, pigs with tusks that had to be hunted and slain.
Elephants too! He had left out the elephants, but they crowded in royal
array into Olga's quick imagination. She and Nick would often go
elephant-riding in the jungle. Mysterious word! It held her like a
spell. Tall trees and winding undergrowth, a gloom well-nigh
impenetrable, creatures that hid and spied upon them as they passed!
Perhaps they would go tiger-hunting together. She thrilled at the
thought, picturing herself creeping down one of those dim glades, rifle
in hand, in search of the enemy. Nick would certainly have to teach her
to shoot. He was a splendid shot, she knew. She believed that she could
be a good shot too. It would not be easy to mark the striped body
sliding through the undergrowth, but it would be a serious thing to
miss. Olga's eyes closed. She began to wander down that jungle path, in
search of the monster that lurked there. The lust of the hunt was upon
her. She was about to secure the largest tiger that had ever been seen.

Her breath came quickly. Her blood ran hot. She forgot all lesser things
in the ardour of the chase. The elephants had disappeared. She was
running on foot through the jungle, eager and undismayed. Ah! What was
that? Something that moved and was still. Two points that shone out
suddenly ahead of her! Green eyes that gleamed triumphant mockery! Her
heart stopped beating. Those eyes! Those eyes! They struck terror to her
soul.

Headlong she turned and fled. Back through the jungle with the anguished
speed of fear. The ground was sodden. It seemed to hold her flying feet.
She tore them free, only to plunge deeper at every step, while behind
her, swift and remorseless, followed her fate.

Wildly she struggled, powerless but persistent, till at last her
strength was gone. She sank in utter impotence.

And then he came to her, he lifted her, he held her in his arms, pressed
sickening kisses upon her lips; and suddenly she knew that she had fled
from a myth to hurl herself into the power of her enemy. She had eluded
her fate but to find herself at the mercy of a devil.

Gasping and half-suffocated she awoke, starting upright in a cold sweat
of fear. Her heart was pumping as if it would burst. Her starting eyes
searched and searched for the face of her captor. Her ears were strained
for the sound of his soft, hateful laugh.

Ah! He was at the door! She heard a hand feeling along the panels, heard
the handle turn! As one paralyzed she sat and waited.

Softly the door opened.

"Allegro!" whispered a hushed voice.

Olga turned swiftly with outflung arms. "Oh, come in, dear! Come in!
I've had such a ghastly dream! You've come just in the nick of time."

Softly the door closed. Violet came to her, wonderful in the moonlight,
a white mystery with shining eyes. She stood beside the bed, suffering
herself to be clasped in her friend's arms.

"What have you been dreaming about?" she said.

"Oh, sheer nonsense of course," said Olga, hugging her in sheer relief.
"All about that hateful Hunt-Goring man. Get into bed beside me and help
me to forget him!"

But Violet remained where she was.

"Allegro," she said, "I've had--a bad dream--too."

"Have you, dear? How horrid!" said the sympathetic Olga. "What can we
both have had for supper, I wonder?"

Violet uttered a hard little laugh. "Oh, it wasn't that! I haven't been
asleep at all. I generally do sleep after Hunt-Goring's cigarettes. But
to-night I couldn't. They only seemed to make things worse." She sat
down abruptly on the edge of the bed. "Don't cuddle me, Allegro! I'm so
hot."

Olga leaned back on her pillows, with a curious sense of something gone
wrong. "Shall I light a candle?" she said.

"No. It's light enough. I hate an artificial glare, Allegro!"

"Well, dear?" said Olga gently.

Violet was sitting with her back to the moonlight, her face in deep
shadow. Her black hair was loosely tied back and hung below her waist.
Olga stretched out a hand and touched the silken ripples caressingly.

Violet threw back her head restlessly. "I'm going to give up
Hunt-Goring," she said.

"My dear, I am glad!" said Olga fervently.

Violet laughed again. "I only encouraged him for the sake of his
cigarettes. But I'm going to give up them too. The opium habit grows on
one so."

"Opium!" echoed Olga sharply.

"Opium, dear child! It's a cunning mixture and most seductive. The
astute Max little knew what he was inhaling this afternoon." Violet's
words had a curious tremor in them as of semi-tragic mirth.

Olga listened in horrified silence. So this was the secret of Max's
peculiar behaviour! If he did not know by this time, then she did not
know Max Wyndham.

"Yes," Violet went on. "Hunt-Goring is counting on those cigarettes of
his to get me under his influence. I know. But I'm tired to death of the
man. I'm going to pass him on to you."

"I hate him!" said Olga quickly.

"Oh, yes, dear! But he has his points. You'll find he can be quite
amusing. Anyhow, take him off my hands for a spell. It isn't fair to
make me do all your entertaining."

"Why don't you snub him?" said Olga, with some impatience. "It certainly
isn't my fault that he comes here."

"Allegro, don't be horrid! I didn't refuse to help you when you wanted
help." There was actually a pleading note in Violet's voice.

Olga responded to it instantly, with that ready warmth of hers that was
the secret of her charm. "My dear, you know I would do anything in my
power for you. But I can't--possibly--be nice to Major Hunt-Goring. I do
detest him so."

"You detest Max Wyndham," said Violet quickly. "But you manage to be
nice to him."

The words rang almost like an accusation. For the moment Olga felt quite
incapable of replying. She lay in silence.

"Allegro!" Again she heard that note of pleading, vibrant this time,
eager, almost passionate.

With an effort Olga brought herself to answer. "I've changed my mind
about him. We are friends."

"Friends!" Violet sprang from the bed, and stood tense, quivering, with
an arrow-like straightness that made her superb. Her eyes glittered as
she faced the moonlight that poured through the unshaded window. "Does
that mean you--care for him?" she demanded.

Olga hesitated. Violet in this mood was utterly unfamiliar to her, a
strange and tragic personality before which she felt curiously small and
ill at ease, even in some unaccountable fashion guilty.

"Dear, please don't ask me such startling questions!" she said. "I can't
possibly answer you."

"Why not?" said Violet. Her hands were clenched. Her whole body seemed
to be held in rigid control thereby.

"Because--" again Olga hesitated, considered, finally broke off lamely
"I don't know."

"You do know!" There was actual ferocity in the open contradiction.
Violet was directly facing her now. Her eyes shone so fiercely, so
unnaturally, bright that a queer little sensation of doubt pricked Olga
for the first time, setting every nerve and every muscle on the alert
for she knew not what. "You do know, Allegro! And so do I!" The full
voice took a deeper note, it throbbed the words. "Do you think I haven't
watched you, seen what was going on? Do you think it has all been
nothing to me--nothing to see you spoiling my chances day by
day--nothing to feel you drawing him away from me--nothing to know--to
know--" she suddenly flung her clenched hands wide open to the empty
moonlight--"to know that you have set your heart on the only man I ever
loved--you who wanted me to help you to get away from him--and have
shouldered me aside?"

Her voice broke. She turned to the girl in the bed with eyes grown
terrible in their wild anguish of pain. "Allegro!" she cried. "Allegro!
Give him up! Give him up--if not for my sake--for your own! You
couldn't--be happy--with him!"

With the words she seemed to crumple as though all power had suddenly
left her, and sank downwards upon the floor, huddling against the bed
with agonized sobbing, her black head bowed almost to the floor.

Olga was beside her in an instant, stooping over her, wrapping warm arms
about her. "My darling, don't, don't!" she pleaded. "You know I would
never do anything to hurt you. I never dreamed of this indeed--indeed!"

Violet made a passionate movement to thrust her away, but she would not
suffer it. She held her close.

"Violet dearest, don't cry like this! There is no need for it. Really,
you needn't be so distressed. There, darling, come into bed with me.
You'll be ill if you cry so. Violet! Violet!"

But Violet was utterly beyond control, and her paroxysm of weeping only
grew more and more violent, till after some minutes Olga became
seriously frightened. She stood up, and began to ask herself what she
must do.

It was then that to her intense relief the door slid open and Nick's
head was poked enquiringly in.

"Hullo!" he said softly. "Anything wrong?"

She motioned him to enter, being on the verge of tears herself.

"Nick, she's hysterical! What am I to do?"

"Better fetch Max," he said.

But the words were hardly out of his mouth before Max himself pushed the
door wide open and entered!

He bore a small lamp in his hand which threw his somewhat grim features
into strong relief. He made a weird figure in his night-attire, and his
red hair looked as if it had been brushed straight on end.

He looked at neither Olga nor Nick, merely for a single instant at the
shivering, sobbing girl on the floor, ere he set down his lamp with
decision and turned to the washing-stand.

Olga stood and watched him as one fascinated. He was quite deliberate in
all he did. With the utmost calmness he took up a tumbler and poured out
some cold water.

Then very quietly he went to Violet, bent over her, gathered the dark
hair back upon her shoulders.

She started at his touch, started and cried out in wild alarm, raising
her head. And Max, with a set intention which seemed to Olga scarcely
short of brutal, dashed a spray of water full into her deathly face.

She flinched away from him with another cry, gasping for breath and
staring up at him as one in nightmare terror.

"You!" she uttered voicelessly. "You!"

He held what was left of the water to her lips. "Drink!" he said with
insistence.

She tried feebly to resist. Her teeth chattered against the glass.

"Drink!" Max said again relentlessly.

Olga stooped swiftly forward and slipped a supporting arm around her.
Violet drank a little, and turned to her, weakly sobbing.

"Allegro, send him away! Send him away!"

"Yes, dear, yes; he's going now," murmured Olga soothingly.

Max gave the glass to Nick with the absolute detachment of the
professional man, and proceeded to take Violet's pulse. He watched her
closely as he did so, with shaggy brows drawn down.

Violet gazed at him wide-eyed. She was no longer sobbing, but she
shivered from head to foot.

"Yes," said Max at last, in the tone of one continuing an interrupted
conversation. "Well, now you are going back to bed."

Violet shrank against Olga. "Let me stay with you, Allegro!" she
murmured piteously.

"Of course you shall, dear," Olga made quick reply.

But in the same instant she saw Max elevate one eyebrow and knew that
this suggestion did not meet with his approval.

"You will sleep better in your own room," he said. "Come along! Let me
help you."

He put his arm about her and lifted her to her feet; but she clung fast
to Olga still.

"I won't go without you, Allegro," she cried hysterically.

"My dear, of course not!" Olga answered. She caught up her dressing-gown
and wrapped it round her friend. "You're as cold as ice," she said.

They helped her back to her own room between them, almost carrying her,
for she seemed to have no strength left.

Max said nothing further of any sort till she was safely in bed, then
somewhat brusquely he turned to Olga.

"Put on your dressing-gown and go down to the surgery! I want a bottle
out of the cupboard there. It's a poison bottle, labelled P.K.R.; you
can't mistake it. Third shelf, left-hand corner. The keys are in your
father's desk. You know where. Put on your slippers too, and take a
candle! Mind you don't tumble downstairs!" His eyes travelled to the
doorway where Nick hovered. "Go with her, will you?" he said. "Bring
back a medicine-glass too! There's one on the surgery mantelpiece."

He turned back to Violet again, stooping low over her, his hand upon her
wrist.

Olga fled upon her errand with the speed of a hare, leaving Nick to
follow with a candle. Even as she went she heard a cry behind her, but
she sped on with a feeling that Max was compelling her.

When Nick joined her a few seconds later she had already found the keys
and was fumbling in the dark for the cupboard-lock.

They found the medicine-bottle exactly where Max had said, and Olga
snatched it out, seized the glass, and was gone. She was back again in
Violet's bedroom barely two minutes after she had left it, but the
instant she entered she was conscious of a change. Violet was lying
quite straight and stiff with glassy eyes upturned. Max was bending over
her, tight-lipped, motionless, intent. He spoke without turning his
head.

"Just a teaspoonful--not a drop more. The rest water."

Olga poured out the dose, controlling her hands with difficulty.

"Not a drop more," he reiterated. "There's sudden death in that.
Finished? Then give it to me!"

He raised Violet up in bed and took the glass from Olga. A curious
perfume filled the room--a scent familiar but elusive. Olga stood
breathing it, wondering what it brought to mind.

Max held the glass against the pale lips, and suddenly she remembered.
It was the magic draught he had given to her two days before.

Violet seemed to be unconscious, but she drank nevertheless very slowly,
with long pauses in between. Gradually the glassy look passed from her
eyes, the long lashes drooped.

Max held out the empty glass to Olga. "You go back to bed now," he said.
"She will sleep for some time."

"I can't leave her," Olga whispered.

He was lowering the senseless girl upon the pillow and made no reply.
Having done so, he stooped and set his ear to her heart for a space of
several seconds. Then he stood up and turned quietly round.

"You can't do anything more. Thanks for fetching that stuff! Why didn't
you put on your slippers as I told you?"

His manner was perfectly normal. He left the bedside and took up the
medicine-bottle, holding it against the lamp.

"Are you sure she will be all right?" whispered Olga.

"Quite sure," he said.

She turned her attention to the bottle also. "What is that stuff?" she
asked.

He looked at her, and for an instant she saw his sardonic smile. "It's
sudden death if you take enough of it," he said.

"Yes, I know," said Olga. "It's what you call 'the pain-killer,' isn't
it?"

"Exactly," said Max, "Hence the legend on the label. But what do you
know about the pain-killer? Who told you about it? I know I didn't."

"It was Mrs. Briggs," said Olga, and then turned hotly crimson under his
eyes.

There fell a sudden silence; then, "You go back to bed," said Max. "And
you are to settle down and sleep, mind. Don't lie awake and listen."

"You are sure she will sleep till morning?" said Olga, lingering by the
bed.

"Yes." He put his hand on her shoulder, and wheeled her towards the
door. "There's Nick waiting to tuck you up. Run along! I am going myself
immediately."

She went, more to escape from his presence than for any other reason.
There was undoubtedly something formidable about Max Wyndham at that
moment notwithstanding his light speech, something that underlay his
silence, making her curiously afraid thereof.

She did not lie and listen when she returned to bed, but a very long
time passed before she slept.




CHAPTER XV

THE AWAKENING


Olga slept late on the following morning, awaking at length with a wild
sense of dismay at having done so. She leaped up as the vivid memory of
the night's happenings rushed upon her, and, seizing her dressing-gown,
ran out into the passage and so to Violet's room.

Very softly she turned the door-handle, and peeped in. The curtains were
drawn, but the morning-breeze blew them inwards, admitting the full
daylight. Violet was lying awake with her face to the door.

"That you, Allegro? Come in!" she called. "I've had the oddest night."

Olga slipped in and went to her. The beautiful eyes were very wide open.
They gazed up at her wonderingly. The forehead above them was slightly
drawn.

"I've been dead," said Violet slowly. "I've just come to life."

"My darling!" Olga said.

"Yes. Isn't it queer? It was so strange, Allegro. I went right up to the
very door of Paradise. But I suffered a lot first. I suffered--horribly.
And when I got there--the door was shut in my face." Violet uttered a
curious little laugh that had in it a note of pain. "That was when I
died," she said.

Olga stooped to kiss her. "It was a dream," she said.

"Oh, but it wasn't," said Violet. She threw her arms unexpectedly
around Olga's neck, and held her very tightly, as if she were afraid.
"Allegro," she said under her breath, "I believe I left my soul behind.
It's up there, waiting for the door to open. I hope it won't get lost."

The words sent a sharp chill through Olga. She held her friend closely,
protectingly. "Darling, I don't think you are quite awake yet," she said
very tenderly. "Stay in bed for a little while, and I'll dress and get
your breakfast."

"Oh, no! Oh, no! I'm going to get up!" Quickly Violet made reply, almost
feverishly. "I couldn't possibly lie still and do nothing. I've got to
find the way out. It's very dark, but I daresay I shall manage. Blind
people learn to, don't they? And that's what has happened to me,
really. I've gone blind, Allegro, blind inside."

She put Olga from her, and prepared to rise. Her eyes were very bright,
but there was a curiously furtive look about them. They seemed afraid to
look.

"Wait anyhow till you have had some tea," urged Olga. "I'll run down and
order it."

"No, don't go, Allegro! Don't leave me! I don't want to be alone."
Impetuously Violet stretched out her hands to her. "Don't go!" she
pleaded. "I'm so afraid--he--will come. And I don't want him to know
anything about it. You won't tell him? Promise, Allegro!"

"Who, dear?" Olga asked the question though she knew the inevitable
answer. She was becoming seriously uneasy, though she sought to reassure
herself with the thought that Violet's nerves were of the high-strung
order and could scarcely have failed to suffer from the strain they had
undergone.

Violet answered her with obvious impatience. "Why, Max, of course! Who
else? Promise you won't tell him, Allegro!"

"Tell him what, dear?" questioned Olga.

Violet started up from her bed and sprang to the open door. She closed
it and stood facing Olga with arms outstretched across it. Her breath
came pantingly through dilated nostrils.

"You're not to tell him--not to tell him--what I have just told you. If
he knows I'm trying to get out, he'll stop me. Don't you understand? Oh,
don't you understand?" A fury of impatience sounded in her voice; she
quivered from head to foot. "He keeps the door," she said. "And he never
sleeps. Why, even last night he was there. Didn't you see him? Those
dreadful green eyes--like--like a tiger in the dark? Olga--" suddenly
and passionately she began to plead "--you won't tell him, dearest! You
couldn't be so cruel! Can't you see what it means to me? Don't you
realize that it's my better self that's gone? And I've got to follow--I
must follow. If he doesn't know, perhaps I shall manage to slip through
when he isn't looking. Dear, you wouldn't have me kept a
prisoner--against my will? He's so hard, Allegro--so hard and merciless.
And he keeps the door so close. I should have got away last night if it
hadn't been for him. So you won't tell him, will you? You'll promise me
you won't!"

Olga listened to the appeal with a heart that seemed turned to stone.
She knew not what to say or do.

"It's my only chance!" urged Violet, in a voice that was beginning to
break. "Oh, how can you hesitate? Are you all in league against me?
Allegro! Allegro!"

"There, dear, there! It's all right. Don't worry!" Swiftly Olga
collected herself and spoke. "There's nothing to be afraid of. No one
shall keep you against your will."

"You promise, Allegro?" Violet looked at her doubtfully, yet as if she
wished to be reassured.

"Yes, of course, dear. Now really you must let me go and dress. It's
eight o'clock, and I shan't be ready for breakfast."

Violet came slowly away from the door. She did not look wholly
satisfied, but she said no more; and Olga hastened back to her room with
deadly misgiving at her heart. She felt as if there were tragedy in the
very air. It seemed to be closing in upon her, a dread mist of
unfathomable possibilities.

She dressed with nervous haste, and hurried downstairs, wondering a
little that Max had not bestirred himself to ascertain the effect of his
treatment.

She wondered still more when she found him calmly established behind the
morning paper in an arm-chair in the dining-room. He laid it aside at
her entrance, and rose to greet her.

"Well?" he said, with her hand in his.

She looked up to find his eyes piercingly upon her. They shone intensely
green in the morning light.

She removed her hand somewhat abruptly. There was something in his
manner that she resented, without knowing why. "Well?" she said.

"How do you find yourself this morning?" asked Max.

"I'm perfectly well, thank you," said Olga briefly.

"Ready to start jam-making?" he suggested.

Olga went to the coffee-urn. "I really don't know," she said. "I've had
other things to think about."

He smiled a little, the superior, one-sided smile she most detested.
"You mustn't let the fruit go bad," he observed, "after all my trouble."

Olga peered into the coffee-urn, without replying. Max in an
exasperating mood could be very exasperating indeed. He pulled out the
chair next to her, and sat down.

"And how is the beautiful Miss Campion?" he said.

Olga looked at him. She could not help it.

"Well?" said Max.

She coloured hotly. "I wonder you haven't been to see for yourself," she
said.

"Perhaps I have," said Max.

She turned from his open scrutiny, and began to pour out the coffee
with a hand not wholly steady.

"I presume--if you had--you wouldn't ask me," she said.

He lodged his chin on his hand, the better to study her. "In making that
presumption, fair lady," he said, "you are not wholly justified. Has it
never occurred to you that I might entertain a certain veneration for
your opinion on a limited number of subjects?"

Olga set down the coffee-urn and squarely turned upon him. "Have you
seen her this morning?" she asked him point-blank.

"Yes, I have seen her," he said.

"Then you know as much as I do," said Olga.

"Not quite," he returned. "I soon shall however. Did she seem pleased to
see you this morning?"

"Of course," said Olga.

"And why 'of course'? Do you never disagree?" He asked the question
banteringly, yet his eyes were still upon her, unflaggingly intent.

"We never quarrel," said Olga.

"I see. You have differences of opinion; is that it? And what happens
then? Is there never a tug of war?" Max's smile became speculative.

"No, never," said Olga.

"Never?" He raised his red brows incredulously. "Do you mean to say you
give in to her at every turn? She can be fairly exacting, I should
imagine."

"I would give her anything she really wanted if it lay in my power,"
said Olga very steadily.

"Would you?" said Max. He suddenly ceased to smile. "Even if it chanced
to be something you wanted rather badly yourself?"

She nodded. "Wouldn't you do as much for someone you loved?"

"That depends," said Max cautiously.

"Oh, of course!" said Olga quickly. "You're a man!"

He laughed. "You've made that remark before. I assure you I can't help
it. No, I certainly wouldn't place all my possessions at the disposal of
even my best friend. There would always be--reservations."

He looked at her with a smile in his eyes, but Olga did not respond to
it. An inner voice had suddenly warned her to step warily. She took up
the coffee-urn again.

"I wouldn't give much for that kind of friendship," she said.

"But is it always in one's power to pass on one's possessions?"
questioned Max. "I maintain that the possessions are entitled to a voice
in the matter."

"I don't understand you," said Olga, in a tone that implied that she had
no desire to do so.

"No?" said Max indifferently. "Well, I think unselfishness should never
be carried to extremes. Some women have such a passion for
self-sacrifice that they will stick at nothing to satisfy it. The result
is that unwilling victims get offered up, and you will admit that that
is scarcely fair."

Olga handed him his coffee. "Will you cut the ham, please?" she said.

"Do you catch my meaning yet?" asked Max, not to be thwarted.

She shook her head. "But really it doesn't matter, and it's getting
late."

"Sorry to keep you," he replied imperturbably, "but when I take the
trouble to expound my views, I like to guard against any
misunderstanding. Just tell me this, and I shall be satisfied. If you
were at a ball, and you had a partner you liked and who liked you, and
you came upon your friend crying because she wanted that particular
partner--would you give him up to her?"

"Of course I should," said Olga. "I don't call that a very serious
self-sacrifice."

"No?" said Max. He gave her a very peculiar look, and pursed his lips
for an instant as if about to whistle. "And if the unfortunate partner
objected?"

Olga began vigorously to cut some bread. "He would have to put up with
it," she said.

Max rose without comment and went to the ham. There followed a somewhat
marked silence as he commenced to carve it. Then: "Pardon my
persistence, fair lady," he said. "But just one more question--if you've
no objection. Suppose you were my partner and Hunt-Goring the forlorn
friend, do you think I should be justified in passing you on to him? It
would be a considerable self-sacrifice on my part."

"Oh, really!" exclaimed Olga, in hot exasperation. "What absurd question
will you ask next?"

He looked across at her with a complacent smile. "You see, I'm only a
man," he said coolly. "But that illustrates my point. It's not always
possible to pass on all one's possessions, is it? It may answer in
theory but not in practice. I think you catch my meaning now?"

"Hadn't you better have your breakfast?" said Olga, with a glance at the
clock.

Max's eyes followed hers. "Where's Nick? Has he overslept himself?"

"He has not," said Nick, entering at the moment. "It is not a habit of
his. Well, Olga, my child, how goes the world this morning?"

She turned with relief to greet him. His genial personality was
wonderfully reassuring. He kissed her lightly, and took up his
correspondence.

"Let me open them!" she said.

He stood by and watched her while she did it. She was very deft in all
her ways, but to-day for some reason her hands were not quite so steady
as usual.

Nick threw a sudden glance across at Max while he waited. "Miss Campion
all right this morning?" he asked.

"Apparently," said Max, staring deliberately at a point some inches
above Nick's head.

Nick pivoted round abruptly, and found Violet standing in the doorway
directly behind him. He went instantly to meet her.

"Hullo, Miss Campion! You're just in time for breakfast. Come and have
some!"

His tone was brisk and kindly. He took her hand and drew her forward.
She submitted listlessly. Her face was white and her eyes deeply
shadowed. She scarcely raised them as she advanced.

"Hullo, Nick!" she said indifferently. "Hullo, Allegro! No, I don't want
any breakfast. I'm not hungry to-day." She reached the table, and for
the first time seemed to become aware of Max, seated on the opposite
side of it.

Her eyes suddenly opened wide. She stood still and faced him. "I want my
cigarettes," she said, with slow emphasis.

Olga glanced at him sharply, in apprehension of she knew not what. Max's
face, however, expressed no anxiety. He even faintly smiled.

"What! Haven't you got any? I shall be happy to supply you with some,"
he said, feeling in his pocket for his own case.

She leaned her hands upon the table in a peculiar, crouching attitude
that struck Olga as curiously suggestive of an angry animal.

"I don't want yours," she said, in a deep voice that sounded almost like
a menace. "I want my own!"

Max looked straight at her for a few seconds without speaking. Then, "I
am sorry," he said very deliberately. "But you mustn't smoke that sort
any more. They are not good for you."

"And you have dared to take them away?" she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I had no choice."

"No choice!" She echoed the words in a voice that vibrated very
strangely. "You speak as if--as if--you had a right to confiscate my
property."

"I have a right to confiscate that sort," said Max.

"What right?" She flung the question like a challenge, and as she flung
it she straightened herself in sudden splendid defiance. All the pallor
had gone from her face. She glowed with fierce, pulsing life.

Max remained looking at her. There was a glint of mercilessness in his
eyes. "What right?" he repeated slowly. "If you saw a blind man walking
over a precipice, would you say you hadn't the right to stop him?"

"I am not blind!" she flung back at him. "And I refuse to be stopped by
you--or anyone!"

Max raised his red brows. "You amaze me," he said. "Then you are aware
of the precipice?"

She clenched her hands. "I know what I am doing--yes! And I can guide
myself. I refuse to be guided by you!"

"Violet!" Nervously Olga interposed. "Never mind now, dear! Do sit down
and have some breakfast! The eggs are getting cold."

"Quite so," said Nick, putting down his letters abruptly. "The coffee
also. Olga, you may tear up all my correspondence. It's nothing but
bills. Miss Campion, wouldn't you like to butter some toast for me? You
do it better than anyone I know. And I'm deuced hungry."

She turned away half-mechanically, met his smile of cheery effrontery,
and suddenly flashed him a smile in return.

"What a gross flatterer you are!" she said "Allegro, aren't you
jealous? Which piece of toast do you fancy, Nick? Can I cut up some ham
for you as well?"

The tension was over and Olga breathed again. Max continued his
breakfast with an inscrutable countenance, finished it, and departed to
the surgery.

Violet did not so much as glance up at his departure. She was wrangling
with Nick over the best means of attacking a boiled egg with one hand.

There was no longer the faintest hint of tragedy in her demeanour. Yet
Olga went about her own duties with a heart like lead. She was beginning
to understand Max's attitude at last; and it filled her with misgiving.




CHAPTER XVI

SECRETS


The rest of that day was passed in so ordinary a fashion that Olga found
herself wondering now and then if she could by any chance have dreamed
the events of the night.

During the whole of the morning she was occupied with her jam-making,
while Violet lazed in the garden. Nick had planned a motor-ride in the
afternoon, and they went for miles, returning barely in time for dinner.
Violet was in excellent spirits throughout, and seemed unconscious of
fatigue, though Olga was so weary that she nearly fell asleep in the
drawing-room after the meal. Max was in one of his preoccupied moods,
and scarcely addressed a word to anyone. Only when he bade her
good-night she had a curious feeling that his hand-grip was intended to
convey something more than mere convention demanded. She withdrew her
own hand very quickly. For some reason she was feeling a little afraid
of Max.

Yet on the following morning, so casual was his greeting that she felt
oddly vexed with him as well as with herself, and was even glad when
Violet sauntered down late as usual and claimed his attention. Violet,
it seemed, had decided to ignore his decidedly arbitrary treatment of
her. She had also apparently given up smoking, for she made no further
reference to her vanished cigarettes, a piece of docility over which
Olga, who had known her intimately for some years, marvelled much.

She was obliged to leave her that afternoon to go to tea with an old
patient of her father's who lived at the other end of the parish, Violet
firmly refusing at the last moment to accompany her thither. Nick had
promised to coach the boys at cricket practice that day, and Olga
departed with a slight feeling of uneasiness and a determination to
return as early as possible.

It was not, however, easy to curtail her visit. The patient was a
garrulous old woman, and Olga was kept standing on the point of
departure for a full half-hour. In the end she almost wrenched herself
free and hurried home at a pace that brought her finally to her own door
so hot and breathless that she was obliged to sit down and gasp in the
hall before she could summon the strength to investigate any further.

Recovering at length, she went in search of Violet, and found her
lounging under the limes in luxurious coolness with a book.

She glanced up from this at Olga's approach and smiled. There was a
sparkle in her eyes that made her very alluring.

"Poor child! How hot you are! People with your complexion never ought to
get hot. What have you been doing?"

She stretched a lazy hand of welcome, as Olga subsided upon the grass
beside her.

"I've been hurrying back," Olga explained. "I thought you would be
lonely."

"Oh dear, no! Not in the least." Violet glanced down at her book, a
little ruminative smile curving the corners of her red mouth.

Olga peered at the volume. "What is it? Something respectable for once?"

"Not in the least. It is French and very highly flavoured. I daresay you
wouldn't understand it, dear," said Violet. "You're such an _ingénue_."

Olga made a grimace. "I'd rather not understand some things," she said
bluntly.

Violet uttered a low laugh. "Dear child, you are so unsophisticated!
When are you going to grow up?"

"I am grown up," said Olga. "But I don't see the use of studying the
horrid side of life. I think it's a waste of time."

"There we differ," smiled Violet. "Perhaps, however, it doesn't matter
so much in your case. It is only women who travel and see the world who
really need to be upon their guard."

Olga smiled also at that. "Shall I tell you a secret?" she said.

"Do, dear!" Violet instantly stiffened to attention. The smile went out
of her face; Olga almost fancied that she looked apprehensive.

"It's quite a selfish one," she said, seeking instinctively to reassure
her. "It's only that--perhaps--when the autumn comes--I may go to India
with Nick."

"Oh! Really! My dear, how thrilling!" The words came with a rush that
sounded as if the speaker were wholeheartedly relieved. The smile
flashed back into Violet's face. She lay back in her chair with the
indolent grace that usually characterized her movements. "Really!" she
said again. "Tell me all about it."

Olga told her forthwith, painting the prospect in the brilliant colours
with which her vivid imagination had clothed it, while Violet listened,
interested and amused.

"You'll remember it's a secret," she wound up. "We haven't heard from
Dad or Muriel yet, and of course nothing can be settled till we do. If
either should object, of course it won't come off."

"Oh, I won't tell a soul," Violet promised. "How exciting if you go,
Allegro! I wonder if you will get married."

Olga laughed light-heartedly. "As if I should waste my precious time
like that! No, no! If I go, I shall fill up every minute of the time
with adventures. I shall go tiger-hunting with Nick, and pig-sticking,
and riding, and--oh, scores of things. Besides, they're nearly all
Indians at Sharapura, and one couldn't marry an Indian!"

"Couldn't one?" said Violet. "Wouldn't you like to be a ranee, Allegro?
I would!" She looked at Olga with kindling eyes. "Just think of it,
dear! The power, the magnificence, the jewels! Oh, I believe I'd do
anything for riches."

"Violet! I wouldn't!"

Olga spoke with strong emphasis and Violet laughed--a short, hard laugh.
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, I know! You were born to be a slave. But I
wasn't. I was born to be a queen, and a queen I'll be--or die!" She
suddenly glanced about her with the peculiar, furtive look that Olga had
noticed the day before. "That's why I wouldn't marry Max Wyndham," she
said, "for all the riches in the world! He is the One Impossible."

Olga felt her colour rising. She made response with an effort. "Don't
you like him, then?"

"Like him!" Violet's eyes came down to her. They expressed a fiery
chafing at restraint that made her think of a wild creature caged. "My
dear, what has that to do with it? I wouldn't marry a man who didn't
worship me, whatever my own feelings might be; and it isn't in him to
worship any woman. No, he would only grind me under his heel, and I
should probably kill him in the end and myself too." A passionate note
crept into the deep voice. It seemed to quiver on the verge of tragedy;
and then again quite suddenly she laughed. "But I don't feel in the
least murderous," she said. "In fact, I'm at peace with all the world
just now. Listen, Allegro! You've told me your secret. I'll tell you one
of mine. But you must swear on your sacred honour that you will never
repeat it to a soul."

Olga was in a fashion used to this form of affidavit. She had been the
recipient of Violet's secrets before. She gave the required pledge with
the utmost simplicity, little dreaming how soon she was to repent of it.

Violet leaned towards her and spoke in low, confidential tones. "So
amusing, dear! I know you won't mind for once. It's Hunt-Goring again.
He really is too ridiculous for words. He has hired a yacht, you must
know--a nice little steam-yacht, Allegro. He walked over this afternoon
to tell me about it. Don't look so horrified! There's much worse to
come." She laughed again under her breath. "He has asked me--in fact,
persuaded me--to go for a little trip in it one day next week. Of course
I said No at first; and then he said you could come too to make it
proper; so I consented. I'm sure you won't mind for once, and a breath
of sea air will do me good."

She laid a hand of careless coaxing upon Olga's shoulder. But Olga's
demeanour was very far from acquiescent.

"But, Violet!" she exclaimed, "how could you possibly accept for me? I'm
not going! No; indeed, I'm not! Neither must you. It's the maddest
project I ever heard of! Whatever made you imagine for one moment that I
would agree to go?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Allegro!" Violet sounded quite unmoved. "Of course
you'll go, unless--" she smiled a trifle maliciously--"you mean me to go
alone, as I certainly shall if you are going to be tiresome about it.
You wouldn't like me to do that, I suppose?"

Olga gazed at her helplessly. "Violet, what am I to say to you? How
could you and I go off for a whole day with that detestable man? Why,
it--it would start everyone talking!"

"My dear, no one will know," said Violet with composure. "Haven't you
sworn to keep it a dead secret? He won't talk and neither shall I. So,
you see, it's all perfectly safe. Not that there would be anything
improper about it in any case. He is as old as you and me put
together,--older I should say."

"Oh, but he's such a fiend!" burst forth Olga. "You said you were going
to give him up only the other night."

"When?" said Violet sharply.

Olga hesitated. It was the first time she had made direct reference to
that midnight episode.

"When did I say that?" insisted Violet.

Half-reluctantly Olga made reply, while Violet leaned forward and
listened intently. "The night before last. You came to my room late,
don't you remember?"

Violet's eyes had a startled look. "Yes?" she breathed. "Yes? What
else?"

Olga looked straight up at her. "Dear, I don't think we need talk about
it, need we? You were not yourself. I think you were half-asleep. You
had been smoking those hateful cigarettes."

"Ah, but tell me!" insisted Violet. "Why did I come to you? What did I
say? Was--was Max there?"

"He came in," faltered Olga. "He--guessed you weren't well. He helped
you back to your own room. Don't you remember?"

"Yes--yes--I remember!" Violet's brows were drawn with the effort; there
was a look of dawning horror in her eyes. "I remember, Allegro!" she
said, speaking rapidly. "He--he was very brutal to me, wasn't he? He
made me tell him where to find the cigarettes, and then--and then--yes,
he took them away. I've hated him ever since." Again that vindictive
note sounded in her voice. "I won't bear brutality from any man," she
said. "Do you know, if I didn't hate him, I believe I should be afraid
of him? I know you are, Allegro."

"Perhaps; a little," Olga admitted.

"Ah! I knew it. He can do anything he likes with you. But I am
different." She lifted her head proudly. "I am no man's slave," she
said. "He thinks that he has only to speak, and I shall obey. He was
never more mistaken in his life."

"But, Violet, he was only treating you as a patient," Olga protested.
"And he only took the cigarettes because--"

"I know why he took them." Quickly Violet interrupted. "And remember
this, Allegro! Whatever happens to me in the future you must never,
never let him attend me again. I suffered more from his treatment than I
have ever suffered before, and I can never go through it again. You
understand?" She looked at Olga with eyes that had in them the memory of
a great pain. "It was torture," she said. "He forced his will upon mine.
He crushed me down, so that I was at his mercy. It was like an
overpowering weight. I thought my heart would stop. I don't know--even
now--how it was I didn't die."

"He gave you the pain-killer, dear," said Olga soothingly. "That was
what made you well again."

"The pain-killer!" Violet gazed at her bewildered. "What is--the
pain-killer?" she said.

Olga shook her head. "I don't know what it is. He wouldn't tell me. He
calls it--sudden death."

Violet gave a great start. "Good heavens, Allegro! And he gave me that?"

"Only enough to make you sleep," explained Olga. "He gave me some the
other day, when the heat upset me. I liked it."

Violet's eyes were glittering very strangely. "And you--came back again
after it?" she said. "Allegro, are you--sure?"

"Of course," said Olga. "I don't know what you mean, dear. Of course I
came back, or I shouldn't be here now."

"No--no, of course not!" Violet lay back in her chair, gazing straight
up through the limes at the flawless August sky. "So that is why I
didn't die," she said. "He only let me go--half-way. If I'd only had a
little more--a little more--" She broke off suddenly and threw a quick
side glance at Olga. "What queer creatures doctors are!" she said. "They
spend their whole lives fighting, with the certainty that they are bound
to be conquered in the end."

"They are splendid!" said Olga, with shining eyes.

"Oh, do you think so? I never can. If they fought suffering only, it
would be a different thing. That I could admire. But to fight death--"
Violet made a curious little gesture of the hands--"it seems to me like
tilting at a windmill," she said. "Everyone must die sooner or later."

"But no one wants to go before his time," observed a cool voice behind
them. "Or if he does, he's a shirker and deserves to be kicked."

Both girls started as Max strolled carelessly up, hands in pockets, and
propped himself against a tree close by.

His eyes travelled over Olga's face as he did so. "You've been
overheated," he remarked.

She pulled her hat forward with a nervous jerk. "Who can help it this
weather?"

He grunted disapproval. "You never see me in that condition. Pray
continue your oration, Miss Campion! It was not my intention to
interrupt."

But Violet had suddenly reopened her book and buried herself therein.

Max twisted his neck and peered over. After a brief space he grunted
again and relaxed against the tree.

"Do you read French?" Olga asked, feeling the silence to be slightly
oppressive.

He laughed drily. "Not that sort. I have no taste for it."

"But you know the language?" Olga persisted, still striving against
silence.

"I've studied it," said Max. He paused a moment; then, "The best fellow
I ever knew was a Frenchman," he said.

She looked up at him, caught by something in his tone. "A friend of
yours?"

He took off his hat with a reverence which she would have deemed utterly
foreign to his nature. "Yes, a friend," he said. "Bertrand de
Montville."

"Oh, did you know him?" exclaimed Olga. "Why did you never tell me
before? I shall never forget how miserable I was because he didn't live
to be reinstated in the French Army. But it's years ago now, isn't it?"

"Six years," said Max.

"Yes, I remember. How I should like to have known him! But I was at
school then. And you knew him well?"

"I was with him when he died," he said.

"Oh!" said Olga, and then with a touch of shyness, "I'm sorry, Max."

"No," he said. "You needn't be sorry. He was no shirker. His time was
up."

"But wasn't it a pity?" she said.

He smiled a little. "I don't think he thought so. He was happy
enough--at the last."

"But if he had only been vindicated first!" she said.

"Do you think that matters?" Max's smile became cynical.

"Surely it would have made a difference to him?" she protested. "Surely
he cared!"

He snapped his fingers in the air. "He cared just that."

Violet looked up suddenly from her book. "And you--did you care--just
that too?"

He seemed to Olga to contract at the question. "I?" he said. "I had
other things to think about. Life is too short for grizzling in any
case. And I chanced to have my sister to attend to at the same time."

"You have a sister?" said Olga, swift to intervene once more.

He nodded. "Did I never tell you? She is married to Trevor Mordaunt the
writer. Ever heard of him?"

"Why, yes! Nick knows him, I believe."

"Very likely. He has an immense circle of friends. He's quite a good
sort," said Max.

"And where do they live?" asked Olga, with interest.

"In Suffolk chiefly. Mordaunt bought our old home and gave it to
Chris--my sister--when they married. My elder brother manages the estate
for him."

"How nice!" said Olga. "And what is your sister like?"

Max smiled. "She is my twin," he said.

"Oh! Like you then?" Olga looked slightly disappointed.

Max laughed. "Not in the least. Can you imagine a woman like me? I
can't. She has red hair or something very near it. And there the
resemblance stops. I'll take you to see her some day--if you'll come."

"Thank you," said Olga guardedly.

"Don't mention it!" said Max. "There are two kiddies also--a boy and a
girl. It's quite a domestic establishment. I often go there when I want
a rest. My brother-in-law is good enough to keep special rooms for the
three of us."

"Is there another of you then?" asked Olga.

"Yes, another brother--Noel. By the way, he won't be going there again
at present, for he sailed for Bombay to join his regiment a year ago.
That's the sum complete of us." Max straightened himself with a faintly
ironical smile. "We are a fairly respectable family nowadays," he
observed, "thanks to Mordaunt who has a reputation to think of. But we
are boring Miss Campion to extinction. Can't we talk of something more
amusing?"

Violet threw back her head with a restless movement, but she did not
meet his eyes. "I am accustomed to amusing myself," she said.

He stooped to pick up a marker that had fallen from her book. "It is a
useful accomplishment," he observed, as he handed it to her, "for those
who have time to cultivate it."

She raised her arms with the careless, unstudied grace of a wild
creature. Her eyes were veiled.

"I assure you it is far more satisfying than tilting at windmills," she
said.

Max straightened himself. There seemed to Olga something pitiless about
him, a deadliness of purpose that made him cruel. And in that moment she
became aware of a strong antagonism between these two that almost
amounted to open hostility.

"A matter of opinion," said Max. "I suppose we each of us have our
patent method of killing time."

Violet uttered an indolent laugh. "Yours is a very strenuous one," she
observed. "I believe you imagine yourself invincible in your own
particular line, don't you?"

"Not at present," said Max, with his twisted smile.

She laughed again, mockingly. "Irresistible then, shall we say?"

He had turned to go, but he paused at the question and looked back at
her, grimly ironical. Olga had a feeling that the green eyes
comprehended her also.

"No," he said, with extreme deliberation. "Not even that. But--since you
ask me--the odds are certainly very greatly in my favour."

And with that he turned on his heel, still smiling, and sauntered away.

As he went, Violet stooped towards Olga with a face gone suddenly white,
and grasped her arm.

"Remember, Allegro!" she said. "Not a word about Hunt-Goring--to anyone!
Not one single tiny suspicion of a hint!"

And Olga, looking into her eyes, read terror in her soul.




CHAPTER XVII

THE VERDICT


"It's a difficult position," said Nick.

"It's a damnable position," said Max. He stared across the white
table-cloth with eyes that brooded under down-drawn brows. "I don't
anticipate any sudden development if I can keep her off that cursed
opium. But--I'd give fifty pounds to have her people within reach."

"Do you know where they are?" said Nick.

Max shrugged his shoulders. "They are cruising about the Atlantic to
give Mrs. Bruce, who is neurotic, a rest-cure. Of course, when I
undertook to keep an eye on the girl, I never anticipated this. Her
brother was anxious about her, I thought somewhat unnecessarily. It was
that blackguard Hunt-Goring who precipitated matters. I've given him a
pretty straight warning, though Heaven alone knows what effect it will
have."

"What did you say to him?" questioned Nick.

"I said that I had just discovered that he had been giving her
cigarettes that contained opium. I warned him that it was criminally
unsafe, that her brain was peculiarly susceptible to drugs, and that he
would probably cause her death if he persisted; also, that if he did I
would see that he was held responsible. What more could I say?"

"That was fairly direct certainly," said Nick. "And he?"

"He asked me to dine," said Max.

Nick laughed. "And you didn't accept?"

"Would you have accepted?" Max turned on him almost savagely.

"I think I should," said Nick. "There's nothing like studying the enemy
from close quarters. But go ahead! Tell me more! When do you expect her
people back?"

"Possibly in a fortnight. They have been gone that time already--rather
more. And they expected to make a month of it."

Nick nodded. "We ought to be able to hold the fort for that time. What
did your friend Sir Kersley think?"

Max lifted one eyebrow. "What did he say to you about it?"

Nick struck a match for his cigarette with considerable dexterity.
"About Violet--practically nothing. About her mother--a good deal."

"I wonder why." Max spoke somewhat curtly.

Nick lighted his cigarette with a whimsical expression. "You don't seem
to have noticed what an excellent confidant I make," he said.

"Ah, I know you are safe." There was conviction in Max's tone. "But
Kersley is such a reserved chap. And--that ancient affair ruined his
life."

"I gathered that," said Nick. "As a matter of fact, I knew a little of
the affair before we met. He had been a doctor in my old regiment. It
was five years after he retired that I joined; but most of the fellows
knew the story. It reached me one way or another. I was deuced sorry for
him when I heard the truth. Most people out there were of the opinion
that he had treated her badly--was, in fact, to a very great measure
responsible for the tragedy."

"That of course was not so," said Max deliberately. "She was responsible
from first to last. She knew of the taint in her veins. He did not--till
he detected it."

"Rather hard on her!" remarked Nick.

"Would you have married her?" The green eyes fixed him with sudden stern
intentness.

Nick blinked rapidly for a few seconds. "I daren't answer that
question," he said at length. "You see, I'm not a doctor."

Max rose abruptly. "Are doctors the only beings whoever think of the
next generation?" he asked bitterly.

"There is a saying," said Nick, "that 'Love conquers all things.'"

"Pshaw!" said Max. "It never conquered heredity."

"I withdraw the proposition," said Nick. "But, I say, Wyndham!" He
paused.

"Well?" Max swung round aggressively with hands in his pockets.

"Suppose the woman you loved developed that disease--would you throw her
over?" Nick spoke tentatively.

Max flung back his head and stared at the ceiling. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to know what you are made of," replied Nick with
simplicity.

Max turned and slowly walked to the window. "Yes," he said, with his
back turned, "I should."

Nick was silent.

After a moment Max glanced round at him. "You wouldn't, I suppose?"

"No," said Nick.

"You would marry her regardless of the consequences?"

"If I were an ordinary man--perhaps," said Nick. "If I were a doctor--"
he paused--"if I were a doctor, Max," he said again with a sudden smile,
"I think I should tackle the situation from another standpoint. Either
way, if she loved me and I loved her, I would marry her. As to the
consequences--there wouldn't be any."

Max grunted. "Of course you are the exception to every rule."

"Who told you that?" thrust in Nick.

"It's been dinned into me ever since I met you." Half-churlishly Max
made reply, and turning fell to pacing the room with the measured tread
of one trained to step warily.

"And you believe it?" Nick leaned back in his chair peering forth
through eyes half-closed.

"I do--more or less."

"Thanks!" said Nick. "And how goes the courtship?"

Max frowned heavily, without speaking.

"Pardon my asking," said Nick, "and consider the question answered!"

Max stopped squarely in front of him. "It doesn't go," he said briefly.

Nick's glance darted over him for an instant. "What method have you been
employing? Coercion? Persuasion? Indifference? Or strategy?"

Max's hands showed clenched inside his pockets. "I'm leaving her alone,"
he growled.

"Then change your tactics at once!" said Nick. "Try an advance!"

"That's just the mischief. In the present damnable state of affairs, I
am powerless. Violet Campion is hating me pretty badly, and--she--is
thinking it clever to follow suit. She is avoiding me like the plague."

"That's sometimes a good sign," said Nick thoughtfully.

"Not in this case. It only means she is afraid of me."

Nick's glance flashed up at him again. "For any special reason?"

"I have given her none."

"Violet again?" queried Nick.

"Probably."

Nick ruminated. "You don't think it advisable to tell her how things
are?"

"I?" The brief word sounded almost hostile. Max resumed his pacing on
the instant. "I'm not an utter brute, Ratcliffe," he said, "whatever I
may appear."

Nick sent a cloud of smoke upwards. "Would you call me a brute if I told
her?" he asked.

"Yes, I should." Curt and prompt came the answer. "What is more, I won't
have it done."

"She is a sensible little soul," contended Nick.

"She may be. But it would increase the difficulties a hundredfold. The
girl herself would probably suspect something, and that would almost
inevitably precipitate matters. No, the only possible course is to leave
things alone for the present. The symptoms are slight, and though it is
impossible to say from moment to moment what will happen, the chances
are that if we can keep Hunt-Goring from doing any further mischief, the
disease may remain in a stationary condition for some time. In that case
you may manage to get Olga away on this tom-fool expedition of yours to
India before any serious development takes place."

"I see," said Nick. "And you are convinced that a serious development is
inevitable?"

"Absolutely." Max came strolling back from the window with eyes fixed
and far-seeing. "It is as plain as a pike-staff to any professional man.
Kersley detected it at once--as I knew he would; and that was before the
midnight episode in Olga's room. Yes, it's bound to come. It may be
gradual. It may even take the form of paralysis. But with her
temperament I don't think that very likely. It will probably come
suddenly as a sequel to some shock or violent agitation. But
come--sooner or later--it must."

He spoke slowly, with the deliberation of absolute certainty. Reaching
the mantelpiece he lodged himself against it and smoked with his eyes on
the ceiling.

Nick watched him with a veiled scrutiny from the depths of his chair.
"So that is the verdict," he said at last.

Max nodded without speaking.

"And how long have you known?"

"About a month."

"But you knew them before then?"

Max looked down at him with a slight gesture that passed unexplained.
"As long as I have known the Ratcliffes," he said.

"It must have been something of a shock to you," suggested Nick.

Max's jaw hardened. "I was infinitely more interested in her when I
knew," he said.

"Really?" said Nick.

"Yes, really." Max spoke with finality. "I assure you I am not
impressionable," he added a moment later with the cynical twist of the
lips that Olga knew so well. "And I never play with fire. That form of
amusement doesn't attract me."

A sudden humorous glitter shone between Nick's half-closed eyelids. "But
even serious people burn their fingers sometimes," he observed. "I
presume you haven't proposed yet?"

"Yes, I have." Max spoke with dogged assertiveness.

Nick jerked upright. "The deuce you have!"

"You needn't excite yourself," Max assured him grimly. "We are not
officially engaged yet--or likely to be. You needn't stick your spoke
in. She knows I shan't marry her against her will."

"Oh, that's settled, is it?" Nick's eyes flashed over him with lightning
rapidity.

"It is." Max began to smile. "And the marriage will take place some time
before the end of next year."

The door opened abruptly while he was speaking, but he finished his
sentence with extreme deliberation in spite of the fact that it was Olga
who entered,--Olga, flushed and eager, vivid, throbbing with excitement.
If she heard his words she paid no heed to them, but broke at once into
breathless speech.

"Oh, Nick, it's the post! It's the post! A letter from Dad and another
from Muriel; both for you!"

Nick stretched out his hand to her. "Come over here, kiddie! We'll read
them together."

She sprang to him, knelt beside him, and warmly hugged him. Max remained
propped against the mantelpiece, looking on, ignored by both.

"Muriel's first!" commanded Nick; and, with hands that shook, Olga slit
open the envelope.

He put his arm about her shoulders as she withdrew the sheet and opened
it out. "Yes, you can read it too. I know what's in it, bless her
heart!"

So together they read the closely-written pages. There was silence in
the room as they did so, broken only by the crackling of the paper,
while Max Wyndham kept a motionless watch, his shaggy brows drawn close.

Suddenly Olga lifted her face. "Oh, Nick, isn't she a darling? I--I--it
makes me feel such a beast!"

Nick's hand pinched her cheek in answer. His lips twitched a little, but
he did not speak or raise his eyes.

She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. "I won't read any more, Nick.
It's too private. May I open Dad's?"

He took his wife's letter between his fingers and dexterously folded it.
"All right, Olga _mia!_ Let us hear the verdict of the great Dr. Jim!"

He glanced up at Max with the words and instantly looked away.

Olga had apparently forgotten his very existence. She opened her
father's letter still in quivering haste, and again there was a silence
of several seconds while they read.

It was broken in a fashion which not one of the three anticipated. Quite
suddenly Olga's lips began to quiver. She raised her head with the
agitated gesture of one straining for self-control; and then in a moment
the tears were running down her cheeks, and she covered her face and
sobbed.

"Kiddie! Kiddie!" remonstrated Nick.

But it was Max who stooped and swiftly lifted her, holding her against
his heart, stroking the fair hair with his steady capable hand. And
surely there was magic in his touch, for almost immediately her weeping
ceased. She looked up with slightly startled eyes, and drew herself
gently but quite definitely from him.

"Thank you," she said, with a quaint touch of dignity. "You're very
kind. Nick dear, I'm sorry. I--I'm all right now. Dad's very sweet to
put it like that, pretending he doesn't mind a bit. I don't know how
ever I shall say good-bye to him."

"You are really going then?" said Max.

She looked at him with a fleeting smile. "Yes, really!" she said.

"I congratulate you," he said.

Nick chuckled. "He is pretending he doesn't mind, too, Olga."

Olga flushed a little. "Oh, Max never pretends," she said. "Do you,
Max?"

He smiled in his grim fashion. "It is not for me to contradict you," he
said. "Permit me to congratulate you instead, and to hope that the East
will not take as great liberties with your complexion as it has with
Nick's."

"I'd rather be like Nick than anyone else in the world," she declared,
with one arm wound about her hero's neck.

"Curious, isn't it?" grinned Nick.

"Almost incredible!" said Max.

"But quite true!" asserted Olga with vehemence.

Max swung around with his hands in his pockets, and sauntered to the
door. Reaching it, he glanced back for a moment at the eager, girlish
face, unperturbed, inscrutable.

"Strange as it may seem," he said, "I personally would rather that you
remained like yourself."

"What cheek!" said Olga, as the door shut.

"Oh, isn't he allowed to say that?" enquired Nick.

She nestled to him, albeit half in protest. "Do let's talk about
important things!" she said.

And Nick at once took the hint.




CHAPTER XVIII

SOMETHING LOST


Had Olga been a little less engrossed with the all-absorbing prospect
that had just opened before her, she might have regarded as somewhat
unusual the fact that Violet made no further mention of the proposed
trip with Major Hunt-Goring during the week that followed. But, such was
her preoccupation, she had even ceased to remember his existence. Little
more than six weeks lay between her and the great adventure to which she
was pledged, and she had already commenced her preparations. A visit to
town would of course be inevitable, but this could not take place till
Muriel's return at the end of the month. Nevertheless Olga, being woman
to the core, found many things to do at home, and immersed herself in
sewing with a zest that provoked Nick to much mirth.

Violet watched her lazily, with occasional offers to help which were
seldom meant or taken seriously.

"I believe I shall come after you, Allegro," she said once. "It will be
very dull without you."

"You know you are never dull in the shooting season," was Olga's
sensible reply. "You never have time to think of me then."

"Quite true, dear," Violet admitted. "I wonder what sort of crowd Bruce
will collect this year, and if any of them will want to marry me. He is
always furiously angry when that happens. I can't imagine why. It
amuses me," said Violet, with a yawn.

"Perhaps he doesn't want you to get married," suggested Olga.

"Apparently not. And yet I am sure he would be thankful to be rid of me.
We never agree." The beautiful eyes gleamed mischievously. "I suppose he
will expect me to marry a husband of his selection by-and-bye. He is
very mediæval in some things."

"I don't believe you ever mean to marry at all," said Olga.

"Oh, yes, indeed I do!" Violet uttered her soft, low laugh. "But I am
mediæval too, Allegro. Have you never noticed? I am waiting for the
first man who is brave enough to run away with me."

It was on the day following this conversation that she prevailed upon
Olga to leave her numerous occupations for an hour or so and motor her
over to Brethaven to pay another visit to her old nurse, Mrs. Briggs.
Nick wished to go over to Redlands to sort some papers, and offered his
company as far as his own gates.

"You can walk to 'The Ship' from there," he said to Olga. "It's only
half a mile, and after that you can run about the shore and amuse
yourselves till I am ready to go back."

"Don't get up to mischief!" said Max briefly.

Violet gave him a quick look from under her lashes, but said no word.

It was a hot morning with a hint of thunder in the atmosphere. With Olga
at the wheel, they set off soon after breakfast, leaving Max pumping his
bicycle at the surgery-door with grim energy. He was going to the
cottage-hospital that morning, a fact which left the motor at liberty
till the afternoon.

Mile after mile of dusty road slid by, and Olga, with her heart in the
future, sang softly to herself for sheer lightness of heart. She had
ceased to trouble about Max, since he, quite obviously, had no intention
of obtruding himself upon her. The problem--if problem there were--was
evidently one that would keep until her return from India, and Olga was
child enough to feel that that event was far too remote to trouble her
now.

So, with a gay spirit, she piloted her two friends on that summer
morning. No presentiment of evil touched her, no cloud was in her sky.
Gaily she sped along the sunny road, little dreaming that that same sun
that so gladdened her was to set upon the last of her youth.

The car was in a good mood also, and they hummed merrily past the little
stone church of Brethaven and up to the great iron gate of Redlands just
as the clock in the tower struck ten.

"Good business!" commented Nick, as he descended to open the gate. "That
gives me two hours and a half. Don't be later than twelve-thirty, Olga
_mia_, for starting back."

Olga promised, as she dexterously turned the car and ran in up the
drive. He sprang upon the step, and so she brought him to his own door.

"Good-bye, Nick!" she said then, lifting her bright face.

He bent and lightly kissed her. "Good-bye! Don't go and get drowned,
either of you, for my sake! Yes, you can leave the car here. It won't
rain at present."

He stood on his own step and watched them go, with a motherly smile on
his wrinkled face.

"Bless their hearts!" he murmured, as he finally turned away. "I'll
swear it's all a mistake. She looks like a queen this morning; and as
for Olga, if she has really given her heart to that ugly doctor chap I
have never yet seen a woman in love."

He entered the house with the words, and straightway dismissed them
from his mind.

"We will go to the shore first," Violet decreed. "Mrs. Briggs won't be
expecting us so early. I hear that some more of the Priory land has been
slipping into the sea. We must go and see it."

So to the shore they went. The slip was not a serious one. They made
their way to the spot over loose sand and rocks, and dropped down in a
sandy hollow to rest.

"Poor old Priory!" said Violet. "It's sure to be swallowed up like the
rest some day. I wonder if I shall live to see it."

"Oh, surely not!" said Olga.

Violet laughed. "Do you think I am destined to die young then?"

"I can't imagine you dying or growing old," said Olga, with simplicity.

"My dear, what gross flattery!" Violet laughed again, her eyes upon the
glittering sea. "Immortal youth! How divine it sounds! Allegro, I should
hate to be old." She stretched out her arms to the sky-line. "I want to
keep young for ever," she said. "Do you really think I shall? I
sometimes think--" she paused.

"What?" said Olga.

She turned round to her with a little gesture of confidence. "I
sometimes have a feeling, Allegro, that I must be getting old or dull or
plain already. Men don't make love to me so much as they did."

"My dear, what nonsense!" exclaimed Olga, with burning cheeks.

"No, listen! It's true." There was almost a sound of tears in the deep
voice. "It's quite true, Allegro. I am not so attractive as I was. I
feel it. I know it. Something is lost. I don't know what it is. It went
from me that night--you remember!--and it hasn't returned. I thought it
was my soul at first. I still sometimes wonder." She laid a hand that
quivered and clung upon Olga's arm. "And the dreadful part of it is,
Allegro, that Max knows. He looks at me with the most deadly knowledge
in his eyes--such wicked eyes they are, all green and piercing, and so
cruel--so cruel."

A great shiver went through her, and then all in a moment--before Olga
could utter a word--her mood had changed. She leaped suddenly to her
feet, all sparkling animation and excitement.

"See! There is a yacht just come round the headland! How close it is!
Oh, Allegro, wouldn't you love to go on the water this stifling day?"

"An easy wish to gratify!" observed a voice close to them.

Olga turned with a violent start. Violet merely glanced over her
shoulder and smiled. Hunt-Goring, stepping lightly in canvas shoes, came
airily forward over the sand, and bowed low.

"I am the _deus ex machina_," he said. "The yacht is mine--and entirely
at your service."

Olga's face was crimson. She got quickly to her feet and stood stiffly
silent.

Hunt-Goring was looking remarkably elegant, attired in white drill with
a yachting cap which he carried in his hand.

"I seem to have come at an opportune moment," he said. "Really, the
fates are more than kind. The yacht is making for Brethaven jetty to
take me on board. If you ladies will come with me for a couple of hours'
cruise, I need scarcely say how charmed I shall be."

He was looking at Violet as he spoke, and she made instant and impulsive
reply. "Of course we will! It will be too delicious--the very thing I
was longing for. What lucky chance sent you our way, I wonder?"

She gave him her hand, which he took with a gallantry that sent a quiver
of disgust through Olga. With a sharp effort she spoke, hurriedly,
nervously, but very much to the point.

"It's very good of you, but we can't possibly come. We must be getting
back. You are going to see Mrs. Briggs, you know, Violet. And we
promised Nick we wouldn't be late starting home from Redlands."

Violet's quick frown appeared like a sudden cloud. "My dear child, what
nonsense! As if Mrs. Briggs mattered! And as for Nick, he won't be ready
for more than two hours. You heard him say so."

But Olga stood her ground. "I don't see how we can possibly go--anyhow
without telling Nick first. In fact, I would rather not."

Hunt-Goring was smiling--the smile of the man who has heard it all
before. "Miss Olga is evidently afflicted with a tender conscience," he
observed. "But if you really have two hours to spare and really care to
go on the water, I do not see how Nick can reasonably object. Of course
I have no desire to persuade you. I only beg that you will follow your
inclinations."

"Of course!" said Violet quickly. "And we are coming--at least I am.
Allegro, you can please yourself, but it will be very horrid of you if
you won't come too."

Olga's pale eyes sparkled. "That depends on one's point of view," she
said, with a touch of warmth. "You know what I think about it. I told
you the other day."

"My dear, that is too ridiculous," declared Violet. "I never heard such
rubbish in my life. Besides, it's only for a couple of hours. Major
Hunt-Goring," appealing suddenly, "do tell her how absurd she is! What
possible objection could there be to our going out with you for a
morning's cruise?"

"None, I should say," smiled Hunt-Goring. "But doubtless Miss Olga has
made up her mind and discussion would be only a waste of time. Shall we
start?"

"Yes, we will!" agreed Violet impetuously. "I am simply dying for a
breath of sea air. Ah, do give me a cigarette! I finished my last this
morning."

And then Olga's eyes were opened, and she knew the reason of this man's
ascendancy over her friend. The certainty went through her like the stab
of a sword, and hard upon it came the realization that to desert Violet
at that moment would be an act of treachery. So strong was the
conviction that she did not dare to question it. It was as if a voice
had spoken in her soul, and blindly she obeyed.

"I will come too," she said.

Violet beamed upon her instantly. "Well done, Allegro! I thought you
couldn't be so unkind as to stay behind when I wanted you."

"A woman's second thoughts are always best," observed Hunt-Goring.

She looked him straight in the eyes. "I am going for Miss Campion's sake
alone," she said.

He smiled at her with covert insolence. "You are a true woman," he said.

"Is that intended for a compliment or otherwise?" asked Violet.

"Otherwise, I think," said Olga, in a very low voice.

"Acquit me at least of idle flattery!" said Hunt-Goring, with a laugh.




CHAPTER XIX

THE REVELATION


It was certainly a perfect day for a cruise. The sea lay blue and still
as a lake, so clear that the rocks made purple shadows in its crystal
depths. Under any other circumstances, Olga would have revelled in the
beauty of it, but there was no enjoyment for her that day. She stood on
the deck of the yacht as she steamed away from the jetty, and watched
the uneven shore recede with a feeling of impotence that was not without
an element of fear. For it seemed to her that she was a prisoner,
looking her last upon the liberty of her youth.

The vessel was of no inconsiderable size and moved swiftly through the
still water, cleaving her way like a bird through space. It was not long
before they passed the jutting headland that hid the little
fishing-village from view; but Olga still stood motionless at the rail,
fighting down the cold dread at her heart.

She could hear Violet's voice on the other side of the deck, gaily
chattering to Hunt-Goring. The scent of their cigarettes reached her,
and she clenched her hands. She was sure now that he had been supplying
Violet with them secretly. She had been too deeply engrossed with her
own affairs to think of this before, and bitterly did she blame herself
for this absorption.

Poor Olga! It was the prelude to a life-long self-reproach.

They were heading out to sea now, running smoothly into the glaring
sunshine. It poured upon her mercilessly where she stood, but she was
scarcely aware of it. She gazed backward at the shore with eyes that saw
not.

Suddenly a soft voice spoke at her shoulder. "What! Still sulking? Do
you know you are remarkably like a boy?"

She turned with a great start, meeting the eyes she feared. "I don't
know what you mean," she said, drawing sharply back.

He laughed his smooth, easy laugh. "I mean that you are behaving like a
cub in need of chastisement. Do you seriously think I am going to put up
with it--from a chit like you?"

She looked him up and down with a single flashing glance of clear scorn.
"How much do you think I am going to put up with?" she said.

He leaned his arms upon the rail in an attitude of supreme complacence.
"I may be the villain of the piece," he observed, "but I have no desire
to be melodramatic. I have come over here to talk to you quietly and
sensibly about the future. Of course if you--"

"What have you to do with my future?" she thrust in fiercely. She would
have given all she had to be calm at that moment, but calmness was
beyond her. Though her fear had utterly departed, she was quivering with
indignation from head to foot.

Hunt-Goring kept his face turned downwards towards the swirl of water
that leaped by them. He was quite plainly prepared for the question.

"Since you ask me," he responded coolly, "I should say--a good deal."

"In what way?" she demanded.

She could see that he was still smiling--that maddening, perpetual
smile, and she thought that her sheer abhorrence of the man would choke
her. But with all her throbbing strength she held herself in check.

He did not answer her at once. She waited, compelling herself to
silence.

At length quite calmly he turned and faced her. "Well now, Olga, listen
to me," he said. "I am a good deal older than you are, but I am still
capable of a certain amount of foolishness. What I am now going to say
to you, I have wanted to say for some time, but you have been so
absurdly shy with me that--as you perceive--I have been obliged to
resort to strategy to obtain a hearing."

He paused, for Olga had suddenly gripped the rail as if she needed
support. Her face was deathly, but out of it the pale eyes blazed in
fierce questioning.

"What do you mean?" she said. "What strategy?"

He laid his hand upon hers and gripped it hard. "Don't be hysterical!"
he said. "I am paying you the compliment of treating you like a woman of
sense."

She shrank away from him, but he continued to grip her hand with brutal
force till the pain of it reached her consciousness and sent the blood
upwards to her face. Then he let her go.

"Yes," he said coolly, "I have been laying my mine for some time now. It
has not been particularly easy or particularly pleasant, but since I
considered you worth a little trouble I did not grudge it. The long and
the short of it is this: I fell in love with you last winter. You may
remember that I caught your brothers poaching on my ground, and you came
to me to beg them off. Well, I granted your request--for a
consideration. You may remember the consideration also. You had been at
great pains to snub me until that episode. I made you pay for the
snubbing. I imposed a fine--do you remember?"

"I have loathed you ever since," she broke in.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I know that. That was what started the mischief. I
am so constituted that resistance is but fuel to the flame. In that
respect I believe I am not unique. It is a by no means remarkable trait
of the masculine character, you will find. Well, I made you pay. It was
to be two kisses, was it not? You gave me one, and then for some reason
you fled. That left you in my debt."

"It is a debt I will never pay!" she declared passionately. "I will die
first!"

He laughed. There was something in his eyes--something intolerable--that
made her avert her own in spite of herself. In desperation she glanced
around for Violet.

"She is asleep," said Hunt-Goring.

She turned on him then like a fury. "You mean you have drugged her!" she
cried.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Not to that extent. You can wake her if you
wish, but I think you had better hear me out first--for her sake also.
It is better for all parties that we should come to a clear
understanding."

With immense effort she controlled herself. "Very well. What do you wish
me to understand?"

"Simply this," said Hunt-Goring. "I know very well that your engagement
to Wyndham was simply a move in the game, and that you have not the
faintest intention of marrying him. That is so, I think?"

She was silent, taken by surprise.

"I thought so," he continued. "You see, I am not so easy to hoodwink.
And now I am going to act up to my villain's _rôle_ and break that
engagement of yours--which is no engagement. To put it quite shortly and
comprehensibly--I am going to marry you myself."

She stared at him in gasping astonishment. "You!" she said. "You!"

He laughed into her eyes of horror. "You will soon get used to the
idea," he said. "You see, Wyndham doesn't really want you, and I do.
That is the one extenuating circumstance of my villainy. I want you so
badly that I don't much care what steps I take to get you. And so long
as you continue to hate me as heartily as you do now, just by so much
shall I continue to want you. Is that quite plain?"

She was still staring at him in open repulsion. "And you think I would
marry you?" she said breathlessly. "You think I would marry you?"

"I think you will have to," said Hunt-Goring, with his silky laugh. "I
love you, you see." He added, after a moment, "I shan't be unkind to you
if you behave reasonably. I am well off. I can give you practically
anything you want. Of course you will have to give also; but that goes
without saying. The point is, how soon can we be married?"

"Never!" she cried vehemently. "Never! Never!"

He looked at her, and again her eyes fell; but she continued,
nevertheless, with less of violence but more of force.

"I don't know what you mean by suggesting such a thing. I think you must
be quite mad--as I should be if I took you seriously. I am not going to
marry you, Major Hunt-Goring. I have never liked you, and I never shall.
You force me to speak plainly, and so I am telling you the simple
truth."

"Thank you," said Hunt-Goring. "Well, now, let us see if I can persuade
you to change your mind."

"You will never do that," she said quickly.

He smiled. "I wonder! Anyhow, let me try! It makes no difference to you
that I love you?"

"No," she told him flatly. "None whatever. In fact, I don't believe it."

"I will prove it to you one day," he said. "But let that pass now, since
it has no weight with you. I quite realize that I shall not persuade you
to marry me for your own sake or for mine. But--I think you may be
induced to consider the matter for the sake of--your friend."

"In what way?" Breathlessly she asked the Question. for again it was as
if a warning voice spoke within her, bidding her to go warily.

He paused a moment. Then: "Has it never struck you that there is
something rather--peculiar--about her?" he asked suavely.

She brought her eyes back to his in sharp apprehension. "Peculiar? No,
never! What do you mean?"

"Are you quite sure of that?" he insisted.

She began to falter in spite of herself. "Never, until--until quite
lately. Never till you gave her those--abominable--cigarettes."

"Believe me, there is no harm whatever in those cigarettes," he said. "I
smoke them myself constantly. Try them for yourself if you don't believe
me. They contain a minute quantity of opium, it is true, but only
sufficient to soothe the nerves. No, those cigarettes are not
responsible. That peculiarity which you have recently begun to notice is
due to quite another cause. Surely you must have always known that she
was different from other girls. Have you never thought her excitable,
even unaccountable in some of her actions? Has she never told you of
strange fancies, strange dreams? And her restlessness, her odd whims,
her insatiable craving for morbid horrors, have you never taken note of
these?"

He spoke with deliberate emphasis, narrowly watching the effect of his
words.

Olga's hands were gripped fast together; her wide eyes searched his
face.

"Oh, tell me what you mean!" she entreated, a piteous quiver in her
voice. "Tell me plainly what you mean!"

"I will," he said. "Violet Campion's mother was a homicidal maniac. She
killed her husband--this girl's father--in a fit of madness one night
three months after their marriage. It happened in India, and was put
down to native treachery in order to hush it up, but it was well known
that no native was responsible for it. During the six months that
followed, she was kept under restraint, hopelessly insane. It was in her
blood--the worst form of insanity known. At the birth of the child she
died. That will explain to you my exact meaning, and if you need
corroboration you can go to Max Wyndham for it. She has begun to develop
symptoms of her mother's complaint. All her peculiarities arise from
incipient madness!"

"Oh, no!" Olga whispered, with fingers straining against each other.
"It's not possible! It's not true!"

"It is absolutely true," he said. "And you know it is true. At the same
time it is just possible that the disease may be arrested. Wyndham
himself will tell you this. We discussed the matter quite recently. It
may be arrested even for years if nothing happens to precipitate it. Of
course her people will never let her marry, but she is not, I fancy, the
sort of young woman to whom wedded bliss is essential. Naturally, all
this has been kept from her. There are not many people who know of it. I
am one, because I knew her mother both before and after her marriage,
being a young subaltern at the time and stationed at the very place
where the tragedy occurred. Wyndham is another, being the _protégé_ of
Kersley Whitton to whom the girl's mother was engaged and who was the
first to discover the fatal tendency. She married Campion mainly out of
pique because Whitton threw her over. He was a man of sixty, and his son
was grown up at the time. I have often thought that he behaved with
remarkable magnanimity when he adopted the child of the woman who had
murdered his father."

Olga shivered suddenly and violently. The horror of the tale had turned
her cold from head to foot. She no longer questioned the truth of it.
She knew beyond all doubting that it was true.

The sun still shone gloriously, and the yacht slipped on through the
shining water, throwing up the sparkling foam as she went. But to Olga
the whole world had become a place of darkness and of the shadow of
death. Whichever way she turned, she was afraid.

"Oh, why have you told me?" she said at last. "Why--why have you told
me?"

"Can't you guess?" said Hunt-Goring.

"No!" Yet her breath came sharply with the word. If she did not guess,
she feared.

He looked down at her for the first time unsmiling. "I have told you,"
he said, "that I mean to marry you, and--in keeping with the part of
villain which you have assigned to me--I don't much care what I do to
get you."

She met his look with all her quivering courage. "But what has this to
do with that?" she said.

She saw his face harden, become cruel. "Miss Campion is nothing to me,"
he said brutally. "Either you give me your most sacred promise to marry
me before the end of the year, or--I shall tell her the truth here and
now, as I have just told it to you."

She shrank as though he had struck her. "Oh, you couldn't!" she cried
out wildly. "You couldn't! No man could be such a fiend!"

He came a step nearer to her, and suddenly his eyes glowed with a fire
that scorched her to the soul. "You had better not tempt me!" he said.
"Or I may do that--and more also!"

She put her hands up to shield her face from his look, but he caught
them suddenly and savagely into his own, overbearing her resistance with
indomitable mastery.

"Promise me!" he said. "Promise me!"

His lips were horribly near her own. She strained away from him tensely,
with all her strength. "I will not!" she panted. "I will not!"

"You shall!" he declared furiously. "Do you think I will be beaten by a
child like you? I tell you, you shall!"

But still desperately she struggled against him, repeating voicelessly,
"I will not! I will not!"

He gripped her fast, holding her face up mercilessly to his own. "You
think I won't do it?" he said.

"I know you won't!" she gasped back. "You couldn't! No man--no man
could!"

"I swear to you that I will!" he said.

"No!" she breathed. "No! No! No!"

She saw the fury on his face suddenly harden and turn cold. Abruptly he
set her free.

"Very well," he said. "Marry you I will. But first I will show you that
I am a man of my word."

He swung round upon his heel to leave her. But in that instant the
warning voice cried out again in Olga's soul, compelling her to swift
action. She sprang after him, caught his arm, clinging to it with all
her failing strength.

"You will not!" she gasped out in an agony of entreaty. "You could not!
You shall not!"

He stopped, looking down without pity into her face of supplication.
"Then give me that promise!" he said.

She shook her head. "No, not that--not that!"

"Why not?" he insisted. "Are you hoping to catch your red-haired doctor?
You are not likely to secure anyone else, and he will probably prove
elusive."

She flinched at the gibing words, but still she held him back. "No, no!
I don't want to marry anyone. I have always said so."

"Have you said so to him?" asked Hunt-Goring.

She was silent, but the quick blood ran to her temples betraying her.

"I thought not," he said. "So that is the explanation, is it? That is
why you will have none of me, eh?"

"Oh, how can you be so hateful?" she cried vehemently.

He laughed. "You won't let me be anything else, I assure you I would be
amiability itself if you would permit. Well now, which is it to be? You
say you don't want to marry anyone. That, we have seen, is only a figure
of speech. But since the red-haired doctor is not wanting you and I
am--"

"You are wrong!" she broke in, with sudden heat.

Some hidden fire within her had kindled into flame at his words; it
burned with a fierce strength. For the first time she challenged him
without any sense of fear.

He looked at her in unfeigned astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are wrong!" she said again, and it was as if some inner force
inspired the words. She spoke without conscious volition of her own.
"Max Wyndham has asked me to marry him--and marry him I will!"

She never knew with what triumphant finality she spoke, but the effect
of her words was instant and terrible. Even as they left her lips, she
saw the dark blood rise in a wave to his forehead, swelling the veins
there to purple cords. His eyes became suddenly bloodshot and glittered
devilishly. His hands clenched, and she almost thought he was going to
strike her.

With a desperate effort she faced him without a tremor, instinctively
aware that courage alone could save her.

For fully thirty seconds he said no word, and as they slipped away she
saw the dreadful wave of passion gradually recede. But even then he
continued to glare at her till with a quiet movement she took her hand
from his arm and turned away.

Then, as she stood at the deck-rail, at last he spoke. "So that is your
last word upon the subject?"

She answered him briefly, "Yes."

She kept her face turned seawards. She was suddenly and overwhelmingly
conscious of bodily weakness. All her strength seemed to have gone into
that one great effort, that at the moment had seemed no effort at all.
She felt as if she were going to faint, and gripped herself with all her
quivering resolution, praying wildly that he might not notice.

He did not notice. For a few seconds more he stood behind her, while she
waited, palpitating, for his next move. Then, very suddenly he turned
and left her.

And Olga, instantly relaxing from a tension too terrible to be born,
covered her face with her hands and shuddered over and over again in
sick disgust.

It was many minutes before she recovered, minutes during which her mind
seemed to be almost too stunned for thought. Very gradually at length
she began to remember the words she had last uttered, the weapon she had
used; and numbly she wondered at herself.

No, she had scarcely acted on her own initiative. Her action had been
prompted by some force of which till that moment she had had no
knowledge, a force great enough to lift her above her own natural
impulses, great enough to help her in her sore strait, and to make all
other things seem of small importance.

What would Max have said to that emphatic declaration of hers? But
surely it was Max, and none other, who had inspired it.
Surely--surely--ah, what was this that was happening to her? What magic
was at work? She suddenly lifted her face to the dazzling summer sky. A
brief giddiness possessed her--and passed. She was as one over whom a
mighty wave had dashed. She came up from it, breathless, trembling, yet
with a throbbing ecstasy at her heart such as she had never known
before. For the impossible had happened to her. She realized it now.
She--Olga Ratcliffe, the ordinary, the colourless, the prosaic--was
caught in the grip of the Unknown Power, that Immortal Wonder which for
lack of a better name men call Romance. And she knew it, she exulted in
it, she stretched out her woman's hands to grasp it, as a babe will
seek to grasp the sunshine, possessing and possessed.

In that moment she acknowledged that the bitter struggle through which
she had just come had been indeed worth while. It had exhausted her,
terrified her; but it had shown her her heart in such a fashion as to
leave no room for doubt or misunderstanding. Even yet she quivered with
the rapture of the revelation. It thrilled her through and through. For
she knew that Max Wyndham reigned there in complete and undisputed
possession. No other man had entered before him, or would ever enter
after....

Slowly, reluctantly, she came back from her Elysium. She descended to
earth and faced again the difficulties of the way.

She opened her eyes upon the yacht still running seawards, and decided
that they must turn. She wondered if Hunt-Goring had regained his
self-control, if he were ashamed of himself, if possibly he might bring
himself to apologize, and what she should say to him if he did. Her
heart felt very full. She knew she could not be very severe with him if
he were really repentant.

Then she remembered Violet,--her friend....




CHAPTER XX

THE SEARCH


For the third time Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly one. He
jumped to his feet with a grimace.

"What on earth are those girls up to?"

Rapidly he locked drawer after drawer of his writing-table, gathered up
a sheaf of papers, and turned to go.

The library at Redlands overlooked a wide lawn that led through
shrubberies to the edge of the cliff, up the face of which had been cut
a winding path. He paused a moment considering this. Would they return
from the shore by that way? If so, he would miss them if he went in
search of them by the drive.

Impatiently he turned back towards the window, and in that moment he
caught sight of a flying figure crossing the lawn,--Olga, with a white,
strained face, hatless, dishevelled, gasping.

Nick's one arm fought with the heavy window and flung it up. In another
second he had leaped out to meet her. She ran to him, stumbled ere she
reached him, fell against him, helpless, sobbing, exhausted.

He held her up. "What is it? Violet? Is she drowned?" he questioned
rapidly.

"No--no!" She gasped the words as she lay against his shoulder.

"All right then! Take your time! Come and sit down!" said Nick.

He supported her to the low window-sill, and she sank down upon it,
still clinging to him with agonized gasping, voiceless and utterly
spent.

He stood beside her, strongly grasping her hand. "Keep quite quiet!" he
said. "It's the quickest in the end."

She obeyed him, as was her custom, leaning her head against him till
gradually her breath came back to her and speech became possible.

"Oh, Nick!" she whispered then. "That any man--could be--so vile!"

"What man?" said Nick sharply.

"Major Hunt-Goring."

He stooped swiftly and looked into her face. "What has he been doing?"

"I'll tell you!" she said. "I'll tell you!"

And then, arrested possibly by something in that flashing regard, she
raised herself and looked straight up at him.

"I can only tell you everything," she said, "if you will promise me not
to go and quarrel with him--in fact, not to go near him. Will you
promise, Nick?"

"I will not," said Nick.

"You must!" she said. "You must!"

"I will not," he said again.

She held his hand imploringly. "Not if I ask you--not if I beg you--"

"Not in any case," he said. "Now tell me the truth as quickly as you
can."

She shook her head. "Nick, I can't. He is quite unscrupulous. He might
kill you!"

"So he might," said Nick grimly. "He's crazy enough for anything. What
has he been doing?"

"Is he crazy?" she said, catching at the word.

"He's drug-ridden," said Nick, "and devil-ridden too upon occasion. Now
tell me!"

She began to cry with her head against his arm. "Nick,--I'm frightened!
I can't!"

"Oh, damn!" said Nick to the world at large. And then he gently released
himself and knelt beside her. "Look here, Olga darling! There's nothing
to frighten you. I'm not a headlong fool. There! Dry your eyes, and be
sensible! What's the beast been up to? Made love to you, has he?"

His bony hand grasped hers again very vitally, very reassuringly. Almost
insensibly she yielded herself to his control. Quiveringly she began to
tell him of the morning's happenings.

Perhaps it was as well that she did not see Nick's face as she did so,
or she might have found it difficult to continue. As it was she spoke
haltingly, with many pauses, describing to him Hunt-Goring's arrival and
invitation, her own dilemma, her final surrender.

"I couldn't help it, Nick," she said, still fast clinging to his hand.
"I couldn't let her go alone."

"Go on," said Nick.

And then she told him of Hunt-Goring's overture, her own sick repulsion
for the man, his persistence, his brutality.

At that abruptly Nick broke in. "Before you go any farther--has he ever
made love to you before?"

She answered him because she had no choice. "Yes, Nick. But I always
hated him."

"And you didn't tell me," he said.

There was no note of reproach in his tone, yet in some fashion it hurt
her.

"Nick--darling, you--you've only got one arm," she said. "And he's such
a great, strong bully."

Nick uttered a sudden fierce laugh. His hand was clenched. "You women!"
he said, and for some reason Olga felt overwhelmingly foolish.

"Well, finish!" he commanded. "No half-measures, mind! Just the whole
truth!"

And Olga stumbled on. She repeated with quivering lips Hunt-Goring's
story of the taint in Violet's blood, of the tragedy that had preceded
her birth.

"Nick," she said, turning piteous eyes upon his face, "I know it must be
partly true, but do you think it is really quite as bad as that? I
believed it at the time. But--but--perhaps--"

He shook his head. "It's true," he said briefly.

"True that she is going--mad? Oh, Nick--Nick!"

He slipped his arm around her. "And the devil told her, did he?"

She leaned her forehead on his shoulder in an agony of quivering
recollection. "Because I wouldn't listen to him--because--because--"

"Pass on," said Nick. "He told her. What happened?"

But she could not tell him. "It was too dreadful--too dreadful!" she
moaned.

"Where is she now?" he pursued. "You can tell me that anyhow."

"She has gone to Mrs. Briggs," Olga whispered. "She said she would know
everything. She had been her nurse from the beginning. She--she is in a
terrible state, Nick. I only came away to tell you. I thought you would
be getting anxious, or I wouldn't have left her. I ran up the cliff
path. It was quickest."

"We will go back to her in the motor," Nick said.

He got to his feet, his arm still about her, raising her also.

"Come now!" he said. "Pull yourself together, kiddie! You will need all
the strength you can muster. Come inside and have a drain of brandy
before we start!"

He led her within. She was shivering as one with an ague, but she made
desperate efforts to control herself.

Nick was exceedingly matter-of-fact. There was never anything tragic
about him. He made her drink some brandy and water, and while she did so
he scribbled a brief note.

"I will send off my own man in the motor with this to Max," he said. "He
had better come."

Olga looked up sharply. "It's no manner of use sending for him, Nick.
She vows she will never see him again."

"We will have him all the same," said Nick. "He is the man for the job."

He went off and despatched his message, and then, returning, went out
with her to the motor in which they had arrived so gaily but a few hours
before.

"Now go steady, my chicken!" he said, as he got in beside her. "It
wouldn't serve anyone's turn to have a spill at this juncture."

His yellow face smiled cheery encouragement into hers, and Olga felt
subtly comforted.

"Oh, I am glad I've got you, Nick," she said. "You're such a brick in
any trouble."

"Don't tell anyone!" said Nick. "But that's my speciality."

The midday sun was veiled in a thick haze, and the heat was intense. The
dust lay white upon the hedges, and eddied about their wheels as they
passed. The sea stretched away indefinitely into the sky, leaden,
motionless, with no sound of waves.

"I am sure there will be a storm," said Olga.

"A good thing if there is," said Nick.

"Yes, but Violet is terrified at thunder. She always has been."

"It won't break yet," he said.

Almost noiselessly the motor sped along the dusty road. All Olga's
faculties became concentrated upon her task, and she spoke no more.

They reached the village. It seemed to be deserted in the slumbrous
stillness. There was not so much as a dog to be seen.

Suddenly Nick spoke. "What became of Hunt-Goring?"

The colour leaped into her pale, tense face. "He landed us at the jetty,
and went away again in his yacht."

"Let us hope he will go to the bottom!" said Nick.

She shook her head, a gleam of spirit answering his. "Men like that
never do."

They ran unhindered through the village and came to "The Ship." The
inn-door gaped upon the street. There was not a soul in sight.

Olga brought the car to a stand. "We had better go straight in, Nick."

"Certainly," said Nick.

She peeped into the bar and found it empty. Together they entered the
narrow passage. The unmistakable odour of beer and stale tobacco was
all-prevalent. The air was heavy with it. They reached the foot of the
steep winding stairs, and Olga paused irresolutely.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone downstairs. Will you wait while I run
up?"

"No," said Nick. "I'm coming too."

They ascended therefore, and commenced to search the upper regions. But
the same absolute quiet reigned above as below. Only the loud ticking of
a cuckoo-clock at the head of the stairs aggravated the stillness.

Olga opened one or two doors along the passage and looked into empty
rooms, and finally turned round to Nick with scared eyes.

"What can have happened? Where can she be gone?"

As she uttered the words, there fell a heavy footstep in the sanded
passage below, and the sound of a man's cough came up to them.

Nick wheeled. "Hi, Briggs! Is that you?"

"Briggs it is," said a thick voice.

Nick descended the stairs with Olga behind him, and encountered the
owner thereof at the bottom. He was a large-limbed man with a permanent
slouch and a red and sullen countenance that very faithfully bore
witness to his habits. He stood and regarded Nick with a fixed and
somewhat aggressive stare.

"Where's the missis?" he said.

"That's just what I want to know," said Nick.

Briggs uttered an uneasy guffaw as if he suspected the existence of a
joke that had somewhat eluded him. His eyes rolled upward to Olga, and
back to Nick.

"Well, she ain't 'ere seemin'ly," he remarked.

"Don't you know where she is?" demanded Nick.

Briggs grinned foolishly. "That's tellin'!" he observed facetiously.

Nick turned from him. "Come along, Olga! They are not here evidently.
It's no use trying to get any sense out of this drunken beast."

"But, Nick--" said Olga in distress.

"We will go down to the shore," he said. "Here, you Briggs! Stand back,
will you?"

Briggs was blocking the narrow passage with his great bull-frame, and
showed no disposition to let them pass. He seemed to think he had a
grievance, and he commenced to state it in a rambling, disjointed
fashion, holding them prisoners on the stairs while he did so.

Nick bore with him for exactly ten seconds, and then, clean and
straight, with lightning swiftness, his one hand shot forward. It was a
single hard blow, delivered full on the jaw with a force that nearly
carried Nick with it, and it sent the offender staggering backwards on
his heels in bellowing astonishment. The opposite wall saved him from
falling headlong, but the impact was considerable, and tendered him
quite incapable of recovering his He subsided slowly onto the floor
with a flood of language that at least testified to the fact that his
injuries were not severe.

Nick's arm went round Olga in a flash. He almost lifted her over the
legs of the prostrate Briggs and hurried her down the passage. As they
emerged into the smoky sunlight, she heard him laugh, and marvelled that
he could.

"On second thoughts," he said, with the air of one resuming an
interrupted discussion, "I think we will go to the Priory. If she is not
there, she is probably on the way."

"She would go by the cliffs," Olga said.

"Yes, I know. But Mrs. Briggs is with her. We had better motor," said
Nick.

So they set off again along the glaring road.

It began to seem like a nightmare to Olga. She drove as one pursued by
horrors unspeakable. Once or twice Nick spoke to her, and she knew that
she obeyed his instructions, though what they were she could never
afterwards remember. On and on they went, flying like cloud-shadows on
a windy day, yet--so it seemed to Olga--drawing no nearer to their goal,
until quite suddenly she found herself staring at the great Priory
gate-posts with their huge stone balls while Nick wrestled with the
fastenings of the gates.

They opened before her, and she drove slowly through with a curious
sensation as of entering an unknown country, though she had known the
Priory grounds from childhood. Nick clambered in beside her as she went,
and then they were off again running swiftly up the long drive with its
double line of yews to the house.

Memory awoke within her then, and she called to mind that day that
seemed so long ago when she had encountered Violet, superbly confident,
conquering the rebellious Pluto. The cry of a gull came to her now as
then, and it sounded like a cry of pain.

They came within sight of the old grey walls. Silent and tragic, they
stood up against the mist-veiled sky. The sunlight had turned to an
ominous copper glow. And in that moment Olga was afraid, with that sick
apprehension of evil that comes upon occasion even to the brave. She
gave no sign of it, but it was coiled like a serpent about her heart
from then onwards.

The front-door stood open, its Gothic archway gaping wide and
mysterious. Still with that nightmare dread upon her, she descended and
passed into the old chapel of the monks.

The stained window at the end cast a lurid stream of light along half
its length. She caught her breath in an irrepressible shudder. She
thought she had never before realized how gruesomely horrible that
window was.

Nick's hand closed upon her elbow, and she breathed again. "Shall we go
and investigate upstairs?" he said.

Mutely she yielded to the suggestion. They went down the long vault-like
hall, and turned through the archway in the south wall close to the
window. As they did so, a sudden sound rent the ghostly stillness, a
sound that echoed and echoed from wall to wall, dying at last into a
shrill thread of sound that seemed to merge into the cry of a sea-gull
over the leaden waters. As it died, there came a noise of running feet
in the corridor above, and a white-faced maid-servant rushed gasping
down the wide oak stairs.

Olga sprang to intercept her. "Jane, what is the matter? Where is Miss
Violet? Have you seen her?"

She caught the terrified girl by the shoulders, holding her fast while
she questioned her.

Jane stopped perforce in her headlong flight. "Oh, lor, Miss Olga, do
let me go! Miss Violet's upstairs--with Mrs. Briggs. She's in a dreadful
taking, and don't seem to know what she's doing. Did you hear her
scream? Mrs. Briggs says it's hysterics, but it don't sound like that
to me. It's made my blood run cold."

Olga released as swiftly as she had captured her, and started for the
stairs. Nick was close behind her. They ascended almost together, past
the great window that looked upon the sea, and so on to the oak-panelled
corridor that led to Violet's room.

The great wolf-hound Cork came to meet them here, wagging a wistful tail
and lifting questioning eyes. He made no attempt to hinder their
advance, obviously regarding them as friends in need.

Olga's hand caressed him as she passed, and he came and pressed against
her as she stopped outside the closed door. Softly she turned the
handle, only to discover that the door was locked. She bent her head to
listen, and heard a broken sobbing that was like the crying of a child.

Her face quivered in sympathy. She stooped and put her lips to the
key-hole. "Violet--Violet darling--let me in! Let me be with you!"

Instantly the sobbing ceased, but it was Mrs. Briggs's voice that made
answer. "You can't come in, Miss Olga, only unless you're by yourself.
Miss Violet's still very upset-like, and she ain't wanting anyone but
me."

There was authority in the announcement. Mrs. Briggs was not without
considerable strength of character, and she knew how to keep her head in
an emergency.

Olga looked at Nick.

"I should wait if I were you," he counselled. "She is sure to want you
later on."

She nodded silently, and bent over Cork. The strain of the past few
hours was beginning to tell upon her. Her tears fell unrestrained upon
the great dog's head.

Nick strolled away to the head of the stairs, and stood there like a
sentinel, searching the blurred expanse of sea through the open window
with alert, restless eyes.

Several minutes passed; then there came the sound of the key turning in
the lock. Olga stood up hastily, dashing away her tears. Mrs. Briggs's
head appeared in the aperture.

"Miss Olga," she said in a strenuous whisper, "Miss Violet would like to
speak to you if so be as you're alone. But she won't have anyone else."

"There is only Captain Ratcliffe here," said Olga.

"Then p'raps he'll be good enough to wait outside," said Mrs. Briggs,
with the air of a general issuing his orders. "You can come in, Miss
Olga, and for pity's sake soothe the pore dear as much as you can. She's
well-nigh wore herself out."

Olga glanced round for Nick, and found him at her side.

"Look here, Olga," he said, speaking in a rapid whisper, "you are not to
lock that door. Understand? I say it!"

She hesitated. "But if------"

"I won't have it done," he said. "You must pretend to lock it. Mind, if
I find that door locked, I shall have it forced, and take you away."

"But she may ask me, Nick," Olga objected.

"If she does, you must lie to her," he said inexorably.

Olga abandoned the discussion somewhat reluctantly, anticipating
difficulties.

He laid his hand for an instant on her arm as she prepared to enter.
"You understand I am in earnest, don't you?" he said.

She looked into his queer, yellow face with a feeling that was almost
awe as she answered meekly. "Yes, Nick."

"And don't forget it," he said, as he let her go.




CHAPTER XXI

ON THE BRINK


"Is that you, Allegro? There is no one with you?"

Violet raised herself from her pillows, turning a haggard face to meet
her friend. She looked as if years had passed over her. Her great eyes
shone out of dark circles. They looked beyond Olga in evident
apprehension.

"It's only me, darling," said Olga, going swiftly to her.

Feverish hands caught and held her. "Goodness, child! How cold you are!"
exclaimed Violet. "Mrs. Briggs, I can do without you now. You had better
go and look after Briggs." She broke into a brief laugh. "He always gets
up to mischief as soon as your back is turned."

"He can very well look after 'imself," said Mrs. Briggs austerely. "And
I'm not a-goin' to leave you like this, my dearie. But I'll tell you
what I will do. I'll go down to the kitchen and make them lazy hussies
stir themselves and get you a meal of some sort."

In the days when Mrs. Briggs had been Violet's nurse she had reigned
supreme in the Priory kitchen, and she still regarded it as an outlying
portion of her dominions.

Violet leaned back upon her pillows with exhaustion written plainly on
her pale face. "Oh, do as you like, Nanny! But I don't want anything.
I've got my cigarettes."

Mrs. Briggs grunted, and turned to go. The patient Cork here seized the
opportunity to assert himself, and gently but firmly pressed into the
room.

"Drat the dog!" said Mrs. Briggs.

"Leave him alone!" Violet commanded. "He knows how to take care of me."

As Cork was fully determined to enter, no effort on Mrs. Briggs's part
would have availed to stop him, and Mrs. Briggs, realizing this, sniffed
and departed.

The huge animal lay down by the foot of the bed and heaved a sigh of
satisfaction as he dropped his nose upon his paws.

And then Violet turned her face to Olga, sitting on the bed, and
whispered, "Does he know?"

"Who?" whispered back Olga.

"Max, of course! Who else?"

Olga hesitated. Violet's hands were gripping her very tightly. "Know
what, dear?" she said at last.

A quick frown drew Violet's forehead. "Oh, you know what I mean. Does he
know about my going mad? Have you told him?"

"My dearest,"--keen distress rang in Olga's voice--"don't--don't talk
like that! You're not mad! You're not mad!"

Violet's frown changed into a very strange smile. "Oh yes, but I am,"
she said. "I've been mad for some time now. It's been gradually coming
on, but to-day--to-day it is moving faster--much faster." Her low voice
quickened. "I haven't much sanity left, Allegro. I can feel it slipping
from me inch by inch like a paid-out rope. Only enough left now to know
that I am mad. When I don't know that any longer, I shall have lost it
all."

"Dearest! Dearest!" moaned Olga. "Won't you try to forget it--try to
think of other things for a little?"

Violet continued as if she had not heard her. "You know, it's curious
that it never occurred to me before. I've had such queer
sensations--all sorts of funny things going on inside me. It began like
a curious thirst--a very horrible sort of craving, Allegro. That was
what made me take to those cigarettes. I never felt it when I was
smoking them. They made me so deliriously sleepy. It was terrible
when--he--took them away. I felt as if he had pushed me over a deep
abyss. I really can't do without them. They make me float when I'm going
to sink."

She paused, and passed a weary hand across her brow. "Why have I been
crying so, Allegro? I hardly ever cry. Was I sorry for someone? Was it
my mother? Fancy her doing--that!" The heavy eyes grew suddenly wide and
bright. "I wonder if she would have killed me too if she had lived. I
know exactly what made her do it. I should have done it myself--yes, and
revelled in it. Can't you imagine it? The night and the darkness, and
oneself lying there pretending to be asleep and waiting--waiting--for
the man one hated." Suddenly the wide eyes glowed red. "Think of
it--think of it, Allegro!--how one would feel for the point of the knife
when one heard his step, and hide it away under the pillow when at last
he came in. How one's flesh would creep when he lay down! How one's ears
would shout and clamour while one waited for him to sleep! And then--and
then--when he began to breathe slowly and one knew that he was
unconscious--how inch by inch one would draw out one's hand with the
knife and raise the bedclothes, and plunge it hard and deep into his
breast! Would he struggle, Allegro? Would he open his eyes to see his
own life-blood spout out? Would he be frightened, or angry, or just
surprised? I think he would be surprised, don't you? He wouldn't give
his wife credit for hating him so much. Men don't, you know. They never
realize how far hatred will drive a woman until it pushes her over the
edge. I think he would hardly believe his own eyes even then, unless he
saw her laughing!" A burst of wild laughter broke from Violet's lips,
but she smothered it with her handkerchief.

"I mustn't laugh," she said, "though I'm sure she did. And I want to
talk to you seriously, Allegro."

"Dear, do lie down and rest!" Olga urged her gently. "That hateful story
has given you a shock. Do try and remember that there's nothing new
about it. It all happened years ago. And you are no different now than
you were this morning before you heard it."

Violet leaned her head back again upon the pillows, but her eyes roved
unceasingly. "But then I was mad this morning," she said, "only I didn't
know it. Do you know, I think madness is a sort of state in which people
lose their souls and yet go on living. Or else the soul goes blind. I've
thought of that too. But I think my soul has gone on. I shall go and
find it presently. You must help me."

"Of course I will help you, darling," Olga promised soothingly.

"Yes. But it won't be easy," said Violet, frowning upwards. "I've got to
go into a great space of lost souls, and I shan't find it very easily.
It was his fault. He never ought to have brought me back that night.
That's the worst of doctors. They are so keen about the body, but they
don't study the soul at all. They behave exactly as if the soul weren't
there."

"Look here, dear," said Olga, with sudden inspiration, "wouldn't you
like to talk to Nick about it? He's so clever. I always ask him about
puzzling things."

"Nick?" Violet's eyes came round to her. "He's a soldier, isn't he? He
has killed people."

"I don't know. I suppose so," said Olga. "He is just outside. May I
fetch him?"

"Oh, yes, I don't mind Nick. He's got some sense. But I won't have Max,
Allegro. He is not to come near me. I've found him out, and I hate him!"
The deep voice suddenly grew deeper. A flame of fierce resentment
leaped up in the roving eyes. "I know now exactly why he has been so
attentive all this time. I thought--I used to think--he was in love with
me--like other men. But I know now that he was only making a study of
me, because he knew that I was going mad. Bruce must have told him that.
I've often wondered why he and Bruce were so friendly. I know now that
they were in league against me. Bruce never liked me--naturally. No one
ever liked me but you, Allegro."

"Shall I call Nick?" said Olga, gently bringing her back to the point.

"Oh, if you like. But no! Cork would never let any man come in here. I
will come downstairs. We'll have some lunch, and then smoke." Violet
sprang from the bed with sudden decision. "Heavens!" she exclaimed, as
she caught a glimpse of herself in her glass. "What a hag I look! I
can't go down in this. It looks like a bedgown. Find me something,
Allegro! That red silk will do. I believe everything else is at Weir.
You will have to send my things back, for I am going to stay here now.
I've had enough of Max Wyndham's tyranny. I must have my own way or I
shall rave."

With impulsive hands she tore off her tumbled muslin dress, and arrayed
herself in the flaming evening robe which Olga had once condemned. Olga
raised no protest now. She gave her silent assistance. The horrors of
that day had so closed in upon her that she felt fantastically convinced
that nothing she did or left undone could make any difference, or hinder
for the fraction of an instant the fate that so remorselessly pursued
them and was surely every moment drawing nearer. The fear at her heart
had so wound itself into her very being that she was no longer conscious
of it. It possessed her like an evil spell.

So she stood by, sometimes helping, always watching, while her friend's
tragedy leaped from point to point like a spreading forest-fire breeding
destruction.

"You are not afraid of me, Allegro?" Violet asked her suddenly, as she
arranged her black hair with swift, feverish movements.

And Olga answered with truth. "No, dear. I should never be that."

"Not whatever happened? That's right. I'm not really dangerous--so long
as you keep Max out of my way. But, mind--I must never see him again,
never--never--while I live!" She turned from the glass, facing Olga with
eyes in which an awful fire had begun to burn. "I know him!" she said.
"I know him! He will want to shut me up--to keep me as a specimen for
him--and men like him--to study. He and Bruce will do it between them if
they get the chance. But they won't--they won't! Allegro--darling, you
must help me to get away. I can't--can't--be imprisoned for life. You
will help me? Promise me! Promise!"

"I promise, dearest!" Olga made answer very earnestly.

Something of relief softened the agony in the dark eyes. Very suddenly
Violet took her friend's face between her hands and passionately kissed
her on the lips.

"I love you, Allegro!" she said. "And I trust you--and you only--till
death."

It was then--at first but dimly--that Olga began to realize that the
burden laid upon her might be heavier than she could bear, and yet that
she alone must bear it even if it crushed her to the earth.

Passing out at length into the passage, she felt Violet's hand close
with a convulsive pressure upon her arm, and she knew that here was fear
such as she had never before encountered or imagined,--the deadly,
unfathomable fear of a mind that hovered on the brink of the abyss.

She caught the hand warmly, protectingly, into her own. And she swore
then and there a solemn, inward oath that, cost what it might, the trust
reposed in her should not be in vain. When her friend turned to her for
help in extremity, she should not find her lacking.

For of such stuff was Olga Ratcliffe fashioned, and her loyalty was that
same loyalty which moves men even unto the sacrifice of their lives.




CHAPTER XXII

OVER THE EDGE


Marshalled by Mrs. Briggs, the Priory servants brought them luncheon,
laying a table at one side of the great entrance-hall, for all the lower
rooms were shuttered and closed.

Violet, with the great dog Cork vigilant and silent beside her, sat
before it as one wrapt in reverie. Now and then she roused herself to
answer at random some remark from Nick, but for the most part she sat
mutely brooding.

The meal was but a dreadful farce to Olga. She was waiting, she was
listening, she was watching. It seemed ludicrous to her stretched nerves
to be seated there with food before her, when every instant she expected
the devastating power that lurked behind the stillness to burst forth
and engulf them. It was like sitting at the very mouth of hell, feeling
the blistering heat, and yet pretending that they felt it not.

Darker and darker grew the day. They sat in a close, unearthly twilight.
Though the huge entrance-door was flung wide, no breath of air reached
them, no song of birds or sound of moving leaf. Once Olga turned her
eyes to the far glimmer of the east window, but she turned them
instantly away again, and looked no more. For it was as though a hand
were holding up a dim lantern on the other side to show her the dreadful
scene, casting a stain of crimson across the space where once had stood
the altar.

Looking back later, she realized that it was only Nick's presence that
gave her strength to endure that awful suspense. She had never admired
him more than she did then, his shrewdness, his cheeriness, his
strength. There was not the faintest suggestion of strain in his
attitude. With absolute ease he talked or he was silent. Only in the
deepening gloom she caught now and then the quick glitter of his eyes,
and knew that like herself he was watching.

Slowly the minutes wore away, the darkness grew darker. From far away
there came a low, surging sound. The storm-wind was rising over the sea.

Nick turned his head to listen. "Now for one of our patent storms!" he
said. "Brethaven always catches it pretty strong. Remember that night
you developed scarlet fever, at Redlands, Olga _mia_, and your devoted
servant went down to a certain cottage on the shore to fetch a certain
lady to nurse you?"

Olga did remember. It was one of the cherished memories of her
childhood. "I told Muriel a secret about you that night, Nick," she
said, responding with an effort.

He nodded. "For which act of treachery you possess my undying gratitude.
Did you ever hear that story, Miss Campion?"

He offered her his cigarette-case with the words, and she turned her
brooding eyes upon him. "Thanks!" she said. "I will have one of my own.
Yes, I know that story. Your wife must be a very brave woman."

"She had me to take care of her," pointed out Nick.

Violet laughed with a touch of scorn.

"Oh, quite so," he said. "But I bear a charmed life, you should
remember. No one ever drowns in my boat."

She leaned her chin upon her hand, and surveyed him through the weird
twilight. "You are a strong man," she said slowly, "and you don't think
much of Death."

"Not much," said Nick, striking a match on the heel of his boot.

The flame flared yellow on his face, emphasizing its many lines. His
eyelids flickered rapidly, never wholly revealing the eyes behind.

"You wouldn't be afraid to die?" she pursued, still watching him.

His cigarette glowed and he removed the match; but the flame remained,
burning with absolute steadiness between his fingers.

"I certainly shan't be afraid when my turn comes," he said, with
confidence.

"Tell me," she said suddenly, "your idea of Death!"

His look flashed over her and back to the match he still held. The flame
had nearly reached his fingers.

"Death," he said, "is the opening--and the closing--of a Door."

She leaned eagerly forward. "You think that?"

"Just that," said Nick. He smiled and blew out the match, just in time.
"But--as you perceive--I am afraid of pain--that is, when I think about
it."

She scarcely seemed to hear. "And have you ever seen anyone die?"

"Plenty," said Nick.

"Ah, I forgot! You've killed men, haven't you?" There was suppressed
excitement in her voice.

Nick threw up his head and smoked towards the oak-beamed roof. "When I
had to," he said, with brevity.

"Ah!" The word leaped from her like a cry of triumph. "Did you ever kill
anyone with a knife? What did it feel like?"

"I shan't tell you," said Nick rudely. "It isn't good for anyone to know
too much."

An abrupt silence followed his refusal. The surging of the sea had risen
to a continuous low roar; and from the garden came the sound of
trembling leaves. The storm was at hand.

"Do you think I don't know?" said Violet, and laughed.

Quickly Olga rose, as if her nerves were on edge, and went towards the
open door. As she did so, a violet glare lit the hall from end to end,
quivered, and was gone. She stopped dead, and in the awful silence that
succeeded she heard the wild beat of her heart rising, rising, rising,
in a tumult of sudden fear.

Violet remained at the table, staring, as one transfixed. She was gazing
at the open door. Nick leaned swiftly forward and took her hand. So much
Olga saw in the dimness before the thunder with a fierce crash burst
forth overhead.

Ere it died away there came a shriek, wild, horrible, unearthly. It
pierced Olga through and through, turning her cold from head to foot.
Another shriek followed it, and yet another; and then came a dreadful,
sobbing utterance in which words and moans were terribly mingled.

Olga caught at her self-control, as it were, with both hands, and went
swiftly back to the table. Violet was on her feet. She had wrenched
herself free, and was wildly pointing.

"No! No! No!" she cried. "Take him away!" Mortal terror was in her
starting eyes. Suddenly perceiving Olga, she turned and clung to her.
"Allegro! You promised! You promised!"

Then it was that Olga realized that someone had entered during that
awful peal of thunder, and was even then advancing quietly down the
hall. It needed not a second flickering flash to reveal him. Her heart
told her who it was.

With Violet pressed close in her arms, she spoke. "Max, stop!"

She never knew whether it was the note of authority or of desperation
in her voice that induced him to comply; but he stopped on the instant a
full twenty feet from where they stood.

"What's the matter?" he said.

Brief, matter-of-fact, almost contemptuous, came his query. Yet Olga
thrilled at the sound of it, feeling strengthened, reassured, strangely
unembarrassed.

"It's this horrid storm," she said. "Violet's upset. Ah, here is Mrs.
Briggs! Darling, wouldn't you like to go upstairs and lie down again
till it's over? Do, dearie! I'll look after Nick and Max."

But Violet's straining arms clung faster. "He'll follow me!" she
whispered.

"No, indeed he won't, dear. I won't allow it," said Olga, and she spoke
with absolute confidence born of this new, strange feeling of power.
"You needn't be afraid of that," she said, with motherly, shielding arms
about her. "Won't you go with Mrs. Briggs? I will come up presently.
Really there's nothing to be afraid of. The storm won't hurt you."

"And you won't let Max come?" Violet was suffering herself to be led
towards the further door. She was shivering violently and moved
spasmodically, as though the impulse to escape strongly urged her.

"I promise," Olga said.

She passed under the archway with her, paused there while another
furious burst of thunder rolled above them: then gently surrendered her
to Mrs. Briggs, and turned back herself into the hall.

She found Max and Nick standing together in the gloom.

"I came up here on the chance," the former was saying, "and got here
just in time. Hullo! Is that a wolf?"

It was Cork, who crouched bristling against the table, with bared fangs,
watching him. Olga went to him and took him by the collar.

"He's all right," she said. "I think he doesn't like strangers."

She led him also across the hall, took him to the foot of the stairs,
and returned.

She felt Max's eyes upon her as she came up. He seemed to be regarding
her in a new light.

"Well?" he said. "Why this hysteria? Is it due to the storm or--some
other cause?"

She hesitated, finding it somehow difficult to give an answer to his
cool questioning.

"I'll tell him, shall I?" said Nick.

She came and slipped her hand into his. "Yes, Nick."

He squeezed her fingers hard. "Our friend Hunt-Goring has been sticking
his oar in," he said. "This--hysteria has been caused by him."

"You mean he has told her the whole story?" said Max.

"Yes," said Olga.

He considered the matter for a few seconds in silence. "And how long has
this sort of thing been going on?" he asked then.

Again she hesitated.

He looked at her. "It's no good trying to keep anything from me," he
observed. "I've seen it coming for a long while."

"Oh, Max!" she burst forth involuntarily. "Then it really is--"

A vivid flash of lightning and instant crashing thunder drowned her
words. Instinctively she drew nearer to Nick. On many a previous
occasion they had watched a storm together with delight. But to-day her
nerves were all a-quiver, and its violence appalled her.

As the noise died away, Max looked about the shadowy place. "Is there
any means of lighting this tomb?" he asked.

Apparently there was not. Olga believed there were some electric
switches somewhere but she had forgotten where.

Max began to stroll about in search of them.

"Here comes the rain!" said Nick. "It will be lighter directly."

The rain came quite suddenly in an immense volume, that beat with
deafening force upon the roof, drowning all but the loudest crashes of
thunder. For a few seconds the darkness was like night. Then, swift and
awful, there came a flash that was brighter than the noonday sun. It
streaked through the stained-glass window, showing the dreadful picture
like a vision to those below it, throwing a stream of vivid crimson upon
the floor; then glanced away into the dark.

There came a sound like the bursting of shell that shook the very walls
to their foundation. And through it and above it, high and horrible as
the laughter of storm-fiends there came a woman's laugh....

In that instant Nick's hand suddenly left Olga's. He leaped from her
side with the agility of a panther, and hurled himself into the darkness
of the archway that led to the inner hall.

Something dreadful was happening there, she knew not what; and her heart
stood still in terror while peal after peal of that awful laughter rang
through the pealing thunder.

Then came another flash of lighting, keen as the blade of a sword, and
she saw. There, outlined against the darkness of the archway, red-robed
and terrible, stood Violet. Her right hand was flung up above her head,
and in her grasp was a knife that she must have taken from the table.
She was laughing still with white teeth gleaming, but in her eyes shone
the glare of madness and the red, red lust of blood.

The picture flashed away and the thunder broke forth again, but the
fiendish laughter continued for seconds till suddenly it turned to a
piercing scream and ceased. Only the echoes of the thunder remained and
a dreadful sound of struggling on the further side of the archway,
together with a choking sound near at hand as of some animal striving
against restraint.

Olga stumbled blindly forward. "Nick! Nick! Where are you? What has
happened?" she cried, in an agony.

Instantly his voice came to her. "Here, child! Don't be scared! I'm
holding the dog."

She groped her way to him, nearly falling over Cork, who was dragging
against his hand.

The great dog turned to her, whining, and, reassured by her presence,
ceased to resist.

"That's better," said Nick, with relief. "Can you hold him?"

She slipped her hand inside his collar! "Nick! What has happened?" she
whispered, for her voice was gone.

Dimly she discerned figures in the inner hall, but there was no longer
any sound of struggling. And then quite suddenly Max came back through
the archway.

"Lend me a hand, Ratcliffe!" he said. "I'm bleeding like a pig."




CHAPTER XXIII

AS GOOD AS DEAD


So cool was his utterance, so perfectly free from agitation his
demeanour, that Olga wondered if she could have heard aright. Then she
saw him go to the table and prepare to remove his coat, and she knew
that there could be no mistake.

The frozen horror of the past few seconds fell from her, and strength
came in its place--the strength born of emergency. "I shall help you
better than Nick," she said.

"If you don't faint," said Max.

She spoke a reassuring word to Cork and let him go. He moved away at
once in uneasy search for his mistress, and she turned round to Max.
Nick was already helping him out of his coat.

The storm had lulled somewhat, and the gloom had begun to lighten. As
she drew near him she saw his right arm emerge from the coat. The
shirt-sleeve was soaked with blood from shoulder to cuff.

"It's the top of the shoulder," said Max. "Only a flesh wound. Make a
wet pad of one of those table-napkins and bind it up tight. I'll go back
to the cottage-hospital presently and get it dressed."

With the utmost calmness he issued his directions, and Olga found
herself obeying almost mechanically. Nick helped her to cut away the
shirt and expose the wound. It was a deep one, and had been inflicted
from the back.

"Quite a near shave," said Max, with composure. "That flash of lightning
came just in time. I saw the reflection in one of those oak panels."

"Will this stop the bleeding?" asked Olga doubtfully.

"Yes, if you get the pressure on the right place. Pull it hard! That's
the way! Don't mind me!" He was speaking through clenched teeth. "I
daresay Nick knows all about first aid."

Nick did; and under his supervision the injury was bandaged at length
with success.

"First-rate!" said Max approvingly. "I congratulate the pair of you. Now
I will have a brandy and soda, if you have no objection. Olga must have
one too. I'm never anxious about Nick. He always comes out on top."

He watched Olga pour him out a drink according to instructions. The
storm was passing, and every instant the gloomy place grew lighter.
Glancing at him, as she placed the tumbler before him, she saw his face
fully for the first time, and noted how drawn and grey it was.

He smiled at her abruptly. "All right, Olga! You must drink the first
quarter."

"Oh, no!" said Olga quickly.

"Oh, yes!" he rejoined imperturbably. "Tell her to, Nick! I know your
word is law."

Nick had strolled across the hall to pick up something that lay upon the
floor. As he returned, Olga was hastily gulping the prescribed dose.

Max turned towards him. "Yes. Take care of that!" he said. "It's done
enough damage." He took the glass that Olga held out to him, and
deliberately drained it. Then he rose, and took up his coat. "I must get
into this if possible," he said.

Silently, with infinite care, Olga helped him.

Nick stood with the knife in his hand. "What are you going to do now?"
he said.

Max's brows went up. "My dear fellow, what do you suppose? I am going to
attend to my patient."

"Where is she?" said Nick.

"Upstairs. Mrs. Briggs went to look after her. I'm going to give her a
composing draught," said Max, plunging his hand into a side-pocket.

"Oh, Max!" exclaimed Olga.

He turned to her. "There will be no repetition of this," he said grimly.
"Miss Campion is exhausted and probably more or less in her right mind
by now."

"But she won't be if you go to her," Olga said, and in her eagerness she
drew near to him and laid a light hand on his sleeve. "Max, you mustn't
go to her--indeed--indeed. I have promised her that you shall not. As
you have seen for yourself, the very sight of you is enough to send her
demented."

"Oh, it's for her sake, is it?" said Max; but he stood still, suffering
her hand on his arm.

Her eyes were raised to his, very earnestly beseeching him. "Yes, for
her sake," she said. "You would do her much more harm than good. Let me
take the composing draught to her! Oh, Max, really it is the only way.
Please be reasonable!"

Her voice trembled a little. She knew well that where his patients were
concerned he would endure no interference. Again and again he had made
this clear to her. But this was an exceptional case, and she prayed that
as such he might view it.

She wondered a little that Nick did not come to her aid, but he stood
aloof as if unwilling to be drawn into the discussion. Max seemed to
have completely forgotten his existence.

"Look here," he said finally. "The matter isn't so desperate as you
seem to think, but if I give in, so must you. There are several
questions I shall have to ask, and I must have a clear answer."

"I will tell you anything in my power," she said.

"Very well," he said. "Tell me first--if you can--why Miss Campion hates
me so violently."

His manner was curtly professional. He looked straight into her eyes
with cool determination in his own.

She answered him, but her answer did not come very easily. "I think she
feels that you have had her under supervision all along, and she resents
it."

"Quite true," he said. "I have. Is that why she wants to kill me?"

"Not entirely." Olga was plainly speaking against her will.

But Max was merciless. "And the other reason?"

She locked her fingers very tightly together. "It--it would be a breach
of confidence to tell you that," she said.

"I see," said Max. "She was annoyed because I didn't fulfil expectations
by falling in love with her. She misunderstood my attitude; was that it?
You did so yourself at one time, if I remember aright."

"Yes," admitted Olga reluctantly.

"I don't know quite how you managed it," he commented. "However, we are
none of us infallible. Now tell me--without reservation--exactly what
passed this morning between you two girls and Hunt-Goring."

With quivering lips she began to tell him. There were certain items of
that conversation with Hunt-Goring, of which, though they were branded
deep upon her mind, she could not bring herself to speak. It was a
difficult recital in any case, and the grim silence with which he
listened did not make it any easier.

"Have you told me everything?" he asked at last.

She answered steadily. "Everything that concerns Violet!"

He looked at her very closely for a few moments, and she saw his mouth
take a cynical, downward curve.

"Hunt-Goring has my sympathy," he observed enigmatically. "Well, I think
you are right. I had better keep out of the way for the present. I shall
know better what course to take in the morning. Her state of mind just
now is quite abnormal, but she may very well have settled down a little
by that time. She will probably go through a stage of lethargy and
depression after this. Her brother should be back again in a week's
time. We may manage to ward off another outbreak till then. But, mind,
you are not to be left alone with her during any part of that week.
There must always be someone within call."

"I shall be within call," said Nick.

Max glanced at him. "Yes, you will be quite useful no doubt. But I must
have a nurse as well."

"A nurse!" exclaimed Olga.

He looked back at her. "You don't seriously suppose I am going to leave
you and Mrs. Briggs--and Nick--in sole charge?"

"But, Max," she protested, almost incoherent in her dismay, "she will be
herself again to-morrow or the next day! This isn't going to last!"

"What do you mean?" he said.

She controlled herself with a sharp effort, warned of the necessity to
do so by his tone.

"I mean that--hysteria--isn't a thing that lasts long as a rule."

"It isn't hysteria," he said.

She flinched in spite of herself. "But you think she will get better?"
she urged.

He was silent a moment, looking at her. "I will tell you exactly what I
think, Olga," he said then, in a tone that was utterly different from
any he had used to her before. "For you certainly ought to know now. The
tale you heard this morning was true--every word of it. I heard it
myself from Bruce Campion and also from Kersley Whitton. Kersley was
engaged to marry her mother when he detected in her a tendency to
madness which he afterwards discovered to be an hereditary taint in her
family. It is a disease of the brain which is absolutely incurable. It
is in fact a peculiarly rapid decay caused by a kind of leprous growth
which nothing can arrest. In some cases it causes total paralysis of
every faculty almost at the outset, in others there may be years of
violent mania before the inevitable paralysis sets in. Either way it is
quite incurable, and if it takes the form of madness it is only
intermittent for the first few weeks. There are no lucid intervals after
that."

He paused. Olga was listening with white face upturned. She spoke no
word; only the agony in her eyes spoke for her.

He went on very quietly, with a gentleness to which she was wholly
unaccustomed. "It has been coming on for some little time now. I hoped
at first that it would be slow in developing, and so at first it
appeared to be. Sometimes, at the very beginning, it is not possible to
detect it with any certainty. It is only when the disease has begun to
manifest itself unmistakably that it moves so rapidly. It was because I
feared a sudden development that I asked Sir Kersley to come down. He
was of the opinion that that was not imminent, that three months or even
six might intervene. I feared he was mistaken, but I hoped for the best.
Of course a sudden shock was more than sufficient to precipitate
matters. But I knew that she was less likely to encounter any in your
society than anywhere else. Nick wanted me to warn you, but--rightly or
wrongly--I wouldn't! I thought you would know soon enough."

He paused again, as if to give her time to blame him; but still she
spoke no word, still she waited with face upturned.

He went on gravely and steadily. "I knew that opium was a very dangerous
drug for her to take in however minute a quantity, but I hoped I had put
a stop to that. I could not foresee to-day's events. Hunt-Goring is no
favourite of mine, but I never anticipated his taking such a step. I did
not so much as know that he was in a position to do so. He suppressed
that fact on the sole occasion on which Miss Campion's name was
mentioned between us."

Olga spoke for the first time, her stiff lips scarcely moving. "I think
he is a devil," she said slowly.

Max made a gesture expressive of indifference on that point. "People who
form the drug habit are seldom over-squeamish in other respects," he
said. "He has certainly hastened matters, but he is not responsible for
the evil itself. That has been germinating during the whole of her
life."

"And--that--was why Sir Kersley jilted her mother?" Olga spoke in a low,
detached voice. She seemed to be trying to grasp a situation that eluded
her.

"It was." Max answered with a return to his customary brevity; his tone
was not without bitterness. "Kersley was merciful enough to think of the
next generation. He was a doctor, and he knew that hereditary madness is
the greatest evil--save one--in the world. Therefore he sacrificed his
happiness."

"What is the greatest evil?" she asked, still with the air of bringing
herself painfully back as it were from a long distance.

He was watching her shrewdly as he answered. "Hereditary vice--crime."

"Is crime hereditary?"

"In nine cases out of ten--yes."

"And that is worse than--madness?"

"I should say much worse."

"I see." She passed a hand across her eyes, and very suddenly she
shivered and seemed to awake. "Oh, is it quite hopeless?" she asked him
piteously. "Are you sure?"

"It is quite hopeless," he said.

"She can never be herself again--not even by a miracle?"

"Such miracles don't happen," said Max, with grim decision. "It is much
the same as a person going blind. There are occasional gleams for a
little while, but the end is total darkness. That is all that can be
expected now." He added, a hint of compassion mingling with the
repression of his voice: "It is better that you should know the whole
truth. It's not fair to bolster you up with false hopes. You can help
now--if you have the strength. You won't be able to help later."

"But I will never leave her!" Olga said.

"My dear child," he made answer, "in a very little while she won't even
know you. She will be--as good as dead."

"Surely she would be better dead!" she cried passionately.

"God knows," said Max.

He spoke with more feeling than he usually permitted himself, and at
once changed the subject. "What we are at present concerned in is to
make her temporarily better. Now you know this stuff?" He took a bottle
from his pocket. "I am going to put it in your charge. Give her a
teaspoonful now in a wine-glass of water, as you did before. I hope it
will make her sleep. If it doesn't, give her a second dose in half an
hour. But if she goes off without that second dose, all the better.
Remember, it is rank poison. She ought to sleep for some hours then, and
when she wakes I think she will probably be herself for a little.
That's quite clear, is it?"

He was looking at her closely as he handed her the bottle; but she met
the look with absolute steadiness. She had plainly recovered her
self-control, and was ready to shoulder her burden once more.

"I quite understand," she said.

He laid his hand for a moment on her arm, and smiled at her with abrupt
kindliness.

"Stick to it, Olga!" he said. "I am counting on you."

She smiled back bravely, though her lips quivered. She did not say a
word.

But Nick answered for her, his arm thrust suddenly about her waist. "And
so you can, my son," he said. "She is the pluckiest kid I know."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE OPENING OF THE DOOR


"Allegro!"

The utterance was very faint, yet it reached Olga, sitting, as she had
sat for hours, by her friend's side, watching the long, still slumber
that had followed Max's draught.

She bent instantly over the girl upon the bed, and warmly clasped her
hand. "I am here, darling."

The shadows were lengthening. Evening was drawing on. Very soon it would
be dark.

"Allegro!" The low voice said again. It held a note of unutterable
weariness, yet there was pleading in it too. The hand Olga had taken
closed with a faint, answering pressure.

"Are you wanting anything?" whispered Olga, her face close to the face
upon the pillow, the beautiful face she had watched, with what a passion
of devotion, during the long, long afternoon.

"Have you been here all the time?" murmured Violet.

"Yes, dear."

"How sweet of you, Allegro!" The dark eyes opened wider; they seemed to
be watching something very intently, something that Olga could not see.
"I suppose you thought I was asleep," she said.

"Yes, dear."

"I wasn't," said Violet. "I was just--away."

Olga was silent. The clasp of her hand was very close.

"My dear," Violet said, "I've been there again."

"Where, dearest?"

"I've been right up to the Gate of Heaven," she said. "It's very lovely
up there, Allegro. I wanted to stay."

"Did you, dear?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to come back again. I didn't want to come back." A
sudden spasm contracted her brows. "What happened before I went,
Allegro? I'm sure something happened."

Very tenderly Olga sought to reassure her. "You were ill, dear. You were
upset. But you are better now. Don't let us think about it."

"Ah! I remember!" Violet raised herself abruptly. Her eyes shone wide
with terror in the failing light. "Allegro!" she said. "I--killed him!"

"No, no, dear!" Olga's hand tenderly pressed her down again. "He is
only--a little--hurt. You didn't know what you were doing."

But recollection was dawning in the seething brain. One memory after
another pierced through the turmoil. "I had to do it!" she whispered.
"He is so cruel. He keeps me back. He holds the door when I want to get
away. Allegro, why won't he let me go? I'm nothing to him. He doesn't
love me. He doesn't--even--hate me." A great shudder ran through her.
She fell back upon the pillow as though her strength were gone. "Oh, why
won't he open the door and let me go?" She moaned piteously. "Why does
he keep bringing me back? I know I shall kill him. I shall be driven to
it. And it's such a horrible thing to do--that dreadful soft feeling
under the knife, and the blood--the blood--oh, Allegro!"

She tried to raise herself again, and was caught into Olga's arms. She
turned her face into her neck and shuddered.

"I'm not mad now," she whispered. "Really I'm not mad now! But I soon
shall be. I can feel it coming back. My brain is like--a fiery wheel.
Oh, don't let it come again, Allegro! Help me--help me to get
away--before it comes again!"

Olga strained her to her heart, saying no word.

"They'll shut me up," the broken whisper continued. "I shall never find
my soul again. I shan't even have you, and there's no one else I love.
All the rest are strangers. Only he will come and look at me with his
cruel, cold green eyes, and I shall kill him--I know I shall kill
him--unless they bind me hand and foot. Allegro! Allegro!" She was
shivering violently now. "Perhaps they will do that. It's happened
before, hasn't it? 'Bound hand and foot and cast into outer darkness.'
That's hell, isn't it? Oh, Olga, shall I be sent to hell if I kill him?"

"My darling, hush, hush!" Olga's arms held her faster still. "There is
no such place," she said--"at least not in the sense you mean. You are
torturing yourself, dear one, and you mustn't. Don't dwell on these
dreadful things! You are quite, quite safe, here in my arms, with the
love of God round us. Think of that, and don't be afraid!"

"But I am afraid," moaned Violet. "It's the outer darkness, Allegro. And
you won't be there. And the door will be shut--always shut. Oh, can't
you do anything to save me? You're not like Max. You're not paid to keep
people back. Can't you--can't you find a way out for me? Couldn't you
open the prison-door before he comes again, and let me slip through?
I've never been a prisoner before. I've always come and gone as I liked.
And now--twice over--he has dragged me back from the Gate of Paradise.
Oh, Allegro, I shall never get there unless you help me. Quick, dear,
quick! Help me now!"

She had turned in Olga's arms. She raised an imploring face. She clung
about her neck.

"Isn't there a way of escape?" she urged feverishly. "Can't you think
of one?"

But Olga looked back in silence, white and still.

"Allegro, don't you love me? Don't you want me to be happy?"
Incredulity, despair were in the pleading voice. "Don't you believe in
paradise either, Allegro? Do you want me to be shut away in the
dark--buried alive--buried alive?"

There was suddenly a note of anguish in the appeal. Violet drew herself
slowly away, as though her friend's arms had ceased to be a haven to
her.

But instantly, with a swiftness that was passionate, Olga caught her
back.

"I would die for you, my darling! I would sell my soul for you!" she
said, and fierce mother-love throbbed in her voice. "But what can I do?
O God! what can I do?"

Her voice broke, and she stilled it sharply, as if taken off her guard.

"Can't you open the door for me?" Violet begged again. "Don't you know
how?"

But still Olga had no answer for the cry. Only she held her fast.

There followed a long, long pause; then again Violet spoke, more
collectedly than she had spoken at all.

"Do you know what that man said to me this morning? He told me I should
be a homicidal maniac--like my mother. I didn't realize at the time what
that meant. I was too horrified. I know now. And it was the truth.
That's what I want you to save me from. Allegro, won't you save me?"

"My darling, how can I?" The words were spoken below Olga's breath. The
gathering darkness was closing upon them both.

Violet freed a hand and softly stroked her cheek. "Don't be afraid,
dear! No one--but I--will ever know. And I-- Allegro, I shall bless
you for ever and ever. Wait!" She suddenly started, with caught breath.
"Are we alone?"

"Mrs. Briggs is outside, dear," Olga told her gently.

"Oh! Dear old Nanny! She would never hold me back. She would understand.
Do you remember how she told us--that afternoon--about her mother?"

Yes, well Olga remembered. She had never forgotten. Back upon her mind
flashed that vivid memory, and with it the memory of Max's eyes, green
and intent, searching her face on the night that he had asked, "What do
you know about the pain-killer?"

Violet's voice brought her back. "Where is he, Allegro? Is he still
here?"

"No." Almost unconsciously Olga also spoke in a whisper. "He has gone
back to Weir," she said. "He had to go; but--"

"But he will come back?" gasped Violet.

"Yes."

"Ah! And he may be here--at any time?" The words came quick and
feverish; again that painful trembling seized her.

"He won't come in here," Olga said steadfastly.

"He will! He will!" breathed Violet. "I know him. There is nothing--he
will not do--for the sake of his--profession." She broke off, gripping
Olga with tense strength. "And I've nothing to defend myself with!" she
panted. "They have taken--the knife--away!"

Tenderly Olga soothed her panic. "It will be all right, dear. I can take
care of you. I can keep him away."

Violet relaxed against her again, exhausted rather than reassured. "And
where is Nick?" she murmured presently.

"Downstairs, darling; in the hall."

"On guard," said Violet quickly. "What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"

"My dearest, no! Only he wouldn't leave me. You know what pals we are,"
urged Olga. "Besides, you like Nick."

"Oh, yes; he amuses me. He is clever, isn't he? What was that he said
about--about the opening--and the shutting--of a Door?"

Spasmodically the words fell. The failing brain was making desperate
efforts against the gathering dark.

"He was speaking of Death," said Olga, her voice very low.

"Yes, yes! He said he wouldn't be afraid. And I'm sure he knew. He must
have seen Death very often."

"I don't know, darling."

"Of course, the opening of the Door is to let us escape," ran on the
feverish whisper. "And then it shuts, and we can't get back. But no one
ever wants to get back, Allegro. Who ever wanted to go back into the
prison-house--and the dreadful, dreadful dark?"

But Olga made no answer. With set face and quiet eyes she was waiting.
And already at the heart of her she knew that when the moment came she
would not flinch.

"And how lovely to be free--to be free!" Soft and eager came the whisper
from her breast. "Never to be dragged back any more. To leave the dark
behind for ever and ever. For it isn't dark up there, you know. It's
never dark up there. You can see the light shining even through the
Gates. And God couldn't be angry, Allegro. Do you think He could?"

"Not with you, my darling! Not with you!"

"So you'll let me go," said Violet, with growing earnestness. "You'll
help me to go, Allegro? You will? You will?"

"My darling, I will!" Quick and passionate came the answer. The time had
come.

For a few moments the arms that held her tightened to an almost fierce
embrace; then slowly relaxed.

"Dear heart, I knew you would," said Violet.

She leaned back upon her pillow as Olga gently let her go, and through
the deepening dusk she watched her with eyes of perfect trust.

There followed a pause, the tinkle of glass, the sound of liquid being
poured out. Then Olga was with her again, very still and quiet.

Softly the door opened. "Anything I can do, Miss Olga?" murmured Mrs.
Briggs.

"Nothing, thank you," said Olga.

"That young Dr. Wyndham--'e's just come back," said Mrs. Briggs.

Olga turned for a moment from the bed. The glass was in her hand.

"Go down to him, Mrs. Briggs," she said. "Ask him to wait five minutes."

"Allegro!" There was agonized appeal in the cry.

She turned back instantly. "It's all right, dearest. It's all right.
Mind how you take it! There! Let me! Your hand is trembling."

She leaned over her friend, supporting her, holding the glass to her
lips.

"Drink it slowly!" she whispered to the quivering girl. "You are quite
safe--quite safe."

And Violet drank,--at first feverishly, then more steadily, and at last
she took the glass into her own hand and slowly drained it. Olga waited
beside her, took it quietly from her; set it down.

"Quite comfy, sweetheart?"

"Quite," said Violet. And then, "Come quite close, Allegro dear!"

Olga sat down upon the bed, and took her into her arms, "You don't mind
the dark?" she whispered.

And Violet answered. "No. I've passed it. I'm not afraid of anything
now."

There fell a silence between them. A great, all-enveloping peace had
succeeded the turmoil. Violet's breathing was short but not difficult.
She lay nestled in the sheltering arms like a weary child. And slowly
the seconds slipped away.

There came a faint sound outside the door as of muffled movements, and
Cork, from his post at the foot of the bed, raised his head and deeply
growled.

Sleepily the head on Olga's shoulder stirred. "It doesn't matter now,"
said Violet's voice, speaking softly. "He can never bring me back
again." And then, still more softly, in a kind of breathless ecstasy,
"The Door is opening, Allegro--darling! Let me--go!"

The words went into a deep sigh that somehow did not seem to end. Olga
waited a moment or two, listening tensely, then rose and laid her very
tenderly back upon the pillow. She knew that even as she did so, her
friend passed through ...

Slowly she turned from the bed, as one in a dream, unconscious of
tragedy, untouched by fear or agitation or any emotion whatsoever. All
feeling seemed to be unaccountably suspended.

The figure of a big man met her on the threshold. She looked at him with
wide, incurious eyes, recognizing him without surprise.

"You are too late," she said.

He started, and bent to look at her closely.

From the deep shadow behind her arose Cork's ominous growl. She turned
back into the room.

"May I come in?" Sir Kersley asked in his gentle voice.

With her hand upon Cork's collar, she answered him. "Yes, come in. I am
afraid it is rather dark. Will you wait while Mrs. Briggs brings a
candle?"

Someone else had entered behind Sir Kersley. She heard a quick, decided
tread; and again more ferociously Cork growled.

"Take that dog away!" ordered Max.

Mechanically she moved to obey, Cork accompanying her reluctantly. In
the passage she found a strange woman in a nurse's uniform, and Nick. He
came to her instantly, and she felt his arm about her with a vague
sensation of relief.

"Still sleeping?" he asked.

She answered him quite calmly; at that moment it was no effort to be
calm.

"No, Nick; she has gone away."

"What?" he said sharply.

"Won't you take her downstairs?" interposed the nurse, and Olga wondered
a little at the compassion in her voice. "She would be the better for a
cup of tea."

"So she would," said Nick. "Come along, Olga _mia!_"

His arm was about her still. They went down the wide dim stairs, he and
she and the great wolf-hound who submitted to Olga's hand upon him
though plainly against his own judgment.

There were candles in the hall, making the vast place seem more vast and
ghostly. The east window was discernible only as a vague oblong patch of
grey against the surrounding darkness.

"The electric light has gone wrong," said Nick, as she looked at him in
momentary surprise.

"I see," she said. "It must have been the storm." She looked down at
Cork pacing beside her. "Poor fellow!" she murmured. "He doesn't
understand."

"Come and sit down!" said Nick.

Tea had been spread in the place of luncheon. He led her to the table
and pulled forward a chair. She sank into it with a sudden shiver.

"Cold?" he said.

"Yes, horribly cold, Nick," she answered.

She tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. A very curious feeling
was creeping over her, a species of cramp that was mental as well as
physical. She leaned back in her chair, staring straight before her,
seeing nothing.

Nick went round to the tea-pot. She heard him pouring out, but she could
not turn her head.

"I ought to do that," she said.

"All right, dear. I'm capable," he answered.

And then in his deft fashion he came to her with the cup, and sat on the
arm of her chair, holding it for her.

"Don't try to talk," he said. "Just drink this and sit still."

She leaned her head against him, feeling his vitality as one feels the
throb of an electric battery.

"Do you think God is angry with me, Nick?" she said. "She wanted to
go--so dreadfully."

"God is never angry with any of us," he answered softly. "We are not big
enough for that. There, drink it, sweetheart! It will do you good."

She raised her two hands slowly, feeling as if they were weighted with
iron fetters. With flickering eyes he watched her, in a fashion
compelling though physically he could not help. She lifted the cup and
drank.

The candlelight reeled and danced in her eyes. Her dazed senses began to
awake. "Nick!" she exclaimed suddenly and sharply.

"Here, darling!" came his prompt reply.

She set down the empty cup, and clasped her hands tightly together.
"Nick!" she said again, in a voice of rising distress.

His hand slid down and held hers. "What is it, kiddie?"

She turned to him impulsively. "Oh, Nick, I've made a great mistake--a
great mistake! I ought not to have let her go alone. She will be
frightened. I should have gone with her."

"My child," Nick said, "for God's sake--don't say any more! This isn't
the time."

And even as she wondered at the unwonted vehemence of his speech, she
knew that they were no longer alone.

Max came swiftly through the shadowy archway and moved straight towards
her. A white sling dangled from his neck, but it was empty. She thought
his hands were clenched.

Scarcely knowing what she did, she rose to meet him, forcing her rigid
limbs into action. He came to her; he took her by the shoulders.

"Olga," he said, "how did this happen?"

She faced him, but even as she did so she was conscious of an awful
coldness overwhelming her, as though at his touch her whole body had
turned to ice. His eyes looked straight into hers, searching her with
intolerable minuteness, probing her through and through. And from those
eyes she shrank in nameless terror; for they were the eyes of her dream,
green, ruthless, terrible. He looked to her like a man whose will might
compel the dead.

For a long, long space he held her so, silent but merciless. She did not
attempt to resist him. She felt that he had already forced his way past
her defences, that he was as it were dissecting and analyzing her very
soul. She had not answered his question, but she knew that he would not
repeat it. She knew that he did not need an answer.

And then the coldness that bound her became by slow degrees a numbness,
paralyzing her faculties, extinguishing all her powers. There arose a
great uproar in her brain, the swirl as of great waters engulfing her.
She raised her head with a desperate gesture. She met the searching of
his eyes, and goaded as it were to self-defence, with the last of her
strength, she told him the simple truth.

"I have opened the Door!" she said. "I have set her free!"

She thought his face changed at her words, but she could not see very
clearly. She had begun to slip down and down, faster and ever faster
into a fathomless abyss of darkness from which there was no deliverance.
And as she went she heard his voice above her, brief, distinct,
merciless: "And you will pay the price." ... The darkness closed over
her head....




CHAPTER XXV

THE PRICE


That darkness was to Olga but the beginning of a long, long night of
suffering--such suffering as her short life had never before
compassed--such suffering as she had never imagined the world could
hold.

It went in a slow and dreadful circle, this suffering, like the turning
of a monstrous wheel. Sometimes it was so acute that she screamed with
the red-hot agony of it. At other times it would draw away from her for
a space, so that she was vaguely conscious that the world held other
things, possibly even other forms of torture. Such intervals were
generally succeeded by intense cold, racking, penetrating cold that
nothing could ever alleviate, cold that was as Death itself, freezing
her limbs to stiffness, congealing the blood in her veins, till even her
heart grew slower and slower, and at last stood still.

Then, when it seemed the end of all things had come, some unknown power
would jerk it on again like a run-down watch in which the key had
suddenly been inserted, and she would feel the key grinding round and
round and round in a winding-up process that was even more dreadful than
the running-down. Then would come agonies of heat and thirst, a sense of
being strung to breaking-point, and her heart would race and race till,
appalled, she clasped it with her fevered hands and held it back,
feeling herself on the verge of destruction.

And through all this dreadful nightmare she never slept. She was hedged
about by a fiery ring of sleeplessness that scorched her eyeballs
whichever way she turned, giving her no rest. Sometimes indeed dreams
came to her, but they were waking dreams of such vivid horror as almost
to dwarf her reality of pain. She moved continually through a furnace
that only abated when the exhausted faculties began to run down and the
deathly chill took her into fresh torments.

Once, lying very near to death, she opened her sleepless eyes upon Max's
face. He was stooping over her, holding her nerveless hand very tightly
in his own while he pressed a needle-point into her arm. That, she knew,
was the preliminary to the winding-up process. It had happened to her
before--many times she fancied.

She made a feeble--a piteously feeble--effort to resist him. On the
instant his eyes were upon her face. She saw the green glint of them and
quivered at the sight. His face was as carved granite in the weird light
that danced so fantastically to her reeling brain.

"Yes," he said grimly. "You are coming back."

Then she knew that his will, indomitable, inflexible, was holding her
fast, heedless of all the longing of her heart to escape. Then she knew
that he, and only he, was the unknown power that kept her back from
peace, forcing her onward in that dread circle, compelling her to live
in torment. And in that moment she feared him as the victim fears the
torturer, not asking for mercy, partly because she lacked the strength
and partly because she knew--how hopelessly!--that she would ask in
vain.

He did not speak to her again. He was fully occupied, it seemed, with
what he had to do. Only, when he had finished, he put his hand over her
eyes, compelling them to close, and so remained for what seemed to her a
long, long time. For a while she vibrated like a sensitive instrument
under his touch, and then very strangely there stole upon her for the
first time a sense of comfort. When he took his hand away, she was
asleep....

Max turned at last from the bed, nodded briefly to the nurse, and went
as silently as a shadow from the room.

Another shadow waited for him on the threshold, and in the light of the
passage outside the room they stood face to face.

"She will live," said Max curtly.

"And--" said Nick. He was blinking very rapidly as one dazzled.

"Yes; her reason is coming back. She knew me just now."

"Knew you!"

Max nodded without speaking.

Nick turned his yellow face for a moment towards the open window on the
stairs. His lips twitched a little. He said no word.

Max leaned against the wall, and passed his handkerchief over his
forehead. Sharp as a ferret, Nick turned.

"Come downstairs, old chap! You've been working like a nigger for the
past fortnight. You'll knock up if you are not careful."

Max went with him in silence.

At the foot of the stairs he spoke again. "I shall hand her over to Dr.
Jim now. She will do better with him than with me as she gets more
sensible."

And so a new presence came into Olga's room, and the figure of her dread
appeared no more before her waking eyes. Not at first did she realize
the change, for it was only fitfully that her brain could register any
definite impression. But one day when strong hands lifted her, something
of familiarity in the touch caught her wavering intelligence. She
looked up and saw a rugged face she knew.

"Dad!" she said incredulously.

"Of course!" said Dr. Jim bluntly. "Only just found that out?"

She made a feeble attempt to cling to him, smiling a welcome through
tears. "Oh, Dad, where have you been?"

"I?" said Dr. Jim. "Why, here to be sure, for the past week. Now we
won't have any talking. You shut your eyes like a sensible young woman
and go to sleep!"

He had always exacted obedience from her. She obeyed him now. "But you
won't go away again?" she pleaded.

"Certainly not," he said, and took her hand into his own.

The last thing she knew was the steady pressure of his fingers on her
pulse.

From that time her strength began very slowly to return. The suffering
grew less and less intense, till at last it visited her only when she
tried to think. And this she was sternly forbidden to do by Dr. Jim,
whose word was law.

She was like a little child in those days, conscious only of the passing
moment, although even then at the back of her mind she was aware of a
monstrous shadow that was never wholly absent day or night. Her father
and the nurse were the only people she saw during those early days, and
she came to watch for the former's coming with a child's eager
impatience.

"I dreamed about Nick last night," she told him one morning. "I wish he
would come home, don't you?"

"What do you want Nick for?" he said, possessing himself of her wrist as
usual.

"I don't know," she said, knitting her brows. "But it's such a long
while since he went away."

He laid his hand on her forehead, and smoothed the lines away. "If
you're a good girl," he said, "you shall go and stay with Nick at
Redlands when you are well enough."

She looked up at him with puzzled eyes. "I thought Nick was in India,
Daddy."

"He was," said Dr. Jim. "But he has come back."

"Then he is at Redlands?" she asked eagerly.

He met her look with his black brows drawn in a formidable frown. "Go
slow!" he said. "Yes, he is staying at Redlands."

"Oh, may he come and see me?" she begged.

Dr. Jim considered the point. "If you will promise to keep very quiet,"
he said finally, "I will let you see him for five minutes only."

"Now?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes, now," said Dr. Jim.

He rose with the words and went out of the room, leaving her struggling
to fulfil his condition.

She thought he would return to satisfy himself on this point, but he did
not. When the door opened again it was to admit Nick alone.

She held out her arms to him, and in a second he was beside her, holding
her fast.

"My poor little chicken!" he said, and though there seemed to be a laugh
in his voice she fancied he was in some fashion more moved than she.

"They've cut off all my hair, Nick," she said. "That's the worst of
scarlet fever, isn't it?"

"Hair will grow again, sweetheart," he said. "At least, yours will. Mine
won't. I'm going as bald as a coot."

They laughed together over this calamity which was becoming undeniably
obvious.

"You never did have much thatch, did you, Nick?" she said. "And I
suppose India has spoilt what little you had."

"It's nice of you not to set it down to advancing years," said Nick.
"Muriel does."

"Muriel? Have you seen her lately?"

"This morning," said Nick.

"Oh?" There was surprised interrogation in Olga's voice. "Where is she,
then?"

"At Redlands," said Nick; then, seeing her puzzled look: "We're married,
you know, sweetheart."

"Oh?" she said again. "I didn't know."

"It's some time ago now," said Nick. "We've got a little kiddie called
Reggie. He's at Redlands too."

"I remember now," Olga smiled understanding. "How is Reggie?" she asked.

"Oh, going strong," said Nick. "He'll soon be as big as I am."

She stretched up a shaky hand to stroke his parchment face. "You're the
biggest man I know, Nick," she said softly. "Dad says I may come and
stay with you at Redlands. Will you have me?"

"Rather!" said Nick. "There's your own room waiting for you."

"Dear Nick!" she murmured. "You are good to me."

She lay still for a few seconds, holding his hand. Her eyes were
wandering round the room. They reached him at last, alert and watchful
by her side.

"Nick!" she said.

"What is it, kiddie?"

"There's something I can't remember," she said. "And it hurts me when I
try. Nick, what is it?"

He answered her at once with great gentleness. "It's nothing you need
worry your head about, dear. I know and so does Jim. You leave it to us
till you are a bit stronger."

But she continued to look at him with trouble in her eyes. "I feel as if
someone is calling me," she said.

"But that is not so," said Nick quickly and firmly. "Believe me, there
is nothing for it but patience. Wait till you are stronger."

She submitted to the mandate, conscious of her own inability to do
otherwise; but there was a touch of reproach in her voice as she said,
"I thought you would help me, Nick."

"I will," he promised, "when the time comes."

That comforted her somewhat, for she trusted him implicitly; and when
Dr. Jim came in he found her quite tranquil.

Thereafter Nick was permitted to see her for a little every day, and she
welcomed his visits with enthusiasm.

She would have welcomed Muriel also, but Dr. Jim had decreed that one
visitor in the day was enough. She would see Muriel as soon as she was
well enough to go to Redlands.

"I really think I am well enough to go now," she confided to Nick one
morning. "Do try and persuade Dad."

Nick undertook to do so, with the result that late that night Dr. Jim
came in, wrapped her in blankets, head and all as though she had been an
infant, and carried her away.

It was a masterly move and achieved with such precision on his part that
she had scarcely time to be surprised or excited before she was lying,
still in his arms, in a motor and travelling rapidly through the
darkness. He uncovered her face then and gave her his blunt permission
to come up and breathe.

She clung to him delightedly. "Oh, Dad, isn't it fun? But you're going
to stay at Redlands too?"

"For the present," said Dr. Jim.

"Who is taking your patients?" she asked him unexpectedly.

"A fellow from London, a youngster," said Dr. Jim. "Now no more
talking, my girl! I'll have you in bed in five minutes and you must be
fast asleep in ten."

She laid her cropped head down upon his shoulder, and asked no more.

But she could not wholly repress her astonishment when she abruptly
found herself at Redlands. The adventure had all the suddenness of a
fairy-tale. "We must have been scorching!" she exclaimed. "Why, we seem
to have flown here!"

"It's necessary sometimes," said Dr. Jim.

His words did not wholly explain matters, but they effectually closed
her lips; and she asked no more as he bore her up to the room she always
occupied when staying in Nick's house. And thereafter she slept more
peacefully and naturally than she had slept for a very long time.

In the morning she found another wonder awaiting her; for it was not the
nurse who came to her bedside, but Muriel, grave and gentle and
motherly, and somehow the sight of her seemed to unveil much that till
then had been a mystery to Olga.

She greeted her very lovingly. "You can't imagine what it feels like to
see you again," she whispered, with her arms round Muriel's neck. "But I
do hope you and Dad haven't hurried back from Switzerland because of
me."

Muriel smiled at her with great tenderness. "My darling, don't you know
how precious you are?"

"Then you did!" said Olga. "I feel a horrid pig. How is Reggie?"

"He is splendid," said Reggie's mother, in the deep voice that always
indicated depth of feeling also. "Much too gay and giddy to come and see
you yet. Even Jim is satisfied with him. I couldn't ask for more than
that, could I?"

She brought her a cup of milk and sat by the bed while she drank it.
There was never any perturbing element in Muriel's presence. She
carried ever with her the gracious quietness of a mind at rest.

Olga drank her milk with a most unwonted feeling of serenity. "Reggie
certainly mustn't come near me yet," she said. "It would be awful if he
caught it."

"There is nothing to catch, dear," said Muriel, as she took back the
cup.

"Not scarlet fever?" said Olga in surprise.

"You haven't had scarlet fever," Muriel told her gently. "It was brain
fever, following upon sunstroke. That is why we have to keep you so
quiet."

"Oh!" said Olga. "Nick never told me that!"

"I don't suppose Dr. Jim would let him. But I told him I should."
Muriel's hand, cool and reassuring, held hers. "There is no object in
keeping it from you," she said. "You are getting well again, and you
always had plenty of sense, dear. I know you will be sensible now."

"I'll certainly try," said Olga.

She lay quiet then for some time, apparently engrossed in thought though
not distressed thereby. She turned her head at last and asked a sudden
question.

"Will Nick go to India without me, Muriel?"

"No, dear. He is going to wait till you can go too," Muriel answered.

"Oh, Muriel!" She carried the quiet hand impulsively to her lips.

Muriel smiled. "Are you so anxious to go?"

"I should just think I am! But I know I'm horridly selfish. How can you
bear to let him go?"

"My dear," Muriel said, "I don't think I could bear to keep him when I
know he wants to go. You will have to take care of him for me."

"Oh, I will!" said Olga earnestly.

Very little more passed between them on the subject then, but it filled
Olga's mind throughout the day, even to the exclusion of that sinister
shadow that still lurked at the back of her consciousness.

Nick did not visit her until the evening, and then she at once began to
talk of the topic that so occupied her thoughts.

"Do you know, I had actually forgotten about going to Sharapura, Nick?"
she said. "I'm so glad I've remembered. It's something to be quick and
get well for."

"Hear, hear!" said Nick, with a whoop of delight.

She laughed at his enthusiasm, and he suddenly recollected himself and
entreated her to keep calm.

"If Jim knew I had made you laugh, he'd kick me to a jelly, and give you
a blue pill."

Whereat she laughed a little more. "That would be more like Max than
Daddy Jim." And there suddenly she stopped short, the colour flooding
her pale face. "Why," she said, frowning confusedly, "I had forgotten
Max too. How is Max?"

"He's all right," said Nick lightly. "Shall I give him your love?"

"Oh, no!" she said quickly. "Don't give him anything of mine!
He--wouldn't understand."

"All right, my chicken," said Nick, with cheery unconcern. "He's got a
little brother in the East by the way. I wonder if we shall run across
him."

She did not echo the wonder. Her forehead was drawn in the old, painful
lines, and she scarcely responded to the rest of his airy conversation.

When Dr. Jim visited her later in the evening he grunted disapproval.

"What's the matter now?" he asked her, with keen eyes on her troubled
face.

"I don't know," she murmured wistfully.

"Yes, you do. Come, tell me!" He sat down on the edge of the bed with
the evident determination to get at the root of the matter.

She held back for a little, but finally, finding him obdurate, sat up
and drew herself within the circle of his arm.

"There, my dear! What is it?" said Dr. Jim.

She hid her face on his shoulder. "Dad, it--it's something to do with
Max," she whispered.

"Max? Who is Max?" demanded Dr. Jim inquisitorially, the while he
cuddled her close.

"Oh, you know, dear,--Dr. Wyndham," she murmured.

"Oh! So you call him Max, do you?" said Jim drily. "That's an
innovation, so far as I am concerned."

"I couldn't help it," she faltered, hiding her face a little lower. "He
made me."

"Did he indeed?" said Dr. Jim. "Well? What's the trouble?"

"I--I can't remember," she whispered forlornly.

"Are you in love with him?" asked Dr. Jim abruptly.

She lifted her face with a great start. "No!" she gasped breathlessly.

He looked at her with a semi-humorous frown. "Well, that's something
definite to go upon anyhow. Can't stand him at any price, eh?"

She smiled a little doubtfully. "I couldn't at one time. But now--now--"

"Yes? Now?" said Dr. Jim.

"I'm just--afraid of him," she said, a piteous quiver in her voice.

"What for?" Dr. Jim sounded stern, but his hold was very comforting.

"That's just it," said Olga. "I don't remember. I can't remember. But I
know he is angry--for some reason. I think--I think I must have
done--something he didn't like. Anyhow--I know he is angry."

Dr. Jim grunted again. "Does that matter?" he asked after a moment.

She clung to him very fast. "It will matter--when I see him again."

"And if you don't see him again?" said Dr. Jim.

"Oh, Dad!" she said, with a deep breath.

"Well?" he persisted. "Would that simplify matters? Would that set your
mind at rest?"

"Oh, yes, it would!" she said, with immense relief.

He gave her an abrupt kiss, and laid her down. "Very well then. That's
settled," he said. "You shan't see him again. Now go to sleep!"

But though she knew he would keep his promise, she was not wholly
satisfied, nor did sleep come to her very readily. Her mind was vaguely
disturbed. The thought of Max had set her brain in a turmoil which she
literally dared not attempt to pursue to its source. She was beginning
to be desperately afraid of the mystery she could not penetrate.

She was not so well in the morning, and Dr. Jim rigidly refused to allow
either Nick or Muriel at her bedside.

He himself was there during the greater part of the day, watching her,
waiting upon her, with a vigilance that never slackened. She suffered a
good deal of pain, but his unremitting care did much to alleviate it,
and in the evening she was better again, albeit considerably weakened.

After that, her progress was slow, and finding the effort of thought
beyond her, she was forced wearily to give up the attempt to think. Even
when at length her strength returned sufficiently for her to be carried
downstairs and laid on a couch in the garden, the mystery still remained
a mystery, and for some reason unintelligible even to herself she had
grown content to leave it so. She avoided all thought of it with a
morbid dread that was in part physical; for any attempt at concentration
in those days always entailed a headache that rendered her practically
blind and speechless for hours.

Meantime, they sought to keep her occupied with thoughts of her coming
adventure in the East with Nick. There were many preparations to be
made, and Muriel tackled them with a steady energy that could not fail
to excite Olga's interest. She even roused herself to assist, though Dr.
Jim would not permit her to do much, and would often rise and take the
work out of her hands when her eyes began to droop.

She had her hours of great depression also, when life was nothing but a
burden and she would weep without knowing why. On these occasions Nick
was invaluable. He had a wonderful knack of banishing those tears, and
in his cheery presence the burden was never insupportable.

It was on Nick's wiry strength that she leaned when she tottered forth
for her first walk in the garden. She would probably have wept over her
weakness if he had not made her laugh at it instead. It was a morning of
soft misty sunshine in the early autumn, and a robin trilled his gay
greeting to them as they slowly crept along.

"Jolly little beggar!" said Nick. "Robins always appeal tome. They know
how to be cheerful in adversity. Care to go down to the glen,
sweetheart? I'll haul you back again."

Yes, Olga would go to the glen. It was a favourite haunt with both of
them. The sun glinted on the narrow pathway as they went. The twinkle of
the stream was like fairy laughter, with every now and then a secret
gurgle as of a laugh suppressed.

They halted on the mossy bank, Nick's arm affording active support. Olga
looked down thoughtfully into the running water.

"The last time I was here," she said slowly, "was on the day I went to
the Priory to--ask--Violet--to come and stay with me. That must be ages
ago."

"Oh, ages!" said Nick.

She turned to him with a puzzled air. "I wonder Violet hasn't been to
see me, Nick. Where is she?"

His flickering eyes were searching the stream. "She's gone away," he
said.

"Oh! Where has she gone?"

"Haven't a notion," he said indifferently.

"I wonder I haven't heard," mused Olga. "I suppose she hasn't written?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Nick. His attention was obviously still
fixed upon the babbling water.

"Oh, well, she hardly ever does write," commented Olga. "And you don't
know where she is gone?"

"I do not," said Nick.

At this point his preoccupation seemed to strike her. "What are you
looking at?" she asked.

He nodded towards a clump of ferns that fringed the bank. "I thought I
saw my friend the scarlet butterfly. There is a beauty lives hereabouts.
Yes; by Jove, there he is! See him, Olga?"

Even as he spoke the scarlet butterfly emerged from its hiding place and
fluttered down the stream.

Olga uttered a sharp cry that brought Nick's eyes to her face. "What's
the matter, kiddie? What is it?"

For a moment she was too overcome to tell him. Then: "Oh, Nick," she
said, "I saw that butterfly the last time I was here. It was fluttering
along just like that. And then--all of a sudden--a dreadful green
dragon-fly flashed out on it, and--and--I didn't see it any more."

"Cheer up!" said Nick. "Evidently it escaped."

"Oh, I wonder!" she said, in a voice of puzzled distress. "I do wonder!"

His shrewd glance returned to the moth quivering like a flower petal in
the breeze. "Well, there it is!" he said cheerily. "Let's give it the
benefit of the doubt."

Her face did not wholly clear. "I wish I knew," she said. "Do you
really think it can be the same, Nick?"

"I've never seen more than one," said Nick, "so it would appear to be a
more artful dodger than you took it for. I don't see friend dragon-fly
anywhere about."

She shuddered suddenly and convulsively. "No, and I hope he isn't here.
Do you know what he made me think of? Max; so strong, so merciless, and
so horribly clever."

"I'm clever too," said Nick modestly.

"Oh, but in a different way," protested Olga.

Again his quick eyes flashed over her. "I think you are rather hard on
Max myself," he said unexpectedly.

"I?" said Olga.

"Yes, you, my dear. You've no right to regard him in that unwholesome
light. He doesn't deserve it. He is quite a decent sort; a little too
managing perhaps, but that's just his way. You might go further and fare
much worse."

He paused, but Olga said no word. She only palpitated against his arm.

He continued after a moment with the quick decision characteristic of
him. "I'm not going to pursue the subject, but just this once--in
justice to the man--I must have my say. You asked me once if I liked
him, and I was not in a position to tell you. I will tell you now. I
like him thoroughly. He's a man after my own heart, straight and clean
and staunch. If you ever want someone to trust--trust him! He'd stand by
you to perdition."

"Oh, do you think that of him, Nick?" she said, as one incredulous.

"Yes, dear, I do," said Nick. "Well, that's all I have to say. Suppose
we begin to crawl back!"

But Olga waited a moment, watching with fascinated eyes the speck of
scarlet that still trembled in the sunshine. It fluttered from sight at
last, and with a sigh she turned.

"I wonder if it got away!" she murmured again, as if to herself. "I do
wonder!"

But to Max, in spite of Nick's spirited eulogy, she made no further
reference.

Nick dined at his brother's house at Weir that evening, alone with Max
Wyndham. The boys had gone back to school, and the house was almost
painfully quiet. Even Nick seemed to feel a certain depression in the
atmosphere, for his cheerful chatter was decidedly fitful, and when he
and Max were seated opposite to one another smoking it ceased
altogether.

Out of a long silence came Max's voice. "When did you say you were
starting for the East?"

"Three weeks next Friday," said Nick.

Max grunted, and the silence was renewed.

It was Nick's voice, cracked and careless, that next broke the spell. He
seemed to speak on the edge of a laugh. "It's just six years ago since
the woman I wanted went to India. Curious, isn't it?"

"What's curious?" said Max.

Nick explained, still with a suspicion of humour in his words: "Well,
the funny part of it was that she hoped and believed she was going to
get away from me. However, I viewed the matter otherwise, and--I
followed her."

"Did you though?" said Max. "And how did the lady take it? Was she
pleased?"

"My dear chap, she didn't know." The laugh was more apparent now. Nick
removed his cigar to indulge it. "I was most careful not to get in her
way, you understand. I was simply there--if wanted."

"And events proved you justified, I suppose?" Max sounded interested
after a cynical and quite impersonal fashion.

"They did," said Nick. His own elastic grin appeared for an instant and
was gone. "Events can generally be trimmed to suit your purpose," he
said, "if you are sufficiently in earnest."

"That has not been my experience," observed Max briefly.

"Perhaps you haven't tried," said Nick.

Silence descended once more, and Nick was rude enough to fall asleep.

An hour later he awoke with extreme alertness in response to a remark
from Max as to the lateness of the hour.

"Yes, by Jove," he said. "I must be getting back. By the way, Wyndham,
did I mention to you that Sharapura is the name of the place we are
going to? It's quite an interesting corner of the Empire, and declared
by medical experts to be a top-hole neighbourhood for studying malaria."

"Is that a recommendation?" asked Max grimly.

Nick's smile was geniality itself. "It is," he answered; "a very strong
recommendation." He thrust out a friendly hand. "Good-night, my son, and
good luck to you!"

Max's grip was hard and sustained. He looked into the grinning, humorous
face, and almost in spite of himself his own mouth took a humorous
twist.

"So that's what you came to say, is it?" he said. "Well, good-night, you
old rotter, and--thanks!"

Nick mounted his horse and rode back in the moonlight, singing a
tuneless but very sentimental love lyric to the stars.




Part II




CHAPTER I

COURTSHIP


"It must be great fun gettin' married," said the chief bridesmaid
pensively to the best man. "Why don't you go and get married, Noel?"

"I'm going to," said Noel.

"Oh, are you?" with suddenly-awakened interest. "Soon?"

Noel screwed up his Irish eyes and laughed. "In twelve years or
thereabouts."

"Oh!" A pair of wide blue eyes regarded him attentively. "Twelve years
is a very long time," observed the chief bridesmaid gravely.

"It is, isn't it?" said Noel, with a large sigh.

"P'raps you'll be dead then," suggested the chief bridesmaid.

"What a jolly idea! P'raps I shall. In that case, the marriage will not
take place."

She sat down on his knee, and slipped a kindly arm round his neck. "I
hope you won't be dead, Noel," she said, in the careful tone of one not
wishing to be taken too seriously.

The best man smiled all over his merry face. "I shall do my best to
survive for your sake," he said.

She nodded thoughtfully. "But why aren't you goin' to get married
sooner?"

He surveyed her with his head on one side. "My little sweetheart is only
pocket size at present," he said. "I'm waiting for her to grow up."

"Oh! Is she little like me?" asked the chief bridesmaid, looking
slightly disappointed.

"She's just like you, sweetheart," said Noel, with cheery assurance.
"She has eyes of wedgewood blue, and hair of golden down, a mouth like a
rose, and the jolliest little turn-up nose in the world. And she's going
to be six next birthday."

This classic description was an instant revelation to the chief
bridesmaid. She blushed very sweetly, with pleasure unfeigned in which
shyness had no part. "Oh, Noel!" she breathed, in rapturous
anticipation. "But why must we wait till we're growed up?"

"We!" said Noel, who was twenty-two and a crack shot in the Regiment.

She kissed him propitiatingly. "I mean--dear Noel--. why can't we go and
get married now? I'm sure Mummy wouldn't mind."

"H'm! I wonder!" said Noel.

"I do love you so very much," said the chief bridesmaid, with eyes of
shining sincerity. "And you are just the beautifullest soldier _I_ ever
saw!"

He threw back his head in a laugh that showed his white teeth, to his
small adorer's huge delight. He was certainly a very gallant figure in
his red and gold uniform with his sword dangling at his side; and his
winning Irish ways gained him popularity wherever he went.

It was true that the chief bridesmaid's mother shook her head at him,
and called him fickle, but then his fickleness was of so open and boyish
an order that it could hardly be regarded as a fault, especially since
no one--with the exception of the chief bridesmaid--ever took him
seriously. And to her at least young Noel Wyndham was always tenderly
faithful in his allegiance.

On the present occasion, though nominally he had been acting as best man
to a brother officer, he had spent most of his time in the service of
the muslin-frocked, bare-legged atom who now sprawled upon his knee with
all the privilege of old acquaintance, assuring him of her whole-hearted
devotion and admiration.

He had just been giving her tea and wedding-cake, of which latter she
had eaten the sugar and he the cake, a wise division which had pleased
them both.

"Will we have a cake just like this when we're married, Noel?" she asked
seductively, casting an affectionate glance towards the empty plate.

"Oh, rather!" said Noel. "Several storeys high, big enough to last a
whole year."

"Oh, Noel!" she murmured ecstatically.

And, "Oh, Noel!" said her mother, suddenly coming up behind them.

The chief bridesmaid laughed roguishly over Noel's shoulder. "I like
weddin's," she said.

Noel set her down and rose. "My dear Mrs. Musgrave, I've been hunting
for you everywhere. Have you had any tea?"

She smiled at him with amused reproof. A very sweet smile had Mrs.
Musgrave, but it was never very mirthful. She had lost all her mirth
with her youth. Though she could not have been much over thirty, her
hair was silver white.

"I was only in the next room," she said. "Yes, thank you; the padre gave
me tea. We must be going. Peggy and I. Will left some time ago, directly
after the bride and bridegroom."

"Ah, Will is a paragon of industry. I believe he thinks more of that
beastly old reservoir of his than of the whole population of Sharapura
put together. But surely you needn't go yet? Don't!" pleaded Noel, with
his most persuasive smile.

"No, don't let's, Mummy!" begged the child, clinging to her hero's hand.
"Noel and me, we're goin' to be married, we are."

"So we are," said Noel. "And we're going to church on the Rajah's state
elephant, and we're going to make him trumpet all the way there and all
the way back. I hope we are not springing it on you too suddenly," he
added, with a laugh. "It's the usual thing, isn't it, for the best man
to marry the chief bridesmaid?"

"I should say it depended a little on their respective ages," smiled
Mrs. Musgrave. "Are you going to find my 'rickshaw? It is later than I
thought, and I am expecting visitors."

"Ah, I know," said Noel. "Captain and Mrs. Nick of Wara, isn't it?"

"Not Mrs. Nick," she corrected him. "I wish it had been. She is my
greatest friend. But she can't leave England because of their child."

"There's a lady of some description coming in his train," asserted Noel.
"I have it on unimpeachable authority."

"Yes, she is his niece. I knew her as a child, a giddy little
thing--rather like Nick himself."

"Mrs. Musgrave! Is that how you describe one of our most celebrated
heroes? Nick Ratcliffe--the one and only--the most romantic specimen of
our modern British chivalry--beloved of women like yourself, respected
by men like me! Did I hear aright?"

She laughed. "Oh, don't be absurd! He is the least imposing person in
the world, I assure you."

"And the lady, his niece?" questioned Noel. "Is she married by the way?"

"Oh, no. She is quite a girl."

"A real live girl in this wilderness!" ejaculated Noel. "I say, may I
drop in a little later and see her? Dear Mrs. Musgrave, say Yes!" He
stooped and gallantly kissed her hand. "As your daughter's _fiancé_, I
think you might ask me to dine. I'll be so awfully good if you will. I
say, Peggy, ask Mummy to invite me to dinner to-night, and I'll come and
say good-night to you in bed."

"Oh, yes!" cried Peggy, jumping with eagerness. "He may come, mayn't he,
Mummy? And I'll save up my prayers," she added to Noel, "and say them to
you!"

"Hear, hear!" said Noel. "Come, Mrs. Musgrave, you haven't the heart to
refuse me such an innocent pleasure as that. I'm sure you haven't, so
thank you kindly, I'll come. Shall I?"

"Of course you are quite irresistible," said Mrs. Musgrave. "But I
don't--really--think it would be very kind of me to have guests on their
first night. The poor child is sure to be too tired for chatter."

"But I shan't chatter," protested Noel. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse.
Come, Mrs. Musgrave, don't be cruel! Remember you're dealing with your
future son-in-law, who is absolutely devoted to you; and don't refuse me
the only favour I've ever asked!"

He gained his end. Noel Wyndham was an adept at that, having made a
study of it all his life.

Mrs. Musgrave, reflecting that the most fascinating young officer in the
cantonment could scarcely be unwelcome in the eyes of a young English
girl, however tired she might be, finally allowed herself to be
persuaded by cajolery on his part and earnest pleading on Peggy's to
include him at her dinner-table.

"If you don't mind taking the risk of being de trop," she said, "you may
come."

"I'll take any risk," he declared ardently; and, having gained his
point, kissed her hand again and departed to summon her 'rickshaw, with
Peggy mounted on his shoulder.




CHAPTER II

THE SELF-INVITED GUEST


When Noel Wyndham entered Mrs. Musgrave's drawing-room that night, he
was wearing his most alluring smile. He was evidently prepared to charm
and be charmed; and his host, who privately regarded this addition to
the party as a decided nuisance, could not but extend to him a cordial
welcome. Will Musgrave, though grave and even by some deemed austere,
was never churlish. He was a civil engineer of some repute, and had
earned for himself a reputation for hard work which was certainly well
deserved.

Nick Ratcliffe had been his close friend from boyhood, and the chance
that had stationed him within a short distance of the native city of
Sharapura in which Nick was for the next few months to take up his abode
was regarded by both as a singularly happy one. It was not surprising
therefore that he could not bring himself to look upon Noel's advent on
that, their first evening together, with much enthusiasm.

His wife had broken the news with semi-humorous apologies. "I couldn't
resist him, Will. You know what that boy is. Really I didn't ask him. He
asked himself."

"Oh, all right," Will had replied, with resignation. "You'll have to
look after him, and see he doesn't try to flirt too outrageously at
first sight."

"I'll try," she had assented somewhat dubiously.

For Noel always flirted with every woman he met, herself included, and
it was really quite impossible to stop him, or even to discourage him.
He only laughed at snubs, and pursued his airy flights with keener zest.

She was not in the drawing-room when the self-invited guest arrived, and
it fell to her husband to receive and entertain him. Noel, however, was
extremely easy to entertain at all times. He was never bored.

"It was so awfully good of Mrs. Musgrave to let me come," he observed to
his host, on shaking hands. "I had to beg jolly hard, I can tell you.
She thought your other visitors might consider me one too many. But I'm
sure they won't, and I'm immensely keen on meeting them. Have they
arrived?"

"Two hours ago," said Will Musgrave.

"That's all right. My brother-in-law knows Ratcliffe, but I've never had
the good luck to meet him. Something of a fire-eater, isn't he?"

Will laughed. "Oh, quite a giant in his own line."

Noel nodded. "Just as well. They are wanting a giant pretty badly up at
the city if report says true. That young Akbar needs a firm hand. He
passed us on parade yesterday, went by like the devil, kicking up a dust
fit to choke the lot of us. Beastly young cad!"

"Ah! He isn't over fond of the Indian Army," said Will.

"The Indian Army would give him a damn good hiding if it got the
chance," returned Noel, in righteous indignation. "I hope Ratcliffe will
rub that into him well. The place is simply swarming with malcontents,
and he encourages them. I believe they even flatter themselves we are
afraid of 'em."

"I shouldn't say anything of that kind before Miss Ratcliffe," said
Will. "She has just got over a severe illness, and may be nervous."

"Great Scotland! This isn't the place for anyone with nerves!"
ejaculated Noel. "I heard this morning that there's a most ferocious
man-eater in the Khantali district. I'm longing to have a shot at him,
but they say he's as cunning as Beelzebub, and never shows unless he has
some game on. And the jungle's so beastly thick all round there. It
doesn't give anyone a chance. Why can't His Objectionable Excellency
turn his hand to something useful, and clear some of it away? By the
way, I tried to catch a _karait_ this morning. I am going to start a
menagerie for Peggy's edification. But our _khit_, who is a very
officious person when he isn't wrapt in contemplation of nothing in
particular, interfered and killed the little beast before I had time to
explain. I told him he was a silly ass, but he seemed to think he had
done something praiseworthy. What's the best remedy for a _karait's_
bite?"

"The only known remedy is to sit down and die with as good a grace as
possible," said Nick, entering at the moment. "But it's just as well to
be sure it is a _karait_ before you take those measures, as there are
more hopeful remedies for other species." He held out his hand to Noel
with a cheery smile. "Pleased to meet you. I have already made the
acquaintance of one member of your illustrious family."

"Have you though?" said Noel. "That's rather a handicap for me, isn't
it?"

Nick's glance travelled swiftly over him and passed. "If you're as good
a chap as your brother, you'll do," he said.

"Oh, I'm not," said Noel hastily. "If you're talking about Max, he's the
only respectable Wyndham there is, and that's only because he hasn't
time to be anything else. He wrote and told me you were coming here. I
was at Budhpore then, but I set to work double quick and got myself
transferred."

"What for?" said Nick.

Noel winked confidentially. "I wanted to see the fun," he said.

Again for the passage of a second Nick's eyes regarded him, and then
over the shrewd, yellow face there flashed a sudden smile. "Are you a
cricketer?" said Nick.

"You bet I am!" said Noel boyishly.

Nick nodded. "I was myself once."

"Only once, Nick?" protested Musgrave, with a smile that was scarcely
humorous.

Nick turned to him with a semi-rueful grimace. "Oh, my cricketing days
are over. All I'm good for now is to teach other fellows the rules of
the game."

At this point a high voice made itself heard in the distance,
imperiously demanding Noel's presence.

"Oh, Jupiter!" exclaimed Noel. "That's Peggy! Excuse me, you chaps! She
has been saving up her prayers for my benefit, and I came early on
purpose!"

He was gone with the words, with all an ardent lover's alacrity, and
Will Musgrave smiled.

"He's a heady youngster, but there's real stuff in him."

"Sound, is he?" said Nick.

"I should say so; but fancy he's a bit fiery," said Will.

There was nothing to denote fieriness in Noel's attitude as he composed
himself a few seconds later for the ceremony of Peggy's devotions. It
was a very simple ceremony, but conducted with extreme decorum, Peggy's
_ayah_ being sternly dismissed as a preliminary.

Noel sat on the edge of the bed while its small owner knelt upon it,
head bowed in hands and lodged upon his shoulder. He had made a
tentative movement to encircle her with his arm, but this had been
gently but quite firmly forbidden.

"You mustn't cuddle while I'm sayin' my prayers," said Peggy. "You must
put your hands together and shut your eyes. That's what Mummy does."

Noel complied with these instructions, but when Peggy was fairly
launched he ventured to violate the last and steal a look at the fair
head that rested against his shoulder.

Peggy was saying the Lord's Prayer with evident enjoyment. Noel listened
with respect. There was the swish of a woman's dress in the passage
outside. He listened to that also, his dark eyes watching the half-open
door. His attention began to wander.

"Noel!" said a small, hurt voice at his side.

Noel's eyes shut as if at the pulling of a string. "Sorry, Peg-top! Go
ahead!"

"You mustn't call me Peg-top when I'm sayin' my prayers!" protested
Peggy. "I wanted you to say Amen."

"Amen," said Noel humbly.

"It's no good now." There was a sound of tears in Peggy's voice. "You've
just spoilt it all."

"Oh, I say!" pleaded Noel. "Well, try again! I'll say it next time."

"Can't," said Peggy. "It's wrong to keep on sayin' the same thing."

"I never heard that before," said Noel.

"It's in the Bible," asserted Peggy.

"Is it?" Noel sounded faintly incredulous.

"Yes, it is." There was a touch of indignation in Peggy's rejoinder.
"It's what the heathen do," she said.

Noel ventured to open his eyes, and found hers fixed severely upon him.
"Well, I'm awfully sorry," he said. "What had we better do?"

"You're not sorry," said Peggy accusingly. "Your eyes are all laughy."

"I'll swear they're not," declared Noel. "But I say, hadn't you better
finish? Then we can have a cuddle."

"But I can't finish," said Peggy.

"Why not?"

"'Cos you interrupted, and I can't begin again." There was more than the
sound of tears this time; the blue eyes were suddenly swimming in them.
"And I haven't said my hymn, and you don't care a bit," she said in a
voice that quivered ominously. Matters were evidently getting desperate.

"Yes, but you can say the rest," argued Noel, with the feeling that he
was losing ground every instant. "What do you generally say next?"

"No, I can't. It wouldn't be sayin' them properly, and God doesn't
listen if you don't say them properly."

Here was a formidable difficulty; but Noel's brain was fertile. He had a
sudden inspiration. "Look here!" he said. "I'll say the first part again
for you, and you can say Amen. I haven't said mine yet, you know, so it
doesn't matter for me. Then you can go on and finish. Will that do?"

Peggy gave the matter her grave consideration, and decided that it
would. "But you must kneel down," she said.

There was no sound in the passage now. Noel peered in that direction,
but detected nothing. Patiently he slipped on to his knees, and began to
recite the Lord's Prayer.

Considering the difficulties under which he laboured, he acquitted
himself with considerable credit. Peggy at least was fully satisfied, a
fact to which her fervent "Amen"! abundantly testified. She took up her
own petitions at once quite impressively, albeit with slightly
accelerated speed to make up for lost time. At the end of her hymn she
paused.

"Would you like me to ask God to make me grow up quick so that we can be
married soon, Noel?" she asked.

"I shouldn't." said Noel.

"Not?" The wedgewood-blue eyes opened wide.

"No. Very likely you won't want to marry me when you're grown up," Noel
explained.

Peggy was amazed at the bare suggestion of such a possibility. "Why, of
course I'll want to marry you," she declared, hugging him. "You're the
wery nicest man that ever was."

"No, I'm not. I'm a rotter," Noel made brief and unvarnished reply. "No
one knows what I am--except myself. And no one ever will," he added
almost fiercely. And then, with lightning change of front, he laughed.
"Never mind! We'll go on being sweethearts. That's better than nothing,
isn't it?"

Peggy was looking at him very seriously. "I'd go on lovin' you even
if--if--you was to kill someone," she said.

"Thanks, Peg-top! Well, I've never done that yet, though there's no
knowing how soon I may begin," said Noel carelessly.

"Oh, but it's very wicked to kill people." There was shocked reproof in
Peggy's tone.

"Depends," said Noel judicially. "Sometimes it's the only thing to do."

"Oh, Noel!" Peggy's disapproval was evidently struggling with her
loyalty.

Something white gleamed in the doorway, and Noel's eyes suddenly
sparkled. He abandoned the argument without a second thought.

"Pray come in!" he said. "Peggy is holding a reception. She always
receives at this hour. Now, Peggy, stand up and tell this lady my name!"

"May I really come in for a moment?" said Olga. She stood hesitating on
the threshold, a slim, girlish figure. "Don't let me disturb you! Mrs.
Musgrave thinks she must have left her rings here. How do you do?"

She gave her hand to Noel who had moved to meet her He laughed
audaciously into her face.

"Awfully pleased to meet you, Miss--er--Ratcliffe! Why didn't you come
in before? I was in a beastly tight fix, and should have been glad of
your assistance. I knew you were there."

"Did you?" she said. The smile that had grown so rare flashed over her
face in response to his. "I wasn't eavesdropping really," she assured
him. "I was only waiting for a suitable moment to present myself."

"Could any moment be anything else?" he asked her, bowing deeply.

She laughed at that without the faintest coquetry. "Very easily, I
should say. Isn't little Peggy going to bed?"

"Of course she is," said Noel. "Hop in, infant! We've been officiating
at a wedding to-day, she and I, and the excitement has turned our heads
a little. That's the way, mavourneen!" as Peggy, a little shy in the
presence of the newcomer, slipped into her bed. "You didn't introduce me
though, did you?"

Peggy held his hand in embarrassed silence.

"Peggy scarcely knows me herself yet," said Olga. "Don't you think we
might manage without?"

"I dared not have suggested it myself," said Noel, with an ease that
belied him. "If we do that, we may as well pretend we're old
acquaintances at once."

"Perhaps," said Olga. She was searching for her hostess's rings and
spoke with a somewhat absent air.

"Especially as my name is Wyndham," he said.

She stopped short in her search and seemed to stiffen. Then slowly she
turned towards him. "You are Max's--Dr. Wyndham's--brother!"

"I have that honour," said Noel drily.

She stood quite still for a moment; then: "I knew he had a brother in
India," she said. "But I didn't know we were likely to meet."

"That," said Noel, "was partly his doing and partly mine. He wrote and
told me that Captain Ratcliffe was coming to Sharapura, and I at once
took steps to get myself transferred to the battalion here."

"Oh! Then you know Nick?"

"By repute," smiled Noel. "A good many people in India can say the same,
though he may be without honour in his own country."

"Indeed he isn't!" said Olga proudly. "He is a hero wherever he goes."

"And you have come to take care of him?" asked Noel.

She faced him. "Did you know I was coming?"

"No. I thought it was Mrs. Ratcliffe. Max writes an abominable fist."

She seemed relieved. "Yes, I have come to take care of him. He never
takes care of himself."

"And you know how to make him do as he is told?" asked Noel.

She smiled. "Oh, yes, I am quite capable. It isn't the first time I have
taken care of him. We are very old pals."

"I envy you both," said Noel. "Is this what you are looking for?"

He had spied a ring under the edge of Peggy's biscuit-plate. He held it
out to her with a graceful flourish.

But at this point Peggy, who had begun to feel neglected, overcame her
shyness and shrilly intervened.

"Noel, that's not the way! You should say, 'With this ring--'"

"Peggy!" Noel interrupted, "you're going too fast. I'm much too old to
travel at that pace. I will say good-night to you before you get me into
trouble."

He stooped to kiss her, but Peggy was clinging like a marmoset round
his neck when he stood up again. His brown face laughed through her
curls.

"We're a horribly spoony couple," he said to Olga. "We've known each
other just six weeks, and we got engaged to-day."

"Do you often get engaged like that?" asked Olga.

"Oh, rather!" said Noel. "It's much more fun than getting married.
Cheaper too, and not so monotonous!" Again he laughed. "I assure you
it's the easiest thing in the world to get engaged. Never tried it?"

It was unpardonably audacious; but that was Noel Wyndham's way, and
somehow no one ever took offence.

Olga did not take offence, but she winced ever so slightly; a fact which
Noel obviously failed to observe, being occupied with the difficult task
of releasing himself from Peggy's ardent embraces.

When he finally obtained his freedom and stood up, Olga had passed out
again into the passage. He threw a last kiss to his small sweetheart,
and hurried after her.




CHAPTER III

THE NEW LIFE


"It isn't in the least what I thought it would be," said Olga.

"Nothing ever is," said Nick.

He was sprawling on a _charpoy_ on the verandah of their new abode,
smoking a cigarette with lazy enjoyment.

Though within sound of the native city, their bungalow stood well
outside. It was surrounded by a compound of many tangled shrubs that
gave it the appearance of being more isolated than it actually was. Not
so very far away from it, down in the direction of Will Musgrave's
growing reservoir, there stood a _dâk_-bungalow; and immediately beyond
this were corn-fields and the native village that clustered along the
edge of the river. The cantonments were well out of sight, more than a
mile away along the dusty road, further than the polo-ground and
race-course.

Behind the bungalow, approached only through a dense mass of tall jungle
grass, stretched the jungle, mile upon mile of untamed wilderness, home
of wild pig and jackals, monkeys and flying foxes. Very quiet by day was
that long dark tract of jungle, but at night strange voices awoke there
that seemed to Olga like the crying of unquiet spirits. Neither by day
nor night did she feel the smallest desire to explore it.

The native city of Sharapura held infinitely greater fascinations for
her. Some of its buildings were beautiful, and she was keenly
interested in its inhabitants. She never entered it, however, save under
Nick's escort. He was very insistent upon this point, and he would never
suffer her to linger in the long, narrow bazaar, with its dim booths and
crafty, peering faces.

Down by the river there was a mosque about which pigeons circled and
cooed perpetually, but beggars were so plentiful all round it that it
was next to impossible to pause near the spot without being beset on all
sides, a matter of real regret to the English girl, who longed to wander
or stand and admire at will.

In His Excellency the Rajah she was frankly disappointed. He had been
educated in England, and had acquired a patronizing condescension of
demeanour which she found singularly unattractive. He never treated her
with familiarity, but she did not like the look of his dusky eyes. They
always smiled, but to her there was something unpleasant behind the
smile. In her private soul she deemed him treacherous.

He invariably wore European costume, with the exception of his green
turban with its flowing puggaree. He was an excellent and graceful
horseman, and spoke English with extreme fluency.

Nick spent a good many hours of every day at the Palace, and they were
always on the best terms; yet Olga never saw him go without a pang of
anxiety or return without a thrill of relief.

Probably her recent severe illness had had a lasting effect upon her
nerves, for she was never easy in his absence, though Daisy Musgrave did
much to reassure her. She had taken Olga under her wing as naturally as
though they had been related, and they were much together.

The old life had begun to seem very far away to Olga, her childhood as
remote as a half-forgotten dream. The blank space in her memory remained
as a patch of darkness through which her thread of life had run indeed
but of which no record remained. She had ceased to attempt to read the
riddle, half in dread and half in sheer helplessness. It did not seem to
matter. Surely, as Max had once said to her, nothing mattered that was
past.

She did not spare much thought for Max either just then, instinctively
avoiding all mention of him. She had a vague consciousness that was more
in the nature of a nightmare memory than an actual happening, that they
had parted in anger. Sometimes there would rush over her soul the
recollection of piercing green eyes that searched and searched and would
not spare, and her heart would beat in a wild dismay and she would
shrink in horror from the vision. But it was not often that this came to
her now. She had learned to ward it off, to put away the past, to live
in the present.

For nearly a month she had been established with Nick in the bungalow on
the outskirts of the city, and the novelty of things had begun to wear
off. She was not strong enough to go out very much, and beyond a few
calls with Nick and a dinner or two at the cantonments she had not seen
much of the social life of Sharapura.

That night, however, they were to attend a State dinner at the Palace,
to which all the officers of the battalion and their wives had been
bidden. Olga was relieved to know that the Musgraves were also going,
for at present she was intimate with no one else, with the possible
exception of Noel, who visited them in a fashion which he described as
"entirely unofficial" almost every day. He seemed to entertain a vast
admiration for Nick, and as Olga was wholly in sympathy with him on this
great point, they did not find it difficult to agree upon smaller
matters. She even bore with his bare-faced Irish compliments, mainly
because she knew he did not mean them and she found it easier to be
amused than offended.

The new life was undeniably one of considerable interest, and now and
then, more particularly when she went for her morning ride with Nick--a
function which Noel almost invariably attended when off duty, appearing
with a brazen smile and not the faintest suggestion of an excuse--the
old zest would awake within her, almost deluding her into the belief
that her lost youth had returned.

She still had her hours of depression and strange heart-heaviness so
alien to her nature, and even in her lighter moments she was far more
restrained than of yore--shrewd still, quick of understanding still, but
infinitely graver, more womanly, more reserved.

Nick, who watched her as tenderly as a mother, sometimes asked himself
if after all he and Jim had done the right thing. Her remoteness worried
him. She seemed to live in a world of her own, asking no questions,
making no confidences. Not that she ever barred him out. He was well
aware that she had not the vaguest desire to keep him at a distance. But
her old spontaneity, her child-like demonstrativeness, seemed to have
gone, and a nameless shadow haunted the eyes that once had been so
clear.

They often sat together on the verandah as now, when the day's work was
done, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, always in complete accord.

Olga's remark that the India to which Nick had introduced her was wholly
unlike her expectations had been called forth by some comment of his
upon the Rajah's exceedingly British tastes.

"I thought things would be much more primitive," she said.

And Nick laughed, and after a long draught of whisky and soda observed
that possibly they were more primitive than she imagined. After which he
stretched himself luxuriously, and asked her if she were aware that they
were within a week of Christmas Day.

"Of course," she said. "Did you imagine I had forgotten? It seems so
strange to have nothing to do."

He sat up very abruptly with his knees drawn up to his chin and blinked
at her with extreme rapidity. "Olga," he said, "I believe you're
homesick."

The colour that of old had been so quick to rise faintly tinged her face
as she shook her head. "Oh, no, Nick! Don't be absurd! How could I be,
with you?"

"I'm not absurd--on this occasion," returned Nick.

"It's the fashion for absentees to be homesick all the world over at
Christmas-time. However, we are not bound to follow the fashion. How are
we going to celebrate the occasion? Have you any ideas to put forward?"

"None, Nick."

He nodded. "That makes it all the easier for me. Shall we give a picnic
at Khantali--you and I? It won't be much fag for you if you drive over
with Daisy Musgrave. Noel can take most of the provisions in his
dog-cart. He's a useful youngster. How does that strike you? There is a
ruined temple or a mosque at Khantali, I believe, and you like that sort
of thing."

He paused. She was listening with far-away eyes. "Yes, I shall like
that," she said. "It is very nice of you to think of it."

Nick straightened his knees and got up. "Do you know what I would do if
I had two hands, Olga _mia?_" he said.

She looked up questioningly. His face was for the moment grim.

"I would take you by the shoulders and give you a jolly good shaking,"
he said.

She opened her eyes in astonishment. "Really, Nick!"

"Yes, really," he said. "You didn't hear a word of what I said just
now."

"Oh, but I did!" she protested, flushing in earnest this time. "I heard
you and I answered you."

"Oh, yes, you answered me," he said, "as kindly and indulgently as if I
had been prattling like Peggy Musgrave. I won't put up with it any
longer, my chicken. Understand?"

He put his hand under her chin and turned her face upwards.

She quivered a little and the tears sprang to her eyes. "I'm sorry,
Nick," she said.

He shook his head at her. "I won't have you sorry. That's just the
grievance. Be hurt, be indignant, be angry! Sulk even! I know how to
treat sulks. But don't cry, and don't be sorry! I shall be furious if
you cry."

She smiled up at him wistfully, saying nothing.

"Fact of the matter is," proceeded Nick, "you're spoilt. It's high time
I put my foot down. If you don't wake up, I'll make you take a cold bath
every morning and swing dumb-bells for half an hour after it."

She began to laugh. "I love to see you playing tyrant, Nick."

He let her go. "I'm not playing, my child. I'm in sober, deadly earnest.
Have you made up your mind yet what you're going to say to young Noel
when he asks you to marry him?"

She started. "Oh, really, Nick!" she said again, this time with a touch
of annoyance in her tone.

He smiled as he heard it. "It's coming, I assure you. You see, the
station is short of girls, and our young friend is impressionable. He is
the sort of amorous swain who gets engaged to a dozen before he settles
down to marriage with one. The question for you to decide is, are you
going to be one of the dozen?"

"No, that I certainly am not." Olga spoke with undoubted emphasis, and
having spoken rose and laid her hands upon Nick's shoulders. "I don't
think he would be so silly as to ask me," she said. "And if he did, I
certainly should not be silly enough to say Yes."

"I'm glad to hear that anyway," said Nick briskly. "I was afraid you
might accept him out of sheer boredom."

"Nick! I'm not bored!"

He looked at her quizzically, as if he did not quite believe her.

"I am not bored," she reiterated, with something like vehemence. "I am
happier with you than with anyone else in the world."

"Really?" said Nick, still smiling.

"Don't you believe me?" she said.

He laughed. "Not quite, dear; but that's not your fault. What are you
going to wear to-night?"

Nick could switch himself from one subject to another as easily as a
monkey leaps from tree to tree, and when once he had made the leap no
persuasion could ever induce him to return. Olga knew this, and
abandoned the discussion, albeit slightly dissatisfied.

They separated soon after to dress for the Rajah's dinner. Olga had
chosen a dress of palest mauve, and very fair and delicate she looked in
it. In a crowd of girls she would doubtless have been passed over by all
but the most observant, but she was not one of a crowd at Sharapura.
There were not many girls in that region, or Noel Wyndham's volatile
fancy had scarcely strayed in her direction.

She told herself this with a faint smile, as she took a final glance at
herself when her _ayah_ had finished. There never had been any personal
vanity about Olga, and that night she told herself she looked positively
ugly. What in the world did Noel see in her, she wondered? It seemed
incredible that any man could find anything to admire in the colourless
image that confronted her.

And yet as she went up the Palace steps with Nick into the blaze of
light that awaited them, he was the first to greet her, and she saw his
eyes kindle at the sight of her after a fashion that made her heart
contract with a sudden pain for which at the moment she was wholly at a
loss to account.

"I say, you look topping!" he said, smiling down at her with pleasing
effrontery. "Do you know you are very nearly late? I've been watching
out for you for the past ten minutes."

"What a waste of time!" said Olga; but she returned his smile, for she
could not do otherwise.

"No! Why? I had nothing better to do," he assured her. "And my patience
is well rewarded. Hope you're keen on music. I've brought my banjo for
the Rajah's edification. It's better than a tomtom anyway. I wonder if
the fates have put us next to each other. I'll lay you five rupees to a
sixpence that they haven't."

Olga refused to take this generous offer, saying she had no sixpences to
spare him, a remark which he declared to be both premature and uncalled
for.

"You shouldn't kick a man before he's down," he said. "It's bad policy.
If you have to sit next to me after that, it will serve you right."

But when she found that he actually was to be her neighbour she was far
from quarrelling with the destiny that made him so. He was so blithe and
gay of heart, so blandly impudent, the very wine seemed to shine the
redder for his presence. It was not in her nature to flirt with any man,
but it was utterly impossibly not to enjoy his society. Less and less
did she believe that his butterfly pursuit of her had in it the smallest
element of serious intention. He was altogether too young and giddy for
such things. She dismissed the matter without further misgiving.




CHAPTER IV

THE PHANTOM


Without Noel she would have found that State dinner as dreary as it was
pompous. The Rajah was occupied with discussing the laws of British
sport with Colonel Bradlaw who regarded himself as an authority on such
matters, and expressed his opinions ponderously and at extreme length.

Nick was far away down the long table, seated beside Daisy Musgrave,
obviously to their mutual satisfaction. A bubbling oasis of gaiety
surrounded them. Evidently the general atmosphere of state and ceremony
was less oppressive in that quarter.

"Where would you be without me to take care of you?" said Noel, boldly
intercepting her glance in their direction.

"I am not at all bad at taking care of myself," she told him.

"I say--forgive me--I don't believe that," said Noel, with calm
effrontery. "You would simply fall a prey to the first ogre who came
along."

Olga elevated her chin slightly. "That shows how much you know about
me."

"I know a great deal," said Noel, with an ardent glance. "And that's
what makes me want to know much more. You know, you're horribly
tantalizing, if you will allow me to say so."

"In what way?" She spoke coolly; there was a hint of challenge in the
grey eyes she turned upon him.

He laughed without embarrassment. "I can't quite explain. There's
something so elusively attractive--or do I mean attractively
elusive?--about you. I call you 'the will-o'-the-wisp girl' to my own
private soul."

"I hope your own private soul is too sensible to encourage such
nonsense," said Olga severely.

He looked at her, sheer mischief dancing in his Irish eyes. "Come and
see it some day and judge for yourself!" he said. "I can fix up a
_séance_ any time. It would always be at home to you. I'm sure you would
get on together."

It was hard to restrain a smile; Olga permitted herself one of strictly
limited proportions.

"I will show you a glimpse presently if you would care to see it,"
proceeded Noel.

"Oh, please don't trouble!" said Olga.

"Afraid of being bored?" he asked.

She laughed. "Perhaps."

He leaned towards her. Her laugh was reflected in his eyes, but she did
not hear it in his voice as he said, "Do you mean that? Do I really bore
you?"

She met his look for a moment, and her heart quickened a little. Quite
suddenly she realized that this man, young though he was, possessed a
wonderful power of attraction. She wondered if he himself were aware of
it, and rapidly decided that he had made the discovery in his cradle. Of
one thing she was certain. She did not want to fall in love with him. He
drew her indeed, but it was against her will.

"Well?" he said. "Have you made up your mind yet?"

She smiled. "Oh, no, you don't bore me," she said.

"Thanks awfully! It's not generally considered a family failing of the
Wyndhams. Every other rascality under the sun, but not that."

"What a fascinating family you seem to be!" said Olga.

He made a wry face. "In a sense. Did you find Max fascinating?"

He put the question carelessly; yet she suspected he had a reason for
asking it. She felt the tell-tale blood rising in her face.

"You don't like him?" said Noel.

She hesitated.

"I don't mind your saying so in the least," he assured her. "He's a
queer chap--a bit of a genius in his own line; but geniuses are trying
folk to live with. How did he get on with your father?"

"Oh, Dad likes him," she said.

"He's not much of a ladies' man," remarked Noel. "I suppose he has
chucked that job by this time, and gone back to Sir Kersley Whitton.
Lucky beggar! He seems to be able to do anything he likes."

"I didn't know he was going to leave," said Olga quickly.

"No? I believe he said something about it in his letter to me. He is
always rather sudden," said Noel. "Too much beastly electricity in his
composition for my taste."

"Do you often hear from him?" Olga asked abruptly.

"Once in a blue moon. Why?" His dark eyes interrogated her, but she
would not meet them.

"I just wondered," she said.

"No. I scarcely ever hear," said Noel. "He wrote, I suppose, to tell me
of your good uncle's advent. He had probably heard from my sister that
some of us were stationed here. Anyhow I lost no time in getting myself
transferred for the pleasure of making his acquaintance. I was inclined
to regret the move just at first. It's rather a hole, isn't it? But the
moment I saw you--" Olga stiffened slightly, and he at once passed on
with the agility of a practised skater on thin ice: "I say, what a
ripping little sportsman your uncle is! He is actually talking of
taking up polo again. Did you know?"

"Polo!" Olga stared at him. "Nick! How could he?"

"Heaven knows! I suppose he would hang on with his knees, and swipe when
he got the chance. He'd need some deuced intelligent ponies though."

"He couldn't possibly do it!" Olga declared. "He mustn't try."

"Think you can prevent him?" asked Noel curiously.

"He won't if I beg him not to," she said.

"Oh, that's how you manage him, is it? Does he always come to heel that
way?"

Olga's eyes flashed a loving glance down the table towards her hero.
"There is no one in the world like Nick," she said softly.

"It's good to be Nick," remarked Noel, with his impudent smile. "It's
quite evident that he can do no wrong."

She laughed and turned the subject. Nick was too near and dear to
discuss with an outsider.

They began to talk of polo. A match had been arranged for Boxing Day.
Noel was a keen player, and had plenty to say about it.

The Rajah was also a keen player, and after a little he disengaged
himself from Colonel Bradlaw's endless reminiscences and joined in the
conversation, which speedily became general.

A display of fireworks had been provided for the entertainment of the
guests, and when the long State dinner was over they repaired to a
marble balcony that overlooked some of the Palace gardens.

Will Musgrave came and joined Olga as she stepped out between the carved
pillars. She greeted him with a smile of welcome. They were old friends.
As a child she had known him before his marriage, though she had seen
nothing of him since. There was something in the quiet strength of the
man that appealed to her. He gave her confidence.

"Well, Olga," he said, "how do you like India?"

They stood together by the fretted marble balustrade, looking down upon
the illuminated gardens that stretched away dim and mysterious into the
night.

Olga did not directly answer the question. "I am not really acquainted
with her yet," she said.

He uttered a short sigh. "She is a hard mistress. I don't advise you to
get too intimate. She has a way of turning and rending her slaves, which
is ungrateful, to say the least of it."

"But you are not sworn to her service for ever," said Olga.

He laughed with a touch of sadness. "Until she kicks me out. Like
Kipling's Galley Slave, I'm chained to the oar. It's all very well so
long as one remains in single blessedness, but it's mighty hard on the
married ones. Take my advice, Olga; never marry an Indian man!"

"I'm never going to marry anyone," said Olga, with quiet decision.

"Really!" said Will Musgrave.

She turned her head towards him. "You sound surprised."

He smiled a little. "I beg your pardon. I was only surprised at the way
in which you said it--as if you had been married for years, and knew the
best and the worst."

There was a slight frown on Olga's face. She looked as if she were
trying to remember something. "Oh, no, it wasn't like that," she said.
"But somehow I don't feel as if I could ever like a man well enough to
marry him. I don't want to fall in love."

"Too much trouble?" suggested Will.

She nodded, the frown still between her eyes. "It doesn't seem worth
while," she said rather vaguely. "It's such a waste."

Will looked at her with very kindly eyes. "I see," he said gently.

She met the look and read his thought. Almost involuntarily she answered
it. "I've never been in love myself," she told him simply. "But somehow
I know just what it feels like. It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it? Like
being caught up to the Gates of Paradise." She paused, and the puzzled
frown deepened. "But one comes back again--nearly always," she said.
"That's why I don't think it seems worth while."

"I see," Will said again. He was silent for a moment while a great green
rocket rushed upwards with a hiss and burst in a shower of many-coloured
stars. Then as they watched them fall he spoke very kindly and
earnestly. "But it is worth while all the same--even though one may be
turned back from Paradise. Remember--always remember--that it's
something to have been there! Not everyone gets so far, and those who do
are everlastingly the richer for it." He paused a moment, then added
slowly, "Moreover, those who have been there once may find their way
there again some day."

Another rocket soared high into the night and broke in a golden rain.
From a few yards away came Nick's cracked laugh and careless speech.

"Here comes the _chota-bursat_, Daisy! It's high time you went to the
Hills."

Daisy Musgrave's answer was instant and very heartfelt. "Oh, not yet,
thank Heaven! We have three months more together, Will and I."

"You must make him leave his beastly old reservoir to the sub when the
hot weather comes," said Nick, "and go for a honeymoon with you."

"If he only could!" said Daisy.

A sombre smile crossed Will's face as he turned it towards his wife.
"I'm listening, Daisy," he said.

She came quickly to his side, and in the semi-darkness Olga saw her hand
slip within his arm. "I'm feeling sentimental to-night," she said, in a
voice that tried hard to be gay. "It's Nick's fault. Will, I want
another honeymoon."

"My dear," he made answer in his deep, quiet voice, "you shall have
one."

The rattle of squibs drowned all further speech, and under cover of it
Olga made her way to Nick.

"They're awfully fond of each other, those two," she confided to him.

"Bless their hearts! Why shouldn't they?" said Nick tolerantly. "Are you
getting tired, my chicken? Do you want to go home to roost?"

She was a little tired, but he was not to hurry on her account. "It's
quite restful out here," she said.

He put his arm about her. "What did the infant Don Juan talk about all
dinner-time?"

She laughed with a touch of diffidence. "He is quite a nice boy, Nick."

"What ho!" said Nick. "I thought he was making the most of his time."

She pinched his fingers admonishingly. "Don't be a pig, Nick! We--we
talked of Max--part of the time."

"Oh, did we?" said Nick.

"Yes. Did you know he was thinking of leaving Dad?"

"I did," said Nick.

There was a moment's silence; then: "Dear, why didn't you tell me?" she
asked, her voice very low.

"Dear, why should I?" said Nick.

She did not answer, though his flippant tone set her more or less at her
ease.

"Any more questions to ask?" enquired Nick, after a pause.

With an effort she overcame her reticence. "He has actually gone then?"

"Bag and baggage," said Nick.

"Nick, why?"

"I understand he never was a fixture," said Nick.

"No. I know. But--but--I didn't think of his going so soon," she
murmured.

"You don't seem pleased," said Nick.

"You see, I had got so used to him," she explained. "He was like a bit
of home."

"I'm sure he would be vastly flattered to hear you say so," said Nick.

She laughed rather dubiously. "Has Dad got another assistant then?"

"I don't know. Very likely. You had better ask him when you write."

"And he has gone back to Sir Kersley Whitton?" she ventured.

"My information does not extend so far as that," said Nick.

She turned her attention to the blaze of coloured fire below them, and
was silent for a space.

Suddenly and quite involuntarily she sighed. "Nick!"

"Yours to command!" said Nick.

She turned towards him resolutely. "Be serious just a moment! I want to
know something. He didn't leave Dad for any special reason, did he?"

"I've no doubt he did," said Nick. "He has a reason for most of his
actions. But he didn't confide it to me."

She gave another sharp sigh, and said no more.

Colonel Bradlaw came up and joined them, and after a little the Rajah
also. He stationed himself beside Olga, and began to talk in his smooth
way of all the wonders in the district she had yet to see.

She wished he would not take the trouble to be gracious to her, but he
was always gracious to European ladies and there was no escape. The
British polish over the Oriental suavity seemed to her a decidedly
incongruous mixture. She infinitely preferred the purely Oriental.

"My _shikari_ has told me of a man-eater at Khantali," he said
presently. "You have not seen a tiger-hunt yet? I must arrange an
expedition, and you and Captain Ratcliffe will join?"

Olga explained that she had never done any shooting.

"But you will like to look on," he said.

She hesitated. "I am afraid," she said, after a moment, "I don't like
seeing things killed."

"No?" said the Rajah politely.

She wondered if the dusky eyes veiled contempt, and felt a little
uncomfortable in consequence of the wonder.

"You have never killed--anything?" he asked, in a tone of courteous
interest.

"Nothing bigger than a beetle," said Olga.

"Really!" said the Rajah.

This time she was sure he was feeling bored, and she began to wish that
Noel would reappear and lighten the atmosphere.

As if in answer to the wish, there came the sudden tinkle of a stringed
instrument in one of the marble recesses behind them, and almost
immediately a man's voice, very soft and musical, began to sing:

         "O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
           On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
         My plaidie to the angry airt,
           I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.

         Or did misfortune's bitter storms
           Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
         Thy bield should be my bosom,
           To share it a', to share it a'."

The voice ceased; the banjo thrummed on. Olga's hands were fast gripped
upon the marble lattice-work. She stood tense, with white face upraised.

The Rajah was wholly forgotten by her, and he stepped silently away to
join another of his guests. The new English girl presented an enigma to
him, but it was one in which he did not take much interest. All her
fairness notwithstanding, she was not even pretty, according to his
standard, and he had seen a good many pretty women.

Again through the dimness the clear voice came. It held a hint--a very
carefully restrained hint--of passion.

         "Or were I in the wildest waste,
           Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
         The desert were a paradise
           If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
         Or were I monarch o' the globe,
           Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
         The brightest jewel in my crown
           Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."

The song was ended; the banjo throbbed itself into silence. Olga's hands
went up to her face. She wanted to keep the silence, to hold it fast,
while she chased down that elusive phantom that dodged her memory.

Ah! A voice beside her, Nick's arm through hers! She raised her face.
The phantom had fled.

"After that serenade, I move that we take our departure," said Nick.
"The youngster has a decent voice, so far as my poor judgment goes. Are
you ready?"

Yes, she was ready. She longed to be gone, to get away from the
careless, chattering crowd, to work out her problem in solitude and
silence.

With scarcely a word she went with him, and they made their farewells
together.

At the last moment Noel, his eyes very bright and coaxingly friendly,
caught her hand and boldly held it.

"Did you catch it?" he asked.

She looked at him uncomprehendingly. "Catch what?"

He laughed. The pressure of his fingers was intimately close. "That
glimpse I promised you," he said.

"Ah!" Understanding dawned in Olga's eyes, and in the same instant she
removed her hand. "No, I'm afraid I didn't. I was thinking of something
else. Good-bye!"

"Oh, I say!" protested Noel, actually crest-fallen for once.

Nick swallowed a chuckle, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good-night,
minstrel boy! Mind you bring the harp along to my Christmas picnic! We
are not all so unappreciative as Olga."

Noel looked for a second as if he were on the verge of losing his
temper, but the next he changed his mind and laughed.

"You bet I will, old chap!" he said, and wrung Nick's hand with
cordiality.

Nick's chuckle became audible as they drove away. "He can't accuse you
of encouraging him anyhow, Olga _mia_," he remarked. "If you keep it up
at this pace, you'll soon choke him off."

Olga's answer was to draw very close to him, and to utter a great sigh.

"Wherefore?" whispered Nick.

She was silent for a moment, then: "I sometimes wish you were the only
man in the world, Nick," she said, with quivering emphasis.

"Gracious heaven!" said Nick. "Don't make me giddy!"

She laughed a little, but there was a sound of tears behind. "Men are
so silly," she said.

"Abject fools!" said Nick. "There's never more than one worth crying
about."

"What do you mean, Nick?"

"Nothing--nothing!" said Nick. "I was just demonstrating my foolishness,
that's all."

Whereat she laughed again in a somewhat doubtful key, and asked no more.




CHAPTER V

THE EVERLASTING CHAIN


It was a very thoughtful face that met Nick at the breakfast table on
the following morning. But Nick's greeting was as airy as usual. He made
no comments and asked no questions.

The day was Sunday, a perfect day of Indian winter, cloudless and
serene. The tamarisks in the compound waved their pink spikes to the
sun, and in the palm-trees behind them bright-eyed squirrels dodged and
flirted. A line of cypresses bounded the garden, and the sky against
which they stood was an ardent blue.

"What is the programme for to-day?" said Nick, when the meal was nearly
over.

Olga leaned her chin on her hand, and looked across at him. "Shall you
go to church, Nick?"

The cantonments boasted a small church and a visiting chaplain who held
one service in it every Sunday.

Nick considered the matter in all its bearings while he stirred his
coffee.

"No," he said finally; "I think I shall stay at home with you this
morning."

"How do you know I am not going?" said Olga.

Nick grinned. "I'm awfully good at guessing, Olga _mia_."

She smiled rather wanly. "Well, I'm not going, as a matter of fact. I
had a stupid sort of night."

Nick nodded. "I shan't take you out to dinner again for a long time."

"It wasn't that," she said. "At least, I don't think so. It was that
song. Why did Noel sing it?"

"For reasons best known to himself," said Nick, taking out his
cigarette-case.

She rose and went round to his side to strike a match for him, but
reaching him she suddenly knelt and clasped her arms about his neck.

"Nick," she whispered, "I'm frightened."

His arm went round her instantly. "What is it, my chicken?"

She held him closely for a while in silence; then, her face hidden, she
told him of the trouble at her heart.

"That song has been haunting me all night long. I feel as if--as
if--someone--were calling me, and I can't quite hear or understand.
Nick, where--where is Violet?"

It had come at last. Once before she had confronted him with that
question, and he had turned it aside. But to-day, he knew that he must
face and answer it.

He laid his cheek against her hair. "Olga darling, I think you know, but
I'll tell you all the same. She has--gone on."

Very gently he spoke the words, and after them there fell a silence
broken only by the scolding of a couple of parroquets in a mimosa-tree
near the verandah.

Nick did not stir. His lips twitched a little above the fair head, and
his yellow face showed many lines; but there was no tension in his
attitude. His pose was alert rather than anxious.

Olga lifted her face at last. She was very white, but fully as composed
as he.

"That," she said slowly, "was the thing I couldn't remember."

He nodded. "It was."

Her hands clasped the front of his coat with nervous force. She looked
him straight in the face.

As of old, the flickering eyes evaded her. They met and passed her over
a dozen times, but imparted nothing.

"Nick," she said, "will you please tell me how it happened? I am strong
enough to bear it now, and indeed--indeed, I must know."

"I have been waiting to tell you," Nick said. "Put on a hat, and we will
go in the garden."

She rose at once. Somehow his brief words reassured her. She felt no
agitation, was scarcely aware of shock. In his presence even the shadow
of Death became devoid of all superstitious fears. In some fashion he
made fear seem absurd.

Nick waited for her on the verandah with his face turned up to the sky.
He scarcely looked like a man bracing himself for a stiff ordeal, but it
was not his way to stoop under his burdens. He had learned to tread
jauntily while he carried a heart like lead.

When Olga joined him, he put his hand through her arm and led her forth.
The path wound along between the tangle of shrubs and lower growth till
it reached the cypresses, and here was a shady stretch where they could
pace to and fro in complete privacy.

Arrived here, Nick spoke. "It wasn't altogether news to you, was it?"

She passed her hand across her eyes in the old, puzzled way. "I didn't
remember," she said, "and yet I wasn't altogether surprised. I think
somehow at the back of my mind--I suspected."

"You remember now," said Nick.

She looked at him with troubled eyes. "No, I don't, dear. That's just
it. I--I can't remember. It--frightens me." She clasped his hand with
fingers that trembled.

"No need to be frightened," said Nick. "You were ill, you know; first
the heat and then the shock. After brainfever, people very often do
forget."

"Ah, yes," she said, with a piteous kind of eagerness. "But it is coming
back now. I only want you to help a little." She stood suddenly still.
"Nick, you are not afraid of Death, I know. Wasn't it you who called it
the opening of a Door?"

"It is--just that," said Nick.

"But the body," she said, "the body dies."

"The body," he said, "is like a suit of clothes that you lay aside till
the time comes for it to be renovated and made wearable again."

"Ah! She couldn't die, could she, Nick?" Olga's eyes implored him. "Not
she herself!" she urged. "She was so full of life. I can't realize it. I
can't--I can't! Tell me how it happened! Surely I never saw her dead!
Whatever came after, I never could have forgotten that!"

"Tell me how much you do remember, kiddie," Nick said gently. "And I
will fill in the gaps."

Her forehead contracted in a painful frown. "It's so difficult," she
said, "so disjointed--like a dreadful dream. I know she was horribly
afraid of Max. And then there was Major Hunt-Goring. I can't believe she
ever liked him. It was only because he--flattered her, and gave her
those dreadful cigarettes."

"Probably," said Nick.

"That morning when he invited us to go on his yacht is the last thing I
can remember clearly," she said. "I didn't want to go, but--she--insisted.
After that, my mind is just a jumble of impressions that don't fit into
each other. I seem to remember being on the yacht, and Major Hunt-Goring
and Violet laughing together. And then he came and told me an awful thing
about her mother. He wanted me to say I would marry him, and I wouldn't
because I hated him so. And after that he was so furious, he went and told
her too."

Olga stopped with horror in her eyes. The effort to remember was plainly
torturing her, yet Nick made no effort to help her.

"And after that?" he said.

"Oh, after that, there seems to come a blank. I remember her face, and
how I held her in my arms and tried to comfort her. And then--oh, it's
just like a dreadful dream!--I was running in the sun, running, running,
running, never seeming to get anywhere. The next thing I really remember
is being at the Priory and having lunch in that awful storm, and Max
coming--do you remember?--do you remember? And how I kept him away from
her? Poor child, he terrified her so." Olga was shuddering now from head
to foot. Her eyes were wide and staring, as though fixed upon some
fearful vision.

Nick did not attempt to interrupt her. He waited, alert and silent, for
the vision to come to an end.

The end was not far off. She went on speaking rapidly, as if more to
herself than to him. She seemed indeed to have forgotten him for the
moment.

"What a frightful storm it was! That flash of lightning--how it shone
through the east window--and the floor was all red as if--as if--" She
broke off; her hand clenched unconsciously upon Nick's. "Did you see
her?" she whispered. "Or was it only a nightmare? She--was
trying--to--to--kill Max--in the dark!"

"She was not herself," said Nick. His voice was low and soothing; he
spoke as if he feared to awake her.

"No--no! She was mad--like her mother. Oh, Nick, how beautiful she was!"

Suddenly the tension passed. Olga covered her face and began to cry.

His arm tightened about her; he drew her on up the shady walk. "And
that is all you remember, kiddie?" he said.

She slipped her arm round his neck as they walked. "No, I remember two
things more." She forced back her tears to tell him. "I remember Max's
arm all soaked with blood. It stained my dress too. And I remember his
saying that--that it was a hopeless case, and that she--Violet--was as
good as dead. After that--after that----"

Nick waited. "After that?" he said.

She turned to him, her face anguished, piteous, appealing. "I can't get
any further than that, Nick. It's just a dreadful darkness that makes me
afraid. I think I begged him not to go to her. But I know he went,
because--when he came down again"--her voice faltered; bewilderment
showed through her distress--"when he came down again--" she repeated
the words like a child conning a lesson, then stopped, staring widely.
"Ah, I don't remember," she cried hopelessly. "I don't remember--except
that I think--when he came down again--it was all over. And he seemed to
be angry with me. Why was he angry with me, Nick? Why? Why?"

She began to tremble violently; but Nick's arm, strong and steadfast,
drew her on.

"He wasn't angry," said Nick. "Up to that point you are all right, but
there your imagination runs away with you. It's not surprising. He looks
grim enough when he's on the job. But that's his way. We know too much
of him, you and I, to take him over seriously."

"Then he really wasn't angry?" Olga said, relief struggling with doubt
in her voice.

Nick began to smile. "He really wasn't," he said.

She gave a sharp sigh. "I've been so afraid sometimes. But why--why did
he look so strange?"

"Doctors don't like being beaten," said Nick.

"But then, he knew it was hopeless--he said so. Was he angry because of
his arm? Was he angry with her, do you think? Oh, Nick, my brain--my
brain! It does whirl so! It won't let me think quietly."

"There is no need to make it think any more," said Nick, with quick
decision. "Give it a rest! You've got hold of the main points, and
that's enough for anyone. You mustn't fret either, dear. Remember, we
are all going the same way. God knows why we take these things so hard.
I suppose it's our silly little minds that won't let us look ahead."

"If we only could look ahead!" murmured Olga. "If we could only know!"

Nick's eyes sent a single flashing glance over the cypresses. His arm
clasped her closely and very tenderly. "That's just where the trick of
believing comes in," he said. "I don't see how those who honestly
believe in the love of God can help believing that all is well with
those who have gone on. To my mind it follows as the inevitable
sequence. Those who doubt it are putting a limit to the Illimitable and
placing a lower estimate on the love of God than they place upon their
own. But we are all such wretched little pigmies--even the biggest of
us. We are apt to forget that, don't you think? Horribly apt to try and
measure the Infinite with a foot-rule. And see what comes of it! Only a
deeper darkness and a narrowing of our own miserable limitations. We
never get any further that way, Olga _mia_. Speculating and dogmatizing
don't help us. We are up against the Unknown like a wall. But the love
of God shines on both sides of it; and till the Door opens to us also,
that's as much as we shall know."

He paused. Olga was listening with rapt attention. Her tears were gone,
but the clasp of her hand was feverishly tense. Her breath came quickly.

"Go on, Nick!" she whispered. "Tell me more of the things you believe!"

He smiled whimsically. "My dear, I'm afraid I'm not over-orthodox. You
see, I've knocked about a bit and seen something of other men's beliefs.
The love of God is the backbone of my religion, and all that doesn't go
with that, I discarded long ago. If Christianity doesn't mean that, it
doesn't mean anything. I've no use for the people who think that none
but their own select little circle will go to heaven. Such Gargantuan
smugness takes one's breath away. It is almost too colossal to be funny.
One wonders where on earth they get it from. I suppose it's a survival
of the Dark Ages, but even then surely people had brains of some
description."

"But death, Nick!" she said. "Death is such a baffling kind of thing."

"Yes, I know. You can't grasp it or fathom it. You can only project your
love into it and be quite sure that it finds a hold on the other side.
Why, my dear girl, that's what love is for. It's the connecting link
that God Himself is bound to recognize because it is of His own forging.
Don't you see--don't you know it is Divine? That is why our love can
hold so strongly--even through Death. Just because it is part of His
plan--a link in the everlasting Chain that draws the whole world up to
Paradise at last. It's so divinely simple. One wonders how anyone can
miss the meaning of it."

Olga's rapt face relaxed. She smiled at him--a very loving,
comprehending smile. "Yes, I see it when you put it like that, Nick, of
course. It is only just at first Death seems so staggering--such a
plunge into the dark."

"But there is nothing in the dark to frighten us," Nick said. "If some
of us died and some didn't, it would be terrible, I grant. But we are
all going sooner or later. No one is left behind for long. To my mind
there's a vast deal of comfort in that. It doesn't leave much time for
grousing when we simply can't help moving on."

She squeezed his hand. "I wonder where I'd be without you, Nick."

Nick's grin flashed magically across his face. "I'm only a man, kiddie,"
he observed, "and I seem to have been gassing somewhat immoderately.
However, them's my sentiments, and you can take 'em or leave 'em
according to fancy."

Thereafter for a space they talked of Violet, touching no tragic note,
recalling her as an absent friend. Olga dwelt fondly upon the thought of
her, scarcely realizing her loss. The new life she had entered had done
much to soften the blow when it should fall. Here in a strange land she
did not feel her friend's death as she would inevitably have felt it at
Weir. Circumstances combined with Nick's sheltering presence to lift the
weight which otherwise must have pressed heavily upon her. Moreover, the
longer she contemplated the matter, the more completely did she realize
that it had not come to her with the force of a sudden calamity. Deep
within her she had carried a nameless dread that had hung upon her like
an iron fetter. She had longed--yet trembled--to know the truth. Now
that burden seemed lifted from her, and she was conscious of relief.
Before, she had feared she knew not what; but now she feared no longer.
She was weary beyond measure, too weary for grief or wonder, though she
did ask Nick, faintly smiling, why they had kept the truth from her for
so long.

"I should have found it easier if I had known," she said.

But Nick shook his head with the wisdom of an old man. "You weren't
strong enough to know," he said.

She did not contest the point, reflecting that Nick, with all his
shrewdness, was but a man, as he himself admitted.

She asked him presently, somewhat haltingly, if he would give her the
details of her friend's death. "Max was there, I know. But he never
tells one anything. It was one of the reasons why I never got on with
him."

A hint of the old resentment was in her tone, and Nick smiled at it.
"Poor old Max! You always were down on him, weren't you? But there is
really nothing to tell, dear. She just went to sleep, and her heart
stopped. They said it was not altogether surprising, considering her
state of health."

"Who said?" questioned Olga.

"Sir Kersley Whitton and Max. Max sent for him, you know."

"Oh, did he? Yes, I remember now. I saw him just for a moment." Again
her brow contracted. "Oh, I wish I could remember everything clearly,
Nick!" she said.

"Never mind, my chicken! Don't try too hard!" Cheery and reassuring came
Nick's response. "Don't you think you have thought enough for one day?
Shall we tell Kasur to order the horses, and go for a canter?"

She turned beside him. "Yes, I shall like that. But--why did you say I
was always hard on Max?"

"The result of observations made," he answered lightly.

She smiled with a hint of wistfulness, and said no more. The child Olga
would have argued the point. The woman Olga held her peace.

Undoubtedly Nick had stepped off his pedestal that day. She loved him
none the less for it, but she wondered a little.

And Nick, philosopher and wily tactician, grinned at his fallen laurels
and let them lie. He had that day accomplished the most delicate task to
which he had ever set his hand. Behind the mask of masculine clumsiness
he had subtly worked his levers and achieved his end. And he was well
satisfied with the result.

Let her pity his limitations after a woman's immemorial fashion! How
should she recognize the wisdom of the serpent which they veiled?




CHAPTER VI

CHRISTMAS MORNING


It was the strangest Christmas Day Olga had ever known, but she
certainly had no time to be homesick.

She was roused by Nick