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—"