"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.