Then, as she stood at the deck-rail, at last he spoke. "So that is your last word upon the subject?"
She answered him briefly, "Yes."
She kept her face turned seawards. She was suddenly and overwhelmingly conscious of bodily weakness. All her strength seemed to have gone into that one great effort, that at the moment had seemed no effort at all. She felt as if she were going to faint, and gripped herself with all her quivering resolution, praying wildly that he might not notice.
He did not notice. For a few seconds more he stood behind her, while she waited, palpitating, for his next move. Then, very suddenly he turned and left her.
And Olga, instantly relaxing from a tension too terrible to be born, covered her face with her hands and shuddered over and over again in sick disgust.
It was many minutes before she recovered, minutes during which her mind seemed to be almost too stunned for thought. Very gradually at length she began to remember the words she had last uttered, the weapon she had used; and numbly she wondered at herself.
No, she had scarcely acted on her own initiative. Her action had been prompted by some force of which till that moment she had had no knowledge, a force great enough to lift her above her own natural impulses, great enough to help her in her sore strait, and to make all other things seem of small importance.
What would Max have said to that emphatic declaration of hers? But surely it was Max, and none other, who had inspired it. Surely—surely—ah, what was this that was happening to her? What magic was at work? She suddenly lifted her face to the dazzling summer sky. A brief giddiness possessed her—and passed. She was as one over whom a mighty wave had dashed. She came up from it, breathless, trembling, yet with a throbbing ecstasy at her heart such as she had never known before. For the impossible had happened to her. She realized it now. She—Olga Ratcliffe, the ordinary, the colourless, the prosaic—was caught in the grip of the Unknown Power, that Immortal Wonder which for lack of a better name men call Romance. And she knew it, she exulted in it, she stretched out her woman's hands to grasp it, as a babe will seek to grasp the sunshine, possessing and possessed.
In that moment she acknowledged that the bitter struggle through which she had just come had been indeed worth while. It had exhausted her, terrified her; but it had shown her her heart in such a fashion as to leave no room for doubt or misunderstanding. Even yet she quivered with the rapture of the revelation. It thrilled her through and through. For she knew that Max Wyndham reigned there in complete and undisputed possession. No other man had entered before him, or would ever enter after….
Slowly, reluctantly, she came back from her Elysium. She descended to earth and faced again the difficulties of the way.
She opened her eyes upon the yacht still running seawards, and decided that they must turn. She wondered if Hunt-Goring had regained his self-control, if he were ashamed of himself, if possibly he might bring himself to apologize, and what she should say to him if he did. Her heart felt very full. She knew she could not be very severe with him if he were really repentant.
Then she remembered Violet,—her friend….
CHAPTER XX
THE SEARCH
For the third time Nick looked at his watch. It was nearly one. He jumped to his feet with a grimace.
"What on earth are those girls up to?"
Rapidly he locked drawer after drawer of his writing-table, gathered up a sheaf of papers, and turned to go.
The library at Redlands overlooked a wide lawn that led through shrubberies to the edge of the cliff, up the face of which had been cut a winding path. He paused a moment considering this. Would they return from the shore by that way? If so, he would miss them if he went in search of them by the drive.
Impatiently he turned back towards the window, and in that moment he caught sight of a flying figure crossing the lawn,—Olga, with a white, strained face, hatless, dishevelled, gasping.
Nick's one arm fought with the heavy window and flung it up. In another second he had leaped out to meet her. She ran to him, stumbled ere she reached him, fell against him, helpless, sobbing, exhausted.
He held her up. "What is it? Violet? Is she drowned?" he questioned rapidly.
"No—no!" She gasped the words as she lay against his shoulder.
"All right then! Take your time! Come and sit down!" said Nick.
He supported her to the low window-sill, and she sank down upon it, still clinging to him with agonized gasping, voiceless and utterly spent.
He stood beside her, strongly grasping her hand. "Keep quite quiet!" he said. "It's the quickest in the end."
She obeyed him, as was her custom, leaning her head against him till gradually her breath came back to her and speech became possible.
"Oh, Nick!" she whispered then. "That any man—could be—so vile!"
"What man?" said Nick sharply.
"Major Hunt-Goring."
He stooped swiftly and looked into her face. "What has he been doing?"
"I'll tell you!" she said. "I'll tell you!"
And then, arrested possibly by something in that flashing regard, she raised herself and looked straight up at him.
"I can only tell you everything," she said, "if you will promise me not to go and quarrel with him—in fact, not to go near him. Will you promise, Nick?"
"I will not," said Nick.
"You must!" she said. "You must!"
"I will not," he said again.
She held his hand imploringly. "Not if I ask you—not if I beg you—"
"Not in any case," he said. "Now tell me the truth as quickly as you can."
She shook her head. "Nick, I can't. He is quite unscrupulous. He might kill you!"
"So he might," said Nick grimly. "He's crazy enough for anything. What has he been doing?"
"Is he crazy?" she said, catching at the word.
"He's drug-ridden," said Nick, "and devil-ridden too upon occasion. Now tell me!"
She began to cry with her head against his arm. "Nick,—I'm frightened!
I can't!"
"Oh, damn!" said Nick to the world at large. And then he gently released himself and knelt beside her. "Look here, Olga darling! There's nothing to frighten you. I'm not a headlong fool. There! Dry your eyes, and be sensible! What's the beast been up to? Made love to you, has he?"
His bony hand grasped hers again very vitally, very reassuringly. Almost insensibly she yielded herself to his control. Quiveringly she began to tell him of the morning's happenings.
Perhaps it was as well that she did not see Nick's face as she did so, or she might have found it difficult to continue. As it was she spoke haltingly, with many pauses, describing to him Hunt-Goring's arrival and invitation, her own dilemma, her final surrender.
"I couldn't help it, Nick," she said, still fast clinging to his hand.
"I couldn't let her go alone."
"Go on," said Nick.
And then she told him of Hunt-Goring's overture, her own sick repulsion for the man, his persistence, his brutality.
At that abruptly Nick broke in. "Before you go any farther—has he ever made love to you before?"
She answered him because she had no choice. "Yes, Nick. But I always hated him."
"And you didn't tell me," he said.
There was no note of reproach in his tone, yet in some fashion it hurt her.
"Nick—darling, you—you've only got one arm," she said. "And he's such a great, strong bully."
Nick uttered a sudden fierce laugh. His hand was clenched. "You women!" he said, and for some reason Olga felt overwhelmingly foolish.
"Well, finish!" he commanded. "No half-measures, mind! Just the whole truth!"
And Olga stumbled on. She repeated with quivering lips Hunt-Goring's story of the taint in Violet's blood, of the tragedy that had preceded her birth.
"Nick," she said, turning piteous eyes upon his face, "I know it must be partly true, but do you think it is really quite as bad as that? I believed it at the time. But—but—perhaps—"
He shook his head. "It's true," he said briefly.
"True that she is going—mad? Oh, Nick—Nick!"
He slipped his arm around her. "And the devil told her, did he?"
She leaned her forehead on his shoulder in an agony of quivering recollection. "Because I wouldn't listen to him—because—because—"
"Pass on," said Nick. "He told her. What happened?"
But she could not tell him. "It was too dreadful—too dreadful!" she moaned.
"Where is she now?" he pursued. "You can tell me that anyhow."
"She has gone to Mrs. Briggs," Olga whispered. "She said she would know everything. She had been her nurse from the beginning. She—she is in a terrible state, Nick. I only came away to tell you. I thought you would be getting anxious, or I wouldn't have left her. I ran up the cliff path. It was quickest."
"We will go back to her in the motor," Nick said.
He got to his feet, his arm still about her, raising her also.
"Come now!" he said. "Pull yourself together, kiddie! You will need all the strength you can muster. Come inside and have a drain of brandy before we start!"
He led her within. She was shivering as one with an ague, but she made desperate efforts to control herself.
Nick was exceedingly matter-of-fact. There was never anything tragic about him. He made her drink some brandy and water, and while she did so he scribbled a brief note.
"I will send off my own man in the motor with this to Max," he said. "He had better come."
Olga looked up sharply. "It's no manner of use sending for him, Nick.
She vows she will never see him again."
"We will have him all the same," said Nick. "He is the man for the job."
He went off and despatched his message, and then, returning, went out with her to the motor in which they had arrived so gaily but a few hours before.
"Now go steady, my chicken!" he said, as he got in beside her. "It wouldn't serve anyone's turn to have a spill at this juncture."
His yellow face smiled cheery encouragement into hers, and Olga felt subtly comforted.
"Oh, I am glad I've got you, Nick," she said. "You're such a brick in any trouble."
"Don't tell anyone!" said Nick. "But that's my speciality."
The midday sun was veiled in a thick haze, and the heat was intense. The dust lay white upon the hedges, and eddied about their wheels as they passed. The sea stretched away indefinitely into the sky, leaden, motionless, with no sound of waves.
"I am sure there will be a storm," said Olga.
"A good thing if there is," said Nick.
"Yes, but Violet is terrified at thunder. She always has been."
"It won't break yet," he said.
Almost noiselessly the motor sped along the dusty road. All Olga's faculties became concentrated upon her task, and she spoke no more.
They reached the village. It seemed to be deserted in the slumbrous stillness. There was not so much as a dog to be seen.
Suddenly Nick spoke. "What became of Hunt-Goring?"
The colour leaped into her pale, tense face. "He landed us at the jetty, and went away again in his yacht."
"Let us hope he will go to the bottom!" said Nick.
She shook her head, a gleam of spirit answering his. "Men like that never do."
They ran unhindered through the village and came to "The Ship." The inn-door gaped upon the street. There was not a soul in sight.
Olga brought the car to a stand. "We had better go straight in, Nick."
"Certainly," said Nick.
She peeped into the bar and found it empty. Together they entered the narrow passage. The unmistakable odour of beer and stale tobacco was all-prevalent. The air was heavy with it. They reached the foot of the steep winding stairs, and Olga paused irresolutely.
"There doesn't seem to be anyone downstairs. Will you wait while I run up?"
"No," said Nick. "I'm coming too."
They ascended therefore, and commenced to search the upper regions. But the same absolute quiet reigned above as below. Only the loud ticking of a cuckoo-clock at the head of the stairs aggravated the stillness.
Olga opened one or two doors along the passage and looked into empty rooms, and finally turned round to Nick with scared eyes.
"What can have happened? Where can she be gone?"
As she uttered the words, there fell a heavy footstep in the sanded passage below, and the sound of a man's cough came up to them.
Nick wheeled. "Hi, Briggs! Is that you?"
"Briggs it is," said a thick voice.
Nick descended the stairs with Olga behind him, and encountered the owner thereof at the bottom. He was a large-limbed man with a permanent slouch and a red and sullen countenance that very faithfully bore witness to his habits. He stood and regarded Nick with a fixed and somewhat aggressive stare.
"Where's the missis?" he said.
"That's just what I want to know," said Nick.
Briggs uttered an uneasy guffaw as if he suspected the existence of a joke that had somewhat eluded him. His eyes rolled upward to Olga, and back to Nick.
"Well, she ain't 'ere seemin'ly," he remarked.
"Don't you know where she is?" demanded Nick.
Briggs grinned foolishly. "That's tellin'!" he observed facetiously.
Nick turned from him. "Come along, Olga! They are not here evidently.
It's no use trying to get any sense out of this drunken beast."
"But, Nick—" said Olga in distress.
"We will go down to the shore," he said. "Here, you Briggs! Stand back, will you?"
Briggs was blocking the narrow passage with his great bull-frame, and showed no disposition to let them pass. He seemed to think he had a grievance, and he commenced to state it in a rambling, disjointed fashion, holding them prisoners on the stairs while he did so.
Nick bore with him for exactly ten seconds, and then, clean and straight, with lightning swiftness, his one hand shot forward. It was a single hard blow, delivered full on the jaw with a force that nearly carried Nick with it, and it sent the offender staggering backwards on his heels in bellowing astonishment. The opposite wall saved him from falling headlong, but the impact was considerable, and tendered him quite incapable of recovering his He subsided slowly onto the floor with a flood of language that at least testified to the fact that his injuries were not severe.
Nick's arm went round Olga in a flash. He almost lifted her over the legs of the prostrate Briggs and hurried her down the passage. As they emerged into the smoky sunlight, she heard him laugh, and marvelled that he could.
"On second thoughts," he said, with the air of one resuming an interrupted discussion, "I think we will go to the Priory. If she is not there, she is probably on the way."
"She would go by the cliffs," Olga said.
"Yes, I know. But Mrs. Briggs is with her. We had better motor," said
Nick.
So they set off again along the glaring road.
It began to seem like a nightmare to Olga. She drove as one pursued by horrors unspeakable. Once or twice Nick spoke to her, and she knew that she obeyed his instructions, though what they were she could never afterwards remember. On and on they went, flying like cloud-shadows on a windy day, yet—so it seemed to Olga—drawing no nearer to their goal, until quite suddenly she found herself staring at the great Priory gate-posts with their huge stone balls while Nick wrestled with the fastenings of the gates.
They opened before her, and she drove slowly through with a curious sensation as of entering an unknown country, though she had known the Priory grounds from childhood. Nick clambered in beside her as she went, and then they were off again running swiftly up the long drive with its double line of yews to the house.
Memory awoke within her then, and she called to mind that day that seemed so long ago when she had encountered Violet, superbly confident, conquering the rebellious Pluto. The cry of a gull came to her now as then, and it sounded like a cry of pain.
They came within sight of the old grey walls. Silent and tragic, they stood up against the mist-veiled sky. The sunlight had turned to an ominous copper glow. And in that moment Olga was afraid, with that sick apprehension of evil that comes upon occasion even to the brave. She gave no sign of it, but it was coiled like a serpent about her heart from then onwards.
The front-door stood open, its Gothic archway gaping wide and mysterious. Still with that nightmare dread upon her, she descended and passed into the old chapel of the monks.
The stained window at the end cast a lurid stream of light along half its length. She caught her breath in an irrepressible shudder. She thought she had never before realized how gruesomely horrible that window was.
Nick's hand closed upon her elbow, and she breathed again. "Shall we go and investigate upstairs?" he said.
Mutely she yielded to the suggestion. They went down the long vault-like hall, and turned through the archway in the south wall close to the window. As they did so, a sudden sound rent the ghostly stillness, a sound that echoed and echoed from wall to wall, dying at last into a shrill thread of sound that seemed to merge into the cry of a sea-gull over the leaden waters. As it died, there came a noise of running feet in the corridor above, and a white-faced maid-servant rushed gasping down the wide oak stairs.
Olga sprang to intercept her. "Jane, what is the matter? Where is Miss
Violet? Have you seen her?"
She caught the terrified girl by the shoulders, holding her fast while she questioned her.
Jane stopped perforce in her headlong flight. "Oh, lor, Miss Olga, do let me go! Miss Violet's upstairs—with Mrs. Briggs. She's in a dreadful taking, and don't seem to know what she's doing. Did you hear her scream? Mrs. Briggs says it's hysterics, but it don't sound like that to me. It's made my blood run cold."
Olga released as swiftly as she had captured her, and started for the stairs. Nick was close behind her. They ascended almost together, past the great window that looked upon the sea, and so on to the oak-panelled corridor that led to Violet's room.
The great wolf-hound Cork came to meet them here, wagging a wistful tail and lifting questioning eyes. He made no attempt to hinder their advance, obviously regarding them as friends in need.
Olga's hand caressed him as she passed, and he came and pressed against her as she stopped outside the closed door. Softly she turned the handle, only to discover that the door was locked. She bent her head to listen, and heard a broken sobbing that was like the crying of a child.
Her face quivered in sympathy. She stooped and put her lips to the key-hole. "Violet—Violet darling—let me in! Let me be with you!"
Instantly the sobbing ceased, but it was Mrs. Briggs's voice that made answer. "You can't come in, Miss Olga, only unless you're by yourself. Miss Violet's still very upset-like, and she ain't wanting anyone but me."
There was authority in the announcement. Mrs. Briggs was not without considerable strength of character, and she knew how to keep her head in an emergency.
Olga looked at Nick.
"I should wait if I were you," he counselled. "She is sure to want you later on."
She nodded silently, and bent over Cork. The strain of the past few hours was beginning to tell upon her. Her tears fell unrestrained upon the great dog's head.
Nick strolled away to the head of the stairs, and stood there like a sentinel, searching the blurred expanse of sea through the open window with alert, restless eyes.
Several minutes passed; then there came the sound of the key turning in the lock. Olga stood up hastily, dashing away her tears. Mrs. Briggs's head appeared in the aperture.
"Miss Olga," she said in a strenuous whisper, "Miss Violet would like to speak to you if so be as you're alone. But she won't have anyone else."
"There is only Captain Ratcliffe here," said Olga.
"Then p'raps he'll be good enough to wait outside," said Mrs. Briggs, with the air of a general issuing his orders. "You can come in, Miss Olga, and for pity's sake soothe the pore dear as much as you can. She's well-nigh wore herself out."
Olga glanced round for Nick, and found him at her side.
"Look here, Olga," he said, speaking in a rapid whisper, "you are not to lock that door. Understand? I say it!"
She hesitated. "But if———"
"I won't have it done," he said. "You must pretend to lock it. Mind, if
I find that door locked, I shall have it forced, and take you away."
"But she may ask me, Nick," Olga objected.
"If she does, you must lie to her," he said inexorably.
Olga abandoned the discussion somewhat reluctantly, anticipating difficulties.
He laid his hand for an instant on her arm as she prepared to enter.
"You understand I am in earnest, don't you?" he said.
She looked into his queer, yellow face with a feeling that was almost awe as she answered meekly. "Yes, Nick."
"And don't forget it," he said, as he let her go.
CHAPTER XXI
ON THE BRINK
"Is that you, Allegro? There is no one with you?"
Violet raised herself from her pillows, turning a haggard face to meet her friend. She looked as if years had passed over her. Her great eyes shone out of dark circles. They looked beyond Olga in evident apprehension.
"It's only me, darling," said Olga, going swiftly to her.
Feverish hands caught and held her. "Goodness, child! How cold you are!" exclaimed Violet. "Mrs. Briggs, I can do without you now. You had better go and look after Briggs." She broke into a brief laugh. "He always gets up to mischief as soon as your back is turned."
"He can very well look after 'imself," said Mrs. Briggs austerely. "And I'm not a-goin' to leave you like this, my dearie. But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll go down to the kitchen and make them lazy hussies stir themselves and get you a meal of some sort."
In the days when Mrs. Briggs had been Violet's nurse she had reigned supreme in the Priory kitchen, and she still regarded it as an outlying portion of her dominions.
Violet leaned back upon her pillows with exhaustion written plainly on her pale face. "Oh, do as you like, Nanny! But I don't want anything. I've got my cigarettes."
Mrs. Briggs grunted, and turned to go. The patient Cork here seized the opportunity to assert himself, and gently but firmly pressed into the room.
"Drat the dog!" said Mrs. Briggs.
"Leave him alone!" Violet commanded. "He knows how to take care of me."
As Cork was fully determined to enter, no effort on Mrs. Briggs's part would have availed to stop him, and Mrs. Briggs, realizing this, sniffed and departed.
The huge animal lay down by the foot of the bed and heaved a sigh of satisfaction as he dropped his nose upon his paws.
And then Violet turned her face to Olga, sitting on the bed, and whispered, "Does he know?"
"Who?" whispered back Olga.
"Max, of course! Who else?"
Olga hesitated. Violet's hands were gripping her very tightly. "Know what, dear?" she said at last.
A quick frown drew Violet's forehead. "Oh, you know what I mean. Does he know about my going mad? Have you told him?"
"My dearest,"—keen distress rang in Olga's voice—"don't—don't talk like that! You're not mad! You're not mad!"
Violet's frown changed into a very strange smile. "Oh yes, but I am," she said. "I've been mad for some time now. It's been gradually coming on, but to-day—to-day it is moving faster—much faster." Her low voice quickened. "I haven't much sanity left, Allegro. I can feel it slipping from me inch by inch like a paid-out rope. Only enough left now to know that I am mad. When I don't know that any longer, I shall have lost it all."
"Dearest! Dearest!" moaned Olga. "Won't you try to forget it—try to think of other things for a little?"
Violet continued as if she had not heard her. "You know, it's curious that it never occurred to me before. I've had such queer sensations—all sorts of funny things going on inside me. It began like a curious thirst—a very horrible sort of craving, Allegro. That was what made me take to those cigarettes. I never felt it when I was smoking them. They made me so deliriously sleepy. It was terrible when—he—took them away. I felt as if he had pushed me over a deep abyss. I really can't do without them. They make me float when I'm going to sink."
She paused, and passed a weary hand across her brow. "Why have I been crying so, Allegro? I hardly ever cry. Was I sorry for someone? Was it my mother? Fancy her doing—that!" The heavy eyes grew suddenly wide and bright. "I wonder if she would have killed me too if she had lived. I know exactly what made her do it. I should have done it myself—yes, and revelled in it. Can't you imagine it? The night and the darkness, and oneself lying there pretending to be asleep and waiting—waiting—for the man one hated." Suddenly the wide eyes glowed red. "Think of it—think of it, Allegro!—how one would feel for the point of the knife when one heard his step, and hide it away under the pillow when at last he came in. How one's flesh would creep when he lay down! How one's ears would shout and clamour while one waited for him to sleep! And then—and then—when he began to breathe slowly and one knew that he was unconscious—how inch by inch one would draw out one's hand with the knife and raise the bedclothes, and plunge it hard and deep into his breast! Would he struggle, Allegro? Would he open his eyes to see his own life-blood spout out? Would he be frightened, or angry, or just surprised? I think he would be surprised, don't you? He wouldn't give his wife credit for hating him so much. Men don't, you know. They never realize how far hatred will drive a woman until it pushes her over the edge. I think he would hardly believe his own eyes even then, unless he saw her laughing!" A burst of wild laughter broke from Violet's lips, but she smothered it with her handkerchief.
"I mustn't laugh," she said, "though I'm sure she did. And I want to talk to you seriously, Allegro."
"Dear, do lie down and rest!" Olga urged her gently. "That hateful story has given you a shock. Do try and remember that there's nothing new about it. It all happened years ago. And you are no different now than you were this morning before you heard it."
Violet leaned her head back again upon the pillows, but her eyes roved unceasingly. "But then I was mad this morning," she said, "only I didn't know it. Do you know, I think madness is a sort of state in which people lose their souls and yet go on living. Or else the soul goes blind. I've thought of that too. But I think my soul has gone on. I shall go and find it presently. You must help me."
"Of course I will help you, darling," Olga promised soothingly.
"Yes. But it won't be easy," said Violet, frowning upwards. "I've got to go into a great space of lost souls, and I shan't find it very easily. It was his fault. He never ought to have brought me back that night. That's the worst of doctors. They are so keen about the body, but they don't study the soul at all. They behave exactly as if the soul weren't there."
"Look here, dear," said Olga, with sudden inspiration, "wouldn't you like to talk to Nick about it? He's so clever. I always ask him about puzzling things."
"Nick?" Violet's eyes came round to her. "He's a soldier, isn't he? He has killed people."
"I don't know. I suppose so," said Olga. "He is just outside. May I fetch him?"
"Oh, yes, I don't mind Nick. He's got some sense. But I won't have Max, Allegro. He is not to come near me. I've found him out, and I hate him!" The deep voice suddenly grew deeper. A flame of fierce resentment leaped up in the roving eyes. "I know now exactly why he has been so attentive all this time. I thought—I used to think—he was in love with me—like other men. But I know now that he was only making a study of me, because he knew that I was going mad. Bruce must have told him that. I've often wondered why he and Bruce were so friendly. I know now that they were in league against me. Bruce never liked me—naturally. No one ever liked me but you, Allegro."
"Shall I call Nick?" said Olga, gently bringing her back to the point.
"Oh, if you like. But no! Cork would never let any man come in here. I will come downstairs. We'll have some lunch, and then smoke." Violet sprang from the bed with sudden decision. "Heavens!" she exclaimed, as she caught a glimpse of herself in her glass. "What a hag I look! I can't go down in this. It looks like a bedgown. Find me something, Allegro! That red silk will do. I believe everything else is at Weir. You will have to send my things back, for I am going to stay here now. I've had enough of Max Wyndham's tyranny. I must have my own way or I shall rave."
With impulsive hands she tore off her tumbled muslin dress, and arrayed herself in the flaming evening robe which Olga had once condemned. Olga raised no protest now. She gave her silent assistance. The horrors of that day had so closed in upon her that she felt fantastically convinced that nothing she did or left undone could make any difference, or hinder for the fraction of an instant the fate that so remorselessly pursued them and was surely every moment drawing nearer. The fear at her heart had so wound itself into her very being that she was no longer conscious of it. It possessed her like an evil spell.
So she stood by, sometimes helping, always watching, while her friend's tragedy leaped from point to point like a spreading forest-fire breeding destruction.
"You are not afraid of me, Allegro?" Violet asked her suddenly, as she arranged her black hair with swift, feverish movements.
And Olga answered with truth. "No, dear. I should never be that."
"Not whatever happened? That's right. I'm not really dangerous—so long as you keep Max out of my way. But, mind—I must never see him again, never—never—while I live!" She turned from the glass, facing Olga with eyes in which an awful fire had begun to burn. "I know him!" she said. "I know him! He will want to shut me up—to keep me as a specimen for him—and men like him—to study. He and Bruce will do it between them if they get the chance. But they won't—they won't! Allegro—darling, you must help me to get away. I can't—can't—be imprisoned for life. You will help me? Promise me! Promise!"
"I promise, dearest!" Olga made answer very earnestly.
Something of relief softened the agony in the dark eyes. Very suddenly Violet took her friend's face between her hands and passionately kissed her on the lips.
"I love you, Allegro!" she said. "And I trust you—and you only—till death."
It was then—at first but dimly—that Olga began to realize that the burden laid upon her might be heavier than she could bear, and yet that she alone must bear it even if it crushed her to the earth.
Passing out at length into the passage, she felt Violet's hand close with a convulsive pressure upon her arm, and she knew that here was fear such as she had never before encountered or imagined,—the deadly, unfathomable fear of a mind that hovered on the brink of the abyss.
She caught the hand warmly, protectingly, into her own. And she swore then and there a solemn, inward oath that, cost what it might, the trust reposed in her should not be in vain. When her friend turned to her for help in extremity, she should not find her lacking.
For of such stuff was Olga Ratcliffe fashioned, and her loyalty was that same loyalty which moves men even unto the sacrifice of their lives.
CHAPTER XXII
OVER THE EDGE
Marshalled by Mrs. Briggs, the Priory servants brought them luncheon, laying a table at one side of the great entrance-hall, for all the lower rooms were shuttered and closed.
Violet, with the great dog Cork vigilant and silent beside her, sat before it as one wrapt in reverie. Now and then she roused herself to answer at random some remark from Nick, but for the most part she sat mutely brooding.
The meal was but a dreadful farce to Olga. She was waiting, she was listening, she was watching. It seemed ludicrous to her stretched nerves to be seated there with food before her, when every instant she expected the devastating power that lurked behind the stillness to burst forth and engulf them. It was like sitting at the very mouth of hell, feeling the blistering heat, and yet pretending that they felt it not.
Darker and darker grew the day. They sat in a close, unearthly twilight. Though the huge entrance-door was flung wide, no breath of air reached them, no song of birds or sound of moving leaf. Once Olga turned her eyes to the far glimmer of the east window, but she turned them instantly away again, and looked no more. For it was as though a hand were holding up a dim lantern on the other side to show her the dreadful scene, casting a stain of crimson across the space where once had stood the altar.
Looking back later, she realized that it was only Nick's presence that gave her strength to endure that awful suspense. She had never admired him more than she did then, his shrewdness, his cheeriness, his strength. There was not the faintest suggestion of strain in his attitude. With absolute ease he talked or he was silent. Only in the deepening gloom she caught now and then the quick glitter of his eyes, and knew that like herself he was watching.
Slowly the minutes wore away, the darkness grew darker. From far away there came a low, surging sound. The storm-wind was rising over the sea.
Nick turned his head to listen. "Now for one of our patent storms!" he said. "Brethaven always catches it pretty strong. Remember that night you developed scarlet fever, at Redlands, Olga mia, and your devoted servant went down to a certain cottage on the shore to fetch a certain lady to nurse you?"
Olga did remember. It was one of the cherished memories of her childhood. "I told Muriel a secret about you that night, Nick," she said, responding with an effort.
He nodded. "For which act of treachery you possess my undying gratitude.
Did you ever hear that story, Miss Campion?"
He offered her his cigarette-case with the words, and she turned her brooding eyes upon him. "Thanks!" she said. "I will have one of my own. Yes, I know that story. Your wife must be a very brave woman."
"She had me to take care of her," pointed out Nick.
Violet laughed with a touch of scorn.
"Oh, quite so," he said. "But I bear a charmed life, you should remember. No one ever drowns in my boat."
She leaned her chin upon her hand, and surveyed him through the weird twilight. "You are a strong man," she said slowly, "and you don't think much of Death."
"Not much," said Nick, striking a match on the heel of his boot.
The flame flared yellow on his face, emphasizing its many lines. His eyelids flickered rapidly, never wholly revealing the eyes behind.
"You wouldn't be afraid to die?" she pursued, still watching him.
His cigarette glowed and he removed the match; but the flame remained, burning with absolute steadiness between his fingers.
"I certainly shan't be afraid when my turn comes," he said, with confidence.
"Tell me," she said suddenly, "your idea of Death!"
His look flashed over her and back to the match he still held. The flame had nearly reached his fingers.
"Death," he said, "is the opening—and the closing—of a Door."
She leaned eagerly forward. "You think that?"
"Just that," said Nick. He smiled and blew out the match, just in time. "But—as you perceive—I am afraid of pain—that is, when I think about it."
She scarcely seemed to hear. "And have you ever seen anyone die?"
"Plenty," said Nick.
"Ah, I forgot! You've killed men, haven't you?" There was suppressed excitement in her voice.
Nick threw up his head and smoked towards the oak-beamed roof. "When I had to," he said, with brevity.
"Ah!" The word leaped from her like a cry of triumph. "Did you ever kill anyone with a knife? What did it feel like?"
"I shan't tell you," said Nick rudely. "It isn't good for anyone to know too much."
An abrupt silence followed his refusal. The surging of the sea had risen to a continuous low roar; and from the garden came the sound of trembling leaves. The storm was at hand.
"Do you think I don't know?" said Violet, and laughed.
Quickly Olga rose, as if her nerves were on edge, and went towards the open door. As she did so, a violet glare lit the hall from end to end, quivered, and was gone. She stopped dead, and in the awful silence that succeeded she heard the wild beat of her heart rising, rising, rising, in a tumult of sudden fear.
Violet remained at the table, staring, as one transfixed. She was gazing at the open door. Nick leaned swiftly forward and took her hand. So much Olga saw in the dimness before the thunder with a fierce crash burst forth overhead.
Ere it died away there came a shriek, wild, horrible, unearthly. It pierced Olga through and through, turning her cold from head to foot. Another shriek followed it, and yet another; and then came a dreadful, sobbing utterance in which words and moans were terribly mingled.
Olga caught at her self-control, as it were, with both hands, and went swiftly back to the table. Violet was on her feet. She had wrenched herself free, and was wildly pointing.
"No! No! No!" she cried. "Take him away!" Mortal terror was in her starting eyes. Suddenly perceiving Olga, she turned and clung to her. "Allegro! You promised! You promised!"
Then it was that Olga realized that someone had entered during that awful peal of thunder, and was even then advancing quietly down the hall. It needed not a second flickering flash to reveal him. Her heart told her who it was.
With Violet pressed close in her arms, she spoke. "Max, stop!"
She never knew whether it was the note of authority or of desperation in her voice that induced him to comply; but he stopped on the instant a full twenty feet from where they stood.
"What's the matter?" he said.
Brief, matter-of-fact, almost contemptuous, came his query. Yet Olga thrilled at the sound of it, feeling strengthened, reassured, strangely unembarrassed.
"It's this horrid storm," she said. "Violet's upset. Ah, here is Mrs. Briggs! Darling, wouldn't you like to go upstairs and lie down again till it's over? Do, dearie! I'll look after Nick and Max."
But Violet's straining arms clung faster. "He'll follow me!" she whispered.
"No, indeed he won't, dear. I won't allow it," said Olga, and she spoke with absolute confidence born of this new, strange feeling of power. "You needn't be afraid of that," she said, with motherly, shielding arms about her. "Won't you go with Mrs. Briggs? I will come up presently. Really there's nothing to be afraid of. The storm won't hurt you."
"And you won't let Max come?" Violet was suffering herself to be led towards the further door. She was shivering violently and moved spasmodically, as though the impulse to escape strongly urged her.
"I promise," Olga said.
She passed under the archway with her, paused there while another furious burst of thunder rolled above them: then gently surrendered her to Mrs. Briggs, and turned back herself into the hall.
She found Max and Nick standing together in the gloom.
"I came up here on the chance," the former was saying, "and got here just in time. Hullo! Is that a wolf?"
It was Cork, who crouched bristling against the table, with bared fangs, watching him. Olga went to him and took him by the collar.
"He's all right," she said. "I think he doesn't like strangers."
She led him also across the hall, took him to the foot of the stairs, and returned.
She felt Max's eyes upon her as she came up. He seemed to be regarding her in a new light.
"Well?" he said. "Why this hysteria? Is it due to the storm or—some other cause?"
She hesitated, finding it somehow difficult to give an answer to his cool questioning.
"I'll tell him, shall I?" said Nick.
She came and slipped her hand into his. "Yes, Nick."
He squeezed her fingers hard. "Our friend Hunt-Goring has been sticking his oar in," he said. "This—hysteria has been caused by him."
"You mean he has told her the whole story?" said Max.
"Yes," said Olga.
He considered the matter for a few seconds in silence. "And how long has this sort of thing been going on?" he asked then.
Again she hesitated.
He looked at her. "It's no good trying to keep anything from me," he observed. "I've seen it coming for a long while."
"Oh, Max!" she burst forth involuntarily. "Then it really is—"
A vivid flash of lightning and instant crashing thunder drowned her words. Instinctively she drew nearer to Nick. On many a previous occasion they had watched a storm together with delight. But to-day her nerves were all a-quiver, and its violence appalled her.
As the noise died away, Max looked about the shadowy place. "Is there any means of lighting this tomb?" he asked.
Apparently there was not. Olga believed there were some electric switches somewhere but she had forgotten where.
Max began to stroll about in search of them.
"Here comes the rain!" said Nick. "It will be lighter directly."
The rain came quite suddenly in an immense volume, that beat with deafening force upon the roof, drowning all but the loudest crashes of thunder. For a few seconds the darkness was like night. Then, swift and awful, there came a flash that was brighter than the noonday sun. It streaked through the stained-glass window, showing the dreadful picture like a vision to those below it, throwing a stream of vivid crimson upon the floor; then glanced away into the dark.
There came a sound like the bursting of shell that shook the very walls to their foundation. And through it and above it, high and horrible as the laughter of storm-fiends there came a woman's laugh….
In that instant Nick's hand suddenly left Olga's. He leaped from her side with the agility of a panther, and hurled himself into the darkness of the archway that led to the inner hall.
Something dreadful was happening there, she knew not what; and her heart stood still in terror while peal after peal of that awful laughter rang through the pealing thunder.
Then came another flash of lighting, keen as the blade of a sword, and she saw. There, outlined against the darkness of the archway, red-robed and terrible, stood Violet. Her right hand was flung up above her head, and in her grasp was a knife that she must have taken from the table. She was laughing still with white teeth gleaming, but in her eyes shone the glare of madness and the red, red lust of blood.
The picture flashed away and the thunder broke forth again, but the fiendish laughter continued for seconds till suddenly it turned to a piercing scream and ceased. Only the echoes of the thunder remained and a dreadful sound of struggling on the further side of the archway, together with a choking sound near at hand as of some animal striving against restraint.
Olga stumbled blindly forward. "Nick! Nick! Where are you? What has happened?" she cried, in an agony.
Instantly his voice came to her. "Here, child! Don't be scared! I'm holding the dog."
She groped her way to him, nearly falling over Cork, who was dragging against his hand.
The great dog turned to her, whining, and, reassured by her presence, ceased to resist.
"That's better," said Nick, with relief. "Can you hold him?"
She slipped her hand inside his collar! "Nick! What has happened?" she whispered, for her voice was gone.
Dimly she discerned figures in the inner hall, but there was no longer any sound of struggling. And then quite suddenly Max came back through the archway.
"Lend me a hand, Ratcliffe!" he said. "I'm bleeding like a pig."
CHAPTER XXIII
AS GOOD AS DEAD
So cool was his utterance, so perfectly free from agitation his demeanour, that Olga wondered if she could have heard aright. Then she saw him go to the table and prepare to remove his coat, and she knew that there could be no mistake.
The frozen horror of the past few seconds fell from her, and strength came in its place—the strength born of emergency. "I shall help you better than Nick," she said.
"If you don't faint," said Max.
She spoke a reassuring word to Cork and let him go. He moved away at once in uneasy search for his mistress, and she turned round to Max. Nick was already helping him out of his coat.
The storm had lulled somewhat, and the gloom had begun to lighten. As she drew near him she saw his right arm emerge from the coat. The shirt-sleeve was soaked with blood from shoulder to cuff.
"It's the top of the shoulder," said Max. "Only a flesh wound. Make a wet pad of one of those table-napkins and bind it up tight. I'll go back to the cottage-hospital presently and get it dressed."
With the utmost calmness he issued his directions, and Olga found herself obeying almost mechanically. Nick helped her to cut away the shirt and expose the wound. It was a deep one, and had been inflicted from the back.
"Quite a near shave," said Max, with composure. "That flash of lightning came just in time. I saw the reflection in one of those oak panels."
"Will this stop the bleeding?" asked Olga doubtfully.
"Yes, if you get the pressure on the right place. Pull it hard! That's the way! Don't mind me!" He was speaking through clenched teeth. "I daresay Nick knows all about first aid."
Nick did; and under his supervision the injury was bandaged at length with success.
"First-rate!" said Max approvingly. "I congratulate the pair of you. Now I will have a brandy and soda, if you have no objection. Olga must have one too. I'm never anxious about Nick. He always comes out on top."
He watched Olga pour him out a drink according to instructions. The storm was passing, and every instant the gloomy place grew lighter. Glancing at him, as she placed the tumbler before him, she saw his face fully for the first time, and noted how drawn and grey it was.
He smiled at her abruptly. "All right, Olga! You must drink the first quarter."
"Oh, no!" said Olga quickly.
"Oh, yes!" he rejoined imperturbably. "Tell her to, Nick! I know your word is law."
Nick had strolled across the hall to pick up something that lay upon the floor. As he returned, Olga was hastily gulping the prescribed dose.
Max turned towards him. "Yes. Take care of that!" he said. "It's done enough damage." He took the glass that Olga held out to him, and deliberately drained it. Then he rose, and took up his coat. "I must get into this if possible," he said.
Silently, with infinite care, Olga helped him.
Nick stood with the knife in his hand. "What are you going to do now?" he said.
Max's brows went up. "My dear fellow, what do you suppose? I am going to attend to my patient."
"Where is she?" said Nick.
"Upstairs. Mrs. Briggs went to look after her. I'm going to give her a composing draught," said Max, plunging his hand into a side-pocket.
"Oh, Max!" exclaimed Olga.
He turned to her. "There will be no repetition of this," he said grimly. "Miss Campion is exhausted and probably more or less in her right mind by now."
"But she won't be if you go to her," Olga said, and in her eagerness she drew near to him and laid a light hand on his sleeve. "Max, you mustn't go to her—indeed—indeed. I have promised her that you shall not. As you have seen for yourself, the very sight of you is enough to send her demented."
"Oh, it's for her sake, is it?" said Max; but he stood still, suffering her hand on his arm.
Her eyes were raised to his, very earnestly beseeching him. "Yes, for her sake," she said. "You would do her much more harm than good. Let me take the composing draught to her! Oh, Max, really it is the only way. Please be reasonable!"
Her voice trembled a little. She knew well that where his patients were concerned he would endure no interference. Again and again he had made this clear to her. But this was an exceptional case, and she prayed that as such he might view it.
She wondered a little that Nick did not come to her aid, but he stood aloof as if unwilling to be drawn into the discussion. Max seemed to have completely forgotten his existence.
"Look here," he said finally. "The matter isn't so desperate as you seem to think, but if I give in, so must you. There are several questions I shall have to ask, and I must have a clear answer."
"I will tell you anything in my power," she said.
"Very well," he said. "Tell me first—if you can—why Miss Campion hates me so violently."
His manner was curtly professional. He looked straight into her eyes with cool determination in his own.
She answered him, but her answer did not come very easily. "I think she feels that you have had her under supervision all along, and she resents it."
"Quite true," he said. "I have. Is that why she wants to kill me?"
"Not entirely." Olga was plainly speaking against her will.
But Max was merciless. "And the other reason?"
She locked her fingers very tightly together. "It—it would be a breach of confidence to tell you that," she said.
"I see," said Max. "She was annoyed because I didn't fulfil expectations by falling in love with her. She misunderstood my attitude; was that it? You did so yourself at one time, if I remember aright."
"Yes," admitted Olga reluctantly.
"I don't know quite how you managed it," he commented. "However, we are none of us infallible. Now tell me—without reservation—exactly what passed this morning between you two girls and Hunt-Goring."
With quivering lips she began to tell him. There were certain items of that conversation with Hunt-Goring, of which, though they were branded deep upon her mind, she could not bring herself to speak. It was a difficult recital in any case, and the grim silence with which he listened did not make it any easier.
"Have you told me everything?" he asked at last.
She answered steadily. "Everything that concerns Violet!"
He looked at her very closely for a few moments, and she saw his mouth take a cynical, downward curve.
"Hunt-Goring has my sympathy," he observed enigmatically. "Well, I think you are right. I had better keep out of the way for the present. I shall know better what course to take in the morning. Her state of mind just now is quite abnormal, but she may very well have settled down a little by that time. She will probably go through a stage of lethargy and depression after this. Her brother should be back again in a week's time. We may manage to ward off another outbreak till then. But, mind, you are not to be left alone with her during any part of that week. There must always be someone within call."
"I shall be within call," said Nick.
Max glanced at him. "Yes, you will be quite useful no doubt. But I must have a nurse as well."
"A nurse!" exclaimed Olga.
He looked back at her. "You don't seriously suppose I am going to leave you and Mrs. Briggs—and Nick—in sole charge?"
"But, Max," she protested, almost incoherent in her dismay, "she will be herself again to-morrow or the next day! This isn't going to last!"
"What do you mean?" he said.
She controlled herself with a sharp effort, warned of the necessity to do so by his tone.
"I mean that—hysteria—isn't a thing that lasts long as a rule."
"It isn't hysteria," he said.
She flinched in spite of herself. "But you think she will get better?" she urged.
He was silent a moment, looking at her. "I will tell you exactly what I think, Olga," he said then, in a tone that was utterly different from any he had used to her before. "For you certainly ought to know now. The tale you heard this morning was true—every word of it. I heard it myself from Bruce Campion and also from Kersley Whitton. Kersley was engaged to marry her mother when he detected in her a tendency to madness which he afterwards discovered to be an hereditary taint in her family. It is a disease of the brain which is absolutely incurable. It is in fact a peculiarly rapid decay caused by a kind of leprous growth which nothing can arrest. In some cases it causes total paralysis of every faculty almost at the outset, in others there may be years of violent mania before the inevitable paralysis sets in. Either way it is quite incurable, and if it takes the form of madness it is only intermittent for the first few weeks. There are no lucid intervals after that."
He paused. Olga was listening with white face upturned. She spoke no word; only the agony in her eyes spoke for her.
He went on very quietly, with a gentleness to which she was wholly unaccustomed. "It has been coming on for some little time now. I hoped at first that it would be slow in developing, and so at first it appeared to be. Sometimes, at the very beginning, it is not possible to detect it with any certainty. It is only when the disease has begun to manifest itself unmistakably that it moves so rapidly. It was because I feared a sudden development that I asked Sir Kersley to come down. He was of the opinion that that was not imminent, that three months or even six might intervene. I feared he was mistaken, but I hoped for the best. Of course a sudden shock was more than sufficient to precipitate matters. But I knew that she was less likely to encounter any in your society than anywhere else. Nick wanted me to warn you, but—rightly or wrongly—I wouldn't! I thought you would know soon enough."
He paused again, as if to give her time to blame him; but still she spoke no word, still she waited with face upturned.
He went on gravely and steadily. "I knew that opium was a very dangerous drug for her to take in however minute a quantity, but I hoped I had put a stop to that. I could not foresee to-day's events. Hunt-Goring is no favourite of mine, but I never anticipated his taking such a step. I did not so much as know that he was in a position to do so. He suppressed that fact on the sole occasion on which Miss Campion's name was mentioned between us."
Olga spoke for the first time, her stiff lips scarcely moving. "I think he is a devil," she said slowly.
Max made a gesture expressive of indifference on that point. "People who form the drug habit are seldom over-squeamish in other respects," he said. "He has certainly hastened matters, but he is not responsible for the evil itself. That has been germinating during the whole of her life."
"And—that—was why Sir Kersley jilted her mother?" Olga spoke in a low, detached voice. She seemed to be trying to grasp a situation that eluded her.
"It was." Max answered with a return to his customary brevity; his tone was not without bitterness. "Kersley was merciful enough to think of the next generation. He was a doctor, and he knew that hereditary madness is the greatest evil—save one—in the world. Therefore he sacrificed his happiness."
"What is the greatest evil?" she asked, still with the air of bringing herself painfully back as it were from a long distance.
He was watching her shrewdly as he answered. "Hereditary vice—crime."
"Is crime hereditary?"
"In nine cases out of ten—yes."
"And that is worse than—madness?"
"I should say much worse."
"I see." She passed a hand across her eyes, and very suddenly she shivered and seemed to awake. "Oh, is it quite hopeless?" she asked him piteously. "Are you sure?"
"It is quite hopeless," he said.
"She can never be herself again—not even by a miracle?"
"Such miracles don't happen," said Max, with grim decision. "It is much the same as a person going blind. There are occasional gleams for a little while, but the end is total darkness. That is all that can be expected now." He added, a hint of compassion mingling with the repression of his voice: "It is better that you should know the whole truth. It's not fair to bolster you up with false hopes. You can help now—if you have the strength. You won't be able to help later."
"But I will never leave her!" Olga said.
"My dear child," he made answer, "in a very little while she won't even know you. She will be—as good as dead."
"Surely she would be better dead!" she cried passionately.
"God knows," said Max.
He spoke with more feeling than he usually permitted himself, and at once changed the subject. "What we are at present concerned in is to make her temporarily better. Now you know this stuff?" He took a bottle from his pocket. "I am going to put it in your charge. Give her a teaspoonful now in a wine-glass of water, as you did before. I hope it will make her sleep. If it doesn't, give her a second dose in half an hour. But if she goes off without that second dose, all the better. Remember, it is rank poison. She ought to sleep for some hours then, and when she wakes I think she will probably be herself for a little. That's quite clear, is it?"
He was looking at her closely as he handed her the bottle; but she met the look with absolute steadiness. She had plainly recovered her self-control, and was ready to shoulder her burden once more.
"I quite understand," she said.
He laid his hand for a moment on her arm, and smiled at her with abrupt kindliness.
"Stick to it, Olga!" he said. "I am counting on you."
She smiled back bravely, though her lips quivered. She did not say a word.
But Nick answered for her, his arm thrust suddenly about her waist. "And so you can, my son," he said. "She is the pluckiest kid I know."