She spoke at last very softly, almost in a whisper. "Nick, you know, don't you, that you are dearer to me than anyone else in the world?"

He put up his hand and patted her cheek. "What! Still?" he said.

"Still, Nick? What do you mean?"

"Nothing at all," said Nick promptly. "Go on!"

She took his hand and held it. "Nick darling, do you remember how I came and kept house for you—years ago, at Redlands, when I was a child?"

"Rather!" said Nick. "Bully, wasn't it?"

She hesitated a little. "Nick, I'm going to make a perfectly awful suggestion."

"Don't mind me!" said Nick.

She laughed faintly. "I don't, dear,—formidable as you can be. It only flashed into my mind that if Muriel feels she really can't leave Reggie, and if she can possibly bear to part with you and you with her, could you possibly put up with me as a substitute for those few months and take me instead, if Dad could spare me?"

"By Jove!" said Nick, sitting up.

"I know it's great cheek of me to suggest it," Olga hastened to say. "For of course I know I'd be a very poor substitute; but at least I could keep a motherly eye on you, and see that you were properly clothed and fed. And Muriel herself couldn't possibly love you more."

"By Jove!" Nick said again. Olga's face flushed and eager was close to his. He bent suddenly forward and kissed it. "And what about you, my chicken?" he said.

"I, Nick? I should love it!" she said, with candid eyes raised to his. "You can't imagine how much I should love it."

"You'd be homesick," said Nick.

"Nick! With you!"

He was looking at her with shrewd, flickering eyes. "Do you mean to say," he said, "that there is no one here that you would mind leaving for so long?"

"There's Dad of course," she said. "But—don't you think perhaps Muriel wouldn't mind taking care of him for me if I took care of you for her?"

Nick broke into a laugh. "Excellent, my child! Most ingenious! Jim and Muriel are fast allies. But—Jim is not the only person you would leave behind. You ought to consider that before you get too obsessed by this enchanting idea. It's pretty beastly, you know, to feel that half the world stretches between you and—someone you might at any moment develop a pressing desire to see."

Olga frowned at him. "What are you driving at, Nick?"

"I'm only indicating the obvious," said Nick.

"No, you're not, dear. You're hinting things."

"In that case," said Nick, "you are at liberty to treat me with the contempt I deserve. Look here! We won't talk about this any more to-day. The subject is too indigestible. We'll sleep on it, and see what we think of it to-morrow."

"You're not going to write to Muriel to-night?" asked Olga.

"Not to-night. They've given me a week to make up my mind."

"And when would you have to go?"

"Some time towards the end of next month, or possibly the beginning of October. But as we're not going," said Nick, "I move that the discussion be postponed."

He smiled into her eyes, a baffling, humorous smile, and rose.

"But it was a ripping idea of yours," he said. "I'm quite grateful to you for mentioning it. There are some chocolates in the hall for you. Don't give them all to Violet, charm she never so wisely."

"Oh, Nick, you darling! Fancy your remembering me! Do let's have some at once!"

They went indoors together with something of the air of conspirators, and in the close companionship of her hero Olga managed to forget that she had so recently been driven to another man for protection. In fact, the interview in the surgery, with the episode that had preceded it, was completely crowded out of her mind by this new and dazzling idea that had flashed so suddenly into her brain, and which seemed already to have altered the course of her life.

Many and startling were the visions that filled her sleeping hours that night but each one of them served but to impress upon her the same thing. When she arose in the morning she told herself with a little shiver of sheer excitement that the gates of the world were opening to her, and that soon she would actually behold those wonders of which till then she had only dreamed.



CHAPTER X

THE DOOR

When remembrance of the previous day's happenings came to Olga, she was already so deeply engrossed in household duties that she was able to dismiss the matter without much difficulty. It was one of the busiest mornings of the week, and no sooner had she finished indoors than she donned a sun-bonnet and big apron and betook herself to the raspberry-bed to gather fruit for jam.

The day was hot, and Violet had established herself in the hammock under the lime-trees with a book and a box of cigarettes. The three boys had gone with Nick on a fishing expedition, and all was supremely quiet.

The sun blazed mercilessly down upon Olga as she toiled, but she would not be discouraged. The raspberries were many and ready to drop with ripeness, and the jam-making could not be deferred. So intent was she that she really almost forgot the physical discomfort in her anxiety to accomplish her task. She had meant to do it in the cool of the previous evening, but her talk with Nick had driven the matter absolutely from her mind.

So she laboured in the full heat of a burning August day, till her head began to throb and her muscles to ache so unbearably that it was no longer possible to ignore them. It was at the commencement of the last row but one (they were very long rows) that she became aware that her energies were seriously flagging. The rest of the garden seemed to be swimming in a haze around her, but she stubbornly ignored that, and bent again to her work, fixing her attention once more with all her resolution upon the great rose-red berries that were waiting to be gathered. She must finish now. She had promised herself to clear the bed by luncheon-time. But it was certainly very hard labour, harder than she had ever found it before. She began to feel as if her limbs were weighted, and the fruit itself danced giddily before her aching eyes.

Suddenly she heard a step on the ash-path near her. She looked up, half-turning as she did so. The next instant it was as if a knife had suddenly pierced her temples. She cried out sharply with the pain of it, staggered, clutched wildly at emptiness, and fell. The contents of her basket scattered around her in spite of her desperate efforts to save them, and this disaster was to Olga the climax of all. She went into a brief darkness in bitterness of spirit.

Not wholly did she lose consciousness, however, for she knew whose arms lifted her, and even very feebly tried to push them away. In the end she found herself sitting on an old wooden bench in the shade of the garden-wall, with her head against Max's shoulder, and his hand, very vital and full of purpose, grasping her wrist.

"Oh, Max," she said, with a painful gasp, "my raspberries!"

"Damn the raspberries!" growled Max. His hand travelled up to her head and removed the sun-bonnet while he was speaking. "Don't move till you feel better!" he said. "There's nothing to bother about."

He pressed her temples with a sure, cool touch. She closed her eyes under it.

"But I must get on," she said uneasily. "I want to make the jam this afternoon."

"Do you?" said Max grimly.

She was silent for a little. He kept his hand upon her head, and she was glad of its support though she wished it had not been his.

"It must be nearly luncheon-time," she said at last, with an effort.

"It is," said Max. "We will go indoors."

"Oh, but I must pick up my raspberries first, and—there's a whole row—more—to gather yet."

"You will have to leave that job for someone else," he said. "You are not fit for it. Are you quite mad, I wonder?"

"It had to be done," said Olga. "I must finish now—really I must finish." She took his hand from her head and slowly raised it. Instantly that agonizing pain shot through her temples again. She barely suppressed a cry.

"What is it?" he said.

"My head!" she gasped. "And oh, Max, I do feel so sick."

He stood up. "Come along!" he said. "I'm going to carry you in."

She raised a feeble protest to which he paid no more attention than if it had been the buzzing of a fly. Very steadily and strongly he lifted her.

"Put your head on my shoulder!" he said, and she obeyed him like a child.

They encountered no one on the way back to the house. Straight in and straight upstairs went Max, finally depositing her upon her bed. He seemed to know exactly how she felt, for he propped her head high with a skill that she found infinitely comforting, and drew the window-curtains to shade her eyes. Then very quietly he proceeded to remove her shoes.

"Thank you very much," murmured Olga. "Don't bother!"

He came and stood beside her and again felt her pulse. "Look here," he said. "As soon as you feel a little better, you undress and slip into bed. I'll come up again in half an hour and give you something for your head. Understand?"

"Oh, no!" Olga said. "No! I can't go to bed, really. I'll lie here for a little while, but I shall be quite all right presently."

Max continued to feel her pulse. He was frowning a good deal. "You will do as I say," he said deliberately. "You are to go to bed at once, and you won't come down again for the rest of the day."

There was so much of finality in his speech that Olga became aware of the futility of argument. She felt moreover totally unfit for it. She only hazarded one more protest.

"But what about Violet?"

"She can take care of herself," he said. "I will tell her."

There was no help for it. Olga gave in without further protest. But she did venture to say as he released her hand, "Please don't bother about bringing me anything! I couldn't possibly take it."

"Leave that to me!" said Max brusquely.

He left her then, to her unutterable relief. There was no doubt about it; she was feeling very ill, so ill that the business of undressing was almost more than she could accomplish. But she did manage it at last, and crept thankfully into bed, laying her throbbing head upon the pillow with the vague wonder if she would ever have the strength to lift it again.

From that she drifted into a maze of pain that blurred all thought, and from which she only roused herself to find Max once more by her side. He was watching her closely.

"Is your head very bad?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I've got some stuff here that will soothe it," he said.

"Just drink it down, and then see if you can get a sleep."

His tone was so gentle that had her pain been less severe Olga might have found room for amazement. As it was, she began very weakly to cry.

"Now don't be silly!" said Max. "You needn't move. I'll do it all."

He slipped his arm under the pillow, and lifted her. She commanded herself and drank from the medicine-glass he held to her lips.

"What queer stuff!" she said. "Is it—is it 'the pain-killer'?"

"What do you know about 'the pain-killer'?" he said.

She shrank a little at the question, and he did not pursue it. He laid her down again, settled the pillows, and left her.

Olga lay very still. She felt as if a strange glow were dawning in her brain, a kind of mental radiance, inexpressibly wonderful, absorbing her pain as mist is absorbed by the sun. Gradually it grew and spread till the pain was all gone, swamped, forgotten, in this curious flood of warmth and ecstasy. It was the most marvellous sensation she had ever experienced. Her whole being thrilled responsive to the glow. It was as though a door had been opened somewhere above her and she were being drawn upwards by some invisible means, upwards and upwards, light as gossamer and strangely transcendentally happy, towards the warmth and brightness and wonder that lay beyond.

Up and still up her spirit seemed to soar. Of her body she was supremely, most blissfully, unconscious. She felt as one at the entrance of a dream-world, a world of unknown unimagined splendours, a world of golden atmosphere, of ineffable rapture, and she was floating up through the ether, eager-spirited, wrapt in delight.

And then quite suddenly she knew that Max had returned to her side. His hand was laid upon her arm, his fingers sensitive and ruthless closed upon her pulse.

In that instant Olga also knew that her dream-world was fading from her, her paradise was lost. Softly, inexorably, the door that had begun to open to her closed. The hand that grasped her drew her firmly back to earth and held her there.

In her disappointment she could have wept, so vital, so entrancing, had been the vision. Piteously she tried to plead with him, but it was as though an obscuring veil had been dropped upon her. She could only utter unintelligible murmurings. She sought for words and found them not.

And then she heard his voice quite close to her, very tender and reassuring.

"Don't vex yourself, sweetheart! It's all right—all right."

His hand smoothed her brow; she almost fancied that he kissed her hair, but she was not certain and it did not seem to matter. Surely nothing could ever matter again since the closing of that door!

A brief confusion was hers, a brief wandering in dark places, and then a slow deepening of the dark, the spreading of a great silence....

The last thing she heard was the steady ticking of a watch that someone held close to her. The last thing her brain registered was the close, unvarying grip of a hand upon her wrist....

It was many hours—it might have been years to Olga—before she awoke. Very slowly her clogged spirit climbed out of the deep, deep waters of oblivion in which it had been steeped. For a long time she lay with closed eyes, semi-conscious, not troubling to summon her faculties. At last very wearily she opened them, and found Nick seated beside her, alertly watching.

"Hullo!" she murmured languidly.

"Hullo, darling!" he made soft response. "Had a nice sleep?"

She stared at him vaguely. "What are you sitting there for?"

"Taking care of you," said Nick.

She frowned, collecting her wits with difficulty. "It's night, isn't it?"

"Half-past one," said Nick.

"My dear!" She opened her eyes a little wider. "But what are you waiting for? Why don't you go to bed?"

"I like sitting up sometimes," said Nick. "Keeps me in form."

She turned her head on the pillow. "Is Max here?"

"No," said Nick.

"But—he has been?" she persisted.

"Yes. He's been in now and then."

"Ah!" Olga frowned still more. "Am I ill, Nick?" she asked, with a touch of nervousness.

His lean hand sought and held hers. "You've had a touch of sun, dear," he said, "but you've slept it off. Max is quite satisfied about you. You'll feel a bit rotten for a day or two, but that's all."

"How horrid!" said Olga.

"Don't worry!" said Nick. "I'm here. I shall stick like a leech for the future. You will never be out of my sight again in your waking hours."

She squeezed his hand. "Poor old Nick! I'm dreadfully sorry. But I had to get those raspberries. Oh, what's that?"

She started violently at the soft opening of the door. Nick got up, but she clung to him so fast that he could not leave her side. He bent down over her.

"It's all right, darling. It's only Max with some refreshments. We'll leave you in peace as soon as you have broken your fast."

"I don't want Max," she whispered. "Please send him away!"

"I'll go like a bird," Max said, "if you will let me take your pulse first. It isn't much to ask, is it?"

He set down a tray he was carrying, and came and stood beside Nick. Outlined against the dim light shed by a shaded night-lamp, he looked gigantically square and strong.

"I won't hurt you, Olga," he said. "Won't you trust me?"

Again his voice was softened to a great gentleness; yet it compelled. In another second Nick had withdrawn himself, and Max stood alone beside her bed. He stooped low over her, put back the hair from her forehead, looked intently into her eyes.

"Are you in pain?" he asked.

"No," she whispered back.

"You are sure? It doesn't hurt you to move your eyes?"

"No," she said again.

He passed his hand again over her forehead, felt her face, her temples, finally turned his attention to her pulse. As he took out his watch, she remembered again the two things that had outlasted all other impressions before she had sunk into her long sleep. And with this memory came another. She raised her eyes to his grave face.

"Max!"

"In a moment!" said Max.

But it was many moments before he laid her hand down.

"You will be all right when you have eaten something," he said then, "and had another sleep. Is there something you want to say to me?"

His tone was kind, but his manner repressive. She wished the light had not been so dim upon his face.

"Max," she said, with an effort, "why—why did you close the door?"

She fancied he smiled, grimly humorous, at the question. She was sure his eyes gleamed mockery. He was silent for a space, and then: "Ask me some other time!" he said.

She breathed a sigh of disappointment. She knew she would never have the courage.

He waited a few seconds more, then as she remained silent he laid his hand again on hers and pressed it lightly.

"Good-night!" he said.

She scarcely responded, nor did he wait for her to respond. In another moment he had turned from her, and was talking in a low voice to Nick.

A minute later he went softly out, and she saw no more of him that night.

Nick remained for some little time longer, waiting on her with the tenderness of a woman. It was wonderful to note how little his infirmity hampered him. There were very few things that Nick could not accomplish with one hand as quickly as the rest of the world with two.

But Olga, having recovered the full possession of her faculties, would not permit him to sacrifice any more of his night's rest to her.

"I shall be perfectly all right," she declared. "If I'm not, you are only in the next room, and I can rap on the wall."

"Yes, but will you?" said Nick.

"Of course I will."

"Is it a promise?"

She caught his hand and kissed it. "Yes, dear Nick, a promise."

"All right," said Nick. "I'll go."

But he was obviously loth to leave her, and she detained him to assure him how greatly she loved to be in his care.

"Max tells me I am not in the least fitted to look after you," he said rather ruefully, "and I believe he's right."

The humility of this speech was so extraordinary that it nearly took Olga's breath away.

"My dear Nick," she said, "what nonsense! Surely you don't—seriously—care what Max says?"

"Don't you?" said Nick.

She began to answer in the negative, but tripped up unexpectedly. "I—I can't quite say. I haven't really thought about it. But—anyhow—it's no business of his, is it?"

"He thinks it is," said Nick.

"Why?" She suddenly put out her hand to him with a little shiver. "Nick, you haven't told him about—that scheme of ours?"

"Yes, I have," said Nick.

"Oh, why?" There was unmistakable distress in the question.

Nick knelt down beside her. "Olga, I had to. He's a clever chap, cleverer than Jim even. I wanted to know if I'd better go on with it, if he thought—in view of to-day's misfortune—it might upset your health, supposing you were allowed to go. I couldn't run the risk of that."

"What did he say?" said Olga.

Nick chuckled a little. "He said that your normal health appeared to be up to the average young woman's, but he hadn't sounded you in any way, and—"

"And he shan't!" interjected Olga, with vehemence.

"And so couldn't say for certain," ended Nick. "But—I'll tell you this—he doesn't like our precious scheme—at all."

"Why not?" said Olga. "What has it got to do with him?"

"I don't know," said Nick.

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"My dear, you can do that in the morning—before I write to Muriel."

"I will," said Olga firmly. "It's my belief that you're afraid of him," she added, a moment later.

"No, I'm not," said Nick simply.

"Then why are you so careful of his feelings?"

"I shouldn't like to see him writhing in hell," said Nick. "I've done it myself, and I know exactly what it feels like."

"Really, Nick!"

"Yes, really, little sweetheart. You know or p'raps you don't know—what fools men can be."

"I know they can be quite unreasonable and very horrid sometimes," said Olga. "Nick dear, you'll promise me, won't you, that if Muriel agrees and Dad agrees you won't let an outsider like Max stand in our way?"

"Is he an outsider?" asked Nick humorously.

"He is so far as I am concerned," said Olga. "I can't imagine why you take any notice of him."

"Are you sure you don't yourself?" asked Nick.

"Oh, in some things perhaps. But not in a matter of this sort. I think he is very interfering," said Olga resentfully.

Nick smiled and rose. "I shouldn't be too hard on him, kiddie. Doubtless he has his reasons."

"I should like to know what they are," said Olga.

He stooped for a final kiss. "I daresay—if you were to ask him prettily—he would tell you."

"Oh, no, he wouldn't," she said. "He never tells me anything, even if I beg him." She slipped her arms round his neck and held him closely for a moment. "Nick darling, you will work that lovely scheme of ours if you possibly can—promise me!—in spite of anything Max may say or do!"

"You don't mind hurting his feelings?" asked Nick.

"Oh, well,"—she hesitated—"he couldn't care all that. It's only his love of interference."

"Or his love of you? I wonder which!" whispered Nick.

"Nick! Nick!" Wonder, dismay, incredulity, mingled in the cry.

But Nick had already slipped free from the clinging of her arms, and he did not pause in answer.

"Good-night, Olga mia!" he called back to her softly from the door. "Don't forget to knock on the wall if you feel squeamish!"

And with that he was gone. The latch clicked behind him, and she was alone.



CHAPTER XI

THE IMPOSSIBLE

Could it be true? Sleeping and waking, sleeping and waking, all through the night Olga asked herself the question; and when morning came she was still unconvinced. Nothing in Max's manner had ever given her cause to imagine for an instant that he cared for her. Never for an instant had she seriously imagined that he could care. Till quite recently she had believed that a very decided antipathy had existed between them. True, it had not thriven greatly since the writing of her note; but that had been an event of only two days before. She was sure he had not cared for her before that. He could not have begun to care since! And if he had, how in wonder could Nick have come to know?

Certainly he knew most things. His uncanny shrewdness had moved her many a time before to amazement and admiration. This quickness of intellect was hers also, but in a far smaller degree. She could leap to conclusions herself and often find them correct. But Nick—Nick literally swooped upon the truth with unerring precision. She had never known him to miss his mark. But this time—could he be right this time? It was such a monstrous notion. Its very contemplation bewildered her, carried her off her feet, made her giddy. She began to be a little frightened, to cast back her thoughts over all her intercourse with Max to ascertain if she had ever given him the smallest reason for loving her. Most emphatically she had never felt drawn towards him. In fact, she had often been repelled. In all their skirmishes she had invariably had the worst of it. He had simply despised her resistance, treating it as a thing of nought. And yet—there was no denying it—their intimacy had grown. Who but an intimate friend could have made that suggestion for encompassing her deliverance from the persecutions of that hateful man? Her face burned afresh over the memory of this. It had certainly been a desperate remedy—one to which she would never have given her consent could she for a single instant have suspected that it had been dictated by anything more than a friendly desire for her welfare.

Surely, argued her practical mind, he could never have been so foolish as to let himself care deeply for one who so obviously had only the most casual regard for him! She knew women did these silly things, but surely not men—and hard-headed men like Max!

Besides, what could he possibly see in her? Was it not Violet upon whom his attention was constantly focussed? And small wonder, his own repudiation of sentiment notwithstanding! Did not all men look at her with dazzled eyes? Even Nick paid her that much homage, though Olga was privately a little doubtful as to whether he altogether liked her brilliant friend.

No, she had never for an instant seriously contemplated this possibility which Nick had whispered into her ear. She wondered what had made him do it? Had he meant to put her on her guard. Or—staggering thought!—had he thought to wake her heart to some response? Was he taking Max's part? Did he want her to be kind to him?

She pictured Max's wrath, sardonically expressed, should he ever become acquainted with that move of Nick's. She fancied he did not much like Nick and that suspicion of itself was quite sufficient to present him in an unfavourable light to her half-involuntary criticism. How could she ever possibly begin to care for a man who did not admire her hero? Oh, why had she ever placed herself under an obligation to him, ever consented to the forging of that bond between them, elastic though it might be?

Of course it could be severed. He had said so. And severed it should be at once. But why had she ever suffered it? It weighed upon her intolerably now that she realized in what foundry its links had been cast. Even her enemy's impertinences would be easier to bear—now that she knew.

Again, as morning broke, she told herself that this thing was an impossibility after all, that Nick had been misled, or had spoken in jest. It seemed the only sane conclusion by the practical light of day, and, reassured, at last she slipped into untroubled slumber. Yes, she was sure Max was much too shrewd to let himself be caught by a girl who did not even want him. He would never waste his valuable time over such as she.

Yet while she slept, a curious memory came to her—a memory that was half a dream—of a hand that had stroked her head with a sure and soothing touch, of lips very near her hair that had whispered words of tenderness. It was not a disturbing dream by any means. She slept through it into a deeper peace with a smile upon her face.

She was finally aroused without ceremony by Violet, who skipped airily into the room, clad in a daring sea-green wrapper that revealed more of her charms than it concealed.

"Oh, my dear soul, are you awake?" was her greeting, as she perched herself on the foot of the bed. "I've just had the very sweetest note from Hunt-Goring accompanied by a box of the most exquisite Eastern cigarettes—'Companions of the Harem,' he says they are called. And how are you feeling now, you poor wan thing? What interesting shadows you have developed! I wish I could make my eyes look like that. The revered Max suffered agonies about you last night, and nearly slew me with a glance because I dared to touch my mandolin after dinner. Poor little Nick was rather blue too though he did at least try to be courteous. What made you go and get sunstroke, Allegretto? Rather unnecessary, wasn't it? He was quite obviously at your feet without that. Of course you realize how completely my wiles have been thrown away on him. I declare I was never so humiliated in my life. However, I daresay I shall get over it. If I don't, I shall take refuge in Hunt-Goring's harem. Good gracious! What now?"

A smart rap at the door had interrupted her plans for her future. She sprang off the end of Olga's bed, and stood poised on one foot, listening.

"Can I come in?" asked Max on the other side of the door.

Olga's face flushed scarlet. Violet shot her a glance of mock dismay.

"My dear, I wonder which would be the least improper," she said. "To go or to remain?"

"For pity's sake, put something on!" urged Olga. "There's my dressing-gown. Take that!"

But Violet had already snatched up a bath-towel which she draped about her with scarf-like effect.

"This will do quite well and is infinitely more artistic. Pray come in, Dr. Wyndham! The patient is quite ready for you."

Max came in. He scarcely looked at either girl, but halted just inside the room, holding the door wide open.

"One at a time, Miss Campion, please!" he said curtly.

"Dear, dear!" laughed Violet, with audacious mirth. "Then you had better call again later when I have concluded my visit."

He turned his eyes straight upon her; they were piercingly green in the morning light. "Your visit," he said, "is a direct violation of my orders. I must trouble you to conclude it at once."

He had never used that tone to her before. She opened her eyes very wide, meeting his look with the utmost nonchalance.

"Dear me!" she said. "How fierce we are this morning! And what if Olga prefers my company to yours?"

"That has nothing to do with it," he returned. "I am here professionally.".

"And if Olga is not requiring your professional services?" she suggested daringly.

"Oh, Violet dear, I think you had better go," interposed Olga nervously. "You can come back again when you are dressed."

Violet's beautiful eyes suddenly gleamed. She moved to the door, stepping daintily with her bare feet.

"Dr. Wyndham," she said, "I congratulate you on your conquest. It has been a ridiculously easy capture, but I warned her she had met her fate long ago. No doubt she has wisely decided that to run away any longer would be a waste of energy. En tout cas,—" she made an airy gesture of the hands,—"my blessing be upon you both!"

And with that, lightly she crossed the threshold, and was gone, flitting like a sunbeam from the room.

Quietly Max closed the door. He did not look at Olga, but walked straight to the window and stood there with his back turned and his hands in his pockets, staring outwards.

"I hope you don't object to an early visit," he said, after a moment. "I want to get my rounds done in good time to-day, and I didn't like to leave without seeing you first."

"I don't mind at all," stammered Olga in reply. "But—really, there's no reason for you to—to bother about me. I've had a good night, and—and I'm going to get up."

"Really?" he said. "You're not going raspberry picking, I hope?"

She laughed somewhat tremulously. Violet's vindictive thrust had embarrassed rather than hurt her. She looked at the great square shoulders that intervened between her eyes and the morning sunshine, and wondered why he did not turn. Was it possible that he could be feeling embarrassed too? She could scarcely imagine it; but yet the position was sufficiently intolerable for him also.

"I'm afraid the raspberries will have to go," she said regretfully, "unless the boys—"

"They would probably eat 'em as fast as they picked 'em," observed Max grimly. "I know boys."

Again, rather feebly, she laughed. "It seems a pity," she said.

"I shouldn't worry," said Max. "Besides, it's Sunday. You couldn't make jam on Sunday in any case."

"I could, though," said Olga, "if the fruit wouldn't keep till Monday."

He laughed. "What an admirably practical spirit!"

"Thank you!" said Olga. "That's the first nice thing you have ever said to me."

"Oh, no, it isn't!" said Max. "May I come and take a survey now?"

"I can't imagine what you are waiting for," she returned with renewed spirit.

She could meet him on the old fencing-ground without a tremor; at least so she fancied. But the next instant he disconcerted her in the most unexpected fashion.

"I have been waiting for your pulse to steady down," he said coolly.

"Oh!" said Olga.

He left the window and came to her side. She gave him her hand with an abrupt, childish movement.

"It's great nonsense!" she said, with burning cheeks. "You can't possibly make me out ill."

She saw one side of his mouth go up. He took out his watch, but he looked at her.

"You don't imagine that I want to keep you as a patient, do you?" he said.

"You know you always like people best when they are ill," she retorted.

"Do I?" he said.

"Well, don't you?"

"I wonder what makes you think so," he said.

She looked straight up at him with something of defiance. "You never bother to be nice to people unless they are ill."

He frowned a little. "I've been as nice as you would let me," he said.

"Yes, yes," said Olga rather hurriedly. "Of course we are friends. But, Max, there's something I want to say to you. It's very particular. Be quick with my pulse!"

He let her hand slip from his. "It's about a hundred and fifty," he observed, "but that seems to be the normal rate with you. I don't think you had better talk to me now unless it's to be a professional consultation. You can get up if you want to, and I will give Nick a list of the things you are not to do."

He would have gone with the words, but imperiously she detained him.

"You must wait a minute now. I want to speak about—about that compact we made the other day. You—you knew I was only joking, didn't you? You didn't—really—? tell Major Hunt-Goring—that?"

"Yes, I did," said Max. "And do you generally go and cry into the surgery towel when you are enjoying a joke?"

"Oh, Max! You told him?" Her face was tragic. "And what did he say?"

"He congratulated me," said Max.

"Max!"

"My dear girl, I'm telling you the truth; but really, since you have discharged yourself as cured, this has become a highly improper situation. Don't you think we had better postpone this discussion to a more suitable moment?"

Max was openly laughing into her face of distress. She suddenly felt abundantly reassured. He could not—surely—look and speak like this if he dreamed of wooing her in earnest!

"I don't want any discussion," she hastened to tell him. "Only—please, do go and tell Major Hunt-Goring that—that—there's been a mistake, and—in short—"

"In short that you've thrown me over?" said Max. "Oh, thanks, no! You can tell him that—if you wish!"

"He must be told," she said.

"I don't see why." Max smiled upon her with good-natured indulgence. "Have you suddenly taken fright at something?" he asked.

She smiled also, but a little anxiously. "I'm afraid it wasn't a very wise move after all. I want to put an end to it."

"You can't put an end to an engagement that doesn't exist," he said. "You will have to wait till I propose, and then you can go and tell everyone—including Hunt-Goring—that you have said No."

It was impossible to treat the matter seriously. She had a feeling that he was deliberately restraining her from so doing, deliberately offering her an easy means of escape from her own indiscretion. She seized upon it, eager to convince him that she had never deemed him in earnest.

"Do propose soon then!" she said. "And let us get it over!"

He turned to the door. "Given a suitable opportunity," he said, "if shall be done to-night."

"To-night!" she echoed sharply.

She caught the mocking gleam of his eyes for an instant, and her heart misgave her.

"Really, Max!" she said, in a tone of protest.

"Yes, really," said Max. "Good-bye!"

He was gone. She heard him stride away down the passage, and go downstairs. A little later she heard the banging of the surgery-door and the sound of his feet on the gravel. They passed under her window. They paused.

"Olga," he called up to her, "do you mind if a pal of mine comes to lunch?"

Her heart gave a great jolt at the sound of his voice. She swallowed twice before she found her own.

"Who is it?" she called then.

"Someone very nice," he assured her, and she caught a laugh in the words. "Someone you'll like."

"Anyone I know?" she asked.

"No."

She heard him strike a match to light a cigarette. He would not be looking upwards then. Impulse moved her. She left her bed and went to the window.

He was standing immediately below her, a thick-set, British figure of immense strength. A brisk breeze was blowing. She watched him nursing the flame between his hands, firm, powerful hands, full of confidence. The flame flickered and went out. Instantly he threw up his head and saw her. His cigarette was alight.

She drew back sharply as he waved her an airy salute.

"Adieu, fair lady!" called the mocking voice. "I conclude the aforementioned pal may come, then?"

He did not wait for her answer. She heard him whistling cheerily as he went in the direction of the coach-house, and the ting of his bicycle-bell a moment after as he rode away. When that reached her ears, Olga sat down very suddenly on the edge of her bed with the limpness of relaxed tension, and realized that she was feeling very weak.



CHAPTER XII

THE PAL

Nick's letter to his wife was written that morning while Olga lay on the study-sofa, comfortably lazy for once, and listened to the scratching of his pen.

The boys had been sent to church, Violet was again devouring a book and smoking Major Hunt-Goring's cigarettes in the hammock, and all was very quiet.

"I suppose I had better write to Jim too," Nick said, as he looked up at length from his completed epistle.

"I was just thinking I would," said Olga.

"No. Writing is strictly prohibited by your medical adviser." Nick grinned over his shoulder. "I'll send him a line myself."

"Don't let him be worried about me," said Olga. "I really don't know why I'm being so lazy. I feel quite well."

"And look—charming," supplemented Nick.

"Don't be silly, dear! You know I'm as hideous as—"

"As I am? Oh, no, not quite, believe me. I always pride myself I am unique in that respect. Now you mustn't talk," said Nick judiciously, "or you will spoil my inspiration. Who's that going across the lawn?"

He was writing rapidly as he spoke. Olga raised herself on her elbow to look.

"How on earth did you know? I never heard anyone. Oh!"

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

"It's Major Hunt-Goring!"

Nick ceased to write and peered into the garden. "It's all right. He's only violeting. An interesting pastime!" He turned unexpectedly and gave her one of his shrewd glances. "You don't seem pleased," he observed.

"Oh, Nick, he's so hateful! And—and Violet actually likes him."

"Every woman to her taste," said Nick. "Why shouldn't she?"

Olga was silent.

Nick returned to his writing. "I'll go and kick him for you if you like," he said. "Let me just finish my letter to Jim first, though, or it may never get written."

His pen resumed its energetic progress, and Olga fell into a brown study.

Half an hour later Nick turned swiftly and looked at her. Her eyes met his instantly.

"Not asleep?" he said.

"No, Nick. Only thinking."

"What about?"

"India," said Olga.

He got up and came and sat on the edge of the sofa. "Look here, kiddie," he said, "if you've thought better of it, just mention the same before I post these letters. I shall understand."

She smiled at him, her quick, sweet smile. "Nick, you're a darling! But I haven't."

"Quite sure?" said Nick.

"Quite sure," she replied with emphasis.

He looked a little quizzical. "By the way, did you ask Max—what you wanted to know?"

She knew that she coloured, but she faced him notwithstanding. "No, I didn't. I decided it wasn't important enough."

"Oh, all right," said Nick. He got up. "Now can I trust you to lie quietly here while I go and post these letters?"

"Of course you can," she said.

"I shan't be more than five minutes," he said, turning to the door.

She watched him go, and then closed her eyes, slightly frowning. She wished with all her heart that Major Hunt-Goring had not seen fit to come again, even though it was obviously her friend and not herself that he had come to see.

She was still pondering the unpleasant subject when the housemaid suddenly presented herself at the open door.

"Cook wants to know what she's to do about the raspberries, miss."

"Raspberries!" said Olga, with a start. "Oh, I'm afraid they're done for. It's no good thinking about them. I will go round to-morrow, and see if there are any left worth having. But I expect they will all be spoilt by this hot sun."

The girl looked at her, slightly mystified. "But they've been gathered, miss. Didn't you know? Cook thought you had done them yourself before you took ill."

Olga put her hand to her head. "No, I didn't. I hadn't finished. I dropped them all too."

"Well, they're in the pantry now, miss, and cook was wondering if she hadn't better start the jam first thing in the morning."

"Who brought them in?" asked Olga quickly.

The housemaid didn't know. She departed to ask.

Olga leaned back again on her cushions. She was growing a little tired of inactivity, notwithstanding the undeniable languor that had succeeded the previous day's headache.

The sound of voices in the hall outside, however, dispelled her boredom almost before she had time to recognize it. She suddenly remembered Max's pal, and started up in haste to smooth her rumpled hair. Surely Max would not be so inconsiderate as to bring him straight in to her without a moment's preparation!

This was evidently his intention, however, for she heard their footsteps drawing nearer, and she was possessed by a momentary shyness so acute that she nearly fled through the window. It really was too bad of Max!

"Come in here!" she heard him say, and with an effort she braced herself to encounter the stranger.

He entered, paused a second, and came forward. And in that second very strangely and quite completely her embarrassment vanished. She found herself shaking hands with a large, kindly man, who looked at her with deep-set, friendly eyes and asked her in a voice of marvellous softness how she was.

Her heart warmed to him on the instant, and she forgave Max forthwith.

"I am quite well," she said. "Have you walked from the station? Please sit down!"

He was years older than Max, she saw, this man whom the latter had so airily described as his pal. There was a bald patch on the back of his head, and his brows were turning grey. His face was clean-shaven, and she thought his mouth the kindest and the saddest she had ever seen.

"Yes, I walked," he said. "Max brought me across the fields. It was very pleasant. There is a good breeze to-day."'

"I am sure you must be thirsty," Olga said, mindful of the honours of the house. "Max, please go and find something to drink and bring it here!"

"No, no, my dear fellow! I can wait," protested the newcomer. But Max had already departed upon his errand. He turned back smiling to the girl. "I know you were lying on the sofa when I came in. Please lie down again!"

"I've had more than enough of it," she assured him. "I don't think lying still suits me. I only did it to please Nick. He will be in directly."

"Nick is your brother?" he asked.

Olga's smile flashed out. "Not quite. He is three parts brother to one part uncle. That is to say, he is Dad's half-brother, but nearer my age than Dad's."

He nodded in humorous comprehension. "And your father is away, Max tells me. I hope you don't mind being taken by storm like this? I am sorry to miss him, for we are old friends. We don't often meet, as I haven't a great deal of time at my disposal. I reserved to-day, however, as I rather particularly wanted to see Max."

"You will manage to come again perhaps, when Dad is at home," said Olga.

He smiled courteously. "I shall certainly try. And you are his eldest daughter?"

"His only daughter," she said. "There are three boys as well."

"Ah! And you have been left in charge?"

"Nick and I," she said; and then moved to sudden confidence, "I expect you have heard of Nick, haven't you? Nick Ratcliffe of Wara! He is an M.P. too."

"Oh, is he that Ratcliffe?" Her listener displayed immediate interest. "Yes, of course I have heard of him, Miss Ratcliffe. He is a man of renown, isn't he? It will give me much pleasure to meet him."

"You'll like him awfully!" said Olga, with shining eyes.

It was at this point that Nick himself pushed open the door with a peremptory, "Now then, Olga, what about your promise? Hullo!" He stopped short, and stood blinking rapidly at the visitor. "I thought it was Hunt-Goring you had got here," he observed. "Introduce me, please!"

Olga hesitated in momentary confusion. "Max didn't tell me your name, you know," she said to the stranger. "This is Captain Ratcliffe of Wara."

"Monkey!" said Nick briefly. "Plain Ratcliffe of no-where in particular is my description."

The big man rose with outstretched hand. "I know you well by repute, and I am very pleased to meet you. My name is Whitton—Kersley Whitton."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Olga. "Max might have told me!"

He laughed at her quietly. "Told you what? Didn't he say I was a friend of his?"

"So you've been entertaining a celebrity unawares!" laughed Nick. "I hope you have been on your best behaviour, my child."

"But Miss Ratcliffe must be accustomed to celebrities," said Sir Kersley Whitton, "since she has to entertain you and Max Wyndham every day."

"Is Max a celebrity too, then?" asked Olga quickly.

"He is going to be one," the great doctor answered, with conviction.

"You mean he will—someday—be like you?" she said.

He smiled at that. "He will be a greater man than I am," he said.

"An interesting collection!" commented Nick. "Heroes past, present, and to come! You will pardon me for putting myself first. My little halo went out long ago."

"Nick! How absurd you are!"

"My dear, it's my role to be absurd. I am the clown in every tragedy I come across—the comic relief man—the buffoon in every side-show. Hence my Frontier laurels, because I kept on dancing when everyone else was dead. The world likes dancers—virtuous or otherwise." Nick broke off with his elastic grimace. "If I go on, you'll think I'm trying to be clever. Sir Kersley, come and have a drink!"

"I'm bringing drinks," said Max's voice from the hall. "I say, Ratcliffe,"—he entered with the words—"do go and dislodge that leech Goring. He's in the garden with Miss Campion. Tell him I don't want to see either him or his beastly thumb for a week. I'll call in next Sunday, if I've nothing better to do. Say I'm engaged if he asks for me now."

"I'll say you're dead if you like," said Nick cheerily. "Shall I say you're dead too, Olga?"

"Say she's engaged also," said Max.

Olga glanced up sharply, but he was not looking at her. He was occupied in pouring out a drink for his friend, which he brought to him almost immediately.

"That's how you like it measured to a drop. Sorry there's no ice to be had. It doesn't grow in these parts."

"I'd have got out the best glass if I'd known," murmured Olga regretfully.

Max threw up his head and laughed. "What a good thing I didn't tell her, eh, Kersley?" He leaned a careless hand on Sir Kersley's shoulder. "She doesn't know what a taste you have for the simple life."

Olga's eyes opened wide at the familiarity of speech and action. Sir Kersley faintly smiled.

"Since Miss Ratcliffe received me so kindly as a friend of yours," he said, "I hope she will continue to regard me in that light, and dispense with all unnecessary ceremony. Miss Ratcliffe, I drink to our better acquaintance!"

"How nice of you!" said Olga.

"I return thanks on Miss Ratcliffe's behalf," said Max. "How long has the Hunt-Goring monstrosity been here?"

Olga's face clouded. "Oh, ages! Do you think Nick will persuade him to go?"

"He can't stop to lunch if he isn't asked," said Max.

"An unwelcome visitor?" asked Sir Kersley.

"Yes, a neighbour of ours," explained Olga. "He lives about two miles away at a place called The Warren. He is retired from the Army. He shoots and hunts in the winter and loafs all the summer."

"A very horrid man," said Max with a twinkle. "He broke his thumb the other day and we haven't been quit of him since. You see, Miss Ratcliffe has a most beautiful friend staying with her with whom we all fall in love at first sight. Some of us fall out again and some of us don't. Hunt-Goring—presumably—belongs to the latter category."

"And you?" asked Sir Kersley.

"Oh, I am too busy for frivolities of that sort," said Max. "My mind is entirely occupied with drugs. Ask Miss Ratcliffe if it isn't!"

Olga looked a little scornful. It suddenly seemed to her that Max Wyndham required a snub. She was spared the trouble of administering one, however, by the reappearance of the housemaid.

She rose. "Do you want me, Ellen?"

"Oh, no, miss. It's all right," was Ellen's breezy reply. "I only just come to say as it was Dr. Wyndham as brought in them raspberries—early this morning."

Ellen disappeared as Max popped the cork of a soda-water bottle with unexpected violence. He clapped his hand over the top and carried it bubbling to the window.

"Awfully sorry," he said. "The beastly stuff is so up this weather."

Olga followed him with his glass. "Thank you for rescuing my raspberries," she said.

Max rubbed himself down with a handkerchief and took the glass from her. He was somewhat red in the face. He looked at her with a queer smile.

"Confound that girl!" he said.

"Have you discovered any specially beneficial properties In raspberries?" asked Sir Kersley in the tone of one seeking information.

"Not yet. I'm experimenting," said Max.

And Olga laughed, though she could scarcely have said why.

"There goes Nick, escorting the undesirable," observed Max, a moment later. "I begin to think there really must be a spark of genius in that little uncle of yours. Hunt-Goring looks as if he had been kicked, while the swagger of Five Foot Nothing defies description. Ah! And here comes Miss Campion! She looks as if—" He broke off short.

Olga bent forward sharply to catch a glimpse of her friend, and then as swiftly checked herself and remembered her guest. She moved sedately back into the room, only to discover that he also had risen, to look out of the window over Max's shoulder.

Instinctively she glanced at him. His deep-set eyes were fixed intently as if held by a vision. But his face was drawn in painful lines. She had a curious feeling of foreboding as she watched him. There was something fateful in his look. It passed in a moment. Almost before she knew it, he had turned back to her and was courteously conversing.

She gave him her attention with difficulty. Her ears were strained to catch the sound of Violet's approach. She was possessed by a ridiculous longing to rush out to her, to keep her from entering this man's presence, to warn her—to warn her—Of what? She had not the faintest idea.

By a great effort of will, she controlled herself, but the impulse yet remained—a striving, clamouring force, impotent but insistent.

There came the low, sweet notes of Violet's voice. She was singing a Spanish love-song.

Sir Kersley Whitton fell silent. He looked at the door. Max wheeled from the window. Olga waited tensely for the coming of her friend.

The door swung back and she entered. With her careless Southern grace she sauntered in upon them.

"Good Heavens!" she said, breaking off in the middle of her song. "Is it a party of mutes?"

Olga hastily and with evident constraint introduced the visitor, at sound of whose name Violet opened her beautiful eyes to their widest extent.

"How do you do? I had no idea a lion was expected. Why wasn't I told?"

"He is not one of the roaring kind," said Max.

Violet was looking with frank curiosity into Sir Kersley's face. "I'm sure I've met you somewhere," she said. "I wonder where."

He smiled slightly—a smile which to Olga's watching eyes was infinitely sad.

"I don't think you have," he said. "You may have seen my portrait."

"Ah, that's it!" She regarded him with a new interest. "I have! I believe I've got it somewhere."

"Do you collect the portraits of celebrities?" asked Max.

She shook her head. "Oh, no! It's among my mother's things. It must have been taken years ago. You were very handsome—in those days, weren't you?"

"Was I?" said Sir Kersley.

"Yes. That's why I kept you. There was a bit of your hair with it, but I burnt that." Violet's brows knitted suddenly. "My mother was handsome too," she said. "I wonder why you jilted her!"

Sir Kersley made a slight movement, so slight that it seemed almost involuntary. "That, my child," he said quietly, "is a very old story."

She laughed her gay, winning laugh. "Oh, of course! I expect you have jilted dozens since then. It's the way of the world, isn't it?"

He looked into the exquisite face, still faintly smiling. "It's not my way," he said.

There fell a sudden silence, and Olga sent an appealing glance towards Max. He came forward instantly and clapped a practical hand upon his friend's shoulder.

"Come and have a wash, Kersley!" he said, and with characteristic decision marched him away.

As they went, Violet broke once more into the low, sweet refrain of her Spanish love-song.



CHAPTER XIII

HER FATE

"How extraordinary men are!" Violet stretched her arms high above her head and let them fall. Her eyes were turned contemplatively towards the sinking sun. "This man for instance who might have been—who should have been—my father. He loved her, you know; he must have loved her, or he wouldn't have remained single all these years. And she worshipped him. Yet on the very eve of marriage—he jilted her. Extraordinary!"

"How do you know she worshipped him?" Olga spoke with slight constraint; it seemed to her that the matter was too sacred for casual discussion.

"How do I know? My dear, it is written in black and white on the back of his photograph. 'The only being I have it in me to love—sovereign lord of my heart!' Fancy writing that of any man! I couldn't, could you?"

"I don't know," said Olga soberly.

Violet laughed. "You're such a queer child! One day you come flying to me for protection, and almost the day after, you—"

"Please, Violet!" Olga broke in sharply. "You know I don't like it!"

"Oh, very well, my dear, very well! The subject is closed. We will return to the renowned Sir Kersley. He was watching me all luncheon-time. Did you notice?"

Olga had noticed. "Are you very like your mother?" she asked.

"I am better-looking than she ever was," said Violet, without vanity. "You see, my father, Judge Campion (he was nearly sixty when he married her, by the way), was considered the handsomest man in India at the time. She was a Californian, and very Southern in temperament, I believe. I often rather wish I could have seen her, though she would probably have hated me for not being the child of the man she loved. She died almost before I was born however. I daresay it's as well. I'm sure we shouldn't have got on."

"Violet! How can you say those things?"

"I always say whatever occurs to me," said Violet. "It's so much simpler. Mrs. Briggs was all the mother I ever knew or wanted. Of course as soon as Bruce settled down, I was taken to live with them. But I never liked either of them. They always resented the Judge's second marriage."

"Why didn't he take care of you himself?" asked Olga.

"My dear, he was dead. He died before she did. He was assassinated by a native before they had been married three months. I've always thought it was rather poor-spirited of her to die too; for of course she never cared for him. She must have married him only to pique Kersley. By the way, Major Hunt-Goring met them in his subaltern days. He said everyone fell in love with her. I supposed that included himself, and he smiled and said, 'Calf-love, senorita!' Allegro, I wonder if I really like that man."

"I'm sure you don't," said Olga quickly. "You couldn't."

"But I must amuse myself with someone," reasoned Violet pathetically. "Besides, he gives me such lovely cigarettes. Have one, Allegretto. Do!"

"No!" said Olga almost fiercely.

"I will, Miss Campion." Coolly Max came forward from the open window behind them. "You promised me one, you know."

"Did I?" She tossed him her cigarette-case carelessly. "They are not made for masculine palates. However, as you are so anxious—"

"Thank you," he said.

He opened the case. Violet was lying back with eyes half-closed. Olga's eyes were keenly watching. He glanced up and met them.

Abruptly he held up a warning finger. For one instant his eyes commanded her, compelled her. Then deliberately he extracted two cigarettes, slipped one into his pocket, stuck the other between his lips. She watched him in silence.

He returned the case to its owner with the slight, cynical smile she knew so well, and began to smoke.

"What time is Sir Kersley Whitton going?" asked Violet.

"Soon. His train starts at seven."

Olga rose suddenly. "Well, I am going to the evening service," she announced, with a touch of aggressiveness. "Are you coming, Violet?"

"No, dear," said Violet.

"Nor you either," said Max, blowing a cloud of smoke upwards.

She looked at him. "Why not?"

"Doctor's orders," he said imperturbably.

Violet laughed a little. Olga's face flamed.

"That is absurd! I am going!"

"Where's Nick?" said Max unexpectedly.

"Somewhere in the garden with Sir Kersley. I believe they went to see the vine."

"Then go to him," said Max; "tell him I have forbidden you to go to church to-night, and see what he says."

"I won't," said Olga.

She passed him without a second glance, and went indoors.

Violet laughed again. Max turned towards her. "Excuse me a moment!" he said, and therewith followed Olga into the house.

He overtook her at the foot of the stairs and stopped her without ceremony.

"Olga, what do you want to go to church for?"

She turned upon him in sudden, quivering anger. "Max, leave me alone! How dare you?"

His hand was on her arm. He kept it there. He looked steadily into her eyes.

"I dare because I must," he said. "You have had a tiring day, and you will end it with a racking headache if you are not careful."

"What does it matter?" she flashed back.

He did not answer her. "What are you so angry about?" he said. "Tell me!"

She was silent.

"Olga," he said, "it isn't quite fair of you to treat me like this."

"I shall treat you how I like," she said.

"No, no, you won't!" he said.

His voice was quiet, yet somehow it controlled her. Her wild rebellion began to die down. For a few seconds she stood in palpitating silence. Then, almost under her breath: "Max," she said, "why did you take that other cigarette?"

She saw him frown. "Why do you want to know?"

Her hands clenched unconsciously. "You are always watching Violet—always spying upon her. Why?"

"I can't tell you," he said briefly and sternly.

"You can," she said slowly, "if you will."

"I won't, then," said Max.

She flinched a little, but persisted. "Don't you think I have a right to know? It was I who brought her here. She is—in a sense—under my protection."

"What are you afraid of?" Max demanded curtly.

She shivered. "I don't know. I believe you are trying to get some power over her."

"You don't trust me?" he said, in the same curt tone.

"I don't know," she said again.

"You do know," he said.

She was silent. There seemed nothing left to say.

He released her arm slowly. "I am sorry I can't be quite open with you," he said. "But I will pledge you my word of honour that whatever I do is in your friend's interest. Will that make things any easier?"

Her eyes fell before his. "I—was a fool to ask you," she said.

He did not contradict the statement. "You are going to have a rest now," he said, "before the headache begins."

It had begun already, but she did not tell him so. "I would rather go to church," she said.

Max looked stubborn.

"I always do go," she protested into his silence. "It will do me good to go."

"All right," he said, with his one-sided smile. "Then I must go too, that's all."

"What for?" she asked quickly.

"To bring you home again when you begin to be ill."

"I'm not going to be ill!" she declared indignantly.

"No," he said. "And you're not going to church either. I'm sorry to thwart your pious intentions, but in your father's absence—"

"Oh, don't begin that!" she broke in irritably.

"Well, don't you be silly!" said Max good-humouredly. "You know you don't really want to go. It's only because you are cross with me."

"It isn't!" she said.

"All right. It isn't. Now go and lie down like a good child! I shall come and prescribe for you if you don't."

Was it mockery that glinted in his eyes as he thus smilingly quelled her resistance? She asked herself the question as she slowly mounted the stairs. It was a look she had come to know singularly well of late, a look that she resented instinctively because it made her feel so small and puny. It was a look that told her more decidedly than any words that he would have his way with her, resist him as she might.

She heard the church-bells ringing as she went to her room, but the impulse to obey their summons had wholly left her. She lay down wearily upon her bed. She wished there were not so many problems in life. She had an uneasy sensation as of being caught in the endless meshes of an invisible net that compassed her whichever way she turned.

She did not sleep, but the rest did her good. Undeniably it had been a tiring day. It was growing dark when a tentative scratch at the door told her of Nick's presence there.

She called him eagerly in. "Has Sir Kersley gone? I hope he didn't think me rude. Max made such a fuss about my resting. So I thought—"

"Quite right, my chicken!" Nick came softly to her side. "Max explained your absence. How's the head?"

"Oh, it's all right now. Nick, how soon will Dad and Muriel get your letters?"

"The day after to-morrow," said Nick.

She took his hand and squeezed it. "And we shall hear—when?"

"On Thursday night—with luck," said Nick.

She carried the hand impulsively to her lips. "Nick, you are a darling!"

He laughed. "Same to you! But we won't count on it too much or we may find ourselves crying for the moon, which is the silliest amusement I know. How do you like Sir Kersley Whitton?"

"Oh, very much. You heard about—about Violet's mother having been engaged to him, I suppose?"

"He told me himself," said Nick.

"What did he tell you, Nick?"

Nick hesitated momentarily. "He spoke in confidence," he said then.

"You won't tell me?" she asked quickly.

"Sorry; I can't," said Nick.

Olga sat up. A sudden idea had begun to illumine her brain. "Nick tell me this—anyhow! Did Violet's mother do—something dreadful?"

"Look here, Olga mia!" said Nick severely. "I know you can't help being a woman, but you're not to look at your neighbour's cards. It's against the rules."

She laughed a little. "Forgive me, Nick! I suppose supper is ready. I'll come down."

They went down together, to find Violet thrumming her mandolin in the twilight for the benefit of Max who was stretched at full length on the drawing-room sofa. The three boys were scudding about the garden like puppies.

As Olga and Nick entered, Violet looked up from her instrument. "I'm wondering if Sir Kersley would like to adopt me as well as Max. Do you think he would?"

"Exceedingly doubtful," said Max, rising.

"Why?"

"You would take up too much of his valuable time," he rejoined. "A man has to think of that, you know."

"Only horrid sordid men like you!" she retorted.

He uttered his dry laugh. "A professional man must think of his career."

She tossed her head. "Is that your creed—that there is no time for a woman in a professional man's life?"

Max laughed again. "She mustn't be too beautiful, anyhow."

She sprang suddenly to her feet. The mandolin jarred and jangled upon the ground. "Are you listening, Allegro?" she said, and through her deep voice there ran a sinister note that seemed to mingle, oddly vibrant, with the echoing strings of the instrument. "A professional man can admit only a plain woman into his life. The other kind is too distracting, since he must think of his career."

Nick cut in upon the words with the suddenness of a sabre-thrust. "Oh, we all say that till we meet the right woman, and then, be she lovely or hideous, the career bobs under like a float and ceases to count."

Max grunted. "Does it? Well, you ought to know."

"Let's go and have supper," said Olga, and turned from the room.

Violet stooped to pick up her mandolin. Nick lingered to summon the boys. Max entered the dining-room in Olga's wake.

"Give me five minutes in the surgery presently," he said as he did so.

She glanced round at him sharply. "Why?"

He raised his brows. "Because I ask you to." He halted at the sideboard to cut some bread. "Going to refuse?" he asked.

"No," said Olga.

"Thanks!"

He went on with his cutting with the utmost serenity, and almost immediately they were joined by the rest of the party.

It was a somewhat rowdy meal. Violet appeared to be in one of her wildest moods. Her eyes shone like stars, and her merriment rippled forth continuously like a running stream. The boys were uproarious, and Nick was as one of them. In the midst of the fun and laughter, Olga sat rather silent. Max, drily humorous, took his customary somewhat supercilious share in the general conversation, but he made no attempt to draw her into it. She almost wished he would do so, for she felt as if he purposely held aloof from her.

Rising from the table at length, she was aware of an urgent impulse to shirk the interview for which he had made request. Valiantly she held it in check, but it did not have a very soothing effect upon her nerves.

The whole party rose together, and she slipped away to the kitchen to discuss domestic matters with the cook. She knew that Max saw her go, knew with sure intuition that he would seize the opportunity of her return to secure those few minutes alone with her that he had desired.

She was not mistaken. He was waiting for her by the baize door that led to the surgery when she emerged. With a brief, imperious gesture he invited her to pass through. The door closed behind them, and they were alone together.

"Come along into the consulting-room," said Max.

She turned thither without question. The room was in darkness. Max went forward and lighted the gas. Then, without pause, he wheeled and faced her.

"Are you angry with me still?"

Olga stood still by the table. "You haven't brought me in here to—quarrel, have you?" she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He smiled very slightly. "I have not. Sit down, won't you? You're looking very fagged."

He pulled forward an arm-chair, and she sat down with a nervous feeling that she was about to face a difficult situation. He relaxed into his favourite position, lounging against the table, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I want a word with you about Hunt-Goring," he said.

She looked up startled. "What about him?"

"He was here to-day, wasn't he?" proceeded Max.

"Yes. He came to see Violet."

Max grunted. "I suppose you know his little game?"

Olga's eyes widened. "No, I don't. What is it?"

He looked at her for a moment or two in silence. "Do you really imagine that you succeed in effacing yourself when you hide behind the beautiful Miss Campion?" he asked then.

The quick colour rose in her face. "What an absurd question!" she said.

"Why absurd?"

"As if anyone could possibly prefer me to Violet!"

"I know at least two who do," said Max.

"Who?" She flung the question almost angrily, as though she uttered it against her will.

Very deliberately he answered her. "Hunt-Goring and myself."

She started. Her face was burning now. Desperately she strove to cover her confusion, or at least to divert his attention from it. "I am quite sure Major Hunt-Goring doesn't! He—he wouldn't be so silly!"

"We are neither of us that," remarked Max with a twist of the lips that was hardly a smile. "I suppose you don't feel inclined to tell me exactly what the fellow's hold over you is."

"You said you didn't want to know!" she flashed back.

Max's green eyes were regarding her very intently. She resented their scrutiny hotly, but she could not bring herself to challenge it.

"Quite so, fair lady, I did," he responded imperturbably. "But as this affair has developed into something of the nature of a duel between the gallant major and myself it might be as well, for your sake as much as mine, that I should know what sort of ground I am standing on."

"A duel!" echoed Olga.

He smiled a little. "Hunt-Goring has no intention of letting you stay engaged to me if he can by any means prevent it."

"Oh, Max!" She met his look for an instant. "But—but—what can it really matter to him—one way or the other?"

"I conclude he wants you for himself," said Max.

She turned suddenly white. "He doesn't! He couldn't! Max!" She turned to him almost imploringly. "He doesn't really want me! It's not possible!"

"I should say he wants you very much indeed," said Max. "But you needn't be scared on that account. He isn't going to have you."

That reassured her somewhat. She essayed a shaky laugh. "You'll think me a shocking coward," she said. "But—do you know, I'm horribly frightened at him."

"Are you frightened at me too?" Max enquired unexpectedly.

She shook her head without looking at him.

"Quite sure?" he persisted.

She raised her eyes with a feeling that he must be convinced of this at all costs. "Of course I'm not," she said.

He leaned down towards her on one elbow, his hands still deep in his pockets. "Will you be engaged to me in earnest then?" he said. "Will you marry me?"

She stared at him. "Max!"

The humorous corner of his mouth went up. "Don't let me take your breath away! I say, what's the matter? You're as white as a ghost. Do you want some sal volatile?"

She forced a rather piteous smile. "No—no! I'm quite all right. But, Max—"

He pulled one hand free and laid it upon her clasped ones. "You can't stand me at any price, eh?"

She shook her head again. "Are you suggesting that I should—marry you, just to get away from Major Hunt-Goring?"

"I suppose you would rather marry me than him," said Max.

She laughed faintly. Her eyes were upon his hand—that hand which she had so ruthlessly stabbed not so very long before. The red scar yet remained. For the first time she felt genuinely sorry for having inflicted it.

"But there is no question of my marrying him, is there?" she said at last. "He has never even hinted at such a thing."

"That's true," said Max grimly. "You see, he has begun to realize by this time that you are not precisely fond of him."

She shivered involuntarily. "I hate him, Max!"

"He thrives on that," observed Max drily.

"Oh, not really!" she protested. "He couldn't want to marry me against my will."

"My good child," said Max, "if you had had the bad taste to flirt with him, he would have tired of you long ago. As it is—" he paused.

She looked up. "As it is?"

He uttered a curt laugh, and sat up, thrusting his hand back into his pocket. "Well—he won't be happy till he gets you."

Olga sprang to her feet. "But, Max, he couldn't marry me against my will! That sort of thing isn't done nowadays."

Max looked at her, his shrewd eyes very cynical. "Quite true!" he said.

"Then—then—" She stood hesitating, looking at him doubtfully—"what is there to be afraid of?" she asked at length.

"Oh, don't ask me!" said Max.

She felt the blood rush back to her face, and turned sharply from him.

"You—you don't help me much," she said.

He got to his feet abruptly. "You won't accept my help," he returned. "You've got yourself into a nasty hole, and you can't climb out alone, and you won't let me pull you out."

Olga was silent.

He stood a moment, then turned to the doctor's writing-table and sat down. "It's no good talking round and round," he said. "You'll have to tell Nick or your father. I can't do anything further. It's not in my power."

He opened a blotter with an air of finality, found a sheet of paper, and began to write.

Olga turned at the sound of his pen, and watched him dumbly. He had apparently dismissed her and her small affairs from his mind. His hand travelled with swift decision over the paper. He was evidently immersed in his own private concerns. He wrote rapidly and without a pause.

Very suddenly, without turning, he spoke again. "How did you like Kersley?"

The question astonished her. She had almost forgotten their visitor of a few hours before. But she managed to answer with enthusiasm.

"I liked him immensely."

"He is the greatest friend I possess," Max said, still writing. "He made me."

"I thought you seemed very intimate," observed Olga.

He laughed. "We are. I pulled him through a pretty stiff illness once. The mischief was that he wanted to die. I made him live." A note of grim triumph sounded in his voice, but he still continued to write.

"Was he grateful?" Olga asked.

"No. He fought like a mule. But I had my own way. It was tough work. I crocked up myself afterwards. And then it was his turn." Max jerked up his head. "After that," he said, "we became pals. He was only my patron before; since, we have been—something more than brothers."

He paused. Olga said nothing. She was wondering a little why he had chosen to make this confidence.

Suddenly he turned in his chair and enlightened her. "If you want to know what sort of animal I am," he said, his eyes going direct to hers, "if you want to know if I am worthy of a woman's confidence—in short, if I'm a white man or—the other thing, ask Kersley Whitton. For he is the only person in the world who knows."

The words were blunt, perhaps all the more so for the unwonted touch of fiery feeling which Olga was quick to detect in their utterance. They moved her strangely. It was almost as if he had flung open his soul to her, challenging her to enter and satisfy herself. And something very deep within her awoke and made swift response almost before she knew.

"But I don't need to ask him, Max," she said. "I know that for myself."

"Really?" said Max.

He stretched out his hand to her, without rising. His manner had changed completely. It was no longer passionate, but intensely quiet.

She came to him slowly, feeling compelled. She laid her hand in his.

His eyes were still upon hers. "I can't marry you against your will, can I?" he said. "It's not done nowadays."

She smiled a little. "I'm not afraid of that."

"Shall we go on being engaged, then," he said, "and see how we like it? We won't tell anyone yet—if you'd rather not."

She hesitated. "But—if I go to India with Nick?"

He frowned momentarily. "Well. I shouldn't ask you to marry me first."

Olga's face cleared somewhat. This was reassuring. It might very well lead to nothing after all.

"But," said Max impressively, "you wouldn't get engaged to any other fellow without letting me know."

She laughed at that. "I certainly shan't marry anyone out there."

Max looked grim. "You will give me the first refusal in any case?"

"But I needn't promise anything?" she said quickly.

"No, you needn't make any promise. Just bear me in mind, that's all; though I don't suppose for a moment that you could forget me if you tried," said Max with the utmost calmness.

"Why do you say that?" said Olga rather breathlessly.

It suddenly seemed to her that she had gone a little further than she had intended. She made an instinctive effort to get back while the way remained open.

But she was too late. She felt his hand tighten. For a moment she caught that gleam in his eyes which always disconcerted her.

And then it was gone, even as his hand released hers. He turned back to the writing-table with his supercilious smile.

"Because, fair lady," he said, "you have met your fate. If Hunt-Goring pesters you any further, of course you will let me know. Hadn't you better go now? The little god in the shrine will be jealous. And I have work to do."

And Olga went, somewhat precipitately, her heart throbbing in such a clamour of confused emotions that she hardly knew what had happened or even if she had any real cause for distress.



CHAPTER XIV

THE DARK HOUR

He had not made love to her! That was the thought uppermost in Olga's mind when the wild tumult of her spirit gradually subsided. He had not so much as touched upon his own feelings at all. Not the smallest reason had he given her for imagining that he cared for her, and very curiously this fact inclined her towards him more than anything else. Had he proposed to her in any more ardent fashion, she would have been scared away. Possibly he had fathomed this, and again possibly he had not wanted to be ardent. He was hard-headed, practical, in all he did. She was sure that his profession came first with him. He probably thought that a wife would be a useful accessory, and he was kind-hearted enough to be willing to do her a good turn at the same time that he provided for his own wants.

Violet's malicious declaration regarding a professional man's preference for a plain woman recurred to her at this point and made her feel a little cold. She did not know very much about men, and she had to admit to herself that it might quite easily be the truth. And then she thought of Hunt-Goring, reflecting with a shudder that that explanation would not account for his preference, if indeed what Max said were true and he actually did prefer her to Violet at whose feet he was so obviously worshipping.

She wondered if she ought to tell Max all about the man, and shuddered again at the bare thought. Not that there was much to tell, but even so, it was enough to set the blood racing in her veins and to make her hotly ashamed. She remembered with gratitude that he had not pressed her to be open on this point. He had left the matter almost at the first sigh of her reluctance to discuss it. She liked him for that. It furnished proof of a kindly consideration with which she had not otherwise credited him. It also furnished proof that he did not think very seriously of the matter. And for that also, lying awake in the moonlight, Olga secretly blessed her champion. Hard of head and cool of heart he might be, but he was undoubtedly a white man through and through.

From that she began to wonder if she really had met her fate, and if so, what life with him would be like, whether she would find it difficult, whether they would quarrel much, whether—whether they would ever fall in love. Of course there were plenty of people in the world who didn't, excellent people to whom romance in that form came not. Olga had always been quite sure that she was not romantic. She had always loved cricket and hockey and all outdoor sports. She had even—quite privately—been a little scornful over such shreds of romance as had come beneath her notice, dismissing them as paltry and ridiculous. Possibly also Violet's scoffing attitude towards her adorers had fostered her indifference.

No, on the whole she decided that it was verging upon foolish sentimentality to contemplate the possibility of falling in love. She was convinced Max would think so, even pictured to herself the one-sided smile that such nonsense would provoke. Doubtless he deemed her too sensible to waste time and thought over anything so absurd. He would even quite possibly be extremely annoyed if she ever ventured beyond the limits of rational friendship which he had marked out. Olga's sense of humour vibrated a little over this thought. He was always so scathing about her worship of Nick. He would certainly find no use for such feminine trash himself.

And yet—and yet—through her mind, vague as a dream, intangible yet not wholly elusive, there floated once more the memory of a voice that had reassured, a hand that had lulled her to rest. Had he really spoken that word of tenderness? Had his lips really touched her hair? Or had it all been a trick of her fancy already strung to fantastic imaginings by that magic draught?

She told herself that she would have given all she had to know if the dream were true and then found herself trembling from head to foot lest haply she might one day find that it had been so. Yes, on the whole she was relieved, thankful beyond measure, that he had not made love to her. Things were better as they were.

The church clock struck one as she arrived at this comfortable conclusion, and she turned her back to the moonlight and composed herself for slumber. Her thoughts wandered off down another track;—India as Nick had described it to her, a land of rivers and jungles, tigers and snakes, natives that were like monkeys, horses that moved like camels, pigs with tusks that had to be hunted and slain. Elephants too! He had left out the elephants, but they crowded in royal array into Olga's quick imagination. She and Nick would often go elephant-riding in the jungle. Mysterious word! It held her like a spell. Tall trees and winding undergrowth, a gloom well-nigh impenetrable, creatures that hid and spied upon them as they passed! Perhaps they would go tiger-hunting together. She thrilled at the thought, picturing herself creeping down one of those dim glades, rifle in hand, in search of the enemy. Nick would certainly have to teach her to shoot. He was a splendid shot, she knew. She believed that she could be a good shot too. It would not be easy to mark the striped body sliding through the undergrowth, but it would be a serious thing to miss. Olga's eyes closed. She began to wander down that jungle path, in search of the monster that lurked there. The lust of the hunt was upon her. She was about to secure the largest tiger that had ever been seen.

Her breath came quickly. Her blood ran hot. She forgot all lesser things in the ardour of the chase. The elephants had disappeared. She was running on foot through the jungle, eager and undismayed. Ah! What was that? Something that moved and was still. Two points that shone out suddenly ahead of her! Green eyes that gleamed triumphant mockery! Her heart stopped beating. Those eyes! Those eyes! They struck terror to her soul.

Headlong she turned and fled. Back through the jungle with the anguished speed of fear. The ground was sodden. It seemed to hold her flying feet. She tore them free, only to plunge deeper at every step, while behind her, swift and remorseless, followed her fate.

Wildly she struggled, powerless but persistent, till at last her strength was gone. She sank in utter impotence.

And then he came to her, he lifted her, he held her in his arms, pressed sickening kisses upon her lips; and suddenly she knew that she had fled from a myth to hurl herself into the power of her enemy. She had eluded her fate but to find herself at the mercy of a devil.

Gasping and half-suffocated she awoke, starting upright in a cold sweat of fear. Her heart was pumping as if it would burst. Her starting eyes searched and searched for the face of her captor. Her ears were strained for the sound of his soft, hateful laugh.

Ah! He was at the door! She heard a hand feeling along the panels, heard the handle turn! As one paralyzed she sat and waited.

Softly the door opened.

"Allegro!" whispered a hushed voice.

Olga turned swiftly with outflung arms. "Oh, come in, dear! Come in! I've had such a ghastly dream! You've come just in the nick of time."

Softly the door closed. Violet came to her, wonderful in the moonlight, a white mystery with shining eyes. She stood beside the bed, suffering herself to be clasped in her friend's arms.

"What have you been dreaming about?" she said.

"Oh, sheer nonsense of course," said Olga, hugging her in sheer relief. "All about that hateful Hunt-Goring man. Get into bed beside me and help me to forget him!"

But Violet remained where she was.

"Allegro," she said, "I've had—a bad dream—too."

"Have you, dear? How horrid!" said the sympathetic Olga. "What can we both have had for supper, I wonder?"

Violet uttered a hard little laugh. "Oh, it wasn't that! I haven't been asleep at all. I generally do sleep after Hunt-Goring's cigarettes. But to-night I couldn't. They only seemed to make things worse." She sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. "Don't cuddle me, Allegro! I'm so hot."

Olga leaned back on her pillows, with a curious sense of something gone wrong. "Shall I light a candle?" she said.

"No. It's light enough. I hate an artificial glare, Allegro!"

"Well, dear?" said Olga gently.

Violet was sitting with her back to the moonlight, her face in deep shadow. Her black hair was loosely tied back and hung below her waist. Olga stretched out a hand and touched the silken ripples caressingly.

Violet threw back her head restlessly. "I'm going to give up Hunt-Goring," she said.

"My dear, I am glad!" said Olga fervently.

Violet laughed again. "I only encouraged him for the sake of his cigarettes. But I'm going to give up them too. The opium habit grows on one so."

"Opium!" echoed Olga sharply.

"Opium, dear child! It's a cunning mixture and most seductive. The astute Max little knew what he was inhaling this afternoon." Violet's words had a curious tremor in them as of semi-tragic mirth.

Olga listened in horrified silence. So this was the secret of Max's peculiar behaviour! If he did not know by this time, then she did not know Max Wyndham.

"Yes," Violet went on. "Hunt-Goring is counting on those cigarettes of his to get me under his influence. I know. But I'm tired to death of the man. I'm going to pass him on to you."

"I hate him!" said Olga quickly.

"Oh, yes, dear! But he has his points. You'll find he can be quite amusing. Anyhow, take him off my hands for a spell. It isn't fair to make me do all your entertaining."

"Why don't you snub him?" said Olga, with some impatience. "It certainly isn't my fault that he comes here."

"Allegro, don't be horrid! I didn't refuse to help you when you wanted help." There was actually a pleading note in Violet's voice.

Olga responded to it instantly, with that ready warmth of hers that was the secret of her charm. "My dear, you know I would do anything in my power for you. But I can't—possibly—be nice to Major Hunt-Goring. I do detest him so."

"You detest Max Wyndham," said Violet quickly. "But you manage to be nice to him."

The words rang almost like an accusation. For the moment Olga felt quite incapable of replying. She lay in silence.

"Allegro!" Again she heard that note of pleading, vibrant this time, eager, almost passionate.

With an effort Olga brought herself to answer. "I've changed my mind about him. We are friends."

"Friends!" Violet sprang from the bed, and stood tense, quivering, with an arrow-like straightness that made her superb. Her eyes glittered as she faced the moonlight that poured through the unshaded window. "Does that mean you—care for him?" she demanded.

Olga hesitated. Violet in this mood was utterly unfamiliar to her, a strange and tragic personality before which she felt curiously small and ill at ease, even in some unaccountable fashion guilty.

"Dear, please don't ask me such startling questions!" she said. "I can't possibly answer you."

"Why not?" said Violet. Her hands were clenched. Her whole body seemed to be held in rigid control thereby.

"Because—" again Olga hesitated, considered, finally broke off lamely "I don't know."

"You do know!" There was actual ferocity in the open contradiction. Violet was directly facing her now. Her eyes shone so fiercely, so unnaturally, bright that a queer little sensation of doubt pricked Olga for the first time, setting every nerve and every muscle on the alert for she knew not what. "You do know, Allegro! And so do I!" The full voice took a deeper note, it throbbed the words. "Do you think I haven't watched you, seen what was going on? Do you think it has all been nothing to me—nothing to see you spoiling my chances day by day—nothing to feel you drawing him away from me—nothing to know—to know—" she suddenly flung her clenched hands wide open to the empty moonlight—"to know that you have set your heart on the only man I ever loved—you who wanted me to help you to get away from him—and have shouldered me aside?"