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Title: The Keeper of the Door

Author: Ethel M. Dell

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

Language: English

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THE KEEPER OF THE DOOR


By ETHEL M. DELL


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


A.L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

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

BY

ETHEL M. DELL


Fourth Impression


BY ETHEL M. DELL

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


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


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




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

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

_Acts xii. 6._


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

_The Voice and the Peak._

ALFRED TENNYSON.




CONTENTS

   _PART ONE_

   CHAPTER                                         PAGE

   I. THE LESSON                                    1

   II. THE ALLY                                    16

   III. THE OBSTACLE                               27

   IV. THE SETTING OF THE WATCH                    37

   V. THE CHAPERON                                 47

   VI. THE PAIN-KILLER                             62

   VII. THE PUZZLE                                 74

   VIII. THE ELASTIC BOND                          86

   IX. THE PROJECT                                 97

   X. THE DOOR                                    108

   XI. THE IMPOSSIBLE                             120

   XII. THE PAL                                   129

   XIII. HER FATE                                 149

   XIV. THE DARK HOUR                             155

   XV. THE AWAKENING                              167

   XVI. SECRETS                                   177

   XVII. THE VERDICT                              189

   XVIII. SOMETHING LOST                          198

   XIX. THE REVELATION                            205

   XX. THE SEARCH                                 217

   XXI. ON THE BRINK                              228

   XXII. OVER THE EDGE                            235

   XXIII. AS GOOD AS DEAD                         243

   XXIV. THE OPENING OF THE DOOR                  252

   XXV. THE PRICE                                 264


   _PART TWO_

   I. COURTSHIP                                   281

   II. THE SELF-INVITED GUEST                     287

   III. THE NEW LIFE                              297

   IV. THE PHANTOM                                305

   V. THE EVERLASTING CHAIN                       317

   VI. CHRISTMAS MORNING                          327

   VII. THE WILDERNESS OF NASTY POSSIBILITIES     340

   VIII. THE SOUL OF A HERO                       350

   IX. THE MAN WITH THE GUN                       357

   X. A TALK IN THE OPEN                          367

   XI. THE FAITHFUL WOUND OF A FRIEND             376

   XII. A LETTER FROM AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE         390

   XIII. A WOMAN'S PREJUDICE                      403

   XIV. SMOKE FROM THE FIRE                       414

   XV. THE SPREADING OF THE FLAME                 426

   XVI. THE GAP                                   437

   XVII. THE EASIEST COURSE                       452

   XVIII. ONE MAN'S LOSS                          462

   XIX. A FIGHT WITHOUT A FINISH                  472

   XX. THE POWER OF THE ENEMY                     487

   XXI. THE GATHERING STORM                       503

   XXII. THE REPRIEVE                             510

   XXIII. THE GIFT OF THE RAJAH                   518

   XXIV. THE BIG, BIG GAME OF LIFE                528

   XXV. MEMORIES THAT HURT                        537

   XXVI. A FOOL'S ERRAND                          548

   XXVII. LOVE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE           556

   XXVIII. A SOLDIER AND A GENTLEMAN              570

   XXIX. THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW                  578

   XXX. THE LINE OF RETREAT                       588




PART I

CHAPTER I

THE LESSON


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A vast age!" said Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What a fiend!" said Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well?" said Olga at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I?" stammered Olga, turning very white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Afraid not," said Max.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, what about me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How like a man!" exclaimed Olga.

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

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

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

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

Again he puffed the smoke upwards and watched it ascend.

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II

THE ALLY


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He told me."

"You mean you asked him!"

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

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

"I detest him!" Olga declared with vehemence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And black?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER III

THE OBSTACLE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You would have preferred sunstroke?" he suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She is," said Max.

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

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

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

"Not much good caring," said Max.

"What did she die of?" questioned Olga.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am going nevertheless," said Olga.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will answer you," he said.

"And besides--" said Olga.

"Yes?" said Max.

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

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

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

Suddenly he walked up to her, and stood still.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV

THE SETTING OF THE WATCH


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Evidently," said Max.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Violet! As if I could!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Violet dearest, how can you say so?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then you are never angry?" enquired Violet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Give it to me!" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V

THE CHAPERON


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So do I," said Max.

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

"So what?" said Max.

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

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

"I observe certain limits," said Nick.

"And you never make mistakes?"

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

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

"That's my affair," said Nick.

"And mine!"

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

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

"Who?" said Nick.

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

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

"You needn't," said Max grimly.

"That's why," said Nick.

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

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

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

"Yes, I've divined that."

"And you approve?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What is she afraid of?" growled Max.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In part," said Nick cautiously.

"And the other part?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Never?" she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?" said Max.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Very bad for you," said Max.

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

"Great Lucifer!" said Nick.

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

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

"Well?"

"Rather better than he thinks."

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

"What an infernal liar!" said Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite safe for him," said Max.

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

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

"Many thanks!" said Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" she said quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Violet remained immovable as one in a trance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Saves trouble, too," he suggested.

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

"Invariably," said Max.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And lose it!" said Max.

"And win it!" said Olga.

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

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

He frowned at her. "Why not?"

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

"Am I the obstacle?" asked Max.

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

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

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

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

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

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

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

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




CHAPTER VI

THE PAIN-KILLER


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only part?"

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

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

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

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

"How absurd!" exclaimed Olga.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Keep to the point!" ordered Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nick, I'm not nasty!"

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

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

"Why not?" said Nick.

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

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

"Yes, tell me!" said Olga.

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

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

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

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

"Heavens knows," said Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Really, Nick!"

Nick grinned. "Pardon my unparliamentary language!"

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

"A matter of opinion!" laughed Nick.

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

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

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

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

   "Olga."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" gasped both girls in a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He knew!" exclaimed Olga involuntarily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII

THE PUZZLE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We shall have to scorch," laughed Violet.

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

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

"Can I speak to you a moment?" he said to Olga and drew her into her
father's little smoki