He moved at last, bending nearer. "Olga!" he whispered.

"Yes?" Still she did not turn.

He slipped down to his knees beside her. "Olga!" he said again very pleadingly.

She stirred then, stirred and looked him full in the eyes. And all his life Noel remembered the awful despair that looked out at him from her soul "I—can't!" she said.

He clasped her two hands between his own. "Can't you even think of it?" he urged, under his breath. "You know—you said—you'd have married me if—if—poor old Max hadn't come first. I wouldn't cut him out for worlds; but that's happened already, hasn't it? Surely there's no one else?"

But Olga made no answer. Only the despair in her eyes deepened to a dumb agony.

"Darling," he whispered, gathering her hands up and holding them against his face, "I'd be awfully good to you. And I want you—I do want you. Won't you even consider it?"

A great shiver went through Olga.

"Won't you have my love?" he said.

But still for a little she was silent. It seemed that no words would come.

Then, as he pressed his lips to the hands he had taken, something seemed suddenly to break loose within her. With a great sob she leaned her head upon his shoulder. "Noel! Noel! I—can't!"

His arms clasped her in a moment; he held her close. "Dearest, what is it? Why can't you?"

She answered him with her face hidden and in a voice so low that he barely caught the words. "I am—not free!"

"Not free!" Sharply he repeated the phrase. Suspicion, keen-edged as a rapier, ran swiftly through him. His arms tightened. "Olga, tell me what you mean! Who is it? Not—not that devil Hunt-Goring!"

She did not answer him, save by her silence and the convulsive shudder that went through her at his words. But that in itself was answer enough, and over her head Noel swore a deep and terrible oath.

Only a few yards away the lilting waltz-music was quickening to a finish. In a few moments more their privacy would be invaded by the giddy dancers.

"Listen!" said Noel, and his voice fell short and stern. "He shan't have you! That I swear! It's monstrous—it's unthinkable! Why, he's old enough to be your father. And he's got the opium-habit. Max told me so. Olga, I say, haven't you the strength of mind to refuse him? If the brute pesters you, why don't you tell Nick?"

Slowly Olga raised herself, quitting his support. "I've promised not to tell anyone," she said dully. "You mustn't know either."

"But, my dear girl, something must be done," he objected. "You can't let him ride over you roughshod. You don't mean—you can't mean—to let him marry you?"

"I can't help it," she said.

"Can't help it!" He stared at her. "He really has some hold over you then? What is it?"

She was silent. The last crashing chords of the first waltz were being played. Noel got to his feet. His boyish face was set in grim lines.

"Do you want me to go and kill him?" he said.

"No!" She sprang up also, quickened to sudden fear by his words. "You're not to go near him," she said, "Noel, promise me you won't! Oh, if you only knew—how much harder—your interference makes things! Don't you see—I've given him my word to consult no one!" She was panting uncontrollably; her hands were fast closed upon his arm. "I refused him once before," she told him feverishly, "and he—he punished me—cruelly. I can't—I daren't—refuse him again!"

"You'd sooner marry him?" Noel stared at her incredulously.

She flung out her hands with a wide, despairing gesture. "Yes—yes—I would sooner marry him!"

The music had stopped. There came the sound of approaching voices. Their privacy was at an end.

Yet for full ten seconds Noel stood widely gazing at the girl before him with eyes in which surprise, hurt pride, and smouldering passion mingled; then very abruptly, as the first chattering couple reached the half-open door, he swung away from her.

"All right!" he said. "Good-bye!"

He went straight out without a glance behind, nearly running into the gay invaders.

Olga, with the instinct to escape notice, turned as swiftly to the window. She went out upon the verandah, blindly groping her way, scarcely aware of her surroundings. And a figure waiting there in the dimness laughed a cruel laugh and roughly caught her.

"'You'd sooner marry him,' eh?" gibed a voice close to her ear. "My dear, that's the wisest resolution you ever made in your life!"

She did not cry out or attempt to resist him. She had known that her fate was sealed. Only, as his lips sought hers, she shrank away with every fibre of her being in sick revolt, and for the first time in her life she begged for mercy.

"Please—please—give me to-night!" she pleaded. "Only to-night! Yes, I will marry you. But don't—don't ask—any more of me—to-night!"

He paused, still holding her in his arms, feeling the wild beat of her heart against his own, softened in spite of himself by that quivering, agonized appeal.

"And if I let you go to-night, what will you give me to-morrow?" he said.

"I shall be—your fiancee—to-morrow," she whispered, gasping.

"And you will marry me—when?"

"You shall decide," she murmured faintly.

He laughed rather brutally. "A somewhat empty favour, my dear, since I should have decided in any case. But if you give me your promise to come to me like a sensible girl, without any more nonsense of any kind—"

"I will!" she said. "I will!"

"Then—" he released her with the words—"I give you your freedom—till to-morrow. Go—and make the most of it!"

He had not kissed her. She slipped from his arms, thankful for his forbearance, and sped away down the veranda like a shadow.

As for Hunt-Goring, he cursed himself for a soft fool and took out his cigarettes to wile away what promised to be an evening of infernal dullness.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE GIFT OF THE RAJAH

Olga danced that night with the feeling that she danced upon her grave, reminding herself continually, as the hours slipped by, that it was her last night of freedom.

The failure of Nick to appear for the supper-dances diverted her thoughts from this but to send them with ever-growing anxiety into a new channel. Where was Nick? What was happening to him? What could be delaying him?

She had no partner to take her in to supper, refusing each one that offered with the repeated declaration that she must wait for Nick. But Nick came not, and momentarily her uneasiness increased.

Sir Reginald came to her at last, his kindly face full of sympathy. "There is probably no occasion for alarm, my dear," he said. "Come, give me the pleasure of your company at supper!"

She had to yield, for he would take no refusal; but she could eat nothing notwithstanding his utmost solicitude. She was in a state of mind to start at every sudden sound, and the food he put before her remained untasted on her plate.

Sir Reginald watched over her with fatherly concern, but he could do nothing to alleviate her anxiety. In his own private soul he shared it to a considerable degree.

As they left the supper-room together, she turned to him piteously. "Oh, do you think I might go back and see if he has returned? Really, I can't—I can't dance any more!"

"Wait a little longer!" he counselled. "You needn't dance of course. Stay quietly with me! He may walk in at any moment."

She longed to go, but could not refuse a suggestion so kindly proffered. She stayed with him therefore, glad of his protecting presence, refusing to dance any more on the plea of fatigue.

The whirling scene wearied her unspeakably. She found herself watching Noel, who was frankly flirting with every woman in the room. It was doubtless a safe pastime, but behind her gnawing anxiety a little spark of resentment kindled and burned. How hopelessly fickle he was!

Hunt-Goring had apparently removed himself from the gay company altogether, for she saw him not at all. His absence was the only palliating circumstance in that hour of sick suspense.

It was growing late and the remaining dances were few, when a native orderly entered the room and stepped up to Colonel Bradlaw, who was standing with Sir Reginald. He murmured a few low words to which the Colonel listened with a frown. It was his habit to frown always at the unexpected.

He turned after a moment to Sir Reginald. "There's a messenger arrived from the Palace with a box of sweets or something. What?" breaking off ferociously as the orderly's lips moved soundlessly.

"Moonstones, sahib," murmured the orderly with deference.

"Moonstones," repeated the Colonel, in a tone of vast contempt, "to be presented to the lady wearing the best make-up in the room. What on earth am I to do, sir?"

"Accept with thanks, I should say," said Sir Reginald, with a smile.

"Oh, I don't mean that," said the Colonel, frowning still more. "But who the dickens is going to decide as to the merits of the ladies' costumes? Not I—and not my wife! It's too big a responsibility—that."

Sir Reginald laughed. "That is a serious consideration, certainly. I should make them decide themselves. Vote by ballot. That ought to satisfy everyone."

The Colonel turned to the waiting orderly. "Very well. Tell the messenger to come in!" He made a sign to Noel, who had just ceased to dance, that brought the young man to his side.

"Look here, Wyndham! You organized this show, so you may as well take on this job. The Rajah has sent a prize for the lady wearing the best costume."

Noel frowned also at the news. "Confound him! What for, sir?"

"Oh, I suppose he wants to make himself popular," said the Colonel, still mightily contemptuous. "We can't refuse it anyway. Arrange for the ladies to vote by ballot, will you? They will probably all vote for themselves," he added to Sir Reginald. "But that's a detail. And I say, Noel, get a table from somewhere, will you? It's your show, not mine."

Noel smiled upon his commanding-officer, an impudent, affectionate smile. He and Badgers were close allies. "Very good, sir, I'll see to it," he said, and departed.

Under his directions a table was brought in and placed at the end of the room. The dancing was stopped temporarily, and the dancers lined up against the walls. Noel, armed with a sheaf of note-paper went the round, tearing off slips and distributing them as he went.

While this was in progress, the Rajah's messenger was admitted and conducted to the table behind which stood Sir Reginald with Olga and Colonel Bradlaw. He was a very magnificent person, turbaned and glittering; he bore himself like the servant of an emperor. In his hands he carried with extreme care an ivory casket, exquisitely carved, with a lock of wrought Indian gold. The key, also of gold, lay on the top of the casket.

The gift was plainly a costly one, and every eye in the room followed it.

The messenger reached the table and bowed low. "With the compliments of His Highness the Rajah of Sharapura!" he said, and deposited the casket upon the table.

The Colonel glanced at Sir Reginald who at once responded. "Convey our thanks to the Rajah," he said, "and say that the gracious gift will be much appreciated! I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon him to assure him of this in person to-morrow."

The messenger salaamed again deeply, and withdrew.

"I wish he'd keep his precious moonstones!" grumbled the Colonel. "They are more bother than they're worth. Hurry up, there, Noel! It's getting late."

"Just finished, sir," came Noel's cheery answer. "I must just get a hat to hold the ballot-papers."

He did not offer a paper to Olga, who still kept her place by Sir Reginald, her young face white and tired under the pile of fair, powdered hair.

"I think I shall go when this is over," she whispered to Sir Reginald.

"So you shall," he said kindly. "I will escort you myself. I expect we shall find Nick waiting for us," he added, with a smile. "Some business has delayed him, I have no doubt."

She tried to smile in answer, but her lips quivered in spite of her. She turned her face aside, ashamed of her weakness.

Noel came up with the ballot-papers, and emptied them out upon the table without a glance at her.

"I must get you to help," said Sir Reginald, drawing her gently forward.

"I can manage, sir," said Noel shortly.

But the Colonel broke in, "Nonsense, Wyndham! One scrutineer isn't enough."

And Noel pushed across a handful of papers to Olga without lifting his eyes.

With fingers that trembled slightly, she began to sort, assisted by Sir Reginald. Several of the papers bore her own name, a fact which at first she scarcely noticed, but which very soon became too conspicuous to be ignored.

"I believe it's yours," murmured Sir Reginald at her elbow.

"Oh, impossible!" she said, flushing.

But in a very few minutes the suspicion was verified. Noel looked up from his sorting with a brief, "You've won!"

Olga raised her eyes swiftly, but he instantly averted his, and turned to communicate the result to the Colonel.

The latter shook hands with her, and shouted the news in his loudest parade voice to the assembled company. There ensued applause and congratulations that Olga would gladly have foregone. Then, as her friends began to press round, Sir Reginald stepped forward.

"It is my proud privilege," he said, "to present to Miss Ratcliffe in the Rajah's name his very handsome gift."

He took the golden key from the top of the casket and handed it with a bow to Olga.

She took it with a murmur of thanks, and stood hesitating, possessed by a very curious feeling of dread.

"Open it!" said Noel impatiently.

"Open it for her!" said Sir Reginald, divining a certain amount of nervousness as the cause of her hesitation.

Noel held out a hand for the key, and she gave it to him. There was a sudden hush and a little thrill of expectation in the motley crowd gathered round as he turned to fit it into the lock.

The key did not fit in very easily; it seemed to meet with some obstruction. With a frown Noel pulled it out again. "What's the matter with the thing?" he said irritably.

"Try it the other way up!" suggested Sir Reginald.

"I believe it's a hoax," said a man in the crowd.

Noel turned the key upside down amid an interested silence, and began to insert it again in the lock.

As he did so, there came a sudden cry from the background, a man's voice shrill and warning.

"Leave the thing alone! It's a bomb! I tell you, it's a bomb!"

"What?" The crowd scattered backwards as though a thunderbolt had fallen in its midst, and a woman shrieked in panic.

A man—wild, unkempt, ragged—tore like a maniac over the polished floor, making for the group at the table, waving one skinny arm.

"Noel! You damn' fool! Leave the thing alone!"

Noel whizzed round with the key in his hand. "Hullo,—Nick!" he said.

"Leave it alone! Leave it alone!" The voice dropped to a hoarse croak. The man was close to the table now, and in amazement Olga recognized the face of the old moonstone-seller. But it was convulsed with a terror such as she had never seen on the face of any man.

The bony hand darted out towards the casket, and her heart stood still. She knew that hand—wiry, energetic, capable.

"Nick!" she whispered. "Nick!"

He brushed her aside, and, again in that dry, breathless croak, "There isn't—a moment—to lose!" he said.

In another instant he would have had the shining thing in his grasp, but in that instant Noel's wits leaped to full understanding. He wheeled, caught the newcomer by his tattered garment, and flung him violently away.

"All right, you old joker!" he said. "My job!"

Dazed with horror, though still scarcely realizing, Olga saw him turn and lift the ivory casket, holding it clasped firmly between his hands. Then, with a set face, stepping warily, he moved to the window close behind.

In the other part of the room women were crying and men deeply cursing; but there near the table no one uttered a sound, till the ragged creature on the floor sprang up crying hoarsely for a pail of water.

Noel's figure passed through the open window as he did so, smoothly, unfalteringly, and so out upon the dark verandah.

Deftly, warily, he made his way. The thing between his hands weighed heavily. It would have been no job for a one-armed man.

He passed down the verandah with every nerve strung to the moment's emergency. Unquestionably he was not afraid, but he could have wished that the place had been better illuminated. His progress would have been considerably quicker.

He neared the flight of six steps that led down to the compound, and suddenly became aware of a dark figure lounging in a wicker-chair ahead of him. He saw the glow of a cigarette.

He raised his voice. "Hi, you! Clear out! Git—if you value your life! There's going to be an explosion!"

He did not slacken his pace as he uttered his warning. He dared not pause. His whole heart was set on reaching the compound in time.

The figure in the chair turned towards him. He heard the creak of the bamboo. But it made no movement to rise.

"Confound you! Take your chance then!" said Noel between his teeth.

He came closer. He saw in a momentary glance the face behind the cigarette. Heavy, drugged eyes looked up to his. Then in the dimness he heard a sudden movement, a snarling, devilish laugh.

The next instant he kicked against an obstruction, staggered, fought madly to recover himself, tripped a second time, and with a yell of rage fell headlong.

There came a flash of blinding, intolerable brightness—a roar as of the roar of a cannon, stunning, deafening, devastating,—the smaller sound of wood splintering and falling,—and then a dumb and awful silence more fearful than Death.

* * * * *

The first to arrive on that scene of darkness and destruction was the old moonstone-seller. He seemed to be gifted with eyes of extraordinary keenness, for he made his way unerringly, with the agility of a monkey among the splintered debris. One corner of the mess-house had completely gone, leaving a gaping hole into the ante-room. Dimly the lamps within shone upon the wreckage. The crowd from the ball-room, horror-stricken, fearful, were gathered about the doorway. The atmosphere was thick with dust and smoke.

Light as an acrobat the moonstone-seller stepped among the ruins, then paused to listen.

"Is there anyone here?" he asked aloud. "Noel, are you here?"

There was no answer. The awful, tragic silence closed in upon his words.

But it did not daunt him. Cautiously he crept a little further forward. And now there came a voice from the room behind him, Colonel Bradlaw's voice, harsh with suspense.

"Is the boy dead?"

"Don't know yet, sir," came back the answer. "Will you send a lantern? Ah! Hullo!"

Something had moved against his foot. Something writhed and groaned.

The searcher stooped. "Hullo!" he said again. "Noel, is it you, lad? I'm here. I'll help you."

A voice answered him—a smothered inarticulate voice. A groping hand came up, clutching for deliverance. There came the slip and crackle of broken wood beneath which some living object struggled and fought for freedom.

The one wiry arm of the moonstone-seller went down to the rescue. It did good service that night—such service as astonished even its owner when he had time to think.

The man under the debris was making titanic efforts, thrusting his way upwards with desperate, frantic strength. Once as he strove he uttered a sharp, agonized cry, and the man above him swore in fierce, instinctive sympathy.

"Where are you hurt, old chap? Keep your head, for Heaven's sake! Where is it worst?"

The gasping voice made answer with spasmodic effort: "My head—my face—my eyes! Oh, God,—my eyes!"

There followed a cough as if something choked all utterance, and then again that mute, gigantic struggle for freedom.

It was over at last. Out of the wreckage there staggered the dreadful likeness of a man. The lantern had been brought and shone full upon the ghastly sight. He was torn, battered, half-naked, and the whole of his face was blackened and streaming with blood.

"Noel! Is it Noel?" asked Colonel Bradlaw.

And the man himself made answer, spitting forth the blood that impeded his utterance.

"Yes, it's me! But I'm done, sir! I'm done! Bring a light someone! I can't see—where I'm going!"

The moonstone-seller's arm was round him, holding him up. "All right, lad! I've got you!" he said.

"But bring a light! Bring a light!" A note of panic ran through the reiterated words "Confound it! I must see—I will see—I—"

"My dear lad, you can't see for a minute." It was Nick's voice, quick and soothing. "This infernal blood has got into your eyes. Come and have them attended to! You'll be better directly."

"No! It's not the blood! It's not the blood!" The words tumbled over each other, well-nigh incoherent in their fevered utterance. And suddenly Noel flung up his arms above his head with a wild and anguished cry. "My God! I'm blind! I'm blind!"

With the cry his strength—that fiery strength born of emergency—collapsed quite suddenly. His knees doubled under him. He fell forward in utter, overwhelming impotence, and lay prone and senseless at the Colonel's feet....



CHAPTER XXIV

THE BIG, BIG GAME OF LIFE

It was many hours later that understanding returned to Noel.

He came to himself abruptly, in utter darkness, with the horror of it still strong within his soul. His head was swathed in bandages. He turned it to and fro with restless jerks.

"And will ye please to lie quiet?" said the voice of the Irish regimental surgeon peremptorily by his side.

Noel, also Irish, collected his forces and made reply. "No. Why the devil should I? Where am I? What's going to happen to me? Am I—am I blind for life?"

The falter in the words spoke to the tenseness of his suspense. The doctor answered instantly, with more of kindliness than judgment. "Faith, no! It's not so bad as that. But ye'll have to pretend ye are for the present, or, egad, ye will be before ye've done. We brought ye to the Musgraves' shanty. Mrs. Musgrave wanted the care of ye. Damn' quare taste on her part, I'm thinking. And now ye're not to talk any more; but drink this stuff like a good boy and go to sleep."

Noel drank with disgust; the taste of blood was still in his mouth. He had never been ill in his life before, and he had not the smallest intention of obeying the doctor's orders.

"Let's hear what happened!" he said impatiently. "Oh, leave me alone, do! When can I have this beastly bandage off my eyes?"

"Not for a very long while, my son." The doctor's voice was jaunty, but the eyes that looked at the blind, swathed face were full of pity. "And don't ye go loosening it when my back's turned, or it isn't meself that'll be answerable for the consequences."

"Oh, damn the consequences!" said Noel. "I want to get up."

"And that ye can't!" was the doctor's prompt rejoinder. "Ye'll just lie quiet till further orders. Ye'll find yourself as weak as a rat moreover, when ye start to move about. It's only the fever in your veins that makes ye want to try."

Noel straightened himself in the bed. He was becoming aware of a fiery, throbbing torture beneath the bandages. With clenched teeth and hands hard gripped he set himself to endure.

But in a few minutes he turned his head again. "Are you still there, Maloney?"

"Still here, my son," said Maloney.

"Well, go and find someone—anyone who knows—to tell me exactly what happened last night."

"I can tell ye meself," began Maloney.

But Noel interrupted. "No; not you! You're such a liar. No offence meant! You can't help it. Find—find Nick, will you?"

"It isn't visitors ye ought to be having with your pulse in this state," objected Maloney.

"Do as I say!" commanded Noel stubbornly.

His will prevailed. The Irish doctor saw the futility of argument, and departed, having extracted a promise from his patient not to move during his absence.

And then came silence as well as darkness, an awful sense of being entombed, an isolation that appalled him added to the torture that racked. With an acuteness of consciousness more harrowing than delirium, he faced this thing that had come upon him, grabbing all his courage to endure the ordeal.

He felt as if his brain were on fire, each nerve-centre agonizing separately in the intolerable, all-enveloping flames. And through the dreadful stillness he heard the beat, beat, beat, of his heart, like the feet of a runaway along a desert road.

He turned his head again restlessly from side to side. The agony was beginning to master him. His powers of endurance were dwindling.

Suddenly he found himself speaking, scarcely knowing what he said, feeling that he must cry out or die.

"Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, O God!" Just the one sentence over and over to save him from raving insanity. "Lighten our darkness! Lighten our darkness! Lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee!"

He broke off abruptly. What was the good? Prayers were for white-souled children like Peggy. Was it likely that any cry of his would pierce the veil?

Yet the words came back to him, so urgent was his distress, so unbearable the silence of his desert. He said them again with a desperate earnestness, and almost instinctively began to listen for an answer. He felt almost a child again himself in his utter need, as he wrestled to drive the awful darkness from his soul. But no answer came to his cry and the brave heart of him slowly sank. He was deserted then, hurled down into hell to die a living death. In a single flashing second he had been torn from the world he loved—that bright, gay world in which he had revelled all his life—and flung into this inferno of endless darkness. The iron began to bite into his soul.

The glory of his youth was quenched. From thenceforth he would hear the music from afar, he would be barred out from the splendour of life, he would wander along the outside edge of things, forlorn and lonely. His popularity, his brilliance, his joy of living, had all been crushed to atoms with that single, sledge-hammer blow of Fate. Better—ten thousand times better—to have killed him outright! For this thing was infinitely worse than death.

The iron drove in a little deeper. His spirit, his pride, awoke and rebelled, raging impotently. He would not bear the burden. He would die somehow. He would find a means, do what they would to stop him. He would escape—somehow—from this particular hell. He would not be chained between life and death. He would burst the bonds. He would be free!

His pulses rose to fever pitch. He started up upon the bed. Now was the time—now—now! He might not have another chance. And there must be some means to his hand—some way out of this awful darkness!

The madness of fever urged him. In another moment he would have been on his feet, at grips with the fate that bound him; but even as he gathered himself together for the effort, something happened.

The door opened and a woman entered. He heard the swish of her draperies, and his heart gave a great throb and paused.

"Who is it?" he said, and his voice was harsh and dry even to his own hearing. "Who is it? Speak to me!"

She spoke, and his heart, released from the sudden check, leaped on at a pace that nearly suffocated him. "It's I, Noel,—Olga! They said I might come and see you. You don't mind?"

"Mind!" he said, and suddenly a great sob burst from him. He felt out towards her with hands that wildly groped. "Let me feel you!" he entreated. "I—I'll let you go again!"

And then very suddenly her arms were all around him, closing him in, lifting him out of his hell. "Noel! My own Noel!" she whispered. "My own, splendid boy!"

He held her fast, his battered head pillowed against her while he fought for self-control. For many seconds he could not utter a word. And in the silence the world he knew opened its gates to him again and took him back. The darkness remained indeed, but it had been lightened. The horror of it no longer tore his soul. The iron had been withdrawn.

He moved at last, drawing her hand to his lips. "Olga, you don't know what you've saved me from. I was—in hell."

"Lie down, dear!" she murmured softly. "I'm going to take care of you now." She added, as she shook up the pillow, "It's my business, isn't it?"

He sank back with a sense of great comfort, holding her hand fast in his. It made the darkness less dark to hold her so.

"I want to know what happened," he said. "Sit down and tell me!"

"And you will try to keep quiet," she urged gently.

"Yes—yes! But don't keep anything back! Tell me everything!"

"I will, dear," she said, "though really there isn't much to tell. Is that quite comfy? You're not in bad pain?"

"I can bear it," he said. "Go on! Let's hear!"

So, sitting by his side, her hand in his, Olga told him.

The plot had been of Kobad Shikan's devising. Nick had been on the watch for it for some time, had penetrated the city nightly in the garb of a moonstone-seller, collecting evidence, and—most masterly stroke of all—he had drawn the Rajah into partnership with him. It was due to Nick's influence alone that the Rajah had not been caught in Kobad Shikan's toils. Thanks to Nick's steady call upon his loyalty, he had remained staunch. But Kobad Shikan had been too powerful a tactician to overthrow openly. They had been forced to work against him in secret.

"The Rajah calls Nick his brother," said Olga.

"Like his cheek!" said Noel. "Not that I can talk myself. I took the liberty of kicking him off his own premises once." He chuckled involuntarily at the recollection and commanded her to continue.

So Olga went on to tell of old Kobad's final coup and of how the Rajah, receiving news of some mischief afoot, had sent an urgent message of warning that had taken Nick straight to the Palace. Thence he had gone in disguise to the haunts of Kobad Shikan's conspirators, but here he had received a check. Kobad Shikan, fearing treachery among his followers, had taken elaborate precautions to conceal his proceedings, and for hours Nick had been kept searching vainly for a clue. Then at last he had succeeded in running the truth to earth, had discovered the whole ghastly plot barely half an hour before the time fixed for its consummation, and had raced to the mess-house with his warning.

"And that's all, is it?" said Noel.

"Yes, that's all; except that old Kobad has disappeared. Nick seems sorry, but everyone else is glad."

"And what about—Hunt-Goring?" said Noel at last.

Olga's fingers tightened in his hold. "Oh, did you know he was there?" she said.

Briefly he made answer. "Yes, he tripped me. I believe he was half-drunk with opium or something. What happened? Was he killed?"

Noel's voice was imperious. She answered him instantly, seeing he demanded it.

"Yes."

Noel drew a deep breath. "Thank God for that!" he said. "Then you are free'"

Olga was silent.

"You are free?" he repeated, with quick interrogation.

Yet an instant longer she hesitated. Then she leaned her head against his pillow with a little sob. "No,—I'm not free, Noel. I—have given myself—to you!"

"Because I'm blind!" he said.

"No, dear, no! Once free—I should have come to you—in any case."

"Would you?" he said. "Would you? You're quite sure? You're not saying it out of pity? I won't have you marry me out of pity, Olga. I couldn't stand it."

"Oh, you needn't be afraid of that!" she said. Then a moment later, "When I marry you," she murmured softly, "it will be—for love."

There was no mistaking the sincerity of the words, though even then as it were in spite of himself he knew that the passionate adoration he had poured out to her had awakened no answering rapture in her heart. The very fashion of her surrender told him this. He might come first with her indeed, but the full gift was no longer hers to offer.

"I wonder if you will be happy with me," he said, after a moment.

"It is my only chance of happiness," she made answer.

"How do you know?" There was curiosity in his voice: he made a movement of impatient impotence, putting a hand that trembled up to his bandaged head.

She took the hand, and drew it softly down. "I will tell you how I know," she said. "I know because when I thought you were killed I felt—I felt as if the world had stopped. And since then—since I knew that you would live—I have been able to think of only you—only you." Her voice broke upon a sound of tears. "That awful fear for you opened my eyes," she whispered. "I haven't been able to think of Major Hunt-Goring's death or anything else at all. I've even deserted Nick." Valiantly, through her tears, she smiled. "I never did such a thing as that before for anyone."

He clasped her hands tightly as he lay. "Don't cry, sweetheart!" he whispered. "You're not crying—for me?"

"I can't help it," she whispered back. "I can't bear to think of you suffering,—you, Noel, you!"

"Don't cry!" he said again, and this time there was a hint of grimness in his voice. "I shall win through—somehow—for your sweet sake. Maloney told me I wasn't blind just now. That, I know, was a lie. Or at least he didn't believe it himself. Personally I feel as if my eyes have been blown clean out of my head. But—blind or otherwise—I'll stick to it, I'll stick to it, Olga. I'll make you happy, so help me, God!"

"My dearest!" she murmured. "My dearest!"

"And you're not to cry over me," he said despotically. "You're not to fret—ever. If you do, I—I shall be furious." He uttered a quivering laugh. "We'll play the game, dear, shall we, the big, big game of life? It won't be easy, God knows; but He lightened my darkness—very first time of asking too. So perhaps He'll give us a tip now and then as to the moves."

He fell silent for a space, and she wondered if he were growing drowsy. Then as she sat motionless by his side, closely watching him, she saw the boyish lips part in their own sunny smile.

"Go and tell Mrs. Musgrave to hoist a flag!" he said. "Say it's the luckiest day of my life!"

The lips quivered a little over the words, but they continued bravely to smile.

And Olga understood. The boy had shouldered his burden with all his soldier's spirit, and nothing would daunt him now. He had begun to play the game.

She herself rose to the occasion with instant resolution, forcing back the tears he would not suffer, brave because he was brave.

"I shall tell her to hoist one for us both," she said, "and to keep it flying as long as we are under her roof."



CHAPTER XXV

MEMORIES THAT HURT

"Well, Max! You're just off then?" Sir Kersley Whitton looked up with a smile to greet his partner as he entered.

"Just off," said Max.

He came to Sir Kersley, seated at his writing-table, and paused beside him. It was a day in April, showery, shot with fleeting gleams of sunshine that sent long golden shafts across the doctor's room.

"You will bring the boy here then?" said Sir Kersley.

"Yes, straight here. It's very good of you, Kersley." Max's hand lay for a moment on the great man's shoulder.

"Nonsense, my dear fellow! I'm as keen as you are." Sir Kersley leaned back in his chair. "I only hope we may be successful," he said. "Is he likely to be a good patient?"

"Quite the reverse, I should say." Max sounded grim. "But I expect I can manage him."

Sir Kersley smiled again. "Just as you managed me a couple of years ago, eh? Yes, I should say you will be fully competent in that respect. You have a way with you, eh, Max? What was it this Indian doctor said?"

"He believed a cure possible, but only under the most favourable conditions. The boy was in no state then to undergo an operation, and he funked the job." Max's tone was contemptuous.

"Ah, well! It's as well he didn't attempt it in that case," said Sir Kersley. "He will stand a better chance with us. And what about Captain Ratcliffe and Olga? Will they go straight home?"

"No," said, Max. He paused a moment, then said rather shortly, "I had a line from Dr. Jim. He says she won't leave Noel. He and Mrs. Ratcliffe are coming up to meet them, but he expects to go back alone."

"Captain and Mrs. Ratcliffe will stay in town with Olga, then?" asked Sir Kersley.

"I believe so."

Sir Kersley's grey eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "And she is still in the dark with regard to Miss Campion's death?" he asked, after a moment.

Max's eyes came swiftly downwards, meeting his look with something of the effect of a challenge. "Yes, absolutely," he said.

"It's an extraordinary case," observed Sir Kersley.

Max said nothing whatever. He took his pipe from his pocket, and began to fill it with a face of sardonic composure.

"I wonder if she ever asks herself how it came about," said Sir Kersley.

"Why should she?" said Max gruffly.

"My dear fellow, she must have wondered how it happened—why all details were kept from her—and so on."

"Why should she?" said Max again aggressively. "The subject is a painful one. She is willing enough to avoid it. Of course," he paused momentarily, "Noel doesn't know about that affair either. No one knows besides ourselves, but Dr. Jim and Nick."

"In my opinion Noel ought to know," said Sir Kersley, with quiet decision. "It would be a terrible thing for Olga if some day—after they were married—she remembered, and he were in ignorance of it."

Again Max's hand pressed his friend's shoulder, but this time the pressure was one of warning. "Kersley," he said, "I've been into all that. I've weighed every possible contingency that might arise. And I have decided against telling Noel. As you say, it would be a terrible thing if she ever remembered; but if Noel is left in ignorance, the chances are she never will remember. To tell him would be to put a shadow between them which he would never forget and she would in time come to be aware of. It would wreck their happiness sooner or later. No; in Heaven's name, leave them in peace!"

"I think you are wrong," Sir Kersley said. He was looking straight up into Max's face with eyes of shrewd kindliness. "I think it is extremely improbable that she never will remember. And I think, moreover, that it is hardly to be desired that she should not."

"I disagree with you!" said Max harshly.

"Yes, my dear fellow, I know you do. You are no impartial judge. You want—very naturally—to save her from any suffering. And I don't think you will succeed. If you could have persuaded her to marry you, you might have done it. Forewarned is forearmed; you would have known how to safeguard her. But utter ignorance is no safeguard at all. I don't think she would thank you for it—if she knew."

Max's mouth twisted in its most cynical smile. "I wonder," he said.

Sir Kersley said no more. Beyond the bare fact of his brief engagement and its rupture, Max had confided in him not at all. He had left him to infer that she had been caught by a nearer attraction in his absence—an inference which her present engagement to his brother had seemed to confirm. And Sir Kersley had been far too considerate to probe for further enlightenment. But he was not privately by any means satisfied with regard to the matter of Max's long and fruitless journey. He was not accustomed to seeing Max beaten, and the spectacle hurt him.

He urged his opinion no further, for it was evident that Max was firmly determined to withstand it; but when Max had gone he sat and contemplated the matter with a troubled frown. There seemed to be something he had not fathomed behind Max's silence.

As for Max he departed for the docks with that air of grimness that had somewhat grown on him of late. Though bound upon a welcoming errand, he knew that it was not going to be a particularly easy one.

He was somewhat late in arriving, and the great steamer had already come to her moorings. Among the waiting crowd he discerned Dr. Jim and Muriel, but he did not make his way to them. He knew they would meet later, and he was not feeling sociable that afternoon.

So he stood aloof and waited, searching the many faces that lined the deck-rails for the one face that alone he longed to see. He spied her at last, and was conscious of a momentary pang that he fiercely stifled. She was standing there at the rail above him, waving her handkerchief to Dr. Jim. Nick was on one side of her, also madly waving and yelling with futile energy. On the other side stood Noel. And at sight of him Max's grim face softened to tenderness.

"There's grit in the boy," he murmured.

For Noel, with a black shade covering his bandaged eyes, was obviously as merry as any there. He was holding Peggy Musgrave perched on his shoulder, and his thin, brown face was upturned and laughing. There seemed to be some joke going on between them, for Peggy was also chuckling vigorously, and as Max watched she slipped a caressing hand round Noel's chin and tenderly kissed him.

Daisy and Will Musgrave were standing next to them, but they were plainly not thinking of Peggy or her cavalier. They were very close together and hand in hand.

It was nearly an hour later that Max joined the party as they came ashore. Noel's pleasure at meeting him was very obvious. He gripped him by both hands.

"Old chap, you're a brick to come and meet me!" he said. "I was thinking of asking Trevor, but I'd ten times sooner have you."

"Trevor's away," Max said. "I've come to take possession of you altogether. I suppose you've no objection?"

"Objection!" laughed Noel. He pushed his hand through his brother's arm. "You'll have to pilot me," he said. "I'm getting used to things, but I can't find my way in a crowd yet."

And then came the meeting with Olga. It was very brief. For barely the fraction of a second her hand lay in Max's. Her greeting was quite inaudible.

Noel turned to her. "Olga, Max wants me to clear out at once with him. You're going to Marriot's with Nick of course. I shall come round and see you to-night."

"Perhaps Olga will come and see you instead," said Max. "Is Dr. Jim spending the night in town? Bring him to dine! I will speak to him, shall I?"

He passed on and made the arrangement with Dr. Jim, not waiting for her reply.

Then came a general rallying of the party, introductions and good-byes, fervent embraces from Peggy, good wishes and invitations on all sides, and at last the final departure of the two Wyndhams in Sir Kersley Whitton's motor.

Noel removed his hat and leaned back with a sigh. "It's been a ripping voyage," he said. "But I'm deuced glad it's over." He added with a laugh, as Max made no comment. "I shall miss Peggy though. She's been blind man's dog to me all through."

"Let us hope you won't need a dog to lead you about much longer!" said Max.

Whereat Noel's hand came out gropingly, with a certain diffidence. "Oh, man," he said, "I haven't dared to think of that!"

Max grasped the hand. "I'll do my best for you, old chap," he said. "But you'll need a thundering lot of patience."

"I've been cultivating that," said Noel. "The only thing I can't stand is not to know the truth."

"I shan't keep you in the dark," said Max. "It's not my way."

He was as good as his word. A few hours later he made his first examination of the injury, and curtly gave it as his opinion that it was not beyond remedy.

"I don't profess to be infallible," he said. "But there certainly seems to be just a chance that the sight has not been absolutely destroyed. I'm afraid you'll have a good deal to go through if it is to be restored, though. It will be a tough job for all concerned."

"Oh, I'm not afraid of that," said Noel sturdily. "I've the very best of reasons for sticking to it."

"Ah!" said Max, with his twisted smile. "I haven't congratulated you yet."

Noel turned with a quick movement. "I say, Max," he said, with a touch of embarrassment, "you weren't quite straight with me over that, were you?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Max in a voice that was utterly devoid of expression.

Noel's face was red, but he stuck to his point. "You didn't tell me why she broke with you," he said.

"Who did?" demanded Max.

"Hunt-Goring."

Max swallowed a remark which sounded more savage suppressed than if it had been fully audible.

"You had a row with him then?"

"Yes, I did. I couldn't help it. I told him it was a damned lie," said Noel.

Max grunted.

Noel proceeded with a hint of that doggedness that characterized them both. "After that, I saw Olga; it was before we got engaged. And I told her it was a lie too."

Max grunted again, stubbornly refraining from question or comment.

Noel, equally stubborn, continued. "She said it was the truth—said you had admitted it to her. I didn't—quite—believe it even then. Thinking about it since, I am pretty sure you didn't do actually that. Or if you did, it was a lie."

Max maintained an uncompromising silence.

Noel waited a moment, then squarely tackled him. "Max, why did you lie to her?"

"And if I didn't?" said Max very deliberately.

Noel made instant and winning reply. "Oh, you needn't ask me to believe that tomfool tale, old chap! I know you too well for that."

"All right," said Max. "Then you know quite as much as is good for you. If you want to be ready in time to meet your fiancee, you had better let Kersley's man lend you a hand with your dressing. I will send him to you."

He was at the door with the words. Noel heard him open it and go out. He sat where Max had left him with a puzzled frown between his brows.

"I wish I knew the fellow's game," he murmured. "I wish—"

He broke off. What was the good of wishing? Moreover, to be quite honest, perhaps he was more or less satisfied with things as they were. Max had probably got over his disappointment to a certain extent by this time. It was quite obvious that he had no desire or intention to reopen the matter. No, on the whole perhaps it was indiscreet to probe too deeply. Every man had a right to his own secrets. And meantime, Olga was his—was his, and there remained this glorious possibility that his sight might be restored also.

He put up his hands suddenly, covering those useless, tortured eyes. A very curious tremor went through him. His heart began to throb thick and hard. It seemed too good to be true. Since that first awful day he had not fought against Fate, refraining himself even in his worst hours of darkness and suffering, and now it seemed that Fate was going to be kind after all. Like Job, he was to receive all—and more also—that he had lost.

He broke into a quivering laugh. "Good old Job!" he said. "We're not all such lucky beggars as that."

And then again that odd little tremor went through him. It was like a warning, almost a presentiment. His hands fell. He sat straight and still, as one waiting for a sign. No, such things didn't happen. Luck like Job's was apocryphal, abnormal, outside the bounds of human possibility. They might give him back his sight, but—He stopped here as if brought up by a sudden obstacle.

"I wonder if I'm a fool to have that operation," he said. "I wonder if—she—will like me as well if I get back my sight."

The doubt pressed cold at his heart. She had been so divinely kind to him ever since the catastrophe. She had literally given herself up to him, making his darkness light. And vaguely he knew that she had loved the doing of it, had loved to know that he needed her. How would it be, he asked himself, when he needed her thus no longer? Would she love him as well in strength as in weakness? Would she be as near to him when he no longer needed her to lead him by the hand?

He sprang to his feet with a gesture of fierce impatience. He flung the doubt away. Her love was not fashioned of so slender a fabric as this. What right had he to question it thus?

But yet, despite all self-reproach, the doubt remained, repudiate it as he might. It went with him even into her loved presence, refusing to be dislodged.

She came with her father to dine in accordance with Max's invitation. The evening passed with absolute smoothness. Sir Kersley and Dr. Jim were old friends, and had a good deal to say to one another. Max was present at the table, but withdrew early, alleging that he had a serious case to attend. Olga and Noel were left to themselves.

They retired to Sir Kersley's drawing-room and spent the rest of the evening there. Olga was evidently tired, and Noel provided most of the conversation. Noel was never silent for any length of time. He lay on the sofa talking with cheery inconsequence, scarcely pausing for any response, till presently he worked round to the subject of his blindness—a subject which by tacit consent they seldom discussed.

"Max has had a look at me," he said. "He thinks they may be able to switch the light on again. They will have to tighten up a few screws, or something of the kind. He didn't let me into the whole ghastly process, but gave me to understand it wouldn't be exactly a picnic. I don't know how long it's going to take; some time, I fancy. You'll pay me a visit now and then, won't you?"

It was then that Olga came very suddenly out of her silence, moved impulsively to him, and knelt by his side, her hands on his.

"Noel!" she said.

He turned to her swiftly, gathering her hands up to his lips. "What, darling?"

"Noel,—" she paused an instant, then with a rush came the words—"let us be married very soon! Let us be married—before the operation!"

"My darling girl!" said Noel in astonishment.

"Yes," she said rapidly. "I mean it! I wish it! Dad knows that I wish it. So does Nick. Nick is very good, you know. He—he is going to settle some money on me on my twenty-first birthday. So that needn't be a difficulty. We shall have enough to live upon."

"And you think I'm going to live on you?" said Noel, still with her hands pressed hard against his cheek.

"No," she said. "No. You've got something, I expect. That—with mine—would be enough."

"I've got what my good brother-in-law allows me—besides my pay," said Noel. "I daresay—if the worst happened—he would make a settlement too. But I can't count on that. Besides—the worst isn't going to happen. So cheer up, darling! I shall go back to Badgers yet. Poor old boy! It was decent of him to pay me the compliment of being so cut up, wasn't it? I mustn't forget to send him a cable when the deed is done."

He was switching the conversation into more normal channels with airy inconsequence, but Olga gently brought him back to the point.

"Won't you consider my suggestion?" she said.

He smiled then, his quick, boyish smile. "My darling, I have considered it. I'm afraid it isn't practicable. But thank you a million times over all the same!"

"Noel!" There was keen disappointment in her voice. "Why isn't it practicable?"

He let her hands go, and reached out, drawing her to him. "Don't tempt me, sweetheart!" he said softly. "I'm hound enough as it is to dream of letting you join your life to mine under present conditions. But this other is out of the question. I simply won't do it, dear, so don't ask me!"

"But why not?" she pleaded very earnestly. "I have told you I wish it."

He smiled—a smile that was very tender and yet whimsical also. "So like you, darling," he said. "But it can't be done. There are always chances to be taken in a serious operation; but I don't mean to take more than I can help. I'm not going to chance making you a widow almost before you are a wife."

"Oh, but, Noel—" she protested.

"Yes, really, darling. It's my final word on the subject. We will be married just as soon after the operation as can be decently managed. But not before it, sweetheart. Any fellow who let you do that would be a cur of the lowest degree."

He was holding her in his arms with the words. Her head was against his shoulder. A man had entered the conservatory behind them from an adjoining room, lounging in with his feet in carpet slippers that made no sound.

"And suppose—" it was Olga's voice very low and quivering—"suppose the operation doesn't succeed,—shall you—shall you refuse to marry me then?"

"Not much," said Noel cheerily. "If I'm alive and kicking, I shall want you all the more. No!" He caught himself up sharply. "I don't mean that! I couldn't want you more. Ill or well, I should want you just the same. I only meant—" his voice grew subtly softer, he spoke with great tenderness, his lips moving against her forehead—"I only meant that 'the desert were a paradise, if thou wert there, if thou wert there.'"

She raised her head quickly. There were tears in her eyes. "Noel, how strange that you should say that!"

"Say what, dear?"

"That old song," she said rather incoherently. "It—it has memories for me—memories that hurt."

"What memories?" he asked.

But she could not tell him, and he passed the matter by.

The man in the conservatory drew back with his hands deep in his pockets, and went back by the way he had come.



CHAPTER XXVI

A FOOL'S ERRAND

Dr. Jim's expectations, so far as Olga was concerned, were fulfilled. When he went back to Weir, she remained in town with Nick and Muriel. But he did not go back alone. Will, Daisy, and Peggy went with him. Daisy's love for Dr. Jim was almost as great as her love for Nick, and Will had spent his boyhood under his care.

There was a cottage close to the doctor's house which Daisy had tenanted seven or eight years before when she had been obliged to come Home for her health and Will had been left behind in India. Dr. Jim had managed to secure this cottage a second time, and here they were soon installed with all the joy of exiles in an English spring.

"But we are not going to forego the honeymoon," Will said on their first evening, as he and Daisy stood together in the ivy-covered porch.

She laughed—that little laugh of hers half-gay, half-sad, that seemed like a reminiscence of more mirthful days. "Isn't this romantic enough for you?"

He slipped his arm about her waist. "I'm not altogether sure that I did right to let you come here," he said.

"Oh, nonsense!" She leaned her head against him with a very loving gesture. "I am not so morbid as that. I love to be here, and close to dear old Jim. He hasn't altered a bit. He is just as rugged—and as sweet—as ever."

Will laughed. "How you women, do love a masterful man!"

"Oh, not always," said Daisy. "There are certain forms of mastery in a man which to my mind are quite intolerable. Max Wyndham for instance!"

"What! You've still got your knife into him? I'm sorry for the man myself," said Will. "It must be—well, difficult, to say the least of it, to see his brother come home in possession of his girl and to keep smiling."

"He doesn't care!" said Daisy scathingly. "Geniuses haven't time to be human."

"I wonder," said Will.

He knew, and had never ceased to regret, his wife's share in the accomplishment of Max's discomfiture; and he fancied that secretly, her antipathy notwithstanding, she had begun to regret it also.

He changed the subject, and they went on to talk of Noel.

"Olga tells me that they think of operating next Sunday," Daisy said. "How anxious she will be, poor girl! I am thankful she has Nick and Muriel to take care of her. It has been a terrible time for her all through."

"Poor child!" said Will compassionately.

He shrewdly suspected that the time that lay ahead of Olga would be harder to face than any she had yet experienced.

Olga herself had already begun to realize that. Noel's refusal to consider her suggestion had surprised and disappointed her. She had not anticipated his refusal, though she fully understood it and respected him for it. But it made matters infinitely more difficult for her. She longed for the time when Max's part should be done and he should have passed finally out of her life. Not that he intruded upon her in any way. He scarcely so much as glanced in her direction; but his very presence was a perpetual trial to her. She had a feeling that the green eyes were watching continually for some sign of weakness, even though they never looked her way.

Nick was a great comfort to her in those days, but she felt that even he did not wholly grasp the difficulties of the situation. He supported her indeed, but he did not realize precisely where lay the strain. And it was the same with Dr. Jim. He had accepted her engagement without demur after a gruff enquiry as to whether she loved the fellow. But he had not asked for any details, and had made no reference to her former engagement. She supposed that he found out all he wanted to know on this subject from Nick; and she was grateful for his forbearance, albeit, after a woman's fashion, slightly hurt by it.

She had not, however, much time for reflection of any sort during those first days in town. Noel occupied all her thoughts.

On the day before that fixed for the operation, he went into a private nursing-home. He was extremely cheery over all the preparations, and made himself exceedingly popular with his nurses before he had been more than a few hours in the place.

Even Max was somewhat surprised by the boy's fund of high spirits, and Sir Kersley openly expressed his admiration.

"You Wyndhams are a very remarkable family," he said to Max that night.

Max smiled sardonically in recognition of the compliment. "But the boy has more backbone than I thought," he admitted. "I don't think he will give us much trouble after all, thanks to Olga."

"Ah!" Sir Kersley said. "You think this is due to her?"

"In a great measure," said Max.

Sir Kersley's face was grave. "I am afraid the strain is telling upon her," he said.

"You think she looks ill?" Max shot the question with none of his customary composure.

"No, not actually ill," Sir Kersley said, without looking at him. "But she is too thin in my opinion, and she looks to me very highly strung."

"She always was," said Max.

"Yes; well, she mustn't have a nervous break-down if we can prevent it," said Sir Kersley gently.

"No," Max agreed curtly. "She has got to keep up for Noel's sake."

That seemed to be his main idea just then—his brother's welfare. Very resolutely he kept his mind fixed, with all the strength of which it was capable, upon that one object, and he was impatient of every distraction outside his profession.

Late that night he went round for a last look at Noel, and was told by a smiling nurse that he had "gone to sleep as chirpy as a cricket." He went in to see him, and found him slumbering like an infant. The pulse under Max's fingers was absolutely normal, and an odd smile that had in it an element of respect touched Max's grim lips. Certainly the boy had grit.

The first sound he heard when he arrived at the home on the following day was Noel's heartiest laugh. He was enjoying a joke with one of the nurses who was Irish herself and extremely gay of heart. But the moment Max entered, he sobered and asked for Olga.

Olga was in the building with Nick, but they had thought it advisable to keep visitors away from him on the morning of the operation. Noel, however, was absolutely immovable on the point, refusing flatly to proceed until he had seen her. So for five short minutes Olga was admitted and left alone with him.

More than once during those minutes his cheery laugh made itself heard again. He had a hundred and one things to say, not one of which could Olga ever remember afterwards save the last, when, holding her close to him, he whispered, "And if I don't come out of it, sweetheart, you're to marry another fellow; see? No damn' sentimental rot on my account, mind! I never was good enough for you, God knows! There! Run along! Good-bye!"

His kiss was the briefest he had ever given her, but there was something in the manner of its bestowal that pierced her to the heart. Her own farewell was inarticulate. She was only just able to restrain her tears.

But she mastered her weakness almost immediately, for Max was waiting in the passage outside. He was talking to a nurse, and she would have slipped past him without recognition; but he broke off abruptly and joined her, walking back with her to the room where Nick was waiting.

"Look here!" he said, "I don't think you need be so anxious, I give you my word I believe the operation will be a success."

It was so contrary to his custom to express an opinion in this way that Olga raised her eyes almost involuntarily to gaze at him.

His eyes met and held them instantly. He looked at her with a species of stern kindness that seemed to thrust away all painful memories.

"Even if it isn't a success," he said, "I won't let him die, I promise you. Now, will you follow my advice for once?"

"Yes," she murmured, wondering at her own docility.

He smiled upon her with instant approval, and her heart gave a wild leap that almost made her gasp. "That's wise of you," he said in that voice of cool encouragement that she remembered so well—so well! "Then get Nick to take you for a walk that'll last for an hour and a half. Go and look at the frogs in the Serpentine! Awfully interesting things—frogs! And have a glass of milk before you start! Good-bye!"

Strong and steady, his hand closed upon hers, gave it a slight admonitory shake and set it free.

The next moment he had turned and was striding back along the corridor. Olga stood and watched him out of sight, but he did not turn his head.

* * * * *

The search for frogs in the Serpentine was scarcely as engrossing a pastime as Nick could have desired for the amusement of his charge on that sunny April morning, but he did his valiant best to keep her thoughts on the move. He compelled her to talk when she yearned to be silent, and again in a vague, disjointed fashion Olga wondered at his lack of penetration. Yet, since he was actually obtuse enough to misunderstand her preoccupation and to be even mildly hurt thereby, she exerted herself for his sake to respond intelligently to his remarks. So, with cheery indifference on his part and aching suspense on hers, they passed that dreadful interval of waiting.

On the return journey Olga's knees shook so much that they would scarcely support her; and then it was that Nick seemed suddenly to awake to the situation. He gave her a swift glance, and abruptly offered his arm.

"There, kiddie, there!" he said softly. "Keep a stiff upper lip! It's nearly over."

She accepted his help in silence, and in silence they pursued their way. Nick looked at her no more, nor spoke. His lips were twitching a little, but he showed no other sign of feeling.

So they came at last to the tall building behind its iron railings that hid so many troubles from the world.

The door opened to them, and they went within.

Silence and a curious, clinging perfume met them as they entered.

Olga stood still. She was white to the lips. "Nick," she said, in a voiceless whisper, "Nick, that is—the pain-killer!"

And then, very quietly from a room close by, Max came to them. He glanced at Nick and nodded. There was an odd, exultant look in the green eyes. He took Olga's hands very firmly into his own.

"It's all right," he said.

She stared at him, trying to make her white lips form a question.

"It's all right," he said again. "Well over. As satisfactory as it could possibly be. Now don't be silly!" Surely it was the Max of old times speaking! "Pull up while you can! Come in here and sit down for a minute! I am going to take you to see him directly."

That last remark did more towards restoring Olga's self-control than any of the preceding ones. She went with him submissively, making strenuous efforts to preserve her composure. She even took without a murmur the wineglass of sal volatile with which he presented her.

Max stood beside her, still holding one of her hands, his fingers grasping her wrist, and talked over her head to Nick.

"Absolutely normal in every way. Came round without the least trouble. He'll be on his legs again in a fortnight. Of course we shan't turn him loose for a month, and he will have to live in the dark. But he ought to be absolutely sound in six weeks from now."

"And—he will see?" whispered Olga.

Max bent and laid her hand down. He looked at her closely for a moment. "Yes," he said. "There is no reason why he shouldn't make a complete recovery. Are you all right now? I promised to let him have a word with you."

She stood up. "Yes, I am quite all right. Let us go!"

Her knees still felt weak, but she steadied them resolutely. They went out side by side.

In silence Max piloted her. When they reached the darkened room he took her hand again and led her forward. The cheerful Irish nurse was at the bedside, but she drew away at their approach. And Olga found herself standing above a swathed, motionless figure in hushed expectancy of she knew not what.

The hand that held hers made as if to withdraw itself, but she clung to it suddenly and convulsively, and it closed again.

"All right," said Max's leisurely tones. "He's a bit sleepy still. Noel!" He bent, still holding her hand. "I've brought Olga, old chap, as I promised. Say good-night to her, won't you?"

The voice was the voice of Max Wyndham, but its tenderness seemed to rend her heart. She could have wept for the pain of it, but she knew she must not weep.

The figure in the bed stirred, murmured an incoherent apology, seemed to awake.

"Oh, is Olga there?" said Noel drowsily. "Take care of her, Max, old boy! Make her as happy as you can! She's awfully—fond—of you—though I'm not—supposed—to know."

The voice trailed off, sank into unconsciousness. Max's hand had tightened to a hard grip. He straightened himself and spoke, coldly, grimly.

"He isn't quite himself yet. I'm afraid I've brought you on a fool's errand. You can kiss him if you like. He probably won't know."

But Olga could not. She turned from the bed with the gesture of one who could bear no more, and without further words he led her from the room.



CHAPTER XXVII

LOVE MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE

"I've been prayin' for you, dear Noel," said Peggy importantly, with her arms round her hero's neck.

"Have you, though?" said Noel. "I say, little pal, how decent of you! How often?"

"Ever so many times," said Peggy. "Every mornin', every evenin', and after grace besides."

"By Jove!" said Noel. "What did you say?"

"I said," Peggy swelled with triumph, "'Lighten Noel's darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord!'"

"Why, that's what I said!" ejaculated Noel.

"Did you?" cried Peggy excitedly. "Did you really? Oh, Noel, then that's how it was, isn't it?"

"Quite so," said Noel.

He sat on the sofa in Daisy's little drawing-room with his small playfellow on his knee. They had not seen each other for six weeks. And in those weeks Noel had been transformed from a blind man to a man who saw, albeit through thick blue spectacles that emphasized the pallor of illness to such an alarming degree that Daisy had almost wept over him at sight.

Peggy, more practical in her sympathy, had gathered him straightway to her small but ardent bosom, and refused to let him go.

So they sat in the drawing-room tightly locked and related to each other all the doings of their separation.

"I wonder you're not afraid of me in these hideous goggles," Noel said once.

To which Peggy replied with indignation. "I'm not a baby!"

"And Olga has gone to Brethaven, has she?" he asked presently.

"Yes," said Peggy wisely. "Dr. Jim said she must have some sea air to make her fat again. So Captain Nick came yesterday and took her away. And d'you know," said Peggy, "I'm goin' there too very soon?"

"What ho!" said Noel. "Are they going to let you stay there all by yourself?"

Peggy nodded. "Daddy and Mummy are goin' away all by theirselves, so I'm goin' away all by myself."

"And who's going to slap you and put you to bed when you're naughty?" Noel enquired rudely. "Nick?"

"No!" said Peggy, affronted, "Captain Nick's a gentleman!"

"Is he though? Nasty snub for Noel Wyndham Esquire!" observed Noel. "Sorry, Peggy! Then unless Mrs. Nick rises nobly to the occasion, I'm afraid you'll go unslapped. Dear, dear! What a misfortune! I shall have to come down now and then and see what I can do."

Peggy embraced him again ecstatically at this suggestion. "Yes, dear Noel, yes! Come often, won't you?"

"Rather!" said Noel cheerily. "I believe I'm going to be married some time soon by the way," he added as an afterthought.

Peggy's face fell. "Oh, Noel, not really!"

"Why not really?" said Noel.

Peggy explained with a little quiver in her voice. "You did always say that when I was growed up you'd marry me."

"Oh, is that all?" said Noel. "That's easily done. I'll get permission to have two. Whom does one ask? The Pope, isn't it? I'll go and cultivate his acquaintance on my honeymoon."

"What's a honeymoon?" said Peggy.

Noel burst into his merriest laugh and sprang to his feet. "It's the nicest thing in the world. I'll tell you all about it when we're married, Peg-top! Meantime, will you take me to see the great Dr. Jim? I want to inveigle him into lending me his motor."

"Oh, are you goin' to Brethaven?" asked Peggy eagerly. "Take me! Do, dear Noel!"

"What for?" said Noel.

"Reggie lives there," said Peggy. "And Reggie's got some rabbits—big, white ones."

"But suppose they don't want you?" objected Noel.

"S'pose they don't want you?" countered Peggy, clinging ingratiatingly to his hand. "Then—you can come and play with me and the rabbits—and Reggie."

Noel stooped very suddenly and kissed her. "What an excellent idea, Peg-top!" he said. "There's nothing more useful when the road is blocked than to secure a good line of retreat."

Peggy looked up at him with puzzled eyes, but she did not ask him what he meant.

* * * * *

It was on that same afternoon that Olga found herself wandering along the tiny glen in the Redlands grounds that had been her favourite resort in childhood. It was only two days since she had left town, urged thereto by Dr. Jim who insisted that she had been there too long already. Nick, moreover, who had patiently chaperoned her for the past five weeks, was wanting to rejoin his wife who had returned to Redlands soon after Noel's operation. And Noel himself, though still undergoing treatment at his brother's hands, had so far recovered as to be able to leave the home and take up his abode temporarily with Sir Kersley Whitton and Max. He had cheerily promised to follow her in a day or two; and Olga, persuaded on all sides, had yielded without much resistance though not very willingly. She had a curious reluctance to return to her home. Something—that hovering phantom that she had almost forgotten—had arisen once more to menace her peace. And she was afraid; she knew not wherefore.

She was happier in Noel's society than in any other. To see him daily growing stronger was her one unalloyed pleasure, and, curiously, when with him she was never so acutely conscious of that chill shadow. Of Max she saw practically nothing. He was always busy, almost too busy to notice her presence, it seemed—a fact that hurt her vaguely even while it gave her relief.

There was another fact that imparted the same kind of miserable comfort, and that was that Noel, though impetuous and loving as ever, never made any but the most casual allusions to their marriage. She could only conclude that he was waiting to make a complete recovery, and she would not herself broach the subject a second time. She did not actually want him to speak, but it grieved her a little that he did not do so. She did not for a moment doubt his love, but she felt that she did not possess the whole of his confidence, and the feeling made her vaguely uneasy. She had been so ready to give all that he had desired. How was it he was slow to take?

These thoughts were running persistently in her mind as she moved along the edge of the stream. It was a day in the end of May, fragrant with many perfumes, crystallized with spring sunshine—such a day as she would have revelled in only last year. Only last year! How many things had happened since then! She was almost afraid to think.

There came the sound of feet on the drive above, and a cracked voice hailed her. "Hullo, Olga mia! How are you amusing yourself?"

She looked up with a smile. Last year she would have sprung to meet him; but she seemed to have outgrown all her impulsiveness lately. She moved to meet him indeed, but he was at her side before she had moved a couple of yards.

He caught her hand in his, and drew her to the water's edge. His eyes flickered over her and went beyond.

"Hullo! There goes the green dragon-fly!" he said.

She looked round startled. "Oh, Nick, where?"

"Gone away!" said Nick unconcernedly. "He'll come back again, I'll wager. What's the programme for this morning, kiddie? Anything special?"

"Nothing," said Olga.

Again rapidly his eyes comprehended her. "I'm going up to the Priory myself," he announced unexpectedly. "Care to come?"

She started again, coloured, then went very white. "I—don't know, Nick," she faltered.

"Might as well, dear," said Nick persuasively. "There's no one there. Did I tell you about the landslip? There was a bad one last February, and the old place is beginning to crack in all directions. It's been condemned as unsafe, and Campion is going to clear out bag and baggage. He hasn't lived there, you know, since last summer. They've taken to travelling. Wouldn't you like to come and see it once more before it is dismantled?"

Olga was standing very still. She did not seem to be breathing; only the hand Nick had taken vibrated in his hold.

"Don't come if you don't like!" he said. "But it's your last chance. They are going to start clearing it to-morrow. I've got to go myself to fetch poor old Cork. You remember Cork? Campion has handed him over to me."

Yes, Olga remembered Cork. She drew in a deep breath and spoke. "Dear old dog! I'm glad you are going to have him. Yes, Nick, I'll come. But is the place really doomed? What will happen to it?"

"It will probably fall in first," said Nick, "and the next big landslide it will go over the cliff."

"How—dreadful!" said Olga, and added half to herself, "Violet was wondering only that morning if she would—would—live to see it."

"Ah!" said Nick. He was leading her through the glen that led down to the shore. "It was bound to happen some time," he said, "but they didn't think it would be so soon."

Olga went with him as one moving in a dream, submitting though not of her own conscious volition.

Nick said no more. He had chosen the shortest route, and his main object was to accomplish the distance without disturbing her thoughts.

They came out at length upon the shore, where the stream from the glen gurgled and fell in bubbling cascades into its channel on the beach. The sun poured full over a sea of blue and purple, threaded with silvery pathways here and there.

Olga paused for a moment, as it were instinctively, because from her earliest childhood she had always paused in just that spot to drink in the beauty of the scene.

Nick waited beside her, alert but patient. When she turned along the beach, he turned also, walking close to her over the stones, saying no word.

They came to the hollow in the rocks where she and Violet had rested on that summer morning, and again Olga paused with her face to the sea. A curious little spasm passed across it as she looked. Far away a white sail floated over the blue, and the cries of circling gulls came to them over the water. There was no other sound but the long, long roar of the sea.

Again, in utter silence, Olga turned, pursuing her way. They reached the cliff-path that still remained intact, and began to climb.

The way was steep, but she did not seem aware of it. Nick, lithe and agile, followed her step for step. His yellow face was full of anxious wrinkles. He looked neither to right nor left, watching her only.

Olga never paused in the ascent. She went unswervingly, as though drawn by some magnetic force above. Reaching the summit of the cliff, she turned at once from the Redlands ground, and struck across towards the boundary of the Priory. Nick fell into pace beside her again, vigilant as an eagle guarding its young in the first terrifying flight, not offering help, but ready to give it at the first sign of weakness.

But Olga gave no such sign. Only as they came in sight of the old grey building, standing stark and gaunt above them, she uttered a sudden sigh that seemed to break from her in spite of rigid restraint. And a moment later she quickened her pace.

They passed at length around a buttressed corner and so on to the yew-lined drive that led to the front of the house. The Gothic archway gaped wide to the spring sunshine. Olga came swiftly to it, and there stood suddenly still.

"Nick!" she said. "Nick!"

Her voice was vibrant, her eyes widely staring into the gloom within.

He slipped his arm about her, that wiry arm of great strength that had served her so often. "I am here, darling," he said soothingly.

Olga turned to him in piteous appeal. "Nick," she whispered, "where is she? Where? Where?"

He answered her steadfastly, with the absolute conviction of one who knew. "She is there beyond the Door, dear. You'll find her some day, waiting for you where it is given to all of us to wait for those we love."

But Olga only trembled at his words. "What door, Nick?" she asked. "Do you—do you mean Death?"

"We call it Death," he said.

She scarcely heard his answer. She was shaking from head to foot. "Oh, Nick," she gasped, "I'm frightened—I'm frightened! I daren't go on!"

His arm encircled her more strongly still. He almost lifted her forward over the threshold into the cold and gloomy hall. "Don't be frightened, darling! I'm with you," he said.

She would have hung back, but her strength was gone. She tottered weakly whither he led. In a moment she was sitting on the old oak chest with her face to the sunshine, just as she had sat on that golden afternoon when she had come to summon Violet to her aid.

She covered her face and shivered. Surely the place was haunted—haunted! In a grim procession memories began to crowd upon her. With shrinking vision she beheld, and all the while Nick stood beside her, holding her hand, sustaining even while he compelled.

"Do you remember?" he said, and again, as she shrank and quivered, "Do you remember?"

There was something ruthless about him during those moments, something she had never encountered before, something against which she knew she would oppose herself in vain. For the first time she saw the man as he was, felt the colossal strength of him, quivered beneath his mastery. He was forcing her towards an obstacle from which every racked nerve winced in horror. He was driving her, and he meant to drive her, into conflict with a force that threatened to overwhelm her utterly.

"Oh, let me go, Nick! Let me go!" she cried in agonized entreaty. "It's more than I can bear."

He knelt beside her; he held her close. "Darling," he said, "face it—face it just this once! It's for your own peace of mind I'm doing it."

And then she knew that no cry of hers would move him. He was ready to help her—if he could; but he would not suffer her to flee before that dread procession that had begun to wind like a fiery serpent through her brain. So, in a quivering anguish of spirit such as she had never before known, she sat and faced it, faced the advancing phantom from the shadowy presence of which she had so often shrunk appalled. And the beat of her heart rose up in the silence above the sound of the sea till she thought the mad race of it would kill her.

Slowly the seconds throbbed away, the torture swept towards her. She was as one who, fascinated, watches a forest-fire while he waits to be engulfed.

Presently, from the shadows behind, the great dog Cork came like a ghost and gave them stately welcome. He licked Olga's quivering hands, standing beside her in earnest solicitude.

Nick rose to his feet and moved a little away. His hand was hard clenched against his side. He could not help, it seemed. He could only look on in impotence, while she suffered.

Slowly at last Olga raised her head and looked at him with tragic eyes. Her face was white and strained, but she had in a measure regained her self-control.

"I am going upstairs," she said, "just for a little while. Don't come with me, Nick! Wait for me! Wait for me!"

She rose with the words, swayed a little, then recovered herself, and, with her hand on Cork's head, moved slowly away down the great hall.

Dumbly Nick stood and watched the slim young figure with the wolf-hound pacing gravely beside it. At the end, immediately below the east window, she paused, and he saw her drawn face upraised to the dreadful picture above her; then, still slowly, she turned, and, with the dog, passed out of sight under the southern archway.

For a long, long space he waited in the utter stillness. He had faced a good many difficulties in his life and endured a good many adversities, but this thing stood by itself, unique in his experience, with a pain that was all its own. He would have given much to have gone with her, to have held her up while the storm raged round her, to have borne with her that which, it seemed, she could only bear alone. But, since this was denied him, he could only wait with set teeth while his little pal went through that fiery trial of hers, wait and picture her agonizing in solitude, wait till she should come back to him with all the gladness gone for ever from her eyes,—a woman who could never be young again.

Slowly the minutes dragged on till half an hour had passed. He fell to pacing up and down in a fever of anxiety. Would she never come back? She had begged him to wait for her, but he began to feel he could not wait any longer. The suspense was becoming intolerable.

Desperately he marked another quarter of an hour crawl by leaden-footed, moment by moment. And still she did not come. He went for the last time to the open door and looked forth restlessly. The warmth of the spring sunshine spread everywhere like a benediction. It was only within those walls of crumbling stone that it found no place. A sudden shiver went through him. He turned abruptly inwards. She should not stay alone in the vault-like solitude any longer. Surely anything—anything—must be better for her than that!

With quick strides he went down the old dim hall that once had been the chapel of the monks, turned sharply through the second archway, and approached the staircase beyond. And then very suddenly he stopped. For there above him at the open staircase-window that looked upon the sea stood Olga.

The afternoon sunshine streamed in upon her, and she seemed to be stretching out her hands to it, basking in the generous glow. Her face was upturned to the splendour. Her eyes were closed.

For a moment or two Nick stood narrowly watching her, then as suddenly as he had come he withdrew. For Olga's lips were moving, and it seemed to him that she was no longer alone....

He went back to the porch and stood in the sunshine waiting with renewed patience.

Ten minutes later a moist nose nozzled its way into his hand. He looked down into Cork's eyes of faithful friendliness. Then, hearing a light footfall, he turned. Olga had come back to him at last.

Straight to him she came, moving swiftly. Her face was still pale and very wan, but the strained look had utterly passed away. Her eyes sought his with fearless confidence, and Nick's heart gave a jerk of sheer relief. He had expected tragedy, and he beheld—peace.

She reached him. She laid her hands upon his shoulders. A tremulous smile hovered about her lips. "Nick—Nick darling," she said, "why—why—why didn't you tell me all this long ago?"

He stood before her dumb with astonishment. For once he was utterly and completely at a loss.

She slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him out. "Let us go into the sun!" she said. And then, as the glow fell around them, "Oh, Nick, I'm so thankful that I know the truth at last!"

"Are you, dear?" he said. "Well, I certainly think it is time you knew it now."

"I ought to have known it sooner," she said. "Why did you—you and Max—let me believe—a lie?"

He hesitated momentarily. "We thought it would be easier for you than the truth," he said then.

"You mean Max thought so," she said quickly. "You didn't, Nick!"

"Perhaps not," he admitted.

"I'm sure you didn't," she said. "You know me better than that." Again she stood still in the sunshine, lifting her face to the glory. "Love conquers so many things," she said.

"All things," put in Nick quickly.

She looked at him again. "I don't know about all things, Nick," she said.

"I have proved it," he said.

She shook her head slowly. "But I haven't." She passed from the subject as if it were one she could not bear to discuss openly. "What made you think the truth would hurt me so, I wonder? It was only the first great shock I couldn't bear. That nearly killed me. But now that it is over—and I can see clearly again—Nick, tell me,—as her friend—her only friend—could I have done anything else?"

Nick was silent. He had asked himself the same question many times, and had not found an answer.

"Nick," she said pleadingly, "none but a friend could have done it. It was—an act of love."

"I know it was," he said.

"And yet you blame me?" Her voice was low, full of the most earnest entreaty.

"You blamed Max," he pointed out.

"Oh, but Max didn't love her!" He heard a note of quick pain in her voice. "Oh, don't you see," she said, "how love makes all the difference? Surely that was what St. Paul meant when he said that love was the fulfilling of the law. Nick, you must agree with me in this. It was utterly hopeless. Think of it! Think of it! If she had been living now!" A sudden hard shiver went through her. "Nick, if I had been in her place—wouldn't you have done the same for me?"