_ PART I 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. _