_ PART I CHAPTER VIII. THE ELASTIC BOND
Major Hunt-Goring was quite obviously in his element. To Olga's dismay he showed no disposition to depart when they rose from the luncheon-table. Violet suggested a move to the garden, and he fell in with the proposal with a readiness that plainly showed that he had every intention of inflicting his company upon them for some time longer.
"It's confoundedly lonely up at The Warren," he remarked pathetically, as he lounged after her into the sunshine.
Violet laughed over her shoulder, an unlighted cigarette between her teeth. "You're hardly ever there."
"No. Well, it's a fact. I can't stand it. I'm a sociable sort of chap, you know. I like society."
"Why don't you marry?" laughed Violet.
"That's a question to which I can find no answer," he declared. "Why--why, indeed!"
"Hateful man!" murmured Olga, looking after them. "How I wish he would go!"
"Leave them alone for a spell," advised Max. "Go and mend your stockings in peace! Miss Campion is quite equal to entertaining him unassisted."
But Olga hesitated to pursue this course, and finally collected her work and followed her two guests into the garden.
Max departed upon his rounds, and a very unpleasant sense of responsibility descended upon her.
She took up a central position under the lime-trees that bordered the tennis-court, but Major Hunt-Goring and Violet did not join her. They sauntered about the garden-paths just out of earshot, and several times it seemed to Olga that they were talking confidentially together. She wondered impatiently how Violet could endure the man at such close quarters. But then there were many things that Violet liked that she found quite unbearable.
Slowly the afternoon wore away. The young hostess still sat under the limes, severely darning, but Violet and her companion had disappeared unobtrusively into a more secluded part of the garden. For nearly half an hour she had heard no sound of voices. She wondered if she ought to go in search of them, but her pile of work was still somewhat formidable and she was both to leave it. She continued to darn therefore with unflagging energy, till suddenly a hand touched her shoulder and a man's voice spoke softly in her ear.
"Hullo, little one! All alone? What has become of the fiery-headed assistant?"
She flung his hand away with a violent gesture. So engrossed had she been with getting through her work that she had not heard his step upon the grass.
"Are you just off?" she asked him frigidly. "Will you have anything before you go?"
Hunt-Goring laughed--a soft, unpleasant laugh. "Many thanks!" he said. "I was just asking myself that question. Generous of you to suggest it though. Perhaps you--like myself--are feeling bored."
He lowered himself on to the grassy bank beside her chair, smiling up at her with easy insolence. Olga did not look at him. Handsome though he undoubtedly was, he was the one man of her acquaintance whose eyes she shrank from meeting. His very proximity sent a shiver of disgust through her. She made a covert movement to edge her chair away.
"Where is Miss Campion?" she said.
He laughed again, that hateful confidential laugh of his. "She has gone indoors to rest. The heat made her sleepy. I suggested the hammock, but she wouldn't run the risk of being caught napping. I see that there is small danger of that with you."
Olga stiffened. She was putting together her work with evident determination. "I will see you off," she said.
"You seem in a mighty hurry to get rid of me," he said, without moving.
She laid her mending upon the grass and rose. "I am busy--as you see," she returned.
He looked at her for a moment, then very deliberately followed her example. He stood looking down at her from his great height, a speculative smile on his face.
"You've soon had enough of me, what?" he suggested.
Olga's pale eyes gleamed for an instant like steel suddenly bared to the sun. She said nothing whatever, merely stood before him very stiff and straight, plainly waiting for him to go.
"It's a pity to outstay one's welcome," he said. "I wouldn't do that for the world. But what about that kiss you offered me just now?"
"I?" said Olga, quivering disdain in the word.
"You, my little spitfire!" he said genially. "And it won't be the first time, what? Come now! You're always running away, but you should reflect that you're bound to be caught sooner or later. You didn't think I was going to let you off, did you?"
She stood before him speechless, with clenched hands.
He drew a little nearer. "You pay your debts, don't you? And what more suitable opportunity than the present? You are so elusive nowadays. Why, I haven't seen you except from afar since last Christmas. You were always such a nice, sociable little girl till then."
"Sociable!" whispered Olga.
"Well, you were!" He laughed again in his easy fashion. "Don't you remember what fun we had at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, and how you came to tea with me on the sly a few days after, and how we kissed under the mistletoe, and how you promised--"
"I promised nothing!" burst out Olga, with flashing eyes.
"Oh, pardon me! You promised to kiss me again some day. Have you forgotten? I hardly think your memory is as short as that."
He drew nearer still, and slipped a cajoling arm about her. "Why are we in such a towering rage, I wonder? Surely you don't want to repudiate your liabilities! You promised, you know."
She flung up a desperate face to his. "Very well, Major Hunt-Goring," she said breathlessly. "Take it--and go!"
He bent to her. "But you must give," he said.
"Very well," she said again. "It--it will be the last!"
"Will it?" he questioned, pausing. "In that case, I feel almost inclined to postpone the pleasure, particularly as--"
"Don't torture me!" she said in a whisper half--choked.
Her eyes were tightly shut; but Hunt-Goring's were looking over her head, and a sudden gleam of malicious humour shone in them. He turned them upon the white, shrinking face of the girl who stood rigid but unresisting within the circle of his arm. And then very suddenly he bent and kissed her on the lips.
She shivered through and through and broke from him with her hands over her face.
"But you didn't pay your debt, you know," said Hunt-Goring amiably. "I won't trouble you now, however, as we are no longer alone. Another day--in a more secluded spot--"
No longer alone! Olga looked up with a gasp. Her face was no longer pale, but flaming red. She seemed to be burning from head to foot.
And there, not a dozen paces from her, was Maxwell Wyndham, carelessly approaching, his hands in his pockets, his hat thrust to the back of his head, a faint, supercilious smile cocking one corner of his mouth, his whole bearing one of elaborate unconsciousness.
This much Olga saw; but she did not wait for more. The situation was beyond her. An involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped her, an inarticulate sound that seemed physically wrung from her; and then, without a second glance, ignominiously she turned and fled.
The sound of Hunt-Goring's oily laugh followed her as she went, and added speed to her flying feet.
It was several minutes later that Max entered the surgery, carrying an armful of stockings, and found her scrubbing her face vigorously over the basin that was kept there. She had turned on the hot water, and a cloud of steam arose above her head.
"Don't scald yourself!" said Max. "Try the pumice!"
"Oh, go away!" gasped Olga, with a furious stamp.
"Not going," said Max.
He fetched out a clean towel, and placed it within her reach. Then he sat down on the table and waited, whistling below his breath.
Olga grabbed the towel at last and buried her face in it. "Do you want to make me--hate you?" She flung at him through its folds.
"Don't be silly!" said Max.
"I'm not!" she cried stormily. "I'm not! It's you who--who make bad worse--always!"
He stood up abruptly. "No, I don't. I help--when I can. Sit down, and stop crying!"
"I'm not crying!" she sobbed.
"Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly. I'll make you drink some _sal volatile_ if you don't."
"I'm sure you won't. I--I--I'm not a bit afraid of you!" came in muffled tones of distress from the crumpled towel.
"All right. Who said you were?" said Max. "Sit down now! Here's a chair. Now--let me have the towel! Yes, really, Olga!" He loosened her hold upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence. "There, that's better. You look as if you'd got scarlet fever. What did you want to boil yourself like that for? Now, don't cry! It's futile and quite unnecessary. Just sit quiet till you feel better! There's no one about but me, and I don't count."
He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began to sort them into pairs.
"By Jove! You're in the middle of one of mine," he said. "I'll finish this."
He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.
"Oh, don't!" said Olga. "You--you will only make a mess of it."
He waved his hand with airy assurance.
"I never make a mess of anything, and I'm a lot cleverer than you think. What train is Nick coming home by?"
"I don't know. The five-twenty probably."
He glanced at the clock. "Half an hour from now. And where is the fair Violet?"
"I don't know. He said she had gone in. I suppose I ought to go and see."
"Sit still!" said Max, frowning over his darning. "She is probably reading some obscene novel, and won't be wanting you."
"Max!"
"I apologize," said Max.
Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."
"It's me," said Max.
She dried the last of her tears. "What--what did you do with him?"
"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."
"I wish Mitchel would run into something and kill him!" said Olga, with sudden vehemence.
Max's brows went up. "Afraid I didn't give Mitchel instructions to that effect."
He spoke without raising his eyes, being quite obviously intent upon his darning. Olga watched him for a few seconds in silence. Finally she gave herself a slight shake and rose.
"You're doing that on the right side," she said.
"It's the best way to approach this kind of hole," said Max.
She came and stood by his side, still closely watching him.
"Dr. Wyndham!" she said at last, her voice very low.
"Please don't make me nervous!" said Max.
"Don't, please!" she said. "I want to speak to you seriously."
He drew out his needle with a reflective air. "Are you going to ask me to prescribe for you?"
"No."
"Then don't call me 'Dr. Wyndham'!" he said severely. "I don't answer to it, except in business hours."
She smiled faintly. "Max, then! Will you do me a favour?"
Max's eyes found hers with disconcerting suddenness. "On one condition," he said.
"What is it?"
The corner of his mouth went up. "I will name my condition when you have named your favour."
She hesitated momentarily. "Oh, it isn't very much," she said. "I only want you not to tell--Nick, or anyone--about--about what happened this afternoon."
"Why isn't Nick to know?" asked Max.
"He would be so angry," she said, "and he couldn't do any good. He would only go and get himself hurt."
"Would you care to know what Hunt-Goring said to me after you had effected a retreat?" asked Max.
The hot colour began to fade out of her cheeks. "Yes," she said, under her breath.
"He said--you know his breezy style: 'Don't be astonished! Miss Ratcliffe and I understand one another. In fact, we've been more or less engaged for a long time, though it isn't generally known.'"
"Max!" Olga started back as if from a blow. "He never said--that!"
"Yes, he did. I guessed it was a lie," said Max, "in spite of appearances."
She winced. "It is a lie!" she said with vehemence. "You--you told him so?"
"I was not in a position to do that," said Max. "But if you authorize me to do so--"
"Yes--yes?" she said feverishly.
"I can only do it if you accept my condition," he said.
"That means you want me to tell you everything," she said.
"No, it doesn't. I know quite as much as I need to know, and I shan't believe anything he may be pleased to say on the subject. It's up to you to tell me as much or as little as you like. No, the condition is this, and there is nothing in it that you need jib at. If you really want me to give him the lie, you must furnish me with full authority. You must put me in a position to do it effectually."
He was looking straight into her face of agitation. There was a certain remorselessness about him that made him in a fashion imposing. Olga quivered a little under the insistence of his eyes, but she flinched no more.
"Yes?" she said. "Well, I do authorize you. It's got to be stopped somehow. I never dreamed of his saying that."
"Quite so," said Max. "But that isn't enough. You will have to go a step further. Give me a free hand! It's the only way if you don't want Nick rushing in. Give me the right to protect you! I promise to use it with discretion."
He smiled very slightly with the words; but Olga only gazed at him uncomprehendingly.
"How? I don't know what you mean."
He held out his hand to her abruptly. "Don't faint!" he said. "Let me tell him--as a dead secret--that you are engaged to me!"
Olga gasped.
Max got up. "Only as a temporary expedient," he said. "I'll let you go again--when you wish it."
His hand remained outstretched, and after a very considerable pause she laid hers within it.
"But really," she said, with an effort, "I don't think we need do anything so desperate as that."
"A desperate case requires a desperate remedy sometimes," said Max, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes "It doesn't mean anything, but we must floor this rascal somehow. Is it a bargain?"
She hesitated. "You won't tell anyone else?"
"Not a soul," said Max.
She still hesitated. "But--he won't believe you."
"He will if I refer him to you," said Max.
Olga pondered the matter. "Are you sure it's the only way?"
"If you don't want Nick to know," he said.
"And what if he--spreads it abroad?" she hazarded.
"We can always treat it as idle gossip, you know," said Max. "Imminent but not actual--the sort of thing over which we blush demurely and say nothing."
She smiled in spite of herself. "It's very good of you," she said with feeling.
"Not a bit," said Max. "I shall enjoy it. I think it ought to put an effectual stop to all unwelcome amenities on his part. We'll try it anyhow."
He released her hand, and resumed his darning, still looking quizzical.
Olga lingered, dubiously reminding herself that only a few hours before she had distrusted this man whom circumstance now made her champion.
"Scissors, please!" said Max.
She gave them to him absently. He held out the unsevered wool, his eyes laughing at her over it.
"You can do the cutting," he said.
She complied, and in the same instant she met his look. "Max," she said rather breathlessly, "I--don't quite like it."
"All right," he said imperturbably. "Don't do it!"
She paused, looking at him almost imploringly. "You're sure it won't mean anything?"
"It can mean as much or as little as you like," said Max.
"I didn't mean--quite that," faltered Olga. "But--it won't be--it never could be--like a real engagement; could it?"
"Like, yet unlike," said Max. "It will be a sort of elastic and invisible bond, made to stretch to the utmost limit, never breaking of itself, though capable of being severed by either party at a moment's notice."
Olga drew a breath of relief. "If that is really all--"
"What more could the most exacting require?" said Max.
What indeed! Yet the phrase struck Olga somehow as being not wholly satisfactory. Perhaps even then, vaguely she began to realize that the species of bond he described might prove the most inviolable of all. But she raised no further argument, doubts notwithstanding; for, in face of his assurance, there seemed nothing left to say. _