"Of course I will help you, darling," Olga promised soothingly.

"Yes. But it won't be easy," said Violet, frowning upwards. "I've got to go into a great s.p.a.ce of lost souls, and I shan't find it very easily.

It was his fault. He never ought to have brought me back that night.

That's the worst of doctors. They are so keen about the body, but they don't study the soul at all. They behave exactly as if the soul weren't there."

"Look here, dear," said Olga, with sudden inspiration, "wouldn't you like to talk to Nick about it? He's so clever. I always ask him about puzzling things."

"Nick?" Violet's eyes came round to her. "He's a soldier, isn't he? He has killed people."

"I don't know. I suppose so," said Olga. "He is just outside. May I fetch him?"

"Oh, yes, I don't mind Nick. He's got some sense. But I won't have Max, Allegro. He is not to come near me. I've found him out, and I hate him!"

The deep voice suddenly grew deeper. A flame of fierce resentment leaped up in the roving eyes. "I know now exactly why he has been so attentive all this time. I thought--I used to think--he was in love with me--like other men. But I know now that he was only making a study of me, because he knew that I was going mad. Bruce must have told him that.

I've often wondered why he and Bruce were so friendly. I know now that they were in league against me. Bruce never liked me--naturally. No one ever liked me but you, Allegro."

"Shall I call Nick?" said Olga, gently bringing her back to the point.

"Oh, if you like. But no! Cork would never let any man come in here. I will come downstairs. We'll have some lunch, and then smoke." Violet sprang from the bed with sudden decision. "Heavens!" she exclaimed, as she caught a glimpse of herself in her gla.s.s. "What a hag I look! I can't go down in this. It looks like a bedgown. Find me something, Allegro! That red silk will do. I believe everything else is at Weir.

You will have to send my things back, for I am going to stay here now.

I've had enough of Max Wyndham's tyranny. I must have my own way or I shall rave."

With impulsive hands she tore off her tumbled muslin dress, and arrayed herself in the flaming evening robe which Olga had once condemned. Olga raised no protest now. She gave her silent a.s.sistance. The horrors of that day had so closed in upon her that she felt fantastically convinced that nothing she did or left undone could make any difference, or hinder for the fraction of an instant the fate that so remorselessly pursued them and was surely every moment drawing nearer. The fear at her heart had so wound itself into her very being that she was no longer conscious of it. It possessed her like an evil spell.

So she stood by, sometimes helping, always watching, while her friend's tragedy leaped from point to point like a spreading forest-fire breeding destruction.

"You are not afraid of me, Allegro?" Violet asked her suddenly, as she arranged her black hair with swift, feverish movements.

And Olga answered with truth. "No, dear. I should never be that."

"Not whatever happened? That's right. I'm not really dangerous--so long as you keep Max out of my way. But, mind--I must never see him again, never--never--while I live!" She turned from the gla.s.s, facing Olga with eyes in which an awful fire had begun to burn. "I know him!" she said.

"I know him! He will want to shut me up--to keep me as a specimen for him--and men like him--to study. He and Bruce will do it between them if they get the chance. But they won't--they won't! Allegro--darling, you must help me to get away. I can't--can't--be imprisoned for life. You will help me? Promise me! Promise!"

"I promise, dearest!" Olga made answer very earnestly.

Something of relief softened the agony in the dark eyes. Very suddenly Violet took her friend's face between her hands and pa.s.sionately kissed her on the lips.

"I love you, Allegro!" she said. "And I trust you--and you only--till death."

It was then--at first but dimly--that Olga began to realize that the burden laid upon her might be heavier than she could bear, and yet that she alone must bear it even if it crushed her to the earth.

Pa.s.sing out at length into the pa.s.sage, she felt Violet's hand close with a convulsive pressure upon her arm, and she knew that here was fear such as she had never before encountered or imagined,--the deadly, unfathomable fear of a mind that hovered on the brink of the abyss.

She caught the hand warmly, protectingly, into her own. And she swore then and there a solemn, inward oath that, cost what it might, the trust reposed in her should not be in vain. When her friend turned to her for help in extremity, she should not find her lacking.

For of such stuff was Olga Ratcliffe fashioned, and her loyalty was that same loyalty which moves men even unto the sacrifice of their lives.

CHAPTER XXII

OVER THE EDGE

Marshalled by Mrs. Briggs, the Priory servants brought them luncheon, laying a table at one side of the great entrance-hall, for all the lower rooms were shuttered and closed.

Violet, with the great dog Cork vigilant and silent beside her, sat before it as one wrapt in reverie. Now and then she roused herself to answer at random some remark from Nick, but for the most part she sat mutely brooding.

The meal was but a dreadful farce to Olga. She was waiting, she was listening, she was watching. It seemed ludicrous to her stretched nerves to be seated there with food before her, when every instant she expected the devastating power that lurked behind the stillness to burst forth and engulf them. It was like sitting at the very mouth of h.e.l.l, feeling the blistering heat, and yet pretending that they felt it not.

Darker and darker grew the day. They sat in a close, unearthly twilight.

Though the huge entrance-door was flung wide, no breath of air reached them, no song of birds or sound of moving leaf. Once Olga turned her eyes to the far glimmer of the east window, but she turned them instantly away again, and looked no more. For it was as though a hand were holding up a dim lantern on the other side to show her the dreadful scene, casting a stain of crimson across the s.p.a.ce where once had stood the altar.

Looking back later, she realized that it was only Nick's presence that gave her strength to endure that awful suspense. She had never admired him more than she did then, his shrewdness, his cheeriness, his strength. There was not the faintest suggestion of strain in his att.i.tude. With absolute ease he talked or he was silent. Only in the deepening gloom she caught now and then the quick glitter of his eyes, and knew that like herself he was watching.

Slowly the minutes wore away, the darkness grew darker. From far away there came a low, surging sound. The storm-wind was rising over the sea.

Nick turned his head to listen. "Now for one of our patent storms!" he said. "Brethaven always catches it pretty strong. Remember that night you developed scarlet fever, at Redlands, Olga _mia_, and your devoted servant went down to a certain cottage on the sh.o.r.e to fetch a certain lady to nurse you?"

Olga did remember. It was one of the cherished memories of her childhood. "I told Muriel a secret about you that night, Nick," she said, responding with an effort.

He nodded. "For which act of treachery you possess my undying grat.i.tude.

Did you ever hear that story, Miss Campion?"

He offered her his cigarette-case with the words, and she turned her brooding eyes upon him. "Thanks!" she said. "I will have one of my own.

Yes, I know that story. Your wife must be a very brave woman."

"She had me to take care of her," pointed out Nick.

Violet laughed with a touch of scorn.

"Oh, quite so," he said. "But I bear a charmed life, you should remember. No one ever drowns in my boat."

She leaned her chin upon her hand, and surveyed him through the weird twilight. "You are a strong man," she said slowly, "and you don't think much of Death."

"Not much," said Nick, striking a match on the heel of his boot.

The flame flared yellow on his face, emphasizing its many lines. His eyelids flickered rapidly, never wholly revealing the eyes behind.

"You wouldn't be afraid to die?" she pursued, still watching him.

His cigarette glowed and he removed the match; but the flame remained, burning with absolute steadiness between his fingers.

"I certainly shan't be afraid when my turn comes," he said, with confidence.

"Tell me," she said suddenly, "your idea of Death!"

His look flashed over her and back to the match he still held. The flame had nearly reached his fingers.