A CHALLENGE
Olive was at her dressing-table at Thornton Chase, looking searchingly
into a mirror.
That afternoon she had been dragged unwillingly to the consulting-room
of a Cavendish Square physician by her father, who had insisted on
having "a tonic or something" prescribed for her. The physician was one
of those men who achieve a fashionable practice by an outrageous
bluntness--a calculatedly outrageous bluntness. He had found that women
like to be bullied by their doctors.
"You're drugging yourself to a lunatic asylum," he had told her after a
very brief examination.
"Drugs? I, doctor?" she had replied with a little surprised raising of
her eyebrows.
"Don't prevaricate! Don't try to deceive _me_. You look a perfect wreck.
All the signs of it. Come, which is it--morphia, hashish or what?"
"You're mistaken, doctor. I'm run down, that's all. I want a tonic."
"And I'm a busy man." He rose brusquely and strode to the door to open
it for her. "I must wish you good afternoon!"
Olive caved in. "Well, perhaps now and again, when I feel absolutely in
need of it, I do take a little stimulant," she conceded.
The physician cross-examined her ruthlessly. Finally he prescribed an
absolute cessation of drug-taking, and gave her a special dietary and
mixture of his own which would help to create a distaste for the
morphia.
"Remember," he warned her as they parted, "you're looking an absolute
wreck. Everyone can see it. Three months more of the same pace would
make you a hag."
Olive was searching her mirror for refutation of his words, trying to
stroke away the flabbiness of her cheek and chin muscles and the heavy
strained shadows under the eyes. Yes, it was true--the drug was stamping
its mastery on her face, grinning from behind her eyelids.
She must fight it down!
The resolution came hot upon the thought that Clifford had noticed the
change in her. No doubt he would like her to drug herself to death. That
would suit his plans to perfection. Then he would be free to marry that
Verney woman. She must fight down her craving for the drug if only to
spite Clifford.
With a curious vindictive satisfaction, Olive took out her hypodermic
syringe from its secret place and smashed it to pieces with the bedroom
poker. She gathered up the fragments of glass and silver and threw them
into the fire, heaping coals over them.
As she was poking the fire, her maid knocked and entered with a letter.
The postmark was Wiesbaden; the handwriting was her husband's. No doubt
a further appeal to her feelings, she reflected contemptuously. But the
letter proved to be from Elaine--written at the invalid's dictation by
Rivière.
Olive read it with a mixture of indignation and very lively curiosity.
The letter was no appeal to her feelings--rather, a challenge:--
"I think we ought to meet," it said. "I have many things to tell you of
which you know nothing at present--unless you have guessed. They affect
your husband's position very materially. Unfortunately I am confined to
a sick-room, else I should have come to London before this in order to
call upon you."
That was all.
Olive's indignation was based on the obvious deduction that Rivière had
confided completely in the girl. Her curiosity was roused by the
thoughts of what she could be like to exert such a fascination, and what
she could have to say. Perhaps the letter was a ruse to see Olive and
then make another appeal for pity. Well, in that case there would be a
very delicious pleasure in giving an absolute refusal--a pleasure one
could taste in anticipation and linger over in execution. One could play
with the girl a little--pretend to be influenced, hesitate, ask for time
to consider, raise hopes, fan them, and then administer the _coup de
grace_.
To see Elaine promised an exciting diversion, very welcome just now when
Olive had to give up the customary stimulation of the drug.
These considerations united in deciding her to travel to Wiesbaden. She
would cross to the Continent alone, her father and her maid being left
at home. Sir Francis knew nothing as yet of Rivière--for Olive had told
him nothing. She had an unlimited capacity for keeping her own counsel
when it suited her purpose.
The next day saw her _en route_ for Wiesbaden, following a letter to
that effect to Elaine.