I

THE GATHERING STORM

Looking back in after days, the time that elapsed between the coming of
Sir Reginald Bassett and the night of the Fancy-Dress Ball at the
mess-house was to Olga as a whirling nightmare. She took part in all the
gaieties that she and Noel had so busily planned, but she went through
them as one in the grip of some ghastly dream, beholding through all the
festivities the shadow of inexorable Fate drawing near. For she was
caught in the net at last, hopelessly, irrevocably enmeshed. From the
very outset she had realized that. There could no longer be any way of
escape for her, for she could not accept deliverance at the price that
must be paid for it. She did not so much as seek to escape, knowing her
utter helplessness. Rebellion was a thing of the past. Her spirit was
broken. Had she been still engaged to Max, the struggle, though
hopeless, would have been more fierce. But since that was over, there
was little left to fight for on her own account. Hate and loathe the man
as she might, she was forced to own his mastery. To pass from the desert
to an inferno was not so racking a contrast as if he had dragged her
direct from her paradise.

Later, when the first paralysis of despair had passed, when her captor
came to take full possession, she would rebel again wildly, madly. There
would be a frightful struggle between them, the last fierce effort of
her instinct to be free from a bondage that revolted her. Vaguely, from
afar, she viewed that inevitable battle, and in her mind the conviction
grew that she would not survive it. The thing was too monstrous. It
would kill her.

But for the present her power of resistance was dead. Max must be
protected, and this was the only way. She did not dare to think of him
in those days, save as it were in the abstract. He filled a certain
chamber in her heart which she never entered. He had gone out of her
life more completely than if he had died, for she cherished no tender
memory of him. She turned away from the bare thought of him, and in the
naked horrors of the night, when she lay cold and staring while the
hours crawled by, she deliberately banished him from her mind. She was
going to do this thing for his sake--this thing that she firmly believed
would kill her--but she barred him away from her agony. Not even in
thought could she endure his presence at the sacrifice.

So, without struggle, those awful days passed, and she mingled with the
gay crowd,