Kitabı oku: «The Everlasting Arms», sayfa 21
This was how it ran:
"Dear Olga, – You must get F. to take you to dinner on Friday night next. You must go to the Moscow Restaurant, and be there by 7.45 prompt. Please look your handsomest, and spare no pains to be agreeable. When the waiter brings you liqueurs be especially fascinating. Act on the Berlin plan. This is very important, as a danger has arisen which I had not calculated upon. The time for action has now come, and I need not remind you how much success means to you.
"Romanoff.
"P.S. – Destroy this as you have destroyed all other correspondence from me. I shall know whether this is done. – R."
This was the note which had caused Olga Petrovic's cheeks to pale. After reading it again, she sat thinking for a long time, while more than once her face was drawn as if by spasms of pain.
Presently she went to her desk, and taking some scented notepaper, she wrote a letter. She was evidently very particular about the wording, for she tore up several sheets before she had satisfied herself. There was the look of an evil woman in her eyes as she sealed it, but there was something else, too; there was an expression of indescribable longing.
The next afternoon Dick Faversham came to her flat and found Olga Petrovic alone. He had come in answer to her letter.
"Have I done anything to offend you, Mr. Faversham?" she asked, as she poured out tea.
"Offend me, Countess? I never thought of such a thing. Why do you ask?"
"You were so cold, so distant when you were here last – and that was several days ago."
"I have been very busy," replied Dick.
"While I have been very lonely."
"Lonely! You lonely, Countess?"
"Yes, very lonely. How little men know women. Because a number of silly, chattering people have been here when you have called, you have imagined that my life has been full of pleasure, that I have been content. But I haven't a friend in the world, unless – " She lifted her great languishing eyes to his for a moment, and sighed.
"Unless what?" asked Dick.
"Nothing, nothing. Why should you care about the loneliness of a woman?"
"I care a great deal," replied Dick. "You have been very kind to me – a lonely man."
From that moment she became very charming. His words gave her the opening she sought, and a few minutes later she had led him to the channel of conversation which she desired.
"You do not mind?" she said presently. "I know you are the kind of man who finds it a bore to take a woman out to dinner. But there will be a wonderful band at The Moscow, and I love music."
"It will be a pleasure, a very great pleasure," replied Dick.
"And you will not miss being away from the House of Commons for a few hours, will you? I will try to be very nice."
"As though you needed to try," cried Dick. "As though you could be anything else."
She looked half coyly, half boldly into his eyes.
"To-morrow night then?" she said.
"Yes, to-morrow night. At half-past seven I will be here."
CHAPTER XXXVII
At the Café Moscow
During the few days which had preceded Dick's visit to the Countess Olga's house, he had been very depressed. The excitement which he had at first felt in going to the House of Commons as the Member for Eastroyd had gone. He found, too, that the "Mother of Parliaments" was different from what he had expected.
The thing that impressed him most was the difficulty in getting anything done. The atmosphere of the place was in the main lethargic. Men came there for the first time, enthusiastic and buoyant, determined to do great things; but weeks, months, years passed by, and they had done nothing. In their constituencies crowds flocked to hear them, and applauded them to the echo; but in the House of Commons they had to speak to empty benches, and the few who remained to hear them, yawned while they were speaking, and only waited because they wanted to catch the Speaker's eye.
Dick had felt all this, and much more. It seemed to him that as a legislator he was a failure, and that the House of Commons was the most disappointing place in the world. Added to this he was heart-sore and despondent. His love for Beatrice Stanmore was hopeless. News of her engagement to Sir George Weston had been confirmed, and thus joy had gone out of his life.
Why it was, Dick did not know; but he knew now that he had loved Beatrice Stanmore from the first time he had seen her. He was constantly recalling the hour when she first came into his life. She and her grandfather had come to Wendover when he was sitting talking, with Romanoff, and he remembered how the atmosphere of the room changed the moment she entered. His will-power was being sapped, his sense of right and wrong was dulled; yet no sooner did she appear than his will-power came back, his moral perceptions became keen.
It was the same at her second visit. He had been like a man under a spell; he had become almost paralysed by Romanoff's philosophy of life, helpless to withstand the picture he held before his eyes; yet on the sudden coming of this bright-eyed girl everything had changed. She made him live in a new world. He remembered going outside with her, and they had talked about angels.
How vivid it all was to him! Everything was sweeter, brighter, purer, because of her. Her simple, childish faith, her keen intuition had made his materialism seem so much foolishness. Her eyes pierced the dark clouds; she was an angel of God, pointing upward.
He knew the meaning of it now. His soul had found a kindred soul, even although he had not known it; he had loved her then, although he was unaware of the fact. But ever since he had learnt the secret of his heart he had understood.
But it was too late. He was helpless, hopeless. She had given her heart to this soldier, this man of riches and position. Oh, what a mockery life was! He had seen the gates of heaven, he had caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, but he could not enter, and in his disappointment and hopelessness, despair gnawed at his heart like a canker.
Thus Dick Faversham was in a dangerous mood. That was why the siren-like presence of Olga Petrovic acted upon his senses like an evil charm. Oh, if he had only known!
At half-past seven on the Friday night he called at her flat, and he had barely entered the room before she came to him. Evidently she regarded it as a great occasion, for she was resplendently attired. Yet not too much so. Either she, or her maid, instinctively knew what exactly suited her kind of beauty; for not even the most critical could have found fault with her.
What a glorious creature she was! Shaped like a goddess, her clothes accentuated her charms. Evidently, too, she was intent on pleasing him. Her face was wreathed in smiles, her eyes shone with dangerous brightness. There was witchery, allurement in her presence – she was a siren.
Dick almost gave a gasp as he saw her. A girl in appearance, a girl with all the winsomeness and attractiveness of youth, yet a woman with all a woman's knowledge of man's weakness – a woman bent on being captivating.
"Do I please your Majesty?" and her eyes flashed as the words passed her lips.
"Please me!" he gasped. "You are wonderful, simply wonderful."
"I want you to be pleased," she whispered, and Dick thought he saw her blush.
They entered the motor-car together, and as she sat by his side he felt as though he were in dreamland. A delicate perfume filled the air, and the knowledge that he was going to dine with her, amidst brightness and gaiety, made him forgetful of all else.
They were not long in reaching The Moscow, one of the most popular and fashionable restaurants in London. He saw at a glance, as he looked around him, that the wealth, the beauty, the fashion of London were there. The waiter led them to a table from which they could command practically the whole room, and where they could be seen by all. But he took no notice of this. He was almost intoxicated by the brilliance of the scene, by the fascination of the woman who sat near him.
"For once," she said, "let us forget dull care, let us be happy."
He laughed gaily. "Why not?" he cried. "All the same, I wonder what my constituents at Eastroyd would say if they saw me here?"
She gave a slight shrug, and threw off the light gossamer shawl which had somewhat hidden her neck and shoulders. Her jewels flashed back the light which shone overhead, her eyes sparkled like stars.
"Let us forget Eastroyd," she cried; "let us forget everything sordid and sorrowing. Surely there are times when one should live only for gladness, for joy. Is not the music divine? There, listen! Did I not tell you that some of the most wonderful artists in London play here? Do you know what it makes me think of?"
"I would love to know," he responded, yielding to her humour.
"But I must not tell you – I dare not. I am going to ask a favour of you, my friend. Will you grant it, without asking me what it is?"
"Of course I will grant it."
"Oh, it is little, nothing after all. Only let me choose the wine to-night."
"Why not? I am no wine drinker, and am no judge of vintages."
"Ah, but you must drink with me to-night. To-night I am queen, and you are – "
"Yes, what am I?" asked Dick with a laugh, as she stopped.
"You are willing to obey your queen, aren't you?"
"Who would not be willing to obey such a queen?" was his reply.
The waiter hovered around them, attending to their slightest wants. Not only was the restaurant noted as being a rendezvous for the beauty and fashion of London, but it boasted the best chef in England. Every dish was more exquisite than the last, and everything was served in a way to please the most captious.
The dinner proceeded. Course followed course, while sweet music was discoursed, and Dick felt in a land of enchantment. For once he gave himself over to enjoyment – he banished all saddening thoughts. He was in a world of brightness and song; every sight, every sound drove away dull care. To-morrow he would have to go back to the grim realities of life; but now he allowed himself to be swept along by the tide of laughter and gaiety.
"You seem happy, my friend," said the woman presently. "Never before did I see you so free from dull care, never did I see you so full of the joy of life. Well, why not? Life was given to us to be happy. Yes, yes, I know. You have your work to do; but not now. I should feel miserable for days if I thought I could not charm away sadness from you – especially to-night."
"Why to-night?"
"Because it is the first time we have ever dined together. I should pay you a poor compliment, shouldn't I, if when you took me to a place where laughter abounded I did not bring laughter to your lips and joy to your heart. Let us hope that this is the first of the many times we may dine together. Yes; what are you thinking about?"
"That you are a witch, a wonder, a miracle of beauty and of charm. There, I know I speak too freely."
He ceased speaking suddenly.
"I love to hear you speak so. I would rather – but what is the matter?"
Dick did not reply. His eyes were riveted on another part of the room, and he had forgotten that she was speaking. Seated at a table not far away were three people, two men and a woman. The men were Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore. The woman was Beatrice Stanmore. Evidently the lover had brought his fiancée and her grandfather there that night. It seemed to Dick that Weston had an air of proprietorship, as he acted the part of host. He watched while the baronet smiled on her and spoke to her. It would seem, too, that he said something pleasant, for the girl laughed gaily, and her eyes sparkled with delight.
"You see someone you know?" and Olga Petrovic's eyes followed his gaze. "Ah, you are looking at the table where that pretty but rather countrified girl is sitting with the old man with the white hair, and the other who looks like a soldier. Ah yes, you know them, my friend?"
"I have seen them – met them," he stammered.
"Ah, then you know who they are? I do not know them, they are strangers to me; but I can tell you about them. Shall I?"
"Yes." His eyes were still riveted on them, and he did not know he had spoken.
"The girl is the younger man's fiancée. They have lately become engaged. Don't you see how he smiles on her? And look how she smiles back. She is deeply in love with him, that is plain. There, don't you see – she has a ring on her engagement finger. They are very happy. I think the man has brought the girl and the old man here as a kind of celebration dinner. Presently they will go to some place of amusement. She seems a poor simpering thing; but they are evidently deeply in love with each other. Tell me, am I not right?"
Dick did not reply. What he had seen stung him into a kind of madness. He was filled with reckless despair. What matter what he did, what happened to him? Of course he knew of the engagement, but the sight of them together unhinged his mind, kept him from thinking coherently.
"You seem much interested in them, my friend; do you know them well? Ah, they have finished dinner, I think. There, they are looking at us; the girl is asking who we are, or, perhaps, she has recognised you."
For a moment Dick felt his heart stop beating; yes, she was coming his way. She must pass his table in order to get out.
With a kind of despairing recklessness he seized the wineglass by his side and drained it. He was hardly master of himself; he talked rapidly, loudly.
The waiter appeared with liqueurs.
"Yes," cried the Countess, with a laugh; "I chose the wine – I must choose the liqueurs also. It is my privilege."
The waiter poured out the spirits with a deft hand, while the woman laughed. Her eyes sparkled more brightly then ever; her face had a look of set purpose.
"This is the only place in London where one can get this liqueur," she cried. "What is it? I don't know. But I am told it is exquisite. There! I drink to you!"
She lifted the tiny glass to her lips, while her eyes, large, black, bold, seductive, dangerous, flashed into his.
"Drink, my friend," she said, and her voice reached some distance around her; "it is the drink of love, of love, the only thing worth living for. Drain it to the bottom, and let us be happy."
He lifted the glass, but ere it reached his lips he saw that Beatrice Stanmore and her companions were close to him, and that she must have heard what Olga Petrovic had said. In spite of the fact that he had drunk of rich, strong wine, and that it tingled through his veins like some fabled elixir, he felt his heart grow cold. He saw a look on the girl's face which startled him – frightened him. But she was not looking at him; her eyes were fixed on his companion.
And he saw the expression of terror, of loathing, of horror. It made him think of an angel gazing into the pit of hell. But Olga Petrovic seemed unconscious of her presence. Her eyes were fixed on Dick's face. She seemed to be pleading with him, fascinating him, compelling him to think only of her.
Meanwhile Hugh Stanmore and Sir George Weston hesitated, as if doubtful whether they should speak.
Dick half rose. He wanted to speak to Beatrice. To tell her – what, he did not know. But he was not master of himself. He was dizzy and bewildered. Perhaps it was because he was unaccustomed to drink wine, and the rich vintage had flown to his head – perhaps because of influences which he could not understand.
"Beatrice – Miss Stanmore," he stammered in a hoarse, unnatural voice, so hoarse and unnatural that the words were scarcely articulated, "this – this is a surprise."
He felt how inane he was. He might have been intoxicated. What must Beatrice think of him?
But still she did not look at him. Her eyes were still fixed on Olga's face. She seemed to be trying to read her, to pierce her very soul. Then suddenly she turned towards Dick, who had dropped into his chair again, and was still holding the tiny glass in his hand.
"You do not drink, Dick," said Olga Petrovic, and her voice, though low and caressing, was plainly to be heard. "You must drink, because I chose it, and it is the drink of love – the only thing worth living for," and all the time her eyes were fixed on his face.
Almost unconsciously he turned towards her, and his blood seemed turned to fire. Madness possessed him; he felt a slave to the charms of this bewitching woman, even while the maiden for whom his heart longed with an unutterable longing was only two or three yards from him. He lifted the glass again, and the fiery liquid passed his lips.
Again he looked at Beatrice, and it seemed to him that he saw horror and disgust in her face. Something terrible had happened; it seemed to him that he was enveloped in some form of black magic from which he could not escape.
Then rage filled his heart. The party passed on without further notice of him, and he saw Beatrice speak to Sir George Weston. What she said to him he did not know, but he caught a part of his reply.
"I heard of her in Vienna. She had a curious reputation. Her salon was the centre of attraction to a peculiar class of men. Magnificent, but – "
That was all he heard. He was not sure he heard even that. There was a hum of voices, and the sound of laughter everywhere, and so it was difficult for him to be sure of what any particular person said. Neither might the words apply to the woman at his side.
Bewildered, he turned towards Olga again, caught the flash of her eyes' wild fire, and was again fascinated by the bewildering seductiveness of her charms. What was the matter with him? He did not seem master of himself. Everything was strange – bewildering.
Perhaps it was because of the wine he had drunk, perhaps because that fiery liquid had inflamed his imagination; but it seemed to him that nothing mattered. Right! Wrong! What were they? Mere abstractions, the fancies of a diseased mind. Wild recklessness filled his heart. He had seen Beatrice Stanmore smile on Sir George Weston, and he had heard the woman at his side say that she, Beatrice, wore this Devonshire squire's ring.
Well, what then? Why should he care?
And all the time Olga Petrovic was by his side. She had seemed unconscious of Beatrice's presence; she had not noticed the look of horror and loathing in the girl's eyes. She was only casting a spell on him – a spell he could not understand.
Then he had a peculiar sensation. This mysterious woman was bewitching him. She was sapping his will even as Romanoff had sapped it years before. Why did he connect them?
"Countess," he said, "do you know Count Romanoff?"
The woman hesitated a second before replying.
"Dick," she said, "you must not call me Countess. You know my name, don't you? Count Romanoff? No, I never heard of him."
"Let us get away from here," he cried. "I feel as though I can't breathe."
"I'm so sorry. Let us go back home and spend the evening quietly. Oh, I forgot. Sir Felix and Lady Fordham are calling at ten o'clock. You don't mind, do you?"
"No, no. I shall be glad to meet them."
A few minutes later they were moving rapidly towards Olga Petrovic's flat, Dick still excited, and almost irresponsible, the woman with a look of exultant triumph on her face.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Shadow of a Great Terror
"Sit down, my friend. Sir Felix and Lady Fordham have not come; but what matter? There, take this chair. Ah, you look like yourself again. Has it ever struck you that you are a handsome man? No; I do not flatter. I looked around The Moscow to-night, and there was not a man in the room to compare with you – not one who looked so distinguished, so much – a man. I felt so glad – so proud."
He felt himself sink in the luxuriously upholstered chair, while she sat at his feet and looked up into his face.
"Now, then, you are king; you are seated on your throne, while I, your slave, am at your feet, ready to obey your will. Is not that the story of man and woman?"
He did not answer He was struggling, struggling and fighting, and yet he did not know against what he was fighting. Besides, he had no heart in the battle. His will-power was gone; his vitality was lowered; he felt as though some powerful narcotic were in his blood, deadening his manhood, dulling all moral purpose. He was intoxicated by the influences of the hour, careless as to what might happen to him, and yet by some strange contradiction he was afraid. The shadow of a great terror rested on him.
And Olga Petrovic seemed to know – to understand.
She started to her feet. "You have never heard me sing, have you? Ah no, of course you have not. And has it not ever been in song and story that the slave of her lord's will discoursed sweet music to him? Is there not some old story about a shepherd boy who charmed away the evil spirits of the king by music?"
She sat at a piano, and began to play soft, dreamy music. Her fingers scarcely touched the keys, and yet the room was filled with peculiar harmonies.
"You understand French, do you not, my friend? Yes; I know you do."
She began to sing. What the words were he never remembered afterwards, but he knew they possessed a strange power over him. They dulled his fears; they charmed his senses; they seemed to open up long vistas of beauty and delight. He seemed to be in a kind of Mohammedan Paradise, where all was sunshine and song.
How long she sung he could not tell; what she said to him he hardly knew. He only knew that he sat in a luxuriously appointed room, while this wonder of womanhood charmed him.
Presently he knew that she was making love to him, and that he was listening with eager ears. Not only did he seem to have no power to resist her – he had no desire to do so. He did not ask whether she was good or evil; he ceased to care what the future might bring forth. And yet he had a kind of feeling that something was wrong, hellish – only it did not matter to him. This woman loved him, while all other love was impossible to him.
Beatrice! Ah, but Beatrice had looked at him with horror; all her smiles were given to another man – the man to whom she had promised to give herself as his wife. What mattered, then?
But there was a new influence in the room! It seemed to him as if a breath of sweet mountain air had been wafted to him – air full of the strength of life, sweet, pure life. The scales fell from his eyes and he saw.
The woman again sat at his feet, looking up at him with love-compelling eyes, and he saw her plainly. But he saw more: the wrappings were torn from her soul, and he beheld her naked spirit.
He shuddered. What he saw was evil – evil. Instead of the glorious face of Olga Petrovic, he saw a grinning skull; instead of the dulcet tones of her siren-like voice, he heard the hiss of snakes, the croaking of a raven.
He was standing on the brink of a horrible precipice, while beneath him was black, unfathomable darkness, filled with strange, noisome sounds.
What did it mean? He still beheld the beauty – the somewhat Oriental beauty of the room; he was still aware of the delicate odours that pervaded it, while this woman, glorious in her queenly splendour, was at his feet, charming him with words of love, with promises of delight; but it seemed to him that other eyes, other powers of vision, were given to him, and he saw beyond.
Was that Romanoff's cynical, evil face? Were not his eyes watching them with devilish expectancy? Was he not even then gloating over the loss of his manhood, the pollution of his soul?
"Hark, what is that?"
"What, my friend? Nothing, nothing."
"But I heard something – something far away."
She laughed with apparent gaiety, yet there was uneasiness in her voice.
"You heard nothing but my foolish confession, Dick. I love you, love you! Do you hear? I love you. I tried to kill it – in vain. But what matter? Love is everything – there is nothing else to live for. And you and I are all the world. Your love is mine. Tell me, is it not so? And I am yours, my beloved, yours for ever."
But he only half heard her; forces were at work in his life which he could not comprehend. A new longing came to him – the longing for a strong, clean manhood.
"Do you believe in angels?" he asked suddenly.
Why the question passed his lips he did not know, but it sprung to his lips without thought or effort on his part. Then he remembered. Beatrice Stanmore had asked him that question weeks before down at Wendover Park.
Angels! His mind became preternaturally awake; his memory flashed back across the chasm of years.
"Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?"
Yes; he remembered the words. The old clergyman had repeated them years before, when he had seen the face of the woman which no other man could see.
Like lightning his mind swept down the years, and he remembered the wonderful experiences which had had such a marked influence on his life.
"Angels!" laughed the woman. "There are no angels save those on earth, my friend. There is no life other than this, so let us be happy."
"Look, look!" he cried, pointing to a part of the room which was only dimly lit. "She is there, there! Don't you see? Her hand is pointing upward!"
Slowly the vision faded, and he saw nothing.
Then came the great temptation of Dick Faversham's life. His will-power, his manhood, had come back to him again, but he felt that he had to fight his battle alone. His eyes were open, but because at his heart was a gnawing despair, he believed there was nothing to live for save what his temptress promised.
She pleaded as only a woman jealous for her love, determined to triumph, can plead. And she was beautiful, passionate, dangerous. Again he felt his strength leaving him, his will-power being sapped, his horror of wrong dulled.
Still something struggled within him – something holy urged him to fight on. His manhood was precious; the spark of the Divine fire which still burnt refused to be extinguished.
"Lord, have mercy upon me! Christ, have mercy upon me!"
It was a part of the service he had so often repeated in the old school chapel, and it came back to him like the memory of a dream.
"Countess," he said, "I must go."
"No, no, Dick," cried the woman, with a laugh. "Why, it is scarcely ten o'clock."
"I must go," he repeated weakly.
"Not for another half an hour. I am so lonely."
He was hesitating whether he should stay, when they both heard the sound of voices outside – voices that might have been angry. A moment later the door opened, and Beatrice Stanmore came in, accompanied by her grandfather.
"Forgive me," panted the girl, "but I could not help coming. Something told me you were in great danger – ill – dying, and I have come."
She had come to him just as she had come to him that night at Wendover Park, and at her coming the power of Romanoff was gone. It was the same now. As if by magic, he felt free from the charm of Olga Petrovic. The woman was evil, and he hated evil.
Again the eyes of Beatrice Stanmore were fixed on the face of Olga Petrovic. She did not speak, but her look was expressive of a great loathing.
"Surely this is a strange manner to disturb one's privacy," said the Countess. "I am at a loss to know to what I am indebted for this peculiar attention. I must speak to my servants."
But Beatrice spoke no word in reply to her. Turning towards Dick again, she looked at him for a few seconds.
"I am sorry I have disturbed you," she said. "Something, I do not know what, told me you were in some terrible danger, and I went back to the restaurant. A man there told us you had come here. I am glad I was mistaken. Forgive me, I will go now."
"I am thankful you came," said Dick. "I – I am going."
"Good-night, Countess," he added, turning to Olga, and without another word turned to leave the room. But Olga Petrovic was not in the humour to be baffled. She rushed towards him and caught his arm.
"You cannot go yet," she cried. "You must not go like this, Dick; I cannot allow you. Besides, I want an explanation. These people, who are they? Dick, why are they here?"
"I must go," replied Dick sullenly. "I have work to do."
"Work!" she cried. "This is not the time for work, but love – our love, Dick. Ah, I remember now. This girl was at The Moscow with that soldier man. They love each other. Why may we not love each other too? Stay, Dick."
But she pleaded in vain. The power of her spell had gone. Something strong, virile, vital, stirred within him, and he was master of himself.
"Good-night, Countess," he replied. "Thank you for your kind invitation, but I must go."
He scarcely knew where he was going, and he had only a dim remembrance of refusing to take the lift and of stumbling down the stairs. He thought he heard old Hugh Stanmore talking with Beatrice, but he was not sure; he fancied, too, that they were close behind him, but he was too bewildered to be certain of anything.
A few minutes later he was tramping towards his own humble flat, and as he walked he was trying to understand the meaning of what had taken place.
Olga Petrovic had been alone only a few seconds, when Count Romanoff entered the room. Evidently he had been in close proximity all the time. In his eyes was the look of an angry beast at bay; his face was distorted, his voice hoarse.
"And you have allowed yourself to be beaten – beaten!" he taunted.
But the woman did not speak. Her hands were clenched, her lips tremulous, while in her eyes was a look of unutterable sorrow.
"But we have not come to the end of our little comedy yet, Olga," went on Romanoff. "You have still your chance of victory."
"Comedy!" she repeated; "it is the blackest tragedy."
"Tragedy, eh? Yes; it will be tragedy if you fail."
"And I must fail," she cried. "I am powerless to reach him, and yet I would give my heart's blood to win his love. But go, go! Let me never see your face again."
"You will not get rid of me so easily," mocked the Count. "We made our pact. I will keep my side of it, and you must keep yours."
"I cannot, I tell you. Something, something I cannot understand, mocks me."
"You love the fellow still," said Romanoff. "Fancy, Olga Petrovic is weak enough for that."
"Yes, I love him," cried the woman – "I admit it – love him with every fibre of my being. But not as you would have me love him. I have tried to obey you; but I am baffled. The man's clean, healthy soul makes me ashamed. God alone knows how ashamed I am! And it is his healthiness of soul that baffles me."
