Kitabı oku: «The Everlasting Arms», sayfa 22
"No, it is not," snarled Romanoff. "It is because I have been opposed by one of whom I was ignorant. That chit of a girl, that wayside flower, whom I would love to see polluted by the filth of the world, has been used to beat me. Don't you see? The fellow is in love with her. He has been made to love her. That is why you have failed."
Mad jealousy flashed into the woman's eyes. "He loves her?" she asked, and her voice was hoarse.
"Of course he does. Will you let him have her?"
"He cannot. Is she not betrothed to that soldier fellow?"
"What if she is? Was there not love in her eyes as she came here to-night? Would she have come merely for Platonic friendship? Olga, if you do not act quickly, you will have lost him – lost him for ever."
"But I have lost him!" she almost wailed.
"You have not, I tell you. Go to her to-night. Tell her that Faversham is not the man she thinks he is. Tell her – but I need not instruct you as to that. You know what to say. Then when he goes to her to explain, as he will go, she will drive him from her, Puritan fool as she is, with loathing and scorn! After that your turn will come again."
For some time they talked, she protesting, he explaining, threatening, cajoling, promising, and at length he overcame. With a look of determination in her eyes, she left her flat, and drove to the hotel where Romanoff told her that Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice were staying.
Was Miss Beatrice Stanmore in the hotel? she asked when she entered the vestibule.
Yes, she was informed, Miss Stanmore had returned with her grandfather only half an hour before.
She took one of her visiting cards and wrote on it hastily.
"Will you take it to her at once," she commanded the servant, and she handed him the card. "Tell her that it is extremely urgent."
"But it is late, your ladyship," protested the man; "and I expect she has retired."
Nevertheless he went. A look from the woman compelled obedience. A few minutes later he returned.
"Will you be pleased to follow me, your ladyship?" he said. "Miss Stanmore will see you."
Olga Petrovic followed him with a steady step, but in her eyes was a look of fear.
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Triumph of Good
Beatrice Stanmore was sitting in a tiny room as the Countess Olga Petrovic entered. It was little more than a dressing-room, and adjoined her bedroom. She rose at Olga's entrance, and looked at the woman intently. She was perfectly calm, and was far more at ease than her visitor.
"I hope you will pardon the liberty I have taken," and Olga spoke in sweet, low tones; "but I came to plead for your forgiveness. I was unutterably rude to you to-night, and I felt I could not sleep until I was assured of your pardon."
"Won't you sit down?" and Beatrice pointed to a chair as she spoke. "I will ask my grandfather to come here."
"But, pardon me," cried Olga eagerly, "could we not remain alone? I have much to say to you – things which I can say to you only."
"Then it was not simply to ask my pardon that you came?" retorted Beatrice. "Very well, I will hear you."
She was utterly different from the sensitive, almost timid girl whom Dick Faversham had spoken to at Wendover. It was evident that she had no fear of her visitor. She spoke in plain matter-of-fact terms.
For a few seconds the older woman seemed to be at a loss what to say. The young inexperienced girl disturbed her confidence, her self-assurance.
"I came to speak to you about Mr. Faversham," she began, after an awkward silence.
Beatrice Stanmore made no remark, but sat quietly as if waiting for her to continue.
"You know Mr. Faversham?" continued the woman.
"Yes, I know him."
"Forgive me for speaking so plainly; but you have an interest in him which is more than – ordinary?" The words were half a question, half an assertion.
"I am greatly interested in Mr. Faversham – yes," she replied quietly.
"Even though, acting on the advice of your grandfather, you have become engaged to Sir George Weston? Forgive my speaking plainly, but I felt I must come to you to-night, felt I must tell you the truth."
Olga Petrovic paused as if waiting for Beatrice to say something, but the girl was silent. She fixed her eyes steadily on the other's face, and waited.
"Mr. Faversham is not the kind of man you think he is." Olga Petrovic spoke hurriedly and awkwardly, as though she found the words difficult to say.
Still Beatrice remained silent; but she kept her eyes steadily on the other's face.
"I thought I ought to tell you. You are young and innocent; you do not know the ways of men. Mr. Faversham is not fit for you to associate with."
"And yet you dined with him to-night. You took him to your flat afterwards."
"But I am different from you. I am a woman of the world, and your Puritan standard of morals has no weight or authority with me. Of course," and again she spoke awkwardly, "I have no right to speak to you, your world is different from mine, and you are a stranger to me; but I have heard of you."
"How? Through whom?"
"Need you ask?"
"I suppose you mean Mr. Faversham. Why should he speak to you about me?"
"Some men are like that. They boast of their conquests, they glory in – in – ; but I need not say more. Will you take advice from a woman who – who has suffered, and who, through suffering, has learnt to know the world? It is this. Think no more of Richard Faversham. He – he is not a good man; he is not fit to associate with a pure child like you."
Beatrice Stanmore looked at the other with wonder in her eyes. There was more than wonder, there was terror. It might be that the older woman had frightened her.
"Forgive me speaking like this," went on Olga, "but I cannot help myself. Drive him from your mind. Perhaps there is not much romance in the thought of marrying Sir George Weston, but I beseech you to do so. He, at least, will shield you from the temptations, the evil of the world. As for Faversham, if he ever tries to see you again, remember that his very presence is pollution for such as you. Yes, yes, I know what you are thinking of – but I don't matter. I live in a world of which I hope you may always remain ignorant; but in which Faversham finds his joy. You – you saw us together – "
In spite of her self-control Beatrice was much moved. The crimson flushes on her cheeks were followed by deathly pallor. Her lips quivered, her bosom heaved as if she found it difficult to breathe. But she did not speak. Perhaps she was too horrified by the other's words.
"I know I have taken a fearful liberty with you," went on Olga; "but I could not help myself. My life, whatever else it has done has made me quick to understand, and when I watched you, I saw that that man had cast an evil spell upon you. At first I felt careless, but as I watched your face, I felt a great pity for you. I shuddered at the thought of your life being blackened by your knowledge of such a man."
"Does he profess love to you?" asked Beatrice quietly.
Olga Petrovic gave a hard laugh. "Surely you saw," she said.
"And you would warn me against him?"
"Yes; I would save you from misery."
For some seconds the girl looked at the woman's face steadily, then she said, simply and quietly:
"And are you, who seek to save me, content to be the woman you say you are? You are very, very beautiful – are you content to be evil?"
She spoke just as a child might speak; but there was something in the tones of her voice which caused the other to be afraid.
"You seem to have a kind heart," went on Beatrice; "you would save me from pain, and – and evil. Have you no thought for yourself?"
"I do not matter," replied the woman sullenly.
"You think only of me?"
"I think only of you."
"Then look at me," and the eyes of the two met. "Is what you have told me true?"
"True!"
"Yes, true. You were innocent once, you had a mother who loved you, and I suppose you once had a religion. Will you tell me, thinking of the mother who loved you, of Christ who died for you, whether what you say about Mr. Faversham is true?"
A change came over Olga Petrovic's face; her eyes were wide open with terror and shame. For some seconds she seemed fighting with a great temptation, then she rose to her feet.
"No," she almost gasped; "it is not true!" She simply could not persist in a lie while the pure, lustrous eyes of the girl were upon her.
"Then why did you tell me?"
"Because, oh, because I am mad! Because I am a slave, and because I am jealous, jealous for his love, because, oh – !" She flung herself into the chair again, and burst into an agony of tears.
"Oh, forgive me, forgive me for deceiving you!" she sobbed presently.
"You did not deceive me at all. I knew you were lying."
"But – but you seemed – horrified at what I told you!"
"I was horrified to think that one so young and beautiful like you could – could sink so low."
"Then you do not know what love is!" she cried. "Do you understand? I love him – love him! I would do anything, anything to win him."
"And if you did, could you make him happy?"
"I make him happy! Oh, but you do not know."
"Tell me," said Beatrice, "are you not the tool, the slave of someone else? Has not Mr. Faversham an enemy, and are you not working for that enemy?"
Her clear, childlike eyes were fixed on the other's face; she seemed trying to understand her real motives. Olga Petrovic, on the other hand, regarded the look with horror.
"No, no," she cried, "do not think that of me! I would have saved Dick from him. I – I would have shielded him with my life."
"You would have shielded him from Count Romanoff?"
"Do not tell me you know him?"
"I only know of him. He is evil, evil. Ah yes, I understand now. He sent you here. He is waiting for you now."
"But how do you know?"
"Listen," said Beatrice, without heeding her question, "you can be a happy woman, a good woman. Go back and tell that man that you have failed, and that he has failed; then go back to your own country, and be the woman God meant you to be, the woman your mother prayed you might be."
"I – I a happy woman – a good woman!"
"Yes – I tell you, yes."
"Oh, tell me so again, tell me – O great God, help me!"
"Sit down," said Beatrice quietly; "let us talk. I want to help you."
For a long time they sat and talked, while old Hugh Stanmore, who was close by, wondered who his grandchild's visitor could be, and why they talked so long.
It was after midnight when Olga Petrovic returned to her flat, and no sooner did she enter than Count Romanoff met her.
"Well, Olga," he asked eagerly, "what news?"
"I go back to Poland to-morrow, to my old home, to my own people."
She spoke slowly, deliberately; her voice was hard and cold.
He did not seem to understand. He looked at her questioningly for some seconds without speaking.
"You are mad, Olga," he said presently.
"I am not mad."
"This means then that you have failed. You understand the consequences of failure?"
"It means – oh, I don't know what it means. But I do know that that child had made me long to be a good woman."
"A good woman? Olga Petrovic a good woman!" he sneered.
"Yes, a good woman. I am not come to argue with you. I only tell you that you are powerless to hinder me."
"And Faversham? Does Olga Petrovic mean that she confesses herself beaten? That she will have her love thrown in her face, and not be avenged?"
"It means that if you like, and it means something more. Isaac Romanoff, or whatever your real name may be, why you have sought to ruin that man I don't know; but I know this: I have been powerless to harm him, and so have you."
"It means that you have failed —you!" he snarled.
"Yes, and why? There has been a power mightier than yours against which you have fought. Good, GOOD, has been working on his side, that is why you have failed, why I have failed. O God of Goodness, help me!"
"Stop that, stop that, I say!" His voice was hoarse, and his face was livid with rage.
"I will not stop," she cried. "I want to be a good woman – I will be a good woman. That child whom I laughed at has seen a thousand times farther into the heart of truth than I, and she is happy, happy in her innocence, in her spotless purity, and in her faith in God. And I promised her I would be a new woman, live a new life."
"You cannot, you dare not," cried the Count.
"But I will. I will leave the old bad past behind me."
"And I will dog your every footstep. I will make such madness impossible."
"But you cannot. Good is stronger than evil. God is Almighty."
"I hold you, body and soul, remember that."
The woman seemed possessed of a new power, and she turned to the Count with a look of triumph in her eyes.
"Go," she cried, "in the name of that Christ who was the joy of my mother's life, and who died that I might live – I bid you go. From to-night I cease to be your slave."
The Count lifted his hand as if to strike her, but she stood before him fearless.
"You cannot harm me," she cried. "See, see, God's angels are all around me now! They stretch out their arms to help me."
He seemed to be suffering agonies; his face was contorted, his eyes were lurid, and he appeared to be struggling with unseen powers.
"I will not yield," he cried; "not one iota will I yield. You are mine, you swore to serve me – I claim my own."
"The oath I took was evil, evil, and I break it. O eternal God, help me, help me. Save me, save me, for Christ's sake."
Romanoff seemed to hesitate what to do, then he made a movement as if to move towards her, but was powerless to do so. The hand which he had uplifted dropped to his side as if paralysed; he was in the presence of a Power greater than his own. He passed out of the room without another word.
The next day the flat of Countess Olga Petrovic was empty, but no one knew whither she had gone.
For more than a month after the scenes I have described, Dick Faversham was confined to his room. He suffered no pain, but he was languid, weak, and terribly depressed. An acquaintance who called to see him, shocked by his appearance, insisted on sending for a doctor, and this gentleman, after a careful examination, declared that while he was organically sound, he was in a low condition, and utterly unfit for work.
"You remind me of a man suffering from shell-shock," he said. "Have you had any sudden sorrow, or anything of that sort?"
Dick shook his head.
"Anyhow, you are utterly unfit for work, that is certain," went on the doctor. "What you need is absolute rest, cheerful companionship, and a warm, sunny climate."
"There's not much suggestion of a warm, sunny climate here," Dick said, looking out of the window.
"But I daresay it would be possible to arrange for a passport, so that you might get to the South of France, or to Egypt," persisted the doctor.
"Yes; I might get a passport, but I've no money to get there."
So Dick stayed on at his flat, and passed the time as best he could. By and by the weather improved, and presently Dick was well enough to get out. But he had no interest in anything, and he quickly grew tired. Then a sudden, an almost overmastering desire came to him to go to Wendover. There seemed no reason why he should go there, but his heart ached for a sight of the old house. He pictured it as it was during the time he spent there. He saw the giant trees in the park, the gay flowers in the gardens, the stateliness and restfulness of the old mansion. The thought of it warmed his heart, and gave him new hope.
"Oh, if it were only mine again!" he reflected.
He had heard that the rumours of Tony Riggleton's death were false, and he was also told that although he had been kept out of England for some time he would shortly return; but concerning that he could gather nothing definite.
Of Beatrice Stanmore he had heard nothing, and he had no heart to make inquiries concerning her. He had many times reflected on her sudden appearance at Olga Petrovic's flat, and had he been well enough he would have tried to see her. More than once he had taken a pen in hand to write to her, but he had never done so. What was the use? In spite of her coming, he felt that she must regard him with scorn. He remembered what Olga Petrovic had said in her presence. Besides, he was too weak, too ill to make any effort whatever.
But with the sudden desire to go to Wendover came also the longing to see her – to explain. Of course she was the affianced wife of Sir George Weston, but he wanted to stand well in her eyes; he wanted her to know the truth.
It was a bright, balmy morning when he started for Surrey, and presently, when the train had left Croydon behind, a strange joy filled his heart. After all, life was not without hope. He was a young man, and in spite of everything he had kept his manhood. He was poor, and as yet unknown, but he had obtained a certain position. Love was not for him, nor riches, but he could work for the benefit of others.
When the train stopped at Wendover station, he again found himself to be the only passenger who alighted. As he breathed the pure, balmy air, and saw the countryside beginning to clothe itself in its mantle of living green, it seemed to him that new life, new energy, entered his being. After all, it was good to be alive.
Half an hour later he was nearing the park gates – not those which he had entered on his first visit, but those near which Hugh Stanmore's cottage was situated. He had taken this road without thinking. Well, it did not matter.
As he saw the cottage nestling among the trees, he felt his heart beating wildly. He wondered if Beatrice was at home, wondered – a thousand things. He longed to call and make inquiries, but of course he would not. He would enter the park gates unseen, and make his way to the great house.
But he did not pass the cottage gate. Before he could do so the door opened, and Beatrice appeared. Evidently she had seen him coming, for she ran down the steps with outstretched hand.
"I felt sure it was you," she said, "and – but you look pale – ill; are you?"
"I'm ever so much better, thank you," he replied. "So much so that I could not refrain from coming to see Wendover again."
"But you must come in and rest," she cried anxiously. "I insist on it. Why did you not tell us you were ill?"
Before he could reply he found himself within the cottage.
CHAPTER XL
The Ministering Angel
"Are you alone?" he managed to ask.
"Yes; Granddad went out early. He'll be back in an hour or so. He has been expecting to hear from you."
How sweet and fair she looked! There was no suggestion of the exotic beauty of Olga Petrovic; she adopted no artificial aids to enhance her appearance. Sweet, pure air and exercise had tinted her cheeks; the beauty of her soul shone from her eyes. She was just a child of nature, and to Dick she was the most beautiful thing on God's earth.
For a moment their eyes met, and then the love which Dick Faversham had been fighting against for weeks surged like a mighty flood through his whole being.
"I must go – I must not stay here," he stammered.
"But why? Granddad will be back soon."
"Because – " Again he caught the flash of her eyes, and felt that the whole world without her was haggard hopelessness. Before he knew what he was saying he had made his confession.
"Because I have no right to be here," he said almost angrily – "because it is dishonourable; it is madness for me to stay."
"But why?" she persisted.
He could not check the words that passed his lips; he had lost control over himself.
"Don't you understand?" he replied passionately. "I have no right to be here because I love you – love you more than my own life. Because you are everything to me —everything– and you have promised to marry Sir George Weston."
"But I've not." She laughed gaily as she uttered the words.
"You've not promised to – But – but – "
"No, of course not. How could I? I do not love him. He is awfully nice, and I'm very fond of him; but I don't love him. I could never think of such a thing."
She spoke quite naturally, and in an almost matter-of-fact way. She did not seem to realise that her words caused Dick Faversham's brain to reel, and his blood to rush madly through his veins. Rather she seemed like one anxious to correct a mistake, but to have no idea of what the correction meant to him.
For a few seconds Dick did not speak. "She is only a child," he reflected. "She does not understand what I have said to her. She does not realise what my love for her means."
But he was not sure of this. Something, he knew not what, told him she did know. Perhaps it was the flush on her cheeks, the quiver on her lips, the strange light in her eyes.
"You have not promised to marry Sir George Weston?" he asked hoarsely.
"No, of course not."
"But – he asked you?"
"That is scarcely a fair question, is it?"
"No, no, forgive me; it is not. But do you understand – what your words mean to me?"
She was silent at this.
"I love you – love you," he went on. "I want you to be my wife."
"I'm so glad," she said simply.
"But do you understand?" cried Dick. He could not believe in his own happiness, could not help thinking there must be some mistake. "This means everything to me."
"Of course I understand. I've known it for a long time, that is, I've felt it must be so. And I've wondered why you did not come and tell me."
"And you love me?" His voice was hoarse and tremulous.
"Love you? Why – why do you think I – could be here like this – if I didn't?"
Still she spoke almost as a child might speak. There was no suggestion of coquetry, no trying to appear surprised at his avowal. But there was something more, something in the tone of her voice, in the light of her eyes, in her very presence, that told Dick that deep was calling unto deep, that this maiden, whose heart was the heart of a child, had entered into womanhood, and knew its glory.
"Aren't you glad, too?" she asked.
"Glad! It seems so wonderful that I can't believe it! Half an hour ago the world was black, hopeless, while now – ; but there are things I must tell you, things I've wanted to tell you ever since I saw you last."
"Is it about that woman?"
"Yes, I wanted to tell you why I was with her; I wanted you to know that she was nothing to me."
"I knew all the time. But you were in danger – that was why I could not help coming to you. You understand, don't you? I had the same kind of feeling when that evil man was staying with you at the big house. He was trying to harm you, and I came. And he was still trying to ruin you, why I don't know, but he was using that woman to work his will. I felt it, and I came to you."
"How did you know?" asked Dick. He was awed by her words, solemnised by the wondrous intuition which made her realise his danger.
"I didn't know – I only felt. You see, I loved you, and I couldn't help coming."
Another time he would have asked her many questions about this, but now they did not seem to matter. He loved, and was loved, and the fact filled the world.
"Thank God you came," he said reverently. "And, Beatrice, you will let me call you Beatrice, won't you?"
"Why, of course, you must, Dick."
"May I kiss you?" he asked, and held out his arms.
She came to him in all the sweet freshness of her young life and offered him her pure young lips. Never had he known what joy meant as he knew it then, never had he felt so thankful that in spite of dire temptation he had kept his manhood clean.
Closer and closer he strained her to his heart, while words of love and of thankfulness struggled for expression. For as she laid her head on his shoulder, and he felt the beating of her heart, his mind swept like lightning over the past years, and he knew that angels of God had ministered to him, that they had shielded him from danger, and helped him in temptation. And this he knew also: while he had been on the brink of ruin through a woman, it was also by a woman that he had been saved. The thought of Beatrice Stanmore had been a power which had defied the powers of evil, and enabled him to keep his manhood clean.
Even yet the wonder of it all was beyond words, for he had come there that morning believing that Beatrice was the promised wife of Sir George Weston, and now, as if by the wave of some magician's wand, his beliefs had been dispelled, and he had found her free.
An hour before, he dared not imagine that this unspoilt child of nature could ever think of him with love, and yet her face was pressed against his, and she was telling him the simple story of her love – a love unsullied by the world, a love unselfish as that of a mother, and as strong as death.
"But I am so poor," he stammered at length; "just a voting machine at four hundred a year."
"As though you could ever be that," she laughed. "You are going to do great things, my love. You are going to live and work for the betterment of the world. And I – I shall be with you all the time."
He had much to tell her – a story so wonderful that it was difficult to believe. But Beatrice believed it. The thought of an angel who had come to him, warned him, guided him, and strengthened him, was not strange to her. For her pure young eyes had pierced the barriers of materialism, just as the light of the stars pierces the darkness of night. Because her soul was pure, she knew that the angels of God were never far away, and that the Eternal Goodness used them to minister to those who would listen to their voices.
Dick did not go to the great house that day. There seemed no reason why he should. By lunch time old Hugh Stanmore returned and was met by the two lovers.
Of all they said to each other, and of the explanations that were made, there is no need that I should write. Suffice to say that Hugh Stanmore was satisfied. It is true he liked Sir George Weston, while the thought that Beatrice might be mistress of his house was pleasant to him; true, too, that Dick Faversham was poor. But he had no fears. He knew that this young man's love was pure and strong, that he would never rest until he had provided a home worthy of her, and that his grandchild's future would be safe in his hands.
When Dick left the cottage that night, it was on the understanding that he would come back as soon as possible. Beatrice pleaded hard with him not to go to London, but to stay at the cottage and be nursed back to health and strength. But Dick had to make arrangements for a lengthened stay away from his work, and to see some of his confrères, so, while his heart yearned to remain near her, he looked joyfully forward to his return.
"And you go away happy, my love?"
"The happiest man on earth. And you, my little maid?"
"Oh, Dick, everything is as I hoped and prayed for."
"And you loved me all the time?"
"All the time; but I did not know it until – "
"Until when?"
"Until another man told me he wanted me."
Dick was in dreamland as he returned to London. No sooner had he boarded the train at Wendover than, as it seemed to him, he had arrived at Victoria. As for the journey between that station and his flat he has no remembrance to this day.
"Oh, the wonder of it, the glad wonder of it!" he repeated again and again. "Thank God – thank God!"
Then, as if in fulfilment of an old adage, no sooner had he entered his flat than another surprise awaited him. On his writing-table lay a long blue envelope, which had been brought by hand that afternoon. Dick broke the seal almost indifferently. What did he care about letters? Then he saw the name of Bidlake, and his attention was riveted.
This is what he read:
"My dear Faversham, – Forgive this unceremonious manner of writing, but I fancy I am a little excited. Riggleton is dead, and thus it comes about that the Faversham estates – or what is left of them – revert to you. How it was possible for a man to squander so much money and leave things in such a terrible mess in such a short time it is difficult to say. But there it is. Still, a good deal is left. Wendover Park, and all the lands attached remain untouched, and a good deal of money can be scraped up. Will you call as soon as possible on receipt of this, and I'll explain everything to you, as far as I can. – With heartiest congratulations, yours faithfully,
"John Bidlake."
Again and again Dick read this letter. He felt something like the lad of the Eastern Story must have felt as he read. He would not have been surprised if the Slave of the Lamp appeared, asking what his desires were, so that they might be performed without delay. December had changed into June in a single day.
His joy can be better imagined than described. To know that this old homestead was his again, to realise that he was no longer homeless and poor was a gladness beyond words. But he no longer felt as he had felt when he first saw Wendover. Then his thought had been of his own aggrandisement, and the satisfaction of his ambitions. Now he rejoiced because he could offer a home to the maiden he loved, and because he could do for the world what for years he had dreamt of doing.
But he was early at Mr. Bidlake's office the following morning.
"No, no, there's no mistake this time," Mr. Bidlake assured him. "You can enter into possession with a confident mind. Money! Yes, the fellow wasted it like water, but you need not fear. You'll have more than you need, in spite of increased income-tax and super-tax. Talk about romance though, if ever there was a romance this is one."
After spending two hours with the lawyer Dick went to the House of Commons, where he made the necessary arrangements for a couple of weeks' further absence.
"Yes, we can manage all right," assented the Labour Member with whom he spoke. "Not but what we shall be glad to have you back. There are big things brewing. The working people must no longer be hewers of wood and drawers of water. We must see to that."
"Yes, we will see to that," cried Dick. "But we must be careful."
"Careful of what?"
"Careful that we don't drift to Bolshevism, careful that we don't abuse our power. We must show that we who represent the Democracy understand our work. We must not think of one class only, but all the classes. We must think of the Empire, the good of humanity."
The other shook his head, "No mercy on capitalists," he cried.
