The Everlasting Arms Part 36

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 hoa.r.s.e.

"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. G.o.d alone knows how ashamed I am! And it is his healthiness of soul that baffles me."

"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 hoa.r.s.e.

"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 friends.h.i.+p? 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 ladys.h.i.+p," 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 ladys.h.i.+p?" 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 x.x.xIX.

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 a.s.sured 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 d.i.c.k 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-a.s.surance.

"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 a.s.sertion.

"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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sociate 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 s.h.i.+eld 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, l.u.s.trous 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 d.i.c.k from him. I--I would have s.h.i.+elded him with my life."

"You would have s.h.i.+elded 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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.