The Everlasting Arms Part 35

"The girl is the younger man's fiancee. 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. She seems a poor simpering thing; but they are evidently deeply in love with each other. Tell me, am I not right?"

d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k felt his heart stop beating; yes, she was coming his way. She must pa.s.s his table in order to get out.

With a kind of despairing recklessness he seized the winegla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l. But Olga Petrovic seemed unconscious of her presence. Her eyes were fixed on d.i.c.k'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.

d.i.c.k 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 hoa.r.s.e, unnatural voice, so hoa.r.s.e 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 d.i.c.k, who had dropped into his chair again, and was still holding the tiny gla.s.s in his hand.

"You do not drink, d.i.c.k," 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 gla.s.s again, and the fiery liquid pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 cla.s.s 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.

"d.i.c.k," 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, d.i.c.k still excited, and almost irresponsible, the woman with a look of exultant triumph on her face.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

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, h.e.l.lish--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, d.i.c.k. 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 pa.s.sed 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 d.i.c.k 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, pa.s.sionate, 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, d.i.c.k," 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. "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, d.i.c.k; I cannot allow you. Besides, I want an explanation. These people, who are they? d.i.c.k, why are they here?"

"I must go," replied d.i.c.k sullenly. "I have work to do."

"Work!" she cried. "This is not the time for work, but love--our love, d.i.c.k. 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, d.i.c.k."

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.