The Everlasting Arms Part 37

"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 G.o.d of Goodness, help me!"

"Stop that, stop that, I say!" His voice was hoa.r.s.e, 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 G.o.d. 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. G.o.d 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, G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sed 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, d.i.c.k 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 sh.e.l.l-shock," he said. "Have you had any sudden sorrow, or anything of that sort?"

d.i.c.k 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," d.i.c.k said, looking out of the window.

"But I daresay it would be possible to arrange for a pa.s.sport, so that you might get to the South of France, or to Egypt," persisted the doctor.

"Yes; I might get a pa.s.sport, but I've no money to get there."

So d.i.c.k stayed on at his flat, and pa.s.sed the time as best he could. By and by the weather improved, and presently d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.s 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 d.i.c.k she was the most beautiful thing on G.o.d's earth.

For a moment their eyes met, and then the love which d.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sed his lips; he had lost control over himself.

"Don't you understand?" he replied pa.s.sionately. "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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 hoa.r.s.ely.

"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 d.i.c.k. 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 hoa.r.s.e 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 d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k. 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 G.o.d you came," he said reverently. "And, Beatrice, you will let me call you Beatrice, won't you?"

"Why, of course, you must, d.i.c.k."

"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.