Part 32 (1/2)
”I do not follow you.”
”I have thought much about you, and I have been puzzled. You are a man with great ambitions--high, holy ambitions--but if you are not careful, your life will be fruitless.”
d.i.c.k was silent.
”Don't mistake me. I only mean fruitless comparatively. But you are handicapped, my friend.”
”Sadly handicapped,” confessed d.i.c.k.
”Ah, you feel it. You are like a bird with one wing trying to fly. Forgive me, but the best houses in London are closed to you; you are a paid Labour Member of Parliament, and thus you represent only a cla.s.s--the least influential cla.s.s. You are shut out from many of the delights of life. Channels of usefulness and power are closed to you. Oh, I know it is great to be a Labour Member, but it is greater to be independent of all cla.s.ses--to live for your ideals, to have enough money to be independent of the world, to hold up your head as an equal among the greatest and highest.”
”You diagnose a disease,” said d.i.c.k sadly, ”but you do not tell me the remedy.”
”Don't I?” and d.i.c.k felt the glamour of her presence. ”Doesn't your own heart tell you that, my friend?”
d.i.c.k felt a wild beating of his heart, but he did not reply. There was a weight upon his tongue.
A minute later she was the great lady again--far removed from him.
He left the house dazzled, almost in love with her in spite of Beatrice Stanmore, and largely under her influence. He had been gone only a few minutes when a servant brought a card.
”Count Romanoff,” she read. ”Show him here,” she added, and there was a look in her eyes that was difficult to understand.
CHAPTER x.x.xV.
THE ETERNAL STRUGGLE.
Count Romanoff was faultlessly dressed, and looked calm and smiling.
”Ah, Countess,” he said, ”I am fortunate in finding you alone. But you have had visitors, or, to be more exact, a visitor.”
”Yes; I have had visitors. I often have of an afternoon.”
”But he has been here.”
”Well, and what then?”
The Count gazed at her steadily, and his eyes had a sinister gleam in them.
”I have come to have a quiet chat with you,” he said--”come to know how matters stand.”
”You want to know more than I can tell you.”
Again the Count scrutinised her closely. He seemed to be trying to read her mind.
”Olga,” he said, ”you don't mean to say that you have failed? He has been in London some time now, and as I happen to know, he has been here often. Has not the fish leaped to the bait? If not, what is amiss? What?--Olga Petrovic, who has turned the heads of men in half the capitals of Europe, and who has never failed to make them her slaves, fail to captivate this yokel! I can't believe it.”
There was sullen anger in her eyes, and at that moment years seemed to have been added to her life.
”Beaten!” went on the Count, with a laugh--”Olga Petrovic beaten! That is news indeed.”
”I don't understand,” said the woman. ”Something always seems to stand between us. He seems to fear me--seems to be fighting against me.”
”And you have tried all your wiles?”
”Listen, Count Romanoff, or whatever your name may be,” and Olga Petrovic's voice was hoa.r.s.e. ”Tell me what you want me to do with that man.”
”Do? Make him your slave. Make him grovel at your feet as you have made others. Make him willing to sell his soul to possess you. Weave your net around him. Glamour him with your fiendish beauty. Play upon his hopes and desires until he is yours.”
”Why should I?”
”Because it is my will--because I command you.”
”And what if I have done all that and failed?”
”You fail! I can't believe it. You have not tried. You have not practised all your arts.”
”You do not understand,” replied the woman. ”You think you understand that man; you don't.”
The Count laughed. ”There was never a man yet, but who had his price,” he said. ”With some it is one thing, with some it is another, but all--all can be bought. There is no man but whose soul is for sale; that I know.”
”And you have tried to buy Faversham's soul, and failed.”
”Because I mistook the thing he wanted most.”
”You thought he could be bought by wealth, position, and you arranged your plans. But he was not to be bought. Why? You dangled riches, position, and a beautiful woman before his eyes; but he would not pay the price.”
”I chose the wrong woman,” said the Count, looking steadily at Olga, ”and I did not reckon sufficiently on his old-fas.h.i.+oned ideas of morality. Besides, I had no control over the woman.”
”And you think you have control over me, eh? Well, let that pa.s.s. I have asked you to tell me why you wish to get this man in your power, and you will not tell me. But let me tell you this: there is a strange power overshadowing him. You say I must practise my arts. What if I tell you that I can't?”
”I should say you lie,” replied the Count coolly.
”I don't understand,” she said, as if talking to herself. ”All the time when he is with me, I seem to be dealing with unseen forces--forces which make me afraid, which sap my power.”
The Count looked thoughtful.
”I thought I had captivated him when that German man brought him to the East End of London,” she went on. ”I saw that I bewildered him--dazzled him. He seemed fascinated by my picture of what he could become. His imagination was on fire, and I could see that he was almost held in thrall by the thought that he could be a kind of uncrowned king, while I would be his queen. He promised to come to me again, but he didn't. Then I went to see him at his hotel, and if ever a woman tempted a man, I tempted him. I know I am beautiful--know that men are willing to become slaves to me. And I pleaded with him. I offered to be his wife, and I almost got him. I saw him yielding to me. Then suddenly he turned from me. A servant brought him a card, and he almost told me to go.”
”You saw who these visitors were?”
”Yes; an old man and a slip of a girl. I do not know who they were. Since he has been living in London, I have watched my opportunities, and he has been here. I have flattered him; I have piqued his curiosity. I have been coy and reserved, and I have tried to dazzle him by smiles, by hand pressures, and by shy suggestions of love. But I cannot pierce his armour.”
”And you will give up? You will confess defeat?”
The woman's eyes flashed with a new light. ”You little know me if you think that,” she cried angrily. ”At one time I--yes, I, Olga Petrovic--thought I loved him. I confessed it to you, but now--now----”