Part 42 (2/2)

She was a dear, was Kathleen. As pretty as a picture and delightfully simple-minded. Her father belonged to the clergy, and her family consisted of innumerable brothers and sisters. Gregory Manners, who had traveled the world over, fell quite completely in love with her. And she--She wors.h.i.+ped the ground he walked on.

No one ever quite knew whether or not Manners heard that Andreyvitch was to be of the house-party. Perhaps he had; probably he had not. If Kathleen were to be there, that would have been all-sufficient, as far as Manners was concerned.

By that time Manners had worked himself out of his frenzy of hatred against the Russian. They had been able to explain it to themselves by saying that he had talked himself into it. As a matter of fact, the whole thing was totally subconscious. Whenever he had become conscious the man was anywhere near him, he had begun to realize his hatred of him. But now it had gone infinitely further than just that.

Manners had become uncannily quiet and uncannily knowing.

They were all together in the hall when Manners, as usual, came in late.

Mrs. Broughton-Hollins and an anaemic looking youth, who always lounged about in her wake; a man named Galvin, an oldish chap, who had seen service in India, and his pretty, young wife. The Dowager of Endon and her middle-aged son, the Duke, and Stephanof Andreyvitch, holding the center of the floor with little Kathleen Bennet sitting close to where he stood, her eyes fixed in awed surprise upon his face; her white fingers toying nervously with a small silver crucifix which hung about her neck.

Whether or not Andreyvitch heard the man announce Gregory Manners, whether or not he saw him standing there in the doorway, whether or not he purposely went on with what he was then saying was a subject for debate the rest of the evening.

”Faith?” Andreyvitch's low, insidious voice carried well. ”But there's no such thing. Can't you realize that all this sickly sentimentality is nothing but dogmatic idiocy on your parts? Must you all drivel your catechism at every turn of the road? Must you close your eyes to filth, to vice, to everything you think outside of your smug English minds?

Don't you know you're a part of it? That each one of you is part of the lowest, rottenest--”

It was then that, unable to stand it a second longer, Gregory Manners came into the room.

”I--I most sincerely hope I'm not interrupting, Andreyvitch--but--are you speaking of those things--again?”

The quiet, polite tone was full of subtle significance. And although they could not have known what Manners actually meant, they all of them recognized an emphatic significance. And not one of those people present could overlook the peculiar stress which he had laid upon that slow-drawled ”again.”

Andreyvitch turned sharply; his face for a second drawn into a hideous, ghastly grimace.

”It is no interruption, Mr. Manners.” He was trying hard to resume his habitual insouciance. ”But what do you mean, eh? What is this?”

He stood where he was, did Manners. His face was almost expressionless.

”I think you know what I mean. But see here. I'll repeat it for you, if you like. Listen this time.

Are--you--speaking--of--those--things--_again_?”

The Russian was livid.

And for an infinitesimal fraction of time it seemed to those watching him that he was cowed; terrifyingly cowed.

”Your humor,” he shrugged his shoulders, endeavoring to pa.s.s the thing off as flippantly as possible; ”your humor is bizarre, Mr. Manners. I spoke but of that which we all know exists. Surely there is no harm in speaking of what we all recognize!”

Manners' voice rang out clearly, in surprising sternness.

”We all know what exists in this world. We know that greater than all else is faith. As long as you speak before those who know what real goodness is, who believe in it, there is no harm done! I hardly think this is the first time you've tried to impress evil on people--The reason for that's easily understood. But, thank G.o.d.” His tone vibrated with earnestness. ”Thank G.o.d, you can do nothing here!”

The Russian turned on him. His usual suave manner had left him. His words were little else than an angry snarl.

”You know me well--very well, indeed, my English friend. You who have met me--is it not once--perhaps, eh, twice?”

Manners laughed. A laugh that had no sound of mirth in it.

”I've met you again and again. And you know it! And there's something else we have to settle for--And you know that, too--Mr.--Mr.

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