The Everlasting Arms

"I did not love you. I felt you were evil. I told you so."

"What of that? I loved you. I swore I would win you. But you – you – a simple country girl, poor, ignorant of the world's ways, resisted me, me – Romanoff. And you married that insipid scholar fellow, leaving me scorned, rejected. And I swore I would be revenged, living or dead. Then your child was born and you died. I could not harm you, you were beyond me, but your son lived. And I swore again. If I could not harm you, I could harm him, I could destroy him. I gave myself over to evil for that. I, too, have passed through the doorway which the world calls death; but powers have been given me, powers to carry out my oath. While his father was alive, I could do nothing, but since then my work has been going forward. And I shall conquer, I shall triumph."

"And I have come here to-night to plead with you on my son's behalf. He has resisted wrong for a long time. Leave him in peace."

"Never," cried Romanoff. "You passed into heaven, but your heaven shall be hell, for your son shall go there. He shall become even as I am. His joy shall be in evil."

"Have you no pity, no mercy?"

"None," replied Romanoff. "Neither pity nor mercy have a place in me. You drove me to hell, and it is my punishment that the only joy which may be mine is the joy of what you call evil."

"Then have pity, have mercy on yourself."

"Pity on myself? Mercy on myself? You talk in black ignorance."

"No, I speak in light. Every evil you do only sinks you deeper in mire, deeper in hell."

"I cannot help that. It is my doom."

"It is not your doom if you repent. If you turn your face, your spirit to the light."

"I cannot repent. I am of those who love evil. I hate mercy. I despise pity."

"Then I must seek to save him in spite of you."

"You cannot," and a laugh of savage triumph accompanied his words. "I have made my plans. Nothing which you can do will save him. He has been given to me."

For a few seconds there was tense unnatural silence. The room was full of strange influences, as though conflicting forces were in opposition, as though light and darkness, good and evil, were struggling together.

"No, no, Madaline," went on Romanoff. "Now is my hour of triumph. The son you love shall be mine."

"Love is stronger than hate, good is stronger than evil," she replied. "You are fighting against the Eternal Spirit of Good; you are fighting against the Supreme Manifestation of that Goodness, which was seen two thousand years ago on the Cross of Calvary."

"The Cross of Calvary!" replied Romanoff, and his voice was hoarse; "it is the symbol of defeat, of degradation, of despair. For two thousand years it has been uplifted, but always to fail."

"Always to conquer," was the calm reply. "Slowly but surely, age after age, it has been subduing kingdoms, working righteousness, lifting man up to the Eternal Goodness. It has through all the ages been overcoming evil with good, and bringing the harmonies of holiness out of the discord of sin."

"Think of this war!" snarled Romanoff. "Think of Germany, think of Russia! What is the world but a mad hell?"

"Out of it all will Goodness shine. I cannot understand all, for full understanding only belongs to the Supreme Father of Lights. But I am sure of the end. Already the morning is breaking, already light is shining out of the darkness. Men's eyes are being opened, they are seeing visions and dreaming dreams. They are seeing the end of war, and talking of Leagues of Nations, of the Brotherhood of the world."

"But that does not do away with the millions who have died in battle. It does not atone for blighted and ruined homes, and the darkness of the world."

"Not one of those who fell in battle is dead. They are all alive. I have seen them, spoken to them. And the Eternal Goodness is ever with them, ever bearing them up. They have done what they knew to be their duty, and they have entered into their reward."

"What, the Evil and the Good together?" sneered Romanoff. "That were strange justice surely."

"Shall not the Judge of all the Earth do Right? They are all in His care, and His pity and His love are Infinite. That is why I plead with you."

"What, to spare your son? If what you say is true I am powerless. But I am not. Wrong is stronger than right. I defy you."

"Then is it to be a fight between us?"

"If you will. He must be mine."

"And what then?" There was ineffable sorrow in the woman's voice. "Would you drag him into æons of pain and anguish to satisfy your revenge?"

"I would, and I will. What if right is stronger than wrong, as you say? What if in the end right shall drag him through hell to heaven? I shall still know that he has lived in hell, and thus shall I have my revenge."

"And I, who am his mother, am also his ministering angel, and it is my work to save him from you."

"And you are powerless – powerless, I tell you?"

"All power is not given to us, but God has given His angels power to help and save."

"If you have such power, why am I not vanquished?"

"Have you not been vanquished many times?"

"Not once!" cried Romanoff. "Little by little I have been enveloping him in my toils."

"Think," replied the other. "When he was tossing on the angry sea, whose arms bore him up? Think again, why was it when you and he were in the library together at Wendover, and you tempted him to sell his soul for gain; – whose hand was placed on his, and stopped him from signing the paper which would have made him your slave?"

"Was it you?" gasped Romanoff.

"Think again. When the woman you selected sought to dazzle him with wild dreams of power and ambition, and who almost blinded him to the truth, what led him to discard the picture that came to him as inventions of evil? Who helped to open his eyes?"

"Then you – you," gasped Romanoff – "you have been fighting against me all the time! It was you, was it?"

"I was his mother, I am his mother; and I, who never intentionally did you harm, plead with you again. I love him, even as all true mothers, whether on earth or in the land of spirits, love their children. And I am allowed to watch over him, to protect him, to help him. It is my joy to be his guardian angel, and I plead with you to let him be free from your designs."

"And if I will – what reward will you give me?"

"I will seek to help you from your doom – the doom which must be the lot of those who persist in evil."

"That is not enough. No, I will carry out my plans; I will drag him to hell."

"And I, if need be, will descend into hell to save him."

"You cannot, you cannot!" and triumph rang in his voice. "I swore to drag him to hell, swore that his soul should be given over to evil."

The woman's face seemed to be drawn with pain, her eyes were filled with infinite yearning and tenderness. She moved her lips as if in speech, but Romanoff could distinguish no words. Then her form grew dimmer and dimmer until there was only a shadowy outline of what had been clear and distinct.

"What do you say? I cannot hear!" and his voice was mocking.

The man continued to look at the place where he had seen her, but, as her form disappeared, the two shafts of light grew more and more luminous. He saw the bright shining Cross distinctly outlined, and his eyes burnt with a great terror. Then out of the silence, out of the wide spaces which surrounded the house, out of the broad expanse of the heavens, words came to him:

"Underneath, underneath, Underneath are the Everlasting Arms."

Fascinated, Romanoff gazed, seeing nothing but the shining outline of the Cross, while the air seemed to pulsate with the great words I have set down.

Then slowly the Cross became more and more dim, until at length it became invisible. The corner of the room which had been illumined by its radiance became full of dark shadows. Silence became profound.

"What does it mean?" he gasped. "She left me foiled, defeated, in despair. But the Cross shone. The words filled everything."

For more than a minute he stood like one transfixed, thinking, thinking.

"It means this," he said presently, and the words came from him in hoarse gasps, "it means that I am to have my way; it means that I shall conquer him – drag him to hell; but that underneath hell are the Everlasting Arms. Well, let it be so. I shall have had my revenge. The son shall suffer what the mother made me suffer, and she shall suffer hell, too, because she shall see her son in hell."

He turned and placed more wood on the fire, then throwing himself in an arm-chair he sat for hours, brooding, thinking.

"Yes, Olga will do it," he concluded after a long silence. "The story of the Garden of Eden is an eternal principle. 'The woman tempted me and I did eat,' is the story of the world's sin. He is a man, with all a man's passions, and she is a Venus, a Circe – a woman – and all men fall when a woman tempts."

All through the night he kept his dark vigils; there in the dark house, with only flickering lights from the fire, he worked out his plans, and schemed for the destruction of a man's soul.

In the grey dawn of the wintry morning he was back in London again; but although the servants looked at him questioningly when he entered his hotel, as if wondering where he had been, he told no man of his doings. All his experiences were secret to himself.

During the next few days the little man Polonius seemed exceptionally busy; three times he went to Wendover, where there seemed to be many matters that interested him. Several times he made his way to the War Office, where he appeared to have acquaintances, and where he asked many questions. He also found his way to the block of buildings where Dick Faversham's flat was situated, and although Dick never saw him, he appeared to be greatly interested in the young man's goings out and his comings in. He also went to the House of Commons, and made the acquaintance of many Labour Members. Altogether Polonius's time was much engaged. He went to Count Romanoff's hotel, too, but always late at night, and he had several interviews with that personage, whom he evidently held in great awe.

More than a week after Romanoff's experiences at Walton Heath, Olga Petrovic received a letter which made her very thoughtful. There was a look of fear in her eyes as she read, as though it contained disturbing news.

And yet it appeared commonplace and innocent enough, and it contained only a few lines. Perhaps it was the signature which caused her cheeks to blanch, and her lips to quiver.

This was how it ran:

"Dear Olga, – You must get F. to take you to dinner on Friday night next. You must go to the Moscow Restaurant, and be there by 7.45 prompt. Please look your handsomest, and spare no pains to be agreeable. When the waiter brings you liqueurs be especially fascinating. Act on the Berlin plan. This is very important, as a danger has arisen which I had not calculated upon. The time for action has now come, and I need not remind you how much success means to you.

"Romanoff.

"P.S. – Destroy this as you have destroyed all other correspondence from me. I shall know whether this is done. – R."

This was the note which had caused Olga Petrovic's cheeks to pale. After reading it again, she sat thinking for a long time, while more than once her face was drawn as if by spasms of pain.

Presently she went to her desk, and taking some scented notepaper, she wrote a letter. She was evidently very particular about the wording, for she tore up several sheets before she had satisfied herself. There was the look of an evil woman in her eyes as she sealed it, but there was something else, too; there was an expression of indescribable longing.

The next afternoon Dick Faversham came to her flat and found Olga Petrovic alone. He had come in answer to her letter.

"Have I done anything to offend you, Mr. Faversham?" she asked, as she poured out tea.

"Offend me, Countess? I never thought of such a thing. Why do you ask?"

"You were so cold, so distant when you were here last – and that was several days ago."

"I have been very busy," replied Dick.

"While I have been very lonely."

"Lonely! You lonely, Countess?"

"Yes, very lonely. How little men know women. Because a number of silly, chattering people have been here when you have called, you have imagined that my life has been full of pleasure, that I have been content. But I haven't a friend in the world, unless – " She lifted her great languishing eyes to his for a moment, and sighed.

"Unless what?" asked Dick.

"Nothing, nothing. Why should you care about the loneliness of a woman?"

"I care a great deal," replied Dick. "You have been very kind to me – a lonely man."

From that moment she became very charming. His words gave her the opening she sought, and a few minutes later she had led him to the channel of conversation which she desired.

"You do not mind?" she said presently. "I know you are the kind of man who finds it a bore to take a woman out to dinner. But there will be a wonderful band at The Moscow, and I love music."

"It will be a pleasure, a very great pleasure," replied Dick.

"And you will not miss being away from the House of Commons for a few hours, will you? I will try to be very nice."

"As though you needed to try," cried Dick. "As though you could be anything else."

She looked half coyly, half boldly into his eyes.

"To-morrow night then?" she said.

"Yes, to-morrow night. At half-past seven I will be here."

CHAPTER XXXVII

At the Café Moscow

During the few days which had preceded Dick's visit to the Countess Olga's house, he had been very depressed. The excitement which he had at first felt in going to the House of Commons as the Member for Eastroyd had gone. He found, too, that the "Mother of Parliaments" was different from what he had expected.

The thing that impressed him most was the difficulty in getting anything done. The atmosphere of the place was in the main lethargic. Men came there for the first time, enthusiastic and buoyant, determined to do great things; but weeks, months, years passed by, and they had done nothing. In their constituencies crowds flocked to hear them, and applauded them to the echo; but in the House of Commons they had to speak to empty benches, and the few who remained to hear them, yawned while they were speaking, and only waited because they wanted to catch the Speaker's eye.

Dick had felt all this, and much more. It seemed to him that as a legislator he was a failure, and that the House of Commons was the most disappointing place in the world. Added to this he was heart-sore and despondent. His love for Beatrice Stanmore was hopeless. News of her engagement to Sir George Weston had been confirmed, and thus joy had gone out of his life.

Why it was, Dick did not know; but he knew now that he had loved Beatrice Stanmore from the first time he had seen her. He was constantly recalling the hour when she first came into his life. She and her grandfather had come to Wendover when he was sitting talking, with Romanoff, and he remembered how the atmosphere of the room changed the moment she entered. His will-power was being sapped, his sense of right and wrong was dulled; yet no sooner did she appear than his will-power came back, his moral perceptions became keen.

It was the same at her second visit. He had been like a man under a spell; he had become almost paralysed by Romanoff's philosophy of life, helpless to withstand the picture he held before his eyes; yet on the sudden coming of this bright-eyed girl everything had changed. She made him live in a new world. He remembered going outside with her, and they had talked about angels.

How vivid it all was to him! Everything was sweeter, brighter, purer, because of her. Her simple, childish faith, her keen intuition had made his materialism seem so much foolishness. Her eyes pierced the dark clouds; she was an angel of God, pointing upward.

He knew the meaning of it now. His soul had found a kindred soul, even although he had not known it; he had loved her then, although he was unaware of the fact. But ever since he had learnt the secret of his heart he had understood.

But it was too late. He was helpless, hopeless. She had given her heart to this soldier, this man of riches and position. Oh, what a mockery life was! He had seen the gates of heaven, he had caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, but he could not enter, and in his disappointment and hopelessness, despair gnawed at his heart like a canker.

Thus Dick Faversham was in a dangerous mood. That was why the siren-like presence of Olga Petrovic acted upon his senses like an evil charm. Oh, if he had only known!

At half-past seven on the Friday night he called at her flat, and he had barely entered the room before she came to him. Evidently she regarded it as a great occasion, for she was resplendently attired. Yet not too much so. Either she, or her maid, instinctively knew what exactly suited her kind of beauty; for not even the most critical could have found fault with her.

What a glorious creature she was! Shaped like a goddess, her clothes accentuated her charms. Evidently, too, she was intent on pleasing him. Her face was wreathed in smiles, her eyes shone with dangerous brightness. There was witchery, allurement in her presence – she was a siren.

Dick almost gave a gasp as he saw her. A girl in appearance, a girl with all the winsomeness and attractiveness of youth, yet a woman with all a woman's knowledge of man's weakness – a woman bent on being captivating.

"Do I please your Majesty?" and her eyes flashed as the words passed her lips.

"Please me!" he gasped. "You are wonderful, simply wonderful."

"I want you to be pleased," she whispered, and Dick thought he saw her blush.

They entered the motor-car together, and as she sat by his side he felt as though he were in dreamland. A delicate perfume filled the air, and the knowledge that he was going to dine with her, amidst brightness and gaiety, made him forgetful of all else.

They were not long in reaching The Moscow, one of the most popular and fashionable restaurants in London. He saw at a glance, as he looked around him, that the wealth, the beauty, the fashion of London were there. The waiter led them to a table from which they could command practically the whole room, and where they could be seen by all. But he took no notice of this. He was almost intoxicated by the brilliance of the scene, by the fascination of the woman who sat near him.

"For once," she said, "let us forget dull care, let us be happy."

He laughed gaily. "Why not?" he cried. "All the same, I wonder what my constituents at Eastroyd would say if they saw me here?"

She gave a slight shrug, and threw off the light gossamer shawl which had somewhat hidden her neck and shoulders. Her jewels flashed back the light which shone overhead, her eyes sparkled like stars.

"Let us forget Eastroyd," she cried; "let us forget everything sordid and sorrowing. Surely there are times when one should live only for gladness, for joy. Is not the music divine? There, listen! Did I not tell you that some of the most wonderful artists in London play here? Do you know what it makes me think of?"

"I would love to know," he responded, yielding to her humour.

"But I must not tell you – I dare not. I am going to ask a favour of you, my friend. Will you grant it, without asking me what it is?"

"Of course I will grant it."

"Oh, it is little, nothing after all. Only let me choose the wine to-night."

"Why not? I am no wine drinker, and am no judge of vintages."

"Ah, but you must drink with me to-night. To-night I am queen, and you are – "

"Yes, what am I?" asked Dick with a laugh, as she stopped.

"You are willing to obey your queen, aren't you?"

"Who would not be willing to obey such a queen?" was his reply.

The waiter hovered around them, attending to their slightest wants. Not only was the restaurant noted as being a rendezvous for the beauty and fashion of London, but it boasted the best chef in England. Every dish was more exquisite than the last, and everything was served in a way to please the most captious.

The dinner proceeded. Course followed course, while sweet music was discoursed, and Dick felt in a land of enchantment. For once he gave himself over to enjoyment – he banished all saddening thoughts. He was in a world of brightness and song; every sight, every sound drove away dull care. To-morrow he would have to go back to the grim realities of life; but now he allowed himself to be swept along by the tide of laughter and gaiety.

"You seem happy, my friend," said the woman presently. "Never before did I see you so free from dull care, never did I see you so full of the joy of life. Well, why not? Life was given to us to be happy. Yes, yes, I know. You have your work to do; but not now. I should feel miserable for days if I thought I could not charm away sadness from you – especially to-night."

"Why to-night?"

"Because it is the first time we have ever dined together. I should pay you a poor compliment, shouldn't I, if when you took me to a place where laughter abounded I did not bring laughter to your lips and joy to your heart. Let us hope that this is the first of the many times we may dine together. Yes; what are you thinking about?"

"That you are a witch, a wonder, a miracle of beauty and of charm. There, I know I speak too freely."

He ceased speaking suddenly.

"I love to hear you speak so. I would rather – but what is the matter?"

Dick did not reply. His eyes were riveted on another part of the room, and he had forgotten that she was speaking. Seated at a table not far away were three people, two men and a woman. The men were Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore. The woman was Beatrice Stanmore. Evidently the lover had brought his fiancée and her grandfather there that night. It seemed to Dick that Weston had an air of proprietorship, as he acted the part of host. He watched while the baronet smiled on her and spoke to her. It would seem, too, that he said something pleasant, for the girl laughed gaily, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

"You see someone you know?" and Olga Petrovic's eyes followed his gaze. "Ah, you are looking at the table where that pretty but rather countrified girl is sitting with the old man with the white hair, and the other who looks like a soldier. Ah yes, you know them, my friend?"

"I have seen them – met them," he stammered.

"Ah, then you know who they are? I do not know them, they are strangers to me; but I can tell you about them. Shall I?"

"Yes." His eyes were still riveted on them, and he did not know he had spoken.

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

Dick 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 Dick felt his heart stop beating; yes, she was coming his way. She must pass his table in order to get out.

With a kind of despairing recklessness he seized the wineglass 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.