THE DAWN OF LOVE
The letter from Olga ran as follows:
"DEAR MR. FAVERSHAM,--I have just discovered your address, and I
am writing to congratulate you on the fine position you have won.
It must be glorious to be a Member of the Mother of Parliaments,
to be a legislator in this great free country. I rejoice, too,
that you have espoused the cause of the toilers, the poor. It is
just what I hoped and expected of you. You will become great, my
friend; my heart tells me so. Your country will be proud of you.
"I wonder whether, if in spite of your many interests and duties,
you will have time to visit a lonely woman? There are so many
things I would like to discuss with you. Do come if you can. I
shall be home to-morrow afternoon, and again on Friday. Will you
not have pity on me?--Yours,
OLGA PETROVIC."
Dick saw that her address was a fashionable street in Mayfair, and
almost unconsciously he pictured her in her new surroundings. She was no
longer among a wild-eyed, long-haired crew in the East End, but in the
centre of fashion and wealth. He wondered what it meant. He read the
letter a second time, and in a way he could not understand, he was
fascinated. There was subtle flattery in every line, a kind of clinging
tenderness in every sentence.
No mention was made of their last meeting, but Dick remembered. She had
come to him after that wonderful experience in Staple Inn--on the
morning after his eyes had been opened to the facts about what a number
of Bolshevists wanted to do in England. His mind had been bewildered,
and he was altogether unsettled. He was afraid he had acted rudely to
her. He had thought of her as being associated with these people. If he
had yielded to her entreaties, and thrown himself into the plans she had
made, might he not have become an enemy to his country, to humanity?
But what a glorious creature she was! What eyes, what hair, what a
complexion! He had never seen any woman so physically perfect. And,
added to all this, she possessed a kind of charm that held him,
fascinated him, made him think of her whether he would or not.
And yet her letter did not bring him unmixed pleasure. In a way he could
not understand he was slightly afraid of her, afraid of the influence
she had over him. He could not mistake the meaning of her words at their
last meeting. She had made love to him, she had asked him to marry her.
It is true he had acted as though he misunderstood her, but what would
have happened if old Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice had not come? The very
mystery which surrounded her added to her charm. Who _was_ she? Why did
she go to the East End to live, and how did she possess the means to
live in Mayfair?
He walked around his little room, thinking hard. For the last few days
his parliamentary duties had excited him, kept him from brooding; but
now in the quietness of the night he felt his loneliness, realised his
longing for society. His position as a Labour Member was perfectly
plain. His confrères were good fellows. Most of them were hard-headed,
thoughtful men who took a real interest in their work. But socially they
were not of his class. They had few interests in common, and he realised
it, even as they did. That was why they looked on him with a certain
amount of suspicion. What was to be his future then? A social gulf was
fixed between him and others whose equal he was, and whatever he did he
would be outside the circle of men and women whose tastes were similar
to his own.
No, that was not altogether true. Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice treated him
as a friend. Beatrice!
The very thought of her conjured up all sorts of fancies. He had not
heard from her, or of her since his visit to Wendover. Was she engaged
to Sir George Weston, he wondered?
He knew now that he had never loved Lady Blanche Huntingford. He had
been attracted to her simply because of her looks, and her social
position. At the time she had appealed to him strongly, but that was
because he had regarded her as a means whereby he could attain to his
social ambitions. But a change had come over him since then--a subtle,
almost indescribable change. The strange events of his life had led him
to see deeper. And he knew he had no love for this patrician woman. When
he had seen her last she had not caused one heart-throb, he was almost
indifferent to her.
But Beatrice! Why did the thought of her haunt him? Why was he angry
with Sir George Weston, and bitter at the idea of his marrying this
simple country girl? As for himself he could never marry.
The following morning he wrote to Countess Olga Petrovic. It was a
courteous note saying that at present he was too engaged to call on her,
but he hoped that later he might have that pleasure. Then he plunged
into his work again.
About a fortnight after his visit to Hugh Stanmore, a letter came to him
from the housekeeper at Wendover. He had told her his London address,
and she had taken advantage of her knowledge by writing.
"There are all sorts of rumours here about Mr. Anthony Riggleton," she
wrote; "and we have all been greatly excited. Some soldiers have been in
the neighbourhood who declare that they know of a certainty that he is
dead. I thought it my duty to tell you this, sir, and that is my excuse
for the liberty I take in writing.
"Perhaps, sir, you may also be interested to learn that Sir George
Weston and Miss Beatrice Stanmore are engaged to be married. As you may
remember, I told you when you were here that I thought they would make a
match of it. Of course she has done very well, for although the
Stanmores are a great family, Mr. Stanmore is a poor man, and Miss
Beatrice has nothing but what he can give her. It is said that the
wedding will take place in June."
The letter made him angry. Of course he understood the old lady's
purpose in writing. She thought that if Anthony Riggleton died, the
estate might again revert to him, and she hoped he would find out and
let her know. She had grown very fond of him during his short sojourn
there, and longed to see him there as master again. But the letter made
him angry nevertheless. Then as he read it a second time he knew that
his anger was not caused by her interest in his future, but because of
her news about Beatrice Stanmore. The knowledge that she had accepted
this Devonshire squire made his heart sink like lead. It seemed to him
that the sky of his life had suddenly become black.
Then he knew his secret; knew that he loved this simple country girl
with a consuming but hopeless love. He realised, too, that no one save
she had ever really touched his heart. That this was why Lady Blanche
Huntingford had passed out of his life without leaving even a ripple of
disappointment or sorrow.
Oh, if he had only known before! For he had loved her as he had walked
by her side through Wendover Park; loved her when he had almost calmly
discussed her possible marriage with Sir George Weston. Even then he had
hated the thought of it, now he knew why His own heart was aching for
her all the time.
But what would have been the use even if he had known? He was a
homeless, penniless man. He could have done nothing. He was not in a
position to ask any woman to be his wife.
His mood became reckless, desperate. What mattered whatever he did? Were
not all his dreams and hopes so much madness? Had he not been altogether
silly about questions of right and wrong? Had he not been Quixotic in
not fighting for Wendover? Supposing he had signed that paper, what
could Romanoff have done? He almost wished--no, he didn't; but after
all, who could pass a final judgment as to what was right and wrong?
While he was in this state of mind another letter came from Olga
Petrovic.
"Why have you not visited me, my friend?" she wrote. "I have been
expecting you. Surely you could have found time to drop in for half an
hour. Besides, I think I could help you. Lord Knerdon was here yesterday
with one or two other Members of the Government. He expressed great
interest in you, and said he would like to meet you. Has he not great
influence? I shall be here between half-past three and six to-morrow,
and some people are calling whom I think you would like to know."
Lord Knerdon, eh? Lord Knerdon was one of the most respected peers in
the country, and a man of far-reaching power. He would never call at the
house of an adventuress. Yes, he would go.
The street in which Olga Petrovic had taken up her abode was made up of
great houses. Only a person of considerable wealth could live there.
This he saw at a glance. Also three handsome motor-cars stood at her
door. He almost felt nervous as his finger touched the bell.
She received him with a smile of welcome, and yet there was a suggestion
of aloofness in her demeanour. She was not the woman he had seen at
Jones' Hotel long months before, when she had almost knelt suppliant at
his feet.
"Ah, Mr. Faversham," she cried, and there was a suggestion of a foreign
accent in her tones, "I am pleased to see you. It is good of such a busy
man to spare a few minutes."
A little later she had introduced him to her other visitors--men and
women about whose position there could not be a suggestion of doubt. At
least, such was his impression. She made a perfect hostess, too, and
seemed to be a part of her surroundings. She was a great lady, who met
on equal terms some of the best-known people in London. And she was
queen of them all. Even as she reigned over the motley crew in that
queer gathering in the East of London, so she reigned here in the
fashionable West.
In a few minutes he found himself talking with people of whom he had
hitherto known nothing except their names, while Olga Petrovic watched
him curiously. Her demeanour to him was perfectly friendly, and yet he
had the feeling that she regarded him as a social inferior. He was
there, not because he stood on the same footing as these people, but on
sufferance. After all, he was a Labour Member. Socially he was an
outsider, while she was the grand lady.
People condoled with her because her Russian estates had been stolen
from her by the Bolshevists, but she was still the Countess Olga
Petrovic, bearing one of the greatest names in Europe. She was still
rich enough to maintain her position in the wealthiest city in the
world. She was still a mystery.
Dick remained for more than an hour. Although he would not admit it to
himself, he hoped that he might be able to have a few minutes alone with
her. But as some visitors went, others came. She still remained kind to
him; indeed, he thought she conveyed an interest in him which she did
not show to others. But he was not sure. There was a suggestion of
reserve in her friendliness; sometimes, indeed, he thought she was cold
and aloof. There were people there who were a hundred times more
important than he--people with historic names; and he was a nobody.
Perhaps that was why a barrier stood between them.
And yet there were times when she dazzled him by a smile, or the turn of
a sentence. In spite of himself, she made him feel that it was a
privilege of no ordinary nature to be the friend of the Countess Olga
Petrovic.
When at length he rose to go she made not the slightest effort to detain
him. She was courteously polite, and that was all. He might have been
the most casual stranger, to whom she used the most commonplace forms of
speech. Any onlooker must have felt that this Polish or Russian
Countess, whatever she might be, had simply a passing interest in this
Labour Member, that she had invited him to tea out of pure whim or
fancy, and that she would forget him directly he had passed the
doorstep. And yet there was a subtle something in her manner as she held
out her hand to him. Her words said nothing, but her eyes told him to
come again.
"Must you go, Mr. Faversham? So pleased you were able to call. I am
nearly always home on Thursdays."
That was all she said. But the pressure of her hand, the pleading of her
eyes, the smile that made her face radiant--these somehow atoned for the
coldness of her words.
"Well, I've called," thought Dick as he left the house, "and I don't
intend to call again. I don't understand her; she's out of my world, and
we have nothing in common."
But these were only his surface thoughts. At the back of his mind was
the conviction that Olga Petrovic had an interest in him beyond the
ordinary, that she thought of him as she thought of no other man. Else
why that confession months before? Why did she ask him to call?
She was a wonderful creature, too. How tame and uninteresting the other
women were compared with her! Her personality dominated everything, made
everyone else seem commonplace.
She captivated him and fascinated him even while something told him that
it was best for him that he should see nothing more of her. The mystery
that surrounded her had a twofold effect on him: it made him long to
know more about her even while he felt that such knowledge could bring
him no joy.
But this she did. She kept him from brooding about Beatrice Stanmore,
for the vision of this unsophisticated English girl was constantly
haunting him, and the knowledge that his love for her was hopeless made
him almost desperate. He was a young man, only just over thirty, with
life all before him. Must he for ever and ever be denied of love, and
the joys it might bring to his life? If she had not promised herself to
Sir George Weston, all might be different. Yes, with her to help him and
inspire him, he would make a position for her; he would earn enough to
make a home for her. But she was not for him. She would soon be the wife
of another. Why, then, should he not crush all thoughts of her, and
think of this glorious woman, compared with whom Beatrice Stanmore was
only as a June rosebud to a tropical flower?
A few days later he called on Olga Petrovic again. This time he spent a
few minutes alone with her. Only the most commonplace things were said,
and yet she puzzled him, bewildered him. One minute she was all smiles
and full of subtle charm, another he felt that an unfathomable gulf lay
between them.
In their conversation, while he did not speak in so many words of the
time she had visited him at his hotel, he let her know that he
remembered it, and he quickly realised that the passionate woman who had
pleaded with him then was not the stately lady who spoke to him now.
"Every woman is foolish at times," she said. "In hours of loneliness and
memory we are the creatures of passing fancies; but they are only
passing. I have always to remember that, in spite of the tragic
condition of my country, I have my duty to my race and my position."
Later she said: "I wonder if I shall ever wed? Wonder whether duty will
clash with my heart to such a degree that I shall go back to my own
sphere, or stay here and only remember that I am a woman?"
He wondered what she meant, wondered whether she wished to convey to him
that it might be possible for her to forsake all for love.
But something, he could not tell what, made him keep a strong hold upon
himself. It had become a settled thought in his mind by this time that
at all hazards he must fight against his love for Beatrice Stanmore. To
love her would be disloyal to her; it would be wrong. He had no right to
think thoughts of love about one who had promised to be the wife of
another man.
Yet his heart ached for her. All that was best in him longed for her.
Whenever his love for her was strongest, he longed only for the highest
in life, even while his conscience condemned him for thinking of her.
Dick paid Olga Petrovic several visits. Nearly always others were there,
but he generally managed to be alone with her for a few minutes, and at
every visit he knew that she was filling a larger place in his life.
His fear of her was passing away, too, for she was not long in showing
an interest in things that lay dear to his heart. She evidenced a great
desire to help him in his work; she spoke sympathetically about the
conditions under which the toilers of the world laboured. She revealed
fine intuitions, too.
"Oh yes," she said on one occasion, "I love your country. It is
home--home! I am mad, too, when I think of my insane fancies of a year
ago. I can see that I was wrong, wrong, all wrong! Lawlessness, force,
anarchy can never bring in the new day of life and love. That can only
come by mutual forbearance, by just order, and by righteous discipline.
I was mad for a time, I think; but I was mad with a desire to help. Do
you know who opened my eyes, Mr. Faversham?"
"Your own heart--your own keen mind," replied Dick.
"No, my friend--no. It was you. You did not say much, but you made me
see. I believe in telepathy, and I saw with your eyes, thought with your
mind. Your eyes pierced the darkness, you saw the foolishness of my
dreams. And yet I would give my last penny to help the poor."
"I'm sure you would," assented Dick.
"Still, we must be governed by reason. And that makes me think, my
friend. Do you ever contemplate your own future?"
"Naturally."
"And are you always going to remain what you are now?"
"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."
Dick was silent.
"Don't mistake me. I only mean fruitless comparatively. But you are
handicapped, my friend."
"Sadly handicapped," confessed Dick.
"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
class--the least influential class. 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 classes--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 Dick sadly, "but you do not tell me the
remedy."
"Don't I?" and Dick felt the glamour of her presence. "Doesn't your own
heart tell you that, my friend?"
Dick 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.