THE RENUNCIATION
At times when the emotion runs high, considerations of a practical,
artificial or conventional nature are often lost sight of; everything,
in fact, recedes from the mind but the truly essential things. At such
times one forgets caste, rejects pride and brushes aside the petty
objections and restrictions that custom has hedged around us, and
remembers only the deeper instincts that in reality shape one's course
in life.
Olga was disturbed from the sad reverie into which she had fallen on
the departure of Miridoff by hoarse shouts and the sound of running men
without. When, brought to her feet by a knock at her door, she had
thrown it open to find Fenton there, Olga forgot that she was a
princess of the royal line, forgot that she had pledged herself to
marry the Grand Duke that very night, forgot that life was sad, cruel,
inexorable, forgot everything but that HE was there, that she was
suddenly glad....
And when Fenton saw her standing in the semi-darkness, a slender
drooping figure with infinite pathos in her soft violet eyes, he forgot
that he had seen her but three times all together, forgot that on their
past meeting they had parted with pronounced coolness, forgot that she
was born to the purple of royalty, forgot everything but that he loved
her and that she was meant to be his.... And so both lost sight of all
considerations, practical, artificial or conventional, and remembered
the only truly essential thing in life to them. Fenton gathered her up
in his arms. Olga yielded willingly, gladly.
Such moments, however, are brief. On second thoughts these same
considerations of a practical, artificial or conventional nature come
trooping back into the mind, stern judges who mercilessly point out the
folly of one's course in temporarily forgetting them. Fenton, exalted
beyond all compare by her unexpected surrender, rained kisses on her
hair, her brow, her eyes, her nose, the dimple in her cheek. When he
reached her lips, the meaning of it all came back to Olga. She began
to remember again, her position, her promise--and Miridoff. Breaking
from his embrace with sudden strength, she ran to the couch and threw
herself upon it, burying her head in her arms while passionate sobs
shook her.
From the lofty heights of exultation, Fenton descended to the barren
plain of uncertainty and bewilderment. Manlike he could not understand
her sudden change of attitude, and manlike he stood over the couch and
looked down at her ruefully and awkwardly. When he essayed to touch
her she shrank away from him and her sobs increased in violence.
But Olga had been trained in a stern school and it did not take her
long to conquer her emotion. The spell passed as suddenly as it had
come. She sat up and dried her eyes and even (for a girl can remember
such things at moments of deepest stress) patted her hair into shape
again.
"Come, sit down beside me," she said quietly and compassionately.
"There are many things we must say--and our time, alas, is so short."
Fenton sat down. He longed to clasp her in his arms again, she looked
so pretty and fragile, but something warned him not to do so. Olga
understood and rewarded him by placing one little hand in his.
"It was wrong," she said, looking him frankly in the eyes for the first
time. "There can be nothing between us. Presently I shall tell you
why. But first there are things we must tell each other frankly."
Fenton sat as if turned to stone. The loving abandon of her welcome
had set his heart beating wildly with new hopes and aspirations. Now
he realised dully that for some reason all hope would be taken from him.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
It was hardly necessary for him to speak. His answer shone in his eyes.
"I love you."
There was a pause. For a moment, an ecstatic, all-too-brief moment,
her head rested lightly against his shoulder.
"I shall always have that to remember, to help me," she said, almost in
a reflective tone.
"And you--you love me?" asked Fenton. His throat seemed suddenly
parched and words came haltingly.
"Yes," whispered Olga, permitting for a moment the pressure of his arm
which had stolen about her--but for a moment only. "I love you. And I
am glad of it, even if it is wrong that I should."
"I loved you the first time I saw you," he said.
"I am not sure when it really started with me, but it must have been
the very first time," said Olga musingly, almost forgetting the tragic
realities of her position in the consideration of a problem so
thrillingly important. "I _knew_ when I thought you were making love
to that other woman. Tell me that you were not."
"Mademoiselle Petrowa!" exclaimed Fenton, with a mirthless laugh. "Of
course not. She's a Russian secret service agent and has been working
for us. She's wonderful and brave and I admire her a great deal.
But----"
It is sometimes possible to convey a clearer meaning by what we don't
say than by what we might have said. Fenton's omission was eloquent
and convincing.
"I am glad," said Olga, smiling her satisfaction quaintly. "She told
me a story to-day that I wanted to believe. And now I do."
By mutual consent explanations on that point ceased. None further were
needed. Olga and her lover each knew where the other stood, knew and
were happy in the knowledge of the other's love. By mutual consent
also they left off for as long as possible any reference to the
catastrophe that threatened to wreck their happiness.
Finally, however, it had to be told. Olga, her resolution suddenly
breaking, crept into the shelter of his arms when telling of Miridoff's
cruel and cunning device. The story finished, she threw her arms
around her lover's neck and with a paroxysm of weeping implored him to
protect her, to save her from the hideous fate that loomed ahead.
Fenton consoled her with brave words of consolation, while black
thoughts filled his mind. A primitive desire to kill the cunning Grand
Duke took possession of him.
"Don't cry, little girl," he said. "Of course there's a way out.
You'll not have to marry that black-hearted scoundrel. To-night Take
Larescu will have three thousand men hammering at the gates of
Kirkalisse. And I personally guarantee that Miridoff will not get away
alive."
But his face belied his words. Fenton realised to the fullest how
cunningly Miridoff had laid his plans.
Slowly Olga extricated herself from his arms and dried her eyes. Her
courage was coming back. She smiled at him bravely.
"I know you would willingly die to save me," she said. "But how would
killing this man help me? Would it carry the pledge to the assassin
who waits at an unknown point to take my father's life? No, dear
heart, there is nothing that can be done. The spider has spun his web
too cleverly. I--I am entangled."
"There will be a way out," said Fenton through set teeth. "I will find
it. I can't give you up."
He seized her roughly in his arms and looked long and earnestly into
her eyes. Then slowly his hold relaxed. He groaned, miserable and
rebellious at his impotence. Gently she drew herself away.
"We have loved but to lose," she whispered. "Courage, my dear. Go
please, go now. It makes it so hard----"