Millar leaned down, placing his hands over Karl's and Olga's as they
rested on the back of the chair. Looking at Karl, he said:
"Why didn't you stay at home? You ran away to become an artist. You
refused a professional position and ordinary morals; a decent occupation
at so much a week. You wanted to go out and seek the Golden Fleece of
Fame. Now, fight your battle; fight it alone; don't get married."
As he spoke he lifted the hands of Karl and Olga and placed them
together, holding them clasped in his own. They thrilled at each other's
touch; they looked into each other's eyes, and they hardly heard the
cynical devil's voice as Millar leaned yet farther toward them and said:
"I was thinking what a splendid couple you two would make."
Olga felt herself yielding to the devilish insinuation of Millar. She
made no effort to withdraw her hand from Karl's; she was completely
under his sinister, dominating influence. Karl's will seemed equally
impotent; he could not shake off the mysterious obsession. This man was
more than a mere physical presence; he was a part of their very
selves--the weaker, sensual impulses against which they had fought, but
which now seemed gaining the mastery. The struggle went on in the soul
of each as Millar's voice fell melodiously on their ears:
"The most important thing to you in life is to find your proper mate.
Generations of conventional treatment will try to prevent you from doing
so, by pretending it is impossible. But down in your hearts, in their
depths where truth is not perverted by the veneer of convention, I know
and you know that it is the simplest thing on earth. Here you are full
of talent and longing; here is a woman, beautiful, passionate----"
Karl made a last struggle against the inevitable consequence of this
demon's urging, drawing Olga away from him.
"I beg of you, don't!" he cried. "When I look at you I fear. Please
don't speak of it. For six years we have lived peacefully."
"Say what you will," the soft, even voice persisted, "I can read your
eyes and they are telling me. Don't believe him; he lies," he went on to
Olga. "He dreams of her--you--every night and you of him, and he knows
it and you know it. Ah, I understand the language of your eyes. No
matter what you say, that little love light in your eyes discredits you,
reveals your inmost thoughts, and I read them through."
"Let me speak," Karl pleaded. "For six years we have lived quietly in
peace, good friends, nothing else. Olga has not the least interest in
me, and I--I am quite, quite indifferent."
"Any one who thinks Karl capable of a base thought must be base and
contemptible himself," Olga cried.
The two were almost hysterical as they stood beside each other, warding
off the evil that seemed to emanate from the mysterious person who
towered over them from the pulpit-backed chair. Karl held Olga's right
hand in his; his left hand was on her shoulder protectingly. Millar
spoke quickly, leaning far down toward them:
"It is not a base thought; it is a beautiful thought, a thought shedding
happiness, warmth and joy upon your otherwise miserable lives. But
happiness, warmth and joy have a price that must be paid. He who loves
wine too well will go to a drunkard's grave, but while he is drunk with
wine angels sing to him.
"Whatever the price, his happiness is cheaply bought. The poet sings his
greatest song when he is about to die, and is a poor, weak, human mortal
to live without wine and song and women's lips? A little stump of a
candle shines its brightest ere it goes out forever. It should teach you
that one glow of warmth is worth all this life can give. Life has no
object but to be thrown away. It must end; let us end it well. Let our
raging passions set fire to everything about us, burning, burning,
burning until we ourselves are reduced to ashes. Those who pretend
otherwise are hypocrites and liars."
The two listened spellbound to this amazing sermon of sin. Karl's arm
slipped down to Olga's waist. He felt himself drawing her closer to him.
"Don't be a liar," Millar urged, his eyes still burning into them;
"don't be a hypocrite. Be a rascal, but be a pleasant rascal and the
world is yours. Look at me; all the world is mine, and what I have told
you is the honest confession of all the world. We are baptized, not with
water, but with fire. Love yourself; only yourself; wear the softest
garments, sip the sweetest wine, kiss the prettiest lips."
No subtler tempter ever spoke to the hearts of a man and a woman. Karl
was leaning over Olga now; he saw her eyes, her lips, soft, warm,
rose-colored, he felt her arms as she clung to him, while over them both
gloated the sinister figure of Millar--the devil--triumphant, confident
that his work was done.
There was a crashing ring at the doorbell that acted like an electric
shock on the group. Karl and Olga came to their senses, dazed,
trembling, thankful. Millar stepped down from the chair, baffled, and
turned his back upon them.
"My husband!" Olga gasped.
"Mr. Moneybags!" Millar sneered contemptuously.
Olga and Karl quickly drew apart. Both were relieved. Olga felt as if
she had stepped back from the brink of a terrible precipice, over which
she had almost fallen. Her face was colorless, and there were lines of
agony across her brow. The two unhappy people stood staring at each
other for a full minute before Heinrich entered and announced Herman.
It had been growing dark in the studio during the remarkable discourse
by Millar, but so absorbed had both his listeners been in their own
tremendous emotions that they had paid no heed. Now, as Herman entered,
his first exclamation was:
"How dark it is in here. I am sorry I am late."
Heinrich turned on the lights, and the apartment was suddenly
illuminated. Karl and Olga had not yet recovered their self-possession,
but Karl managed to indicate with a wave of his hand his strange
visitor.
"Dr. Millar," he said.
Millar nodded absently and barely replied to Herman's cordial greeting.
He was still enraged at the interruption which had prevented the success
of his infamous plan. Herman turned quickly to Karl and Olga.
"Well, children, where is the picture? I am anxious to see it," he
exclaimed.
"There is no picture," was all Karl could say. Olga, filled with
apprehension at she knew not what, was silent.
"No picture!" Herman exclaimed. "What have you been doing all this
time?"
"It has been dark for an hour," Karl explained.
"Yes, but Olga has been here for two hours," Herman said, looking at his
watch.
There was an instant of silence that threatened to become painfully
embarrassing. Olga was about to speak when Millar unexpectedly stepped
forward, briskly and politely.
"My dear Monsieur Hofmann, it was my fault," he explained. "I came a
moment after you left. I had not seen Karl in two years. We chatted and
the time flew past. It was an extremely interesting conversation and
madam was so kind as to invite me to the ball this evening."
"You will accept, I trust," Herman said with ready hospitality.
"Yes, thank you," Millar said. "I have come direct from Odessa, where I
have had a talk with the Russian wheat magnate."
"Ah, I know; I shall lose money; the wheat crop is bad," Herman said
impatiently.
"Oh, isn't that good for us?" Olga asked.
"No, dear, it is not; I am short on wheat."
"What does short on wheat mean?" Olga asked.
"It means digging a pit for others and falling into it yourself," Millar
remarked cynically. "However," he went on, "things are not so bad. I
have reliable information that the later crop will be abundant."
"Good; I am delighted to learn this," Herman said, very much pleased
with Millar, who now spoke pleasantly and ingratiatingly.
Karl had paid little attention to the colloquy between Herman and
Millar. He tried to speak to Olga, but could not catch her eye. She
seemed to wish to avoid him. She watched her opportunity, however, and
managed to whisper to Millar:
"I want to speak with you alone."
Millar brought his subtlety into instant play. Turning to Herman he
asked:
"By the way, have you seen the sketch of madam Karl made yesterday? It
is atrociously bad."
"No; where is it? I would like to see it," Herman cried eagerly.
"It is in the studio," Millar said.
"You must show it to me, Karl," Herman said, walking toward the studio
door with the young artist. "I am sorry you didn't start on the picture
to-day, but I suppose it can't be helped. What in the world were you
talking about all that time?"
As they went out talking, Olga followed slowly. As she passed Millar he
said:
"I will await you here."
Olga went with Karl and her husband. She had hardly left the room when
the door from the hall opened and Mimi entered. As Millar turned toward
her with his ironical bow she drew back, affrighted.
"Oh, excuse me," she murmured.
"You wish to see the artist?" Millar said.
"Yes, please."
He walked over, took her by the shoulders and coolly pushed her through
the door into the hall.
"Wait there, my dear," he said. "He is engaged just now."
Then he turned to meet Olga, who entered suddenly, looking suspiciously
around the room.
"I thought I heard a woman's voice," she exclaimed.
"The scrubwoman; I sent her away," Millar explained.
"I wanted to speak with you alone," Olga began, turning toward him and
speaking very earnestly, "in order to tell you----"
"That is not true," Millar interrupted her, cynically.
"What is not true?"
"What you wanted to tell me," he said with exasperating suavity. "You
really want to talk with me because you regret that my sermon was
interrupted by Mr. Moneybags."
"No, no, I simply want to tell you the truth," she protested.
"You may want to tell the truth--but you never do. I might believe you,
if you told me you were not telling the truth."
"Must I think and speak as you wish?" she cried desperately.
"No, not yet. What may I do for you, madam?"
"Please do not come to-night," she implored.
Millar smiled deprecatingly. She went on rapidly, speaking in a low tone
that she might not be overheard by Herman and Karl.
"I am myself again--a happy, dutiful wife. Your frivolous morals hurt
me. Your words, your thoughts, your sinister influence that seems to
force me against my will, frighten me. I must confess that I had become
interested in your horrible sermon when, thank God, my good husband
rang the bell and put an end to it. He came in at the proper moment."
"Yes, as an object-lesson," Millar sneered. "I observed you closely. We
three were beginning to understand one another when he came in."
"Won't you drop the subject?" Olga asked.
"Are you afraid of it?"
"No," she answered coldly; "but please don't come to-night."
Millar bowed deeply, as if granting her request, but he replied coolly:
"I shall come."
"And if my husband asks you not to come?"
"He will ask me to come."
"And if I should ask you in the presence of my husband not to come?"
"I will agree to this, madam," Millar said, looking at her with
amusement. "If you do not ask me, in the presence of your husband, to
come to-night I will not come. Is that fair?"
"Yes, that is more than nice. It is the first really nice thing you
have said," Olga said, greatly relieved.
She wanted to be rid of this terribly sinister influence; to be out of
reach of the being who seemed to compel her thoughts to link her present
with the past. She wished to feel again the sweet, wholesome purpose
that had inspired her yesterday; to go ahead with her unselfish plans
for Karl's future. Now that he had given his promise, she was eager to
be away, and as Karl and Herman entered she suggested to her husband
that it was time to go.
"Yes, put on your coat," Herman said, turning to talk to Millar, whom he
found interesting. Karl helped Olga on with her coat, and the touch of
it brought back the feeling that had surged over him when he had leaned
down to kiss her a few minutes before.
"Now I see how unworthy is my sketch," he said softly.
"Do not look at me like that," Olga protested.
"Why not?" Karl asked hopelessly. "Even when I don't look at you I see
you just the same."
Olga covered her face and turned away from him.
"Karl, you shall not do my portrait," she said. "Come, Herman, let us go
home," she called to her husband.
Herman and Millar were deep in the discussion of a subject on which the
stranger seemed to be amazingly well informed. The business instincts of
Olga's husband were uppermost, and he did not like to be drawn away, but
he said:
"We shall continue this talk this evening, then."
"No, I regret to say that I can't come; I have made my apologies to
Madam Hofmann. I had forgotten an engagement with the Russian Consul for
this evening."
"Ah, the Russian Consul will be at our house. Olga, dear, add your
entreaties to mine. Persuade Monsieur Millar to come."
In dreadful embarrassment Olga turned to the smiling, cynical mask of a
face that looked at her triumphantly. She could not refuse.
"I hope we may have the pleasure of seeing you this evening," she said,
and turned wearily toward the door.
"Thank you, madam," the fiend replied. "I shall be more than delighted."
Karl interrupted to say that he would not reach the house that evening
before 11 o'clock. He explained that he expected an art dealer. In
reality he had just recalled his promise to stop at the house of Mimi.
Herman, suspecting his design, made some jesting allusion to it, which
caused Olga to ask what he meant. He evaded her question, and Millar,
seeing another excellent opportunity to point a moral, declared that he
heard a knock.
He walked over to the door, opened it, and to the amazement of the
others, ushered the embarrassed little model into the room.
"The art dealer," he said sarcastically.
Olga felt instantly consumed with jealousy. As she and her husband
walked out Millar said to her:
"I will repay you for your invitation, madam. I shall manage to forget
my overcoat, and in five minutes I shall return for it and break up the
chat which you anticipate with such displeasure."
Olga could not deny the insinuation. She did feel jealous of the pretty
model; she did wish that the girl and Karl might not be left alone, and
she felt almost grateful to Millar for his promise. Karl had ushered
Mimi into the studio, and then he bade his guests good-by. Left alone,
he threw himself face downward on the sofa, where Mimi found him a few
minutes later.
[Illustration: "THE ART DEALER," HE SAID SARCASTICALLY.--Page 70.
By Permission of Henry W. Savage.]