It was the moment of Millar's complete triumph, and he gloated over Olga
as she sat there, her trembling hands covering her face, much as a large
cat gloats over a mouse, helpless beneath his paws. He lied deliberately
about the letter, which even then reposed in the inside pocket of his
immaculate frock coat. But he reserved it for a final coup. He knew that
Olga, believing Karl was in possession of the letter, would yield to the
inevitable; that she would again confess her love, even to Karl himself,
and that only a miracle of resolution and faith and strength could save
the two young people from the abyss of dishonor and unhappiness into
which he was about to plunge them.
He sipped his tea in silence. Several moments elapsed before Olga was
able to control herself. Then she asked, without looking at Millar, and
her voice was dry with pain:
"Did--did Karl read the letter?"
"Oh, yes," Millar said, with another sip of tea.
"Oh, God! too late!" she cried.
Millar arose and stood behind Olga's chair, leaning over her and
speaking in a soft, low voice.
"After he read the letter he buried his face in his pillow and wept," he
said.
"He wept?"
"Yes; he wept with joy. I do not like men who weep."
Olga did not heed his flippancy. She looked up at him imploringly.
"I did not want him to get that letter," she said. "I came to ask him to
give it back to me unopened. I am too late."
"It is not you who are too late; it was I who was too early," Millar
said deprecatingly.
"Oh, is this life really a serious matter?" Olga exclaimed; "when
everything can depend upon one's getting here a few moments before or a
few minutes after 3 o'clock?"
"That is it exactly," Millar said. "We should not take it so seriously."
Olga looked thoughtfully away from him and said to herself softly:
"He wept."
"From joy," Millar repeated after her, in the same soft voice.
"I am afraid to speak to him, and yet I must," Olga cried, starting up.
"I would like to go far, far away, but I cannot. Something seems to hold
me here. I cannot, cannot go. What will become of me?"
"You will be very happy and will make Karl very happy," Millar said.
Heinrich entered and took the tea-things.
"Mr. Karl will be down in a moment," he said.
Olga clasped her hands tragically and turned an imploring face on
Millar, who started for the studio door.
"Good-by," he said. "I will leave you to speak to Karl alone."
"Please don't go," Olga implored.
"I can hardly remain under the circumstances," he said.
He knew that to further his design Karl and Olga should meet quite
alone. He would see to it that even old Heinrich did not interrupt them
until Olga had repeated her confession of love, and the hoax of the
letter had been revealed. Then he would reappear, with the letter, and
they might read it together.
Olga knew that her own frail, feminine heart would give way if she were
left alone to meet Karl. Evil as she believed Millar to be, yet she
dreaded his going now.
"I am afraid to be alone with him," she said. "Won't you please stay?"
"But if I stay, how could you speak to Karl about the letter?" Millar
asked. "And you must say something about it, you know. I would only be
in the way."
Olga weakened and began to pace the floor again.
"Well, I shall be quite frank with him," she said. "I shall be honest. I
shall ask him for the last time----"
Karl's voice was heard in his own room, calling to Heinrich.
"He is coming," Millar said. "I will leave you."
"Please don't go very far away," Olga implored.
"I shall be here," Millar said, going to a small anteroom adjoining the
studio. "If you need me, call."
He stepped within the other room and closed the door softly. Olga stood,
her hands gripping the back of her chair, waiting.
Karl entered the reception-room and stood for an instant looking at
Olga. He showed that he, too, had suffered during the night. His face
was white and drawn. When he saw Olga standing there, a mute statue of
despair, he was filled with pity for her and self-abasement. He stepped
quickly to her side, caught her hands and kissed them passionately.
"I ought to go down on my knees and beg your pardon for my conduct last
night, Olga," he said.
She turned to him quickly, yielding her hands to him, leaning toward
him, speaking eagerly.
"Speak very low; he is in there," she said, pointing to the anteroom
where Millar was hiding. "Let us be brief, Karl. I have been very
foolish, but I could not control myself. After what happened I wanted to
know. I wanted to feel that you loved me as I thought you did, as I
hoped you did, day and night, every minute."
"Olga!" he exclaimed rapturously.
[Illustration: "I WANTED TO FEEL THAT YOU LOVED ME AS I HOPED YOU
DID."--Page 173.
By Permission of Henry W. Savage.]
He was not prepared for this. He feared that he had offended her, and
her impulsive declaration swept him from his feet. He watched her face
eagerly, hungrily, as she went on, talking very rapidly, and making no
effort to disengage her hands, which he held clasped to his breast.
"Everything has changed since yesterday, Karl. But let us try to repeat
what we said then. Let us shake hands honorably. Let us try to be strong
and keep our promises, as we have kept them so long, Karl. If I have
been bold and frivolous it was only because I wanted to know what you
thought of me; nothing else. But I am afraid I have been punished too
much."
Her passion swept her along, as she was swayed alternately by love for
Karl and the saner impulse to flee from him. But the sweetness of
knowing that she was loved, of feeling her hands clasped in his, after
all her years of self-depression, broke down her resolution.
"I fear it is too late, Karl. My strength is gone. My will is lost. We
have gone back six years. Karl, I love you."