The Witness, Grace Livingston Hill Lutz [the little red hen ebook .TXT] 📗
- Author: Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
Book online «The Witness, Grace Livingston Hill Lutz [the little red hen ebook .TXT] 📗». Author Grace Livingston Hill Lutz
Personality, And A Sweep Of Long Lashes Over Pearly Cheeks, Or A Lifting
Of Great, Innocent Eyes Of Admiration To His Face.
She Offered Wine In Delicate Gold-Incrusted Ruby Glasses, But Courtland
Chapter 2 Pg 16Did Not Drink. He Scarcely Noticed Her Veiled Annoyance At His Refusal.
He Was Drinking In The Wine Of Her Presence. She Suggested That He
Smoke, And Would Not Have Hesitated To Join Him, Perhaps, But He Told
Her He Was In Training, And She Cooed Softly Of His Wonderful Strength
Of Character In Resisting.
By This Time He Was In The Coveted Seat Beside Her On The Couch, And The
Fire Burned Low And Red. They Had Ceased To Talk Of Games And Dances.
They Were Talking Of Each Other, Those Intimate Nothings That Mean A
Breaking Down Of Distance And A Rapidly Growing Familiarity.
The Young Man Was Aware Of The Fascination Of The Small Figure In Her
Crimson Robings, Sitting So Demurely In The Firelight, The Gauzy Scarf
Dropped Away From Her White Neck And Shoulders, The Lovely Curve Of Her
Baby Cheek And Tempting Neck Showing Against The Background Of The
Shadows Behind Her. He Was Aware Of A Distinct Longing To Take Her In
His Arms And Crush Her To Him, As He Would Pluck A Red Berry From A
Bank, And Feel Its Stain Upon His Lips. Stain! A Stain Was A Thing That
Was Hard To Remove. There Were Blood-Stains Sometimes And Agonies; And
Yet Men Wanted To Pluck The Berries And Feel The Stain Upon Their Lips!
He Was Not Under The Hallucination That He Was Suddenly Falling In Love
With This Girl. He Did Not Name The Passionate Outcry In His Soul Love.
He Knew She Had Been A Charmer Of Many, And In Yielding Himself To Her
Recognized Power He Was For The Moment Playing With A Force That Was New
And Interesting, With Which He Had Felt Altogether Strong Enough To
Contend For An Evening Or He Would Not Have Come. That It Should Thrill
Along All His Senses With This Unreasoning Rapture Was Most Astonishing.
He Had Never Been A Fellow To "Fall" For Every Girl He Met, And Now He
Felt Himself Gradually Yielding To The Beautiful Spell About Him With A
Kind Of Wonder.
The Lights And Coloring Of The Room That Had Smote His Senses
Unpleasantly When He First Entered Had Thrown Him Now Into A Kind Of
Delicious Fever. The Neglected Wine Sparkling Dimly In The Costly
Glasses Seemed A Part Of It. He Felt An Impulse To Reach Out, Seize A
Glass, And Drain It. What If He Should? What If He Flung Away His Ideas
And Principles And Let The Moment Sway Him As It Would, Just For Once?
Why Should He Not Try Life As It Presented Itself?
These Fancies Fled Through His Brain Like Phantoms That Did Not Dare To
Linger. His Was No Callow Mind, Ignorant Of The World. He Had Thought
And Read And Lived His Ideas Well For So Young A Man. He Had Vigorously
Protested Against Weakness Of Every Kind; Yet Here He Was Feeling The
Drawing Power Of Things He Had Always Despised; Reveling In The Wine-Red
Color Of The Room, In The Pit-Like Glow Of The Fire; Watching The Play
Of Smiles And Wistfulness On The Lovely Face Of The Girl. He Had Often
Wondered What Others Saw So Attractive In Her Beyond A Pretty Face. But
Now He Understood. Her Child-Like Speech And Pretty Little Ways
Fascinated Him. Perhaps She Was Really Innocent Of Her Own Charms.
Perhaps A Man Might Lead Her To Give Up Certain Of Her Ways That Caused
Her To Be Criticized. What A Woman She Would Be Then! What A Friend To
Have!
Chapter 2 Pg 17This Was The Last Sop He Threw To His Conscience Before He Consciously
Began To Yield To The Spell That Was Upon Him.
She Had Been Speaking Of Palmistry, And She Took His Hand In Hers,
Innocently, Impersonally, With Large Eyes Lifted Inquiringly. Her Breath
Was On His Face; Her Touch Had Stirred His Senses With A Madness He Had
Never Felt Nor Measured In Himself Before.
"The Life-Line Is Here," She Said, Coolly, And Traced It Delicately
Along His Palm With A Sea-Shell Tinted Finger. Like Cool Delicious Fire
It Spread From Nerve To Nerve And Set Aside His Reason In A Frenzy. He
Would Seize The Berry And Feel Its Stain Upon His Lips Now No Matter
What!--
"Paul!"
It Was As Distinct Upon His Ear As If The Words Had Been Spoken; As
Startling And Calming As A Cool Hand Upon His Fevered Brow; The Sudden
Entrance Of A Guest. He Had Seized Her Hands With Sudden Fervor, And
Now, Almost In The Same Moment, Flung Them From Him And Stood Up, A Man
In Full Possession Of His Senses. "Hark!" He Said, And As He Spoke A Cry
Broke Faintly Forth Above Them, And There Was Sound Of Rushing Feet. A
Frightened Maid Burst Into The Room Unannounced.
"Oh, Miss Gila, I Beg Yer Pardon, But Master Harry's Got His Father's
Razor, An' He's Cut Hisself Something Awful."
The Maid Was Weeping And Wringing Her Hands Helplessly, But Gila Stood
Frowning Angrily. Courtland Sprang Up The Stairs. In The Tumult Of His
Mind He Would Have Rejoiced If The House Had Been On Fire, Or A Cyclone
Had Struck The Place--Anythirepresented In The
Legislative Body, Without One Representative To Fight Its Battles On What
The World Universally Regards As One Of The Most Important Battle-Fields Of
Civilization. And Yet, Here, Too, They Were Entirely Logical And
Consistent--They Did Not Believe In Parliamentary Government. As Yet, They
Were Not Disposed To Emphasize This Overmuch, Not, Apparently, Because Of
Any Lack Of Candor And Good Faith, But Rather Because The Substitute For
Parliamentary Government Had Not Sufficiently Shaped Itself In Their Minds.
The Desire Not To Be Confused With The Anarchists Was Another Reason.
Because The Bolsheviki And The Anarchists Both Oppose Parliamentary
Government And The Political State, It Has Been Concluded By Many Writers
On The Subject That Bolshevism Is Simply Anarchism In Another Guise. This
Is A Mistake. Bolshevism Is Quite Different From And Opposed To Anarchism.
It Requires Strongly Centralized Government, Which Anarchism Abhors.
Parliamentary Government Cannot Exist Except Upon The Basis Of The Will Of
The Majority. Whoever Enters Into The Parliamentary Struggle, Therefore,
Must Hope And Aim To Convert The Majority. Back Of That Hope And Aim Must
Be Faith In The Intellectual And Moral Capacity Of The Majority. At The
Foundation Of Bolshevist Theory And Practice Lies The Important Fact That
Chapter 2 Pg 18There Is No Such Faith, And, Consequently, Neither The Hope Nor The Aim To
Convert The Majority And With Its Strength Make The Revolution. Out Of The
Adult Population Of Russia At That Time Approximately 85 Per Cent. Were
Peasants And Less Than 5 Per Cent. Belonged To The Industrial Proletariat.
At That Time Something Like 70 Per Cent. Of The People Were Illiterate.
Even In St. Petersburg--Where The Standard Of Literacy Was Higher Than In
Any Other City--Not More Than 55 Per Cent. Of The People Could Sign Their
Own Names In 1905, According To The Most Authentic Government Reports. When
We Contemplate Such Facts As These Can We Wonder That Impatient
Revolutionaries Should Shrink From Attempting The Task Of Converting A
Majority Of The Population To An Intelligent Acceptance Of Socialism?
There Was Another Reason Besides This, However. Lenine--And He Personifies
Bolshevism--Was, And Is, A Doctrinaire Marxist Of The Most Dogmatic Type
Conceivable. As Such He Believed That The New Social Order Must Be The
Creation Of That Class Which Is The Peculiar Product Of Modern Capitalism,
The Industrial Proletariat. To That Class Alone He And His Followers Pinned
All Their Faith And Hope, And That Class Was A Small Minority Of The
Population And Bound To Remain A Minority For A Very Long Period Of Years.
Here, Then, We Have The Key. It Cannot Be Too Strongly Stressed That The
Bolsheviki Did Not Base Their Hope Upon The Working Class Of Russia, And
Did Not Trust It. The Working Class Of Russia--If We Are To Use The Term
With An Intelligent Regard To Realities--Was And Is Mainly Composed Of
Peasants; The Industrial Proletariat Was And Is Only A Relatively Small
Part Of The Great Working Class Of The Nation. _But It Is Upon That Small
Section, As Against The Rest Of The Working Class, That Bolshevism Relies_.
Lenine Has Always Refused To Include The Peasants In His Definition Of The
Working Class. With Almost Fanatical Intensity He Has Insisted That The
Peasant, Together With The Petty Manufacturer And Trader, Would Soon
Disappear; That Industrial Concentration Would Have Its Counterpart In A
Great Concentration Of Landownings And Agriculture; That The Small Peasant
Holdings Would Be Swallowed Up By Large, Modern Agricultural Estates, With
The Result That There Would Be An Immense Mass Of Landless Agricultural
Wage-Workers. This Class Would, Of Course, Be A Genuinely Proletarian
Class, And Its Interests Would Be Identical With Those Of The Industrial
Proletariat. Until That Time Came It Would Be Dangerous To Rely Upon The
Peasants, He Urged, Because Their Instincts Are Bourgeois Rather Than
Proletarian. Naturally, He Has Looked Askance At The Peasant Socialist
E Flung Them From Him. He Had
Sprung From The Couch Almost As If He Had Been Under Orders. She Could
Not Understand It, Only She Knew She Was Drawn By It All.
But He Should Yield! She Had Power And She Would Use It. She Had Beauty
And It Should Wound Him. She Would Win That Gentle Deference And
Attention For Her Own. In Her Jealous, Spoiled, Little Heart She Hated
The Little Brother For Lying There In His Arms So, Interrupting Their
Evening Just When She Had Him Where She Had Wanted Him. Whether She
Wanted Him For More Than A Plaything She Did Not Know, But Her Plaything
He Should Be As Long As She Desired Him--And More Also If She Chose.
When Courtland Lifted His Head At The Sound Of The Doctor's Footsteps On
The Stairs He Saw The Challenge In Gila's Eyes. Drawn Up Against The
White Enamel Of The Bathroom Door, All Her Brilliant Velvet And Jewels
Gleaming In The Brightness Of The Room, Her Regal Little Head Up, Her
Chin Lifted Half Haughtily, Her Innocent Mouth Pursed Softly With
Determination, Her Eyes Wide With An Inscrutable Look--Something More
Than Challenge--Something Soft, Appealing, Alluring, That Stirred Him
And Drew Him And
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