The Witness by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz (mobi reader android TXT) 📕

Soviet Should Have Been Driven Irresistibly To The Point Where It Must

Either Renounce Its Own Existence Or Oppose The Provisional Government.

The Dominating Spirit And Thought Of The Soviet Was That Of International

Social Democracy. While Most Of The Delegates Believed That It Was

Necessary To Prosecute The War And To Defeat The Aggressions Of The Central

Empires,  They Were Still Socialists,  Internationalists,  Fundamental

Democrats,  And Anti-Imperialists. Not Without Good And Sufficient Reason,

They Mistrusted The Bourgeois Statesmen And Believed That Some Of The Most

Influential Among Them Were Imperialists,  Actuated By A Desire For

Territorial Expansion,  Especially The Annexation Of Constantinople,  And

That They Were Committed To Various Secret Treaties Entered Into By The Old

Régime With England,  France,  And Italy. In The Meetings Of The Soviet,  And

In Other Assemblages Of Workers,  The Ugly Suspicion Grew That The War Was

Not Simply A War For National Defense,  For Which There Was Democratic

Sanction And Justification,  But A War Of Imperialism,  And That The

Provisional Government Was Pursuing The Old Ways Of Secret Diplomacy.

Strength Was Given To This Feeling When Miliukov,  The Foreign Minister,  In

An Interview Championed The Annexation Of Constantinople As A Necessary

Safeguard For The Outlet To The Mediterranean Which Russian Economic

Development Needed. Immediately There Was An Outcry Of Protest From The

Soviet,  In Which,  It Should Be Observed,  The Bolsheviki Were Already

Gaining Strength And Confidence,  Thanks To The Leadership Of Kamenev,

Lenine's Colleague,  Who Had Returned From Siberian Exile. It Was Not Only

The Bolsheviki,  However,  Who Protested Against Imperialistic Tendencies.

Practically The Whole Body Of Socialists,  Mensheviki And Bolsheviki Alike,

Agreed In Opposing Imperialism And Secret Diplomacy. Socialists Loyal To

The National Defense And Socialists Who Repudiated Thay. Sdulgently. "She Didn't

Have Any Use For A Chaperon,  Child," He Said,  As If He Were A Great Deal

Older Than She. "She Came Here With Her Little Brother To Earn Their

Living."

"Oh,  She _Had_ A Brother,  Then!" Sighed Gila With Evident Relief.

It Occurred To Courtland To Be A Bit Pleased That Gila Was So Particular

About The Conventionalities. He Had Heard It Rumored More Than Once That

Her Own Conduct Overstepped The Most Lenient Of Rules. That Must Have

Been A Mistake. It Was A Relief To Know It From Her Own Lips. But He

Explained,  Gently:

"The Little Brother Was Killed On Monday Night," He Said,  Gravely. "Just

Run Down In Cold Blood By A Passing Automobile."

"How Perfectly Dreadful!" Shuddered Gila,  Shrinking Back Into The Depths

Of The Chair. "But You Know You Mustn't Believe A Story Like That! Poor

People Are Always Getting Up Such Tales About Rich People's

Automobiles. It Isn't True At All. No Chauffeur Would Do A Thing Like

That! The Children Just Run Out And Get In The Way Of The Cars To

Tantalize The Drivers. I've Seen Them Myself. Why,  Our Chauffeur Has

Been Arrested Three Or Four Times And Charged With Running Over Children

And Dogs,  When It Wasn't His Fault At All; The People Were Just Trying

To Get Some Money Out Of Us! I Don't Suppose The Little Child Was Run

Over. It Was Probably His Own Fault."

"Yes,  He Was Run Over," Said Courtland,  Gently. "I Saw It Myself! I Was

Standing On The Curbstone When The Boy--He Was A Beautiful Little Fellow

With Long Golden Curls--Rushed Out To Meet His Sister,  Calling Out To

Her,  And The Automobile Came Whirring By Without A Sign Of A Horn,  And

Crushed Him Down Just Like A Broken Lily. He Never Lifted His Head Nor

Made A Motion Again,  And The Automobile Never Even Slowed Up To

See--Just Shot Ahead And Was Gone."

Gila Was Still For A Minute. She Had No Words To Meet A Situation Like

This. "Oh,  Well," She Said,  "I Suppose He Is Better Off,  And The Girl

Is,  Too. How Could She Take Care Of A Child In The City Alone,  And Do

Any Work? Besides,  Children Are An Awful Torment,  And Very Likely He

Would Have Turned Out Bad. Boys Usually Do. What Did You Want Me To Do

For Her? Get Her A Position As A Maid?"

There Was Something Almost Flippant In Her Tone. Strange That Courtland

Did Not Recognize It. But The Firelight,  The White Gown,  The Pure

Profile,  The Down-Drooped Lashes Had Done For Him Once More What The Red

Light Had Done Before--Taken Him Out Of His Normal Senses And Made Him

See A Gila That Was Not Really There: Soft,  Sweet,  Tender,  Womanly. The

Words,  Though They Did Not Satisfy Him,  Merely Meant That She Had Not

Yet Understood What He Wanted,  And Was Striving Hard To Find Out.

"No," He Said,  Gently. "I Want You To Go And See Her. She Is Sick And In

The Hospital. She Needs A Friend,  A Real Girl Friend,  Such As You Could

Be If You Would."

Gila Answered In Her Slow,  Pretty Drawl: "Why,  I Hate Hospitals! I

Wouldn't Even Go To See Mama When She Had An Operation On Her Neck Last

Winter,  Because I Hate The Odors They Have Around. But I'll Go If You

Want Me To. Of Course I Won't Promise How Much Good I'll Do. Girls Of

That Stamp Don't Want To Be Helped,  You Know. They Think They Know It

All,  And They Are Usually Most Insulting. But I'll See What I Can Do. I

Don't Mind Giving Her Something. I've Three Evening Dresses That I

Perfectly Hate,  And One Of Them I've Never Had On But Once. She Might

Get A Position To Act Somewhere Or Sing In A Cafe If She Had Good

Clothes."

Courtland Hastened Earnestly To Impress Her With The Fact That Miss

Brentwood Was A Refined Girl Of Good Family,  And That It Would Be An

Insult To Offer Her Second-Hand Clothing; But When He Gave It Up And

Yielded To Gila's Plea That He Drop These Horrid,  Gloomy Subjects And

Talk About Something Cheerful,  He Had A Feeling Of Failure. Perhaps He

Ought Not To Have Told Gila,  After All. She Simply Couldn't Understand

The Other Girl Because She Had Never Dreamed Of Such A Situation.

If He Could Have Seen His Gentle Gila A Couple Of Hours Later,  Standing

Before Her Mirror Again And Setting Those Little Sharp Teeth Into Her

Red Lip,  The Ugly Frown Between Her Angry Eyes; If He Could Have Heard

Her Low-Muttered Words,  And,  Worse Still,  Guessed Her Thoughts About

Himself And That Other Girl--He Certainly Would Have Gone Out And

Gnashed His Teeth In Despair. If He Could Have Known What Was To Come

Of His Request To Gila Dare He Would Have Rung Up The Hospital And Had

Miss Brentwood Moved To Another One In Hot Haste,  Or,  Better Still,  Have

Taken Strenuous Measures To Prevent That Visit. But Instead Of That He

Read Mother Marshall's Telegram Over Again,  And Lay Down To Forget Gila

Dare Utterly,  And Think Pleasant Thoughts About The Marshalls.

Gila Dare,  In Her Very Most Startling Costume,  Lavishly Plastered With

Costly Fur,  And High-Laced,  French-Heeled Boots,  Came Tripping Down Her

Father's Steps To The Limousine. She Carried A Dangling Little Trick Of

A Hand-Bag And A Muff Big Enough For A Rug. Her Two Eyes Looked Forth

From The Rim Of The Low-Squashed,  Bandage-Like Fur Hat Like The Eyes Of

A Small,  Sly Mouse That Was About To Nibble Somebody Else's Cheese.

By Her Side A Logy Youth,  With Small,  Blue Fish-Eyes Fixed Adoringly On

Her,  Sauntered Protectingly. She Wore A Large Bunch Of Pale-Yellow

Orchids,  Evidently His Gift,  And Was Paying For Them With Her Glances.

One Knew By The Excited Flush On The Young Man's Face That He Had Rarely

Been Paid So Well. His Eyes Took On A Glint Of Intelligence,  One Might

Almost Say Of Hope,  And He Smiled Egregiously,  Egotistically. His

Assurance Grew With Each Step He Took. As He Opened The Door Of The

Luxurious Car For Her He Wore An Attitude Of One Who Might Possibly Be A

Fiance. Her Little Mouse-Eyes--You Wouldn't Have Dreamed They Could Ever

Be Large And Wistful,  Nor Innocent,  Either--Twinkled Pleasurably. She

Was Playing Her Usual Game And Playing It Well. It Was The Game For

Which She Was Rapidly Becoming Notorious,  Young As She Was.

"Oh,  Now,  _Chaw_-! _Ree_-Ally! Why,  I Never Dreamed It Was That Bad! But

You Mustn't,  You Know! I Never Gave You Permission!"

The Chauffeur,  Sitting Stolidly In His Uniform,  Awaiting The Word To

Move,  Wondered Idly What She Was Up To Now. He Was Used To Seeing The

Game Played All Around Him Day After Day,  As If He Were A Stick Or A

Stone,  Or One Of The Metal Trappings Of The Car.

"Chawley" Hathaway Looked Unutterable Things,  And The Little Mouse-Eyes

Looked Back Unutterable Things,  With That Lingering,

Just-Too-Long-For-Pardoning Glance That A Certain Kind Of Men And Women

Employ When They Want To Loiter Near The Danger-Line And Toy With Vital

Things. An Impressive Hand-Clasp,  Another Long,  Languishing Look,  Just A

Shade Longer This Time; Then He Closed The Door,  Lifted His Hat At The

Mouse-Eyed Goddess,  And The Limousine Swept Away. They Had Parted As If

Something Momentous Had Occurred,  And Both Knew In Their Hearts That

Neither Had Meant Anything At All Except To Play With Fire For An

Instant,  Like Children Sporting At Lighting A Border Of Forest That Has

A Heart Of True Homes In Its Keeping.

Gila Swept On In Her Chariot. The Young Man With Whom She Had Played Was

Well Skilled In The Game. He Understood Her Perfectly,  As She Him. If He

Got Burned Sometimes It Was "Up To Him." She Meant To Take Good Care Of

Herself.

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