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

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

Did 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!

This 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

There 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