“Are you sure—are you sure you have not taken it?” she whispered.
He walked on, almost roughly.
“Oh, yes; quite,” he said.
“I will not allow you to go into any more houses in Thors. I cannot—I will not! Oh, Paul, you don’t know. If you do, I will tell them all who you are, and—and the Government will stop you.”
“What would be the good of that?” said Paul awkwardly. “Your father cared for his peasants, and was content to run risks for them. I suppose you care about them, too, as you go into their houses.”
“Yes; but—”
She paused, gave a strange little reckless laugh, and was silent. Heaven forbid that we should say that she wanted him to know that she loved him. Chivalry bids us believe that women guard the secret of their love inviolate from the world. But what was Catrina to do? Men are in the habit of forgetting that plain women are women at all. Surely some of them may be excused for reminding us at times that they also are capable of loving—that they also desire to be loved. Happy is the man who loves and is loved of a plain woman; for she will take her own lack of beauty into consideration, and give him more than most beautiful women have it in their power to give.
“Of course,” Catrina went on, with a sudden anger which surprised herself, “I cannot stop you from doing this at Osterno, though I think it is wicked; but I can prevent you from doing it here, and I certainly shall!”
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
“As you like,” he said. “I thought you cared more about the peasants.”
“I do not care a jot about the peasants,” she answered passionately, “as compared—It is you I am thinking about, not them. I think you are selfish, and cruel to your friends.”
“My friends have never shown that they are consumed with anxiety on my account.”
“That is mere prevarication. Leave that to Herr Steinmetz and such men, whose business it is; you don’t do it well. Your friends may feel a lot that they do not show.”
She spoke the words shortly and sharply. Surreptitious good is so rare, that when it is found out it very naturally gets mixed up with secret evil, and the perpetrator of the hidden good deed feels guilty of a crime. Paul was in this lamentable position, which he proceeded to further aggravate by seeking to excuse himself.
“I did it after mature consideration. I tried paying another man, but he shirked his work and showed the white feather; so Steinmetz and I concluded that there was nothing to be done but do our dirty work ourselves.”
“Which, being translated, means that you do it.”
“Pardon me. Steinmetz does his share.”
Catrina Lanovitch was essentially a woman, despite her somewhat masculine frame. She settled Karl Steinmetz’s account with a sniff of contempt.
“And that is why you have been so fond of Osterno the last two years?” she asked innocently.
“Yes,” he answered, falling into the trap.
Catrina winced. One does not wince the less because the pain is expected. The girl had the Slav instinct of self-martyrdom, which makes Russians so very different from the pleasure-loving nations of Europe.
“Only that?” she enquired.
Paul glanced down at her.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
They walked on in silence for a few moments. Paul seemed tacitly to have given up the idea of visiting any more of the stricken cottages. They were going toward the long old house, which was called the castle more by courtesy than by right.
“How long are you going to stay in Osterno?” asked Catrina at length.
“About a fortnight; I cannot stay longer. I am going to be married.”
Catrina stopped dead. She stood for a moment looking at the ground with a sort of wonder in her eyes, not pleasant to see. It was the look of one who, having fallen from a great height, is not quite sure whether it means death or not. Then she walked on.
“I congratulate you,” she said. “I only hope she will make you happy. She is—beautiful, I suppose?”
“Yes,” answered Paul simply.
The girl nodded her head.
“What is her name?”
“Etta Sydney Bamborough.”
Catrina had evidently never heard the name before. It conveyed nothing to her. Womanlike, she went back to her first question.
“What is she like?”
Paul hesitated.
“Tall, I suppose?” suggested the stunted woman at his side.
“Yes.”
“And graceful?”
“Yes.”
“Has she—pretty hair?” asked Catrina.
“I think so—yes.”
“You are not observant,” said the girl in a singularly even and emotionless voice. “Perhaps you never noticed.”
“Not particularly,” answered Paul.
The girl raised her face. There was a painful smile twisting her lips. The moonlight fell upon her; the deep shadows beneath the eyes made her face wear a grin. Some have seen such a grin on the face of a drowning man—a sight not to be forgotten.
“Where does she live?” asked Catrina. She was unaware of the thought of murder that was in her own heart. Nevertheless, the desire—indefinite, shapeless—was there to kill this woman, who was tall and beautiful, whom Paul Alexis loved.
It must be remembered in extenuation that Catrina Lanovitch had lived nearly all her life in the province of Tver. She was not modern at all. Deprived of the advantages of our enlightened society press, without the benefit of our decadent fictional literature, she had lamentably narrow views of life. She was without that deep philosophy which teaches you, mademoiselle, who read this guileless tale, that nothing matters very much; that love is but a passing amusement, the plaything of an hour; that if Tom is faithless, Dick is equally amusing; while Harry’s taste in gloves
