Etta was staring into the fire. It was impossible to say whether she heard with comprehension or not. Paul went on:
“There is nothing left, therefore, but to go and do good by stealth. I studied medicine with that view. Steinmetz has scraped and economized the working of the estate for the same purpose. The Government will not allow us to have a doctor; they prevent us from organizing relief and education on anything like an adequate scale. They do it all by underhand means. They have not the pluck to oppose us openly! For years we have been doing what we can. We have almost eradicated cholera. They do not die of starvation now. And they are learning—very slowly, but still they are learning. We—I—thought you might be interested in your people; you might want to help.”
She gave a short little nod. There was a suggestion of suspense in her whole being and attitude, as if she were waiting to hear something which she knew could not be avoided.
“A few years ago,” he went on, “a gigantic scheme was set on foot. I told you a little about it—the Charity League.”
Her lips moved, but no sound came from them, so she nodded a second time. A tiny carriage-clock on the mantelpiece struck seven, and she looked up in a startled way, as if the sound had frightened her. The castle was quite still. Silence seemed to brood over the old walls.
“That fell through,” he went on, “as I told you. It was betrayed. Stépan Lanovitch was banished. He has escaped, however; Steinmetz has seen him. He succeeded in destroying some of the papers before the place was searched after the robbery—one paper in particular. If he had not destroyed that, I should have been banished. I was one of the leaders of the Charity League. Steinmetz and I got the thing up. It would have been for the happiness of millions of peasants if it had not been betrayed. In time—we shall find out who did it.”
He paused. He did not say what he would do when he had found out.
Etta was staring into the fire. Her lips were dry. She hardly seemed to be breathing.
“It is possible,” he went on in his strong, quiet, inexorable voice, “that Stépan Lanovitch knows now.”
Etta did not move. She was staring into the fire—staring—staring.
Then she slowly fainted, rolling from the low chair to the fur hearthrug.
Paul picked her up like a child and carried her to the bedroom, where the maids were waiting to dress her.
“Here,” he said, “your mistress has fainted from the fatigue of the journey.”
And, with his practised medical knowledge, he himself tended her.
XXV
Osterno
“Always gay; always gay!” laughed Steinmetz, rubbing his broad hands together and looking down into the face of Maggie, who was busy at the breakfast-table.
“Yes,” answered the girl, glancing toward Paul, leaning against the window reading his letters. “Yes, always gay. Why not?”
Karl Steinmetz saw the glance. It was one of the little daily incidents that one sees and half forgets. He only half forgot it.
“Why not, indeed?” he answered. “And you will be glad to hear that Ivanovitch is as ready as yourself this morning to treat the matter as a joke. He is none the worse for his freezing, and all the better for his experience. You have added another friend, my dear young lady, to a list which is, doubtless, a very long one.”
“He is a nice man,” answered Maggie. “How is it,” she asked, after a little pause, “that there are more men in the lower classes whom one can call nice than among their betters?”
Paul paused between two letters, hearing the question. He looked up as if interested in the answer, but did not join in the conversation.
“Because dealing with animals and with nature is more conducive to niceness than too much trafficking with human beings,” replied Steinmetz promptly.
“I suppose that is it,” said Maggie, lifting the teapot lid and looking in. “At all events, it is the sort of answer one might expect from you. You are always hard on human nature.”
“I take it as I find it,” replied Steinmetz, with a laugh, “but I do not worry about it like some people. Now, Paul would like to alter the course of the world.”
As he spoke he half turned toward Paul, as if suggesting that he should give an opinion, and this little action had the effect of putting a stop to the conversation. Maggie had plenty to say to Steinmetz, but toward Paul her mental attitude was different. She was probably unaware of this little fact.
“There,” she said, after a pause, “I have obeyed Etta’s instructions. She does not want us to begin, I suppose?”
“No,” replied Paul. “She will be down in a minute.”
“I hope the princess is not overtired,” said Steinmetz, with a certain formal politeness which seemed to accompany any mention of Etta’s name.
“Not at all, thank you,” replied Etta herself, coming into the room at that moment. She looked fresh and self-confident. “On the contrary, I am full of energy and eagerness to explore the castle. One naturally takes an interest in one’s baronial halls.”
With this she walked slowly across to the window. She stood there looking out, and everyone in the room was watching. On looking for the first time on the same view, a few moments earlier, Maggie had uttered a little cry of surprise, and had then remained silent. Etta looked out of the window and said nothing. It was a most singular outlook—weird, uncouth, prehistoric, as some parts of the earth still are. The castle was built on the edge of a perpendicular cliff. On this side it was impregnable. Any object dropped from the breakfast-room window would fall a
