“If,” he said, “you have any further questions to ask, I shall always be at your service. For the next few days I shall be busy. The peasants are in a state of discontent verging on rebellion. We cannot at present arrange for your journey to Tver, but as soon as it is possible I will tell you.”
He looked at the clock, and made an imperceptible movement toward the door.
Etta glanced up sharply. She did not seem to be breathing.
“Is that all?” she asked, in a dull voice.
There was a long silence, tense and throbbing, the great silence of the steppe.
“I think so,” answered Paul at length. “I have tried to be just.”
“Then justice is very cruel.”
“Not so cruel as the woman who for a few pounds sells the happiness of thousands of human beings. Steinmetz advised me to speak to you. He suggested the possibility of circumstances of which we are ignorant. He said that you might be able to explain.”
Silence.
“Can you explain?”
Silence. Etta sat looking into the fire. The little clock hurried on. At length Etta drew a deep breath.
“You are the sort of man,” she said, “who does not understand temptation. You are strong. The devil leaves the strong in peace. You have found virtue easy because you have never wanted money. Your position has always been assured. Your name alone is a password through the world. Your sort are always hard on women who—who—What have I done, after all?”
Some instinct bade her rise to her feet and stand before him—tall, beautiful, passionate, a woman in a thousand, a fit mate for such as he. Her beautiful hair in burnished glory round her face gleamed in the firelight. Her white fingers clenched, her arms thrown back, her breast panting beneath the lace, her proud face looking defiance into his—no one but a prince could have braved this princess.
“What have I done?” she cried a second time. “I have only fought for myself, and if I have won, so much the greater credit. I am your wife. I have done nothing the law can touch. Thousands of women moving in our circle are not half so good as I am. I swear before God I am—”
“Hush!” he said, with upraised hand. “I never doubted that.”
“I will do anything you wish,” she went on, and in her humility she was very dangerous. “I deceived you, I know. But I sold the Charity League before I knew that you—that you thought of me. When I married you I didn’t love you. I admit that. But Paul—oh, Paul, if you were not so good you would understand.”
Perhaps he did understand; for there was that in her eyes that made her meaning clear.
He was silent; standing before her in his great strength, his marvellous and cruel self-restraint.
“You will not forgive me?”
For a moment she leaned forward, peering into his face. He seemed to be reflecting.
“Yes,” he said at length, “I forgive you. But if I cared for you, forgiveness would be impossible.”
He went slowly toward the door. Etta looked round the room with drawn eyes; their room—the room he had fitted up for his bride with the lavishness of a great wealth and a great love.
He paused, with his hand on the door.
“And,” she said, with fiery cheeks, “does your forgiveness date from tonight?”
“Yes!”
He opened the door.
“Good night!” he said, and went out.
XL
Stépan Returns
At daybreak the next morning Karl Steinmetz was awakened by the familiar cry of the wolf beneath his window. He rose and dressed hastily. The eastern sky was faintly pink; a rosy twilight moved among the pines. He went downstairs and opened the little door at the back of the castle.
It was, of course, the starosta, shivering and bleached in the chilly dawn.
“They have watched my cottage, Excellency, all night. It was only now that I could get away. There are two strange sleighs outside Domensky’s hut. There are marks of many sleighs that have been and gone. Excellency, it is unsafe for anyone to venture outside the castle today. You must send to Tver for the soldiers.”
“The prince refuses to do that.”
“But why, Excellency? We shall be killed!”
“You do not know the effect of platoon firing on a closely packed mob, starosta. The prince does,” replied Steinmetz, with his grim smile.
They spoke together in hushed voices for half an hour, while the daylight crept up the eastern sky. Then the starosta stole away among the still larches, like the wolf whose cry he imitated so perfectly.
Steinmetz closed the door and went upstairs to his own room, his face grave and thoughtful, his tread heavy with the weight of anxiety.
The day passed as such days do. Etta was not the woman to plead a conventional headache and remain hidden. She came down to breakfast, and during that meal was boldly conversational.
“She has spirit,” reflected Karl Steinmetz behind his quiet gray eyes. He admired her for it, and helped her. He threw back the ball of conversation with imperturbable good humor.
They were completely shut in. No news from the outer world penetrated to the little party besieged within their own stone walls. Maggie, fearless and innocent, announced her intention of snowshoeing, but was dissuaded therefrom by Steinmetz with covert warnings.
During the morning each was occupied in individual affairs. At luncheon time they met again. Etta was now almost defiant. She was
