"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 to-night?"
"Yes!"
He opened the door.
"Good-night!" he said, and went out.
CHAPTER XL
STePAN 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 down stairs 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 any one to venture outside the castle to-day. 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, starost. 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 snow-shoeing, 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 on her mettle.
She was so near to loving Paul that a hatred of him welled up within her breast whenever he repelled her advances with uncompromising reticence.
They did not know--perhaps she hardly knew herself--that the opening of the side-door depended upon her humor.
In the afternoon Etta and Maggie sat, as was their wont, in the morning-room looking out over the cliff. Of late their intercourse had been slightly strained. They had never had much in common, although circumstances had thrown their lives together. It is one of the ills to which women are heir that they have frequently to pass their whole lives in the society of persons with whom they have no real sympathy. Both these women were conscious of the little rift within the lute, but such rifts are better treated with silence. That which comes to interfere with a woman's friendship will not often bear discussion.
At dusk Steinmetz went out. He had an appointment with the starosta.
Paul was sitting in his own room, making a pretence of work, about five o'clock, when Steinmetz came hurriedly to him.
"A new development," he said shortly. "Come to my room."
Paul rose and followed him through the double doorway built in the thickness of the wall.
Steinmetz's large room was lighted only by a lamp standing on the table.
All the light was thrown on the desk by a large green shade, leaving the rest of the room in a semi-darkness.
At the far end of the room a man was standing in an expectant attitude.
There was something furtive about this intruder, and at the same time familiar to Paul, who peered at him through the gloom.
Then the man came hurriedly forward.
"Ah, Pavlo, Pavlo!" he said in a deep, hollow voice. "I could not expect you to know me."
He threw his arms around him, and embraced him after the simple manner of Russia. Then he held him at arm's length.
"Stepan!" said Paul. "No, I did not know you."
Stepan Lanovitch was still holding him at arm's length, examining him with the large faint blue eyes which so often go with an exaggerated philanthropy.
"Old," he muttered, "old! Ah, my poor Pavlo! I heard in Kiew--you know how we outlaws hear such things--that you were in trouble, so I came to you."
Steinmetz in the background raised his patient eyebrows.
"There are two men in the world," went on the voluble Lanovitch, "who can manage the moujiks of Tver--you and I; so I came. I will help you, Pavlo; I will stand by you. Together we can assuredly quell this revolt."
Paul nodded, and allowed himself to be embraced a second time. He had long known Stepan Lanovitch of Thors as one of the many who go about the world doing good with their eyes shut. For the moment he had absolutely no use for this well-meaning blunderer.
"I am afraid," he said, "that it has got beyond control. We cannot stamp it out now except by force, and I would rather not do that. Our only hope is that it may burn itself out. The talkers must get hoarse in time."
Lanovitch shook his head.
"They have been talking since the days of Ananias," he said, "and they are not hoarse yet. I fear, Pavlo, there will never be peace in the world until the talkers are hoarse."
"How did you get here?" asked Paul, who was always businesslike.
"I brought a pack on my back and sold cotton. I made myself known to the starosta, and he communicated with good Karl here."
"Did you learn any thing in the village?" asked Paul.