THE THIN END
"But I confess I cannot understand why I should not be called the
Princess Alexis--there is nothing to be ashamed of in the title. I
presume you have a right to it?"
Etta looked up from her occupation of fixing a bracelet, with a little
glance of enquiry toward her husband.
They had been married a month. The honeymoon--a short one--had been
passed in the house of a friend, indeed a relation of Etta's own, a
Scotch peer who was not above lending a shooting-lodge in Scotland on
the tacit understanding that there should be some quid pro quo in the
future.
In answer Paul merely smiled, affectionately tolerant of her bright
sharpness of manner. Your bright woman in society is apt to be keen at
home. What is called vivacity abroad may easily degenerate into
snappiness by the hearth.
"I think it is rather ridiculous being called plain Mrs. Howard-Alexis,"
added Etta, with a pout.
They were going to a ball--the first since their marriage. They had just
dined, and Paul had followed his wife into the drawing-room. He took a
simple-minded delight in her beauty, which was of the description that
is at its best in a gorgeous setting. He stood looking at her, noting
her grace, her pretty, studied movements. There were, he reflected, few
women more beautiful--none, in his own estimation, fit to compare with
her.
She had hitherto been sweetness itself to him, enlivening his lonely
existence, shining suddenly upon his self-contained nature with a
brilliancy that made him feel dull and tongue-tied.
Already, however, he was beginning to discover certain small
differences, not so much of opinion as of thought, between Etta and
himself. She attached an importance to social function, to social
opinion, to social duties, which he in no wise understood. Invitations
were showered upon them. A man who is a prince and prefers to drop the
title need not seek popularity in London. The very respectable reader
probably knows as well as his humble servant, the writer, that in London
there is always a social circle just a little lower than one's own which
opens its doors with noble, disinterested hospitality, and is prepared
to lick the blacking from any famous foot.
These invitations Etta accepted eagerly. Some women hold it little short
of a crime to refuse an invitation, and go through life regretting that
there is only one evening to each day. To Paul these calls were nothing
new. His secretary had hitherto drawn a handsome salary for doing little
more than refuse such.
It was in Etta's nature to be somewhat carried away by glitter. A great
ball-room, brilliant illumination, music, flowers, and diamonds had an
effect upon her which she enjoyed in anticipation. Her eyes gleamed
brightly on reading the mere card of invitation. Some dull and
self-contained men are only to be roused by the clatter and whirl of a
battle-field, and this stirs them into brilliancy, changing them to new
men. Etta, always brilliant, always bright, exceeded herself on her
battle-field--a great social function.
Since their marriage she had never been so beautiful, her eyes had never
been so sparkling, her color so brilliant as at this moment when she
asked her husband to let her use her title. Hers was the beauty that
blooms not for one man alone, but for the multitude; that feeds not on
the love of one, but on the admiration of many. The murmur of the man in
the street who turned and stared into her carriage was more than the
devotion of her husband.
"A foreign title," answered Paul, "is nothing in England. I soon found
that out at Eton and at Trinity. It was impossible there. I dropped it,
and I have never taken it up again."
"Yes, you old stupid, and you have never taken the place you are
entitled to, in consequence."
"What place? May I button that?"
"Thanks."
She held out her arm while he, with fingers much too large for such
dainty work, buttoned her glove.
"The place in society," she answered.
"Oh; does that matter? I never thought of it."
"Of course it matters," answered the lady, with an astonished little
laugh. (It is wonderful what an importance we attach to that which has
been dearly won.) "Of course it matters," answered Etta; "more
than--well, more than any thing."
"But the position that depends upon a foreign title cannot be of much
value," said the pupil of Karl Steinmetz.
Etta shook her pretty head reflectively.
"Of course," she answered, "money makes a position of its own, and
every-body knows that you are a prince; but it would be nicer, with the
servants and every-body, to be a princess."
"I am afraid I cannot do it," said Paul.
"Then there is some reason for it," answered his wife, looking at him
sharply.
"Yes, there is."
"Ah!"
"The reason is the responsibility that attaches to the very title you
wish to wear."
The lady smiled, a little scornfully perhaps.
"Oh! Your grubby old peasants, I suppose," she said.
"Yes. You remember, Etta, what I told you before we were married--about
the people, I mean?"
"Oh, yes!" answered Etta, glancing at the clock and hiding a little yawn
behind her fan.
"I did not tell you all," went on Paul, "partly because it was
inexpedient, partly because I feared it might bore you. I only told you
that I was vaguely interested in the peasants, and thought it would be a
good thing if they could be gradually educated into a greater
self-respect, a greater regard for cleanliness and that sort of thing."
"Yes, dear, I remember," answered Etta, listlessly contemplating her
gloved hands.
"Well, I have not contented myself with thinking this during the last
two or three years. I have tried to put it into practice. Steinmetz and
I have lived at Osterno six months of the year on purpose to organize
matters on the estate. I was deeply implicated in the--Charity League--"
Etta dropped her fan with a clatter into the fender.
"Oh! I hope it is not broken," she gasped, with a singular
breathlessness.
"I do not think so," replied Paul, picking up the fan and returning it
to her. "Why, you look quite white! What does it matter if it is broken?
You have others."
"Yes, but--" Etta paused, opening the fan and examining the sticks so
closely that her face was hidden by the feathers. "Yes, but I like this
one. What is the Charity League, dear?"
"It was a large organization gotten up by the hereditary nobles of
Russia to educate the people and better their circumstances by
discriminate charity. Of course it had to be kept secret, as the
bureaucracy is against any attempt to civilize the people--against
education or the dissemination of news. The thing was organized. We were
just getting to work when some one stole the papers of the League from
the house of Count Stépan Lanovitch and sold them to the Government. The
whole thing was broken up; Lanovitch and others were exiled, I bolted
home, and Steinmetz faced the storm alone in Osterno. He was too clever
for them, and nothing was brought home to us. But you will understand
that it is necessary for us to avoid any notoriety, to live as quietly
and privately as possible."
"Yes, of course; but--"
"But what?"
"You can never go back to Russia," said Etta slowly, feeling her ground,
as it were.
"Oh, yes, I can. I was just coming to that. I want to go back this
winter. There is so much to be done. And I want you to come with me."
"No, Paul. No, no! I couldn't do that!" cried Etta, with a ring of
horror in her voice, strangely out of keeping with her peaceful and
luxurious surroundings.
"Why not?" asked the man who had never known fear.
"Oh, I should be afraid. I couldn't. I hate Russia!"
"But you don't know it."
"No," answered Etta, turning away and busying herself with her long
silken train. "No, of course not. Only Petersburg, I mean. But I have
heard what it is. So cold and dismal and miserable. I feel the cold so
horribly. I wanted to go to the Riviera this winter. I really think,
Paul, you are asking me too much."
"I am only asking a proof that you care for me."
Etta gave a little laugh--a nervous laugh with no mirth in it.
"A proof! But that is so bourgeois and unnecessary. Haven't you proof
enough, since I am your wife?"
Paul looked at her without any sign of yielding. His attitude, his whole
being, was expressive of that immovability of purpose which had hitherto
been concealed from her by his quiet manner. Steinmetz knew of the
mental barrier within this Anglo-Russian soul, against which prayer and
argument were alike unavailing. The German had run against it once or
twice in the course of their joint labors, and had invariably given way
at once.
Etta looked at him. The color was coming back to her face in patches.
There was something unsteady in her eyes--something suggesting that for
the first time in her life she was daunted by a man. It was not Paul's
speech, but his silence that alarmed her. She felt that trivial
arguments, small feminine reasons, were without weight.
"Now that you are married," she said, "I do not think you have any right
to risk your life and your position for a fad."
"I have done it with impunity for the last two or three years," he
answered. "With ordinary precautions the risk is small. I have begun the
thing now; I must go on with it."
"But the country is not safe for us--for you."
"Oh, yes, it is," answered Paul. "As safe as ever it has been."
Etta paused. She turned round and looked into the fire. He could not see
her face.
"Then the Ch--Charity League is forgotten?" she said.
"No," answered her husband quietly. "It will not be forgotten until we
have found out who sold us to the Government."
Etta's lips moved in a singular way. She drew them in and held them with
her teeth. For a moment her beautiful face wore a hunted expression of
fear.
"What will you gain by that?" she asked evenly.
"I? Oh, nothing. I do not care one way or the other. But there are some
people who want the man--very much."
Etta drew in a long, deep breath.
"I will go to Osterno with you, if you like," she said. "Only--only I
must have Maggie with me."
"Yes, if you like," answered Paul, in some surprise.
The clock struck ten, and Etta's eyes recovered their brightness.
Womanlike, she lived for the present. The responsibility of the future
is essentially a man's affair. The present contained a ball, and it was
only in the future that Osterno and Russia had to be faced. Let us also
give Etta Alexis her due. She was almost fearless. It is permissible to
the bravest to be startled. She was now quite collected. The even,
delicate color had returned to her face.
"Maggie is such a splendid companion," she said lightly. "She is so easy
to please. I think she would come if you asked her, Paul."
"If you want her, I shall ask her, of course; but it may hinder us a
little. I thought you might be able to help us--with the women, you
know."
There was a queer little smile on Etta's face--a smile, one might have
thought, of contempt.
"Yes, of course," she said. "It is so nice to be able to do good with
one's money."
Paul looked at her in his slow, grave way, but he said nothing. He knew
that his wife was cleverer and brighter than himself. He was simple
enough to think that this superiority of intellect might be devoted to
the good of the peasants of Osterno.
"It is not a bad place," he said--"a very fine castle, one of the finest
in Europe. Before I came away I gave orders for your rooms to be done
up. I should like every thing to be nice for you."
"I know you would, dear," she answered, glancing at the clock. (The
carriage was ordered for a quarter-past ten.) "But I suppose," she went
on, "that, socially speaking, we shall be rather isolated. Our neighbors
are few and far between."
"The nearest," said Paul quietly, "are the Lanovitches."
"_Who_?"
"The Lanovitches. Do you know them?"
"Of course not," answered Etta sharply. "But I seem to know the name.
Were there any in St. Petersburg?"
"The same people," answered Paul; "Count Stépan Lanovitch."
Etta was looking at her husband with her bright smile. It was a little
too bright, perhaps. Her eyes had a gleam in them. She was conscious of
being beautifully dressed, conscious of her own matchless beauty, almost
dauntless, like a very strong man armed.
"Well, I think I am a model wife," she said: "to give in meekly to your
tyranny; to go and bury myself in the heart of Russia in the middle of
winter--By the way, we must buy some furs; that will be rather exciting.
But you must not expect me to be very intimate with your Russian
friends. I am not quite sure that I like Russians"--she went toward him,
laying her two hands gently on his broad breast and looking up at
him--"not quite sure--especially Russian princes who bully their wives.
You may kiss me, however, but be very careful. Now I must go and finish
dressing. We shall be late as it is."
She gathered together her fan and gloves, for she had petulantly dragged
off a pair which did not fit.
"And you will ask Maggie to come with us?" she said.
He held open the door for her to pass out, gravely polite even to his
wife--this old-fashioned man.
"Yes," he answered; "but why do you want me to ask her?"
"Because I want her to come."