HUSBAND AND WIFE
Karl Steinmetz had shown the depth of his knowledge of men and women
when he commented on that power of facing danger with an unruffled
countenance which he was pleased to attribute to English ladies above
all women. During the evening he had full opportunity of verifying his
own observations.
Etta came down to dinner smiling and imperturbable. On the threshold of
the drawing-room she exchanged a glance with Karl Steinmetz; and that
was all. At dinner it was Maggie and Paul who were silent. Etta talked
to Steinmetz--brightly, gayly, with a certain courage of a very high
order; for she was desperate, and she did not show it.
At last the evening came to an end. Maggie had sung two songs. Steinmetz
had performed on the piano with a marvellous touch. All had played their
parts with the brazen faces which Steinmetz, in his knowledge of many
nations, assigned to the Anglo-Saxon race before others.
At last Etta rose to go to bed, with a little sharp sigh of great
suspense. It was coming.
She went up to her room, bidding Maggie good-night in the passage. In a
mechanical way she allowed the deft-handed maid to array her in a
dressing gown--soft, silken, a dainty triumph in its way. Then, almost
impatiently, she sent the maid away when her hair was only half
released. She would brush it herself. She was tired. No, she wanted
nothing more.
She sat down by the fire, brush in hand. She could hardly breathe. It
was coming.
She heard Paul come to his dressing-room. She heard his deep, quiet
voice reply to some question of his valet's. Then the word "Good-night"
in the same quiet voice. The valet had gone. There was only the door now
between her and--what? Her fingers were at the throat of her
dressing-gown. The soft lace seemed to choke her.
Then Paul knocked at the door. It was coming. She opened her lips, but
at first could make no sound.
"Come in!" she said at length hoarsely.
She wondered whether he would kill her. She wondered whether she was in
love with her husband. She had begun wondering that lately; she was
wondering it when he came in. He had changed his dress-coat for a
silk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working with
Steinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed.
She looked up. She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a great
rustle of her flowing silks.
"Oh, Paul, what is it?" she cried.
She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face.
"Have you seen any one?" she whispered.
"Only De Chauxville," he answered, "this afternoon."
"Indeed, Paul," she protested hastily, "it was nothing. A message from
Catrina Lanovitch. It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance. It
would have been very strange if he had not called. Do you think I could
care for a man like that?"
"I never did think so until now," returned Paul steadily. "Your excuses
accuse you. You may care for him. I do not know; I--do--not--care."
She turned slowly and went back to her chair.
Mechanically she took up the brush, and shook back her beautiful hair.
"You mean you do not care for me," she said. "Oh, Paul! be careful."
Paul stood looking at her. He was not a subtle-minded man at all. He was
not one of those who take it upon themselves to say that they understand
women--using the word in an offensively general sense, as if women were
situated midway between the human and the animal races. He was
old-fashioned enough to look upon women as higher and purer than men,
while equally capable of thought and self-control. He had, it must be
remembered, no great taste for fictional literature. He had not read the
voluminous lucubrations of the modern woman writer. He had not assisted
at the nauseating spectacle of a woman morally turning herself inside
out in three volumes and an interview.
No, this man respected women still; and he paid them an honor which,
thank Heaven, most of them still deserve. He treated them as men in the
sense that he considered them to be under the same code of right and
wrong, of good and evil.
He did not understand what Etta meant when she told him to be careful.
He did not know that the modern social code is like the Spanish
grammar--there are so many exceptions that the rules are hardly worth
noting. And one of our most notorious modern exceptions is the married
woman who is pleased to hold herself excused because outsiders tell her
that her husband does not understand her.
"I do not think," said Paul judicially, "that you can have cared very
much whether I loved you or not. When you married me you knew that I was
the promoter of the Charity League; I almost told you. I told you so
much that, with your knowledge, you must have been aware of the fact
that I was heavily interested in the undertaking which you betrayed. You
married me without certain proof of your husband's death, such was your
indecent haste to call yourself a princess. And now I find, on your own
confession, that you have a clandestine understanding with a man who
tried to murder me only a week ago. Is it not rather absurd to talk of
caring?"
He stood looking down at her, cold and terrible in the white heat of his
suppressed Northern anger.
The little clock on the mantel-piece, in a terrible hurry, ticked with
all its might. Time was speeding. Every moment was against her. And she
could think of nothing to say simply because those things that she would
have said to others would carry no weight with this man.
Etta was leaning forward in the luxurious chair, staring with haggard
eyes into the fire. The flames leaped up and gleamed on her pale face,
in her deep eyes.
"I suppose," she said, without looking at him, "that you will not
believe me when I tell you that I hate the man. I knew nothing of what
you refer to as happening last week; his attempt to murder you, I mean.
You are a prince, and all-powerful in your own province. Can you not
throw him into prison and keep him there? Such things are done in
Russia. He is more dangerous than you think. Please do it--please--"
Paul looked at her with hard, unresponsive eyes. Lives depended on his
answer.
"I did not come here to discuss Claude de Chauxville," he said, "but
you, and our future."
Etta drew herself up as one under the lash, and waited with set teeth.
"I propose," he said, in a final voice which made it no proposition at
all, "that you go home to England at once with--your cousin. This
country is not safe for you. The house in London will be at your
disposal. I will make a suitable settlement on you, sufficient to live
in accordance with your title and position. I must ask you to remember
that the name you bear has hitherto been an unsullied one. We have been
proud of our princesses--up to now. In case of any trouble reaching you
from outside sources connected with this country, I should like you to
remember that you are under my protection and that of Steinmetz. Either
of us will be glad at any time to consider any appeal for assistance
that you may think fit to make. You will always be the Princess Howard
Alexis."
Etta gave a sudden laugh.
"Oh, yes," she said, and her face was strangely red, "I shall still be
the Princess Alexis."
"With sufficient money to keep up the position," he went on, with the
cruel irony of a slow-spoken man.
A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta's face--the smile of one who
is in agony and will not shriek.
"There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence," went
on Paul. "I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever nature
with the Baron de Chauxville. I am not jealous of him--now. I do not
know why."
He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be. Etta knew
it. The knowledge was part of her punishment.
"But," continued her husband. "I am not going to sacrifice the name my
mother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb. You will be kind enough
to avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him. If you
disregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take means
to enforce them."
"What means?"
"I shall reduce your allowance."
Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta's
life. Dead things are better put out of sight at once. Etta felt that
Paul's dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowance
which was to be hers. She would never get away from it; she could never
shake off its memory.
"Am I to live alone?" asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice.
"That is as you like," answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstanding
her. "You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish.
Perhaps--your cousin."
"Maggie?"
"Yes," answered Paul. For the first time since he had entered the room
his eyes were averted from Etta's face.
"She would not live with me," said the princess curtly.
Paul seemed to be reflecting. When he next spoke it was in a kinder
voice.
"You need not tell the circumstances which have given rise to this
arrangement."
Etta shrugged her shoulders.
"That," went on Paul, "rests entirely with yourself. You may be sure
that I will tell no one. I am not likely to discuss it with any one
whomsoever."
Etta's stony eyes softened for a moment. She seemed to be alternating
between hatred of this man and love of him--a dangerous state for any
woman. It is possible that, if he had held his hand out to her, she
would have been at his feet in a wild, incoherent passion of self-hatred
and abasement. Such moments as these turn our lives and determine them.
Paul knew nothing of the issue hanging on this moment, on the passing
softness of her eyes. He knew nothing of the danger in which this woman
stood, of the temptation with which she was wrestling. He went on in his
blindness, went on being only just.
"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 any thing 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
to-night?"
"Yes!"
He opened the door.
"Good-night!" he said, and went out.