THE SOWBES
 
 ISAAC FOOT 
 LIBRARY 
 
 WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
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 THE SOWEES 
 
 BY 
 
 HENEY SETON MEREIMAN 
 
 Author of ' \Vith Edged Tools' etc. 
 
 'Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp 
 Or what's a heaven for?' 
 
 EIGHTEENTH EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDEE, & CO., 15 WATEELOO ELACE 
 
 1898 
 
 lAll rights reserved']
 
 en 
 
 JTX7 LJ^itARY 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE . . , . . 
 
 1 
 
 II. 
 
 BY THE VOLGA 
 
 10 
 
 III. 
 
 DIPLOMATIC ....... 
 
 20 
 
 IV. 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 28 
 
 V. 
 
 THE BAKON 
 
 86 
 
 VI. 
 
 THE TALLEYRAND CLUB . , . . . 
 
 45 
 
 VII. 
 
 OLD HANDS ....... 
 
 64 
 
 VIII. 
 
 SAFE 
 
 G4 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE PRINCE 
 
 73 
 
 X. 
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 
 
 81 
 
 XI. 
 
 CATRINA 
 
 90 
 
 XII. 
 
 AT THORS 
 
 98 
 
 XIII. 
 
 UNMASKED 
 
 106 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A WIRE PULLER 
 
 114 
 
 XV. 
 
 IN A WINTER CITY ..... 
 
 122 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE THIN END 
 
 129 
 
 XVII. 
 
 CHARITY 
 
 137 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 IN THE CHAMPS-ELYSKES ...» 
 
 145 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ON THE NEVA 
 
 154 
 
 XX. 
 
 AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP .... 
 
 . 168 
 
 XXI. 
 
 A SUSPECTED HOUSE . . • . 
 
 . 172 
 
 XXII. 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY .... 
 
 . 181 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 A WINTER SCENE 
 
 . 189 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 HOME 
 
 . 197
 
 VI 
 
 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXV. OSTERNO .... 
 
 XXVI. BLOODHOUNDS 
 
 XXVII. IN THE WEB . 
 
 XXVIII. IN THE CASTLE OF THORS . 
 
 XXIX. ANGLO -RUSSIAN 
 
 XXX. WOLF ! .... 
 
 XXXI. A DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT 
 
 XXXII. A CLOUD .... 
 
 XXXIII. THE NET IS DRAWN 
 
 XXXIV. AN APPEAL .... 
 XXXV. ON THE EDGE OF THE STORM 
 
 XXXVI. A TROIS .... 
 
 XXXVII. A DEUX .... 
 XXXVIII. A TALE THAT IS TOLD 
 
 XXXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 XL. STEPAN RETURNS 
 
 XLI. DUTY .... 
 
 XLII. THE STORM BURSTS . 
 
 XLIII. BEHIND THE VEIL . 
 
 XLIV. KISMET ..00 
 
 PAGE 
 206 
 
 214 
 224 
 233 
 242 
 250 
 259 
 268 
 277 
 286 
 295 
 804 
 313 
 321 
 329 
 337 
 .346 
 354 
 363 
 372
 
 THE SOWEES 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 
 
 ' In this country charity covers no sins ! ' 
 
 The speaker finished his remark with a short langh. 
 He was stout. His name was Karl Steinmetz, and it is a 
 name well known in the government of Tver to this day. 
 He spoke jerkily, as stout men do when they ride, and 
 when he had laughed his good-natured, half-cynical laugh, 
 he closed Ms lips beneath a huge grey moustache. So far 
 as one could judge from the action of a square and deeply 
 indented chin, his mouth was expressive at that time — 
 and possibly at all times — of a humorous resignation. No 
 reply was vouchsafed to him, and Karl Steinmetz bumped 
 along on his httle Cossack horse, which was stretched out 
 at a gallop. 
 
 Evening was drawing on. It was late in October, and 
 a cold -vxind drove from the north-west across a plain which 
 for sheer dismalness of aspect may give points to Sahara 
 and beat that abode of mental depression without an 
 effort. So far as the eye could reach there was no habita- 
 tion to break the line of horizon. A few stunted fir trees, 
 standing in a position of permanent deprecation, with their 
 backs turned, as it were, to the north, stood sparsely on the 
 plain. The grass did not look good to eat, though the 
 
 B
 
 2 THE SOWEES 
 
 Cossack horses would, no doubt, have hked to try it. The 
 road seemed to have been drawn by some Titan engineer 
 with a ruler from horizon to horizon. 
 
 Away to the south there was a forest of the same 
 stunted pines, where a few charcoal-burners and resin- 
 tappers eked out a forlorn and obscure existence. There 
 are a score of such settlements, such gloomy forests, dotted 
 over this plain of Tver, which covers an area of nearly two 
 hundred square miles.. The remainder of it is pasture, 
 where miserable cattle and a few horses, many sheep and 
 countless pigs, seek their meat pessimistically from God. 
 
 Steinmetz looked round over this cheerless prospect 
 with a twinkle of amused resignation in his blue eyes, as if 
 this creation were a little practical joke which he, Karl 
 Steinmetz, appreciated at its proper worth. The whole 
 scene was suggestive of immense distance, of countless miles 
 in all directions — a suggestion not conveyed by any scene 
 in England, by few in Europe. In our crowded island we 
 have no conception of a thousand miles. How can we ? 
 Few of us have travelled five hundred at a stretch. The 
 land through which these men were riding is the home of 
 great distances — Russia. They rode, moreover, as if they 
 knew it — as if they had ridden for days and vfeve aware of 
 more days in front of them. 
 
 The companion of Karl Steinmetz looked like an 
 Englishman. He was young and fair and quiet. He 
 looked like a youthful athlete from Oxford or Cambridge — 
 a simple-minded person who had jumped higher or run 
 quicker than anybody else without conceit, taking himself, 
 like St. Paul, as he found himself and giving the credit 
 elsewhere. And one finds that, after all, in this world of 
 deceit we are most of us that which we look like. You, 
 madam, look thirty-five to a day, although your figure is 
 still youthful, your hair untouched by grey, your face 
 unseamed by care. You may look in your mirror and
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 3 
 
 noto these accidents with satisfaction ; you may feel young 
 and indulge in the pastimes of youth without effort. But 
 you are thirty-five. We know it. 'We who look at you 
 can see it for ourselves, and, if you could only be brought 
 to believe it, we think no worse of you on that account. 
 
 The man vrho rode beside Karl Steinmetz with gloomy 
 eyes and a vague suggestion of flight in his whole 
 demeanour was, like reader and ■\\Titer, exactly what he 
 seemed. He was the product of an English public school 
 and university. He was, moreover, a modern product of 
 those seats of athletic exercise. He had little education 
 and highly developed muscles — that is to say, he was no 
 scholar, but essentially a gentleman— a good enough edu- 
 cation in its way, and long may Britons seek it ! 
 
 This young man's name was Paul Howard Alexis, and 
 Fortune had made him a Russian prince. If, however, 
 anyone, even Steinmetz, called him Prince, he blushed and 
 became confused. This terrible title had brooded over him 
 while at Eton and Cambridge. But no one had found 
 him out ; he remained Paul Howard Alexis so far as 
 England and his friends were concerned. In Paissia, 
 however, he was known (by name only, for he avoided 
 Slavonic society) as Prince Pavlo Alexis. This plain was 
 his ; half the government of Tver was his ; the great Volga 
 rolled through his possessions ; sixty miles behind him a 
 grim stone castle bore his name, and a tract of land as vast 
 as Yorkshire was peopled by humble-minded persons who 
 cringed at the mention of his Excellency. 
 
 All this because thirty years earlier a certain Princess 
 Natasha Alexis had fallen in love with plain Mr. Howard 
 of the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. With Slavonic 
 enthusiasm she informed Mr. Howard of ihe fact, and duly 
 married him. Both these persons were now dead, and 
 Paul Howard Alexis owed it to his mother's influence in 
 high regions that the responsibilities of princedom were 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE POWERS 
 
 his. At the time when this title was accorded to him, lie 
 had no say in the matter. Indeed, he had little say in any 
 matters except meals, which he still took in liquid form. 
 Certain it is, however, that he failed to appreciate his 
 honours as soon as he grew up to a proper comprehension 
 of them. 
 
 Equally certain is it that he entirely failed to recognise 
 tlie enviability of his position as he rode across the plains 
 of Tver towards the yellow Volga by the side of Karl 
 Steinmetz. 
 
 ' This is great nonsense,' he said suddenly. ' I feel like 
 a Nihilist or some theatrical person of that sort. I do not 
 think it can be necessary, Steinmetz.' 
 
 ' Not necessary,' answered Steinmetz in thick guttural 
 tones, ' but prudent.' 
 
 This man spoke with the soft consonants of a German. 
 
 ' Prudent, my dear Prince.' 
 
 ' Oh, drop that ! ' 
 
 ' When we sight the Volga I will drop it with pleasure. 
 Good heavens ! I wish I were a prince. I should have it 
 marked on my linen, and sit up in bed to read it on my 
 nightshirt.' 
 
 ' No, you wouldn't, Steinmetz,' answered Alexis, with 
 a laugh. ' You would hate it just as much as I do, 
 especially if it meant running away from the best bear- 
 shooting in Europe.' 
 
 Steinmetz shrugged nis shoulders. 
 
 * Then you should not have been charitable — charity, I 
 tell you, Alexis, covers no sins in this country.' 
 
 ' Who made me charitable ? Besides, no decent-minded 
 fellow could be anything else here. Who told me of the 
 League of Charity, I should like to know ? Who put me 
 into it ? Who aroused my pity for these poor beggars ? 
 Who but a stout German cynic called Steinmetz ? ' 
 
 * Stout, yes — cynic if you will— German, no 1 '
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 5 
 
 The words were jerked out of him by the galloping 
 horse. 
 
 ' Then what are you ? ' 
 
 Stenimetz looked straight in front of him, with a 
 meditation in his quiet eyes which made a dreamy nvin. 
 of him. 
 
 ' That depends.' 
 
 Alexis laughed. 
 
 ' Yes, I know. In Germany you are a German, in 
 Kussia a Slav, in Poland a Pole, and in England anything 
 the moment suggests.' 
 
 ' Exactly so. But to return to you. You must trust 
 to me in this matter. I know this country. I know what 
 this League of Charity was. It was a bigger thing than 
 any dream of. It was a power in Kussia — the greatest of 
 all — above Nihilism— above the Emperor himself. Adi 
 Gott ! It was a wonderful organisation, spreading over 
 this country like sunlight over a field. It would have 
 niade men of our poor peasants. It was God's work. If 
 there is a God — hicn entendu — which some young men 
 deny, because God fails to recognise their importance, I 
 imagine. And now it is all done. It is crumbled up by 
 the scurrilous treachery of some miscreant. AcJi ! I 
 should like to have him out here on the plain. I would 
 choke him. For money too ! The devil — it must have 
 been the devil — to sell that secret to the Government ! ' 
 
 ' I can't see what the Government wanted it for,' 
 growled Alexis moodily. 
 
 * No, but I can. It is not the Emperor ; he is a 
 gentleman, although he has the misfortune to wear the 
 purple. No ; it is those about him. They want to stop 
 education ; they want to crush the peasant. They are 
 afraid of being found out ; they live in their grand houses, 
 and support their grand names, on the money they crush 
 out of the starving peasant.'
 
 G THE SOWEES 
 
 ' So do I, so far as that goes.' 
 
 * Of course you do ! And I am your steward — your 
 crusher. We do not deny it ; we boast of it ; but we 
 exchange a wink with the angels — eh ? ' 
 
 Alexis rode on in silence for a few moments. He sat 
 his horse as English foxhunters do — not prettily — and the 
 little animal, with erect head and scraggy neck, was evi- 
 dently worried by the unusual grip on his ribs. For 
 Eussians sit back, with a short stirrup and a loose seat, 
 when they are travelHng. One must not form one's idea 
 of Kussian horsemanship from the erect carriage affected 
 in the Newski Prospect. 
 
 ' I wish,' he said abruptly, ' that I had never attempted 
 to do any good ; doing good to mankind doesn't pay. 
 Here I am running away from my own home as if I were 
 afraid of the police ! The position is impossible.' 
 
 Steinmetz shook his shaggy head. 
 
 ' No. No position is impossible in this country — • 
 except the Czar's — if one only keeps cool. For men 
 such as you and I any position is quite easy. But 
 these Russians are too romantic — too exalles ; they give 
 way to a morbid love of martyrdom ; they think they 
 can do no good to mankind unless they are uncomfort- 
 able.' 
 
 Alexis turned in his saddle and looked keenly into his 
 companion's face. 
 
 ' Do you know,' he said, * I believe you founded the 
 Charity League ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz laughed in his easy stout way. 
 
 ' It founded itself,' he said ; ' the angels founded it in 
 heaven. I hope a committee of them will attend to the 
 eternal misery of the dog who betrayed it.' 
 
 ' I trust they will ; but in the meantime I stick to my 
 opinion that it is unnecessary for me to leave the country. 
 What have I done ? I do not belong to the League ; it is
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 7 
 
 composed entirely of Eussian nobles ; I don't admit that I 
 am a Eussian noble.' 
 
 ' But,' persisted Steinmetz quietly, ' you subscribe to 
 the League. Four hundred thousand roubles— they do not 
 grow at the roadside.' 
 
 ' But the roubles have not my name on them.' 
 
 * That may be, but we all — they all — know where they 
 are Hkely to come from. My dear Paul, you cannot keep 
 up the farce any longer. You are not an Enghsh gentle- 
 man who comes across here for sporting purposes ; you do 
 not live in the old Castle of Osterno three months in the 
 year because you have a taste for medieval fortresses. You 
 are a Eussian prince, and your estates are the happiest, 
 the most enlightened, in the empire. That alone is sus- 
 picious. You collect your rents yourself. You have no 
 German agents — no German vampires about you. There 
 are a thousand things suspicious about Prince Pavlo Alexis 
 if those that be in high places only come to think about it. 
 They have not come to think about it — thanks to our care 
 and to your English independence. But that is only 
 another reason why we should redouble our care. You 
 must not be in Eussia when the Charity League is picked to 
 pieces. There will be trouble — half the nobility in Eussia 
 will be in it. There will be confiscations and degradations ; 
 there will be imprisonment and Siberia for some. You are 
 better out of it, for you are not an Englishman ; you have 
 not even a Foreign Office passport. Your passport is your 
 patent of nobility, and that is Eussian. No, you are better 
 out of it.' 
 
 ' And you — what about you ? ' asked Paul, with a little 
 laugh. 
 
 * I ! — oh, I am all right ! I am nobody ; I am hated of 
 all the peasants because I am your steward and so hard— 
 so cruel. That is my certificate of harmlessness with those 
 that are about the Emperor.'
 
 8 THE SOWERS 
 
 Paul made no answer. He was not of an argumentative 
 mind, being a large man, and consequently inclined to the 
 sins of omission rather than to the active form of doing 
 wrong. He had an enormous faith in Karl Steinmetz ; and, 
 indeed, no man knew Eussia better than this cosmopolitan 
 adventurer. Steinmetz it was Avho pricked forward with 
 all speed, wearing his hardy little horse to a drooping 
 semblance of its former self. Steinmetz it was who had 
 recommended quitting the travelUng carriage and taking 
 to the saddle, although his own bulk led him to prefer the 
 slower and more comfortable method of covering space. It 
 would almost seem that he doubted his own ascendency 
 over his companion and master, which semblance was 
 further increased by a subtle ring of anxiety in his voice 
 while he argued. It is possible that Karl Steinmetz 
 suspected the late Princess Natasha of having transmitted 
 to her son a small hereditary portion of that Slavonic 
 exaltation and recklessness of consequence which he de- 
 plored. 
 
 ' Then you turn back at Tver ? ' inquired Paul, at length 
 breaking a long silence. 
 
 * Yes ; I must not leave Osterno just now. Perhaps 
 later, when the winter has come, I will follow. Eussia is 
 quiet during the winter, very quiet. Ha ! ha ! ' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and shivered. But the 
 shiver was interrupted. He raised himself in his saddle 
 and peered forward into the gathering darkness. 
 
 ' What is that,' he asked sharply, ' on the road in 
 front ? ' 
 
 Paul had already seen it. 
 
 * It looks like a horse,' he answered, ' a strayed horse, 
 for it has no rider.' 
 
 They were going west, and what little daylight there 
 was lived on the western horizon. The form of the horse, 
 cut out ia black relief against the sky, was weird and
 
 A WAIF ON THE STEPPE 9 
 
 ghostlike. It was standing by tlie side of the road, ap- 
 parently grazing. 
 
 ' It has a saddle,' said Steinmetz at length. ' What 
 have we here ? ' 
 
 The beast was evidently famishing, for as they came 
 near it never ceased its occupation of dragging the wizened 
 tufts of grass up, root and all. 
 
 ' What have we here ? ' repeated Steinmetz. 
 
 And the two men clapped spurs to their tired horses. 
 
 The horse had a rider, bu^t not in the saddle. One 
 foot was caught in the stirrup, and as the beast moved 
 on from tuft to tuft it dragged its dead master along the 
 ground.
 
 10 THE SOWEES 
 
 CHAPTEE II 
 
 BY THE VOLGA 
 
 ' This is going to be unpleasant,' muttered Steinmetz, as 
 he cumbrously left the saddle. ' That man is dead — has 
 been dead some daj's ; he's stiff. And the horse has been 
 dragging him face downwards. God in heaven ! this will 
 be unpleasant.' 
 
 Paul had leaped to the ground, and was already loosen- 
 ing the dead man's foot from the stirrup. He did it with 
 a certain sort of skill, despite the stiffness of the heavy 
 riding-boot, as if he had walked a hospital in his time. 
 Very quickly Steinmetz came to his assistance, tenderly 
 lifting the dead man and laying him on his back. 
 
 ' Ach ! ' he exclaimed ; * we are unfortunate to meet a 
 thing like this.' 
 
 There was no need of Paul Alexis' medical skill to tell 
 that this man was dead ; a child would have known it. 
 Before searching the pockets, Steinmetz took out his own 
 handkerchief and laid it over a face which had become 
 unrecognisable. The horse was standing over them. It 
 bent its head and sniffed wonderingly at that which had 
 once been its master. There was a singular, scared look 
 in its eyes. 
 
 Steinmetz pushed aside the inquiring muzzle. 
 
 ' If you could speak, my friend,' he said, ' we might 
 want you. As it is, you had better continue your meal.'
 
 BY THE VOLGA 11 
 
 Paul was unbuttoning the dead man's clothes. He 
 inserted his hand within the rough shirt. 
 
 * This man,' he said, * was starving. He probably 
 fainted from sheer exhaustion and rolled out of the saddle. 
 It is hunger that killed him.' 
 
 'With his pocket full of money,' added Steinmetz, 
 withdrawing his hand from the dead man's pocket and 
 displaying a bundle of notes and some silver. 
 
 There was nothing in any of the other pockets — no 
 paper, no clue of any sort to the man's identity. 
 
 The two finders of this silent tragedy stood up and 
 looked around them. It was almost dark. They were ten 
 miles from a habitation. It does not sound much ; but a 
 traveller would be hard put to place ten miles between 
 himself and a habitation in the whole of the British 
 Islands. This, added to a lack of road or path which is 
 unknown to us in England, made ten miles of some im- 
 portance. 
 
 Steinmetz had pushed his fur cap to the back of his 
 head, which he was scratching pensively. He had a habit 
 of scratching his forehead with one finger, which denoted 
 thought. 
 
 * Now what are we to do ? ' he muttered. * Can't bury 
 the poor chap and say nothing about it. I wonder where 
 his passport is. We have here a tragedy.' 
 
 He turned to the horse, which was grazing hurriedly. 
 
 * My friend of the four legs,' he said, ' it is a thousand 
 pities that you are dumb.' 
 
 Paul was still examining the dead man with that cal- 
 lousness which denotes one who, for love or convenience, 
 has become a doctor. He was a doctor — an amateur. 
 
 Steinmetz looked down at him with a little laugh. He 
 noticed the tenderness of the touch, the deft fingering 
 which had something of respect in it. Paul Alexis was 
 visibly one of those men who take mankind seriously, and
 
 12 THE SOWERS 
 
 have that in tlieir hearts which, for want of a better word, 
 we call sympathy. 
 
 ' Mind you do not catch some infectious disease,' said 
 Steinmetz gruffly. ' I should not care to handle any stray 
 inoiijik one finds dead about the roadside ; unless, of course, 
 you think there is more money about him. It would be a 
 pity to leave that for the police.' 
 
 Paul did not answer. He was examining the limp, dirty 
 hands of the dead man. The fingers were covered with 
 soil ; the nails were broken. He had evidently clutched at 
 the earth and at every tuft of grass after his fall from the 
 saddle. 
 
 ' Look at these hands,' said Paul suddenly. * This 
 is an Englishman. You never see fingers this shape in 
 Kussia.' 
 
 Steinmetz stooped down. He held out his own square- 
 tipped fingers in comparison. Paul rubbed the dead 
 hand with his sleeve as if it were a piece of statuary. 
 
 ' Look,' he continued, ' the dirt rubs off and leaves the 
 
 hand quite a good colour. This ' he paused and lifted 
 
 Steinmetz 's handkerchief, dropping it again hurriedly 
 over the mutilated face, ' this thing was once a gentle- 
 man.' 
 
 * It certainly has seen better days,' admitted Steinmetz, 
 with a grim humour. ' Come, let us drag him beneath that 
 pine tree and ride on to Tver. We shall do no good, my 
 dear Alexis, wasting our time over the possible antecedents 
 of a gentleman who, for reasons of his own, is silent on the 
 subject.' 
 
 Paul rose from the ground. His movements were those 
 of a strong and supple man, one whose muscles had never 
 had time to grow stiff. He was an active man who never 
 hurried. Standing thus u]Dright, he was very tall — nearly a 
 giant. Only in St. Petersburg, of all the cities of the 
 world, could he expect to pass unnoticed — the city of tall
 
 EY THE VOLGA 13 
 
 men and plain women. He rubbed his two hands together 
 in a singularly professional manner, which sat amiss on 
 him. 
 
 ' What do you propose doing ? ' he asked. ' You know 
 the laws of this country better than I do.' 
 
 Steinmetz scratched his forehead with his forefinger. 
 
 ' Our theatrical friends the police,' he said, ' are going 
 to enjoy this. Suppose we prop him up sitting against 
 that tree — no one will run away with him — and lead his 
 horse into Tver. I will give notice to the police, but I will 
 not do so until you are into the Petersburg train. I will, 
 of course, give the Ispra\Tiik to understand that your 
 princely mind could not be bothered by such details as this 
 — that you have proceeded on your journey.' 
 
 ' I do not like leaving the poor beggar alone all night,' 
 said Paul. ' There may be wolves— the crows in the early 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Bah ! that is because you are so soft-hearted. My 
 dear fellow, what business is it of ours if the universal laws 
 of Nature are illustrated upon this unpleasant object ? We 
 all live on each other. The wolves and the crows have 
 the last word. Tant mieux for the wolves and the crows. 
 Come, let us carry him to that tree.' 
 
 The moon was just rising over the line of the horizon. 
 All around them the steppe lay in grim and lifeless silence. 
 In such a scene, where life seemed rare and precious, 
 death gained in its power of inspiring fear. It is difierent 
 in crowded cities, where an excess of human life seems 
 to vouch for the continuity of the race, where in a teeming 
 population one life more or less seems of little value. The 
 rosy hue of sunset was fading to a clear green, and in 
 the midst of a cloudless sky Jupiter — very near tbe earth 
 at that time— shone intense and brilliant, like a lamp. It 
 was an evening such as only Russia and the great North 
 lands ever see, where the sunset is almost in the North
 
 14 THE SOWERS 
 
 and the sunrise holds it by the hand. Over the whole 
 scene there hung a clear transparent night, green and 
 shimmering, which would never be darker than an English 
 twilight. 
 
 The two living men carried the nameless, unrecognis- 
 able dead to a resting-place beneath a stunted pine a few 
 paces removed from the road. They laid him decently at 
 full length, crossing his soil-begrimed hands over his 
 breast, tying the handkerchief down over his face. 
 
 Then they turned and left him, alone in the luminous 
 night : a v/aif that had fallen by the great highway with- 
 out a word, without a sign : a half-run race : a story cut 
 off in the middle ; for he was a young man still ; his hair, 
 all dusty, draggled, and blood-stained, had no streak of grey ; 
 his hands were smooth and youthful. There was a vague 
 suspicion of sensual softness about his body, as if this might 
 have been a man who loved comfort and ease, who had 
 always chosen the primrose path, had never learnt the 
 salutary lesson of self-denial. The incipient stoutness of 
 limb contrasted strangely with the drawn meagreness of 
 his body, which was contracted by want of food. Paul 
 Alexis was right. This man had died of starvation, within 
 ten miles of the great Volga, within nine miles of the out- 
 skirts of Tver, a city second to Moscow, and once her rival. 
 Therefore it could only be that he had purposely avoided 
 the dwellings of men — that he was a fugitive of some sort 
 or other. Paul's theory that this was an Englishman had 
 not been received with enthusiasm by Steinmetz ; but that 
 philosopher had stooped to mspect the narrow, tell-tale 
 fingers. Steinmetz, be it noted, had an infinite capacity 
 for holding his tongue. 
 
 They mounted their horses and rode away without look- 
 ing back. But they did not speak, as if each were deep in 
 his own thoughts. Material had indeed been afforded them, 
 for who could tell who this featureless man might be ?
 
 BY THE VOLGA 15 
 
 They were left in a state of hopeless curiosity, as one who, 
 having picked up a page with ' Finis ' written upon it, falls 
 to wondering what the story may have been. 
 
 Steinmetz had thrown the bridle of the straying horse 
 over his arm, and the animal trotted obediently by the side 
 of the fidgety little Cossacks, 
 
 ' That was bad luck,' exclaimed the elder man at length. 
 * In this country the less you find, the less you see, the less 
 you understand, the simpler is your existence. Those 
 Nihilists, with their mysterious ways and their reprehensible 
 love of explosives, have made honest men's lives a burden 
 to them.' 
 
 ' Their motives were originally good,' put in Paul. 
 
 ' That is possible ; but a good motive is no excuse for a 
 "bad means. They wanted to get along too quickly. They 
 are pig-headed, exalted, unpractical, to a man. I do not 
 mention the women, because when women meddle in 
 politics they make fools of themselves, even in England. 
 These Nihilists would have been all very well if they had 
 been content to sow for posterity. But they wanted to see 
 th€ fruits of their labours in one generation. Education 
 does not grow like that. It requires a couple of genera- 
 tions to germinate. It has to be manured by the brains of 
 fools before it is of any use. In England it has reached 
 this stage ; here in Eussia the sowing has only begun. 
 Now, tve were doing some good. The Charity League was 
 the thing. It began by training their starved bodies to be 
 ready for the education when it came. Ami very little of 
 it would have come in our time. If you educate a hungry 
 man, you set a devil loose upon the world. Fill their 
 stomachs before you feed their brains, or you will give them 
 mental indigestion ; and a man with mental indigestion 
 raises hell or cuts his ovm throat.' 
 
 * That is just what I want to do --fill their stomachs. 
 I don't care about the rest. I'm not responsible for
 
 16 THE SOWEEa 
 
 the progress of the world or the good of humanity/ said 
 Paul. 
 
 He rode on in silence ; then he burst out again in the 
 curt phraseology of a man whose feeling is stronger than 
 he cares to admit. 
 
 ' I've got no grand ideas about the human race,' he said. 
 
 A very littJe contents me. A little piece of Tver, a few 
 
 thousand peasants, are good enough for me. It seems 
 
 rather hard that a fellow can't give away of his surplus 
 
 money in charity if he is such a fool as to want to.' 
 
 Steinmetz was riding stubbornly along. Suddenly he 
 gave a little chuckle — a guttural sound expressive of a 
 somewhat Germanic satisfaction. 
 
 'I don't see how they can stop us,' he said. 'The 
 League, of course, is done ; it mil crumble away in sheer 
 panic. But here, in Tver, they cannot stop us.' 
 
 He clapped his great hand on his thigh with more glee 
 than one would iiave expected him to feel ; for this man 
 posed as a cynic — a despiser of men, a scoffer at charity, 
 
 ' They'll find it very difficult to stop me,' muttered 
 Paul. 
 
 It was now dark— as dark as ever it would be. Stein- 
 metz peered through the gloom towards him with a little 
 laugh— half tolerance, half admiration. 
 
 The country was here a little more broken. Long low 
 hills, like vast waves, rose and fell beneath the horses' feet.. 
 Ages ago the Volga may have been here, and, slowly 
 narrowing, must have left these hills in deposit. From 
 the crest of an incline the horsemen looked down over a 
 vast rolling tableland, and far ahead of them a great white 
 streak bounded the horizon. 
 
 * The Volga,' said Steinmetz. ' We are almost there. 
 And there, to the right, is the Tversha. It is like a great 
 catapult. Gott ! what a wonderful night ! No wonder 
 these Kussians are romantic ! What a night for a pipe
 
 BY THE VOLGA 17 
 
 and a long chair ! This horse of mine is tired. He shakes 
 me most abominably.' 
 
 ' Like to change ? ' inquired Paul curtly. 
 
 ' No ; it would make no difference. You are as heavy 
 as I, although I am wider. Ah ! there are the lights of 
 Tver.' 
 
 Ahead of them a few lights twinkled feebly, sometimes 
 visible and then hidden again as they rode over the rolling 
 hillocks. One plain ever suggests another, but the re- 
 semblance between the steppes of Tver and the Great 
 Sahara is at times startling. There is in both that roll as 
 of the sea — the great roll that heaves unceasingly round 
 the Capes of Good Hope and Horn. Looked at casually, 
 Tver and Sahara's plains are level, and it is only in crossing 
 them that one realises the gentle up and down beneath the 
 horses' feet. 
 
 Soon Steinmetz raised his head and sniffed in a loud 
 Teutonic manner. It was the reek of water ; for great 
 rivers, like the ocean, have their smell. And the Volga is 
 a revelation. Men travel far to see a city, but few seem 
 curious about a river. Every river has, nevertheless, its 
 individuality, its great silent interest. Every river has, 
 moreover, its influence over the people who pass their lives 
 within sight of its waters. Thus, the Guadalquivir is 
 rapid, mysterious, untrammelled — breaking frequently 
 from its boundary. And it runs through Andalusia. The 
 Nile — the river of ages — running clear, untroubled through 
 the centuries, between banks untouched by man. The 
 Rhine — romantic, cultivated, artificial, with a rough sub- 
 current and a muddy bed — through Germany. The Seine 
 and the Thames — shallow — shallow — shallow. And we — ■ 
 who live upon their banks ! 
 
 The Volga — immense, stupendous, a great power, an 
 influence two thousand four hundred miles long. Some 
 have seen the Danube, and think they have seen a great 
 
 c
 
 18 THE SOWEES ' 
 
 river. So they have ; but the Russian giant is seven 
 nundred miles longer. A vast yellow stream, moving on 
 to the distant sea — slow, gentle, inexorable, overwhelming. 
 
 All great things in Nature have the power of crushing 
 the human intellect. Russians are thus cruslied by the 
 vastness of their country and of their rivers. Man is but 
 a small thing in a great land, and those who live by Nile, 
 or Guadalquivir, or Volga seem to hold their lives on con- 
 dition. They exist from day to day by the tolerance of 
 their river. 
 
 Steinmetz and Paul paused for a moment on the 
 wooden floating bridge and looked at the great water. All 
 who cross that bridge or the railway bridge higher up the 
 stream must do the same. They pause and draw a deep 
 breath, as if in the presence of something supernatural. 
 
 They rode on without speaking through the squalid 
 town — the whilom rival and the victim of brilliant Moscow. 
 They rode straight to the station, where they dined, in, by 
 the way, one of the best railway refreshment rooms in the 
 world. At one o'clock the night express from Moscow to 
 St. Petersburg, with its huge American locomotive, rumbled 
 into the station. Paul secured a chair in the long saloon 
 car, and then returned to the platform. The train waited 
 twenty minutes for refreshments, and he still had much to 
 say to Steinmetz ; for one of these men owned a principality 
 and the other governed it. They walked up and down 
 the long platform, smoking endless cigarettes, talking 
 gravely. 
 
 Steinmetz stood on the platform and watched the train 
 pass slowly away into the night. Then he went towards 
 a lamp, and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, exa- 
 mined each corner of it in succession. It was a small 
 pocket-handkerchief of fine cambric. In one corner were 
 the initials ' S. S. B,,' worked neatly in white — such em- 
 broidery as is done in St. Petersburg.
 
 BY THE VOLGA 19 
 
 ' Ach ! ' exclaimed Steinmetz shortly ; ' something told 
 me that it was he.' 
 
 He turned the little piece of cambric over and over, 
 examining it slowly, with a heavy Germanic care. He 
 had taken this handkerchief from the body of the nameless 
 rider who was now lying alone on the steppe twelve miles 
 away. 
 
 Steinmetz returned to the large refreshment room, and 
 ordered the waiter to bring him a glass of Benedictine. 
 
 Then he went towards the large black stove which 
 stands in the railway restaurant at Tver. He opened the 
 door with the point of his boot. The wood was roaring 
 and crackling within. He threw the handkerchief in and 
 closed the door. 
 
 ' It is as well, mon Prince,' he muttered. * that I found 
 this, and not you.'
 
 20' THE SO WEES 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 DIPLOMATIC 
 
 ' All that there is of the most brilliant and least truthful 
 in Europe,' Monsieur Claude de Chauxville had said to a 
 lady earlier in the evening d propos of the great gathering 
 at the French Embassy, and the mot had gone the round 
 of the room. 
 
 In Society a little mot will go a long way. Monsieur 
 le Baron de Chauxville was, moreover, a manufacturer of 
 mots. By calling he was attache to the French Embassy 
 in London ; by profession he was an epigrammatist — that 
 is to say, he was a sort of social revolver. He went off if 
 one touched him conversationally, and, like others amongst 
 us, he frequently missed fire. 
 
 Of course, he had but little real respect for the truth. 
 If one wishes to be epigrammatic, one must relinquish the 
 hope of being veracious. M. de Chauxville did not really 
 intend to convey the idea that any of the persons assembled 
 in the great guest chambers of the French Embassy that 
 evening were anything but what they seemed. 
 
 He could not surely imagine that Lady Mealhead — the 
 beautiful spouse of the seventh Earl Mealhead — was any- 
 thing but what she seemed ; namely, a great lady. Of 
 course, M. de Chauxville knew that Lady Mealhead had 
 once been the darling of the music halls, and that a 
 thousand hearts had vociferously gone out to her from 
 sixpenny and even threepenny galleries when she answered
 
 DIPLOMATIC 21 
 
 to the name of Tiny Smalltoeg. But, then, M. de Chaux- 
 ville knew, as well as you and I —Lady Mealhead no doubt 
 had told him — that she was the daughter of a clergyman, 
 and had chosen the stage in preference to the schoolroom 
 as a means of supporting her aged mother. Whether 
 M. de Chauxvillc believed this or not, it is not for us to 
 inquire. He certainly looked as if he believed it when 
 Lady Mealhead told him — and his expressive Gallic eyes 
 waxed tender at the mention of her mother, the relict of 
 the late clergyman, whose name had somehow been over- 
 looked by Crockford. A Frenchman loves his mother — in 
 the abstract. 
 
 Nor could M. de Chauxville take exception at young 
 Cyril Squyrt, the poet. Cyril looked like a poet. He wore 
 his hair over his collar at the back, and below the collar- 
 bone in front. And, moreover, he was a poet — one of those 
 who write for ages yet unborn. Besides, his poems could 
 be bought (of the publisher only ; the railway bookstall 
 men did not understand them) beautifully bound — really 
 beautifully bound in white kid, with green ribbon — a very 
 thin volume and very thin poetry. Meddlesome persons 
 have been known to state that Cyril Squyrt's father kept a 
 prosperous hot-sausage-and-mashed-potato shop in Leeds. 
 But one must not always believe all that one hears. 
 
 Ifc appears that beneath the turf or on it all men are 
 equal ; so no one could object to the presence of Billy Bale, 
 the man, by gad ! who could give you the straight tip on 
 any race, and looked like it. We all know Bale's livery 
 stable, the same being Billy's father ; but no matter. Billy 
 wears the best-cut riding-breeches in the Park, and, let me 
 tell you, there are many folk in Society with a smaller 
 recommendation than that. 
 
 Now, it is not our business to go round the rooms of 
 the French Embassy picking holes in the earthly robes of 
 Society's elect. Suflice it to say that everyone waa there.
 
 22 THE SOWERS 
 
 Miss Kate Whyte, of course, who had made a place in 
 Society and held it by the indecency of her language. 
 Lady Mealhead said she couldn't stand Kitty Whyte at 
 any price. We are sorry to use such a word as indecency 
 in connection with a young person of the gentler sex, but 
 facts must sometimes be recognised. And it is a bare fact 
 that Society tolerated, nay, encouraged, Kitty W'hyte, 
 because Society never knew, and always wanted to know, 
 what she would say next. She sailed so near to the un- 
 steady breeze of decorum that the safer-going craft hung 
 breathlessly in her wake in the hope of an upset. 
 
 Everyone, in fact, was there : all those who have had 
 greatness thrust upon them, and the others who thrust 
 themselves upon the great — those, in a word, who reach such 
 as are above them by doing that which should be beneath 
 them. Lord Mealhead, by the way, w^as not there. He 
 never is anywhere where the respectable writer and his high- 
 born reader are to be found. It is discreet not to inquire 
 where Lord Mealhead is, especially of Lady Mealhead, who 
 has severed more completely her connection with the past. 
 His lordship is, perchance, of a sentimental humour, and 
 loves to wander in those pasteboard groves where first he 
 met his Tiny, and very natural too. 
 
 There were refreshments and music. It was, in fact, a 
 reception. Gaul's most lively sons bowed before Albion's 
 fairest daughters, and displayed that fund of verve and 
 esj)rit which they rightly pride themselves upon possessing, 
 and which, of course, leaves mere Englishmen so far behind 
 in the paths of love and chivalry. 
 
 When not thus actively engaged, they whispered 
 together in corners and nudged sach other, exchanging 
 muttered comments, in which the word charmante came 
 conveniently to the fore. Thus the lightsome son of 
 republican Gaul in Society. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney Bamborough was undoubtedly the belle of
 
 DIPLOMATIC 23 
 
 the evening. She had only to look in one of the many 
 mirrors to make sure of that fact. And if she wanted 
 further assurance, a hundred men in the room would have 
 been ready to swear on it. This lady had recently dawned 
 on London society — a young widow. She rarely mentioned 
 her husband ; it was understood to be a painful subject. 
 He had been attached to several embassies, she said ; with 
 a brilliant career before him, he had suddenly died abroad, 
 And then she gave a little sigh and a bright smile, which, 
 being interpreted, meant, ' Let us change the subject.' 
 
 There was never any doubt about Mrs. Sydney Bam- 
 borough. She was aristocratic to the tips of her dainty 
 white fingers — composed, gentle, and quite sure of herself ; 
 quite the grand lady, as Lady Mealhead said. But Mrs. 
 Sydney Bamborougli did not know Lady Mealhead, which 
 may have accounted for the titled woman's little sniff of 
 interrogation. As a matter of fact, Etta Sydney Bamborough 
 came from excellent ancestry, and could claim an uncle 
 here, a cousin there, and a number of distant relatives 
 everywhere worth the while. 
 
 It was safe to presume that she was rich from the 
 manner in which she dressed, the number of servants and 
 horses she kept, the general air of wealth which pervaded 
 her existence. That she was beautiful any one could see 
 for himself, not in the shop windows, among the presum- 
 ably self-selected types of English beauty, but in the proper 
 place — namely, in her own and other drawing-rooms. 
 
 She was talking to a tall fair Frenchman — in perfect 
 French — and was herself nearly as tall as he. Bright 
 brown hair waved prettily back from a white forehead, 
 clever dark-grey eyes and a lovely complexion — one of 
 those complexions which, from a purity of conscience or a 
 steadiness of nerve, never change — cheeks of a faint pink, 
 an expressive mobile mouth, a neck of dazzling white : such 
 was Mrs. Sydney Bamborough in the prime of her youth.
 
 24 THE SOWERS 
 
 * And you maintain that it is five yearn since we met,* 
 she was saying to the tall Frenchman. 
 
 ' Have I not covmted every day ? ' he replied. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she answered, with a little laugh — that 
 little laugh which tells wise men where flattery may be 
 shot like so much conversational rubbish. Some women 
 are fathomless pits ; the rubbish never seems to fill them. 
 ' I do not know, but I should not think so,' 
 
 ' Well, madam, it is so. Witness these grey hairs. 
 Ah ! those were happy days in St. Petersburg.' 
 
 Mrs. Sydney Bamborough smiled — a pleasant Society 
 smile, not too pronounced and just sufficient to suggest 
 pearly teeth. At the mention of St. Petersburg she glanced 
 round to see that they were not overheard. She gave a 
 little shiver. 
 
 ' Don't speak of Russia,' she pleaded ; ' I hate to hear it 
 mentioned. I was so happy ! It is painful to remember.' 
 
 Even while she spoke the expression of her face changed 
 to one of gay delight. She nodded and smiled towards a 
 tall man who was evidently looking for her, and took no 
 notice of the Frenchman's apologies. 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' asked the young man. * I see him 
 everywhere lately.' 
 
 ' An Englishman — Mr. Paul Howard Alexis,' replied the 
 lady. 
 
 The Frenchman raised his eyebrows. He knew better. 
 This was no plain English gentleman. He bowed and 
 took his leave. M. de Chauxville, of the French Embassy, 
 was watching every movement, every change of expression, 
 from across the room. 
 
 In evening dress the man whom we last saw on the 
 platform of the railway station at Tver did not look so un- 
 mistakably English. It was more evident that he had 
 inherited certain characteristics from his Russian mother 
 —notably his great height, a physical advantage enjoined
 
 DIPLOMATIC 25 
 
 by many noble Russian families. His hair was fair and 
 inclined to curl, and there the foreign suggestion suddenly 
 ceased. His face had the quiet concentration, the unob- 
 trusive self-absorption, which one sees more strongly marked 
 in English faces than in any others. His manner of 
 moving through the well-dressed crowd somewhat belied 
 the tan of his skin. Here was an out-of-door, athletic 
 youth who knew how to move in drawing-rooms — a big 
 man who did not look much too large for his surroundings. 
 It was evident that he did not know many people, and also 
 that he was indifferent to his loss. He had come to see 
 ]\Irs. Sydney Bamborough, and that lady was not insensible 
 to the fact. 
 
 To prove this, she diverged from the path of veracity, 
 as is the way of some women. 
 
 * I did not expect to see you here,' she said, 
 
 ' You told me you were coming,' he answered simply. 
 The inference would have been enough for some women, 
 but not for Etta Sydney Bamborough. 
 
 ' Well, is that a reason why you should attend a diplo- 
 matic soiree, and force yourself to bow and smirk to a 
 number of white-handed little dandies whom you despise ? 
 
 ' The best reason,' he answered quietly, with an honesty 
 which somehow touched her. 
 
 'Then you think it worth the bowing and the smirking?' 
 she asked, looking past him with innocent eyes. She 
 made an imperceptible little movement towards him as if 
 she expected him to whisper. She was of that school. 
 But he was not. His was not the sort of mind to conceive 
 any thought that required whispering. Some persons, in 
 fact, went so far as to say that he was hopelessly dull, that 
 he had no subtlety of thought, no brightness, no conversa- 
 tion. These persons were, no doubt, ladies upon whom he had 
 failed to lavish the exceedingly small change of compliment. 
 
 * It is worth that and more,' he repUed, with his ready
 
 26 THE SOAVERS 
 
 smile. * After all, bowing and smirking come very easily. 
 One soon gets accustomed to it.' 
 
 * One has to,' she replied, with a little sigh ; * especially 
 if one is a woman, which little mishap comes to some of 
 us, you know. I wonder if you could find me a chair.' 
 
 She was standing with her back to a small sofa capable 
 of holding three, but calculated to accommodate two. She 
 did not, of course, see it. In fact, she looked everywhere 
 but towards it, raising her perfectly gloved fingers tenta- 
 tively for his arm. 
 
 ' I am tired of standing,' she added. 
 
 He turned and indicated the sofa, towards which she 
 immediately advanced. As she sat down he noted vaguely 
 that she was exquisitely dressed, certainly one of the best- 
 dressed women in the room. Her costume was daring 
 without being startling, being merely black and white 
 largely, boldly contrasted. He felt indefinitely proud of 
 the dress. Some instinct in the man's simple, strong 
 mind told him that it was good for women to be beautiful ; 
 but, his ignorance of the sex being profound, he had no 
 desire to analyse the beauty. He had no mental reserva- 
 tion with regard to her. Indeed, it would have been hard 
 to find fault with Etta Sydney Bamborough, looking upon 
 her merely as a beautiful woman exquisitely dressed. In 
 a cynical age this man was without cynicism. He did not 
 dream of reflecting that the lovely hair owed half its beauty 
 to the clever handling of a maid, that the perfect dress 
 had been the all-absorbing topic of many of its wearer's 
 leisure hours. He was, in fact, young for his years ; and 
 what is youth but a happy ignorance ? It is only when we 
 know too much that Gravity marks us for her own. 
 
 Mrs. Sydney Bamborough looked up at him with a 
 certain admiration. This man was like a mountain breeze 
 to one who has breathed nothing but the faded air of 
 drawing-rooms.
 
 DIPLOMATIC 27 
 
 ' You look as if you did not know what it was to be 
 tired ; but perhaps you will sit down. I can make room.' 
 He accepted wdth alacrity. 
 
 * And now,' she said, ' let me hear where you have been. 
 I only had time to shake hands with you when last we 
 met ! You said you had been away.' 
 
 * Yes ; I have been to Russia.' 
 
 Her face was steadily beautiful , composed and ready. 
 
 * Ah ! How interesting ! I have been in Petersburg. 
 I love Russia.' While she spoke she was actually look- 
 ing across the room towards the tall Frenchman, her late 
 companion. 
 
 'Do you?' answered Paul eagerly. His face lighted 
 up after the manner of those countenances that belong to 
 men of one idea. ' I am very much interested in Russia.' 
 
 ' Do you know Petersburg ? ' she asked rather hurriedly. 
 ' I mean — society there ? ' 
 
 ' No. I know one or two people in Moscow.' 
 
 She nodded, suppressing a quick little sigh, which might 
 have been one of relief had her face been less pleasant and 
 smiling. 
 
 ' "Who ? ' she asked indifferently. She was interested 
 in the lace of her pocket-handkerchief, of which the scent 
 faintly reached him, He was a simple person, and the 
 faint odour gave him a distinct pleasure — a suggested 
 intimacy. 
 
 He mentioned several well-known Muscovite names, 
 and she broke into a sudden laugh. 
 
 * How terrible they sound,' she said gaily, ' even to me, 
 and I have been to Petersburg ! But you speak Russian, 
 Mr. Alexis.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered. * And you ? ' 
 
 She shook her head, and gave a httle sigh. 
 
 * I ? Oh, no ! I am not at all clever, I am afraid.'
 
 28 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 DON QUIXOTE 
 
 Paul had been five months in England when he met Mrs. 
 Sydney Bamborough. Since his hurried departure from 
 Tver a winter had come and gone, leaving its mark as 
 winters do. It left a very distinct mark on Russia. It 
 was a famine winter. From the snow-ridden plains that 
 lie to the north of Moscow, Karl Steinmetz had written 
 piteous descriptions of an existence which seemed hardly 
 worth the living. But each letter had terminated with a 
 prayer, remarkably near to a command, that he, Paul 
 Howard Alexis, should remain in England. So Paul 
 stayed in London, where he indulged to the full a sadly 
 mistaken hobby. This man had, as we have seen, that 
 which is called a crank, or a loose screw, according to the 
 fancy of the speaker. He had conceived the absurd idea 
 of benefiting his fellow -beings, and of turning into that 
 mistaken channel his surplus wealth. This, moreover, if 
 it please you, without so much as forming himself into a 
 society. 
 
 This is an age of societies, and, far from concealing 
 from the left hand the good which the right may be doing, 
 we publish abroad our charities on all hands. We print 
 in a stout volume our names and donations. We even go 
 so far as to cultivate an artificial charity by meat and 
 drink and speeches withal. When we have eaten and 
 drunk, the plate is handed round, and from the fulness of
 
 DON QUIXOTE 29 
 
 our heart we give abundantly. We are cunning even in 
 our well-doing. We do not pass round the plate until the 
 decanters have led the way. And thus we degrade that 
 quality of the human heart which is the best of all. 
 
 But Paul Howard Alexis had the good fortune to be 
 rich out of England, and that roaring lion of modern days, 
 organised charity, passed him by. He was thus left to 
 evolve from his own mind a mistaken sense of his duty 
 towards his neighbour. That there were thousands of 
 well-meaning persons in black and other coats ready to 
 prove to him that revenues gathered from Russia should 
 be spent in the East End or the East Indies goes without 
 saying. There are always well-meaning persons amongst 
 us ready to direct the charity of others. We have all met 
 those virtuous people who do good by proxy. But Paul 
 had not. He had never come face to face with the charity 
 broker — the man who stands between the needy and the 
 giver, giving nothing himself, and living on his brokerage, 
 sitting in a comfortable chair, with his feet on a Turkey 
 carpet, in his ofiQce on a main thoroughfare. Paul had met 
 none of these, and the only organised charity of which he 
 was cognisant was the great Eussian Charity League, 
 betrayed six months earlier to a Government which has 
 ever turned its face against education and enlightenment. 
 In this he had taken no active part, but he had given 
 largely of his great wealth. That his name had figured 
 on the list of families, sold for a vast sum of money to the 
 authorities of the Ministry of the Interior, seemed all too 
 sure. But he had had no intimation that he was looked 
 upon with small favour. The more active members of the 
 League had been less fortunate, and more than one 
 nobleman had been banished to his estates. 
 
 Although the sum actually paid for the papers of the 
 Charity League was known, the recipient of the blood 
 money had never been discoverp.d. It was a large sum,
 
 80 THE SOWERS 
 
 for the Government had heen quick to recognise the 
 necessity of nipping this movement in the bud. Education 
 is a dangerous matter to deal with ; England is beginning 
 to find this out for herself. For on the heel of education 
 Socialism ever treads. When at last education makes a 
 foothold in Russia, that foothold will be on the very step 
 of the autocratic throne. The Charity League had, as 
 Steinmetz put it, the primary object of preparing the 
 peasant for education, and thereafter placing education 
 within his reach. Such proceedings were naturally held 
 by those in high places to be only second to Nihilism. 
 
 All this and more which shall transpire in the course 
 of this narration was known to Paul. In face of the fact 
 that his name was prominently before the Eussian 
 Ministry of the Interior, he proceeded all through the 
 winter to ship road-making tools, agricultural implements, 
 seeds, and food. 
 
 ' The Prince,' said Steinmetz to those who were inter- 
 ested in the matter, ' is mad. He thinks that a Russian 
 principality is to be worked on the same system as an 
 English estate.' 
 
 He would laugh and shrug his shoulders, and then he 
 would sit down and send a list of further requirements to 
 Paul Howard Alexis, Esquire, in London. 
 
 Paul had met Mrs. Sydney Bamborough on one or two 
 occasions, and had been interested in her. From the first 
 he had come under the influence of her beauty. But she 
 was then a married woman. He met her again towards 
 the end of the terrible winter to which reference has been 
 made, and found that a mere acquaintanceship had in the 
 meantime developed into friendship. He could not have 
 told when and where the great social barrier had been 
 surmounted and left behind. He only knew in an 
 indefinite way that some such change had taken place, as 
 all such changes do, not in intercourse, but in the intervals
 
 DON QUIXOTE 31 
 
 of absence. It is a singular fact that we do not make 
 our friends when they are near. The seeds of friendship 
 and love are soon sown, and the best are those which 
 germinate in absence. 
 
 That friendship had rapidly developed into something 
 else, Paul became aware early in the season ; and, as we 
 have seen from his conversation, Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, 
 innocent and guileless as she was, might with all modesty 
 have divined the state of his feelings had she been less 
 overshadowed by her widow's weeds. 
 
 She apparently had no such suspicion, for she asked 
 Paul in all good faith to call the next day and tell her all 
 about Russia — ' dear Russia.' 
 
 ' My cousin Maggie,' she added, ' is staying with me. 
 She is a dear girl. I am sure you will like her.' 
 
 Paul accepted with alacrity, but reserved to himself the 
 option of hating Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's cousin Maggie, 
 merely because that young lady existed and happened to 
 be staying in Upper Brook Street. 
 
 At five o'clock the next afternoon he presented himself 
 at the house of mourning, and completely filled up its 
 small entrance-hall. 
 
 He was shown into the drawing-room, where he found 
 himself shaking hands with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 
 
 The lady mentioned Paul's name and her cousin's 
 relationship in that casual manner which constitutes an 
 introduction in these degenerate days. Miss Delafield 
 bowed, and presently quitted the room, leaving behind her 
 an impression of breeziness and health, of English girl- 
 hood and a certain bright cheerfulness which acts as a 
 filter in social muddy waters. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to come — I was moping,' said 
 Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. She was, as a matter of fact, 
 resting before the work of the evening. This lady 
 thoroughly understood the art of being beautiful.
 
 32 THE SOWEKS 
 
 Paul did not answer at once. He was looking at a 
 large photograph which stood in a frame on the mantel- 
 piece — the photograph of a handsome man of twenty-eight 
 or thirty, small-featured, fair, and shifty-looking. 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' he asked abruptly. 
 Do you not know ? My husband.' 
 
 Paul muttered an apology, but he did not turn away 
 from the photograph. 
 
 ' Oh, never mind ! ' said Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, in 
 reply to his regret that he had stumbled on a painful 
 subject. ' I never ' 
 
 She paused. 
 
 ' No,' she went on, ' I won't say that.' 
 
 But so far as conveying what she meant was concerned, 
 she might just as well have uttered the words. 
 
 * I do not want a sympathy which is unmorited,' she 
 said gravely. 
 
 He turned and looked at her, sitting in a graceful 
 attitude, the incarnation of a most refined and nineteenth- 
 century misfortune. She raised her eyes to his for a 
 moment — a sort of photographic instantaneous shutter, 
 exposing for the hundredth part of a second the sensitive 
 plate of her heart. Then she suppressed a sigh — badly. 
 
 ' I was married horribly young,' she said, * before I 
 knew what I was doing. But even if I had known, I do 
 not suppose I should have had the strength of mind to 
 resist my father and mother.' 
 
 ' They forced you into it ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Mrs. Bamborough. And it is possible that 
 a respectable and harmless pair of corpses turned in their 
 coffins somewhere in the neighbourhood of Norwood. 
 
 ' I hope there is a special hell reserved for parents who 
 ruin their daughters' lives to suit their own ambition,' said 
 Paul, with a sudden concentrated heat which rather startled 
 liis hearer.
 
 DON QUIXOTE 33 
 
 This man was full of surprises for Etta Sydney 
 liamborough. It was like playing with fire — a form of 
 amusement which will be popular as long as feminine 
 curiosity shall last. 
 
 ' You are rather shocking,' she said lightly. ' But it is 
 all over now, so we need not dig up old grievances. Only 
 I want you to understand that that photograph repre- 
 sents a part of my life which was only painful — nothing 
 else.' 
 
 Paul, standing in front of her, looked down thought- 
 fully at the beautiful upturned face. His hands were 
 clasped behind him, his firm mouth set sternly beneath the 
 great fair moustache. In Russia the men have good eyes 
 — blue, fierce, intelligent. Such eyes had the son of the 
 Princess Alexis. There was something in Etta Bamborough 
 that stirred up within him a quality which men are slowly 
 losing — namely, chivalry. Steinmetz held that this man was 
 quixotic, and what Steinmetz said was usually worth some 
 gmall attention. Whatever faults marred that poor knight 
 of La Mancha, who has been the laughing-stock of the 
 world these many centuries, he was at all events a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 Paul's instinct was to pity this woman for her past — 
 his desire was to help her and protect her, to watch over 
 her and fight her battles for her. This is what is called 
 Love. But there is no word in any spoken language that 
 covers so wide a field. We misuse the word, for we fail 
 to draw the necessary distinctions. We fail to recognise 
 the plain and simple truth that many of us are not able to 
 love — ^just as there are many who are not able to play the 
 piano or to sing. We raise up our voices and make a sound, 
 but it is not singing. We marry and we give in marriage, 
 but it is not loving. Love is like a colour — say, blue. There 
 are a thousand shades of blue, and the outer shades are 
 at last not blue a,t all, but green or purple. So in love 
 
 D
 
 84 THE SOWEES 
 
 there are a thousand shades, and very, very few of them 
 are worthy of the name. 
 
 That which Paul Howard Alexis felt at this time for 
 Etta was merely the chivalrous instinct that teaches men 
 their primary duty towards women — namely, to protect and 
 respect them. But out of this instinct grows the better 
 thing — Love. 
 
 There are some women whose desire it is to be all things 
 to all men, instead of everything to one. This was the 
 stumbling-block in the way of Etta Bamborough. It was 
 her instinct to please all at any price, and her obedience to 
 such instinct was often unconscious. She hardly knew, 
 perhaps, that she was trading upon a sense of chivalry rare 
 in these days ; but had she known, she could not have traded 
 with a keener comprehension of the commerce. 
 
 * I should like to forget the past altogether,' she said. 
 * But it is hard for women to get rid of the past. It is 
 rather terrible to feel that one will be associated all one's 
 life with a person for whom no one had any respect. He 
 was not honourable or ' 
 
 She paused ; for the intuition of some women is mar- 
 vellous. A slight change of countenance had told her 
 that charity, especially towards the dead, is a commendable 
 quality. 
 
 ' The world,' she went on rather hurriedly, ' never 
 makes allowances — does it ? He was easily led, I suppose. 
 And people said things of him that were not true. Did 
 you ever hear of him in Eussia— of the things they said of 
 iiim ? ' 
 
 She waited for the answer with suppressed eagerness — 
 a good woman defending the memory of her dead husband 
 — a fair lioness protecting her cub. 
 
 'No. I never hear Kussian gossip; I know no one in 
 St. Petersburg, and few in Moscow.' 
 
 She gave p little sigh of relief.
 
 DON QUIXOTE 35 
 
 Then perhaps poor Sydney's delinquencies have been 
 forgotten,' she said. ' In six months everything is for- 
 gotten now. He has only been dead six months, you know. 
 He died in Russia.' 
 
 All the while she was watching his face. She had 
 moved in a circle where everything is known — where men 
 have faces of iron and nerves of steel to conceal what they 
 know. She could hardly believe that Paul Alexis was so 
 ignorant as he pretended. 
 
 * So I heard a month ago,' he said. 
 
 In a flash of thought Etta remembered that it was 
 only within the last four weeks that this admirer had 
 betrayed his admiration. Could this be that phenomenon 
 of the three-volume novel, an honourable man? She 
 looked at him with curiosity — without, it is to be feared, 
 much respect. 
 
 ' And now,' she said cheerfully, ' let us change the 
 subject. I have inflicted enough of myself and my affairs 
 upon you for one day. Tell me about yourself. Why 
 were you in Russia last summer ? ' 
 
 ' I am half a Russian,' he answered. * My mother was 
 Russian, and I have estates there.' 
 
 Her surprise was a triumph of art. 
 
 ' Oh ! You are not Prince Pavlo Alexis ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Yes, I am.' 
 
 She rose and swept him a deep curtsey, to the full 
 advantage of her beautiful figure. 
 
 *My respects — mon Prince,' she said; and then, quick 
 as lightning — for she had seen displeasure on his face — 
 she broke into a merry laugh. 
 
 ' No — I won't call you that ; for I know you hate it. 
 I have heard of your prejudices, and, if it is of the slightest 
 interest to you, I think I rather admire them.' 
 
 At this moment other visitors arrived, and before long 
 Paul withdrew. 
 
 i>9
 
 36 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTEE V 
 
 THE BAKON 
 
 Amokg tlie visitors whom Paul left beliiiid him in the little 
 drawing-room in Brook Street was the Baron Claude de 
 Chauxville, Baron of Chauxville and Chauxville le Due, 
 in the province of Seine-et-Marne, France, attache to the 
 French Embassy to the Court of St. James ; before men 
 a rising diplomatist, before God — who can tell ? This 
 gentleman remained when the other visitors had left, and 
 Miss Maggie Delafield, seeing his intention of prolonging 
 a visit of which she had already had sufficient, made an 
 inadequate excuse and left the room. 
 
 Miss Delafield, being a healthy-minded young English 
 person of that simplicity which is no simplicity at all, but 
 merely simple-heartedness, had her own ideas of what a 
 man should be, and M. de Chauxville had the misfortune 
 to fall short of those ideas. He was too epigrammatic for 
 her, and beneath the brilliancy of his epigram she felt at 
 times the presence of something dark and nauseous. Her 
 mental attitude towards him was contemptuous and 
 perfectly pohte. With the reputation of possessing a 
 dangerous fascination — one of those reputations which can 
 only emanate from the man himself — M. de Chauxville 
 neither fascinated nor intimidated Miss Delafield. He 
 therefore disliked her intensely. His vanity was colossal ; 
 and when a Frenchman is vain he is childishly so. 
 
 M. de Chauxville watched the door close behind Misa
 
 THE BAEON S7 
 
 Delafield with a queer smile. Then he turned suddenly 
 on his heels and faced Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 
 
 ' Your cousin,' he said, ' is a typical Englishwoman — 
 she only conceals her love.' 
 
 ' For you ? ' inquired Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 
 
 The Baron shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * Possibly. One can never tell. She conceals it very 
 well if it exists. However, I am indifferent. The virtue 
 of the violet is its own reward, perhaps, for the rose always 
 wins.' 
 
 He crossed the room towards Mrs. Sydney Bamborough, 
 who was standing near the mantelpiece. Her left hand 
 was hanging idly by her side. He took the white fingers 
 and gallantly raised them to his lips, but before they had 
 reached that fount of truth and wisdom she jerked her 
 hand away. 
 
 M. de Chauxville laughed — the quiet, assured laugh of 
 a man who has read in books that he who is bold enough 
 can win any woman, and believes it. He was of those 
 men who treat and speak of women as a class — creatures 
 to be dealt with successfully according to generality and 
 maxim. It is a singular thing, by the way, that men as a 
 whole continue to disbelieve in a woman's negative^ 
 singular, that is, when one reflects that the majority of 
 men have had at least one negative which has remained a 
 negative, so far as they were concerned, all the woman's life. 
 
 ' I am aware,' said M. de Chauxville, ' that the rose has 
 thorns — one reason why the violet is liors de concours.' 
 
 Etta smiled — almost relenting. She was never quite 
 safe against her own vanity. Happy the woman who is, 
 and rare. 
 
 ' I suspect that the violet is innocent of any desire to 
 enter into competition,' said Etta. 
 
 ' Knowing,' suggested De Chauxville, ' that although 
 the race is not always to the swift, it is usually so. Please
 
 38 THE SOWERS 
 
 do not stand. It suggests that you are waiting for me to 
 go or for some one else to come.' 
 
 * Neither.' 
 
 * Then prove it by taking this chair. Thus. Near the 
 fire, for it is quite an Enghsh spring. A footstool ? Is it 
 permitted to admire your slippers — what there is of them ? 
 Now you look comfortable.' 
 
 He attended to her wants, divined them, and perhaps 
 created them with a perfect grace and much too intimate 
 a knowledge. As a carpet-knight he was faultless. And 
 Etta thought of Paul, who could do none of these things — 
 or would do none of them — Paul, who never made her feel 
 like a doll. 
 
 * Will you not sit down ? ' she said, indicating a chair, 
 which he did not take. He selected one nearer to her. 
 
 * I can think of nothing more desirable,' 
 
 ' Than what ? ' she asked. Her vanity was like a 
 hungry fish. It rose to everything. 
 ' A chair in this room.' 
 
 * A modest desire,' she said. ' Is that really all you 
 want in this world ? ' 
 
 * No,' he answered, looking at her. 
 
 She gave a little laugh and moved rather hurriedly. 
 ' I was going to suggest that you could have both at 
 certain fixed periods— whenever — I am out.' 
 
 * I am glad you did not suggest it.' 
 ' Why ? ' she asked sharply. 
 
 ' Because I should have had to go into explanations. I 
 did not say all.' 
 
 Mrs. Bamborough was looking into the fire, only half 
 listening to him. There was something in the nature of a 
 duel between these two. Each thought more of the next 
 stroke than of the present parry. 
 
 ' Do you ever say all, Monsieur de Chauxville ? ' she 
 asked.
 
 THE BARON 39 
 
 The Baron laughed. Perhaps he was vain of his repu- 
 tation, for this man was held to be a finished diplomatist. 
 A finished diplomatist, be it known, is one v/ho is a 
 dangerous foe and an unreliable friend. 
 
 * Perhaps, now that I reflect upon it,' continued the 
 clever woman, dishking the clever man's silence, ' the 
 person who said all would be intolerable.' 
 
 ' There are some things which go sans dire,' said De 
 Chauxville. 
 
 * Ah '? ' looking lazily back at him over her shoulder. 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 He was cautious, for he was fighting on a field which 
 women may rightly claim for their own. He really loved 
 Etta. He was trying to gauge the meaning of a little 
 change in her tone towards him — a change so subtle that 
 few men could have detected it. But Claude de Chauxville 
 — accomplished steersman through the shoals of human 
 nature, especially through those very pronounced shoals 
 who call themselves women of the world — Claude de 
 Chauxville knew the value of the slightest change of 
 manner, should that change manifest itself more than 
 once. 
 
 The ring of indifference, or something dangerously near 
 it, in Etta's voice had first been noticeable the previous 
 evening, and the attache knew it. It had been in her 
 voice whenever she spoke to him then. It was there 
 now. 
 
 * Some things,' he continued in a voice she had never 
 heard before, for this man was innately artificial, ' which 
 a woman usually knows before they are told to her.' 
 
 ' What sort of things. Monsieur lo Baron ? ' 
 
 He gave a little laugh. It was so strange a thing to 
 
 him to be sincere that he felt awkward and abashed. He 
 
 was surprised at his own sincerity. 
 
 ' That I love you. You have known it long.'
 
 40 THE SOWERS 
 
 The face which he could not see was not quite the face 
 of a good woman. Etta was smihiig. 
 ' No — 0,' she ahnost whispered. 
 
 * I think you must have known it,' he corrected suavely. 
 * Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife ? ' 
 
 It was very correctly done. Claude de Chauxville had 
 regained control over himself. He was able to think 
 about the riches which were evidently hers. But through 
 the thought he loved the woman. 
 
 The lady lowered the feather screen which she was 
 holding between her face and the fire. Kegardless of the 
 imminent danger in which she was placing her complexion, 
 she studied the glowing cinders for some moments, weigh- 
 ing something or some persons in her mind. 
 
 * No, my friend,' she answered in French at length. 
 The Baron's face was drawn and Avhite. Beneath his 
 
 trim black moustache there was a momentary gleam of 
 sharp white teeth as he bit his lip. 
 
 He came nearer to her, leaning one hand on the back 
 of her chair, looking down. He could only see the beauti- 
 fully-dressed hair, the clean-cut profile. She continued to 
 look into the fire, conscious of the hand close to her 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' No, my friend,' she repeated. ' We know each other 
 too well for that. It would never do.' 
 
 ' But when I tell you that I love you,' he said quietly, 
 with his voice well in control. 
 
 ' I did not know that the word was in your vocabulary 
 — you, a diplomat.' 
 
 * And a man — you put the word there — Etta.' 
 
 The hand-screen was raised for a moment in objec- 
 tion — presumably to the Christian name of which he had 
 made use. 
 
 He waited— passivity was one of his strong points. It 
 had frightened men before this.
 
 THE BARON 41 
 
 Then, with a graceful movement, she swung suddenly 
 round in her chair, looking up at him. She hroke into a 
 merry laugh. 
 
 ' I believe you are actually in earnest ! ' she cried. 
 
 He looked quietly down into her face without moving a 
 muscle in response to her change of humour. 
 
 * Very clever ! ' he said. 
 
 * What ? ' she asked, still smiling. 
 
 * The attitude, the voice, everything. You have known 
 all along that I am in earnest. You have known it for the 
 last six months. You have seen me often enough when I 
 was — well, not in earnest, to know the difference.' 
 
 Etta rose quickly. It was some lightning-like woman's 
 instinct that made her do so. Standing, she was taller 
 than M. de Chauxville. 
 
 'Do not let us be tragic,' she said coldly. 'You have 
 asked me to marry you — why, I don't know. The reason 
 will probably transpire later. I appreciate the honour, but 
 I beg to decline it. Et voila tout.' 
 
 He spread out apologetic hands. 
 
 ' Pardon me — that is not all,' he corrected, with a 
 dangerous suavity. ' I acknowledge the claim enjoyed by 
 your sex to the last word. In this matter, however, I am 
 inclined to deny it to the individual.' 
 
 Etta Sydney Bamborough smiled. She leant against 
 the mantelpiece, with her chin resting on her curved fingers. 
 She shrugged her shoulders and waited. 
 
 De Chauxville was vain, but he was clever enough to 
 conceal his vanity. He was hurt, but he was man enough 
 to hide it. Under the passivity which was his by nature 
 and practice he had learnt to think very quickly. But now 
 he was at a disadvantage. He was unnerved by his love 
 for Etta — by the sight of Etta before him, daringly, 
 audaciously beautiful — by the thought that she might never 
 be his.
 
 42 THE SOWERS 
 
 * It is not only that I love you,' he said, ' that I have a 
 certain position to offer you. These I beg you to take at 
 their poor value. But there are other circumstances, known 
 to" both of us, which are more worthy of your attention — 
 circumstances which may dispose you to reconsider your 
 determination.' 
 
 ' Nothing will do that,' she replied ; * not any circum- 
 stance.' 
 
 Etta was speaking to De Chauxville and thinking of 
 Paul Alexis. 
 
 * I should like to know since when you have discovered 
 that you never could under any circumstances marry me,' 
 pursued M. de Chauxville. ' Not that it matters, since it is 
 too late. I am not going to allow you to draw back now. 
 You have gone too far. All this winter you have allowed 
 me to pay you conspicuous and marked attentions. You 
 have conveyed to me and to the world at large the impres- 
 sion that I had merely to speak in order to obtain your 
 hand.' 
 
 ' I doubt,' said Etta, * whether the world at large is so 
 deeply interested in the matter as you appear to imagine. I 
 am sorry that I have gone too far, but I reserve to myself the 
 right of retracing my footsteps wherever and whenever I 
 please. I am sorry I conveyed to you or to any one else the 
 impression that you had only to speak in order to obtain my 
 hand, and I can only conclude that your vanity has led you 
 into a mistake which I will be generous enough to hold my 
 tongue about.' 
 
 The diplomatist was for a moment taken aback. 
 
 ' Mais ' he exclaimed, with indignant arms out- 
 spread ; and even in his own language he could find no- 
 thing to add to the expressive monosyllable. 
 
 ' I think you had better go,' said Etta quietly. She 
 went towards the fireplace and rang the bell. 
 
 M. de Chauxville took up his hat and gloves.
 
 THE BAEON 43 
 
 * Of course,' he said coldly, his voice shaking with sup- 
 pressed rage, ' there is some reason for this. There is, I 
 presume, some one else — some one has been interfering. 
 No one interferes with me with impunity. I shall make 
 it my business to find out who is this ' 
 
 He did not finish, for the door was thrown open by the 
 butler, who announced : 
 
 * Mr. Alexis.' 
 
 Paul came into the room with a bow towards De 
 Chauxville, who was going out, and whom he knew 
 slightly. 
 
 ' I came back,' he said, ' to ask what evening next 
 week you are free. I have a box for the " Huguenots." ' 
 
 Paul did not stay. The thing was arranged in a few 
 moments, and as he left the drawing-room he heard the 
 wheels of De Chauxville's carriage. 
 
 Etta stood for a moment when the door had closed 
 behind the two men looking at the portidre which had 
 hidden them from sight, as if following them in thought. 
 Then she gave a Uttle laugh — a queer laugh that might 
 have had no heart in it, or too much, for the ordinary 
 purposes of life. She shrugged her shoulders and took up 
 a magazine, with which she returned to the chair placed 
 for her before the fire by Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 In a few minutes Maggie came into the room. She was 
 carrying a bundle of flannel. 
 
 ' The weakest thing I ever did,' she said cheerfully, 
 'was to join Lady Crewel's working guild. Two flannel 
 petticoats for the young by Thursday morning. I chose 
 the young because the petticoats are so ludicrously small.' 
 
 *If you never do anything weaker than that,' said 
 Etta, looking into the fire, ' you will not come to much 
 harm.' 
 
 * Perhaps not ; what have you been doing — something 
 weaker ? '
 
 44 TEE SOWERS 
 
 ' Yes. I have been quarrelling with Monsieur de 
 Chauxville.' 
 
 Maggie held up a petticoat by the selvage (which a male 
 writer takes to be the lower hem), and looked at her 
 cousin through the orifice intended for the waist of the 
 young. 
 
 ' If one could manage it without lowering one's dignity,' 
 ahe said, ' I think that that is the best thing one could 
 possibly do with Monsieur de Chauxville.' 
 
 Etta had taken up the magazine again. She was pre- 
 tending to read it. 
 
 ' Yes ; but he knows too much — about everybody,' 
 she said.
 
 45 
 
 CHAPTEK VI 
 
 THE TALLEYBAND CLUB 
 
 It lias been said of the Talleyrand Club that the only 
 qualifications required for admittance to its membership are 
 a frock coat and a glib tongue. To explain the where- 
 abouts of the Talleyrand Club were only a work of super- 
 erogation. Many hansom cabmen know it. Hansom cab- 
 men know more than they are credited with. 
 
 The Talleyrand, as its name implies, is a diplomatic club ; 
 but ambassadors and ministers enter not its portals. They 
 send their juniors. Some of these latter are in the habit 
 of stating that London is the hub of Europe and the 
 Talleyrand smoking-room its grease-box. Certain is it that 
 such men as Claude de Chauxville, as Karl Steinmetz, and 
 a hundred others who are or have been political scene- 
 shifters, are to be found in the Talleyrand rooms. 
 
 It is a quiet club, with many members and sparse ac- 
 commodation, Its rooms are never crowded, because half 
 of its members are afraid of meeting the other half. It has 
 swinging glass doors to its every apartment, the lower por- 
 tion of the glass being opaque, while the upper moiety 
 affords a peep-hole. Thus, if you are sitting in one of 
 the deep comfortable chairs to be found in all these small 
 rooms, you will be aware from time to time of eyes and a 
 bald head above the ground glass. If you are nobody, eyes 
 and bald head will prove to be the property of a gentleman 
 who does not know you, or knows you and pretends that he
 
 46 THE SOWEES 
 
 does not. If you are somebody, your solitude will depend 
 upon your reputation. 
 
 There are quite a number of bald heads in the Talley- 
 rand Club — bald heads surmounting youthful, innocent 
 faces. The innocence of these gentlemen is quite remark- 
 able. Like a certain celestial, they are childlike and bland. 
 They ask guileless questions ; they make blameless mis- 
 takes in respect to facts, and require correction, which they 
 receive meekly. They know absolutely nothing, and their 
 thirst for information is as insatiable as it is unobtrusive. 
 
 The atmosphere is vivacious with the light sound of 
 many foreign tongues ; it bristles with the ephemeral 
 importance of cheap titles. One never knows whether 
 one's neighbour is an ornament to the ' Almanach de 
 Gotha ' or a disgrace to a degenerate colony of refugees. 
 
 Some are plain Messieurs, Seuores, or Herren — blufif 
 foreigners with upright hair and melancholy eyes, who 
 put up philosophically with a cheaper brand of cigar than 
 their souls love. Among the latter may be classed Karl 
 Steinmetz — bluffest of the bluff— innocent even of his own 
 innocence. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz in due course reached England, and in 
 natural sequence the smoking-room — Room B on the left 
 as you go in — of the Talleyrand. 
 
 He was there one evening, after an excellent dinner 
 taken with humorous resignation, smoking the largest 
 cigar the waiter could supply, when Claude de Chauxville 
 happened to have nothing better or nothing worse to do 
 than join him. 
 
 De Chauxville looked through the glass door for some 
 seconds. Then he twisted his waxed moustache and 
 lounged in. Steinmetz was alone in the room, and De 
 Chauxville was evidently— almost obviously — unaware of 
 his presence. He went to the table and proceeded to 
 search in vain for a newspaper that interested him. He
 
 THE TALLEYEAXD CLUB 47 
 
 raised his eyes casually and met tbe quiet gaze of Karl 
 Steinmetz. 
 
 * Ah I ' he exclaimed. 
 
 * Yes,' said Steimnetz. 
 ' You — in London ? ' 
 Steinmetz nodded gravely. 
 ' Yes,' he repeated. 
 
 ' One never knows where one has you,' Claude de 
 Chauxville went on, seating himself in a deep armchair, 
 newspaper in hand. ' You are a bird of passage.' 
 
 ' A little heavy on the wing — now,' said Steinmetz. 
 
 He laid his newspaper down on his stout knees and 
 looked at De Chauxville over his gold-rimmed eye-glasses. 
 He did not attempt to conceal the fact that he was 
 wondering what this man wanted with him. The Baron 
 seemed to be wondering what object Steinmetz had in 
 view in getting stout. He suspected some motive in the 
 obesity. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said deprecatingly. ' That is nothing. Time 
 leaves its mark upon all of us. It was not yesterday that 
 we were in Petersburg together.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Stemmetz. ' It was before the German 
 Empire — many years ago.' 
 
 De Chauxville counted back with his slim fingers on 
 the table — delightfully innocent. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' the years seem to fly in coveys. Do 
 you ever see any of our hiends of that time — you who are 
 in Russia ? ' 
 
 ' ^yho were our friends of that time ? ' parried Stem- 
 metz, polishing his glasses with a silk handkerchief. ' My 
 memory is a broken reed — you remember ? ' 
 
 For a moment Claude de Chauxville met the full, quiet 
 grey eyes. 
 
 * Yes,' he said significantly, ' I remember. Well — for 
 instance, Prince Dawoff ? '
 
 48 THE SOWERS 
 
 * Dead. I never see him — thank Heaven ! * 
 ' The Princess ? ' 
 
 ' I never see ; she keeps a gambling-house in Paris.* 
 ' And little Andrea ? ' 
 
 * Never sees me. Married to a wholesale undertaker, 
 who has buried her past.' 
 
 ' En gros ! ' 
 ' Et en detail.' 
 
 * The Count Lanovitch,' pursued De Chauxville, ' where 
 is he ? ' 
 
 ' Banished for his connection with the Charity League.' 
 
 ' Catrina ? ' 
 
 ' Catrina is living in the province of Tver — we are 
 neighbours — she and her mother, the Countess.' 
 
 De Chauxville nodded. None of the details really 
 interested him. His indifference was obvious. 
 
 * Ah ! the Countess Lanovitch,' he said reflectively, 
 ' she was a foolish woman.' 
 
 * And is.' 
 
 M. de Chauxville laughed. This clumsy German ex- 
 diplomat amused him immensely. Many people amuse us 
 who are themselves amused in their sleeve. 
 
 'And — er — the Sydney Bamboroughs ? ' said the French- 
 man, as if the name had almost left his memory. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz lazily stretched out his arm and took 
 up the ' Morning Post.' He unfolded the sheet slowly, and, 
 ha\'ing found what he sought, he read aloud : 
 
 * His Excellency the Koumanian Ambassador gave a 
 select dinner - party at 4 Craven Gardens yesterday. 
 Among the guests were the Baron de Chauxville, Feneer 
 Pasha, Lord and Lady Standover, Mrs. Sydney Bam- 
 borough, and others.' 
 
 Steinmetz threw the paper down and leant back in his 
 chair. 
 
 ' So, my dear friend,' he said. ' it is probable that
 
 THE TxiLLEYEA>;D CLUB 49 
 
 you know more about the Sydney Bamboroughs than I 
 do.' 
 
 If Claude de Chauxville was disconcerted, he certainly 
 did not show it. His was a face eminently calculated to 
 conceal whatever thought or feeling might be passing 
 through his mind. Of an even white complexion — verging 
 on pastiness — he was handsome in a certain statuesque 
 way. His features were always composed and dignified ; 
 his hair, thin and straight, was never out of order, but 
 ever smooth and sleek upon his high, narrow brow. His 
 eyes had that dulness which is characteristic of many 
 Frenchmen, and may perhaps be attributed to the habi- 
 tual enjoyment of too rich a cuisine and too many cigar- 
 ettes. 
 
 De Chauxville waved aside the small contretemps with 
 easy nonchalance. 
 
 ' Not necessarily,' he sg-id in cold, even tones. ' Mrs. 
 Sydney Bamborough does not habitually take into her 
 confidence all who happen to dine at the same table as 
 herself. Your confidential woman is usually a liar.' 
 
 Steinmetz was filling his pipe ; this man had the evil 
 habit of smoking a wooden pipe after a cigar. 
 
 ' My very dear Be Chauxville,' he said, without looking 
 up, 'your epigrams are lost on me. I know most of them. 
 I have heard them before. If you have anything to tell 
 me about ]\Iis. Sydney Bamborough, for heaven's sake tell 
 it to me quite plainly ! I like plain dishes and unvarnished 
 stories. I am a German, you know; that is to say, a person 
 with a dull palate and a thick head.' 
 
 De Chauxville laughed again in an unemotional way. 
 
 ' You alter little,' ho said. ' Your plainness of speech 
 takes me back to Petersburg. Yes, I admit that Mrs. 
 Sydney Bamborough rather interested me. But I assume 
 too much ; that is no reason why she should interest 
 you.' 
 
 E
 
 50 THE SOWERS 
 
 * She does not, my good friend ; but you do, I am all 
 attention.' 
 
 * Do you know anything of her ? ' asked De Chauxville 
 perfunctorily, not as a man who expects an answer or 
 intends to believe that which he may be about to hear. 
 
 * Nothing.' 
 
 ' You are likely to know more ? ' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz shrugged his heavy shoulders, and 
 shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 ' I am not a lady's man,' he added gruffly ; ' the good 
 God has not shaped me that way. I am too fat. Has 
 Mrs. Sydney Bamborough fallen in love with me ? Has 
 some imprudent person shown her my photograph ? I 
 hope not. Heaven forbid ! ' 
 
 He puifed steadily at his pipe, and glanced at De 
 Chauxville through the smoke. 
 
 'No,' answered the Frenchman quite gravely. Pi'ench- 
 men, by the way, do not admit that one may be too middle- 
 aged, or too stout, for love. ' But she is cm mic7ix with 
 the Prince.' 
 
 « Which Prince ? ' 
 
 ' Pavlo.' 
 
 The Frenchman snapped out the word, watching the 
 other's benevolent countenance. Steinmetz continued to 
 smoke placidly and contentedly. 
 
 * My master,' he said at length. * I suppose that some 
 day he will marry.' 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He touched 
 the button of the electric bell, and when the servant 
 appeared, ordered coffee. He selected a cigarette from a 
 silver case with considerable care, and, having lighted it, 
 smoked for some moments in silence. The servant brought 
 the coffee, which he drank thoughtfully. Steinmetz was 
 leaning back in his deep chair with his legs crossed. He 
 was gazing into the fire, which burnt brightly, although it
 
 THE TALLEYEAND CLUB 51 
 
 was nearly May. The habits of the Talleyrand Club are 
 almost Continental. The rooms are always too warm. 
 The silence was that of two men knowing each other 
 well. 
 
 * And why not Mrs. Sydney Bamborough ? ' asked 
 Steinmetz suddenly. 
 
 * Why not, indeed ? ' replied De Chauxville. ' It is no 
 affair of mine. A wise man reduces his affairs to a 
 minimum, and his interest in the affairs of his neighbour 
 to less. But I thought it would interest you.' 
 
 ' Thanks.' 
 
 The tone of the big man in the armchair was not dry. 
 Karl Steinmetz knew better than to indulge in that pas- 
 time. Dryness is apt to parch the fount of expansive- 
 ness. 
 
 De Chauxville's attention was apparently caught by an 
 illustration in a weekly paper lying open on the table near 
 to him. Your shifty man likes something to look at. He 
 did not speak for some moments. Then he threw the 
 paper aside. 
 
 ' Who was Sydney Bamborough, at any rate ? ' he asked, 
 with a careless assumption of a slanginess which is affected 
 by Society in its decadent periods. 
 
 ' So far as I remember,' answered Steinmetz, ' he was 
 something in the Diplomatic Service.' 
 
 ' Yes, but what ? ' 
 
 ' My dear friend, you had better ask his widow when 
 next you sit next to her at dinner.' 
 
 ' How do you know that I sat next to her at dinner ? ' 
 
 ' I did not know it,' replied Steinmetz, with a quiet 
 smile, which left De Chauxville in doubt as to whether he 
 was very stupid or exceedingly clever. 
 
 * She seems to be very well off,' said the Frenchman. 
 
 ' I am glad, as she is going to marry my master.' 
 
 De Chauxville laughed almost awkwardly, and for a 
 
 e2
 
 52 THE SOWERS 
 
 fraction of a second he changed countenance under Stein- 
 metz's quiet eyes. 
 
 ' One can never know whom a woman intends to 
 marry,' said he carelessly, ' even if they can themselves, 
 which I doubt. But I do not understand how it is that 
 she is so much better off, or appears to be, since the 
 death of her husband.' 
 
 * Ah ! she is much better off, or appears to be, since the 
 death of her husband ? ' said the stout man in his slow 
 Germanic way. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 De Chauxville rose, stretched himself, and yawned. 
 Men are not always, be it understood, on their best 
 behaviour at their club. 
 
 ' Good night,' he said shortly. 
 
 ' Good night, my very dear friend.' 
 
 After the Frenchman had left, Karl Steinmetz remained 
 quite motionless and expressionless in his chair until such 
 time as he concluded that De Chauxville was tired of 
 watching him through the glass door. Then he slowly 
 sat forward in his chair and looked back over his shoulder. 
 
 ' Our friend,' he muttered, ' is afraid that Paul is going 
 to marry this woman — now, I wonder — why ? ' 
 
 These two had met before in a past which has little 
 or nothing to do with the present narrative. They had 
 disliked each other with a completeness partly bred of 
 racial hatred, partly the outcome of diverse interests. 
 And of late years they had drifted apart. 
 
 Steinmetz knew that the Frenchman had recognised 
 him before entering the room. It was to be presumed that 
 he had deliberately chosen to cross the threshold knowing 
 that a recognition was inevitable. Karl Steinmetz went 
 further. He suspected that De Chauxville had come to the 
 Talleyrand Club, having heard that he was in England,
 
 THE T.4LLEYEAND CLUB 53 
 
 with the purpose in view of seeking him out and warning 
 him against Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. 
 
 ' It would appear,' murmured the stout philosopher, 
 ' that we are about to work together for the first time. 
 But if there is one thing that I dislike more than the enmity 
 of Claude de Chauxville, it is his friendship.'
 
 54 THE SOWEES 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 OLD HANDS 
 
 Kael Steinmetz lifted his pen from the paper before him 
 and scratched his forehead witli his forefinger. 
 
 ' Now, I wonder,' he said aloud, ' how many bushels 
 there are in a ton. Ach ! how am I to find that out ? 
 These English weights and measures, this English money, 
 when there is a metrical system ! ' 
 
 He sat and hardly looked up when the clock struck 
 seven. It was a quiet room in which he sat, the library of 
 Paul's London house. The noise of Piccadilly reached 
 his ears as a faint roar, not entirely unpleasant, but sociable 
 and full of life. Accustomed as he was to the great silence 
 of Eussia, where sound seems lost in space, the hum of a 
 crowded humanity was a pleasant change to this philo- 
 sopher, who loved his kind while fully recognising its 
 little weaknesses. 
 
 While he sat there, still wondering how many bushels 
 of seed make a ton, Paul Alexis came into the room. The 
 younger man was in evening dress. He looked at the 
 clock rather eagerly. 
 
 ' Will you dine here ? ' he asked ; and Steinmetz 
 wheeled round in his chair. * I am going out to dinner,' 
 he explained further. 
 
 * Ah ! ' said the elder man. 
 
 *I am going to Mrs. Sydney Bamborough's.' 
 
 Steinmetz bowed his head gravely. He said nothing.
 
 OLD IL\NDS 55 
 
 He was not looking at Paul, but at the pattern of the 
 carpet. There was a short silence. Then Paul said with 
 entire simplicity : 
 
 ' I shall probably ask her to marry me.' 
 
 ' And she will probably say yes.' 
 
 ' I am not so sure about that,' said Paul, with a laugh ; 
 for this man was without conceit. He had gradually been 
 forced to admit that there are among men persons whose 
 natural inclination is towards evil — persons who value not 
 the truth, nor hold by honesty. But he was guileless 
 enough to believe that women are not so. ' I do not see 
 why she should,' he went on gravely. He was standing 
 by the empty fire-place, a manly, upright figure, one who 
 was not ve:- y clever, not brilliant at all, someAvhat slow in his 
 speech, but sure, deadly sure, in the honesty of his purpose. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz looked at hun and smiled openly. 
 
 ' You have never seen her, eh ? ' inquired Paul. 
 
 Steinmetz paused ; then he told a he, a good one, well 
 told, deliberately. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' We are going to the Opera — Box F 2. If you come in 
 I shall have pleasure in introducing you. The sooner you 
 know each other the better. I am sure you will approve.' 
 
 * I think you ought to marry money.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz laughed. 
 
 ' Oh,' he answered, ' because everybody does who can 1 
 There is Catrina Lanovitch — an estate as big as yours, 
 adjoining yours. A great Russian family, a good girl, 
 who — is willing.' 
 
 Paul laughed, a good wholesome laugh. 
 
 ' You are inclined to exaggerate my manifold and 
 obvious qualifications,' he said. ' Catrina is a very nice 
 girl, but I do not think she would marry me even if I 
 asked her.'
 
 63 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Wliicli you do not intend to do.' 
 
 * Certainly not.' 
 
 ' Then you will make an enemy of her,' said Steinmetz 
 quietly. ' It may be inconvenient, but that cannot be helped. 
 A woman scorned — you know. Shakespeare or the Bible 
 — I always mix them up. No, Paul, Catrina Lanovitch 
 is a dangerous enemy. She has been making love to you 
 these last four years, and you would have sesn it if you 
 had not been a fool ! I am afi'aid my good Paul, you are 
 a fool. God bless you for it ! ' 
 
 ' I think you are wrong,' said Paul rather curtly ; ' not 
 about me being a fool, but about Catrina Lanovitch.' 
 
 His honest face flushed up finely, and he turned away 
 to look at the clock again. 
 
 ' I hate your way of talking of women, Steinmetz,' he 
 said. ' You're a cynical old beast, you know.' 
 
 * Heaven forbid, my dear Prince ! I admire all women 
 — they are so clever, so innocent, so pure-minded ! Do not 
 your English novels prove it, your English stage, your 
 newspapers, so high-toned ? Who supports the novelist, 
 the play-wright, the actor — who but your English ladies ? ' 
 
 * Better than being cooks — like your German ladies,' 
 retorted Paul stoutly— 'if you are German this evening 
 Better than being cooks ! ' 
 
 ' I doubt it ; I very much doubt it, my friend. At 
 what time shall I present myself at Box F 2 this evening ? ' 
 
 ' About nine — as soon as you hke.' 
 
 Paul looked at the clock. The pointers lagged horribly. 
 He knew that the carriage was certain to be at the door, 
 waiting in the quiet street with its great restless horses, 
 its perfectly-trained men, its gleaming lamps and shining 
 harness. But he would not allow himself the luxviry of 
 being the first arrival, Paul had liimself well in hand. 
 At last it was time to go. 
 
 * See you later,' he said.
 
 OLD HANDS 57 
 
 'Thank you- yes,' replied Steinmetz, without look- 
 ing up. 
 
 So Paul Howard Alexis sallied forth to seek the hand 
 of the lady of his choice, and as he left his own door that 
 lady was receiving Claude de Chauxville in her drawing- 
 room. The two had not met for some weeks — not indeed 
 since Etta had told the Frenchman that she could not 
 marry him. Her invitation to din8, couched in the usual 
 friendly words, had been the first move in that game 
 commonly called 'bluff.' Claude de Chauxville's ac- 
 ceptance of the same had been the second move. And 
 these two persons, who were not afraid of each other, 
 shook hands with a pleasant smile of greeting, while Paul 
 hurried towards them through the busy streets. 
 
 ' Am I forgiven — that I am invited to dinner ? ' asked 
 De Chauxville imperturbably, when the servant had left 
 them alone. 
 
 Etta was one of those women who are conscious of 
 their dress. Some may protest that a lady moving in such 
 circles would not be so. But in all circles women are only 
 women, and in every class of life we meet such as Etta 
 Bamborough — women who, while they talk, glance down 
 and rearrange a flower or a piece of lace. It is a mere 
 habit, seemingly small and unimportant ; but it marks the 
 woman and sets her apart. 
 
 Etta was standing on the hearthrug, beautifully dressed 
 —too beautifully dressed, it is possible, to sit down. Her 
 maid had a moment earlier confessed that she could do no 
 more, and Etta had come downstairs a vision of luxury, of 
 womanly loveliness. Nevertheless, there appeared to be 
 something amiss. She was so occupied with a flower at 
 her shoulder that she did not answer at once. 
 
 ' Forgiven for what ? ' she asked at length, in that pre- 
 occupied tone of voice which tells wise men that only 
 questions of dress will be considered.
 
 58 THE SOWERS 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in his graceful 
 GaUic way. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu ! ' he exclaimed. * For a crime which re- 
 quires no excuse, and no explanation other than a mirror.' 
 
 She looked up at him innocently. 
 
 * A mirror ? ' 
 
 ' Yours. Have you forgiven me for falling in love with 
 you? It is, I am told, a crime that women sometimes 
 condone.' 
 
 * It was no crime,' she said. She had heard the wheels 
 of Paul's carriage. * It was a misfortune. Please let us 
 forget that it ever happened.' 
 
 De Chauxville twirled his neat moustache, looking 
 keenly at her the while. 
 
 ' You forget,' he said. ' But I — will remember.' 
 
 She did not answer, but turned with a smile to greet 
 Paul. 
 
 *I think you know each other,' she said gracefully when 
 she had shaken hands, and the two men bowed. They 
 were foreigners, be it understood. There were three 
 languages in which they could understand each other with 
 equal ease. 
 
 * Where is Maggie ? ' exclaimed Mrs. Bamborough. 
 ' She is always late.' 
 
 ' When I am here,' reflected De Chauxville. But he 
 did not say it. 
 
 Miss Delafield kept them waiting a few minutes, and 
 during that time Etta Sydney Bamborough gave a very 
 fine display of prowess with the double-stringed bow. 
 When a man attempts to handle this delicate weapon, he 
 usually makes, if one may put it thus crudely, an ass of him- 
 self. He generally succeeds in snapping one and probably 
 both of the strings, injuring himself most certainly in the 
 process. 
 
 Not so, however, this clever lady. She had a smile and
 
 OLD HANDS 59 
 
 an epigram for Claude de Chauxville, a grave air of sjin- 
 pathetic interest in more serious affairs for Paul Alexis. 
 She was bright and amusing, guileless and very worldly- 
 wise, in the same breath — simple for Paul and a match for 
 De Chauxville within the space of three seconds. Withal 
 she was a beautiful woman beautifully dressed : a thousand 
 times too wise to scorn her womanhood, as learned fools 
 are prone to do in print and on platform in these wordy 
 days, but wielding the strongest power on earth — to wit, 
 that same womanhood — with daring and with skill. A 
 learned woman is not of much account in the world. A 
 clever woman rules as much of it as lies in her neighbour- 
 hood — that is to say, as much as she cares to rule. For 
 women love power, but they do not care to wield it at a 
 distance. 
 
 Paul was asked to take Mrs. Sydney Bamborough down 
 to dinner by the lady herself. 
 
 * Mon ami,' she said in a quiet aside to De Chauxville 
 before making her request, ' it is the first time the Prince 
 dines here.' 
 
 She spoke in French. Maggie and Paul were talking 
 together at the other end of the room. De Chauxville 
 bowed in silence. 
 
 At dinner the conversation was necessarily general, and 
 as such is not worth reporting. No genera^ conversation, 
 one finds, is of much value when set down in black and 
 white. The talk lay between Etta and Monsieur de Chaux- 
 ville, who had a famous supply of epigrams and bright 
 nothings, delivered in such a way that they really sounded 
 like wisdom. Etta was equal to him, sometimes capping 
 his sharp wit, sometimes contenting herself with silvery 
 laughter. Maggie Delafield was rather distraite, as De 
 Chauxville noted. The girl's dislike for him was an iron 
 that entered the quick of his vanity anew every time he 
 saw her. There was no petulance in the aversion, such as
 
 60 THE SOWERS 
 
 he had perceived with other maidens who were only resent- 
 ing a passing negligence, or seeking to pique his curiosity. 
 This was a steady and, if you will, unmaidenly aversion, 
 which Maggie conscientiously attempted to conceal. 
 
 Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy 
 in hand. He laughed where he saw something to laugh 
 at, but not elsewhere, which in some circles is considered 
 morose and in bad form. He joined readily enough in the 
 conversation, but originated nothing. Those topics which 
 occupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable 
 to this occasion. His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, 
 and he was simple enough not to care that it should be so. 
 
 Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative. 
 When Paul and Etta were speaking together she never 
 looked at them, but fixedly at her own plate, at a decanter, 
 or a salt-cellar. When she spoke she addressed her remarks 
 — valueless enough in themselves— exclusively to the man 
 she disliked, Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 There was something amiss in the pretty little room. 
 There were shadows seated around that little table d quatre 
 beside the guests in their pretty dresses and their black coats 
 — silent cold shadows, who ate nothing, while they chilled 
 the dainty food and took the sweetness from the succulent 
 dishes. These shadows had crept in unawares, a silent 
 'partie carree, to take their phantom places at the table, and 
 only Etta seemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down. 
 She took the whole burden of the conversation upon her 
 shoulders, and bore it through the little banquet with 
 unerring skill and unflinching good-humour. In the 
 midst of her merriest laughter, the clever grey eyes would 
 flit from one man's face to the other. Paul had been 
 brought here to ask her to marry him. Claude de Chaux- 
 ville had been invited that he might be tacitly presented to 
 his successful rival. Maggie was there because she was a 
 woman, and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and
 
 OLD HANDS Gl 
 
 two of them knew it. Some of us know it all our lives. "We 
 are living, moving puppets. We let ourselves be dragged 
 here and pushed there, the victim of one who happens to 
 have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness of pur- 
 pose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. "We smirk 
 and smile, and lose the game because we have begun by 
 being an anvil, and are afraid of trying to be a hammer. 
 
 But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal 
 of a harder grain than the majority. Claude de Chaux- 
 ville was for the moment forced to assume the humble ovle 
 of anvil because he had no choice. Maggie Delafield was 
 passive for the time being, because that which would make 
 her active was no more than a tiny seedling in her heart. 
 The girl bade fair to be one of those women who develop 
 late, who ripen slowly, like the best fruit. 
 
 During the drive to the Opera House the two women in 
 Etta's snug little brougham were silent. Etta had her 
 thoughts to occupy her. She was at the crucial point of 
 a difficult game. She could not afford to allow even a 
 friend to see so much as the corner of the cards she 
 held. 
 
 In the luxurious box it was easily enough arranged— i 
 Etta and Paul together in front, De Chauxville and IMaggie 
 at the other corner of the box. 
 
 ' I have asked my friend Karl Steinmetz to come in 
 during the evening,' said Paul to Etta when they were 
 seated. ' He is anxious to make your acquaintance. He 
 is my — prime minister over in Russia.' 
 
 Etta smiled graciously. 
 
 ' It is kind of him,' she answered, ' to be anxious to 
 make my acquaintance.' 
 
 She was apparently listening to the music ; in reality 
 she was hurrying back mentally over half a dozen years. 
 She had never had much to do with the st^r.t German 
 philosopher, but she knew enough of him to scorn the faint
 
 62 TIIK SOWEKS 
 
 hope that he might have forgotten her name and her 
 individuality. Etta Bamborongh had never been discon- 
 certed in hfe yet ; this httle incident came very near to 
 bringing about the catastrophe. 
 
 * At what time,' she asked, ' is he coming in ? ' 
 ' About half-past nine.' 
 
 Etta had a watch on a bracelet on her arm. Such 
 women always know the time. 
 
 It was a race, and Etta won it. She had only half an 
 hour. De Chauxville was there, and Maggie with her quiet 
 honest eyes. But the widow of Sydney Bamborough made 
 Paul ask her to be his wife, and she promised to give him 
 his answer later. She did it despite a thousand difficulties 
 and more than one danger — accomplished it with, as the 
 sporting people say, plenty to spare — before the door behind 
 them was opened by the attendant, and Karl Steinmetz, 
 burly, humorously imperturbable and impenetrable, stood 
 smiling gravely on the situation. 
 
 He saw Claude de Chauxville, and before the French- 
 man had turned round the expression on Steinmetz's large 
 and placid countenance had changed from the self -conscious- 
 ness usually preceding an introduction to one of a dim 
 recognition. 
 
 ' I have had the pleasure of meeting Madame some- 
 where before, I think. In St. Petersburg, was it not ? ' 
 
 Etta, composed and smiling, said that it was so, and 
 introduced him to Maggie. De Chauxville took the oppor- 
 tunity of leaving that young lady's side, and placing him- 
 self near enough to Paul and Etta to completely frustrate 
 any further attempts at confidential conversation. 
 
 For a moment Steinmetz and Paul were left standing 
 together. 
 
 * I have had a telegram,' said Steinmetz in Russian. 
 • We must go back to Tver. There is cholera again. 
 When can you come ? '
 
 OLD HANDS 63 
 
 Beneath his heavy moustache Paul bit his Hp. 
 
 * In three days,' he answered. 
 
 ' True ? You will come with me ? ' inquired Steinmetz, 
 under cover of the clashing music. 
 
 ' Of course.' 
 
 Steinmetz looked at him curiously. He glanced towards 
 Etta, but he said nothing.
 
 Gi THE SO^VEKS 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SAFE 
 
 The season wore on to its perihelion — a period, the scien- 
 tific books advise us, of the highest clang and crash, of 
 speed and whirl, of the greatest brilliancy and deepest glow 
 of a planet's existence. The business of life, the pursuit 
 of pleasure, and the scientific demolition of our common 
 enemy, Time, received all the care which such matters 
 require. 
 
 Debutantes bloomed and were duly culled by aged 
 connoisseurs of such wares, or by youthful aspirants with 
 the means to pay the piper in the form of a handsome 
 settlement. The usual number of young persons of the 
 gentler sex entered the lists of life, with the mistaken 
 notion that it is love that makes the world go round, to 
 ride away from the joust wiser and sadder women. 
 
 There was the same round of conventional jDleasures 
 which the reader and his humble servant have mixed in 
 deeply or diUttantc, according to his taste or capacity 
 for such giddy work. There was withal the usual heart- 
 burning, heart-bartering, heart — anything you will but 
 breaking. For we have not breaking hearts among us to- 
 day. Providence, it would seem, has run short of the com- 
 modity, and deals out only a few among a number of 
 persons. 
 
 Amidst the whirl of rout, and ball, and picnic, race- 
 meeting, polo-match, and what-not, Paul Howard Alexis 
 stalked misunderstood, distrusted ; an object of ridicule to
 
 SAFE 65 
 
 some, of pity to other J, of impatience to all. A man Avith 
 a purpose — a purpose at the latter end of the nineteenth 
 century, when most of us, having decided that there is no 
 future, take it upon ourselves to despise the present ! 
 
 Paul soon discovered that he was found out— at no time 
 a pleasant condition of things, except, indeed, when callers 
 are about. That upon which Eton and Cambridge had 
 failed to lay its finger every match-making mother had 
 found out for herself in a week. That the discovery had 
 been carefully kept in each maternal breast, it is needless 
 to relate. Ces dames are not confidential upon such 
 matters between themselves. When they have scented 
 their game they stalk him, and if possible bag him in a 
 feline solitude which has no fears for stout ambitious hearts. 
 The fear is that some other prowling mother of an eligible 
 maiden may hit upon the same scent. 
 
 Paul was invited to quiet dhmers and a little music, to 
 quiet dinners without the music, to a very little music and 
 no dinner whatever. The number of ladies who had a seat 
 in a box thrown upon their hands at the last minute — a 
 seat next to Angelina in her new pink, or Blanche in her 
 sweet poidt de soie — the number of these ladies one can 
 only say was singular, because politeness forbids one to 
 suggest that it was suspicious. Soft cheeks became rosy 
 at his approach — partly, perhaps, because dainty toes in 
 satin slippers were trodden upon with maternal emphasis 
 at that moment. Soft eyes looked love into eyes that 
 alas ! only returned preoccupation. There was always room 
 on an engagement card for Paul's name. There was 
 always space in the smallest drawing-room for Paul's 
 person, vast though the latter was. There was — fond 
 mothers conveyed it to him subtly after supper and cham- 
 pagne — an aching void in more than one maiden heart 
 which was his exact fit. 
 
 But Paul was at once too simple and too clever for 
 
 F
 
 66 THE SOWEPuS 
 
 matron and maid alike : too simple, because he failed to 
 understand the inner meaning of many pleasant things 
 that the guileless fair one said to him ; too clever, because 
 he met the subtle matron with the only arm she feared — a 
 perfect honesty. And when at last he obtained his answer 
 from the coy and hesitating Etta, there was no gossip in 
 London who could put forward a just cause or impediment. 
 
 Etta gave him the answer one evening at the house of 
 a mutual friend, where a multitude of guests had assembled 
 ostensibly to hear certain celebrated singers, but apparently 
 to whisper recriminations on their entertainer's champagne. 
 It was a dull business — except, indeed, for Paul Howard 
 Alexis. As for the lady — the only lady his honest, simple 
 world contained — who shall say ? Inwardly she may have 
 been in trembhng, in coy alarm, in breathless, blushing 
 hesitation. Outwardly she was, however, exceedingly 
 composed and self-possessed. She had been as careful as 
 ever for her toilet — as hard to please ; as . . . dare we 
 say snappish with her maids ? The beautiful hair had no 
 one of its aureate threads out of place. The pink of her 
 shell-like cheek was steady ,^ unruflled, fair to behold. Her 
 whole demeanour was admirable in its well-bred repose. 
 Did she love him ? Was it in her power to love any man ? 
 Not the humble chronicler — not any man, perhaps, and 
 but few women — can essay an answer. Suffice it that she 
 accepted him. In exchange for the title he could give her, 
 the position he could assure to her, the wealth he was 
 ready to lavish upon her, and, lastly, let us mention in the 
 effete old-fashioned way, the love he bore her — in exchange 
 for these she gave him her hand. 
 
 Thus Etta Sydney Bamborough was enabled to throw 
 down her cards at last and win the game she had played 
 BO skilfully. The widow of an obscure little Foreign Office 
 clerk, who might have been a baroness, but she put the 
 smaller honour aside and aspired to a prince. Behind the
 
 SAFE 67 
 
 gay smile there must have been a quick and resourceful 
 brain, daring to scheme, intrepid in execution. Within 
 the fair breast there must have been a heart resolute, 
 indomitable, devoid of weak scruple. Mark the last. It 
 is the scruple that keeps the reader and his humble servant 
 from being greater men than they are. 
 
 ' Yes,' says Etta, allowing Paul to take her perfectly 
 gloved hand in his great steady grasp ; ' yes, I have my 
 answer ready.' 
 
 They were alone in the plashy solitude of an inner 
 conservatory, between the songs of the great singers. She 
 was half afraid of this strong man, for he had strange 
 ways with him — not uncouth, but unusual and somewhat 
 surprising in a finicking, emotionless generation. 
 
 * And what is it ? ' whispers Paul eagerly. Ah, what 
 fools men are ! — what fools they always will be ! 
 
 Etta gave a little nod, looking shamefacedly down at 
 the pattern of her lace fan. 
 
 ' Is that it ? ' he asked breathlessly. 
 
 The nod was repeated, and Paul Howard Alexis was 
 thereby made the happi-est man in England. She half 
 expected him to take her in his arms, despite the temporary 
 nature of their solitude. Perhaps she half wished it ; for 
 behind her business-like and exceedingly practical appre- 
 ciation of his wealth there lurked a very feminine curiosity 
 and interest in his feelings — a curiosity somewhat whetted 
 by the manifold differences that existed between him and 
 the Society lovers with whom she had hitherto played the 
 pretty game. 
 
 But Paul contented himself with raising the gloved 
 fingers to his lips, restrained by a feeling of respect for hei' 
 which she would not have understood and probably did nc(i 
 merit. 
 
 'But,' she said, with a sudden smile, *I take no re- 
 Bponsibility. I am not very sure that it will be a success. 
 
 w2
 
 68 TIl£ SOLVERS 
 
 I can only try to make you happy — goodness knows if 1 
 shall succeed ! ' 
 
 * You have only to be yourself to do that,' he answered, 
 with lover-like promptness and a blindness which is the 
 special privilege of those happy fools. She gave a strange 
 little smile. 
 
 ' But how do I know that our lives will harmonise in 
 the least ? I know nothing of your daily existence where 
 you live — where you want to live.' 
 
 ' I should like to live mostly in Eussia,' he answered 
 honestly. 
 
 Her expression did not change. It merely fixed itself 
 as one sees the face of a v/atching cat fix itself when the 
 longed-for mouse shows a whisker. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she said lightly, confident in her own power ; 
 'that will arrange itself later.' 
 
 ' I am glad I am rich,' said Paul simply, ' because I 
 shall be able to give you all you want. There are many 
 little things that add to a woman's comfort ; I shall find 
 them out and see that you have them.' 
 
 ' Are you so very rich, Paul ? ' she asked with an 
 innocent wonder. ' But I don't think it matters ; do you ? 
 I do not think that riches have much to do with 
 happiness.' 
 
 'No,' he answered. He was not a person with many 
 theories upon life or happiness or such matters — which, 
 however, are in no way affected by theories. By taking 
 thought we cannot add a cubit to the height of our happi- 
 ness. We can only undermine its base by too searching 
 an analysis of that upon which it is built. 
 
 So Paul replied ' No,' and took pleasure in looking at 
 her, as any lover must needs have done. 
 
 ' Except, of course,' she said, ' that one may do good 
 with great riches.' 
 
 She gave a little sigh, as if deploring the jnisfortuue
 
 SAFE 69 
 
 that hifclierto her own small means had fallen short of the 
 happy point at which one may begin doing good. 
 
 ' Are you so very rich, Paul ? ' she repeated, as if she 
 was rather afraid of those riches, and mistrusted them. 
 
 ' Oh, I suppose so ! Horribly rich ! ' 
 
 She had withdrawn her hand. She gave it to him again 
 with a pretty movement usually understood to indicate 
 bashfulness. 
 
 ' It can't be helped,' she said. ' We . . .' — she dwelt 
 upon the word ever so slightly — ' we can perhaps do a 
 little good with it.' 
 
 Then, suddenly, he blurted out all his wishes on this 
 point — his quixotic aims, the foolish imaginings of a too- 
 chivalrous soul. She listened, prettily eager, sweetly 
 compassionate of the sorrows of the peasantry whom he had 
 made the object of his simple pity. Her grey eyes con- 
 tracted with horror when he told her of the misery with 
 which he was too familiar. Her pretty lips quivered when 
 he told her of little children born only to starve because their 
 mothers were starving. She laid her gloved fingers gently 
 on his when he recounted tales of strong men — good fathers 
 in their simple barbarous way — who were well content that 
 the children should die rather than be saved to pass a 
 miserable existence, without joy, without hope. 
 
 She lifted her eyes with admiration to his face when 
 he told her what he hoped to do, what he dreamt of 
 accomplishing. She even made a few eager, heartfelt 
 suggestions, fitly coming from a woman — touched with a 
 woman's tenderness, lightened by a woman's sympathy 
 and knowledge. 
 
 It was in its way a tragedy — these newly-made lovers, 
 not talking of themselves, as is the time-honoured habit of 
 such ; surrounded by every luxury, both high-born, refined, 
 and wealthy ; both educated, both intelligent : he simple- 
 roinded, earnest., quite absorbed in his happiness, because
 
 70 THE SOWERS 
 
 that happiness seemed to fall in so easily with the busier 
 and, as some say, the nobler side of his ambition ; she, 
 failing to miderstand his aspirations, thinking only of his 
 wealth. 
 
 * But,' she said at length, ' shall you ... we ... be 
 allowed to do all this ? I thought that such schemes were 
 not encouraged in Kussia. It is such a pity to pauperise 
 the people.' 
 
 ' You cannot pauperise a man who has absolutely 
 nothing,' replied Paul. ' Of course, we shall have diffi- 
 culties ; but, together, I think we shall be able to over- 
 come them.' 
 
 Etta smiled sympathetically, and the smile finished up, 
 as it were, with a gleam very like amusement. She had 
 been vouchsafed for a moment a vision of herself in some 
 squalid Kussian village, in a hideous Eussian-made tweed 
 dress, dispensing the necessaries of life to a people only 
 little raised above the beasts of the field. The vision 
 made her smile, as well it might. In St. Petersburg, life 
 might be tolerable for a little in the height of the season — 
 for a few weeks of the brilliant Northern winter — but in no 
 other part of Eussia could she dream of dwelling. 
 
 They sat and talked of their future as lovers will, know- 
 ing as little of it as any of us, building up castles in the 
 air, such edifices as we have all constructed, destined, no 
 doubt, to the same rapid collapse as some of us have quailed 
 under. Paul, with lamentable honesty, talked almost as 
 much of his stupid peasants as of his beautiful companion, 
 which pleased her not too well. Etta, with a strange per- 
 sistence, brought the conversation ever back and back to 
 the house in London, the house in St. Petersburg, the 
 great grim castle in the government of Tver, and the 
 princely rent-roll. And once on the subject of Tver, Paul 
 could scarce be brought to leave it. 
 
 ' I am going back there,' lie said at length.
 
 SAFE 71 
 
 ' When ? ' she asked, with a composure which did in- 
 finite credit to her modest reserve. Her love was jealously 
 guarded. It lay too deep to be disturbed by the thought 
 that her lover would leave her soon. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' was his answer. 
 
 She did not speak at once. Should she try the extent 
 of her power over him ? Never was lover so chivalrous, 
 so respectful, so sincere. Should she gauge the height of 
 her supremacy ? If it proved less powerful than she sus- 
 pected, she would, at all events, be credited with a very 
 natural aversion to parting from him. 
 
 'Paul,' she said, 'you cannot do that. Not so soon. 
 I cannot let you go.' 
 
 He flushed up to the eyes suddenly like a girl. There 
 was a little pause, and the colour slowly left his face. 
 Somehow, that pause frightened Etta. 
 
 * I am afraid I must go,' he said gravely at length. 
 
 * Must ? — a prince ? ' 
 
 ' It is on that account,' he replied. 
 
 * Then I am to conclude that you are more devoted to 
 your peasants than to . . . me ? ' 
 
 He assured her to the contrary. She tried once again, 
 but nothing could move him from his decision. Etta was 
 perhaps a small-minded person, and as such failed to 
 attach due importance to this proof that her power over 
 him was limited. It ceased, in fact, to exist as soon as it 
 touched that strong sense of duty which is to be found 
 in many men and in few women. 
 
 It almost seemed as if the abrupt departure of her lover 
 was in some sense a relief to Etta Sydney Bamborough, 
 For while he, lover-like, was grave and earnest during 
 the small remainder of the evening, she continued to be 
 sprightly and gay. The last he saw of her was her smiling 
 face at the window as her carriage drove away. 
 
 Arrived at the little house in Upper Brook Street,
 
 72 THE SOWERS 
 
 Maggie and Etta went into the drawing-room, where 
 biscuits and wine were set out. Their maids came and 
 took their cloaks away, leaving them alone. 
 
 ' Paul and I are engaged,' said Etta suddenly. She 
 was picking the withered flowers from her dress and throw- 
 ing them carelessly on the table. 
 
 Maggie was standing with her back to her, with her 
 two hands on the mantelpiece. She was about to turn 
 round when she caught sight of her own face in the 
 mirror, and that which she saw there made her change 
 her intention. 
 
 ' I am not surprised,' she said in an even voice, standing 
 like a statue. ' I congratulate you. I think he is . . . 
 nice.' 
 
 * You also think he is too good for me,' said Etta, with 
 a little laugh. There was something in that laugh — a 
 ring of wounded vanity, the wounded vanity of a woman 
 who is in the presence of her superior. 
 
 ' No,' answered Maggie slowly, tracing the vein of the 
 marble across the mantelpiece. * No — O; not that.' 
 
 Etta looked up at her. It was rather singular that she 
 did not ask what Maggie did think. Perhaps she was 
 afraid of a certain British honesty which characterised the 
 girl's thought and speech. Instead, she rose and indulged 
 in a yawn which may have been counterfeit, but it was a 
 good counterfeit. 
 
 ' Will you have some wine ? ' she said. 
 
 * No, thanks.' 
 
 * Then shall we go to bed ? ' 
 'Yes.'
 
 73 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE TRINCE 
 
 The village of Osterno, lying, or rather scrambling, along 
 the banks of the River Oster, is at no time an exhilarating 
 spot. It is a largo village, numbering over nine hundred 
 souls, as the board affixed to its first house testifies in 
 incomprehensible Russian figures. 
 
 A ' soul,' be it known, is a different object in the land 
 of the Czars tp that vague protoplasm about which our 
 young persons think such mighty thoughts, our old men 
 write such famous big books. A soul is, in fact, a man — 
 in Russia the women have not yet begun to seek their 
 rights and lose their privileges. A man is therefore a 
 * soul ' in Russia, and as such enjoys the doubtful honour 
 of contributing to the land tax and to every other tax. In 
 compensation for the first-named impost he is apportioned 
 his share of the common land of the village, and, by the 
 cultivation of this, ekes out an existence which would be 
 valueless if he were a teetotaller. It is melancholy to have 
 to record this fact in the pages of a respectable volume like 
 the present ; but facts — as the orator who deals in fiction 
 is ever ready to announce — facts cannot bo ignored. And 
 any man who has lived in Russia, has dabbled in Russian 
 humanity, and noted the singular unattractiveness of 
 Russian life — any such man can scarcely deny the fact 
 that if one deprives the moujik of his privilege of gettmg
 
 74 THE SOWERS 
 
 gloriously and frequently intoxicated, one takes away from 
 that same moujik the one happiness of his existence. 
 
 That the Kussian peasant is by nature one of the 
 cheeriest, the noisiest, and hghtest-hearted of men is only 
 another proof of the Creator's power ; for this dimly-lighted 
 ' soul ' has nothing to cheer him on his forlorn way but 
 the memory of the last indulgence in strong drink and the 
 hope of more to come. He is harassed by a ruthless tax- 
 collector ; he is shut off from the world by enormous 
 distances over impracticable roads. When the famine 
 comes — and come it assuredly will — the moujik has no 
 alternative but to stay where he is and starve. Since 
 Alexander II. of philanthropic memory made the Eussian 
 serf a free man, the blessings of freedom have been found 
 to resolve themselves chiefly into a perfect liberty to die 
 of starvation, of cold, or of dire disease. When he was 
 a serf this man was of some small value to some one ; 
 now he is of no consequence to any one whatsoever except 
 himself, and, with considerable intelligence, he sets but 
 small store upon his own existence. Freedom, in fact, 
 came to him before he was ready for it ; and, hampered 
 as he has been by petty departmental tyranny, Govern- 
 mental neglect, and a natural stupidity, he has made but 
 very small progress towards a mental independence. All 
 that he has learnt to do is to hate his tyrants. When 
 famine urges him, he goes blindly, helplessly, dumbly, and 
 tries to take by force that which is denied by force. 
 
 With us in England the poor man raises up his voice 
 and cries aloud when he wants something. He always 
 wants something— never work, by the way — and therefore 
 his voice pervades the atmosphere. He has his evening 
 newspaper, which is dear at the moderate sum of a half- 
 penny. He has his professional organisers, and his Tra- 
 falgar Square. He even has his members of Parliament. 
 He does no work, and he does not starve. In his genera-
 
 THE PRINCE 75 
 
 tion the poor man thinks himself wise. In Russia, however, 
 things are managed diflferently. The poor man is under 
 the heel of the rich. Someday there will be in Russia a 
 Terror, but not yet. Someday the moujik will erect unto 
 himself a rough sort of guillotine, but not in our day* 
 Perhaps some of us who are young men now may dimly 
 read in our dotage of a great upheaval beside which the 
 Terror of France will be tame and uneventful. Who can 
 tell ? When a country begins to grow, its mental develop- 
 ment is often startlingly rapid. 
 
 But we have to do with Russia of to-day, and the 
 village of Osterno in the government of Tver. Not a 
 ' famine ' government, mind you ! For these are the Volga 
 Provinces— Samara, Pensa, Voronish, Vintka, and a dozen 
 others. No! Tver the civilised, the prosperous, the 
 manufacturing centre. 
 
 Osterno is built of wood. Should it once fairly catch 
 alight in a high wind, all that will be left of this town will 
 be a few charred timbers and some dazed human beings. 
 The inhabitants know their own danger, and endeavour to 
 meet it in their fatalistic manner. Each village has its 
 fire organisation. Each * soul ' has his appointed place, 
 his appointed duty, and his special contribution — be it 
 bucket or rope or ladder — to bring to the conflagration. 
 But no one ever dreams of being sober and vigilant at the 
 right time ; so the organisation, like many larger such, is 
 a broken reed. 
 
 The street, bounded on either side by low wooden houses 
 is, singularly enough, well paved : this, the traveller is told, 
 by the tyrant Prince Pavlo, who made the road because he 
 did not like driving over ruts and through puddles — the 
 usual Russian rural thoroughfare ; not because Prince 
 Pavlo wanted to give the peasants work, not because he 
 wanted to save them from starvation — not at all, although 
 in the gratification of his own whim he happened to render
 
 76 THE SOWERS 
 
 those trilling services ; but merely because he was a great 
 ' barin ' — a prince who could have anything he desired. 
 Had not the other ' bariu ' — Steinmetz by name— superin- 
 tended the work ? Steinmetz the hated, the loathed, the 
 tool of the tyrant whom they never see ! Ask the ' Starosta ' 
 —the mayor of the village. He knows the barins, and 
 hates them. 
 
 Michael Eoon, the Starosta, or elder of Osterno, presi- 
 dent of the Mir or village council, principal shopkeeper, 
 mayor, and only intelligent soul of the nine hundred, 
 probably had Tartar blood in his veins. To this strain 
 may be attributed the narrow Tartar face, the keen black 
 eyes, the short spare figure, which many remember to this 
 day, although Michael Eoon is dead and buried. 
 
 Eemoved far above the majority of his fellow- villagers 
 in intelligence and energy, this man administered the law 
 of his own will to his colleagues on the village council. 
 
 It was late in the autumn, one evening remembered by 
 many for its death-roll, that the Starosta was standing at 
 the door of his small shop. He was apparently idle. He 
 never sold vodka, and the majority of the villagers were in 
 one of the three thriving ' kabaks ' which drove a famous 
 trade in strong drink and weak tea. It was a very hot 
 evening. The sun had set in a pink haze, which was now 
 turning to an unhealthy grey, and spreading over the face 
 of the western sky like the shadow of death across the 
 human countenance. 
 
 The Starosta shook his head forebodingly. It was 
 cholera weather. Cholera had come to Osterno — had 
 come, the Starosta thought, to stay. It had settled down 
 in Osterno, and nothing but the winter frosts would kill it, 
 when hunger-typhus would undoubtedly succeed it. 
 
 Therefore the Starosta shook his head at the sunset, 
 and forgot to regret the badness of the times from a com- 
 mercial point of view, He had done all he could. Ho had
 
 THE PEIXCE 77 
 
 notified to the Zemstvo the condition of his village. He 
 had made the usual appeal for help, which had been for- 
 warded in the usual way to Tver, where it had apparently 
 been received with the usual philosophic silence. 
 
 But Michael Eoon had also telegraphed to Karl Stein- 
 metz, and since the despatcli of this message the Starosta 
 had dropped into the habit of standing at his doorway in 
 the evening, with his hands clasped behind his back and 
 his beady black eyes bent westward along the Prince's 
 high-road. 
 
 On the particular evening with which we have to do, 
 the beady eyes looked not in vain ; for presently, far along 
 the road, appeared a black speck like an insect crawling 
 over the face of a map. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the Starosta. * Ah ! he never fails.' 
 
 Presently a neighbour dropped in to buy some of the 
 dried leaf which the Starosta, honest tradesman, called tea. 
 He found the purveyor of Cathay's produce at the door. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said in a voice thick with vodka. ' You see 
 something on the road ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' A cart ? ' 
 
 ' No, a carriage. It moves too quickly.' 
 
 A strange expression came over the peasant s face, at no 
 time a pleasing physiognomy. The bloodshot eyes flared 
 up suddenly like a smouldering flame in brown paper. 
 The unsteady drink- sodden lips twitched. The man threw 
 up his shaggy head, upon which hair and beard mingled 
 in unkempt confusion. He glared along the road with 
 eyes and face aglow with a sullen, beast-like hatred. 
 
 ' A carriage ! Then it is for the Castle.' 
 
 * Possibly,' answered the Starosta. 
 
 * The Prince — curse him, curse his mother's soul, curse 
 his wife's offspring I ' 
 
 'Yes,' said the Starosta quietly. 'Yes, curse him
 
 7S THE SOWERS 
 
 and all his works ! What is it you want, little father — 
 tea?' 
 
 He turned into the shop and served his customer, duly 
 inscribing the debt among others in a rough cheap book. 
 
 The word soon spread that a carriage was coming along 
 the road from Tver. All the villagers came to the doors 
 of their dilapidated wooden huts. Even the kabaks were 
 emptied for a time. As the vehicle approached it became 
 apparent that the horses were going at a great pace ; not 
 only was the loose horse galloping, but also the pair in the 
 shafts. The carriage was an open one, an ordinary North- 
 Kussian travelling carriage, not unlike the vehicle we call 
 the victoria set on high wheels. 
 
 Beside the driver on the box sat another servant. In 
 the open carriage sat one man only, Karl Steinmetz. 
 
 As he passed through the village a murmur of many 
 voices followed him, not quite drowned by the rattle of his 
 wheels, the clatter of the horses' feet. The murmur was a 
 curse. KarlSteinmetzheard it distinctly. It made him smile 
 with a queer expression beneath his great grey moustache. 
 
 The Starosta, standing in his doorway, saw the smile. 
 He raised his voice with his neighbours and cursed. As 
 Steinmetz passed him, he gave a little jerk of the head to- 
 wards the Castle. The jerk of the head might have been due 
 to an inequality of the road, but it might also convey an 
 appointment. The keen, haggard face of Michael Eoon 
 showed no sign of mutual understanding. And the carriage 
 rattled on through the stricken village. 
 
 Two hours later, when it was quite dark, a closed car- 
 riage, with two bright lamps flaring into the night, passed 
 through the village towards the Castle at a gallop. 
 
 * It is the Prince,' the peasants said, crouching in their 
 low doorways. * It is the Prince. We know his bells — 
 they are of silver— and we shall starve during the winter. 
 Curse him — curse him ! '
 
 THE nUNCE 79 
 
 Tliey raised tlieir heads and listened to the galloping 
 feet with the patient, dumb despair which is the curse of 
 the Slavonic race. Some of them crept to their doors, and, 
 looking up, saw that the Castle windows were ablaze with 
 light. If Paul Howard Alexis was a plain English gentle- 
 man in London, he was also a great prince in his country, 
 keeping up a princely state, enjoying the gilded solitude 
 that belongs to the high-born. His English education had 
 inculcated a strict sense of discipline, and as in England, 
 and, indeed, all through his life, so in Kussia did he 
 attempt to do his duty. 
 
 The carriage rattled up to the brilliantly lighted door, 
 which was open, and within, on either side of the broad 
 entrance-hall, the servants stood to welcome their master. 
 A strange, picturesque, motley crew : the major-domo, in 
 his black coat, and beside him the other house-servants — 
 tall, upright fellows, in their bright livery. Beyond them 
 the stable-men and keepers, a little army, in red cloth 
 tunics, with wide trousers tucked into high boots, all hold- 
 ing their fur caps in their hands, standing stiffly at atten- 
 tion, clean, honest, and not too intelligent. 
 
 The Castle of Osterno is built on the lines of many 
 Eussian country-seats, and not a few palaces in Moscow. 
 The Eoyal Palace in the Kremlin is an example. A broad 
 entrance-hall, at the back of which a staircase as broad 
 stretches up to a gallery, around which the dwelling-rooms 
 are situated. At the head of the staircase, directly facing 
 the entrance-hall, high folding-doors disclose the drawing- 
 room, which is almost a throne-room. All gorgeous, lofty, 
 spacious, as only Russian houses are. Truly this northern 
 empire, this great white land, is a country in which it is 
 good to be an emperor, a prince, a noble, but not a poor 
 man 1 
 
 Paul passed through the ranks of his retainers, himself 
 a bead taller than the tallest footman, a few inches broader
 
 80 THE SOWERS 
 
 than the sturdiest keeper. He acknowledged the low bows 
 by a quick nod, and passed up the staircase. Steinmotz — ■ 
 in evening dress, wearing the insignia of one or two orders 
 which he had won in the more active days of his earlier 
 diplomatic life — was waiting for him at the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 The two men bowed gravely to each other. Steinmetz 
 threw open the door of the great room and stood aside. 
 The Prince passed on, and the German followed him, each 
 playing his part gravely, as men in high places are called 
 to do. When the door was closed behind them and they 
 were alone, there was no relaxation, no smile of covert 
 derision. These men knew the Kussian character 
 thoroughly. There is, be it known, no more impression- 
 able man on the face of God's earth. Paul and Steinmetz 
 had played their parts so long that these came to be natural 
 to them as soon as they passed the Volga. We are all so 
 in a minor degree. In each house, to each of our friends, 
 we are unconsciously different in some particular. One man 
 holds us in awe, and we unconsciously instil that feeling. 
 Another considers us a buffoon, and we are exceeding funny. 
 
 Paul and Steinmetz knew that the people around them 
 in Osterno were somewhat like children. These peasants 
 required overawing by a careful display of pomp — an unre- 
 laxed dignity. The line of demarcation between the noble 
 and the peasant is so marked in the land of the Czar that 
 it is difficult for Englishmen to realise or believe it. It is 
 like the line that is drawn between us and our dogs. If wo 
 suppose it possible that dogs could be taught to act and 
 think for themselves, if we take such a development as 
 practicable, and consider the possibilities of social upheaval 
 lying behind such an education, we can in a minute degree 
 realise the problem which Prince Pavlo Alexis and all hig 
 fellow-nobles will be called upon to solve within the life* 
 time of men already born.
 
 81 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 
 
 ' Colossal ! ' exclaimed Steinmetz beneath his breath. 
 With a httle trick of the tongue he transferred his cigar 
 from the right-hand to the left-hand corner of his mouth. 
 ' Colossal — 1 ! ' he repeated. 
 
 For a moment Paul looked up from the papers spread 
 out on the table before him — looked with the preoccupied air 
 of a man who is adding up something in his mind. Then 
 he returned to his occupation. He had been at this work 
 for four hours without a break. It was nearly one o'clock 
 in the morning. Since dinner Karl Steinmetz had con- 
 sumed no less than five cigars, while he had not spoken five 
 words. These two men, locked in a small room in the 
 middle of the castle of Osterno, had been engaged in the 
 addition of an enormous mass of figures. Each sheet had 
 been carefully annotated and added by Steinmetz, and as 
 each was finished he handed it to his companion. 
 
 ' Is that fool never coming ? ' asked Paul, with an im- 
 patient glance at the clock. 
 
 ' Our very dear friend the Starosta,' replied Steinmetz, 
 * is no slave to time. He is late.' 
 
 The room had the appearance of an office. There were 
 two safes— square chests such as we learn to associate with 
 the name of Griffiths in this country. There was a huge 
 writing-table — a double table— at which Paul and Stein- 
 metz were seated. There were sundry stationery cases 
 
 G 
 /
 
 82 THE SOWERS 
 
 and an almanac or so suspended on the walls, which were 
 oaken panels. A large white stove — common to all Russian 
 rooms — stood against the wall. The room had no less 
 than three doors, with a handle on no one of them. Each 
 door opened with a key, like a cupboard. 
 
 Steinmetz had apparently finished his work. He was 
 sitting back in his chair contemplating his companion with 
 a little smile. It apparently tickled some obtuse Teutonic 
 sense of humour to see this prince dcing work which is 
 usually assigned to clerks— working out statistics and 
 abstruse calculations as to how much food is required to 
 keep body and soul together. 
 
 The silence of the room was almost oppressive. A 
 Eussian village after nightfall is the quietest human habi- 
 tation on earth. For the moujik — the native of a country 
 which will some day supply the universe with petroleum — 
 cannot afford to light up his humble abode, and therefore 
 sits in darkness. Had the village of Osterno possessed tha 
 liveliness of a Spanish hamlet, the sound of voices and 
 laughter could not have reached the castle perched high up 
 on the rock above. 
 
 But Osterno was asleep : the castle servants had long 
 gone to rest, and the great silence of Russia wrapped its 
 wings over all. When, therefore, the clear, coughing bark 
 of a wolf was heard, both occupants of the little room 
 looked up. The sound was repeated, and Steinmetz slowly 
 rose from his seat. 
 
 ' I can quite believe that our friend is able to call a wolf 
 or a lynx to him,' he said. ' He does it well.' 
 
 ' I have seen him do so,' said Paul without looking up. 
 ,* But it is a common enough accomplishment among the 
 keepers.' 
 
 Steinmetz had quitted the room before he finished 
 speaking. One of the doors communicated with a larger 
 apartment used as a secretary's office, and through this by
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 83 
 
 a small staircase with a side entrance to the castle. By 
 this side entrance the stewards of the different outlying 
 estates were conducted to the presence of the resident 
 secretary — a German selected and overawed by Karl Stein- 
 metz — a mere calculating machine of a man with whom 
 we have no affairs to transact. 
 
 Before many minutes had elapsed Steinmetz came 
 back, closely followed by the Starosta, whose black eyes 
 twinkled and gleamed in the sudden light of the lamp. 
 He dropped on his knees when he saw Paul— suddenly, 
 abjectly, like au animal in his dumb attitude of depre- 
 cation. 
 
 With a jerk of his head Paul bade him rise, which the 
 man did, standing back against the panelled wall, placing 
 as great a distance between himself and the prince as the 
 size of the room would allow. 
 
 ' Well,' said Paul, curtly, almost roughly, ' I hear you 
 are in trouble in the village.' 
 
 ' The cholera has come. Excellency.' 
 
 * Many deaths ? ' 
 
 ' To-day — eleven.' 
 
 Paul looked up sharply. 
 
 ' And the doctor ? ' 
 
 ' He has not come yet. Excellency. I sent for him— a 
 fortnight ago. The cholera is at Oseff, at Dolja, at Kali- 
 sheffa. It is everywhere. He has forty thousand soulg 
 under his care. He has to obey the Zemstvo, to go where 
 they tell him. He takes no notice of me.' 
 
 ' Yes,' interrupted Paul, ' I know. And the people 
 themselves, do they attempt to understand it — to follow 
 out my instructions ? ' 
 
 The Starosta spread out his thin hands in deprecation. 
 He cringed a little as he stood. He had Jewish blood in 
 his veins, which, while it raised him above his fellows in 
 Osterno, carried with it the usual tendency to cringe. It
 
 84 THE SOWERS 
 
 is in the blood ; it is part of that which the people who 
 stood without Pilate's palace took upon themselves and 
 upon their children. 
 
 ' Your Excellency,' ho said, 'knows what they are. It 
 is slow. They make no progress. For them one disease 
 is as another. "Bog dal e Bog vzial," they say. "God 
 gave and God took i " ' 
 
 He paused, his black eyes flashing from one face to the 
 other. 
 
 * Only the Moscow Doctor, Excellency,' he said signi- 
 ficantly, ' can manage them.' 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. He rose from his seat, 
 glancing at Steinmetz, who was looking on in silence, with 
 his queer, mocking smile. 
 
 ' I will go with you now,' he said. ' It is late enough 
 already.' 
 
 The Starosta bowed very low, but he said nothing. 
 
 Paul went to a cupboard and took from it an old fur 
 coat, dragged at the seams, stained about the cuffs a dull 
 brown — doctors know the colour. Such stains have hanged 
 a man before now, for they are the marks of blood. Paul 
 put on this coat. He took a long soft silken scarf such as 
 Kussians wear in winter, and wrapped it round his throat, 
 quite concealing the lower part of his face. He crammed 
 a fur cap down over his ears. 
 
 ' Come,' he said. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz accompanied them downstairs, carrying 
 a lamp in one hand. He closed the door behind them, but 
 did not lock it. Then he went upstairs again to the quiet 
 little room, where he sat down in a deep chair. lie 
 looked at the open door of the cupboard from which Paul 
 Alexis had taken his simple disguise, with a large tolerant 
 humour. 
 
 * El sehor don Quijote de la Mancha,' he said sleepily. 
 It is said that to a doctor nothing is shocking and
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 85 
 
 nothing is disgusting. But doctors are, after all, only men 
 of stomach like the rest of us, and it is to be presumed 
 that what nauseates one will nauseate the other. When 
 the Starosta unceremoniously threAV open the door of the 
 miserable cabin belonging to Vassili Tula, Paul gave a little 
 gasp. The foul air pouring out of the noisome den was 
 such that it seemed impossible that human lungs could 
 assimilate it. This Vassili Tula was a notorious drunkard, 
 a discontent, a braggart. The Nihilist propaganda had in 
 the early days of that mistaken mission reached him and 
 unsettled his discontented mind. Misfortune seemed to 
 pursue him. In higher grades of life than his there are 
 men who, like Tula, make a profession of misfortune. 
 
 Paul stumbled down two steps. The cottage was dark. 
 The Starosta had apparently trodden on a chicken, which 
 screamed shrilly and fluttered about in the dark with that 
 complete abandon which belongs to chickens, sheep, and 
 some human beings. 
 
 ' Have you no light ? ' cried the Starosta. 
 
 Paul retreated to the top step, where he had a short- 
 lived struggle with a well-grown calf which had been living 
 in the room with the family, and evinced a very creditable 
 desire for fresh air. 
 
 * Yes, yes, we have a little petroleum,' said a voice. 
 ' But we have no matches.' 
 
 The Starosta struck a light. 
 
 ' I have brought the Moscow Doctor to see you.' 
 
 ' The Moscow Doctor ! ' cried several voices. 'Sbogom 
 —shogom. God be with you.' 
 
 In the dim light the whole of the floor seemed to get up 
 and shake itself. There were at least seven persons sleep- 
 ing in the hut. Two of them did not get up. One was 
 dead. The other was dying of cholera. 
 
 A heavily built man reached down from the top of th© 
 brick stove a cheap tin paraffin lamp, which he handed to
 
 86 THE SOWERS 
 
 the Sfcarostca. By the hghfc of this Paul came again into 
 the hut. The floor was filthy, as may be imagined, for 
 beasts and human beings lived here together. 
 
 The man^Vassili Tula — threw himself down on his 
 knees, clawing at Paul's coat with great unwashed hands, 
 whining out a tale of sorrow and misfortune. In a 
 moment they were all on their knees, clinging to him, 
 crying to him for help. Tula himself, a wild-looking 
 Slav of fifty or thereabouts ; his wife, haggard, emaciated, 
 horrible to look upon, for she was toothless and almost 
 blind ; two women, and a loutish boy of sixteen. 
 
 Paul pushed his way, not unkindly, towards the corner 
 where the two motionless forms lay half concealed by a 
 mass of ragged sheepskin. 
 
 ' Here,' he said, ' this woman is dead. Take her out. 
 "When will you learn to be clean ? This boy may live — • 
 with care. Bring the light closer, little mother. So, it is 
 well. He will live. Come, don't sit crying. Take all 
 these rags out and burn them. All of you go out. It is a 
 fine night. You are better in the cart-shed than here* 
 Here, you, Tula, go round with the Starosta to his store. 
 He will give you clean blankets.' 
 
 They obeyed him blindly. Tula and one of the young 
 women (his daughters) dragged the dead body, which was 
 that of a very old woman, out into the night. The 
 Starosta had retired to the doorway when the lamp was 
 lighted, his courage having failed him. The air was foul 
 with the reek of smoke and filth and infection. 
 
 * Come, Vassili Tula,' the village elder said, with 
 suspicious eagerness. ' Come with me, I will give you 
 what the good doctor says. Though you owe me money, 
 and you never try to pay me.' 
 
 But Tula was kissing and mumbling over the hem of 
 Paul's coat. Paul took no notice of him. 
 
 * We are starving, Excellency,' the man was saying.
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 87 
 
 ' I can get no work. I had to sell my horse in the winter, 
 and I cannot plough my little piece of land. The Govern- 
 ment will not help us. The Prince— curse him! — does 
 nothing for us. He lives in Petersburg, where he spends 
 all his money, and has food and wine more than he wants. 
 The Count Stepan Lanovitch used to assist us — God be 
 with him ! But he has been sent to Siberia because he 
 helped the peasants. He was like you ; he was a great 
 " barin," a great noble, and yet he helped the peasants.' 
 
 Paul turned round sharply and shook the man off. 
 
 * Go,' he said, ' with the Starosta and get what I tell 
 you. A great strong fellow like you has no business on his 
 knees to any man. I will not help you unless you help 
 yourself. You are a lazy good-for-nothing. Get out.' 
 
 He pushed him out of the hut, and kicked after him a 
 few rags of clothing which were lying about on the floor 
 all filthy and slimy. 
 
 ' Good God ! ' muttered he under his breath in English, 
 ' that a place like this should exist beneath the very walls 
 of Osterno ! ' 
 
 From hut to hut he went all through that night on his 
 mission of mercy — without enthusiasm, without high-flown 
 notions respecting mankmd, but with a simple sense of 
 duty only. These people were his things — his dumb and 
 driven beasts. In his heart there may have existed a 
 grudge against the Almighty for placing him in a position 
 which was not only intensely disagreeable, but also some- 
 what ridiculous. For he did not dare to tell his friends of 
 these things. He had spoken of them to no man except 
 Karl Steinmetz, who was in a sense his dependent. He 
 had made a sort of religion of suppressing the fact that he 
 was a prince ; the holy of holies of this cult was the fact 
 that he was a prince who sought to do good to his 
 neighbour — a prince in whom one might repose trust. 
 
 This was not the first time by many that he had gone
 
 88 THE SOWERS 
 
 down into his own village insisting in a rough-and-ready 
 way on cleanliness and purity. 
 
 ' The Moscow Doctor,' the peasants would say in the 
 * kahak ' over their vodka and their tea, ' the Moscow 
 Doctor comes in and kicks our beds out of the door. lie 
 comes in and throws our furniture into the street. But 
 afterw^ards he gives us new beds and new furniture.' 
 
 It was a joke that always obtained in the ' kabak.' It 
 flavoured the vodka, and with that fiery poison served to 
 raise a laugh. 
 
 The Moscow Doctor was looked upon in Osteruo and in 
 the neighbouring villages as second only to God. In fact, 
 many of the peasants placed him before their Creator. 
 They were stupid, vodka-soddened, hapless -men. The 
 Moscow Doctor they could see for themselves. He came 
 in, a very tangible thing of flesh and blood, built' on a large 
 and manly scale ; he took them by the shoulders and 
 bundled them out of their own houses, kicking their 
 bedding after them. He scolded them, he rated them, and 
 abused them. He brought them food and medicine. He 
 understood the diseases which from time to time swept 
 over their villages. No cold was too intense for him to 
 brave should they be in distress. He asked no money, and 
 he gave none. But they lived on his charity, and they 
 were wise enough to know it. 
 
 What wonder if these poor wretches loved the man 
 whom they could see and hear above the God who 
 manifested Himself to them in no way. The orthodox 
 priests of their villages had no money to spend on their 
 parishioners. On the contrary, they asked for money to 
 keep the churches in repair. What wonder, then, ?i these 
 poor ignorant, helpless peasants would listen to no priest ; 
 for the priest could not explain to them why it was that 
 God sent a four-months-long winter wdiich cut them off 
 from the rest of the world behind impassable barriers of
 
 THE MOSCOW DOCTOR 89 
 
 snow ; that God sent tlieni droughts in the summer so 
 that there was no crop of rye ; that God scourged them 
 with dread and horrihle disease. 
 
 It is ahnost impossible for us to reahse in these days of 
 a cheap press the mental condition of men and women 
 who have no education, no newspaper, no news of the 
 world, no communication with the universe. To them the 
 mystery of the Moscow Doctor was as incomprehensible as 
 to us is the Deity. They were so near to the animals that 
 Paul could not succeed in teaching them that disease and 
 death follow on the heel of dirt and neglect. They were 
 too ignorant to reason, too low down the animal scale to 
 comprehend things which some of the dumb animals 
 undoubtedly recognise. 
 
 Paul Alexis, half Russian, half English, understood 
 these people very thoroughly. lie took advantage of their 
 ignorance, their simplicity, their unfathomable superstition. 
 He governed as no other could have ruled them, by fear 
 and kindness at once. He mastered them by his vitality, 
 the wholesome strength of his nature, his infinite 
 superiority. He avoided the terrible mistake of the 
 Nihilists, by treating them as children to whom education 
 must be given little by little instead of throwing down 
 before them a mass of dangerous knowledge which their 
 minds, unaccustomed to such strong food, are incapable of 
 digesting. 
 
 A British coldness of blood damped as it were the 
 Russian quixotism which would desire to see result follow 
 upon action — to see the world make quicker progress than 
 its Creator had decreed. With .very unsatisfactory 
 material Paul was setting in motion a great rock which 
 will roll down into the ages unconnected with his name, 
 clearing a path through a very thick forest of ignorance 
 and tyranny.
 
 90 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 CATRINA 
 
 The man who carries a deceit, however innocent, with 
 him through Kfe is apt to be somewhat handicapped in 
 that unfair competition. He is hke a ship at sea with a 
 'sprung' mainmast. A side breeze may arise at any 
 moment which throws liim ail aback and upon his beam 
 ends. He runs illegitimate risks, which are things much 
 given to dragging at a man's mind, handicapping his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Paul was a simple minded man. He was not afraid of 
 the Eussian Government. Indeed, he cultivated a fine 
 contempt for that august body. But he was distinctly 
 afraid of being found out, for that discovery could only 
 mean an incontinent cessation of the good work which 
 rendered his life happy. 
 
 The fear of being deprived of this interest in existence 
 should certainly have been lessened, if not quite allayed, 
 by the fact that a greater interest had been brought into 
 his life in the pleasant form of a prospective wife. When 
 he was in London with Etta Sydney Bamborough, he did 
 not, however, forget Osterno. He only longed for the 
 time when he could take Etta freely into his confidence 
 and engage her interest in the object of his ambition — 
 nimely, to make the huge Osterno estate into that lump 
 of leaven which might in time leaven the whole of the
 
 CATRIXA 91 
 
 empire. He intended to take tl;e earliest opportunity of 
 telling her all about the work he was endeavouring to 
 carry out at Osterno, and the knowledge that he was 
 withholding something from her was a constant burden 
 to an upright and honest nature. 
 
 * I think,' he said one morning to Steinmctz, * that I 
 will write and tell Mrs. Sydney Bamborough all about this 
 place.' 
 
 ' I should not do that,' replied Steinmetz with a 
 leism'ely promptitude. 
 
 They were alone in a great smoking-room of which 
 the walls were hung with hunting trophies. Paul was 
 smoking a cigar. Steinmetz reflected gravely over a pipe. 
 They were both reading Russian newspapers — periodicals 
 chiefly remarkable for that which they leave unsaid. 
 Why not ? ' asked Paul. 
 
 ' On principle. Never tell a woman that which is not 
 interesting enough to magnify into a secret.' 
 
 Paul turned over his newspaper. He began reading 
 again. Then, suddenly, he looked up. 
 
 'We are engaged to be married,' he observed pointedly. 
 
 Steinmetz took his pipe from his lips slowly and 
 imperturbably. He was a man to whom it was no satis- 
 faction to impart news. He either knew it before or did 
 not take much interest in the matter. 
 
 'That makes it worse,' he said. 'A woman only 
 conceals what is bad about her husband. If she knows 
 anything that is likely to make other women think their 
 husbands inferior, she will tell it.' 
 
 Paul laughed. 
 
 ' But this is not good,' he argued. ' We have kept it 
 so confoundedly quiet that I am beginning to feel as if it 
 is a crime.' 
 
 Steinmetz uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and 
 then spoke after mature reflection :
 
 92 THE SOWERS 
 
 * As I understand the law of libel, a man is punished, 
 not for telling a lie, but for telling either the truth or a lie 
 with malicious intent. I imagine the Almighty will take 
 the intent into consideration, if human justice finds it 
 expedient to do so.' 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. Argument was not his 
 strong point, and, like most men who cannot argue, he was 
 almost impervious to the arguments of others. He recog- 
 nised the necessity for secrecy — the absolute need of a 
 thousand little secretive precautions and disguises which 
 were intensely disagreeable to him. But he also grumbled 
 at them freely, and whenever he made such objection Karl 
 Steinmetz grew uneasy. 
 
 ' All that we do,' pursued Steinmetz, ' is to bow to a 
 lamentable necessity for deceit. I have bowed to it all my 
 life. It has been my trade, perhaps. It is not our fault that 
 we are placed in charge of four or five thousand human 
 beings who are no more capable of helping themselves 
 than are sheep. It is not our fault that the forefathers 
 of these sheep cut down the forests and omitted to plant 
 more, so that the flocks Avith whom we have to deal have 
 no fuel. It is not our fault that a most terrific winter 
 annually renders the land unproductive for four months. 
 It is not our fault that the Government to whom we are 
 forced to bow . . . the Czar whose name lifts our hats 
 from our heads . . . taboo progress and education, and 
 that all who endeavour to forward the cause of humanity 
 are promptly put away in a safe place where they are at 
 liberty to forward their own salvation and nothing else. 
 Nothing is our fault, mein lieher, in this country. We 
 have to make the best of adverse circumstances. We are 
 not breaking any human law, and in doing nothing we 
 should be breaking a divine command.' 
 
 Paul flicked the ash off his cigar. He had heard all 
 this before. Karl Skeinmetz's words were usually more
 
 CATEINA 93 
 
 remarkable for solid thoughtfulness than for brilliancy of 
 conception or any great novelty of expression. 
 
 ' Ob ! ' said Paul quietly, * I am not going to leave off. 
 You need not fear that. Only I shall have to tell my 
 wife. Surely a woman could help us in a thousand ways. 
 There is so much that only a woman understands.' 
 
 ' Yes,' grunted Steinmetz ; ' and only the right sort of 
 woman.' 
 
 Paul looked up sharply. 
 
 ' You must leave that to me,' he said. 
 
 * My very dear friend, I leave everything to you.' 
 Paul smiled. 
 
 There was no positive proof that this was not strictly 
 true. There was no saying that Karl Steinmetz did not 
 leave everything to everybody. But wise people thought 
 differently. 
 
 * You don't know Etta,' he said, half shyly. * She is 
 full of sympathy and pity for these people.' 
 
 Steinmetz bowed gravely. 
 
 ' I have no doubt of it.' 
 
 ' And yet you say that she must not be told.' 
 
 * Certainly not. A secret is considerably strained if it 
 be divided between two people. Stretching it to three will 
 probably break it. You can tell her when you are married. 
 Does she consent to live in Osterno ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes. I think so.' 
 
 ' Um . . . m.' 
 
 ' "What did you say ? ' 
 
 'Um . . . m,' repeated Steinmetz, and the conversation 
 somewhat naturally showed signs of collapse. 
 
 At this moment the door was opened, and a servant in 
 bright livery, with powdered wig, silk stockings, and a 
 countenance which might have been of wood, brought in a 
 letter on a silver tray. 
 
 Paul took the square envelope and turned it over, dis-
 
 94 THE SOWERS 
 
 playing as he did so a coronet in black and gold on the 
 corner, like a stamp. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz saw the coronet. He never took his 
 quiet, unobtrusive glance from Paul's face while he opened 
 the letter and read it. 
 
 * A fresh difficulty,' said Paul, throwing the note across 
 to his companion. 
 
 Steinmetz looked grave while he unfolded the thick 
 stationery. 
 
 * Deab Paul [the letter ran], — I hear you are at Osterno 
 and that the Moscow Doctor is in your country. We are 
 in great distress at Thors — cholera, I fear. The fame of 
 your doctor has spread to my people, and they are clamour- 
 ing for him. Can you bring or send him over ? You know 
 your room here is always in readiness. Come soon with 
 the great doctor and also Herr Steinmetz. In doing so 
 you will give more than pleasure to your old friend, 
 
 ' Catkina Lanovitch.' 
 
 *P.S. — Mother is afraid to go out of doors for fear of 
 infection. She thinks she has a little cold.' 
 
 Steinmetz folded the letter very carefully, pressing the 
 seam of it reflectively with his stout forefinger and thumb. 
 
 * I always think of the lie first,' he said. ' It is my 
 nature or my misfortune. We can easily write and say 
 that the Moscow Doctor has left.' 
 
 He paused, scratching his brow pensively with his 
 curved forefinger. It is to be feared that he was seeking 
 not so much the truth as the most convenient perversion 
 of the same. 
 
 ' But then,' he went on, ' by doing that we leave these 
 poor devils to die in their . . . sties. Catrina cannot 
 manage them. They are worse than our people.' 
 
 ' Whatever is the best lie to tell,' burst in Paul—' as
 
 CATEIXA 95 
 
 we seem to live in an atmosphere of them — I must go to 
 Thors ; that is quite certain. 
 
 ' There is no must in the case,' put in Steinmetz quietly, 
 as a parenthesis. ' No man is compelled to throw himself 
 in the way of infection. But I know you will go, whatever 
 I say.' 
 
 * I suppose I shall,' admitted Paul. 
 
 * And Catrina will find you out at once.' 
 ' Why ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz drew in his feet. He leant forward and 
 knocked his pipe on one of the logs that lay ready to light 
 in the great open fireplace. 
 
 ' Because she loves you,' he said shortly. ' There is no 
 coming the Moscow Doctor over her, ?7zem lieber.' 
 
 Paul laughed rather awkv>'ardly. He was one of the 
 few men — daily growing fewer — who hold that a woman's 
 love is not a thing to be tossed lightly about in conver- 
 sation. 
 
 ' Then ' he began, speaking rather quickly, as if 
 
 afraid that Steinmetz was going to say more. ' If,' he 
 amended, ' you think she will find out, she must not see me, 
 that is all.' 
 
 Steinmetz reflected again. He was unusually grave 
 over this matter. One would scarcely have taken this 
 stout German for a person of any sentiment whatever. 
 Nevertheless he would have liked Paul to marry Catrina 
 Lanovitch in preference to Etta Sydney Bamborough, 
 merely because he thought that the former loved him, 
 while he felt sure that the latter did not. So much for the 
 sentimental point of view — a starting point, by the way, 
 which usually makes all the difference in a man's life. 
 For a man needs to be loved as much as a woman needs it. 
 From the practical point of view, Karl Steinmetz knew too 
 much about Etta to place entire reliance on the goodness 
 of her motives. He keenly suspected that she was marry-
 
 96 THE SOWERS 
 
 ing Paul for his money— for the position he could give her 
 in the world. 
 
 ' We must be careful,' he said. ' We must place clearly 
 before ourselves the risks that we are running before we 
 come to any decision. For you the risk is simply that of un- 
 official banishment. They can hardly send you to Siberia 
 because you are half an Enghshman ; and that impertinent 
 country has a habit of getting up and shouting when her 
 sons are interfered with. But they can easily make Eussia 
 impossible for you. They can do you more harm than you 
 think. They can do these poor devils of peasants of yours 
 more harm than we can comfortably contemplate. As for 
 me ' — he paused and shrugged his great shoulders — ' it 
 means Siberia. Already I am a suspect — a persona 
 ingrata.' 
 
 ' I do not see how we can refuse to help Catrina,' said 
 Paul, in a voice which Steinmetz seemed to know ; for he 
 suddenly gave in. 
 
 ' As you will,' he said. 
 
 He sat up, and, drawing a small table towards him, took 
 up a pen reflectively. Paul watched him in silence. 
 
 When the letter was finished, Steinmetz read it aloud : 
 
 'My dear Catrina, — The Moscow Doctor and your 
 obedient servant will be (d.v.) in Thors by seven o'clock 
 to-night. We propose spending about an hour in the 
 village, if you will kindly advise the Starosta to be ready 
 for us. As our time is limited, and we are much needed 
 in Osterno, we shall have to deprive ourselves of the 
 pleasure of calling at the castle. The Prince sends kind 
 remembrances, and proposes riding over to Thors to avail 
 himself of your proffered hospitality in a day or two. With 
 salutations to the Countess, 
 
 ' Your old Friend, 
 
 * Karl Steinmetz.*
 
 CATRINA 97 
 
 Steinmetz waited with the letter in his hand for Paul's 
 approval. ' You see,' he explained, * you are notoriously 
 indifferent to the welfare of the peasants. It would be 
 unnatural if you suddenly displayed so much interest as to 
 induce you to go to Thors on a mission of charity.' 
 
 Paul nodded. ' All right,' he said. ' Yes, I see ; 
 though I confess I sometimes forget what the deuce I a7?i 
 supposed to be.' 
 
 Steinmetz laughed pleasantly as he folded the letter 
 He rose and went to the door. 
 
 * I will send it off,' he said.
 
 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER Xn 
 
 AT TIIOES 
 
 Below the windows of a long low stone house, m its 
 architecture remarkably like a fortified farm, the river 
 Oster mumbled softly. One of the windows was wide open, 
 and with the voice of the water a wonderful music rolled 
 out to mingle and lose itself in the hum of the pine woods. 
 
 The room was a small one ; beneath the artistic wall- 
 paper one detected the outline of square-hewn stones. 
 There were women's things lying about ; there were 
 flowers in a bowl on a low strong table. There were a few 
 good engravings on the wall ; deep- curtained windows, low 
 chairs, a sofa, a fan. But it was not a womanly room. 
 The music filling it, vibrating back from the grim stone 
 walls, was not womanly music. It was more than manly. 
 It was not earthly, and almost divine. It happened to be 
 Grieg, with the halting beat of a disabled, perhaps a 
 broken, heart in it, as that master's music usually has. 
 
 The girl was alone in the room. The presence of any- 
 one would have silenced something that was throbbing at 
 the back of the chords. Quite suddenly she stopped. She 
 knew how to play the quaint last notes. She knew some- 
 thing that no master had taught her. 
 
 She swung round on the stool and faced the light. It 
 was afternoon — an autumn afternoon in Russia — and the 
 pink light made the very best of a face Avhich was not
 
 AT THOES 99 
 
 beautiful at all, never could be beautiful — a face about 
 which even the owner, a woman, could have no possible 
 illusion. It was broad and powerful, with eyes too far 
 apart, forehead too broad and low, jaw too heavy, mouth 
 too determined. The eyes were almond-shaped, and 
 slightly sloping downwards and inwards — deep, passionate, 
 blue eyes set in a Mongolian head. It was the face of a 
 woman who could, morally speaking, make mincemeat of 
 nine young men out of ten. But she could not have made 
 one out of the number love her. For it has been decreed 
 that women shall win love — except in some happy excep- 
 tions — by beauty only. The same unwritten law has it 
 that a man's appearance does not matter — a law much 
 appreciated by some of us, and duly canonised by not a 
 few. 
 
 The girl was evidently listening. She glanced at a 
 little golden clock on the mantelpiece, and then at the open 
 window. She rose — she was short, and somewhat broadly 
 built — and went to the window. 
 
 ' He will be back,' she said to herself, ' in a few minutes 
 now.' 
 
 She raised her hand to her forehead, and pressed back 
 her hair with a little movement of impatience, expressive, 
 perhaps, of a great suspense. She stood idly drumming 
 on the window-sill for a few moments ; then, with a quick 
 little sigh, she went back to the piano. As she moved she 
 gave a jerk of the head from time to time, as schoolgirls 
 who have too much hair are wont to do. The reason of this 
 nervous movement was a wondrous plait of gold reaching 
 far below her waist. Catrina Lanovitch almost worshipped 
 her own hair. She knew without any doubt that not one 
 woman in ten thousand could rival her in this feminine 
 glory — knew it as indubitably as she knew that she was plain. 
 The latter fact she faced with an unflinching, cold convic- 
 tion which was not feminine at all. She did not say that 
 
 b2
 
 100 THE SOWERS 
 
 she was hideous for the sake of hearing a contradiction or a 
 series of saving clauses. She never spoke of it to anyone. 
 She had grown up with it, and as it was beyond doubt, so 
 was it outside discussion. All her femininity seemed to be 
 concentrated, all her vanity centred, on her hair. It was 
 her one pride, perhaps her one hope. Women have been 
 loved for their voices. Catrina's voice was musical enough, 
 but it was deep and strong. It was passionate, tender if 
 she wished, fascinating ; but it was not lovable. If the 
 voice may win love, why not the hair ? 
 
 Catrina despised all men but one — that one she wor- 
 shipped. She lived night and day with one great desire, 
 beside which heaven and hell were mere words. Neither 
 the hope of the one nor the fear of the other in any Avay 
 touched or affected her desire. She wanted to make Paul 
 Alexis love her ; and, womanlike, she clung to her one 
 womanly charm — the wonderful golden hair. Pathetic, 
 ay, pathetic, with a grin behind the pathos, as there ever is. 
 
 She sat down at the piano, and her strong small hands 
 tore the heart out of each wire. There are some people 
 who get farther into a piano than others, making the wires 
 speak as with a voice. Catrina Lanovitch had this trick. 
 She only played a Eussian people-song — a simple lay such 
 as one may hear issuing from the door of any ' kabak ' on 
 a summer evening. But she infused a true Eussian soul 
 into it— the soul that is cursed with a fatal power of dumb 
 and patient endurance. She did not sway from side to side 
 as do some people who lose themselves in the intoxication 
 of music. But she sat quite upright, her sturdy, square 
 shoulders motionless. Her strange eyes were fixed with 
 the stillness of distant contemplation. 
 
 Suddenly she stopped and leaped to her feet. She did 
 not go to the window, but stood listening beside the piano. 
 The beat of a horse's feet on the narrow road was distinctly 
 audible, hollow and sodden as is the sound of a wooden
 
 AT THOES 101 
 
 road. It came nearer and nearer, and a certain unsteadi- 
 ness indicated that the horse was tired. 
 
 ' I thought he might have come,' she whispered, and 
 she sat down breathlessly. 
 
 When the servant came into the room a few minutes 
 later, Catrina was at the piano. 
 
 * A letter, mademoiselle,' said the maid. 
 
 ' Lay it on the table,' answered Catrina without look- 
 mg round. She was playing the closing bars of a nocturne. 
 
 She rose slowly, turned, and seized the letter as a 
 starving man seizes food. There was something almost 
 wolf-like in her eyes. 
 
 ' Steinmetz,' she exclaimed, reading the address. 
 * Steinmetz. Oh 1 why won't he write to me ? ' 
 
 She tore open the. letter, read it, and stood holding it 
 in her hand, looking out over the trackless pine woods with 
 absorbed, speculative eyes. The sun had just set. The 
 farthest ridge of pine trees stood out like the teeth of a saw 
 in black relief on the rosy sky. Catrina Lanovitch watched 
 the rosiness fade into pearly grey. 
 
 ' Madame the Countess awaits mademoiselle for tea,' 
 said the maid's voice suddenly in the gloom of the door- 
 way. 
 
 * I will come.' 
 
 The village of Thors — twenty miles farther down the 
 river Oster, twenty miles nearer to the junction of that 
 river with the Volga — was little more than a hamlet in the 
 days of which we write. Some day, perhaps, the three 
 hundred souls of Thors may increase and multiply — some 
 day when Russia is attacked by the railway fever. For 
 Thors is on the Chorno-Ziom — the belt of black and fertile 
 soil that runs right across the vast empire. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz, a dogged watcher of the Wandering 
 Jew — the scoffer at our Lord's agony, who shall never die, 
 who shall leave cholera in his track wherever he may
 
 102 THE SOWERS 
 
 wander — Karl Steinmetz knew that tlie Oster was in itself 
 a Wandering Jew. This river meandered through the 
 lonesome country, bearing cholera germs within its waters. 
 Whenever Osterno had cholera it sent it down the river to 
 Thors, and so on to the Volga. 
 
 Thors lay groaning under the scourge, and the Countess 
 Lanovitch shut herself within her stone walls, shivering 
 with fear, begging her daughter to return to Petersburg. 
 
 It was nearly dark when Karl Steinmetz and the 
 Moscow Doctor rode into the little village, to find the 
 Starosta, a simple Russian farmer, awaiting them outside 
 the ' kabak.' 
 
 Steinmetz knew the man, and immediately took com- 
 mand of the situation with that unquestioned sense of 
 authority which in Russia places the ' barin ' on much the 
 same footing as that taken by the Anglo-Indian in our 
 Eastern empire. 
 
 ' Now, Starosta,' he said, ' we have only an hour to 
 spend in Thors. This is the Moscow Doctor. If you listen 
 to what he tells you, you will soon have no sickness in the 
 village. The worst houses first — and quickly. You need 
 not be afraid, but if you do not care to come in you may 
 stay outside.' 
 
 As they walked down the straggling village-street the 
 Moscow Doctor told the Starosta in no measured terms, as 
 was his wont, wherein lay the heart of the sickness. Here, 
 as in Osterno, dirt and neglect were at the base of all the 
 trouble. Here, as in the larger village, the houses were 
 more like the abode of four-footed beasts than the dwellings 
 of human beings. 
 
 The Starosta prudently remained outside the first house 
 to which he introduced the visitors. Paul went fearlessly in, 
 while Steinmetz stood in the doorway holding open the door. 
 
 As he was standing there he perceived a flickering light 
 approaching him. The light wag evidently that of an
 
 AT THOIIS 103 
 
 ordinary liand-lantern, and from the swinging motion it 
 was easy to divine that it was being carried by someone 
 who was walking quickly. 
 
 ' Who is this ? ' asked Steinraetz. 
 
 ' It is hkely to be the Countess Catrina, Excellency.' 
 
 Steinmetz glanced back into the cottage, which was 
 dark save for the light of a single petroleum lamp. Paul's 
 huge form could be dimly distinguished bending over a 
 heap of humanity and foul clothing in a corner. 
 
 * Does she visit the cottages ? ' asked Steinmetz sharply. 
 
 ' She does, God be with her ! She has no fear. She is 
 an angel. Without her we should all be dead.' 
 
 ' She won't visit this if I can help it,' muttered Stein- 
 metz. 
 
 The light flickered along the road towards them. In 
 the course of a few minutes it fell on the stricken cottage, 
 on the Starosta standing in the road, on Steinmetz in the 
 doorway. 
 
 ' Herr Steinmetz, is that you ? ' asked a voice, deep 
 and musical, in the darkness. 
 
 ' Zum Befehl,' answered Steinmetz without moving. 
 
 Catrina came up to him. She was clad in a long dark 
 cloak, a dark hat, and wore no gloves. She brought with 
 her a clean aromatic odour of disinfectants. She carried 
 the lantern herself, while behind her walked a man-servant 
 in livery with a large basket in either hand. 
 
 ' It is good of you,' she said, ' to come to us in our need 
 ■ — also to persuade the good doctor to come with you.' 
 
 ' It is not much that we can do,' answered Steinmetz, 
 taking the small outstretched hand within his large soft 
 grasp ; ' but that little you may always count upon.' 
 
 ' I know,' she said gravely. 
 
 She looked up at him, expecting him to step aside and 
 allow her to pas^ into the cottage ; but Steinmetz stood 
 quite still, looking down at her with his pleasant smile.
 
 10 i THE SOWERS 
 
 ' And Ijow is it with you ? ' he asked, speaking in 
 German, as they always did together. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she answered indifferently. ' I am well, of 
 course. I always am. I have the strength of a horse. Of 
 course, I have been troubled about these poor people. It 
 has been terrible. They are worse than children. I 
 cannot quite understand why God afflicts them so. They 
 have never done any harm. They are not like the Jews. 
 It seems unjust. I have been very busy, in my small 
 way. My mother, you know, does not take much interest 
 in things that are not clean.' 
 
 ' Madame the Countess reads French novels and the 
 fictional productions of some modern English ladies,' 
 suggested Steinmetz quietly. 
 
 * Yes ; but she objects to honest dirt,' said Catrina 
 coldly. ' May I go in ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz did not move. 
 
 * I think not. This IMoscow man is eccentric. He 
 likes to do good sub rosd. He prefers to be alone. 
 
 Catrina tried to look into the cottage ; but Karl Stein- 
 metz, as we know, was fat, and filled up the whole doorway. 
 
 ' I should like to thank him for coming to us, or, at 
 least, to offer him hospitality. I suppose one cannot pay 
 him.' 
 
 ' No; one cannot pay him,' answered Steinmetz gravely. 
 
 There was a little pause. From the interior of the 
 cottage came the murmured gratitude of the peasants, 
 broken at times by a wail of agony — the wail of a man. 
 It is not a pleasant sound to hear. Catrina heard it, and 
 it twisted her plain, strong face in a sudden spasm of 
 sympathy. 
 
 Again she made an impatient little movement. 
 
 * Let me go in,' she urged. ' 1 may be able to help.' 
 Steinmetz shook his bead.
 
 AT THORS 105 
 
 ' Better not ! ' he said. ' Besides, your life is too 
 precious to these poor people to run unnecessary risks.' 
 
 She gave a strange, bitter laugh. 
 
 ' And what about you ? ' she said. ' And Paul ? ' 
 
 ' You never hear of Paul going into any of the cottages,' 
 snapped Steinmetz sharply. * For me it is different. You 
 have never heard that of Paul.' 
 
 ' No,' she answered slowly ; ' and it is quite right. His 
 life ... it is different for him. How . . . how is Paul '? ' 
 
 ' He is well, thank you.' 
 
 Steinmetz glanced down at her. She was looking 
 across the plains beyond the boundless pine forests that 
 lay between Thors and the Volga. 
 
 ' Quite well,' he went on, kindly enough. ' He hopes 
 to ride over and pay his respects to the Countess to-morrow 
 or the next day.' 
 
 And the keen, kind eyes saw what they expected in the 
 flickering light of the lamp. 
 
 At this moment Steinmetz was pushed aside from 
 within, and a hulking young man staggered out into the 
 road, propelled from behind with considerable vigour. 
 After him came a shower of clothes and bedding. 
 
 * Pah ! ' exclaimed Steinmetz, spluttering. ^ Himmell 
 What filth ! Be careful, Catrina ! ' 
 
 But Catrina had slipped past him. In an instant he 
 had caught her by the wrist. 
 
 ' Come back ! ' he cried. ' Y''ou must not go in there.' 
 
 She was just over the threshold. 
 
 ' Y''ou have some reason for keeping me out,' she 
 returned, struggling in his strong grasp. * I will ... I 
 will ! ' 
 
 With a twist she wrenched herself free and went into 
 the dimly lighted room. 
 
 Almost immediately she gave a mocking laugh. 
 
 * Paul ! ' she said.
 
 lOG 'iliE SOVv'EilS 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 UNMASKED 
 
 Foe a moment there was silence in the hovel, broken only 
 by the wail of the dying man in the corner. Paul and 
 Catrina faced each other — she white and suddenly breath- 
 less, he half frowning. But he did not meet her eyes. 
 
 ' Paul,' she said again, with a lingering touch on the 
 name. The sound of her voice, a rough sort of tenderness 
 in her angry tone, made Steinmetz smile in his grim way, 
 as a man may smile when in pain. 
 
 ' Paul, why did you do this ? Why are you here ? Oh, 
 why are you in this wretched place ? ' 
 
 ' Because you sent for me,' he answered quietly. ' Come, 
 let us go out. I have finished here. That man will die. 
 There is nothing more to be done for him. You must not 
 stay in here.' 
 
 She gave a short laugh as she followed him. He had 
 to stoop low to pass through the doorway. Then he turned 
 and held out his hand, for fear she should trip over the 
 high threshold. She nodded her thanks, bat refused the 
 proffered assistance. 
 
 Steinmetz lingered behind to give some last instructions^ 
 leaving Paul and Catrina to walk on down the narrow street 
 alone. The moon was just rising — a great yellow moon 
 such as only Russia knows — the land of the silver night. 
 
 ' How long have you been doing this ? ' asked Catrina
 
 UNMASKED 107 
 
 suddenly. She did not look towards him, but straight in 
 front of her. 
 
 ' For some years now,' he replied simply. 
 He lingered. He was waiting for Steinmetz, who 
 always rose to such emergencies, who understood secrets 
 and how to secure them w^hen they seemed already lost. 
 He did not quite understand what ^vas to be done with 
 Catrina — how she was to be silenced. She had found him 
 out with such startling rapidity that he felt disposed to 
 admit her right to dictate her own terms. On a straight 
 road this man was fearless and quick, but he had no taste 
 or capacity for crooked ways. 
 
 Catrina walked on in silence. She was not looking at 
 the matter from his point of view at all. 
 
 ' Of course,' she said at length, ' of course, Paul, I 
 admire you for it immensely. It is just like you to go and 
 
 do the thing quietly and say nothing about it ; but 
 
 Oh, you must go away from here. I — I — it is too horrible 
 to think of your running such risks. Bather let them all 
 die like flies than that. You mustn't do it. You mustn't.' 
 
 She spoke in English, hurriedly, wath a little break in 
 her voice which he did not understand. 
 
 ' With ordinary precautions the risk is very small,' he 
 said practically. 
 
 ' Yes. But do you take ordinary precautions ? Are 
 you sure you are all right now ? ' 
 
 She stopped. They were quite alone in the one silent 
 street of the stricken village. She looked up into his face. 
 Her hands were running over the breast of the tattered coat 
 he wore. 
 
 * Are you sure — are you sure you have not taken it ? ' 
 she whispered. 
 
 He walked on, almost roughly. 
 ' Oh, yes ; quite,' he said. 
 
 * I will not allow you to go into any more houses in
 
 108 THE SOWERS 
 
 Thors. I cannot — I will not ! Oh, Paul, you don't know t 
 If you do, I will tell them all who you are, and the Govern- 
 ment will stop you.' 
 
 * What would be the good of that ? ' said Paul awk- 
 wardly. ' Your father cared for his peasants, and was 
 content to run risks for them. I suppose you care about 
 them too as you go into their houses.' 
 
 'Yes; but ' 
 
 She paused, gave a strange little reckless laugh, and 
 was silent. 
 
 ' Of course,' she went on, with a sudden anger which 
 surprised herself, ' I cannot stop you from doing this at 
 Osterno, though I think it is wicked ; but I can prevent 
 you from doing it here, and I certainly shall.' 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' As you like,' he said. ' I thought you cared more 
 about the peasants.' 
 
 * I do not care a jot about the peasants,' she answered 
 
 passionately, ' as compared . It is you I am thinking 
 
 about, not them. I think you are selfish, and cruel to your 
 friends.' 
 
 * My friends have never shown that they are consumed 
 with anxiety on my account.' 
 
 ' That is mere prevarication. Leave that to Herr 
 Steinmetz and such men, whose business it is ; you don't 
 do it well. Your friends may feel a lot that they do not 
 show.' 
 
 She spoke the words shortly and sharply. Surreptitious 
 good is so rare, that when it is found out it very naturally 
 gets m.ixed up with secret evil, and the perpetrator of the 
 hidden good deed feels guilty of a crime. Paul was in this 
 lamentable position, which he proceeded to further aggra- 
 vate by seeking to excuse himself. 
 
 I ' I did it after mature consideration. I tried paying 
 another man, but he shirked his work and showed the
 
 UNMASKED 109 
 
 white feather ; so Steinmetz and I concluded that there 
 was nothing to be done but do our dirty work ourselves.' 
 
 * Which being translated means that you do it.' 
 
 * Pardon me. Steinmetz does his share.' 
 
 Catrina Lanovitch was essentially a woman, despite 
 her somewhat masculine frame. She settled Karl Stein- 
 metz's account with a sniff of contempt. 
 
 ' And that is why you have been so fond of Osterno the 
 last two years ? ' she asked innocently. 
 
 * Yes,' he answered, falling into the trap. 
 
 Catrina winced. One does not wince the less because 
 the pain is expected. The girl had the Slav instinct of self- 
 martyrdom, which makes Russians so very different from 
 the pleasure-loving nations of Europe. 
 
 ' Only that ? ' she inquired. 
 
 Paul glanced down at her. 
 
 * Yes,' he answered quietly. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few moments. Paul 
 seemed tacitly to have given up the idea of visiting any 
 more of the stricken cottages. They were going towards the 
 long old house, which was called the castle more by courtesy 
 than by right. 
 
 ' How long are you going to stay in Osterno ? ' asked 
 Catrina at length. 
 
 ' About a fortnight ; I cannot stay longer. I am going 
 to be married.' 
 
 Catrina stopped dead. She stood for a moment look- 
 ing at the ground with a sort of wonder in her eyes, not 
 pleasant to see. It was the look of one who having fallen 
 from a great height is not quite sure whether it means 
 death or not. Then she walked on. 
 
 ' I congratulate you,' she said. ' I only hope she will 
 make you happy. She is — beautiful, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul simply. 
 
 The girl nodded her head.
 
 110 THE SOWEKS 
 
 ' What is licr name ? ' 
 
 ' Etta Sydney Bamborougli.' 
 
 Catrina had evidently never heard the name before. It 
 conveyed nothing to her. Womanhke, she went back to 
 her first question. 
 
 ' What is she Hke ? ' 
 
 Paul hesitated. 
 
 ' Tall, I suppose ? ' suggested the stunted woman at his 
 side. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * And graceful ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Has she — pretty hair ? ' asked Catrina. 
 
 ' I think so— yes.' 
 
 ' You are not observant,' said the girl in a singularly 
 even and emotionless voice. * Perhaps you never noticed.' 
 
 ' Not particularly,' answered Paul. 
 
 The girl raised her face. There was a painful smile 
 twisting her lips. The moonlight fell upon her ; the deep 
 shadows beneath the eyes made her face wear a grin. 
 Some have seen such a grin on the face of a drowning man 
 — a sight not to be forgotten. 
 
 ' Where does she live ? ' asked Catrina. She was~ 
 unaware of the thought of murder that was in her own 
 heart. Nevertheless, the desire — indefinite, shapeless — 
 was there to kill this woman, who was tall and beautiful, 
 whom Paul Alexis loved. 
 
 It must be remembered in extenuation that Catrina 
 Lanovitch had lived nearly all her life in the province of 
 Tver. She was not modern at all. Deprived of the 
 advantages of our enlightened society press, without the 
 teaching of our decadent fictional literature, she had 
 lamentably narrow views of life. She was without that 
 deep philosophy which teaches you, mademoiselle, who 
 read this guileless tale that nothing matters very much ;
 
 UNMASKED 111 
 
 that love is but a passing amusement, the plaything of an 
 hour ; that if Tom is faithless, Dick is equally amusing ; 
 while Harry's taste in gloves and compliments is worthy of 
 some consideration. 
 
 Catrina only knew that she loved Paul, and that what 
 she wanted was Paul's love to go with her all through her 
 life. She was not self-analytical, nor subtle, nor given to 
 thinking about her own thoughts. Perhaps she was old- 
 fashioned enough to be romantic. If this be so, we must 
 bear with her romance, remembering that, at all events, 
 romance serves to elevate, while realism tends undoubtedly 
 towards deterioration. 
 
 Catrina hated Etta Sydney Bamborougli with a simple 
 half-barbaric hatred because she had gained the love of 
 Paul Alexis. Etta bad taken away from her the only man 
 whom Catrina could ever love all through her life. The 
 girl was simple enough— unsophisticated enough never to 
 dream of compromise. She never for a moment enter- 
 tained the cheap consolatory thought that in time she 
 would get over it. She would marry somebody else, and 
 make that compromise which is responsible for more misery 
 in this world than ever is vice. In her great solitude, 
 growing to womanhood as she had in the vast forest of 
 Tver, she had learnt nearly all that she knew from the 
 best teacher. Nature ; and she held the strange, effete 
 theory that it is wicked for a woman to marry a man she 
 does not love, or to marry at all for any reason except 
 love. 
 
 ' Where does she live ? ' asked Catrina. 
 
 * In London. 
 
 They walked on in silence for a few moments. They 
 were walking slowly, and they presently heard the footsteps 
 of Karl Steinmetz and the servant close behind them. 
 
 * I wonder,' said Catrina, half to herself, ' whether she 
 loves you ? '
 
 112 THE SOWERS 
 
 It was a question, but not one that a man can answer. 
 Paul said nothing, but walked gravely on by the side of 
 this woman, who knew that even if Etta Sydney Bam- 
 borough should try she could never love him as she herself 
 did. 
 
 When Karl Steinmetz joined them they were silent. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he said in English, ' that we may rely 
 upon the discretion of the Friiulein Catrina ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' answered the girl ; * you may so far as Osterno 
 is concerned. But I would rather that you did not visit 
 our people here. It is too dangerous — in several ways.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' murmured Steinmetz, respectfully acquiescent. 
 He was looking straight in front of him, with an ex- 
 pression of countenance which was almost dense. 
 
 ' Then we must bow to your decision,' he went on, 
 turning towards the tall man striding along at his side. 
 
 * Yes,' said Paul simply. 
 
 Steinmetz smiled grimly to himself. It was one of 
 his half-cynical theories that women hold the casting 
 vote in all earthly matters, and when an illustration such 
 as this came to prove the correctness of his deductions he 
 only smiled. He was not by nature a cynic — only by 
 the force of circumstances. 
 
 ' Will you come to the castle ? ' asked the girl at 
 length, and Steinmetz by a gesture deferred the decision 
 to Paul. 
 
 ' I think not to-night, thanks,' said the latter. ' We 
 will take you as far as the gate.' 
 
 Catrma made no comment. When the tall gateway 
 was reached she stopped, and they all became aware of the 
 sound of horses' feet behind them. 
 
 * What is this ? ' asked Catrina. 
 
 ' Only the Starosta bringing our horses,' replied Stein- 
 metz. ' He has discovered nothing.' 
 
 Catrina nodded and held out her hand.
 
 UNMAyKEi) nU 
 
 • Good-night,' she said, rather coldly. ' Your secret is 
 safe with me.' 
 
 ' Set a thief to catch a thief,' reflected Steimnetz. He 
 said nothing, however, when he shook hands. 
 
 Then they mounted their Jiorses and rode back the 
 way they had come.
 
 114 THE S0WEK3 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A WIEE PULLER 
 
 The Palace of Industry — where, with a fine sense of the 
 fitness of the name, the Parisians amuse themselves — was 
 in a blaze of electric light and fashion. The occasion was 
 the Concours Hippique, an ultra-equine fete, where the 
 lovers of the friend of man and such persons as are fitted 
 by an ungenerous fate with limbs suitable to horsey clothes 
 meet and bow. In France, ac in a neighbouring land, less 
 sunny, horsinesj is the last refuge of the diminutive. It 
 is your small man who is ever the horsiest in his outw^ard 
 appearance, just as it is your very plain young person who 
 is keenest at the Sunday-school class. 
 
 When a Frenchman is horsey he never runs the risk 
 of being mistaken for a groom or a jockey, as do his turfy 
 compeers in England. His costume is so exaggeratedly 
 suggestive of the stable and the horse as to leave no 
 doubt whatever that he is an amateur of the most pro- 
 nounced type. His collar is so white and stiff and por- 
 tentous as to make it impossible for him to tighten up his 
 own girths. His breeches are so breechy about the knee as 
 to render an ascent to the saddle a feat which it is not 
 prudent to attempt without assistance. His gloves are so 
 large and seamy as to make it extremely difficult to grasp 
 the bridle, and quite impossible to buckle a strap. Your 
 French horseman is, in fact, rather like a knight of old,
 
 A WIRE PULLEK 115 
 
 inasmuch as liis attendants are required to set him on his 
 horse with his face turned in the right direction, his hridle 
 in his left hand, his whip in his right, and, it is to he 
 supposed, his heart in his mouth. "When he is once up 
 there, however, the gallant son of Gaul can teach even 
 some of us, my fox-hunting masters, the way to sit a 
 horse ! 
 
 We have, however, little to do with such matters here, 
 except in so far as they affect the persons connected with 
 this record. The Concours Hippique, he it therefore laiown, 
 was at its height. Great deeds of horsemanship had hcen 
 successfully accomplished. The fair had smiled beneath 
 pencilled eyebrows upon the brave in uniform and breeches. 
 At the time when we join the fashionable throng, the fair 
 are smiling their brightest. It is, in fact, an interval for 
 refreshment. 
 
 A crowd of well-dressed men jostled each other good- 
 naturedly around a long table, where insolent waiters 
 served tepid coffee, and sandwiches that had been cut by 
 the hand of a knave. In the background a number of 
 ladies nodded encouragement to their cavaliers in the 
 intervals of scrutinising each other's dresses. Many eye- 
 brows were raised in derision of too little style displayed 
 by some innocent rival, or brought down in disapproval of 
 too much of the same vague quality displayed by one less 
 innocent. 
 
 In the midst of these, as in his clement, moved the 
 Baron Claude de Chauxville, smiling his courteous ready 
 smile, which his enemies called a grin. lie took up less 
 room than the majority of the men around him ; he 
 succeeded in passing through narrower places, and jostled 
 fewer people. In a word, he proved to his own satis- 
 faction, and to the discomfiture of many a younger man, 
 his proficiency in the gentle art of getting on in the world. 
 
 Not far from him stood a stout gentleman of middle 
 
 j2
 
 116 THE sowehs 
 
 age ^Yitll a heavy fair moustaclie brushed upward on 
 either side. This man had an air of distinction "svhich 
 was notable even in this assembly ; for tliere were many 
 distinguished people present, and a Frenchman of note 
 plays his part better than do we dull, self-conscious 
 islanders. This man looked like a general, so upright was 
 he, so keen his glance, so independent the carnage of his 
 head. 
 
 He stood with his hands behind his back, looking 
 gravely on at the social festivity. He bowed and raised 
 his hat to many, but he entered into conversation with 
 none. 
 
 * Ce Vassili,' he heard more than once whispered, * c'est 
 un homme dangereux.' 
 
 And he smiled all the more pleasantly. 
 
 Now, if a very keen observer had taken the trouble to 
 ignore the throng and watch two persons only, that observer 
 might have discovered the fact that Claude de Chauxville 
 was slowly and purposely making his way towards the man 
 called Vassili. 
 
 De Chauxville knew and was known of many. He had 
 but recently arrived from London. He found himself 
 called upon to shake hands d V anglais vfiih. this one and 
 that, giving all and sundry his impressions of the perfidious 
 Albion with a verve and neatness truly French. He went 
 from one to the other with perfect grace and savoir-faire, 
 and each change of position brought him nearer to the 
 middle-aged man with upturned moustache, upon whom 
 his movements were by no means lost. 
 
 Finally De Chauxville bumped against the object of his 
 quest — possibly, indeed, the object of his presence at the 
 Concours Hippique. He turned with a ready apology. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he exclaimed. * The very man I was desiring 
 to see.' 
 
 The individual known as * ce Vassili '—a terra of
 
 A AVIEE rULLER 117 
 
 mingled contempt and distrust^bowed very low. He was a 
 plain commoner, while his interlocutor was a baron. The 
 knowledge of this was subtly convoyed in his bow. 
 
 ' How can I serve M. le Baron ? ' he inquired in a voice 
 which was naturally loud and strong, but had been reduced 
 by careful training to a tone inaudible at the distance of a 
 few paces. 
 
 * By following me to the Cafe Tantale in ten minutes,' 
 answered De Chauxville, passing on to greet a lady who 
 was bowing to him with the laboured grace of a Parisienne. 
 
 Vassili merely bowed and stood upright again. There 
 was something in his attitude of quiet attention, of un- 
 obtrusive scrutiny and retiring intelligence, vaguely sug- 
 gestive of the police — something which his friends refrained 
 from mentioning to him ; for this Vassili was a dignified 
 man, of like susceptibilities with ourselves, and justly 
 proud of the fact that he belonged to the Corps diplo- 
 viatique. What position he occupied in that select body 
 he never vouchsafed to define. But it was known that he 
 enjoyed considerable emoluments, while he was never called 
 upon to represent his country or his emperor in any official 
 capacity. He was attached, he said, to the Kussian 
 Embassy. His enemies called him a spy ; but the world 
 never puts a charitable construction on that of which it has 
 only a partial knowledge. 
 
 In ten minutes Claiide de Chauxville left the Concnuvs 
 Hippique. In the Champs Elysees ho turned to the left, 
 up towards the Bois do Boulogne ; turned to the loft again, 
 and took one of the smaller paths that lead to one or other 
 of the sequestered and somewhat select cafes on the south 
 side of the Champs Elysees. 
 
 ( At the Cafe Tantale — not in the garden, for it was 
 winter, but in the inner room — he found the man called 
 Vassili consuming a pensive and solitary glass of liqueur. 
 
 Pe Cliau,xvillo sat down, stated his requirements to the
 
 118 THE SOAVERS 
 
 waiter in a single word, and offered his companion a 
 cigarette, which Vassili accepted with the consciousness 
 that it came from a coroneted case. 
 
 ' I am rather thinking of visiting Russia,' said the 
 Frenchman. 
 
 'Again,' added Vassili in his quiet voice. 
 
 De Chauxville looked up sharply, smiled, and waved 
 the word away with a gesture of the fingers that held a 
 cigarette. 
 
 ' If you will — again.' 
 
 ' On private affairs ? ' inquired Vassili, not so much, it 
 vv^ould appear, from curiosity as from habit. He put the 
 question with the assurance of one who has a right to 
 know. 
 
 De Chauxville nodded acquiescence through the 
 tobacco smoke. 
 
 ' The bane of public men — private affairs,' he said tpi- 
 grammatically. 
 
 But the attache to th: Russian Embassy was either 
 too dense or too clever to be moved to a sympathetic smile 
 by a cheap epigram. 
 
 * And M. le Baron wants a passport ? ' he said, lapsing 
 into the useful third person, which makes the French 
 language so much more fitted to social and diplomatic 
 purposes than our rough northern tongue. 
 
 ' And more,' answered De Chauxville. * I want what 
 you hate parting with— information.' 
 
 The man called Vassili leant back in his chair with a 
 little smile. It was an odd little smile, which fell over his 
 features like a mask and completely hid his thoughts. It 
 was apparent that Claude de Chauxville's tricks of speech 
 and manner fell here on barren ground. The Frenchman's 
 epigrams, his method of conveying his meaning in a non- 
 committing and impersonal generality, failed to impress 
 this hearer. The difference between a Frenchman and a
 
 A WIRE rULLER 119 
 
 Eussian is that the former is amenable to every outward 
 influence — the outer thing penetrates. The Eussian, on 
 the contrary, is a man who works his thoughts, as it were, 
 from internal generation to external action. The action, 
 moreover, is demonstrative, which makes the Eussian 
 different from other northern nations of an older civilisation 
 and a completer self-control. 
 
 ' Then,' said Vassili, ' if I understand Monsieur le 
 Baron aright, it is a question of private and personal 
 affairs that suggests this journey to . . . Eussia ? ' 
 
 ' Precisely.' 
 
 ' In no sense a mission ? ' suggested the other, sipping 
 his liqueur thoughtfully. 
 
 ' In no sense a mission. I give you a proof. I have 
 been granted six months' leave of absence, as you probably 
 know.' 
 
 ' Precisely so, wo' cher Baron.'' Yassili had a habit of 
 applying to everyone the endearing epithet, which lost a 
 consonant somewhere in his moustache. * When a mili- 
 tary officer is granted a six months' leave, it is exactly 
 then that we watch him.' 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders in deprecation, 
 possibly with contempt for any system of watching. 
 
 ' May one call it an affaire de caur ? ' asked Vassili 
 with his grim smile. 
 
 ' Certainly. Are not all private affairs such, one way 
 or the other ? ' 
 
 * And you want a passport ? ' 
 
 * Yes — a special one.' 
 
 ' I will see what I can do.' 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 Vassili emptied his glass, drew in his feet, and glanced 
 at the clock. 
 
 'But that is not all I want,' said De Chauxville. 
 
 * So T perceive."
 
 120 ■ THE SOWERS 
 
 * I want you to tell me what you Imow of Prince Pavlo 
 Alexis.' 
 
 * Of Tver ? ' 
 
 * Of Tver. What you know from your point of view, you 
 understand, my dear Vassili. Nothing political, nothing 
 incriminating, nothing official. I only want a few social 
 details.' 
 
 Again the odd smile fell over the dignified face. 
 
 ' In case,' said Vassili, rather slowly, ' I should only 
 impart to you stale news and valueless details with which 
 you are already acquainted, I must ask you to tell me first 
 what you know — from your point of view,' 
 
 ' Certainly,' answered De Chauxville, with engaging 
 frankness. ' The man I know slightly is the sort of thing 
 that Eton and University turn out by the dozen. Weil- 
 dressed, athletic, silent — et voild tout.' 
 
 The face of Vassili expressed something remarkably 
 like disbelief. 
 
 ' Ye — es,' he said slowly. 
 
 * And you ? ' suggested De Chauxville. 
 
 * You leave too much to my imagination,' said Vassili. 
 * You relate mere facts— have you no suppositions, no ques- 
 tions in your mind about the man ? ' 
 
 * I want to know what his purpose in life may be. 
 There is a purpose — one sees it in his face. I want also lo 
 know what he does with his spare time ; he must have 
 much to dispose of in England.' 
 
 Vassili nodded, and suddenly launched into detail. 
 
 ' Prince Pavlo Alexis,' he said, ' is a young man who 
 takes a full and daring advantage of his peculiar position. 
 He defies many laws in a quiet persistent way which 
 impresses the smaller authorities and to a certain extent 
 paralyses them. He was in the Charity League— deeply 
 implicated. He had a narrow escape. He Avas pulled 
 through by the cleverest man in Russi^s'
 
 A V/IEE PULLER 121 
 
 Karl Steinmetz ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' answered Vassili behind the rigid smile ; ' Karl 
 Steinmetz.' 
 
 ' And that,' said De Chauxville, watching the face of 
 his companion, ' is all you can tell me ? ' 
 
 ' To be quite frank with you,' replied the man who had 
 never been quite frank in his life, ' that is all I want to 
 tell you.' 
 
 De Chauxville lighted a cigarette with exaggerated 
 interest in the match. 
 
 ' Paul is a friend of mine,' he said calmly. ' I may be 
 staying at Osterno with him.' 
 
 The rigid smile never relaxed. 
 
 ' Not with Karl Steinmetz on the premises,' said Vassili 
 imperturbably. 
 
 ' The astute Mr. Steinmetz may be removed to some 
 other sphere of usefulness. There is a new spoke in his 
 Teutonic wheel.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' 
 
 ' Prince Paul is about to marry . . . the widow of 
 Sydney Bamborough.' 
 
 ' Sydney Bamborough,' repeated Vassih musingly, with 
 a perfect expression of innocence on his well-cut face. ' I 
 have heard that name before.' 
 
 De Chauxville laughed quietly, as if in appreciation of 
 a pretty trick which he knew as well as its performer. 
 
 ' She is a friend of mine.' 
 
 The attache, as he was pleased to call himself, to tlie 
 Russian Embassy leant his arms on the table, bending for- 
 ward and bringing his large fleshy face within a few inches 
 of De Chauxville's keen countenance. 
 
 ' That makes all the difference,' he said. 
 
 ' I thought it would,' answered De Chauxville, meeting 
 the steady gaze firmly.
 
 122 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IN A WINTER CITY 
 
 St. Petersburg under snow is the most picturesque city 
 in the world. The town is at its best when a high wind 
 has come from the north to blow all the snow from the 
 cupola of St. Isaac's, leaving that golden dome, in all its 
 brilliancy, to gleam and flash over the whitened sepulchre 
 of a city. 
 
 In winter the Neva is a broad silent thoroughfare 
 between the Vassili Ostrow and the Admiralty Gardens. 
 In the winter the pestilential rattle of the cobble stones in 
 the side streets is at last silent, and the merry music of 
 sleigh-bells takes its place. In the winter, the depress- 
 ing damp of this northern V-^nice is crystallised and 
 harmbss. 
 
 On the English Quay a tall narrow house stands look- 
 ing glumly across the river. It is a suspected house, and 
 watched ; for here dwelt Step;in Lanovitch, secretary and 
 organiser of the Charity League. 
 
 Although the outward appearance of the house is 
 uninviting, the interior is warm and dainty. The odour of 
 delicate hot-house plants is in the shghtly enervating 
 atmosphere of the apartments. It is a Russian fancy to 
 fill the dwelling-rooms with delicate, forced foliage and 
 bloom. In no country of the world are flowers so wor- 
 shipped, is money so freely spent in floral decoration.
 
 IN A 'WINTER CITY 123 
 
 There is something in the sight, and more especially in the 
 scent, of hot-house plants that appeals to the complex 
 siftings of three races that constitute a modern Eussian. 
 
 We, in the modest self-depreciation which is a national 
 characteristic, are in the habit of thinking, and sometimes 
 saying, that we have all the good points of the Angle and 
 the Saxon rolled satisfactorily into one Anglo-Saxon 
 whole. We are of the opinion that mixed races are the 
 best, and we leave it to be understood that curs is the only 
 satisfactory combination. Most of us ignore the fact that 
 there are others at all, and very few indeed recognise the 
 fact that the Prussian of to-day is essentially a modern 
 outcome of a triple racial alliance of which the best com- 
 ponent is the Tartar. 
 
 The modern Russian is an interesting study, because 
 he has the remnant of barbaric tastes with ultra-civilised 
 facilities for gratifying the same. The best part of him 
 comes from the East, the worst from Paris. 
 
 The Countess Lanovitch belonged to the school exist- 
 ing in Petersburg and Moscow in the early years of the 
 century— the school that did not speak Russian but only 
 French, that chose to class the peasants with the beasts of 
 the field, that apparently expected the deluge to follow 
 soon. 
 
 Her drawing-room, looking out on to the Neva, was 
 characteristic of herself. Camellias held the iloral honours 
 in vase and pot. The French novel ruled supreme on the 
 side-table. The room was too hot, the chairs were too 
 soft, the moral atmosphere too lax. One could tell that 
 this was the dwelling-room of a lazy, self-indulgent, and 
 probably ignorant woman. 
 
 The Countess herself in nowise contradicted this 
 conclusion. She was seated on a rery low chair, exposing 
 a slippered foot to the flame of a wood fire. She held a 
 magazine in her hand, and yawned as she turned its pages. 
 
 f
 
 124 THE SOWERS 
 
 She was not so stout in person as her loose and somewhat 
 highly-coloured cheeks would imply. Her eyes were dull 
 and sleepy. The woman was an incarnate yawn. 
 
 She looked up, turning lazily in her chair, to note the 
 darkening of the air without the double windows. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she said aloud to herself in French. ' When 
 will it be tea-time ? ' 
 
 As she spoke the words, the bells of a sleigh suddenly 
 stopped with a rattle beneath the window. 
 
 Immediately the Countess rose and went to the mirror 
 over the mantelpiece. She arranged her hair, and put 
 straight a lace cap which was chronically crooked. She 
 looked at her reflection pessimistically, as well she might. 
 It was the puffy red face of a middle-aged woman given to 
 petty self-indulgence. 
 
 "While she was engaged in this discouraging pastime 
 the door was opened, and a maid came in with the air of 
 one who has gained a trifling advantage by the simple 
 method of peeping. 
 
 ' It is Monsieur Steinmetz, Madame la Comtesse.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Do I look horrible, Celestine ? I have been 
 asleep.' 
 
 Celestine was French, and laughed with all the charm 
 of that tactful nation. 
 
 * How can Madame la Comtesse ask such a thing ? 
 Madame might be thirty-five ! ' 
 
 It is to be supposed that the staff of angelic recorders 
 have a separate set of ledgers for French people, with 
 special discounts attaching to pleasant lies. 
 
 Madame shook her head — and believed. 
 
 * Monsieur Steinmetz is even now taking off his furs in 
 the hall,' said Celestine, retiring towards the door. 
 
 * It is well. We shall want tea.' 
 
 ■ Steinmetz came into the room with an exaggerated bow 
 and a twinkle in his melancholy eyes.
 
 IN A WINTER CITY 125 
 
 ' Figure to yourself, my dear Steiumetz,' said the 
 Countess vivaciously. ' Catrina has gone out— on a day 
 like this. Mon Dieu ! How grey, bow melancholy ! ' 
 
 ' Without, yes ! But here, how different ! ' replied 
 Steinmetz in French. 
 
 The Countess cackled and pointed to a chair. 
 
 ' Ah ! you always flatter. What news have you, bad 
 character ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz smiled pensively, not so much suggesting the 
 desire to impart as the intention to withhold that which 
 the lady called news. 
 
 ' I came for yours. Countess. You are always amusing 
 ^as well as beautiful,' he added, with his mouth well 
 controlled beneath the heavy moustache. 
 
 The Countess shook her head playfully, which had the 
 effect of tilting her cap to one side. 
 
 ' I ! Oh, I have nothing to tell you. I am a nun. 
 What can one do — what can one hear in Petersburg ? Now 
 in Paris it is different. But Catrina is so firm. Have you 
 ever noticed that, Steinmetz ? Catrina's firmness, I mean. 
 She wills a thing, and her will is like a rock. The thing 
 has to be done. It does itself. It comes to pass. Some 
 people are so. Now I, my dear Steinmetz, only desire 
 peace and quiet. So I give in. I gave in to poor Stepan. 
 And now he is exiled. Perhaps if I had been firm — if I 
 had forbidden all this nonsense about charity — it would 
 have been different. And Stepan would have been quietly 
 at home instead of in Tomsk, is it, or Tobolsk ? I always 
 forget which. Well, Catrina says we must live in Peters- 
 burg this winter, and — nous voild ! ' 
 
 Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a commiserating 
 smile. He took the Countess's troubles indifferently, as do 
 the rest of us when our neighbour's burden does not drag 
 upon our own shoulders. It suited him that Catrina 
 should be iu Petersburg, and it is to be feared that the
 
 12G THE SOWERS 
 
 feelings of the Countess Lanovitch had no weight as 
 against the convenience of Karl Steinmetz. 
 
 ' Ah, well ! ' he said, ' you must console yourself with 
 the thought that Petersburg is the brighter for some of us. 
 Who is this — another visitor ? ' 
 
 The door was thrown open, and Claude dc Cliauxville 
 walked into the room with easy grace. 
 
 ' Madame la Comtesse,' he said, bowing over her hand. 
 
 Then he stood upright, and the two men smiled grimly 
 
 at each other. Steinmetz had thought that De Chauxville 
 
 was in London. The Frenchman counted on the other's 
 
 duties to retain him in Osterno. 
 
 ' Pleasure ! ' said De Chauxville, shaking hands. 
 ' It is mine,' answered Steinmetz. 
 The Countess looked from one to the other with a 
 miile on her foolish face. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she exclaimed ; ' how pleasant it is to meet old 
 friends ! It is like bygone times.' 
 
 At this moment the door opened again and Catrina 
 came in. In her rich furs she looked almost pretty. 
 
 She shook hands eagerly with Steinmetz ; her deep 
 eyes searched his face with a singular, breathless scrutiny. 
 ' "Where are you from ? ' she asked quickly. 
 'London.' 
 
 'Catrina,' broke in the Coimtcss, 'you do not remember 
 Monsieur de Chauxville ! He nursed you when you were 
 a child.' 
 
 Catrina turned and boAved to De Chauxville. 
 ' I should have remembered you,' he said, ' if we had 
 met accidentally. After all, childhood is but a miniature 
 — is it not so ? ' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' answered Catrina ; ' and when the miniature 
 develops it loses the delicacy which was its chief charm.' 
 
 She turned again to Steinmetz, as if desirous of con- 
 tinuing her convejsation with him.
 
 IN A WINTER CITY 127 
 
 * Monsieur cle Chauxviile, you surely Lave news? ' broke 
 in the Countess's cackling voice. ' I have begged Monsieur 
 Steinmetz in vain. He says he has none ; but is one to 
 believe so notorious a bad character ? ' 
 
 ' Madame, it is wise to believe only that which is con- 
 venient. But Steinmetz, I promise you, is the soul of 
 honour. What sort of news do you crave for? Political, 
 which is dangerous ; social, which is scandalous ; or Court 
 news, which is invariably false ? ' 
 
 ' Let us have scandal, then.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I must refer you to the soul of honour.' 
 
 ' Who,' answered Steinmetz, ' in that official capacity 
 is necessarily deaf, and in a private capacity is naturally 
 dull.' 
 
 He was looking very hard at De Chauxviile, as if he 
 were attempting to make him understand something which 
 he could not say aloud. De Chauxviile, from careless- 
 ness or natural perversity, chose to ignore the persistent 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Surely the news is from London,' he said lightly ; ' we 
 have nothing from Paris.' 
 
 He glanced at Steinmetz, who was frowning. 
 
 ' I can hardly tell you stale news that comes from 
 London via Paris, can I ? ' he continued. 
 
 Steinmetz was tapping impatiently on the floor with 
 his broad boot. 
 
 'About whom— about whom?' cried the Countess, 
 clapping her soft hands together. 
 
 ' Well, about Prince Paul,' said De Chauxviile, looking 
 at Steinmetz with airy defiance. 
 
 Steinmetz moved a little. He placed himself in front 
 of Catrina, who had suddenly lost colour. She could only 
 see his broad back. The others in the room could not see 
 her at all. She was rather small, and Steinmetz hid her 
 as behind a screen.
 
 128 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said to the Countess, ' his marriage. But 
 Madame the Countess assiiredly kno^YS of that.' 
 ' How could she ? ' jDut in De Chauxville. 
 
 * The Countess knew that Prince Paul was going to be 
 married,' explained Karl Steinmetz very slowly, as if he 
 wished to give someone time. ' With such a man as he, 
 " going to be " is not very far from being,' 
 
 ' Then it is an accomplished fact ? ' said the Countess 
 sharply. 
 
 * Yesterday,' answered Steinmetz. 
 
 * And you were not there ! ' exclaimed Countess Lano- 
 vitch, with uplifted hands. 
 
 ' Since I was here,' answered Steinmetz. 
 
 The Countess launched into a disquisition on the 
 heinousness of marrying any but a compatriot. The tone 
 of her voice was sharp, and the volume of her words almost 
 amounted to invective. As Steinmetz was obviously not 
 listening, the lady imparted her views to the Baron de 
 Chauxville. 
 
 Steinmetz waited for some time, then he turned slowly 
 towards Catrina without actually looking at her. 
 
 ' It is dangerous,' he said, ' to stay in this warm room 
 with your furs.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, rather faintly ; ' I will go and take 
 them off.' 
 
 Steinmetz held the door open for her, but he did net 
 look at her.
 
 129 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 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 inquiry towards 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. The 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 mar- 
 riage. 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 
 
 K
 
 130 THE SOWEUS 
 
 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, enliven- 
 ing 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 boot. 
 
 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 even- 
 ing 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-con- 
 tained men are only to be roused by the clatter and whirl 
 of a battlefield, and this stirs them into brilliancy, changing 
 them to new men. Etta, always brilliant, always bright, 
 exceeded herself on her battlefield— a great social function. 
 
 Since their marriage she had never been so beautiful, 
 her eyes had never been so sparkling, her colour so 
 brilliant as at this moment when she asked her husband to
 
 THE THIN END 131 
 
 let her use Ler title. Hers was the beauty that blooms not 
 for one man alone, but for the multitude ; that feeds not 
 en 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. 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 impor- 
 tance we attach to that which has been dearly won.) ' Of 
 course it matters,' answered Etta ; ' more than — well, more 
 than anything.' 
 
 ' 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 everybody knows that you are a prince ; but 
 it would be nicer, with the servants and everybody, 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 responsibihty that attaches to the 
 very title you wish to wear.' 
 
 e2
 
 132 THE SOWERS 
 
 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 that 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 tlu'ee years. I have tried to put it 
 into practice. Steinmetz and I have lived at Osterno six 
 months of the year on purpose to organise 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 sin- 
 gular 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 organisation got up by the hereditary 
 nobles of Kussia 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 civilise the people— against education or the dissemina-
 
 THE THIN END 133 
 
 tion of news. The thing was organised. We were just 
 getting to work when someone stole the papers of the 
 League from the house of Count Stepau Lanovitch and 
 sold them to the Government. The whole thing was 
 broken up ; Lanovitch and others were exiled. 1 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 her- 
 self 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 v/inter. 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
 
 134 THE SOWERS 
 
 attitude, liis whole being, Wcas expressive of that immov- 
 ability of purpose which had hitherto been concealed from 
 her by his quiet manner. Stcinmetz 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 labours, 
 and had invariably given way at once. 
 
 Etta looked at him. The colour 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.'
 
 THE THIN END 135 
 
 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. Woman-like, 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 Eussia 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 colour 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 su- 
 periority 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.
 
 136 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' But I suppose,' she went on, ' that, socially speaking, we 
 shall be rather isolated. Our neighbours are few and far 
 between.' 
 
 ' The nearest,' said Paul quietly, ' are the Lanovitches.' 
 
 ' Who ? ' 
 
 ' The Lanovitches. Do you know them ? ' i 
 
 * 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 Stepan 
 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 Eussia in the middle of winter By the way, we 
 
 must buy some furs ; that Avill 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 towards 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. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered ; ' but why do you want me to ask 
 her ? ' 
 
 ' Decq,us3 I want her to come,'
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 CHARITY 
 
 In these democratic days a very democratic theory has 
 exploded. Not so very long ago we believed, or made 
 semblance of belief, that it is useless to put a high price 
 upon a ticket with the object of securing that selectness 
 for which the high-born crave. 'If they want to come,' 
 Lady Champignon (wife of Alderman Champignon) would 
 say, ' they do not mind paying the extra half-guinea.' 
 
 But Lady Champignon was wrong. It is not that the 
 self-made man cannot or will not pay two guineas for a 
 ball-ticket. It is merely that in his commercial way he 
 thinks that he will not have his money's worth, and there- 
 fore prefers keeping his two guineas to spend on something 
 more tangible— say food. The nouveau riclic never quite 
 purges his mind of the instinct commercial, and it there- 
 fore goes against the grain to pay heavily for a form of 
 entertainment which his soul had not the opportunity of 
 learning to love in its youth. The aristocrat, on the other 
 hand, has usually been brought up to the cultivation of 
 enjoyment, and he therefore spends with perfect equanimity 
 more on his pleasure than the bourgeois mind can counten- 
 ance. 
 
 The ball to which Paul and Etta were going was 
 managed by some titled ladies who knew their business 
 well. The price of the tickets was fabulous. The lady 
 patronesses of the great Charity Ball were tactful and un-
 
 188 TEE SOWERS 
 
 abashed. They drew the necessary line (never more 
 necessary than it is to-d-ay) with a firm hand. 
 
 The success of the ball was therefore a foregone con- 
 clusion. In French fiction there is invariably a murmur 
 of applause when the heroine enters a room full of people, 
 which fact serves, at all events, to show the breeding and 
 social status of persons with whom French novelists are in 
 the habit of associating. There was no applause when 
 Paul and Etta made their appearance, but that lady had, 
 nevertheless, the satisfaction of perceiving glances, not only 
 of admiration, but of interest and even of disapproval, among 
 her own sex. Her dress she knew to be perfect, and when 
 she perceived the craning pale face of the inevitable lady 
 journalist peering between the balusters of a gallery, she 
 thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately 
 beneath that gallery, and slowly turned round like a 
 beautifully garnished joint before the fire of cheap 
 publicity. 
 
 To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a 
 number of the friends of his youth — tall, clean-featured, 
 clean-limbed men, with a tendency towards length and 
 spareness — who greeted him almost affectionately. Some 
 of them introduced him to their wives and sisters, which 
 ladies duly set him down as nice but dull — a form of faint 
 praise wlvich failed to damn. There were also a number 
 of ladies to whom it was necessary for him to bow in 
 Acknowledgment of past favours which had missed their 
 mark. 
 
 And all the while Karl Stcinmetz was storming in his 
 guttural English at the door, upbraiding hired waiters 
 for their stupidity in accepting two literal facts literally. 
 The one fact was that they were forbidden to admit anyone 
 without a ticket ; the second fact being that tickets were 
 not to be obtained at the price of either one or other of the 
 two great motives of man — Love or Money.
 
 CHAEITY 139 
 
 Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing, with the ribbon 
 of a great Order on his breast. He mentioned the names 
 of several ladies who might have been, but were not, of the 
 committee. Finally, however, he mentioned the historic 
 name of one whos3 husband had braved more than one 
 Kussian emperor successfully for England. 
 
 ' Yes, me lord, her ladyship's here,' answered the man. 
 
 Steinmetz wrote on a card, ' In memory of '5G, let me 
 in,' and sent in the missive. 
 
 A few minutes later a stout, smiling lady came towards 
 him with out-stretched hand. 
 
 * What mischief are you about ? ' she inquired, ' you 
 stormy petrel ! This is no place for your deep-laid 
 machinations. We are here to enjoy ourselves and found 
 a hospital. Come in, however. I am delighted to see you. 
 You used to be a famous dancer — well, some little time 
 ago.' 
 
 * Y^'es, my dear Countess, let us say some little time ago. 
 Ach, those were days ! those were days ! You do not mind 
 the liberty I have taken ? ' 
 
 ' I am glad you took it. But your card gave me a little 
 tug at the heart. It brought back so much. And still 
 plain Karl Steinmetz — after all. We used to think much 
 of you in the old days. Who would have thought that all 
 the honours would have slipped past you ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders with a heartwhole 
 laugh. 
 
 ' Ah, what matter ? Who cares, so long as my old 
 friends remember me ? Who would have thought, my 
 dear madam, that the map of Europe would have been 
 painted the colours it is to-day ? It was a kaleidoscope — 
 the clatter of many stools, and I fell down between 
 them all. Still plain Karl Steinmetz — still very much 
 at your service. Shall I send my cheque for five guineas 
 t^you?'
 
 110 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Yes, do ; I am secretary. Always businesslike ; a 
 wonderful man you are still.' 
 
 'And you, my dear Countess, a wonderful lady. 
 Always gay, always courageous. I have heard and 
 sympathised. I have heard of many blows and wounds 
 that you have received in the battle we began — well, some 
 little time ago.' 
 
 ' Ah, don't mention them. They hurt none the less 
 because we cover them with a smile. I dare say you 
 know. You have been in the thick of the fight yourself. 
 But you did not come here to chat with me, though your 
 manner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you.' 
 
 * I came to see Prince Pavlo,' answered Steinmetz. ' I 
 must thank you for enabling me to do so. I may not see 
 you again this evening. My best thanks, my very dear 
 lady.' 
 
 He bowed, and with his half humorous, half melancholy 
 smile, left her. 
 
 The first face he recognised was a pretty one. Miss 
 Maggie Delafield was just turning away from a partner 
 who was taking his conge, when she looked across the 
 room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once, 
 barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, 
 friendly bow was rather a surprise to him. She came 
 towards him, holding out her hand with an open friendli- 
 ness which this young lady was in the habit of bestowing 
 upon men and women impartially — upon persons of either 
 sex who happened to meet with her approval. She did not 
 know what made her incline to like this man, neither did 
 she seek to know. In a quiet British way Miss Delafield 
 was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were a 
 matter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine 
 of Charity, it is a question whether an instinctive dislike 
 should be quashed by an exaggerated sense of neighbourly 
 duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there wp^s an end to it.
 
 CHARITY 141 
 
 ' I was afraid you did not recognise me,' slie said. 
 
 ' My life has not so many pleasures that I can afford to 
 forget one of them,' replied Steinmetz in his somewhat 
 old-fashioned courtesy. ' But an old —buffer, shall I say ? 
 — hardly expects to be taken much notice of by young 
 ladies at a ball.' 
 
 * It is not ten minutes since Paul assured me that you 
 were the best dancer that Vienna ever produced,' said the 
 girl, looking at him with bright, honest eyes. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz looked down at her, for he was a tall 
 man when Paul Alexis was not near. His quiet grey eyes 
 were almost affectionate. There was a sudden sympathy 
 between these two, and sudden sympathies are the best. 
 
 * Will you give an old man a trial ? ' he asked. ' They 
 will laugh at you.' 
 
 She handed him her programme. 
 
 ' Let them laugh,' she said. 
 
 He took the next dance, which happened to be vacant 
 on her card. Almost immediately the music began, and 
 they glided off together. Maggie began with the feeling 
 that she was dancing with her own father, but this wore off 
 before they had made much progress through the crowd, and 
 gave way to the sensation that she had for partner the best 
 dancer she had ever met, grey-haired, stout, and middle-aged. 
 
 ' I wanted to speak to you,' she said. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Steinmetz answered. He was steering with 
 infinite skill. In that room full of dancers no one touched 
 Maggie's elbow or the swing of her dress, and she, who 
 knew what such things meant, smiled as she noted it. 
 
 ' I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno,' she said. 
 ' Shall I go ? ' 
 
 ' By whom ? ' 
 
 * By Paul.' 
 
 ' Then go,' said Steinmetz^ making one of the few mis- 
 takes of his Hfe.
 
 142 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' You think so — you want ms to go ? ' 
 
 ' Ach ! you must not put it like that. IIow well you 
 dance — colossal ! But it does not affect me — your going, 
 Fraulein.' 
 
 ' Since you will he there ? ' 
 
 ' Does that make a difference, my dear young lady ? ' 
 
 ' Of course it does.' 
 
 * I wonder why.' 
 
 ' So do I,' answered Maggie frankly. ' I wonder why. 
 I have heen wondering why ever since Paul asked me. If 
 you had not been going I should have said "No" at 
 once.' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly. 
 
 * What do I represent ? ' he asked. 
 ' Safety,' she replied at once. 
 
 She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing. 
 
 ' And Paul ? ' he said, after a little while. 
 
 ' Strength,' replied Maggie promptly. 
 
 He looked down at her— a momentary glance of wonder. 
 He was like a woman, inasmuch as he judged a person by 
 a flicker of the eyelids — a glance, a silence — in preference 
 to judging by the spoken word. 
 
 ' Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope 
 that you will brave the perils of Osterno ? Ah — the music 
 is stopping.' 
 
 ' If I may assure my mother that there are no perils.' 
 
 Something took place beneath the grey moustache— a 
 smile or a pursing up of the lips in doubt. 
 
 * Ah, I cannot go as far as that. You may assure 
 Lady Delafield that I will protect you as I would my own 
 daughter. If — well, if the good God in heaven had not 
 had other uses for me, I should have had a daughter of 
 your age. Ach ! the music has stopped. The music 
 always does stop. Miss Delafield ; that is the worst of it. 
 Thank you for dancing with an old buffer.'
 
 CHARITY 143 
 
 He took her back to her chaperone, bowed in his old- 
 world way to both ladies, and left them. 
 
 ' If I can help it, my very dear young friend,' he said 
 to himself as he crossed the room, looking for Paul, ' you 
 will not go to Osterno.' 
 
 He found Paul talking to two men. 
 
 * You here ! ' said Paul in surprise. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Steinmetz, shaking hands. ' I gave 
 Lady Fontain five guineas to let me in, and now I want a 
 couple of chairs and a quiet corner, if the money includes 
 such.' 
 
 'Come up into the gallery,' replied Paul. 
 
 A certain listlessness which hod marked him a moment 
 before vanished when Paul recognised his friend. He led 
 the way up the narrow stairs. In the gallery they found 
 a few people — couples seeking, like themselves, a rare 
 solitude. 
 
 ' What news ? ' asked Paul, sitting down. 
 
 * Bad,' replied Steinmetz. ' We have had the misfor- 
 tune to make a dangerous enemy — Claude de Chauxville.' 
 
 ' Claude de Chauxville,' repeated Paul. 
 
 ' Yes. He wanted to marry your wife — for her money.' 
 
 Paul leant forward and dragged at his great fair mous- 
 tache. He was not a subtle man, analysing his own 
 thoughts. Had he been, he might have wondered why he 
 was not more jealous in respect to Etta. 
 
 ' Or,' went on Steinmetz, ' it may have been — the other 
 thing. It is a singular fact that many men incapable of a 
 lifelong love can conceive a lifelong hatred based on that 
 love. Claude de Chauxville has hated me all his life, for 
 very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included in his 
 antipathy because you married Madame.' 
 
 ' I dare say,' repHed Paul carelessly. ' But I am not 
 afraid of Claude de Chauxville, or any other man.' 
 
 ' I am,' said Steinmetz. ' He is up to some mischief.
 
 1-14 THE SOWERS 
 
 I was calling on the Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg 
 when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He was constrained 
 at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which was 
 a mistake. Now what is he doing in Petersburg? He 
 has not been there for ten years at least. He has no 
 friends there. He revived a minute acquaintance with the 
 Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the very first water. 
 Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had 
 wheedled an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, 
 my friend, why ? ' 
 
 Paul reflected, with a frown. 
 
 * We do not want him out there,' he said. 
 
 * No ; and if he goes there you must remain in England 
 this winter.' 
 
 Paul looked up sharply. 
 
 ' I do not want to do that. It is all arranged,' he said. 
 * Etta was very much against going at first, but I persuaded 
 her to do so. It would be a mistake not to go now.' 
 
 Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, ' I advise 
 you not to go.' 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * I am sorry,' he said. ' It is too late now. Besides, 
 I have invited Miss Delafield, and she has practically 
 accepted.' 
 
 ' Does that matter ? ' asked Steinmetz quietly. 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 He rose, and standing with his two hands on the mar- 
 ble rail, he looked down into the room below. The music 
 of a waltz was just beginning, and some of the more enthu- 
 siastic spirits had already begun dancing, moving in and 
 out among the uniforms and gay dresses. 
 
 ' Well,' he said resignedly, ' it is as you will. There is 
 a certain pleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so 
 d d clever.'
 
 145 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 IN THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES 
 
 ' You must accept,' Steinmetz repeated to Paul. ' There 
 is no help for it. We cannot afford to offend Vassili, of all 
 people in the world.' 
 
 They were standing together in the salon of a suite of 
 rooms assigned for the time to Paul and his party m the 
 Hotel Bristol in Paris. Steinmetz, who held an open 
 letter in his hand, looked out of the window across the 
 quiet Place Vendeme. A north wind was blowing with 
 true Parisian keenness, driving before it a fine snow, which 
 adhered bleakly to the northern face of a column chiefly 
 remarkable for the facility with which it falls and rises 
 again. 
 
 Steinmetz looked at the letter with a queer smile. 
 He held it out from him as if he distrusted the very 
 stationery. 
 
 * So friendly,' he exclaimed ; ' so very friendly. " Ce 
 bon Steinmetz," he calls me. " Ce bon Steinmetz " — con- 
 found his cheek ! He hopes that his dear Prince will 
 waive ceremony and bring his charming Princess to dine 
 quite en famille at his Uttle pied d terrc in the Champs- 
 Elysees. He guarantees that only his sister, the Marquise, 
 will be present, and he hopes that " ce bon Steinmetz" 
 will accompany you, and also the young lady, the cousin 
 of the Princess.' 
 
 Steinmetz threw the letter down on the table, left it
 
 146 THE SOWERS 
 
 there for a moment, and then, picking it up, he crossed the 
 room and threw it into the fire. 
 
 ' Which means,' he explained, ' that Monsieur Vassili 
 knows we are here, and unless we dine with him we shall 
 he subjected to annoyance and delay on the frontier by a 
 stupid — a singularly and suspiciously stupid— minor official. 
 If we refuse, Vassili will conclude that we are afraid of him. 
 Therefore we must accept. Especially as Vassili has his 
 weak point. Ho loves a lord, " ce Vassili." If you accept 
 on some of that statiDuery I ordered for you with a colossal 
 gold coronet, that will already be of some effect. A chain 
 is as strong as its weakest link. Monsieur Vassih's weak- 
 est link will be touched by your gorgeous note paper. If 
 ce cher 'prince and la cliarmante princessc are gracious to 
 him, Vassili is already robbed of half his danger.' 
 
 Paul laughed. It was his habit either to laugh or to 
 grumble at Karl Steinmetz's somewhat subtle precautions. 
 The word ' danger ' invariably made him laugh with a ring 
 in his voice which seemed to betoken enjoyment. 
 
 ' Of course,' he said. ' I leave these matters to you. 
 Let us show Vas:.ili, at all events, that we are not afraid 
 of him.' 
 
 ' Then sit down and accept.' 
 
 That which Monsieur Vassili was pleased to call his 
 little dog-hole in the Champs-Elysees was, in fact, a 
 gorgeous house in the tawdry style of modem Paris — 
 resplendent in grey iron railings and high gate-posts sur- 
 mounted by green cactus plants cunningly devised in cast 
 iron. 
 
 The heavy front door was thrown open by a lackey, and 
 others bowed in the hall as if by machinery. Two maids 
 pounced upon the ladies with the self-assurance of their 
 1 ind and country, and led the way upstairs, while the men 
 removed fur coats in the hall. It was all very princely and 
 gorgeous and Parisian.
 
 IN THE CHAIklPS-ELYSEES 147 
 
 Vassili and Ins sister the Marquise— a stout lady in 
 ruby velvet and amethysts, who invariably caused Maggie 
 Delafield's mouth to twitch whenever she opened her own 
 during the evening — received the guests in the drawing- 
 room. They were standing on the white fur hearthrug side 
 by side, when the doors were dramatically thrown open, 
 and a servant rolled the names unctuously over his tongue. 
 
 Steinmetz, who was behind, saw everything. He saw 
 Vassili's mask-like face contract with stupefaction when he 
 set eyes on Etta. He saw the self-contained Eussian give 
 a little gasp, and mutter an exclamation before he collected 
 himself sufficiently to bow low and conceal his face. But 
 he could not see Etta's face for a moment or two — until 
 the formal greetings were over. 'NMien he did see it, he 
 noted that it was as white as marble. 
 
 ' Aha ! Ce bon Steinmetz ! ' cried Vassili, with less 
 formality, holding out his hand with frank and boyish 
 good-humour, 
 
 ' Aha ! Ce clier Vassili ! ' returned Steinmetz, taking 
 the hand. 
 
 ' It is good of you, Monsieur le Prince, and you Ma- 
 dame, to honour us in our small house,' said the Marquise 
 in a guttural voice such as one might expect from within 
 ruby velvet and amethysts. Thereafter she subsided into 
 silence and obscurity so far as the evening was concerned 
 and the present historian is interested. 
 
 ' So,' said Vassih, with a comprehensive bow to all his 
 guests — ' so you are bound for Russia. But I envy you — 
 I envy you. You know Russia, Madame la Princesse ? ' 
 
 Etta met his veiled gaze calmly. 
 
 ' A little,' she replied. 
 
 There was no sign of recognition in his eyes now, nor 
 pallor on Ler face. 
 
 ' A beautiful country, but the rest of Europe does not 
 believe it. And the estate of the Prince is one of the
 
 148 THE SOWEKS 
 
 vastest, if not fclie most beautiful. It is a sporting estate, 
 is it not, Prince ? ' 
 
 ' Essentially sc,' replied Paul. * Bears, wolves, deer, 
 besides, of course, black- game, capercailzie, ptarmigan — 
 everything one could desire.' 
 
 ' Speaking as a sportsman,' suggested Vassili gravely. 
 
 ' Speaking as a sportsman,* 
 
 ' Of course ' Vassili paused, and with a little 
 
 gesture of the hand included Steinmetz in the conversation. 
 It may have been that he preferred to have him talking than 
 watching. ' Of course, like all great Russian landholders, 
 you have your troubles with the people, though you are 
 not, strictly speaking, within the famine district.' 
 
 ' Not quite ; we are not starving, but we are hungry,' 
 said Steinmetz bluntly. 
 
 Vassili laughed, and shook a gold eye-glass chidingly. 
 
 'Ah, my friend, your old pernicious habit of calling a 
 spade a spade ! It is unfortunate that they should hunger 
 a little, but what will you ? They must learn to be 
 provident, to work harder and drink less. With such 
 people experience is the only task-master possible. It is 
 useless talking to them. It is dangerous to pauperise them. 
 Besides, the accounts that one reads in the newspapers are 
 manifestly absurd and exaggerated. You must not. Made- 
 moiselle,' he said, turning courteously to Maggie, ' you must 
 not believe all you are told about Russia.' 
 
 ' I do not,' replied Maggie with an honest smile, which 
 completely baffled Monsieur Vassili. He had not had much 
 to do with people who smiled honestly. 
 
 ' Vra i ! ' he said with grave emphasis ; ' I am not 
 joking. It is a matter of the strictest fact that fiction has 
 for the moment fixed its fancy upon my country — ^just as 
 it has upon the East-end of your own London. Mou 
 DieiL ! what a lot of barm fiction with a purpose can 
 dor
 
 IK THE ClIAMrS-ELYSEES 140 
 
 ' But we do not take our facts from fiction in England,' 
 said Maggie. 
 
 * Nor,' put in Steinmetz with Ins blandest smile, ' do we 
 allow fiction to affect our facts.' 
 
 Vassili glanced at Steinmetz sideways. 
 
 ' Here is dinner,' he said. ' Madame la Princesse, may 
 I have the honour ? ' 
 
 The table was gorgeously decorated ; the wine was 
 perfect ; the dishes Parisian. Everything was brilliant, 
 and Etta's spirits rose. Such little things aflect the feel- 
 ings of us all. It requires a certain mental reserve from 
 which to extract cheerfulness over a chop and a pint of 
 beer withal, served on a doubtful cloth. , But some of us 
 find it easy enough to be witty and brilliant over good wine 
 and a perfectly appointed table. 
 
 'It is exile; it is nothing short of exile,' protested 
 Vassili, who led the conversation. ' Much as I admire 
 my own country, as a country, I do not pretend to regret 
 a fate that keeps me resident in Paris. For men it is 
 different, but for Madame, and for you, Mademoiselle — ach ! ' 
 He shrugged his shoulders and looked up to the ceiling in 
 mute appeal to the gods above it. ' Beauty, brilliancy, wit 
 — they are all lost in Kussia.' 
 
 He bowed to the Princess, who was looking, and to 
 Maggie, who was not. 
 
 ' What would Paris say if it knew what it was losing ? ' 
 he added in a lower tone to Etta, who smiled, well pleased. 
 She was not always able to distinguish between imperti- 
 nence and flattery. And indeed thoy arc so closely allied 
 that the distinction is subtle. 
 
 Steinmetz, on the left hand of the Marquise, addressed 
 one or two remarks to that lady, who replied with her 
 mouth full. He soon discovered that that which was 
 before her interested her more than anything around, and 
 during the banquet he contented himself by uttering an
 
 150 THE .SOWERS 
 
 exclamation of dcliglit at a particular flavour which the 
 lady was kind enough to point out to him with an eloquent 
 and emphatic fork from time to time. 
 
 Vassili noted this with some disgust. He would have 
 preferred that Karl Steinmetz were greedy or more conver- 
 sational. 
 
 * But,' the host added aloud, ' ladies are so good. 
 Perhaps you are interested in the peasants ? ' 
 
 Etta looked at Steinmetz, who gave an imperceptible 
 nod. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, ' I am.' 
 
 Vassili followed her glance, and found Steinmetz eating 
 with grave appreciation of the fare provided. 
 
 * Ah ! ' he said in an expectant tone ; * then you will no 
 doubt pass much of your time in endeavouring to alleviate 
 their troubles— their self-inflicted troubles, with all defer- 
 ence to cc, cher Prince. 
 
 ' Why with deference to me ? ' asked Paul, looking up 
 quietly, with something in his steady gaze that made 
 Maggie glance anxiously at Steinmetz. 
 
 ' Well, I understand that you hold different opinions,' 
 said the Eussian. 
 
 ' Not at all,' answered Paul. * I admit that tlie pea- 
 sants have themselves to blame — ^just as a dog has himself 
 to blame when he is caught in a trap.' 
 
 ' Is the case analogous ? Let me recommend those 
 olives — I have them from Barcelona by a courier,' 
 
 ' Quite,' answered Paul ; ' and it is the obvious duty 
 of those who know better to teach the dog to avoid the 
 places where the traps are set. Thanks, the olives are 
 excellent.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' said Vassili, turning courteously to Maggie, ' I 
 sometimes thank my star that I am not a landholder — only 
 a poor bureaucrat. It is so difficult to comprehend these 
 questions, Mademoiselle. DuL of all men in or out of
 
 IN THE CHAMPS-ELYSEES 151 
 
 Russia it is possible that our dear Prince knows best of what 
 he is talldng.' 
 
 ' Oil, no ! ' disclaimed Paul, with that gravity at which 
 some were ready to laugh. ' I only judge in a small way 
 from a small experience.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you are too modest. You know the peasants 
 thoroughly, you understand them, you love them — so, at 
 least, I have been told. Is it not so, Madame la Prin- 
 cesse ? ' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz was frowning over an olive. 
 
 ' I really do not know,' said Etta, who had glanced 
 across the table. 
 
 ' I assure you, Madame, it is so. I am always hearing 
 good of you, Prince.' 
 
 * From whom ? ' asked Paul. 
 
 Vassili shrugged his peculiarly square shoulders. 
 
 ' Ah ! From all and sundry.' 
 
 ' I did not know the Prince had so many enemies,' said 
 Steinmetz bluntly, whereat the Marquise laughed suddenly, 
 and apparently approached within bowing distance of apo- 
 plexy. 
 
 In such wise the conversation went on during the 
 dinner, which was a long one. Continually, repeatedly, 
 Yassili approached the subject of Osterno and the daily life 
 in that sequestered country. But those who knew were 
 silent, and it was obvious that Etta and Maggie were igno- 
 rant of the life to which they were going. 
 
 From time to time Vassili raised his dull, yellow eyes to 
 the servants, who cVaillcurs were doing their work perfectly, 
 and invariably the master's glance fell to the glasses again. 
 These the servants never left in peace— constantly replen- 
 ishing, constantly watching with that assiduity which makes 
 men thirsty against their will by reason of the repeated 
 reminder. 
 
 But tongues wagged no more freely for the choice vin-
 
 152 THE SOWERS 
 
 tages poured upon tliem. Paul had a grave, strong head 
 and that self-control against which alcohol may ply 
 itself in vain. Karl Steinmetz had taken his degree at 
 Heidelberg. He was a seasoned vessel, having passed that 
 way before. 
 
 Etta was bright enough — amusing, light, and gay — so 
 long as it was a question of mere social gossip ; but when- 
 ever Vassili spoke of the country to which he expressed so 
 deep a devotion, she, seeming to take her cue from her 
 husband and his agent, fell to pleasant, non-committing 
 silence. 
 
 It was only after dinner, in the drawing-room, while 
 musicians discoursed Offenbach and Rossini from behind a 
 screen of fern and flower, that Vassili found an opportunity 
 of addressing himself directly to Etta. In part she desired 
 this opportunity, with a breathless apprehension behind her 
 bright society smile. Without her assistance he never 
 would have had it. 
 
 * It is most kind of you,' he said in French, which lan- 
 guage had been spoken all the evening in courtesy to the 
 Marquise, who was now asleep — * it is most kind of you to 
 condescend to visit my poor house. Princess. Believe me, 
 I feel the honour deeply. When you first came into the 
 room — you may have observed it — I was quite taken aback. 
 I — I have read in books of beauty capable of taking away a 
 man's breath. You must excuse me — I am a plain-spoken 
 man. I never met it until this evening.' 
 
 Etta excused him readily enough. She could forgive 
 plenty of plain speaking of this description. Had she not 
 been inordinately vain, this woman, like many, would have 
 been extraordinarily clever. She laughed, with little side- 
 long glances. 
 
 ' I only hope that you will honour Paris on your way 
 home to England,' went on Vassili, who had a wonderful 
 knack of judging men and women, especially shallow ones.
 
 IN THE CIlAMrS-ELYSEES 153 
 
 ' Now, when may that be ? When may we hope to see you 
 again ? How long will you be in Russia, and — — ' 
 
 ' Ce Vassili is the best English scholar I know ! ' broke 
 in Steinmetz, who had approached somewhat quietly. ' But 
 he will not talk, Princess— he is so shy.' 
 
 Paul was approaching also. It was eleven o'clock, he 
 said, and travellers who had to make an early start would 
 do well to get home to bed. 
 
 When the doors had been closed behind the departing 
 guests, Vassili walked slowly to the fireplace. He posted 
 himself on the bearskin hearthrug, his feet well apart — a 
 fine dignified figure of a man, of erect and military 
 carriage ; a very mask of a face — soulless, colourless, 
 emotionless. 
 
 He stood biting at his thumb-nail, looking at the door 
 through which Etta Alexis had just passed in all the glory 
 of her beauty, wealth, and position. 
 
 ' The woman,' he said slowly, ' who sold me the Charity 
 League papers — and she thinks I do not recognise her.'
 
 154 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 ON THE KEVA 
 
 Kael Steinmetz had apparently been transacting business 
 on tiie northern bank of the Neva, a part of Petersburg— 
 an island where business is transacted ; where steamers 
 land their cargoes and riverside loafers impede the traffic. 
 
 "What the business of Karl Steinmetz may have been is 
 not of moment or interest ; moreover, it was essentially the 
 affair of a man capable of holding his own and his tongue 
 against the world. 
 
 He was re-crossing the river, not by the bridge, which 
 requires a doffed hat by reason of its shrine, but by one of 
 the numerous roads cut acro£s the ice from bank to bank. 
 He duly reached the southern shore, ascending to the 
 Admiralty Gardens by a flight of sanded steps. Here he 
 lighted a cigar, and, tucking his hands deep into the pockets 
 of his fur coat, he proceeded to walk slowly through the 
 bare and deserted public garden. 
 
 A girl had crossed the river in front of him at a smart 
 pace. She now slackened her speed so much as to allow 
 him to pass her. Karl Steinmetz noticed the action. He 
 noticed most things — this dull German. Presently she 
 passed him again. She dropped her umbrella, and before 
 picking it up described a circle with it — a manoeuvre re- 
 markably like a signal. Then she turned abruptly and 
 looked into his face, displaying a pleasing little round
 
 ON THE .NEVA 155 
 
 physiognomy with a smiling mouth and exaggeratedly grave 
 eyes. It was a face of all too common a type in these days 
 of cheap educational literature — the face of a womanly 
 woman engaged in unwomanly work. 
 
 Then she came back. 
 
 Steinmetz raised his hat in his most fatherly way. 
 
 ' My dear young lady,' he said in Eussian, ' if my per- 
 sonal appearance has made so profound an impression as 
 my vanity prompts me to believe, would it not be decorous 
 of you to conceal your feelings beneath a maiden modesty ? 
 If, on the other hand, the signals you have been making to 
 me are of profound political importance, let me assure you 
 that I am no Nihilist.' 
 
 ' Then,' said the girl, beginning to walk by his side, 
 ' what are you ? ' 
 
 ' What you see — a stout middle-aged man in easy cir- 
 cumstaiices, happily placed in social obscurity. Which 
 means that I have few enemies and fewer friends.' 
 
 The girl looked as if she would like to laugh had such 
 exercise been in keeping with a professional etiquette, 
 
 'Your name is Karl Steinmetz,' she said gravely. 
 
 ' That is the name by which I am known to a large staff 
 of creditors,' replied he. 
 
 ' If you will go to No. 4, Passage Kazan, at the back of 
 the cathedral, second floor, back room on the left at the 
 top of the stairs, and go straight into the room, you will 
 find a friend who wishes to see you,' she said, as one re- 
 peating a lesson by rote. 
 
 ' And who are you, my dear young lady ? ' 
 
 ' I — I am no one. I am only a paid agent.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' 
 
 They walked on in silence a few paces. The bells of 
 St. Isaac's Church suddenly burst out into a wild carillon 
 as is their way, effectually preventing further conversation 
 for a few moments.
 
 156 THE so^\'EKS 
 
 ' Will you go ? ' asked the girl when the sound had 
 broken ofif as suddenly as it commenced. 
 
 ' Probably. I am curious and not nervous— except of 
 damp sheets. My anonymous friend does not expect me 
 to stay all night, I presume. Did he — or is it a she, my 
 fatal beauty ? — did it not name an hour ? ' 
 
 ' Between now and seven o'clock.' 
 
 ' Thank you.' 
 
 * God be with you ! ' said the girl, suddenly wheeling 
 round and walking away. 
 
 Without looking after her Steinmetz walked on gradu- 
 ally increasing his pace. In a few minutes he reached 
 the large house standing within iron gates at the upper 
 end of the English quay, the house of Prince Pavlo 
 Howard-Alexis. 
 
 He found Paul alone in his study. In a few words he 
 explained the situation. 
 
 ' What do you think it means ? ' asked the Prince. 
 
 ' Heaven only knows ! ' 
 
 ' And you will go ? ' 
 
 ' Of course,' replied Steinmetz. * I love a mystery, 
 especially in Petersburg. It sounds so like a romance 
 written in the Kennington Eoad by a lady who has never 
 been nearer to Russia than Margate.' 
 
 *I had better go with you,' said Paul. 
 
 ' Gott ! No ! ' exclaimed Steinmetz ; * I must go alone. 
 I will take Parks to drive the sleigh, if I may, though. 
 Parks is a steady man, who loves a rough-and-tumble. A 
 typical British coachman— the brave Parks.' 
 
 * Back in time for dinner ? ' asked Paul. 
 
 ' I hope so. I have had such mysterious appointments 
 thrust upon me before. It is probably a friend who wants 
 a hundred-rouble note until next Monday.' 
 
 The cathedral clock struck six as Karl Steinmetz turned
 
 ON THE NEVA 157 
 
 cut of the Newski Prospect into the large square before the 
 sacred edifice. 
 
 He soon found the Kazan Passage— a very nest of toy- 
 shops—and, following the directions given, he mounted a 
 narrow staircase. He knocked at the door on the left hand 
 at the top of the stairs. 
 
 * Come in ! ' said a voice which caused him to start. 
 He pushed open the door. The room was a small one, 
 
 brilliantly lighted by a paraffin lamp. At the table sat an 
 old man with broad benevolent face, high forehead, thin 
 hair, and that smile which savours of the milk of human 
 kindness, and in England suggests Nonconformity. 
 
 * You ! ' ejaculated Steinmetz. ' Stepan ! ' 
 ' Yes. Come in and close the door.' 
 
 He laid aside his pen, extended his hand, and, rising, 
 kissed Karl Steinmetz on both cheeks after the manner of 
 Russians. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear Karl. It seems that the good God has 
 still a little work for Stepan Lanovitch to do. I got away 
 quite easily in the usual way, through a paid Evasion 
 Agency. I have been forwarded from pillar to post like a 
 prize fowl, and reached Petersburg last night. I have not 
 long to stay. I am going South. I may be able to do some 
 good yet. I hear that Paul is working wonders in Tver.' 
 
 * What about money ? ' asked Steinmetz, who was always 
 practical. 
 
 ' Catrina sent it, the dear child ! That is one of the 
 conditions made by the Agency — a hard one. I am to see 
 no relations. My wife — vf ell, bonDieic ! it does not matter 
 much. She is occupied in keeping herself warm, no doubt. 
 But Catrina ! that is a different matter. Tell me^iow is 
 she ? That is the first thing I want to know.' 
 
 ' She is well,' answered Steinmetz. ' I saw her yester- 
 day.'
 
 158 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' And liappy ? ' The broad-faced man looked into 
 Steinmetz's face with considerable keenness. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 It was a moment for mental reservations. One wonders 
 whether such are taken account of in heaven. 
 
 'And Paul?' asked the Count Stepan Lanovitch at 
 once. ' Tell me about him.' 
 
 ' He is married,' answered Steinmetz. 
 
 The Count Lanovitch was looking at the lamp. He 
 continued to look at it as if interested in the mechanism of 
 the burner. Then he turned his eyes to the face of his 
 companion. 
 
 ' I wonder, my fiiend,' he said slowly, ' how much you 
 know.' 
 
 ' Nothing,' answered Steinmetz. 
 
 The Count looked at him inquiringly, heaved a sharp 
 sigh, and abandoned the subject. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' let us get to business. I have much 
 to ask and to tell you. I want you to see Catrina and to 
 tell her that I am safe and well, but she must not 
 attempt to see me or correspond with me for some years 
 yet. Of course you heard no account of my trial. I 
 was convicted, on the evidence of paid witnesses, of incit- 
 ing to rebellion. It was easy enough, of course. I shall 
 live either in the South or in Austria. It is better for you 
 to be in ignorance.' 
 
 Steinmetz nodded his head curtly. 
 
 ' I do not want to know,' he said. 
 
 ' V'lll you please ask Catrina to send me money tnrough 
 the usual channel ? No more than she has been sending. 
 It will suffice for my small wants. Perhaps some day we 
 may meet in Switzerland or in America. Tell the dear 
 child that. Tell her I pray the good God to allow that 
 meeting. As for Russia, her day has not come yet. It 
 will not come in our time, my dear friend. We are only
 
 ON THE NEVA 159 
 
 the sowers. So mncli for the future. Now ahout the past. 
 I have not been idle. I knoAV who stole the papers of the 
 Charity League and sold them. I know who bought them 
 and paid for them.' 
 
 Steinmetz closed the door. He came back to the table. 
 He was not smiling now — quite the contrary. 
 
 ' Tell me,' he said. ' I want to know that badly.' 
 The Count Lanovitch looked up with a peculiar 
 soft smile— acquired in prison. There is no mistak- 
 ing it. 
 
 * Oh, I hear no ill will,' he said. 
 
 ' I do,' answered Steinmetz bluntly. ' \Vho stole the 
 papers from Thors ? ' 
 
 ' Sydney Bamborough ! ' 
 
 ' Good God in heaven ! Is that true ? ' 
 
 'Yes, my friend.' 
 
 Steinmetz passed his broad hand over his forehead as 
 if dazed. 
 
 ' And who sold them ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' His wife.' 
 
 Count Lanovitch was looking at the burner of the lamp. 
 There was a peculiar crushed look about the man, as if he 
 had reached the end of his life, and was lying like a ship, 
 hopelessly disabled in smooth water, Avhere nothing could 
 affect him more. 
 
 Steinmetz scratched his forehead with one finger, 
 reflectively. 
 
 ' Vassili bought them,' he said ; ' I can guess that.' 
 
 * You guess right,' returned Lanovitch quietly. 
 Steinmetz sat down. He looked round as if wondering 
 
 whether the room was very hot. Then with a large hand- 
 kerchief he wiped his brow. 
 
 ' Y''ou have surprised me,' he admitted. ' There are 
 complications. I shall sit up all night with your news, 
 my dear Stepan. Have you details ? Wonderful -won-
 
 160 THE SOWERS 
 
 derful ! Of course there is a God in heaven. How can 
 people doubt it — eh ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' said Stepan Lanovitch quietly. * There is a God 
 in heaven, and at present He is angry with Kussia. Yes, 
 I have details. Sydney Bamborough came to stay at 
 Thors. Of course he knew all about the Charity League 
 ^you remember that. It appears that his wife was waiting 
 for him and the papers at Tver. He took them from my 
 room, but he did not get them all. Had he got them all, 
 you would not be sitting there, my friend. The general 
 scheme he got — the list of committee names, the local 
 agents, the foreign agents. But the complete list of the 
 League he failed to find. He secured the list of subscribers, 
 but learnt nothing from it because the sums were identified 
 by a numeral only, the clue to the numbers being the com- 
 plete list which I burnt when I missed the other papers.' 
 
 Steinmetz nodded curtly. 
 
 'That was wise,' he said. 'You are a clever man, 
 Stepan, but too good for this world and its rascals. Go 
 on.' 
 
 ' It would appear that Bamborough rode to Tver with 
 the papers which he handed to his wife. She took them 
 to Paris while he intended to come back to Thors. He 
 had a certain cheap cunning and unbounded impertinence. 
 But — as you knoAV, perhaps — he disappeared.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Steinmetz, scratching his forehead with one 
 finger. ' Yea — he disappeared.' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz had one great factor of success in this 
 world — an infinite capacity for holding his cards. 
 
 * One more item,' said the Count, in his business-like, 
 calm Avay. ' Vassili paid that woman seven thousand 
 pounds for the papers.' 
 
 ' And probably charged his masters ten,' added Stein- 
 metz. 
 
 ' And now you must go I '
 
 ON THE NEVA 161 
 
 The Count rose and looked at lais watch — a cheap 
 American article with a loud tick. He held it out with his 
 queer washed-out smile, and Steinmetz smiled. 
 
 The two embraced again — and there was nothing funny 
 in the action. It is a singular thing that the sight of two 
 men kissing is conducive either to laughter or to tears. 
 There is no medium emotion. 
 
 * My dear friend — my very dear friend,' said the Count, 
 ' God be with you ahvays. We may meet again — or we 
 may not.' 
 
 Steinmetz walked down the Newski Prospect on the 
 left-hand pavement — no one walks on the other — and the 
 sleigh followed him. He entered a large, brilliantly lighted 
 cafe, and loosened his coat. 
 
 ' Give me beer,' he said to the waiter ; ' a very large 
 quantity of it.' 
 
 The man smiled obsequiously as he set the foaming 
 mug before him. 
 
 ' Is it that his excellency is cold ? ' he inquired. 
 
 ' No, it isn't,' answered Steinmetz. ' Quite the con- 
 trary.' 
 
 He drank the beer, and holding out his hand in the 
 shadow of the table he noticed that it trembled only a 
 httle. 
 
 ' That is better,' he murmured. ' But I must sit here 
 a while longer. I suppose I was upset. That is what 
 they call it — upset ! I have never been like that before. 
 Those lamps in the Prospect ! Gott ! how they jumped 
 up and down ! ' 
 
 He pressed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out the 
 brightness of the room — the glaring gas and brilliant 
 decorations— the shining bottles and the many tables w Inch 
 would not keep still. 
 
 ' Here,' he said to the man, ' give me more beer.' 
 
 Presently he rose, and, getting rather clumsily into his 
 
 M
 
 162 THE SOWEIIS 
 
 sleigb, drove Lack at the usual breakneck pace to the palace 
 at the upper end of the Enghsh Quay, 
 
 He sent an ambiguous message to Paul saying that he 
 had returned and was dressing for dinner. This ceremony 
 he went through slowly, as one dazed by a great fall or a 
 heavy fatigue. His servant, a quick silent man, noticed 
 the strangeness of his manner, and like a wise servant only 
 betrayed the result of his observation by a readier service, 
 a quicker hand, a quieter motion. 
 
 As Steinmetz went to the drawing-room he glanced at 
 his watch. It was twenty minutes past seven. He still 
 bad ten minutes to spare before dinner. 
 
 He opened the drawing-room door. Etta was sitting 
 by the fire, alone. She glanced back over her shoulder in 
 a quick hunted way which had only become apparent to 
 Steinmetz since her arrival at Petersburg. 
 
 * Good evening,' she said. 
 
 ' Good evening, Madame,' he answered. 
 
 He closed the door carefully behind him.
 
 163 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 Dtta did not move -wiien Steinmetz approached, except, 
 indeed, to push one foot farther out towards the warmth of 
 the wood-fire. She certainly was very neatly shod. Stein- 
 metz was one of her few failures. She had never got any 
 nearer to the man. Despite his grey hair and bulky 
 person she argued that he was still a man, and therefore 
 an easy victim to flattery— open to the influence of beauty. 
 
 * I wonder why,' she said, looking into the fire, ' you 
 hate me.' 
 
 Steinmetz looked down at her with his grim smile. 
 The mise en scene was perfect, from the thoughtful droop 
 of the head to the innocent display of slipper. 
 
 ' I wonder why you think that of me,' he replied. 
 
 'One cannot help perceiving that which is obvious.' 
 
 ' While that which is purposely made obvious serves to 
 conceal that which may exist behind it,' rephed the stout 
 man. 
 
 Etta paused to reflect over this. Was Steinmetz going 
 to make love to her ? She was not an inexperienced girl, 
 and knew that there was nothing impossible ©r even im- 
 probable in the thought. She wondered what Karl Stein- 
 metz must have been like when he was a young man. He 
 had a deft way even now of planting a double entente when 
 he took the trouble. How could she know that his manner 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE SOWERS 
 
 was always easiest — his attitude always politest towards 
 the women whom he despised ? In his way this man was a 
 philosopher. He had a theory that an exaggerated polite- 
 ness is an insult to a woman's intellect. 
 
 'You think I^do not care,' said the Princess Howard- 
 Alexis. 
 
 ' You think I do not admire you,' replied Steinmetz 
 imperturbably. 
 
 She looked up at him. 
 
 * Do you not give me every reason to think so ? ' she 
 returned, with a toss of the head. 
 
 She was one of those women — and there are not a few 
 — who will quarrel with you if you do not admire them. 
 
 'Not intentionally, Princess. I am, as you know, a 
 German of no very subtle comprehension. My position in 
 your household appears to me to be a Httle above the ser- 
 vants, although the Prince is kind enough to make a friend 
 of me, and his friends are so good as to do the same. I do 
 not complain. Far from it. I am well paid. I am inter- 
 ested in my work. I am more or less my own master. I 
 am very fond of Paul. You — are kind and forbearing. I 
 do my best — in a clumsy way, no doubt — to spare you my 
 heavy society. But of course I do not presume to form an 
 opinion upon your — upon you.' 
 
 ' But I want you to form an opinion,' she said petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 ' Then you must know that I could only form one 
 which would be pleasing to you.' 
 
 ' I know nothing of the sort,' replied Etta. ' Of course 
 I know that all that you say about position and work is 
 mere irony. Paul thinks there is no one in the world like 
 you.' 
 
 Steinmetz glanced sharply down at her. He had never 
 considered the possibility that she might love Paul. Was 
 this, after, all jealousy ? He had attributed it to vanity.
 
 AN OFFER OF FEIENPSIIIP 165 
 
 ' And I have no doubt he is riglit,' she went on. Sud- 
 denly she gave a httle laugh. 
 
 * Don't you understand '? ' she said. ' I want to be 
 friends.' 
 
 She did not look at him, but sat with pouting lips 
 holding out her hand. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz had been up to the elbows, as it were, 
 in the diplomacy of an unscrupulous, grasping age ever 
 since his college days. He had been behind the scenes in 
 more than one European crisis, and that which goes on 
 behind scenes is not always edifying or conducive to a 
 squeamishness of touch. He was not the man to be 
 mawkishly afraid of soiling his fingers. But the small 
 white hand rather disconcerted him. 
 
 He took it, however, in his great, warm, soft grasp, 
 held it for a moment, and relinquished it. 
 
 ' I don't want you to address all your conversation to 
 Maggie, and to ignore me. Do you think Maggie so very 
 pretty ? ' 
 
 There was a twist beneath the grey moustache as he 
 answered, * Is that all the friendship you desire ? Does it 
 extend no farther than a passing wish to be first in petty 
 rivalries of daily existence ? I am afraid, my dear Princess, 
 that my friendship is a heavier matter — a clumsier thing 
 than that.' 
 
 ' A big thing not easily moved,' she suggested, looking 
 up with her dauntless smile. 
 
 He shrugged his great shoulders. 
 
 ' It may be — who knows ? I hope it is,' he answered. 
 
 ' The worst of those big things is that they are some- 
 times in the way,' said Etta reflectively, without looking 
 at him. 
 
 ' And yet the life that is only a conglomeration of triflea 
 is a poor life to look back upon.' 
 
 ' Meaning mine ? ' she asked.
 
 1G6 THE SOWEES 
 
 ' Your life has not been trilling,' he said gravely. 
 
 She looked up at him, and then for some moments kept 
 silence while she idly opened and shut her fan. There 
 was in the immediate vicinity of Karl Steinmetz a sort of 
 atmosphere of sympathy which had the effect of compelling 
 confidence. Even Etta was affected by it. During the 
 silence recorded she was quelling a sudden desire to say 
 things to this man which she had never said to any. She 
 only succeeded in part. 
 
 ' Do you ever feel an unaccountable sensation of dread,' 
 she asked with a weary little laugh^' a sort of foreboding 
 with nothing definite to forebode ? ' 
 
 * Unaccountable — no,' replied Steinmetz. ' But then I 
 am a German — and stout, which may make a difference. 
 I have no nerves.' 
 
 He looked into the fire through his benevolent gold- 
 rimmed spectacles. 
 
 ' Is it nerves-^or is it Petersburg ? ' she asked abruptly. 
 ' I think it is Petersburg. I hate Petersbiu-g.' 
 
 ' Why Petersburg more than Moscow or Nijni or— 
 Tver ? ' 
 
 She drew in a long slow breath, looking him up and 
 down the while from the corner of her eyes. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she replied collectedly ; ' I think it is 
 damp. These houses are built on reclaimed land, I 
 believe. This was all marsh, was it not ? ' 
 
 He did not answer her questions, and somehow she 
 seemed to expect no reply. He stood blinking down into 
 the fire while she watched him furtively from the corners 
 of her eyes, her lips parched and open, her face quite 
 white. 
 
 A few moments before she had protested that she 
 desired his friendship. She knew now that she could 
 not brave his enmity. And the one word ' Tver ' had 
 olone it all ! The mere mention of a town, obscure
 
 AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP 167 
 
 and squalid, on the upper waters of the mighty Volga in 
 Mid- Russia ! 
 
 During those few moments she suddenly came face to 
 face with her position. ^Yhat had she to offer this man ? 
 She looked him up and down — stout, placid, and impene- 
 trable. Here was no common adventurer seeking place — 
 no coxcomb seeking ladies' favours — no pauper to be 
 bought with gold. She had no means of ascertaining how 
 much he knew, how much he suspected. She had to deal 
 with a man who held the best cards and would not play 
 them. She could never hope to find out whether his 
 knowledge and his suspicions were his alone or had been 
 imparted to others. In her walk through life she had 
 jostled mostly villains ; and a villain is no very dangerous 
 foe, for he fights on slippery ground. Except Paul she 
 had never had to do with a man who was quite honest, 
 upright, and fearless ; and she had fallen into the common 
 error of thinking that all such are necessarily simple, 
 unsuspicious, and a little stupid. 
 
 She breathed hard, living through years of anxiety in a 
 few moments of time, and she could only realise that she 
 was helpless, bound hand and foot in this man's power. 
 
 It was he who spoke first. In the smaller crises of life 
 it is usually the woman who takes this privilege upon 
 herself; but the larger situations need a man's steadier 
 grasp. 
 
 ' My dear lady,' he said, ' if you are content to take my 
 friendship as it is, it is yours. But I warn you it is no 
 showy drawing-room article. There will be no compli- 
 ments, no pretty speeches, no little gifts of flowers, and 
 such temporary amenities. It will all bo very solid and 
 middle aged, like myself.' 
 
 ' You think,' returned the lady, ' that I am fit for 
 nothing better than pretty speeches and compliments and 
 floral offerings ? '
 
 168 THE SOWERS 
 
 She broke off witli a forced little laugh, and awaited 
 his verdict with defiant eyes upraised. He returned the 
 gaze through his placid spectacles ; her beauty, in its 
 setting of brilliant dress and furniture, soft lights, flowers, 
 and a thousand feminine surroundings, failed to dazzle 
 him. 
 
 ' I do,' he said quietly. 
 
 ' And yet you offer me your friendship ? ' 
 
 He bowed in acquiescence. 
 
 ' Why ? ' she asked. 
 . ' For Paul's sake, my dear lady.' 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from 
 him. 
 
 ' Of course,' she said, ' it is quite easy to be rude. As 
 it happens, it is precisely for Paul's sake that I took the 
 trouble of speaking to you on this matter. I do not wish 
 him to be troubled with such small domestic affairs ; and 
 therefore, if we are to live under the same roof, I shall 
 deem it a favour if you will, at all events, conceal your 
 disapproval of me.' 
 
 He bowed gravely and kept silence. Etta sat with a 
 little patch of colour on either cheek, looking into the fire 
 until the dootr was opened and Maggie came in. 
 
 Steinmetz went towards her with his grave smile, while 
 Etta hid a face which had grown haggard. 
 
 Maggie glanced from one to the other with frank 
 interest. The relationship between these two had rather 
 puzzled her of late. 
 
 ' Well,' said Steinmetz, 'and what of St. Petersburg ? ' 
 
 ' I am not disappointed,' replied Maggie. * It is all I 
 expected, and more. I am not hlase'e like Etta. Every- 
 thing interests me.' 
 
 ' We were discussing Petersburg when you came in,' 
 said Steinmetz, drawing forward a chair. ' The Princess 
 does not like it. She complains of— nerves.'
 
 AN OFFER OF FRIENDSHIP 169 
 
 ' Nerves ! ' exclaimed Maggie, turning to her cousin. 
 ' I did not suspect }ou of having them.' 
 
 Etta smiled, a little wearily, 
 
 ' One never knows,' she answered, forcing herself to ba 
 light, ' what one may come to in old age. I saw a grey 
 hair this morning. I am nearly thirty-three, you know. 
 When glamour goes, nerves come.' 
 
 ' Well, I suppose they do — especially in Eussia, perhaps. 
 There is a glamour about Russia, and I mean to cultivate 
 it rather than nerves. There is a glamour about every- 
 thing — the broad streets, the Neva, the snow, and the 
 cold. Especially the people. It is always especially the 
 people, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' It is the people, my dear young lady, that lend interest 
 to the world.' 
 
 ' Paul took me oi:t in a sleigh this morning,' went on 
 Maggie, in her cheerful voice that knew no harm. ' I 
 liked everything^the policemen in their little boxes at the 
 street corners, the officers in their fur coats, the cabmen, 
 everybody. There is something so mysterious about them 
 all. One can easily make up stories about everybody one 
 meets in Petersburg. It is so easy to think that they are 
 not what they seem. Paul, Etta, even you, Herr Steinmetz, 
 may not be what you seem.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is so,' answered Steinmetz, with a laugh. 
 
 ' You may be a Nihilist,' pursued Maggie. ' Y''ou may 
 have bombs concealed up your sleeves ; you may exchange 
 mysterious passwords with people in the streets ; you may 
 be much less innocent than you appear.' 
 
 ' All that may be so,' he admitted. 
 
 ' I'ou may have a revolver in the pocket of your dress- 
 coat,' went on Maggie, pointing to the voluminous garment 
 with her fan. 
 
 His hand went to the pocket in question, and produced 
 exactly what she had suggested. He held out his hand
 
 170 THE eowriis 
 
 with a small silver- mounted revolver lying in the palm 
 of it. 
 
 ' Even that,' lie said, ' may be so.' 
 
 Maggie looked at it with a sudden curiosity, her bright 
 eyes grave. 
 
 ' Loaded ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Then I will not examine it. How curious ! I wonder 
 how near to the mark I may have been in other ways.' 
 
 'I wonder,' said Steinmetz, looking at Etta. 'And 
 now tell us something about the Princess. Of what do 
 you suspect her ? ' 
 
 At this moment Paul came into the room. 
 
 ' Miss Delafield,' pursued Steinmetz, turning to the 
 newcomer, ' is telling us her suspicions about ourselves. I 
 am already as good as condemned to Siberia. She is now 
 about to sit in judgment on the Princess.' 
 
 Maggie laughed, 
 
 ' Herr Steinmetz has pleaded guilty to the worst 
 accusation,' she said. ' On the other counts I leave him 
 to his own conscience.' 
 
 ' Anything but that,' urged Steinmetz. 
 
 Paul came forward, and Maggie rather obviously 
 avoided looking at him. 
 
 ' Tell us of Paul's crimes first,' said Etta, rather 
 hurriedly. She glanced at the clock, whither Karl Stein- 
 metz's eyes had also travelled. 
 
 ' Oh, Paul,' said Maggie, rather indifferently. Indeed, 
 it seemed as if her lightness of heart had suddenly failed 
 her. ' Well, perhaps he is deeply involved in schemes for 
 the resurrection of the Polish kingdom, or something of 
 that sort.' 
 
 • That sounds tame,' put in Steinmetz. ' I think you 
 would construct a better romance respecting the Princess.
 
 AN OFFER OF FRiENDSniP 171 
 
 In books it is always the beautiful princesses who are most 
 deeply dyed in crime.' 
 
 Maggie opened her fan and closed it again. 
 
 ' Well,' she said, tapping on the arm of her chair with 
 it, ' I give Etta a mysterious past. She is the sort of 
 person who would laugh and dance at a ball with the know- 
 ledge that there was a mine beneath the floor,' 
 
 ' I do not think I am,' said Etta, with a shudder. She 
 rose rather hurriedly, and crossed the room with a great 
 rustle of silks. 
 
 * Stop her ! ' she whispered, as she passed Steinmetz.
 
 K^ THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 A SUSPECTED HOUSE 
 
 The Countess Lanovitch and Catrina were sitting together 
 in the too luxurious drawing-room that overlooked the 
 English Quay and the Neva. The double windows were 
 rigorously closed, while the inner panes were covered with 
 a thick rime. The sun was just setting over the marshes 
 that border the upper waters of the Gulf of Finland, and lit 
 up the snow-clad city with a rosy glow which penetrated 
 to the room where the two women sat. 
 
 Catrina was restless, moving from chair to chair, from 
 fireplace to window, with a lack of repose which would 
 certainly have touched the nerves of a less lethargic person 
 than the Countess. 
 
 ' My dear child ! ' that lady was exclaiming with 
 lackadaisical horror, ' we cannot go to Thors yet. The 
 thought is too horrible. You never think of my health. 
 Besides, the gloom of the everlasting snow is too painful. 
 It makes me think of your poor mistaken father, who is 
 probably shovelling it in Siberia. Here, at all events, one 
 can avoid the window — one need not look at it.' 
 
 ' The policy of shutting one's eyes is a mistake,' said 
 Catrina. 
 
 She had risen, and was standing by the window, her 
 form being framed, as it were, in a rosy glow of pink. 
 
 The Countess heaved a little sigh and gazed idly at the 
 fire. She did not understand Catrina. She was afraid of
 
 A SUSPECTED HOUSE 173 
 
 her. There was something rugged and dogged which the 
 girl had inherited from her father — that Slavonic love of 
 pain for its own sake — which makes Russian patriots and 
 thinkers strange, incomprehensible beings. 
 
 'I question it, Catrina,' said the elder lady; 'but 
 perhaps it is a matter of health. Dr. Stantovitch told me, 
 quite between ourselves, that if I had given way to my 
 grief at the time of the trial ho would not have held him- 
 self responsible for the consequences.' 
 
 ' Dr. Stantovitch,' said Catrina, ' is a humbug.' 
 
 * My dear child ! ' exclaimed the Countess, ' he attends 
 all the noble ladies of Petersburg.' 
 
 * Precisely,' answered Catrina. 
 
 She was woman enough to enter into futile arguments 
 with her mother, and man enough to despise herself for 
 doing it. 
 
 ' Why do you want to go back to Thors so soon ? ' 
 murmured the elder lady, with a little sigh of despair. She 
 knew she was playing a losing game very badly. She was 
 mentally shuddering at the recollection of former sleigh- 
 journeying from Tver to Thors. 
 
 ' Because I am sure father would like us to be there this 
 hard winter.' 
 
 * But your father is in Siberia,' put in the Countess, 
 which remark was ignored. 
 
 ' Because if we do not go before the snow begins to 
 melt we shall have to do the journey in carriages over bad 
 roads, which is sure to knock you up. Because our place 
 is at Thors, and no one wants us here. I hate Petersburg. 
 It is no use living here unless one is rich and beautiful and 
 popular. We are none of those things, so we are better at 
 Thors.' 
 
 ' But we have many nice friends here, dear. You will 
 see, this afternoon. I expect quite a reception. By the 
 way, I hope Kupfer has sent the little cakes. Your father
 
 Hi THE SOWERS 
 
 used to be so fond of them. I wonder if wc could send 
 bim a box to Siberia. Ho would enjoy tliem, poor man ! 
 He miglit give sonie to tbc prison people, and tbus obtain 
 a little alleviation. Yes ; the Comte de Cbauxville said be 
 would come on my first reception-day, and, of course, Paul 
 and bis wife must return my call. Tbey will come to-day. 
 I am anxious to see her. They say she is beautiful and 
 dresses well.' 
 
 Catrina's broad white teeth gleamed for a moment in 
 the flickering firelight, as she clenched them over her lower 
 bp. 
 
 ' And therefore Paul's happiness in life is assured,' she 
 said, in a hard voice. 
 
 ' Of course. What more could he want ? ' murmured 
 the Countess, in blissful ignorance of any irony. 
 
 Catrina looked at her mother with a gleam of utter 
 contempt in her eyes. That is one of the privileges of a 
 great love, whether it bring happiness or misery — the 
 contempt for all who have never known its like. 
 
 While they remained thus, the sound of sleigh-bells on 
 the quiet English Quay made itself heard through the 
 double windows. There was a clang of many tones, and 
 the horses pulled up with a jerk. The colour left Catrina's 
 face quite suddenly, as if wiped away, leaving her ghastly. 
 She was going to see Paul and his wife. 
 
 Presently the door opened, and Etta came mto the 
 room with the indomitable assurance which characterised 
 her movements and earned for her a host of feminine 
 enemies. 
 
 ' Madame la Comtesse,' she said, with her most gracious 
 smile, taking the limp hand offered to her by the Countess 
 Lanovitch. 
 
 Catrina stood in the embrasure of the window, hating 
 her. 
 
 Paul followed on his wife's heels, scarcely concealing
 
 A SUSrECTEi) HOUSE 175 
 
 his boredom. He was not a society nian. Catrina came 
 forward and exclianged a formal bow with Etta, who took 
 in her plainness and the faults of her dress at one glance. 
 She smiled with the perfect pity of a good figure for uo 
 figure at all. Paul was shaking hands with the Countess. 
 When he took Ca'^rina's hand her fingers were icy, and 
 twitched nervously within his grasp. 
 
 The Countess was already babbling to Etta in French. 
 The Princess Iloward-Alexis always began by informing 
 Paul's friends that she knew no Eussian. For a moment 
 Paul and Catrina were left, as it were, alone. When the 
 Countess was once fairly roused from her chronic lethargy, 
 her voice usually acquired a metallic ring which dominated 
 any other conversation that might be going on in the 
 room. 
 
 ' I wish you happiness,' said Catrina, and no one heard 
 her but Paul. She did not raise her eyes to his, but looked 
 vaguely at his collar. Her voice was short and rather 
 breathless, as if she had just emerged from deep water. 
 
 * Thank you,' answered Paul simply. 
 
 He turned and somewhat naturally looked at his wife. 
 Catrina's thoughts followed his. A man is at a disadvan- 
 tage in the presence of the woman who loves him. She 
 usually sees through him — a marked difference between 
 masculine and feminine love. Catrina looked up sharply 
 and caught his eyes resting on Etta. 
 
 * He does not love her — he does not love her,' was the 
 thought that instantly leapt into her brain. 
 
 And if she had said it to him he would have contra- 
 dicted her flatly and honestly, and in vain, 
 
 ' Yes,' the Countess was saying with lazy volubility ; 
 * Paul is one of our oldest friends. We are neighbours in 
 the country, you know. He has always been in and out of 
 our house like one of the family. My poor husband was 
 very fond of him.'
 
 176 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Is your husband dead, then ? ' asked Etta in a low 
 voice, with a strange haste. 
 
 ' No ; he is only in Siberia. You have perhaps heard 
 of his misfortune — Count Stepan Lanovitch.' 
 
 Etta nodded her head with the deepest sympathy. 
 
 ' I feel for you, Countess,' she said. ' And yet you are 
 so brave — and Mademoiselle,' she said, turning to Catrina. 
 ' I hope we shall see more of each other in Tver.' 
 
 Catrina bowed jerkily and made no reply. Etta glanced 
 at her sharply. Perhaps she saw more than Catrina 
 knew. 
 
 ' I suppose,' she said to the Countess, with that inclu- 
 sive manner which spreads the conversation out, ' that Paul 
 and Mademoiselle de Lanovitch were playmates ? ' 
 
 The reply lay with either of the ladies, but Catrina 
 turned away. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the Countess ; ' but Catrina is only 
 twenty-four — ten years younger than Paul.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' with a faint, cutting surprise. 
 
 Indeed, Etta looked younger than Catrina. On a Vdge 
 de son cceur, and if the heart be worn it transmits its 
 weariness to the face, where such signs are ascribed to 
 years. So the little stab was justified by Catrina's appear- 
 ance. 
 
 While the party assembled were thus exchanging social 
 amenities, a past master in such commerce joined them in 
 the person of Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 He smiled his mechanical, heartless smile upon them 
 all, but when he bowed over Etta's hand his face was grave. 
 He expressed no surprise at seeing Paul and Etta, though 
 his manner betokened that emotion. There was no sign 
 of this meeting having been a prearranged matter, brought 
 about by himself through the easy and innocent instru- 
 mentality of the Countess.
 
 A SUSPECTED HOUSE 1"7 
 
 ' And you are going to Tver, no doubt ? ' he said almost 
 at once to Etta. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered that lady, with a momentary hunted 
 look in her eyes. It is strange how an obscure geographical 
 name may force its way into our lives, never to be forgotten. 
 Queen Mary of England struck a note of the human octave 
 when she protested that the word ' Calais ' was graven on 
 her heart. It seemed to Etta that ' Tver ' was written 
 large wheresoever she turned, for the conscience looks 
 through a glass and sees whatever may be written thereon 
 overspreading every prospect. 
 
 ' The Prince,' continued De Chauxville, turning to Paul, 
 'is a great sportsman, I am told — a mighty hunter. I 
 wonder why Englishmen always want to kill some- 
 thing.' 
 
 Paul smiled without making an immediate answer. He 
 was not the man to be led into the danger of repartee by 
 such as De Chauxville. 
 
 ' We have a few bears left,' he said. 
 
 ' You are fortunate,' protested De Chauxville. ' I e^hot 
 one when I was younger. I was immensely afraid, and so 
 was the bear. I have a great desire to try again.' 
 
 Etta glanced at Paul, who returned De Chauxville's 
 bland gaze with all the imperturbability of a prince. 
 
 The Countess's cackling voice broke in at this juncture, 
 as perhaps De Chauxville had intended it to do. 
 
 ' Then why not come and shoot ours ? ' she said. ' We 
 have quite a number of them in the forests at Thors.' 
 
 ' Ah, Madame la Comtesse,' he answered, with out- 
 spread, deprecatory hands, ' but that would be taking too 
 great an advantage of your hospitality and your well-known 
 kindness.' 
 
 He turned to Catrina, who received him with a half- 
 concealed frown. The Countess bridled and looked at her
 
 178 THE SOWERS 
 
 daughter with obvious maternal meaning, as one who was 
 saying, ' There — you bungled your prince, but I have pro- 
 cured you a baron.' 
 
 ' The abuse of hospitality is the last refuge of the 
 needy,' continued De Chauxville oracularly. ' But my 
 temptation is strong ; shall I yield to it, Mademoiselle ? ' 
 
 Catrina smiled unwillingly. 
 
 ' I would rather leave it to your own conscience,' she 
 said. ' But I fail to see the danger you anticipate.' 
 
 * Then I accept, Madame,' said De Chauxville, with 
 the engaging ^-ankness which ever had a false ring 
 in it. 
 
 If the whole affair had been prearranged in Claude de 
 Chauxville's mind, it certainly succeeded more fully than 
 is usually the case with human schemes. If, on the 
 other hand, this invitation was the result of chance. 
 Fortune had favoured Claude de Chauxville beyond his 
 deserts. 
 
 The little scene had played itself out before the eyes 
 of Paul, who did not want it ; of Etta, who desired it ; 
 and of Catrina, who did not exactly know what she wanted, 
 with the precision of a stage-play carefully rehearsed. 
 
 Claude de Chauxville had unscrupulously made use of 
 feminine vanity with all his skill. A little glance towards 
 Etta as he accepted the invitation conveyed to her the fact 
 that she was the object of his clever little plot, that it was 
 in order to be near her that he had forced the Countess 
 Lanovitch to invite him to Thors ; and Etta, with all her 
 shrewdness, was promptly hoodwinked. Vanity is a handi- 
 cap assigned to clever women by Fate, who handicaps us 
 all without appeal. De Chauxville saw by a little flicker 
 of the eyelids that he had not missed his mark. He had 
 hit Etta where his knowledge of her told hira she was un- 
 usually vulnerable. He had made one ally. The Countess 
 he looked upon with a wise contempt. She was easier
 
 A SUSPECTED HOUSE 179 
 
 game than Etta. Catrina he understood vvell enough. Her 
 rugged simplicity had betrayed her secret to him bei'ore 
 he had been five minutes in the room. Paul he despised 
 as a man lacking finesse and esprit — a truly French form 
 of contempt. For Frenchmen have yet to learn that such 
 ,qualities have remarkably little to do with love. 
 ' Claude de Chauxville was one of those men — alas ! too 
 many— who owe their success in life almost entirely to 
 some feminine influence or another. "NYhAiever he came 
 into direct opposition to men it was his instinct to retire 
 from the field. Behind Paul's back he despised him ; before 
 his face he cringed. 
 
 ' Then perhaps,' he said, when the Princess was en- 
 gaged in the usual farewells with the Countess, and Paul 
 was moving towards the door — ' then perhaps, Prince, we 
 may meet again before the spring — if the Countess intends 
 her invitation to be taken seriously.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul ; ' I often shoot at Thors.' 
 
 ' If you do not happen to come over, perhaps I may be 
 allowed to call and pay my respects — or is the distance too 
 great ? ' 
 
 * You can do it in an hour and a half with a quick horse, 
 if the snow is good,' answered Paul. 
 
 ' Then I may make it an revoir? ' inquired De Chaux- 
 ville, holding out a frank hand. 
 
 ' An revoir,' said Paul, ' if you wish it.' 
 
 And he turned to say good bye to Catrina. 
 
 As De Chauxville had arrived later than the other 
 visitors, it was quite natural that he should remain after 
 they had left, and it may be safely presumed that he took 
 good care to pin the Countess Lanovitch down to her rash 
 invitation. 
 
 ' Why is that man coming to Tver ? ' said Paul, rather 
 gruftly, when Etta and he were settled beneath the furs of 
 the sleigh. ' We do not want him there.' 
 
 k2
 
 180 THE SOWEES 
 
 ' I expect,' replied Etta railicr peliilantly, ' that we shall 
 be so horribly dull that even Monsieur de Chauxville will 
 be a welcome alleviation.' 
 
 Paul said nothing. He gave a little sign to the driver, 
 and the horses leapt forward with a musical clash of their 
 silver bells.
 
 181 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 
 
 It Is to be feared that there is a lack of local colour in the 
 present narrative. Having safely arrived at Petersburg, 
 we have nothing to tell of that romantic city — no hints at 
 deep-laid plots, no prison, nor tales of jail-birds — tales with 
 salt on them hicn cntcndu — the usual grain. We have 
 hardly mentioned the Newski Prospect, which street by 
 ancient right must needs figure in all Russian romance. "We 
 have instead been prating of drawing-rooms and mere inte- 
 riors of houses, which to-day are the same all the world 
 over. A Japanese fan is but a Japanese fan, whether it 
 hang on the wall of a Canadian drawing-room or the mat- 
 ting of an Indian bungalow. An Afghan carpet is the same 
 on any floor. It is the foot that treads the carpet which 
 makes one to differ from another. 
 
 Maggie was alone in the great drawing-room of the 
 house at the end of the English Quay — alone and grave. 
 Some people, be it noted, are gravest when alone, and they 
 are wise, for the world has too much gravity for us to go 
 about it with a long face, making matters worse. Each 
 should be the centre of his own gravity. Maggie Delafield 
 had, perhaps, that spark in the brain for which we have 
 but an ugly word. We call it ' pluck.' And by it some are 
 enabled to win a losing game — and, harder still, to lose a 
 losing game— without much noise or plaint. 
 
 What ever this girl's joys or sorrows may have been-^
 
 182 THE SOWERS 
 
 and no man ever knows his neighbour's heart — she suc- 
 ceeded as well as any in concealing both. There are some 
 women who tell one just enough about themselves to prove 
 that they can understand and syiipathise. Maggie was of 
 these ; but she told no more. 
 
 She was alone when Paul came into the room. It was 
 a large room, with more than one fireplace. Maggie was 
 reading, and she did not look round. Paul stopped— 
 warming himself by the fire nearest to the door. He was 
 the sort of man to come into a room without any remark. 
 
 Maggie looked up for a moment, glancing at the wood- 
 fire. She seemed to know for certain that it was Paul. 
 
 ' Have you been out ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes — calling.' 
 
 He came towards her, standing beside her with his 
 hands clasped behind his back, looking into the fire. 
 
 ' Socially,' he said with a smile, ' I am not a success.' 
 
 Her book dropped upon her knees, her two hands crossed 
 upon its pages. She stared at the glowing logs as if his 
 thoughts were written there. There was a little smile on 
 her face, not caused by his grave humour. It would appear 
 that she was smiling at something beyond that — something 
 only visible to her own mental vision. 
 
 ' Perhaps you do not try,' she suggested practically. 
 
 ' Oh yes, I do. I try in several languages. I have no 
 small-talk.' 
 
 ' You see,' she said gravely, ' you are a large man.' 
 
 ' Does that make any difference ? ' he asked simply. 
 
 She turned and looked at him as he towered by her side 
 — looked at him with a queer smile. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, ' I tbink so.' 
 
 For some moments they remained thus without speaking 
 ■ — in a peaceful silence. Although the room was very large, 
 it was peaceful. ^Yhat is it, by the way, that brings peace 
 to the atmosphere of a room, of a wbob house sometimes ?
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 183 
 
 It can only be something in the individuahty of some person 
 in it. We talk glibly of the comfort of being settled — the 
 peacefulness, the restfulness of it. Some people, it would 
 appear, are always settled — of settled convictions, settled 
 mind, settled pmioose. Paul Howard-Alexis was perhaps 
 such a person. 
 
 At all events, the girl sitting in the low chair by his 
 side seemed to be under some such influence, seemed to 
 have escaped the unrest which is said to live in palaces. 
 
 When she spoke it was with a quiet voice, as of one 
 having plenty of time and leisure, 
 
 ' Where have you been ? ' she asked practically. Maggie 
 was always practical. 
 
 ' To the Lanovitch's, where we met the Baron de 
 Chauxville.' 
 
 'Ah I' 
 
 ' Why— ah ? ' 
 
 * Because I dislike the Baron de Chauxville,' answered 
 Maggie in her decisive way. 
 
 ' I am glad of that — because I hate him ! ' said Paul, 
 * Have you any reason for your dislike ? ' 
 
 Miss Delafield had a reason, but it was not one that 
 she could mention to Paul. So she gracefully skirted the 
 question. 
 
 ' He has the same effect upon me as snails,' she explained 
 airily. 
 
 Then, as if to salve her conscience, she gave the reason, 
 but disguised, so that he did not recognise it, 
 
 ' I have seen more of M. de Chauxville than you have,' 
 she said gravely, ' He is one of those men of whom women 
 do see more. When men are present he loses confidence, 
 like a cur when a thoroughbred terrier is about. He dis- 
 Ukes you. I should take care to give M, de Chauxville a 
 wide berth if I were you, Paul,' 
 
 He had risen, after glancing at the clock. She turned
 
 184 THE SOWERS 
 
 down tlio page of her book, and, looking up suddenly, mot 
 his eyes, for a moment only. 
 
 ' We are not likely to drop into 8. close friendship,' said 
 Paul. ' But— he is coming io Thors — twenty miles from 
 Osterno.' 
 
 There was a momentary look of anxiety in the girl's eyes 
 which she turned away to hide. 
 
 ' I am sorry for that,' she said. ' Does Herr Steinmetz 
 know it ? ' 
 
 ' Not yet.' 
 
 Maggie paused for a moment. She was tracing with 
 the tip of her finger a pattern stamped on the binding of 
 the book. It would seem that she had something more to 
 say. Then suddenly she went away without saying it. 
 
 In the meantime Claude de Chauxville had gently led 
 the Countess Lanovitch to invite him to stay to dinner. 
 He accepted the invitation with becoming reluctance and 
 returned to the Hotel de Berlin, where he was staying, in 
 order to dress. He was fully alive to the expediency of 
 striking while the iron is hot — more especially where women 
 are concerned. Moreover, his knowledge of the Countess 
 led him to fear that she Avould soon tire of his society. 
 This lady had a lamentable facility for getting to the bottom 
 of her friends' powers of entertainment within a few days. 
 It was De Chauxville's intention to make secure his in- 
 vitation to Thors, and then to absent himself from the 
 Countess. 
 
 At dinner he made himself vastly agreeable, recounting 
 many anecdotes fresh from Paris, which duly amused the 
 Countess Lanovitch, and somewhat shocked Catrina, who 
 was not advanced or inclined to advance. 
 
 After dinner the guest asked Mademoiselle Catrina to 
 play. He opened the grand piano in the inner drawing- 
 room with such gallantry and effusion that the sanguine 
 Countess, post-prandially somnolescent in her luxurious
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 185 
 
 cfiair, began rehearsing different modes of mentioning her 
 son-in-law, the Baron, 
 
 * Yes,' she muttered to herself, ' and Catrina is plain 
 — terribly plain.' 
 
 Thereupon she fell asleep. 
 
 De Chauxville had a good memory, and was, moreover, 
 a good and capable liar. So Catrina did not find out that 
 he knew nothing whatever of music. He watched the plain 
 face as the music rose and fell, himself impervious to its 
 transcendent tones. With practised cunning he waited 
 until Catrina was almost intoxicated with music — an in- 
 toxication to which all great musicians are liable. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said. ' I envy you your power. ^Yith music 
 like that one can almost imagine that life is what one 
 would wish it to be.' 
 
 She did not answer, but she wandered off into another 
 air— a slumber-song. 
 
 ' The Schlummerlied,' said De Chauxville softly. ' It 
 almost has the power to send a sorrow to sleep.' 
 
 This time she answered him — possibly because he had 
 not looked at her. 
 
 * Such never sleep,' she said. 
 
 ' Do you know that too '? ' he asked, not in a tone that 
 wanted reply. 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' he went on. ' For me it is different. I 
 am a man. I have man's work to do. I can occupy my- 
 self with ambition. At all events, I have a man's privilege 
 of nursing revenge.' 
 
 He saw her eyes light up, her breast heave with a 
 sudden sigh. Something like a smile wavered for a moment 
 beneath his waxed moustache. 
 
 Catrina's fingers, supple and strong, struck in great 
 chords the air of a gloomy march from the half- forgotten 
 muse of some monastic composer. While she played,
 
 186 THE SO^YERS 
 
 Claude de Chauxville proceeded with his dehV-ate touch to 
 play on the hidden chords of an untamed heart. 
 
 ' A man's privilege,' he repeated musingly. 
 
 ' Need it be such ? ' she asked. 
 
 For the first time his eyes met hers. 
 
 ' Not necessarily,' he answered, and her eyes dropped, 
 before his narrow gaze. 
 
 He sat hack in his chair, content for the moment with 
 the progress he had made. He glanced at the Countess. 
 He was too experienced a man to be tricked. The Countess 
 was really asleep. Her cap was on one side, her mouth 
 open. A woman who is pretending to sleep usually does 
 so in becoming attitudes. 
 
 De Chauxville did not speak again for some minutes. 
 He sat back in his chair, leaning his forehead on his hand, 
 while he peeped through his slim fingers. He could almost 
 read the girl's thoughts as she put them into music. 
 
 * She does not hate him yet,' he was reflecting. ' But 
 she needs only to see him with Etta a few times and she 
 will come to it.' 
 
 The girl played on, throwing all the pain in her 
 passionate, untamed heart into the music. She knew 
 nothing of the world ; for half of its temptations, its wiles, 
 its wickednesses were closed to her by the plain face that 
 God had given her. It is beautiful Avomen who see the 
 worst side of human nature — they usually deal with the 
 worst of men. Catrina was an easy tool in the hands of 
 such as Claude de Chauxville ; for he had dealt with 
 women and that which is evil in women all his life, and 
 the only mistakes he ever made were those characteristic 
 errors of omission attaching to a persistent ignorance of 
 the innate good in human nature. It is this same innate 
 good that upsets the calculations of most villains. 
 
 Absorbed as she was in her great grief, Catrina was in 
 no mood to seek for motives — to split a moral straw. She
 
 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 187 
 
 only knew that tins man seemed to understand her as no 
 one had ever understood her. She was content with the 
 knowledge that he took the trouhle to express and to show 
 a sympathy of which those around her had not suspected 
 her to be in need. 
 
 The moment had been propitious, and Claude de 
 Chauxville, with true Gallic insight, had seized it. Her 
 heart was sore and lonely — almost breaking — and she was 
 without the worldly wisdom which tells us that such hearts 
 must, at all costs, be hidden from the world. She was 
 without religious teaching — quite without that higher moral 
 teaching which is of no one creed or conformity, which is 
 only learnt at a good mother's knee. Catrina had not had 
 a good mother. She had had the Countess— a weak-minded, 
 self-indulgent woman. Heaven protect our children from 
 such mothers ! 
 
 In the solitude of her life Catrina Lanovitch had con- 
 ceived a great love— a passion such as a few only are 
 capable of attaining, be it for their weal or woe. She had 
 seen this love ignored — walked under foot by its object 
 with a grave deliberation which took her breath away when 
 she thought of it. It was all in all to her ; to him it was 
 nothing. Her philosophy was simple. She could not sit 
 still and endure. At this time it seemed unbearable. She 
 must turn and rend some one. She did not know whom. 
 But some one must suffer. It was in this that Claude de 
 Chauxville proposed to assist her. 
 
 ' It is preposterous that people should make others 
 suffer and go unpunished,' he said, intent on his noble 
 purpose. 
 
 Catrina's eyelids flickered, but she made no answer. 
 The soreness of her heart had not taken the form of a 
 definite revenge as yet. Her love for Paul was still love, 
 but it was perilously near to hatred. She had not reached 
 the point of wishing definitely that he should suffer, but
 
 1188 THE SOWEES 
 
 the sight of Etta — beautiful, self-confident, carelessly pos- 
 sessive in respect to Paul — had brought her within measur- 
 able distance of it, 
 
 ' The arrogance of those who have all that they desire 
 is insupportable,' the Frenchman went on in his favourite, 
 non-committing, epigrammatic way. 
 
 Catrina— a second Eve — glanced at him, and her silence 
 gave him permission to go on. 
 
 ' Some men have a different code of honour for women 
 who are helpless.' 
 
 Catrina knew vaguely that unless a woman is beloved 
 by the object of her displeasure, she cannot easily make 
 him suffer. 
 
 She clenched tier teeth over her lower lip. As she 
 played, a new light was dawning in her eyes. The music 
 was a marvel, but no one in the room heard it. 
 
 ' I would be pitiless to all such men,' said De Chauxville. 
 ' They deserve no pity, for they have shown none. The 
 man who deceives a woman is worthy of ' 
 
 He never finished the sentence. Her deep, passionate 
 eyes met his. Her hands came down with one final crash 
 on the chords. She rose and crossed the room. 
 
 ' Mother,' she said, ' shall I ring for tea ? ' 
 
 When the Countess awoke, De Chauxville was turning 
 over some sheets of music at the piano.
 
 189 
 
 CIIArTER XXIII 
 
 A WINTER SCENE 
 
 Between Petersburg and the sea there are several favourite, 
 islands more or loss assigned to the foreigners residing in 
 the Eussian capital. Here the English live, and in summer 
 the famihar cries of the tennis-lawn may be heard, while 
 in winter snow-shoeing, skating, and tobogganing hold 
 merry sway. 
 
 It was here, namely on the island of Christefisky, that 
 a great ice fete was held on the day preceding the departure 
 of the Howard- Alexis household for Tver. The fete was 
 given by one of the foreign ambassadors, a gentleman whose 
 wife was accredited to the first place in Petersburg society. 
 It was absolutely necessary, Steinmctz averred, for the 
 whole Howard- Alexis party to put in an appearance. 
 
 The fete was supposed to begin at four in the afternoon, 
 and by five o'clock all St. Petersburg — all, c'est a dire, 
 worthy of mention in that aristocratic city — had arrived. 
 One may be sure Claude de Chauxville arrived early, in 
 beautiful furs, with a pair of silver-plated skates under his 
 arm. He was an influential member of the Cercle des 
 Patineurs in Paris. Steinmetz arrived soon after, to look 
 on, as he told his many friends. He was, he averred, too 
 stout to skate and too heavy for the little iron sleds on the 
 ice-hills. 
 
 ' No, no ! ' he said, ' there is nothing left for me but to
 
 190 TUE SOWERS 
 
 watch. I shall watch De Chauxville,' he added, turning 
 to that graceful skater with a grifn smile. De Chauxville 
 nodded and laughed. 
 
 ' You have been doing that any time these twenty years, 
 mon ami,' he said, as he stood upright on his skates and 
 described an easy little figure on the outside edge back- 
 wards. 
 
 ' And have always found you on slippery ground.' 
 
 ' And never a fall,' said De Chauxville over his shoulder, 
 as he shot away across the brilliantly lighted pond. 
 
 It was quite dark. A young moon was rising over the 
 city, throwing out in dark relief against the sky a hundred 
 steeples and domes. The long, thin spire of the Fortress 
 Church — the tomb of the Romanoffs— shot up into the 
 heavens like a spear. Near at hand, a thousand electric 
 lights and coloured lanterns, cunningly swung on the 
 branches of the pines, made a veritable fairyland. The 
 ceaseless song of the skates, on ice as hard as iron, mingled 
 with the strains of a band playing in a kiosk with open 
 windows. From the ice-hills came the swishing scream of 
 the iron runners down the terrific slope. The Russians 
 are a people of great emotions. There is a candour in their 
 recognition of the needs of the senses which does not 
 obtain in our self-conscious nature. 
 
 These strangely constituted people of the North — a 
 budding nation, a nation which shall some day overrun 
 the world— are easily intoxicated. And there is a delibera- 
 tion about their methods of seeking this enjoyment which 
 appears at times almost brutal. There is nothing more 
 characteristic than the ice-hi'l. 
 
 Imagine a slope as steep as a roof, paved with solid 
 blocks of ice, which are subsequently frozen together by 
 flooding with water ; imagine a sledge with steel runners 
 polished like a knife ; imagine a thousand lights on either 
 side of this glittering path, and you have some idea of an
 
 A. WINTER SCENE 191 
 
 ice-hill. It is certainly the strongest form of excitement 
 imaginable — next, perhaps, to whale-fishing. 
 
 There is no question of breathing, once the sledge has 
 been started by the attendant. The sensation is some- 
 what suggestive of a fall from a balloon, and yet one goes 
 to the top again, as surely as the drunkard will return to 
 his bottle. Fox-hunting is child's play to it, and yet 
 grave men have prayed that they might die in pink. 
 
 Steinmetz was standing at the foot of the ice-hill when 
 an arm was slipped within his. 
 
 ' Will you take me down ? ' asked Maggie Delafield. 
 
 He turned and smiled at her — fresh and blooming in 
 her furs. 
 
 ' No, my dear young lady. But thank you for sug- 
 gesting it.' 
 
 * Is it very dangerous ? ' 
 
 ' Very. But I think you ought to try it. It is a 
 revelation. It is an epoch in your life. When I was a 
 younger man I used to sneak away to an ice-hill where I 
 was not known, and spend hours of the keenest enjoyment. 
 Where is Paul ? ' 
 
 * He has just gone over there with Etta.' 
 ' She refuses to go ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Maggie. 
 
 Steinmetz looked down at his companion with his 
 smile of quiet resignation. 
 
 ' You tell me you are afraid of mice,' he said. 
 
 'I hate mice,' she rephed. 'Yes— I suppose I am 
 afraid of them.' 
 
 'The Princess is not afraid of rats— she is afraid of 
 very little, the Princess, and yet she will not go on the 
 ice-hill. What strange creatures. Mademoiselle ! Come, 
 let us look for Paul. He is the only man who may be 
 trusted to take you down.' 
 
 They found Paul and Etta together in one of the
 
 192 THE SOWERS 
 
 brilliantly lighted kiosks where refreshments were heing 
 served, all hot and steaming, by fur-clad servants. It was 
 a singular scene. If a coffee-cup was left for a few 
 moments on the table by the watchful servitors, the spoon 
 froze to the saucer. The refreshments — bread and butter, 
 dainty sandwiches of caviare, of i)dte de foie gras, of a 
 thousand Delicatessen from Berlin and Petersburg — were 
 kept from freezing on hot-water dishes. The whole scena 
 was typical of life in the northern capital, where wealth 
 wages a successful fight against climate. Open fires 
 burned brilliantly in iron tripods within the doorway of 
 the tent, and at intervals in the gardens. In a large hall 
 a string band consoled those whose years or lungs would 
 not permit of the more vigorous outdoor entertainments. 
 
 Steinmetz made known to Paul Maggie's desire to risk 
 her life on the ice-hills, and gallantly proposed to take 
 care of the Princess until his return. 
 
 ' Then,' said Etta gaily, ' you must skate. It is much 
 too cold to stand about. They are going to dance a 
 cotillon.' 
 
 ' If it is your command, Princess, I obey with alacrity.' 
 
 Etta spoke rapidly, looking round her all the while 
 with the bright enjoyment which overspreads the faces of 
 some women at almost any formof entertainment, provided 
 there be music, brilliant lights, and a crowd of people. 
 Etta's eyes gleamed with excitement. She was beautifully 
 dressed in furs, which adornment she was tall and stately 
 enough to carry to full advantage. She held her graceful 
 head with regal hauteur, every inch a princess. She was 
 enjoying her keenest pleasure — a social triumph. No 
 whisper escaped her, no glance, no nudge of admiring or 
 envious notice. On Steinmetz's arm she passed out of the 
 tent ; the touch of her hand on his sleeve reminded him 
 of a thoroughbred horse stepping on to turf, so full of life, 
 of electric thrill, of excitement was it. But then Karl
 
 A WINTEE SCENE 103 
 
 Steinmetz was a cynic. No one else could have thought 
 of comparing Etta's self-complaisant humour to that of a 
 horse in a racing paddock. 
 
 They procured skates and glided off hand in hand, 
 equally proficient, equally practised, maybe on this same 
 lake ; for both had learnt to skate in Eussia. 
 
 They talked only of the present, of the brilliancy of 
 the fete, of the music, of the thousand lights. Etta was 
 quite incapable of thinking or talking of any other subject 
 at that moment. 
 
 Steinmetz distinguished Claude de Chauxville easily 
 enough, and avoided him with some success for a short 
 time. But De Chauxville soon caught sight of them. 
 
 ' Here is Monsieur de Chauxville,' said Etta, with a 
 pleased ring in her voice. ' Leave me with him. I expect 
 you are tired.' 
 
 ' I am not tired, but I am obedient,' replied Steinmetz, 
 as the Frenchman came up with his fur cap in his hand, 
 bowing gracefully. Claude de Chauxville usually overdid 
 things. There is something honest in a clumsy bow which 
 had no place in his courtly obeisance. 
 
 Although Steinmetz continued to skate in a leisurely 
 way, he also held to his original intention of looking on. 
 He saw Paul and Maggie come back to the edge of the 
 lake, accompanied by an English lady of some importance 
 in Eussia, with whom Maggie presently went away to the 
 concert-room. 
 
 Steinmetz glided up to Paul, who was lighting a 
 cigarette at the edge of the pond, where an attendant 
 stood by an open wood-fire with cigarettes and hot 
 beverages. 
 
 ' Get a pair of skates,' said the German. ' This ice is 
 marvellous — colossa-a-a-1.' 
 
 He amused himself with describing figures until Paul 
 joined him. 
 
 o
 
 194 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Where is Etta ? ' asked the Prince at once. 
 
 ' Over there, with De Chauxville.' 
 
 Paul said nothing for a few moments. They skated 
 side by side round the lake. It was too cold to stand still 
 even for a minute. 
 
 * I told you,' remarked Paul at length, ' that that fellow 
 is coming to Thors.' 
 
 ' I wish he would go to the devil,' said Steinmetz. 
 
 ' No doubt he will in time,' answered Paul carelessly. 
 
 ' Yes ; but not soon enough. I assure you, Paul, I do 
 not like it. We are just in that position that the least 
 breath of suspicion will get us into endless trouble. The 
 authorities know that Stepan Lanovitch has escaped. At 
 any moment the Charity League scandal may be resusci- 
 tated. We do not want fellows like De Chauxville prowl- 
 ing about. I know the man. He is a scoundrel who 
 would sell his immortal soul if he could get a bid for it. 
 What is he coming to Thors for ? He is not a sportsman ; 
 why, he would be afraid of a cock pheasant, though he 
 would be plucky enough among the hens. You don't 
 imagine he is in love with Catrina, do you ? ' 
 
 ' No,' said Paul sharply, ' I don't.' 
 
 Steinmetz raised his bushy eyebrows. Etta and De 
 Chauxville skated past them at that moment, laughing 
 gaily. 
 
 ' I have been thinking about it,' went on Steinmetz, 
 ' and I have come to the conclusion that our friend hates 
 you personally. He has a grudge of some sort against 
 you. Of course he hates me, cela va sans dire. He has 
 come to Eussia to watch us. That I am convinced of. 
 He has come here bent on mischief. It may be that he is 
 hard up and is to be bought. He is always to be bought, 
 ce bon De Chauxville, at a price. We shall see.' 
 
 Steinmetz paused and glanced at Paul. He could not 
 tell him more. He could not tell him that his wife had
 
 A WINTER SCENE 195 
 
 sold the Charity League papers to those who wanted them. 
 He could not tell hun all that he knew of Etta's past. None 
 of these things could Karl Steinmetz, in his philosophy, 
 tell to the person whom they most concerned. And 
 who are we that we may hold him wrong ? The question 
 of telling and withholding is not to be dismissed in a few 
 words. But it seems very certain that there is too much 
 telling, too much speaking out and too little holding in, 
 in these days of much publicity. There is a school of 
 speakers-out, and would to heaven they would learn to 
 hold their tongues ! There is a school for calling spades 
 by no other name, and they have still to learn that the 
 world is by no means interested in their chatter of shovels. 
 
 Karl Steinmetz was a man who formed his opinion on 
 the best basis — namely, experience, and that had taught 
 him that a bold reticence does less harm to one's neigh- 
 bour than a weak volubility, 
 
 Paul was an easy subject for such treatment. His own 
 method inclined to err on the side of reticence. He gave 
 few confidences and asked none, as is the habit of 
 Englishmen. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' I do not suppose he will stay long at 
 Thors, and I know that he will not stay at all at Osterno. 
 Besides, what harm can he actually do to us ? He cannot 
 well go about making inquiries. To begin with, he knows 
 no Russian.' 
 
 ' I doubt that,' put in Steinmetz. 
 
 ' And even if he does, he cannot come poking about in 
 Osterno. Catrina will give him no information. IMaggie 
 hates him. You and I know him. There is only the 
 Countess.' 
 
 ' Who will tell him all she knows I She would render 
 that service to a droski driver.' 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 There was no mention of Etta. They stood side by 
 
 02
 
 196 THE SOAVEKS 
 
 side, both tliinldng of her, both looking at her, as she 
 skated with De ChauxviUe. There lay the danger, and 
 they both knew it. But she was the wife of one of them, 
 and their lips were necessarily sealed. 
 
 ' And it will be permitted,' Claude de Chauxville 
 happened to be saying at that moment, ' that I call and 
 pay my respects to an exiled princess ? ' 
 
 * There will be difficulties,' answered Etta, in that tone 
 which makes it necessary to protest that difficulties are 
 nothing under some circumstances — which De ChauxviUe 
 duly protested with much fervour. 
 
 ' You think that twenty miles of snow would deter me,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' Well, they might.' 
 
 ' They might if— well ' 
 
 He left the sentence unfinished — the last resource of the 
 sneak and the coward who wishes to reserve to himself the 
 letter of the denial in the spirit of the meanest lie.
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 HOME 
 
 A TEARING, howling wind from the north— from the bound- 
 less snow-clad plains of Russia that lie between the Neva 
 and the Yellow Sea ; a grey sky washed over as Avith a huge 
 brush dipped in dirty whiting ; and the plains of Tver a 
 spotless, dazzling level of snow. 
 
 The snow was falhng softly and steadily — falling, as 
 it never falls in England, in little more than fine powder, 
 with a temperature forty degrees below freezing point. A 
 drift — constant, restless, never altering — sped over the 
 level plain like the dust on a high-road before a steady 
 wind. This white scud — a flying scud of frozen water — • 
 was singularly like the scud that is blown from the crest of 
 the waves by a cyclone in the China Seas. Any object that 
 broke the wind — a stunted pine, a broken tree-trunk, a Go- 
 vernment road-post — had at its leeward side a high, narrow 
 snow-drift tailing off to the dead level of the plain. Where 
 the wdnd dropped the snow rose at once. But these objects 
 were few and far between. The deadly monotony of the 
 scene — the trackless level, the preposterous dimensions of 
 the plain, the sense of distance that is conveyed only by the 
 steppe and the great desert of Gobi when the snow lies on 
 it— all these tell the same grim truth to all who look on 
 them, the old truth that man is but a small thing and his 
 life but the flower of grass. 
 
 Across the plain of Tver, before the north' wind, a
 
 198 THE SOWERS 
 
 single sleigh was tearing as fast as horse could lay hoof to 
 ground — a sleigh driven by Paul Alexis, and the track of 
 it was as a line drawn from point to point across a map. 
 
 A striking feature of the winter of Northern Russia is 
 the glorious uncertainty of its snowfalls. At Tver the 
 weather-wise had said : 
 
 ' The snow has not all fallen yet. More is coming. It 
 is yellow in the sky, although March is nearly gone.' 
 
 The landlord of the hotel (a good enough resting-place 
 facing the broad Volga) had urged upon Monsieur le Prince 
 the advisability of waiting, as is the way of landlords all the 
 world over. But Etta had shown a strange restlessness, a 
 petulant desire to hurry forward at all risks. She hated 
 Tver ; the hotel was uncomfortable, there was an unhealthy 
 smell about the place. 
 
 Paul acceded readily enough to her wishes. He rather 
 liked Tver. In a way he was proud of this busy town — • 
 a centre of Russian civilisation. He would have liked 
 Etta to be favourably impressed with it, as any prejudice 
 would naturally reflect upon Osterno, a hundred and 
 forty miles across the steppe. But with a characteristic 
 silent patience he made the necessary preparations for an 
 immediate start. 
 
 The night express from St. Petersburg had deposited 
 them on the platform in the early morning. Steinmetz 
 had preceded them. Closed sleighs from Osterno were 
 awaiting them. A luxurious breakfast was prepared at the 
 hotel. Relays of horses were posted along the road. The 
 journey to Osterno had been carefully planned and 
 arranged by Steinmetz — a king among organisers. The 
 sleigh drive across the steppe was to be accomplished in 
 ten hours. 
 
 The snow had begun to fall as they clattered across the 
 floating bridge of Tver. It had fallen ever since, and the 
 afternoon lowered gloomily. In America such visitations
 
 HO^IE 199 
 
 are called ' blizzards,' here in Eussia it is merely ' the snow,' 
 The freezing wind is taken as a matter of course. 
 
 At a distance of one hundred miles from Tver, the 
 driver of the sleigh containing Etta, Maggie, and Paul had 
 suddenly rolled off his perch. His hands were frost-bitten ; 
 a piteous blue face peered out at his master through ice- 
 laden eye-brows, moustache, and beard. In a moment 
 Maggie was out in the snow beside the two men, while Etta 
 hastily closed the door. 
 
 'He is all right,' said Paul ; * it is only the cold. Pour 
 some brandy into his mouth while I hold the ice aside. 
 Doiit take off' your gloves. The flask will stick to your 
 fingers.' 
 
 Maggie obeyed with her usual breezy readiness, turning 
 to nod reassurance to Etta, who, truth to tell, had pulled 
 up the rime- covered windows, shutting out the whole 
 scene. 
 
 ' He must come inside,' said Maggie. * We are nice and 
 warm with all the hot-water cans.' 
 
 Paul looked rather dubiously towards the sleigh. 
 
 ' You can carry him, I suppose ? ' said the girl cheerfully. 
 ' He is not very big — he is all fur coat.' 
 
 Etta looked rather disgusted, but made no objection, 
 while Paul lifted the frozen man into the seat he had just 
 vacated. 
 
 ' When you arc cold I will drive,' cried Maggie, as Paul 
 shut the door. ' I should love it.' 
 
 Thus it came about that a single sleigh was speeding 
 across the plain of Tver, 
 
 Paul, with the composure that comes of a large experi- 
 ence, gathered the reins in his two hands, driving with both 
 and with extended arms, after the manner of Russian yem- 
 schiks. For a man must accommodate himself to circum- 
 stance, and fingerless gloves are not conducive to a finished 
 style of handling the ribbons.
 
 200 THE SOWERS 
 
 This driver knew that the next station was twenty miles 
 off ; that at any moment the horses might break down or 
 pkmge into a drift. He knew that in the event of such 
 emergencies it would be singularly easy for four people to 
 die of cold within a few miles of help. But he had faced 
 such possibilities a hundred times before in this vast coun- 
 try, where the standard price of a human life is no great 
 sum. He was not, therefore, dismayed, but rather took 
 delight in battUng with strong elements, as all strong men 
 should, and most of them, thank Heaven, do. 
 
 Moreover, he battled successfully, and before the moon 
 was well up diew rein outside the village of Osterno, to 
 accede at last io the oft-repeated prayer of the driver that 
 he might return to his task. 
 
 * It is not meet,' the man had gruffly said whenever a 
 short halt was made to change horses, ' that a great prince 
 should drive a yemschik.' 
 
 'It cannot be helped,' answered Paul simply. 
 
 Then he clambered into the sleigh and drew up the 
 windows, hidirig his head as he drove through his own vil- 
 lage, where every life depended on his charity. 
 
 They were silent, for the ladies were tired and cold. 
 
 ' We shall soon be there,' said Paul reassuringly. But 
 he did not lower the windows and look out, as any man 
 might have wished to do, on returning to the place of his 
 birth. 
 
 Maggie sat back, wrapped in her furs. She was medi- 
 tating over the events of the day, and more particularly 
 over a certain skill, a quickness of touch, a deft handling 
 of stricken men which she had noted far out on the snowy 
 steppe a few hours earlier. Paul was a different man when 
 he had to deal with pain and sickness ; he was quicker, 
 brighter, full of confidence in himself. For the great sym- 
 pathy was his — that love of the neighbour which is thrown 
 like a mantle over the shoulders of some men, making them
 
 HOME 201 
 
 diflferent from their fellows, securing to them the love of 
 great and small which, perchance, follows some when they 
 are dead to that place where a human testimony may not 
 be vain. 
 
 At the castle all was in readiness for the Prince and Prin- 
 cess, their departure from Tver having been telegraphed. On 
 the threshold of the great house, before she had entered the 
 magnificent hall, Etta's eyes brightened, her fatigue vanished. 
 She played her part before the crowd of bowing servants 
 with that forgetfulness of mere bodily fatigue which is ex- 
 pected of princesses and other great ladies. She swept up 
 the broad staircase, leaning on Paul's arm, with a carriage, 
 a presence, a dazzling wealth of beauty, which did not fail 
 to impress the onlookers. Whatever Etta may have failed 
 to bring to Paul Howard- Alexis as a wife, she made him a 
 matchless princess. 
 
 He led her straight through the drawing-room to her 
 suite of rooms. These consisted of an ante-room, a small 
 drawing-room, and her private apartments beyond. 
 
 Paul stopped in the drawing-room, looking round with 
 a simple satisfaction in all that had been done by his orders 
 for Etta's comfort. 
 
 ' These,' he said, ' are your rooms.' 
 
 He was no adept at turning a neat phrase — at reeling 
 off a pretty, honeymoon welcome. Perhaps he expected 
 her to express delight, to come to him, possibly, and kiss 
 him, as some women would have done. 
 
 She looked round critically. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' they are very nice.' 
 
 She crossed the room and drew aside the curtain that 
 covered the double-latticed windows. The room was so 
 warm that there was no rime on the panes. She gave a 
 little shudder, and he went to her side, putting his arm 
 around her. 
 
 Below them, stretching away beneath the brilliant
 
 202 THE SOWEES 
 
 moonlight, lay the country that was his inheritance, an 
 estate as large as a large English county. Immediately 
 beneath them, at the foot of the great rock upon which the 
 castle was biiilt, nestled the village of Osterno^straggling, 
 squalid. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' she said dully, ' this is Siberia. This is ter- 
 rible.' 
 
 It had never presented itself to him in that light, the 
 wonderful stretch of country over which they were looking. 
 
 ' It is not so bad,' he said, * in the daylight.' 
 
 And that was all ; for he had no persuasive tongue. 
 
 ' That is the village,' he went on after a little pause. 
 * Those are the people who look to us to help them in 
 their fight against terrible odds. I hoped— that you would 
 be interested in them.' 
 
 She looked down curiously at the little wooden huts, 
 half buried in the snow ; the smoking chimneys ; the 
 twinkling curtainless windows. 
 
 ' What do you expect me to do ? ' she asked in a queer 
 voice. 
 
 He looked at her in a sort of wonderment. Perhaps it 
 seemed to him that a woman should have no need to ask 
 such a question. 
 
 ' It is a long story,' he said ; ' I will tell you about it 
 another time. You are tired now, after your journey.' 
 
 His arm slipped from her waist. They stood side by 
 side. And both were conscious of a feeling of difference. 
 They were not the same as they had been in London. The 
 atmosphere of Kussia seemed to have had some subtle effect 
 upon them. 
 
 Etta turned and sat slowly down on a low chair before 
 the fire. She had thrown her furs aside, and they lay in 
 a luxiarious heap on the floor. The maids, hearing that 
 the Prince and Princess were together, waited silently in 
 the next room behind the closed door.
 
 HOME 203 
 
 * I tliink I had better hear it now,' said Etta. 
 
 'But you are tired,' protested her husband. 'You 
 should rest until dinner time.' 
 
 * No ; I am not tired.' 
 
 He came towards her and stood with one elbow on the 
 mantelpiece, looking down at her — a strong man, who 
 had already forgotten his feat of endurance of a few hours 
 earlier. 
 
 * These people,' he said, ' would die of starvation and 
 cold and sickness if we did not help them. It is simply 
 impossible for them in the few months that they can work 
 the land to cultivate it so as to yield any more than their 
 taxes. They are overtaxed, and no one car.>3. The army 
 must be kept up and a huge Civil Service, and no one cares 
 what happens to the peasants. Some day the peasants 
 must turn, but not yet. It is a question for all Russian 
 landowners to face, and nobody faces it. If any one tries to 
 improve the condition of his peasants — they were happier 
 a thousand times as serfs — the bureaucrats of Petersburg 
 mark him down and he is forced to leave the country. 
 The whole fabric of this Government is rotten, but every 
 one, except the peasants, would suffer by its fall, and there- 
 fore it stands.' 
 
 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 do good by 
 stealth. I studied medicine with that view. Steinmetz 
 has scraped and economised the working of the estate for 
 the same purpose. The Government will not allow us to 
 have a doctor ; they prevent us from organising 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 star-
 
 204 THE SOWERS 
 
 vation 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. Stepan 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 happi- 
 ness 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 Stepan 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 hearthruer.
 
 HOME 205 
 
 Paul picked her up like a child and carried her to the 
 bedroom, where the maids were waiting to dress her. 
 
 ' Your mistress has fainted,' he said, ' from the fatigue 
 of the journey.' 
 
 And, with his practised medical knowledge, he himself 
 tended her.
 
 206 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTEK 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 towards Paul, lean- 
 ing 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. 
 Y^'ou 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. 
 
 ' I hope the Princess is not overtired,' went on Stein- 
 metz, 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 to the window. She
 
 OSTEENO 207 
 
 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 clifif. On this side it was impregnable. Any 
 object dropped from the breakfast- room window would fall 
 a clear two hundred feet to the brawling Oster Eiver. The 
 rock was black, and shining Uke the topmost crags of an 
 Alpine mountain where snow and ice have polished the 
 bare stone. Beyond and across the river lay the boundless 
 steppe— a sheet of virgin snow. 
 
 Etta stood looking over this to the far horizon, where 
 the white snow and the grey sky softly merged into one. 
 Her first remark was characteristic, as first and last 
 remarks usually are. 
 
 * And as far as you can see is yours ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul simply. 
 
 The observation attracted Steinmetz's attention. He 
 went to another window, and looked across the waste 
 critically. 
 
 ' Four times as far as we can see is his,' he said. 
 
 Etta looked out slowly and comprehensively, absorbing 
 it all like a long sweet drink. There was no hereditary 
 calmness in her sense of possession. 
 
 ' And where is Thors ? ' she asked. 
 
 Paul stretched out his arm, pointing with a loan, steady 
 finger. * It lies out there,' he answered. 
 
 Another of the little incidents that are only half for- 
 gotten. Some of the persons assembled in that room 
 remembered the pointing finger long afterwards. 
 
 ' It makes one feel very small,' said Etta, turning to 
 the breakfast-table — ' at no time a pleasant sensation.'
 
 208 THE SOWEKS 
 
 ' Do you know,' she said, after a little pause, ' I think it 
 probable that I shall become very fond of Osterno, but I 
 wish it were nearer to civilisation.' 
 
 Paul looked pleased. Steinmetz had a queer expression 
 on his face. Maggie murmured something about one's 
 surroundings making but little difference to one's happiness, 
 and the subject was wisely shelved. 
 
 After breakfast Steinmetz withdrew. 
 
 ' Now,' said Paul, ' shall I show you the old place, you 
 and Maggie ? ' 
 
 Etta signified her readiness, but Maggie said that she 
 had letters to write, that Etta could show her the castle 
 another time, when the men were out shooting perhaps. 
 
 ' But,' said Etta, ' I shall do it horribly badly. They 
 are not my ancestors, you know. I shall attach the stories 
 to the wrong people, and locate the ghost in the wrong 
 room. You will be wise to take Paul's guidance.' 
 
 * No, thank you,' replied Maggie, quite firmly and 
 frankly. ' I feel inclined to write ; and the feeling is rare, 
 so I must take advantage of it.' 
 
 The girl looked at her cousin with something in her 
 honest blue eyes that almost amounted to wonder. Etta 
 was always surprising her. There was a whole gamut cf 
 feeling, an octave of callow, half-formed girlish instincts, 
 of which Etta seemed to be deprived. If she had ever had 
 them, no trace was left of their whilom presence. At first 
 Maggie had flatly refused to come to Kussia. When Paul 
 pressed her to do so, she accepted with a sort of wonder. 
 There was something which she did not understand. 
 
 The same instinct made her refuse now to accompany 
 Paul and Etta over their new home. Again Etta pressed 
 her, showing her lack of some feeling which Maggie in- 
 definitely knew she ought to have had. This time Paul 
 made no sign. He added no word to Etta's persuasions, 
 but stood gravely looking at his wife.
 
 OSTEKNO 209 
 
 When the door had closed behind them Maggie stood 
 for some minutes by the -^dndow looking out over the 
 snowclad plain and the rugged, broken rocks beneath her. 
 
 Then she turned to the writing-table. She resolutely 
 took pen and paper, but the least thing seemed to distract 
 her attention — the coronet on the note-paper cost her five 
 minutes of far-off reflection. She took up the pen again, 
 and wrote * Dear Mother.' 
 
 The room grew darker. Maggie looked up. The snow 
 had begun again. It was driving past the window with a 
 silent, purposeful monotony. The girl drew the writing- 
 case towards her. She examined the pen critically and 
 dipped it into the ink. But she added nothing to the two 
 words already written. 
 
 The castle of Osterno is almost unique in the particular 
 that one roof covers the ancient and the modern buildings. 
 The vast reception-rooms, worthy of the name of state- 
 rooms, adjoin the small stone-built apartments of the fortress 
 which Paul's ancestors had held against the Tartars. 
 This grimmer side of the building Paul reserved to the 
 last for reasons of his own, and Etta's manifest delight in 
 the grandeur of the more modern apartments fully rewarded 
 him. Here, again, that side of her character manifested 
 itself which has already been shown. She was dazzled 
 and exhilarated by the splendour of it all, and the imme- 
 diate effect was a feeling of affection towards the man to 
 whom this belonged, who was in act, if not in word, laying 
 it at her feet. 
 
 When they passed from the lofty rooms to the dimmer 
 passages of the old castle, Etta's spirits visibly dropped, 
 her interest slackened. He told her of tragedies enacted 
 in bygone times^such ancient tales of violent death and 
 broken hearts as attach themselves to grey stone walls and 
 dungeon keeps. She only half listened, for hei mind was 
 busy with the splendours they had left behind, with the 
 
 p
 
 210 THE SOWEKS 
 
 purposes to >vhich such splendours could be turned. And 
 the sum-total of her thoughts was gratified vanity. 
 
 Her bright presence awakened the gloom of ages within 
 the dimly-lit historical rooms. Her laugh sounded strangely 
 light and frivolous and shallow in the silence of the ages 
 which had brooded within these walls since the days of 
 Tamerlane. It was perhaps the greatest tragedy of the 
 Alexis family, this beautiful tragedy that walked by the 
 side of Paul. 
 
 * I am glad your grandfather brought French architects 
 here and built the modern side,' she said. ' These rooms 
 are, of course, very interesting, but gloomy — horribly 
 gloomy, Paul. There is a smell of ghosts and dulness.' 
 
 ' All the same, I like these rooms,' answered Paul. 
 ' Steinmetz and I used to live entirely on this side of the 
 house. This is the smoking-room. We shot those bears, 
 and all the deer. That is a wolf's head. He killed a 
 keeper before I finished him off.' 
 
 Etta looked at her husband with a curious little smile. 
 She sometimes felt proud of him, despite the ever-present 
 knowledge that, intellectually speaking, she was his 
 superior. There was something strong and simple and 
 manly, in a sort of mediaeval way, that pleased her in this 
 big husband of hers. 
 
 ' And how did you finish him off ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' I choked him. That bear knocked me down, but 
 Steinmetz shot him. We were four days out in the open 
 after that elk. This is a lynx — a queer face — rather like 
 De Chauxville ; the dogs killed him.' 
 
 ' But why do you not paper the room,' asked Etta, 
 with a shiver, ' instead of this gloomy panelling ? It is 
 so mysterious and creepy. Quite suggestive of secret 
 passages.' 
 
 * There are no secret passages,' answered Paul. ' But 
 there is a room behind here. This is the door. I will
 
 OSTEEXO 211 
 
 show it to you presently. I have thmgs in there I want 
 to show you. I keep all my medicines and appliances in 
 there. It is our secret surgery and office. In that room 
 the Charity League was organised.' 
 
 Etta turned away suddenly and went to the narrow 
 window, where she sat on a low window-seat, looking 
 down into the snowclad depths. 
 
 ' I did not know you were a doctor,' she said. 
 
 * I doctor the peasants,' replied Paul, ' in a rough and 
 ready way. I took my degree on purpose. But, of course, 
 they do not know that it is I ; they think I am a doctor 
 from Moscow. I put on an old coat and wear a scarf, so 
 that they cannot see my face. I only go to them at night. 
 It would never do for the Government to know that we 
 attempt to do good to the peasants. We have to keep it a 
 secret even from the people themselves. And they hate us. 
 They groan and hoot when we drive through the village. 
 But they never attempt to do us any harm ; they arc too 
 much afraid of us.' 
 
 When Etta rose and came towards him her face was 
 colourless. 
 
 'Let me see this room,' she said. 
 
 He opened the door and followed her into the apart- 
 ment, which has already heen described. Here he told 
 further bald details of the work he had attempted to do. 
 It is to be feared that he made neither an interesting nor 
 a romantic story of it. There were too many details — too 
 much statisti-c, and no thrilling realism whatever. The 
 ' \l)eriences of a youthful curate in Bethnal Green would 
 ■ <ve made high tragedy beside the tale that this man told 
 US wife of the land upon which God has assuredly laid 
 His curse — Aceldama, the field of blood. 
 
 Etta listened, and, despite herself, she became interested. 
 She was sitting in the chair usually occupied by Steinmetz. 
 
 f 2
 
 212 THE SOWERS 
 
 There was a faint aroma of tobacco smoke. The atmo- 
 sphere of the room was manly and energetic. 
 
 Paul showed her his simple stores of medicine — the 
 old coat, saturated with disinfectants, which had become 
 the recognised outward sign of the Moscow Doctor. 
 
 * And do other people, other noblemen, try to do this 
 sort of thing too ? ' asked Etta at length, 
 
 ' Catrina Lanovitch does,' replied Paul. 
 ' What ! the girl with the hair ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Paul. He had never noticed Catrina's 
 hair. Etta's appraising eye had seen more in one second 
 than Paul had perceived in twenty years. 
 
 * Yes,' he answered. ' But, of course, she is handi- 
 capped.' 
 
 ' By her appearance ? ' 
 
 ' No ; by her circumstances. Her name is sufficient to 
 handicap her every movement in this country. But she 
 does a great deal. She — she found me out, confound her ! ' 
 
 Etta had risen ; she was looking curiously at the cup- 
 board where Paul's infected clothes were hanging. He 
 had forbidden her to go near it. She turned and looked at 
 him. 
 
 ' Found you out ! How ? ' she asked, with a queer 
 smile. 
 
 ' Saw through my disguise.' 
 
 ' Yes — she would do that ! ' said Etta aloud to herself. 
 
 ' What is this door ? ' she asked, after a pause. 
 
 ' It leads to an inner room,' replied Paul, ' where 
 Steinmetz usually works.' 
 
 He passed in front of her and opened the door. As 
 he was doing so Etta went on in the train of her thoughts : 
 
 ' So Catrina knows.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And no one else ? ' 
 
 Paul made no answer ; for he had passed on into the
 
 OSTEKNO 213 
 
 smaller room, where Steinmetz was seated at a writing- 
 table. 
 
 ' Except, of course, Herr Steinmetz ? ' Etta went on 
 interrogatively. 
 
 ' Madame,' said the German, looking up with his 
 pleasant smile, ' I know everything.' 
 
 And he went on writing.
 
 214 TUE SOWEES 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 
 
 The table d'hote of the Hotel de Moscou at Tver had just 
 begun. The soup had been removed ; the diners were 
 engaged in igniting their first cigarette at the candles 
 placed between each pair of them for that purpose. By 
 nature the modern Russian is a dignified and somewhat 
 reserved gentleman. By circumstance he has been schooled 
 into a state of guarded unsociability. If there is a seat at 
 a public table conveniently removed from those occupied 
 by earlier arrivals, the new-comer invariably takes it. 
 In Russia one converses — as in Scotland one jokes — with 
 difficulty. 
 
 A Russian table d'hote is therefore anything but hilarious 
 in its tendency. A certain number of grave-faced gentle- 
 men and a few broad-jowled ladies are visibly constrained 
 by the force of circumstance to dine at the same table and 
 hour. There is no pretence that any more sociable and 
 neighbourly motive has brought them together. Indeed, 
 they each suspect the other of being a German, or a Nihilist, 
 or, worse still, a Government servant. They therefore sit 
 as far apart as possible, and smoke cigarettes between and 
 during the courses, with that self-centred absorption which 
 would be rude, if it were not entirely satisfactory to the 
 average Briton. The ladies, of course, have the same easy 
 method of showing a desire for silence and reflection in a 
 country where nurses carrying infants usually smoke in
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 215 
 
 the streets, and where a dainty confectioner's assistant 
 places her cigarette between her hps in order to leave her 
 hands free for the service of her customers. 
 
 The table d'hote of the Hotel de Moscou at Tver was 
 no exception to the general rule. In Eussia, by the way, 
 there are no exceptions to general rules. The personal 
 habits of the native of Cronstadt differ in no way from 
 those of the Czar's subject living in Petropavlovsk, eight 
 thousand miles away. 
 
 Around the long table of the host were seated, at 
 respectable intervals, a dozen or more gentlemen, who 
 gazed stolidly at each other from time to time, while the 
 host himself smiled broadly upon them all from that end 
 of the room where the lift and the smell of cooking exercise 
 their calling — the one to spoil the appetite, the other to 
 pander to it when spoilt. 
 
 Of these dozen gentlemen we have only to deal with 
 one — a man of broad, high forehead, of colourless eyes, of 
 a mask-like face, who consumed what was put before him 
 with as little noise as possible. Known in Paris as ' Ce 
 bon Vassili ' was this traveller. But in Paris one does 
 not always use the word bon in its English sense of 
 ' good.' 
 
 Monsieur Vassili was evidently desirous of attracting 
 as little attention as circumstances would allow. He was 
 obviously doing his best to look like one who travelled in 
 the interest of braid or buttons. Moreover, when Claude 
 de Chauxville entered the table cVhote room he concealed 
 whatever surprise he may have felt behind a cloud of 
 cigarette smoke. Through the same blue haze he met the 
 Frenchman's eye, a moment later, without the faintest 
 twinkle of recognition. 
 
 These two worthies went through the weird courses 
 provided by a cook professing a knowledge of French 
 cuisine without taking any compromising notice of each
 
 216 THE SOWERS 
 
 other. When the meal was over Vassili inscribed the 
 number of his bedroom in large figures on the label of his 
 bottle of St. Emilion— after the manner of wise commercial 
 travellers in continental hotels. He subsequently turned 
 the bottle round so that Claude de Chauxville could 
 scarcely fail to read the number, and with a vague and 
 general bow he left the room. 
 
 In his apartment the genial Vassili threw more wood 
 into the stove, drew forward the two regulation armchairs, 
 and lighted all the candles. He then rang the bell and 
 ordered liqueurs. There was evidently something in the 
 nature of an entertainment about to take place in apart- 
 ment number forty-four of the Hotel de Moscou. 
 
 Before long a discreet knock announced the arrival of 
 the expected visitor. 
 
 ' Entrez ! ' cried Vassili ; and De Chauxville stood 
 before him with a smile which in French is called crane. 
 
 ' A pleasure,' said Vassili behind his wooden face, ' that 
 I did not anticipate in Tver.' 
 
 ' And consequently one that carries its own mitigation. 
 An unanticipated pleasure, mon ami, is always inopportune. 
 I make no doubt that you were sorry to see me.' 
 
 ' On the contrary. Will you sit ? ' 
 
 * I can hardly believe,' went on De Chauxville, taking 
 the proffered chair, ' that my appearance was opportune — 
 on the principle, ha ! ha ! that a flower growing out of 
 place is a weed. Gentlemen of the — eh — Home Office 
 prefer, I know, to travel quietly ! ' He spread out his 
 expressive hands as if smoothing the path of Monsieur 
 Vassili through this stony world. ' Incognito,' he added 
 guilelessly. 
 
 * One does not publish one's name from the housetops,' 
 replied the Russian, with a glimmer of pride in his eyes, 
 ' especially if it happen to be not quite obscure ; but 
 between friends, my dear Baron — between friends.'
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 217 
 
 ' Yes. Then what are you doing in Tver ? ' inquired 
 De Chauxville, with engaging frankness. 
 
 * Ah, that is a long story. But I will tell you — never 
 fear — I will tell you on the usual terms.' 
 
 * Viz. ? ' inquired the Frenchman, lighting a cigarette. 
 
 Vassili accepted the match with a bow, and did like- 
 wise. He blew a guileless cloud of smoke towards the 
 dingy ceihng. 
 
 ' Exchange, my dear Baron, exchange.' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' replied De Cliauxville, who knew that 
 Vassili was in all probability fully informed as to his move- 
 ments, past and prospective. ' I am going to visit some 
 old friends in this Government— the Lanovitches, at 
 Thors.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 * You know them ? 
 
 Vassili raised his shoulders and made a little gesture 
 with his cigarette, as much as to say, * Why ask ? ' 
 
 De Chauxville looked at his companion keenly. He 
 was wondering whether this man knew that he — Claude de 
 Chauxville — loved Etta Howard-Alexis, and consequently 
 hated her husband. He was wondering how much or how 
 little this impenetrable individual knew and suspected. 
 
 ' I have always said,' observed Vassili suddenly, ' that 
 for unmitigated impertinence give me a diplomatist.' 
 
 ' Ah I And what would you desire that I should, for 
 the same commodity, give you now ? ' 
 
 'A woman.' 
 
 There was a short silence in the room while these two 
 birds of a feather reflected. 
 
 Suddenly Vassili tapped himself on the chest with his 
 forefinger. 
 
 * It was I,' he said, ' who crushed that very dangerous 
 movement — the Charity League.' 
 
 ' I know it.'
 
 218 THE SOWEES 
 
 ' A movement, my dear Baron, to educate the moujik, 
 if you please. To feed him and clothe him, and teach 
 him — to be discontented with his lot. To raise him up and 
 make a man of him. Pah ! He is a beast. Let him be 
 treated as such. Let him work. If he will not work, let 
 him stflrrve and die.' 
 
 * The man who cannot contribute towards the support 
 of his superiors is superfluous,' said De Chauxville glibly. 
 
 ' Precisely. Now, my dear Baron, listen to me ! ' The 
 genial Vassili leant forward and tapped with one finger on 
 the knee of De Chauxville, as if knocking at the door of his 
 attention. 
 
 ' I am all ears, mon bon Monsieur,' replied the French- 
 man, rather coldly. He had just been reflecting that, after 
 all, he did not want any favour from Vassili for the 
 moment, and the manner of the latter was verging on the 
 familiar. 
 
 ' The woman — who— sold — me — the Charity League 
 papers dined at my house in Paris — a fortnight ago,' said 
 Vassili, with a staccato tap on his companion's knee by way 
 of emphasis to each word. 
 
 ' Then, my friend, I cannot — congratulate — you — on 
 the society — in — which you move,' replied De Chauxville. 
 mimicking his manner. 
 
 ' Bah ! She was a princess ! ' 
 
 ' A princess ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of your acquaintance, Monsieur le Baron ! And 
 she came to my house with her — eh — husband — the Prince 
 Paul Howard- Alexis.' 
 
 This was news indeed. De Chauxville leant back and 
 passed his slim, white hand across his brow with a slow 
 pressure, as if wiping some writing from a slate, as if his 
 forehead bore the inscription of his thoughts, and he was 
 wiping it away. And the thoughts he thus concealed — who 
 can count them ? For thoughts are the quickest, and the
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 219 
 
 longest, and the saddest things of this hfe. The first was 
 that if he had known this three months earher he could 
 have made Etta marry him. And that thought had a 
 thousand branches. With Etta for his wife he might have 
 been a different man. One can never tell what the effect 
 of an acquired desire may be. One can only judge by 
 analogy, and it would seem that frustrated desire makes 
 villains. 
 
 But the news, coming thus too late, only served an evil 
 purpose. For in that moment Claude de Chauxville saw 
 Paul's secrets given to him, Paul's wealth meted out to 
 him, Paul m exile, Paul dead in Siberia, where death comes 
 easily, Paul's widow Claude de Chauxville's wife. He 
 wiped all the thoughts away, and showed to Vassili a face 
 that was as composed and impertinent as usual. 
 
 ' You said " her — eh — husband," ' he observed. ' Why ? 
 Why did you add that little "eh," my friend ? ' 
 
 Vassili rose and walked to the door that led through 
 into his bedroom from the salon in which they were sitting. 
 It was possible to enter the bedroom from another door 
 and overhear any conversation that might be passing in 
 the sitting-room. The investigation was apparently satis- 
 factory, for the Russian came back. But he did not sit 
 down. Instead, he stood leaning against the tall china 
 stove. 
 
 ' Needless to tell you,' he observed, ' the antecedents of 
 the — Princess.' 
 
 * Quite needless.' 
 
 ' Married seven years ago to Charles Sydney Bam- 
 borough,' promptly giving the information which was not 
 wanted. 
 
 De Chauxville nodded. 
 
 * Where is Sydney Bamborough ? ' asked Vassili, with 
 his mask-like smile. 
 
 * Dead,' replied the other quietly.
 
 220 THE SOWEES 
 
 ' Prove it. 
 
 De Chauxville looked up sharply. The cigarette 
 dropped from his fingers to the floor. His face was yellow 
 and drawn, with a singular tremble of the lips, which were 
 twisted to one side. 
 
 ' Good God ! ' he whispered hoarsely. 
 
 There was only one thought in his mind — a sudden, 
 wild desire to rise up and stand by Etta against the whole 
 world. Verily we cannot tell what love may make of us, 
 whither it may lead us. We only know that it never leaves 
 us as it found us. 
 
 Then, leaning quietly against the stove, Vassili stated 
 his case. 
 
 ' Rather more than a year ago,' he said, ' I received an 
 offer of the papers connected with a great scheme in this 
 country. After certain inquiries had been made I accepted 
 the offer. I paid a fabulous price for the papers. They 
 were brought to me by a lady wearing a thick veil — a lady 
 I had never seen before. I asked no questions, and paid 
 her the money. It subsequently transpired that the papers 
 had been stolen, as you perhaps know, from the house of 
 Count Stepdn Lanovitch — the house to which you happen 
 to be going — at Thors. Well, that is all ancient history. 
 It is to be supposed that the papers were stolen by Sydney 
 Bamborough, who brought them here — probably to this 
 hotel, where his wife was staying. He hiaided her the 
 papers, and she conveyed them to me in Paris. But before 
 she reached Petersburg they would have been missed by 
 Stepan Lanovitch, who would naturally suspect the man 
 who had been staying in his house, Bamborough — a man 
 with a doubtful reputation in the diplomatic world, a pro- 
 fessed doer of dirty jobs. Foreseeing this, and knowing 
 that the League was a big thing, with a few violent 
 members on its books, Sydney Bamborough did not attempt 
 to leave Russia by the western route. He probably decided
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 221 
 
 to go through Nijni, down the Volga, across the Caspian, 
 and so on to Persia and India. You follow me ? ' 
 ' Perfectly ! ' answered De Chauxville coldly. 
 
 * I have been here a week,' went on the Russian spy, 
 'making inquiries. I have worked the whole affair out, 
 link by link, till the evening w^hen the husband and wife 
 parted. She went west with the papers. Where did he 
 go?' 
 
 De Chauxville picked up the cigarette, looked at it 
 curiously, as at a relic — the relic of the moment of 
 strongest emotion through which he had ever passed — and 
 threw it into the ash-tray. He did not speak, and after a 
 moment Yassili went on, stating his case with lawyer-like 
 clearness. 
 
 ' A body wag found on the steppe,' he said ; ' the body 
 of a middle-aged man dressed as a small commercial 
 traveller would dress. He had a little money m his pocket, 
 but nothing to identify him. He was buried here in 
 Tver by the police, who received their information by an 
 anonj-mous postcard posted in Tver. The person who had 
 found the body did not want to be implicated in any 
 inquiry. Now% who found the body ? Who was the dead 
 man ? Mrs. Sydney Bamborough has assumed that the 
 dead man was her husband ; on the strength of that 
 assumption she has become a princess. A frail foundation 
 upon which to build up her fortunes, eh ? ' 
 
 ' How did she know that the body had been found ? ' 
 asked De Chauxville, perceiving the weak point in his 
 companion's chain of argument. 
 
 ' It was reported shortly in the local newspapers,' 
 replied Vassili, ' and repeated in one or two continental 
 journals, as the police were of opinion that the man was a 
 foreigner. Anyone watching the newspapers would see it 
 — otherwise the incident might pass unobserved.' 
 
 * And you think,' said De Chauxville, suppressing hig
 
 222 THE SOWEES 
 
 excitement with an effort, * that the lady has risked every- 
 thing upon a supposition ? ' 
 
 ' Knowing the lady, I do.' 
 
 De Chauxville's dull eyes gleamed for a moment with 
 an unwonted light. All the civilisation of the ages will 
 not eradicate the primary instincts of men — and one of 
 these, in good and bad alike, is to protect women. The 
 Frenchman bit the end of his cigarette, and angrily wiped 
 the tobacco from his lips. 
 
 ' She may have information of which you are ignorant,' 
 he suggested. 
 
 ' Precisely. It is that particular point which gives me 
 trouble at the present moment. It is that that I wish to 
 discover.' 
 
 De Chauxville looked up coolly. He saw his advan- 
 tage. 
 
 'Hence your sudden flow of communicativeness?' he 
 said. 
 
 Vassili nodded. 
 
 ' You cannot find out for yourself, so you seek my help ? ' 
 went on the Frenchman. 
 
 Again the Russian nodded his head. 
 
 ' And your price ? ' said De Chauxville, drawing in his 
 feet and leaning forward, apparently to study the pattern of 
 the carpet. The action concealed his face. He was saving 
 Etta, and he was ashamed of himself. 
 
 ' When you have the information you may name your 
 own price,' said the Russian coldly. 
 
 There was a long silence. Before speaking De Chaux- 
 ville turned and took a glass of liqueur from the table. His 
 hand was not quite steady. He raised the glass quickly 
 and emptied it. Then he rose and looked at his watch. 
 The silence was a compact. 
 
 ' When the lady dined with you in Paris, did she recog- 
 nise you ? ' he asked.
 
 BLOODHOUNDS 223 
 
 * Yes ; but she did not know that I recognised her.' 
 
 For the moment they both overlooked Steinmetz. 
 
 De Chauxville stood reflecting. 
 
 ' And your theory,' he said, ' respecting Sydney Bam- 
 borough — what is it '? ' 
 
 ' If h-e got away to Nijni and the Volga, it is probable 
 that he is in Eastern Siberia or in Persia at this moment. 
 He has not liad time to get right across Asia yet.' 
 
 De Chauxville moved towards the door. With his 
 fingers on the handle he paused again. 
 
 ' I leave early to-morrow morning,' he said. 
 
 Vassili nodded, or rather he bowed, in his grand way. 
 
 Then De Chauxville went out of the room. They did 
 not shake hands. There is sometimes shame among 
 thieves.
 
 224 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE WEB 
 
 ' What I propose is that Catrina takes you for a drive, my 
 dear Baron, with her two ponies.' 
 
 The Countess had taken very good care to refrain from 
 making this proposal to Catrina alone. She was one of 
 those mothers who rule their daughters by springing sur- 
 prises upon them in a carefully-selected company where the 
 daughter is not free to reply. 
 
 De Chauxville bowed with outspread hands. 
 
 ' If it will not bore Mademoiselle,' he replied. 
 
 The Countess looked at her daughter with an unctuous 
 smile, as if to urge her to make the most of this opportunity. 
 It was one of the Countess's chief troubles that she could 
 not by hook or crook involve Catrina in any sort of a love 
 intrigue. She was the sort of mother who would have 
 preferred to hear scandal about her daughter to hearing 
 nothing. 
 
 ' If it will not freeze Monsieur,' replied Catrina, with 
 uncompromising honesty. 
 
 De Chauxville laughed in his frank way. 
 
 ' I am not afraid of coldness— of the atmosphere, 
 Mademoiselle,' he replied. ' I am most anxious to see your 
 beautiful country. It was quite dark during the last hour 
 of my journey last night, and I had snow-sleepiness. I 
 saw nothing.' 
 
 * You will see nothing but snow,' said Catrina
 
 IN THE WEB 225 
 
 * Which is hke the reserve of a young girl,' added the 
 Frenchman. * It keeps warm that which is beneath it.' 
 
 ' You need not be afraid with Catrina,' chimed in the 
 Countess, nodding and becking in a manner that clearly 
 showed her assumption to herself of some vague compli- 
 ment. ' She drives beautifully. She is not nervous in 
 that way. I have never seen anyone drive like her.' 
 
 'I have no doubt,' said De Chauxville, 'that Made- 
 moiselle's hands are firm, although so small.' 
 
 The Countess was charmed — and showed it. She 
 frowned at Catrina, who remained grave and looked at the 
 clock. 
 
 * When would you like to go ? ' she asked De Chauxville, 
 with that complete absence of affectation which characterises 
 the attitude of Eussian women towards men. 
 
 ' Am I not at your service — now and always ? ' responded 
 the gallant Baron. 
 
 * I hope not,' replied Catrina quietly. ' There are 
 occasions when I have no use for you. Shall we say eleven 
 o'clock ? ' 
 
 ' With pleasure. Then I will go and write my letters 
 now,' said the Baron, quitting the room. 
 
 * A charming man ! ' ejaculated the Countess, before the 
 door was well closed. 
 
 ' A fool,' corrected Catrina. 
 
 ' I do not think you can say that, dear,' sighed the 
 Countess, more in sorrow than in anger. 
 
 ' A clever one,' answered Catrina. ' There is a differ- 
 ence. The clever ones are the worst.' 
 
 The Countess shrugged her shoulders hopelessly, and 
 Catrina left the room. She went upstairs to her own little 
 den, where the piano stood. It was the only room in the 
 house that was not too wann, for here the window was 
 occasionally opened — a proceeding which the Countess 
 considered scarcely sliort of criminal. 
 
 ■ Q
 
 226 . THE SOLVERS 
 
 Catrina began to play, feverishly, nervonsly, ■with all the 
 weird force of her nature. She was Hke a very sick person 
 seeking a desperate remedy — racing against time. It was 
 her habit to take her breaking heart thus to the great 
 masters, to interpret their thoughts in their music, wielding 
 their melodies to the needs of her own sorrow. She only 
 had half an hour. Of late music had failed her a 
 little. It had not given her the comfort she had usually 
 extracted from solitude and the piano. She was in a 
 dangerous humour. She was afraid of trusting herself to 
 De Chauxville. The time fled, and her humour did 
 not change. She was still playing when the door 
 opened, and the Countess stood before her flushed and 
 angry, either or both being the effect of stairs' upon 
 emotion. 
 
 ' Catrina ! ' the elder lady exclaimed. * The sleigh is at 
 the door, and the Count is waiting. I cannot tell what 
 you are thinking of. It is not everybody who would be so 
 attentive to you. Just look at your hair. Why can't you 
 dress like other girls ? ' 
 
 ' Because I am not made like other girls,' replied 
 Catrina — and who Imows what bitterness of reproach there 
 was in such an answer from daughter to mother ? 
 
 ' Hush, child ! ' replied the Countess, whose anger 
 usually took the form of personal abuse. ' You are as the 
 good God made you.' 
 
 ' Then the good God must have made me in the dark,' 
 cried Catrina, flinging out of the room. 
 
 ' She will be down directly,' said the Countess Lano- 
 vitch to De Chauxville, whom she found smoking a cigarette 
 in the hall. ' She naturally — he ! he ! — wishes to make a 
 careful toilet.' 
 
 De ChauxviUe bowed gravely, without committing him- 
 self to any observation, and offered her a cigarette, which 
 she accepted. Having achieved his purpose, he did not
 
 IN THE WEB 227 
 
 now propose to convey the impression that he admired 
 Catrina. 
 
 In a few moments the girl appeared, drawing on her 
 fur gloves. Before the door -was opened the Countess 
 discreetly retired to the enervating warmth of her OAvn 
 apartments. 
 
 Catrina gathered up the reins and gave a httle cry, at 
 which the ponies leapt forward, and in a whirl of driven 
 snow the sleigh glided off between the pines. 
 
 At first there was no opportunity of conversation, for 
 the ponies were fresh and troublesome. The road which 
 they were traversing had not been beaten down by the 
 passage of previous sleighs, so that the powdery snow rose 
 up like dust and filled the eyes and mouth. 
 
 * It will be better presently,' gasped Catrina, wrestling 
 with her fractious little Tartar thoroughbreds, ' when we get 
 out on to the high road.' 
 
 De Chauxville sat quite still. If he felt any misgiving 
 as to her power of mastering her team he kept it to him- 
 self. There was a subtle difference in his manner towards 
 Catrina when they were alone together, a suggestion of 
 camaraderie, of a common interest and a common desire of 
 which she was conscious without being able to put definite 
 meaning to it. 
 
 It annoyed and alarmed her. While giving her full 
 attention to the management of the sleigh, she was begin- 
 ning to dread the first words of this man, who was merely 
 wielding a cheap power acquired in the shady course of his 
 career. There is nothing so disarming as the assumed air 
 of intimate knowledge of one's private thoughts and ac- 
 tions. De Chauxville assumed this air with a skill against 
 which Catrina's dogged strengthof character was incapable 
 of battling. His manner conveyed the impression that he 
 knew more of Catrina's inward thoughts than any other 
 living being, and she was simple enough to be frightened 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE so WEES 
 
 into the conclusion that she had betrayed herself to him. 
 There is no simpler method of discovering a secret than to 
 ignore its existence. 
 
 It is possible that De Chauxville became aware of 
 Catrina's sidelong glances of anxiety in his direction. He 
 may have divined that silence was more effective than 
 speech. 
 
 He sat looking straight in front of him, as if too deeply 
 absorbed in his own thoughts to take even a passing interest 
 in the scenery. 
 
 * Why did you come here ? ' asked Catrina suddenly. 
 De Chauxville seemed to awake from a reverie. He 
 
 turned and looked at her in assumed surprise. They were 
 on the high road now, where the snow was beaten down, 
 so conversation was easy. 
 
 ' But — to see you, Mademoiselle.' 
 
 * I am not that sort of girl,' answered Catrina coldly. 
 * I want the truth.' 
 
 De Chauxville gave a short laugh and looked at her. 
 
 * Prophets and kings have sought the truth, Made- 
 moiselle, and have not found it,' he said lightly. 
 
 Catrina made no answer to this. Her ponies required 
 considerable attention. Also, there are some minds that, 
 like large banking houses, do not deal in small change. 
 That'which passes in or out of such minds has its own 
 standard of importance. Such people are not of much use 
 in these' days, when we like to touch things lightly, adorn- 
 ing a tale but pointing no moral. 
 
 ' I would ask ^you to " believe that your society was one 
 incentive to make me accept the Countess's kind hospitality,' 
 the Frenchman observed after a pause. 
 
 ' And ? ' 
 
 De Chauxville looked at her. He had not met many 
 ■women of solid intellect. 
 
 ' And ? ' repeated Catrinqi.
 
 IN THE WEB 229 
 
 ' 1 have others, of course.' 
 
 Catrina gave a httle nod and waited. 
 
 * I wish to be near Alexis/ added De Chauxville. 
 
 Catrina was staring straight in front of her. Her face 
 had acquired a habit of hardening at the mention of Paul's 
 name. It was stone-like now, and set. Perhaps she might 
 have forgiven him if he had loved her once, if only for a 
 little while. She might have forgiven him, if only for the 
 remembrance of that little while. But Paul had always 
 been a man of set purpose, and such men are cruel. Even 
 for her sake, even for the sake of his own vanity, he had 
 never pretended to love Catrina. He had never mistaken 
 gratified vanity for dawning love, as millions of men do. 
 
 ' Do you love him so ? ' asked Catrina, with a grim smile 
 distorting her strong face. 
 
 ' As much as you, Mademoiselle,' replied De Chaux- 
 ville. 
 
 Catrina started. She was not sure that she hated Paul. 
 Towards Etta, there was no mistake in her feeling, and 
 this was so strong that, like an electric current, there was 
 enough of it to pass through the wife and reach the hus- 
 band. 
 
 Passion, like character, does not grow in crowded places. 
 In great cities men are all more or less alike. It is only in 
 solitary abodes that strong natures grow up in their own 
 way. Catrina had attained womanhood in one of the soli- 
 tary places of the earth. She had no facile axiom, no 
 powerful precedent to guide her every step through life. 
 The woman who was in daily contact with her was im- 
 measurably beneath her in mental power, in force of char- 
 acter, in those possibilities of love or hatred which go to 
 make a strong life for good or for evil. By the side of her 
 daughter the Countess Lanovitch was as the willow, swayed 
 by every wind, in the neighbourhood of the oak, crooked and 
 still and strong.
 
 230 THE SOWERS 
 
 * In Petersburg you pledged yourself to help me,' said 
 De Chauxville. And although she knew that in the letter 
 this was false, she did not contradict hira. ' I came here 
 to claim fulfilment of your promise.' 
 
 The hard blue eyes beneath the fur cap stared straight 
 in front of them. Catrina seemed to be driving like one 
 asleep, for she noted nothing by the roadside. So far as 
 eye could reach over the snowclad plain, through the silent 
 pines, these two were alone in a white, dead world of their 
 own. Catrina never drove with bells. There was no sound 
 beyond the high-pitched drone of the steel runners over 
 the powdery snow. They were alone ; unseen, unheard 
 save of that Ear that listens in the waste places of the 
 world. 
 
 * What do you want me to do ? ' she asked. 
 
 * Oh, not very much,' answered De Chauxville— a cau- 
 tious man who knew a woman's humour. Catrina driving 
 a pair of ponies in the clear sharp air of Central Russia, 
 and Catrina playing the piano in the enervating, flower- 
 scented atmosphere of a drawing-room, were two different 
 women. De Chauxville was not the man to mistake the 
 one for the other. 
 
 ' Not very much, Mademoiselle,' he answered. ' I 
 should like Madame la Comtesse to invite the whole Osterno 
 party to dine, and sleep, perhaps, if one may suggest it.' 
 
 Catrina wanted this too. She wanted to torture herself 
 with the sight of Etta, beautiful, self-confident, carelessly 
 cognisant of Paul's love. She wanted to see Paul look at 
 his wife with the open admiration which she had set 
 down as something else than love — something immeasur- 
 ably beneath love as Catrina understood that passion. 
 Her soul, brooding under a weight of misery, was ready 
 to welcome any change, should it only mean a greater 
 misery. 
 
 ' I can manage that,' she said, ' if they will come. It
 
 IN THE WEB 231 
 
 was a prearranged matter that there should be a bear hunt 
 in our forests.' 
 
 ' That will do,' answered De Chauxville reflectively ; 
 ' in a few days, perhaps, if it suits the Countess.' 
 
 Catrina made no reply. After a pause she spoke again 
 in her strange, jerky way. 
 
 ' What will you gain by it ? ' she asked. 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Who knows ? ' he answered. ' There are many things 
 I want to know ; many questions which can be answered 
 only by one's own observation. I want to see them together. 
 Are they happy ? ' 
 
 Catrina's face hardened. 
 
 ' If there is a God in heaven, and He hears our 
 prayers, they ought not to be,' she replied curtly. 
 
 ' She looked happy enough in Petersburg,' said the 
 Frenchman, who never told the truth for its own sake. 
 Whenever he thought that Catrina's hatred needed stimula- 
 tion he mentioned Etta's name. 
 
 ' There are other questions in my mind,' he went on, 
 ' some of which you can answer, Mademoiselle, if you care 
 to.' 
 
 Catrina's face expressed no great willingness to oblige. 
 
 ' The Charity League,' said De Chauxville, looking at 
 her keenly ; * I have always had a feeling of curiosity re- 
 specting it. Was, for instance, our friend the Prince Pavlo 
 implicated in that unfortunate affair ? ' 
 
 Catrina flushed suddenly. She did not take her eyes 
 from the ponies. She was conscious of the unwonted colour 
 in her cheeks, which was slowly dying away beneath her 
 companion's relentless gaze. 
 
 ' You need not trouble to reply, Mademoiselle,' said De 
 Chauxville, with his dark smile ; ' I am answered.' 
 
 Catrina pulled the ponies up with a jerk, and proceeded 
 to turn their wiUing heads towards home. She was alarmed
 
 232 THE SOWEES 
 
 and disturbed. Nothing seemed to be safe from ihe curio- 
 sity of this man, no secret secure, no prevarication of the 
 sHghtest avail. 
 
 * There are other questions in my mind,' said De 
 Chauxville quietly, ' but not now. Mademoiselle is no 
 doubt tired.' 
 
 He leant back, and when at length he spoke it was to 
 give utterance to the trite commonplace of which. -he. made 
 a conversational study.
 
 233 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 IN THE CASTLE OF THOES 
 
 A WEEK later Catrina, watching from the window of her 
 own small room, saw Paul lift Etta from the sleigh, and the 
 sight made her clench her hands until the knuckles shone 
 like polished ivory. 
 
 She turned and looked at herself in the mirror. No 
 one knew how she had tried one dress after another since 
 luncheon, alone in her two rooms, having sent her maid 
 downstairs. No one knew the bitterness in this girl's heart 
 as she contemplated her own reflection. 
 
 She went slowly downstairs to the long, dimly-lighted 
 drawing-room. As she entered she heard her mother's 
 voice. 
 
 ' Yes, Princess,' the Countess was saying, 'it is a 
 quaint old house ; little more than a fortified farm, I know. 
 But my husband's family were always strange. They 
 seem always to have ignored the little comforts and ele- 
 gancies of life.' 
 
 ' It is most interesting,' answered Etta's voice, and 
 Catrina stepped forward into the light. 
 
 Formal greetings were exchanged, and Catrina saw 
 Etta look anxiously towards the door through which she 
 had just come. She thought that she was looking for her 
 husband. But it was Claude do Chauxville for whose 
 appearance Etta was waiting. 
 
 Paul and Steinmetz entered at the same moment by
 
 234 THE SOAVEES 
 
 another door, and Catrina, who was talking to Maggie in 
 Enghsh, suddenly stopped. 
 
 ' Ah, Catrina,' said Paul, ' we have broken new ground 
 for you. There was no track from here to Osterno through 
 the forest. I made one this afternoon, so you have no 
 excuse for remaining away now.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Catrina, withdrawing her cold 
 hand hurriedly from his friendly grasp. 
 
 * Miss Delafield,' went on Paul, 'admires our country 
 as much as you do.' 
 
 ' I was just telling Mademoiselle,' said Maggie. 
 Paul nodded, and left them together. 
 
 * Yes,' the Countess was saying at the other end of the 
 gloomy room ; ' yes, we are greatly attached to Thors : 
 Catrina, perhaps, more than I. I have some happy asso- 
 ciations, and many sorrowful ones. But then — 3Ion Dleu 1 
 — how isolated we are ! ' 
 
 ' It is rather far from — anywhere,' acceded Etta, who 
 was not attending, although she appeared to be interested. 
 
 ' Far ! Princess, I often wonder how Paris and Thors 
 can be in the same world ! Before our — our troubles we 
 used to live in Paris a portion of the year. At least I did, 
 while my poor husband travelled about. He had a hobby, 
 you know, poor man ! Humanity was his hobby. I have 
 always found that men who seek to do good to their 
 fellows are never thanked. Have you noticed that ? The 
 human race is not grateful en cjros. There is a little 
 gratitude in the individual, but none in the race.' 
 
 * None,' answered Etta absently. 
 
 ' It was so with the Charity League,' went on the 
 Countess volubly. She paused and looked round with her 
 feeble eyes. 
 
 ' We are all friends,' she went on ; 'so it is safe to 
 mention the Charity League, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' No,' answered Steinmetz from the fireplace ; ' no,
 
 IN THE CASTLE OF THORS 235 
 
 Madame. There is only one friend to whom you may 
 safely mention that.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Bad example ! ' exclaimed the Countess play- 
 fully. * You are there ! I did not see you enter. And 
 Avlio is that friend ? ' 
 
 ' The fair lady who looks at you from your mirror,' 
 replied Steinmetz, with a face of stone. 
 
 The Comitess laughed, and as usual shook her cap to 
 one side. 
 
 * Well,' she said, ' I can do no harm in talking of such 
 things, as I know nothing of them. My poor husband — 
 my poor mistaken Stepan — placed no confidence in his 
 wife. And now he is in Siberia. I believe he works in a 
 bootmaker's shop. I pity the people who wear the boots ; 
 but perhaps he only puts in the laces. You hear, Paul ? 
 He placed no confidence in his wife, and now he is in 
 Siberia. Let that be a warning to you — eh, Princess ? I 
 hope he tells you everythmg.' 
 
 ' Put not your trust in princesses,' said Steinmetz from 
 the hearthrug, where he was still warming his hands, for 
 he had driven Maggie over. ' It says so in the Bible.' 
 
 ' Princes, profane one ! ' exclaimed the Countess with 
 a laugh — ' princes, not princesses ! ' 
 
 ' It may be so. I bow to your superior literary attain- 
 ments,' repHed Steinmetz, looking casually and significantly 
 at a pile of yellow-backed foreign novels on a side-table. 
 
 ' No,' the Countess went on, addressing her conversation 
 to Etta ; * no, my husband — figure to yourself, Princess — • 
 told me nothing. I never knew that he was implicated in 
 this great scheme. I do not know now who else was con- 
 cerned in it. It was all so sudden, so unexpected, so 
 terrible. It appears that he kept the papers in this very 
 house — in that room through there. It was his study ' 
 
 ' My dear Countess, silence ! ' interrupted Stemmetz at 
 this moment, breaking into the conversation in his mas-
 
 236 THE SOWEKS 
 
 terful way, and enabling Etta to got away. Catrina at the 
 other end of the room was Hstening, hard-eyed, breathless. 
 It was the sight of Catrina's face that made Steinmetz go 
 forward. He had not been looking at Catrina, but at 
 Etta, who was perfect in her composure and steady self- 
 control. 
 
 ' Do you want to enter the boot trade also ? ' asked 
 Steinmetz cheerfully, in a lowered voice. 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! ' cried the Countess. 
 
 ' Then let us talk of safer things.' 
 
 The short twilight was already brooding over the land. 
 The room, lighted only by small square windows, grew 
 darker and darker until Catrina rang for lamps. 
 
 * I hate a dark room,' she said shortly to Maggie. 
 
 When De Chauxville came in, a few minutes later, 
 Catrina was at the piano. The room was brilliantly 
 lighted, and on the table gleamed and glittered the silver 
 tea things. The intermediate meal had been disposed of, 
 but the samovar had been left alight, as is the habit at 
 Russian afternoon teas. 
 
 Catrina looked up when the Frenchman entered, but 
 did not cease playing. 
 
 ' There is no need for introductions, I think,' said the 
 Countess. 
 
 ' We all know M. de Chauxville,' rephed Paul quietly, 
 and the two men exchanged a glance. 
 
 De Chauxville shook hands with the new-comers, and, 
 while the Countess prepared tea for him, launched into a 
 long description of the preparations for the bear hunt of 
 the following day. He addressed his remarks exclusively 
 to Paul, as between enthusiasts and fellow-sportsmen. 
 Gradually Paul thawed a Httle, and made one or two 
 suggestions which betrayed a deep knowledge and a dawn- 
 ing interest. 
 
 'We shall only be three rifles,' said De Chauxville,
 
 IN THE CASTLE OF THOKS 237 
 
 ' Steinmetz, you, and I ; and I must ask you to bear in 
 mind the fact that I am no shot — a mere amateur, my 
 dear Prince. The Countess has been good enough to leave 
 the whole matter in my hands. I have seen the keepers, 
 and I have arranged that they come to-night at eleven 
 o'clock to see us and to report progress. They know of 
 three bears, and are attempting to ring them.' 
 
 The Frenchman was really full of mformation and 
 enthusiasm. There were many details upon which he 
 required Paul's advice, and the two men talked together 
 with less constraint than they had hitherto done. De 
 Chauxville had picked up a vast deal of technical matter, 
 and handled his little knowledge with a skill which bade 
 fair to deprive it of its proverbial danger. He presently 
 left Steinmetz and Paul engaged m a controversy with the 
 Countess as to a meeting-place at the luncheon hour. 
 
 Maggie and Catrina were at the piano. Etta was 
 looking at a book of photographs. 
 
 'A charming house. Princess,' said De Chauxville, in a 
 voice that all could hear while the music happened to be 
 soft. But Catrina's music was more remarkable for 
 strength than for softness. 
 
 ' Charming,' rephed Etta. 
 
 The music rose into a swelling burst of harmonious 
 chords. 
 
 ' I must see you, Princess,' said De Chauxville. 
 
 Etta glanced across the room towaixls her husband and 
 Steinmetz. 
 
 * Alone,' added the Frenchman coolly. 
 
 Etta turned a page of the album and looked critically 
 into a photograph. 
 
 ' Must ! ' she said, with a little frown. 
 ' Must,' repeated De Chauxville. 
 
 * A word I do not care about,' said Etta, with raised 
 eyebrows.
 
 238 THE SOWERS 
 
 The music was soft again. 
 
 ' It is ton years since I held a rifle,' said Do Chauxville. 
 ' Ah, Madame, yon do not Imow the excitement. I pity 
 ladies, for they have no sport — no hig game.' 
 
 ' Personally, Monsieur,' answered Etta, with her bright 
 laugh, ' I do not grudge you your big game. Suppose you 
 miss the bear, or whatever it may be ? ' 
 
 ' Then,' said De Chauxville, with a brave shrug of the 
 shoulders, ' it is the turn of the bear. The excitement is 
 his— the laugh is with him.' 
 
 Catrina's foot was upon the loud pedal again. 
 
 * Nevertheless, Madame,' said De Chauxville, * I make 
 so bold as to use the word. You perhaps know me well 
 enough to be aware that I am rarely bold unless my 
 ground is sure.' 
 
 ' I should not boast of it,' answered Etta ; ' there is 
 nothing to be proud of. It is easy enough to be bold if you 
 are certain of victory.' 
 
 ' When defeat would bo intolerable even a certain vic- 
 tory requires care ! And I cannot afford to lose.' 
 
 ' Lose what ? ' inquired Etta. 
 
 De Chauxville looked at her, but he did not answer. 
 The music was soft again. 
 
 ' I suppose that at Osterno you set no value upon a 
 bear skin,' he said after a pause. 
 
 * We have many,' admitted Etta. 'But I love fur, or 
 trophies of any description. Paul has killed a great deal.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Etta, and the music rose again. I 
 should like to know,' she went on, 'upon what assump- 
 tion you make use of a word which does not often — annoy 
 me.' 
 
 ' I have a good memory, Madame. Besides,' he 
 paused, looking round the room, ' there are associations 
 within these walls which stimulate the memory.'
 
 IN THE CASTLE OF THORS 239 
 
 * What do you mean ? ' asked Etta in a hard voice. 
 The hand holding the album suddenly shook like a leaf in 
 the wind. 
 
 De Chauxville had stood upright, his hand at his 
 moustache, after the manner of a man whose small talk 
 is exhausted. It would appear that ho was wondering how 
 he could gracefully get away from the Princess to pay his 
 devoirs elsewhere. 
 
 ' I cannot tell you now,' he answered ; ' Catuina is 
 watching us across the piano. You must beware, Madame, 
 of those cold blue eyes.' 
 
 He moved away, going towards the piano, where 
 Maggie was standing behind Catrina's chair. He was like 
 a woman, inasmuch as he could not keep away from his 
 failures. 
 
 ' Are you advanced, Miss Delafield ? ' he asked, with his 
 deferential little bow. ' Are you modern ? ' 
 
 ' I am neither ; I have no desire for even the cheapest 
 form of notoriety. Why do you ask ? ' replied Maggie. 
 
 * I was merely wondering whether we were to count you 
 among our rifles to-morrow. One never knows what ladies 
 will do next ; not ladies — I apologise— women. I suppose 
 it is those who are not by birth ladies who aspire to the 
 proud name of women. The modern Woman — with a 
 capital W — is not a lady — n'est ce pas ! ' 
 
 ' She does not mind your abuse, Monsieur,' laughed 
 Maggie. ' So long as you do not ignore her, she is happy. 
 But you may set your mind at rest as regards to-morroAV. 
 I have never let off a gun in my life, and I am sensible 
 enough not to begin on bears.' 
 
 De Chauxville made a suitable reply, and remained 
 by the piano talking to the two young ladies until Etta 
 rose and came towards them. He tb'^n crossed to the 
 other side of the room and engaged Paul in the discussion 
 of further plans for the morrow.
 
 240 THE SOWERS 
 
 It was soon time to dress for dinner, and Etta wag 
 forced to forego the opportunity she sought to exchange a 
 word alone with De Chauxville. That astute gentleman 
 carefully avoided allowing her this opportunity. He knew 
 the value of a little suspense. 
 
 During dinner and afterwards, when at length the 
 gentlemen came to the drawing-room, the conversation 
 was of a sporting nature. Bears, bear-hunting, and bear 
 stories held supreme sway. More than once De Chauxville 
 returned to this subject. Twice he avoided Etta. 
 
 In some ways this man was courageous. He delayed 
 giving Etta her opportunity until there was a question of 
 retiring to bed in view of the early start required by the 
 next day's arrangements. It had been finally settled tliat 
 the three younger ladies should drive over to a woodman's 
 cottage at the far end of the forest, where luncheon was 
 to be served. While this item of the programme was 
 arranged, De Chauxville looked straight at Etta across the 
 table. 
 
 At length she had the chance afforded to her, deliber- 
 ately, by De Chauxville. 
 
 ' What did you mean ? ' she asked at once. 
 
 ' I have received information which, had I known it 
 three months ago, would have made a difference in your 
 life.' 
 
 * What difference ? ' 
 
 * I should have been your husband instead of that 
 thick-headed giant.' 
 
 Etta laughed, but her lips were for the moment colour- 
 less. 
 
 ' When am I to see you alone ? ' 
 
 Etta shrugged her shoulders. She had plenty of 
 spirit. 
 
 ' Please do not be dramatic or mysterious ; I am tired. 
 Good-night.'
 
 IN THE CASTLE OF THOKS 241 
 
 She rose and concealed a simulated yawn. 
 
 De Chauxville looked at her with his sinister smile, and 
 Etta suddenly saw the resemblance which Paul had noted 
 between this man and the grinning mask of the lynx in the 
 smokmg-room at Osterno. 
 
 ' When '? ' repeated he. 
 
 Etta shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 'I wish to speak to you about the — Charity League,' 
 said De Chauxville. 
 
 Etta's eyes dilated. She made a step or two away 
 from him, but she came back. 
 
 ' I shall not go to the luncheon to-morrow, if you care 
 to leave the hunt early.' 
 
 De Chauxville bowed.
 
 242 THE SOWEKS 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX 
 
 ANGLO-EUSSIAN 
 
 At bedtime Catrina went to Maggie's room with her to 
 see that she had all that she could desire. A wood fire 
 was burning brightly in the open French stove ; the room 
 was lighted by lamps. It was warm and cheery. A 
 second door led to the little music-room which Catrina 
 had made her own, and beyond was her bedroom. 
 
 Maggie had assured her hostess that she had everything 
 that she could wish, and that she did not desire the 
 services of Catrina's maid. But the Eussiaii girl still 
 lingered. She was slow to make friends — not shy, but 
 diffident and suspicious. Her friendship, once secured, was 
 a thing worth possessing. She was inclined to bestoAV 
 it upon this self-contained English girl. In such matters 
 the length of an acquaintance goes for nothing. A 
 long acquaintanceship does not necessarily mean friend- 
 ship — one being the result of circumstance, the other of 
 selection. 
 
 ' The Princess knows Russian ? ' said Catrina suddenly. 
 
 She was standing near the dressing-table, where she 
 had been absently attending to the candles. She wheeled 
 round and looked at Maggie, who was sitting on a low 
 chair near the fire. Maggie was sorry for the loneliness 
 of this girl's life. She did not want her to go away just 
 yet. There was another chair by the fire, inviting Catrina
 
 ANGLO-EUSSIAN 243 
 
 to indulge in those maiden confidences wliicli attach them- 
 selves to slippers and hair brushings. 
 
 Maggie looked up with a smile which slowly ebbed 
 away. Catrina's remark was of the nature of a defiance. 
 Her half-diffident role of hostess was suddenly laid aside. 
 
 ' No ; she does not,' answered the English girl. 
 
 Catrina came forward, standing over her companion, 
 looking down at her with eyes full of antagonism. 
 
 ' Excuse me. I saw ber understand a remark I made 
 to one of the servants. She was not careful. I saw it 
 distinctly.' 
 
 ' I think you must be mistaken,' answered Maggie 
 quietly. ' She has been in Eussia before for a few 
 weeks ; but she did not learn the language. She told me 
 so herself. Why should she pretend not to know Kussian 
 if she does ? ' 
 
 Catrina made no answer. She sat heavily dov.Ti in the 
 vacant chair. Her attitudes were uncouth and strong — a 
 perpetual source of tribulation to the Countess. She sat 
 with her elbow on her knee, staring into the fire. 
 
 ' I did not mean to hate her ; I did not want to,' she 
 said. * If it had been you, I should not have hated you.' 
 
 Maggie's clear eyes wavered for a moment. A faint 
 colofi;r rose to her face. She leant back so that the 
 firelight did not reach her. There was a silence, during 
 which Maggie unclasped a bracelet with a little snap of 
 the spring. Catrina did not hear the sound. She heard 
 nothing. She did not appear to be aware of her surround- 
 ings. Maggie unclasped another bracelet noisily. Sha 
 was probably regretting her former kindness of manner. 
 Catrina had come too near. 
 
 * Are you not judging rather hastily ? ' suggested 
 
 Maggie in a measured voice, which heightened the contrast 
 
 between the two. ' I find it takes some time to discover 
 
 whether one likes or dislilccs new ac(T[uaintances.' 
 
 n2
 
 244 THE SOWEKS 
 
 ' Yes ; but you English are so cold and deliberate. 
 You do not know what it is to hate — or to care.' 
 
 'Perhaps we do,' said Maggie; ' but we say less about 
 it.' 
 
 Catrina turned and looked at her with a queer 
 smile. 
 
 ' Less ! ' she laughed. * Nothing — you say nothing. 
 Paul is the same. I have seen. I know. You have said 
 nothing since you came to Thors. You have talked and 
 laughed ; you have given opinions ; you have spoken of 
 many things, but you have said nothing. You are the 
 same as Paul — one never knows. I know nothing about 
 you. But I like you. You are her cousin ? ' 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 ' And I hate her.' 
 
 Maggie laughed. She was quite steady and loyal. 
 ' When you get to know her you will change, perhaps,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Perhaps I know her now better than you do ! ' 
 Maggie laughed in her cheery, practical way. 
 
 * That seems hardly likely, considering that I have 
 known her since we were children.' 
 
 Catrina shrugged her shoulders in an honest if some- 
 what mannerless refusal to discuss the side issue. She 
 returned to the main question with characteristic stubborn- 
 ness. 
 
 ' I shall always hate her,' she said. ' I am sorry she is 
 your cousin. I shall always regret that, and I shall always 
 hate her. There is something wrong about her — something 
 none of you know except Karl Steinmetz. He knows 
 everything — Herr Steinmetz.' 
 
 * He knows a great deal,' admitted Maggie. 
 
 * Yes ; and that is why he is sad. Is it not so ? ' 
 Catrina sat staring into the fire, her strange, earnest 
 
 eyes almost fierce in their concentration.
 
 ANGLO-RUSSIAN 245 
 
 * Did slie pretend that she loved him at first ? ' she 
 asked suddenly. 
 
 Receiving no answer, she loolvod up and fixed her 
 searching gaze on the face of her companion. Maggie was 
 looking straight in front of her in the direction of the fire, 
 but not with eyes focussed to see anything so near at hand. 
 She bore the scrutiny without flinching. As soon as 
 Catrina'j eyes were averted the mask-like stillness of her 
 features relaxed. 
 
 ' She does not take that trouble now,' added the Eussian 
 girl in reply to her own question. ' Did you see her to- 
 night when we were at the piano ? Monsieur de Chauxville 
 was talking to her. They were keeping two conversations 
 gomg at the same time. I could see by their faces. They 
 said different things when the music was loud. I hate her. 
 She is not true to Paul. Monsieur de Chauxville knows 
 something about her. They have something in common 
 which is not known to Paul or to any of us ! Why do you 
 not speak ? Why do you sit staring into the fire with your 
 lips so close together ? ' 
 
 ' Because I do not think that we shall gain anything by 
 discussing Paul and his wife. It is no business of ours.' 
 
 Catrina laughed — a lamentable, mirthless laugh. 
 
 * That is because she is your cousin ; and he — he is 
 nothing to you. You do not care whether he is happy 
 or not.' 
 
 Catrina had turned upon her companion fiercely 
 Maggie swung round in her chair to pick up her bracelets, 
 which had slipped from her knees to the floor. 
 
 * You exaggerate things,' she said quietly. ' I see no 
 reason to suppose that Paul is unhappy. It is because you 
 have taken this vmreasoning dislike to her.' 
 
 She took a long time to collect three bracelets. Then 
 she rose and placed them on the dressing-table. 
 
 ' Do you want me to go ? ' asked Catrina in her blunt way.
 
 246 THE SOWEKS 
 
 ' No,' answered Maggie, civilly enough ; but she ex- 
 tracted a couple of hair-pins rather obviously. 
 
 Catrina heeded the voice and not the action. 
 
 ' You English are all alike,' she said. ' You hold one 
 at arm's length. I suppose there is some one in England 
 for whom you care — who is out of all this^away from all 
 the troubles of Eussia. This is nothing to do with your 
 life. It is only a passing incident — a few weeks to be for- 
 gotten when you go back. I wonder what he is like — the 
 man in England. You need not tell me. I am not curious 
 in that way. I am not asking you to tell me. I am just 
 wondering. For I know there is some one. I knew it when 
 I first saw you. You are so quiet, and settled, and self- 
 contained — like a person who has played a game and knows 
 for certain that it is lost or won, and does not want to play 
 again. Your hair is very pretty ; you are very pretty, you 
 quiet English girl. I wonder what you think about behind 
 your steady eyes.' 
 
 * I,' said Maggie, with a little laugh. 'Oh — I think 
 about my dresses, and the new fashions, and parties, and 
 all the things that girls do think of.' 
 
 Catrina shook her head. She looked stubborn and un- 
 convinced. Then suddenly she changed the subject. 
 ' Do you like Monsieur de Chauxville ? ' she asked. 
 ♦No.' 
 ' Does Paul like him ? ' 
 
 * I don't know.' 
 
 Catrina looked up for a moment only. Then her eyes 
 returned to the contemplation of the burning pine-logs. 
 
 * I wonder why you will not talk of Paul,' she said, in a 
 voice requiring no answer. 
 
 Maggie moved rather uneasily. She had her back 
 turned towards Catrina. 
 
 *I am afraid I am rather a dull person,' she answered. 
 ' I have not much to say about anybody.'
 
 ANGLO-EUSSIAN 247 
 
 * And nothing about Paul ? ' suggGstecT Catrina. 
 
 'Nothing. We were talking of Monsieur de Chaux- 
 ville.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I do not understand Monsieur de Chauxville. 
 He seems to me to be the incarnation of insincerity. 
 He poses — even to himself. He is always watching for 
 the eiiect. I wonder what the effect of himself upon him- 
 self may be.' 
 
 Maggie laughed, 
 
 ' That is rather complicated,' she said. ' It requires 
 workuig out. I think he is deeply impressed with his own 
 astuteness. If he were simpler he would be cleverer.' 
 
 Catrina was afraid of Claude de Chauxville, and because 
 this was so she stared in wonder at the English girl, who 
 dismissed him from the conversation and her thoughts with 
 a few careless words of contempt. Such a mind as that of 
 Miss Delafield was quite outside the field of De Chauxville's 
 influence, while that Frenchman had considerable power 
 over highly strung and imaginative natures. 
 
 Catrina Lanovitch had begun by tolerating him — had 
 proceeded to make the serious blunder of permitting him 
 to be impertinently familiar, and was now exaggerating 
 in her own mind the hold that he had over her. She 
 did not actually dislike him. So few people had 
 taken the trouble or found the expediency of endeavour- 
 ing to sympathise with her or understand her nature that 
 she was unconsciously drawn towards this man, Avhom she 
 now feared. 
 
 In exaggerating the power he exercised over herself she 
 naturally exaggerated also his importance in the world and 
 in the lives of those around him. She had imagined him 
 all-powerful ; and the first person to whom she mentioned 
 his name dismissed the subject indifferently. Her own 
 entire sincerity had enabled her to detect the insincerity of 
 her ally. She had purposely made mention of the weak
 
 248 THE SOWERS 
 
 spot wliicli she had discovered in order that her obser- 
 vation might be corroborated. And this Maggie had failed 
 to do. 
 
 With the slightest encouragement Catrina would have 
 told her companion all that had passed. The sympathy 
 between women is so strong that there is usually only one 
 man who is safe from discussion. In Catrina's case that 
 one man was not Claude de Chauxville. But Maggie 
 Delafield was of different material from this impressionable, 
 impulsive Eussian girl. She was essentially British in her 
 capacity for steering a straight personal course through the 
 shoals and quicksands of her neighbours' affairs, as also in 
 the firm grip she held upon her own thoughts. She was 
 by no means prepared to open her mind to the first comer, 
 and in her somewhat slow-going English estimate of such 
 matters Catrina was as yet little more than the first 
 comer. 
 
 She changed the subject, and they talked for some time 
 on indifferent topics — such topics as have an interest for 
 girls ; and who are we that we may despise them ? We 
 jeer very grandly at girls' talk, and promptly return to the 
 discussion of our dogs and pipes and clothing. 
 
 But Catrina was not happy under this judicious treat- 
 ment. She had no one in the world to whom she could 
 impart a thousand doubts and questions — a hundred 
 grievances and one great grief. And it was just this one 
 great grief of which Maggie dreaded the mention. She was 
 quite well aware of its existence — had been aware of it for 
 some time. Karl Steimnetz had thrown out one or two 
 vague hints ; everything pointed to it. Maggie could 
 hardly be ignorant of the fact that Catrina had grown to 
 womanhood loving Paul. 
 
 A score of times Catrina approached the subject, and 
 with imperturbable steadfastness Maggie held to her deter- 
 mination that Paul was not to be discussed by them. 
 She warded, she evaded, she ignored with a skill which
 
 aisctLO-eussian 2-19 
 
 baffled the simple Kussian. Slie had a hundred subter- 
 fuges — a hundred skilful turns and twists. ^Yhere women 
 learn these matters, heaven only knows ! All our experi- 
 ence of the world, our falls and stumbles on the broken 
 road of life, never teach us some things that are known to 
 the veriest school-girl standing on the smoother footpath 
 that women tread. 
 
 At last Catrina rose to go. Maggie rose also. Women 
 are relentless where they fight for their own secrets. 
 Maggie morally turned Catrina out of the room. The two 
 girls stood looking at each other for a moment. They had 
 nothing in common. The language in which they under- 
 stood each other best was the native tongue of neither. 
 Born in different countries, each of a mixed race with no 
 one racial strain in common, neither creed, nor education, 
 nor similarity of thought had aught to draw them together. 
 They looked at each other, and God's hand touched them. 
 They both loved the same man. They did not hate each 
 other. 
 
 ' Have you everything you want ? ' asked Catrina. 
 
 The question was startling. Catrina's speech was ever 
 abrupt. At first Maggie did not understand. 
 
 ' Yes, thanks,' she answered. ' I am very tired. I 
 suppose it is the snow.' 
 
 * Yes,' said Catrina mechanically ; ' it is the snow.' 
 
 She went towards the door, and there she paused. 
 
 ' Does Paul love her ? ' she asked abruptly. 
 
 Maggie made no answer ; and, as was her habit, Catrina 
 replied to her own question. 
 
 ' You know he docs not — you know he docs not ! ' she 
 said. 
 
 Then she went out, without waiting for an answer, 
 closing the door behind her. The closed door heard the 
 reply. 
 
 ' It will not matter much,' said Maggie, ' so long as be 
 never finds it out.'
 
 250 THE SOWEKS 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 WOLF ! 
 
 The Countess Lanovitcli never quitted her own apartments 
 before mid-clay. Slie had acquired a Parisian habit of 
 being invisible until luncheon-time. The two girls left 
 the Castle of Thors in a sleigh with one attendant at ten 
 o'clock in order to reach the hut, selected for luncheon, by 
 mid-day. Etta did not accompany them. She had a slight 
 headache. 
 
 At eleven o'clock Claude de Chauxville returned alone, 
 on horseback. After the sportsmen had separated, each to 
 gain his prearranged position in the forest, he had tripped 
 over his rifle, seriously injuring the delicate sighting 
 mechanism. He found (he told the servant who opened 
 the door for him) that he had just time to return for 
 another rifle before the operation of closing in on the bears 
 was to begin. 
 
 ' If Madame the Princess was visible,' he went on, 
 ' would the servant tell her that Monsieur de Chauxville was 
 waiting in the library to assure her that there was absolutely 
 no danger to be anticipated in the day's sport ? ' The 
 Princess, it would appear, was absurdly anxious ab6ut the 
 welfare of her husband — an experienced hunter J^nd a 
 dead shot. 
 
 Claude de Chauxville then went to the library, where 
 he waited, booted,, spurred, rifle in hand, for Etta.
 
 WOLF ! 251 
 
 After a lapse of five minutes or more the door was 
 opened, and Etta came leisurely into the room. 
 
 ' Well ? ' she inquired indifferently. 
 
 De Chauxville bowed. He walked past her and closed 
 the door, which she happened to have left open. 
 
 Then he returned and stood by the window, leaninji 
 gracefully on his rifle. His attitude, his hunting suit, his 
 great top-boots, made rather a picturesque object of him. 
 
 * Well ? ' repeated Etta, almost insolently. 
 
 * It would have been wiser to have married me,' said 
 De Chauxville, darkly. 
 
 Etta shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' Because I understand you better ; I knoiu you better 
 than your husband.' 
 
 Etta turned and glanced at the clock. 
 
 ' Have you come back from the bear-hunt to tell me 
 this, or to avoid the bears ? ' she asked. 
 
 De Chauxville frowned. A man vfho has tasted fear 
 does not like a question of his courage. 
 
 * I have come to tell' you that and other things,' he 
 answered. 
 
 He looked at her with his sinister smile and a little 
 upward jerk of the head. He extended his open hand, 
 palm upwards, with the fingers slightly crooked. 
 
 ' I hold you, Madame,' he said — ' I hold you in my hand. 
 You are my slave, despite your brave title ; my thing, my 
 plaything, despite your servants, and your great houses, 
 and your husband ! When I have finished telling you all 
 that I have to tell, you will understand. You will perhaps 
 thank me for being merciful.' 
 
 Etta laughed defiantly. 
 
 * You are afraid of Paul,' she cried. ' You are afraid of 
 Karl Steinmetz ; you will presently be afraid of me.' 
 
 ' I think not,' said De Chauxville coolly. The two 
 names just mentioned were certainly not of pleasant import
 
 252 THE SOWERS 
 
 in his ears, but he was not going to let a woman know that. 
 This man had played dangerous cards before now. He was 
 not at all sure of his ground. He did not know what 
 Etta's position was in regard to Steinmetz. Behind the 
 defiant woman there lurked the broad shadow of the man 
 who never defied ; who knew many things, but was 
 ignorant of fear. 
 
 Unlike Karl Steinmetz, De Chauxville was not a bold 
 player. He liked to be sure of his trick before he threw 
 down his trump card. His method was not above suspicion. 
 He liked to know what cards his adversary held, and one 
 may be sure that he was not above peeping. 
 
 ' Karl Steinmetz is no friend of yours,' he said. 
 
 Etta did not answer. She was thinking of the conver- 
 sation she had with Steintnetz in Petersburg. She was 
 wondering whether the friendship he had offered — the 
 solid thing, as he called it— was better than the love of this 
 man. 
 
 ' I have information noAV, went on De Chauxville, ' which 
 would have made you my wife had I had it sooner.' 
 
 * I think not,' said the lady insolently. She had dealt 
 with such men before. Hers was the beauty that appealed 
 to De Chauxville and such as he. It is not the beautiful 
 women who see the best side of human nature. 
 
 ' Even now,' went on the Frenchman, ' now that I knoAV 
 you — I still love you. You are the only woman I shall 
 ever love.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' murmured the lady, quite unmoved. 
 
 ' Yes ; although in a way I despise you — now that I know 
 you.' 
 
 * Mon Dieu ! ' exclaimed Etta. ' If you have anything 
 to say, please say it. I have no time to probe your 
 mysteries — to discover your parables. You know me well 
 enough, perhaps, to be aware that I am not to be frightened 
 by your cheap charlatanism.'
 
 WOLF ! 253 
 
 ' I know you well enough,' retorted De Cliauxville 
 hoarsely, ' to be aware that it was you who sold the Charity 
 League papers to Vassili in Paris. I know you well 
 enough, Madame, to be aware of your present position in 
 regard to your husband. If I say a word in the right 
 quarter you would never leave Kussia alive, I have merely 
 to say to Catrina Lanovitch that it was you who banished 
 her father for your own gain. I have merely to hand your 
 name in to 3ertain of the Charity League party, and even 
 your husband could not save you.' 
 
 He had gradually approached her, and uttered the last 
 words face to face, his eyes close to hers. She held her 
 head up — erect, defiant still. 
 
 ' So you see, Madame,' he said, ' you belong to me.' 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 ' Hand and foot,' he added. ' But I am soft-hearted.' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and turned away. 
 
 ' What will you ? ' he said, looking out of the window. 
 * I love you.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' 
 
 He turned slowly round. 
 
 * What ? ' 
 
 * Nonsense,' repeated Etta. * You love power ; you are 
 a bully. You love to please your own vanity by thinking 
 that you have me in your power. I am not afraid of you.' 
 
 De Chauxville leant gracefully against the window. He 
 still held his rifle. 
 
 ' Reflect a little,' he said, with his cold smile. * It 
 would appear that you do not quite realise the situation. 
 Women rarely realise situations in time. Our friend — your 
 hHsband — has many of the English idiosyncrasies. He has 
 all the narrow-minded notions of honour which obtain in 
 that country. Added to this, I suspect him of possessing a 
 truly Slavonic fire which he keeps under. " A smoulder- 
 fire " you know, Madame, our French proverbs. He is
 
 254 THE SOWERS 
 
 not the man to take a rational and broad-minded view of 
 your little transaction with Monsieur Vassili ; more 
 especially, perhaps, as it banished his friend Stepan Lano- 
 vitch— the owner of this house, by the way. His recep- 
 tion of the news I have to tell him would be unpleasant — 
 for you.' 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' interrupted Etta. ' Money ? ' 
 
 ' I am not a needy adventurer.' 
 
 ' And I am not such a fool. Monsieur de Chauxviile, as 
 to allow myself to be dragged into a vulgar intrigue, 
 borrowed from a French novel, to satisfy your vanity.' 
 
 De Chauxviile' s dull eyes suddenly flashed. 
 
 * I will trouble you to believe, Madame,' he said, in alow, 
 concentrated voice, ' that such a thought never entered my 
 head. A De Chauxviile is not a commercial traveller, if 
 you please. No ; it may surprise you, but my feeling for 
 you has more good in it than you would seem capable of 
 inspiring. God only knows liow it is that a bad woman 
 can inspire a good love.' 
 
 Etta looked at him in amazement. She did not always 
 understand De Chauxviile. No matter for surprise, 
 perhaps ; for he did not always understand himself. 
 
 * Then what do you want ? ' she asked. 
 
 * In the meantime, implicit obedience.' 
 
 * What are you going to use me for ? ' 
 
 * I have ends,' replied Claude de Chauxviile, who had 
 regained his usual half-mocking composure, ' that you will 
 serve. But they will be your ends as well as mine. You 
 will profit by them. I will take very good care that you 
 come to no harm, for you are the ultimate object of all 
 this. At the end of it all I see only — you.' 
 
 Etta shrugged her shoulders. It is to be presumed 
 that she was absolutely heartless. Many people are. It 
 is when a heartless woman has brains that one hears of 
 her.
 
 WOLF! 255 
 
 ' What if I refuse ? ' asked Etta, keenly aware of the 
 fact that this man was handicapped by his love for her. 
 ♦ Then I will force you to obedience.' 
 Etta raised her delicate eyebrows insolently. 
 ' Ah ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said De Chauxville, with suppressed anger ; ' I 
 will force you to obey me.' 
 
 The Princess looked at him with her little mocking 
 smile. She raised one hand to her head with a reflective air, 
 as if a hair-pin were of greater importance than his words. 
 She had dressed herself rather carefully for this interview. 
 She never for a moment overlooked the fact that she was a 
 woman, and beautiful. She did not allow him to forget it 
 either. 
 
 Her mood of outraged virtue was now suddenly thrown 
 in the background by a phase of open coquetry. Beneath 
 her eyelids she watched for the efiect of her pretty, pro- 
 voking attitude on the man who loved her. She was on her 
 own territory at this work, playing her own game ; and she 
 was more alarmed by De Chauxville's imperturbability than 
 by anything he had said. 
 
 ' You have a strange way of proving the truth of your 
 own statements.' 
 
 ' ^Yhat statement ? ' 
 
 She gave a little laugh. Her attitude, her glance, the 
 running display of a perfect figure, the laugh, the whole 
 woman was the incarnation of practised coquetry. She 
 did not admit, even to herself, that she was afraid of De 
 Chauxville. But she was playing her best cards in her 
 best manner. She had never known them fail. 
 
 Claude de Chauxville was a little white about the hps. 
 His eyelids flickered ; but by an effort he controlled himself, 
 and she did not see the light in his eyes for which sh9 
 looked. 
 
 ' If' you mean,' he said coldly, ' the statement that I
 
 256 THE soWEKS 
 
 made to you before you were married — namely, that I love 
 you — I am quite content to leave the proof till the future. 
 I know what I am about, Madame.' 
 
 He took his watch from his pocket and consulted it. 
 
 'I must go in five minutes,' he said. 'I have a few 
 instructions to give you, to which I must beg your careful 
 attention.' 
 
 He looked ap, meeting Etta's somewhat sullen gaze 
 with a smile of triumph. 
 
 ' It is essential,' he went on, ' that I be invited to 
 Osterno. I do not want to stay there long ; indeed, I do 
 not care to. But I must see the place. I dare say you can 
 compass the invitation, Madame ? ' 
 
 ' It will be difficult.' 
 
 ' And therefore worthy of your endeavour. I have the 
 greatest regard for your diplomatic skill. I leave the matter 
 in your hands, Princess.' 
 
 Etta shrugged her shoulders and looked past him out 
 of the window. De Chauxville was considermg her face 
 carefully. 
 
 ' Another point to ba remembered,' he went on, ' is your 
 husband's daily life at Osterno. The Prince is not above 
 suspicion ; the authorities are watching him. He is sus- 
 pected of propagating revolutionary ideas among the 
 peasantry. I should like you to find out as much as you 
 can. Perhaps you know already. Perhaps he has told you, 
 Princess. I know that beautiful face ! He has told you ! 
 Good. Does he take an interest in the peasants ? ' 
 
 Etta did not answer. 
 
 ' Kindly give me your attention, Madame. Does the 
 Prince take an interest in the peasants ? ' 
 
 • Yes.' 
 
 ' An active interest ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Have you any details ?'
 
 WOLI'! ^57 
 
 ' No,' answered Etta. 
 
 ' Then you will watch him, and procure those details.' 
 
 Etta's face was defiant and pale. De Chauxville never 
 took his eyes from it. 
 
 ' I have undertaken a few small commissions for an old 
 friend of yours, Monsieur Vassili, whom you obliged once 
 before ! ' he said ; and the defiance faded from her eyes. 
 
 ' The authorities cannot, in these disturbed times, afi'ord 
 to tolerate princes of an independent turn of mind. Such 
 men are apt to make the peasant think himself more impor- 
 tant than he is. I dare say, Madame, that you are already 
 tired of Russia. It might perhaps serve your ends if this 
 country was made a little too hot for your husband, eh ? I 
 see your proud lips quivering. Princess ! It is well to keep 
 the lips under control. We who deal in diplomacy, know 
 where to look for such signs. Yes ; I dare say I can get 
 you out of Russia — for ever, Dut you must be obedient. 
 You must reconcile yourself to the knowledge that you have 
 met— your master.' 
 
 He bowed in his graceful way, spreading out his hands 
 in mock humility. Etta did not answer him. For the 
 moment she could see no outlet to this maze of trouble, 
 and yet she was conscious of not fearing De Chauxville so 
 much as she feared Karl Steinmetz. 
 
 ' A lenient master,' pursued the Frenchman, whoso 
 vanity was tickled by the word. * I do not ask much. 
 One thing I desire is to be invited to Osterno, that I may 
 be near you. The other is a humble request for details 
 of your daily life, that I may think of you when absent.' 
 
 Etta drew in her lips, moistening them as if they had 
 suddenly become parched. 
 
 De Chauxville glanced at her and moved towards the 
 door. He paused with his fingers on the handle, and look- 
 ing back over his shoulder he said : 
 
 ' Have I made myself quite clear ? '
 
 258 THE SOWERS 
 
 Etta was still looking out of the window with hard, 
 angry eyes. She took no notice of the question. 
 
 De Chauxville turned the handle. 
 
 ' Again let me impress upon you the advisability of 
 implicit obedience,' he said, with delicate insolence. ' I 
 mentioned the Charity League ; but that is not my strongest 
 claim upon your attention. I have another interesting 
 little detail of your life, which I will reserve until another 
 time.' 
 
 He closed the door behind him, leaving Etta white- 
 liiDped.
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 A DANGEROUS EXPEEIMENT 
 
 A Russian forest in winter is one of nature's places of 
 worship. There are some such places in the world, where 
 Nature seems to stand in the presence of the Deity : a sun- 
 rise at sea ; night on a snow mountain ; mid-day in a 
 Russian forest in winter. These places and these times 
 are good for convalescent atheists and such as pose as un- 
 believers — the cheapest form of notoriety. 
 
 Paul had requested Catrina and IMaggie to drive as 
 quietly as possible through the forest. The warning was 
 unnecessary, for the stillness of snow is infectious, while 
 the beauty of the scene seemed to command silence. As 
 usual, Catrina drove without bells. The one attendant 
 on his perch behind was a fur-clad statue of servitude and 
 silence. Maggie, leaning back, hidden to the eyes in her 
 sables, had nothing to say to her companion. The way lay 
 through forests of pine — trackless, motionless, virgin. The 
 sun filtering through the snow-laden branches cast a sub- 
 dued golden light upon the ruddy upright trunks of the 
 trees. At times a willow-grouse, white as the snow, light 
 and graceful on the wing, rose from the branch where he 
 had been laughing to his mate with a low cooing laugh, 
 and fluttered away over the trees. 
 
 'A koorojxitkd,' said Catrina, knowing the life of the 
 forest almost as well as Paul, whose very existence was 
 wrapped up in these things. 
 
 s2
 
 260 THE SOWERS 
 
 Far over the summits of the pines a snipe seemed to be 
 wheehng a sentinel round. He followed them as they sped 
 along, calling out all the while his deep warning note, like 
 that of a lamb crouching beneath a hedge where the wind 
 is not tempered. 
 
 Once or twice they heard the dismal howl of a wolf — 
 the most melancholy, the weirdest, the most hopeless of 
 Nature's calls. The whole forest seemed to be on the alert 
 — astir and in suspense. The wolf, disturbed in his lair, 
 no doubt heard and understood the cry of the watchful 
 snipe and the sudden silence of the willow-grouse, who 
 loves to sit and laugh when all is safe. A clumsy caper- 
 cailzie, swinging along over the trees with a great flap 
 a.nd rush of wings, seemed to be intent on his own soli- 
 tary, majestic business— a very king among the fowls of 
 the air. 
 
 Amidst the topmost branches of the pines the wind 
 whispered and stirred like a child in sleep ; but beneath all 
 was still. Every branch stood motionless under its burden 
 of snow. The air was thin, exhilarating, brilliant — like 
 dry champagne. It seemed to send the blood coursing 
 through the veins with a very joy of life. 
 
 Catrina noted all these things while cleverly handling 
 her ponies. They spoke to her with a thousand voices. 
 She had roamed in these same forests with Paul, who loved 
 them and understood them as she did. 
 
 Maggie, in the midst as it were of a revelation, leant 
 back and wondered at it all. She, too, was thinking of Paul. 
 She understood him better now. This drive had revealed 
 to her a part of his nature which had ratlier puzzled her 
 ^a large, simple, quiet strength which had developed and 
 grown to maturity beneath these trees. V/3 are all part 
 of what we have seen. We all carry with us through life 
 somewhat of the scenes through which we passed in child- 
 hood.
 
 A DANGEEOUS EXPERBIENT 261 
 
 Maggie knew now where Paul had learnt the quiet 
 concentration of mind, the absorption in his own affairs, 
 the complete lack of interest in the business of his neigh- 
 bour which made him different from other men. He had 
 learnt these things at first hand from God's creatures. 
 These forest dwellers of fur and feather went about their 
 affairs in the same absorbed way, with the same complete 
 faith, the same desire to leave and be left alone. The 
 simplicity of Nature was his. His only craft was forest 
 craft. 
 
 ' Now you know,' said Catrina, when they reached the 
 hut, ' why I hate Petersburg.' 
 
 ]\Iaggie nodded. The effect of the forest was still upon 
 her. She did not want to talk. 
 
 The woman who received them, the wife of a keeper, 
 had prepared in a rough way for their reception. She had 
 a large fire and bowls of warm milk. The doors and 
 windows had been thrown wide open by Paul's orders. 
 He wanted to spare Maggie too intimate an acquaintance 
 with a Russian interior. The hut was really a shooting- 
 box built by Paul some years earlier, and inhabited by a 
 head-keeper, one learned in the ways of bear and wolf and 
 lynx. The large dwelling room had been carefully 
 scrubbed. There was a smell of pine wood and soap. The 
 table, ready spread with a simple luncheon, took up nearly 
 the whole of the room. 
 
 While the two girls were warming themselves, a keeper 
 came to the door of the hut and asked to see Catrina. He 
 stood in the little doorway, completely filling it, and 
 explained that he could not come in as the buckles and 
 straps of his snow-shoes were clogged and frozen. He 
 wore the long Norwegian snow-shoes, and was held to be 
 the quickest runner in the country. 
 
 Catrina had a long conversation with the man. who 
 stood hatless, ruddy, and shv,
 
 262 THE SOWEHS 
 
 *It is,' she then explained to Maggie, * Paul's own man, 
 who always loads for him and carries his spare gun. He 
 has sent him to tell us that the game has been ringed, and 
 that the beaters will close in on a place called the Schapka 
 Clearing, where there is a woodman's refuge. If we care 
 to put on our snow-shoes, this man Avill guide us to the 
 clearing and take care of us till the battue is over.' 
 
 Of course Maggie welcomed the proposal with delight, 
 and after a hasty luncheon the three glided off through 
 the forest as noiselessly as they had come. After a tiring 
 walk of an hour and more they came to the clearing and 
 were duly concealed in the hut. 
 
 No one, the keeper told the ladies, except Paul knew of 
 their presence in the little wooden house. The arrange- 
 ments of the beat had been slightly altered at the last 
 moment after the hunters had separated. The keeper 
 lighted a small fire and shyly attended to the ladies, remov- 
 ing their snow-shoes with clumsy fingers. He closed the 
 door, and arranged a branch of larch across the window so 
 that they could stand near it without being seen. 
 
 They had not been there long before De Chauxville 
 appeared. He moved quickly across the clearing, skim- 
 ming over the snow with long sweeping strides. Two 
 keepers followed him, and after having shown him the 
 rough hiding-place prepared for him, silently withdrew to 
 their places. Soon Karl Steinmetz came from another 
 direction, and took up his position rather nearer to the 
 hut, in a thicket of pine and dwarf oak. He was only 
 twenty yards away from the refuge where the girls were 
 concealed. 
 
 It was not long before Paul came. He was quite alone, 
 and suddenly appeared at the far end of the clearing, in 
 very truth a mighty hunter, standing nearly seven feet on 
 his snow-shoes. One rifle he carried in his hand, another 
 slung across bis back. It was hke a silent scene on a stage.
 
 A DAKGEEOUS EXPERIMENT 263 
 
 The snow-white clearing, with long-drawn tracks across 
 it where the snow-shoes had passed, the still trees, the 
 brilliant sun, and the blue depths of the forest behind ; 
 while Paul — like the hero of some grim Arctic saga— 
 a huge fur-clad Northern giant, stood alone in the desola- 
 tion. 
 
 From his attitude it was apparent that he was listening. 
 It was probable that the cries of the birds and the distant 
 howl of a wolf told his practised ears how near the beaters 
 were. He, presently moved across to where De Chauxville 
 was hidden, spoke some words of advice or warning to him, 
 and pointed with his gloved hand in the direction whence 
 the game might be expected to come. 
 
 As a matter cf fact Paul was asking De Chauxville the 
 whereabouts of Steinmetz, who had gained his place of 
 concealment unobserved by either. De Chauxville could 
 give him no information, and Paul went away to his post 
 dissatisfied. Karl Steinmetz must have seen them ; he 
 must have divined the subject of their conversation; but 
 he remained hidden and gave no sign. 
 
 Paul's post was behind a fallen tree, and the watchers 
 in the hut could see him, while he was completely hidden 
 from any animal that might enter the open clearing from 
 the far end. He turned and looked hard at the hut ; but 
 the larch branch across the window effectually prevented 
 him from discovering whether anyone was behind it or 
 not. 
 
 Thus they all waited in suspense. A blackcock 
 skimmed across the open space and disappeared unmolested. 
 A wolf— grey, gaunt, sneaking and lurching in his gait — 
 trotted into the clearing and stood listening with evil lips 
 drawn back. The two girls watched him breathlessly. 
 When he trotted on unmolested they drew a deep breath as 
 if they had been under water. Paul, with his two rifles 
 laid before him, watched the wolf depart with a smile.
 
 264 THE SOWEKS 
 
 The girls could see the smile, and from it learnt somewhat 
 of the man. The keeper beside them gave a little laugh 
 and looked to the hammers of his rifle. 
 
 And still there was no sound. It was still, unreal, and 
 like a scene on the stage. The birds skimming over the 
 tops of the trees from time to tmie threw in, as it were, a 
 note of fear and suspense. There was breathlessness in 
 the air. A couple of hares, like white shadows in their 
 spotless winter coats, shot from covert to covert across the 
 open ground. 
 
 Then suddenly the keeper gave a little grunt and held 
 up his hand, listening with parted lips and eager eyes. 
 There was a distinct sound of breaking branches and 
 crackling underwood. 
 
 They could see Paul cautiously rise from his knees to a 
 crouching attitude. They followed the direction of his 
 gaze, and before them the monarch of these forests stood 
 in clumsy might. A bear had shambled to the edge of the 
 clearing and was standing upright, growling and grumbling 
 to himself, his great paws waving from side to side, his 
 shaggy head thrust forward with a recurring jerk singularly 
 suggestive of a dandy with an uncomfortable collar. These 
 bears of Northern Eussia have not the reputation of being 
 very fierce unless they are aroused from their winter 
 quarters, when their wrath knows no bounds and their 
 courage recognises no danger. Moreover, these kings of 
 the Northern forests are huge beasts, capable of smothering 
 a strong man by falling on him and lying there — a death 
 which has come to more than one daring hunter. The 
 beast's favourite method of dealing with his foe is to claw 
 him to death, or else hug him till his ribs are snapped and 
 crushed into his vitals. 
 
 The bear stood poking his head and looking about with 
 little, fiery, bloodshot eyes for something to destroy. His 
 rage was manifest, and in his strength he was a grand
 
 • A DANGER0U8 EXPEEDIENT 265 
 
 sight. The majesty of power and a dauntless courage .were 
 his. 
 
 It was De Chauxville's shot, and, while keeping his eys 
 on the bear, Paul glanced impatiently over his shoulder 
 from time to time, wondering why the Frenchman did not 
 fire. The bear was a huge one, and would probably carry 
 three bullets and still be a dangerous adversary. 
 
 The keeper muttered in his beard. 
 
 They were watching Paul breathlessly. The bear was 
 approaching him. It would not be safe to defer firing 
 another second. 
 
 Suddenly the keeper gave a short exclamation of 
 astoiiishment and threw up his rifle. 
 
 There was another bear behind Paul, shambling towards 
 him, unseen by him. All his attention was riveted on the 
 huge brute forty yards in front of him. It was Claude de 
 Chauxville's task to protect Paul from any flank or rear 
 attack ; and Claude de Chauxville was peering over his 
 covert watching with blanched face the second bear, and 
 lifting no hand, making no sign. The bear was within a 
 few yards of Paul, who was crouching behind the fallen 
 pine and now raising his rifle to his shoulder. 
 
 In a flash of comprehension the two girls saw all, 
 through the panes of the closed window. It was still 
 singularly like a scene on the stage. The second bear 
 raised his powerful fore-paAvs as he approached. One blow 
 would tear open Paul's brain. 
 
 A terrific report sent the girls staggering back, for 
 a moment paralysing thought. The keeper had fired 
 through the window, both barrels almost simultaneously. 
 It was a question how much lead would bring the bear down 
 before he covered the intervening dozen yards. In the 
 confined space of the hut, the report of the heavy double 
 charge was like that of a cannon ; moreover, Steiumetz, 
 twenty yards away, had fired at the same moment,
 
 266 THE SOWEE? 
 
 The room was filled AviLli snioko. The two girls were 
 blinded for an instant. Then they saw the keeper tear 
 open the door and disappear. The cold air through the 
 shattered casement was a sudden relief to their lungs, 
 choked with sulphur and the fumes of spent powder. 
 
 In a flash they were out of the open door ; and there 
 again, with the suddenness of a panorama, they saw another 
 picture — Paul kneeling in the middle of the clearii''g taking 
 careful aim at the retreating form of the first hear. They 
 saw the puff of blue smoke rise from his riile, they heard 
 the sharp report ; and the bear rolled over on its face. 
 
 Steinmetz and the keeper were walking towards Paul. 
 Claude de Chauxville, standing outside his screen of brush- 
 wood, was staring with wide, fear-stricken eyes at the hut 
 which he had thought empty. He did not know that 
 there were three people behind him, watching him. What 
 had they seen ? What had they understood ? 
 
 Catrina and Maggie ran towards Paul. They were 
 on snowshocs, and made short work of the intervening 
 distance. 
 
 Paul had risen to his feet. His face was grave. There 
 was a singular gleam in his eyes, which was not a 
 gleam of mere excitement such as the chase brings into 
 some men's eyes. 
 
 Steinmetz looked at him and said nothing. For a 
 moment Paul stood still. He looked round him, noting 
 with experienced glance the lay of the whole incident — the 
 dead form of the bear ten yards behind his late hiding- 
 place, one hundred and eighty yards from the hut, a 
 hundred and sixty yards from the spot whence Karl 
 Steinmetz had sent his unerring bullet through the bear's 
 brain. Paul saw it all. He measured the distances. He 
 looked at De Chauxville, standing white-faced at his post, 
 not fifty yards from the carcase of the second bear. 
 
 Paul seemed to see no one but De Chauxville. He
 
 DANGEROUS EXPERIMENT 267 
 
 went straight towards him, and the whole party followed 
 in breathless suspense. Steinmetz was nearest to him, 
 watching with his keen, quiet eyes. 
 
 Paul went up to De Chauxville and took the rifle from 
 his hands. He opened the breech and looked into the 
 barrels. They were clean ; the rifle had not been fired 
 off. 
 
 He gave a little laugh of contempt, and, throwing the 
 rifle at De Chauxville's feet, turned abruptly away. 
 
 It was Catrina who spoke. 
 
 *If you had killed him,' she said, ' I would have killed 
 
 you! ' 
 
 steinmetz picked up the rifle, closed the breech, and 
 handed it to De Chauxville with a queer smile.
 
 263 TUE SOAVEIIS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 A CLOUD 
 
 When tlis Osterno party reached home that same evening 
 the Starosta was waiting to see Steinmetz. His news was 
 such that Steinmetz sent for Paul, and the three men 
 went together to the httle room beyond the smoking-room 
 in the old part of the castle. 
 
 ' Well ? ' said Paul, with the unconscious hauteur which 
 made him a prince to these people. 
 
 The Starosta spread out his hands. 
 
 ' Excellency,' he answered, ' I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Of what ? ' 
 
 The Starosta shrugged his narrow shoulders in cring- 
 ing deprecation. 
 
 ' Excellency, I do not know. There is something in 
 the village — something in the whole country. I Icnow not 
 what it is. It is a feeling — one cannot see it, one cannot 
 define it ; but it is there, like the gleam of water at the 
 bottom of a deep well. The moujiks are getting dangerous. 
 They will not speak to me. I am suspected. I am 
 watched.' 
 
 His shifty eyes, like black beads, flitted from side to 
 side as he spoke. He was like a weasel at bay. It was 
 the face of a man who went in bodily fear. 
 
 ' I will go with you down to the village now,' said Paul. 
 ' Is there any excuse — any ilhiess ? '
 
 A CLOUD 2G9 
 
 'Ah, Excellency,' replied the chief, ' there is alwaya 
 that excuse.' 
 
 Paul looked at the clock. 
 
 ' I will go now,' ho said. He began his simple pre- 
 parations at once. 
 
 ' There is dinner to be thought oF,' suggested Steiumetz 
 with a resigned smile. ' It is half-past seven.' 
 
 * Dinner can wait,' replied Paul in English. ' You 
 might tell the ladies that I have gone out, and will dine 
 alone when I come bach.' 
 
 Steinmetz shrugged his broad shoulders. 
 
 ' I think you are a fool,' he said, ' to go alone. If they 
 discover your identity they will tear you to pieces.' 
 
 ' I am not afraid of them,' replied Paul, with his head 
 in the medicine cupboard, ' any more than I am afraid of 
 a horse. They are like horses ; they do not know their own 
 strength.' 
 
 ' With this difference,' added Steinmetz, * that the 
 mouj ik will one day make the discovery. He is beginning to 
 make it now. The Starosta is quite right, Paul. There 
 is something in the air. It is about time that you took the 
 ladies away from here and left me to manage it alone.' 
 
 ' That time Avill never come,' answered Paul. ' I am 
 not going to leave you alone again.' 
 
 He was pushing his arms into the sleeves of the old 
 brown coat reaching to his heels, a garment which com- 
 manded as much love and respect in Osterno as ever would 
 an angel's wing. 
 
 Steinmetz opened the drawer of his bureau and laid a 
 revolver on the table. 
 
 ' At all events,' he said, * you may as well have the 
 wherewithal to make a fight of it, if the worst comes to the 
 worst.' 
 
 ' As you like,' answered Paul, slipping the firearm into 
 his pocket.
 
 270 THE SOWERS 
 
 The Starosta moved away a pace or two. He was 
 essentially a man of peace. 
 
 Half an hour later it became known in the village that 
 the Moscow Doctor was in the house of one Ivan Krass, 
 where he was prepared to see all patients who were not 
 suffering from infectious complaints. The door of this 
 cottage was soon besieged by the sick and the idle, while 
 the Starosta stood in the doorway and kept order. 
 
 Within, in the one dwelling-room of the cottage, were 
 assembled as picturesque and as unsavoury a group as 
 the most enthusiastic modern ' slurnmer ' could desire to 
 see. 
 
 Paul, standing by the table with two paraffin lamps 
 placed behind him, saw each suppliant in turn, and all the 
 while he kept up a running conversation with the more 
 intelligent, some of w'hom lingered on to talk and watch. 
 
 'Ah, John the son of John,' he would say, ' what is 
 tlie matter with you ? It is not often I see you. I 
 thought you were clean and thrifty.' 
 
 To which John the son of John replied that the winter 
 had been hard and fuel scarce, that his wife was dead and 
 his children stricken with influenza. 
 
 ' But you have had relief ; our good friend the 
 Starosta ' 
 
 'Does what he can,' grumbled John, 'but he dare not 
 do much. The barins will not let him. The nobles want 
 all the money for themselves. The Emperor is living in 
 his palace, where there are fountains of wine. We pay for 
 that with our taxes. You see my hand — I cannot work ; 
 but I must pay the taxes, or else we shall be turned out 
 into the street.' 
 
 Paul, while attending to the wounded hand — the old 
 story of a slight wound neglected, and a constitution with 
 all the natural healing power drained out of it by hunger and
 
 A CLOUD 271 
 
 want and vodka — Paul, ever watchful, glanced round and 
 saw sullen, lowering faces, eager eyes, hungry, cruel lips. 
 
 ' But the winter is over now. You are mistaken about 
 the nobles. They do what they can. The Emperor pays 
 for the relief that you have had all these months. It is 
 foolish to talk as you do,' 
 
 ' I only tell the truth,' replied the man, wincing as Paul 
 dehberately cut away the dead flesh. ' We know now why 
 it is that we are all so poor.' 
 
 * Why ? ' asked Paul, pouring some lotion over a wad 
 of lint and speaking indifferently. 
 
 ' Because the nobles ' began the man, and some 
 
 one nudged him from behind, urging him to silence. 
 
 'You need not be afraid of me,' said Paul. 'I tell 
 no tales, and I take no money.' 
 
 ' Then why do you come ? ' asked a voice in the back- 
 ground. ' Some one pays you ; who is it ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, Tula,' said Paul, without looking up. ' You are 
 there, are you ? The great Tula. There is a hardwork- 
 ing, sober man, my little fathers, who never beats his wife, 
 and never drinks, and never borrows money. A useful neigh- 
 bour ! What is the matter with you, Tula ? You have 
 been too sparing with the vodka, no doubt. I must order 
 you a glass every hour.' 
 
 There was a little laugh. But Paul, wJio laiew these 
 people, was quite alive to the difference of feeling towards 
 himself. They still accepted his care, his help, his medi- 
 cine ; but they were beginning to doubt him. 
 
 ' There is your own Prince,' ho went on fearlessly to 
 the man whose hand he was binding up. ' He will help 
 you when there is real distress.' 
 
 An ominous silence greeted this observation. 
 
 Paul raised his head and looked round. In the dim 
 light of the two smoky lamps he saw a ring of wild facep.
 
 272 THE soWElis 
 
 Men with shaggy beards and hair all entangled and un- 
 kempt, with fierce eyes and lowering glances ; women 
 with faces that unsexcd them. There lived despair and 
 desperation and utter recklessness in the air, in the atti- 
 tude, in the hearts of these people. And Paul had worked 
 among them for years. The sight would have been heart- 
 breaking had he been the sort of man to admit the possibility 
 of a broken heart. All that he had done had been frus- 
 trated by the wall of heartless bureaucracy against which 
 he had pitched his single strength. There was no visible 
 progress. These were not the faces of men and women 
 moving up the social scale by the aid of education and the 
 deeper self-respect that follows it. Some of them were 
 young, although they hardly looked it. They were old 
 in life and misery. Some of them he knew to be educated. 
 He had paid for the education himself. He had risked his 
 own personal freedom to procure it for them, and misery 
 had killed the seed. 
 
 He looked on this stony ground, and his stout heart 
 was torn with pity. It is easy to be patient in social 
 economy when that vague jumble of impossible ideas is 
 calmly discussed across the dinner-table. But the result 
 seems hopelessly distant when the mass of the poor and 
 wretched stands before one in ihe flesh. 
 
 Paul knew that this little room was only a specimen of 
 the whole of Kussia. Each of these poor peasants repre- 
 sented a million — equally hopeless, equally powerless to 
 contend with an impossible taxation. 
 
 Pie could not give them money, because the tax- 
 collector had them all under his thumb and would exact 
 the last kopeck. The question was far above his single- 
 handed reach, and he did not dare to meet it openly and 
 seek the assistance of the few fellow nobles who faced the 
 position without fear. 
 
 He could not see in tlis brutal faces before hi«n one
 
 A CLOUD 273 
 
 spark of intelligence, one little gleam of independence and 
 self-respect which could be attributed to his endeavour, 
 which the most sanguine construction could take as 
 resulting from his time and money given to a hopeless 
 cause. 
 
 ' Well,' he said. ' Have you nothing to tell me of 
 your Prince ? ' 
 
 ' You know him,' answered the man who had spoken 
 from the safe background. ' We need not tell you.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Paul ; ' I know him.' 
 
 He would not defend himself. 
 
 ' There,' he went on, addressing the man whose hand 
 was now bandaged. ' You will do. Keep clean and sober, 
 and it will heal. Get drunk and go dirty, and you will 
 die. Do you understand, Ivan Ivanovitch ? ' 
 
 The man grunted sullenly, and moved away to give 
 place to a woman with a baby in her arms. 
 
 Paul glanced into her face. He had known her a few 
 years earHer a happy child playing at her mother's cottage 
 door. 
 
 She drew back the shawl that covered her child with 
 a faint, far-off gleam of pride in her eyes. There was 
 something horribly pathetic in the whole picture. The 
 child-mother, her rough, unlovely face hghted for a 
 moment with that gleam from Paradise which men never 
 know ; the huge man bending over her, and between them 
 the wizened, disease-stricken little waif of humanity. 
 
 ' When he was born he was a very fine child,' said 
 the mother. 
 
 Paul glanced at her. She was quite serious. She was 
 looking at him with a strange pride on her face. Paul 
 nodded and drew aside the shawl. The baby was staring 
 at him with wise, grave eyes, as if it could have told him 
 a thing or two if it had only been gifted with the necessary 
 speech. Paul knew that look. It meant starvation. 
 
 T
 
 274 THE SOWEES 
 
 * What is it ? ' asked the child-mother. ' It is only 
 some little illness, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; it is only a little illness.* 
 
 He did not add that no great illness is required to 
 kill a small child. He was already writing something 
 in his pocket-book. He tore the leaf out and gave it to 
 her. 
 
 ' This,' he said, ' is for you — yourself, you understand ? 
 Take that each day to the Starosta and he will give you 
 what I have written down. If you do not eat all that he 
 gives you and drink what there is in the bottle as he directs 
 you, the baby will die — you understand ? You must give 
 nothing away ; nothing even to your husband.' 
 
 The next patient was the man whose voice had been 
 heard from the safe retreat of the background. His 
 dominant malady was obvious. A shaky hand, an un- 
 steady eye, and a bloated countenance spoke for them- 
 selves. But he had other diseases more or less developed. 
 
 ' So you have no good to tell of your Prince,' said Paul, 
 looking into the man's face. 
 
 ' Our Prince, Excellency ! He is not our Prince. His 
 forefathers seized this land ; that is all.' 
 
 * Ah ! Who has been telling you that ? ' 
 
 ' No one,' grumbled the man. ' We know it ; that is 
 all.' 
 
 ' But you were his father's serfs, before the freedom. 
 Let me see your tongue. Yes ; you have been drinking — 
 all the winter. Ah ! is not that so, little father ; your 
 parents were serfs before the freedom.' 
 
 * Freedom ! ' growled the man. ' A pretty freedom ! 
 We were better off before.' 
 
 * Yes ; but the world interfered with serfdom, because it 
 got its necessary touch of sentiment. There is no senti- 
 ment in starvation.' 
 
 The man did not understand. He grunted acquiescence
 
 A CLOUD 275 
 
 nevertheless. The true son of the people is always ready 
 to grunt acquiescence to all that sounds like abuse. 
 
 * And what is this Prince like ? Have you seen him ? ' 
 went on Paul. 
 
 ' No ; I have not seen him. If I saw him I would kick 
 his head to pieces.' 
 
 ' Ah, just open your mouth a little wider. Yes ; you 
 have a nasty throat there. You have had diphtheria. So 
 you would kick his head to pieces. Why ? ' 
 
 ' He is a tchinovnik — a Government spy. He lives on 
 the taxes. But it will not be for long. There is a time 
 coming ' 
 
 ' Ah ! What sort of a time ? Now you must take this 
 to the Starosta. He will give you a bottle. It is not 
 to drink. It is to wash your throat with. Eemember 
 that, and do not give it to your wife by way of a tonic 
 as you did last time. So there are changes coming, are 
 there ? ' 
 
 ' There is a change commg for the Prince — for all thfe 
 princes,' replied the man in the usual tap -room jargon. 
 'For the Emperor too. The poor man has had enough of 
 it. God made the world for the poor man as well as for 
 the rich. Riches should be equally divided. They are 
 going to be. The country is going to bo governed by a 
 Mir. There will be no taxes. The Mir makes no taxes. 
 It is the tchinovniks who make the taxes and live on 
 them.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are very eloquent, little father. If you talk 
 like this in the kabak no wonder you have a bad throat. 
 There, I can do no more for you. You must wash more 
 and drink less. You might try a little work perhaps ; it 
 stimulates the appetite. And with a throat like that I 
 should not talk so much if I were you. Next.' 
 
 The next comer was afflicted with a wound that wouid 
 not heal — a common trouble in cold countries. While 
 
 I 2
 
 276 THE SOWEES 
 
 attending to this sickening sore Paul continued his con- 
 versation with the last patient. 
 
 ' You must tell me,' he said, ' when these changes are 
 about to come. I should like to be there to see. It will 
 be interesting.' 
 
 The man laughed mysteriously. 
 
 ' So the government is to be by a Mir, is it ? ' went on 
 Paul. 
 
 ' Yes ; the poor man is to have a say in it.' 
 
 ' That will be interesting. But at the Mir everyone 
 talks at once and no one listens ; is it not so ? ' 
 
 The man made no reply. 
 
 ' Is the change coming soon ? ' asked Paul coolly. 
 
 But there was no reply. Some one had seized the 
 loquacious orator of the kabak, and he was at that 
 moment being quietly hustled out of the room. 
 
 After this there was a sullen silence, which Paul could 
 not charm away, charm he never so wisely. 
 
 When his patients had at last ebbed away he lighted 
 a cigarette and walked thoughtfully back to the castle. 
 There was danger in the air, and he was one of those men 
 upon whom danger acts as a pleasant stimulant.
 
 2r{ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE NET IS DKAWN 
 
 During the days following Paul's \asit to the village the 
 ladies did not see much male society. Paul and Steinmetz 
 usually left the castle immediately after breakfast and did 
 not return till nightfall. 
 
 * Is there anything wrong ? ' Maggie asked Steinmetz on 
 the evening of the second day. 
 
 Steinmetz had just come into the vast drawing-room 
 dressed for dinner — stout, placid, and very clean-looking. 
 They were alone in the room. 
 
 ' Nothing, my dear young lady — yet,' he answered, 
 coming forward and rubbing his broad palms slowly to- 
 gether. 
 
 Maggie was reading an English newspaper. She 
 turned its pages without pausing to notice the black and 
 sticky obliterations effected by the postal authorities before 
 delivery. It was no new thing to her now to come upon 
 the Press Censor's handiwork in the columns of such 
 periodicals and newspapers as Paul received from England. 
 
 ' Because,' she said, ' if there is you need not be afraii" 
 of telling me.' 
 
 ' To have that fear would be to ofifer you an insult, 
 replied Steinmetz. ' Paul and I are investigating matters, 
 that is all. The plain truth, my dear young lady, is that 
 we do not know ourselves what is in the wind. We only
 
 278 THE SOWERS 
 
 know there is something. You are a horsewoman — you 
 know the feeling of a restive horse. One suspects that he 
 is only waiting for an excuse to shy or to kick or to rear. 
 One feels it thrilling in him. Paul and I have that feeling 
 in regard to the peasants. We are going the round of the 
 outlying villages, steadily and carefully. We are seeking 
 for the fly on the horse's body — you understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I understand.' 
 
 She gave a little nod. She had not lost colour, but 
 there was an anxious look in her eyes. 
 
 ' Some people would have sent to Tver for the soldiers,' 
 Steinmetz went on. ' But Paul is not that sort of man. 
 He will not do it yet. You remember our conversation at 
 the Charity Ball in London ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I did not want you to ^ome then. I am sorry you 
 have come now.' 
 
 Maggie laid aside the newspaper with a little laugh. 
 
 ' But, Herr Steinmetz,' she said, ' I am not afraid. 
 Please remember that. I have absolute faith in you— and 
 in Paul.' 
 
 Steinmetz accepted this statement with his grave 
 smile. 
 
 ' There is only one thing I would recommend,' he said, 
 ' and that is a perfect discretion. Speak of this to no one, 
 especially to no servants. You remember your own mutiny 
 in India. Gott ! what wonderful people you English are — 
 men and women alike ! You remember how the ladies 
 kept up and brazened it out before the servants. You must 
 do the same. I think I hear the rustle of the Princess's 
 dress. Yes ! And there is no news in the papers, you 
 say?' 
 
 * None,' replied Maggie. 
 
 It may not have been entirely by chance that Claude 
 de Chauxville drove over to Osterno to pay his respects the
 
 THE NET IS DRAWN 279 
 
 next day, and expressed himself desolated at hearing that 
 the Prince had gone out with Herr Steinmetz in a sleigh 
 to a distant corner of the estate. 
 
 ' My horses must rest,' said the Frenchman, calmly 
 taking off his fur gloves. ' Perhaps the Princess will see 
 me.' 
 
 A few minutes later he was shown into the mornmg- 
 room. 
 
 ' Did I see Mademoiselle Delafield on snow-shoes in 
 the forest as I came along ? ' De Chauxville asked the 
 servant in perfect Russian before the man left the room. 
 
 ' Doubtless, Excellency. She went out on her snow- 
 shoes half an hour ago.' 
 
 ' That is all right,' said the Frenchman to himself when 
 the door was closed. 
 
 He went to the fire and warmed his sHm white fingers. 
 There was an evil smile lurking beneath his moustache. 
 
 When Etta opened the door a minute later he bowed 
 low without speaking. There was a suggestion of triumph 
 in his attitude. 
 
 ' Well ? ' said the Princess, without acknowledging his 
 salutation. 
 
 De Chauxville raised his eyebrows with the resigned 
 surprise of a man to whom no feminine humour is new. 
 He brought forward a chair. 
 
 ' Will you sit ? ' he said, with exaggerated courtesy. 
 ' I have much to say to you. Besides, we have all the 
 time. Your husband and his German friend are miles 
 away. I passed Miss Delafield in the forest. She is not 
 quite at home on her snow-shoes yet. She cannot be back 
 for at least half an hour.' 
 
 Etta bit her lip as she looked at the chair. She eat 
 slowly down and drew in the folds of her rich dress. 
 
 ' I have the good fortune to find you alone.' 
 
 ' So you have informed mc,' she replied coldly.
 
 280 THE SOWERS 
 
 De Chauxville leant against the mantelpiece and looked 
 down at her thoughtfully. 
 
 ' At the bear-hunt the other day,' he said, * I had the 
 misfortune to — well, to fall out with the Prince. We were 
 not quite at one on a question of etiquette. He thought 
 that I ought to have fired. I did not fire ; I was not ready. 
 It appears that the Prince considered himself to be in 
 danger. He was nervous — flurried.' 
 
 ' You are not always artistic in your untruths,' inter- 
 rupted Etta. ' I know nothing of the incident to which 
 you refer, but in lying you should always endeavour to be 
 consistent. I am sure Paul was not nervous — or flurried.' 
 
 De Chauxville smiled imperturbably. His end was 
 gained. Etta obviously knew nothing of his attempt to 
 murder Paul at the bear-hunt. 
 
 * It was nothing,' he went on ; ' we did not come to 
 words. But we have never been much in sympathy ; the 
 coldness is intensified, this is all. So I took the opportunity 
 of calling when I knew he was away.' 
 
 ' How did you know he was away ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, Madame, I know more than I am credited with.' 
 
 Etta gave a little laugh and shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' You do not care for Osterno ? ' suggested De Chaux- 
 ville. 
 
 ' I hate it.' 
 
 ' Precisely. And I am here to help you to get away 
 from Piussia once for all. Ah ! you may shake your head. 
 Some day, perhaps, I shall succeed in convincing you that 
 I have only your interests at heart. I am here, Princess, 
 to make a little arrangement with you— a final arrange- 
 ment, I hope.' 
 
 He paused, looking at her with a sudden gleam in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Not the last of aU,' he added in a different tone. 
 * That will make you my wife.'
 
 THE NET IS DEAWN 281 
 
 Etta allowed this statement to pass unchallenged. Her 
 courage and energy were not exhausted. She was learning 
 to nurse her forces. 
 
 * Your husband,' went on De Chauxville, after he had 
 sufBciently enjoyed the savour of his own words, ' is a brave 
 man. To frighten him it is necessary to resort to strong 
 measures. The last and the strongest measure in the 
 diplomat's scale is the People. The People, Madame, will 
 take no denial. It is a game I have played before — a 
 dangerous game, but I am not afraid.' 
 
 ' You need not trouble to be theatrical with me,' put 
 in Etta scornfully. She was sitting with a patch of colour 
 in either cheek. At times this man had the power of mov- 
 ing her, and she was afraid of allowing him to exercise it. 
 She knew her own weakness— her inordinate vanity ; for 
 vanity is the weakness of strong women. She was ever 
 open to flattery, and Claude de Chauxville flattered her in 
 every word he spoke ; for by act and speech he made it 
 manifest that she was the motive power of his existence. 
 
 ' A man who plays for a high stake,' went on the 
 Frenchman in a quieter voice, ' must be content to throw 
 his all on the table time after time. A week to-night — 
 Thursday, the fifth of April — I will throw down my all on 
 the turn of a card. For the People are like that. It is 
 rouge or noir — one never knows. Wo only know that 
 there is no third colour, no compromise.' 
 
 Etta was listening now with ill-disguised interest. At 
 last he had given her something definite — a date. 
 
 ' On Thursday,' ho went on, ' the peasants will make a 
 demonstration. You know as well as I do — as well as 
 Prince Pavlo does, despite his imperturbable face — that the 
 whole country is a volcano which may break forth at any 
 moment. But the control is strong, and therefore there is 
 never a large eruption — a grumble here, a gleam of fire 
 there, a sullen heat everywhere ! Put it is held in check
 
 282 THE SOWEES 
 
 by the impossibility of communication. It seems strange, 
 but Eussia stands because she has no penny postage. The 
 great crash will come, not by force of arms, but by ways of 
 peace. The signal will be a postal system : the standard 
 of the revolution will be a postage -stamp. All over this 
 country there are millions waiting and burning to rise up 
 and crush despotism, but they are held in check by the 
 simple fact that they are far apart and they cannot write 
 to each other. When, at last, they are brought together 
 there will be no fight at all, because they will overwhelm 
 their enemies. That time, Madame, has not come yet. 
 We are only at the stage of tentative underground rum- 
 blings. But a little eruption is enough to wipe out one 
 man if he be standing on the spot.' 
 
 ' Go on,' said Etta quietly — too quietly, De Chauxville 
 might have thought had he been calmer. 
 
 • I want you,' he went on, ' to assist me. We shall be 
 ready on Thursday. I shall not appear in the matter at 
 all. I have strong colleagues at my back. Starvation 
 and misery, properly handled, are powerful incentives.' 
 
 * And how do you propose to handle them ? ' asked Etta 
 in the quiet voice. 
 
 ' The peasants will make a demonstration. The rest 
 we must leave to — well, to the course of fortune. I have 
 no doubt that our astute friend Karl Steinmetz will manage 
 to hold them in check. But whatever the end of the 
 demonstration, the outcome wjll be -the impossibility of a 
 longer residence in this country for the Prince Pavlo 
 Alexis, A regiment of soldiers could hardly make it pos- 
 sible.' 
 
 ' I do not understand,' said Etta. ' What you describe 
 as a demonstration — is it a rising ? ' 
 
 De Chauxville nodded, with a grin. 
 
 ' In force, to take what they want by force ? ' asked the 
 Princess.
 
 THE NET IS DEAAVN 288 
 
 De Chauxville spread out his hands in his graceful 
 Gallic way. 
 
 ' That depends.' 
 
 ' And what do you wish me to do ? ' asked Etta, with 
 tlie same concentrated quiet. 
 
 ' In the first place, to believe that no harm will come 
 to you, either directly or indirectly. They would not dare 
 to touch the Prince ; they will content themselves with 
 breaking a few windows.' 
 
 ' What do you want me to do ? ' repeated Etta. 
 
 De Chauxville paused. 
 
 ' Merely,' he answered lightly, ' to leave open a door — a 
 side door. I understand that there is a door in the old 
 portion of the castle leading up by a flight of staii'S to 
 the smoking-room, and thence to the new part of the 
 building.' 
 
 Etta did not answer. De Chauxville glanced at his 
 watch and walked to the window, where he stood looking 
 out. He was too refined a person to whistle, but his attitude 
 was suggestive of that mode of killing time. 
 
 ' This door I wish you to unbar yourself before dinner 
 on Thursday evening,' he said, turning round and slowly 
 coming towards her. 
 
 ' And I refuse to do it,' said Etta. 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 Etta sprung to her feet and faced him — a beautiful 
 woman, a very queen of anger. Her blazing eyes were on 
 a level with his. 
 
 ' Yes,' she cried, with clenched fists, standing her full 
 height till she seemed to look down into his mean, fox-like 
 face. * Yes ; I refuse to betray my husband ' 
 
 ' Stop ! He is not your husband.' 
 
 Slowly the anger faded out of her eyes ; her clenched 
 fists relaxed. Her fingers were scraping nervously at the 
 silk of her dress, like the fingers of a child seeking support.
 
 284 THE SOAVERS 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' she whispered. ' What do you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' Sydney Bamborough is your husband,' said the 
 Frenchman without taking his dull eyes from her face. 
 
 ' He is dead,' she hissed. 
 
 ' Prove it ! ' 
 
 He walked past her and leant against the mantelpiece 
 in the pose of easy familiarity which he had maintained 
 during the first portion of their interview. 
 
 'Prove it, Madame,' he said again. 
 
 ' He died at Tver,' she said ; but there was no convic- 
 tion in her voice. With her title and position to hold to 
 she could face the world. Without these what was she ? 
 
 ' A local newspaper reports that the body of a man was 
 discovered on the plains of Tver and duly buried in the 
 pauper cemetery,' said De Chauxville indifferently. ' Your 
 husband — Sydney Bamborough, I mean —was, for reasons 
 which need not be gone into here, in the neighbourhood of 
 Tver at the time. A police officer, who has since been 
 transferred to Odessa, was of the opinion that' the dead 
 man was a foreigner. There are about twelve thousand 
 foreigners in Tver — operatives in the manufactories. Your 
 husband — Sydney Bamborough, bien entendu — left Tver to 
 proceed eastward and cross Siberia to China in order to 
 avoid the emissaries of the Charity League, who were look- 
 ing out for him at the western frontier. He will be due at 
 one of the Treaty Ports in China in about a month. Upon 
 the supposition that the body discovered on the plains of 
 Tver was that of your husband, you took the opportunity 
 of becoming a princess. It was enterprising. I admire 
 your spirit. But it was dangerous. I, Madame, can sup- 
 press Sydney Bamborough when he turns up. I have two 
 arrows in my quiver for him : one is the Charity League, 
 the other the Russian Government, who want him. Your 
 husband — I beg your pardon — the Prince would perhaps
 
 THE NET IS DRAWN 285 
 
 take a different view of the case. It is a pretty story. I 
 will tell it to him unless I have your implicit obedience.' 
 
 Etta stood dry-lipped before him. She tried to speak, 
 but no words came from her lips. 
 
 De Chauxville looked at her with a quiet smile of 
 r,riumph, and she knew that he loved her. There is no 
 defining love, nor telling when it merges into hatred. 
 
 ' Thursday evening, before dinner,' said De Chauxville. 
 
 And he left her standing on the hearthrug, her lips 
 moving and framing no words
 
 286 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 AN APPEAL 
 
 ' Have you spoken to the Princess ? ' asked Steinmetz, 
 without taking the cigar from his lips. 
 
 They were driving home through the forest that 
 surrounds Osterno as the sea surrounds an island. They 
 were alone in the sleigh. That which they had been doing 
 had required no servant. Paul was driving, and conse- 
 quently the three horses were going as hard as they could. 
 The snow flew past their faces hke the foam over the gun- 
 wale of a boat that is thrashing into a ten-knot breeze. 
 Yet it was not all snow. There were flecks of foam from 
 the horses' mouths mingled with it. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul. His face was set and hard, his 
 eyes stern. This trouble with the peasants was affecting 
 him more keenly than he suspected. It was changing the 
 man's face — drawing lines about his lips, streaking his 
 forehead with the marks of care. His position can hardly 
 be realised by an Englishman unless it be compared to that 
 of the captain of a sinking ship full of human souls who 
 have been placed under his care. 
 
 ' And what did she say ? ' asked Steinmetz. 
 
 ' That she would not leave unless we all went with her.' 
 
 Steinmetz drew the furs closer up round him. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, glancing at his companion's face, and 
 seeing little but the eyes by reason of the sable collar of
 
 AN APPEAL 287 
 
 his coat, which met the fur of his cap ; ' yes, and why 
 not? ' 
 
 * I cannot leave them,' answered Paul. ' I cannot 
 go away now that there is trouble among them. What it 
 is, goodness only knows ! They would never have got like 
 this by themselves. Somebody has been at them, and I 
 don't think it is the Nihilists. It is worse than that. 
 Some devil has been stirring them up, and they know no 
 better. He is still at it. They are getting worse day by 
 day, and I cannot catch him. If I do, by God ! Steinmetz, 
 I'll twist his neck,' 
 
 Steinmetz smiled grimly. 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, ' you are capable of it. For me, I 
 am getting tired of the moujik. He is an inveterate, in- 
 curable fool. If he is going to be a dangerous fool as well, 
 I should almost be inclined to let him go to the devil in 
 his own way.' 
 
 ' I dare say ; but you are not in my position.' 
 
 * No ; that is true, Pavlo. They were not my father's 
 serfs. Generations of my ancestors have not saved genera- 
 tions of their ancestors from starvation. My fathers before 
 me have not toiled and saved and legislated for them. I 
 have not learnt medicine that I might doctor them. I 
 have not risked my health and life in their sties, where 
 pigs would refuse to live. I have not given my whole heart 
 and soul to their welfare, to receive no thanks, but only 
 hatred. No, it is different for me. I owe them nothing, 
 7neinlieber; that is the difference.' , 
 
 ' If I agree to make a bolt for Petersburg to-morrow, 
 will you come ? ' retorted Paul. 
 
 * No,' answered the stout man. 
 
 'I thought not. Your cynicism is only a matter of 
 words, Steinmetz, and not of deeds. There is no question 
 of either of us leaving Osterno. We must stay and fight it 
 out hei'e.'
 
 288 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' That is so,' answered Steinmetz, with the Teutonic 
 stoHdity of manner which sometimes came over him. ' But 
 the ladies — what of them ? ' 
 
 Paul did not answer. They were passing over the rise 
 of a heavy drift. It was necessary ta keep the horses up 
 to their work to prevent the runners of the sleigh sinking 
 into the snow. With voice and whip Paul encouraged 
 them. He was kind to animals, but never spared them — a 
 strong man who gave freely of his strength and expected 
 an equal generosity. 
 
 * This is no place for Miss Delafield,' added Steinmetz, 
 looking straight in front of him. 
 
 ' I know that ! ' answered Paul sharply. ' I wish to 
 God she was not here ! ' he added in a lower tone, and the 
 words were lost beneath the frozen moustache. 
 
 Steinmetz made no answer. They drove on through 
 the gathering gloom. The sky was of a yellow grey, and 
 the earth reflected the dismal hue of it. Presently it began 
 to snow, driving in a fine haze from the north. The two 
 men lapsed into silence. Steinmetz, buried in his furs like 
 a cumbrous bear, appeared to be half asleep. They had 
 had a long and wearisome day. The horses had covered 
 their forty miles and more from village to village, where 
 the two men had only gathered discouragement and fore- 
 boding. Some of the Starostas were sullen ; others openly 
 scared. None of them were glad to see Steinmetz. Paul 
 had never dared to betray his identity. With the gen- 
 darmes — the tchinovniks — they had not deemed it wise to 
 hold communication. 
 
 * Stop ! ' cried Steinmetz suddenly, and Paul pulled the 
 horses on to their haunches. 
 
 * I thought you were asleep,' he said. 
 
 There was no one in sight. They were driving along 
 the new road now, the highway that Paul had constructed 
 from Osterno to Tver. The road itself was, of course,
 
 AN APPEAL 289 
 
 indistinguishable, but the telegraph posts marked its 
 course. 
 
 Stemmetz tumbled heavily out of his furs and went 
 towards the nearest telegraph post. 
 
 ' Where is the wire ? ' he shouted. 
 
 Paul followed him in the sleigh. Together they peered 
 up into the darkness and the falling snow. The posts 
 were there, but the wire was gone. A whole length of it 
 had been removed. They were cut off from civilisation 
 by one hundred and forty miles of untrodden snow. 
 
 Steinmetz clambered back into the sleigh and drew up 
 the fur apron. He gave a strange little laugh that had a 
 ring of boyish excitement in it. This man had not always 
 been stout and placid. He too had had his day, and those 
 who knew him said that it had been a stirring one. 
 
 * That settles one question.' he said. 
 
 * Which question ? ' asked Paul. 
 
 He was driving as hard as the horses could lay hoof to 
 ground, taken with a sudden misgiving and a great desire 
 to reach Osterno before dark. 
 
 ' The question of the ladies,' replied Steinmetz. ' It is 
 too late for them to go now.' 
 
 The village, nestling beneath the grim protection of 
 Osterno, was deserted and forlorn. All the doors were 
 closed, the meagre curtains drawn. It was very cold. 
 There was a sense of rehef in this great frost ; for when 
 Nature puts forth her strength men are usually cowed 
 thereby. 
 
 At the castle all seemed to be in order. The groom, in 
 his great sheepskin coat, was waiting in the doorway. 
 The servants threw open the vast doors, and stood respect- 
 fully in the warm, brilliantly-lighted hall while thc-iL* 
 master passed in. 
 
 ' Wb.ere is the Princess ? ' t^tcinmetz asked his valet 
 
 V
 
 290 THE SOWERS 
 
 while he was removing the evidences of a long day in the 
 open air. 
 
 ' In her drawing-room, Excellency.' 
 
 ' Then go and ask her if she will give me a cup of tea 
 in a few minutes.' 
 
 A few minutes later Steinmetz, presenting himself at 
 the door of the little drawing-room attached to Etta's suite 
 of rooms, found the Princess in a matchless tea-gown 
 waiting beside a table laden with silver tea-appliances— a 
 dainty samovar, a tiny tea-pot, a spirit-lamp and the rest, 
 all in the wonderful silver-work of the Slavonski Bazaar 
 in Moscow. 
 
 * You see,' she said with a smile, for she always smiled 
 on men, ' I have obeyed your orders.' 
 
 Steinmetz bowed gravely. He was one of the few men 
 who could face that smile and be strong. He closed the 
 door carefully behind him. No mention was made of the 
 fact that his message had implied, and she had understood, 
 that he wished to see her alone. Etta was rather pale. 
 There was an anxious look in her eyes- — behind the smile 
 as it were. She was afraid of this man. She looked at 
 the flame of the samovar, busying herself among the tea- 
 things with pretty curving fingers and rustling sleeves. 
 But the tea was never made. 
 
 ' I begin to think,' said Steinmetz, coming to the point 
 in his bluff way, ' that you are a sort of beautiful Jonah, a 
 graceful stormy petrel, a fair wandering Jewess. There is 
 always trouble where you go.' 
 
 She glanced at his broad face, and read nothing there. 
 
 ' Go on,' she said. ' What have I been doing now ? 
 How you hate me, Herr Steinmetz ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps it is safer than Ioa ing you,' he answered. 
 
 ' I suppose,' she said, with a quaint little air of resigna- 
 tion which was very disarming, ' that you have come here 
 to scold me — you do not want any tea ? '
 
 AN APPEAL 291 
 
 ' No ; I do not want any tea.' 
 
 She lowered the wick of the spirit-lamp, and the peace- 
 ful music of the samovar was still. In her clever eyes 
 there was a little air of sidelong indecision. She could not 
 make up her mind how to take him. Her chiefest metliod 
 was so old as to be biblical. Yet she could not take him 
 with her eyelids. She had tried. 
 
 ' You are horribly grave,' she said. 
 
 ' The situation,' he replied, ' is horribly grave.' 
 
 Etta looked up at him as he stood before her, and the 
 lamplight, falling on the perfect oval of her face, showed 
 it to be white and drawn. 
 
 'Princess,' said the man, 'there are in the lives of 
 some of us times when we cease to be men and women, 
 and become mere human beings. There are times, I 
 mean, when the thousand influences of sex die at one blow 
 of Fate. This is such a time. We must forget that you 
 are a beautiful woman ; I verily believe that there is none 
 more beautiful in the world. I once knew one whom I 
 admired more, but that was not because she was more 
 beautiful. That, however, is my own story, and this ' — he 
 paused and looked round the little room, furnished, deco- 
 rated, for her comfort — ' this is your story. Wc must for- 
 get that I am a man, and therefore subject to the influence 
 of your beauty.' 
 
 She sat looking up into his strong, grave face, and 
 during all that followed he never moved. 
 
 ' I know you,' he said, ' to be courageous, and must ask 
 you to believe that I exaggerate nothing in what I am 
 about to tell you. I tell it to you instead of leaving Paul 
 to do so, because I know his complete fearlessness, and his 
 blind faith in a people who are unworthy of it. He does 
 not realise the gravity of the situation. Thoy are his own 
 people. A sailor never believes that his own ship is un- 
 seaworthy.' 
 
 u2
 
 292 THE SOWEES 
 
 * Go on,' said Etta, for he had paused. 
 
 ' This country,' he continued, * is unsettled. The 
 people of the estate are on the brink of a revolt. You 
 know what the Eussian peasant is. It will be no Parisian 
 &meute, half noise, half laughter. We cannot hope to hold 
 this old place against them. We cannot get away from it. 
 We cannot send for help because we have no one to send. 
 Princess, this is no time for half-confidences. I know — 
 for I know these people better even than Paul knows them 
 — I am convinced that this is not the outcome of their own 
 brains. They are being urged on by someone. There is 
 someone at their backs. This is no revolt of the peasants, 
 organised by the peasants. Princess, you must tell me all 
 you know ! ' 
 
 * I — I,' she stammered, ' I know nothing.' 
 
 And then suddenly she burst into tears, and buried her 
 face in a tiny useless handkerchief. It was so unlike her 
 and so sudden that Steinmetz was startled. 
 
 He laid his great hand soothingly on her shoulder. 
 
 * I know,' he said quietly, ' I know more than you 
 think. I am no saint. Princess, myself. I too have had my 
 difficulties. I have had my temptations, and I have not 
 always resisted. God knows it is difficult for men to do 
 always the right thing. It is a thousand times more diffi- 
 cult for women. When we spoke together in Petersburg, 
 and I offered you my poor friendship, I was not acting in 
 the dark. I knew as much then as I do now. Princess, 
 I knew about the Charity League papers. I knew more 
 than any except Stepan Lanovitch, and it was he who told 
 me.' 
 
 He was stroking her shoulder with the soothing move- 
 ments that one uses towards a child in distress. His 
 great hand, broad and thick, had a certain sense of quiet 
 comfort and strength in it. Etta ceased sobbing, and sat 
 with bowed head, looking through her tears into the gay
 
 AN APPEAL 293 
 
 wood-fire. It is probable that she failed to realise the 
 great charity of the man who was speaking to her. For 
 the capacity for evil merges at some point or other into 
 incapability for comprehending good. 
 
 * Is that all he knows ? ' she was wondering. 
 
 The suggestion that Sydney Bamborough was not dead 
 had risen up to eclipse all other fear in her mind. In 
 some part her thought reached him. 
 
 ' I know so much,' he said, 'that it is safest to tell me 
 more. I offered you my friendship because I thought that 
 no woman could carry through your difficulties unaided. 
 Princess, the admiration of Claude de Chauxville may be 
 pleasant, but I venture to think that my friendship is 
 essential.' 
 
 Etta raised her head a little. She was within an ace 
 of handing over to Karl Steinmetz the rod of power held 
 over her by the Frenchman. There was something in 
 Steinmetz that appealed to her and softened her, something 
 that reached a tender part of her heart through the coating 
 of vanity, through the hardness of worldly experience. 
 
 ' I have known De Chauxville twenty-five years,' he 
 went on, and Etta deferred her confession. ' We have 
 never been good friends, I admit. I am no saint, Princess, 
 but De Chauxville is a villain. Some day you may discover, 
 when it is too late, that it would have been for Paul's 
 happiness, for your happiness, for everyone's good, to have 
 nothing more to do with Claude de Chauxville. I want to 
 save you that discovery. Will you act upon my advice ? 
 Will you make a stand now ? Will you come to me and 
 tell me all that De Chauxville knows about you that he 
 could ever use against you ? Will you give yourself into 
 my hands — give me your battle to fight ? You cannot do 
 it alone. Only believe in my friendship, Princess. That 
 is all I ask.' 
 
 Etta shook her head.
 
 294 THE SO"\VEES 
 
 * I think not,' she answered, in a voice too light, too 
 superficial, too hopelessly shallow for the depth of the 
 moment. She was thinking only of Sydney Bamborough, 
 and of that dread secret. She fought with what arms 
 ehe wielded best — the lightest, the quickest, the most 
 baffling. 
 
 ' As you will,' said Steinmetz.
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXV 
 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE STOiai 
 
 A Russian village kabuk, with a smoking lamp, of which 
 the chimney is broken. The greasy curtains drawn across 
 the small windows exclude the faintest possibility of a 
 draught. The moujik does not like a draught ; in iact, he 
 hates the fresh air of heaven. Air that has been breathed 
 three or foiu' times over is the air for him ; it is warmer. The 
 atmosphere of this particular inn is not unlike that of every 
 other inn hi the White Empire, inasmuch as it is heavily 
 seasoned with the scent of cabbage soup. The odour of 
 this nourishing compound is only exceeded in unpleasant- 
 ness by the taste of the same. Added to this warm smell 
 there is the smoke of a score of the very cheapest cigarettes. 
 The Eussian peasant smokes his cigarette now. It is the 
 first step, and it does not cost him much. It is the dawn 
 of Progress — the thin end of the wedge which will broaden 
 out into Anarchy. The poor man who smokes a cigarette 
 is sure to pass on to Socialistic opinions and troubles in the 
 market-place. Witness the cigarette-smoking countries. 
 Moreover, this same poor man is not a pleasant companion. 
 He smokes a poor cigarette. 
 
 There is also the smell of vodka, which bottled curse is 
 standing in tumblers all doAvn the long tabic. The news 
 has spread in Osterno that vodka is to be had for the 
 asking at the kabak, where there is a meeting. Needless
 
 296 THE SOWERS 
 
 to say, the meeting is a large one. Foolishness and thirst 
 are often found in the same head — a cranium which, by 
 the way, is exceptionally liable to be turned by knowledge 
 or drink. 
 
 If the drink at the kabak of Osterno was dangerous, the 
 knowledge was no less so. 
 
 * I tell you, little fathers,' an orator was shouting, ' that 
 the day of the capitalist has gone. The rich men — the 
 princes, the nobles, the great merchants, the monopolists, 
 the tchinovniks — tremble. They know that the poor man is 
 awaking at last from his long lethargy. What have we 
 done in Germany ? What have we done in America ? 
 What have we done in England and France ? ' 
 
 Whereupon he banged an unwashed fist upon the table 
 with such emphasis that more than one of the audience 
 clutched his glass of vodka in alarm, lest a drop of the 
 precious liquor should be wasted. 
 
 No one seemed to know what had been done in 
 Germany, in America, in England, or in France. The 
 people's orator is a man of many questions and much fist- 
 banging. The moujiks of Osterno gazed at him beneath 
 their shaggy brows. Half of them did not understand him. 
 They were as yet uneducated to a comprehension of the 
 street orator's periods. A few of the more intelligent 
 waited for him to answer his own questions, which he failed 
 to do. A vague and ominous question carries as much 
 weight with some people as a statement, and has the signal 
 advantage of being less incriminating. 
 
 The speaker — a neckless, broad-shouldered rufiSan of 
 the type known in England as ' unemployed ' — looked 
 round with triumphant head well thrown back. From his 
 attitude it was obvious that he had been the salvation of 
 the countries named, and had now come to Russia to do 
 the same for her. He spoke with the throaty accent of the 
 Pole. It was quite evident that his speech was a written
 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE STOEM 297 
 
 one — probably a printed harangue issued to him and his 
 compeers for circulation throughout the country. He 
 delivered many of the longer words ^Yith a certain unctuous 
 roll of the tongue, and an emphasis indicating the fact that 
 he did not know their meaning. 
 
 ' From afar,' he went on, ' we have long been watching 
 you. We have noted your difficulties and your hardships, 
 your sickness, your starvation. " These men of Tver," we 
 have said, " are brave, and true, and steadfast. We will 
 tell them of Hberty." So I have come to you, and I am 
 glad to see you. Alexander Alexandro^dtch, pass the bottle 
 down the table. You see little fathers, I have not come 
 begging for your money. No ; keep your kopecks in your 
 pocket. We do not want your money. We are no 
 tchinovniks. We prove it by giving you vodka to keep 
 your throats wet and your ears open. Fill up your glasses 
 — fill up your glasses.' 
 
 The little fathers of Osterno understood this part of the 
 harangue perfectly, and acted upon it. 
 
 The orator scratched his head reflectively. There was 
 a certain business-like mouthing of his periods, showing 
 that he had learnt all this by heart. He did not press all 
 his points home in the manner of one speaking from his 
 own brain. 
 
 ' I see before me,' he went on, without an overplus of 
 sequence, ' men worthy to take their place among the 
 rulers of the world — eh— er — rulers of the world, little 
 fathers.' 
 
 He paused and drank half a tumbler of vodka. His 
 last statement was so obviously inapplicable — what he 
 actually did see was so very far removed from what he said 
 he saw — that he decided to relinquish the point. 
 
 ' I drink,' he cried, ' to Liberty and Equality ! ' 
 
 Some of the little fathers also drank, to assuage an 
 hereditary thirst.
 
 298 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' And now,' continued the orator, ' let us get to business. 
 I think we understand each other ? ' 
 
 He looked round with an engaging smile upon faces 
 brutal enough to suit bis purpose, but quite devoid of 
 intelligence. There was not much understanding there. 
 
 ' The poor man has only one way of making himself felt 
 — force. We have worked for generations, we have toiled 
 in silence, and we have gathered strength. The time has 
 now come for us to put forth our strength. The time has 
 gone by for merely asking for what we want. ^Ye asked, 
 and they heard us not. We will now go and take ! ' 
 
 A few who bad heard the speech or something like it 
 before shouted their applause at this moment. Before the 
 noise had subsided the door opened, and two or three men 
 pushed their way into the already overcrowded room, 
 
 ' Come in, come in ! ' cried the orator ; ' the more the 
 better. You are all welcome. All we require, then, little 
 fathers, is organisation. There are nine hundred souls in 
 Osterno ; are you going to bow down before one man ? 
 All men are equal — moajik and barin, krestyanin and 
 • prince. Why do you not go up to the castle that frowns 
 down upon the village, and tell the man there that you are 
 starving, that he must feed you, that you are not going to 
 work from dawn till eve while he sits on his velvet couch 
 and smokes his gold-tipped cigarettes ? Why do you not go 
 and tell him that you are not going to starve and die while 
 he eats caviare and peaches from gold plates and dishes ? ' 
 
 A resounding bang of the fist finished this fine oration, 
 and again the questions were unansw^ered. 
 
 ' They are all the same, these aristocrats,' the man 
 thundered on. ' Your Prince is as the others, I make no 
 doubt. Indeed, I know ; for I have been told by good 
 friend Abramitch here. A clever man, our friend 
 Abramitch, and when you get your liberty — when you get 
 your Mir— you must keep him in mind. Your Prince, then
 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE STOEM 299 
 
 — this Howard-Alexis — treats you like the dirt beneath his 
 feet. Is it not so ? He will not listen to your cry of 
 hunger. He will not give you a few crumbs of food from 
 his gold dishes. He will not give you a few kopecks of the 
 millions of roubles that he possesses. And where did he 
 get those roubles ? Ah ! where did he get them — oh ? 
 TeU me that.' 
 
 Again the interrogative unwashed fist. As the orator's 
 wild and frenzied eye travelled round the room it Ughted 
 on a form near the door — a man standing a head and 
 shoulders above anyone in the room, a man enveloped in 
 an old brown coat, with a woollen shawl round his throat 
 hiding half his face. 
 
 ' Who is that ? ' cried the orator, with an unsteady, 
 pointing finger. ' He is no moujik. Is that a tchinovnik, 
 little fathers ? Has he come here to our meeting to spy 
 upon us ? ' 
 
 ' You may ask them uho I am,' replied the giant. 
 * They know ; they will tell you. It is not the first time 
 that I tell them they are fools. I tell them again now. 
 They are fools and worse to listen to such windbags as 
 you.' 
 
 ' Who is it ? ' cried the paid agitator. * Who is this 
 man ?' 
 
 His eyes were red with anger and with vodka ; his 
 voice was unsteady. His outstretched hand shook. 
 
 ' It is the Moscow Doctor,' said a man beside him — ' the 
 Moscow Doctor.' 
 
 ' Then I say he is no doctor,' shouted the orator. ' He 
 is a spy — a Government spy, a tchinovnik. He has heard 
 all we have said. He has seen you all. Brothers, that 
 man must not leave this room alive. If he docs, you are 
 lost men.' 
 
 Some few of the more violent spirits rose and pressed 
 tumultuously towards the door. The agitator shouted and
 
 800 THE SOWERS 
 
 screamed, urging them on, taking good care to remain in 
 the safe background himself. Every man in the room rose 
 to his feet. They were full of vodka and fury and igno- 
 rance. Spirit and tall talk taken on an empty stomach are 
 dangerous stimulants. 
 
 Paul stood with his back to the door and never 
 moved. 
 
 ' Sit down, fools ! ' he cried. * Sit down. Listen to me. 
 You dare not touch me ; you know that.' 
 
 It seemed that he was right, for they stopped with star- 
 ing, stupid eyes and idle hands. 
 
 ' Will you listen to me, whom you have known for years, 
 or to this talker from the town ? Choose now. I am 
 tired of you. I have been patient with you for years. 
 You are sheep ; are you fools also, to be dazzled by the 
 words of an idle talker who promises all and gives 
 nothing ? ' 
 
 There was a sullen silence. Paul had lost his power 
 over tlo-em, and he knew it. He was quite cool and watch- 
 ful. He knew that he was in danger. These men were 
 wild and ignorant. They were mad with drink and the 
 brave words of the agitator. 
 
 * Choose now ! ' he shouted, feeling for the handle of the 
 door behind his back. 
 
 They made no sign, but watched the faces of their 
 leaders. 
 
 ' If I go now,' said Paul, ' I never come again.' 
 
 He opened the door. The men whom he had nursed 
 and clothed and fed, whose lives he had saved again and 
 again, stood sullen and silent. 
 
 Paul passed slowly out and closed the door behind him. 
 Without it was dark and still. There would be a moon 
 presently, and in the meantime it was beginning to freeze 
 harder than ever. 
 
 Paul walked slowly up the village street, while two men
 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE STOKM 301 
 
 emerged separately from the darkness of by-lanes and fol- 
 lowed him. He did not heed them. He was not aware 
 that the thermometer stood somewhere below zero. He did 
 not even trouble to draw on his fur gloves. 
 
 He felt like a man whose own dogs have turned against 
 him. The place that these peasants had occupied in his 
 heart had been precisely that vacancy which is filled by 
 dogs and horses in the hearts of many men. There was 
 in his feeling for them that knowledge of a complete 
 dependence by which young children draw and hold a 
 mother's love. 
 
 Paul Howard-Alexis was not a man to analyse his 
 thoughts. A strong man is usually ignorant of the exist- 
 ence of his own feelings. He is never conscious of them. 
 Paul walked slowly through the village of Ostorno and 
 realised in his uncompromising honesty that of the nine 
 hundred men who lived therein there were not three upon 
 whom he could rely. He had upheld his peasants for years 
 against the cynic truths of Karl Steinmetz. He had 
 resolutely refused to admit even to himself that they were 
 as devoid of gratitude as they were of wisdom. And this 
 was the end of all. 
 
 One of the men following him hurried on and caught 
 him up. 
 
 ' Excellency,' he gasped, breathless with his haste, ' you 
 must not come here alone any longer. I am afraid of them 
 — I have no control.' 
 
 Paul paused, and suited his pace to the shorter legs of 
 his companion. 
 
 ' Starosta ! ' he said. ' Is that you ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Excellency. I saw you go into the kabdk, so I 
 waited outside and watched. I did not dare to go inside. 
 They will not allow me there. They are afraid that I 
 should give information.' 
 
 ' How long have these meetings been going on ? '
 
 302 THE SOAVERS 
 
 ' The last three nights, Excellency, in Osterno ; but it 
 is the same all over the estate.' 
 
 • Only on the estate ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Excellency.' 
 
 ' Are you sure of that ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Excellency.' 
 
 Paul walked on in silence for some paces. The third 
 man followed them without catching them up. 
 
 'I do not understand, Excellency,' said the Starosta 
 anxiously. ' It is not the Nihilists.' 
 
 ' No ; it is not the Nihilists.' 
 
 ' And they do not want money, Excellency ; that seems 
 strange.' 
 
 'Very,' admitted Paul ironically. 
 
 ' And they give vodka.' 
 
 This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the 
 Starosta's road to a solution of the mystery. 
 
 ' Find out for me,' said Paul after a pause, ' who this 
 man is, where he comes from, and how much he is paid to 
 open his mouth. We will pay him more to shut it. Find 
 out as much as you can and let me know to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I will try. Excellency ; but I have little hope of suc- 
 ceeding. They distrust me. They send the children to 
 my shop for what they want, and the little ones have evi- 
 dently been told not to chatter. The moujiks avoid me 
 when they meet me. What can I do ? ' 
 
 ' You can show them that you are not afraid of them,' 
 answered Paul. * That goes a long way with the moujik.' 
 
 They walked on together through the lane of cottages, 
 where furtive forms lurked in doorways and behind 
 curtains. And Paul had only one word of advice to give, 
 upon which he harped continually : ' Be thou very courage- 
 ous — be thou very courageous.' Nothing new, for so it was 
 written in the oldest book of all. The Starosta was a
 
 ox THE EDGE OF THE ST0E:M 303 
 
 timorous man, needing such strong support as his master 
 gave him from time to time. 
 
 At the great gates of the park they paused, and Paul 
 gave the Mayor of Osterno a few last words of advice. 
 While they were standing there the third man, who had 
 been following, joined them. 
 
 ' Is that you, Steinmetz ? ' asked Paul, his hand thrust 
 with suspicious speed into his jacket pocket. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' What are you doing here '? ' 
 
 ' Watching you,' answered Karl Steinmetz in his mild 
 way. ' It is no longer safe for either of us to go about 
 alone. It was mere foolery your going to that kabak.'
 
 304 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTEK XXXVI 
 
 A TKOIS 
 
 Op all the rooms in the great castle Etta liked the morning- 
 room best. Persons of a troubled mind usually love to 
 look upon a wide prospect. The mind, no doubt, fears the 
 unseen approach of detection or danger, and transmits this 
 dread to the eye, which likes to command a wide view all 
 around. 
 
 The great drawing-room was only used after dinner. 
 Until that time the ladies spent the day either in their 
 own apartments or in the morning-room looking over the 
 cliff. Here, while the cold weather lasted, Etta had tea 
 served, and thither the gentlemen usually repaired at 
 the hour set apart for the homely meal. They had come 
 regularly the last few evenings. Paul and Steinmetz had 
 suddenly given up their long drives to distant parts of the 
 estate. 
 
 Here the whole party was assembled on the Sunday 
 afternoon following Paul's visit to the village kabak, and to 
 them came an unexpected guest. The door was thrown 
 open, and Claude de Chauxville, pale, but self-possessed 
 and quiet, came into the room. The perfect ease of his 
 manner bespoke a practised familiarity with the position 
 difficult. His last parting with Paul and Steinmetz had 
 been, to say the least of it, strained. Maggie, he knew, 
 disliked and distrusted him. Etta hated and feared him. 
 
 He was in riding costume — a short fur jacket, fay
 
 A TKOIS .305 
 
 gloves, a cap in his hand, and a silver-mounted crop. A 
 fine figure of a man — smart, well turned out, well-groomed 
 — a gentleman. 
 
 ' Prince,' he said frankly, ' I have come to throw myself 
 upon your generosity. Will you lend me a horse ? I was 
 riding in the forest when my horse fell over a root and 
 lamed himself. I found I was only three miles from 
 Osterno, so I came. My misfortune must be my excuse 
 for this — intrusion.' 
 
 Paul performed graciously enough that which charity 
 and politeness demanded of him. There are plenty of 
 people who trade unscrupulously upon these demands, but 
 it is probable that they mostly have their reward. Love 
 and friendship are stronger than charity and politeness, 
 and those who trade upon the latter are rarely accorded 
 the former. 
 
 So Paul ignored the probability that De Chauxville had 
 lamed his horse on purpose, and offered him refreshment 
 while his saddle was being transferred to the back of a fresh 
 mount. Farther than that he did not go. He did not 
 consider himself called upon to offer a night's hospitality 
 to the man who had attempted to murder him a week 
 before. 
 
 With engaging frankness De Chauxville accepted every- 
 thing. It is an art soon acquired and soon abused. 
 Steinmetz suggested that perhaps IMonsieur de Chauxville 
 had lunched sparsely, and the Frenchman admitted that 
 such was the case, but tliat lie loved afternoon tea above 
 all meals. 
 
 'It is so innocent aiid simple, I know. I have the 
 same feeling myself,' concurred Steinmetz courteously. 
 
 ' Do you ride about the country much alone ? ' asked 
 Paul while the servants were setting before this uninvited 
 guest a few more substantial delicacies. 
 
 ' Ah, no, Prince. This is my first attempt, and if it 
 
 X
 
 oOG THE SOWERS 
 
 Lad not procured me this pleasure I should say that it 
 will be my last.' 
 
 ' It is easy to lose yourself,' said Paul ; ' besides ' — 
 and the two friends watched the Frenchman's face closely 
 — 'besides, the country is disturbed at present.' 
 
 De Chauxville was helping himself daintily to ixiU dc 
 foie cjras. 
 
 ' Ah, indeed. Is that so ? ' he answered. ' But the)' 
 would not hurt me — a stranger in the land.' 
 
 ' And an orphan, too, I have no doubt,' added Steinmetz, 
 with a laugh. ' But would the moujik pause to inquire, 
 my very dear De Chauxville ? ' 
 
 ' At all events, I should not pause to answer,' replied 
 the Frenchman in the same light tone. ' I should 
 evacuate. Ah, Mademoiselle,' he went on, addressing 
 Maggie, ' they have been attempting to frighten you, I 
 suspect, with their stories of disturbed peasantry. It is to 
 keep up the lurid local colour. They must have their 
 romance, these Eussians.' 
 
 And so the ball was kept rolling. There was never any 
 lack of conversation when Steinmetz and De Chauxville 
 were together, nor was the talk without a subtle sub-flavour 
 of acidity. At length the centre of attention himself 
 diverted that attention. He inaugurated an argument 
 over the best cross-country route from Osterno to Thors, 
 which sent Steinmetz out of the room for a map. During 
 the absence of the watchful German he admired the view 
 from the window, and this strategic movement enabled him 
 to say to Etta aside : 
 
 ' I must see you before I leave the house ; it is abso- 
 lutely necessary.' 
 
 Not long after the return of Steinmetz and the final 
 decision respecting the road to Thors, Etta left the room, 
 and a few minutes later the servant announced that 'the 
 Baron's horse was at the door.
 
 A TROis 307 
 
 De Chauxville took his leave at once, with many assur- 
 ances of lasting gratitude. 
 
 ' Kindly,' he added, ' make my adieux to the Princess ; 
 I will not trouble her.' 
 
 Quite by accident he met Etta at the' head of the state 
 staircase, and expressed such admiration for the castle that 
 she opened the door of the largo drawing-room and took 
 him to see that apartment. 
 
 ' What I arranged for Thursday is for the day after 
 to-morrow — Tuesday,' said De Chauxville as soon as they 
 were alone. ' We cannot keep them back any longer. You 
 understand — the side door to be opened at seven o'clock. 
 Ah ! who is this ? ' 
 
 They both turned. Steinmetz was standing behind 
 tliem, but he could not have heard De Chauxville's words. 
 He closed the door carefully, and came forward with his 
 grim smile. 
 
 ' A nous trois ! ' he said, and the subsequent conversation 
 v/as in a language in which these three understood each 
 other best. 
 
 De Chauxville bit his lip and waited. It was a moment 
 of the tensest suspense. 
 
 ' A nous trois ! ' repeated Steinmetz. ' De Chauxville, 
 you love an epigram. The man who over-estimates the 
 foolishness of others is himself the biggest fool concerned. 
 A lame horse— the Prince's generosity— making your 
 adieux. Mon Dieu ! you should know me better than 
 that after all these years. No, you need not look at the 
 door. No one will interrupt us. I have seen to that.' 
 
 His attitude and manner indicated a complete mastery 
 of the situation, but wdiether this assumption was j ustified 
 by fact or was a mere trick it was impossible to say. There 
 was in the man something strong and good and calm — a 
 manner never acquired by one who has anything to con- 
 ceal. His dignity was perfect. One forgot his stoutness, 
 
 x2
 
 308 THE SOWERS 
 
 his heavy breathing, his ungainly size. He was essentially 
 manly, and a presence to be feared. The strength of his 
 will made itself felt. 
 
 He turned to the Princess with the grave courtesy that 
 always marked his attitude towards her. 
 
 ' Madame,' he said, ' I fully recognise your cleverness 
 in raising yourself to the position you now occupy. But 1 
 would remind you that that position carries with it certain 
 obligations. It is hardly dignified for a Princess to engage 
 herself in a vulgar love intrigue in her own house.' 
 
 ' It is not a vulgar love intrigue,' cried Etta, with 
 blazing eyes. ' I will not ailow you to say that. Where 
 is your boasted friendship ? Is this a sample of it ? ' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz bowed gravely, with outspread hands. 
 
 ' Madame, that friendship is at your service, now as 
 always.' 
 
 De Chauxville gave a scornful little laugh. He was 
 biting the end of his moustache as he watched Etta's face. 
 For a moment the woman stood — not the first to stand 
 thus — between two fears. Then she turned to Steinmetz. 
 The victory was hi3 — the greatest he had ever torn from 
 the grasp of Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 ' You know,' she said, ' that this man has me in his 
 power.' 
 
 ' You alone. But not both of us together,' answered 
 Steinmetz. 
 
 De Chauxville looked uneasy. He gave a careless little 
 laugh. 
 
 'My good Steinmetz, you allow your imagination to 
 run away with you. You interfere in what does not con- 
 cern you.' 
 
 ' My very dear De Chauxville, I think not. At all 
 events, I am going to continue to interfere.' 
 
 Etta looked from one to the other. She had at the 
 first impulse gone over to Steinmetz. She was now
 
 X TEOIS 309 
 
 meditating drawing back. If De Cliauxville kept cool all 
 might yet be well — the dread secret of the probability of 
 Sydney Bamborough being alive might still be withheld 
 from Steinmetz. For the moment it would appear that 
 she was about to occupy the ignominious position of the 
 bone of contention. If these two men were going to use 
 her as a mere excuse to settle a lifelong quarrel of many 
 issues, it was probable that there would not be much left 
 of her character by the time that they had finished. 
 
 She had to decide quickly. She decided to assume the 
 role of peacemaker. 
 
 ' Monsieur de Chauxville was on the point of going,' she 
 said. ' Let him go.' 
 
 'Monsieur de Chauxville is not going until I have 
 finished with him, Madame. This may be the last time 
 we meet. I hope it is.' 
 
 De Chauxville looked uneasy. His was a ready wit, 
 and fear was the only feeling that paralysed it. Etta 
 looked at him. Was his wit going to desert him now when 
 he most needed it ? He had ridden boldly into the lion's 
 den. Such a proceeding requires a certain courage, but a 
 higher form of intrepidity is required to face the lion stand- 
 ing before the exit. 
 
 De Chauxville looked at Steinmetz with shifty eyes. 
 He was very like the mask of the lynx in the smoking- 
 room, even to the self-conscious, deprecatory smile on. the 
 countenance of the forest sneak. 
 
 ' Keep your temper,' he said ; ' do not let us quarrel in 
 the presence of a lady.' 
 
 ' No ; we will keep the quarrel till afterwards.* 
 
 Steinmetz turned to Etta. 
 
 ' Princess,' he said, ' will you now, in my presence, for- 
 bid this man to come to this or any other house of yours ? 
 Will you forbid him to address himself cither by speech or 
 letter to you again ? '
 
 310 THE SOWERS 
 
 'You know I cannot do that,' replied Etta. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 Etta made no answer. 
 
 * Because,' repHed De Chauxville for her, ' the Princess 
 is too wise to make an enemy of me. In that respect she 
 is wiser than you. She knows that I could send you and 
 your Prince to Siberia. 
 
 Steinmetz laughed. 
 
 * Nonsense ! ' he said. ' Princess,' he went on, ' if you 
 think that the fact of De Chauxville numbering among his 
 friends a few obscure police spies gives him the right to 
 persecute you, you are mistaken. Our friend is very clever, 
 but he can do no harm with the little that he knows of 
 the Charity League.' 
 
 Etta remained silent. The silence made Steinmetz 
 frown. 
 
 ' Princess,' he said gravely, ' you were very indignant 
 just now because I made so bold as to put the most natural 
 construction upon the circumstances in which I found you. 
 It was a pre-arranged meeting between De Chauxville and 
 yourself. If the meeting was not the outcome of an intrigue 
 such as I mentioned, nor the result of this man's hold over 
 you on account of the Charity League, what was it ? "What 
 was it ? I heg of you to answer.' 
 
 Etta made no reply. Instead, she raised her eyes and 
 looked at De Chauxville. 
 
 'Without going into affairs which do not concern you,' 
 said the Frenchman, answering for her, ' I think you will 
 recognise that the secret of the Charity League was quite 
 sufficient excuse for me to request a few minutes alone with 
 the Princess.' 
 
 Of this Steinmetz took no notice. He was standing in 
 front of Etta, between De Chauxville and the door. His 
 broad, deeply-lined face was flushed with the excitement of 
 the moment. His great mournful eyes, yellow and drawn
 
 A TROIS 311 
 
 with much reading and the hardships of a rigorous climate, 
 were fixed anxiously on her face. 
 
 Etta was not looking at him. Her eyes were turned 
 towards the window, but they did not see with comprehen- 
 sion. She was stony and stubborn. 
 
 ' Princess,' said Steinmetz, ' answer me before it is too 
 late. Has De Chauxville any other hold over you ? ' 
 
 Etta nodded, and the little action brought a sudden 
 gleam to the Frenchman's eyes. 
 
 * If,' said Steinmetz, looking from one to the other, ' if 
 you two have been deceiving Paul I will have no mercy — I 
 warn you of that.' 
 
 Etta turned on him. 
 
 ' Can you not believe me ? ' she cried. ' I have practised 
 no deception in common with Monsieur de Chauxville.' 
 
 ' The Charity League is quite enough for you, my friend,' 
 put in the Frenchman hurriedly. 
 
 ' You know no more of the Charity League than you 
 did before — than the whole world knew before — except 
 this lady's share in the disposal of the papers,' said Stein- 
 metz. 
 
 ' And this lady's share in the disposal of the papers 
 will not be welcome news to the Prince,' answered De 
 Chauxville. 
 
 ' Welcome or unwelcome, he shall be told of it to-night.' 
 
 Etta looked round sharply, her lips apart and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 ' By whom ? ' asked De Chauxville. 
 
 ' By me,' replied Steinmetz. 
 
 There was a momentary pause. Do Chauxville and 
 Etta exchanged a glance. Etta felt that she was lost. 
 This Frenchman was not one to spare either man or woman 
 from any motive of charity or chivalry. 
 
 * Even if that is so,' he said, * the Princess is not 
 relieved from the embarrassment of her situation.'
 
 312 THE SOWERS 
 
 'No?' 
 
 ' No, my astute friend. There is a little matter con- 
 nected with Sydney Bamborough which has come to my 
 knowledge.' 
 
 Etta moved, but she said nothing. The sound of her 
 breathing was startlingly loud. 
 
 ' Ah ! Sydney Bamborough,' said Steinmetz slowly. 
 ' What about him ? ' 
 
 ' He is not dead ; that is all.' 
 
 Karl Steinmetz passed his broad hand down over his 
 face, covering his mouth for a second. 
 
 ' But he died. He was found on the steppe, and buried 
 at Tver.' 
 
 * So the story runs,' said De Chauxville, with easy 
 sarcasm. ' But who found him on the steppe ? Who 
 buried him at Tver ? ' 
 
 ' / did, my friend.' 
 
 The next second Steinmetz staggered back a step or two 
 as Etta fell heavily into his arms. But he never took his 
 eyes off De Chauxville.
 
 313 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 A DEUX 
 
 Steinmetz laid Etta on a sofa. She was already recover- 
 ing consciousness. He rang the bell twice, and all the 
 while he kept his eye on De Chaiixville. A quick touch 
 on Etta's wrist and breast showed that this man knew 
 something of women and of those short-lived fainting fits 
 that belong to strong emotions. 
 
 The maid soon came. 
 
 * The Princess requires your attention,' said Steinmetz, 
 still watching De Chauxville, who was looking at Etta and 
 neglecting his opportunities. 
 
 Steinmetz went up to him and took him by the arm. 
 
 ' Come with me,' he said. 
 
 The Frenchman could have taken advantage of the 
 presence of the servant to effect a retreat, but he did not 
 dare to do so. It was essential that he should obtain a 
 few words with Etta. To effect this he was ready even to 
 face an interview with Steinmetz. In his heart he was 
 cursing that liability to inconvenient fainting fil,s that 
 makes all women uncertain in a moment of need. 
 
 He preceded Steinmetz out of the room, forgetting even 
 to resent the large warm grasp on his arm. They went 
 through the long dimly-lit passage to the old part of the 
 castle, where Steinmetz had his rooms. 
 
 'And noW;' said Steinmetz, when they were alone with
 
 314 THE SOWERS 
 
 closed doors — ' and now, De Chauxville, let us understand 
 each other.' 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. Ho was not 
 thinking of Steinmetz yet. He was still thinking of Etta 
 and how he could get speech with her. With the assur- 
 ance which had carried him through many a difficulty 
 before this, the Frenchman 4ooked round him, taldng in 
 the details of the room. They were in the apartment 
 beyond the large smoldng-room — the ante-room, as it were, 
 to the little chamber where Paul kept his medicine-chest, 
 his disguise, all the compromising details of his work 
 among the peasants. The broad writing-table in the 
 middle of the room stood between the two men, 
 
 * Do you imagine yourself in love with the Princess ? ' 
 asked Steinmetz suddenly, with characteristic bluntness. 
 
 ' If you like,' returned the other. 
 
 ' If I thought it was that,' said the Gmniian, looking at 
 him thoughtfully, ' I would throw you out of the window. 
 If it is anything else, I will only throw you downstairs.' 
 
 De Chauxville bit his thumbnail anxiously. He 
 frowned across the table into Steinmetz 's face. In all 
 their intercourse he had never heard that tone of voice ; 
 he had never seen quite that look on the heavy face. Was 
 Steinmetz aroused at last ? Steinmetz aroused was an 
 unknown quantity to Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 * I have known you noAV for tAventy-five years,' went on 
 Karl Steinmetz, ' and I cannot say that I know any good 
 of you. But let that pass ; it is not, I suppose, my busi- 
 ness. The world is as the good God made it. I can do 
 nothing towards bettering it. I have always known you to 
 be a scoundrel — a fact to be deplored — and that is all. 
 But so soon as your villainy affects my own life, then, my 
 friend, a more active recognition of it is necessary.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' sneered the Frenchman. 
 
 'Your villainy has touched Paul's life, and at that
 
 A DEUX 315 
 
 point it touches mine,' continued Karl Steinmetz with 
 slow anger. ' You followed us to Petersburg — thence you 
 dogged us to the Government of Tver. You twisted that 
 foolish woman, the Countess Lanovitch, round your finger, 
 and obtained from her an invitation to Thors. All this 
 in order to be near one of us. Ach ! I have been watching 
 you. Is it only after twenty-five years that I at last con- 
 vince you that I am not such a fool as you are pleased to 
 consider me ? ' 
 
 * You have not convinced me yet,' put in Do Chauxville, 
 with his easy laugh. 
 
 * No, but I shall do so before I have finished with you. 
 Now, you have not come here for nothing. It is to bo 
 near one of us. It is not Miss Delafield ; she knows you. 
 Some women — good women— have an instinct given to them 
 by God for a defence against such men — such things as 
 you. Is it I ? ' 
 
 He touched his broad chest with his two hand^, and 
 stood defying his lifelong foe. 
 
 ' Is it me that you follow ? If so, I am here. Let us 
 have done with it now.' 
 
 De Chauxville laughed. There was an uneasy look in 
 his eyes. He did not quite understand Steinmetz. lie 
 made no answer. But he turned and looked at the window. 
 It is possible that he suddenly remembered the threat 
 concerning it. 
 
 * Is it Paul ? ' continued Steinmetz. ' I think not, I 
 think you are afraid of Paul. Remains the Princess. 
 Unless you can convince me to the contrary, I must con- 
 clude that you are trying to get a helpless woman into 
 your power.' 
 
 * You always were a champion of helpless ladies,' 
 sneered De Chauxville. 
 
 * Ah ! You remember that, do you ? I also— I remem- 
 ber it. It is long ago, and I have forgiven you ; but I have
 
 31G THE sowEr.s 
 
 not forgotten. What you -v^ere then you will be now. 
 Your record is against you.' 
 
 Steinmetz was standing with his back to what appeared 
 to be the only exit from the room. There were two other 
 doors concealed in the oaken panels, but De Chauxville 
 did not know that. He could not take his eyes from the 
 broad face of his companion, upon which there were sin- 
 gular blotches of colour. 
 
 ' I am waiting,' said the German, ' for you to explain 
 your conduct.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' replied De Chauxville. ' Then, my friend, 
 you will have to continue waiting. I fail to recognise your 
 right to make inquiry into my movements. I am not 
 responsible to any man for my actions, least of all to you. 
 The man who manages his neighbour's affairs mismanages 
 his own. I would recommend you to mind your own 
 business. Kindly let me pass.' 
 
 De Chauxville's words were brave enough, but his lips 
 were unsteady. A weak mouth is apt to betray its pos- 
 sessor at inconvenient moments. He waved Steinmetz 
 aside, but he made no movement towards the door. He 
 kept the table between him and his companion. 
 
 Steinmetz was getting calmer. There was an uncanny 
 hush about him. 
 
 * Then I am to conclude,' he said, ' that you came to 
 Eussia in order to persecute a helpless woman. Her 
 innocence or her guilt are, for the moment, beside the 
 question. Neither is any business of yours. Both, on the 
 contrary, are my affair. Innocent or guilty, the Prmcess 
 Howard-Alexis must from this moment be freed from your 
 persecution.* 
 
 De Chauxville shrugged his shoulders. He tapped on 
 the floor impatiently with the toe of his neat riding-boot. 
 ' Allans ! ' he said. * Let me pass.' 
 
 * Your story of Sydney Bamborough,' went on Stein-
 
 A DEUX 317 
 
 nietz coldly, * was a good one wherewith to frighten a 
 panic-stricken woman. But you brought it to the wTong 
 person when you brought it to me. Do you suppose that 
 I would have allowed the marriage to take place unless I 
 knew that Bamborough was dead ? ' 
 
 ' You may be telling the truth about that incident, or 
 you may not,' said De Chauxville. ' But my knowledge 
 of the betrayal of the Charity League is sufficient for my 
 purpose.' 
 
 'Yes,' admitted Steinmetz grimly, 'you have infor- 
 mation there with possibilities of mischief in it. But I 
 shall discount most of it by telhng Prince Pavlo to-night 
 all that I know, and I know more than you do. Also, I 
 intend to seal your lips before you leave this room.' 
 
 De Chauxville stared at him with a dropping lip. He 
 gulped down something in his throat. His hand was 
 stealing round under the fur jacket to a pocket at the back 
 of his trousers. 
 
 ' Let me out ! ' he hissed. 
 
 There was a gleam of bright metal in the sunliglit that 
 poured in tlirough the window. De Chauxville raised his 
 arm sharply, and at the same instant Steinmetz threw a 
 book in his face. A loud report, and the room was full of 
 smoke. 
 
 Steinmetz placed one hand on the table and, despite his 
 weight, vaulted it cleanly. This man had taken his degree 
 at Heidelberg, and the Germans are the finest gymnasts 
 in the world. Moreover, muscle, once made, remains till 
 death. It was his only chance, for the Frenchman had 
 dodged the novel, though it had spoilt his aim. Steinmetz 
 vaulted right on to him, and De Chauxville staggered back. 
 
 In a moment Steinmetz had him by the collar ; his 
 face was grey, his heavy eyes ablaze. If anything will 
 rouse a man, it is being fired at point-blank at a range of 
 four yards with a "280 revolver.
 
 318 THE S0WEK3 
 
 ' ylc/i / ' gasped the German ; * you would shoot me, 
 would you ? ' 
 
 lie wreuched the pistol from De Chauxville's fingers 
 and threw it into the corner of the room. Then he shook 
 the man like a garment. 
 
 * First,' he cried, ' you would kill Paul, and now you 
 try to shoot me. Good God ! what are you ? You are no 
 man. Do you know what 1 am going to do with you ? I 
 am going to thrash you like a dog ! ' 
 
 He dragged him to the fireplace. Above the mantel- 
 piece a stick-rack was affixed to the wall, and here were 
 sticks and riding-whips. Steinmetz selected a heavy whip. 
 His eyes were shot with blood ; his mouth worked beneath 
 his moustache. 
 
 * So,' he said, ' I am going to settle with you at last.' 
 De Chauxville kicked and struggled, but he could not 
 
 get free. He only succeeded in half-choking himself. 
 
 ' You are going to swear,' said Steinmetz, ' never to 
 approach the Princess again — never to divulge what you 
 know of her past life.' 
 
 The Frenchman was almost blue in the face. His eyes 
 were wild with terror. 
 
 And Karl Steinmetz thrashed him. 
 
 It did not last long. No word was spoken. The silence 
 Avas only broken by their shuffling feet, by the startling 
 report of each blow, by De Chauxville's repeated j^asps of 
 pain. 
 
 The fur jacket was torn in several places. The white 
 shirt appeared here and there. In one place it was stained 
 with red. 
 
 At last Steinmetz threw him huddled into one corner 
 of the room. The chattering face, the wild eyes that looked 
 up at him, were terrible to see. 
 
 ' When you have promised to keep the secret you may 
 go,' said Steinmetz. ' You must swear it.'
 
 X DEUX 819 
 
 De Chauxville's lips moved, but no sound came from 
 them. Steinmetz poured some water into a tumbler and 
 gave it to liim. 
 
 ' It had to come to this,' he said, ' sooner or later. 
 Paul would have killed you ; that is the only difference. 
 Do you swear by God in heaven above you that you will 
 keep the Princess's secret ? ' 
 
 ' I swear it,' answered De Chauxville hoarsely. 
 
 Steinmetz was holding on to the back of a high chair 
 with both hands, breathing heavily. His face was still 
 livid. That which had been white in his eyes was quite red. 
 
 De Chauxville was crawling towards the revolver in the 
 corner of the room, but he was almost fainting. It was a 
 question whether he would last long enough to reach the 
 firearm. There was a bright patch of red in either liver- 
 coloured cheek ; his lips were working convulsively. And 
 Steinmetz saw him in time. He seized him by the collar 
 of his coat and dragged him back. ITo placed his foot on 
 the little pistol and faced De Chauxville with glaring eyes. 
 De Chauxville rose to his feet, and for a moment the two 
 men looked into each other's souls. The Frenchman's face 
 was twisted with pain. No word was said. 
 
 Such was the last reckoning between Karl Steinmetz 
 and the Baron Claude de Chauxville. 
 
 The Frenchman went slowly towards the door. He 
 faltered, and looked round for a chair. He sat heavily 
 down with a little exclamation of pain and exhaustion, 
 and felt for his pocket-handkerchief. The scented cambric 
 diffused a faint, dainty odour of violets. He sat forward 
 with his two hands on his knees, swaying a little from 
 side to side. Presently he raised his handkerchief to his 
 face. There were tears in his eyes. 
 
 Thus the two men waited until De Chauxville had 
 recovered himself sufficiently to take his departure. The 
 air was full of naked human passions.
 
 320 THE SOWERS 
 
 At last the Frenchman stood slo^Yly up, and, with 
 characteristic thought of appearances, fingered his torn 
 coat. 
 
 ' Have you a cloak ? ' asked Steinmetz. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 The German went to a cupboard in the wall and 
 selected a long riding-cloak, which he handed to the 
 Frenchman without a word. 
 
 Thus Claude de Chauxville walked to the door in a 
 cloak which had figured at many a Charity League meet- 
 ing. Assuredly the irony of Fate is a keener thing than 
 any poor humour we have at our command. "When evil 
 is punished in this present life there is no staying of the 
 hand. 
 
 Steinmetz followed De Chauxville through the long 
 passage they had traversed a few minutes earlier and down 
 the broad staircase. The servants were waiting at the 
 door with the horse placed at the Frenchman's disposal 
 by Paul. 
 
 De Chauxville mount ad slowly, heavily, with twitching 
 lips. His face was set and cold now. The pain was 
 getting bearable, the wou nded vanity was bleeding inwardly. 
 In his dull eyes there was a gleam of hatred and malice. 
 It was the face of a man rejoicing inwardly over a deep 
 and certain vengeance. 
 
 ' It is well,' he was muttering between his clenched 
 teeth as he rode away, while Steinmetz watched him from 
 the doorstep. ' It is well. Now I will not spare you.' 
 
 He rode down the hill and through the village with the 
 light of the setting sun shining on a face where pain and 
 deadly rage were fighting for the mastery.
 
 321 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIT 
 
 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 
 
 Karl Steinmetz walked slowly upstairs to liis own room. 
 Tlie evening sun shining through the small deeply-em- 
 brasured windows fell on a face at no time joyous, now 
 tired and worn. He sat down at his broad writing-table, 
 and looked round the room with a little blink of the eye- 
 lids. 
 
 ' I am getting too old for this sort of thing,' ho said. 
 
 His gaze lighted on the heavy riding-whip thrown on 
 the ground near the door where he had released Claude de 
 Chauxville, after the terrible punishment meted out to that 
 foe with heavy Teutonic hand. Steinmetz rose, and pick- 
 ing up the whip with the grunt of a stout man stooping, 
 replaced it carefully in the rack over the mantelpiece. 
 
 He stood looking out of the window for a few moments. 
 
 'It will have to bo done,' he said resolutely, and rang 
 the beU. 
 
 ' My compliments to the Prince,' he said to his servant, 
 who appeared instantly, ' and will he come to me here.' 
 
 When Paul came into the room a few minutes later- 
 Steinmetz was standing by the fire. He turned and looked 
 gravely at the Prince. 
 
 ' I have just kicked Dc Chauxville out of the house,' ho 
 said. 
 
 The colour left Paul's face quite suddenly.
 
 322 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Why ? ' he asked with hard eyes. He had begun to 
 distrust Etta, and there is nothing so hard to stop as the 
 growth of distrust. 
 
 Steinmetz did not answer at once. 
 
 ' Was it not my privilege ? ' asked Paul with a grim 
 smile. There are some smiles more terrible than any 
 frown. 
 
 * No,' answered Steinmetz ; ' I think not. It is not 
 as bad as that. But it is bad enough, mein lieher ! — it is 
 bad enough ! I horsewhipped him first for myself. Gott ! 
 how pleasant that was ! And then I kicked him out for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' repeated Paul with a white face. 
 'It is a long story,' answered Steinmetz without look- 
 ing at him. ' He knows too iiiuch.' 
 ' About whom ? ' 
 
 * About all of us.' 
 
 Paul walked to the window. He stood looking out, his 
 hands thrust into the side-pockets of his jacket, his broad 
 back turned uncompromisingly upon his companion. 
 
 * Tell me the story,' he said. ' You need not hurry 
 over it. You need not trouble to — spare me. Only let it 
 be quite complete— once for all.' 
 
 Steinmetz winced. He knew the expression of the 
 face that was looking out of the window. 
 
 ' This man has hated me all his life,' he said. ' It 
 began as such things usually do between men — about a 
 woman. It was years ago. I got the better of him, and 
 the good God got the better of me. She died, and 
 De Chauxville forgot her. I — have not forgotten her. 
 But I have tried to do so. It is a slow process, and I have 
 made very little progress ; but all that is my affair, and 
 beside the question. I merely mention it to show you that 
 
 De Chauxville had a grudge against me ' 
 
 This is no time for mistaken charity,' interrupted
 
 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 823 
 
 Paul. ' Bo not try to screen anybody. I shall see through 
 it.' 
 
 There was a little pause. Never had that silent room 
 been so noiseless. 
 
 * In after-life,' Stainmetz went on, it was our fate to 
 be at variance several times. Our mutual disHke has had 
 no opportunity of diminishing. It seems that, before you 
 married, De Chauxville was pleased to consider himself 
 in love with Mrs. Sydney Bamborough. "Whether he 
 had any right to think himself ill-used I do not know. 
 Such matters are usually known to two persons only, and 
 imperfectly by them. It would appear that the wound to 
 his vanity was serious. It developed into a thirst for 
 revenge. He looked about for some means to do you 
 harm. He communicated with your enemies, and allied 
 himself to such men as Vassili of Paris. He followed us 
 to Petersburg, and then he had a stroke of good fortune. 
 He found out — who betrayed the Charity League ! ' 
 
 Paul turned slowly round. In his eyes there burned 
 a dull, hungering fire. Men have seen such a look in the 
 eyes of a beast of prey, driven, famished, cornered at last, 
 and at last face to face with its foe. 
 
 ' Ah ! He knows that ! ' he said slowly. 
 
 ' Yes, God help us ! he knows that.' 
 
 ' And who was it ? ' 
 
 Steinmetz movcJ uneasily from one foot to the other. 
 
 ' It was a woman,' he said. 
 
 ' A woman ! ' 
 
 * A woman — you know,' said Steinmetz slowly. 
 ' Catrina I ' 
 
 * No, not Catrina ! ' 
 
 ' Then who ? ' cried Paul hoarsely. His hands fell 
 heavily on the table. 
 
 * Your wife.' 
 
 Paul knew before the words were spoken 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 THE SOWERS 
 
 He turned again, and stood looking out of the window 
 with his hands thrust into his pockets. He stood therefor 
 whole minutes in an awful stillness. The clock on the 
 mantelpiece, a little travelling timepiece, ticked in a hurried 
 way, as if anxious to get on. Down beneath them, some- 
 where in the courtyards of the great castle, a dog — a deep- 
 voiced wolf-hound — was baying persistently and nervously, 
 listening for the echo of its own voice amid the pines of 
 the desert forest. 
 
 Steinmetz watched Paul's motionless back with a sort 
 of fascination. He moved uneasily, as if to break a spell 
 of silence almost unbearable in its tensity. He went to 
 the table and sat down. From mere habit he took up a 
 quill pen. He looked at the point of it and at the inkstand. 
 But he had nothing to write. There was nothing to say. 
 
 He laid the pen aside, and sat leaning his broad head 
 upon the palm of his hand, his two elbows on the table. 
 Paul never moved. Steinmetz waited. His own life had 
 been no great success. He had had much to bear, and he 
 had borne it. He was wondering heavily whether any of 
 it had been as bad as what Paul was bearing now while 
 he looked out of the window with his hands in his pockets, 
 saying nothing. 
 
 At length Paul moved. He turned, and, coming 
 towards the table, laid his hand on Steinmetz 's broad 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Are you sure of it ? ' he asked in a voice that did not 
 sound hke his own at all — a hollow voice like that of an 
 old man. 
 
 ' Quite ; I have it from Stepan Lanovitchr^from the 
 Princess herself.' 
 
 They remained thus for a moment. Then Paul with- 
 drew his hand, and walked slowly to the window. 
 
 * Tell me,' he said, ' how she, did it.' 
 
 Steinmetz was playing with the quill pen again. It is
 
 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 325 
 
 singular liow at great moments we perform trivial acts, 
 think trivial thoughts. He dipped the pen in the ink, 
 and made a pattern on the blotting-pad with dots. 
 
 ' It was an organised plan between husband and 
 wife,' he said. 'Bamborough turned up at Thors and 
 asked for a night's lodging on the strength of a very 
 small acquaintance. He stole the papers from Steptin's 
 study and took them to Tver, where his wife was waiting 
 for them. She carried them on to Paris and sold them 
 to Vassih. Bamborough began his journey eastward, 
 knowing presumably that he could not escape by the 
 western frontier, but lost his way on the steppe. You 
 remember the man whom we picked up between hero 
 and Tver with his face all cut to pieces ? — he had been 
 dragged by the stirrup. That was Sydney Bamborough. 
 Fate had hit back quickly.' 
 
 * How long have you known this ? ' asked Paul in a 
 queer voice. 
 
 ' I saw it suddenly in the Princess's face, one day in 
 Petersburg — a sort of revelation. I read it there, and she 
 saw me reading. I should have liked to keep it from you, 
 for your sake as well as for hers. Our daily life is made 
 possible only by the fact that we know so little of our 
 neighbours. There are many things of which we are 
 better ignorant right up to the end. This might have been 
 one of them. But De Chauxville found it out, and it is 
 better that I should tell you than he.' 
 
 Paul did not look round. The wolf-hound was still 
 barking at its own echo — a favourite pastime of those who 
 make a great local stir in the world. 
 
 ' Of course,' said Paul, after a long pause, ' I have been 
 a fool. I know that. But ' 
 
 He turned and looked at Steinmetz with haggard eyes. 
 
 ' But I would rather go on being a fool than suspect 
 anyone of a deception like this."
 
 326 THE SOWERS 
 
 Steinmetz was still making patterns on the blotting- 
 pad. 
 
 ' It is difficult for us men,' be said slowly, ' to look at 
 these things from a woman's point of view. They hold a 
 different sense of honour from ours — especially if they are 
 beautiful. And the fault is ours — especially towards the 
 beautiful ones. There may have been temptations of which 
 we are ignorant.' 
 
 Steinmetz looked up slowly, and saw that Paul had 
 grown ten years older in the last few minutes. He did 
 not glance at him for more than a second, because the 
 sight of Paul's face hurt him. But he saw in that moment 
 that Paul did not understand. This strong man, hard in 
 his youthful strength of limb and purpose, would be just, 
 but nothing more. And between man and man it is not 
 always justice that is required. Between man and woman 
 justice rarely meets the difficulty. 
 
 * Comprendre c'est pardonner,' quoted Steinmetz vaguely. 
 He hesitated to interfere between Paul and his wife. 
 
 Axioms are made for crucial moments. A man's life has 
 been steered by a proverb before this. Some, who have no 
 religion, steer by them all the voyage. 
 
 Paul walked slowly to the chair he usually occupied, 
 opposite to Steinmetz, at the writing-table. He walked 
 and sat down as if he had travelled a long distance. 
 
 * What is to be done ? ' asked Steinmetz. 
 
 * I do not know. I do not think that it matters much. 
 What do you recommend ? ' 
 
 ' There is so much to be done,' answered Steinmetz, 
 ' that it is difficult to Imow what to do first. We must 
 not forget that De Chauxville is furious. He will do all 
 the harm of which he is capable, at once. We must 
 not forget that the country is in a state of smouldering 
 revolt, and that we have two women, two English ladies, 
 entrusted to our care.'
 
 A TALE THAT IS TOLD 32? 
 
 Paul ]iioved uneasily in liis chair. His companion 
 had struck the right note. This man was happiest when 
 he was tiring himself out. 
 
 * Yes ; but about Etta ? ' he said. 
 
 And the sound of his voice made Steinmotz wince. 
 There is nothing so heartrending as the sight of dumb 
 suffering. 
 
 ' You must see her,' answered he, reflectively. ' You 
 must see her, of course. She may be able to explain.' 
 
 He looked across the table beneath his shaggy grey 
 eyebrows. Paul did not at that moment look a likely 
 subject for explanations — even the explanations of a 
 beautiful woman. But there was one human quantity 
 which, in all his experience, Karl Steinmetz had never 
 successfully gauged — namely, the extent of a woman's 
 power over the man who loves, or, at one time, has loved 
 her. 
 
 ' She cannot explain away Stepan Lanovitch's ruined 
 life. She can hardly explain away a thousand deaths 
 from unnatural causes every winter in this province alone.' 
 
 This was what Steinmetz dreaded — ^justice. 
 
 ' Give her the opportunity,' he said. 
 
 Paul was looking out of the window. 
 
 * I will if you like,' he said. 
 
 ' I do like, Paul. I beg of you to do it. And remem- 
 ber that — she is not a man.' 
 
 This, like other appeals of the same nature, fell on 
 stony ground. Paul simply did not understand it. In all 
 the years of his work among the peasants it is possible 
 that some well-spring of conventional charity 'had been 
 dried up — scorched in the glare of burning injustice. He 
 was not at this moment in a mood to consider the only 
 excuse that Steinmetz seemed to be able to urge. 
 
 The sun had set long ago. The short twihght lay 
 over the snow-covered land with a chill hopelessness,
 
 328 THE SOWERS 
 
 Steinmetz looked at his watch. They had been together 
 an hour — one of those hours that count as years m a hfc- 
 time. He had to peer into the face of the watch in order 
 to see the hands. The room was almost dark, and no 
 servant ever came to it unless summoned. 
 
 Paul was looking down at his companion as if waiting 
 to hear the time. At great moments we are suddenly 
 brought face to face with the limits of human nature. It 
 is at such moments that we find that we are not gods, but 
 only men. We can only feel to a certain extent, only 
 suffer up to a certain point. 
 
 * We must dress for dinner,' said Steinmetz. ' After- 
 wards — well, afterwards we shall see.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Paul. And he did not go. 
 
 The two men stood looking at each other for a moment. 
 They had passed through much together — danger, excite- 
 ment and sorrow. It would appear that this same sorrow 
 runs like a river across the road of our life. Some of us 
 find the ford and plash through the shallows — shallows 
 ourselves — while others flounder into deep water. These 
 are they who look right on to the greater events, and fail to 
 note the trivial details of each little step. Paul was wad- 
 ing through the deep water, and his friend was not inclined 
 to stand upon the bank. It is while passing through this 
 river that Fortune sends some of us a companion who is 
 ever afterwards different from all others. 
 
 Paul stood looking down at the broad heavy face of the 
 man who loved him like a father. It was not easy for him 
 to speak. He seemed to be making an effort. 
 
 ' I do not want you to think,' he said at last, ' that it is 
 as bad as it might have been. Only, at present there does 
 not seem to be much left, except you.' 
 
 Steinmetz looked up with his quaintly resigned smile. 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; ' he said, ' I am there always.'
 
 329 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 
 
 Kakl 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 verif}ing 
 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, gaily, 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 im-
 
 330 THE SOWERS 
 
 patiently, she seT?t 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. 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 dress- 
 ing-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 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 to- 
 wards 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 anyone ? * 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 
 bim. I do not know. I— do— not — care,'
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 331 
 
 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 
 tjituated midway between the human and the animal races. 
 He was eld-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 womar 
 morally turning herself inside out in three volumes and an 
 interview. 
 
 No — this man respected women still ; and he paid them 
 an honour 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. 
 
 *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 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 ? '
 
 332 THE SOWERS 
 
 He stood looking down at her — cold and terrible in the 
 white heat of his suppressed Northern anger. 
 
 The little clock on the mantelpiece, 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 leapt 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 Kussia. 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 shall 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 con- 
 nected with this country I should like you to remember 
 that you are under my protection and that of Steinmetz.
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 333 
 
 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 whatsoever 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 sacri- 
 fice 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 dis- 
 regard 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
 
 3S4 , THE SOWERS 
 
 misunderstanding her. ' You are at liberty to have any 
 friends 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 anyone whosoever.' 
 
 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 foi 
 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 towards the dooi". 
 
 Etta glanced up sharply. She did not seem to be 
 breathinsr.
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE 335 
 
 ' Is that all ? ' she asked in a dull voice. 
 
 There was a long silence, tense and throbbing, the great 
 silence of the stepj)e. 
 
 ' 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. Y^our position has always 
 been assured. Y^'our 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 '
 
 386 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' 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. 
 
 ' You will not forgive me ? ' 
 
 For a moment she leant 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 towards 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 wealtlk 
 and a great love. 
 
 He paused with his hand on the door. 
 
 ' And,' she said, with fiery cheeks, ' does your forgive- 
 ness date from to-night ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' 
 
 He opened the door. 
 
 * Good-night ! ' he said, and went out.
 
 337 
 
 OHAPTEE XL 
 
 STEFAN 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 oiftside 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 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. 
 
 z
 
 338 THE SOWERS 
 
 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 grey eyes. He admired her for it, and helped her. 
 He threw back the ball of conversation with imperturbable 
 good-humour. 
 
 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 dis- 
 suaded 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 un- 
 compromising reticence. 
 
 They did not know — perhaps she hardly tnew herself 
 — that the opening of the side-door depended upon her 
 humour. 
 
 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 shghtly 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
 
 STEPAN EETURNS 339 
 
 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 though 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 Kussia, Then he held him at arms' 
 length. 
 
 ' Stepan ! ' said Paul, ' No, I did not know you.' 
 
 Stepan Lanovitch was still holding him at arms' 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 eye- 
 brows. 
 
 ' There are two men in the world, ' went on the voluble 
 
 z2
 
 340 THE SOWERS 
 
 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 abso- 
 lutely 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. 
 
 ' 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 anything in the village ? ' asked Paul. 
 
 * No ; they suspected me. They would not talk. But 
 I understand them, Pavlo, these poor simple fools. A 
 pebble in the stream would turn the current of their con- 
 victions. Tell them who is the Moscow Doctor. It is your 
 only chance.' 
 
 Steinmetz grunted acquiescence and walked wearily to 
 the window. This was only an old and futile argument of 
 his own. 
 
 ' And make it impossible for me to live another day 
 among them,' said Paul. 'Do you think St. Petersburg 
 would countenance a prince who works among his moujiks? 
 
 Stepan Lanovitch's pale blue eyes looked troubled. 
 Steinmetz shrugged his shoulders.
 
 STEFAN EETURNS 341 
 
 * Tliey have brought it on themselves,' he said. 
 
 ' As much as a lamb brings the knife upon itself by 
 growing up,' replied Paul. 
 
 Lanovitch shook his white head with a tolerant little 
 smile. He loved these poor helpless peasants with a love 
 as large as and a thousand times less practical than Paul's. 
 
 In the meantime Paul was thinking. It was this 
 man's habit in life and in thought to walk straight past the 
 side issues. 
 
 ' It is like you, Stepan,' he said at length, ' to come to 
 us at this time. We feel it, and we recognise the generosity 
 of it, for Steinmetz and I know the danger you are running 
 in coming back to this country. But we cannot let you 
 
 do it No, do not protest. It is quite out of the question. 
 
 We might quell the revolt ; no doubt we should — the two 
 of us together. But what would happen afterwards ? 
 You would be sent back to Siberia, and I should probably 
 follow you for harbouring an escaped convict.' 
 
 The face of the impulsive philanthropist dropped 
 pathetically. He had come to his friend's assistance on 
 the spur of the moment. He was destined, as some men 
 are, to plunge about the world seeking to do good. And it 
 has been decreed that good must be done by stealth and 
 after deliberation only. He who does good on the spur of 
 the moment usually sows a seed of dissension in the trench 
 of time. 
 
 'Also,' went on Paul, with a deliberate grasp of the 
 situation — ' also, you have other calls upon your energy. 
 You have other work to do.' 
 
 Lanovitch's broad face lightened up ; his benevolent 
 brow beamed. His capacity for work had brought him to 
 the shoemaker's last in Tomsk. It is a vice that grows 
 with indulgence. 
 
 'It has pleased the Authorities,' went on Paul, who 
 was shy of religious turns of phrase, ' to give us all our own
 
 342 THE SOWEIIS 
 
 troubles. Mine— such as they are, Step^n — must be 
 managed by myself. Yours can be faced by no one but you. 
 You have come at the right moment. You do not quite 
 realise what your coming means to Catrina.' 
 
 * Catrina ! Ah ! ' 
 
 The weak blue eyes looked into the strong face and read 
 nothing there. 
 
 * I doubt,' said Paul, ' whether it is right for you to 
 continue sacrificing Catrina for the sake of the little good 
 that you are able to do. Y^ou are hampered in your good 
 work to such an extent that the result is very small, while 
 the pain you give is very great.' 
 
 ' But is that so, Pavlo ? Is my child unhappy ? ' 
 
 ' I fear so,' replied Paul gravely. ' She has not much 
 in common with her mother, you understand.' 
 
 *Ah, yes.' 
 
 ' It is you to whom she is attached. Sometimes it is 
 so with children and parents. One cannot tell why.' 
 
 Steinmetz looked as if he could supply information upon 
 the subject ; but he remained silent, standing, as it were, 
 in an acquiescent attitude. 
 
 * You have fought your fight,' said Paul. ' A good fight 
 too. You have struck your blow for the country. You 
 have sown your seed, but the harvest is not yet. Now it 
 is time to think of your own safety, of the happiness of your 
 own child.' 
 
 Stepan Lanovitch turned away and sat heavily down. 
 He leant his two arms on the table and his chin upon his 
 clenched hands. 
 
 ' Why not leave the country now ; at all events for a 
 few years ? ' went on Paul ; and when a man who is ac- 
 customed to command stoops to persuade, it is strong per- 
 suasion that he wields. ' You can take Catrina with you. 
 You will be assuring her happiness, which, at all events, 
 is something tangible — a present harvest ! I will drive
 
 STEPiN RETURNS 343 
 
 over to Tliors now and bring her back. You can leave 
 to-night and go to America.' 
 
 Stepan Lanovitch raised his head and looked hard into 
 Paul's face. 
 
 ' You wish it ? ' 
 
 ' I think,' answered Paul steadily, ' that it is for 
 Catrina's happiness.' 
 
 Then Lanovitch rose up and took Paul's hand in his 
 work- stained grip. 
 
 ' Go, my son. It ^vill be a great happiness to me. I 
 will wait here,' he said. 
 
 Paul went straight to the door. Steinmetz followed 
 him out into the passage and took him by the arm. 
 
 ' You cannot do it,' he said. 
 
 ' Yes, I can,' replied Paul. ' I can find my way through 
 the forest. No one will venture to follow me there in the 
 dark.' 
 
 Steinmetz hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and went 
 back into the room. 
 
 The ladies at Thors were dressed for dinner, were, 
 indeed, awaiting the announcement of that meal, when 
 Paul broke in upon their solitude. He did not pause to lay 
 aside his furs, but went into the long low room, withdraw- 
 ing his seal gloves painfully, for it was freezing as it only 
 can freeze in March. 
 
 The Countess assailed him with many questions, more 
 or less sensible, which he endured patiently until the 
 servant had left the room. Catrina, with flushed cheeks, 
 stood looking at him, but said nothing. 
 
 Paul withdrew his gloves and submitted to the Coun- 
 tess's futile tugs at his fur coat. Then Catrina spoke. 
 
 ' The Comte de Chauxville has left us,' she said, without 
 knowing exactly why. 
 
 For the moment Paul had forgotten Claude de Chaux- 
 ville's existence.
 
 344 THE SOWERS 
 
 * I have news for you,' he said ; and he gently pushed 
 the chattering Countess aside. ' Stepdn Lanovitch is at 
 Osterno. He arrived to-night.' 
 
 ' Ah, they have set him free, poor man ! Does he wear 
 chains on his ankles — is his hair long ? My poor Stepdn ! 
 Ah, but what a stupid man ! ' 
 
 The Countess collapsed into a soft chair. She chose a 
 soft one obviously. It has to be recorded here that she 
 did not receive the news with unmitigated joy. 
 
 * When he was in Siberia,' she gasped, ' one knew at 
 all events where he was ; and now, mon Dieu ! what an 
 anxiety ! ' 
 
 ' I have come over to see whether you will join him to- 
 night and go with him to America,' said Paul, looking at 
 her. 
 
 * To — America — to-night ! My dear Paul, are you 
 mad ? One cannot do such things as that. America ! 
 that is across the sea.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Paul. 
 
 * And I am such a bad sailor. Now, if it had been 
 Paris ' 
 
 'But it cannot be,' interrupted Paul. 'Will you join 
 your father to-night ? ' he added, turning to Catrina. 
 
 The girl was looking at him with something in her 
 eyes that he did not care to meet. 
 
 ' And go to America ? ' she asked in a lifeless voice. 
 
 Paul nodded. 
 
 Catrina turned suddenly away from him and walked to 
 the fire, where she stood with her back towards him — a 
 small uncouth figure in black and green, the lamplight 
 gleaming on her wonderful hair. She turned suddenly 
 again, and, coming back, stood looking into his face. 
 
 ' I will go,' she said. ' You think it best ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' he answered ; ' I think it best.*
 
 STEPAN RETUKNS 345 
 
 She drew a sharp breath, and was about to speak, when 
 the Countess interrupted her. 
 
 * What ! ' she cried. ' You are going away to-night 
 hke this, without any luggage ? And pray what is to 
 become of me ? ' 
 
 ' You can join them in America,' said Paul in his 
 quietest tone. * Or you can live in Paris, at last.'
 
 346 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 DUTY 
 
 It was not now a very cold niglit. There were fleecy 
 clouds thrown like puffs of smoke against the western sky. 
 The moon on the wane — a small crescent lying on its back 
 ■ — was lowering towards the horizon. The thermometer 
 had risen since sunset, as it often does in March. There 
 was a suggestion of spring in the air. It seemed that at 
 last the long winter was drawing to a close, that the iron 
 grip of frost was relaxing. 
 
 Paul went out and inspected the harness by the light of 
 a stable lantern held in the mittened hand of a yemschick. 
 He had reasons of his own for absenting himself while 
 Catrina bade her mother farewell. He was rather afraid 
 of these women. 
 
 The harness inspected, he began reckoning how many 
 hours of moonlight might still be vouchsafed to him. The 
 stableman, seeing the direction of his gaze, began to talk 
 of the weather and the possibilities Oi snow in the near 
 future. They conversed in low voices together. 
 
 Presently the door opened and Catrina came quickly 
 out, followed by a servant carrying a small hand-bag. 
 
 Paul could not see Catrina's face. She was veiled, and 
 furred to the eyelids. Without a word the girl took her 
 seat in the sleigh, and the servant prepared the bearskin 
 rugs. Paul gathered up the reins and took his place
 
 DUTY" 847 
 
 beside her. A few moments were required to draw up the 
 rugs and fasten them with straps ; then Paul gave the 
 word and the horses leapt forward. 
 
 As they sped down the avenue Catrina turned and 
 looked her last on Thors. 
 
 Before long Paul wheeled into the trackless forest. He 
 had come very carefully, steering chiefly by the moon and 
 stars, with occasional assistance from a bend of the wind- 
 ing river. At times he had taken to the ice, following 
 the course of the stream for a few miles. No snow had 
 fallen ; it would be easy to return on his own track. 
 Through this part of the forest no road was cut. 
 
 For nearly half an hour they drove in silence. Only 
 the whistle of the iron-bound runners on the powdery 
 snow, the creak of the warming leather on the horses, the 
 regular breathing of the team, broke the stillness of the 
 forest. Paul hoped against hope that Catrina was asleep. 
 She sat by his side, her arm touching his sleeve, her weight 
 thrown against him at such times as the sleigh bumped 
 over a fallen tree or some inequality of the ground. 
 
 He could not help wondering what thoughts there were 
 behind her silence. Steinmetz's good-natured banter had 
 come back to his memory during the last few days in a 
 new light. 
 
 ' Paul,' said the woman at his side quite suddenly, 
 breaking the silence of the great forest where they had 
 grown to life and sorrow almost side by side. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' I want to know how this all came about. It is not 
 my father's doing. There is something quick, and practical, 
 and wise, which suggests you and Herr Steinmetz. I 
 suspect that you have done this — you and he — for our 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Paul ; ' it was mere accident. Your 
 father heard of our trouble in Kicw. I'ou know him —
 
 348 THE SOWERS 
 
 always impulsive and reckless. He never thinks of the 
 danger. He came to help us.' 
 
 Catrina smiled wanly. 
 
 ' But it is for our happiness, is it not, Paul ? You know 
 that it is — that is why you have done it. I have not had 
 time yet to realise what I am doing, and all that is going to 
 happen. But if it is your doing, I think I shall be content 
 to abide by the result.' 
 
 ' It is not my doing,' replied Paul, who did not like her 
 wistful tone. ' It is the outcome of circumstances. Cir- 
 cumstances have been ruling us all lately. We seem to have 
 no time to consider, but only to do that which seems best 
 for the moment.' 
 
 * And it is best that I should go to America with my 
 father 9 ' Her voice was composed and quiet. In the dim 
 light he could not see her white lips ; indeed, he never 
 looked. 
 
 ' It seems so to me, undoubtedly,' he said. * In doing 
 this, so far as we can see at present, it seems certain that 
 you are saving your father from Siberia. You know what 
 he is ; he never thinks of his own safety. He ought never 
 to have come here to-night. If he remains in Kussia it is 
 an absolute certainty that he will sooner or later be re- 
 arrested. He is one of those good people who require 
 saving from themselves.' 
 
 Catrina nodded. At times Duty is the kedge-anchor of 
 Happiness. The girl was dimly aware that she was hold- 
 ing to this. She was simple and unsophisticated enough to 
 consider Paul's opinion infallible. At the great cross-roads 
 of life we are apt to ask the way of anybody who happens 
 to be near. Catrina might perhaps have made a worse 
 choice of counsel, for Paul was honest. 
 
 * As you put it,' she said, ' it is clearly my duty. There 
 is a sort of consolation in that, however painful it may be
 
 DUTY 349 
 
 at the time. I suppose it is consolatory to loolj back and 
 think that at all events one did one's duty.' 
 
 ' I don't know,* answered Paul simply ; ' I suppose so,' 
 
 Looking back was not included in his method of life, 
 which was rather characterised by a large faith and a for- 
 ward pressure. Whenever there was question of considering 
 life as an abstract he drew within his shell with a man- 
 like shyness. He had no generalities ready for each 
 emergency. 
 
 ' Would father have gone alone ? ' she asked, with a 
 very human thrill of hope in her voice. 
 
 ' No,' answered Paul steadily, ' I think not. But you 
 can ask him.' 
 
 They had never been so distant as they were at this 
 moment — so cold, such mere acquaintances. And they 
 had played together in one nursery. 
 
 ' Of course, if that is the case,' said the girl, ' my duty 
 is quite clear.' 
 
 ' It required some persuasion to make him consent to go, 
 even with you,' said Paul. 
 
 A rough piece of going — for there was no road — 
 debarred further conversation at this time. The sleigh 
 rolled and bumped over one fallen tree after another. 
 Paul, with his feet stretched out, wedged firmly into the 
 sleigh, encouraged the tired horses with rein and voice. 
 Catrina was compelled to steady herself with both hands 
 on the bar of the apron ; for the apron of a Russian 
 sleigh is a heavy piece of leather stretched on a wooden 
 bar. 
 
 ' Then you think my duty is quite clear,' repeated the 
 girl at length. 
 
 Paul did not answer at once. 
 
 * I am sure of it,' he said. 
 
 And there the question ended. Catrina Lanovitch,
 
 350 THE SOWERS 
 
 who had never been ruled by those about her, shaped her 
 whole life unquestionmgly upon an opinion. 
 
 They did not speak for some time, and then it was the 
 girl who broke the silence. 
 
 ' 1 have a confession to make and a favour to ask,' she 
 said bluntly. 
 
 Paul's attitude denoted attention, but he said nothing. 
 
 ' It is about the Baron de Chauxville,' she said. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' 
 
 'I am a coward,' she went on. *I did not know it 
 before. It is rather humiliating. I have been trying for 
 some weeks to tell you something, but I am horribly afraid 
 of it. I am afraid you will despise me. I have been a fool 
 — worse perhaps. I never knew that Claude de Chauxville 
 was the sort of person he is. I allowed him to find out 
 things about me which he never should have known — my 
 own private affairs, I mean. Then I became frightened 
 and he tried to make use of me. I think he makes use of 
 everybody. You know what he is.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul, ' I know.' 
 
 ' He hates you,' she went on. ' I do not want to 
 make mischief, but I suppose he wanted to marry the 
 Princess. His vanity was wounded because she preferred 
 you, and he wanted to be avenged upon you. Wounds to 
 the vanity never heal. I do not know how he did it, Paul, 
 but he made me help him in his schemes. I could have 
 prevented you from going to the bear hunt, for I suspected 
 him then. I could have prevented my mother from invit- 
 ing him to Thors. I could have put a thousand difficulties 
 in his way, but I did not. I helped him. I told him 
 about the people and who were the worst — who had been 
 influenced by the Nihilists and who would not work. I 
 allowed him to stay on here and carry out his plan. All 
 this trouble among the peasants is his handiwork. He has 
 organised a regular rising against you. He is horribly
 
 DUTY 351 
 
 clever. He left us yesterday, but I am convinced that he 
 is in the neighbourhood still.' 
 
 She stopped and reflected. There was something want- 
 ing in the story which she could not supply. It was a 
 motive. A half-confession is almost an impossibility. 
 When we speak of ourselves it must be all or nothing — 
 preferably, nothing. 
 
 ' I do not know why I did it,' she said. ' It was a sort 
 of period I went through. I cannot explain.' 
 
 He did not ask her to do so. They were singularly like 
 brother and sister in their mental attitude. They had 
 driven through twenty miles of forest which belonged to 
 one or other of them. Each was touched by the in- 
 tangible, inexplicable dignity that belongs to the possession 
 of great lands — to the inheritance of a great name. 
 
 ' That is the confession,' she said. 
 
 He gave a little laugh. 
 
 ' If none of us had worse than that upon our consciences,' 
 he answered, ' there would be little harm in the world. 
 De Chauxville's schemes have only hurried on a crisis 
 which was foreordained. The progress of humanity 
 cannot be stayed. They have tried to stay it in this 
 country. They will go on trying until the crash comes. 
 What is the favour you have to ask ? ' 
 
 ' You must leave Osterno,' she urged earnestly ; ' it is 
 unsafe to delay even a few hours. Monsieur de Chaux- 
 ville said there would be no danger. I believed him then, 
 but I do not now. Besides, I know the peasants. They 
 are hard to rouse, but once excited they are uncontrollable. 
 They are afraid of nothing. You must get away to-night.' 
 
 Paul made no answer. 
 
 She turned slowly in her scat and looked into his face 
 by the light of the waning moon. 
 
 * Do you mean that you will not go ? ' 
 
 He met her glance with his grave slow smile.
 
 352 THE SOWEES 
 
 ' There is no question of going,' lie answered. ' You 
 must know that.' 
 
 She did not attempt to persuade. Perhaps there was 
 something in his voice which she as a Russian understood 
 — a ring of that which we call pig-headedness in others. 
 
 * It must be splendid to be a man,' she said suddenly in 
 a ringing voice. * One feeling in me made me ask you the 
 favour., while another was a sense of gladness at your cer- 
 tain refusal. I wish I were a man. I envy you. You do 
 not know how I envy you, Paul.' 
 
 Paul gave a quiet laugh — such a laugh as one hears in 
 the trenches after the low hum of a passing ball. 
 
 ' If it is danger you want, you will have more than I in 
 the next week,' he answered. ' Steinmetz and I knew that 
 you were the only woman in Russia who could get your 
 father safely out of the country. That is why I came for 
 you.' 
 
 The girl did not answer at once. They were driving on 
 the road again now, and the sleigh was running smoothly. 
 
 ' I suppose,' she said reflectively at length, ' that the 
 secret of the enormous influence you exercise over all who 
 come in contact with you is that you drag the best out of 
 everyone — the best that is in them.' 
 
 Paul did not answer. 
 
 ' What is that light ? ' she asked suddenly, laying her 
 hand on the thick fur of his sleeve. She was not nervous, 
 but very watchful. ' There — straight in front.' 
 
 * It is the sleigh,' replied Paul, ' with your father and 
 Steinmetz. I arranged that they should meet us at the 
 cross-roads. You must be at the Volga before daylight. 
 Send the horses on to Tver. I have given you Minna and 
 the Warrior ; they can do the journey with one hour's rest, 
 but you must drive them.' 
 
 Catrina had swayed forward against the bar of the apron 
 in a strange way, for the road was quite smooth. She
 
 DUTY 853 
 
 placed her gloved hands on the bar and held herself up- 
 right with a peculiar effort. 
 
 ' What ? ' said Paul. For she had made an inarticulate 
 sound. 
 
 ' Nothing,' she answered. Then, after a pause, ' I did 
 not know that we were to go so soon. That was all.' 
 
 A A.
 
 354 THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 THE STOKM BUBSTS 
 
 The large drawing-room was brilliantly lighted, Another 
 weary day had dragged to its close. It was the Tuesday 
 evening — the last Tuesday in March five years ago. The 
 Starosta had not been near the castle all day. Steinmetz 
 and Paul had never lost sight of the ladies since break- 
 fast-time. They had not ventured out of doors. There 
 was in the atmosphere a sense of foreboding — the stillness 
 of a crisis. Etta had been defiant and silent — a dangerous 
 humour — all day. Maggie had watched Paul's face wdth 
 steadfast quiet eyes full of courage, for she knew now that 
 there was danger. 
 
 The conversation at breakfast and luncheon had been 
 maintained by Steinmetz — always collected and a little 
 humorous. It was now dinner-time. The whole castle 
 Avas brilliantly lighted as if for a great assembly of guests. 
 During the last week a fuller state— a greater ceremony — 
 had been observed by Paul's orders, and Steinmetz had 
 thought more than once of that historical event which 
 appealed most to his admiration — the Indian mutiny. 
 
 Maggie was in the drawing-room alone. She was 
 leaning one hand and arm on the mantelpiece, looking 
 thoughtfully into the fire. The rustle of silk made her turn 
 her head. It was Etta, beautifully dressed, with a Avhite 
 face and eyes dull with suspense. 
 
 ' I think it is warmer to-night,' said Maggie, urged by a
 
 THE STOEM BUESTS ■ 355 
 
 audden necessity of speech, hampered by a sudden cliill at 
 the heart. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Etta. And she shivered. 
 
 For a moment there was a Httle silence and Etta looked 
 at the clock. It was ten minutes to seven. 
 
 A high wind was blowing, the first of the equinoctial 
 gales heralding the Spring. The sound of the wind in the 
 great chimney was like the moaning of high rigging at sea. 
 
 The door opened and Steinmetz came in. Etta's face 
 hardened, her lips closed with a snap. Steinmetz looked 
 at her and at Maggie. For once he seemed to have no 
 pleasantry ready for use. Ho walked towards a table 
 where some books and newspapers lay in pleasant profusion. 
 Ho was standing there when Paul came into the room. 
 The Prince glanced at Maggie. He saw where his wife 
 stood, but he did not look at her. 
 
 Steinmetz was writing something on half a sheet of 
 notepaper, in pencil. He pushed it across the table 
 towards Paul, who drew it nearer to him. 
 
 ' Are you armed ? ' were the written words. 
 
 Paul crushed the paper in the hollow of his hand and 
 threw it into the fire, where it burnt away. He also glanced 
 at the clock. It was five minutes to seven. 
 
 Suddenly the door was thrown open and a manservant 
 rushed in — pale, confused, terror-stricken. He was a giant 
 footman in the gorgeous livery of the Alexis. 
 
 ' Excellency,' he stammered in Kussian, ' the castle is 
 
 surrounded — they will kill us — they will burn us out ' 
 
 He stopped abashed before Paul's pointing finger and 
 stony face. 
 
 ' Leave the room ! ' said Paul. ' You forget yourself.' 
 
 Through the open doorway to which Paul pointed 
 peered the ashen faces of other servants huddled together 
 like sheep. 
 
 ' Leave the room ! ' repeated Paul, and the man obeyed 
 
 aa2
 
 356 THE so WEES 
 
 him, walking to the door unsteadily witli quivering chin. 
 On the threshold he paused, Paul stood pointing to the 
 door. He had a poise of the head — some sudden awaken- 
 ing of the blood that had coursed in the veins of hereditary 
 potentates. Maggie looked at him ; she had never known 
 him like this. She had known the man, she had never 
 encountered the Prince, 
 
 The big clock over the castle boomed out the hour, and 
 at the same instant there arose a roar like the voice of the 
 surf on a Malabar shore. There was a crashing of glass 
 almost in the room itself. Already Steinmetz was drawing 
 the curtains closer over the windows in order to prevent 
 the light from filtering through the interstices of the closed 
 shutters. 
 
 ' Only stones,' he said to Paul, with his grim smile ; 
 
 * it might have been bullets.' 
 
 As if in corroboration of his suggestion the sharp ring 
 of more than one firearm rang out above the dull roar of 
 many voices. 
 
 Steinmetz crossed the room to where Etta was standing 
 white-lipped by the fire. Her clenched hand was gripping 
 Maggie's wrist. She was half hidden behind her cousin. 
 Maggie was looking at Paul. Etta was obviously conscious 
 of Steinmetz's gaze and approach. 
 
 * I asked you before to tell me all you knew,' he said. 
 
 * You refused. Will you do it now ? ' 
 
 Etta met his glance for a moment, shrugged her 
 shoulders, and turned her back on him. Paul was standing 
 in the open doorway, with his back turned towards them — 
 alone. The palace had never looked so vast as it did at 
 that moment — brilliantly lighted, gorgeous, empty. 
 
 Through the hail of blows on the stout doors, the rattle 
 of stones at the windows, the Prince could hear yells of exe- 
 cration and the wild laughter that is bred of destruction. He 
 turned and entered the room. His face was grey and terrible. 
 
 ' They have no chance,' he said, ' of effecting an entrance
 
 THE STOKM BURSTS 357 
 
 by force, the lower winclows are barred. They have no 
 ladders, Steinmetz and I have seen to that. We have been 
 expecting this for some days.' 
 
 He turned towards Steinmetz as if seeking confirma- 
 tion. The din was increasing. When the German spoke 
 he had to shout. 
 
 ' We can beat them back if we like. We can shoot 
 them down from the windows. But ' — he paused, shrugged 
 his shoulders and laughed — ' what will you ? this Prince 
 will not shoot his father's serfs.' 
 
 ' We must leave you,' went on Paul. ' We must 
 beware of treachery. Whatever happens, we shall not leave 
 the house. If the worst comes, we make our last stand 
 in this room. Whatever happens, stay here till we come.' 
 
 He left the room, followed by Steinmetz. There were 
 only three doors in the impregnable stone walls ; the great 
 entrance, a side door for use in times of deep snow, and the 
 small concealed entrance by which the Starosta was in the 
 habit of reaching his masters. 
 
 For a moment the two men stood at the head of the 
 stairs listening to the wild commotion. They were turning 
 to descend the state stairs when a piercing shriek, im- 
 mediately drowned by a yell of triumph, broke the silence 
 of the interior of the castle. There was a momentary still- 
 ness followed by another shriek. 
 
 ' They are in ! ' said Steinmetz. * The side door.' 
 
 And the two men looked at each other with wide eyes 
 full of knowledge. 
 
 As they ran to the foot of the broad staircase the tramp 
 of scuffling feet, the roar of angry voices, came through 
 the passages from the back of curtained doorways. The 
 servants' quarters seemed to be a pandemonium. The 
 sounds approached. 
 
 ' Half-way up ! ' said Paul, and they ran half-way up 
 the broad staircase side by side. There they stood and 
 waited.
 
 358 THE SOWEKS 
 
 In a moment the baize doors were burst open and a 
 scuffling mass of men and women poured into the hall — a 
 very sewer of hvunanity. 
 
 A howl of rage signalised their recognition of the 
 Prince. 
 
 ' They are mad ! ' said Steinmetz, as the crowd surged 
 forward towards the staii's with waving arms and the dull 
 gleam of steel ; with wild faces turned upward, wild 
 mouths bellowing hatred and murder. 
 
 ' It is a chance — it may stop them ! ' said Steinmetz. 
 
 His arm was outstretched steadily. A loud report, 
 a little puff of smoke shooting upward to the gilded ceiling, 
 and for one brief moment the crowd stood still, watching 
 one of their ringleaders who was turning and twisting on 
 his side half a dozen steps from the bottom. 
 
 The man writhed in silence with his hand to his breast, 
 and the crowd stood aghast. He held up his hand and gazed 
 at it with a queer stupefaction. The blood dripped from 
 his fingers. Then his chin went up as if someone was 
 gripping the back of his neck. He turned over slowly and 
 rolled to the bottom of the stairs. 
 
 Then Paul raised his voice. 
 
 ' Listen to me,' he said. 
 
 But he got no farther, for someone shot at him from 
 the background, over the frantic heads of the others, and 
 missed him. The bullet lodged in the wall at the head of 
 the stairs in the jamb of the gorgeous doorway. It is 
 there to-day. 
 
 There was a yell of hatred and an ugly charge towards 
 the stairs ; but the sight of two revolvers held them there 
 — motionless for a few moments. Those in front pushed 
 back, while the shouters in the safe background urged them 
 forward by word and gesture. 
 
 Two men holding a hundred in check. But one of the 
 two was a Prince, which makes all the difference, and will
 
 THE STOKM BUESTS 359 
 
 continue to make that difference, despite halfpenny jour- 
 nalism, until the end of the world, 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' cried Paul. 
 
 ' Oh, I will wait,' he shouted in the next pause. ' There 
 is plenty of time — when you are tired of shouting.' 
 
 Several of them proceeded to tell him what they 
 wanted. An old story, too stale for repetition here. Paul 
 recognised in the din of many voices the tinkling arguments 
 of the professional agitator all the world over, the cry of 
 ' Equality — Equality ! ' when men are obviously created 
 unequal. 
 
 * Look out ! ' said Paul ; ' I believe they are going to 
 make a rush.' 
 
 All the while the foremost men were edging towards 
 the stairs, while the densely-packed throng at the back 
 were struggling among themselves. In the passages be- 
 hind, some were yelling and screaming with a wild in- 
 tonation which Steinmetz recognised. He had been through 
 the Commmie. 
 
 ' Those fellows at the back have been killing someone,' 
 he said ; ' I can tell by their voices. They are drunk 
 with the sight of blood.' 
 
 Some new orator gained the ears of the rabble at this 
 moment, and the ill- kempt heads swayed from side to 
 side. 
 
 ' It is useless,' he cried, ' telling him what you want. 
 He will not give it you. Go and take it. Go and take it, 
 little fathers ; that is the only way.' 
 
 Steinmetz raised his hand and peered down into the 
 crowd, looking for the man of eloquence, and the voice 
 was hushed. 
 
 At this moment, however, the yelling increased, and 
 through the doorway leading to the servants' quarters 
 came a stream of men — bloodstained, ragged, torn. They 
 were waving arms and implements above their heads.
 
 3G0 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Down with the aristocrats ! kill them — kill them ! ' 
 they were shrieking. 
 
 A little volley of firearms further excited them. But 
 vodka is not a good thing to shoot upon, and Paul stood 
 untouched, waiting, as he had said, until they were tired of 
 shouting. 
 
 'Now,' yelled Steinmetz to him in English, ' we must 
 go. We can make a stand at the head of the stairs, then 
 the doorway, then ' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. * Then — the end,' he added 
 as they moved up the stairs step by step, backwards. 
 
 ' My very good friend,' he went on, ' at the door we 
 must begin to shoot them down. It is our only chance. 
 It is, moreover, our duty towards the ladies.' 
 
 ' There is one alternative,' answered Paul. 
 
 ' The Moscow Doctor.' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 'They may turn,' said Paul; 'they are just in that 
 humour.' 
 
 The new-comers were the most dangerous. They were 
 forcing their way to the front. There was no doubt that 
 as soon as they could penetrate the densely-packed mob 
 they would charge up the stairs, even in the face of a 
 heavy fire. The reek of vodka was borne up in the heated 
 atmosphere, mingled with the nauseating odour of filthy 
 clothing. 
 
 ' Go,' said Steinmetz, ' and put on your doctor's clothes. 
 I can keep them back for a few minutes.' 
 
 There was no time to be lost. Paul slipped away, 
 leaving Steinmetz alone at the summit of the state stairway, 
 standing grimly, revolver in hand. 
 
 In the drawing-room Paul found Maggie, alone. 
 
 ' Where is Etta ? ' he asked. 
 
 * She left the room some time ago.' 
 
 'But I told her to stay,' said Paul.
 
 THE STOEM BURSTS 361 
 
 To this Maggie made no answer. She was looking at 
 him with an anxious scrutiny. 
 
 ' Did they shoot at you ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes ; but not straight,' he answered with a little laugh 
 as he hurried on. 
 
 In a few moments he was back in the drawmg-room, 
 a different man, in the rough, stained clothes of the Moscow 
 Doctor. The din on the stairs was louder. Steinmetz was 
 almost in the doorway. He was shooting economically, 
 picking his men. 
 
 With an effort Paul drafjged one or two heavy pieces of 
 furniture across the room, in the form of a rough barricade. 
 He pointed to the hearthrug where Maggie was to stand. 
 
 * Keady ,' ' he shouted to Steinmetz. ' Come.' 
 The German ran in, and Paul closed the barricade. 
 The rabble poured in at the open door, screaming and 
 
 shouting. Blood-stained, ragged, wild with the madness 
 of murder, they crowded to the barricade. There they 
 stopped, gazing stupidly at Paul. 
 
 ' The Moscow Doctor ! — the Moscow Doctor ! ' passed 
 from lip to lip. It was the women who shouted it the 
 loudest. Like the wind through a forest it swept out of 
 the room and down the stairs. Those crowding up pushed 
 on and uttered the words as they came. The room was 
 packed. 
 
 * Yes ! ' shouted Steinmetz at the top of his great voice, 
 ' and the Prince ! ' 
 
 He knew the note to strike, and struck with a sure 
 hand. The barricade was torn aside, and the people 
 swept forward falling on their knees, grovelling at Paul's 
 feet kissing the hem of his garment, seizing his hands in 
 theirs. 
 
 It w^as a mighty harvest. That which is sown in the 
 people's heart bears a thousandfold at last. 
 
 * Get them out of the place— open the big doors,' said
 
 362 THE SOWEES 
 
 Paul to Steinmetz. He stood cold and grave among 
 them. 
 
 Some of them were already sneaking towards the door 
 — the ringleaders, the talkers from the towns — mindful of 
 their own necks in this change of feeling. 
 
 Steinmetz hustled them out, bidding them take their 
 dead with them. Some of the servants re-appeared, peep- 
 ing whitefaced behind curtains. When the last villager 
 had crossed the threshold, these ran forward to close and 
 bar the great doors. 
 
 ' No, ' said Paul, from the head of the stairs, * leave 
 them open.' 
 
 So the great doors stood defiantly open. The lights of 
 the state staircase flared out over the village as the 
 peasants crept crestfallen to their cottages. They glanced 
 up shamefacedly, but they had no word to say. 
 
 Steinmetz, in the drawing-room, looked at Paul with 
 his resigned semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 ' Touch and go, meiii lie-ber ! ' he said. 
 
 ' Yes ; an end of Russia for us,' answered the Prince. 
 
 He moved towards the door leading through to the old 
 castle. 
 
 ' I am going to look for Etta,' he said. 
 
 'And I,' said Steinmetz, going to the other entrance, 
 am going to see who opened the side door.
 
 363 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 BEHIND THE VEIL 
 
 'Will you come with me ? ' said Paul to Maggie. • I will 
 send the servants to put this room to rights.' 
 
 Maggie followed him out of the room, and together they 
 went through the passages, calling Etta and looking for 
 her. There was an air of gloom and chilliness in the rooms 
 of the old castle. The outline of the great stones, dimly 
 discernible through the wall-paper, was singularly sug- 
 gestive of a fortress thinly disguised. 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Paul, ' that Etta lost her nerve.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Maggie doubtfully. * I think it was 
 that.' 
 
 Paul went on. He carried a lamp in one hand. 
 
 ' We shall probably find her in one of these rooms,' he 
 said. ' It is so easy to lose oneself among the passages 
 and staircases.' 
 
 They passed on through the great smoking-room, with 
 its hunting trophies. The lynx, with its face of Claude de 
 Chauxville, grinned at them darkly from its pedestal. 
 
 Halfway down the stairs leading to the side door they 
 met Steinmetz coming hastily up. His face was white and 
 drawn vnih horror. 
 
 ' You must not go down here,' he said, in a husky voice, 
 barring the passage with his arm. 
 
 • Why not ? '
 
 364 THE SOWERS 
 
 * Go up again ! ' said Bteinmetz breathlessly. ' You 
 must not go down here.' 
 
 Paul laid liis hand on the broad arm stretched across 
 the stairway. For a moment it almost appeared to be a 
 physical struggle, then Steinmetz stepped aside. 
 
 ' I beg of you,' ho said, ' not to go down.' 
 
 And Paul went on, followed by Steinmetz, and behind 
 them, Maggie. At the foot of the stairs a broader passage 
 led to the side door, and from this other passages opened 
 into the servants' quarters, and communicated through the 
 kitchens with the modern building. 
 
 It was evident that the door leading to the grassy slope 
 at the back of the castle was open, for a cold wind blew up 
 the stairs and made the lamps flicker. 
 
 At the end of the passage Paul stopped. 
 
 Steinmetz was a little behind him, holding Maggie back. 
 
 The two lamps lighted up the passage and showed the 
 white form of the Princess Alexis lying huddled up against 
 the wall. The face was hidden, but there was no mistak- 
 ing the beautiful dress and hair. It could only be Etta. 
 Paul stooped down and looked at her, but he did not touch 
 her. He went a few paces forward and closed the door. 
 Beyond Etta a black form lay across the passage, all trodden 
 under foot and dishevelled. Paul held the lamp down, and 
 through the mud and blood Claude de Chauxville's clear- 
 cut features were outlined. 
 
 Death is always unmistakable, though it be shown by 
 nothing more than a heap of muddy clothes. 
 
 Claude de Chauxville was lying across the passage. He 
 had been trodden underfoot by the stream of maddened 
 peasants whom Steinmetz had checked at the foot of the 
 stairs by shooting their ringleader. 
 
 De Chauxville's scalp was torn away by a blow 
 probably given with a spade or some blunt instrument. 
 His hand still held a revolver. The other arm was stretched
 
 BEHIND THE VEIL 365 
 
 out towards Etta, who lay across liis feet, crouching against 
 the wall. Death had found and left her in an attitude of 
 fear, shielding her bowed head from a blow with her 
 upraised hands. Her loosened hair fell in a long wave of 
 gold down to the bloodstained hand outstretched towards 
 her. She was kneeling in De Chauxville's blood, which 
 stained the stone floor of the passage. 
 
 Paul leant forward and laid his fingers on her bare arm 
 just below a bracelet which gleamed in the lamp-light. 
 She was quite dead. He held a lamp close to her. There 
 was no mark or scratch upon her arm or shoulder. The 
 blow which had torn her hair down had killed her 
 without any disfigurement. The silken skirt of her dress, 
 which lay across the passage, was trampled and stained by 
 the tread of a hundred muddy feet. 
 
 Then Paul went to Claude de Chauxville. He stooped 
 down and slipped his skilled fingers inside the torn and 
 mud- stained clothing. Here also was death. 
 
 Paul stood upright and looked at them as they lay, 
 silent, motionless, with their talc untold. Maggie and 
 Steinmetz stood watching him. He went to the door, 
 which was of solid oak four inches thick, and examined 
 the fastenings. There had been no damage done to bolt, 
 or lock, or hinge. The door had been opened from 
 the inside. He looked slowly round, measuring the dis- 
 tances. 
 
 ' What is the meaning of it ? ' he said, at length, to 
 Steinmetz, in a dull voice. Maggie winced at the sound 
 of it. 
 
 Steinmetz did not answer at once, but hesitated — after 
 the manner of a man weighing words which will never be 
 forgotten by their hearers. 
 
 ' It seems to me quite clear,' he said, with a slow, wise 
 charity, the best of its kind, ' that De Chauxville died in 
 trying to save her — the rest must be only guesswork.'
 
 366 THE SOWEKS 
 
 Maggie had come forward and was standing beside 
 him, 
 
 ' And in guessing let us be charitable —is it not so ? ' 
 he said, turning to her, with a twist of his lips. 
 
 • I suppose,' he went on, after a little pause, ' that 
 Claude de Chauxville has been at the bottom of all our 
 trouble. All his life he has been one of the stormy petrels 
 of diplomacy. Wherever he has gone trouble has followed 
 later. By some means he obtained sufficient mastery over 
 the Princess to compel her to obey his orders. The means 
 he employed wore threats. He had it in his power to 
 make mischief, and in such affairs a woman is so helpless 
 that we may well forgive that which she may do in a 
 moment of panic. I imagined that he frightened the poor 
 lady into obedience to his command that she should open 
 this door. Before dinner, when we were all in the drawing 
 room, I noted a little mark of dust on the white silk skirt 
 of her dress. At the time I thought only that her maid 
 had been careless. Perhaps you noticed it, Mademoiselle ? 
 Ladies note such things.' 
 
 He turned to Maggie, who nodded her head. 
 
 ' That,' he went on, ' was the dust of these old 
 passages. She had been down here. She had opened this 
 door.' 
 
 He spread out his hand in deprecation. In his quaint 
 Germanic way he held one hand out over the two 
 motionless forms in mute prayer that they might be for- 
 given. 
 
 * We all have our faults,' he said ; * who are we to 
 judge each other ? If we understood all, we might pardon. 
 The two strongest human motives are ambition and fear. 
 She was ruled by both. I myself have seen her under the 
 influence of sudden panic. I have noted the working of 
 her great ambition. She was probably deceived at every 
 turn by that man, who Avas a scoundrel. He is dead, and
 
 BEHIND THE YTllL 867 
 
 death is understood to wipe out all debts. If I were a 
 better man than I am, I might speak well of him. But — 
 ach Gott ! that man was a scoundrel. I think the good 
 God will judge between them and forgive that poor woman. 
 She must have repented of her action when she heard the 
 clatter of the rioters all round the castle. I am sure she 
 did that. I am sure she came down here to shut the door, 
 and found Claude de Chauxville here. They were pro- 
 bably talking together when the poor mad fools who killed 
 them came round to this side of the castle and found them. 
 They recognised her as the Princess. They probably mis- 
 took him for the Prince. It is what men call a series of 
 coincidences. I wonder what God calls it.' 
 
 He broke off, and stooping down he drew the lappet of 
 the Frenchman's cloak gently over the marred face. 
 
 ' And let us remember,' he said, ' that he tried to save 
 her. Some lives are so. At the very end a little repara- 
 tion is made. In life he was her evil genius. When he died 
 they trampled him underfoot in order to reach her. Made- 
 moiselle, will you come ? ' 
 
 He took Maggie by the arm and led her gently away. 
 She was shaking all over, but his hand was steady. 
 
 He led her up the narrow stairs to her own room. In 
 the little boudoir the fire was burning brightly ; the lamps 
 were lighted, just as the maid had left them at the first 
 alarm. 
 
 Maggie sat down, and quite suddenly burst into tears. 
 
 Steinmetz did not leave her. He stood beside her 
 gently stroking her shoulder with his stout fingers. He 
 said nothing, but the grey moustache only half concealed 
 his lips, which were full of tenderness and sympathy. 
 
 Maggie was the first to speak. 
 
 ' I am all right now,' she said. ' Please do not wait 
 any longer. Poor Etta ! ' 
 
 Steinmetz moved away towards the door.
 
 368 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' Yes,' he said ; ' poor Etta. It is often those who get 
 on in the world who most need the world's pity.' 
 
 At the door he stopped. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' he said, * I will take you home to England. 
 Is that agreeable to you, IMademoiselle ? ' 
 
 She smiled at him sadly through her tears. 
 
 ' Yes, I should like that,' she said. ' This country is 
 horrible. You are very kind to me.' 
 
 Steinmetz went downstairs and found Paul at the door 
 talking to a young officer, who slowly dismounted and 
 lounged into the hall, conscious of his brilliant uniform — 
 of his own physical capacity to show off any uniform to 
 full advantage. 
 
 He was a lieutenant in a Cossack regiment, and as he 
 bowed to Steinmetz, whom Paul introduced, he swung off 
 his high astrakhan cap with a flourish, showing a fair 
 boyish face. 
 
 ' Yes,' he continued to Paul in English ; * the general 
 sent me over with a sotnia of men, and pretty hungry you 
 will find them. We have covered the whole distance since 
 daybreak. A report reached the old gentleman that the 
 whole countryside was about to rise against you.' 
 
 ' Who spread the report ? ' asked Steinmetz. 
 
 * I believe it originated down at the wharfs. It has 
 been traced to an old man and his daughter — a sort of 
 pedlar, I think, who took a passage down the river — but 
 where tliey heard the rumour I don't know.' 
 
 Paul and Steinmetz carefully avoided looking at each 
 other. They knew that Catrina and Stepan Lano%dtch 
 had sent back assistance. 
 
 * Of course,' said Paul, ' I am very glad to see you, but 
 I am equally glad to inform you that you are not wanted. 
 Steinmetz will tell you all about it, and when you are 
 ready for dinner it will be ready for you. I will giva 
 instructions that the men be cared for.'
 
 BEHIND THE VEIL 369 
 
 'Thanlcs. The funny thing is that I am instructed, 
 with your approval, to put the place under martial law and 
 take charge.' 
 
 ' That will not he necessary, thanks,' answered Paul, 
 going out of the open door to speak to the wild-looldng 
 Cossacks sent for his protection. 
 
 In Russia, as in other countries where life is cheaply 
 held, the death formalities are small. It is only in 
 England, where we are so careful for the individual and so 
 careless of the type, that we have to pay for dying, and leave 
 a mass of red-tape formalities for our friends. 
 
 While the young officer was changing his uniform for 
 the evening finery which his servant's forethought had 
 provided, Paul and Steinmetz hurriedly arranged what 
 story of the evening should be given to the world. Knowing 
 the country as they did they were enabled to tell a true 
 tale, which was yet devoid of that small personal interest 
 that gossips love. And all the world ever knew was that 
 the Princess Howard Alexis was killed by the revolted 
 peasants while attempting to escape by a side door, and 
 that the Baron Claude de Chauxville, who was staying 
 in the neighbourhood, met his death in attempting to save 
 her from the fury of the mob. 
 
 On the recommendation of Karl Steinmetz, Paul placed 
 the castle and village under martial law, and there and then 
 gave the command to the young Cossack officer pending 
 further instructions from his general commanding at Tver. 
 
 The officer dined with Steinmetz, and under the careful 
 treatment of that diplomatist inaugurated a reign of military 
 autocracy which varied pleasingly between strict disciplme 
 and boyish neglect. 
 
 Before the master of the situation had slept off the 
 effect of his hundred-mile ride and a heavy dinner, Stein- 
 metz and Maggie were ready to start on their journey to 
 England. 
 
 B B
 
 370 THE aowEiiy 
 
 The breakfast was served in the room abutting the 
 chff in the dim hght of a misty morning. . 
 
 The lamps were alight on the table, and Paul was 
 waiting when Maggie came down cloaked for her journey. 
 Steinmetz had breakfasted. 
 
 They said good morning, and managed to talk of 
 ordinary things until Maggie was supplied with coffee and 
 toast and a somewhat heavy, manly helping of a breakfast- 
 dish. Then came a silence. 
 
 Paul broke it at length with an effort, standing as it 
 were on the edge of the forbidden topic. 
 
 ' Steinmetz will take you all the way,' he said, * and 
 then come back to me. You can safely trust yourself to 
 his care.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered the girl, looking at the food set before 
 her with a helpless stare. ' It is not that. Can I safely 
 trust Etta's memory to your judgment? You are very 
 stern, Paul. I think you might easily misjudge her. 
 Men do not always understand a woman's temptations.' 
 
 Paul had not sat down. He walked away to the 
 window, and stood there looking out into the gloomy 
 mists. 
 
 ' It is not because she was my cousin,' said Maggie 
 from the table ; * it is because she was a woman leaving 
 her memory to be judged by two men who are both — 
 hard.' 
 
 Paul neither looked round nor answered. 
 
 ' When a woman has to form her own life, and renders 
 it a prominent one, she usually makes a huge mistake of 
 it,' said the girl. 
 
 She waited a moment, and then she pleaded once more, 
 hastily, for she heard a step approaching. 
 
 ' If you only understood everything you might think 
 differently— it is because you cannot understand.' 
 
 Then Paul turned round slowly.
 
 BEHIND THE V£IL 371 
 
 • No,' he said, * I cannot understand it, and I do not 
 think that I ever shall.' 
 
 And Steinmetz came into the room. 
 
 In a few minutes the sleigh bearing Steinmetz and 
 Maggie disappeared into the gloom, closely followed by 
 a couple of Cossacks acting as guard and carrying 
 despatches. 
 
 So Etta Sydney Bamborough — the Princess Howard 
 Alexis — came back after all to her husband, lying in a 
 nameless grave in the churchyard by the Volga at Tver. 
 Within the white walls — beneath the shadow of the great 
 spangled cupola — they await the Verdict, almost side by 
 side.
 
 8^79, THE SOWERS 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIV 
 
 KISMET 
 
 Between Brandon in Suffolk and Thetford in Norfolk runs 
 a quiet river, the Little Ouse, where few boats break the 
 stillness of the water. On either bank stand whispering 
 beech-trees, and so low is the music of the leaves, that tbe 
 message of Ely's distant bells floats through them on a 
 quiet evening as far as Brandon and beyond it. 
 
 Three years after Etta's death, in the glow of an April 
 sunset, a Canadian canoe was making its stealthy way up 
 the river. The paddle crept in and out so gently, so 
 lazily and peacefully, that the dabchicks and waterfowl did 
 not cease their chatter of nests and other April matters as 
 the canoe glided by. 
 
 So quiet, indeed, was its progress that Karl Steinmetz 
 —suddenly white-headed, as strong old men are apt to 
 find themselves — did not heed its approach. He was 
 sitting on the bank with a gun, a little rifle, lying on the 
 grass beside him. He was half- asleep in the enjoyment 
 of a large Havana cigar. The rays of the setting sun 
 peeping through the lower branches made him blink lazily 
 like a large good-natured cat. 
 
 He turned his head slowly, with a hunter's consciousness 
 of the approach of someone, and contemplated the canoe 
 with a sense of placid satisfaction. 
 
 The small craft was passing in the shadow of a great
 
 KISMET 373 
 
 tree — stealing over the dark unruffled depth. A girl 
 dressed in white, with a large diaphanous white hat and 
 a general air of brisk English daintiness, was paddling 
 slowly and with no great skill. 
 
 * A picture,' said Steinmetz to himself with Teutonic 
 deliberation. ' Gott im Hlmmel ! what a pretty picture to 
 make an old man young.' 
 
 Then his grey eyes opened suddenly and he rose to his 
 feet. 
 
 * Coloss-a-al ! ' he muttered. He dragged from his 
 head a lamentable old straw hat and swept a courteous 
 bow. 
 
 'Mademoiselle,' he said, ' ah, what happiness! After 
 three years ! ' 
 
 Maggie stopped and looked at him with troubled eyes ; 
 all the colour slowly left her face. 
 
 ' What are you doing here ? ' she asked. And there 
 was something like fear in her voice. 
 
 ' No harm, Mademoiselle, but good. I have come down 
 from big game to vermin. I have here a saloon rifle. I 
 wait till a water-rat comes and then I shoot him.' 
 
 The canoe had drifted closer to the land, the paddle 
 trailing in the water. 
 
 ' You are looking at my white hairs,' he went on in a 
 sudden need of conversation. * Please bring your boat a 
 little nearer.' 
 
 The paddle twisted lazily in the water like a fish's tail. 
 
 ' Hold tight,' he said, reaching down. 
 
 With a little laugh he lifted the canoe and its occupant 
 far up on to the bank. 
 
 ' Despite my white hairs,' he said, with a tap of both 
 hands on his broad chest. 
 
 * I attach no importance to them,' she answered, taking 
 his proffered hand and stepping over the light bulwark, 
 * I have grey ones myself. I am getting old too.'
 
 374 THE SOWEKS 
 
 * How old ? ' he asked, looking down at her with his old 
 bluntness. 
 
 ' Twenty- eight.' 
 
 ' Ah, your years are summers,' he said ; * mine have 
 turned to winters. Will you sit here where I was sitting ? 
 See, I will spread this rug for your white dress.' 
 
 Maggie paused, looking through the trees towards the 
 sinking sun. The light fell on her face and showed one or 
 two lines which had not been there before. It showed a 
 patient tenderness in the steady eyes which had always 
 been there — which Catrina had noticed in the stormy days 
 that were past. 
 
 ' I cannot stay long,' she replied. ' I am with the 
 Faneaux at Brandon for a few days. They dine at seven.' 
 
 ' Ah, her ladyship is a good friend of mine. You 
 remember her Charity Ball in town, when it was settled 
 that you should come to Osterno. A strange world, 
 ]\Iademoiselle — a very strange world, so small, and yet so 
 large and bare for some of us,' 
 
 Maggie looked at him. Then she sat down. 
 
 ' Tell me,' she said, ' all that has happened since then.' 
 
 ' I went back,' answered Steinmetz, ' and we were duly 
 exiled from Russia. It was sure to come. We were too 
 dangerous. Altogether too quixotic for an autocracy. For 
 myself I did not mind, but it hurt Paul.' 
 
 There was a little pause, while the water lapped and 
 whispered at their feet. 
 
 ' I heard,' said Maggie, at length, in a measured voice, 
 ' that he had gone abroad for big game.' 
 
 ' Yes — to India.' 
 
 ' He did not go to America ? ' inquired Maggie in- 
 differently. She was idly throwing fragments of wood into 
 the river. 
 
 'No,' answered Steinmetz, looking straight in front of 
 him. ' No, he did not go to America.'
 
 KISMET 875 
 
 ' And you ? ' 
 
 ' I — oh, I stayed at home. I have taken a house. It 
 is behind the trees. You cannot see it. I hve at peace 
 with all men and pay my bills every week. Sometimes 
 Paul comes and stays with me. Sometimes I go and stay 
 with him in London or in Scotland. I smoke, and shoot 
 water-rats, and watch the younger generation making the 
 same mistakes that we made in our time. You have heard 
 that my country is in order again. They have remembered 
 me. For my sins they have made me a count. Bon Dieu ! 
 I do not mind. They may make me a prince if it pleases 
 them.' 
 
 He was watching her face beneath his grim old 
 eyebrows. 
 
 ' These details bore you,' he said. 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' When Paul and I are together we talk of a new heaven 
 and a new Kussia. But it will not come in our time. We 
 are only the sowers, and the harvest is long. r>ut I 
 tell Paul that he has not sown wild oats, nor tares, nor 
 thistles.' 
 
 He paused, and the expression of his face changed to 
 one of semi-humorous gravity. 
 
 * Mademoiselle,' he went on, ' it has been my lot to love 
 the Prince like a son. It has been my lot to stand help- 
 lessly by while he passed through many troubles. Perhaps 
 the good God gave him all his troubles at first. Do you 
 think so ? ' 
 
 Maggie was looking straight in front of her across the 
 quiet river. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' she said. 
 
 Steinmetz also stared in front of him during a little 
 silence. The common thoughts of two miiuls may well be 
 drawn together by the contemplation of a common object. 
 Then he turned towards her.
 
 376 THE SOWERS 
 
 ' It will be a happiness for him to see you,' he said 
 quietly, 
 
 Maggie ceased breaking small branches and throwing 
 them into the river. She ceased all movement, and 
 scarcely seemed to breathe. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' He is staying with me here.' 
 
 Maggie glanced towards the canoe. She drew a short 
 sharp breath, but she did not move. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle,' said Steinmetz earnestly, ' I am an old 
 man, and in my time I have dabbled pretty deeply in 
 trouble. But taking it all round, even my life has had its 
 compensations. And I have seen lives which, taken as 
 mere mortal existences — without looking to the hereafter 
 at all — have been quite worth the living. There is much 
 happiness in life to make up for the rest. But that happi- 
 ness must be firmly held. It is so easily slipped through 
 the fingers. A little irresolution — a little want of moral 
 courage — a little want of self-confidence — a little pride and 
 it is lost. You follow me ? ' 
 
 Maggie nodded. There was a great tenderness in her 
 eyes — such a tenderness as, resting on men, may bring 
 them nearer to the angels. 
 
 Steinmetz laid his large hand over hers, 
 
 * Mademoiselle,' he went on, ' I believe that the good 
 God sent you along this lonely river in your boat. Paul 
 leaves me to-morrow. His arrangements are to go to India 
 and shoot tigers. He will sail in a week. There are 
 things of which we never speak together — there is one 
 name that is never mentioned. Since Osterno you have 
 avoided meeting him. God knows I am not asking for him 
 anything that he would be afraid to ask for himself. But 
 he also has his pride. He will not force himself in where 
 he thinks his presence unwelcome.' 
 
 Steinmetz rose somewhat ponderously and stood looking
 
 KISMET 377 
 
 down at her. He did not, however, succeed in meeting 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle,' he said, ' I beg of you most humbly — ■ 
 most respectfully — to come through the garden with me 
 towards the house, so that Paul may at least know that you 
 are here.' 
 
 He moved away and stood for a moment with his back 
 turned to her looking towards the house. The crisp rustle 
 of her dress came to him as she rose to her feet. 
 
 Without looking round he walked slowly on. The path 
 through the trees was narrow, two could not walk abreast. 
 After a few yards Steinmetz emerged on to a large sloping 
 lawn with flower-beds, and a long low house above it. On 
 the covered terrace a man sat at a table writing. He was 
 surrounded by papers, and the pen in his hand moved 
 rapidly over the sheet before him. 
 
 ' We still administer the estate,' said Steinmetz in a 
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 For a moment he did not seem to recognise them. 
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 ' It is Mademoiselle ! ' said Steinmetz, and no other word 
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 Maggie walked on in a sort of unconsciousness. She 
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 written for them in the great play-book of life. She never 
 noticed that Steinmetz had left her side, that she was 
 walking across the lawn alone. 
 
 Paul came to meet her, and took her hand in silence. 
 There was so much to say that words seemed suddenly 
 
 c c
 
 378 THE SOWEliS 
 
 valueless ; there was so little to say, that they were un- 
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