Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/18

sion of steadiness and equanimity conveyed by his face and his strong well-shaped figure.

A slight flush rose to his brow, whilst the fingers of his thin muscular hand, with nervous haste, tore open the envelope. He unfolded a great sheet of paper, which was covered with lines wide apart, written in a minute irregular hand.

Helen, who seemed no less impatient than himself, came to his side, and laid her hand upon his shoulder, that she too might see and read.

“We had better sit down, Lena,” said the young man. “you are shutting out the light with your curls.”

In truth the shabby room was very scantily lighted by a single lamp, upon which was fixed a green paper shade. Only the bare boards, the legs of a few common chairs, and the lower part of a mahogany chest of drawers, the chief ornament of the place, were properly lighted up. The yellow papered walls, with a cheap lithograph of the Swiss general Dufour, a stereotype landscape, the photograph of the landlady's deceased husband, and her own school certificate framed and glazed,—all were plunged in a zone of twilight, very advantageous for them but quite unfit for reading.

Andrey brought another chair to the round dining-table, littered with books and papers, and adjusted the reflector so as to throw more light upon the corner that he used as a writing-desk. Helen sat by him, and so near, that sometimes her hair touched his. But they never heeded this in their absorption.

With a woman's quickness Helen ran over the page in a rapid glance, and was the first to offer her opinion.

“There's nothing in the letter!” she exclaimed. “Mere rubbish! We needn't waste our time in reading it.”

However strange such advice might appear, it did not seem to affect Andrey, who replied quietly,—

“No, wait a bit. I recognise George's handwriting, and he generally puts in something to the purpose. It won't take long to read anyhow.

“‘My dear Andrey Anempodistovitch, I hasten to inform you’ . . . hm . . . hm . . . ‘owing to the severe frosts’ . . . hm . . . hm . . . ‘sheep and the young cattle’ . . . hm . . . ,” murmured Andrey, skipping rapidly over the lines.

“Ah, here's something about domestic affairs. Let's see.”

“‘As to our domestic affairs’”—he read in the tone of a reporting clerk—“‘I have to tell you . . . sister Kate married