The Precipice Part 59

"You want me to know what is in them?"

"Read them, Grandmother."

Tatiana Markovna put on her gla.s.ses, and tried to read them, but she found that she could not decipher them, and eventually Vera had to read them. She read in a whisper, suppressing a phrase here and there; then she crumpled them up and put them back in her pocket.

"What do you think, Veroshka?" asked Tatiana Markovna, uncertainly. "He is willing to be betrothed and to remain here. Perhaps if he is prepared to live like other people, if he loves you, and if you think you could be happy--"

"He calls betrothal a comedy, and yet suggests it. He thinks that only that is needed to make me happy. Grandmother, you know my frame of mind; so why do you ask me?"

"You came to me to ask me what you should decide," began Tatiana Markovna with some hesitation, as she did not yet understand why Vera had read her the letters. She was incensed at Mark's audacity, and feared that Vera herself might be seized with a return of her pa.s.sion.

For these reasons she concealed her anxiety.

"It was not for that that I came to you, Grandmother. You know that my mind has long been made up. I will have no more to do with him. And if I am to breathe freely again, and to hope to be able to live once more, it is under the condition that I hear nothing of him, that I can forget everything. He reminds me of what has happened, calls me down there, seeks to allure me with talk of happiness, will marry me.... Gracious Heaven! Understand, Grandmother," she went on, as Tatiana Markovna's anxiety could no longer be concealed, "that if by a miracle he now became the man I hoped he would be, if he now were to believe all that I believe, and loved me as I desired to love him, even if all this happened I would not turn aside from my path at his call." No song could have been sweeter to the ears of Tatiana Markovna. "I should not be happy with him," Vera continued. "I could never forget what he had been, or believe in the new Mark. I have endured more than enough to kill any pa.s.sion. There is nothing left in my heart but a cold emptiness, and but for you, Grandmother, I should despair."

She wept convulsively, her head pressed against her aunt's shoulder.

"Do not recall your sufferings, Veroshka, and do not distress yourself unnecessarily. We agreed never to speak of it again."

"But for the letters I should not have spoken, for I need peace. Take me away, Grandmother, hide me, or I shall die. He calls me--to that place."

Tatiana Markovna rose and drew Vera into the armchair, while she drew herself to her full height.

"If that is so," she said, "if he thinks he can continue to annoy you, he will have to reckon with me. I will s.h.i.+eld and protect you. Console yourself, child, you will hear no more of him."

"What will you do?" she asked in amazement, springing from her chair.

"He summons you. Well, I will go to the rendezvous in your place, and we will see if he calls you any more, or comes here, or writes to you." She strode up and down the room trembling with anger. "At what time does he go to the arbour to-morrow. At five, I think?" she asked sharply.

"Grandmother, you don't understand," said Vera gently, taking her hand.

"Calm yourself. I make no accusation against him. Never forget that I alone am guilty. He does not know what has happened to me during these days, and therefore he writes. Now it is necessary to explain to him how ill and spiritless I am, and you want to fight. I don't wish that. I would have written to him, but could not; and I have not the strength to see him. I would have asked Ivan Ivanovich, but you know how he cares for me and what hopes he cherishes. To bring him into contact with a man who has destroyed those hopes is impossible."

"Impossible," agreed Tatiana Markovna. "G.o.d knows what might happen between them. You have a near relation, who knows all and loves you like a sister, Borushka."

"If that were how he loved me," thought Vera. She did not mean to reveal Raisky's pa.s.sion for her, which remained her secret.

"Perhaps I will ask my cousin," she said. "Or I will collect my strength, and answer the letter myself, so as to make him understand my position and renounce all hope. But in the mean time, I must let him know so that he does not come to the arbour to wait in vain for me."

"I will do that," struck in Tatiana Markovna.

"But you will not go yourself?" asked Vera, looking direct into her eyes.

"Remember that I make no complaint against him, and wish him no evil."

"Nor do I," returned her aunt, looking away. "You may be a.s.sured I will not go myself, but I will arrange it so that he does not await you in the arbour."

"Forgive me, Grandmother, for this fresh disturbance."

Tatiana Markovna sighed, and kissed her niece. Vera left the room in a calmer frame of mind, wondering what means her aunt proposed to take to prevent Mark from coming next day to the arbour.

Next day at noon Vera heard horse's hoofs at the gate. When she looked out of the window her eyes shone with pleasure for a moment, as she saw Tus.h.i.+n ride into the courtyard. She went to meet him.

"I saw you from the window," she said, adding, as she looked at him, "Are you well?"

"What else should I be?" he answered with embarra.s.sment, turning his head away so that she should not notice the signs of suffering on his face. "And you?"

"I fell ill, and my illness might have taken an ill turn, but now it is over. Where is Grandmother?" she asked, turning to Va.s.silissa.

"The Mistress went out after tea, and took Savili with her."

Vera invited Tus.h.i.+n to her room, but for the moment both were embarra.s.sed.

"Have you forgiven me?" asked Vera after a pause, without looking at him.

"Forgiven you?"

"For all you have endured. Ivan Ivanovich, you have changed. I can see that you carry a heavy heart. Your suffering and Grandmother's is a hard penance for me. But for you three, Grandmother, you, and Cousin Boris, I could not survive."

"And yet you say that you give us pain. Look at me; I think I am better already. If you would only recover your own peace of mind it will all be over and forgotten."

"I had begun to recover, and to forget. Marfinka's marriage is close at hand, there was a great deal to do and my attention was distracted, but yesterday I was violently excited, and am not quite calm now."

"What has happened? Can I serve you, Vera Va.s.silievna?"

"I cannot accept your service."

"Because you do not think me able...."

"Not that. You know all that has happened; read what I have received,"

she said, taking the letters from a box, and handing them to him.

Tus.h.i.+n read, and turned as pale as he had been when he arrived.

"You are right. In this matter my a.s.sistance is superfluous. You alone can...."

"I cannot, Ivan Ivanovich," she said, while he looked at her interrogatively. "I can neither write a word to him, nor see him; yet I must give him an answer. He will wait there in the arbour, or if I leave him without an answer he will come here, and I can do nothing."

"What kind of answer?"

"You ask the same question as Grandmother. Yet you have read the letter!

He promises me happiness, will submit to a betrothal. Yesterday I tried to write to him to tell him that I was not happy, and should not be happy after betrothal, and to bid him farewell. But I cannot put these lines on paper, and I cannot commission anyone to deliver my answer.

Grandmother flared up when she read the letter, and I fear she would not be able to restrain her feelings. So I...."

"You thought of me," said Tus.h.i.+n, standing up. "Tus.h.i.+n, you thought, would do you this service, and then you sent for me." Pride, joy, and affection shone in his eyes.

"No, Ivan Ivanovich. I sent for you, so that you might be at my side in these difficult hours. I am calmer when you are here. But I will not send you--down there, I will not inflict on you this last insult, will not set you face to face with a man, who cannot be an object of indifference to you--no, no."

Tus.h.i.+n was about to speak, but instead he stretched out his hands in silence, and Vera looked at him with mixed feelings of grat.i.tude and sorrow, as she realised with what small things he was made happy.

"Insult!" he said. "It would have been hard to bear if you were to send me to him with an olive branch, to bring him up here from the depths of the precipice. But even though that dove-like errand would not suit me, I would still undertake it to give you peace, if I thought it would make you happy."