The Precipice Part 60

"Ivan Ivanovich," replied Vera, hardly restraining her tears, "I believe you would have done it, but I would never send you."

"But now I am not asked to go outside my role of Bear; to tell him what you cannot write to him, Vera Va.s.silievna, would give me happiness."

She reflected that this was all the happiness with which she had to reward him, and dropped her eyes. His mood changed when he noticed her thoughtful, melancholy air; his proud bearing, the gleam in his eyes, and the colour in his face disappeared. He regretted his incautious display of pleasure. It seemed to him that his delight and his mention of the word "happiness!" had been tantamount to a renewal of his profession of love and the offer of his hand, and had betrayed to her the fact that he rejoiced selfishly at her breach with Mark.

Vera guessed that he was deceiving himself once more. Her heart, her feminine instinct, her friends.h.i.+p, these things prevented Tus.h.i.+n from abandoning his hope; she gave what she could, an unconditional trust and a boundless esteem.

"Yes, Ivan Ivanovich, I see now that I have placed my hopes on you, though I did not confess it to myself, and no one would have persuaded me to ask this service of you. But since you make the generous offer yourself, I am delighted, and thank you with all my heart. No one can help me as you do, because no one else loves me as you do."

"You spoil me, Vera Va.s.silievna, when you talk like that. But it is true; you read my very soul."

"Will it not be hard for you to see him."

"No, I shan't faint," he smiled.

"Go at five o'clock to the arbour and tell him...." She considered a moment, then scribbled with a pencil what she had said she wished to say without adding a word. "Here is my answer," she said, handing him the open envelope. "You may add anything you think necessary, for you know all. And don't forget, Ivan Ivanovich, that I blame him for nothing, and consequently," she added, looking away, "you may leave your whip behind."

"Very well," he said between his teeth.

"Forgive me," said Vera, offering her hand. "I do not say it as a reproach. I breathe more freely now that I have told you what I wish, and what I don't wish in your interview."

"And you thought I needed the hint?"

"Pardon a sick woman," she said, and he pressed her hand again.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

A little later Tatiana Markovna and Raisky returned to the house.

Raisky and Tus.h.i.+n were embarra.s.sed in one another's presence, and found it difficult to talk naturally about the simplest things. But at the dinner-table the real sympathy between them conquered the awkwardness of the situation. They looked one another straight in the eyes and read there a mutual confidence. After dinner Raisky went to his room, and Tus.h.i.+n excused himself on the ground of business. Vera's thoughts followed him.

It was nearly five o'clock when he was trying to find his direction in the thicket. Although he was no stranger there he seemed not to be able to find what he sought; he looked from side to side where the bushes grew more thickly, certain that he must be in the neighbourhood of the arbour. He stood still and looked impatiently at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock, and neither the arbour nor Mark were visible.

Suddenly he heard a rustle in the distance, and among the young pines a figure appeared and disappeared alternately. Mark was approaching, and reached the place where Tus.h.i.+n was standing. They looked at one another a full minute when they met.

"Where is the arbour?" said Mark at last.

"I don't exactly know in which direction...."

"In which direction? We are standing on the spot where it was still standing yesterday morning."

The arbour had vanished to allow of the literal carrying out of Tatiana Markovna's promise that Mark should not wait for Vera in the arbour. An hour after her conversation with Vera she had descended the precipice, accompanied by Savili and five peasants with axes, and within two hours the arbour had been carried away, the peasant women and children helping to remove beams and boards. Next day the site of the arbour was levelled, covered with turf, and planted with young fir trees. "If I had had the arbour removed before," thought Tatiana Markovna regretfully, "the rascal would have noticed it, and would not have written her the letters."

The situation was clear enough to the "rascal" now. "That is the old lady's handiwork," he thought, when he saw the young fir trees. "Her Vera, like a well-bred young woman, has told her the whole story." He nodded to Tus.h.i.+n, and was turning away, when he saw his rival's eyes were fixed on him.

"Are you out for a stroll?" said Mark. "Why do you look at me in that extraordinary fas.h.i.+on? I suppose you are visiting at Malinovka."

Tus.h.i.+n replied drily and politely that he was a visitor at the house, and had come down especially to see Mark.

"To see me?" asked Mark quickly with a look of inquiry. Has he heard too?

he wondered. He remembered that Tus.h.i.+n admired Vera and wondered whether the "Forest Oth.e.l.lo" was meditating tragedy and murder on the green.

"I have a commission for you," said Tus.h.i.+n, handing him the letter.

Without betraying any sense of discomfort, or any sign of pain or rage Mark read it rapidly.

"Do you know the whole story?" he asked.

"Allow me to leave that question unanswered, and instead to ask you whether you have any answer to give," said Tus.h.i.+n.

Mark shook his head.

"I take it for granted, that, in accordance with her wish, you will leave her in peace in the future, that you will not remind her of your existence in any way, will not write to her, nor visit this place...."

"What business is it of yours?" asked Mark. "Are you her declared lover, that you make these demands?"

"One does not need to be her fiance to execute a commission; it is sufficient to be a friend."

"And if I do write, or do come here, what then?" cried Mark angrily.

"I cannot say how Vera Va.s.silievna would take it, but if she gives me another commission, I will undertake it," said Tus.h.i.+n.

"You are an obedient friend," observed Mark maliciously.

"Yes, I am her friend," replied Tus.h.i.+n seriously. "I thought her wish would be law to you too. She is just beginning to recover from a serious illness."

"What is the matter with her?" said Mark, gently for him. As he received no answer he went on, "Excuse my outburst, but you see my agitation."

"Calmness is desirable for you too. Is there any answer to this letter?"

"I do not need your a.s.sistance for that. I will write."

"She will not receive your letter. Her state of health necessitates quiet, which she cannot have if you force yourself on her. I tell you what was told me, and what I have seen for myself."

"Do you wish her well?" asked Mark.

"I do."

"You see that she loves me. She has told you so."

"She has not said so to me; indeed she never spoke of love. She gave me the letter I handed you, and asked me to make it clear that she did not wish, and was not indeed in a condition to see you or to receive any letter from you."

"How ridiculous to make herself and other people suffer. If you are her friend you can relieve her of her misery, her illness, and her collapse of strength. The old lady has broken down the arbour, but she has not destroyed pa.s.sion, and pa.s.sion will break Vera. You say yourself she is ill."

"I did not say that pa.s.sion was the cause of her illness."