"Listen, Madame," at last he began, breathing with difficulty, and at times setting his teeth hard. "There is no reason why we should be hypocritical towards each other. I do not believe in your repentance; but even if it were genuine, it would be impossible for me to rejoin you and live with you again."

Varvara Pavlovna bit her lips and half closed her eyes. "That's dislike," she thought. "It's all over. I'm not even a woman for him."

"Impossible," repeated Lavretsky, and b.u.t.toned his coat. "I don't know why you have been pleased to honor me by coming here. Most probably you are out of funds."

"Don't say that--you wound my feelings," whispered Varvara Pavlovna.

"However that may be, you are still, to my sorrow, my wife. I cannot drive you away, so this is what I propose. You can go to Lavriki--to-day if you like--and live there! There is an excellent house there, as you know. You shall have every thing you can want, besides your allowance. Do you consent?"

Varvara Pavlovna raised her embroidered handkerchief to her face.

"I have already told you," she said, with a nervous twitching of her lips, "that I will agree to any arrangement you may please to make for me. At present I have only to ask you--will you at least allow me to thank you for your generosity?"

"No thanks, I beg of you--we shall do much better without them,"

hastily exclaimed Lavretsky. "Then, he added, approaching the door, I may depend upon--"

"To-morrow I will be at Lavriki," replied Varvara Pavlovna, rising respectfully from her seat. "But Fedor Ivanich--" ("She no longer familiarly called him Theodore).

"What do you wish to say?"

"I am aware that I have not yet in any way deserved forgiveness. But may I hope that, at least, in time--"

"Ah, Varvara Pavlovna," cried Lavretsky, interrupting her, "you are a clever woman; but I, too, am not a fool. I know well that you have no need of forgiveness. Besides, I forgave you long ago; but there has always been a gulf between you and me."

"I shall know how to submit," answered Varvara Pavlovna, and bowed her head. "I have not forgotten my fault. I should not have wondered if I had learnt that you had even been glad to hear of my death," she added in a soft voice, with a slight wave of her hand towards the newspaper, which was lying on the table where Lavretsky had forgotten it.

Lavretsky shuddered. The _feuilleton_ had a pencil mark against it.

Varvara Pavlovna gazed at him with an expression of even greater humility than before on her face. She looked very handsome at that moment. Her grey dress, made by a Parisian milliner, fitted closely to her pliant figure, which seemed almost like that of a girl of seventeen. Her soft and slender neck, circled by a white collar, her bosom's gentle movement under the influence of her steady breathing, her arms and hands, on which she wore neither bracelets nor rings, her whole figure, from her l.u.s.trous hair to the tip of the scarcely visible _bottine_, all was so artistic!

Lavretsky eyed her with a look of hate, feeling hardly able to abstain from crying _brava_, hardly able to abstain from striking her down--and went away.

An hour later he was already on the road to Vasilievskoe, and two hours later Varvara Pavlovna ordered the best carriage on hire in the town to be got for her, put on a simple straw hat with a black veil, and a modest mantilla, left Justine in charge of Ada, and went to the Kalitines'. From the inquiries Justine had made, Madame Lavretsky had learnt that her husband was in the habit of going there every day.

x.x.xVI.

The day on which Lavretsky's wife arrived in O.--sad day for him--was also a day of trial for Liza. Before she had had time to go down-stairs and say good morning to her mother, the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard underneath the window, and, with a secret feeling of alarm, she saw Panshine ride into the court-yard. "It is to get a definite answer that he has come so early," she thought; and she was not deceived. After taking a turn through the drawing-room, he proposed to go into the garden with her; and when there he asked her how his fate was to be decided.

Liza summoned up her courage, and told him that she could not be his wife. He listened to all she had to say, turning himself a little aside, with his hat pressed down over his eyes. Then, with perfect politeness, but in an altered tone, he asked her if that was her final decision, and whether he had not, in some way or other, been the cause of such a change in her ideas. Then he covered his eyes with his hand for a moment, breathed one quick sigh, and took his hand away from his face.

"I wanted to follow the beaten track," he said sadly; "I wanted to choose a companion for myself according to the dictates of my heart.

But I see that it is not to be. So farewell to my fancy!"

He made Liza a low bow, and went back into the house.

She hoped he would go away directly; but he went to her mother's boudoir, and remained an hour with her. As he was leaving the house he said to Liza, "_Votre mere vous appelle: Adieu a jamais_!" then he got on his horse, and immediately set off at full gallop.

On going to her mother's room, Liza found her in tears. Panshine had told her about his failure.

"Why should you kill me? Why should you kill me?" Thus did the mortified widow begin her complaint. "What better man do you want? Why is he not fit to be your husband? A chamberlain! and so disinterested Why, at Petersburg he might marry any of the maids of honor! And I--I had so longed for it. And how long is it since you changed your mind about him? Wherever has this cloud blown from?--for it has never come of its own accord. Surely it isn't that wiseacre? A pretty adviser you have found, if that's the case!"

"And as for him, my poor, dear friend," continued Maria Dmitrievna, "how respectful he was, how attentive, even in the midst of his sorrow! He has promised not to desert me. Oh, I shall never be able to bear this! Oh, my head is beginning to ache dreadfully! Send Palashka here. You will kill me, if you don't think better of it. Do you hear?"

And then, after having told Liza two or three times that she was ungrateful, Maria Dmitrievna let her go away.

Liza went to her room. But before she had had a moment's breathing-time after her scene with Panshine and with her mother, another storm burst upon her, and that from the quarter from which she least expected it.

Marfa Timofeevna suddenly came into her room, and immediately shut the door after her. The old lady's face was pale; her cap was all awry; her eyes were flashing, her lips quivering. Liza was lost in astonishment. She had never seen her shrewd and steady aunt in such a state before.

"Very good, young lady!" Marfa Timofeevna began to whisper, with a broken and trembling voice. "Very good! Only who taught that, my mother--Give me some water; I can't speak."

"Do be calm, aunt. What is the matter?" said Liza, giving her a gla.s.s of water. "Why, I thought you didn't like M. Panshine yourself."

Marfa Timofeevna pushed the gla.s.s away. "I can't drink it. I should knock out my last teeth, if I tried. What has Panshine to do with it?

Whatever have we to do with Panshine? Much better tell me who taught you to make appointments with people at night. Eh, my mother!"

Liza turned very pale.

"Don't try to deny it, please," continued Marfa Timofeevna. "Shurochka saw it all herself, and told me. I've had to forbid her chattering, but she never tells lies.".--

"I am not going to deny it, aunt," said Liza, in a scarcely audible voice.

"Ah, ah! Then it is so, my mother. You made an appointment with him, that old sinner, that remarkably sweet creature!"

"No."

"How was it, then?"

"I came down to the drawing-room to look for a book. He was in the garden; and he called me."

"And you went? Very good, indeed! Perhaps you love him, then?"

"I do love him," said Liza quietly.

"Oh, my mothers! She does love him!" Here Marfa Timofeevna took off her cap. "She loves a married man! Eh? Loves him!"

"He had told me--" began Liza.

"What he had told you, this little hawk? Eh, what?"

"He had told me that his wife was dead."

Marfa Timofeevna made the sign of the cross. "The kingdom of heaven be to her," she whispered. "She was a frivolous woman. But don't let's think about that. So that's how it is. I see, he's a widower. Oh yes, he's going ahead. He has killed one wife, and now he's after a second.

A nice sort of person he is, to be sure. But, niece, let me tell you this, in my young days things of this kind used to turn out very badly for girls. Don't be angry with me, my mother. It's only tools who are angry with the truth. I've even told them not to let him in to see me to-day. I love him, but I shall never forgive him for this. So he is a widower! Give me some water. But as to your putting Panshine's nose out of joint, why I think you're a good girl for that. But don't go sitting out at night with men creatures. Don't make me wretched in my old age, and remember that I'm not altogether given over to fondling.

I can bite, too--A widower!"

Marfa Timofeevna went away, and Liza sat down in a corner, and cried a long time. Her heart was heavy within her. She had not deserved to be so humiliated. It was not in a joyous manner that love had made itself known to her. It was for the second time since yesterday morning that she was crying now. This new and unlooked-for feeling had only just sprung into life within her heart, and already how deafly had she had to pay for it, how roughly had other hands dealt with her treasured secret! She felt ashamed, and hurt, and unhappy; but neither doubt nor fear troubled her, and Lavretsky became only still dearer to her. She had hesitated so long as she was not sure of her own feelings; but after that interview, after that kiss--she could no longer hesitate.