The Precipice Part 61

"What can have made her ill?" asked Mark.

"Your letters. You expect her in the arbour, and threaten to come to her yourself. That she cannot endure, and has asked me to tell you so."

"She says that, but in reality...."

"She always speaks the truth."

"Why did she give you this commission?" Receiving no answer, Mark continued: "You have her confidence, and can therefore tell her how strange it is to refuse happiness. Advise her to put an end to the wretched situation, to renounce her Grandmother's morality, and then I propose...."

"If you understood Vera Va.s.silievna, you would know that hers is one of those natures that declines explanations and advice."

"You execute your errands most brilliantly and diplomatically," said Mark angrily.

Tus.h.i.+n looked at him without replying, and his calm silence enraged Mark.

He saw in the disappearance of the arbour and the appearance on the scene of Tus.h.i.+n as a mediator, the certain end of his hopes. Vera's hesitation was over, and she was now firmly determined on separation.

He was enraged by his consciousness that Vera's illness was really not the result of her infatuation for him, which she would not have confessed to her aunt, much less to Tus.h.i.+n. Mark knew her obstinacy, which resisted even the flame of pa.s.sion, and on that very account he had, almost in despair, resigned himself to submit to a formal betrothal, and had communicated his decision to her, had consented to remain in the town indefinitely, that is, so long as the tie between them held.

Convinced of the truth of his conception of love, he foresaw that in the course of time pa.s.sion would grow cool and disappear, that they would not for ever be held by it, and then.... Then, he was convinced, Vera would herself recognise the situation, and acquiesce in the consequences.

And now his offer had become superfluous; no one was prepared to accept it, and he was simply to be dismissed.

"I do not know what to do," he said proudly. "I cannot find any answer to your diplomatic mission. Naturally, I shall not again visit the arbour, as it has ceased to exist."

"And you will write no more letters either," added Tus.h.i.+n, "as they would not in any case reach her. Neither will you come to the house, where you would not be admitted."

"Are you her guardian?"

"That would depend on Vera Va.s.silievna's wishes. There is a mistress of the house who commands her servants. I take it that you accept the facts."

"The devil knows," cried Mark, "how ridiculous all this is. Mankind have forged chains for themselves, and make martyrs of themselves." Although he still justified himself in making no reply, he felt that his position was untenable. "I am leaving the place shortly," he said, "in about a week's time. Can I not see Vera--Va.s.silievna for a minute?"

"That cannot be arranged, because she is ill."

"Is any pressure being put upon her?"

"She requires only one medicine--not to be reminded of you."

"I do not place entire confidence in you, because you do not appear to me to be an indifferent party."

Tus.h.i.+n did not answer in the same tone. He understood Mark's feeling of bitter disillusion, and made another attempt at conciliation. "If you do not trust me," he said, "you hold the evidence in your hand."

"A dismissal. Yes, but that proves nothing. Pa.s.sion is a sea, where storm reigns to-day, and tomorrow dead calm. Perhaps she already repents having sent this."

"I think not. She takes counsel with herself before acting. It is plain from your last words that you don't understand Vera Va.s.silievna. You will, of course, act in accordance with her wishes. I will not insist any more on an answer."

"There is no answer to give. I am going away."

"That is an answer."

"It is not she who needs an answer, but you, the romantic Raisky, and the old lady."

"Why not include the whole town! But I will take on myself to a.s.sure Vera Va.s.silievna that your answer will be literally carried out.

Farewell."

"Farewell ... Sir Knight."

Tus.h.i.+n frowned slightly, touched his cap, and was gone.

Mark's face was very pale. He recognised bitterly that he was beaten, that his romance ended here at the foot of the precipice, which he must leave without once turning round, with no pity, no word of farewell to speed him; he was bidden to go as if he were a contemptible enemy. Why had all this come about? He was not conscious of any fault. Why should he part from her like this. She could not pretend that he had been the cause of what old-fas.h.i.+oned people would call her "fall." He had gone so far as to belie his own convictions, to neglect his mission, and was even prepared to contemplate marriage. Yet he received a laconic note instead of a friendly letter, a go-between instead of herself. It was as if he had been struck with a knife, and a cold s.h.i.+ver ran through his body. It was not the old lady who had invented these measures, for Vera did not allow others to dictate to her. It must have been she herself.

What had he done, and why should she act with such severity?

He went slowly away. When he reached the fence he swung himself on to the top and sat there, asking himself again where his fault lay. He remembered that at their last meeting he had fairly warned her. He had said in effect: "Remember that I have warned you. If you stretch out your hand to me you are mine, and the responsibility for the consequences rests with you; I am innocent." That was surely logical, he thought. Suddenly he sprang down on to the road, and went without looking back. He remembered how at this very spot he had prepared to leave her. But he heard her nervous, despairing cry of farewell, and had then looked round and rushed to her. As he answered these questions his blood hammered in his veins. He strode up the hill. The knife had done its work; it bored deeper and deeper. Memory pitilessly revived a series of fleeting pictures. The inner voice told him that he had not acted honourably, and spared her when her strength had failed.

She used to call you a "Wolf" in jest, but the name will be no jest in her memory, for you joined to the fierceness of a wolf a fox's cunning and the malice of a yapping dog; there was nothing human about you. She took with her from the depths of the precipice nothing but a bitter memory and a lifelong sorrow. How could she be so blind as to be led astray, to let herself be dazzled, to forget herself? You may triumph, for she will never forget you.

He understood now the laconic note, her illness and the appearance of Tus.h.i.+n instead of herself at the foot of the precipice.

Leonti told Raisky that Mark had informed him that he was going to spend some time with his old aunt in the government of Novgorod; he intended to enter the army once more as an ensign, in the hope of being sent to the Caucasus.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

Raisky and Tus.h.i.+n had been talking all the evening, and for the first time in their lives observed one another closely, with the result that both felt a desire for a closer acquaintance. Tus.h.i.+n asked Raisky to be his guest for a week, to have a look at the forest, the steam-saw, and the timber industry. Raisky accepted, and the next day they crossed the river together in Tus.h.i.+n's boat.

Vera's name did not cross their lips. Each was conscious that the other knew his secret. Raisky in any case had learned of Tus.h.i.+n's offer, of his behaviour on that occasion, and of his part in the whole drama from Vera herself. His jealous prejudices had instantly vanished, and he felt nothing but esteem and sympathy for Tus.h.i.+n. As he studied the personality of Vera's friend, as his fancy did him its usual service of putting the object, not in itself a romantic one, in the best light, he admired Tus.h.i.+n's simplicity and frankness.

After a week spent at "Smoke," after seeing him at home, in the factory, in field and forest, after talking through the night with him by the flickering light of the fire, he understood how Vera's eye and heart should have recognised the simple completeness of the man and placed Tus.h.i.+n side by side with Tatiana Markovna and her sister in her affections. Raisky himself was attracted to this simple, gentle and yet strong personality, and would like to have stayed longer at "Smoke," but Tatiana Markovna wrote asking him to return without delay as his presence was necessary at Malinovka.

Tus.h.i.+n offered to drive with him, for company's sake, as he said; in reality he wanted to know why Tatiana Markovna had sent for Raisky, whether there was a new turn in Vera's affairs, or any service to be rendered her. He remembered uncomfortably his meeting with Mark, and how unwillingly he had said that he was going away. Tus.h.i.+n wondered anxiously whether he had kept his promise, whether he was annoying Vera in any way.

When Raisky reached Malinovka he hurried straight to Vera. While his impressions were still fresh, he drew in vivid colours a full length portrait of Tus.h.i.+n, describing his surroundings and his activities with sympathetic appreciation.

Vera sighed, perhaps for sorrow that she did not love Tus.h.i.+n more and differently.

Raisky would have gone on talking about his visit if he had not had a message from his aunt that she would like to see him immediately. He asked Vera if she knew why he had been sent for.

"I know something is wrong, but she has not told me, and I don't like to ask. Indeed, I fear...."

She broke off, and at that moment Tus.h.i.+n sent in word to know if she would receive him. She a.s.sented.

When Raisky entered her room, Tatiana Markovna dismissed Pashutka and locked the door. She looked worried and old, and her appearance terrified Raisky.

"Has something disagreeable happened?" he asked, sitting down opposite her.

"What is done is done," she said sadly.

"I am sitting on needles, Grandmother. Tell me quickly."