'You used to be so open with me,' said Elena rather reproachfully. 'Do you remember?'
'I used to be able to be open, then I had nothing to conceal; but now——'
'But now?' queried Elena.
'But now... now I must go away. Goodbye.'
If, at that instant, Insarov had lifted his eyes to Elena, he would have seen that her face grew brighter and brighter as he frowned and looked gloomy; but he kept his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground.
'Well, good-bye, Dmitri Nikanorovitch,' she began. 'But at least, since we have met, give me your hand now.'
Insarov was stretching out his hand. 'No, I can't even do that,' he said, and turned away again.
'You can't?'
'No, I can't. Good-bye.' And he moved away to the entrance of the chapel.
'Wait a little longer,' said Elena. 'You seem afraid of me. But I am braver than you,' she added, a faint tremor passing suddenly over her whole body. 'I can tell you... shall I?... how it was you found me here? Do you know where I was going?'
Insarov looked in bewilderment at Elena,
'I was going to you.'
'To me?'
Elena hid her face. 'You mean to force me to say that I love you,' she whispered. 'There, I have said it.'
'Elena!' cried Insarov.
She took his hands, looked at him, and fell on his breast.
He held her close to him, and said nothing. There was no need for him to tell her he loved her. From that cry alone, from the instant transformation of the whole man, from the heaving of the breast to which she clung so confidingly, from the touch of his finger tips in her hair, Elena could feel that she was loved. He did not speak, and she needed no words. 'He is here, he loves me... what need of more?' The peace of perfect bliss, the peace of the harbour reached after storm, of the end attained, that heavenly peace which gives significance and beauty even to death, filled her with its divine flood. She desired nothing, for she had gained all. 'O my brother, my friend, my dear one!' her lips were whispering, while she did not know whose was this heart, his or her own, which beat so blissfully, and melted against her bosom.
He stood motionless, folding in his strong embrace the young life surrendered to him; he felt against his heart this new, infinitely precious burden; a passion of tenderness, of gratitude unutterable, was crumbling his hard will to dust, and tears unknown till now stood in his eyes.
She did not weep; she could only repeat, 'O my friend, my brother!'
'So you will follow me everywhere?' he said to her, a quarter of an hour later, still enfolding her and keeping her close to him in his arms.
'Everywhere, to the ends of the earth. Where you are, I will be.'
'And you are not deceiving yourself, you know your parents will never consent to our marriage?'
'I don't deceive myself; I know that.'
'You know that I'm poor—almost a beggar.'
'I know.'
'That I'm not a Russian, that it won't be my fate to live in Russia, that you will have to break all your ties with your country, with your people.'
'I know, I know.'
'Do you know, too, that I have given myself up to a difficult, thankless cause, that I... that we shall have to expose ourselves not to dangers only, but to privation, humiliation, perhaps——'
'I know, I know all—I love you——'
'That you will have to give up all you are accustomed to, that out there alone among strangers, you will be forced perhaps to work——'
She laid her hand on his lips. 'I love you, my dear one.'
He began hotly kissing her slender, rosy hand. Elena did not draw it away from his lips, and with a kind of childish delight, with smiling curiosity, watched how he covered with kisses, first the palm, then the fingers....
All at once she blushed and hid her face upon his breast.
He lifted her head tenderly and looked steadily into her eyes. 'Welcome, then, my wife, before God and men!'
XIX
An hour later, Elena, with her hat in one hand, her cape in the other, walked slowly into the drawing-room of the villa. Her hair was in slight disorder; on each cheek was to be seen a small bright spot of colour, the smile would not leave her lips, her eyes were nearly shutting and half hidden under the lids; they, too, were smiling. She could scarcely move for weariness, and this weariness was pleasant to her; everything, indeed, was pleasant to her. Everything seemed sweet and friendly to her. Uvar Ivanovitch was sitting at the window; she went up to him, laid her hand on his shoulder, stretched a little, and involuntarily, as it seemed, she laughed.
'What is it?' he inquired, astonished.
She did not know what to say. She felt inclined to kiss Uvar Ivanovitch.
'How he splashed!' she explained at last.
But Uvar Ivanovitch did not stir a muscle, and continued to look with amazement at Elena. She dropped her hat and cape on to him.
'Dear Uvar Ivanovitch,' she said, 'I am sleepy and tired,' and again she laughed and sank into a low chair near him.
'H'm,' grunted Uvar Ivanovitch, flourishing his fingers, 'then you ought—yes——'
Elena was looking round her and thinking, 'From all this I soon must part... and strange—I have no dread, no doubt, no regret.... No, I am sorry for mamma.' Then the little chapel rose again before her mind, again her voice was echoing in it, and she felt his arms about her. Joyously, though faintly, her heart fluttered; weighed down by the languor of happiness. The old beggar-woman recurred to her mind. 'She did really bear away my sorrow,' she thought. 'Oh, how happy I am! how undeservedly! how soon!' If she had let herself go in the least she would have melted into sweet, endless tears. She could only restrain them by laughing. Whatever attitude she fell into seemed to her the easiest, most comfortable possible; she felt as if she were being rocked to sleep. All her movements were slow and soft; what had become of her awkwardness, her haste? Zoya came in; Elena decided that she had never seen a more charming little face; Anna Vassilyevna came in; Elena felt a pang—but with what tenderness she embraced her mother and kissed her on the forehead near the hair, already slightly grey! Then she went away to her own room; how everything smiled upon her there! With what a sense of shamefaced triumph and tranquillity she sat down on her bed—the very bed on which, only three hours ago, she had spent such bitter moments! 'And yet, even then, I knew he loved me,' she thought, 'even before... Ah, no! it's a sin. You are my wife,' she whispered, hiding her face in her hands and falling on her knees.
Towards the evening, she grew more thoughtful. Sadness came upon her at the thought that she would not soon see Insarov. He could not without awakening suspicion remain at Bersenyev's, and so this was what he and Elena had resolved on. Insarov was to return to Moscow and to come over to visit them twice before the autumn; on her side she promised to write him letters, and, if it were possible, to arrange a meeting with him somewhere near Kuntsov. She went down to the drawing-room to tea, and found there all the household and Shubin, who looked at her sharply directly she came in; she tried to talk to him in a friendly way as of old, but she dreaded his penetration, she was afraid of herself. She felt sure that there was good reason for his having left her alone for more than a fortnight. Soon Bersenyev arrived, and gave Insarov's respects to Anna Vassilyevna with an apology for having gone back to Moscow without calling to take leave of her. Insarov's name was for the first time during the day pronounced before Elena. She felt that she reddened; she realised at the same time that she ought to express
