For half an hour she lay motionless; the tears flowed through her fingers on to the pillow. Suddenly she raised herself and sat up, something strange was passing in her, her face changed, her wet eyes grew dry and shining, her brows were bent and her lips compressed. Another half-hour passed. Elena, for the last time, strained her ears to listen: was not that the familiar voice floating up to her? She got up, put on her hat and gloves, threw a cape over her shoulders, and, slipping unnoticed out of the house, she went with swift steps along the road leading to Bersenyev’s lodging.
XVIII
Elena walked with her head bent and her eyes fixed straight before her. She feared nothing, she considered nothing; she wanted to see Insarov once more. She went on, not noticing that the sun had long ago disappeared behind heavy black clouds, that the wind was roaring by gusts in the trees and blowing her dress about her, that the dust had suddenly risen and was flying in a cloud along the road. … Large drops of rain were falling, she did not even notice it; but it fell faster and heavier, there were flashes of lightning and peals of thunder. Elena stood still looking round. … Fortunately for her, there was a little old broken-down chapel that had been built over a disused well not far from the place where she was overtaken by the storm. She ran to it and got under the low roof. The rain fell in torrents; the sky was completely overcast. In dumb despair Elena stared at the thick network of fast-falling drops. Her last hope of getting a sight of Insarov was vanishing. A little old beggar-woman came into the chapel, shook herself, said with a curtsy: “Out of the rain, good lady,” and with many sighs and groans sat down on a ledge near the well. Elena put her hand into her pocket; the old woman noticed this action and a light came into her face, yellow and wrinkled now, though once handsome. “Thank you, dear gracious lady,” she was beginning. There happened to be no purse in Elena’s pocket, but the old woman was still holding out her hand.
“I have no money, grannie,” said Elena, “but here, take this, it will be of use for something.”
She gave her her handkerchief.
“O‑oh, my pretty lady,” said the beggar, “what do you give your handkerchief to me for? For a wedding-present to my grandchild when she’s married? God reward you for your goodness!”
A peal of thunder was heard.
“Lord Jesus Christ,” muttered the beggar-woman, and she crossed herself three times. “Why, haven’t I seen you before,” she added after a brief pause. “Didn’t you give me alms in Christ’s name?”
Elena looked more attentively at the old woman and recognised her.
“Yes, grannie,” she answered, “wasn’t it you asked me why I was so sorrowful?”
“Yes, darling, yes. I fancied I knew you. And I think you’ve a heartache still. You seem in trouble now. Here’s your handkerchief, too, wet from tears to be sure. Oh, you young people, you all have the same sorrow, a terrible woe it is!”
“What sorrow, grannie?”
“Ah, my good young lady, you can’t deceive an old woman like me. I know what your heart is heavy over; your sorrow’s not an uncommon one. Sure, I have been young too, darling. I have been through that trouble too. Yes. And I’ll tell you something, for your goodness to me; you’ve won a good man, not a light of love, you cling to him alone; cling to him stronger than death. If it comes off, it comes off—if not, it’s in God’s hands. Yes. Why are you wondering at me? I’m a fortune-teller. There, I’ll carry away your sorrow with your handkerchief. I’ll carry it away, and it’s over. See the rain’s less; you wait a little longer. It’s not the first time I’ve been wet. Remember, darling; you had a sorrow, the sorrow has flown, and there’s no memory of it. Good Lord, have mercy on us!”
The beggar-woman got up from the edge of the well, went out of the chapel, and stole off on her way. Elena stared after her in bewilderment. “What does this mean?” she murmured involuntarily.
The
