with a heavy kerchief, was cautiously thrust into the room.

‘Here is the lady,’ she whispered, ‘who gave me a silver piece.’

The child’s head vanished quickly, and in its place appeared Elena.

Bersenyev jumped up as if he had been stung; but Elena did not stir, nor cry out. It seemed as if she understood everything in a single instant. A terrible pallor overspread her face, she went up to the screen, looked behind it, threw up her arms, and seemed turned to stone.

A moment more and she would have flung herself on Insarov, but Bersenyev stopped her. ‘What are you doing?’ he said in a trembling whisper, ‘you might be the death of him!’

She was reeling. He led her to the sofa, and made her sit down.

She looked into his face, then her eyes ran over him from head to foot, then stared at the floor.

‘Will he die?’ she asked so coldly and quietly that Bersenyev was frightened.

‘For God’s sake, Elena Nikolaevna,’ he began, ‘what are you saying? He is ill certainly—and rather seriously—but we will save him; I promise you that.’

‘He is unconscious?’ she asked in the same tone of voice as before.

‘Yes, he is unconscious at present. That’s always the case at the early stage of these illnesses, but it means nothing, nothing—I assure you. Drink some water.’

She raised her eyes to his, and he saw she had not heard his answer.

‘If he dies,’ she said in the same voice,’ I will die too.’

At that instant Insarov uttered a slight moan; she trembled all over, clutched at her head, then began untying the strings of her hat.

‘What are you doing?’ Bersenyev asked her.

‘I will stay here.’

‘You will stay—for long?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps all day, the night, always—I don’t know.’

‘For God’s sake, Elena Nikolaevna, control yourself. I could not of course have any expectation of seeing you here; but still I—assume you have come for a short time. Remember they may miss you at home.’

‘What then?’

‘They will look for you—find you——’

‘What then?’

‘Elena Nikolaevna! You see. He cannot now protect you.’

She dropped her head, seemed lost in thought, raised a handkerchief to her lips, and convulsive sobs, tearing her by their violence, were suddenly wrung from her breast. She threw herself, face downwards, on the sofa, trying to stifle them, but still her body heaved and throbbed like a captured bird.

‘Elena Nikolaevna—for God’s sake,’ Bersenyev was repeating over her.

‘Ah! What is it?’ suddenly sounded the voice of Insarov.

Elena started up, and Bersenyev felt rooted to the spot. After waiting a little, he went up to the bed. Insarov’s head lay on the pillow helpless as before; his eyes were closed.

‘Is he delirious?’ whispered Elena.

‘It seems so,’ answered Bersenyev, ‘but that’s nothing; it’s always so, especially if——’

‘When was he taken ill?’ Elena broke in.

‘The day before yesterday; I have been here since yesterday. Rely on me, Elena Nikolaevna. I will not leave him; everything shall be done. If necessary, we will have a consultation.’

‘He will die without me,’ she cried, wringing her hands.

‘I give you my word I will let you hear every day how his illness goes on, and if there should be immediate danger——’

‘Swear you will send for me at once whenever it may be, day or night, write a note straight to me—I care for nothing now. Do you hear? you promise you will do that?’

‘I promise before God’

‘Swear it.’

‘I swear.’

She suddenly snatched his hand, and before he had time to pull it away, she had bent and pressed her lips to it.

‘Elena Nikolaevna, what are you——’ he stammered.

‘No—no—I won’t have it——’ Insarov muttered indistinctly, and sighed painfully.

Elena went up to the screen, her handkerchief pressed between her teeth, and bent a long, long look on the sick man. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

‘Elena Nikolaevna,’ Bersenyev said to her, ‘he might come to himself and recognise you; there’s no knowing if that wouldn’t do harm. Besides, from hour to hour I expect the doctor.’

Elena took her hat from the sofa, put it on and stood still. Her eyes strayed mournfully over the room. She seemed to be remembering….

‘I cannot go away,’ she whispered at last.

Bersenyev pressed her hand: ‘Try to pull yourself together,’ he said, ‘calm yourself; you are leaving him in my care. I will come to you this very evening.’

Elena looked at him, said: ‘Oh, my good, kind friend!’ broke into sobs and rushed away.

Bersenyev leaned against the door. A feeling of sorrow and bitterness, not without a kind of strange consolation, overcame him. ‘My good, kind friend!’ he thought and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Who is here?’ he heard Insarov’s voice.

Bersenyev went up to him. ‘I am here, Dmitri Nikanorovitch. How are you? How do you feel?’

‘Are you alone?’ asked the sick man.

‘Yes.’

‘And she?’

‘Whom do you mean?’ Bersenyev asked almost in dismay.

Insarov was silent. ‘Mignonette,’ he murmured, and his eyes closed again.

XXVI

For eight whole days Insarov lay between life and death. The doctor was incessantly visiting him, interested as a young man in a difficult case. Shubin heard of Insarov’s critical position, and made inquiries after him. His compatriots—Bulgarians—came; among them Bersenyev recognised the two strange figures, who had puzzled him by their unexpected visit to the cottage; they all showed genuine sympathy, some offered to take Bersenyev’s place by the patient’s bed-side; but he would not consent to that, remembering his promise to Elena. He saw her every day and secretly reported to her—sometimes by word of mouth, sometimes in a brief note—every detail of the illness. With what sinkings of the heart she awaited him, how she listened and questioned him! She was always on the point of hastening to Insarov herself; but Bersenyev begged her not to do this: Insarov was seldom alone. On the first day she knew of his illness she herself had almost fallen ill; directly she got home, she shut herself up in her room; but she was summoned to dinner, and appeared in the dining-room with such a face that Anna Vassilyevna was alarmed, and was anxious to put her to bed. Elena succeeded, however, in controlling herself. ‘If he dies,’ she repeated, ‘it will be the end of me too.’ This thought tranquillised her, and enabled her to seem indifferent. Besides no one troubled her much; Anna Vassilyevna was taken up with her swollen face; Shubin was working furiously; Zoya was given up to pensiveness, and disposed to read Werther; Nikolai Artemyevitch was much displeased at the frequent visits of ‘the scholar,’ especially as his ‘cherished projects’ in regard to Kurnatovsky were making no way; the practical chief secretary was puzzled and biding his time. Elena did not even thank Bersenyev; there are services for which thanks are cruel and shameful. Only once at her fourth interview with him—Insarov had passed a very bad night, the doctor had hinted at a consultation—only then she reminded him of his promise. ‘Very well, then let us go,’ he said to her. She got up and was going to get ready. ‘No,’ he decided, ‘let us wait till to-morrow.’ Towards evening Insarov was rather better.

For eight days this torture was prolonged. Elena appeared calm; but she could eat nothing, and did not sleep at night. There was a dull ache in all her limbs; her head seemed full of a sort of dry burning smoke. ‘Our young lady’s wasting like a candle,’ her maid said of her.

At last by the ninth day the crisis was passing over. Elena was sitting in the drawing-room near Anna Vassilyevna, and, without knowing herself what she was doing, was reading her the Moscow Gazette; Bersenyev came in. Elena glanced at him—how rapid, and fearful, and penetrating, and tremulous, was the first glance she turned on him every time—and at once she guessed that he brought good news. He was smiling; he nodded slightly to her, she got up to go and meet him.

‘He has regained consciousness, he is saved, he will be quite well again in a week,’ he whispered to her.

Elena had stretched out her arm as though to ward off a blow, and she said nothing, only her lips trembled and a flush of crimson overspread her whole face. Bersenyev began to talk to Anna Vassilyevna, and Elena went off to her own room, dropped on her knees and fell to praying, to thanking God. Light, shining tears trickled down her cheeks. Suddenly she was conscious of intense weariness, laid her head down on the pillow, whispered ‘poor Andrei Petrovitch!’ and at once fell asleep with wet eheeks and eyelashes. It was long since she had slept or wept.

XXVII

Bersenyev’s words turned out only partly true; the danger was over, but Insarov gained strength slowly, and the doctor talked of a complete undermining of the whole system. The patient left his bed for all that, and began to walk about the room; Bersenyev went home to his own lodging, but he came every day to his still feeble friend; and every day as before he informed Elena of the state of his health. Insarov did not dare to write to her, and only indirectly in his conversations with Bersenyev referred to her; but Bersenyev, with assumed carelessness, told him about his visits to the Stahovs, trying, however, to give him to understand that Elena had been deeply distressed, and that now she was calmer. Elena too did not write to Insarov; she had a plan in her head.

One day Bersenyev had just informed her with a cheerful face that the doctor had already allowed Insarov to eat a cutlet, and that he would probably soon go out; she seemed absorbed, dropped her eyes.

‘Guess, what