"Olga!"
All my honour for myself and my love for her were in that note of reproach, and they appeared to waken an echo; for then this most strange girl threw herself down on to a couch and burying her face in her hands sobbed passionately.
I turned away from the sight of her emotion—the more painful because of the strong self-reserve and force of character she had always shewn—and paced up and down the room. I forced back my own feelings and the desire to tell her what those feelings were. To do that would be worse than madness. Till we were out of Russia, we were brother and sister and the bar between us was heavier than we could hope to move.
When the storm of her sobs ceased, she remained for some minutes quite still: and I would not break the silence, knowing she was fighting her way back to self-possession.
Presently, she got up and came to me, holding out her hand.
"I will go, Alexis—we are still firm friends?"—with a little smile of wistful interrogation. "Can you forgive my temper? I was mad for the moment, I think. But I trust you. I do indeed, absolutely. I know you had no thought of insulting me. I know that. I couldn't think so meanly of you. It's hard to leave—Russia—and—and everything. And you, too—at this time. Must I really go?" A half-beseeching glance into my eyes and a pause for the answer I could not give. "Very well. I know what your silence means. Come to-morrow morning—and say"—she stopped again and bit her trembling lips to steady them as she framed the word—"and say—goodbye to me. And now, please, let me go—brother and truest friend."
She wrung my hand, and then before I could prevent her or even guess her intention, she pressed her lips to it and, with the tears again in her eyes, she went quickly away, leaving me to stare after her like a helpless fool, longing to call her back and tell her everything, and yet afraid.