“Father, your will is law,” Ivan Petrovitch was saying. “Still it is rather hard upon me to be chained to desk and ledger because I am the eldest son, while sons, nephews, and grandsons are doing their duty.”
“Thou too wilt be doing thine,” the old man returned. “What if it be a harder one? Is it thy part, or mine, to choose?—But hush! are not the footsteps that I hear those of my lord’s grandson?”
Ivan came forward, and the usual greetings were exchanged, though on his side in a tone of embarrassment, which did not escape the quick ear of Petrovitch.
“Prince Ivan,” he said, “you are in trouble. Do you wish to speak with me alone?”
Petrovitch usually gave Ivan the title of prince, although, on account of his father’s disgrace and his own equivocal position, the heir of Pojarsky had forborne to assume it in general society—a modest reticence which Petrovitch not only approved, but had himself actually recommended.
“It is true, dädushka,” Ivan answered frankly; “I wish to speak with you alone.”
At a sign from Petrovitch the others left the room, and without waiting for Ivan to begin, the old man said, “I know what you feel. Speak freely. What can I do for you?”
Ivan was greatly surprised at this address. Which of those who were present last night, he asked himself, could possibly have told the story of his folly, and how could it have found its way so quickly to the ears of Petrovitch?
“I do not think you can know what I feel,” he began humbly; “I am so utterly ashamed of myself. You have so often warned me to be moderate in play, and as often have I made the best of resolutions, and I meant to keep them faithfully, but—”
He came to a sudden stop, astonished, even terrified by the change that swept over the sightless but expressive face of Petrovitch. Disappointment, sorrow, anger chased each other rapidly, like clouds before a stormy wind; then all these passed away and were succeeded by something too sadly like contempt. Ivan stood in silent embarrassment, unable to proceed with his story.