‘Dear Mother of the Lord!’ exclaimed the old woman, raising her hands in pious horror. ‘In the terem, and he loves her? Can you not save her, good Cossack, and bring her to us? Heaven forfend that so good a youth should be so ill-treated by fate! Bring her to me, my son, bring her to me, as you have saved two already from the danger of loveless marriage.’
‘Let her be, mother, let her be!’ I cried, laughing; ‘she went of her free will, deserting me for the chance of selection as Tsaritsa. I am under no illusion: she is not one to be wept for. I have torn her from my heart, and be sure I am none the worse!’
I saw Vera flush and listen as I said this, and the sight pleased me well. The old lady sighed.
‘Poor youth, you have done wisely, yet you must have suffered much! Be comforted, your heart will find its home; rest assured, so brave a one will not go long a-begging. Now farewell, my son, for I have many duties and the days are too short for those who toil in God’s service. Stay, this pretty one will desire to hear news of the bride-choosing, and of the Regent’s attitude when her disappearance is discovered. Come here, if you will, from time to time: you shall see her in the ante-room which is set apart for such meetings. By our rules another must be present, but do not fret lest her secret should be known to others, for I myself shall be that third party. Now come, my pretty, and you—good Cossack—depart.’
‘If they send, mother, to seek her, what then?’ I asked, my hand upon the door.
‘They may send, but they will not find her!’ smiled the good old woman.
And Vera, as I left the room, gave me a glance which I liked well—a look which I analysed in my memory many times afterwards, and most carefully, and from which at each recollection I derived satisfaction and delight.
‘That is a girl who can love like another, in spite of her piety, and her gentleness, and her honesty and other rare qualities,’ thought I, ‘and will love well. Happy he who gains that heart, for I think he will find it true gold. Moreover, that man is not Mazeppa!’ This last consideration afforded me wondrous comfort and delight, and I dwelt upon it so long and so lovingly that I almost forgot to consider what was my own chance of winning where he had certainly lost.
When I did take this matter into consideration and weighed it together with the glance which Vera had thrown in my direction as I left the convent—well, I felt a glow of renewed delight.
‘I will out-fox you in this, old fox Mazeppa,’ I thought, ‘or it shall not be for want of trying.’