Once, when he had some spare time, he took the opportunity of speaking with Irena.
“Young lady,” said he, “I have heard from my niece of your loss. Of course, it is plain your enemies had their own reasons for separating you from your wooer and giving you another. Why did it all happen? Why was Konsov treated with such disdain?”
“I know not myself,” answered Irena. “My late father was very fond of Pavel Efstafitch, was always very kind to him, treated him not only as a near neighbour, but as one dear to him. And I, what words can describe my love for him? I lived only in his love.”
“Well, then, how came this separation about?”
“Oh, don’t ask me,” said Irena, covering her face with her hands. “It is such anguish to me—such grief. We saw each other often, corresponded; we used to have meetings. I gave him my word; we were only awaiting a fitting time to tell all to my father.”
Rakitina was silent for some minutes.
“Oh, it is dreadful to recollect it all!” she continued. “I suppose some one must have calumniated Konsov to my father. All at once—it was evening—I saw the horses being put to the carriage. ‘Where to?’ I asked. My father would answer nothing. My things were carried out, put into the carriage. At that time a relative from Petersburg was on a visit to us. We three took our seats in the carriage. ‘Where to?’ I again asked my father. ‘Oh, hereabouts, not very far; we will just have a drive,’ said my father, joking. Yes; it turned out a nice joke! We went on with post-horses, without one relay, as far as our other property, one thousand versts[46] distant. I could neither write nor send any message to Konsov for a long time, I was watched so closely. It was only when my father fell dangerously ill that I implored him not to break my heart, but to allow me to write to Konsov. He began crying bitterly, and said, ‘Forgive me, Irisha. We have both been deceived cruelly.’ ‘What? what?’ I could only ask. ‘Is it possible that that cousin sought my hand?’
“‘Not your hand, my dear, but the money,’ my father said. ‘He intercepted one of Konsov’s letters to you, and so stirred up my anger against him, that I decided on carrying you off. Forgive me, Irenushka, forgive me. God has punished him, the wicked one. He borrowed a large sum from me, lost it at cards in Moscow, and has blown his brains out. He left a letter … there it is, read it … I received it a few days ago.’
“My poor father did not live long after this. I returned to my own property, but of Konsov I could get no tidings. His grandmother was also dead. I wrote to Petersburg, whence he had started, wrote into foreign parts, to the fleet; but then war was raging, and of course he did not get my letters. Then his captivity in Turkey … then … and that is all my sad fate.”
“Pray, my dear young lady, pray,” said the priest. “Your lot is a bitter one; only the good God above can help you.”