After a while she returned.
“She is sleeping,” said the young lady. “Praise be to God!”
Indeed, Pan Stanislav did not see Pani Emilia that evening; she had fallen into a kind of lethargic slumber. At parting, Marynia pressed his hand again long and vigorously, and inquired almost with submission,—
“You do not take it ill of me that I repeated to Pani Emilia Litka’s last wish?”
“At such moments,” answered Pan Stanislav, “I cannot think of myself: for me it is a question only of Pani Emilia; and if your words caused her solace, I thank you for them.”
“Till to-morrow, then?”
“Till to-morrow.”
Pan Stanislav took farewell, and went out. While descending the steps, he thought,—
“She considers herself my betrothed.”
And he was not mistaken; Marynia looked on him as her betrothed. She had never been indifferent to him; on the contrary, the greatness of his offence had been for her the measure of that uncommon interest which he had roused in her. And though, during Litka’s illness and funeral, he could discover in himself unfathomable stores of selfishness, he seemed to her so good that she was simply unable to compare him with any one. Litka’s words did the rest. In real truth, her heart desired love first of all; and now, since before Litka’s death she had made her a promise, since she had bound herself to love and to marry, it seemed to her that even if she had not loved, it was her duty to command herself, and that she was not free at present not to love. Pan Stanislav had entered the sphere of her duty; she belonged to those straightforward, womanly natures, not at all rare even now, for whom life and duty mean one and the same thing, and who for this reason bring good-will to the fulfilment of duty, and not only good, but persistent will.