"A coincidence!" he said, mockingly, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "But go on."
He sank down in his arm-chair again, while she sat by him, and finished her story, not even suppressing the conversation of that day.
"Father," she concluded, piteously, "I have never forgotten, and never can forget, how much I grieve you and Raphael. Therefore I can never be fully happy. But you are clever and good, and must see that I cannot help it." She knelt at his feet and clasped his knees. "Father, don't be angry with me!"
He sat still for a long time without moving. Then he felt gently for her hands, and loosed them from his knees, rose, and, going to the window, looked into the street over which the twilight of a late autumn day was sinking. Now and then he muttered to himself: "And I, fool that I am, often bewailed your early death! It was good for you!" Then he said aloud: "Your mother--" Then he stopped again.
He stood in that attitude, and it grew darker and darker in the room. Finally he pulled himself together, lit the candles on the table, and went to his child, who was still on her knees, her head resting against the chair.
"Stand up!" he ordered, going up close to her.
She obeyed. She attempted to look him in the eye, but could not, she was so shocked to see how suddenly old his face had grown. But his voice no longer quavered.
"It is a heavy misfortune," he said. "I thank God with all my heart that he has not utterly undone us; but what he has sent is fearful enough. I am not blaming you. You ought not to have had any secrets from me; but you are so young, and he is handsome and a count. If I accuse you, I ought also to accuse myself. I ought to have considered the character of the people I was sending you among, and how their influence would affect you. I ought to have been more clever, as clever as my poor boy, whose heart would break if he knew of this. But he shall never know it--never!"
She made a motion as if to speak.
"Never!" he repeated. "Listen, Judith! I know that madness blinds your eyes to-day, and deafens your ears. You will not understand what I am going to tell you. The wall here would comprehend it better. But you ought to feel that it is your father who thinks so, who loves you more than his own life, and who will not change his opinion. You are never to see or speak to the people up-stairs or to the count. You are to remain in your own room, and not to leave it without my orders. It would be best for me to have the horses harnessed and take you to the house from which I just came--my sister Recha's, in Tarnopol. She is a clever woman, your aunt Recha, and understands the management of sick people. But that will not be possible before the close of the week. Otherwise, this story would spread the more."