“Don’t bear me any ill-will,” pleaded Sanine. “You’re just as beautiful as ever you were, and the same happiness that you gave to me, you will give to him you love—far more, indeed, far more. I wish you from my heart all possible joy, and I shall always picture you to myself as I saw you last night. Good-bye … and, if ever you need me, send for me. If I could … I would give my life for you.”
Sina looked at him, and was silent, stirred by strange pity.
“It may all come right, who knows?” she thought, and for a moment matters did not seem so dreadful. They gazed into each other’s eyes steadfastly, knowing that in their hearts they held a secret which no one would ever discover, and the memory of which would always be bright.
“Well, good-bye,” said Sina, in a gentle, girlish voice.
Sanine looked radiant with pleasure. She held out her hand, and they kissed, simply, affectionately, like brother and sister.
Sina accompanied Sanine as far as the garden-gate and sorrowfully watched him go. Then she went back to the garden, and lay down on the scented grass that waved and rustled round her. She shut her eyes, thinking of all that had happened, and wondering whether she ought to tell Yourii or not.
“No, no,” she said to herself, “I won’t think any more about it. Some things are best forgotten.”
CHAPTER XLI.
Next morning Yourii rose late, feeling indisposed. His head ached, and he had a bad taste in his mouth. At first he could only recollect shouts, jingling glasses, and the waning light of lamps at dawn. Then he remembered how, stumbling and grunting, Schafroff and Peter Ilitsch had retired, while he and Ivanoff—the latter pale with drink, but firm on his feet—stood talking on the balcony. They had no eyes for the radiant morning sky, pale green at the horizon, and changing over head to blue; they did not see the fair meadows and fields, nor the shining river that lay below.
They still went on arguing. Ivanoff triumphantly proved to Yourii that people of his sort were worthless, since they feared to take from life that which life offered them. They were far better dead and forgotten. It was with malicious pleasure that he quoted Peter Ilitsch’s remark, “I should certainly never call such persons men,” as he laughed wildly, imagining that he had demolished Yourii by such a phrase. Yet, strange to say, Yourii was not annoyed by it, dealing only with Ivanoff’s assertion that his life was a miserable one. That, he said, was because “people of his sort” were more sensitive, more highly-strung; and he agreed that they were far better out of the world. Then, becoming intensely depressed, he almost wept. He now recollected with shame how he had been on the point of telling Ivanoff of his love-episode with Sina, and had almost flung the honour of that pure, lovely girl at the feet of this truculent sot. When at last Ivanoff, growling, had gone out into the courtyard, the room to Yourii seemed horribly dreary and deserted.