Though the daughter of the farmer of Elva had come a virgin from that embrace, the momentary abandoning of herself to it had made of her a woman; it had taught her that she loved, and had raised in her an ardent desire to be beloved.
What would be the end of this passion? She scarcely dared think of that. Understanding now the part she had played, she asked herself, trembling at the thought, if the prince would not look upon her as the blind instrument he had used, and whether, when they were once again in Pampeln, she would not be parted from him forever.
The dread of it caused her bitter grief; and yet, when she put the idea aside as impossible, she then feared to think of what would inevitably happen if it were, on the contrary, Pierre Olsdorf's will to keep her by his side. Assuredly her father knew of the divorce and the change in the life of his master. The decree was an event which the whole nobility of St. Petersburg must have discussed, making every possible conjecture to explain how it had come about that the decree was against the prince and not against his wife, whose sin everybody knew. Why, then, had Pierre Olsdorf chosen to seem guilty—guilty instead of her—if he did not love her? Vera could not guess the reason, in her ignorance of the law and the consequences that had followed upon the action of the man to whom her whole heart was given.
All these reflections troubled strangely the poor girl, whom the bearing of her master did not calm, for as they drew nearer the end of their journey Pierre seemed more and more preoccupied and silent. At each important station he did indeed come to assure himself that Vera wanted for nothing in the reserved compartment that she was in, together with a nurse and the little Tekla; but he seemed to avoid being alone with her, and Soublaieff's daughter had looked vainly into his eyes for the reason. Plainly the prince was warding off an explanation. What would become of her? How dared she appear again before her father, so jealous of his honor? Was not death itself better than the agony and the reproaches she was threatened with?
Again and again during the last night of the journey the unhappy girl thought of throwing herself from the carriage. But death! And if she were indeed loved? Then her tears fell, and she gave herself to God's care.
In this frame of mind Vera left the train at Mittau, where the prince's carriages, telegraphed for from Paris, were in waiting for the travelers, to take them to Pampeln.
At first the young girl hoped that Pierre would ask her to go with him in the drosky, which would hold but two persons; but he put her in the landau, where the nurse and baby already were, and after speaking a few commonplace words in the way of excuses for putting her to so much fatigue, he sprung into the lighter carriage beside Yvan.
The luggage was to follow in an omnibus, with the servants who had come to meet their master.
This fresh disappointment for Vera had scarcely been mastered when, after a three hours' drive, she caught sight of the heavy-looking front of Pampeln, and soon the wheels of the landau were grinding through the sand of the court-yard and stopping before the flight of steps leading down from the main entrance.
Quite given up to her gloomy thoughts, the farmer's daughter stepped from the carriage. She was surprised to find her hand in that of the prince, who, drawing her a little way aside at the foot of the marble staircase, said in a troubled voice: