“Now! How can a body trust you young people!” good-naturedly exclaimed Pelageia Petrovna to her guest, reentering the room. “Here I have been taking care not to make the least noise with the cups and saucers, and asking you not to wake my boy, and he has long ago departed without leaving a trace! But why do you not take a seat, Iván Ivanovich, and have a cup of tea? You have been neglecting us terribly lately!”
She smiled as with a secret joy, and added in a low voice:
“And we have had so much news during that time!—Vladímir surely could not keep it. He must have told you all about it by this; for he is very straightforward and open-hearted, my Vladímir. I was thinking last night, in my sinful thoughts: ‘Well, when my Vladímir paces the room the whole night—that means that he is dreaming of Lenochka!’ That is always the case with him: if he paces the room the whole night, he will surely leave to-morrow—Ah, Iván Ivanovich, I only ask the Lord to send me this joy in my old age. What more does an old woman need? I have but one desire, one joy—and it seems to me I shall have nothing more to pray for after Vladímir and Lenochka are married. So joyful and happy it would make me!—I do not need anything besides Vladímir; there is nothing dearer to me than his happiness.”
The old lady became so effected that she had to wipe away the tears which came to her eyes.
“Do you remember,” she continued, “things did not go well in the beginning—either between the two or on account of the money—You young officers are not even allowed to marry without bonds—Well, now everything has been arranged: I have obtained the necessary five thousand rubles for Vladímir, and they could go to the altar even to-morrow! Yes, and Lenochka has written such a lovely letter to me—My heart is rejoicing!”
Continuing to speak, Pelageia Petrovna took a letter out of her pocket, which she showed to Golubenko, and then put back again.
“She is such a dear girl! And so good!”
Iván Golubenko, listening to her talk, sat as if on red-hot coals. He wanted to interrupt her flow of words, to tell her that everything was at an end, that her Vladímir was dead, and that in one short hour nothing would remain to her of all her bright hopes; but he listened to her and kept silent. Looking upon her good, gentle face, he felt a convulsive gripping in his throat.
“But why are you looking so gloomy to-day?” the old lady at last asked. “Why, your face looks as black as night!”
Iván wanted to say “Yes! And yours will be the same when I tell you!” but instead of telling her anything, he turned his head away, and began to twirl his mustaches.